Hot Storage (21 page)

   “Me? No.” I had thought about it, most of the night when I couldn’t sleep. “Do you?”

   He sighed. “There’s a couple of idea’s floating around. From what we know so far, it looks like someone opened the door and shot him. Then he or she took the disk from the recorder, busted up the equipment and left. Nothing is missing. Either someone wanted to get at Steve, or someone wanted to get at you and didn’t know you were off weekends.”

   “Everyone here knows I’m off weekends,” I said. “That eliminates the customer list.”

   “If they were after you, yes it would. You tell me Steve had no known enemies, was peaceful as a clam and liked everyone. What does that leave?”

   I thought about it. “A random killing?”

   John shook his head. “I don’t think so. Not here in Jade. Maybe in LA or San Francisco, not here. It has to be related to this area if not to this storage facility. There are no other storage places around here?”

   “Nope. This is it. Unless you want to drive to San Luis or Paso. The same question – why? There was the petty cash, the computers, the camera system and none of it was taken. Just busted up. No robbery.”

   “There is another possibility, you know.”

   I looked at him. “Someone after one of the Murphys?”

   “It’s possible,” John nodded. “I’ve checked around on the sons. They both have reputations as playboys. Paul’s been mentioned in more than one domestic report. The locals call Patrick ‘Trick’ for a reason. I hear he’s broken every female heart in the county. Might have been an irate husband on the hunt.”

   “In the office?”

   “It’s a theory, Marlie.”

   “Are there others?”

   John nodded. “Several. I think this is all related to those drugs being found here. Where did they come from? Were those the only ones? For that matter was that the first time? Maybe the wrong people picked them up. That could go fifty different ways.”

   “Wait a minute. Your theory is that my storage facility is a trading post for drug dealers? No way. Uh -uh. Not going for that one. I’m far from stupid and I keep a close eye on this place.”

   “And this place wound up with nine cartons of high quality cocaine nicely packaged and left in an empty unit. And shortly after that a man seen near the unit with the drugs in it is found with a bullet in the back of his head on the side of the freeway. That has to be related. Someone took those cartons. Maybe it was the wrong someone.”

   “You guys let it get away,” I defended. “You’re the ones who put it back. Now you think another whole set of drug dealers found it and took it? That Steve was murdered over that?”

   “If I’ve learned anything over the years it’s nothing is impossible. Not when you deal with people. .”

   My turn to sigh. “There’s a connection, John. We just don’t see it.”

   “We’ve been to this picnic before. I’ll ask again. Do you think Burke is involved with the drugs?”

   “I know he is. It’s his job. I don’t know what exactly he does, but he’s been on this drug case for a long time, over a year. He told me that.”

   “I meant personally involved. Wouldn’t be the first time someone undercover switch hit.”

   I thought about it. “I don’t see it. I guess it’s possible.”

   “He and the drugs showed up about the same time. That file you gave him? Never showed up. No one on the task force ever saw it. Not until I took in the one you gave me. So far he’s the only one doing anything suspicious.”

   “Paul,” I said, remembering him speaking Spanish on his cell phone. I told John about the incident.

   “What was he saying?”

   “No idea,” I smiled. “Despite my looks, I’m only half Mexican. My dad insisted we speak English at home. The only Spanish I ever heard was from my grandmother when she visited.”

   John grinned. “Guess I’ll cancel my Spanish class then.”

   I smiled back. “All I know for sure is he wasn’t ordering food. I know those words.”

   “He may have picked up some Spanish. Common here in California.”

   I nodded. “I’m tossing out ideas.” I remembered the harsh attitude of Papa and Paul. “What about Papa?”

   “Irish Mafia? It’s a stretch, Marlie. About the only thing the sons are guilty of is chasing women. The old man owns half of Monarch Beach, been here a long time. I don’t think he’d take the risk. Lot to lose if caught.”

   “No worse than someone gunning for Steve. That’s the biggest stretch of all.”
   One of the guys working in the office came out and interrupted, to tell John they were finished with the office and would be leaving shortly. I thanked him and we sat on the bench and watched them leave.

   When they were gone, John looked at me with concern, his brows pulled down. “Are you going back to work in there?”

   “Not today. Papa Murphy told me to take off the rest of the week. Paul is going to find a replacement for Steve, someone to work weekends. Patrick said he’d paint the office, do some stuff around here. I won’t be going back till Monday.”

   “Can they do that? Just close up?”

   “They can do anything they want. They own it. Besides, it’s the slow time of month. The current customers can still get in, the gates are working. I’ll change the recording on the phone for a few days, we should be okay till I get back on Monday. Emergency numbers on the front are Papa and Paul, and I’ll be around most of the time.”

   “It’s nice of them to redo the office,” John said. “The carpet was the only real loss.” He stopped and glanced at me. “Didn’t mean to sound crude there.”

   “I know.”

   “Come on, enough of this. If you don’t have to work let’s go get something to eat.” He stood and dusted off the seat of his pants. “Kelly’s has ham steak tonight with fried sweet potatoes and greens. One of my favorites. We’ll both feel better if we get something to eat.”

   “Sounds good to me.”

   “Come on, then. Lock up the office and you can ride with me. I’ll bring you home.”

   John was right about the dinner at Kelly’s – it was excellent and led to discussions of past Thanksgiving meals with family. I shared memories of making tamales on Christmas Eve with my dad and the weaving of palm fronds into little boxes to cook rice dumplings called tipat with my mom.

   “I like rice,” John said. “That sounds good.”

   “Sorry, John. I gave up my frond weaving when I left home. My folks are both great cooks. I tend towards finger foods, like tacos and pizza.”

