Lost Tomorrows

by Coyle, Matt;

  Someone pounded on the front door. “Police! Open up!”

  Leah shot up and the towel of ice fell into my lap.

  “Wait.” I grabbed her arm. “He may not really be a cop or it could be Mitchell or Weaver. Go hide in the kitchen until I tell you to come out.”

  “Is that really necessary?” She pulled against my arm.

  “Yes.” I tugged back. Hard. “Go.”

  Fear flashed across her eyes. Maybe for the man outside. Maybe for me. She hurried into the kitchen.

  More pounds on the door. “This is the Santa Barbara Police Department. Open this door. Now!”

  I went over to the door, careful not to stand directly behind it, and angled my eye over the peephole. Two cops in uniform standing on either side of the door. Guns drawn.

  I took a couple steps backward and yelled, “Be right there.” Then went over to the table next to the couch and opened the drawer to stick my gun inside. And found another one already there. A Sig Sauer P226. I rushed over to the end table on the other side of the couch and put my Smith & Wesson .357 in its drawer.

  I went into the kitchen and grabbed Leah’s hand. “It’s okay.”

  I led her over to the front door. The cop outside was into round three of pounding and yelling when I slowly opened the door.

  Both cops had their guns pointed at me. One to the right of the door. One to the left. They held their guns in the Master Grip, fingers on the trigger guards and not the triggers. Thank God.

  “Sir, step out onto the porch and get onto the ground. Now! Hands and legs out wide!” The cop on the right shouted.

  “Officer, he’s my friend,” Leah said from behind me.

  “Let us handle this, ma’am,” The second cop said. “Please stay inside the house.”

  I took two slow steps out onto the porch and got down on my stomach as quickly as the pain in my head and arm would allow and spread out like a starfish. A knee compressed my back and a handcuff cinched around my right wrist. My right arm was yanked behind my back. Pain buzzed along my injured forearm. My left arm was pulled back to meet the right and my wrists were locked together. A single hand patted me down, top to bottom, front and back, along my crotch.

  “No gun,” the cop who patted me down said.

  “My friend didn’t do anything wrong.” Leah, her voice a high crackle. “He was attacked at his hotel and came over here to protect me.”

  A black boot with a crepe sole passed in front of my face and another followed. Different male voice. “Ma’am, let’s go into the living room where we can talk.”

  Footsteps faded away.

  “If I sit you up, will you tell me what happened here tonight?” My hand-cuffer.

  “Yes.” Hands grabbed my arms and helped me up to a sitting position. My face left a smudge of blood on the porch and more trickled down my nose.

  “What’s your name, sir?” The cop’s name tag read Armenta. Hispanic. Average height but built like an Olympic wrestler. I was glad he didn’t accidently rip one of my arms out of its socket when he handcuffed me.

  “Rick Cahill. I’m a private investigator.” I realized as soon as I said it that being a PI probably wouldn’t help me make my case.

  “What brought you to this house tonight?” Officer Armenta took out a pen and pad.

  “Someone broke into my room at the Beachside Inn about a half hour ago and jacked my computer. So, I chased after him.” Now it got tricky. I had to be careful how much I told cops from SBPD, the department that employed the detective who attacked me. “He clocked me in the face with a baton or a blackjack and got away.”

  “Can you describe your attacker?”

  “About six-two, six-three, one eighty. Lean but muscular. Dressed all in black, including a ski mask.” I left out that he was a detective in MIU. I’d handle that on my own.

  “Did you come over here with a gun and pound on the door shouting because you thought the suspect was here?”

  “Ms. Landingham hired me to help former homicide detective Jim Grimes with a supplemental investigation of her sister’s death. I’m sure you’re aware of Sergeant Landingham, who was killed in a hit and run.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you came here.”

  “This is her house. I’ve been asking questions around town and figured the person who broke into my room may have been the person driving the van that killed Detective Landingham.” Another drop of blood slipped off my nose onto my sweatshirt. “I was afraid he might go after Leah since she’s been with me on a lot of the interviews.”

