by Matt Coyle
“The police said a neighbor could hear you arguing, Turk.” My frustration bubbled out. “That means one or both of you were shouting. How loud did it get?”
“I got upset. I raised my voice. I asked her if she was cheating on me, but she denied it.” His voice picked up speed and volume with each new word. “The only woman I’d ever wanted to marry. I felt like such an idiot. I’d been paying her rent, for Christ sakes.”
“How did the argument end?” Why the hell did I have to put us in the situation where Moira was forced to tell Turk what she’d seen last night while tailing Shay? He never would have gone over to Shay’s apartment if I hadn’t gone to Muldoon’s looking for Moira. Why didn’t I just stay in the damn car?
“I … I …” Tears choked his voice. “I … I did something awful.”
Oh, God. Lord have mercy on his soul.
And on mine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
NAUSEA WASHED OVER me. Clammy sweat beaded my forehead. My quest for the truth had brought me to this point. I’d gotten the confession I didn’t want to hear from a man who’d once been like a brother to me. The only person from San Diego who drove up to Santa Barbara to visit me in jail when I was arrested for my wife’s murder. The only friend who still believed I was innocent after the police and press declared me guilty.
But the confession wasn’t enough.
My quest for the truth was empty if it wasn’t anchored to justice. If Turk was a murderer, he had to pay. Even if I had to betray our friendship to make that happen. The murder of an innocent could never be justified. I had to go to the police. I needed to know the details. I needed to hear the words.
“What did you do?” My own words came out strangled.
“I grabbed her and shook her. I’d never even yelled at her before.” Resignation. Ready for his justice. “I kept asking her why she was lying to me.”
“Then what happened?” I wiped sweat off my forehead and took a deep breath.
“I let go of her and apologized. She was crying and screamed at me to leave.”
“What did you do?” Was he going to lie to me now after everything he’d already told me so far?
“I left.”
“Was she alive when you left?” Even if he lied now, I knew the truth.
“What?” The walls shook and Turk’s shadow shot up from his chair and loomed above me. “Is that what you think? That I killed Shay?”
I stood up and met Turk’s presence.
“You said you grabbed her, Turk.” The lid came off. “Where did you grab her? Around the neck? Did your anger take over like it did the day we were on the roof of Muldoon’s? Did you kill her before you realized what you’d done?”
“No!” A howl. “I could never do that. How could you even think I’d do that? I thought you knew me.”
“I thought I did, too. You just told me you did something awful.” I thumped my index finger off his chest. “What the hell did you mean?”
“I told you. I grabbed her and shook her and screamed at her to stop lying to me.” His voice now hoarse with guilt. “The police told me she had bruises on her arms. I hurt her. I physically hurt the only woman I’ve ever loved. The woman I was going to marry. The woman … I don’t care what she did. She didn’t deserve to be treated that way. I’ve never done anything like that in my whole life. What kind of a man am I?”
I took a step back, caught the edge of the sofa, and sat down hard. Turk was telling the truth. He’d put his hands on a woman. Something antithetical to who he was, how he was raised. That’s the guilt I saw. He’d done something awful and his guilt was mixed with his grief. But he didn’t kill Shay Sommers.
Which meant someone else did. Keenan Powell? The Invisible Man? No. He had to be from Moira’s past, not Shay’s. But it didn’t matter. Neither were even on LJPD’s radar. Turk was their only target.
“Did you tell the police everything you just told me?” They’d twist Turk’s grabbing Shay by the arms into him grabbing her around the neck and strangling her to death. The truth could get you indicted, even when you were innocent.
“No, but I’m going to tomorrow.” Turk’s mass descended back down into the chair.
“What?”
“Detective Sheets called me before you came over and asked if I’d come down to the station tomorrow morning for a few more questions.”
It was never just a few more questions and nothing ever good came from answering them. The police had their gunsights targeted on Turk. Anything he told them would be more bullets in the gun.
“You can’t do that. Let them get a warrant the next time they want to talk to you.”
“I have to go. If I don’t, they’ll think I’m guilty.”
“They already think you’re guilty.” My voice rose on its own. “If you tell them what you just told me, they’ll be convinced.”
Movement by Turk, like he’d put his head in his hands. His words came out muffled.
“If I would have just kept calm and not pressed her, I would have stayed the night with her and she’d still be alive. Whoever killed her would have had to go through me. My anger cost Shay her life.”
I knew the burden of losing your soul mate to murder when you could have, should have, been with her when she was attacked. And I knew what it was like to have the last words you had with her be in anger. I’d carried both burdens for fifteen years. They could grind your life down to dust. I finally let them go and started to live again in Santa Barbara. In the hospital. Blind. A bullet hole in my face.
“You don’t know that.” But he’d always believe it.
“Shay died thinking I wasn’t the man she thought she knew before last night.” His head rose. “I have to do the stand-up thing. I have to be the person Shay thought I was. I’m going down to the police station tomorrow and tell them everything. Maybe they’ll believe me and start looking for the real killer.”
“That’s a bad idea.”
“I’m going.” Resolute. I’d heard that tone before. Continuing to argue was pointless.
