Or, as Mira was so busy trying to convince me, picked, carried back to my apartment, scrubbed, cooked, and canned as jam for later.
Needless to say, I remained dubious.
Standing with the early evening sunshine on my face, I plucked three fat berries from the closest bush. Ignoring the sting of the vines as they scratched my hands, I popped the fruit into my mouth, the exterior so soft juice practically seeped out, staining my fingertips.
The moment they hit my mouth, the flavor exploded across my tongue, my eyes closing as I lifted my face toward the waning sun, savoring one of the last warm fall days of the year.
It was a perfect moment. One that was interrupted far too soon by the feel of a hand slamming into my chest. Open-palmed, it thumped against my skin, my eyes popping open, a bit of saliva and berry juice crossing my lips.
“Stop that! Those are for the jam,” Mira scolded.
Sucking the liquid back in, I swallowed, my eyes bulging slightly. “Hey, I’m eating here.”
“I know, and that’s the problem,” Mira shot back, moving past me to the next clump of vines. “You keep going at this pace, and we’ll never have enough.”
“Never have en-“ I began, letting her hear the exasperation as my voice fell away. Extending my right hand to the side, I motioned to the walkway we were on, the smooth pavement stretched out for more than a hundred yards before wrapping around to the right, disappearing as it headed for Bald Hill. On either side were enough bushes to feed an army for a month. “There are enough berries out here-“
“Not if you keep eating,” she answered.
Lowering my right hand to my side, I lifted my left, the plastic sack in it already almost to capacity. Weighing more than five pounds, it was a haul that would cost a fortune at the supermarket.
“Three,” I said. “I had three.”
Flicking a hand dismissively over her shoulder, Mira replied, “Less talking, more picking.”
A dozen more retorts were lined up in order, ready to be lobbed her way, but I let them go. Instead, I allowed the smile I was feeling to bubble to the surface, lowering my face toward the ground.
Sunday night at Bald Hill was our thing. Whenever we were both in town, it didn’t matter how cold it got, we came to the nature preserve and spent some time. Some weeks, we would go up to the old barn and I would try to impress her by doing pull-ups on the exposed beams. Others, we would just shuffle along, watching the golden sunset over the fields.
Every once in a great while, if we were feeling especially ambitious, we would climb to the top of Bald Hill, just to gauge how far we could see.
Best we’d ever gotten was Eugene, but that didn’t mean further wasn’t possible.
“You realize my mama doesn’t even talk to me like that,” I said.
“She would if she heard about you out here eating all our ingredients,” Mira replied. Dressed in one of my old sweatshirts and stretch pants, she found a spot teeming with fruit and waded in, impervious to the stickers clawing at the fabric.
For the last two days, I’d been looking for an opening, some way to tell her what I was about to. Seeing this as the best shot I might get, I remained in the middle of the trail, watching her pick.
“Well, actually, I was thinking maybe you’d want to tell her.”
A few feet away, Mira kept going. Her fingers stained even darker than mine, she moved deftly between the twisted vines, nabbing berries and depositing them in her sack.
“I’d love to,” she replied. “Just tell me when and where.”
“How about here? For Thanksgiving?”
It took a moment for the words to sink in, for Mira to grasp what I was saying and slow down her assault on the bushes. Pulling back, she turned and looked my way, a quizzical look on her face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. She called a couple days ago and asked what we thought.”
For an instant, there was no response. Nothing at all save Mira torturing me, pretending to be mulling it over, before her face creased into a smile. “I think if we’re hosting Thanksgiving, we’re going to need more berries.”
Chapter Eight
It is the second shithole Elsa Teller has found herself sitting in front of on the afternoon. The third if she wants to count the office of Myles Morgan, which isn’t so much a shithole as a snake pit.
Parked out in front of a low-rent dive bar known as The Wolf Den, her Audi is every bit as out of place as it was sitting outside of Mike Lincoln’s home. The sole vehicle that isn’t a motorcycle or a pickup truck, it has the double honor of being the only one without an inch-thick coating of dust. Gleaming bright in the parking lot, it is practically a beacon, once again drawing attention to herself.
Not that she gives a shit. It is far from the first such establishment she’s ever been in front of, the Wolves themselves a far cry from some of the men she’s crossed paths with. Despite working just miles from the border, they are a distant second to those running the cartels not far from where they sit, those being the only people that ever truly put fear into her.
Not minor concern for her safety. Not even the need to keep a handle on her gun just in case.
Real, unadulterated fear.
Sitting behind the steering wheel, Teller watches the front for just a moment. Never before has she been to The Wolf Den, though just the smallest bit of surveillance tells her everything she needs to know about the place. From the row of bikes that are parked at two in the afternoon on a Monday to the trio of pot-bellied bikers in jeans and leather vests standing out front.
A smile crosses her face as she pulls her purse over onto her lap and steps out, heat radiating up from the pavement as she heads towards the front door. Sliding her hand inside the purse, feeling the textured grip of the Smith & Wesson, she makes it no more than a few feet before she is spotted.
