After a murder in the house next to you, safety took precedence over loneliness.
I walked back to the street and meandered around. I wasn’t ready to knock on the Andersons’ door, but I didn’t want to just get in my car and drive away on the off chance Annie was still watching me.
Our conversation played in my mind as I walked Oakland Avenue. I hadn’t learned all that much, but my suspicions about the Andersons hadn’t exactly gone away either. Annie’s “they can be standoffish” reverberated through my brain.
I was still jumping to conclusions, considering being standoffish a precursor to murder or child abuse.
I needed to chill the F out.
13.
I woke up at 7:00 a.m. on Friday, sleeping in a little more than usual. With our little office work party that afternoon and a Happy Hour to follow, I was glad to get some extra rest.
Soon after I woke up, the investigation made its way to the forefront of my brain.
It had become three-pronged. One, the murders themselves. Two, Paddy Roark and Dennis McCarthy. Roark’s behavior had done nothing to prove the letters wrong. He acted like someone who would have no problem committing murder. Probably enjoy it. And third, what exactly had my father seen with regards to Mason Anderson? Was it a bruise or something even more sinister? And was this in any way related to the murders that took place two doors down?
I needed a coffee and headed down to the Starbucks below my apartment complex. Got my usual, a half-caf Americano. A few of my favorite baristas worked that morning and they asked me how things were going.
“I’m working on something very, very big.”. It was the most honest I’d been in weeks, even though I presented it as a joke.
“Is it about how I make far and away the best Americano?” Sarah, one of the managers on duty, asked me.
“He doesn’t write fiction, Sarah. And since he writes non-fiction, you know it would be me,” Laurel said. She was wearing a multi-colored sweater and a grin.
“It’s about the camaraderie between the two of you,” I said.
They were always going back and forth with each other. Laurel and Hardy, if you will. Or Laurel and Sarah, as was the case.
“If you want to do a public interest piece on your local Starbucks, we’re up for it,” Laurel said.
“We’ll break the internet,” I said.
“You’re damn right you will. The public will love us. Well, love me and tolerate Laurel.”
“Yeah, right, Sarah.”
And Laurel pushed her.
“It’s been a pleasure, girls, but I really do have to get some work done today.”
“Bye, Quint.”
“Later, Quint.”
Sarah handed me my Americano. Quickly turning, I bumped into the person standing behind me and somehow avoided knocking any of my drink on him.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“No problem,” the man said. “You didn’t get me.”
Relieved, I walked over to an open seat. I picked up a paper (not the Walnut Creek Times) and read about the local sports teams. It was nice to enjoy something mindless.
After finishing my coffee and putting the cup in the trash, I went back upstairs to get ready for the day. I took the elevator to the fourth floor and looked both ways down the hall as I entered my apartment. I imagined this new tradition wasn’t going to cease until my current investigations were over. It had me on edge.
I readied myself for the shower, looking at my body in the mirror. I was in better shape than most forty-year-olds, but there was a small little potbelly taking form. I was on my way to having a dad bod, without possessing the requisite child. Time to start hitting the gym a little harder and my dinner plate a little lighter.
I noticed a scratch on my wrist. I poured some water over it and it became barely noticeable.
It must have happened when I’d turned into the guy downstairs. My own fault for swiveling like a madman with a hot cup of coffee in my hand. After my shower, I put on some jeans and a crisp, short-sleeved white dress shirt. And went to the elevator that took me to the underground parking garage.
I’d started walking the hundred feet from the elevator to my car when a dark SUV pulled up and someone said, “Is that you, Quint?”
“Who the hell are you?” I said.
The back window of the SUV rolled down.
“Someone who would like to talk to you,” a man said, although I couldn’t see his face yet.
“If you don’t tell me who you are right now, I’m going to call the cops.”
The man leaned forward so I could see his face.
“My name is Dennis McCarthy. I’d like to talk.”
I had balls and I had gumption, but I didn’t always have the best instincts. Deciding to get in the SUV certainly proved that. But I was curious. And truth be told, I immediately trusted Dennis McCarthy. I don’t know how to explain it. I just did.
I climbed into the back. The SUV had two rows of seats that faced each other. Two huge men sat on the left and right of me. My eyes came to rest on Dennis McCarthy. He was distinguished in the manner that only older people can be. Obviously comfortable in his own skin. Confidence oozed from him. I could tell that in a split second. He wore khaki pants and a pink sweater, which was so at odds with the situation that I almost laughed. His hair was totally gray, but he had a young man’s vigor to him. He looked directly at me.
I should have been petrified, worried I could be killed at any moment. A knife to the back of the head, Goodfellas style. Or my windpipe constricted by one of Andre the Giant’s cousins.
But I wasn’t. I was surprisingly calm.
I expected McCarthy to say something like “If you tell us the truth, we’ll let you live.”
But instead he got straight to the point.
“What made you go to Boyle’s Grocery Store?”
I paused.
“If you lie, I’ll know.”
The SUV went over a familiar bump. We had made it above ground and were leaving the confines of Avalon Walnut Creek.
