Yesterday's Echo (10 page)

I peeked over at man mountain as I shuffled in front of Angela Albright. His eyes glanced off mine just before I turned them on Angela. I couldn't tell if he recognized me.

Angela grabbed my hand with both of hers. She wore a turquoise blouse that made her blue eyes pop. No residue of Sunday night's drunkenness shone in them.

She leaned into me and spoke in a low voice under the din of
the crowd, “Rick, thanks so much for looking after me the other night.” She looked over and made sure her husband was busy with the beauty queen. “The campaign has been so hectic. I'm afraid that when I let down my hair, I went a little bit too far. I'll send a check over to you at the restaurant to reimburse you for the cab fare.”

“No need. Consider it my contribution to the campaign.” I started to release her hand, but she held on and pulled me closer and whispered in my ear, “No one's asked you about me being in the bar that night, have they?”

“No.” Melody had, but nothing seemed to have come of it. I didn't see the need to add to a nice lady's worries.

I moved off Angela over to little Cassandra Albright, a mini version of her mom. She smiled up at me and put out a tiny hand. “Thank you for your support.”

I shook her hand, patted her on the head, and shot a glance at my extra-large nemesis. But he was gone. Replaced by another mountain of testosterone in a suit. I doubted that it was because it was the mauler's turn for a break. He'd seen me. He was in the wind. But Chief Parks was still there, the last of a line of glad-handers.

He didn't look glad to see me. I'd become as popular with La Jolla's Police Department as I was with Santa Barbara's.

Parks was as stiff and starched as his uniform and looked as approachable as a porcupine at full quill. Up close, his cheeks were smooth and shiny like someone had taken a belt sander to them and finished with a buffing brush. His dark eyes burned into me. No attempt to hide their malice under a politician's smile. His outstretched hand, a bayonet waiting to impale me. I grabbed it anyway. A cloud of Moretti's cologne wafted over me, but I had it backward. The mustache, the cologne; Parks was Moretti's icon, not the other way around.

“Hi, Chief.” I smiled. “I got a tip that will help your arrest stats. One of the men who attacked me was working security here and just disappeared out the door behind you.”

“I'll report it to the detectives in charge.” His voice was flat, uninterested, yet somehow familiar to me.

The cover-up was on. The investigation into my assault was dead. My attacker had juice with LJPD and, maybe, the mayor. He was probably an ex-cop who'd gone private and still had pals on the force. I was an ex-cop with sore ribs and enemies on every force.

Justice ignored for some greater good that I wasn't a part of.

Parks dropped my hand like it was a sack of dirt, and the new security goon ushered me through the door to the outside.

Sunlight splashed through trees, birds chirped, and a sweet whiff of the ocean wafted in the air. Paradise with a dirty back room.

I went home and let Midnight inside from the backyard. I gave him a Milk-Bone, then went and sat down on the sofa. Midnight chomped down his treat and then came over and sat in front of me. He looked up at me with big brown eyes. No judgment, no disappointment, no manipulation. Just acceptance and love. I went back into the kitchen and got him another Milk-Bone.

My cell phone burred in my pocket. I pulled it out and checked the screen. Melody. A warm tingle spread across my chest. Even with the lies and the doubt, my body chose to believe. I sided with my brain, but still answered the phone.

“Rick, my plane's about to board, but I wanted to call you before I left.” Her voice was animated like she was happy to talk to me. But I'd been wrong before.

“What happened with the police?” I asked.

“They just asked me some questions about Adam. When I'd seen him last. Did I know if he'd been taking drugs. Things like that.”

If Melody felt any sorrow over the death of her ex-husband, I didn't hear it in her voice. She could have been discussing the weather. Maybe being married to a drug addict had used up all her pity.

“So they must have asked you how he ended up dead in your room.”

“Who told you that?” Now I had her attention.

“I figured it out.” Irritation shaded my voice. “I figured out a lot of things today.”

“What do you mean?” Defensive, maybe hurt.

