The Detective & the Chinese High-Fin (22 page)

“Okay, John.”

We walked back to his building. He went up. I went down to the garage, got in the Focus, and left.

I
wasn't worried about Dave Treadway doing anything stupid. In my mind, he trusted that I was going to think about it overnight and get back to him. Plus, I'd told him I was going to be watching. But I wasn't even going to do that. I really didn't think I needed to. In his mind, he makes any kind of move I can see, and I call the cops. He makes any kind of move I can't see, web searches, phone calls—it just makes him look guilty later. The guy was trapped. And not going anywhere.

So why had I done what I'd just done? Good question. Truth is, I wanted to put everything on him and see what happened. See what he would do, what he would say. See if he'd give me his side of the story. Well, now he had.

And now I needed to think about what I was going to do about it.

Yeah. I needed to think. To go somewhere and think this through a bit. I found my way over to the Pacific Coast Highway and took it north for five miles, past the cliffs of Torrey Pines, then went another five to Del Mar. Del Mar is a beautiful, and very high-end, beach town. It's one of those places about which people always say: It's got the most expensive real estate in the country. You know those places? Paradoxically, there are a few of them. Del Mar is one. That said, it's got a lovely
public
beach. Which is where I went. I parked in the lot, then got out and walked down to the sand.

I sat down, took a deep breath, looked around. Night was just starting to fall over the sand and the ocean and sky. There was a warm beach breeze. Some gulls were gathered up high, swaying, getting pushed around by the wind. No one was near me—there were just a few people on the beach, some dots in the distance. I leaned back, put my back against the sand. I was totally flat, looking straight up at a now deeper orange, a fiercer pink, and the very last of the blue.

I was thinking, People don't go to the beach enough in the late afternoon, or at night, even. It's so nice. And when it's sparsely populated like this, it's such a break from the tension of daily California life, especially in L.A.

And then I thought, looking up at the last bit of light in the sky, the colors hanging on, just about to be usurped by darkness: I'm so tired. I closed my eyes. I listened to the waves. I could see them in my mind as I heard them. Rising
up, breaking, pushing toward me on the sand. Then getting sucked back out. I fell asleep.

I woke up to a beach totally devoid of people. I was alone out here. A half-moon hung in the sky, and it, along with the stars like pinpricks in the blackness, provided enough light for me to see clouds sitting up there too. Big, wispy gray clouds moving slowly by. You don't think of clouds at night, and I lay there contemplating them, admiring their beauty.

I sat up and I had a thought.
What do I know about right and wrong?

I walked down to the shore, looked out at the ocean, the moon and the stars putting highlights on the white water when the waves broke.

What do I know about right and wrong?

I stood there looking at the water, and that transported me to another time I was looking out at a big body of water. A time a few years back, when I was working a case in Florida. When I'd finished the case, because I was in Florida I thought: I should go look at the Everglades. Ever been? It's incredible. Incredible.

So I drove down to Miami, from Jacksonville, where I'd been on the job, and hung a right until I got to the largest swamp in the world. There I paid a guy, a guy of Seminole Indian descent, to take me out into the middle of it on his airboat. At one point, he stopped the big fan and we just sat there, deep in the Everglades, in silence. I looked around. There were vast sections of grass coming up through the swamp. Trees coming up out of the water too. And there were prehistoric-looking birds with colossal wingspans soaring around.

And alligators. Everywhere, alligators.

One surfaced right by our boat. His whole body, all fifteen feet of it, appeared all at the same time. I looked at the coarse, thick, seemingly impenetrable skin on his back. I looked at his head, at his exposed teeth, at the two black marbles that were his eyes. I was locked on him, transfixed by this lethal-looking creature floating six feet away from me.

The Seminole man said, “You know how long they been around?”

I let him answer instead of guessing.

He said, “Thirty million years.”

I looked back at the alligator. Thirty million years. I stared at it. And I swear I think it was staring at me. Thirty million years. Sitting there on that boat, looking at those black dots sitting in that violent-looking head, thinking, We've been around, what, a few thousand? And we're supposed to know what's really happening? What's really fucking going on?
I'm
supposed to be able to get my head around just exactly what's right and what's wrong?

That's what I was thinking then. And that's what I was thinking now. In Del Mar, at the edge of the ocean. Should I put Dave Treadway away? Should I put him away for gunning down a total scumbag who spent his whole life shitting on others? And, if you go by Dave Treadway's assessment, who killed a girl and rendered her mother a zombie basket case?

That was the question.

Yep, that was the question. Should I put him away, or let it ride? After all, nobody would ever know. As far as anyone was concerned, we'd gotten our man.

I took off my shoes, socks, shirt, pants, and underwear and carried them up to where the water wouldn't take them away even if a big wave came in. Then I walked back down to the water. I got in, up to about my knees. The water was cold. But it was late summer, so it wasn't too bad. I went for it. Ran through water, through white water, toward a distant, black horizon line. I reached a wave that was just about to break and I dove right into the heart of it. I glided through it and popped up on the temporarily placid other side.

