Yesterday's Echo (6 page)

Members of the crowd murmured to each other, and I heard the word “dead” a couple times. The number of cop cars suggested as much. But nobody knew for sure. I heard another vehicle pull up and glanced over and saw a coroner's van. My stomach knotted tighter. All doubt now erased, I was just left with the “who.”

On the far left-hand side of the parking lot, a woman talked to a detective up against the crime-scene tape. She had her back to me, but something about her was familiar. Designer jeans, powder-blue sweater, natural brown curls. The detective was short, but made up for it with attitude and attire. Herringbone jacket, tan slacks, slicked-back hair, and an '80's porn mustache. He said
something and the reporter laughed and flicked her hair away from her eyes. I guessed it wasn't the first time they'd been together at a murder scene.

The woman turned, stuffed a notepad in her leather shoulder bag, and hurried across the parking lot.

“Heather?” I said.

She looked over at me and flashed a high-wattage smile under big brown eyes. Heather Ortiz,
San Diego U-T
food reporter. She'd done a story a few years back on family owned restaurants versus the big chains. Turk had talked on the record for the story. Afterward, Heather and I'd had a couple of drinks in the bar that had ended with breakfast in her bed. Seemed she'd moved up the food chain to the cop beat.

“Rick? I never took you for a Lookie-Loo.”

“What happened in there?”

“You're white as a sheet.” She put a hand to my forehead. “Are you okay?”

“Fine. What happened?”

Heather examined me with reporter's eyes looking for a scoop. She must have read my desperation, and realized I had more than the normal prurient interest in whatever had happened inside the bungalow. She looked over my shoulder at the crowd and then took me by the hand and led me over to a red Mazda Miata convertible parked on the street.

“What's going on, Rick? Do you know someone who was staying in that room?”

“I know someone staying here, but I don't know what room she's in.”

“Your friend is probably all right.” She rubbed my hand. “It's a he, not a she, they're about to zip up in a black bag.”

I let out a sigh, louder and longer than I could control.

“She must be someone special.”

“A friend.”

I wasn't sure yet whether or not Melody was special. I wasn't sure of anything about her. Except that sometime between stepping
out of the shadows last night and disappearing from my bed this morning, Melody'd become my responsibility. I hadn't realized it until the two toughs tried to beat her whereabouts out of me. There was no reason to it, although I'm sure some shrink would tell me I was trying to make up for past sins. Responsibility didn't need reason. It only needed commitment. Now I just had to find Melody.

“Well, I trust her stay was more pleasant than the DB's.”

“DB?” I smiled. “You've really taken to the cop beat, haven't you? You just need a fedora with a press badge under the hat band.”

“I left it at home. Right next to my Turner Classic movie collection.” She sighed and her eyes went skyward. “I wish it were that exciting. This is my first dead body in weeks.”

“Yeah, it must be tough with the San Diego murder rate dropping. I'll bet the DB is happy he could spice things up for you.”

“Smart ass. It's not all that spicy.” She dropped her voice and I had to lean in to hear her over the waves whooshing on the beach, the mutterings of the crowd, and the squawks from the police radios. “The inside scoop is that it looks like a drug overdose, not a homicide. You can read all about it in the
U-T
tomorrow morning.”

“A lot of cops and crime-scene tape for an overdose.”

“The overkill is a CYA move by La Jolla PD.” She pulled me away from her car into the alley that split the motel units. “There's a push by the La Jolla town council to disband the police force and contract with San Diego County Sheriff's department to handle law enforcement. Del Mar does it and saves a bundle in tax dollars. The council is looking for any excuse to take their agenda to the voters. If this turns into a homicide, it will be all over the news and the whole department's existence is going to be on the line. They'll do whatever it takes to close the case.”

Heather and I exchanged business cards and then hugs and said our goodbyes. I went back to the front desk and found out that Melody had checked out earlier that morning.