“I got a letter,” I said.
“Go on.”
“It said I should investigate Dennis McCarthy for the murder of Griff Bauer.”
I didn’t really have a card to play. They had found me at my apartment complex. They knew who I was. Lying wasn’t going to work. So I hoped that telling the truth might magically turn out to my benefit.
“Go on,” Dennis McCarthy said. His voice was measured and melodic.
“I did nothing at first. Then, a second letter came calling me a small timer and saying that Paddy Roark was the henchman for you and he would have done the killing.”
I expected a denial or some indignation, but he just sat there with an odd little smile.
“You’re doing well. I hope you’ll keep telling the truth,” he said.
Against all logic, I trusted his melodic voice. I’m sure that sounds crazy, but something about him garnered trust. It wasn’t fear.
“Did you receive any more letters?”
The SUV headed away from my apartment complex, driving along Treat Boulevard.
“Yes, one more. It said he’d have liked to seen the expression on my face when Paddy Roark confronted me. Said he always knew everything that was going on. And then he told me if I published something about Paddy Roark or yourself, he’d send me some information that would change my life.”
“But you haven’t written anything on Roark or I.”
That wasn’t a question, but a statement. He knew.
“No, I haven’t. I can’t just use a source I’ve never met. Especially without any evidence whatsoever.”
“There isn’t any evidence. Nor will there be.” However incongruous with the situation, his voice was truly calming.
“No?” I said.
“You’ve been, what do they call it? Catfished, I believe. I can assure you that neither Mr. Roark nor I had anything to do with the murder of Griff Bauer. Or any of the other murders in Oakla
nd.”
“I believe you.”
I was still flanked by the two monsters, but they hadn’t said a word. This was basically a two-person conversation despite there being four of us.
“Do I look like someone who leaves bodies all over Oakland?”
“No,” I said honestly.
Not that there was ever going to be any other answer.
“You’re right. I’m not. I’m a businessman and leaving a trail of dead bodies is not good for business. Or my reputation.”
“So where does that leave me?” I asked.
“I’m giving you my word that I had nothing to do with these murders. And pleading with you not to publish the bullshit you’ve been fed. It would bring a great deal of scrutiny on me, something I’ve tried to avoid my whole life. And it would be for something that I’m completely innocent of. If the truth matters to you.”
Despite my recent actions, the truth still mattered to me.
“You’ve got nothing to fear from me,” I said. “I’m not going to publish unsubstantiated secret letters from God knows who.”
I noticed one of the two behemoths move slightly as I’d said God knows who. I didn’t think it was a coincidence.
“Do you have a suspicion as to who sent me the letters?” I asked.
“I suspect,” Dennis McCarthy said deliberately, “you wouldn’t live long if you started investigating him.”
His warning was tinged with fear. It was obvious he meant what he said.
This had become surreal. I sat across from an infamous legend of San Francisco, the biggest bookie the city had ever known. And we were amicable.
But then I remembered Vern Coughlin. This older man in his pink sweater wasn’t someone to be taken lightly. He, in all likelihood, had ordered the murder of a childhood friend merely for writing an article about him. He’d have no problem doing the same to another writer. Me.
We’d built up a nice little camaraderie, but I’d be silly to trust a word he said.
I stared at him, this time without reverence, but with revulsion.
Dennis McCarthy noticed it and his expression changed. It’s like he’d caught me with my hand in the cookie jar.
There was a five-second pause where no one said a word. For the first time, I became nervous.
“Let’s play a game,” he said. “I consider myself a master of the human psyche. And I think I can guess what you’re thinking at this very moment.”
“I’ll play along,” I said.
“Your eyes gave you away. You’d been receptive to my wishes and had an expression that showed your trust in me. But then your face, and especially your eyes, took on a more doubtful and suspicious look. And a bit scared, if I dare say so. And so I start to wonder why the switch happened. I’m going to assume you researched me when you got these phony letters. And any inquiry into myself would surely have led you to the infamous article by Vern Coughlin. And his subsequent death. So, in that moment, when your eyes betrayed you, I’m guessing you were thinking about the death of Vern Coughlin. And assuming I had him killed.”
I was mesmerized, but nothing came out of my mouth.
“Well?” he asked.
There was really no point in lying. “Very impressive, Mr. McCarthy. You’re exactly right.”
“Thanks for your honesty. I take great pride in my insightfulness. It’s paid great dividends over the years.”
“Can I be blunt?” I asked.
“Please do,” he said.
“Vern Coughlin was a reporter. As am I. How am I supposed to trust you?”
“I’m going to let you in on a little secret, Quint. I didn’t kill Vern Coughlin. I was friends with Vern since we were kids. Did I like the article? Obviously not. He betrayed my trust and it created all new headaches for me. But I didn’t kill him.”
I believed him.
And yet, I couldn’t just go gently into that good night. It wasn’t my style. I had to ask the question that was begging to be asked.
“So somebody killed Vern Coughlin in order to bring heat on you?” I asked.
I’d only mentioned Coughlin, but it was obvious I was also referencing the letters I’d received. Because they’d also bring heat on Dennis McCarthy.
