I was willing to give my mother as much time as she needed, but after a few short minutes, she gestured for me to come over.
I went to the headstone and got down on my knees. I was what would be considered a lapsed Catholic, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t pray when it felt appropriate. I said a prayer for my father and thought about how much I loved him and how thankful I was that I’d had so many great memories with him. Part of me would always regret how he died, but I tried to focus on the positive. I remembered some very personal moments we’d had over the years, knowing if he somehow heard my thoughts, he’d be smiling at them as well.
Finally, I said aloud, “I love you very much, Dad.”
My mother hugged me and we shared a few more tears. We remained in front of his gravestone several minutes longer, neither one saying a word, but both deep in thought.
I stood up. “Take all the time you want, Mom.”
“Just a little longer,” she said.
More great memories from my childhood: the time I was given a golden retriever puppy for Christmas. A huge bow over a hand-me-down car on my sixteenth birthday. But more than the gifts, just the time we had together. Watching sports. Talking about life. Discussing politics.
My mother struggled to stand up and I extended my hand to help her get to her feet. She was getting older every time I saw her.
“Did you have a nice visit?” I asked, immediately regretting my choice of words.
“I just thanked him for all he did for our family.”
“I did the same,” I said.
We hugged one more time and then headed to my car, sad and uplifted at once.
As I drove my mother home, we exchanged stories about my father. We agreed to grab lunch in the next week or so. She still had a few tears in her eyes as I readied to go.
“It’s going to be okay, Mom. You’ve still got me.”
“I know, Quint. And I love you dearly. But I still miss your father very much.”
“So do I, Mom. So do I.”
At home, I decided to try and focus on the case.
I spent an hour on Facebook, finding the accounts of Aubrey Durban and James Neil, then reading the posts dedicated to their deaths. They seemed to be pretty straight arrows from what I could gather. When you hear about a gruesome murder of two people in their twenties, you wonder if it might be drug related. None of the posts or comments hinted that they were involved in drugs. This wasn’t conclusive, but it did give me pause in assuming they were wrapped up in something sinister.
After reading about Dennis McCarthy earlier that day, I looked for gambling as well. But I couldn’t find a post by either James or Aubrey that mentioned gambling or even anything about sports.
From all I could gather, these were two all-American kids who happened to be in love with each other. Aubrey worked in tech and James was a sous-chef at a local Oakland restaurant. They lived together, but were not married. They’d both posted pictures of them moving into the house back in February.
While learning about James and Aubrey, I also searched Facebook with hopes of finding someone willing to talk to me about them.
After sending countless messages to people I’d deemed close to them, I got a few responses. Some cajoling helped me pin down two meetings for the next day with Tricia Knox, a close friend of Aubrey’s, and Teddy Raye, an uncle of James’s who lived in San Francisco.
I went to sleep that night, dreams of a Pulitzer Prize dancing in my head.
“A small-town reporter followed three murders and through investigative brilliance, found ties to a longtime San Francisco menace named Dennis McCarthy, taking him down in the process.”
And the Pulitzer would be dedicated to my father.
6.
The next morning started with a quick trip to the Walnut Creek Times, where I informed Tom that I’d secured interviews with a friend and a relative of the double homicide victims. He looked at me like a proud father. Any information on the murders in Oakland would be a coup for his hometown newspaper.
He told me that Greg Alm was going to cover crime in Walnut Creek for the next few days and I had free rein to work on my current case. Grateful, I told Tom I’d keep him updated and set out for San Francisco to meet Teddy Raye.
Which ended up amounting to absolutely nothing. We had a drink at a coffee shop on the Embarcadero, overlooking the Bay Bridge, surrounded by water.
The view was brilliant, the company less so. An obese, sweaty man of around fifty, Teddy Raye asked me within two minutes if his name was going to be in print. And whether he should give me his bio.
I told him I was just looking for information on the death of his nephew, which turned out to be a lie as well. Teddy claimed to be James’s uncle, but the more he explained it, the more I suspected he was just some distant cousin.
I could have lived with all of this if he’d had any insight into the death of James Neil. He didn’t. I brought up drugs and gambling and Teddy just looked at me with a blank face. He couldn’t confirm or deny a single detail in answer to my questions.
Finally, I asked when he’d last seen James, and he admitted it had been a few years.
I sipped my coffee a little quicker after that, excusing myself a few minutes later.
“So you’ll let me know if I appear in the paper?” he said as I walked away.
I headed back over the Bay Bridge toward the East Bay, hoping Tricia Knox proved to have more information than Teddy Raye.
We met at my second coffee shop in an hour, this one down by Lake Merritt in Oakland. It was a bustling area, with restaurants, bars, and hundreds of people always running or walking around the lake. One of the more beautiful parts of Oakland.
She had described what she was wearing and I recognized her right away. It didn’t hurt that I’d seen her picture on Facebook. In her mid-twenties, she had long, braided brown hair and a tie-dyed shirt on. Hippyish, without question.