I swam farther out, past the point at which I still felt somehow anchored to the shore, still felt comfortable. Where I ended up, the waves weren't close to breaking. They just came in as big black mounds and I'd float up, then down, as they moved through me.

I lay on my back, floating, looking up at the sky, at the stars, at the clouds. Thinking: What should I do about my friend Dave Treadway?

Ten minutes later I swam back to shore, got my clothes, jogged over to the Focus. I had a towel in the trunk. Grabbed it, dried off, got dressed, got in, cranked up the car, cranked up the heat till I was warm. Then I turned off the car, reclined the seat, and fell asleep again.

At 5:30 a.m. I woke up. I was tired. I was exhausted. I got out of the car, used the public bathroom, then got back in, cranked her up again, and drove back to La Jolla.

L
ife is gray, decisions are black and white.

I found a spot on the street right beneath Dave Treadway's building. I got out of my car, walked around the front of it to the sidewalk, leaned on my roof, and looked up at the building, counting the balconies, trying to figure out which one belonged to Dave and Jill and Davey. Got it, recognized the furniture. I could see the cove down a ways to my right, and, down a ways to my left, yet another gas station. I walked over to the gas station and did something I hadn't done in five years. I bought a pack of smokes. Marlboro Lights. I know, not the coolest brand. But the brand that gives me the most satisfying hit. People used to say to me: Marlboro Lights taste like chemicals,
like tobacco mixed with chlorine or something. And I'd say to them: Right, exactly, that's why I like them.

Look, cigarettes are disgusting. But once they get their hooks in you, they're amazing. Incredible. Taking a drag is like inhaling heaven. But they kill you, so you have to figure out how to quit, which I did. Except for the one I was about to smoke.

I walked back over to my car, packing my smokes on the butt of my left hand. I got back to the sidewalk, leaned on my car the way I was before, opened up the smokes, lit one, took a big, hungry, powerful drag. The smoke hurt, but it was a good hurt. I blew the smoke out my mouth and my nose. I knew, I really knew, that I could be a dedicated smoker again by the end of the day. I could be a pack-a-day smoker by the end of tomorrow. And I could be a full-on prisoner by the end of the week.

But I wasn't going to let that happen. I promise.

I took another drag, then scanned Dave Treadway's building again until I got to their balcony.

Standing out there now was Jill Treadway, holding Davey, looking down at me. I couldn't see her eyes and she couldn't see mine, but we were looking right at each other. And I could feel her eyes. I could feel in them a look that said: Don't take my husband from me. We stayed like that, locked on each other, as I smoked my cigarette down. I took one final drag, one final drag, then put the butt out on my shoe. Like Jim Douglas had done. I had the butt in my hand. I looked down the sidewalk and spotted a trash can about thirty feet away. I flicked the butt at it, it went high in the sky, it looked like it was going to sail over the trash
can, way over, but then a little gust of wind came in off the ocean and slowed it down, put the brakes on it. The butt dropped right into the can.

Luck. Total luck.

Jill Treadway wouldn't have been able to see what I'd just pulled off, the butt was too small, but I looked up to see if she was still watching me anyway. She was gone. The balcony was empty.

I pulled out my cell and dialed Dave Treadway. He answered.

“Let's talk,” I said.

Five minutes later he pulled out onto the street in his X5, right in front of me. He pushed open the passenger-side door for me to get in.

“Where are we going?” I said.

“Somewhere we can talk.”

I got my backpack—wasn't going to leave that in the Focus, no way—and got in. We drove ten minutes north, to Torrey Pines. Same road I'd taken the evening before. But we didn't continue on to Del Mar. We went just past the Torrey Pines resort to the nature reserve, a beautiful sprawl of wilderness, trails, and pine trees that sits high up on stunning cliffs overlooking the Pacific.

We parked in the public lot, then walked a trail straight west, through the pines and the brush, until we were at the edge of the cliffs overlooking the ocean.

“Let's walk down,” Treadway said.

We did. Down a dramatic precipice that deposited us onto a secluded beach below.

Six-thirty a.m., nobody around, a two-hundred-foot
natural wall on one side, the ocean on the other. This would be a private conversation.

“We can definitely talk here,” I said.

“Yeah. And I wanted to get one last look at all this in case you decide to turn me in.”

I looked at him. I liked him. And the thing was, he had a point. He did. His child molester example? I couldn't really disagree with it. Put terrorists and crazy gunmen who level movie theaters on that list too. It would be a whole lot easier if some of those people just got taken out. We wouldn't need to know who did it, it would just happen. Snap. Gone. For the sake of the victims, the future victims, for everyone else walking the earth as well. Everyone else just trying to live their goddamn lives. So Keaton Fuller—did he belong on that list? A guy who shot animals, raped women, assaulted his mother, broke every promise he ever made. And then there was Andrea Cogburn. Did he kill her? Yeah, kind of. Kind of killed her mom too. Does Keaton Fuller belong on that list? I think he belongs on that list.

