There is no way in hell I’m adding to that number over the phone.
“Mallory? Are you there?” I say, acting as if I am calling from somewhere deep underground.
“Yes!” she calls out, the sound so loud and sudden I have to jerk the phone back from my ear. “I’m here. Kyle, I’m here!”
I don’t like lying to the woman. I’ve met her on several occasions, and she is quite nice. Likable, in an overly-caffeinated sort of way, she and Mira had made the rare transition past being colleagues into an actual friendship.
Even less do I like the idea that I am about to turn this woman’s world upside down.
“Hey, I’m driving right now,” I say, doing my best to make my voice sound far away. “Are you going to be home later? Do you mind if I stop by?”
“I...are...is...” she sputters, starting and stopping a trio of times, seemingly grasping for the right response. “Yeah, yeah, of course. I’ll be there. I get off at five.”
“Five it is,” I say, glancing at the digital clock by the bed, already wondering how I’m going to contain my nerves for eight hours until then.
“You know where I’m at?” she asks. “Out in Miramar?”
I don’t, but finding it won’t be difficult. “Yeah, I remember. I’ll see you soon.”
I can hear her still breathing heavily, as if trying to calm herself, getting her nerves under control. It is a sound I’ve heard many times over the weekend, often noises I’ve made myself. I know what is coming next, and I don’t have the nerve to face it.
I hang up without another word.
Chapter Fifteen
Working the shift that Detective Malcolm Marsh does tends to distort things a bit. Instead of coming in with the usual working stiffs, sitting in the interminable San Diego traffic, having to endure an hour of bleary-eyes and coffee guzzling going on around him, he gets to bypass all that. Walking in mid-afternoon, he can slide by without so much as a glance. Most people that even bother looking up from their tedium assume he’s just another regular day guy, coming back from a late lunch or an afternoon errand.
No benign small talk. No having to wave and say hello with people he couldn’t really care less to speak to.
Slipping past the front desk with little more than a nod, he works his way around to his office, surprised to see the light already on as he crosses the floor. Feeling his brows come together, he remembers locking the door before he left that morning. He also knows that there are only two other people that have keys, one being the janitor.
The other is his partner, Mark Tinley, the younger man balanced on the front edge of his chair as Marsh enters. On the floor around him are a host of printouts, each looking to be schematics of some form, hard lines and angles strewn across the carpet.
What was just a moment before annoyance shifts to bemusement as Marsh walks around the spread, shrugging his jacket down off his shoulders and tossing it on the rack in the corner.
“Good afternoon, partner.”
Twisting his neck to the side, Tinley manages only a quick, “Hey,” before turning his focus back to the spread before him. Clamped between his teeth is a pencil, the first actual wood implement Marsh can remember seeing in years.
“Look at you in here pounding away. That time down in Costa Rica must have been just what you needed.”
For a moment, there is no response, Tinley keeping his focus aimed downward. Poised on the front edge of his seat, he eventually blinks, breaking whatever trance he was under. Grabbing the pencil from his lips, he slides it behind his ear, shifting back into his seat.
“Sorry,” he offers, a weak smile coming with it, “was trying to walk myself through something.”
“Yeah?” Marsh asks, his brows rising slightly. “You planning on building a housing complex or something?”
The smile grows a bit larger on Tinley’s face. “No, Balboa Park, actually.”
Any levity that may have existed a moment before fades, Marsh feeling it dissipate bit by bit from his core. The smile he is wearing falters as well, a sense of dread settling into his stomach.
“Balboa Park?”
“Yeah,” Tinley says. “Last night, I couldn’t shake that Clady case for some reason, so I took a look at the file. Pretty thin.”
It was the definition of thin, that being the reason Marsh was taking such efforts to avoid it. There was an old, tired cliché about how in most instances of a spouse being assaulted or worse, their partner was often the perpetrator. His time on the desk had proven that wasn’t quite true. The rules of chaos and randomness applied to everybody, whether they were married or not.
What had proven true, though, was that cases with as little to go on as this one very rarely got solved.
“Very thin,” Marsh agrees. “Only one witness, who himself was wounded, and gave the weakest suspect description on the planet.”
The smile returns, no more than a thin slash on Tinley’s face. “Yeah. Thirty-something white guy. Sounds familiar. Good thing I was out of the country.”
“Yeah, you and about a million other people in this damn city,” Marsh adds.
The comments were meant as jokes, though both knew there was more to it than that. Tinley did fit the description, as did a handful of others in the bullpen, and untold more walking the streets right outside their door. Trying to find someone based on that wasn’t just difficult, it was a waste of time.
“Which is why I printed all these out,” Tinley says, gesturing to the cluster before him.
Opting against standing, not needing to see the mess of paper cluttering the floor again, Marsh pretends to look down before flicking his gaze back up to his partner. “Balboa Park.”
“Yeah,” Tinley says. “There aren’t many cameras, but there are a few.” Snatching the pencil from behind his ear, he extends the eraser toward the ground. “The zoo entrance and parking lot. The Museum of Art. The Museum of Man. And the Air and Space Museum.”