• • •

The sun had started to burn through the haze when I made the climb up to my car. Strict parking enforcement pushed us day workers up the hill from Restaurant Row into residential neighborhoods to park our cars. The homes along the way were mostly small and at least fifty years old. Some had sprouted new additions or second stories. None had views of the ocean, and all were worth more than I'd make in twenty-five years. I was from this town, but not of it. And yet, this is where I'd returned for a second chance at life. If Turk sold Muldoon's, I didn't know where I'd go for a last chance.

Feet shuffling on the sidewalk behind me pulled me out of my head. My car was twenty feet away. Too late. A fist smashed into my right kidney before I could turn around. Pain shot through my back. A python, or maybe an arm, squeezed around my neck. I grabbed at it with my hands and felt taut flesh. A lot of it. I pulled at the arm and fought for air and saw Gen Y tough guy smiling in front of me. Then I heard the big one in my ear.

“Muldoon's not around to help you this time, Cahill.”

They must have staked out my car after Turk kicked them out of the restaurant.

I tightened my stomach, but didn't get my hands down in time to block the kid's punch. It went through clenched muscle and into my solar plexus, and all the air left my body. I tried to bring oxygen back into my lungs, but another punch landed on my right rib cage. Pain exploded up my side. The only thing that kept me from hitting the ground was the arm clamped around my neck. But it sealed off the chance any air would return to my body. I gasped. My face flashed hot and tight. I pulled at the arm, and it eased its pressure. Not from my effort, but because the man-mountain wanted an answer.

“Where's the girl?”

It was probably time to tell him the truth. Maybe that would be worth a couple of gulps of air. I mulled this for a millisecond when I saw the front door of a house across the street open a crack, and a withered woman's face popped out.

“What girl?” My voice rode out on a gasp.

“Motherfucker!” Spittle flew out of the Gen Y kid's mouth and hit my chin.

He drew back his right hand, but his punch never landed. I kicked him in the crotch like I was punting a football. It would have been a fifty yarder. He yelped and fell to the ground in slow motion, curling into a fetal position.

The boss tightened his grip on my throat. I stomped my right heel down on his instep but only made him squeeze harder. I tugged at his arm. It was like trying to pull a branch off an oak tree. My face burned, and my head pounded. Then he relaxed his choke hold and moved his arm two inches down. My mouth opened wide and vacuumed in as much air as it could, then I heard a shout from across the street.

“The police are on their way!” The voice was a high-pitched whine. It was the most beautiful voice I'd ever heard.

The huge arm now clamped both sides of my neck. A police choke hold, back when they were still allowed. I could breathe, but felt dizzy. I grabbed his arm with all I had left but couldn't budge the tightening vise. My legs wobbled and everything turned red.

Then I heard it again.

“I called the police! They're coming!”

“Talk to the cops and you're dead.” The Brooklyn-accented voice hissed in my ear.

Then he let go of my neck.

My knees hit the sidewalk first, and then my hands and face. I heard the neutered one struggle up off the ground, then running footsteps, car doors slamming, and finally a vehicle peeling out and zooming away. I didn't see any of it because my eyes were closed. When I opened them I saw the sidewalk, up close.

“Are you all right?” It was the voice from heaven again.

I rolled over on my back and groaned. My whole body felt like an open wound. After someone had rubbed salt in it and squeezed on some lemon juice for flavor.

“Yes. I'm fine.”

“The police should be here any minute!”

I rolled back over onto all fours and stood up in stages. My car sat twenty feet away. The police would have to question my savior across the street alone. Brooklyn's threat hung in my ears under the pounding in my head.

When I finally made it to my car, the seat belt felt like an iron maiden when I cinched it around my torso.

I got home safely, locked the front door behind me, then glaciered through the kitchen to the back door and let Midnight in. He bounded in and jumped up to greet me before I could stop him. I stepped aside and tried to avoid his clawed embrace. My right foot caught the leg of the kitchen table and my back hit the ground at the same time Midnight's front paws landed on my rib cage. Pain shot through my front and my back and met in my middle. Laughter came instead of tears.

Midnight raked his tongue along my asphalt-scraped cheek.

Love hurts.

