Lost Tomorrows

by Coyle, Matt;

  I knew all about the pressure from the media and the city government. If I hadn’t known the truth, I would have thought I was guilty, too, after watching 48 Hours. But I’d always suspected there was another entity vying against me behind the scenes as well as in front of the TV cameras.

  “Was that other force John Kerrigan?” Colleen’s father. No one in my life had ever disliked me more. And that was before he thought I murdered his daughter.

  “Yep.” Siems solemnly nodded. “A man with that kind of wealth can do a lot of damage.”

  “Yeah, but I understand his point of view.” I drained my glass. Siems filled it up again.

  “Still, just some bad luck for you, son. Bad luck for your wife, too. I’m really sorry about what happened.”

  “Me, too.” I didn’t know about luck, bad or good. Maybe there had been some luck the night Colleen was murdered, but it had all been on the side of evil.

  “I saw you talking to Weaver and Mitchell over in the corner. Detective Weaver didn’t look too happy.”

  “He has his reasons not to like me, too.” I didn’t know how much ex–police chief Siems knew and I didn’t feel like bringing him up to date.

  “And you have yours for not liking him? I always thought he was a hothead.”

  An opening I hadn’t expected. A chance to further sow the seeds of my newfound doubts about Weaver’s guilt in my wife’s and Krista’s murders.

  “I thought I did, but I was wrong.” Turned out it was time to get Siems up to date. “I don’t know how much you know about the investigation into Krista Landingham’s death.”

  “Well, I was once the chief of police. That allows me certain access that other civilians never get.” Siems took a sip of his whiskey. “I know that Leah Landingham hired you to investigate along with Jim Grimes. And I know that you think your wife’s murder and Krista’s were done by the same person.”

  “I used to think that. Grimes helped me to see the light. That’s why I came in here tonight. I wanted to apologize to Weaver.” I glanced over at Weaver’s table. He continued to mean-mug me. “That didn’t go over too well, but he must be happy to know that I’m heading back to San Diego tomorrow. Grimes convinced me that the forensics from the vehicle paint chips found on Krista’s clothes has MIU narrowing down suspects and that an arrest will come from it.”

  “I think you’re right about that.” Siems leaned over the bar and turned his voice down low. “You find anything out that would make me doubt that outcome? I know you and Weaver got into an altercation the other day. Something about someone sleeping with Krista the night of your wife’s murder.”

  Siems was definitely dialed in. Probably by his former driver and gofer, Captain Kessler. If that was the case, he might know about my two-cop theory on Colleen’s murder. I didn’t know Siems’ angle. Maybe he did think I got a raw deal from SBPD. Or maybe he was just bored and missed the action of running a police force.

  “A misunderstanding.” I pulled back from the bar. “Thanks for the talk and the free drinks, Chief. It’s nice to know someone was in my corner a while back when it seemed I was all alone.”

  I just wish he’d fought harder in that corner, but I’d put myself in it and had no one else to blame.

  “Safe travels, young man.” Siems gave me a smile and wiped down the bar. “We’ll take care of things up here.”

  Grimes and the hundred feet from the payphone to the bar popped into my head.

  “Was Jim Grimes in here tonight?”

  “Briefly.” Siems stopped wiping. “Why?”

  “He left me a message, and I haven’t been able to track him down.” I glanced over at Weaver and Mitchell. “Did he talk to anyone?”

  “No. Just had a drink at the bar and left.”

  I’d already convinced myself that I was one hundred percent on Weaver killing Colleen, with help from Mitchell after the fact, and that the two of them killed Krista. When it came to a man’s life, there was no reason not to get to one hundred and ten percent.

  “One last thing. I’ve been thinking about the night Krista died and how the crime scene was protected and how everything went down. I know Detective Mitchell got to the scene well after everyone else. That surprised me. He’s a pretty by-the-book cop. I’m wondering why he was late. Were he and Weaver here drinking that night? Maybe he had to wait a while to sober up before he went to the scene. I’m sure he had a good reason, but that’s always bothered me about this case. Maybe I’m thinking too much.”

