Lost Tomorrows

by Coyle, Matt;

  I didn’t know Kessler’s game. Didn’t matter. Jim Grimes was dead. My duty now was to speak for him.

  “Sure.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  KESSLER WALKED ME through the police station, up the stairs to the MIU, and into his office. He pulled the blinds down again and sat behind his desk. I took the chair opposite him.

  “What happened to your car?” Kessler asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought you drove a Honda Accord.”

  “It’s in the shop.” How did he know what car I drove? Had he caught onto my original plan for driving the rental?

  “How well did you know Jim Grimes?”

  “Better than I used to. I don’t think he’d kill himself in the middle of working a case.”

  “People surprise you. You were a cop once, Rick, you should know that.”

  “Is that why you wanted me to come down to the station, Captain? To ask how well I knew Grimes?”

  “No.” Kessler leaned forward. Sculpted face intense. “I made you come down here so we could talk alone. Away from people who might want to hear our conversation.”

  “You mean Mitchell?”

  He nodded.

  “How’s your investigation into Detective Landingham’s death going?” Eyes keen and hard. “You still have questions about Detectives Mitchell and Weaver?”

  Now’s he’s interested. After their alibi for the night Colleen died had been confirmed.

  “No. They’ve been cleared.”

  “By whom?” He snapped his head back.

  “By me. Their alibi checks out for the night Colleen died. They weren’t involved so they wouldn’t have a reason to kill Krista.”

  “What alibi?”

  “The Santa Barbara jail drunk tank. Weaver was there when Colleen was murdered and Mitchell checked him out.”

  “Who told you this?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “What if I compelled you to say?” Kessler’s cop eyes boring into me.

  I didn’t owe Stephen Landingham anything. Except that he saved me from killing an innocent man.

  “Then we’d have a problem.”

  Kessler glowered a bit, then his face shapeshifted into a politician’s running for office. “You’re still convinced that your wife’s and Detective Landingham’s deaths are related?”

  “I’m not convinced of anything anymore.” Except that Colleen’s and Krista’s killers were still free and were probably cops. And that, if I could find the truth and get up my nerve again, I was going to kill them. “Except that Weaver and Mitchell are innocent.”

  “And that includes neither one of them assaulting you at the Beachside Inn?”

  “Yep.”

  “What are your plans now?” Kessler crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

  “I’m heading back to San Diego.” But I’d be back.

  “Today?”

  “That was my plan.”

  “I’d like you to stay here another day just in case we have some more questions about Jim Grimes’ death.”

  The office door flew open behind me, and I turned to see ex–police chief Siems rush in and fling the door shut behind him.

  “I just heard—” Siems saw me and his eyes went wide and he snapped his mouth shut.

  “Lou.” Kessler stood up. “Mr. Cahill discovered the body.”

  I stayed seated and watched the two of them. Tense. Guarded. Hiding a secret? Kessler held sway in the relationship. His steely eyes on Siems, who looked to the side.

  “Oh.” Siems’ eyes shot over to Kessler, then back to me. “Hello, Rick. Sorry to interrupt. We can talk later, Ted.”

  “I was just leaving.” I stood up. “If you need to reach me, Captain, I’ll be at the Beachside Inn. But I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Thank you, Rick.” Kessler smiled a lockjaw smile.

  I walked to the door and noticed Kessler’s glory wall of photos and commendations that chronicled his career. The back of my neck itched. I stopped at the end of the photo gallery. I could feel one of the pictures staring at me. I scanned the wall.

  “Something else, Rick?” Kessler over my shoulder.

  Then I spotted it. The picture I’d seen the other day that hadn’t meant anything to me then. It did now. It was around fifteen years old. Chief Siems, in civilian clothes, leaned against a Crown Victoria detective car with his arms folded and a smirk spread across his face. Lieutenant Ted Kessler stood near the hood of the car, ramrod straight in his SBPD uniform.

  Everything clicked into place like a racked cartridge in a shotgun.

  Kessler and Siems.

