Yesterday's Echo (26 page)

“I need Adam Windsor's Nevada Department of Corrections inmate number.”

“Why?”

“I can't tell you that, yet.” Probably never.

“You don't seem to know how this game works, Rick.” Pedantic, like a elementary school teacher. “You ask for quid and you offer me quo.”

“I got better than quo.” I paused to give her time to swallow the hook. “Police corruption.”

“That's a little too general.”

“Then I'll get specific, you find me a couple of cops from LJPD or San Diego with the nicknames Stamp and Scarface and I'll give you evidence that they were on the take for a known criminal.”

“I need more than nicknames and a known criminal.”

Heather was a reporter. Her only allegiance was to the story. Maybe after working the cop beat for a couple years, she'd grown somewhat sympathetic to the police, but I doubted she'd let that get in the way of a front-page story. She wasn't an ally, but with the police and Stone on my ass, and with Turk's back to me, she was the closest thing I had. Plus, she had access to information and information was my only weapon right now.

In the end, I might have to give her everything I'd taken from Windsor's locker and let her break it front page. I'd have to trust my freedom to her fidelity to the journalistic credo of protecting one's sources. For now, I'd investigate on my own, and give Heather just enough to keep her interested and willing to trade.

“I only know the nicknames, but they were on Adam Windsor's payroll ten years ago.”

“Ten years ago?” I was losing her.

“It's in a ledger. I can show it to you.”

“How did you come across this ledger?”

“I can't get into that right now.”

“You know that withholding evidence in a murder investigation is a felony.” A DA cross-examining a defendant.

Plan B could put me in the same cell as plan A if Heather decided to turn our little chat over to Detective Moretti. Another smart idea turned stupid.

“I'm not withholding anything. I have access to a ledger that proves police corruption.” At least that was my take so far. “I'm certainly not going to turn over evidence to the cops until I figure out which of them are corrupt.”

“I need more.”

I had something else to give her. “See what you can find out about Louise Abigail Delano. Born November 19, 1979 in Elko, Nevada, to Elizabeth Nelson Delano. No father on the birth certificate.”

“What's this have to do with police corruption?”

“I don't know. But it might have everything to do with who killed Adam Windsor. He had possession of the birth certificate and he would have been ten at the time the child was born. I doubt he was the father.”

“Too cryptic, Rick.” Back to stern teacher. “You've got to give me more than that.”

“You'll get more when you give me Windsor's NDOC number.” My phone beeped, but I let it go to voice mail. “I need to know I can trust you before I give you more. If the cops knock on my door with questions about what we talked about today, you'll never see the information I have that could keep you on the front page above the fold for weeks.”

Silence again. Longer this time. “All right, Rick. I'll play it your way for now. But if I find out you're yanking my chain, your name will be in the paper every day until the trial is over. I'll play up your connection to Windsor's murder every chance I get and I'll tell the police what you've told me.”

“Fair enough.” I'd rolled the dice and now I had to make six, the hard way. Craps was not an option.

I hung up and checked my voice mail. Stone's voice pulsed in my ear. “Rick. I hope you're not still sleeping on such a fortuitous day. Meet me at Brockton Villa for breakfast at nine o'clock. You're not yet aware of it, but your life has changed. You have the opportunity to make it for the better.” A pause. “Or worse.”

The line went dead.

I spent the next hour fast-forwarding through the Angela Albright tape I'd taken from Windsor's storage locker. It didn't contain any scenes that I hadn't already seen on the flash drive. Like the tape of Melody, it was obviously the master that the images on the drive had been transferred from.

I gathered the tapes and the flash drive and put them in my backpack. Then I went into the backyard and peeked over the fence. The morning marine layer pushed low and damp to the ground. The day hadn't yet awakened, but the purple Impala was parked in the lot across the street again, directly opposite my house.

Back inside, I called Yellow Cab and told the dispatcher to have a taxi pick me up in front of the UPS Store in Clairemont Town Square in ten minutes. I had two stops to make and one tail to lose.

