by Coyle, Matt;
“But you know me. How could you do that? What kind of a man are you?” She spun and ran across the parking lot, stopping at a sub-millennial Toyota Rav 4. She fumbled with her keys, finally got the door open, jumped inside, peeled out, and drove away. To her kids, a lawyer, or maybe just someplace else.
Irene Faye was a real person. Not a bit player in a life I was trying to ignore. And I’d just caused her pain. I knew I was only a conduit for the ruin coming her way. If not me, someone else would have served the will of her ex stamped with the authority of a municipal court. Irene Faye couldn’t avoid the chin music life just threw at her. But I didn’t have to be the baseball.
I was a private investigator. All actions I took had repercussions. On the innocent, the guilty, and me. I’d done things that would have put me behind bars if I’d been caught. All in a quest for the truth. Doing what I determined to be right without consideration of man’s laws. Or God’s. What scared me most was that breaking those laws bothered me less and less. The only way I could see to stop taking the law into my own hands would be to find a new line of work.
Irene Faye left before I could answer her question. What kind of a man was I? It had been rhetorical, but I had an answer. One I finally realized I couldn’t live with anymore.
Krista Landingham was being put to rest in Santa Barbara today. I couldn’t lie to myself anymore that it didn’t matter whether or not I was there to say goodbye.
CHAPTER FOUR
I MADE IT to Trinity Episcopal Church in Santa Barbara at 2:50 p.m. Traffic had been worse than I expected on a Saturday. Lane closures due to perpetual road work on Interstate 5. I’d anticipated having time to get a hotel room and change into the slacks and blazer I laid out in my Honda Accord after I dropped Midnight with my next-door neighbor. Instead, I changed in the back of the parking lot across from the church.
Mourners were still streaming into the old stone gothic church when I emerged from behind my car. Luckily, I didn’t recognize any of them. Of course, I was fifty yards away and hadn’t seen anyone from the Santa Barbara Police Department in thirteen and a half years. I waited for the last of the mourners to enter the church before I walked up to the entrance. Hopefully, I’d slip in, pay my respects, and slip out without anyone from SBPD seeing me.
An older man in a black undertaker suit greeted me inside the foyer. If he was from SBPD, I didn’t recognize him. Probably someone from the church or the mortuary handling the service and the burial.
“Would you mind signing the memory book?” he asked in a soft undertaker voice and swept his arm to a small wooden table with an open guest book bound by a ribbon. “It would mean a lot to the family to have a record of Krista’s friends who attended.”
I hadn’t thought about a guest book. I didn’t want my presence known anywhere in Santa Barbara. I just wanted to sit in the back, pay my respects, and leave before anyone I knew saw me.
I guess I could write John Doe or make up a name. But that would put me right back in the Vons parking lot with the wrong answer to Irene Faye’s question.
The least I could be was a man who didn’t lie at a friend’s funeral.
I signed my name and walked into the nave of the church. Four rows of pews across and ten or twelve deep were full of men, women, and some children, all dressed in black and dozens of male and female cops in their dress blues. Cement-pillared grand arches separated the two outside pews from the two in the middle.
More cops and Santa Barbara sheriff’s deputies stood lining the outside of the pews and all around the back. There were at least a couple hundred cops wedged into the church. This was one day the fire marshal would look the other way. Law enforcement personnel came from all directions when a police officer is lost in the line of duty. Krista’s death had been an accident, but the outpouring of support from her brothers and sisters in blue showed how much she was respected. And loved.
I’d forgotten what it felt like to be a part of that family. The only memory I had left was my excommunication from it. I scanned the rest of the church looking for a soft landing. None. I decided to remain in the back behind the phalanx of law enforcement. Easy access to the exit to leave unnoticed when the service was over.
The undertaker type from the guest book solemnly walked over to me and led me through the rows of cops to the last pew in the far corner of the church. No one took much notice; all eyes were to the front. I hadn’t seen an opening to sit, but sure enough there was a space next to the wall beside a young woman in a black skirt and sweater. I shuffled along the pew whispering “sorrys” and sat down. The organ started playing a dirge as soon as I sat.