She was a bit standoffish, and seemed to be measuring her words as I introduced myself.
“Nice to meet you, Tricia.”
“You too,” she said.
As a journalist, I encountered this all the time. People are suspicious of my profession, fearing they’ll be mischaracterized in print. Or, if they have been up to no good, fearful they’ll be portrayed correctly.
Tricia Knox seemed nervous, but I didn’t think it was for either of those reasons. Selfishly, I hoped it was because she had pertinent information on the death of her friend.
I ordered our drinks and we set off for a corner of the Peet’s Coffee. Truly a free agent when it came to coffee, I didn’t play for one team. I could drink at a Starbucks in the morning, a Peet’s in the afternoon, and a local cafe at night.
Although we had a small corner table, we didn't have any privacy. A couple sat right next to us.
I could read the concern on her face. “Would you rather walk around outside?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said succinctly.
We went out and headed toward the water. Although tons of people milled around, the park benches could give us some privacy.
There was one available, and we sat down, facing the lake.
“Nice view,” I said.
“Yeah, it is,” she said quietly.
“Listen, Tricia, I can tell you’re nervous, but I’m not the police. I’m just a reporter trying to find out why your friend was murdered.”
“I know. I’ve just been a little anxious since Aubrey was killed.”
“Do you know something about it?” I asked.
This certainly hadn’t taken long. We were jumping right in.
“Not exactly. But I do know she was scared.”
“Scared?”
“She told me that she and James had seen something they shouldn’t have.”
My juices were flowing. This was more than I could have ever expected. “Did she say what it was?”
“No. She told me it was better I didn’t know.”
“Tricia, I r
ead all the posts dedicated to Aubrey and James, and the comments on them, and I never saw anyone mention this.”
“Because I’m the only one she told.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I was her closest friend. And she told me I was the only one.”
“That’s a big burden to put on you.”
“I know. I told her the same thing.”
I’d already blurred the line between a reporter and an active participant on this case, but it was time to do the right thing. “Have you gone to the police?”
“No.”
“Why not? That’s very important information, Tricia.”
“Look at me. I’m scared to talk to you. Imagine me talking to the police.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. And it might help them catch your friend’s killer.”
Tricia broke down and started crying. I patted her shoulder. It was a weak gesture, but I didn’t know what else to do.
She wiped her tears with the sleeve of her shirt. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“Alright, I’m okay now,” she said, and gave me what amounted to a smile.
“I have to ask, Tricia. Why would you meet up with a reporter who messaged you but not be willing to going to the police? It’s a bit odd.”
“I hoped maybe you could relay the information to them.”
“I can do that, but they are certainly going to want to talk to you personally.”
It finally seemed to hit her that talking to the police was inevitable.
“Okay, I’ll meet with them.”
I’d done the right thing. I would call Ray Kintner and set up a meeting with Tricia. But that didn’t mean I didn’t want to get the information first.
“I’ll put you in touch with a detective I know. But right now, Tricia, I’d like to know exactly what Aubrey told you.”
“She didn’t tell me what she saw.”
“I understand that. But did she tell you the circumstances? Where they were? What night it was?”
“Are you going to use my name in the article? I don’t want these people to know who I am.”
I could tell Tricia was on her way to breaking down again. I tried to comfort her. “I will not use your name in any article I write. I won’t say ‘a friend of Aubrey’s’. There will be nothing mentioned that ties you to anything.”
“Okay, thanks.”
I hated being a jerk, but I wanted her to stay on point. “Listen, Tricia, this is very important.”
She snorted and wiped her eyes one more time. “She called me Saturday. Said that she and James had just seen something they weren’t supposed to see. She wouldn’t tell me what, but one thing she said chilled my bones at the time. And scares me even more now.”
“What was it, Tricia?”
“She told me that it involved one of her neighbors. They were walking into their house and saw something they weren’t supposed to.”
“Did she call you right after it happened?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“My guess is she wanted someone to know in case something happened to her.”
It was my turn to shudder. What could one possibly see that would make killing you the only option? Not just that, but to torture you first?
And if Tricia was telling the truth, and she was the only one Aubrey told, she was definitely in harm’s way.
“Tricia, give me a second.”
I walked about twenty feet away from the park bench, keeping my eye on Tricia. I pulled out Detective Kintner’s business card and called him.
“Ray Kintner.”
“Hi Ray, this is Quint.”
“How are you, Walnut Creek?”
It wasn’t the time to acknowledge our running joke. “I have a woman with me who might have some information on the murders of Aubrey Durban and James Neil. Can I bring her in?”
“Of course. Do you know where the main office of the OPD is located?” he asked, meaning the Oakland Police Department.
“I do. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
I walked back over to her. “This is going to be tough to learn, Tricia, but hear me out. Aubrey and James were tortured before they were killed. If it was to get information, she might have mentioned you. I know it’s horrible to think about, but it’s a possibility you have to consider. I think you should come with me to the police station and tell them what you know. Did you walk or drive here?”
