The Night Detectives (6 page)

13

It was nearly five but Peralta wanted to go out again. He had scheduled a meeting with a real-estate agent to see the condo.

I changed into casual clothes, a light-blue shirt and cargo shorts. The Python was too big to carry, which was why I had invested in a Smith & Wesson 340PD Airlite, an eleven-ounce, snubnosed .357 magnum that slipped easily into the right-side pocket of the shorts. I stashed the Glock that I had confiscated from America's Finest Pimp in a drawer. Who knew how many unsolved shootings or homicides it was connected to? I would deal with that later. Peralta was out of the robe, thank goodness, and in tan slacks, dress shirt, and blue blazer.

We walked ten blocks down Broadway toward the waterfront. The condo was hard to miss: more than forty stories, right across from the beautifully restored railroad station, with its blue Santa Fe railroad sign on the roof. In the lobby was a watchful concierge and, sitting on the edge of a chair with perfect posture, an auburn-haired, middle-aged woman who exuded perkiness. The Realtor. We made introductions and she took us up the elevator to the nineteenth floor.

We must have looked like the oddest gay couple she had ever dealt with.

“I have so many clients from Phoenix,” she chirped. “This is the place to be.”

The deadbolt turned with decisive effort and opened onto an empty living room. The condo hadn't been staged for the sale. What most stood out was the handsome hardwood floor. And then the view, of course. Asking price: $599,000.

I let her walk Peralta through the rooms and wandered off by myself to the balcony. It was amusing to hear her calling him “Mike” in nearly every sentence. Nobody but Sharon called him Mike. But he was as convivial as could be, a skill he had learned over the years while wooing voters. Not that he had needed to put on a front. His record as sheriff was spotless, with crime down, jail conditions excellent, response times across the county top-notch, and his history professor solving high-profile old cases. All that didn't matter when his opponent ran against him claiming he was soft on illegal aliens. I pushed that out of my mind, opened the glass door, and stepped outside.

The view of downtown and the harbor was not as stunning as you could get for one or two million bucks on the upper floors, but it would do. If you had the money to escape the summer hell and dust storms of Phoenix, San Diego would be about as close to heaven as you could get.

The sun had burned off all the clouds and was now angled to throw the city into enchanting relief. The water was flawlessly blue and full of pleasure boats, which were dwarfed by the carrier at its mooring on North Island. The Navy kept the Nimitz-class carriers there because they wouldn't fit under the bridge that connected San Diego to Coronado, even though it soared 1,880 feet, a blue arch, across the channel that led to the Pacific Fleet's base.

I drove that bridge many times but was glad not to be going over it this trip. I was glad not to make connections between Grace Hunter and the suicide at the Spreckles Mansion. As I got older, I didn't like heights, didn't like bridges. I didn't like being on this balcony with the restless wind, distorted and accelerated by the other skyscrapers, flapping against my shirt. San Diego didn't really get earthquakes. A small fault line ran through Rose Canyon east of La Jolla, but otherwise it was pretty safe. That made me happy, nineteen stories over downtown.

At the edge, I looked down on the pool. A party was going on and the people looked very small. As I recalled, a body fell at thirty-two-feet-per-second, accelerating as it went down. It was a long damned time to contemplate death, to wonder if you'd made a big mistake.

What desolation must this young woman have felt to want to kill herself, sure that the terror of the fall and the pain of impact would be brief, and then nothing, comforting oblivion. If that was what really awaited us. Who really knew? I reached under my shirt and ran my finger along my totem, Robin's cross.

“Hey, babe…” The video of Grace on the flash drive was vivid in my mind. The confident, teasing voice and smile. It fit perfectly with Tim's description of a young woman who started her own business, however illicit, and was the consort of men who would pay thousands for her company. Would that same woman commit suicide?

I stared down at the concrete for a good five minutes.

The railing was at my belly button, but I was about ten inches taller than Grace Hunter. If I were suicidal and athletic, I was tall enough to hike one foot to the top of the railing and launch myself off. No fuss, no time for second thoughts. Grace couldn't do that. Based on the description of a five-foot-four woman, her legs weren't long enough. Handcuffed, she would have had to do a bit of a gymnastics move to go head first. Or maybe she hopped up on the railing backwards and pushed out into the sea-kissed air.

I was gripping the railing so hard my hands started to hurt. Making myself stop, I ran them along the smooth metal. The balcony was secluded, so nobody from an adjoining unit could see what was happening there. Other condos, offices, and hotels were too distant to give a detailed view, so witnesses were unlikely, especially after dark. I'm sure the cops had checked that out.

Such a lovely place to stand. How could you look out on this city and see anything but pleasure and hope? I knew better.

