Come Twilight (4 page)

Julia looked at Jen. “You’re right.”

I wasn’t sure if I was irritated or pleased that the two of them were bonding over their shared enjoyment of making fun of me. Probably both. “Right about what?” I asked.

Julia turned to me, put her hand on my knee, and said, “About your amazing ability to find the whitest, most Americanized dish on any ethnic restaurant’s menu within ten seconds of opening it.”

The server had finished taking everyone’s order and was leaving the table as I tried to catch her attention. I didn’t succeed.

Julia said, “Did you need something else?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I wanted to see if I could add a side of fries.”

Trev clinked his wine glass with a fork to get our attention. He held it up in a toast. “What a wonderful, wonderful opening. We sold almost everything tonight. Old friends, new friends”—he paused to make eye contact with Jen and me—“thank you all so very much.” His gratitude was so sincere that I felt happy for him. And for Julia. And maybe even a little bit for myself.

It was after eleven when we got back to Julia’s condo. She put her bag down on the kitchen counter just as her phone rang. She dug it out of her purse, looked at it, and sent the call to her voice mail.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“Unknown caller,” she said and turned to me. “Did I mention that Trev asked me to teach a workshop on street photography?”

“No,” I said. “Are you going to do it?”

“I told him I would. It sounds like fun.”

“How long do you have to get ready for it?”

“A couple of weeks. It’s right after Buskerfest. We’re still going, right?”

“Sure,” I said, reminding myself to check out the festival’s lineup and try to familiarize myself with some of the local musicians who’d be playing. Julia had told me that the first local event she’d gone to after she quit her old job, took up photography full time, and moved to the East Village was Buskerfest. As she watched the succession of bands play, she knew she was home and had made the right decision. I was looking forward to sharing it with her this year.

“Thank you for tonight,” she said.

“You’re welcome,” I replied, reaching for her hand and pulling her close. “I had a good time.”

Her eyes searched mine. “You did, didn’t you?”

I nodded and she kissed me deeply.

She pulled away and reached up to my face to brush the hair back from my forehead. “You’re exhausted, aren’t you?”

I wanted to lie, to tell her no, not at all. But I knew she’d see the truth, that the effect of the three hours of sleep I’d had in the last two days was more than I could hide, no matter how badly I wanted to.

“Why don’t you go to bed? I’m still pretty pumped up from everything. I think I’ll work for a while.”

“No, I—”

“It’s okay, Danny. Go get some rest.”

After changing my clothes and brushing my teeth, I kissed Julia goodnight and, for the first time, got into her bed by myself. I felt the weariness pulling me down, but for some reason I couldn’t quite grasp, I fought the urge to sleep. I didn’t want the night to end. Had I any idea what the following days and weeks would bring, I would have fought so much harder.

CHAPTER THREE

MY RIDE’S HERE

I woke to the sun bright in Julia’s bedroom window. Reaching across the bed, my hand found the empty space where she should have been. I rolled over. For a few sleepy moments I thought she must not have come to bed. But the sheets were pulled back and her pillow crooked against the headboard. She’d come and gone while I slept so deeply that I’d missed her presence entirely. A small wave of disappointment flitted through my mind.

In the bathroom I swished some Freshburst Listerine around in my mouth and tried to make my hair presentable. It didn’t work.

Julia was in the kitchen making omelets. She’d put some music on. A sad song was playing softly, a familiar voice singing in French. Nina Simone?

I walked up behind her, put my hands on her waist, and kissed the back of her neck.

“Morning,” she said. “How’d you sleep?”

“Good. I didn’t even hear you come in.”

“You were really out.”

“Did I snore?”

“Not too bad.”

I wasn’t sure, but I was inclined to believe that meant I’d been going like a buzz saw all night.

“Sit down,” she said.

I looked out the window next to her dining table. It was just after eight, and the Promenade four floors down was starting to see some foot traffic. During the week the people started earlier, hustling off to work. But weekends were different. The days would start slow and gradually. The street below would become more and more crowded as the urbanites and gentrifiers came out of their caves hunting for brunch.

The omelet was simple. Cheese and fresh tomatoes. She’d held back on the onions without even having to ask. After she put our plates down, she poured us each a cup of coffee from the French press. I wouldn’t admit it to her, but it put the Keurig machine in my kitchen to shame.

“You have to work today?” she asked.

“Not until later. Just going into the squad to review things.”

As if on cue, my phone rang, and before I even saw Lieutenant Ruiz’s name on the screen, I knew my plans were changing.

I answered and Ruiz said, “How soon can you be in my office?”

“Half an hour. Why? What’s up?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here.” He ended the call.

“Shit,” I said.

“What’s going on?” Julia asked.

“I don’t know. But if the lieutenant is there on a Saturday morning, it’s got to be serious.”

When I got to Ruiz’s office, Patrick Glenn, another member of the homicide detail, was already inside, as was another detective who I didn’t recognize. I’d stopped downstairs for a coffee on my way in, but when I saw the seriousness on their faces, I looked down at the cup in my hand and regretted that I’d spent the time while they were waiting.

“Danny,” Ruiz said, his voice neutral.

There were only two chairs facing his desk, so Patrick got up and gave me his with a nod. He moved over and leaned against the edge of a dark-wood file cabinet that matched the desk.

I didn’t like that. Whenever we crowded into the office, the chairs were always first-come, first-served. We didn’t give up our seats unless we were deferring to someone of a superior rank. Or to someone who had bad news coming.

My coffee was finally cool enough to drink, so I took a big sip and swallowed.

“This is Neal Walsh,” Ruiz said. “He’s with LASD Bomb Squad.” Long Beach didn’t have its own, so when we needed to, we worked with the team from the Sheriff’s Department.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Walsh eyeballed me like I was a suspect. “Where’s your car?” His voice was hard and confrontational.

