by Tyler Dilts
It was, Ben decided. It was.
Then why the silence? Maybe the stranger or whoever he was working with was looking for Rob, and maybe they had found him. Maybe Rob had caught a break and he needed to see it through. Maybe Ben was just another problem for Rob to deal with and he’d finally tired of humoring him. Too many maybes.
Ben took the shield out of his pocket, opened the clasp, slid the pin through the holes in the top layer of the black leather holder, and fastened it securely. Then he clipped it onto his belt and tucked his flannel shirttail in behind it.
You feel awkward because Peter has invited Grace inside to watch Ellen. He’s in his chair in the corner and she’s on the end of the couch closest to him. You wonder if you should sit down with them. Is that the polite thing to do?
“Can I get you a cup of coffee or Diet Coke or anything?” you ask.
She smiles and says, “No, thanks. I’m okay.”
You wonder if she can tell how surprised you are, how awkward you feel. She’s been in at the kitchen counter in the morning half a dozen times now because of the rain or the cold, so it shouldn’t seem like a big deal, but for some reason it does.
You realize you’re still just standing there looking like an idiot, so you go over and sit on the other end of the couch.
Tom Hanks is talking to Ellen about his new movie, some Da Vinci Code sequel or something, but you’re not really paying attention. Grace laughs and Peter laughs with her.
This is good for him, you think. This is good.
So why are you so nervous?
After the commercial, Ellen does the thing where she surprises someone with a lot of money. This time it’s a special-ed teacher who has been buying art supplies for her students herself because the school has no budget for that kind of stuff. There’s a whole big thing about how much she does for them and how they love her and how it’s such a struggle to get them what they need. When the guy in the cap comes out with the giant check, the teacher is so shocked and overwhelmed that she starts weeping right there onstage.
You feel yourself starting to get choked up, and you get even more nervous than you already were because what if Grace sees you crying? Especially about something so stupid. You turn your head away toward the bookshelves. You look at the picture of your mother, the other things on the shelf.
When you’ve finally composed yourself, you cautiously sneak a glance back, hoping she hasn’t seen you. Hoping you haven’t embarrassed yourself too badly.
But when you look, you see she’s pulled a tissue from the box on the coffee table and is drying her own eyes.
“God,” she says. “That gets me every time.”
Me too, you think, me too.
The door to Peter’s bedroom was shut. It was almost never closed all the way. Even at night when Ben would watch TV out in the living room, he still left it cracked open in case his father called out or groaned in his sleep. Only when Peter was upset about something did the doorknob ever get a chance to really do its job.
Ben tapped lightly on the door with one knuckle. “Dad?”
There was no answer.
He knocked and said it again, just a little louder. “Dad?”
Still nothing. He delicately turned the knob and cracked the door open.
“It’s just me,” he said, his voice as soft and gentle as he could make it.
“What?” Peter said.
Ben peeked in and saw his father sitting on the side of his bed, looking out the window into the backyard. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Can I come in?”
“It’s your house.”
Ben pushed the door open wider and took a tentative step into the room. “No, it’s not,” he said. “It’s your house. I live here so you can take care of me.” He knew from experience that line was likely to soften Peter’s resolve. And he also knew that it was a petty and manipulative tactic on his part. Reminding his father of the aftermath of the incident, of the days before anyone knew that Peter’s forgetfulness was due to something more than his advancing age, was one of the dirtiest tricks in Ben’s playbook. Every time he used it, he swore it would be the last. But it never really was.
Peter’s stiff posture relaxed slightly, but the shift would have been invisible to anyone other than Ben.
“I’m sorry about before, after I came home. I didn’t mean it.” Ben had no idea what he was apologizing for, but he had neither the time nor the energy to try to figure it out.
His father looked at him, saw the contrition in his face, and forgave him. Ben could tell. He could see it in his eyes, the same way he’d seen it so many times before.
“I’m sorry, too,” Peter said.
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Dad.” This time the sincerity was genuine.
His good suit was in the back of his closet, hanging in the same dry-cleaning bag it had been in for the past two or three years. The last time he’d worn it was at the funeral of one of his first training officers. A guy named O’Malley. Retired at sixty-five, old for a cop, after spending his last eight or ten years driving a desk. Got a stage-four diagnosis two months after his last day on the job and died six months after that. Had a good turnout for the funeral, though. The chapel at All Souls was standing-room only.
Ben thought about his own funeral often enough. Back in the early days of his recovery, he’d even planned it, wrote down a few songs he thought would be good. It made him feel—not better, exactly, but relieved in a way that none of the other things he tried to focus his attention on did. The prospect of just being done with all of it had been appealing to him then. And he liked the idea of an O’Malley-sized turnout. Hell, he wouldn’t have had any trouble topping that, not back then. Hero cop and all. They’d need to get a bigger place. And besides, he wasn’t Catholic, so All Souls wouldn’t work anyway.
