Killer Swell (3 page)

I left the beer half empty on my coffee table, dug around in the piles of laundry for my car keys, and headed out to pay Randall Tower a visit.

I found my Jeep in the alley, turned down Jamaica, forced my way onto Mission, and settled in for the snaillike cruise up to La Jolla. The police had tried to crack down on the cruising by employing curfews, roadblocks, whatever they could think of. Nothing worked with any degree of success so the cops had become content with just patrolling, making sure all were behaving themselves.

I passed the Catamaran Hotel, moving into Pacific Beach. PB had recently moved itself into the upper class of San Diego beach communities, adding trendy restaurants and nightclubs to the beachfront hotels that sat between Grand and Garnett. The clothing switched from long shorts and T-shirts to polo shirts and sundresses, and the cars on the street increased in price.

The traffic lightened as I swung around the curve onto La Jolla Boulevard and into the area known as Bird Rock. The houses hung off the cliffs protected by elaborate gates and hedges. An elite area of rich people who didn't like you to see them while they watched the ocean from their living rooms.

I moved through Bird Rock and parked at the very southern end of Prospect Street, near the Museum of Contemporary Art. If you lived in La Jolla, Prospect Street was downtown. Forget that the rest of San Diego referred to the harbor area about fifteen miles to the south with its high-rises and international airport as downtown. If I'd needed directions to the La Valencia hotel, Marilyn Crier would've said, “It's right in the middle of downtown.”

A pink place of lodging sounds obnoxious, but the La Valencia was able to pull it off. The luxury resort took up half a block on Prospect, sitting atop the cove with sweeping northern views of La Jolla Shores and Torrey Pines. Charge three hundred bucks a night for a room and you can put polka dots on the outside and it will still be chic.

Two young high school students in tuxedo shirts, bow ties, and black shorts hustled around the valet stand, parking expensive foreign cars. I walked through the courtyard, wondering how much the meals cost that were being served on the outdoor patio. More than they were worth, I figured.

The front desk was a small, oak-encased area off the main hall. The door at the end of the hall was open, the Pacific sparkling out in the distance. Expensive perfume and cologne mingled in the air above the antique furniture in the lobby. I probably should've worn a jacket, but that would've looked silly over my T-shirt and shorts.

The gentleman behind the desk wore a dark suit and tie over a light blue dress shirt. His blond hair was slicked back off his forehead, and he didn't cringe when I stepped to the desk.

“I'm here for Randall Tower,” I said, smiling.

The clerk managed to look me up and down before I realized he'd done it. “He's a guest, sir?”

“That's what I was told.”

He nodded, as if he already knew he was correct. “I can't give out room information, sir.”

I nodded, as if I already knew that. “Can you ring his room?”

He thought about it, which I understood because it was a tough question. “Your name, sir?”

“Braddock.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“I have no idea. Possibly.”

His eyebrows arched, and I hoped he hadn't pushed the secret alarm button beneath the desk.

“Sir, our guests expect a certain amount of privacy,” he began, sounding as if he were reading from a brochure. “If you'd like to leave a message—”

“I wouldn't,” I said, cutting him off and smiling. “Please let him know a friend of his wife's is here.”

Now the eyebrows knitted, concern frosting his eyes. He was clearly casting me for the jilted lover or other man, or some other figure in the dramas that play out in rich people's lives.

“Sir, I really…” he began, puffing his chest out.

“Let's not make this silly,” I said. “I'm here to help the guy, not cause trouble. So either you can ring his room and tell him Noah Braddock is here and wants to see him, or I can start going floor to floor, room to room until I find him.”

He bristled and lifted his chin. “Or I can throw you out of the hotel.”

I smiled. “You personally?”

His cheeks reddened slightly. “I meant, I would call the police and have you removed from the premises.”

“Right,” I said. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my wallet, flipped it open to my license, and laid it on the counter. “Call the police. They're friends of mine. I can give you a couple of names to ask for specifically. I'm sure they'd be happy to respond to a case where you simply wouldn't dial a room number. I'm sure they'd see your side of it.”