  “No. As a matter of fact, they were here that night. They are most nights.”

  “What time did they leave?”

  “Around midnight. That’s when we close on Sundays. Why?”

  “Just curious whether Mitchell had to sober up before he went to the crime scene.” I flinched my shoulders like it wasn’t that important. The next question was. “Did either of them leave earlier? Maybe just for a little while a bit before eleven?”

  The call to Krista from the pay phone.

  “I don’t think so.” Siems squinted at me. “Why?”

  I’d pushed too hard. I didn’t have a good answer to why. The question itself would point a finger at me when Weaver ended up dead tomorrow night.

  “Someone thought they saw Mitchell outside the bar around that time.” I smiled. “Just doing my due diligence for Leah Landingham. She’s very thorough. That wraps it up for me. Back to San Diego tomorrow.”

  “Safe travels then, young man.” He gave me a flat-eyed smile. “We’ll hold down the fort up here.”

  I left the bar praying that Siems didn’t tell Weaver and Mitchell about my interest in when they’d left the bar the night Krista died.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  THE TRAFFIC WASN’T bad the next morning when I left Santa Barbara at six. Saturday, no rush hour. I hit Los Angles about seven thirty and stopped for gas at a Shell station just off the freeway in Culver City. Normally, I’ll fill my tank with gas before I begin a trip of over two hundred miles. I could have probably even made it home with the gas I had in the tank, but I wanted to document my location. A couple security cameras hung from the corner eaves of the mini convenience store. Bingo. One facing the pumps above the door.

  Just what I needed. I took off the Padre ball cap I wore on long drives because I wanted the camera to get a good shot of my face. Even if the camera’s footage was in black and white, my black eyes would show up on the video.

  I got out of my car, used a credit card on the gas pump, put the nozzle into my tank, and went inside the store to buy a bottle of water. There was another security camera above the cashier. I put the water bottle on the counter and grabbed a Hershey’s Almond Bar from the candy display and paid for it and the water with the same credit card I’d used for gas.

  Location established.

  I only drove about fifteen miles before I made another stop. This one in Inglewood, and I did my best to avoid any security cameras. I got off the 405 on Manchester and parked on Isis Avenue, a few hundred feet north and across from a mini mall with a 7-Eleven convenience store. There was an industrial park on the other side of the street. Probably security cameras over there, but I was mostly blocked by a couple of trees. I got out of my car, opened the trunk, and pulled out the duffle bag wedged in the spare tire well.

  My black bag. It held the tools I used when I worked on the wrong side of the law like last night. I pulled out a black t-shirt and a Los Angeles Rams cap, plus five twenty-dollar bills from a wad of cash I kept in the duffle.

  I changed into the black tee, pulled the bill of the Rams cap low, and walked over to the 7-Eleven. I kept my head down for the exact opposite reason I took my hat off at the gas station. I didn’t want to be seen or noticed and a man with two black eyes would be remembered. The store kept its prepaid cell phones behind the counter. The phone might be an unnecessary risk, but one I felt I had to take. I bought one and went back to my car. When I was sure no one was looking, I changed back into the shirt I’d worn earlier and
stashed the black t-shirt and Rams cap back in the hidden duffle bag. Back to my real identity. I wanted to be seen as much as possible for the next few hours.

  I didn’t stop again until I hit a Walmart a couple miles from my house. No ball cap on when I went inside and was caught on more security cameras than I could count. Me being me, restocking groceries after being away from home for a week. Fire away cameras. Cheese. I made one purchase that I hadn’t in probably fifteen years. Coke. Coca-Cola. Three twenty-ounce bottles that I would use for something other than consumption. I used the same credit card I’d used to buy gas in LA.

  I parked in my driveway and unloaded the groceries then went next door to retrieve Midnight. He vibrated with excitement when he saw me, leaping up and bouncing off me and yelping. We’d never spent that much time apart before. Unfortunately, our reunion would be short-lived. I hoped I’d be able to make it back for another one.

