Lost Tomorrows

by Coyle, Matt;

  Getting a copy of Krista’s death certificate wasn’t a problem. As executor of Krista’s estate, Leah had obtained a dozen copies to be safe. Eight days after Krista’s death, she was down to four. When it came to death, no one took your word.

  The AT&T store was located in La Cumbre Plaza, one of Santa Barbara’s shopping malls. Santa Barbara had the quaint appeal of a small town with just enough big-city amenities to make life easy.

  The manager of the AT&T store was young enough and with enough baby fat to be the manager of an ice cream store. Leah gave him the story and showed him the death certificate. Of course, it wasn’t as easy as the supervisor on the phone said it would be. This was AT&T, after all.

  The chubby manager had to make two phone calls that lasted over ten minutes before we finally got six pages of records of Krista’s last phone calls and text messages. I had a hankering for ice cream after the back and forth with the manager so we stopped at McConnell’s Fine Ice Creams on State Street on the way to Joe’s Café. Midday on a weekday, there were only a few people ahead of us in line, and we managed to nab the last remaining open table against the brick wall opposite the counter.

  McConnell’s is a Santa Barbara institution. They produce their own ice cream, which can be found in grocery stores as far south as San Diego. The one taste of Santa Barbara I brought back with me to my hometown. They’re mighty proud of their ice cream as reflected in the price, but they should be. It’s the best ice cream I’ve ever had. And I’ve had a lot.

  We looked over the last week of Krista’s phone records while we ate the ice cream. Leah, a scoop of Salted Caramel Chip. Me, Dark Chocolate Chips and Nibs … and Vanilla Bean. Two scoops. Even better than the pints I bought at Vons.

  Leah checked off all the numbers she recognized. Hers, her brother, her parents, and police headquarters. That left ten or twelve numbers she didn’t know. We did the same with the text numbers. Krista didn’t have nearly as many texts as phone calls, which was unusual nowadays.

  “Why so few texts?” I asked Leah.

  “She was old-fashioned. She preferred to talk to people.”

  “Or write them a letter on stationary.”

  “Right. That was my sister.”

  I thought about the one letter Krista mailed me seven or eight years ago. Upbeat and hopeful. For me. I never responded to it, but wished I had. More every day since I learned of her death.

  I ran the phone and text numbers that Leah didn’t recognize through a pay people finder website. Three belonged to women whose names Leah recognized as friends of Krista’s, two to cops who worked on MIU, two to restaurants, one to a cable company, one to a bank, and one to Captain Kessler, her boss. That left one phone number that the website didn’t have any data for. The final call that Krista received the last night of her life. Three and a half hours before she died. The call lasted four minutes. Longer than someone would leave on voicemail. Whoever it was, Krista had spoken to them.

  Her killer?

  We finished our ice cream, and I started heading back to the side street where I’d parked the car.

  “Where are you going?” She stopped, still on the corner of State Street. “Joe’s is just a couple blocks this way down State.”

  “I know. We have to go back to the car. We need a quiet, enclosed area to see if you recognize the voice of the person who answers at the one phone number we couldn’t find any info on.”

  “Okay.” Leah nodded, set her jaw, and walked with me back to the car. She was on her own journey to find the truth. For her sake and those she loved, I prayed it would be a short one.

  I set up my iPhone to block caller ID, dialed the number of the last call Krista Landingham ever received, and put the phone on speaker. I let it ring eight times before I hung up. No answer. No voicemail. Unusual. Everyone had voicemail nowadays, even if it was only an automated response.

  Who was on the other end of that phone number?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  A HOSTESS GREETED us at the door when we entered Joe’s Café.

  “We have about a thirty-minute wait for lunch, but you can order at the bar. I think there are a couple seats open.”

  She was right. We found two seats separated by one guy in a suit who looked to be drinking his lunch. He moved over so we could sit together. No sign of Dustin Peck, but Bree, the bartender Grimes and I met the other day, was working.