But he didn’t think that way anymore. He couldn’t say he was happy, really, but he knew his father needed him. That was something. On the rare occasions that he imagined his funeral these days, he didn’t hope for the same things he used to. Now, he liked to imagine the place empty, with no one there to remember who he used to be.
When he tried the suit on, the pants were uncomfortably tight and he could barely button the coat. It didn’t fit anymore.
He did have an old brown sport coat that still fit, though. It had been tailored more loosely and was still in good shape. With a dress shirt, a nice tie, and the right pair of khakis, it would work. It was the kind of outfit that, back in his detective days, might have raised a lieutenant’s eyebrow but would still pass muster.
After his first shave in a month, he put it on and clipped his shield a few inches to the right of his belt buckle. Looking at himself in the mirrored closet door, he knew it would work. Sure, he could use a haircut, but with a little product he could pull it off. It would really work.
FOURTEEN
The last several years had seen a real resurgence for Bixby Knolls. Decades ago, people in Long Beach referred to it as “Uptown,” and it was among the first bastions of significant wealth in the city. The Virginia Country Club, on the neighborhood’s western edge, was still surrounded by multimillion-dollar homes, just as it always had been. And while the area had never been hit with the downturns that many parts of the city had seen, it had never really generated the kind of trendy heat and coolness of places like Belmont Shore and the East Village. But more recently, as new restaurants and brewpubs and wine shops moved in, that was changing.
DRNK Coffee + Tea was in a small shopping center with a Subway and a dry cleaner and a few other shops. Ben couldn’t remember the last time he’d been there. He was pretty sure it was before It’s a Grind had failed in its ambitious attempt to become the dominant regional coffee chain. It still looked pretty much the same to him.
He pulled the flap of the jacket back and held it there with a hand in his pants pocket to make sure his shield was clearly visible as he approached the counter. There wa
s only one other customer. An old man with a newspaper, a small coffee, and a muffin, sitting at one of the tables by the window.
The young woman at the counter said, “Hi. Can I help you?”
Ben smiled. “I hope so. I’m investigating a missing person. Is there a manager on duty who I could speak with?” He was careful about what he said. Just the badge was enough to constitute a crime. But if he actually claimed to be a cop, that would make matters significantly worse if it ever caught up to him.
She looked surprised but not troubled. “Let me see, I think Marcus can talk to you.” She went in back and came out in less than a minute with a tall and gangly young man who looked to Ben like he couldn’t be long out of high school.
“Hi,” Marcus said. “I’m the assistant manager.”
Ben extended his hand, and Marcus gave it a weak and noncommittal shake. “Is this about Grace?”
“Yes,” Ben said. “Has Detective Kessler already been here to talk to you?”
“Yeah.” Marcus gestured to an empty table close to the restroom at the back of the shop.
Ben sat down. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you some of the same questions again. He’s running the investigation for the San Bernardino Sheriff’s Department, but because Grace lived here in Long Beach, we need to look into it, too.” He hoped the kid wasn’t a criminal-justice major or an Explorer or anything else that might lead him to suspect that something wasn’t quite right with the interview or how carefully Ben was framing his words.
“That’s okay,” Marcus said. “I just want to do whatever helps.”
“Thank you,” Ben said. “I appreciate that. And I’m sure Grace will as well.”
“I hope so. Can I get you a coffee or a tea?”
“No, that’s okay. This should only take a few minutes.” He took a fresh notebook out of his inside jacket pocket, opened it, and put it down on the table. “How long did Grace work here?”
“Not very long, actually. A little over two months.”
Ben thought back to when she moved into the studio. “That would have been around August and September?”
“Yeah,” Marcus said. “I checked the exact dates for the other detective. It was the second week of June to the first week of September.”
She’d still been working here when she moved. Her employment here overlapped with her server position at The Attic. That was a good sign. It supported his theory that both the job change and the new housing arrangements were financial choices and not safety related. He made a note in his book, as much to convince Marcus that he was being useful as to record the information. “Did she say why she was switching jobs?”
“It was because she could make a lot more. We hated to see her go, though—she was really nice and everybody liked her. It’s hard to keep good people, you know?” He sighed like a fifty-year-old middle manager.
Ben looked at the young barista behind the counter and wondered how long she had worked there. Did Marcus think she was good people? “So would you say you got to know her pretty well?”
“Just workwise. We never hung out or anything.”
“Do you know if she hung out with any of the other employees?”
“I don’t think so.” He turned around in his chair and looked at the barista. “Ashley?”
She looked surprised to hear him call her name. “Yeah?”
“You remember Grace, who used to work here last fall?”
Ashley nodded. “She got that server job at the Attic, right?”
“That’s her,” Marcus said. “You guys ever hang out or anything?”
“Not really. She wasn’t here very long.”
“You know if anybody else did?”
“I don’t think so. Like I said, she didn’t work here very long.”