I strapped on the backpack, exited my house, walked down to the corner, and took the crosswalk over to the mall. I scanned the Impala through the edges of my sunglasses, but only saw shadows behind the tinted windshield. Still, I felt eyes on me, watching. I passed by the lot where Grimes was parked and continued toward the Vons grocery store in the next section of the mall. Ten seconds later I heard a car door close behind me. I fought the urge to glance over my shoulder. The play was to let Grimes still think that I didn't know I had a tail.

I entered the Vons, cut down an aisle, and hurried to the back of the store. No Grimes, yet. I ducked through the employees only door into a storage room next to the meat section. It was dark and
cold. Wooden pallets and plastic crates were stacked up in rows next to a large walk-in refrigerator, three times the size of the one in Muldoon's.

There was a loading dock somewhere that opened up to the outside at the back of the store. I just had to find it. I squinted through the darkness and kept moving north until I found the loading dock in the far corner. It had a big corrugated metal door that opened via a chain pulley system.

Except the door was padlocked to a loop at the base of the frame.

“Can I help you?” An irritated male voice spooked me.

I turned and saw a guy in a white butcher's coat with matching paper hat. He was more round than stout. The meat guy.

“You're not supposed to know I'm here.” I tilted my head and gave him narrow bureaucratic eyes. “I'm with corporate and we're doing spot safety checks. Unfortunately, I've already found a violation.” I pointed at the pallets and crates stacked next to the walk-in. “That is not proper storage of packing material.”

I would have felt more authoritative with a clipboard in my hand and no backpack looped over my shoulders.

“Hey, I just cut meat.” He waved his hands in front of him like a Broadway dancer. “You need to talk to the produce manager.”

Apparently I didn't need a clipboard. “Get him.”

Meat guy went out the door into the main store, and I scurried along the back wall looking for another exit. Fifty feet down from the walk-in, I found a couple square wooden doors waist high off the ground. Ten or so empty restaurant-size gray plastic garbage cans were lined up next to the doors. I pushed the doors and they opened outward and the gray morning seeped though the opening. I stuck my head out and saw an over-stuffed Dumpster eight feet below.

To the right, across the back parking lot, a Yellow Cab was parked in front of the UPS Store. I put one foot up on the ledge, then heard the door to the store open.

“Hey!”

I leapt through the opening and landed on a bag of something hard that twisted my ankle and bounced me onto the asphalt parking lot. I hit and rolled and came up gimpy.

“Hey! Stop!”

I shuffled toward the cab and glanced over my shoulder back at Vons. Two heads and one raised fist showed in the opening I'd just leapt from. The cabbie fired the ignition just as I opened the door. The car jerked forward and I dove in. The driver pounded the brakes, and I slammed against the back of the front seat.

“Get out!” Voice tight, Middle Eastern accent, frightened eyes in the rearview mirror. “I no want trouble!”

I didn't either. Sometimes you couldn't avoid it.

“No trouble.” I took three twenties out of my wallet and dropped them into the front seat. “Let's go.”

“I no want trouble.” Less adamant, but foot still on the brake.

I casually checked the Dumpster doors at Vons. Shut. The manager either had a story to tell over lunch, had called the police, or was coming around back to investigate on his own. If the cops showed up and searched my backpack looking for stolen groceries, they'd find something more interesting. If they connected the dots with the homicide dicks, I'd be on my way to the Brick House, and the charge wouldn't be shoplifting.

I dropped two more twenties over the seat. No trouble didn't come cheaply. “Greyhound bus terminal, downtown.”

The driver eyed me in the rearview mirror, and we still hadn't moved. Then the car eased forward out of the parking lot onto the street.

I spent most of the fifteen-minute drive downtown with my head cranked behind me looking for the purple Impala and cop cars. I spotted a few uninterested black-and-whites but no Impalas. The cabbie waited for me while I went inside the terminal. A handful of bleary-eyed travelers stared at nothing while I deposited my backpack in the locker that already held the birth certificate, Windsor's payoff ledger, and his computer.