The church, the music, the solemn black-wardrobed congregation. Colleen’s memorial came rushing at me from the dark corner of my mind where I kept it hidden. The malevolent glare from her father, mirrored in her sister’s eyes. Standing in the aisle because her family wouldn’t make room for me in the front pew. Mourning in silence, fighting off tears, denied the chance to speak about the woman I loved. Not willing to show weakness in front of those who hated me. Who thought I murdered the daughter, sister, friend they loved. Who still think I did.
Even on the day Colleen was memorialized, my pride, my stubborn will, wouldn’t let me express my grief in public.
That I did alone, away from Colleen’s family, and even my own.
The priest began the service, and I pushed Colleen, her family, and my failings back into the darkness.
I scanned the backs of heads of Krista’s mourners looking for familiar ones from over a decade ago and finally gave up and paid attention to the service. That’s why I’d made the four-hour drive. To honor Krista’s memory, not worry about the past.
Krista’s brother, Stephen, made his way to the pulpit to speak. Tall and wide shouldered, he looked much the same as when I first met him at one of Krista and her husband’s barbecues. Just less blond hair above his forehead. He was a Santa Barbara sheriff’s deputy and spoke about how proud he was to follow his father and big sister into law enforcement. He spoke of a childhood when Krista was the toughest kid, boy or girl, on the block, and someone who never forgot a birthday and doted on his children, her nieces and nephew.
Santa Barbara Police Chief Kate Marks, thin, with short blond hair and a command presence came to the podium and called Krista a role model, not only for the female police officers on the force, but for all of SBPD. She spoke haltingly, like it took all of her will to hold her emotions intact. Tears filled my eyes as I struggled with the same fight.
Former Santa Barbara Police Chief Lou Siems was next. He’d been the chief while I was on the force and now owned a cop bar in town. Respected and well liked by the rank and file, Siems was also rumored to have been a bit of a player. He was on marriage number three when I did my short stint on SBPD. Siems’ once jet black hair had gone mostly gray and his face was rounder, but he still had an infectious smile and spoke charismatically. He called Krista a cop’s cop and a trailblazer for female police officers in Santa Barbara to follow.
Last to speak was Police Captain Ted Kessler. He’d joined the force a few years ahead of me. I never had much interaction with him on the job. I worked the streets and he worked the brass. He made lieutenant young, but his only command was Chief Siems’ car. The chief’s unofficial driver and official ass-kisser. He was in command of MIU and had been Krista’s supervisor. I would have thought he’d be at least deputy chief by now. I guess Chief Siems retired too soon. In his early forties, Kessler still looked like a beach volleyball player. Tall, lean-muscled with a wedge of gelled blond hair on his head. He was smooth at the podium, but lacked Siems’ charm.
Through all the speakers there were some tears, but more laughs. The stories made me remember the Krista I spent over a year next to in a patrol car on the streets of Santa Barbara. Smart, tough, charming, and just cunning enough to imperceptibly shade a police report to reveal the hidden truth. I suddenly missed the time we spent together and the thirteen years we never talked.
People rising and exiting the pew in front of me brought me back to the present day. The time had come to pay final respects. The burial would be private. I was the last one out. The exit from the church was just across the way. I’d so far been spared the glares and not so low whispers that I’d be sure to encounter when someone recognized me. I’d come to church and celebrated Krista’s life. I’d mourned her quietly. I’d done everything a decent person does but pay my last respects. A right turn out of the pew and I’d be on my way home.
What kind of a man was I?
I exited the pew and turned left. Down the aisle toward Krista’s closed casket.
CHAPTER FIVE
WHEN MY TIME came to stop in front of the casket, I bowed my head and said a silent prayer. I turned to exit through the front of the church and bumped into a solemn sheriff’s deputy. There were at least fifty more grim-faced men and women wearing SBSO olive green uniforms behind him.