  My gut flipped inside out.

  Kessler was Chief Siems’ gofer and unofficial personal driver. Most police chiefs wore their uniforms to work, but Siems always wore civilian clothes. The press sometimes called him a man of the people and that morphed into Chief of the People. He never drove in a squad car, always a slick top. And Kessler often drove him. Especially around the time Colleen was murdered.

  In a uniform.

  Kessler, a perfect physical match for Mitchell, also for the man in black who broke into my hotel room and assaulted me with a police baton. Kessler drove a black Ford Fusion detective car like the one in the surveillance video driving past Krista Landingham’s house the night before she died. The captain of the unit investigating Krista’s death. With access to the police report and every facet of the investigation.

  Also, captain of the cold case unit when Krista started investigating Colleen’s death.

  Krista had reopened the case and found new evidence. As her captain, Kessler would have access to her file on the case. The phone call she made to Kessler three nights before she died that he claimed was a drunk dial. Was it something else?

  Lou Siems, owner of Paddy’s Pub. The bar just one hundred feet from the phone booth that made the last phone call Krista ever received on the night she died. Where Siems admitted Grimes had been the night he disappeared.

  Where were Kessler and Grimes when Krista was run down? Where were they the night Colleen was murdered?

  “Rick?” Kessler. I turned to look at him. A cheerless smile on his face. More like a predator showing his teeth. “Something interest you on my wall?”

  “Just looking at your past. You know where you can find me.” I left Kessler’s office.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  I CALLED MIKE Richert. He answered on the third ring.

  “Mr. Richert, Rick Cahill. Could the name of the cop you talked to about what you saw on East Beach have been Kessler?” I held my breath. Wasn’t easy when I was fighting not to hyperventilate.

  “That sounds familiar.” A burst of energy in his voice. “I think that might be it!”

  I hung up without explanation.

  Jim Grimes’ house was still sealed off by yellow police tape when I pulled up. I needed Grimes now more than ever but he couldn’t help me. My gut, my instincts, the acid taste in my mouth all told me that Kessler and Siems killed Colleen and Krista and Grimes. But I’d been wrong, almost tragically, before. I needed someone who could get inside SBPD. Or someone who was already there.

  Colleen and Krista deserved justice. Even if it wasn’t mine alone.

  I walked up to the yellow crime scene tape stretched across Grimes’ front yard. One of the patrolmen who’d been first on the scene stood sentry. He was young, buzz cut showing below his hat. Watchful, arms crossed behind his back in a military parade rest posture. His name tag read Ochoa.

  “I need to speak with Detective Mitchell,” I said.

  “Detective Mitchell is investigating a crime scene and can’t be disturbed right now.”

  “You know who I am. I discovered the body. Tell him it’s urgent.”

  “Detective Mitchell is not to be disturbed while he’s investigating a crime scene.”

  “Tell him I have information about the victim.” I did. Tangentially.

  The patrolman glared at me, the
n shook his head. “Wait here.”

  Officer Ochoa took a few steps away from me, turned his back, and spoke into his shoulder radio. I couldn’t hear what he said. He shook his head and walked back to me.

  “Detective Mitchell is busy right now, but he would like you to wait for him.”

  “How long?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “I’ll be in my car.” The one with the unregistered, filed-off serial number, handgun in the trunk.

  Ochoa nodded.

  I sat in my car and waited and let my mind run. For too long and too far. My stomach turned in on itself. Not from the certainty a half hour ago that I was standing in a room with Colleen’s killers. From uncertainty. What if I was wrong again? Could I ever trust my instincts again?

  Kessler and Siems. What possible reason could they have had to kill Colleen? They only met a couple times. My swearing-in ceremony and a big banquet dinner a couple months before she died. They’d probably said hello and shook hands twice.

  I don’t think she ever even met Kessler. I barely knew him when we were on the force together. I was working the streets while he was driving Chief Siems around on them.

  Ten minutes. No Mitchell.

