Devil's Harbor Read Online Free PDF Page B

lowest morale of any federal agency.
    He walked through the lot to his dual-cab Tacoma, pressed the remote key without taking it out of his pocket, stepped up into the driver’s seat, and pulled the door shut behind him.
    He flipped down the visor and looked in the vanity mirror. His nostrils flared with each heavy breath. Angry red lines webbed from his pale blue irises. The crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes had deepened. He flipped up the mirror, unlocked the glove compartment, unclipped his holster, and put his service weapon in the box, next to the binoculars and Maglite he kept there for when he was doing boat-ramp surveillance.
    Finn locked the glove compartment and sank back in the seat. He wanted a drink. Back in the old days, he would’ve gone out and had one. A year and a half ago, he’d almost lost his job and his marriage to drink. He thought about Mona, how close she’d come to walking away. He was thinking about the things she’d said that day, and about the promise he’d made to her, when knuckles rapped on his window, startling him. A heavy man of medium height with thinning black hair, an unshaven chin, and the kind of quick smile common to guys who never grew out of their high school wisecracking habits stood on the other side of the glass. Garrett Smith, a crime reporter with the Los Angeles Times, was wearing a tie, loosened over an unbuttoned and poorly ironed shirt, no jacket. Finn had known him for a few years now—Customs and Border Protection was Smith’s beat. Finn rolled down the glass.
    â€œYou here to apologize?” he said.
    â€œYou see me holding flowers?” said Smith.
    â€œWhat do you want, Smith?”
    â€œJesus, you’re not being too friendly to your friendly beat reporter.”
    â€œI read your article.”
    Smith straightened his smile. “Hey, listen, I know the suit’s bullshit, Finn. Edsall, Luna, Cheng? Come on. But I had to write it. It’s my beat.”
    Finn frowned. “You quoted Edsall saying I was racist. He said I liked to shoot Mexicans.”
    Smith wagged a finger. “He implied it, he didn’t say it. There’s a difference.”
    Finn drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.
    â€œWhat are you doing here, Smith? Apart from being an asshole?”
    â€œI heard you stole breakfast from a shark.”
    Finn said nothing.
    â€œYou know there’s been a bunch of sightings lately off Catalina?” said Smith.
    Finn looked at him blankly.
    â€œCome on, Finn. Shark attacks sell newspapers. Give me something.”
    Finn wasn’t feeling generous.
    â€œCan you give me something about the victim, at least?” said Smith. He had his pen and spiral pad out.
    â€œSure. The victim is definitely dead.”
    Smith tapped his notebook with his pen. “Any idea what kind of shark it was?” he said.
    â€œA hungry one.”
    â€œAll right, I get it. You’re mad at me. Forget the shark. How do you respond to the allegation that you used disproportionate force when you put a bullet through the Mexican fisherman?” said Smith.
    Finn flipped him the bird as he drove away.

 
    CHAPTER THREE
    Finn and Mona rented half a stucco-fronted duplex two blocks back from Redondo Beach. They couldn’t afford a view of the sea but could afford to live close enough to smell it, which Finn figured was good enough for the time being. Since there was no garage, he kept two beach cruisers chained to a downspout out behind the house to get them to the pier. The bikes smelled of the WD-40 he continually sprayed on their chains and sprockets to guard against the salt. Mona complained that he put so much on, it stained her clothes, and then the chains rusted anyway, but Finn was dogged about it. On weekend mornings when he wasn’t on shift and she wasn’t working a pro bono case, they would make love, then ride the push-bikes to the fish market and waterside