  “What can I get you to drink?” She slid a couple menus in front of us.

  “I’ll have a mimosa, please,” Leah said.

  “I’ll have a water with some bubbles in it and one more of whatever my friend here is having.” I nodded to the businessman who’d switched seats. I figured he might as well get lubed before he went back to the grind.

  “Thanks, buddy.” He patted me on the shoulder. I gave a half nod to close down any avenue for a conversation. The drink was more for the bar and the bartender than him. I was taking up space and wanted to pay my way. But I was on business as much as the businessman was escaping it.

  Leah leaned into me. “I don’t want you to think I’m a day drinker.”

  “I don’t think anything.” I drank myself into a sweaty stain on the floor for two months straight after Colleen died. I graduated to cocaine for about a year before I could get my hands back on the rudder. Everyone dealt with grief the best they could. There were no wrong ways.

  Some were just more painful than others.

  “I used to work in a restaurant.” Leah looked up and down the bar. “We took the last two spots and we’re not ordering lunch. I wanted to order an expensive drink to offset that.”

  Some people handled grief with more class than others. A lot more.

  Bree came back with our drinks.

  “My friend and I have a bet,” I said to her, then smiled at Leah. “She thinks that everyone who works here has to fend for themselves when it comes to finding a parking space when they come to work. I bet that Joe’s must have a deal for their employees with the parking garages around here.”

  “I wish.” She put her hands on her hips in feigned disgust, then smiled at Leah. “Your friend wins. Parking is terrible around here.”

  “Then where does everyone park? East or west of State Street?”

  “I think just about everyone parks that way.” She pointed to the east. The same direction Peck said he always parked. “I don’t know if that’s east or west, but that’s where everyone parks. Over in the residential area.”

  I reached for my wallet to pay for the drinks, but Leah handed Bree a credit card before I could draw. “We’ll run a tab. Thanks.”

  “We’re going to pass on lunch.” I gave her back the menus. “Is Dustin working today?”

  “That’s how I remember you.” She smiled and tapped the bar in front of me. “You and that cop-looking guy came in to see Dustin the other day.”

  “Yep. That was me.” I tried my best smile. “Is he working today?”

  “No, he works tonight at six.”

  “Thanks.”

  Bree tended to her other customers.

  “Looks like we struck out.” Leah set down her mimosa. “What now?”

  “We gather information. Can you take one more for the team?” I looked at the mimosa and then at her.

  She took a big gulp of her drink in answer. I did the same with my Perrier. We’d both finished our drinks by the time Bree made her next pass.

  “Let’s do it again,” Leah said, a tinge of pink cresting her cheeks.

  Bree set the drinks down in front of us a couple minutes later.

  “You have a pretty extensive liquor assortment. How often do you have to do inventory?” I tilted my head like I was really interested. “I used to manage a restaurant and bar and I dreaded the yearly inventory. It was either stay late and ring in the New Year alone doing inventory while the world celebrated or come in early on New Year’s morning with the first and worst hangover of the year.”

  Bree scanned the bar and leaned in. “Our
owner is a real hard-ass about pour costs. We have to do inventory once a month.”

  “Wow. Are you the one who has to do it?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Dustin usually does it, but sometimes I help him.”

  “I guess it wouldn’t be too bad with two people.” I looked at the back bar. “Probably wouldn’t take you more than an hour.”

  “What’s this all about?” Bree squinted one eye at me. “You seem to be pretty interested in our inventory process.”

  She caught me. One question too many. I could continue the ruse or be honest for a change.

  “This is Leah Landingham.” I opened my hand toward Leah. “Dustin saw her sister get killed by a hit-and-run driver last week after he got off work. She hired me to find whatever the police miss. You can help us find the truth.”

  I dropped my business card on the bar in front of Bree. She scanned it and looked back at me, then at Leah.

