Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

mistakenly received a message about erectile dysfunction, but from what I had gathered, ED doctors and pharmaceutical companies had no qualms about advertising their wares openly. I assumed it was the same for the sufferers, so none of this cloak-and-dagger stuff would suit them. I dialed the 1-800 number and expected to receive a recorded message but was disappointed. The number just rang and rang. I listened to the ringing for about twenty seconds before hanging up. I held the letter between my fingers and gingerly placed it back in the envelope, then put the envelope into a Ziploc bag. After I closed the bag, I looked at it. What did I plan to do with it? Fingerprint it in my fingerprint lab? Run it over to Crime Scene? I laughed slightly when I realized that Crawford was rubbing off on me, but I kept the letter and envelope in the bag nonetheless, thinking as I walked upstairs to change what the message might mean.
    “Get up again?” I asked. Had I been on the ground and not realized it? I decided that I would hash this out with Crawford once I heard from him about any Kevin developments. I sat on the bed and looked around. My buttinsky cleaning lady, Magda, had been here and the room and its adjacent bathroom were spotless. My underwear had also been rearranged in such a complex pattern of panties, bras, and panty hose that I was sure that Magda had spent a good deal of her time in that drawer looking for what I had no idea. I had eaten dinner. I had no schoolwork. There was nothing to do but wait until it was an acceptable time to go to bed, and checking my bedside clock—which said 8:34—now was not that time.
    Time on my hands is never a good thing. I realized when my feet started tapping the ground that I needed to change and get out of the house, if only to walk Trixie for the second time in an hour. Who knew where that would bring me?
    Apparently, to the boat slip at the river, that’s where.
    Trixie and I often meander and we often end up by the river. It’s beautiful, close to my house, and affords her all kinds of access to things she shouldn’t have but instinctively is inclined to prey upon: birds and fish primarily. Despite the NO DOGS ALLOWED ! signs that dotted every fifth or so piling along the docks, we haven’t been caught yet, so we continue our illicit evening walks when the mood strikes us. Seeing all of the boats lined up in their individual slips and the beauty of the Palisades on the opposite side of the river at dusk convinced me that we needed to get down to the dock area more often even if that made us scofflaws. My French was good enough so that I could always pull the “je ne sais pas” defense when presented with one of their signs. Trixie was thrilled; nothing better than the smell of murky Hudson water and the idea that gulls might be around to pique her interest.
    At the very least, maybe a walk along this tranquil pier would clear my head about everything and give me some insight into where Kevin might have gone. Without telling me. In the middle of the night.
    The days were getting shorter, signifying the beginning of school and end of summer, always a bittersweet time for me. Trixie and I walked along the wooden dock in the twilight, my feet making no noise in my sneakers, her nails making their usual rhythmic clicking noise in time to my footfalls. I’m accustomed to carrying a flashlight on my nighttime walks with Trixie, and tonight I had it stuffed into the pocket of my jeans knowing I would need it to navigate our way home. In the dying light, I looked at the names of each boat, admiring their amenities until I settled on one almost at the end of the dock.
    The Lydia.
    How quaint. And how predictable. I should have guessed that Carter Wilmott’s boat would be named The Lydia . When I happened upon it, I stopped, remembering his white foot and the tan line that started a few inches above it; until this moment, I had forgotten that he was an avid boater and kept his boat docked right here. As I took in the craft, I noticed that it was swaying more than slightly in its slip, unlike every other boat, which sat almost stock-still in the very calm Hudson on this humid end-of-August evening. The rocking gave me pause, but as usual, not enough pause to stop me from approaching it, looking out for other sailors in the area. A few boats were missing from their slips, their owners out and about on this nice evening, but being as it was a weeknight, most of the boats were