All of this, Marsh already knew. He had checked a couple of days before. The park was so vast, there was no way to watch over all of it. Instead, what little budget there was had been spent on the big-ticket items, the places with rare or valuable assets that might be appealing to someone.
“None of those are really close to where Mira Clady was shot,” he says.
“No,” Tinley agrees, a small sigh escaping with the word, “but we have a pretty clear time frame. We know when the shooting took place based on the 911 call.”
Going over those tapes would be a waste of time. The old Naval Hospital where the shooting took place was on the opposite side of the street from each of the spots Tinley had just rattled off. Odds were, the shooter had come up from the backside, slipping in and out through the canyon, never to be seen.
A quick glance at the file tray on the corner of his desk shows how many other things need attending to at the moment. There was an attempted robbery in the Gaslamp District the night before and a stabbing over the weekend that he still needs to speak with some people about.
To say nothing about the bottomless well of paperwork that demands his attention.
Still, he can’t just dismiss it out of hand. Not just yet, anyway. Cold or not, the upside it represents is more than he can pass up.
“Where do the feeds on those cameras go?”
Chapter Sixteen
No matter how tired I feel, how much I need to sleep, there is no resting for me. The moment my eyes close, my subconscious takes over, putting into action every thought I spend my waking hours trying to repress.
Memories of Mira. Moments I haven’t thought about in ages. Replaying our final night together. Seeing that damn gun flash twice, those two shots resonating in a way the thousands I’ve witnessed over the course of my SEAL career never have.
With the exception of passing out on Angelique’s living room floor in the hours after it happened, I haven’t gotten more than ninety minutes of uninterrupted sleep in days. Each time, it is more a sideways slide into a semi-
state, that halfway place where it almost impossible to tell if I’m awake or dreaming.
Right up to the moment where I snap awake, the sheets twisted around me, soaked through and sticking to my skin.
Knowing better than to even try to rest longer, I don’t have many other options. I can’t stand the thought of being any further burden to my friends, dragging them any deeper into what’s going on. Same with Angelique and Hiram. I know they are both fighting through their own personal hell at the moment, no need for my presence to make it worse.
There’s no way I can go back to the house. Our search the day before took most of my resolve, yielding exactly zero results.
Definitely no chance I can take another hour of loitering around the Valley View.
I make it as far as three in the afternoon before a thought occurs to me. Standing from the metal chair alongside the empty concrete pool, I can feel the back of my shorts are damp with sweat, my shirt stuck to my skin. Walking across the dusty expanse to my room, I pass through the open door and take up my cell phone from the nightstand, thumbing it to the most recent number in the call log.
Pressing it to my face, I wait through three rings before it is answered, the voice on the other end just as quiet and furtive as the last time we spoke.
“Kyle?” Mallory asks.
“Hey, Mallory,” I say, trying my best to make my voice sound light. “I’m so sorry to call like this-“
“Did something else happen? Is everything okay?”
Under normal circumstances, both would be reasonable questions. She doesn’t yet know what has happened to Mira, and besides some office gossip, has no reason to believe the worst.
Part of me feels sick for pulling a ruse on this poor girl, not just coming clean and confessing to what has happened. The rest knows it will only shatter her, just as it has the rest of us, justifying my actions under the vague guise of protecting her. Or helping to find out who wanted Mira murdered.
Or some other combination of things I can only guess on at the moment.
“No, no, nothing like that,” I say. “I was just...I’m actually coming in from the east, so I thought maybe I could meet you near the office?”
The first response is a stammer. It is clearly not what she expected, a hard shift from our previous conversation.
“Say, maybe, that little coffee shop right across the street? The one you guys always used to go to?”
“Um, yeah,” Mallory manages, confusion, uncertainty in her tone. “I guess that will work.”
“Great, see you at five.”
Chapter Seventeen
The combination of San Diego afternoon traffic patterns and a complete inability to remain in my motel room another moment mean I am sitting inside the front window of Cup o’ Joe fifteen minutes before five. Opting against the open-air tables with the late day sun beating directly down on them, I have chosen a spot just inches away, the single pane of glass separating the indoor from out providing the sweet relief of air conditioning. Before me sits a large glass of iced tea, nearly a dozen packets of sugar on the table beside it, their tops torn, with random crystals strewn across the wood surface.
Around me, the crowd is thin. With the workday just minutes from ending, the need for concentrated caffeine jolts has passed. Having receded from an active business into a communal workspace, the place has a vibe that is almost homey, albeit with the heavy scent of coffee hanging over everything.
Sitting square to the window, my back is to the room, my right leg bobbing up and down like the needle on a sewing machine. Nervous energy permeates my body, my heart rate jumping as at three minutes before the hour I see Mallory appear on the opposite corner. Waiting for the walk signal, she looks concerned, her mouth drawn into a tight line. Repeatedly, she brushes her curly hair back away from her face, head constantly twitching from side to side, watching the traffic patterns, waiting for her opening.
A slight hint of nausea passes through my stomach at the sight of her. Not because I have any problem with her – quite the opposite, in fact – but for what is about to transpire.