Dave Treadway said, “What's it going to be, John?”

“You're going to jail, Dave.”

He shook his head and backed up. “Don't do it.”

“I'm doing it.”

Treadway pulled a gun from his jacket and pointed it at me. It wasn't another Smith. It was a Ruger SR9. Another popular pistol. I looked at him and, involuntarily, I laughed.

“You don't think I'll do it?”

“You might,” I said. “But if I walked into your of
fice and started telling you how to move people's money around, you'd laugh, right?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You have to have experience to do stuff like this. You're on my turf. You're not going to win this battle.”

“I think Keaton Fuller would tell you differently.”

“That wasn't a confrontation. That wasn't a standoff. That was you hiding and deciding to kill a guy. You know, I never asked you—how'd you pull off that shot? That's a tough shot. Did you practice? Are you a good shot?”

He looked at me and answered my question honestly. “I've fired guns over the years. The camp I went to as a kid had a shooting range. I even shot guns once or twice with Keaton and Greer. In their backyard. More recently, I've gone to shooting ranges and played around. Basically, I'm a decent shot. But that shot? That day? That was luck.”

Luck. I pictured my cigarette butt flying high in the air, the gust of wind catching it and dropping it right in the trash.

He continued, “Keaton walked out. I'd decided to do it. I aimed, pulled the trigger one time, and he just dropped. A perfect shot, right to the chest. If I had missed him, or gotten him in the arm or something, I probably would have left without finishing the job. But I didn't miss. I got lucky. It was a perfect shot.”

And then Treadway jumped right back to what really mattered. “Change your mind, John.”

“You can't just kill people, Dave. I agree with you—the world won't miss Keaton Fuller. But that's not your decision to make.”

Treadway said again, in almost a monotone, “Change your mind, John.”

“Can't do it. I thought about it, but I can't do it. I had to pick one way or the other, and I decided against you. You know, you never know where the line is. It's case by case. The gardener who took the ring? I decided to let her off. Much smaller thing, but she did break the law. But you? Not going to happen. Put the gun down, Dave.”

He shook his head no. “You send me to jail for life, you might as well kill me. And my family too. I can't let you do it, John.”

“I'm going to do it,” I said. And then, “What are you going to do about Jill? You going to lie and say she never found out about any of it? Tell them why you had her put the recording up to the intercom, so the staff would think it was you, but then lie and say she somehow never found out what really happened that morning, so she's completely free of any blame? No way the cops could prove it. That's what I'd do. There's a line I'd cross. Put the gun down, Dave. You're not going to get away with this.”

He said, “I got away with Keaton. Almost. And I don't think you've told anyone about me, about what you discovered. Have you?”

“Nope,” I said.

“You end up dead on the beach, who's going to bring that back to me? I'll have the evidence. And there are probably plenty of people who'd like to see you dead. Past cases. Shit, you just busted a drug ring. How many people up that chain want you gone? Lots of reasonable doubt.
If
it ever got back to me.”

Dave Treadway was a smart guy. He was. If he shot me right here on the beach, he probably
could
get away with it. It would be hard, like he'd said, for someone to bring it back to him. Eve Cogburn knew I was going to visit the grave site, but she didn't know exactly why. Didn't realize how it was connected to the question I'd asked her about Treadway. Or whether it was at all. The cemetery guys saw me dig up a gun, but there'd be no film of it. Treadway would have that, because he knew it was on my phone. Janet Falcone at the DMV knew I'd wanted to know whether Treadway owned a motorcycle, but, again, she didn't know why I was looking into that. The gas station manager could come forward with another copy of the tape, if he discovered somehow that I was dead. But Treadway would have the hat that he was wearing in the tape. Beyond that, what was the tape without everything else?

And, of course, there was the big one: the gun. Treadway would have the gun. The truly incriminating evidence. Not to mention the other big one: Treadway would be the only one with the knowledge of how all the pieces connected together to put the Keaton Fuller murder on him. Yeah, he probably could get away with it.

“All right,” I said. “Let's say I change my mind.”

And then, like that brutal evening in the woods of Calabasas, I was faced with another split second that lasted another eternity. Dave Treadway thought about that notion, about me changing my mind. I could see it in his eyes. And in that split second, my left fist came down hard on his right hand. As the Ruger fell toward the sand, I hit him in the nose, square. He staggered backward but, before
he went down, I spun him and shoved him forward so he face-planted in the sand. I put my knee on his spine, then yanked both his hands back toward me. I cuffed his wrists. Then I pulled out some plastic restraining straps from my jacket. I wound them around his ankles and cinched them tight.

Then I called Detective Mike Ott.

When he picked up, I said, “Mike, you're not going to believe this shit.”

Life is gray, decisions are black and white.