The men on the front porch stop their conversation and turn her direction. Apparently, they manage to ring some silent alarm as well, three more spilling out as she gets closer. A close copy of the original trio, all six openly gawk, their thoughts and what they plan to do with them as soon as they are alone long enough to have the chance splayed across their faces.
The heels of Teller’s pumps click against the pair of stairs leading up to the front as she ascends onto the porch. Taller than all but two of the men, she makes a quick pass over them, her eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses. In quick order, she inventories and dismisses each of them before saying, “I need to speak to whoever’s in charge here.”
It is clear not one of them has ever been in the presence of someone that looks like her. Three jaws drop at the sound of her voice. Two others cast a furtive glance about.
Already her decision to have gone with Lincoln is looking like a poor one. He had been recommended by a trusted source and had checked out fine, his background and skills certainly capable of what was needed.
If the men standing before her are any indicator though, it isn’t surprising that he has suddenly disappeared.
“What makes you think you’re not already talking to him?” the sixth man says. A cocksure grin comes to his face as he asks the question, a gold tooth glinting out beneath cracked lips.
A dozen sharp remarks come to mind, though Teller opts against voicing any of them. While she doesn’t actually feel like she’s in anything approaching real danger, she knows better than to smart off. Not while heavily outnumbered and standing on the front steps of their bar.
“Am I?” she asks, feigning sincerity.
For the second time in as many minutes, it appears a response was not expected. More glances are cast before the group parts through the middle, men stepping off to either side. All previous bravado melts away, indicating exactly what Teller figured upon arrival.
These men are just foot soldiers. It is okay for them to have fun, to press on the lone female that is clearly out of her element a little bit, but lying as to the identity of the leader is a step too far.
The only thing men like
this feared more than a straight job or a bar of soap is being accused of disrespect.
The same man makes a show of looking her up and down. Once his gaze gets back to eye level, the smile is gone, his face serious. Extending a finger out to the left, he points through the open doorway and says, “Ringer is in the corner. Can’t miss him.”
“Thank you,” Teller says. Careful to keep her hand on the gun and her pace even, she passes through the door, feeling the combined weight of the men’s stares on her back as she goes. Something she has been dealing with since the age of fifteen, she moves straight through, the same uneven boards of the front porch comprising the floor of the room.
One large space, a bar extends the length of the wall beside her. Behind it stands a grizzled man in a stained tank top and suspenders, both palms pressed into it as he leers at her. In front of it are a half-dozen tables, a handful of men dressed just like the ones outside all clustered around them. A few are playing cards, another sits and stares at her, the screen of his phone only inches from his face.
Pausing just inside the door, she surveys the place quickly before settling her gaze in the corner, on the lone table sitting far off from the rest. Behind it is a single person, his back to the wall, his face hidden behind a newspaper.
The sound of Teller’s heels echoes through the bar as she walks straight for it, pulling up just short, continuing to ignore the gawking going on behind her.
“Ringer, I presume?”
For a moment, there is no response. Not until the man finishes whatever he is reading does the top corner of the paper turn down, revealing a man with shoulder length hair just starting to grey at the temples and skin so tanned it is almost leather. Tattoos run up his forearms, disappearing beneath a black thermal pushed up at the sleeves.
A leather vest bears the insignia of the Wolves on one breastplate, a patch with his name on the other.
“Who the hell are you?” he asks.
Reaching up, Teller slides the sunglasses down off her nose, looking the man straight in the eye. “We need to talk.”
Chapter Nine
The smell of La Fachada fills the interior of the small office. A tiny taqueria just a block and a half from the Central District precinct, it is a favorite among staff, a walk-up joint with open-air seating and a grill outside that is perpetually loaded with onions, jalapenos, and beans for anybody that happens to stop by.
All in all, it is a set up designed to get people to sit and stay a while. If folks can’t enjoy an actual siesta, then at least they should be able to sit in the southern California sun and enjoy their food.
A maxim Detective Malcolm Marsh wishes with all his heart that his partner would pick up on.
The smell of onions and jalapenos fills the interior of the office, strong enough that it practically makes his nose run and his eyes water. Punctuating the intrusion is the sound of a corn tostada crunching, Mark Tinley attacking his meal with aplomb.
“Man, this is good,” he says between oversized bites, barely able to keep his mouth closed as he chews. “I mean, the food in Costa Rica was alright, but this...this is the real deal.”
Marsh doesn’t bother pointing out that it is real deal because the owners are from directly across the border or that they have their ingredients shipped over daily. Doesn’t even feel the need to point out that the reason his partner didn’t find authentic Mexican food in Costa Rica is that he was in Costa Rica.
Instead, he merely levels a stare on his young liege, hoping that is enough to make his point. Whatever grace period the man might have earned by virtue of just returning from vacation is fast dwindling, a rate enhanced exponentially by the smell he is currently embedding in their office.
“And you didn’t want to sit over there for a while?” Marsh asks. “Get some extra beans or peppers or something?”
Twisting back to his desk, Tinley tears into another tostada. The crack of the corn shell is loud, causing Marsh to wince, as crumbles rain down on the plastic wrapper spread across the desk.
“Naw,” he says, oblivious to anything Marsh was trying to impart, “wanted to get back and keep getting caught up.”