   He chuckled. “At my place it’s anything that can be stuffed between two pieces of bread and hit with mustard. Nothing fancy about it. Also why I eat here a lot.” He motioned around us at the other diners. “My home away from home.”

   “I’ll remember,” I said.

   “Hey, dinner on me any time I’m here.”

   “I’ll remember that, too,” I said. “This was a nice break. Thank you.”

   “Welcome.”

   The next day I had the apartment clean, the sheets changed and the laundry done before noon. What was I going to do for the next four days? I was suddenly aware of how shallow my life had become. Work, home, work, home. No wonder I had accepted Burke’s company so readily. Was he a friend or a welcome break in a boring routine? I made a peanut butter sandwich, took three bites and tossed it. My snug and comfortable apartment was like a beige and crimson cell with house plants. I locked up and went downstairs.

   Signs on the front door and beside the gate notified customers of the temporary closure to the office. The front door stood open right next to the sign saying it was closed.

   I went inside. Paint fumes greeted me. The counters were gone and so were the cabinets. Drop clothes covered the floor of the empty room. It looked a lot bigger without furniture. Watching my step I went back to the kitchen where I heard noises.

   The office counters, the chairs and most of the missing office furniture was stacked and piled along the walls, leaving a narrow passage to the sink. Patrick Murphy rattled the carafe for the coffee pot under the faucet.

   “You want me to do that?” I asked from the doorway.

   Patrick started and spun around. “What are you doing here?”

   I eased my way along the passage to his side and hip checked him to the side. “I’ll get this,” I said. “It’s tricky if you don’t jiggle the on button.” I put the water in the pot, added the basket of fresh grounds and pushed the on button three times. On, off, on, off and on. For some reason it was the only way it worked. I intended to buy a new one eventually. Steve only drank tea and he used the microwave so there had been no rush.

   “That a secret code?”

   I glanced at Patrick who had moved back against a stack of boxes. “She’s a girl coffee pot. Temperamental.”

   “I’ll remember that.”

   “It’s something in the switch. For future reference it’s five clicks and it works fine.” I pulled a couple of mugs from the cupboard above the sink. The smell of fresh coffee swelled around us. “You want sugar? Cream?”

   “Blond,” he replied.

   I got down the Coffee Mate and pulled a spoon from the drawer.

   “You didn’t tell me what you’re doing here.”

   “Habit. Bored. Curious. Pick one.”

   Patrick’s lips curved up in a smile, his eyes warm and bright. “I’d bet it’s all three.”

   “You might be right,” I said. The coffee pot gurgled, hissed and sighed to a finale. I poured two cups of coffee, added creamer and handed one to Patrick. We had to shift a little to make room for raised elbows and cups in the small space. “You need any help with this?” I indicated the stacks around us. “The painting? Anything I can do to help?”

   Patrick blew on his coffee and took a sip. “I got it but thanks. That’s nice of you.”

   “It’s my office.”

   “I’m sorry about the other guy. Were you close?”

   “No, not really. I spent a few days training him, saw him a few times on the weekend, when I was going in or out.”

   Patrick nodded and sipped more coffee. “Smart. Getting close to an employee can be trouble.”

   “You had that problem?”

   I don’t know why I said it. It just popped out.

   The warmth in his face, the slight smile died. “Which story did you hear? The one about the gal that tried to kill herself? Blamed me for breaking her heart? Or the one about the gal that smashed up my wind shield down at the pier?”

   “I didn’t mean anything, Patrick. I just asked. Making conversation.”

   He gave me a long, cool look. “You’re not blushing. You getting used to me?”

   “I hope so.”

   “Me, too,” he said and the way he said it, the look in his eyes, I felt the heat climb up my neck and fill my cheeks, right to the tips of my ears.

   Patrick laughed, a belly laugh, filling the small space we shared. He laughed so hard his hand shook and he spilled coffee down his shirt front. That sobered him up although those blue eyes still sparkled. “Now look what you made me do,” he said, still smiling.

   “You deserved it. You’re lucky I didn’t pour mine on you.”

   “You would, too. You’re the type.”

   “What type is that, Patrick?”

   The little air between us changed, became charged and heavy. Patrick’s eyes darkened even as I looked into them. I had nowhere to go, pressed against the kitchen counter with his body blocking the narrow passage between furniture and stacked boxes.

   He lifted his cup and set it atop the stack at his side, holding me with his eyes, before he reached for me, his arms sliding around my shoulders. He tugged me closer if that was possible. We were almost touching when all hell broke loose.

   The floor lifted and dropped and lifted again before rolling sideways. Boxes groaned, swayed and began to fall around us.

   Patrick yanked me against his chest and shoved my head into his shoulder, his head coming down on mine. He lifted one hand to cover my head and shoved me against the tower of boxes while the floor shook and heaved.

   Earthquake!

   For over a minute we huddled together. My arms automatically wrapped around his waist and held on. There is a dull roar beneath every earthquake. Any Californian can tell you about it. A sudden silence and it’s over.

   Patrick still held me against his chest another minute before he raised his head and looked around. I lifted my head and released my grip on him.

   The boxes had shifted and fallen into the narrow access space. They looked like a derailed train now, some tilted, some end on end.

   Patrick’s breath was warm on my face. “Are you okay?”

   I took a breath. Nothing hurt. “Yeah, I’m good.”

   “That was a big one,” he said.

   Somewhere outside I heard car alarms going off.

   “Stay there a minute,” Patrick said, pushing me against the only stack of boxes still in place. “Let me see if I can get us out of here.” With that he tried to turn around which meant me sucking in my belly and pressing hard against the counter while his body rubbed across mine. With a little maneuvering he faced the opposite way, giving me his broad back. I watched the muscles in his back bunch and release as he shoved and lifted cartons to the top of the pile.