“I don’t think there was much time between when this wound was created and when he was submerged in salt water.”

“Why do you say that?”

“There’s no frostbite.” Sammy shrugged. “No obvious skin death of that sort. I could be wrong, but I think the salt water staved off any damage from the cold.”

“He could have been kept inside, then? And then dumped.”

“I guess.”

“Apart from the circumstances, are there any obvious signs of foul play?” Mia asked.

“No, not really,” Sammy said slowly. “Any gun residue or particulates in the wound that might have shown otherwise are long gone.”

Izzy had guessed that would be the case. “What do you think?”

The doc tilted his head to each side, clearly hesitant. “The wound is consistent with what you would see if it was self-inflicted.”

Which was what both Izzy and Mia had concluded time and again.

But the idea still didn’t make sense to Izzy. “But how did his body get in the water if he was planning on shooting himself? Was he too close to the cliffs when he did it, and his body fell? Why would he have been out there in the first place if he was just going to kill himself with a gun?”

Rocking back on his heels, Sammy lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “In case the gun didn’t do the trick?”

She couldn’t tell if he was being serious or if it was some poor attempt at humor, but she shook her head anyway. There would be no reason for Twist to double up like that.

“Can you get his blood alcohol levels? That long after death?”

“It’s not reliable.” Sammy stretched an arm out to grab the file from the counter. He flipped it open, his eyes scanning over whatever was written. “But yeah, it was sky high. Lends itself to suicide as COD.”

Not necessarily. But Izzy for once kept her mouth shut.

“Did you do a full toxicology report?” Mia asked.

Sammy tossed the chart back where it had been. “Sent it off to the state. Should get it back in a few days.”

“So if his BAC was through the roof, that could explain the cliffs,” Mia said. “He was drunk, wandered outside with his gun, shot himself. His body ended up in the ocean.”

As Mia spoke, Sammy nodded along, his hands shoved in his pockets.

Izzy could see it to an extent. Drunk guys were notorious for doing stupid things.

The thing was, Izzy knew setups. She’d orchestrated more than her fair share in vice—had been the would-be victim of more than she could count, too. They were hard to pull off perfectly, usually with a sloppy detail or two coming back to bite someone in the ass. A discordant note, something jarring enough to pause over, even if it wasn’t enough to make an arrest.

That’s what this scene felt like.