Yesterday's Echo (24 page)

“I was running for my life from cattle, and Pop died of a heart attack while carving them into steaks.” A crooked smile contorted Turk's mouth. “At least God has a sense of humor. Anyway, my sister didn't have any interest in the place, and my mom couldn't run it by herself but refused to sell, so, fifteen years later, I'm still here.”

“So now you can sell it to that asshole Stone and get back to running from the bulls and whatever else is chasing you.” The words didn't come out bitter, just matter-of-factly.

“It's not that simple.” Turk dropped his eyes. “Stone's going to tear Muldoon's down and put up a luxury hotel. He got the town council to approve zoning and he's already bought out these guys.” He pointed to the lawyers' offices next to us. “Everybody would lose their jobs. Because of me.”

“Then don't sell to Stone. Wait for a buyer who'll keep Muldoon's a restaurant.” But I couldn't argue with Stone's acumen. This was prime La Jolla real estate, and he could charge an heiress's trust fund per night for a room.

“I can't.” He flicked his cigarette over the railing onto the concrete staircase below and walked past me.

I grabbed his arm again, and he turned toward me. This morning didn't matter anymore. The words, the fight, the firing. Turk had been my best friend for twenty years. He'd been my family when I didn't think I had one anymore. He was hurting. He needed help. I couldn't let business, or anything else, get in the way of that.

“Tell me what's going on, Turk. We can figure this out together.”

“It's too late.” He tried a smile that never rose from a frown and his eyes went watery. Then he squeezed my shoulder and walked back into Muldoon's.

I trailed behind him wondering how he'd gotten himself into a hole that only Peter Stone could dig him out of. Turk's vices were varied: women, booze, and the risk of bodily harm when challenging the call of the wild. But he kept them all, except for the last, on a short leash. He'd had many girlfriends, but no children out of wedlock, and all his exes were still friends. He was a steady drinker, but rarely went on benders, and probably hadn't had to apologize the morning after to anyone since college.

The physical risk taking was another matter. I once watched him climb barefoot, without the protection of a rope, up an eighty-foot face while coming down from a mushroom buzz. That was back in college, but that part of him never grew up. I'd heard of more recent daring tales from his current climbing buddies.

But none of his weaknesses could put him in a situation where he had to sell Muldoon's in a hurry. Goons walking out of the restaurant with their arms full of product had the stink of a loan shark or bookie. Interest collected from an unpaid debt.

Gambling.

Del Mar was just ten miles up the road, but I'd never known him to bet the ponies at the track. I'd gone to Las Vegas with him once, and he'd spent more time trying to roll showgirls in the hay than dice at a craps table.

The only gambling I knew about was a few years back when we used to pool our resources and bet on college bowl games with a local bartender who acted as a small-time bookie. The most we were ever down was six hundred bucks and we halved that by winning a bet on the Rose Bowl. I quit two years ago when I finally realized the futility of betting on college kids with a month off between games. We never talked about gambling after I quit. I'd just assumed that Turk had done the same thing.

It looked like I'd been wrong.

A few minutes before eleven, Turk and Stone exited the bar single file. Turk, head down, walked by me and out of the restaurant without a word. Stone trailed him, head up, shark smile, king of the world.

“I look forward to talking with you again soon, Rick.” He breezed by me, then glanced back over his shoulder. “Very soon.”

The smile was gone. A flicker of malice gave life to the dead eyes.

At eleven thirty, I went into the bar. The band was on a break, so I could lean over the bar and talk to Pat without shouting.

“You're going to have to close the restaurant down alone tonight.” I had to make it to the Greyhound bus terminal before midnight. Besides, I'd given Turk my keys that morning. I couldn't lock or unlock anything anymore.

“No problem.” He glanced around the bar like he was checking to make sure no one was listening to our conversation. Then he leaned closer to me and spoke in a low voice. “I thought you said Turk fired you.”

“He did. I'm just not sure it stuck,” I said.

“What's going on with him?”

“I'm still trying to figure that out.”

