Wipe Out

by Jeff Shelby

  “Okay,” he said, coming back on the line. “Henderson comma Mitchell.” Keys tapped in the background. “Cause of death was traumatic injury as a result of the car accident. Oh, yeah, I remember this from last week now.” The keys clicked again. “I'm not sure there's anything weird here. Looks like he hit some water and went through the guardrail. They have him doing 60 in a 50. Was on a curve. Guardrail had been recently replaced so it wasn't faulty. Nothing funny with the autopsy.” He tapped a key hard and it echoed through the phone. “Looks legit.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Can you talk to whoever the investigator was on it?”

  “I could, but I'm not sure I want to,” he said. “Poronas is a cocky little asshole and never picks up a check.”

  “But you could. Just to get a few more details.”

  “I could.”

  I waited for a moment.

  The line buzzed.

  “I'll buy you dinner,” I said. “It'd be nice for us to catch up over a long meal.”

  “Just drop off some fish tacos,” he said. “I don't need the company. I'll see if I can get Poronas to stop puffing out his chest long enough to talk to me about it.”

  He hung up.

  SEVEN

  “It's nice to finally see you,” Carolina Braddock said to me, smiling.

  I tried to smile back. “Yeah.”

  I'd showered after hanging up with Wellton and then headed down into Mission Beach for a long-avoided breakfast with my long-avoided mother. We were sitting at a table near the front window of The Mission Cafe. She was blowing across the top of her coffee and I was hoping the food would arrive in a hurry.

  “It's been a while,” she said, sipping from the black mug.

  I nodded.

  “Why haven't I heard from you?” she asked.

  “Because you haven't been home?” I said. “I stopped by a while back. Your neighbor told me you were out of town. With some guy.”

  She blinked like she was trying to remember, but color flushed in her cheeks and I knew she knew exactly when I was talking about.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Spur of the moment thing. I must've forgotten to let you know.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Must've.”

  She reached across the table and put her hand on mine. “How are you?”

  I knew what she was asking. How was I now that Liz was gone. Which would've been a fine question months earlier, but now, it felt phony and pointless. It wasn't like it had just happened. Yes, I'd left for Florida right after it happened, but I'd been back in San Diego for a while now.

  “I'm fine,” I said, pulling my hand back and reaching for my water. “How are you?”

  “I'm good,” she said.

  She didn't appear hung over, so I considered that a victory. Her long hair was brushed back, her skin was slightly sunburned, and her eyes seemed clear. It was far different from the look I'd grown up seeing – hair that hadn't been washed or brushed in days, porcelain white skin that hadn't seen the sun, and eyes so bloodshot it was like the Bloody Marys she plied herself with had started filling up her sockets.

  “And sober,” she added, smirking at me. “As I'm assuming that's your real question.”

  “Yeah,” I said, nodding. “It is.”

  She'd been on and off the wagon for years. Knocking on her front door was like opening a grab bag. You never knew what you were going to get. I knew that when she was determined, she could stay dry for as long as she decided to. But I also knew that when the determination waned, she'd be out of it for days.

  “Then you can be reassured,” Carolina said. “I am sober.”

  She didn't say for how long and that made me automatically assume it was once again a relatively new development.

  Our food arrived and we ate in silence for a few minutes. The pancakes I'd ordered were good, and I was hungry, but my stomach had a way of shrinking when I was with my mother.

  “What are you doing for work these days?” she asked, after finishing her eggs and toast.

  “The same,” I told her. “Investigating.”

  “You're still able to do that?”

  “I'm still able to do that, yes.”

  She set down her napkin on her plate. “Alright. Here's another question. Why the hostility this morning?”

  “I'm not hostile.”

  She tilted her head to the side and stared at me. I remembered the look from when I was a kid and tried telling her a lie.

  “I am not dumb, Noah,” she said. “Why the hostility?”

  I drained my water glass and looked around for our server, but couldn't find her. “I don't know. Because you took off out of town with some guy and I didn't know about it? Because I've barely heard from you in the last few months and I know what that usually means?” I shrugged. “Take your pick.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “You know, I recognize that I am not a perfect person, Noah. I have plenty of shortcomings. But I wish that you would recognize that you do, too.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  “It means that I didn't hear from you when you went to Florida,” she said pointedly. “Carter let me know. It means I didn't know when you'd returned to San Diego. Carter let me know. It means I had no idea where you're living until Carter told me.” She leaned forward. “So if your complaint about me is that I don't keep you informed about my life, I will argue the same about you.”

  The server finally came and refilled my water. I ate the last few bites of my pancakes and she returned to the table to clear both of our plates. She asked if we needed anything else and I told her just the check.

  “And I'll take that,” Carolina said. “Since I invited you to breakfast.”

  “You don't have to.”

  “I know I don't, but I am.”

  I acknowledged this with a nod. “Look, I'm sorry I haven't been the most communicative person in the world. I've just been trying to get my feet back under me here and I've had to find work and all that.”