The color in his cheeks brightened, and he pursed his lips, glancing at my license but not wanting to stare at it. He looked back at me, knowing he was beaten.

“Tower, you said?” he said, straightening his tie and trying to regain his dignity.

I grabbed my wallet and deposited it back in my pocket. “You got it.”

He picked up the receiver, punched several numbers on the console in front of him, and shook his head. “I hate this place.”

I smiled, feeling sorry for him. “You and me both, pal. You and me both.”

I was standing at the open back door of the lobby, admiring the sparkling black evening ocean when a finger tapped me on the shoulder.

“Mr. Braddock?” he asked as I turned around. “I'm Randall Tower.”

Randall was slightly taller than me, maybe six-four, and movie-star handsome. His thick, dark hair was cut stylishly short on the sides, a longer shock combed off his bronze forehead. Bright blue eyes rested above a very Waspy nose, thick lips, and a dimpled chin. A black cotton dress shirt and white linen slacks hung loosely on his thin frame. Black loafers covered his feet.

He offered his hand, and his grip was stronger than I expected.

“Noah,” I said.

He nodded, a small smile turning up a corner of his mouth. “Marilyn said I might be hearing from you.”

“That's funny?”

He waved a hand in the air. “Marilyn said to watch out for ulterior motives. Those were her exact words, I believe.”

“I'm sure they were.”

He aimed a thumb back over his shoulder. “Buy you a drink?”

I nodded and followed him through the lobby into a small room that housed a bar and half a dozen stools, all empty. Apparently, in expensive hotels you didn't hang out in the bar. Maybe you had the bartender hang out in your room.

We sat at the farthest end of the bar. I ordered a Jack and Coke, and Randall asked for a Heineken. The small man behind the bar had the drinks on the bar in less than thirty seconds and then moved away from us. Probably didn't want my T-shirt to rub off on him.

“You knew Kate?” Randall asked me.

“In high school.”

“Marilyn said you dated.”

“We did.”

He chuckled, his eyes amused. “So are there ulterior motives that I should be aware of?”

“Nope. Marilyn hired me to find Kate. That's my motive.”

He eyed me for a moment. “Sure about that?”

I stared back. “Yeah. I promise that if I find Kate, I won't ask her to go to the prom with me,” I said. “Believe it or not, I have moved on since high school.”

He nodded. “Good.”

Something in the way he said it made me think that he was telling me that if I did have other reasons for taking on the case, I could forget them. Kate was his. It shouldn't have, but it irritated me.

“How long have you been married?” I asked, sipping the drink.

“Three years,” he told me, his eyes focused on the green beer bottle. “We met at Stanford. Kate was finishing her master's and I'd just completed my internship at the hospital.”

“You're a doctor.”

“Orthopedic surgeon,” he said. “I'm practicing now at St. Andrew's in San Francisco.”

“That's where you live?”

He took a drink from the bottle and nodded. “Yeah. North of the city in Marin County.”

Randall and Kate were making some big bucks to live in one of the most expensive counties in the country.

We didn't speak for nearly a minute, the silence in the bar broken by the bartender's polishing of the brass rail that ran the length of the bar. A quiet shushing sound.

“Enough of the small talk,” he said, suddenly, his voice serious. “I hate small talk. It's what I do with Marilyn.”

I raised my glass in his direction. “You said it, not me.”

“You're an investigator?”

“I am.”

“Can you find Kate?”

“I don't really know enough about what's going on to give you a good answer to that,” I told him.

He thought about that and stared at his Heineken. His eyes were elsewhere, though. “I don't think she wants to be married anymore,” he said.

“Why's that?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Because that's basically what she told me.”

I didn't react right away because I felt bad for him. No matter the state of their marriage, hearing that had to hurt. I remembered her conversation with me on Catalina and feeling as if someone had just died.

“Someone else?” I finally said.

He hesitated for a moment, glancing at me as if I'd asked an unexpected question. Then he looked back at the beer bottle. “I don't think so. I think she just doesn't want to be married.”

I found that odd. “So why would that make her disappear?”

