Once settled on a curb in the parking lot, Tick had apologized for not knowing the boy existed, but said it was important to find his father. The boy told them his dad had called the night before and said he was going to a friend’s cabin just outside Jackson Hole, Wyoming, to write for a while. When the boy said his father had mentioned Tick in the call, the gray-hair had to clear his throat and look away for a few seconds. They didn’t tell him about the murder investigation.
Afterward, the Brain Farm had lit off after Tick’s son, stopping at a casino in Reno for a burger. Once inside, they were distracted not only by the cacophony of blinking lights and winners’ bells, but also by a happy hour that featured two-dollar glasses of wine and a $10.99 all-you-can-eat buffet.
They’d spent twelve hours in the casino and were back on the road when Aloa reached them and told them Hamlin was in the clear.
Aloa watched the men. “I’ve been around,” she said in answer to their question.
“Not at Justus or at your house,” Tick said and lowered himself next to Aloa with a cracking of knee joints and a whalelike expulsion of breath.
“Did you try calling?”
“We did,” said Doc, who pushed past Tick to sit a couple of steps below them.
“I didn’t see a message,” Aloa said.
“Are you crazy?” P-Mac said. He sat down behind Aloa and stretched out flat on his back on the warm concrete, his head resting on his laced hands, his legs crossed at the ankles. “That’s just what the government wants us to do.”
“Yeah, we’re laying a little low,” Doc said.
Aloa cocked her head.
“You know where it says all-you-can-eat in casinos?” P-Mac said.
“Sure,” Aloa said.
“Apparently, that means only at one sitting.”
“Like they don’t make enough money already,” Doc grumbled.
“What happened?” Aloa asked.
“A slight run-in with security,” P-Mac said.
“No sense of the injustice of poverty,” Doc said.
“We loaded up on prime rib at the buffet,” Tick said. “Put it in a garbage bag.”
“We were going to take it to the river and share it with some of the guys we met,” Doc said. “A little have for the have-nots, you know.”
“But the jackboots in their security uniforms showed up, so we had to create a diversion and chuck the meat,” P-Mac said. “We barely got out of there.”
The men shook their heads.
“So I’m guessing you didn’t climb all the way up here to tell me about Reno,” Aloa said.
“Nope,” Tick said. “The grandkid’s having a birthday party, and I thought maybe you’d like to come.”
Somehow, Tick and the Brain Farm had managed the impossible by convincing Hamlin’s ex-lover that a boy needed a father—and a grandfather—in his life. In fact, a whole trio of grandfathers. Tick had done it mostly with guilt, telling her how Hamlin’s inability to be a good partner had been brought on, in part, by the fact he’d believed his birth father had hated him, and so he’d walled himself off. He then wondered if she would want the same thing for her child and, as punctuation to his point, handed the ex-lover Eternal Light, Hamlin’s book of poems that focused on his feelings of abandonment and unworthiness.
The mother had grudgingly agreed to let Hamlin visit once a week, and the birthday party was the first real test of whether this relationship would work.
Hamlin had offered to pay for food and a band.
In return, she had let Hamlin invite the boy’s grandfather, Tick. Tick had then invited P-Mac and Doc, and they thought Aloa should come, too, since she’d cleared the boy’s father from a murder charge.
“I bought the kid a turntable and a complete set of Dylan’s studio albums, 1964 to 69. Just like I did for his dad,” Tick said.
“Bought a turntable?” Doc said.
“Well, found it,” Tick grumped. “I paid for the records, though.”
P-Mac shoved his hat over his face against the sun and Tick pushed the porkpie hat back on his head. A container ship steamed under the bridge. Below them, seagulls circled over an overflowing trash can. A long-haired man sat on the sidewalk below them, playing a guitar. The faint notes of the song “Blackbird” reached their ears.
“So are you going to come, Ink?” Tick said.
“Sure,” Aloa said and took a last pull of her coffee. “When is it?”
They told her the date and each fell quiet as the sun’s warmth soaked through their skins and into their bones.
“I’m glad the fog’s gone,” Aloa said after a time.
“It was a helluva thing,” P-Mac said.
“I think I’m going to take a trip after the next story is posted,” Aloa said.
“Yeah?” Doc asked. “Where to?”
“First I was thinking about Mexico, but now I think I’ll rent a motorcycle, hit Highway 1, and see where it takes me.”
“There’s a fine bar in Stinson Beach,” P-Mac said. “Met a woman there. Didn’t leave her bed for three days.”
“Now that’s the way to live,” Doc said.
The men made sounds of contentment.
Aloa had just set her empty coffee mug next to her on the step when her phone rang.
The caller ID read “Justus.”
Aloa smiled and accepted the call. “Hey, what’s going on?” she said.
Gully’s voice sounded as if he’d just run a great distance. “The man from above, the one I make for the breakfast?”
“Yes?” Aloa said.
“He is dead. You must to come.”
Aloa gave one last glance at the bay.
“I’ll be right there.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The first thing an author should always do is thank their readers. Otherwise, our writings would be nothing more than a really long typing exercise. So thank you, wonderful readers, for welcoming Aloa into your hearts and minds.
I also have to thank those who made this book possible. Huge thanks to Liz Pearsons at Thomas & Mercer, whose support and enthusiasm made all the difference, and to my terrific agent, Heather Jackson, who was always there when I needed her. I couldn’t have done this without either one of these smart women.
Thanks to Gracie Doyle Miller, Sarah Shaw, and the entire team at Thomas & Mercer. Their talent, care, and passion for books are inspiring. Thanks also to development editor Charlotte Herscher for pushing me to make this book better and to Shasti O’Leary Soudant for creating an absolutely stunning cover. An additional thanks to my copyeditors, Sharon Turner Mulvihill and Sarah Vostok, who saved me from the typos and factual errors that keep a writer up at night.
A big round of applause goes to my fellow writers for their wise opinions and creative minds: Kathleen Founds, Karen Joy Fowler, Elizabeth McKenzie, Liza Monroy, Micah Perks, Melissa Sanders-Self, Susan Sherman, Jill Wolfson, Wallace Baine, Jessica Breheny, John Chandler, Richard Huffman, Richard Lange, and Dan White.
I also have to send big shout-outs to retired district attorney/police homicide investigator Ron Truitt for his technical advice and insight into the world of police detectives, to Geoff Drake for all things motorcycle, to Associated Press national reporter Martha Mendoza for her inspiration and stories, and to all the journalists out there who work hard to get it right. Also, to Tom and Mary Anne Jorde, who gave me the space to write in their beautiful home in Hawaii.
Extra thanks go out to my dad, Hank, who died last year and was among my biggest fans, and to all my family (Regina, Chris, Jack, Mary, and Garren) for their love and encouragement, and to Cody Townsend and Elyse Saugstad for reminding me you should always do what you love and everything will fall into place after that.
But most of all, I have to thank my husband, Jamie, the absolute love of my life, who is not only my sidekick on every single one of my research trips, but has always believed in me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2017 Carolyn Lagattuta
Pe
ggy Townsend is the author of See Her Run, the first book in the acclaimed Aloa Snow mystery series. As an award-winning journalist whose stories have appeared in newspapers around the country, she’s chased a serial killer through a graveyard at midnight and panhandled with street kids. In 2005, the USC Annenberg Institute for Justice and Journalism awarded her a Racial Justice Fellowship. Peggy is a runner, a downhill skier, and a mountain biker. She currently lives on the Central Coast of California. Follow her on Twitter @peggytownsend or on Facebook at www.facebook.com/peggytownsendbooks.
The Thin Edge Page 24