  “Which is all okay, Noah,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I understand. But I would appreciate it if you wouldn't persecute me for something we're both guilty of.”

  It wasn't an unreasonable request, but it also wasn't one I was sure I could manage. I managed another nod.

  The server brought back the bill and stood at the edge of the table, unsure of who to hand the check to. My mother reached for it and I let her take it. The server looked relieved that we didn't brawl over it and hustled away.

  “I can pay for mine,” I said.

  “I will pay for both of ours since I invited you,” she said, laying cash on top of the bill and dropping her wallet into her purse.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You're welcome. Ready?”

  We walked outside, into the late morning sunshine, the smell of the ocean heavy in the air. Our cars were parked next to one another on San Jose, just around the corner.

  “I'd like to do this more often,” she said.

  “Walk to our cars?”

  She gave me a look.

  “I'm kidding,” I said. “You mean breakfast.”

  “I mean time together,” she said, stopping next to her car. “Whether it's meals or coffee or beers.” She smiled. “My turn to kid.”

  I shook my head.

  “But I'm serious,” she said, touching my forearm. “I would like to see you more often. I know you're working and have your own life. I'm not trying to intrude. I would just...like more of this.”

  It seemed I'd spent the majority of my life wishing for more of a connection with her, but then I'd crested that hill, and decided I didn't need it anymore. I wasn't sure if that was true or if it was just a defense mechanism, a way to avoid being disappointed. Again.

  “Okay,” I said.

  She studied me for a moment. “I'm not sure what okay means.”

  “Okay means okay,” I said. “We can try and do this more often.”

  She watch
ed me again, then finally nodded. “Alright. I hope so.” She squeezed my arm, walked around to the driver's side of her car and got in.

  I really wasn't sure what okay meant. Everything that had to do with Carolina always seemed to come with some sort of asterisk, as if there was some sort of underlying meaning.

  And I didn’t know if I wanted that.

  EIGHT

  I got back to the house and Carter was just heading down to the water. I changed out of my clothes, grabbed my board, and joined him.

  “Whoa,” he said, as we descended the stairs. “That is someone I've never seen before.”

  I followed his gazed.

  It was the woman I'd helped the night before. She was just getting to the sand. Same clothes as when I'd met her.

  “I should introduce myself,” Carter said. “She'd probably like to meet me.”

  “Yeah, you definitely should,” I said.

  “Stand back,” he said, as we reached the sand. “The sparks are gonna fly.”

  The woman glanced at us as we approached and a small grin spread on her lips.

  “It's so much hotter out here and now I know why,” Carter said, smiling at her. “We have not met before.”

  She stepped out of her sandals. “No, we have not.”

  “I'm Carter,” he said.

  She smiled. “How lovely for you.”

  “You're gonna surf?” he asked, undeterred.

  She looked at her board standing up in the sand, then back at him. “No. I'm going to fill out some job applications, then do some car shopping.”

  He laughed. “That's funny.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “You haven't told me your name,” he said.

  She smiled. “I know.”

  “So this may be a stupid question, but what's your name?” he asked.

  “There are no stupid questions,” she said, unbuttoning her shorts. “Just stupid people.”

  He looked at me. “Wow.”

  I nodded. “Wow is right.”

  “This is the company you keep?” she asked, looking at me now. “King Kong with dyed hair and bad pickup lines?” She made a clucking sound. “I expected a little more from you after you apologized last night.”

  Carter's face went slack and he looked at me. “Really?”

  “You didn't ask if I knew her.”

  He shook his head. “I didn't think you would know someone this attractive.”

  “Fair point, considering you're the one I hang around with the most.”

  He frowned, then looked at the woman. “My apologies for being obnoxious. I'm going to hit the water and cleanse my soul.” He strode off toward the water, his massive frame causing small tsunamis when he jumped on his board.

  “He's interesting,” she said.

  “You have no idea.”

  “I'm sure.”

  “But he's harmless,” I said. “Assuming he likes you, I mean.”

  “Of course,” she said, taking off the T-shirt and revealing a red rashguard that hugged her frame. She dropped the T-shirt on her shorts and sandals and squinted at me. “I was a bit harsh with you last night.”

  “And I was a bit of an assuming dumbass,” I said. “I saw you having a hard time, saw the license plates, and decided I already knew the whole story. My fault.”

  “I fed it a little,” she said, smirking. “Couldn't resist.”

  “You did a nice job.”

  She took a small bow. “Thank you. And the car belongs to my brother. He's visiting. And he thought he was helping me by strapping my board to the top of his car so I could borrow it.”

  “It all makes sense now,” I said. “I just haven't seen you down here before.”

  “I just moved down this way,” she said, plucking her board from the sand. “I lived up in North County, so I didn't come down here that often.” She looked at the water, throwing all of that red hair over her shoulder. “Your friend. He can surf a little.”

  “He's not bad,” I said.

