by Davis Bunn
The studio apartment had a well-appointed kitchenette, with a basket that contained filters and two packets of ground coffee. Connor was too much of a stickler about what he ate and drank to use either sweetener or powdered milk, but many location shoots offered their lesser actors nothing else, so he had grown accustomed to taking his coffee black. He dressed and extracted the wad of cash from his valise. He had stopped by two ATM machines and withdrawn the maximum before running. He entered the motel’s office, paid for a week’s stay, then asked the manager where he could find an all-day breakfast.
The diner was right where the manager said, on the corner of a street that meandered down the gentle slope and ended at the beachfront. Up here, a dozen or so blocks off the water, the town had an air of genteel seediness. The shops were done up nicely, but without the chichi atmosphere of wealthier towns around LA and San Francisco. Many of the structures dated back to the time when Miramar was home to the world’s largest abalone fleet. Few buildings sported more than three stories, and most had a slightly faded, sea-worn air. Connor feasted on a three-egg omelet with spinach and avocado, hash browns, and fresh biscuits with honey. Then he sat in the booth, pretended to study the street beyond his window, and wondered how on earth he was going to fill his days.
He had never been good at doing nothing. Sitting around and studying his navel was definitely out. Connor had worked his entire life. At twelve, he had started as weekend kitchen help in his parents’ restaurant. He had loved the work as much as he had hated his parents’ constant bickering. Connor had done well enough in his classes to stay under the family radar, and spent every free moment striving to follow his own dream.
It was the dream that had brought him to LA. The dream he had managed to destroy.
That was enough to draw him from the booth. Connor had always been most comfortable when moving at full speed. Pushing ahead meant less time to look back. Looking back only brought regret. Connor paid his bill and left the diner and headed down toward the sea.
There was a great deal to like about Miramar, starting with its location. California’s central coast was a rare haven, isolated by distance and winding hilly roads from the frenetic tension that dominated the urban centers. Miramar was almost exactly midway between LA and San Francisco. Both cities had seaside resorts that were closer and filled with people who valued all the things that Connor was fleeing. The result for Miramar was a seaside sanctuary whose residents were quietly satisfied to leave well enough alone.
Connor walked and breathed the salt-laced air. Gulls mewed overhead, and somewhere in the distance a buoy’s bell clanged as it rocked with the waves. He was glad to find the place was as nice as he remembered. His unsettled restlessness pressed him on, down the slope, toward the sea.
CHAPTER 3
It took the worst day of her recent life for Sylvie Cassick to realize just how many friends she had.
She stood in the restaurant’s kitchen, watching as her assistant chef gutted the day’s fish. Porter Wright, Miramar’s police chief, stood beside her. On the counter’s other side was a narcotics detective from the county sheriff’s department. One by one the fish were slit open, carefully inspected, then returned to the cooler.
Did people ever actually have an easy life? Was it like the magazines for some people, where they could design their goals and then watch everything slide into perfect order? Sylvie often wondered about this. She thought it might be nice at some point to meet someone like that. Then again, perhaps she might grab a kitchen cleaver and give in to a case of lethal envy.
There was no room for such thoughts, but here she was anyway, crowded into the corner of her own kitchen. As she watched the detective inspect each fish in turn, she wished she could have everything go her way, just this once.
The restaurant kitchen had once been a second dining room, and the three cooks had worked in a lean-to, where the alley now ran. The former owners had built a state-of-the-art facility, one of the few things they had done right in Sylvie’s opinion. The very same owners had turned the upstairs into an illegal casino. Between hands of Texas hold ’em, they had also sealed any number of drug deals. Sylvie had known all this for years, but the detective repeated the stories as he worked. The detective’s tone suggested he thought Sylvie should be down in Lompoc, doing five to ten with the former owners.
A steel counter ran the length of the kitchen, dividing the cooking area from the smaller space used by the waiters. Front and center on the shiny steel workstation was the reason behind this morning’s ruckus. The eleven bags of white powder glistened in the bright overhead lights, mocking Sylvie’s attempts to hold herself together.
People often said she was remarkably calm, the sort of woman who could weather any storm with a smile. Sylvie had heard the words since her teenage years, when she had been hired at age sixteen to serve as the hostess in a fine restaurant. The manager had even thought enough of her appeal to help her obtain a fake ID. These same people also liked to say that despite her magnetic beauty, Sylvie Cassick, at age thirty, possessed an ancient’s eyes. Sylvie was amazed at some of the secrets people divulged to her. Making the rounds of her restaurant often drew forth some hair-raising sagas. Recently she asked a couple she had never met before why they felt they could trust her with their darkest secrets. The pair replied that something about Sylvie left them certain she had heard far worse.
Every time Sylvie looked at the eleven kilos of cocaine, she wanted to shriek, pull her hair out by the roots, and prove every single one of those people wrong.
The detective’s name was Walker, and they had disliked each other on sight. Walker stood on the counter’s opposite side and watched as Bruno, her assistant chef, gutted the last three fish. “Who was it that found the drugs?”
