Devil's Harbor (11 page)

Cutts's pale eyes stayed fixed on Diego for a moment. Then he set down a pad and pencil. “Give me your cell. I learn anything, I'll call.”

Diego wrote down his number on a square of paper. Finn watched Cutts slip it into his shirt pocket, then walk away. He glanced up at the bourbon on the top shelf.

Finn and Diego left the bar. Each got into his truck, pulled out, and slipped into the traffic. Diego was in front. Finn kept his Tacoma below the speed limit, letting cars get between him and Diego's black Silverado. Then he got caught at a light, and Diego's truck went out of sight. Finn flicked on his indicator, went around the block, and parked in front of Bonito's again.

He took out his wallet, pulled out the card for the counselor. Ruth Grace, Ph.D., specializing in trauma and bereavement. There was a phone number, along with an e-mail and a street address. Finn got out his phone.

Then he flicked the card onto the floor, locked the phone next to his Heckler & Koch in the glove compartment, and got out of the truck.

He walked through the door back into the bar, feeling like a shook-up soda can, ready to pop.

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

Finn stood swaying on the sidewalk. He was trying to remember where he'd left his truck. It was late. He wasn't sure how late, but he knew it was late because the sky was dark. He looked up at the halos around the vapor streetlamps and decided that they made him happy. He had no right to be happy, yet that was how he was feeling. What he was going to do now, he decided, was get into his truck and drive home. There was something about that proposition that seemed not quite right, but whatever it was slipped from his mind like an oyster from its shell.

Staring at the vapor lights, he realized, was making him dizzy. He lowered his head, blinked a few times, and stumbled south along Harbor Boulevard, looking for his truck. He walked past Bonito's, past an empty block, past a cut-price dry cleaner's. By the time he got to the end of the block, he'd forgotten what he was looking for. He considered the gutter for a while. Then he turned around and stumbled back toward the bar, paying no mind to the two figures walking toward him. Finn stopped and stared at a truck with a dent in its front left panel. The dent looked familiar. After a minute, he realized he was looking at his truck. He stumbled toward it and felt around in his pocket for his keys.

“Hey, sailor,” said a voice.

Finn looked up and a knuckle caught him square on the nose. He fell back and slammed against his truck, dropping his keys. Another fist came in, this time into his kidney. The hit forced all the air out of him. He tried to take a swing, but he wasn't seeing straight and he didn't have anything to aim at. His eyes were all messed up and he couldn't see the faces of whoever was hitting him. But he could smell them—they smelled of fish—and he definitely felt the knuckle-bones crash into him the third time, slamming into his jaw now, a good left hook with plenty of hip-swivel in it. Finn's head hit the ground and decided to stay there awhile. His vision returned briefly, and he stared helplessly at two pairs of shoes. Finn noted, absurdly, that both his assailants were wearing sneakers. He saw something shiny on the ground between him and the shoes. His keys. A hand, not his own, picked them up. He tried to look up at the face that belonged to the hand. Before he could, he saw one of those shoes coming at his face.

*   *   *

Finn came to and through swollen eyes saw a stretch of dark sidewalk. He pushed himself up to his feet. That alone took everything he had. Every part of him ached. Especially his jaw, his nose, and his teeth, as well as his back, knees, elbows, ribs, kidneys, and eye sockets. He looked around. The sidewalk was deserted.

His truck was still there. He leaned against it and felt his face. There were lumps in all the wrong places and his hand got wet with blood. He groaned and patted himself down. His wallet was still there, which surprised him. He pulled it out and checked it. It contained no cash, but then it probably had been empty when he'd walked out of Bonito's. His credit cards and driver's license weren't missing.

He lurched over to Bonito's and tried the door, but it was locked. He move back toward the truck, looked down and saw his keys on the ground. Pain seared through his body when he bent down to pick them up. He got into his truck, closed the door, and leaned over to the passenger side. The glove compartment was open. He felt around inside.

He found his phone and checked the time: 2
A.M.
He felt around some more.