  “Where is the gun you had when you arrived here?”

  “Inside the house in the drawer of the table on the right side of the couch. A Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum. I have a concealed carry permit for it in my wallet.” I tilted my head toward my right and back toward my right buttock. “It also covers the gun the suspect stole after he clubbed me.”

  “What?” Armenta stopped taking notes and looked at me. “How many guns do you travel with? You going to war?”

  And he didn’t even know about the Glock 9mm and Mossberg shotgun in the trunk of my car. But I had to tell the police about the stolen Ruger in case Mitchell or Weaver planned to use it on someone and set me up.

  “All legally licensed.”

  “And where was the gun when your attacker stole it?”

  “I dropped it when he hit me with the baton.” I could have lied and said he’d taken it from my room, but I had other lies to tell and I wanted to keep the number down to a minimum. It’s easier to remember the truth.

  “So, you chased after the thief with a gun?” Armenta’s voice went up a note like he’d never heard of an armed civilian chasing after a bad guy.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you fire the weapon?”

  “No.” I stayed calm. Like getting mugged and having a gun stolen was an everyday occurrence.

  The other cop, his tag read “Philips,” appeared in the doorway. Tall, wide African American. Leah stood behind him with her arms crossed. Philips looked at me then nodded to Officer Armenta.

  Armenta stooped down, unlocked the handcuffs, and took them off me. I stood up slowly. My head hammering from the inside and threatening to tilt me over.

  The cops checked my permit against the Smith & Wesson inside the house and entered my stolen Ruger into their system. They took both Leah’s and my phone numbers, told us a detective would follow up with us later, and then left in their squad car while Leah’s next-door neighbors watched from their porch.

  “Let’s go.” Leah put her shoulder under my armpit. “I’m taking you to the emergency room.”

  “Tell me about the gun in the side table next to the sofa.”

  “That was Krista’s.” She adjusted her position to get my weight better centered on her shoulder. “My brother wanted me to have it.”

  “Do you know how to use it?”

  “Yes. Now, let’s get you to the hospital. You probably have a concussion and that bump on your head doesn’t look good.”

  No argument. I only played the hero when I didn’t have any other choice. Tonight, I did.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  I GOT OUT of the emergency room in just over an hour. Slow night. The doctor told me I had a concussion and a hematoma. No broken bones in my forearm, but it had swollen to twice its normal size. I was half a Popeye with a broken head and without the spinach. The doctor told me and Leah that I could sleep as long as I was coherent beforehand and to ice my head and arm for the next three days, plus bedrest, and recommended Tylenol for the pain.

  I didn’t tell him or Leah that this wasn’t my first rodeo. This was probably my seventh or eighth concussion dating back to my football days in high school and college when there was no concussion protocol. I’d had worse but never with as much memory loss. Maybe they were starting to add up.

  “Why didn’t you tell the police officers that you think it was Detective Mitchell who attacked you?” Leah asked as she steered my Honda Accord out of t
he hospital parking lot.

  “I can’t prove it and I don’t want him to know that I’m onto him about being involved in Colleen’s murder.”

  “You don’t know that, Rick. I think just the opposite. I believe the story Detective Mitchell told us at police headquarters yesterday.”

  “Why are you protecting them? Because they’re cops on the same police force Krista was on?” I rubbed my head to ease the pounding. Denied. “You know what Mike Richert saw and told Krista. There was a cop in uniform who helped place Colleen’s body on the beach. At the least he was an accessory after the fact. A couple days after Richert talked to Krista, somebody ran her over. Somebody at SBPD is dirty and we both know who it is.”

  “No, we don’t.” Leah’s voice rose. “All we know is that fourteen years ago a man on a yacht a hundred yards offshore thinks he saw a man dressed in a uniform and another man walk away from East Beach after they may have been carrying something and he didn’t report it to the police for nine years and that Tom saw someone in bed with Krista the night Colleen died and spent a few hours in the drunk tank at the time of Colleen’s murder.”

