He looked anything but happy.
“Thanks. Just decided to stop in.”
“Oh yeah, where do you live?”
“Just down the street.” I realized I’d used “just” in back to back sentences. A sure sign of being nervous.
I suddenly wanted to get out of Boyle’s and away from Paddy Roark. There was no name tag, but I had no doubt it was him.
“Which street?”
He moved in a little closer.
“Just a few blocks further up Geary,” I said, using “just” a third time.
“A second ago, you said down the street. Now you’re saying up the street. Which is it?”
Was my life going to end in the middle of a grocery store on a Sunday morning? It certainly seemed to be trending that way.
“Is this how you treat all your customers?” I asked, trying to regain some footing.
“Only the ones who call ahead and ask about me.” He was likely just fishing, but my expression must have given me away. “I’m going to ask you again: what are you doing here?”
“I was just coming to get some corned beef, but I’m obviously not wanted here, so I think I’ll leave.”
All of a sudden, he grabbed me in a tight bear hug. He reached down into my jeans and grabbed my wallet. It all happened so quick, I wasn’t prepared.
He took out my driver’s license.
“Quint Adler. 7001 Sunne Drive, Apartment 4044. Walnut Creek. It’s nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Adler.”
He pulled out his phone and took a picture of my license.
And then, just as quickly, he put the driver’s license back in my wallet and handed it to me.
“Don’t let me see you here again,” he said, his face having become a dark shade of red.
“You won’t,” I said.
I left my cart in the middle of the aisle and briskly walked out of Boyle’s. I ran down the street, jumped in my car, and sped off.
I was just happy to get the hell away.
How had Paddy Roark known?
Obviously, my face had given me away when he’d mentioned calling ahead. But how had he suspected me in the first place?
An employee probably told him someone had called asking about him. If he was truly a henchman for Dennis McCarthy, then he was probably a suspicious guy to begin with. He’d have asked the age and the sex of the caller. And when a forty-year-old male whom he’d never seen before walked into his grocery store, he got suspicious. He was probably telling the truth that it was a store of regulars. I’d stood out like a sore thumb, especially with very few other customers.
And then when I couldn’t answer where I lived, he figured he’d found his guy. My face betraying me solidified it.
It made sense.
I hoped I’d never see Paddy Roark again. He was more intimidating than just about any man I’d ever met.
I felt happy to get out of there with all my limbs in place.
But then I remembered he now had my name and address.
Fuck me!
9.
On Monday, the inevitable happened.
It was my first uneventful day at work in a week, and as I was packing my stuff to go home, I got a call from Cara. She invited me to have drinks with her and a few friends. She wasn’t teaching since it was summer, so a Monday night happy hour was in the cards.
After saying no three different times, I finally agreed to come out for one drink. And one drink only. Well, you know how that ends up.
I had to get my stitches taken out after work, so I was the last to arrive.
There were five of us, three girls and two guys. Not a moment of awkward silence ever fell, and everyone got along famously.
Cara was eyeballing me early on. She talked to the other guy for extended periods and then she’d look in my direction and wink or smile.
People might think Cara played a game, but it wasn’t like that. She was always polite and this guy seemed to take a liking to her. She didn’t know how to get out of a conversation. But I could tell she was thinking about me.
Cara wore another one of her favorite sundresses, this one red with white flowers. She looked sexy and feminine, without intentionally playing to either.
It was an intoxicating mix.
Shockingly, no neck injuries occurred despite the number of men who reflexively looked in her direction.
While other guys might be jealous, I took it as a badge of honor. That’s probably one of the reasons she was attracted to me. I didn't have a jealous bone in my body. Well, that’s not true, but my jealous bones were reserved for my professional life, not my personal one.
My one drink ultimatum had lasted about a half-hour. By time the sun was going down I was three drinks and a Cuervo Gold shot deep, with no chance of leaving early. Unless it was with Cara.
I don’t know if it was her pretending to play hard to get or how beautiful she looked. Or whether it had just been awhile since I’d had sex. But whatever led to it, there was a point where I knew we’d be going home together.
And that happened around 9:00 p.m. Mark, the last one standing besides ourselves, had become slightly inebriated and a little bit touchy.
I sensed Cara getting uncomfortable and I said, “Might be time this night comes to an end, Mark.”
We were about to find out his true colors. Would he realize his mistake or turn into an asshole?
“Yeah, you’re probably right, Quint. Think that last shot did me in. Sorry if I was a bit much, Cara.”
“No problem,” she said.
I shook his hand and Mark was gone a minute later.
“Last two standing,” Cara said.
“How’d you rather be doing something horizontal as opposed to vertical?”
“You are so romantic,” she teased and we kissed each other in the middle of the bar.
From there it was just a matter of time, and we left about fifteen minutes later.
It had been close to eight months since we’d been together, the longest stretch in almost a decade. Most of our breakups lasted for weeks, not months. But we more than made up for it. We had sex twice that night, marathon sessions both. And we added one more for good measure the following morning.