“I walked,” she said, her face taking on a ghost-like quality.
“I’ll drive you to the police station. Are you okay with that?”
The tears returned, but she agreed to go with me.
We walked to my car and headed toward the OPD.
7.
I got a call from Ray Kintner early the next morning.
“Hello.”
“I’ve got some tragic news, Quint.”
I knew it before he said it.
“Tricia Knox is dead.”
“My God. What happened?”
“After you dropped her off, we had an hour-long interview with her. Things went well and she seemed to be happy to get things off her chest. We had a patrol car drop her off at her apartment complex near Lake Merritt in Oakland. The officer drove around the block repeatedly for an hour. He then parked outside the complex, planning to stay until midnight. If anyone wanted to do anything to Ms. Knox, they’d see a police presence. The officer went up to check on her at 8:00 p.m. When there was no response, he entered the apartment and found her dead. We fear that the offender was already in the apartment complex, or possibly in the apartment itself. Quint, you’re not going to like what else I have to say.”
“Can it get any worse?” I asked.
“Yes, it can. We didn’t catch the guy and Ms. Knox was tortured. While the officer was downstairs, a few hundred feet away, she was upstairs getting tortured. You know what that means, right?”
“They know she went to the cops,” I said.
“Well, there’s that. They also likely know that she met with you.”
I tried to say something, but nothing came out.
“Are you there, Quint?”
“I’m here,” I finally said.
“We need you to come in to the station.”
“Of course. I’ll head over now.”
I hung up the phone and called Tom Butler, informing him I wouldn’t be at the office until later in the day. I’d explain everything when I got there. He could tell something terrible had happened and didn’t press me.
After a one-minute shower, I looked at myself in the mirror and didn’t like what I saw. The stitches were starting to improve, but everything around them appeared older. It had only been five days since my fortieth birthday, but I’d aged five years. I’d always looked young for my age and several people had seemed genuinely astounded when they found out I was forty.
Then I hit the glass with my forehead. And overheard something I now wished I hadn’t. Having someone you’d just talked to end up dead surely accelerated the aging, too.
I said a quick prayer for Tricia Knox and locked my apartment behind me. It was a small little lock that even the most novice lockpick could break into. You theoretically needed a fob to get into Avalon Walnut Creek, but Door Dash drivers and Amazon delivery guys always just followed a tenant into the building.
If someone wanted to get in and do me harm, it would be simple. I walked toward the elevator. My mind started imagining a gunman appearing out of nowhere. The hallway was long, like a hotel’s, and I’d have nowhere to run. Then there was the parking garage. Probably the easiest place to kill someone and just walk or drive out onto the streets of Walnut Creek, never to be seen again.
My mind raced and I didn’t like it. Although, after what happened to Tricia Knox, I didn’t think I was being overly cautious. These people, whoever they were, weren’t fucking around. Four people had been killed in less than a week. I didn’t want to be the fifth.
I arrived in the parking garage and made it to my car without incident. I spent the whole time looking over my shoulder, however.
My car roared to life and I sped out of the garage, heading toward Oakland. A city I was getting quite sick of.
The Oakland Police Department had several different locations, but the main branch was in the western part of the city, barely a mile from the Bay Bridge that took you into San Francisco. The ugly, squat gray and white building had vertical lines shooting from the base to the top. It reminded me of someone trying to make themselves look taller. It didn’t work.
I walked through the metal detectors and headed to the third floor, where I’d brought Tricia Knox the day before.
Ray Kintner was talking to a few colleagues as I approached.
“Mr. Adler,” he said, trying to be as impersonal as possible with his fellow officers around.
“Detective Kintner,” I said, playing along.
“We’ve got you set up for Interrogation Room #3. Follow me.”
I followed him and he opened the door to a standard investigation room. One large table in the center. One seat where I’d be located and two seats for the detectives who would be interviewing me. Usually, my seat was meant for a suspect, but I was just there to confirm what I’d talked about with Tricia Knox. At least, that’s what I assumed.
I took the seat and Ray said he’d be back in a few minutes. He returned with a young cop, likely still in his twenties, who’d spent a little too much time in the gym. His arms were each the size of a Mini Cooper.
Ray took the lead. As the senior detective, he obviously carried more weight than his partner. In the metaphorical sense only.
“Mr. Adler, this is Detective Marks and I’m Detective Kintner. I’m sorry this interview is for such a sad occasion.”
“Me too.”
“You’ve been investigating the recent murders in Oakland for the Walnut Creek Times?”
A lot of these answers were going to be superfluous, but I understood they were necessary. “That’s right,” I said.
“How did you come in contact with Tricia Knox?”
“I went on Facebook and read the tributes to Aubrey Durban and James Neil, contacting some of the people who’d posted them.”
Revenge at Sea: (Quint Adler Book 1) Page 6