  “Based on a story that can’t be verified.” I looked over at Leah. “Unless your brother confirmed Weaver was in the drunk tank.”

  “He hasn’t called me back. But you have to look at all the facts we know, not just the ones that suit your theory.”

  “It’s not a theory. It’s what happened.”

  We made the remainder of the drive to Leah’s house in silence.

  Leah pulled into her driveway at five twenty a.m. Still dark but the sky was hinting at light. I got out of the car and walked around and met Leah on the driver side.

  “Thanks.” I stuck out my hand for the keys. “I can take it from here.”

  She put the keys in her jeans pocket, put her hands around my good forearm, and walked me into her house. She started to lead me down the hall to her bedroom. I stopped at the edge of the hall.

  “I’m good out here. I don’t think I can sleep. I’m not really tired. I fell asleep early last night.” In a drunken haze. “You should try to get back to sleep.”

  “I’m not going to molest you, Rick.” She frowned and shook her head. “I’m just going to take care of you for as long as you need taking care of.”

  I thought about the other night when I’d abandoned Leah in her own bed. She’d taken it as a rejection. It wasn’t, but explaining why I left her in the middle of the night would sound like rejection just the same.

  “I’m good to go now.” I put out my empty hand again. “I appreciate all you’ve already done. I shouldn’t have come over and gotten you involved.”

  “You came over here to make sure I was all right.” She pushed my hand away. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes went narrow. “You have a concussion and a hematoma and you drove over here to make sure whoever attacked you and almost killed you wouldn’t do the same to me. And now you’re apologizing. What is wrong with you?”

  “I just thought … I didn’t want …”

  “Why can’t you give yourself a break? Why do you have to make things so hard?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, you need to figure it out. You can’t spend the rest of your life hating yourself. Or you’ll always be alone.”

  She rushed down the hall into her bedroom and slammed the door behind her.

  I took six Tylenol, iced my head and my arm, and watched the sun come up. I had to be at Frank Cornetta’s house at eight a.m. to copy the files from his security camera.

  I leaned back on the couch and wondered how much of what I told Leah she’d relay to Grimes. She had more confidence in his investigative abilities than in mine. The Tylenol hadn’t kicked in yet and concentrating on how to deal with Grimes made my head hurt even worse.

  I lay down with my head elevated and tried not to think of anything.

  My eyes opened. My pocket was vibrating. I’d fallen asleep. I pulled out my phone and saw a phone number I didn’t recognize. Then I saw the time. Eight fifteen a.m. Shit. I sprang up to vertical on the couch and my head reminded me that someone tried to split it in half last night. I answered the phone.

  “We agreed on eight o’clock, Mr. Cahill.” Clipped military voice. Frank Cornetta. “I have to leave here at eight thirty. Are you on your way?”

  “Yes.” I got off the couch and grabbed my shoes off the floor. “I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Uh-huh.” He hung up.

  I put on my shoes and reached into my pocket for my keys. Shit. Leah had them. I tiptoed back to her room and eased the door open. I didn’t want to knock and wake her up for the second time in six hours. The shades were open and I heard the shower running in the master bath. Her jeans hung over a chair next to the window. I rifled a pocket and grabbed my keys.

  I didn’t have time to wait for her to get out of the shower. I hustled into the kitchen and left a note on her notepad magnet on the refrigerator. “Meeting someone.”

  I called Mike Richert as I sped to Frank Cornetta’s house. Looking for confirmation of what I already knew.

  “Mr. Richert? Rick Cahill. Could the cop on the Santa Barbara Police Department you spoke to on the phone about what you saw on East Beach have been named Mitchell or Weaver?”

  I held my breath and waited for another nail to hammer in both their coffins.

  “No. Those names don’t sound familiar.”

  I let go the breath, thanked him, and hung up. Maybe the tapes from Frank Cornetta’s security camera would give me the confirmation I needed.

  I pulled down Krista’s street at 8:32 a.m. A white Ford F150 pickup truck backed out of the driveway across from her house. I pulled up alongside it, driver side to driver side, after it straightened out. A man in his late fifties sat ramrod straight behind the steering wheel. Bald on top with a trim ring of brown hair underneath. British lieutenant mustache. I rolled down my window.

