by Coyle, Matt;
Mallon stood outside the parade fenced-in area that made up the café outdoor dining area and scanned the lunch crowd inside. Not seeing a single male alone, he expanded his search to the full deck area. His sunglasses locked on mine, and I gave him an inch nod of my head and took a sip of beer. He strode over to my table. Chin up, chest high.
“Buy you a beer, Special Agent Mallon?”
“Not while I’m on the clock. Thanks.”
We had that in common, except that my clock never stopped now. Finding Jim Colton’s killer and staying alive had become my twenty-four-hour job. So I broke my own rule to ease the pressure.
“The tables are a bit close together at the café.” I nodded to the restaurant. “What do you say we skip lunch?”
“Fine by me.” Mallon sat in the high-back chair opposite me. “In fact, unless you show me a valid ID, we’re going to skip the whole thing.”
I pulled out my wallet and slid it across the table to him. He picked it up and looked at my driver’s license inside. “Jesus Christ.”
“Not even close.”
“You don’t have a stellar reputation in the law enforcement community, Mr. Cahill.”
I didn’t know if the “mister” was in deference to the three or four years I had on him or to keep me and my story at a distance. I’d bet on the latter.
“Some of it’s earned. The rest, myth. Either way, it has nothing to do with the fact that someone impersonating you tried to kill me last night.”
“I really think you should go through the proper channels and report this to the police department.” Monotone and mechanical behind his aviators. A bureaucratic automaton. “You’re a civilian. There’s nothing federal about this.”
“Except that an FBI agent or someone posing as one tried to kill me. That sounds federal to me.”
“I can’t make the call on my own, Mr. Cahill.” He sounded like he just didn’t want to. “Follow me back to headquarters and I’ll arrange a meeting with the Special Agent in Charge and we’ll see what he thinks.”
“I talked to SAC Richmond yesterday on another matter. He doesn’t like me very much.”
“What did you talk to him about?”
I gave Agent Mallon the whole Colton case: Colton’s suspicious death, his call to the FBI, Brianne’s and my meeting with SAC Richmond, the phone call from someone impersonating Agent Mallon to set up the meet, the ambush at Paulie’s Auto Body Repair, the waterboarding, the drowning, Miranda saving me, Ski Mask at the hospital, the gunfire, and the stolen license plate.
Mallon didn’t say a word or take notes during my recap. He didn’t even move. Just pointed sunglasses at me and all I could see was my own reflection. When I finished, he took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. Now I knew why he favored the shades. His brown eyes were doe-like and made him look like he was a high school senior.
“Look, Mr. Cahill, this kind of thing isn’t my expertise.” He put his sunglasses back on, but he lost the authority in his voice. “I investigate financial crimes. Up until five years ago, I was an accountant. Let me take this to the SAC, and he’ll assign more qualified agents to investigate.”
“Call me Rick. Why did you join the FBI, Special Agent Mallon?”
“Ah, you can call me John. But I don’t see why I joined the Bureau has anything to do with any of what you just told me.”
“I became a police officer because I wanted to help people. Thought it was my duty because my father had been a bent cop. I wanted to erase the stain he’d left behind. I failed miserably. Got my wife killed. There’s no making up for that, no matter how hard I try.” I took off my sunglasses and stared into Mallon’s. “Why’d you join the FBI, John?”
He tilted his head down at the table and stayed silent for a few seconds, then lifted his head back up. “My brother was a Marine. He died over in Iraq. An Iraqi soldier who my brother had trained for three months turned his gun on Jack and four other Marines. He was an insurgent who shared meals with my brother, took pictures with him and other soldiers. He waited three months for the right opportunity to murder men who thought of him as a friend. I joined the FBI to cut off the money to the people behind that insurgent and track them down.”
“I can’t help you with that. But like you, I’m trying to do the right thing in my own way. Jim Colton was a Navy SEAL and, like your brother, he served in Iraq. He came back alive, but somebody murdered him and made it look like suicide. They left him hanging in his garage so his son could find him. I want to bring those people to justice, but I need your help. You, and you alone.”
