Ramirez and his partner had left Owen in an empty office at the boat broker’s place across the street from the marina. To wait for a detective. Two hours ago.
He sat uncomfortably, hands still cuffed, on a wooden chair behind a scarred mahogany desk. From time to time he got up to pace to the door and back. He could hear nothing from outside. He didn’t know where Shadow was.
At first he couldn’t think past his anger, at the police and whoever had killed Leon. Then for a while he worried about Shadow, out there with the police. Then he wondered about Leon’s parents. They were still around, up in San Antonio. Would they want Shadow? Though Leon had said his mother didn’t allow dogs in the house, hadn’t he?
Probably the police would tell them what had happened to Leon fairly soon, if they hadn’t already. The police would have questions to ask, too. Would they do it over the phone, or go in person? San Antonio was only a few hours away. Owen felt bringing the news—and the dog?—should have been his responsibility, though he couldn’t say why.
None of this seemed real to him yet. He’d just been out for the weekend, having a good time. He’d stopped for lunch and conversation when he’d seen the Hermit’s boat, then paddled across the Bay, and…everything had gone to hell.