“Why did you lie to me about not knowing the red-haired man
you talked to in the bar Sunday night?” I paused, then hit home. “You know, your dead ex-husband.”

“I didn't want you to think—I hoped he'd just go away. I'm sorry, Rick.” A PA system in the background murmured something about a flight boarding underneath Melody's halting voice. “I have to go now. My flight's leaving. I'll call as soon as I can. We can talk things over then. But it's going to be hectic for the next couple days. I'm anchoring the eleven o'clock news tonight and both the five and eleven tomorrow. I'll call, Thursday at the latest. I promise.”

If she was waiting for an “I'll be waiting by the phone” or an “I'll miss you,” she'd miss her flight. I didn't say anything.

“Rick. Thank you so much for all you've done for me.” She sounded sincere, but her words spelled out brush-off. I expected her to tell me she liked me as a friend or that we'd always have pancakes. “I don't know what I would have done without you.” Another boarding murmur in the background. “I have to go. I'll call you soon.”

“Goodbye, Melody.” I hung up.

Midnight gave me more black lab love eyes. My buddy, at my side no matter what.

Or maybe he just wanted another Milk-Bone.

The next morning at Muldoon's I was trimming the fat off a top sirloin butt when Hector, our cleanup guy, came over to me at the cutting table.

“
Policia esta aqui
.” Hector thumbed toward the dining room.

Great. More police. I wiped my hands on my once-white apron and followed Hector into the dining room. My two favorite detectives were waiting for me by the empty salad bar. Muldoon's had become a popular hangout for people I didn't want to see. I sent Hector back into the bar to finish his cleaning duties.

“Cahill, you need to come with us to the station,” Moretti said, his mouth a sneer under the porn mustache. He looked like he hoped that I'd reject his command.

Dan's face was stoic, no trace of friendship in it.

“Why? Did you pick up the two suspects who assaulted me?”

“It's regarding another matter.” Moretti snapped some gum at me. “But rest assured, we have unlimited manpower available to solve your, ah, battery case.”

“Yeah, I know. I spoke to the chief about it yesterday.”

Neither of them gave away anything. The chief could have told them about my attacker being at the Albright rally or he could have kept it to himself. The outcome would have been the same either way. Nada.

“Let's go, Cahill,” Moretti said. “We don't have all day.”

“Unless you can be more specific, I don't see how I can help.” I started for the kitchen. “I've got work to do. You know the way out.”

“Rick,” Dan called after me, “we need your help buttoning a few things up on Adam Windsor's death.”

I stopped and faced Dan. “I don't know anything about that.”

“We just need to verify a few things concerning Miss Malana.” Dan tried a smile. It wore better than the one on Moretti's face. “This won't take long.”

Just a few routine questions.

“Okay. Ask whatever you want. But I'm staying here.”

Dan gave me more golf-buddy smile. “We need you at the station to take a look at a few things—”

“Cut the bullshit, Cahill!” Moretti took up his position under my chin. “Come with us now or we'll come back tonight and have a little chat right here in front of your customers.”

They'd need an arrest warrant then just like they did now to compel me to go with them. But the thought of a scene in the dining room and losing the trust of our regular customers after working so many years to earn it weighed heavily.

“Let me finish up in the kitchen first.”

The ride to the Brick House was only a few blocks. We took it in silence. I'd only been in the back of a police car twice before. Once
as an egg-throwing teenager, another as a murder suspect. I hadn't enjoyed either ride and didn't this one, no matter how short. The view was better from behind the wheel, adrenal glands on overload, jacked on the power of the badge. Veteran cops called it the “John Wayne Syndrome” and knew it either wore off or wore you out. I'd still been in full “Duke” mode when I left the force.

Moretti parked behind the Brick House and he and Dan led me into the police station though a back door. We walked under a cloud of silence. My stomach knotted and sweat spotted my forehead. Front door, back door, it was still a police station. I turned my head and quickly wiped my brow, hoping the detectives didn't sense my unease. They gave away nothing, and we walked up cement stairs in a hollow stairwell that echoed our silence.