“If you’re going to go, at least take a lawyer with you.”
He went quiet again, then let out a loud breath.
“Okay. But where am I going to find a criminal defense lawyer on such short notice at night?”
“I know where to find one. A good one.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
WE ARRIVED AT Ellis “Elk” Fenton’s townhome around 7:30 p.m. Fenton lived in La Jolla Alta, one of the town’s early planned communities up the hill from Kate Sessions Park and the dividing line between La Jolla and Pacific Beach.
“Gentlemen, welcome!” Elk’s voice still had a tinge of the goofy adolescent I met in middle school. Slightly over the top, hanging onto the outer edges of the jock clique. We let him hang around when we were young, arrogant, and stupid because he’d do anything for a laugh. That was his in. He didn’t need one now but still seemed to be looking for it.
“Turk Muldoon,” Turk said by way of greeting. The usual twinkle in his voice at meeting someone new replaced with emptiness. “Thanks for meeting us at your home, Mr. Fenton.”
A pause like they shook hands, then Turk’s mass moved inside the house and I followed.
“No trouble at all. And please, call me Ellis.” Fenton sounded like a too-happy-to-please dinner party host instead of the cutthroat attorney I knew him to be inside a courtroom. But even his courtroom persona had velvet gloves. Wrapped around razor-sharp talons.
When I first bumped into Fenton as an adult, I was working at Muldoon’s, having not seen him for sixteen or seventeen years; he was practicing estate planning law after getting out of the criminal side. He gave me some inside information that kept me from going to jail. He went back to the dark side shortly thereafter and hired me a few times to investigate for the defense on court trials. The cases I investigated for Elk ranged from misdemeanors to violent felonies. Our agreement was that I could walk if I thought his client was guilty of a felony. I quit two of t
he eleven cases I worked for him. The two walk-aways were a burglary defendant and the instigator of a brawl in the parking lot of a Charger game back when San Diegans still cared about the NFL.
“Rick, great to see you out and about.” A hand patted my shoulder.
“Hello, Elk, I mean Ellis.” I made the same mistake of calling him his childhood nickname every time I met with Fenton when he hired me to investigate a case. To me, he’d always be the goofy kid trying to fit in. I didn’t know what I’d always be to him. Arrogant jock with a decent heart, relentless investigator, or, now, the man with sunglasses and a white cane?
“As always, Rick, Elk is fine if you’re more comfortable with it. Gentlemen, let’s sit down and talk.” Fenton led us into the well-lit living room where he and I had discussed cases after hours a few times. Now just a gray mass to me, cut up by fuzzy-edged geometric forms. He used more care than was necessary to steer me over to the sofa where Turk and I sat down. Fenton’s less substantial outline sat down across from us.
I’d given Elk a broad overview of Turk’s situation on the phone. Now we had to fill in the ugly details. Elk, like anyone in San Diego who paid even the lightest attention to the news, had already heard about Shay Sommers’ murder. Turk told him everything the news didn’t know. Everything he’d told me in the last thirty minutes.
I kept my mouth shut for a change, waiting to jump in if Turk left something out or shaded the truth as I knew it. I didn’t have to say a word. Turk held nothing back. The raw, ugly truth. I only spoke after he was done, to tell Fenton what I’d learned about Keenan Powell online and over the phone.
“First of all, Turk, you have my heartfelt condolences for your terrible loss.” Sincerity replaced the goofiness in Elk’s voice. “Having to deal with the police badgering you during this time of grief is more than anyone should have to bear.”
“Thanks.”
“I think you should continue to work through your grief without further interruption by the police. I’ll handle any more dealings with them going forward.” Elk’s voice calm. Parental. “Therefore, I’ll contact Detective Sheets and inform him that you are in a state of shock and you’re still grieving and won’t be coming in tomorrow.”
“I’m talking to the police tomorrow and telling them the truth.” Turk stood up. “Thanks for your time.”
“Okay. Okay. If you’re set on that, then I’ll be there to advise you.” Elk’s voice a placating soothe. “Please sit back down and let’s talk about how to get the media on our side.”
“What?” Turk and I chimed in unison as the couch groaned under Turk’s weight. The media, enemy of the guilty and the innocent, alike. Although they do like a good redemption story. After they tear you down in the first place, setting the scene for your Phoenix rise, which they’ll report on and enable.
Turk had already torn himself down low enough. I didn’t want the media to act as the wrecking ball. Even if they planned to rebuild later.
“That’s a bad idea. The media won’t let Turk grieve in peace as it is. Why do you want to involve them?”
“Because reporters will be in front of police headquarters tomorrow reporting on who comes and goes. Just like they did today.” Professorial. “This is a high-profile case and it’s not going to fade quietly into the background. The press is already forming a narrative. We need to get out in front and help them shape it. If they report that Turk was questioned by the police two days in a row, they’re going to start calling him a suspect or a person of interest if the police don’t beat them to it. We have to present our version of the story.”
“Don’t you mean the truth.” Turk, irritated. He wasn’t used to lawyer speak.
“Precisely.” Elk, nonplussed by Turk’s irritation. “We have to remind La Jolla and the city of San Diego what an asset you are to the community. How long has Muldoon’s Steak House been a La Jolla landmark?”