“I hope this doesn’t complicate things,” Cara said.
I didn’t trust myself in the moment. The ecstasy of being with her could cloud my judgement. I knew that.
“Let’s play it by ear,” I said.
“I like ears,” she said. She came over and started subtly nibbling mine.
It was 8:30 and I didn’t have time for any more hanky panky—an old-school word my parents had used. I’d always found it humorous.
“I’ll call you in a few days, but I have to get to work.”
“Maybe I’ll drive Uber for a few hours. Hopefully some passengers will ask me how my night went.”
“And what will you tell them?”
“I’ll ask them if they’ve seen 9 1/2 Weeks.”
I laughed. We’d seen the erotic, lusty, anything-goes sexual thriller a few times together. We’d never approached the brashness of Mickey Rourke and Kim Basinger’s characters, but it had become a running joke with us.
“And it’s spot on for the amount of time our relationship usually lasts,” I said.
“Then let’s not get back together. We’ll just call each other on nights we get a little lonely.”
“You know how that ends, Cara!”
“Yeah, but what a ride.”
She said ride in a seductive way, but I really didn’t have the time. That’s what I kept telling myself.
“Speaking of rides, want me to drop you off at home?”
“Fine,” she said and put on an intentionally pouty face.
I got out of bed, sans clothes, and headed to the shower. I passed by the bag of my dad’s possessions in the corner of the living room. I had been avoiding looking through them. I went back to my room, still naked, and set them next to my bed, ensuring I’d see them that night.
“Some of Dad’s things.”
“He’d be happy I was here.”
“There’s no question about that. Now I have to shower before I’m late for work.”
“Enjoy washing the smell of me off,” she said.
It was becoming harder and harder to get to the shower. Pun intended.
“Fine, you win,” I said.
I jumped back on the bed and we made love for a fourth time.
Usually, work would pale in comparison, and while that was still largely true, I had no shortage of excitement there either. My article about the death of Griff Bauer was getting a lot of hits on our website. The story of the four murders had received plenty of attention across Oakland and from the early numbers, Walnut Creek was enthralled as well.
I normally tried to avoid reading the comments on my articles, but I couldn’t resist this time. Of the six comments, four said, in one form or another, that Griff Bauer had always been an asshole and he deserved what he got. One comment claimed that it went back to the fifth grade, when he was the school bully. More information that I stored away. Whether it amounted to anything was doubtful, but my mind had become like a sponge when it came to this case. I absorbed all I could.
Although tempted, I decided not to call Cara when I got home. It was too easy to jump back into being boyfriend and girlfriend and that never ended well. I wanted her for sure, in fact, I probably always would. But I tried to walk a fine line that would work. Being together every day had never worked in the past and wasn’t going to this time.
Maybe we could set some parameters. Seeing each other only a couple of days a week seemed reasonable. Although I had my doubts about that as well.
I was lying on my bed thinking about Cara when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the bag of my father’s stuff I’d set nearby. I hadn’t even taken a peek since my mother gave it to me several days ago. I owed my mother that. My father too.
I took the bag into the living room and scattered the contents on the kitchen table. There were some old pictures of my parents. Judging by their outfits, it looked like the ‘70s. And with no sighting of me, these pics had to be pre-1980. I started a keeper pile and set them there.
Some ancient Christmas tree lights quickly made their way into the garbage pile. As did a pair of old shoes and argyle socks with holes in them. Some old cords soon joined them.
I rummaged through some loose mail, but nothing seemed important. I was throwing the papers in the garbage pile when one of them caught my eye.
It was a credit card bill, but that’s not what gave me pause. There was writing on the side of the bill.
It read: Mason Anderson. Has had a few bruises throughout the course of the year and now he’s missing days with only two weeks left in the school year. Possible he’s being abused. He lives at 254 Oakland Ave.
The message itself was disconcerting enough, and something more grabbed my attention. I went back into my bedroom and grabbed my laptop, bringing up the notes on my current case.
Aubrey Durban and James Neil. 244 Oakland Ave.
I went to Google Earth and typed in the addresses.
The houses stood on the same side of the street with just one house in between them.
I wasn’t a big believer in random coincidences, but I prayed this was one.
The ramifications, if they were in fact related, weren’t something I wanted to think about.
Especially regarding my father.
10.
“Mr. Adler, Detective Daniels will see you now.”
I was back in San Francisco the next morning. My GPS must have looked like a seismograph after a big earthquake. Walnut Creek to Oakland. To San Francisco. Back to Walnut Creek. Rinse. Repeat. Zig-zagging all over.
I followed Detective Jameson Daniels to his office. His name could have been an alcoholic’s worst nightmare. In his early thirties and very affable, he’d been fair and generous with his time when my father had been murdered. And willing to meet with me on very short notice after I found my father’s note. That meant a lot.