“Et in Arcadia ego…”

The Latin phrase came into my mind. “Even in Arcadia, I, death, hold sway.”

If she didn't kill herself, who did? Not America's Finest Pimp: he was searching for her, didn't know she was dead. Zisman? It still couldn't be ruled out. Alibis can fall apart with a little push. I wondered about this Edward that AFP had mentioned with dread. I wondered more why Grace, safe with Tim in Ocean Beach, with a new baby and seemingly much to live for, had gone to see Zisman.

“David, I see you like the view!” the agent chirped behind me. Her voice gave me a start. “Oh, I'm sorry!”

“David is a little jumpy,” Peralta said behind her. Two beats later, he asked, “Was this the condo where that girl fell from?”

She quickly herded us back into the living room. “Yes, it was a terrible thing. A suicide. Young people have such a hard time…”

After a few minutes more, she loaded us with marketing materials and we left, walking in silence. Peralta wanted to eat at the Grant Grill in the restored U.S. Grant Hotel, so we waited in the bar, me with a martini, him with a Budweiser, surrounded by tourists. Only three people came up to say hello to him and say how much they wished he were still sheriff. They meant well. It made me angry.

After two more martinis and a fabulous supper, I felt better. Peralta and I went back over what we knew as we ate. He wanted to visit Grace's parents. I wanted to check out the list of regular clients. It had only taken me a day to go from not wanting to take this case to full buy-in. I had even landed another client. Was this Peralta's usual ability to rope me in, or had I done it myself? Better to follow this case than to sit at home alone with only my thoughts, memories, and regrets. My mind was a bad neighborhood. I didn't want to wander around there alone.

“If we visit her parents, maybe they'll agree to become our clients,” he said, polishing off the king salmon. I wondered if he was joking. It sounded a bit like a used-car salesman on the make.

I told him about Tim Lewis hiring us and said we didn't have to worry about having a real, live client. His expression was unreadable, but I didn't think he was happy about my effort at business development. He was not worried about spending our dead client Felix's money at this posh restaurant, however.

I used the silence to fold and refold my napkin. I reached in my pocket and slid out my iPhone, slid it back. Then: “So you don't think it's a suicide?”

“I want you to read the reports and give me your opinion, Mapstone. But, based on what you've told me, what she was into, and the cops didn't know about it…” His voice trailed off, his meaning obvious. He ate and chewed, thinking.

He said, “I don't know why SDPD wouldn't have had Grace in its computer when her boyfriend filed the missing person's report. Maybe a lag. Maybe a system glitch.”

“Maybe somebody paid off.”

He poked his fork at me. “Why do you keep checking your phone? If you want to call Lindsey, call her.”

“Like you called Sharon?”

He smiled slyly. A rare, actual smile.

But my phone-checking wasn't about Lindsey, to the extent that anything I did wasn't about Lindsey.

“It's past nine now,” I said. “Grace's boyfriend ought to be in Riverside. He ought to have been there hours ago, even with the worst traffic jam in California. I told him to call me, and I've heard nothing.”

He stared past me in thought.

“Maybe a careless kid. He's there and safe.”

“At first he was afraid I was going to kill him,” I said. “I don't think he would space this.”

I told him I wanted to go back to O.B. and check.

“Want me to go with you?”

I told him no. “
Sauve qui peut
.” Every man for himself.

“Why are you speaking French, Mapstone?”

I smiled. “Memories.” To be a show-off, I added: “
Pourquoi pas
?” Why not?

“
Bonne chance
,” said the simple boy from the barrio.

With that, I walked out front where I gave the U.S. Grant Hotel doorman five bucks to hail me a cab.

14

The cab let me out in front of the apartment building at a quarter of ten. All the street parking was taken, probably all the way down to the business district, if not beyond. Your own parking space was a precious thing in O.B. I stood there as a black Dodge Ram truck slid by on Santa Cruz. The truck had a tag frame that read, “I (heart) Rancho Bernardo.”

I shook my head. “Good luck finding a parking spot this time of night, suburban boy.”

Then I was alone. When I lived here, O.B. had been dimly lit by yellow streetlights, a program the city had begun to cut the light pollution and protect the Palomar Observatory. Now the streetlights looked new and were definitely brighter, reflecting off the gray ceiling of the returning clouds. It was probably bad for the astronomers but good for me. I could see that the sidewalks were deserted, a good thing because I felt itchy with anxiety.

With all the windows open, I could hear televisions, a couple making love, and the subtle resonance of the surf a block and a half west. It brought back memories of the rare nights when there was fog and I would hear the foghorn coming from down by the pier. Tonight, it was so still I could hear my steps on the concrete.