“Forty-six years. I’ve been running it since my father died twenty years ago.”
“A great family-owned restaurant for half a century, shepherded by the son of the founder. A man who is beloved by the community.”
“You’re spreading it on a little thick, Counselor.” Turk, not amused. It would be a long time until he ever was again.
“Look, hopefully the detectives down at the Brick House will follow all the clues and find the real killer of poor Ms. Sommers, but we have to be prepared to go to battle.”
Elk, in his exaggerated way, was right about two things. Turk was beloved by his employees and customers, and LJPD was locked onto him and, until someone found a key to open that lock, nothing would change their theory of the case.
“He’s also the man who saved my life, in case the press has already forgotten.” I believed Turk was innocent. And Elk Fenton knew how to navigate the legal/media minefield better than I did. I had to trust him and go all in. “And the community does love you, Turk. You’re just too humble to realize it.”
A grunt from Turk’s direction.
“And that cane you have to use is a reminder of the damage that your heroic actions to save Rick caused.” Fenton was rolling now and I’d piggybacked for the ride. “And let’s not forget your heroism, Rick. Your own cane and those sunglasses are a constant reminder of the sacrifice you made to solve the cold case murder of your beloved wife.”
Shit. The ride just came off the rails.
Fenton continued, “When I address the press after we talk to the police tomorrow morning, I want each of you on either side of me as a reminder of the kind of person Turk is and the kind of people who support him.”
“I don’t think you want me next to either of you,” I jumped in. “I have a mixed relationship, at best, with the press and a horrible one with LJPD.”
“After what happened up in Santa Barbara, you’re a full-fledged hero, Rick. And you have the scars to prove it. You’re now a sympathetic character. That’s what we need.”
A character. Playing a part in someone else’s movie.
“This is ridiculous!” Turk’s voice caromed around the living room. “Did you listen to what I just told you I did to Shay last night? I’m not a fucking hero. I assaulted the woman I love. I hurt her. I bruised her. I’m not going to stand up there while you lie to the press and tell them what a great man I am. I’m going down to police headquarters tomorrow morning to tell them the whole story. You can come along if you want, but I’m not going stand around and listen to you make me out to be an angel to the press. Or anyone else.”
The sofa moaned a release as Turk got up and moved quickly into the gray background. The sound of a door opened and slammed hard enough to send vibrations along the wood floor under my feet.
“His car is still in police custody,” I said. “We had to Uber over here. He’s either contacting them or walking five miles home.”
“I’ll be right back.” Elk’s shadow shot up and hurried out of the house.
I understood why Turk didn’t want Fenton to make him out to be a hero. He had to deal with the worst day of his life battling the feeling that the last thought Shay had about him was that he was a monster.
Fenton came back inside a few minutes later. “I convinced Turk I’d handle everything with class tomorrow. He’s onboard, but he’d like you to be by his side when I talk to the media.”
“The police aren’t going to let me be in the interview room with you and Turk.”
“No, but it would be nice if you were by his side when and if I talk to the press.”
“Okay, but how am I going to know when you’re done with the police? I’m not going to hang around the Brick House for three or four hours while the police interrogate Turk.” Every time I set foot in that building, I had flop sweat fear that I’d never leave.
“I’m not going to give the police three or four hours to question Turk. They’ll be working off my timeline.” The outline of talons started to show inside his velvet gloves. “I’ll give them an hour. They’ll have to charge him to have him stay longer
.”
“That’s always a possibility. Detective Sheets may be the lead on this case, but Denton is the senior detective and she has a short attention span.” I told him about her threat to me over the phone. “She’s liable to slip the bracelets on Turk and charge him with illegal trespass into Shay’s house just to hold him while they wait for the DNA tests to come back.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when, and if, we have to.”
I hoped that bridge wasn’t over a moat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
AN UBER DRIVER dropped me in the parking lot behind the Brick House at 12:10 p. m. the next day. Elk texted twenty minutes earlier to tell me they were done and to come down to the station, almost two hours later than I expected him to. That told me things didn’t go according to plan. Which meant things didn’t go well.
We agreed to meet behind the Brick House and sneak up on the press who, he informed me, were camped outside the front entrance. I tapped my way up the middle of the parking lot toward the back entrance. It was really only an exit unless you were a cop and had a name tag key card to enter. I avoided the parked black-and-white squad cars, which hovered like blurry baby killer whales through my sunglasses.
My chest filled up and the back of my neck tingled. Usually, this meant I sensed danger. Today it meant something else. Excitement. Not because I was at the Brick House. Because I could differentiate the light and the dark of the cop cars. My natural skepticism tempered my excitement with caution, but the proof was right in front of me.
My vision was improving.
Door hinges squeaked above me. A dark hole opened in the gray background of the Brick House and a blurry form emerged, followed by a larger one.
“Rick.” Elk Fenton. “We’ll come down to you.”
The forms descended from what I remembered was a platform off the back door of the police station.
“How did it go?” I asked.
“Challenging, but nothing we couldn’t handle.” Elk.
