Lost Tomorrows

by Coyle, Matt;

  “What?” Her eyebrows rose. “No. Why?”

  “Captain Kessler thought she was drunk when she called him the Thursday night before she died.” I thought of another possibility. “How about prescription meds?”

  “There’s no way she started drinking again. But …”

  “What?”

  “She hurt her back skiing over Christmas and did have to take Vicodin for a few weeks. There were still some in her medicine cabinet after she died, but the prescription was from January. I don’t think she was still taking them. She wouldn’t take them to get high. That wasn’t Krista. She was proud of her sobriety. She didn’t even want to take the Vicodin, but the pain was pretty bad.”

  “You’re probably right. Thanks.” But what people did when no one was watching could sometimes shock their loved ones. Maybe Vicodin explained Krista’s call to Kessler. “Your brother call you back about Weaver being in the drunk tank the night Colleen was murdered?”

  “Yes. He said he didn’t know anything about it.”

  That didn’t mean it didn’t happen, but it didn’t help Mitchell’s story.

  “How’s your head?” Leah gently touched my forehead.

  “Fine.” The Tylenol had moved the arrow of pain from an eight down to a seven. Livable.

  “I guess I should figure out dinner. Are you hungry?”

  I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  “Leah.” I turned toward her on the couch. “I appreciate the hospitality, but you don’t have to take care of me. I got beat up on a case. I’ve been beaten up on a lot of cases. That’s part of the job. You don’t have to feel responsible for me. I’ll head back to the hotel tonight and contact Grimes in the morning. See if we can work together.”

  “Do what you want, Rick.” Cobalt blue eyes thrumming with intelligence and beauty. “Go ahead and make things hard on yourself. That seems to be what makes you happy. Misery is your joy. If you can’t let someone help you when you really need it, you’ll never allow someone to see who you really are. Your weaknesses. Your vulnerabilities.”

  “I …”

  “I want you to stay.” Leah’s eyes bore into me. Not angry. Adamant. “I want to ease some of that misery, but I’m not going to beg you to stay. I won’t be angry if you leave. I’ll understand. I’ll have my answer and life will go on.”

  Leah was on the other side of my shadow life, out of reach. I couldn’t get there until my mission was complete. I owed Colleen justice. I owed myself vengeance. But maybe I could allow myself a glimpse of what life could be.

  “What’s for dinner?”

  We settled back onto the couch after we’d consumed the last bit of sauce from Chinese takeout food containers. Moo shu pork, cashew chicken, and pot stickers. Leah gave me a second set of eyes on the last half of day four of the security tapes. Another blank.

  I leaned back and rested my eyes for a couple seconds. Two hours later, movement on the couch woke me. Leah set my new laptop onto the coffee table and stood up.

  “I made it through day five. I didn’t see anything around Krista’s house that seemed suspicious to me. I’m not as savvy as you, but I’m pretty sure no one broke into her house. No Dodge Challenger or Jeep Wrangler drove by. Black, white, or any other colors.”

  “Thanks.” I sat up. “I’ll get through the last two days tomorrow.”

  “You know, this house has three bedrooms. One is my office, but the other one has a bed. More comfortable than the couch and it has a lock on the door. First door down the hall on the right.”

  “The only doors I wanted locked are the ones to the outside. I wish I could explain about the other night …”

  “You don’t have to. Separate rooms make more sense.” Leah studied my face, looking for an answer I hoped to be able to give her someday. “For now.”

  She lowered a hand to me. I grasped it and stood up. Warm. Like the first time we touched. She led me down the hall and into the room. The suitcase I’d left in the trunk of the car was sitting on the bed. There was only one thing missing. The Smith & Wesson for the nightstand.

  “Thanks.” I let go of her hand. “I just have to get something out of the car.”

  “It’s in the drawer.” She nodded at the nightstand to the right of the bed. I opened the drawer and saw the Smith & Wesson in its holster. “My father always keeps a gun next to his bed. Even now when he’s retired. I’ve never known a cop who didn’t. The house alarm is set for the night, so make sure you disarm it if you go out for the shotgun.”