  “Maybe I can offer him a few tips out there,” she said.

  I laughed. “Please, please do. Would make my day.”

  She laughed.

  “He was right about one thing, though,” I said.

  “What's that?”

  “You didn't tell him your name,” I said. “And you haven't told me, either.”

  “That's correct,” she said, tucking the board underneath her arm. “But you haven't told me yours, either.”

  “I'm Noah,” I said.

  She smiled, her green eyes sparkling in the sunlight. “It's nice to meet you, Noah. Let me know if you need any help in the water today. I can offer you tips, too. I watched you last night.” She upped the wattage on the smile. “You aren't terrible.”

  Then she jogged down toward the ocean, landed on her board, and paddled out to the lineup, leaving me there on the sand, shaking my head.

  NINE

  She did not offer either of us any tips.

  But she did carve up the water for a solid hour before heading back to the beach and disappearing up the stairs.

  “She really was good,” Carter said, when we were walking home.

  “Better than good,” I said.

  “Are you talking about her surfing or her—”

  “Her surfing,” I said. “I'm talking about her surfing.”

  “That was a dirty trick, setting me up for failure like that,” he said.

  “We all have free will. I didn't want to influence you in any way. And I thought maybe your charm might break through her frosty exterior.”

  “You're so full of shit I could plant vegetables on your head,” he said. “You will pay for that.”

  I laughed. “Was still worth it.”

  I set my board in the garage, showered, and was just finishing getting dressed when my phone vibrated on my bed. Wellton's number flashed on the screen.

  “Twice in one day,” I said, after tapping the screen. “It's like we're best friends now.”

  “I'm still looking for the fish tacos,” he growled.

  “I'll have 'em delivered.”

  “Accident looks more or less straight,” he said. “I've read through the file again and I talked to Poronas. That's 20 minutes of my life I'll never get back.”

  “Fun.”

  “Not. But I'm not seeing a whole lot that looks out of place,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  “The basics I gave you earlier are corroborated by Poronas,” he said. “Two things to take note of, if you're looking for things that might look a little weird. One, there wasn't much rubber laid on the freeway that might've indicated he'd hit the brakes before going over. Normally, that might trigger a closer look, but given the rain and the standing water on the road, it fits.”

  I leaned back on the bed. My hair was still damp and I could feel the moisture transfer to the pillow tucked behind my head. “Sure.”

  “Now, normally, we'd get a look at the vehicle, just to look at to see if there was some sort of malfunction,” Wellton said. “But the car caught fire on impact and there wasn't enough left. So we couldn't see the brake lines or the steering or anything like that.” He paused. “Because of the determined speed, the cause of the accident is officially listed as driver error.”

  “My friend claims he never would've been speeding,” I said.

  “A lot of people say that about their friends after accidents,” he pointed out. “And I'm not being an asshole. It's just that they try to justify what happened and they recall all of the times that their loved one or friend or colleague didn't drive recklessly. The problem is that they aren't always in that car and a lot of times, we drive differently when we're alone.”

  That was a very good point and something I hadn't considered.

  “I did run his name,” Wellton said. “Just to crosscheck. A little spooky that his wife and son died in an accident. You know about that?”

  “Yeah. Head-on collision, right?”

  “Correct.
Absolutely nothing weird about that one,” he explained. “I pulled the file. Straight up, the other driver was at fault and they were victims. Complete accident with the worst kind of ending.”

  “Yeah, that's what it sounded like,” I said. “Alright. I appreciate your checking on it.”

  “Sorry there's nothing else there,” he said. “And I want chips with the fish tacos.”

  “Noted. Thanks.”

  “Yep,” he said and hung up.

  I tossed the phone to the side and lay back on the bed. He hadn't told me anything I hadn't expected to hear. I knew that the most obvious answer is almost always the correct one. Mitchell Henderson hit a puddle in a rainstorm and skidded off the road. I think Anne knew it, too, so I was hoping that it might not come as a big shock.

  But, sometimes, the truth still sucked.

  TEN

  I called Anne and asked if she had time to meet for coffee. I didn't want to deliver the news over the phone. She was free and we agreed to meet at a coffee shop in PB, just up the road from The Blue Wave.

  She was sitting at the first table near the door when I walked in and waved. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and she wore a purple T-shirt over black leggings. It was a rustic wood table, with two matching chairs. They looked like they’d been cobbled together with old barn wood.

  “I just ordered,” she told me.

  I slid gently into the chair across from her, hoping not to encounter any splinters. “I'm actually okay. I don't need anything.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  The barista called her name and she walked over to pick up the coffee, then returned to our table. She lifted the lid off, blew across the top, and took a tentative sip. She set it on the table and looked at me. “So,” she said, her voice tainted with a blend of both expectation and anticipation.

  “So I talked to a friend of mine,” I said. “He's a cop and he was able to get the accident file and talk to the investigator that handled the accident.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “And it all checks out,” I told her. “I'm sorry.”