  “I heard about that. I’m sorry for your loss.” Back at me. “Dustin told me about it, and I saw something online. You don’t think he had anything to do with it, do you?”

  “No. What did he tell you he saw?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “I did. Memories can change as time passes. I want to know what he told you when it was still fresh in his mind.”

  Bree rubbed the tattoo of a lotus blossom on her arm but didn’t say anything.

  “Please.” Leah reached over the bar and gently squeezed Bree’s hand. “Whatever you tell us won’t get Dustin in trouble. I’m grateful to him for reporting it and talking to the police. We just want to get as much information as possible so we can help the police catch the person who killed my sister.”

  Bree patted Leah’s hand then looked at the railed waitress station at the other end of a bar where a waitress stood with her hands on her hips eyeing Bree.

  “I have to pour some drinks and check on my other customers. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She hustled down to the other end of the bar.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket while we waited for Bree’s return. I pulled it out and checked the screen. Grimes. Shit. He’d ask me what I was doing, and I’d either lie to him or have to listen to him tell me he was running the investigation for the tenth time. I answered anyway.

  “Cahill.” A hoarse wolf. “Meet me at Figueroa headquarters forthwith.”

  “Did they give you your badge back? Because I’m not wearing a uniform, and I’m not going anywhere forthwith.” I raised my eyebrows to Leah. “I can be there in about thirty minutes. What’s so forthwith worthy?”

  “Just get your ass down here and ask the desk sergeant for Detective Mitchell.”

  “Roger. In thirty minutes.” I hung up.

  “What was that all about?” Leah’s cheeks were a brighter pink and her second mimosa was half finished.

  “Grimes wants me to meet him and Detective Mitchell over at the station.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, but he made it sound urgent.”

  “Do you think the police found Krista’s killer?”

  “No, he would have called you not me. He sounded even less chipper than usual. My guess is that SBPD has some kind of beef with me.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “That’s not a good idea. Guilt by association. Every law enforcement agency’s default. SBPD is on your side right now. Let’s keep it that way.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  Bree returned before I could come up with a more convincing argument.

  “Dustin told me the same thing he told the police and that he probably told you. He’d just left work and looked down State Street and saw …” She looked at Leah and frowned. “… the accident.”

  “Did he tell you what time that was?” I asked.

  “After work that night.”

  “Yeah, but what time?”

  “It was probably around twelve thirty or one, I guess.” Her eyes looked up to the left, searching her memory.

  Leah and I exchanged a glance.

  “He called the police at 2:17 a.m.,” I said.

  “Oh.” Something clicked in Bree’s mind. “What day was that again?”

  “Late March thirty-first into the morning of April first.”

  “That was a Sunday night, right?”

  “Yes.” I stared at her, waiting for the significance. Instead, she turned and went to her register and came back with our bill and Leah’s credit card.

  “It’s on the house.” She put the credit card down in front of Leah. “I really have to get back to my customers.”

  “Wait,” Leah said. “Why is Sunday important, Bree? What happened that night?”

  “Nothing. I need this job. I don’t want to get in trouble for ignoring my other customers. Sorry.” She strode down to the other end of the bar.

  “What was that all about?” Leah looked at me with a look as confused as the one I felt on my face.

  “I don’t know but I intend to find out.”

  “How?”

  “I’m going to sit here and ask Bree over and over again until she answers me or I get kicked out of the bar.”

  “No. You can’t do that.” Leah furrowed her brow. “This is her livelihood. I don’t want you to get her in trouble.”

  Leah’s quest for the truth had boundaries. Decency. Mine didn’t. And for an instant, I felt badly about that. For an instant.

  “She knows something that might lead us to who killed Krista.” And Colleen. “And I’m going to get it out of her.”

  “Not here where she works. We’ll find another way.” She took her wallet out of her purse and returned her card then pulled out a twenty and laid it on the bar. “Let’s go to police headquarters and listen to what they have to say.”