  We went home and I was reminded again about how badly I’d let my life roll away from me. My house, still a mess. An outward reflection of internal turmoil. But the turmoil had eased. I had a new mission now. A last mission.

  I grabbed a trash bag from my pantry and shoved it full of pizza boxes and to-go containers. Another trash bag for the empty beer bottles and weeks of newspapers. Order. Control. I had some of both back. I went to the sink and scrubbed out pots and pans and rinsed off dishes and glasses and silverware and loaded my dishwasher to the limit.

  The clock was ticking down on my mission, but I did have time for the one constant in my life. The one being who loved me unconditionally. I led Midnight into the backyard and we played ball. He tore across the lawn after the tennis ball. Wild, determined, free. We played for a solid half hour until his tongue was dragging just above the top of the grass. I couldn’t remember enjoying the game more. I couldn’t remember a better half hour I’d spent in years.

  Fourteen years.

  I checked the time on my phone. Twelve thirty-five. Time to get things rolling. I took Midnight inside and went up to my bedroom. The only valuables I had in my house, aside from mementos of Colleen’s life, were in the closet. In the gun safe. I punched in the code that opened the four and a half feet high, two feet wide safe. A derringer was the only gun left inside.

  I grabbed two envelopes from the top shelf of the safe. One a letter envelope bulging with its contents, the other a six-by-nine-inch manila envelope. I tossed the letter envelope onto the bed and opened the manila one. Its contents hadn’t changed since I first put the fake driver’s license, fake passport, unused credit card in the new name, and spare wallet inside it almost two years ago. They’d cost me a lot. Cash. In a Vegas hotel room well off the strip. The untraceable gun I bought from the same man on the same day had already been put to its intended use last year. And been broken into separate pieces and scattered in trash bins across San Diego.

  Today I’d use the fake ID toward the same result.

  I slipped the new ID into the wallet and shoved it into the back pocket of my jeans. I emptied my old wallet of all its cash and tossed it, along with my real ID, into the safe. The traceable gun would remain in the safe. I had an untraceable one waiting for me.

  Midnight sat upright just outside the closet and watched me. Ears at full alert. Nose sniffing the air. He sensed danger or something wrong. My actions were calm. My heartbeat steady. No perspiration. But Midnight could sense a change in me. A tell I didn’t even know I was giving off.

  I told him to stay and hustled downstairs to my car and opened the trunk. I pulled the duffle bag from its hiding place and grabbed the Mossberg, Smith & Wesson, and the Glock. I went back up to my room. Midnight backed up on all fours turning his body to his side like a horse shying. He didn’t like guns. I quickly stashed the guns in the safe and locked the door. He stood in the corner, his tail close to his body.

  “Come here, buddy.” I kneeled down and he slowly walked over to me. I stroked him from his shoulder to his tail with my hand like his mother would have done with her tongue when he was a pup. “Everything’s okay. I’ll be back tomorrow, and we’ll get back to a normal life.”

  A new normal.

  I put an extra day’s worth of clothes in the duffle bag, then loaded in a pair of cotton navy-blue sweats. Dark. Disposable. Twins to clothes I’d worn last year for a similar purpose.

  I took a quick shower, got into a clean pair of jeans, a white t-shirt, and grabbed my bomber jacket. I opened the envelope from the gun safe for the first time and counted its contents. Five thousand dollars, in twenties, fifties, and a few hundreds. If I was successful in my mission, I wouldn’t need any of it. If not, I’d spend the rest of my life on the run. Five grand would be enough to start.

  I stuffed the envelope into the inside pocket of my coat, grabbed the duffle bag, and headed downstairs with Midnight on my heels. I made a ham and cheese sandwich on sourdough from the groceries I’d bought at Walmart while posing for my close-up. I tried not to wolf the sandwich down, but my stomach was already on the clock. The last train going north out of the Old Town Depot wasn’t for another two and a half hours, but my body was already in mission mode.