“He came into the bar with some Wall Street dude and sat in the corner.” Pat's eyes widened with concern. Stone did that to people. “Turk just stared down at the table the whole time. The other guy did all the talking.”

“I think Turk got involved in something that got out of control.” I kept my voice low and pushed closer to Pat over the bar. “When I figure out exactly what it all means, I'll let you know.”

“Is the restaurant in trouble?”

“Possibly, but keep that to yourself for now. No need to get everyone nervous.”

I turned to leave, but Pat's hand on my arm stopped me. “Believe it or not, I did just hear some good news.”

I didn't think such a thing existed anymore. “I'm listening.”

“A buddy of mine, Skip, bartends down at Manuel's.” Pat
smiled for the first time all night. “He called me about an hour ago and said that LJPD set up a drug sting in the restaurant and just busted Eddie Philby for selling blow in the men's bathroom.”

“Breaks my heart.”

“Thought you'd appreciate that. Maybe your YouTube video bouncing Philby outta here last night woke the cops up.”

The memory of my Manson-eyed glare on video took the luster off the only good news I'd received all week. I left the bar without another word.

I still had Adam Windsor's laptop in the trunk of my car. It wouldn't do me much good until I either figured out its password or how to override it. In the meantime, I needed a safe place to hide it in case someone came looking again. The pay lockers at the Greyhound bus station in downtown San Diego seemed far enough away and untraceable enough to suit my needs.

The bus terminal was on the bottom floor of an ancient mud-colored brick building on Broadway in downtown San Diego. Next to the modern glass-and-steel edifices that had sprung up around it, the building was an odd remnant from a passed-over era.

There were a surprising number of people in the terminal at eleven forty on a Friday night; young mothers shepherding flocks of kids, greasy haired Euro-students, and muttering homeless souls with vacant stares, smelling of whiskey, urine, and the tail end of life. Everyone was waiting. Waiting for loved ones. Waiting for a midnight bus ride to the next town with a cheap motel. Waiting to die.

I used to drop my dad off here when I was in high school and later home from college for the summer. My mom would get tired of his drinking and threaten divorce if he didn't stop. He'd take a bus up to Bakersfield and stay with his sister to dry out. I'd come back and pick him up a few weeks later after he'd sobered up. His eyes would be clear then, but there'd be a shame in them that I'd hated as much as the drunken anger they held before he'd left. The last time he got on the bus, he didn't come back for six months.

And that had been in a wooden box.

The terminal had changed a bit since I'd last been there fourteen years ago. 9/11 had changed a lot of things. The inner part now had a waist-high fence around it with a sign that advised that no one was allowed inside without a bus ticket. The pay lockers were inside the fence in the far left corner of the terminal. A single security guard patrolled the premises. Neither the fence nor the guard looked too formidable.

I went through the gate and was greeted by the guard. I told him I needed to use a locker, and he waved me through. That was post 9/11 security at the Greyhound bus terminal. Maybe I just didn't look enough like a terrorist. Or maybe a run-of-the-mill murder suspect didn't rate a pat down. No complaints.

The bus lockers were the kind that take cash or a credit card and spit out a paper receipt with a numerical code instead of a key or combination. They cost six bucks a day. I didn't know how long I'd stash the computer, but I didn't figure to go broke for at least a week or two. I put the computer with its case into the locker. The birth certificate and the ledger were also inside the computer case. I'd seen what I needed from them. Now it was just a matter of hiding the evidence for safekeeping while I figured out what to do with it.

My cell phone buzzed in my pocket just as I exited Highway 163 onto the 805.

Melody.

I debated not answering it. If I hadn't answered her call for help five nights ago, my life would be a whole lot different now. It would be normal. Routine, unexciting, safe. The life I'd needed and gotten used to after Santa Barbara and Colleen. The life I'd never be able to go back to now.

“Melody.” The name felt like an anvil falling from my mouth.

“I hope I'm not calling too late.” The warm gravel. It still tugged at me, even after everything that had happened. “I tried you at work, but you'd already left.”