  She kissed me on the cheek and lingered. I turned my head to meet her lips but she’d turned away.

  “Thanks for taking care of me.”

  “Goodnight, Rick.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  MY CELL PHONE buzzed in my jeans pocket on the guest bathroom floor while I was in the shower. By the time I grabbed a towel and got out of the shower the call had gone to voicemail. I checked the screen. Grimes. Seven fifteen a.m. He started early. I listened to the message. Meet him for breakfast at Kimbo’s on Cabrillo Boulevard at 8:00 a.m. No explanation. No ask. Just be there. I guess he thought I was in my hotel room down the street. Or maybe he didn’t care where I was and just liked the food.

  Kimbo’s was an old-school diner that had been around for decades before Colleen and I used to eat early morning Sunday breakfasts there during the football season. She was a Raider fan and I rooted for the Chargers, back when it mattered. Made for some contentious Sunday afternoons, but breakfasts were always relaxed and easy and cozy. The world felt warm and inviting as I shared the LA Times with my partner for life. Even after things turned to shit before Colleen died, Sunday breakfasts were sacred to both of us.

  The line was already ten people deep outside Kimbo’s when I got there at eight ten a.m. Grimes had a booth by the window. I sat down opposite him. Neither of us said hello. He looked at my swollen face and took a sip of coffee.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me what happened to my face?” I smiled, which made the bridge of my nose ache. To add to the pain in my head. “That’s right. I’m sure your buddy Detective Mitchell already filled you in about our encounter yesterday at SBPD.”

  “Tell me about the break-in.” Flat eyes. Not the usual contempt. Something had changed. “Start from the beginning. Everything.”

  I told him everything. All the way back to drinking a six-pack of beer and falling asleep semi-drunk. Grimes listened quietly without interrupting. His expression stayed flat.

  The waitress came by when I was done, and I ordered some pancakes. Grimes finally spoke after the waitress left.

  “The 211 doesn’t make sense. No junkie breaks into a room on the second floor of the cheapest hotel on the block to steal a computer and then lays in wait to ambush his pursuer. He would just keep running. Did you check with the hotel to see if any other rooms were burglarized?”

  “No, but I think the detective who took my complaint did. I’m sure he would have told me about any other reported thefts at the hotel. That would easily disprove my theory.”

  The waitress brought my pancakes and the All-American breakfast Grimes ordered before I arrived.

  “Whoever broke in wanted your computer because they figured it contained information on our investigation.”

  “I screwed up his plan by being in my room.” I slathered the pancakes in too much butter and just enough syrup. “I had to park in the hotel parking lot behind the Beachside Inn. He probably didn’t see my car and assumed I wasn’t in the hotel.”

  “That makes sense, but it’s not a smoking gun against Tom Weaver and Jake Mitchell.”

  “It doesn’t help their case.” I took a bite of the pancakes. No, just the right amount of butter. “Plus, Kessler admitted that SBPD hasn’t been able to corroborate Mitchell’s drunk tank story about Weaver.”

  “I’ll never buy that Tom Weaver killed your wife as revenge for you sleeping with Krista. I can see him fighting you right there in the bedroom that night or even going out and getting
a snoot full and ending up in a drunk tank, but not killing your wife to get back at you.”

  “What if he didn’t intend to kill Colleen? What if he picked her up to tell her about what he’d seen at his home and things got out of hand? He makes a pass at her, she rebuffs him, and he gets physical. Colleen fights back. Now she’s going to file a sexual assault complaint and his cop career is over and he could do time, all because I slept with his wife. So, he kills her. No Colleen, no rape charge.”

  “And he calls straitlaced Jake Mitchell for help and he risks his career and doing time by aiding and abetting after the fact? No way.”

  “Mitchell’s already admitted to aiding and abetting Weaver that night. Just with the made-up drunk driving story. That shows he’s inclined to cover for Weaver.”

