I was in Detective Hansen’s office in Huntington Beach.
He was leaning back with his feet crossed at one corner of his desk. His ankles were tan in a way that suggested artificial lighting. He wore thick-soled loafers that could have been hand-stitched. I doubted these were regulation shoes. Cops in Huntington Beach were rebels.
Hansen was nodding. “Makes sense. All signs were pointing to a drug hit on our end, too,” he said. A file, now a good deal thicker than the file I had seen earlier, was open on his lap. The pages were held in place by folded prongs. Hansen lifted one of the pages absently.
“ There were rumors of a drug hit at first,” he said. “But his girlfriend was adamant that it had been these shark hunters.”
“ She claimed Mitch was threatened by one of them.”
“ Right,” said Sanchez. “Except most of these illegal shark hunters, according to you and according to my pals at the DFG-”
“ Your dude-bros?”
“ My what?”
“ Never mind,” I said. “Go on.”
Hansen stared at me for three seconds, then shook his head. “Anyway, it appears most of these illegal shark hunters, or finners, are poor Mexicans simply venturing deeper into American waters.”
“ Hardly an organized group.”
He nodded. “Exactly. And from what I understand, Mitch and his boys used their boat to give these hunters hell, harassing them, cutting lines, and generally chasing them off.”
“ Admirable,” I said, “and certainly likely to warrant a threat from one or two of them.”
“ So one of the Mexican fishermen waves his fist angrily at Mitch and his boys, and his girlfriend thinks that’s motive.”
“ Something like that,” I said.
“ Except what’s more likely is that this was a drug hit, especially in light of your latest evidence.”
“ Ryan Wiseman,” I said. “The dude-bro.”
“ We’ve talked to him, too, now. His statement’s on record and it jives with everything else we’ve been hearing. Witness after witness claim that Mitch Golden was skimming money for The Cause.”
“ Like they say,” I said. “You can lose a shipment or even get caught by the police, but just don’t steal from them.”
“ Stealing is a death wish.”
We were both silent, both meditative. Two broheims contemplating life, drugs, and everything in-between. “So where does this leave us?” said Hansen.
“ We technically still have an unsolved murder,” I said.
“ Except we have a likely idea who did it.”
“ Drug hit.”
Hansen nodded. “To find out who ordered the hit would take massive man power. Would take more man power than we have available. And in the end…”
“ In the end,” I said, “he was just another drug dealer.”
“ A drug dealer and a thief, from all appearance.”
“ A thief who helped the little guys.”
Hansen uncrossed his golden ankles and sat forward in his slightly squeaky chair. “I’m closing this file.”
“ Figured you would,” I said.
“ I mean, officially it’s open. But unofficially, it’s dead in the water.”
“ Fitting choice of words.”
Hansen asked, “You still working for his girlfriend?”
“ I am.”
“ What will you do?”
“ I’ll talk with her,” I said.