“Asked and answered,” Porter Wright replied. Miramar’s chief of police was ugly in every way, except the one that counted most. His face was scarred by acne or bad diet or too many hard days. His eyes were piggish and his voice was gravelly. But for some reason, Porter Wright had appointed himself Sylvie’s guardian. As a result, Sylvie considered Porter one of the finest men on earth. Porter said, “The fellow gutting the fish found the dope. The restaurant’s proprietor made the call.”
“Why don’t you take a hike, Chief. Let me speak with the lady here without you getting in the way.”
“Happy to.” Clearly, Porter did not think any more of the detective than Sylvie. “Soon as she either asks me to leave, or she lawyers up.”
Walker was compact and tight and viewed everything with a suspicious squint. “You seem very intent on helping her hide something.”
Porter shifted his bulk. “You don’t want to take me on, son. Not in my town. You really don’t.”
Sylvie knew Porter had been a cop in San Diego. He had pulled the plug after twenty years, moved north, and taken over a department that some had called lazy and others downright crooked. A bust of this size required Porter to call in the specialists at county level. Porter had sounded like he was apologizing when he told her. Now Sylvie understood why.
Walker demanded, “Who brought you the fish?”
“Now you’re getting somewhere.” Porter straightened. “Why don’t you and I head on down to the suppliers, and let Ms. Cassick get ready to open up.”
Walker looked like he wanted to argue, but pulled a card from his pocket and set it on the counter next to the fish. “If you happen to think of anything more—”
“I’ll call the chief,” Sylvie replied. “Just like today.”
Walker cut a dark look at Bruno, and said, “I’ll be in touch.”
“Long as you contact me first, you’re welcome in Miramar anytime.” Porter remained where he was as the detective left by the back door. “I heard about that fellow.”
“He scares me.”
“If Walker comes sniffing around you or any of your staff, you call me before you even tell that guy hello.” Porter lifted his gaze. “Bruno, you hear what I’m saying?”
“You’ll have to go in and make a statement. Just make sure you don’t do it alone. Now tell me about your buddy.”
Bruno was from an old-time central coast family, small-boned and narrow featured. For generations, his family had run a boat hunting the abalone; but when that industry faded, Bruno’s parents had migrated north to Santa Cruz in search of work. He had gotten involved with drugs as a teen, did a stint in juvie, got out, went back to the dark side, and wound up in Lompoc doing three to five. He had been out and clean for six years. “Carlos and I were best friends as kids. I can’t believe he’d do that to me.”
Porter asked, “He still ganged up?”
“He swore he was done with all that. But I hadn’t seen him in, like, forever.”
“His family still live over on Randolf?”
“That’s what he said, but who knows if it’s true?” Bruno looked like he was about ready to cry. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Sylvie.”
Porter answered for her. “You did right, start to finish. Sylvie, walk me out.”
She followed Porter through the restaurant and out to where his car was parked. From the neighboring slot, the detective impatiently beeped his horn. Porter turned his back to the man. “Santino supplies your fish, right?”
“Ever since I first opened.”
“My guess is, they got a boat that slipped out of port about the same time your Bruno slit open that fish. Anything else you can tell me about Carlos?”
She had been through it all before, but talking helped. “He had an attitude. And the tats. But he worked hard.”
“Always first to show up,” Porter said. “Helped unload the produce, clean the fish, all that.”
Sylvie put her hands to her face. She could feel a headache coming on, the sort of migraine attack that painted her entire world a grim, thunderous gray. “I’ve been such a total idiot.”
“No, you haven’t. Straighten up now, folks are watching.”
“What am I going to do?”
“Same as always. Open on time. Be the gracious hostess. Make sure your guests have a good meal and take home some happy memories.”
“You know people are going to hear about this. What do I tell them?”
“That you’re trusting me to handle it.”
“I am, you know.”
“See?” He gestured her back inside. “Now go talk to your staff. Tell them I said everything’s good.”
“You don’t want to do that yourself?”
“They need to hear it from you.”
Sylvie stood there on the sidewalk, watching the man amble over and settle behind the wheel. She waved him off, just another grateful citizen showing respect to the local force. It all could have been so much worse. If Porter was not chief, if he’d had the day off, if a thousand things. Sylvie tried to remind herself of that as she passed back through her dining room and kitchen, and let herself out the rear door. The day could easily have been a total disaster.
The alley had once been a wretched place, especially on a hot afternoon like this one, when the six wheelie-bins were never really cleaned and the tight little lane stank with the residue of a thousand fish dinners. Then Rick, her senior waiter, had come up with the idea of turning a patch of crumbling concrete into an off-duty alcove. The boys had equipped it with cast-off garden furniture, a canvas overhang, and an old wagon-wheel table. They drilled holes in paint buckets and planted a variety of flowers. Now the bins were pressure-washed three times a week, and the alley remained spotless.
Rick was there now, along with Marcela and Bruno and Sandy and Carl, her chef. Sandy, her pastry cook, saw himself as the spokesman whenever the group needed to have a word. Like a lot of locals, Sandy had been born elsewhere, but was now determined to claim Miramar as his own. In Sandy’s case, the elsewhere happened to be Swindon, which he assured Sylvie was a British city so ugly it won prizes on four continents. Sandy gestured to where Bruno sat, staring at the concrete by his feet, and said, “Tell the lad he did good.”