He held the neck of the beer bottle loosely between his fingers, swinging it back and forth. “Not sure. We've been arguing, though.”

“About?”

“Oh, everything, I guess,” he said, a frustrated expression on his face. “We can't get along. I get mad at her, she gets mad at me. Neither of us can please the other.”

I nodded. “When was the last time you spoke to her?”

“The night before her flight was supposed to leave. She seemed fine, said she was looking forward to getting home after being down here for a few days,” Randall said. “That was it. When she didn't show up and no one had heard from her, I flew down right away.”

I finished my drink, and we walked back to the lobby. We shook hands again.

“Thanks for doing this,” he said, giving a quick nod.

“No problem,” I replied. “You're staying in San Diego for a while?”

“As long as I need to,” he said, a weak smile creasing his face.

I said I'd be in touch and walked outside. The valets were talking and laughing. They glanced at me and then went back to their conversation. Guess I didn't look like I owned a car they would consider parking.

Dr. Randall Tower hadn't given me much. Normal marriage problems, seemed surprised that Kate would take off. But one thing bothered me as I walked back along Prospect to my car.

He seemed pretty calm for a guy who hadn't seen his wife in nearly two weeks.

Marilyn had told me that Kate had stayed at the San Diego Marriott Hotel and Marina during her visit to the city. Marilyn explained that Kate always stayed at a hotel when she came home, saying she didn't want to be a bother to her parents, despite their objections. I wondered how Marilyn explained that one to her socialite friends as I made the drive to the hotel to see if there were any giant clues to trip over.

The Marriott sits at the southern edge of the downtown area, sandwiched between the revitalized Gaslamp Quarter and the finger of San Diego Bay that separates the mainland from Coronado Island. The two towers of the hotel jut into the horizon like glass spears, and the lights from the Coronado Bridge reflected off the mirrored exteriors in the bluish-black evening sky.

The girl at the front desk of the Marriott was less wary than the guy at the La Valencia, and, after a quick look at my license, she gave me what little info on Kate she had.

“The reservation was from the second through the eighth, but she checked out two days early,” she said, staring at the computer screen. “Bill paid in full.”

“Room been rented since?”

She nodded quickly. “Several times. We're running close to full.” She frowned, obviously not appreciating San Diego's push toward tourism. “It's like that in the summer.”

“Anything else on the bill?”

She studied the screen, then shook her head. “Nope. Room and tax. That's it.”

I thanked her for her help and wandered around the lobby. I glanced in the windows of the gift shops that lined the walkway to the outdoor courtyard. I saw expensive things. I poked my head into the bar and observed the noise and commotion. Nothing pointed me in the right direction.

I walked outside to my car and was heading toward the exit on Harbor when a solitary car at the end of the lot caught my eye. The red Mercedes was parked diagonally, taking up two spaces, shining brightly beneath a towering streetlamp. There were small dents on top of the trunk, as if someone had pounded a fist into it.

I made a U-turn and parked next to the car. I stared at the car for a moment before getting out.

I have always been baffled by my actions. I don't know why I stuck a straw up the cat's nose when I was six. I don't know why I took my first drink at fifteen. I don't know why I sometimes stop talking to friends for no reason. For as long as I can remember, I have done things simply because I felt compelled. No justification, no reason. I just do things.

That Mercedes was screaming for me to look at it.

I stepped out of my car and the smell hit me almost immediately. I swallowed hard against whatever was rotting in the area and walked up to the driver's side window. A white leather purse was tossed casually into the backseat. The keys were in the ignition.

I tried the doors, but they were locked. The stench was smothering me, and I couldn't ignore the fact that it was coming from the trunk. I pulled the tire iron from the rear of my Jeep and wedged it into the space between the trunk door and the body of the car. I jimmied the iron up and down for a minute before I heard the lock snap. I pushed up on it. The lid creaked slightly as it rose.

The odor emerged like a nuclear cloud, and I took a step back, the muscles in my throat convulsing. I held my forearm in front of my nose and mouth and looked reluctantly into the trunk.

Kate Crier's face stared back at me, the life in it long gone.