The body on Catalina Island was not much to look at.
Jack Morrisey stood on the bluff overlooking the cove where the coroner's boat had pulled it in, hands in the pockets of a coat that had belonged to a man who was now three states away and two marriages behind. The body was emaciated, barefoot, the shoes long since dissolved into whatever dissolved bare feet on a desert island. The man had been dead three weeks, maybe four. The ocean doesn't...
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