“Sandy’s right,” Sylvie said. “I’m proud of you. And grateful.”
“See there, lad? There’s no way you could have known your mate was bent.”
“We all make mistakes,” Sylvie went on. “We’ve all trusted the wrong man at some point.”
Sylvie stayed out there long enough for them to know the assurance was genuine. She deeply cared for them, her pack of misfits. Two had done time at Lompoc. Sandy had some past he never talked about. Marcela, the number two waiter, carried her own measure of bad memories. The five bore stains of a very hard road. But they were clean, they were good at their jobs, and they were her misfits.
Rick, Bruno, Marcela, Sandy, and Carl: Five lives brought together by careless fate. Now their afternoon delight was this tight corner of broken concrete and cast-off furniture. Sylvie wanted to tell them what it meant to be trusted with their last fragile threads of hope. But they were not the type of people who put a great deal of store in such words. Sandy would make a joke, Carl would shrug it off. The emotions would be lost. So she remained silent. When Sylvie thought it was okay, she returned inside to face the challenge of pretending this was just a normal day.
CHAPTER 4
Estelle watched Connor Larkin cross the forecourt and enter the office. She had recognized him instantly, and wondered what he was doing here. There had been too many lonely nights where the mindless infotainment shows had brought her both comfort and escape. She followed him into the lobby and stood back, pretending to read a magazine. Under other circumstances, she might have spoken to him. Just then, however, Estelle was too frightened by what she intended to do next. She heard him confirm that his name was Connor Smith and watched him pay cash for a week’s stay. All this was curious indeed, since she knew for a fact that his wedding was in four days.
When he had received directions to a local diner, Estelle approached the manager and said, “I’d like to extend my stay, please.”
“Let me check.” The owner was Mrs. Ware, who possessed an innkeeper’s firm no-nonsense attitude. “Yes, we can certainly make that happen. And I’ll offer you the long-stay discount.”
“Thank you.”
“How much longer will you be with us?”
“Two more days, I think. I’m not sure.”
“Well, let me know as soon as you can. We can get very full over the weekends.” She accepted the credit card, ran it through the machine, and smiled at the otherwise-empty lobby. “That was quite the handsome young man who just left. Wonder whose heart he’s going to break next.”
Estelle knew the owner was only making polite conversation. At another time, she might have been tempted to reveal what she knew about the man who just paid cash for a week. However, her nerves formed a great lump in her gut, making the simple act of drawing breath an effort. She accepted her card and headed for the exit.
She stepped into the afternoon sunlight, slipped on her sunglasses, and forced herself to cross the lot and head down the sidewalk, just like a normal person out for a normal walk. She had left the room determined that today would be the day. Three times she had started out. This was the farthest she had made it. She had faced many hard events in her life. None of them seemed quite so difficult as this.
Estelle knew where she was going, since the private detective had included photographs with his report. She had gone online and mapped out her directions. She had selected that particular motel because it was within walking distance of her destination. She had everything planned, right down to the moment when she arrived. At that point, her mind simply froze. She had no idea what to say, how to act, whether she should start with an apology—nothing.
She continued slowly down the broad avenue toward the sea. Her legs felt like water. She realized she was not going to make it, so she stepped into a coffeehouse and ordered a latte. She sat in the sun, pretending to watch the street and the pedestrians. Her mind was a complete jumble, but the coffee did it
s work. Eventually she felt able to rise and continue on.
Estelle spotted the young actor again, seated in a diner across the street. She saw him rise to his feet and leave the restaurant and start down the other sidewalk. She found it remarkable how no one else seemed to recognize him. Maybe people here ignored the latest Hollywood gossip. Or perhaps Miramar was the sort of place where people had the decency to let even actors go about their business in peace.
The man who called himself Connor Smith meandered down the gentle slope, almost directly across the street from Estelle. He showed none of the delight or excitement she had seen recently on the cable show covering his wedding. Connor moved with the slow cadence of having nowhere to go. If he noticed the older woman watching him from the other sidewalk, he gave no sign.
Estelle thought Connor Larkin was right to run away, if that was actually what he was doing. She had seen him on any number of shows and had been drawn to Connor Larkin’s characters because she was convinced he was different. He was a man who cared. He was, at heart, a good man. Estelle was certain Connor’s fiancée was anything but those things. Kali Lyndon was a vapid woman, a celebrity queen who financed her passion for the spotlight with an inherited fortune. She had never done anything productive in her entire life, as far as Estelle knew. Kali was beautiful in a Photoshopped sort of way, and no doubt she would do wonders for Connor’s career. Kali Lyndon, however, was wrong for him.
Estelle halted the mental prattle because she had arrived. She had been so involved in her internal dialogue she had not even noticed where she was. All the fears rushed back in a tsunami that locked her up tight. She could not breathe, much less force herself to cross the street. She steadied herself with one hand on the nearest parking meter and tried to tell herself that this was why she had come. This was why she had hired the detective and gone through nights of soul-searching and flown across the country and . . .
Then she saw Connor Larkin step through the entrance.