  “Two completely different things. And all he did was pick Tom up from jail and keep his mouth shut about it. Any cop would do the same for another cop.”

  “Say somehow I’m wrong about it being Weaver and Mitchell. You know it still has to be a cop or cops who killed Colleen and then Krista when they found out she’d reopened Colleen’s murder. Who else but a cop would know about our investigation? Only Krista’s family and SBPD know Leah hired us. Hell, I’m not even sure her family knows, but everyone at MIU does. Which brings us right back to Detective Mitchell, head of Krista’s death investigation and senior detective in MIU.”

  “Still not convinced, Cahill. Could have been a rent-a-cop and his buddy. Could have been UCSB Campus Police. Her last known whereabouts was in front of the UCSB library.” He took a bite of hash browns. “Word is that you had a closed-blinds sit-down with Captain Kessler in his office after you and Mitchell pissed on each other’s legs in the hall. What was that about?”

  I gave him the highlights and lowlights from my talk with Kessler.

  “Anything else?” he asked after I finished.

  “A couple things. The first pokes a small hole in my theory.” I’d finally gotten Grimes over to my side. At least one foot over. He’d been a homicide cop five times as long as I’d been a lowly patrolman. I couldn’t waste his knowledge and deductive reasoning just because I thought his conclusion about new information may differ from mine. “Kessler claims that Krista fell off the wagon before she died.”

  I told him about the phone call Kessler had with Krista a couple days before she died. That he was certain that Krista had been drunk.

  “I hadn’t seen any evidence of Krista drinking again, but I only talked to her on the phone a couple times about Colleen’s case. And she called me on those occasions. Doubtful that she’d be intoxicated while working a case.”

  “Krista could have just been closing down the bars that night and that’s why she was on State Street. Did you ever see a toxicology report on Krista’s body?” I played devil’s advocate against my own theory to keep Grimes from getting there first.

  “No.”

  “Kessler wouldn’t tell me what was on it.” I took another bite of heaven and good memories. “Any way you can find out what’s on the tox report?”

  “Doubt it. The scene at East Figueroa has changed since our chat with Mitchell in MIU. I’m sure your pissing contest with him didn’t help.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Even if Krista was drinking that night, it doesn’t mean she went down to State Street to bar hop.” Grimes had the bone now and he was gnawing on it like a good homicide cop would. “And there’s still the story from Mr. Peck about her coming from her car. Any change on that?”

  “No. Peck is more solid than ever. He was actually crossing State going east from Hotel Santa Barbara when he saw the van hit Krista. A much better vantage point.”

  “What was he doing at the hotel?”

  “I told him I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

  “Well, that answers that. Infidelity is rampant around this case.”

  I let it pass. A reminder that while Grimes now seemed to be all in on my team, he still didn’t like me and would remind me of my shortcomings whenever he got the chance.

  “The other thing I wanted to tell you is that Leah was able to get Krista’s cell phone records from AT&T.” I told him about the calls made to and from Krista that we were able to attach names to and the one phone that rang and rang and didn’t go to voicemail that we couldn’t identify. “SBPD must have them, too.”

  “Can I see the phone bill?”

  “I’ll email you a copy later today. It will have the notes we took next to the calls.” I took my last bite of pancakes and pushed the plate away. “One other thing. A neighbor across the street from Krista’s home has a security camera that picks up the front of her house. I got him to make me copies of the days between her death and the funeral. I’ve made it through five days looking to see if someone broke into her house and stole her cold case files. Nothing of interest so far. I’ll finish them by the end of tonight.”

  “We still don’t know for sure that she had a file on your wife’s murder at home.”

  “I do. You should, too,” I said.

  “I thought I explained to you that you should never jump to conclusions in homicide cases.” He took a gulp of coffee, set the cup down next to his empty breakfast plate, and leaned toward me. “The only time I ever did that in fifteen years as a homicide cop was with you. It was wrong then and it’s wrong now.”

  “Why me?”