  He did the same.

  “Mr. Cornetta? Rick Cahill. Sorry I’m late.”

  “By the looks of your face, you probably have good reason.” Long R Boston accent. “I was just about to call you. I copied the files onto a flash drive and put it in the mailbox.”

  I took out my wallet, grabbed two twenties, and held them out the window. “Let me pay you for the flash drive.”

  “Keep it. Take care of yourself, Mr. Cahill.” He rolled up his window and drove up the street.

  I parked along the curb in front of the Cornetta house next to an old-fashioned mailbox. I got out of the car and pulled a small letter envelope with my name written on it. The envelope had a rectangular two-inch bump inside. I got back into my car and pulled across the street into Krista’s driveway to execute a three-point turn.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and checked the screen. Leah.

  “Where are you?” Concern. “The doctor told you to lay low for the next couple days. In fact, he said bedrest.”

  “I’m taking things slow.” As slowly as I could considering I had two murderers to nail down and kill. “I just picked up a flash drive with surveillance video of Krista’s house.”

  “How’s your head?”

  “Not bad.” Throbbing.

  “You really should rest, Rick.” More concerned than angry now. “I have to consult with a client for a couple hours. I’ll call you when I’m done and meet you back at the house. Make yourself at home. I left a spare key in the large flowerpot on the porch.”

  She gave me the code to her home alarm.

  “Okay, I’ll head over there now and look at the security camera footage.” I had planned go back to the hotel because I thought I was an unwanted guest. “Shit.”

  “What is it?”

  “I forgot. My computer was stolen.”

  “I need mine for my appointment. Buy a new one and expense it. I’ll cover the cost.”

  My kind of client. But Leah wasn’t a client anymore. She was much more. Maybe too much more.

  “
That’s okay. Call me when you’re done.”

  “I insist, Rick.”

  “We’ll talk about it later. Be aware of your surroundings.”

  “You, too.”

  “One last thing. What kind of car does Tom drive?”

  “I think a Dodge Charger. Why? No, wait. It’s a Dodge Challenger. The one that’s more square looking. Why?”

  “Black, of course.”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “To see if he went by Krista’s house after she died.”

  “I’ll call you when I’m done.” Clipped. She hung up.

  For someone who didn’t like the guy, Leah now seemed to be a defender of Tom Weaver. Maybe she didn’t want to believe someone who her sister once loved would be capable of murdering her. Unfortunately, people kill their exes all the time.

  Whatever Leah’s concerns about her ex-brother-in-law’s culpability didn’t matter now. She could fire me today and I’d still pursue the truth until justice be done.

  My justice.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  I BOUGHT AN ASUS laptop at a Best Buy in Goleta and went back to Leah’s house. Once I got the new computer up and running, I slotted Frank Cornetta’s flash drive into a USB port. Cornetta had been thorough. There were seven dated individual video files. The Monday Krista died through last Sunday.

  The first video I watched was from Sunday, the day Leah and I discovered the files missing from Krista’s office. Each video began at 12:00 a.m. on the date listed.

  I’d found out, grudgingly, from Grimes that Mitchell drove a white Jeep Wrangler. So, I had two targets. I watched the beginning of the video at regular speed to get a feel for the clarity of the image. Not a single car or movement in front of Krista’s house appeared for the first five or so minutes. Finally, a dark SUV passed through the camera’s view going down the street. The feed was in black and white, which made every dark car black. Not ideal.

  I sped up the playback and looked for headlights and any movement at Krista’s. Nighttime moved quickly due to lack of activity. After the sun came up and people began starting their days, I had to slow things down a bit. More activity meant more things to watch and more chances to miss something. I had to use the slowest fast-forward setting. Nothing suspicious happened. Finally, my car pulled into Krista’s driveway at 5:47 p.m. It had taken me an hour and twenty-five minutes to get through eighteen hours of security footage. I had six more days to go.