Ben just sat back and listened. It was okay with him if Marcus wanted to do the job for him.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Thanks.” He turned back around and folded his hands on the table, ready for the next question.
“Was she a good employee?”
“Oh, yeah. Always on time, learned everything really quick, cleaned up without having to be reminded. I was sorry to see her go.”
It was becoming clear that Marcus relished his small slice of managerial authority. Ben played into it. “Did the rest of the management team feel the same way?”
“Oh, yeah. Hannah, our manager, gave her a really good reference. In our leadership meeting that last week, she even said we needed more staff like her. Hannah doesn’t usually gush like that.”
Ben had what he’d come for. Grace had been a solid and reliable employee, but apparently hadn’t gotten too close to anyone here. He decided to throw out one more question on the off chance Marcus might know more than he realized. “Did you ever meet Grace’s boyfriend?”
“No, he never came here that I know of.”
“But you knew about him?”
“Only that she was involved with someone.”
“She told you about him?”
“Not really. Sometimes guys would hit on her and she always said she had a boyfriend.”
It didn’t seem to occur to him that not every woman who used that line in that situation was actually involved with someone. “That happen a lot?”
“It happens to most of the girls. A lot of the guys who come in are assholes.” When he realized what he’d just said, he nervously turned toward the old man with the muffin, as if worried that he might have been overheard. When he saw that the customer was oblivious, he relaxed again.
“I believe that.” Ben shot him a knowing smile. “Thanks for your time, Marcus. You’ve really been a big help.”
“You’re welcome, Detective.”
They stood up and Ben headed for the door.
“Don’t you have a card?” Marcus said behind him.
Ben turned back.
“In case I think of anything else?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t. I just ran out. I’m supposed be getting the new ones any day now. I’ll drop one off. In the meantime, you can just call the station if you need me, okay?”
“Okay,” Marcus said. “I will.”
Ben hurried out to the car so he could get away before Marcus realized he hadn’t told anyone his name.
By the time Ben got home, his father seemed to have forgotten about whatever had upset him earlier in the day.
“You look nice,” Peter said.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Did something happen? To dress up for?”
“No. I just had to go talk to some people.”
“Talk about what?”
“It was about Grace.”
Ben could see both the concentration behind his father’s eyes and the frustration at not being able to make the connection. “We haven’t seen her in a while, remember?”
Peter nodded, but Ben still wasn’t sure he got it.
After a few seconds, his face lit up as he made the connection. “Our friend? Who we have coffee with in the morning?”
“Yes, Dad. Grace.”
“Oh! We haven’t seen her in a long time. Where is she?”
He didn’t want to leave Peter there by himself again, but he didn’t think there was any alternative. Bernie probably would have helped, and Ben considered calling him, but he’d already imposed too much. And besides, Bernie would know exactly why he was wearing a coat and tie.
No, Ben thought. It won’t take long. A quick trip down to Bluff Heights to check out the address of the apartment from Rob’s notes and a knock on the door. It was only three o’clock. There probably wouldn’t be anybody home to talk to anyway.
When he parked across the street from 307 Orizaba, he was surprised. He expected an apartment building or maybe one of the big old houses that had been subdivided into multiple units after World War II. But it was just a small Craftsman bungalow that couldn’t have had more than two or three bedrooms. The lack of an apartment number should have been a clue, but Ben had gone out on lots of
calls with addresses that lacked specific unit numbers.
The house was painted two shades of green and seemed well maintained, even though it apparently hadn’t been updated in decades. Ben walked under the shadow of a large shade tree in the front yard and up onto the porch. The front door looked like it had been painted more recently than the rest of the house, in a pleasantly contrasting orange. He unclipped the shield from his belt and knocked on the door. No one answered. Thirty or forty seconds later, he tried again. He waited a bit longer and had just turned to leave when he heard the door open behind him.
A woman of about forty, in yoga pants and a sweatshirt, opened the door.
Ben held up his badge and said, “My name’s Shepard and I’m—”
“Another detective?” the woman said with raised eyebrows.
“Yes, I’m sorry to bother you. I’m working with Detective Kessler on a missing-persons case.”
“Which one was Detective Kessler again?”
It was Ben’s turn to raise his eyebrows, but he caught himself, hoping she hadn’t registered his surprise. Someone other than Rob had been here. Becerra? It must have been. Who else would have been able to figure out Grace might have lived here?
“Tall guy, white, brown hair?”
“That’s both of them.”
It wasn’t Becerra.
Shit.
“Mustache?”
“Okay,” she said. “The first one.” Rob had been there first.
“The second one was from San Bernardino, too, right?”
She nodded. “Seemed weird that they’d send two from so far away.” Who was the second? The most likely possibility was also the most frightening—the dirty cop Rob was investigating. Ben thought about asking if she remembered his name but didn’t want to risk sounding like he didn’t already know what was going on.
He gave her the same line he’d given Marcus at the coffeehouse about separate investigations in separate jurisdictions, and it went over just as well here.