Three hours later, after ice on my kidney and ribs and Motrin down my throat, my house phone rang. I struggled off the couch and answered it, hoping it was Melody.

“Rick, it's Dan Coyote.”

Not even close.

Dan was a detective for the La Jolla Police Department. He was the only cop I knew who liked me, and that was probably because he didn't know me very well. We'd met playing golf at Torrey Pines a couple years ago. We hit it off and now hit the links together every month or so. He'd joined the LJPD from the Phoenix PD when La Jolla was short on manpower. It was a few years after I'd returned from Santa Barbara. If he knew or cared about my past, he never mentioned it.

“Hi, Dan. If you have a tee time, I'll probably be out of action for a couple days.” I didn't think I could put a tee in the ground, much less make a golf swing.

“Actually, I'm calling about an incident that occurred today that may involve you.” His voice was more detective than golf buddy.

The ancient Good Samaritan who saved my life must have given the police my license plate number. I didn't know whether the goon's threat had been idle or serious and I didn't want to find out. Beyond that, I'd had enough police involvement for a lifetime.

“If you're talking about a couple of guys roughing me up, it's not a big deal. I'm fine. I don't want to press charges.”

“I'd still appreciate it if you'd come down to the station and
tell me about it.” His voice, now full detective, brought back bad memories from Santa Barbara.

“I have to be at work soon. It's really not worth your time.”

There was a pause and then a deep exhale. “Look, Rick, the woman who filed the report is the owner of
The La Jolla Lantern
. She's making this a big deal. I'd really appreciate it if you'd come down.”

The
Lantern
was the tiny local paper. Apparently its bite was bigger than its circulation. I didn't want the one cop I had as a friend to join my long list of enemies in blue.

The La Jolla Police Station was on Wall Street, just a few blocks from Muldoon's. The cops called it the “Brick House” because it was constructed of white brick. It had been a library in its early days before the police took it over. I guess the “Library” wasn't as intimidating as the “Brick House.”

I hadn't been there since my dad got kicked off the force twenty-five years ago.

The two-story station house had polished wood floors and exposed wood-beam ceilings. I could see how it would have made a charming library, but my body tensed and my breaths quickened when I walked through the front door. It was a police station. A place where I used to belong, but never would again. A place where you were forced to face the truth, even when you lied.

The desk sergeant, a blue sack of wrinkles with a gruff tone, phoned upstairs to Detective Coyote in Robbery/Homicide. This was La Jolla. They might as well have called it Robbery/Died of Natural Causes. The town averaged maybe a murder a year. Still, the murders were usually high profile and became grist for books and TV crime shows. Jilted ex-wife murders her rich husband and his new trophy wife, white-bread wannabe gangbangers beat to death a surfer buddy, rich kid murders his whole family. The murders probably got big publicity because of their rarity and locale.

Just like Santa Barbara.

Dan came downstairs to usher me up to the second floor and
Robbery/Homicide. His greeting was professional and lacked the warmth of a first-tee handshake. He had less hair and more stomach than when we'd first met, but still had an athlete's grace. His Native American ancestry showed in prominent cheekbones and dark hair. Tan slacks, a brown blazer, and a conservative tie made up his uniform. There were no jeans and T-shirt detectives on the La Jolla police force. Those were for TV cops and Levi's commercials.

Robbery/Homicide was housed in a square room that stank of day-old coffee. There were four low cut gray cubicles in the middle of the room adorned with computers and family photos. A large window faced the street and let in palm tree-filtered sunlight. An American flag hung on the wall opposite the window next to a map of La Jolla with red-and-black pushpins stuck in it.

In the far-left corner of the room there was a large glass-enclosed office with “Police Chief Raymond Parks” stenciled on the front panel. I guess in a small PD like this, the chief had to slum it with the gold shields. Open blinds cut shadows across Parks's face as he sat at his desk in his dress blues. He turned up dark eyes and gave me a flat-faced stare for an uncomfortable three count. My reputation preceded me. I wanted to get the hell out of there and back onto the streets where the tough guys didn't have badges.