The secrets locked away, I went to meet with the man who might have killed in an attempt to secure them.

The Brockton Villa had been a home at the turn of the century. Not the last turn, but the one before that. It sat across from the La Jolla Cove on Coast Boulevard, at the bottom of the hill below Muldoon's. The architecture was early-California bungalow and painted white. Twenty years ago, someone bought it, renovated it, and turned it into a restaurant.

I got there five minutes late and spotted Stone at a table on the patio, overlooking the ocean. No other customers were seated outside. The inside of the restaurant was full and there was a wait. Being Peter Stone had its perks.

“Rick, always a pleasure.” His hard angled face sliced through the morning breeze. He gave me the smirk and waved his hand to the seat opposite him.

I sat down.

A waiter appeared instantly at my side and handed me a menu. “Coffee, sir? Juice?”

“Water's fine. Thanks.”

“Right away. Let me tell you this morning's specials—”

“I won't be eating.” I flat-eyed Stone. “Thanks.”

The waiter walked away like I'd hurt his feelings. Stone looked at me like I'd made his day.

“Predictable as a politician with his hand out.” This time his smile reached his eyes.

“Let's cut the repartee and the breakfast and just get on with it.”

“Rick, enjoy the beauty of the morning.” He swung his arm toward the ocean like a slow-motion matador without a cape.

The sun had slipped through the haze like fresh orange juice through cheesecloth. Small rollers crested out beyond the cove and curled leisurely toward the shore. Seagulls and pelicans glided inches above the water, stalking their own morning specials.

It was beautiful. It was La Jolla. It would have been soothing, seated across from anyone but Peter Stone.

“Get on with it, Stone.” I leaned toward him to take up some of his limitless space. “I don't have all day.”

“My boy.” Another smile. “After this is all over, after you've made an intelligent decision, I think I might have you come work for me. I've grown tired of yes-men.”

I squeezed my lips together and shook my head.

“Right. Down to business.” The smile disappeared and he gave me the dead eyes. “Your friend, Turk Muldoon, has gotten himself into some trouble with acquaintances of mine.”

I didn't think he meant fellow philanthropists. This was going to be worse than I feared.

“It seems Mr. Muldoon likes to put down money against the vagaries of sport.” His mouth flatlined. “Sometimes, money he doesn't have.”

Just then, the waiter showed up with Stone's breakfast, Coast Toast, Brockton Villa's decadent version of French toast. It fit.

“What does Turk owe?” I braced for the worst.

Stone pulled a crib sheet out of the inside pocket of his blue blazer. An echo from a bookie past. “One hundred two thousand, nine hundred dollars.”

I sat back and brought my hand to my mouth. Turk had gambled his life and the restaurant away and now the bill had come due.

“Funny how little we know about those we know best.” His dead eyes examined me.

“What do you want, Stone?”

“I think you know what I want.” The eyes bored into me. “I'm well aware of your excursion into Adam Windsor's storage unit last night. The police might not know, but, of course, that could change. I want everything you took. Flash drives, documents, computer. Everything.”

Documents. Did he know about the birth certificate? Was Elizabeth Louise Delano the key to the whole puzzle?

“Let's pretend I know what the hell you're talking about.” I
wouldn't concede this guy anything. Ever. “What's it have to do with Turk?”

“Mr. Muldoon and I are partners for the time being.”

He waited for a reaction. This time I gave him nothing. I'd already written off Muldoon's, but I hadn't Turk. Not yet. He'd been the only person to reach down a hand when I'd been at my bottom. I couldn't abandon him when he was at his.

Stone continued, “I have considerable influence with Mr. Muldoon's, ah, bankers. I've paid the principal off with these fellows, but they are adamant about collecting the interest. This isn't the kind of bank Washington, D.C., bails out, and they are very meticulous about their reputation. It would be a bad example to leave a debt partially unpaid. They're concerned Mr. Muldoon might have an accident rock climbing.” He paused, his eyes conveying the message before the words came out. “It would be a shame if he were to break a leg or something else and not be able to repay his debt in full.”