  I Googled Santa Barbara Police Chief Lou Siems. Not surprisingly there was a Wikipedia page for him. He’d been police chief for twenty years. In today’s celebrity-starved world, that would get you a page. I searched for anything that could give hint to his capacity for murder. Nothing.

  All positive including the nickname Police Chief of the People.

  His daughter Megan was mentioned and had a link to her own page. She was an actress known for her roles on a couple soap operas and made-for-TV movies. She was also a graduate of UCSB. I remembered her being an undergraduate when Colleen was studying for her master’s in education. Chief Siems had put up flyers around the headquarters about her starring role in some play at UCSB around the time Colleen died. The joke by the rank and file was that Kessler was jealous because Siems never put up a flyer about him.

  A half hour later, Mitchell strode up to my car, glowering. I got out of the car to greet him. He didn’t smile.

  “What’s this about, Cahill?” He put his hands on his hips. “You know I’m busy with a crime scene.”

  “Right. Crime scene. You don’t think Grimes committed suicide?”

  “Officer Ochoa told me that you told him you have information about Grimes.” Mitchell punctuated each word with a finger jab at the air between us. “Is that a lie?”

  “No. The same people who killed Krista killed Grimes. And my wife.”

  “Get the fuck away from my crime scene or I’ll have you arrested for interfering with a police investigation.” More air stabbing.

  “Grimes called me the night before last and left a message that the last phone call Krista received was from a payphone just down the street from Paddy’s Pub.”

  “What? I don’t remember a call from a payphone on Detective Landingham’s phone records.”

  “It’s there. I have a copy of it.”

  “I don’t have time for this, Cahill.” Mitchell yelled over his shoulder. “Officer Ochoa, please escort Mr. Cahill from my crime scene. If he refuses to comply, arrest him.”

  Looky-loos milling behind the police tape looked over at me.

  If Mitchell was serious and Officer Ochoa arrested me, the booking sergeant would discover my fake ID, and I’d be looking at a fine and a max of a year in jail under a misdemeanor and up to three years in jail for a felony conviction, plus suspension of my driver’s license for up to three years. I don’t know what would constitute a felony use of a fake ID, but using one to rent a car might put me on the path there. If Mitchell wondered why I’d chosen to use a fake ID to rent a car and drive to Santa Barbara, he might start digging deeper. Get a search warrant for the rental car and find the unlicensed gun with altered serial numbers.

  Still, I had to get Mitchell to see what I saw. Or thought I saw. I’d already played the great avenger on my own and almost killed an innocent man because of it. I needed help now. From the police force least likely to give it to me. But if I didn’t risk jail now, how much longer would Colleen’s killers be allowed to walk free?

  “I know I’ve given you plenty of reasons to hate me.” I caught Ochoa out of the corner of my eye hustling toward us across the street. “But I also know you care about the truth. Did you see Grimes Friday night?”

  “Sir, please exit this area.” Officer Ochoa’s expression, not as polite as his words.

  “Two more minutes of your time, Detective,” I said.

  “Give us a minute, Officer,” Mitchell said to Ochoa.

  Ochoa walked back across the street.

  “I did.”

  “Did he look like a man who was about to kill himself?”

  “People kill themselves all the time for all sorts of reasons and ninety-nine percent of the time, their loved ones are surprised.”

  “Did you talk to him?” I asked.

  “No. Is that all you have, Cahill?”

  “Did he talk to Chief Siems?”

  “Time to go.”

  “Did he? Was Captain Kessler there?”

  “What are you getting at, Cahill?”

  “Grimes said he had to check something after he discovered Krista’s last call came from the payphone on State Street. He probably asked Siems if he saw someone leave the bar around ten forty-five p.m. the night Krista died and return a few minutes later.”

  “Why?” Mitchell looked skeptical but at least he was asking questions. “What’s the significance of that?”

  “The call to Krista from the pay phone was at 10:49 p.m. The last call she ever made or received. Three hours later she’s run over on State Street a couple blocks from Paddy’s and three blocks from the pay phone.”