He leaned forward. “It’s a logical leap you are making. But I assure you, if you enjoy your life, don’t follow this path. The man I’m assuming sent you these letters is a former employee of mine. And he enjoyed the shadier aspects of the job. He’s a monster.”
“Can I show you something?” I asked.
“Please do,” Dennis McCarthy said.
I extended my right wrist, palm up, revealing a series of tiny little scars.
“When I was seven years old, I tried to make pancakes for my parents one day. I put the batter in the pan, but the heat was way too high, so the oil and butter started splattering everywhere. My mother grabbed me and said to stay away from the pan until the heat subsided. She left the kitchen. I looked at the pan, knowing the pancakes were going to burn if I didn’t flip them. So I walked back over to the stove and started to flip the pancakes, getting burned by the hot oil in the process.”
Dennis McCarthy smiled for the first time.
“And the lesson is you’re not very good at leaving well enough alone?”
“I served my parents pancakes that morning,” I said.
He smiled again.
“And scarred yourself for life,” he said.
My story had been trumped. He was right, making the pancakes hadn’t really been worth it.
“It’s a nice little story, Quint. It really is. However, perseverance and stubbornness will only get you killed in this case. This isn’t serving pancakes.”
“Just one hint on who sent me these letters,” I said. “No one will ever know where I got the information and I’ll never come to you again. Please, this has become personal to me.”
I saw Dennis McCarthy pondering. He hit the console on the SUV.
“Pull over,” he said.
The SUV pulled over and the behemoth to my right opened the door.
“I’m a very deliberate man,” Dennis McCarthy said. “I do my research and don’t act quickly or blindly.”
I didn’t interrupt.
“So when you appeared at Boyle’s Grocery Store, I learned all I could about you.”
He paused, so I said, “I’m listening.”
I knew he was building up to something.
“And I found out that you were named after Quint, Robert Shaw’s character in Jaws.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“You want your hint?” Dennis McCarthy asked.
“Yes.”
“Just know that it could easily lead to your death.”
“I’m willing to take that chance,” I said.
“Okay, here goes. You will be hunting the same thing as your namesake.”
I was lost.
“Hunting a shark?” I asked.
“That is all, Mr. Adler. Goodbye.”
Calling me by my last name had made it clear the conversation was over.
One of the men took my shoulders and pushed me outside of the SUV. I almost lost my footing, but kept my balance and stayed on my two feet.
When I looked back, the SUV was already moving down the road.
14.
I remained in a sort of trance for the next several hours. After being shoved out of the SUV, I found myself surprisingly close to my apartment, so I just walked home. I was afraid to venture back out.
The one productive thing I did was to call Tom Butler and tell him I’d be in a little late. I worried I’d blurt out what happened and later regret it. I needed time to decide my next course of action.
As had become par for the course, I could go to the cops or keep it to myself. And as usual, if I went to the cops, it would bring me a whole new set of problems. Mainly, why hadn't I told them I’d received letters purporting to know who committed the murders?
No explanation would suffice.
I decided once and for all to stop thinking about going to the police. I was too deeply immersed in the investigation. I should no longer consider it an option.
Tired of thinking about the case, I went to my room and took a much-needed nap.
Finally, at 3:00 p.m., I headed into work. I had put off the office party long enough. I wasn’t sure if I needed a cocktail more than ever or whether drinking would be a terrible idea.
Both were probably true.
Upon entering, I was greeted with streamers throughout the Walnut Creek Times. Some went all the way from the top floor down to the bottom. Crystal had really gone all out. In the center of the downstairs office, a huge table held a few liquor bottles along with several mixers. Next to them stood a stack of red Solo cups and a pitcher full of what I guessed was strawberry daiquiri mix.
Krissy saw me first.
“Shot of tequila, Quint?”
“Maybe later, Krissy. Not sure I want to be that bold to start.”
“Quint!!” Crystal had seen me enter from across the room. She walked over, already having a slight gaze in her eyes. “You’re late! We started at one.”
“Sorry, Crystal. But I’m here now!”
“What’s your pick of poison?”
I realized turning down a drink wouldn’t sit well with Crystal. “I’ll take a Jack and Coke if you’ve got it.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Jan, Tom, Greg, and Trent waved in my direction from the corner where they talked together. I was left talking to Krissy, who’d become a little suspicious of me and my letters.
“Nothing from your secret admirer today,” she said. “What’s with all the letters, though?”
I’d have to deal with this down the road, but not yet. I decided to make fun of the situation.
“Can you blame them? What’s not to love about this face?” I asked, grabbing my cheekbones tight to make myself intentionally ugly.
“Where do I start?” she asked.
I laughed.
Crystal came back and handed me a Jack and Coke. “Did you hear the good news, Quint?”
“I don’t think so.”
“We’re all inviting our significant others to Happy Hour. And since the rumor is that you’re hanging out with Cara again, I suggest you send her a text. We’re starting at the Stadium Pub.”
Revenge at Sea: (Quint Adler Book 1) Page 10