  After I finished the sandwich, I grabbed the three twenty-ounce Cokes I’d bought at Walmart and emptied their amber fizz down the sink, then rinsed them with water. I shook the excess water out as best I could, then found some duct tape in my kitchen junk drawer and took it along with the bottles to the butcher-block island. I grabbed a bread knife with a serrated edge from the knife block and cut three inches off the bottoms of two of the plastic Coke bottles.

  Next, I placed one of the bottles inside the other, being careful to align the mouth openings perfectly. The bottles snugged together about an inch and a half from where the top of the bottle tapered. I wrapped a piece of duct tape where the edge of the first bottle touched the outside of the inserted bottle. I checked the hole alignments with the knife block’s sharpening steel. Still aligned. I wrapped another piece to completely secure the bottles, then inserted the last bottle, still intact, into the opening of the second bottle. Aligned, then secured with tape. After triple-checking the alignment of the holes, I sealed the entire construction with layers and layers of duct tape, then put it and the duct tape in the duffle bag.

  I walked Midnight over to the sliding glass door to the backyard, pulled back the curtains with my hand, and opened the door. We both went outside and I left the door open. A light breeze pushed the curtains deeper inside the house. I made a brief sweep of the backyard, making sure the padlock on the gate was locked. Midnight stayed pinned to my side during the entire circumnavigation.

  He followed me into the house. I pushed the curtains aside and let them fall back into place. The breeze through the open door billowed them inside. I wished I’d put in a doggie door, but Midnight had been an inside dog ever since a murderer nearly killed him by throwing poisoned meat over the fence six years ago and broke into my old house. The only killers I had to worry about now were in Santa Barbara.

  And they should be worried about me.

  I went over to the kitchen counter and set my iPhone down on it. I wouldn’t use that phone again until I got home tomorrow. If I got home.

  I filled Midnight’s water bowl to the brim and set it down on the kitchen floor. Next, I filled his dinner bowl with two meals’ worth of dog food. Per schedule, my neighbor had already fed him his breakfast. Dinner didn’t usually come until five thirty p.m. I’d trained Midnight well and trusted him with my life in dangerous situations. In fact, he’d already saved me from death once. But he was a Lab and, thus, a chowhound. He’d eat anything you put in front of him and some things you didn’t. Setting the bowl down and commanding him to watch the clock before he ate half of the food was well beyond my capabilities as a dog trainer.

  Nonetheless, I set the bowl down on the kitchen floor.

  “No.” I pointed at the bowl and walked out of the kitchen. He followed me. He’d probably retreat into the kitchen and eat the entire bowl after I l
eft, but I’d take that over him missing a meal and going hungry. I grabbed the duffle bag and walked to the front door, Midnight my shadow.

  “You be a good boy.” I looked down at him at the door. “I’ll be back.”

  He looked up at me with sad eyes that knew too much for a dog. Too much for a human. He had the faith in me I’d lost in myself. If things went wrong tonight and I managed to stay alive and not get arrested right away, I wondered if I’d have enough time to get back home and grab the most important being in my life before I started my life on the run. If I didn’t or if I died, I knew my neighbor would take good care of Midnight. He’d have a good life. But what would mine be like without him when I needed him most? A risk, selfishly, I couldn’t take.

  I went over to the kitchen counter, picked up my iPhone, and tapped Moira’s number.

  “Have you come back to your senses?” The machine-gun voice.

  “I know you don’t owe me anything. I owe you plenty that I’ll probably never be able to repay you.” I looked into Midnight’s sad eyes. Into his pure soul. “If I call you late tonight or early tomorrow morning, can you go over to my house and pick up Midnight and meet me with him somewhere? Maybe Needles or Barstow?”

  “Jesus Christ, Rick. What have you gotten yourself into?” More quaver than machine gun.

  “Nothing yet. Better for you not to know anything. This is the last favor I’ll ever ask. Hopefully I won’t even have to ask it, but will you do it if I call?”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m safe and haven’t done anything wrong.” Yet.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What I have to. Will you do it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks. You’ll have to go right away.”

  “I get it. Now tell me what you’re mixed up in?”

  “If I call, it will be from a number you don’t recognize. I won’t be answering any calls or texts on this phone after I hang up.”