  “So, you think whoever ran her over called from the pay phone and lured her down to State Street to do the deed?” Mitchell sniffed and shook his head. “On this flimsy evidence?”

  “Yep. A cell call would be traced to the nearest tower in the area. Unfortunately, Grimes asked exactly the wrong person about the phone.”

  “Wait a second.” Mitchell waved his hands in front of himself. “You think the chief killed Grimes? You are out of your fucking mind!”

  “Chief Siems or Captain Kessler or both.”

  “Officer Ochoa!” He nodded at me. Ochoa jogged back across the street.

  “Find out if Kessler drove Siems to UCSB to watch his daughter in a play the night Colleen Cahill was murdered.” I opened my car door. “The Chief of Police is on call 24/7. The department has to know where he is at all times. There must be a log from that night. Find out where Siems and Kessler were that night. And check the last phone call Krista received on the Sunday night before she died. If I’m right, you’ll close three murder cases.”

  I got into my car, rented with a fake ID, with the gun I’d committed armed robbery to obtain in the trunk, and drove away.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  I GOT ONTO 101 and drove north nine or ten miles to the Santa Barbara airport. The airport is miniature and looks like an early California mission. A wealthy mission, with high arches and vaulted wood ceilings. I pulled into the Hertz car drop-off and grabbed my duffle bag from the trunk.

  The attendant, a kid in his early twenties, looked at my paperwork and explained that dropping the car there instead of San Clemente was going to cost me a lot more. I told him I’d handle it at the counter inside. I needed a new car that Kessler hadn’t seen and didn’t want Hertz to charge the credit card that I’d opened a couple years ago under my fake identity name. That would open up a line of bread crumbs I didn’t want anyone to find.

  The girl behind the counter inside was also in her early twenties. Perky and pretty and eager to help me save money by explaining to me that it would cost much less if I just kept the Corolla I’d already rented in San Clemente and returned it there. I paid her the $323.17 in cash and didn’t bother wi
th an explanation and rented a white Mazda 3 on a day-to-day basis.

  I picked up a Subway sandwich and got back to police headquarters on Figueroa by three fifteen p.m. The station’s personnel parking lot entrance was on East Anapamu Street behind the station. There weren’t any parking spaces on the street so I took wide circles around the block until one opened up in front of a house a half a block east of the station fifteen minutes later. The spot gave me some cover and I still had a decent view of the parking lot’s gated entrance.

  A handful of black and white patrol cars came and went from the parking lot over the next hour and a half. No black Ford Fusions. Captain Kessler may not drive the car home each night as Detective Weaver sometimes did. I walked by the parking lot and saw a few civilian cars behind the electric gate. One of them could have been Kessler’s. Or, he might use the Black Fusion that was also in the parking lot.

  I went back to my car and waited. I tried to find Kessler’s home address from a paid people finder website, but nothing came up. He may have had it blocked from databases. A captain in a police department could hold that kind of sway.

  A couple civilian cars, a Ford SUV, and a Chevy Malibu exited the parking lot around five thirty headed west on Anapamu. I was too far away to tell if either was Kessler. Even with my binoculars, all I caught was the back of their heads blocked by headrests.

  Finally, at six forty-five, the Black Fusion exited the parking lot and turned left on Anapamu and headed toward the middle of town. Dusk had pulled down the first layer of night, and I couldn’t even make out if the driver was male or female. Didn’t matter. I had to jump now and hope.

  I followed the Fusion from a block behind through town and onto 101 North for seven or eight miles into Goleta. It exited on Calle Real heading north. I hung back to blend in with the headlights and followed the Fusion onto Bradford Drive, a residential street of mid-century modern homes.

  The Fusion pulled into a driveway of a home with drought-resistant plants instead of a front lawn like most of his neighbors. I drove past and turned my head to the left to avoid Kessler spotting me as he got out of his car. I drove a couple blocks then did a three-point turn into a driveway and doubled back toward Kessler’s house. I parked three houses down and on the opposite side of the street.