“Goddammit,” he said.

His Heckler & Koch was gone.

*   *   *

A noise woke him. He opened his eyes, took a moment to realize that he was at home, in bed. The palm was scraping against the windowpane again.

Finn couldn't remember driving home. He looked down and saw that he'd fallen asleep on the bed fully clothed. Mona's bottle of white wine lay on its side on the floor. Next to it lay another bottle, of bourbon. Also some cans of beer.

Finn didn't remember drinking any of it. He'd have to clean it up before Mona got back. White wine, beer, and bourbon. It didn't strike him as a wholesome combination.

His stomach agreed: he stumbled to the bathroom and threw up in the toilet. Then he went to the sink and splashed water on his face. When he looked up, he saw, reflected in the mirror, Mona standing in the bathroom doorway.

“I had to take a cab from the airport,” she said. “You weren't answering your phone.”

Finn suddenly remembered that he had promised to pick her up at LAX. He wanted to disappear. He turned to face her.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

Her eyes were wide. “What happened to your face?” she said.

“These two guys…”

“Which two guys? Who? What happened?”

He shook his aching head. He didn't know.

She turned and ran from the bedroom, down the stairs. Finn went after her. She'd left her suitcase, the handle extended, by the front door. He knew it was because she'd just returned from Sacramento, but it looked like she was all packed, ready to go, like she'd been planning to leave all along, the way Finn's mother had left, all those years ago, her case ready by the door, his mother on the couch with her hands on her lap, waiting for his father to come home from the pub to tell him she was leaving.

Mona had the door open and her hand on the suitcase handle when he caught up with her.

“Mona, please, wait…” Feeling pathetic and terrified at once, he stood in front of the door, blocking her exit.

She was crying. “Please, just let me go.” She avoided meeting his gaze.

He put his arm out, blocked her way. “Mona, I'm sorry.”

Now she did meet his gaze. “Sorry is easy. You were sorry last time, too. Remember?”

“It won't happen again, I swear.”

“Just like last time. This is d
é
j
à
vu.”

Finn was getting angry. Didn't she realize how much pressure he was under? Then he remembered, he hadn't told her about the indictment hanging over him. Once she heard that, he figured, she'd go easy on him. She'd give him a get-out-of-jail-free card. Of course she would, once she knew what kind of pressure he was under. Any woman would, unless she had a stone in place of a heart.

But when he told her, the flare-up in her eyes didn't subside.

“So, what? You expect me to stick around and help you? Is that it?” Mona was speaking really fast, spitting her words. “You want me to say, ‘Poor Nick, he's in trouble, he's stressed, so it's okay if he leaves me stranded at the airport? It's okay if he gets wasted, blacks out, comes back with broken teeth not knowing who broke them'? You're not sorry for what you did, Nick. You're just feeling sorry for
yourself
.”

Finn held his ground. “We're a family, Mona. This time, I promise—”

“Don't make promises again. It's insulting. You think I want have a baby with you
now
? So she can see you drunk, with two black eyes? Get out of my way.”

Finn felt the fight go out of him. He wanted the ground to open up beneath his feet. He stepped aside. Mona rushed out the door, got into her car, and was gone.

*   *   *

He searched through the kitchen drawers until he found the Advil. He washed down four with water that he drank directly from the faucet. Then he put the coffee on, sat down at the table, and waited.

He listened to the fridge hum. He listened to the percolator hiss. Every now and then a car passed outside, but none of them stopped outside the house. None was the sound of Mona coming back.

I've fucked it all up. Just like my father,
he thought.

Finn dug out his cell from his pocket. There were eight missed calls from Mona. He called her cell. It rang twice, then went to voice mail. She'd rejected his call.

“Sorry,” he said. He wanted to say more, but the words didn't come. He clicked off.

Last time it had happened, she'd gone to her parents' house. He considered calling them, or even going over there. Then he remembered the state he was in, the bruises and scrapes on his face, the alcohol soaked into his shirt.