It was ten degrees cooler than downtown. For a few minutes, I let the temperature help me feel normal again instead of breathless from the Phoenix heat. Then I walked to the gate and stared up at the apartment. The windows were closed, curtains open, and lights off. The tension that had been swelling for hours in my middle relaxed. The kid was gone and had forgotten to call me. He was mourning. He had a baby to take care of.

I thought about walking down to Newport and taking the bus downtown, but it was better to be sure. The vocal passion coming from the southeast apartment had subsided, so the gate loudly protested against me pulling 1950s metal hinges against each other. It put me on guard, but no curtains parted to see who was coming in. The pool was deserted and the water sat perfectly still and inviting.

When I looked up this time, I could see Tim's door was partly ajar.

The dread wouldn't let me go. Sure, there was a chance he was sitting inside, enjoying the breeze through the cracked door, playing a video game on headphones while the baby slept.

But only a fool would believe that.

I took the stairs two at a time, careful to keep my footfall quiet.

By the time I reached my old unit, I had the lightweight Smith & Wesson in my right hand. The windows to Tim's apartment were on the far side of the door so I couldn't see what was inside the apartment. I tapped lightly on the hollow door and called Tim's name. The door was open three inches. Beyond was darkness. Now it didn't seem like such a good idea to have come alone. Second-nature almost got the better of me: I almost called, “Deputy sheriff!” but I pushed the door all the way open and stepped silently into the room.

I moved to the side, to avoid providing a backlit target.

The outside light streamed in through the windows. Tim was sitting upright in the dining chair I had used earlier that day. It was directly facing the door. His face was tombstone white and the blood from his slit throat had flooded his T-shirt. There was no point in checking for a pulse. His dead eyes stared at nothing and his hands were in his lap, bound with handcuffs that glinted from the ambient light. Something like a big, curved bar of soap was in his lap. It had probably come from the kitchen.

Tim was gagged with a dish towel wrapped with duct tape. My eyes were drawn to his hands. Every one of his fingers had been broken. They had tortured him before they slit his throat.

The killer had also tossed the place. Clothing, food, video games, books, cushions and the flotsam of daily life were strewn around. Every drawer had been pulled all the way out and turned over, in case something had been taped beneath it. The pillows had been slit open and their stuffing pulled out.

Why didn't you leave when I told you
? I forced back that thought. Right now, I had to secure the scene and observe, even if I wasn't the law anymore.

There was enough blood to do finger painting on the south wall of the living room. The red characters were uneven and drippy, but the words were familiar.

PERALTA AND MAPSTONE, P.C.

PRIVATE INVESTIGATORS

The moron had left his fingerprints in Tim's blood.

A closer look would have to wait.

I hurried into the bedroom and swept it with the barrel of the revolver, fearing what I would find. No bad guys. And no baby in the crib. I quickly checked the bathroom and the closet. No baby. I felt my own pulse slamming against my temples. The bedroom had also been thoroughly gone through. Whoever had done it, and taken the baby, hadn't bothered with the baby supplies.

I pulled out my phone to call Peralta and then the police.

Then something clicked in my brain. I dropped the phone back in my pocket, barely feeling my hand.

The object in Tim's lap was not a bar of soap. And it had lettering that suddenly opened a file in my vast memory of trivia.

The lettering carved into the object said,

FRONT

TOWARD ENEMY.

“Oh, God.”

I heard a voice say those words. It was my voice, but my mind was desperately processing my options. I don't know if I made a conscious decision because my next memory is reaching the walkway outside the door and letting adrenaline heft my right foot to the top of the railing, balancing myself with my left hand. Then I was midair headed down for the pool.

Hoping that I remembered which side was the deep end.

The smooth surface came up suddenly and next I was underwater, surprised by the liquid cold, my terror-filled muscles acting in concert with only one goal: dive deep. I touched the bottom and started counting but only got to three before feeling a sharp concussion overhead. It popped my ears and pushed me violently against the far wall of the pool. I swear my brain felt about to burst. Something large and heavy missed my head by no more than six inches. It was half of a cinderblock.

When I came up, gasping for air, Tim's apartment was gone and the smoke made it difficult to assess the damage to other units. The surface of the water was coated with glass fragments, burning drapes, a can of Pringles, papers, the debris of daily life—and little metal balls. Those had been ejected from the Claymore anti-personnel mine that had detonated. Robin's cross floated on the surface, glinting under the light, still attached to the chain around my neck. The revolver was still in my hand.

Something soft bobbed against my arm.

It was Tim's head, face up, hair like seaweed, staring at the overcast.