“What can I help you with, Mr. Adler?” he said once we’d sat down.
Having such a memorable—for better or worse—first name, it always surprised me when people called me Mr. Adler.
Jameson Daniels’s office wasn’t much more than an interrogation room. Each of the detectives had their own cubicle with a computer and desk, but if you wanted to talk to them privately, they’d escort you to one of their “offices.” They weren’t individual offices and you could tell. The walls were barren and it was just you, the detective, and a table.
Not that I was there for the aesthetics.
“A few days ago was the one-year anniversary of my father’s death. I wanted to know if there’s been any progress?”
“I’m sorry, but there hasn’t been.”
“Is the case still open?”
“Theoretically, yes it is. But, and I know this is going to hurt, it’s way down the totem pole. We’ve got new murders every week and those tend to take precedent.”
“Was there ever any suspect?”
“Sadly, no. It was a mugging and there were no fibers or anything that we could run. The killer obviously wore gloves.”
“Is that common for a mugging in June? Not exactly a cold month,” I said.
“It is if you don't want to get caught.”
“Excuse me for stepping on your toes, but my guess would be that most muggers aren’t planning their crime that far ahead of time.”
“I’d say that’s generally a fair statement. But that doesn’t mean one couldn’t put on a pair of gloves right before they commit the crime.”
“Seems unlikely to me,” I said, more to myself than to Detective Daniels.
“What are you trying to say, Mr. Adler?”
“Was this case always assumed to just be a random mugging?”
“Yes. We talked to you, your mother, and many of your father’s fellow teachers. It became obvious he didn’t have an enemy in the world. Plus, he had just retired. Why kill him then? We never thought, and still don’t, that this was some pre-meditated murder. Plus, he was walking in the Tenderloin.”
I bowed my head, imagining the last moments of my father’s life. And I still, for the life of me, couldn’t figure out why he was in that neighborhood. Or even in San Francisco, for that matter.
“I’m sorry, that came out the wrong way,” Detective Daniels said. “My point is, if he’d been mugged in Pacific Heights, we’d be more suspicious. Muggings in the Tenderloin are far from rare.”
“And the only witness was that one guy?” I asked.
“Only the one guy came forward. It’s possible other people saw it and chose not to. It happens all the time.”
“And what did he describe seeing?”
Detective Daniels could have told me we’d been through all this, but he was taking time to go over it again. I appreciated that.
“He saw a guy in a long coat stab your father three or four times, before running through an alley. Looked like a clean-shaven white guy, but that’s all he could say for sure.”
“Would you say that the majority of people on the streets have facial hair?”
“Yes.”
It became obvious I was calling into question whether it was a random mugging.
“Has something come up that makes you think this was pre-meditated?” he asked.
I’d prepared myself for this question. And like with everything else lately, I was going to keep it close to the vest. “No, just throwing things out there.”.
“Maybe the guy just got a shave. Or maybe he wasn’t living on the street. I think you are taking a few leaps, Mr. Adler. Your father seemed like a great man and there was certainly no one who wanted him dead.”
I could tell this wasn’t going anywhere.
“Thanks, Detective Daniels. You’re probably right. But as his son, I just wanted to follow up and make sure there was nothing new.�
�
“I completely understand.”
I turned to go, but swiveled around for one more question. “Were any of those credit cards ever used?”
“As a matter of fact, no, they weren’t.”
“That seems a little odd doesn’t it? You steal someone’s wallet, a man who as we told you doesn’t carry much cash, and then you don’t even try to use his credit cards.”
Detective Daniels paused.
“It’s a little suspicious, yes.”
I decided to leave it at that.
“Thanks for your time, detective.”
And I walked out the door.
As I drove back over the Bay Bridge, questions flooded my brain.
Was there really a chance my father had been targeted? Could the note I’d found have anything to do with it? Did this mean my father’s death and the case I was working on were related?
It seemed like a giant leap. But the fact that Aubrey Durban and James Neil had been killed two houses down from an address my father wrote about was alarming. To say the least.
And that’s where I decided to head next.
I exited off Interstate 80 and took 580 East before getting off at Harrison Street. I followed that to Oakland Avenue, where I turned right and drove a little further until I started to recognize the houses. I approached the home in which Aubrey Durban and James Neil had been killed.
Parking in front of that house, I could explain away. I could say I was doing research on the killings that took place there. Parking in front of 254 would have been suspicious.
I got out of the car and looked upon 244 Oakland Avenue. I shuddered at the pain that Ms. Durban and Mr. Neil must have endured. And merely for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Could that have involved the people a few doors down? Tricia Knox had said it had something to do with the neighbors.
I walked backward on Oakland Avenue. To the layman, it might look like I was just trying to get a more panoramic view of 244. And if by chance someone in the neighborhood was watching, that’s what I wanted it to look like.
Revenge at Sea: (Quint Adler Book 1) Page 8