Shit. Wading through the deputies to escape out the front would draw just the kind of attention I wanted to avoid.
I turned back and followed my pew out through a side entrance that emptied out into a courtyard. Where Krista’s family stood in a receiving line. The line of mourners in front of me was at least thirty deep. Beyond them, a group of eight or nine men in uniforms and one suit stood in a loose circle by the courtyard’s exit onto the sidewalk. My escape. I recognized one of the men facing my direction. Tom Weaver. Krista’s ex-husband.
Shit.
I stayed in the reception line, hoping Weaver would leave by the time I paid my respects to Krista’s family.
I’d never met Krista’s parents, but I knew her father had been a cop at SBPD before her. A man in his seventies was the first receiver in the line. His cop bearing would have been enough to tell me he was Spence Landingham. Krista’s square chin left no doubt. Taller than me with broad shoulders, but hallowed out with age. I shook his hand and he gave me a weary smile.
“Krista was my training officer when I was a rookie a long time ago. She taught me a lot.”
“That’s nice to know. She enjoyed her time as a T.O. What’s your name? Are you still on the job?”
I could lie, but then I’d have an answer to the question Irene Faye asked me in the Vons parking lot.
“Rick Cahill,” I spoke softly and hoped no one else in the area heard me. My name answered both questions.
“Oh.” His head jerked back a couple inches and he made a face like he’d been slapped. “Well, thanks for coming.” Spence Landingham then turned his attention to the next person in line.
I stepped in front of Krista’s mother who wore a hat with black lace covering her tearstained eyes. She could barely reign in her grief. I took her outstretched hands in both of mine and gently squeezed. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
No need to tell her who I was. I and every other mourner didn’t matter. Myriam Landingham had lost her daughter. No well-wishes or show of support could ever ease the grief of a mother who’d outlived a child. I moved on to Krista’s sister, Leah Landingham. The reason I was in Santa Barbara. She was the baby of the family, seven or eight years younger than Krista. She had blond hair with blue eyes that glimmered, with Krista and her father’s chin, but softer, and sharper cheekbones than her sister that blended together into stunning beauty. Even in grief.
“Rick.” She stepped in to hug me. I politely hugged back. “I’m glad you could make it. Sorry for the short notice. I know Krista is happy you’re here.”
I’d only met Leah a few times at the barbecues. We’d probably talked a total of sixty minutes over two and a half years. I’d liked her in a I-have-a-wife-she-has-a-boyfriend sort of way. Nothing beyond that. She’d always been friendly, but the hug surprised me. And brought me unwanted attention.
“I’m sorry for your loss. Thanks for letting me know. Krista taught me a lot.” Apparently, my go-to phrase for the day. I didn’t know what else to say, especially with the eyes of her brother on me along with those of SBPD cops I couldn’t see, but could feel.
She reached in for another hug, which was awkward. To not hug back would have been even worse. She pushed her mouth close to my ear. “I have to talk to you before you go back to San Diego. I’ll call you as soon as I can.” She released me and gave me a deadpan grief smile. I returned one even while my head swirled.
What could she want? We hardly knew each other.
I moved onto Stephen Landingham. He was a few years older than me, but we were both still young to the job and full of cop musk when we first met. Puffed-out chests and bull-legged swaggers back then. Life had beaten that macho out of me in the last fourteen years. I didn’t miss it, but would have chosen a different journey to lose it.
“Cahill.” Stephen Landingham didn’t offer his hand but pushed out his chest like old times. His voice carried past the reception line to the circle of men by the exit. Heads turned. The eyes of Krista’s ex, Tom Weaver, caught mine. He didn’t look happy. I turned my attention back to Krista’s brother.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” I didn’t expect a hug like Leah had given me and didn’t offer my hand to force the issue.
“I’m surprised you’re here.” Landingham’s blond buzz cut sloped from back to front like he was always speeding downhill. “I doubt anyone here will throw you a welcome-back party.”
“I’m here to pay my respects to your sister. I’m driving home as soon as I leave.”
