Shark's Tooth

“Forty-seven minutes what?” said Blackbeard.

“Until we get the call from the Chamber of Commerce.  Looks like a shark.  We get a call soon, I say forty-seven minutes or less, explaining that that line of deep punctures that look like they could have, just might have come from a big set of teeth, really came from a new secret weapon the gang-bangers are using.  But it wasn’t a shark.  Besides, they’ll probably tell us she was just some tramp from out of town, down here to party, not worth worrying about.  And it couldn’t have been a shark.” “Go easy,” said Blackbeard.  “Work the process, and let the answers come.  Lot we don’t know yet.  Besides, look at the sand.  No marks.  The sand has been groomed by the beach service, like they do every night.  Either she washed up before they groomed, and they groomed right over her, or she was dumped here after they groomed.”

“Still say shark.  Look, right there.   You see it?  I’m betting that’s a tooth broken off.”

“Maybe.  We’ll see when the examiner pulls it out.  There’s a kid that works with the groomers sometimes for tips we need to talk to, but he’s homeless and we won’t find him until tomorrow early.  Maybe he saw something.  Let’s go get some breakfast.  Let’s do Sunrise today.  They got better eggs.”

“Yeah, but Fatty’s got better gossip.  She’ll know more about this already than we do.  God, we’re cold.  Standing over a dead girl, talking about food.”

“It’s a job,” said Blackbeard.  “Don’t get caught up.  Don’t get ahead.  I’ve been doing this a long time.  Work the process.  Don’t get ahead.  Let the answer come to you.”

“Still makes me mad.  They’re going to run her down, sweep this thing under the rug.  You know it.”

“Maybe.”





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