It takes every bit of my energy not to jump up the moment I see her. I have to force myself to remain in position, to not draw any attention my way. Counting seconds in my head, I wait as the light finally changes and she heads across, moving slowly in a pair of heeled boots. Not until she is almost across the street do I rise, snatching up the tea and collecting the sugar packets with a swipe of my hand. Depositing it all in the trash, I push outside, warm air hitting me as my eyes pinch shut, blocking out some of the harsh glare.
“Hey there,” I say, the words sounding happier than I feel, than the look on my face relays.
Saying nothing for a moment, Mallory steps up onto the curb and comes my way, pulling up just short. Dressed in black stretch pants, a gray t-shirt, and a long burgundy sweater hanging open, she grabs either side of it and wraps it across herself, standing with her arms folded.
As clear a defensive posture as exists, for sure.
“Hey,” she replies. Even in the boots, she is a good half-foot shorter than me, staring up my way. Carrying a bit of extra baby fat, her cheeks are full and round, accentuated with a heavy amount of makeup.
“Would you like anything?” I ask, hooking a thumb behind me and pointing to the front door.
Glancing toward it for just an instant, she returns her gaze to my face, shaking her head. “No, I’m okay.”
The tone and the tenor are clear. She has no idea why I’ve asked to meet and seems to be growing increasingly uncertain by the moment.
Knowing what this must look like to anybody passing by, or sitting inside and watching, I turn toward the parking lot. I make no gesture, I don’t move an inch closer, I simply turn and walk.
“Please,” is all I say, flicking a glance her way before aiming my focus toward the ground and moving on.
It takes a moment, but eventually, I do hear the sound of her boot heels hitting concrete, her steps slow as she follows me.
Ideally, I would be able to ask her inside my car. There, in the quiet and relative privacy of the front seat, I could tell her what happened. I could wait out her inevitable reaction, doing my best not to break down as well. Once it had passed – no matter how long it took – I could tell her why I had asked to meet, letting her in on my line of thinking.
Right now, I can’t do any of those things. Already the interaction looks and feels far more suspicious than I ever would have intended. I can see from her face and body language that she is hesitant. If I can tell all that, onlookers must be thinking the same thing.
Moving across the asphalt, I draw in a deep breath. This is for Mira. This is another step in finding out what was going on, why it all happened.
Or if what the man in the cabin four nights ago said was just bullshit, the final gasps of a dying man willing to try anything to save his own life.
Making it as far as the trunk of the car, I stop and turn. I rest my backside against it, feeling the warm metal through my shirt, as Mallory comes to a stop a few feet away, her arms still folded across her.
This time, the look on her face is more cross than concern, lines striped across her forehead.
“Kyle, what the hell is going on here? Nobody’s heard from Mira, and then you call and ask to stop by, and then you call back-“
It is the first time anybody has actually said her name to me. Her family, my friends, even the old guard at the coroner’s office, they’ve all had the social grace not to refer to her directly. They’ve known what happened, what hearing it would do to me.
Mallory has no such knowledge. She doesn’t understand what she’s done, just like I didn’t realize what hearing it would do to me. Without even realizing it, my bottom lip begins to quiver. My eyes fold down tight, hot tears coming to the surface, blurring my vision. Once, twice, I draw in deep pulls through my nose, trying in vain to keep my features clear.
In an instant, Mallory sees it all. Her right hand snaps up, c
overing her mouth, her eyes going wide. Just as fast as it hit me, it smacks into her as well, red lines spiderwebbing the whites of her eyes, moisture glazing the surface.
“Ohmigod,” she whispers, pulling her hand back just a fraction of an inch. “Ohmigod.”
She gets nothing more out, but she doesn’t need to.
Just like I can offer nothing more than a nod, though I don’t need to.
Chapter Eighteen
“Jesus, how the hell do people drive these things?”
The question is specific enough to be amusing, but open-ended enough to require a follow-up question that Byrdie has no interest in asking. Whether Gamer is referring to the sedan they are now squeezed into the front seat of or anything that isn’t a motorcycle, he can’t be certain.
What he does know is the behemoth beside him has made his point. It’s time to stop belaboring the obvious.
Saying nothing, Byrdie lifts the clear plastic bottle he is holding to his lips. He unleashes a long torrent of viscous brown liquid into it, a few drops lingering on his lips as he lowers the bottle back into position, the smell of wintergreen tobacco strong in the front of the car. Sweat burns his eyes as he sits and stares, his focus on the rearview mirror mounted to the side of the car.
The task isn’t a pleasant one. It’s actually pretty damn shitty, the sort of thing that is well below the station of two deputies in the Wolves. When first assigned it, Byrdie had felt indignation swell within him, his immediate response to lash out.
There were more than a few on the roster that would argue he should be the man calling the shots. Four years older than Ringer, he’d been riding with the outfit since he was eighteen. At the time, he was the youngest one in, having earned his invite after coming out of a bar one night to find a trio of men clustered around a single Wolf. Abandoning all reason, he’d charged straight into the group, landing a few good licks before eventually getting his ass kicked too.
Office Visit Page 7