My welcome reception made me change my plans. I already paid a mortgage in a city where half the people disliked me. Why rent a hotel room in a town where it was unanimous? I guess except for Leah Landingham, but I wasn’t sticking around for that outlier. At least I had a dog who loved me in San Diego.
I turned from Stephen Landingham and headed for the courtyard’s exit.
And the band of brothers in blue.
The circle of men broke into a line that blocked the exit. Except for the one man not in uniform who split off and headed to the street. I’d only seen the back of his head, but was pretty sure I recognized it. I’d seen it enough when Colleen died fourteen years ago and again eight years later when he tracked me down in San Diego.
Retired SBPD detective Jim Grimes. The man who arrested me for Colleen’s murder and never stopped believing I was guilty. Not when the charges were dropped and I was released from jail and not when he tried to help pin another murder on me in San Diego.
Of all the people mourning Krista at the church who hated me, Grimes hated me the most. He’d never been shy about expressing his feelings before. Why leave now when he could have me in his cross-hairs with a phalanx of brothers in hate to back him up?
Gift horse. No reason to check its teeth. There were still plenty of unfriendly faces staring at me. Tom Weaver, in dress blues, stepped in front of me and shoved his face into mine.
“Who invited you?” Weaver’s once black mustache had thinned and turned gray, just like the hair on his head. He’d had ten years on Krista, which made him seventeen years older than me. When I knew him, he’d looked like the Marlboro Man. Now he looked like the Marlboro Man’s jowly father.
“I didn’t think I needed an invite to pay my respects to my ex-partner.” I didn’t want to put Leah Landingham in a jackpot with her ex-brother-in-law. But mostly, I didn’t like people nosing into my business.
“Your partner?” Fumes from coffee laced with bourbon wafted across my face. “She was your T.O. and you were nothing but a boot. You always did have an exaggerated opinion of yourself, Cahill. Still do, even after the pile of shit you made of your life.”
“She was my friend, Tom, and I came to pay my respects.” I could have explained to him that Krista and I had been partners for a year after my training period, but I didn’t feel like getting into a pissing match. Not today. Not at Krista’s funeral.
“You’ve paid them. Time to g
o back to San Diego. You don’t have any friends here.” He double-barreled two fingers and poked me in the chest. I held my ground.
Weaver never showed me much attention good or bad when I partnered with Krista. I was just another boot to him. To be seen only when necessary and heard never. Now he hated me like every other Santa Barbara cop who thought I got away with murder and tainted the department’s image. I got it. But even back when I was a suspect before my suspension and arrest, Weaver ignored me. I got plenty of nasty stares and whispers back then, but never from him.
Something had changed.
Maybe he knew. Maybe Krista told him about us. Maybe that’s why they got divorced.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” I’d said goodbye to Krista. There was nothing left to say to Weaver. It was time to leave. Except, he’d poked me in the chest. Hard. The sled dog in me growled on the inside. The harder you pulled on a Husky, the harder it pulled back.
I stood in front of Weaver and waited for the next pull. Or poke.
“Your sorrys don’t cut ice up here, Cahill.” His voice bellowed out on a cloud of bourbon fumes. Heads turned in the courtyard. “So put your tail between your legs and go the fuck back to San Diego before I do something you’ll regret.”
Weaver pushed two fingers at me. A hand shot in from the side just before I could grab it.
“Stand down, Lieutenant Weaver.” Captain Kessler stepped in between us. He put his arm around his shoulders. Pals. “We’re all friends, here. Right, Tom?”
Weaver relaxed his shoulders and the edges of his Marlboro mustache drooped lower. “Right.”
“Rick Cahill. It’s been a long time.” Kessler released Weaver and thrust a hand at me. “Nice of you to be here. Krista was always in your corner.”
I had been in a corner, like a fighter. Me against SBPD. I shook Kessler’s hand. He shifted his hand to my back and stepped away from Weaver and led me through the courtyard gate onto the sidewalk. We stopped and squared up to each other.