Feeling his eyebrows rise slightly, Marsh opts with merely a small shake of the head, lowering his gaze back to the file before him.
Eighteen months prior he had moved into the detective division with the sole focus of the acclaim it could bring his way. Already with his law degree under his belt, he had no interest in being a beat cop for life. Originally from just up the I-5 in Los Angeles, he knew better than most how that path ended, especially for a black man.
Either enduring the unending taunts and scorn of citizens or on the wrong end of a breaking news bulletin.
The moment the opportunity to ascend had presented itself, he had not hesitated to call in some favors to make the move. A law school professor had written a letter on his behalf. A state senator he had interned with did the same. A phone call from a retired judge he had spent his first summer clerking for had finally been the nudge he needed, pushing him past a field that many considered to be better qualified for the post.
Not that he gave a damn about any of that or any of them. With any luck, in another year or less he would be on his way again, moving into the administrative wing. Whether it was in San Diego or elsewhere didn’t matter, all roads eventually climbing toward the federal government and one of the alphabet agencies.
“So tell me more about this shooting,” Tinley says, pulling Marsh from his thoughts, his gaze rising from the file he was only barely skimming before him.
“Hmm?”
“The one in Balboa Park,” Tinley adds, holding the final bite before him. “We get all kinds of this shit in National City or Chula Vista, but the park?”
Stopping there, he shoves in the last of his meal, the muscles in his face clenching and unclenching as he chews.
Slowly, Marsh leans back in his chair. He places his elbows on the arms of it and taps the pads of his fingers together, considering the question.
His partner isn’t wrong. Serving as a centerpiece for San Diego, the park draws more than six million people annually. It houses nearly all of the museums in the area, as well as the zoo. The safety and viability of it are as necessary to the city as anything, pulling in gobs of tourists and their money each day.
As a result, the place receives no small amount of attention from SDPD. And the military. And their own private security. With the recent spike in homelessness, the park has seen a few small incidents, but nothing like what happened with the Clady’s a few nights before.
“It was crazy,” Marsh says, fixing his gaze on the opposite wall as he thinks back.
“Was it legit?” Tinley asks. “Was there really a masked gunman that just arrived or was the whole thing an elaborate ploy by the husband?”
It was the first thought Marsh had upon arrival as well. A scenario he personally hadn’t encountered yet, it was one he’d heard plenty about during his time as a detective. Especially originating with the naval crowd.
“I don’t think so,” Marsh replies. “I mean, the guy is a damn SEAL. If he wanted something to happen to his wife, he would have done it, and we would never have found out.”
In his periphery, he can see Tinley turn and extend his feet before him, crossing them at the ankle. “So he checks out?”
Pursing his lips, Marsh shakes his head slightly. “I didn’t say that. The guy is a first-class asshole, beat the hell out of one of the medics that arrived to help.”
“Jesus,” Tinley says, his eyes tightening slightly, “and we didn’t throw his ass in lockup?”
Flicking his gaze to his partner, Marsh can feel annoyance spike. They didn’t throw anybody in jail because they were a thousand miles away on a beach somewhere.
“Guy didn’t press charges. It was a pretty grisly scene, everybody was worked up.”
“Still...”
“And Clady paid for all medical expenses, no questions asked.”
&nb
sp; As if waiting for more, Tinley remains motionless, watching Marsh, before grunting softly and nodding his head.
Falling silent, Marsh again allows the events of the night to play through his head. He thinks of arriving to find Clady already loaded into the back of a cruiser, the conversation they’d had through the screen and rearview mirror. He considers their meeting the next morning.
“The shooter left a blanket behind,” Marsh says, his voice detached, his thoughts far away.
“A blanket?”
“Yeah,” Marsh replies. He raises his hands, motioning around his head. “The guy was wearing it like a cloak or a hood. When he raised the gun, it fell off and he left it there. The lab is running it for DNA now.”
“Any word on it yet?” Tinley asks.
“Not yet,” Marsh replies. “I asked for a rush job, but you know how that goes. Generally means one week instead of four.”
A smirk rocks Tinley’s head back slightly. “Right.”
For a moment, nothing more is said. Both men retreat to their thoughts, considering the shared information, each processing it in their own way.
Tinley is the first to break it.
“Something’s still not adding up here.”
Chapter Ten
The first time I walked into my house to find it had been tossed, I walked straight back out and called Jeff Swinger. Twenty minutes later he had arrived with Emily Stapleton and the three of us had stepped back inside to assess the damage.
At that moment, I was a mess. I was still just hours from the death of my wife, still had some of her blood rimming my fingernails and spotting the front of the jeans I wore. I was a millisecond away from a complete breakdown.
Thankfully, my friends had been a bit more put together. Grieving as they were, they had been able to look at the place for what it was and see what I couldn’t. That the place had been tossed so thoroughly that the lack of a pattern was the pattern.
Clearly, whoever did it had been there looking for something, but in the wake of their initial search, they had proceeded to wreck everything in sight. They had created a garden of chaos, a mass of disorganization, that made finding any common thread virtually impossible.
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