“I wish I could help you, Rick, but I can’t by myself.” He stood up. “I’ll be happy to take this to the SAC and let him decide how to handle it, but I can’t run some rogue investigation for you.”
“Ten or so people saw me at your office yesterday. Only someone there could have known when you were out of the office and called me to set up a trap. I can’t trust anyone there. You’re the only person who can help me. Sometimes you have to do what’s right even when all the rules say it’s wrong. I need your help, John.”
“Sorry.” He started to walk away. Chest not so high, chin down.
“At least find out if there’s an FBI connection to Paulie’s Auto Body Repair. The man posing as you had a key to get in.”
He didn’t say anything and kept walking. I let him go. I’d put my faith in a by-the-book glorified apparatchik, and he wasn’t willing to look anywhere but between the lines. And if he followed those lines back to his boss and told him about our meeting, the people trying to kill me might learn everything that I knew about them.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I WALKED DOWN to the parking garage and called Dr. Lin at the Medical Examiner’s Office. The screener wouldn’t put me through to her so I left my number on the 1 percent chance that she’d call me back. I found my car and pulled out onto Camino Del Mar, the thoroughfare that served as main street for downtown Del Mar. There wasn’t a whole lot to it, but most of the buildings had a cool Tudor influence and the restaurants served good food.
My phone rang after I exited Camino Del Mar and headed up and over the hill to get onto I-5. I answered it.
“This is Doctor Lin. What can I do for you now, Mr. Cahill? And please be brief. I’m very busy.”
“Did you check for needle marks along the hairline at the base of Jim Colton’s skull?”
“This is why you called me?” Loud and high pitched.
“It’s not an accusation. I have good reason to ask the question. Please.”
“I doubt it. I’d have to look at the report, but it’s not an area I’d typically examine in a death by hanging.”
“Understood. Could an injection there be effective?”
“What do you mean by effective?”
“Would the needle be able to deliver the drug without banging into bone?”
“Sure? Why do you ask?”
“One more question and then, I promise, I’ll tell you. Can you think of a drug that could knock someone unconscious in less than ten seconds but would wear off quickly and would not typically be searched for in a suicide tox screen?”
“So we’re back to this?”
“Humor me and I’ll leave you alone.”
“Fentanyl would seem like a likely choice. It’s very fast acting.”
“Fentanyl? Isn’t that the drug Kristin Rossum used to kill her husband in the American Beauty murder? It’s lethal, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s it. Almost any drug can be lethal at a high enough dosage.” Loud exhale like educating me was a chore. “Although fentanyl is trickier than most. There is less room for error. An improper dose could cause cessation of breathing very quickly.”
“So it’s not a street drug and you would have to have some medical background to administer it without killing the person?”
“Most likely.”
“But you say it’s the most logical drug to use under the scenario I described. Works rapidly and wears off quick
ly as well?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“Okay. You’ve piqued my curiosity.” Another loud exhale like she was mad at herself for admitting interest. “Have you found new evidence in James Colton’s murder?”
“I can’t connect all the dots yet, but someone contacted me on the pretense of discussing the case and then ambushed me when I showed up. They stuck a needle in my hairline at the base of my skull, and I was unconscious in seconds. I don’t know exactly how long I stayed unconscious, but I think it was less than ten minutes.”
“My God. Really?” Genuine concern. “Did you call the police? Can you identify your attackers?”
“No. To both.”
“Why haven’t you contacted the police?”
“I wish I could. My life would be a lot easier.”
“What does that mean?”
“Doesn’t matter. Thanks.”
“Wait. With this new information, I’d be willing to perform a second autopsy on my own and look for needle marks at the base of the skull, as well as run another toxicology scan looking specifically for fentanyl or other opioids. The likelihood of finding it isn’t good, but if there are needle marks, I’ll find them.”