  Leah was paying me. She was the boss. While we were together. Alone, I’d resort to the tactics that had always led me to the truth. No matter the damage.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE HEADQUARTERS FOR the Santa Barbara Police Department is a two-story cement building with a tile roof that looks more like a school building than a police station. It’s east of State Street in the upper downtown area smack in the middle of a mixed-use neighborhood.

  The desk sergeant was a woman about my age. Sergeant Lance. She had a square jaw and a ruddy complexion that might have come from too much time outside in the sun or too much time inside a bar.

  “Rick Cahill and Leah Landingham here to see Detective Mitchell,” I said to Sergeant Lance at her cubbyhole just inside the front door.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Landingham.” Lance looked at Leah. “Krista was a great cop and an inspiration to a lot of us on the force.”

  “Thank you.” The mimosa-pink in Leah’s checks went a shade darker and her lips quivered. She blinked glossy eyes.

  Sergeant Lance picked up a phone and announced our presence. I pulled Leah a few feet away. “Are you okay? You don’t have to go in with me. You can wait out here or I can take you home and come back.”

  “I’m okay.” She tried a smile, but her eyes still threatened tears. “It’s the damn champagne. It always makes me emotional, and I basically chugged two glasses.”

  “Leah.” A man’s voice behind me. “Are you doing okay?”

  A man in his early forties, dressed in detective gear of slacks, dress shirt, tie, and blazer, approached us.

  “I’m fine, Detective.” Leah didn’t give him a smile.

  Detective Mitchell. My forthwith demander. He was a couple inches taller than me but leaner. I vaguely remembered him from my time on the job. He worked on the Special Enforcement Team dealing with gangs and probation violators while I worked patrol.

  “Nothing that we can discuss just yet, but we are making progress,” he said to Leah.

  “Why can’t you discuss it?” Her voice, a little too loud for the tiny lobby in police headquarters. “Krista was my sister and somebody ran her over. I need to know what you’re doing to find her
killer.”

  Sergeant Lance looked worried after Leah’s outburst.

  “You have to let us do our job, Leah. We’re making progress.” Mitchell side-glanced me. “Now, I need to discuss something with Mr. Cahill. You can wait here or I can have a uniform drive you home.”

  “Rick’s investigating Krista’s murder because I asked him to. Whatever you have to say to him, say to me, too.” She folded her arms and raised her chin. “Everything he’s done has been at my behest.”

  “This really is specific to Mr. Cahill, Leah.” Mitchell’s voice had a snip in it.

  “Should I call a lawyer for Mr. Cahill, Jake.” Leah out-snipped him. “Or would you rather have me join you for your talk?”

  I was glad Leah was on my team and that I was on team Leah.

  “Follow me.” Mitchell regained his calm. Staying snippy would be admitting defeat.

  He led us through a couple doors, up a flight of stairs, and down a hall into a room with a shingle outside the door that read “Master Investigative Unit.” There were a couple sets of back-to-back desks with computers and files on them and a small office in the back of the room.

  A detective-looking woman in her late forties stood next to Jim Grimes in the middle of the room.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Cahill.” Mitchell pulled out a chair from a desk.

  “I’m good.” I raised my hand, palm open to chest level, like Mitchell’s statement had been an offer rather than a demand. “Everyone else is standing, I don’t want to be odd man out.”

  “Very well.” He gave me a smile that fell short of sincere, and I got a grimace from Grimes out of the corner of my eye. I hadn’t been asked to headquarters for a pat on the back. “This is Detective Glenda Flora and you both know Jim Grimes.”

  Mitchell nodded to the woman. Dark hair and complexion with a crescent-shaped birthmark on her left cheek. She smiled at Leah and stone-faced me. Grimes glared at me.

  “Mr. Cahill.” Detective Mitchell couldn’t conceal his contempt for me. “You made some libelous accusations against Detective Weaver this morning. Explain yourself.”