“It’s at the mechanic,” I said. “Why?”

“What mechanic? Where?”

He was grilling me. I didn’t know why, but I didn’t like it. I bit down my rising anger. “North Long Beach. Place on Cherry.”

“Where were you at ten o’clock last night?”

“Eating Thai food.”

“With who?”

“Your mother,” I said. “What’s your problem?”

“Danny.” That one word was all Ruiz needed to back me off.

I drank more coffee. It was too sweet.

“Your car,” the lieutenant said, leaving the sentence unfinished.

“Somebody blew it up,” Walsh added. “With a bomb.”

When I went back into the squad, Jen was at her desk.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

“Someone put a bomb in my car,” I said. “How come you’re here? I thought you had the barbecue today.” Every two or three weeks, Jen had her parents and brother over for a family meal. Unless there was an emergency, she never worked on those days, taking the morning for shopping and preparing.

“Patrick called me.”

I sat down at my desk and opened my e-mail. There were a lot of new messages. I looked at the senders and subject lines. None of them seemed to make any sense.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Trying to get back to work.”

“Really?”

I clicked on a random e-mail. It was something from Admin about repairing the plumbing in the locker room.

“Stop it,” she said, her voice soft but weighted. “Look at me.”

I did.

“Tell me what happened.”

Not everything the lieutenant and Walsh said had really stuck. So I did the best I could relating what I knew to Jen. Someone had placed a bomb on the undercarriage of my car beneath the driver’s seat. Whoever had done it had known what they were doing. It was designed to send the blast upward and kill or seriously injure whoever was behind the wheel. It had been triggered remotely by a cell phone, and it looked like whoever had done it didn’t want to kill anyone but me. The working theory was that when the car unexpectedly wound up at the mechanic’s shop and the bomber figured the device would be discovered, he waited until the garage was empty and triggered the device. Or something like that.

“Why was Patrick with you?” she asked.

“They’re opening an attempted-murder investigation. He’s working it with the bomb guy from the Sheriff’s Department.”

“Shit,” she said, worry in her voice.

“Yeah.”

“Somebody who knows what they’re doing wants to kill you.”

“Yeah.”

“Who?”

“No idea.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Figure out who killed William Denkins.”

I’m only really good at two things—investigating homicides and denial. After a worthy but failed attempt at trying to engage me in a conversation about my feelings, Jen had asked what she could do to help. I sent her to go pull the files we’d collected at Denkins’s apartment from evidence, then dug into my e-mail. After searching through my account for a while, I found one that mattered. I’d missed it initially because the return address, [email protected], gave no indication of the sender’s identity, and the subject line just said “Information.” It turned out to be from the witness who lived in the studio upstairs from Denkins.
Dear Detective Beckett,
it said,
I thought you might want to know that Kobe, my next door neighbor, still hasn’t come home. Sincerely, Harold Craig.

Yes, as a matter of fact, I did want to know that. My plan for that afternoon had been to comb through the files I’d booked into evidence from the apartment, looking for, among other things, information on Kobe. We didn’t have quite enough to officially consider him a suspect yet, but Harold’s e-mail had made finding him our top priority.

I checked the time. Patrick was still working with the bomb-squad guys. He’d asked me to meet him at noon so he could do the preliminary interview for the attempted-murder case. My attempted-murder case. That gave me almost two hours.

When Jen returned with the file box, I told her about Harold’s e-mail. “There’s a folder of rental agreements in there. Can you find it for me?”

She did and handed it across the desk to me. I flipped through them quickly. Kobe’s wasn’t hard to find. There were only seven marked “Current Residents.”

I opened it and saw his full name at the top. “Kobayashi Maru,” I said to Jen. The name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “That ring any bells for you?”

Jen shook her head. “No. Should it?”

“I think I’ve heard it before, but I don’t know where.”

Running his name didn’t help. No criminal record. Not even anything from the DMV. The name had to be an alias. I shook my head and sighed.

“Nothing?” Jen asked. “What about the phone? If he was planning on moving in he’d have to give Denkins a working number.”

“True,” I said. We couldn’t call it, though. The only way that would pay off would be if he was just an innocent neighbor happy to help out in the investigation. What were the chances of that, if he was renting the apartment with an assumed name and disappeared immediately after the death? No. The phone might be our only connection to him, and if he had any idea we were using it to find him, he’d dump it as soon as he could. Hell, he’d probably already dumped it. “I’ll start working on a warrant request for the phone records.”

Jen nodded. “You want me to do one for his apartment?” Our normal procedure was for the lead detective on an investigation to do all the warrant requests.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” I said.

She tried to play it off. “What?”

“If I wanted to be thinking about my car, I would be.”

With a shrug she let it go.

On my computer I opened the template for a phone-records warrant. As I started filling in the specifics, though, I felt a rising queasiness in my stomach. I tried to push it back down, but it wouldn’t quit. When it reached the back of my throat, I leaned over and puked into my wastebasket.

Maybe I’m really only good at one thing.

“You want the meatball or the chicken Parm?” Patrick said, opening the bag from Modica’s, an Italian deli a few blocks from the station.

It had been almost half an hour since I’d left my breakfast in the trash can, so I decided I’d eat. “Surprise me,” I said. He slid one of the sandwiches across the conference-room table to me.

“You catch the Keith Richards interview on
WTF
yet?” Several months earlier, when I was bitching about an NPR pledge drive, he’d suggested a few podcasts to me, and, while I was reluctant at first, I’d since become an obsessive listener.

“No,” I said as I unwrapped the chicken sandwich. The marinara sauce had leaked out from the inside and coated the edges of the bread. “Got any extra napkins?”