  “The facts of the case at the time led me to you, to start. Not having an alibi, or, I should say, not giving me your real alibi, didn’t help. Still, there wasn’t quite enough evidence, but I convinced my lieutenant and he found a sympathetic judge to issue an arrest warrant even though the DA wasn’t fully onboard.”

  “Why?”

  “I felt I had to. I made the unprofessional mistake of convincing Colleen’s family that you did it.”

  Colleen’s father had delayed her memorial service for a month until after I was arrested. Probably to make sure that I wouldn’t be able to be there to say a last goodbye to Colleen. The Santa Barbara DA ruined his plans by releasing me the day before the service after a week in jail. I surprised and disappointed everyone at the church by flying to the Bay Area and showing up for the service.

  “Still, you must have known you didn’t have enough to make the charges stick.”

  “I should have, Cahill.” He shook his head and looked lost for the first time since I’d know him. “But I knew the story of your father being a bad cop, and I didn’t like you from the first day I met you playing softball when you were just a boot. A cocky, know-it-all boot. I let all of that cloud my judgment and started connecting dots that were too far apart. That’s what you’re doing now. You’re forcing every new piece of evidence to fit into the gaps of your theory. Confirmation bias. If the facts don’t fit perfectly, you keep hammering them into the gaps until they do.”

  I got up and tossed a twenty onto the table for breakfast. “You need to get up to date on the facts about my father. Sounds like you forgot to wedge out some of the old facts you hammered in a long time ago.”

  I went outside where the Santa Barbara gloom pressed down hard on the morning and washed everything in gray.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  LEAH WAS OFF to a new design job by the time I got back to her house. I was glad her life had gotten back to some normalcy. That she had something to do during the day that took her mind off the death of her sister. I’d kept busy for the last fourteen years. Unfortunately, that doesn’t always work.

  I went into Leah’s office and found the file folder we’d put Krista’s phone records in. I pulled them out and studied them, making sure the notes I’d written on them contained sufficient information to explain to Grimes what we’d learned. The notes next to the last call Krista received late that Sunday night on the last night of her life read, “Called. No answer, no answering machine. No name or address attached to a number found in search databases.” I grabbed a pen out of a mug on Leah’s desk and added, “Called numerous times night and day, s
ame results.”

  I pulled out my phone and called the number one more time for good luck and let it ring ten times. No answer. I scanned the records and then forwarded them to Grimes’ email. Maybe he’d have better results with the last number than I did. Maybe he could get someone at SBPD to run the number through their databases and come up with a name and address.

  The pounding in my head now only rated a six on the pain meter without Tylenol. Progress. Livable, but I took a couple tabs because the hours I had to put into watching grainy video on a computer screen would push the meter higher.

  I grabbed my computer and sat at the dinner table rather than the more comfortable couch. Viewing hours of the tapes made me drowsy and the couch was too willing to let me slump into slumber.

  One more day down. Nothing. One day left until Krista’s death and no one had breached her house. An itch in my gut began to grow into a sick feeling that maybe Grimes was right. Maybe no one broke into Krista’s house and stole her file on Colleen because she hadn’t gotten around to making one yet. Or, at least hadn’t brought it home yet.

  A dot missing that I’d leapt over to connect to my theory. Krista had found something incriminating on her ex-husband and Mitchell about Colleen’s murder and they killed her before she could bring charges or go any deeper. What if I was wrong? What if Krista had gone down to State Street to get drunk or meet a new boyfriend who was closing down a bar and she’d been run over by a drunk driver? It happened all the time.

  Maybe Krista hadn’t made any progress on Colleen’s murder. Maybe she saw something about Mike Richert that I’d ignored because I’d gotten a whiff of finding Collen’s killers and a last chance at redemption. That Richert was a lonely old man and would say anything to please a beautiful woman who was giving him attention. Maybe there wasn’t a file on Colleen at her house because she hadn’t found anything to put in it.

  I’d wanted some new information on Colleen’s murder that I could grab hold of and feel and touch and worry into some truth. Some purpose for my life.