“I wish you could. The body was cremated.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
I WENT BACK to the hotel room and found a note from Brianne telling me her phone had died and she went home with George to retrieve the charger she’d forgotten to pack. Shit! She could be walking into an ambush. I hurried back down to my car and sped out of the parking garage. If Brianne only left a few minutes ago and went through La Jolla, I might have a chance to catch her. I took La Jolla Village to Interstate 5 and raced to Brianne’s house through La Jolla’s back door. I’d get there quicker and avoid any possible encounter with LJPD until I excited Pacific Beach via Soledad Mountain Road.
No LJPD cruisers, black Range Rovers, or any sign of Brianne’s 1965 cherry-red Mustang on her street. A canopy of Torrey pines surrounded Brianne’s house, blocking any view of the driveway until you were perpendicular to it. I rolled past and glanced in. Empty.
I’d either beaten Brianne to her house or she’d already come and gone. Or she was captive or worse inside and someone had put her car in the garage or driven off in it. I parked the car a house away, took the Smith & Wesson from the trunk, and hustled back to the house.
I peeked through the crack between the garage door and its frame and saw the back of Jim Colton’s pickup truck but no vintage red Mustang.
The gate to the front courtyard that separated the house from the driveway stood open. I entered and tried the knob on the front door. Unlocked. I eased the door open and squatted low with gun extended. Clear. I listened before I entered, trying to separate the noise of a passing car on the street from the silence of the house. Quiet.
I entered the house and stopped in the foyer and scanned the open kitchen and living room. Clear. I listened before I moved again. Silence. I slow-motioned a step into the hallway and stopped. Sound coming from Jim Colton’s den. A drawer opening and shuffled papers?
Possibly. Didn’t matter. All that mattered was that someone was in Colton’s den.
And that I had a gun.
I advanced down the hall. Gun extended. Finger on the trigger guard. Take a step. Stop. Listen. Take a step. Stop. Listen. I finally made it to within a yard of the den’s door. A massive back leaned over Colton’s desk.
Adrenaline jolted muscle memory through my body all the way back from my days as a street cop. A quick step and I was opposite the doorway. “Don’t move.”
The man froze.
“Hands over your head and turn around slowly or I’ll shoot you.” I kept the gun trained on center mass as the man turned.
Oak Rollins stared at me. Fear in his eyes dissolved into anger. “What the hell are you doing?”
“You stole my question.” I motioned the Smith & Wesson toward the wall behind Colton’s desk. “Against it and spread ’em.”
“You’re making a mistake, Cahill.” Rollins still had his hands raised, but I kept my distance. “Put the gun down and we can talk.”
“We’ll talk, alright.” I aimed the gun at his knee. “Grab the wall or learn to walk with a limp.”
Rollins eyeballed me for a two count, then turned and pressed his hands against the wall and spread his legs. He must have read in me what I’d determined after cheating death last night. I made my own rules now.
I immediately saw the bulge on Rollins’s hip. I pressed the barrel of my .357 Magnum firmly against his back with my left hand. He stiffened.
“Don’t move.” I slid my hand under his polyester jacket and removed a Glock 9mm pistol from a pancake holster on his belt. I stuffed the gun behind the waistband of my pants above my butt. I patted the rest of him down just as I had Alan Rankin earlier today. Only it took longer. There was a lot more of him. I emptied the contents of his pockets onto the desk next to Jim Colton’s Navy SEAL paperweight. Keys, wallet, cell phone. The usual stuff. Other than a Swiss Army knife in his front pants pocket, he was clean. I pocketed the knife and the cell phone. “Sit down on your hands in the chair.”
Rollins did as told. I backpedaled to the doorway, a solid six feet away from him, and dropped my armed hand to my side. He tried to play hero, I’d still have enough time to put two slugs in his chest. Even as big as he was, he couldn’t outmuscle lead.