He poured himself some coffee and sat back down at the table. None of this would have happened if he hadn't shot Perez, he thought. He needed to clean himself up, get back on the wagon, set things straight. Maybe he'd try one of those meetings she was always talking about. Yeah, that's what he would do. He would clean up, then he would call her and say he was ready to go to a meeting.

Before that, though, what he needed to do was figure out who had beaten him up and stolen his Heckler & Koch. He needed to get it back. It was his service weapon, and it would be the nail in the coffin of his career if he had to go down to the station and report it stolen.

He also needed to sort out the Perez thing. He wondered how Diego had done with the fishing boat down in San Pedro. He pulled out his cell and called Diego, but it went straight to voice mail, which meant his phone was off.

That's okay,
he thought. He'd have a shower, change his clothes, then go down to the dock himself and ask around.

On the way, he'd look into Bonito's first, see if anyone had seen anything out on the sidewalk the preceding night that might help find the bozos who had taken his gun.

Maybe he'd have a little pick-me-up while he was there. Just to help keep his head straight while he ironed out his problems.

 

CHAPTER NINE

San Pedro's commercial fishing fleet docked along a quay about a mile down the road from Bonito's, in a narrow bay off the deepwater channel that led to the main container terminals of the Port of Los Angeles. The bay itself had received cargo ships once, but now it was too small for the leviathans that carried the modern world's trade, and so had been largely abandoned except by the fishing fleet, which itself was dwindling. The last local cannery had closed in the nineties, a year or two before Finn's father had been caught smuggling narcotics aboard his fishing boat.

Finn turned onto the road that ran along the concrete quay. Trawlers and seiners lined the side. Nets lay in great piles on the concrete, tarpaulins pulled over some of them. Finn drove slowly, examining each boat. He had a buzz going from his pit stop at Bonito's on the way in. Cutts hadn't been able to help him work out who had mugged him the night before, but the pick-me-up Finn had enjoyed while there had worked. He was looking forward to finding the
Pacific Belle
. Before he could figure which one she was, he noticed a commotion at the end of the wharf: blue lights, police cars, a chopper bearing down. He drove down to take a look. A port-police officer flagged him to stop. Finn rolled down his window.

“This area's off-limits. You'll have to turn around, sir.”

The Office of Air and Marine and the port police often cooperated on port operations. Finn recognized the officer.

“Wilkins? It's me, Finn.”

“Finn, Jesus. What happened to your face? I didn't recognize you.”

“What's going on?” said Finn. He was closer to the water's edge now and saw a barge crane raising something heavy out of the water. The port police dive-team boat was alongside the crane barge, her blue lights on and her white-striped red flag out, indicating that she had divers down. The barge didn't have its own means of locomotion, so there was a tug alongside it, smoke rising from her funnel. The chopper hovered over them all, her down-blast whipping the water.

“We've got a submerged vehicle.”

“What happened, somebody kill himself?” said Finn.

“More like homicide,” said the port-police officer. “Divers already pulled out the body, looks like he's got bullets in him. Jesus, you really do look like crap, Finn. Is that alcohol on your breath?”

Finn leaned away from the window. He kept his eyes on the crane. Finally, the vehicle emerged. Finn gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

The crane lifted a black Silverado from the water. Finn immediately recognized the two decals of dog silhouettes that Diego had stuck on either side of the Chevy emblem on the tailgate.

*   *   *

Finn parked as close as the port police let him and hurried along the outside of the crime-scene tape to the very edge of the wharf. Diego's Silverado was dangling from four chains fitted from the crane; water streamed from its undercarriage. The crane swiveled till the truck was over the quay.

It was the end of a beautiful afternoon. The sun conspired with the onshore breeze to stipple the water beyond the barge with a million flecks of gold. Finn leaned over the edge of the quay and threw up till his gut was hollow.

He wiped his face on the back of his sleeve, turned his back on the scene, and walked back toward his truck. Officer Wilkins was talking to a man in a suit standing on the other side of the tape, the two of them looking in Finn's direction. The man ducked under the tape and approached Finn.