We hit the second floor and went down a tile hallway that led to the back entrance into Robbery/Homicide. Dan disappeared through the doorway, and Moretti took me down the hall and opened the next door on the right.

“Make yourself at home.” He left and closed the door.

I walked into a small, square, white-walled room with a wooden table and three chairs tucked into the far corner. A fluorescent light buzzed overhead and a closed-circuit camera above the door peered downward. A light burned red on the camera. Action. Just like the interrogation room in Santa Barbara eight years ago. My pulse quickened and the past shallowed my breath.

I had to fight not to bolt out of the room. They couldn't hold me. This time. But if they wanted to sweat me, they'd find a way. I just wanted to get it over with. I needed to pace the room to settle my nerves, but knew they were watching in black and white nearby. If I paced, they won. I sat down in a chair in the corner with my back to the camera.

I waited. Five minutes? Ten minutes? It felt like thirty; it could have been three.

Finally, the door opened and Dan entered the room. Moretti followed holding a stack of manila folders.

“You're in my chair.” Moretti dropped the folders with a loud thud on the table and grabbed the back of my chair.

I stood up and Moretti sat down. I knew the folders were probably full of anything but information about me. They were a prop to intimidate me. He didn't need it. The square room was intimidation enough.

“Have a seat, Rick.” Dan pulled out the chair that faced the camera.

I obliged. He sat down next to his partner, opposite me.

“Thanks for coming in and helping us out.” He smiled at me like we were still golf buddies planning our next round. The Good Cop. My eyes slid over to his partner. I didn't need any help figuring out which role Moretti would play.

Dan pulled a small tape recorder out of his side coat pocket and set it on the table. A backup to the camera over the door. He turned it on, stated the date and time and named the three of us in the room.

Moretti got up and pulled his chair over next to me, the rubber foot glides squealing on the tile floor. He placed his foot on the chair and leaned toward me resting his crossed arms on his knee. Cologne and a smirk pushed down on me.

“Where'd you get the heroin?”

My pulse double tapped and my breaths quickened. I could feel the sweat squeezing out of my forehead and under my arms. The game had changed. Moretti was fishing. I had nothing to hide. Still, the walls were inching toward me. I swallowed it all down.

Routine questions
.

“What are you talking about?”

“The heroin that killed Windsor.” He leaned into me. “You see, that's where you made a mistake. He got clean in the joint. You should have noticed that when you stuck the needle in his arm. No tracks.”

My temples pounded, echoing inside my head. I flashed back to Santa Barbara and Detective Grimes, his face in mine, telling me that my neighbors had heard a violent fight between Colleen
and me the night of her death. That Colleen had confessed to a friend she was considering divorce. My lack of an alibi. And, finally, that I'd failed the polygraph and then reading me my rights.

I blinked and settled my breathing.

“I didn't stick a needle in anyone's arm.” I tried to sound calm. “The newspaper made it sound like he'd OD'd on his own.”

“The newspaper got it wrong.” Moretti stared down at me from his perch, a vulture eyeing a fresh kill.

Dan stood up and left the room.

I didn't like being left alone in the room with Moretti. The red light on the camera above the door confirmed it was still recording. At least there'd be a record of anything Moretti might try. Unless somebody erased it.

“Look, I've seen Melody. I'd probably do whatever she asked me to do, too.” Moretti's smile turned friendly like we were old pals. “I'm sure she made it sound reasonable. The guy made her life a living hell. He'd probably end up dead with a needle in his arm, anyway. That sort of thing. But you got caught and this is your one chance to be smart. If you put Melody behind this, the DA will cut you a deal. But you gotta get there first. She gets the chance, she'll roll on you before her tight ass hits the seat. Then you'll be looking at a needle in your own arm, but it won't be heroin.”

I knew the game. He was still fishing. If he'd had enough on Melody, they would have booked her. Maybe they thought Windsor had been murdered, but had nothing and were throwing a Hail Mary.

I wasn't the answer to anyone's prayers.

“This is bullshit.” I stood up and strode for the door.