“You never answered your own question,” I said. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Following up on a favor to a friend.”
“What’s the favor?”
“Making sure she keeps paying for Cash’s education and doesn’t spend the money on herself.” Rollins looked me straight in the eyes. Could have been telling me the truth. Could have been lying. I’d learned not to trust my instincts lately.
“She has a name.”
“Not to me.”
“So you thought breaking into the one without a name’s house and rifling through your dead best friend’s desk was the best way to make sure Cash was still in school?” I tilted my head and one-eyed him. “Ever occur to you to call Cash or check with UCLA?”
“I didn’t break in. Jacks gave me a key when I stayed here for a few weeks a couple years back. I knocked and no one answered, so I let myself in.” He nodded at the keyring. “I was looking for Jacks’s will. He had a provision in it that set aside a certain amount of money for Cash’s college tuition.”
“I know you live in Nevada, but here in California you can’t let yourself into someone’s house without their permission just because you have a key.” I smiled. “That’s unlawful entry. And just to look at a will, huh? What are you really looking for?”
“The will.”
“Two and a half months after your buddy dies you finally decide to follow up on a favor.” I dropped the smile and thought of the sound of a second car door closing last night at the auto body shop when the silent partner left. I’d taken it as an echo last night, but now realized it could have been someone else getting into the car at the same time. “Where were you last night?”
“In a hotel in Bishop.” His eyes held steady. “It’s a long drive from Lake Tahoe.”
“It’s an hour and a half flight from Reno for a couple hundred bucks. But I guess it’s not easy to fly with guns anymore, so it makes sense to drive if you’re bringing some.”
Rollins continued to look at me and stayed silent.
“But what doesn’t make sense is why you felt the need to bring a gun when all you’d planned to do was make sure Cash’s education was paid for.”
“I work security. I have a conceal carry permit. I carry a gun all the time.”
“You have one for California? Each state has their own.”
“You want to talk lawbreaking, Cahill. You’re holding me against my will while brandishing a weapon. Kidnapping. At least. Even a couldn’t-make-it-ex-cop like yourself knows that.”
“I know I’m holding th
e gun and you’re lying to me. Got a receipt from that hotel in Bishop?”
“Not on me. It’s back at my hotel here in town. Why don’t we head over there and I’ll show you?” He lifted up from the chair.
I zeroed the gun on his chest. “Back down or you can add murder to my list of offenses.”
He sat back down.
“Hands.” I pointed the gun at his hands that were now in his lap. He shook his head and slid them under his rear end.
“Made any calls lately, Rollins?” I pulled his cell phone from my pocket. “Who’s going to answer when I start dialing recently called numbers?”
“My wife.”
I clicked into his phone log and saw a list of numbers. He’d made two this morning. Both to 775 area codes. Northern Nevada. Probably was his wife. I scanned the rest of the numbers. There was a call either to or from a number with a 619 area code placed yesterday at 10:24 in the morning. San Diego. The number looked vaguely familiar. I tapped it with my thumb and put the phone to my ear. The expression on Rollins’s face didn’t change. Either he was unconcerned or he’d picked up a dynamite poker face from his years working in a casino.
“Oak, when you getting to town? We still on for Friday night at the cabin?” Pretty sure it was the voice of Kyle Bates, the former SEAL who served with Jim Colton and Rollins overseas and now lived in Coronado. I ended the call.
“When Bates calls back, tell him it was a butt dial,” I said.
The phone rang. I pointed the gun at Rollins, tapped the answer button, then the speaker button, and walked over to the desk where Rollins sat and set the phone down, never taking the gun off him.
“Oak? Oak? You there? Why’d you hang up?” Kyle’s voice over the speaker.
“Accidental dial, bro. Sorry. I’m in the middle of something. I’ll see you Friday night.”
“Roger.” The phone went dead.
I kept the gun on Rollins and picked up the phone.
“What’s Friday night?” I asked.
