THE MAN’S FACE WAS swollen and purple, showing evidence of the beating he’d received at Alf’s hands. Under the stark lights of the morgue, the single bullet hole, placed in the direct center of his forehead, was startling against his blue-tinged skin. “That’s him.”
“You’re sure?” Palea asked.
“I am.” Alf pointed to a tat on the man’s muscular forearm. “If I wasn’t sure about his face I’d be sure when I saw this. You don’t see too many skull and crossbones tats these days.”
Palea nodded to the attendant and she pulled the sheet back over the body. “Apparently he considered himself a modern day pirate.”
“His vehicle of choice a dirt bike rather than a ship.” Alf nodded.
When he frowned, Palea asked, “What is it, Honeybun?”
“Time of death was nine o’clock. We arrived back at our rooms a