“I heard Fineman got you bail,” I said.

“He's a godsend.”

I didn't think even Stone would consider himself a god. Maybe a fallen angel. Like Lucifer.

She continued, “He got the judge to grant a hearing this afternoon and to reduce bail to two hundred fifty thousand dollars.” I heard the slosh of liquid and then an exhale. Wine? Champagne in celebration of freedom? “I had to empty my savings and then go begging to come up with the twenty-five thousand dollars for the bail bondsman. I'll figure out how to pay everyone back after we win the trial.”

“So with Fineman taking over, did you let your other lawyer go?” Maybe Grimes had tailed me and reported to Buckley for some reason other than Melody's defense.

“No, he's second chair to Mr. Fineman.” Hesitant. “Why?”

“No reason.” Except that it meant that the man who'd arrested me for murder eight years ago was reporting to an active member of her defense team. Was she aware of this? “Is Fineman using his own investigators or hiring freelance?”

“I leave the details to Mr. Fineman. Why, Rick? What's going on?”

“I just want to be sure that you've got good people working for you.” I'd already said enough. I didn't want to tip off Grimes and Buckley that I was on to them. Not yet. “Doesn't it bother you that Fineman is working at the behest of Peter Stone?”

“It did at first. I almost didn't agree to have him take over. But after I met him, I felt much better.” Another sip of whatever a beautiful woman out on bail drinks. “I know Peter must have his own agenda. But I trust Mr. Fineman and feel confident he's going to convince a jury that I'm innocent.”

By casting the shadow of guilt over me?

I got on Highway 52. Four miles from home, my former sanctuary.

“Go with your gut.” Mine was going in two different directions. Trust Melody and follow feelings that made me fall for her in the first place. Or run and don't look back.

“Rick. I want to see you.” The gravel was rich and languid. “Tonight.”

“I thought you'd be back in San Francisco by now.” The feeling side of my gut was pulling hard, but I tried to ignore it.

“Mr. Fineman asserted our right to a speedy trial. It's in ten weeks. He thinks the DA has a weak case and doesn't want to give her time to make it stronger.” A long slurp. “I'm staying at the Marriott. I could be at your house in ten minutes. We could—talk.”

Back in Melody's arms. Even with all the background noise, it was the only place I'd felt like the man I once was in a long time.

“I don't think I can tonight, Melody.” I wanted to. I wanted to wrap her in my arms and believe that the feelings of our first two nights together were true and everything else didn't matter. Or was this another ploy to get the flash drive and key she'd left behind? But I knew I was too weak right now to trust myself. “I'm awfully tired. It's been a long day. For both of us. Sorry.”

“I understand.” But I could tell by the hurt in her voice that she didn't. That she'd just needed someone who cared about her to hold her tonight. Someone she could trust. “Good night, Rick.”

I couldn't trust either one of us.

I still had a VCR hooked up to my TV. I had all the new gadgets, too. A flat screen, a DVD player, and a DVR. But I kept the ancient VCR for the one tape I only watched once a year.

Twenty-three minutes of Colleen. From the trip to Lake Tahoe when I proposed to her. It was already October and I hadn't watched it yet. Maybe this would be the year I finally stopped.

I popped the tape I'd taken from Windsor's storage unit entitled, “Melody” into the VCR, sat down in my recliner, and braced for the worst. I got it. The time stamp was two years earlier than Angela's, and the room and bed were different. But everything else was the same. Same camera angle. Same heroin needle between the toes. Same decayed life. Only this time the naked woman was Melody. Younger, pale, skinny, with faraway raccoon eyes.

And worse was still to come. Men, money exchange, rough, degrading sex.

When I'd first found the tape, I'd expected something like this. But it still gnawed a hole right through me. Had any of my time with Melody been real? Or had I just been another john, paying for sex with my protection, affection, and trust? Had I been that easy a mark? My face flashed fire. This was the first woman since Colleen I thought I might be able to love. A used-up heroin whore who still traded her body to get want she needed.