“You’re staring at me,” he said.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Davie felt embarrassed that he’d noticed, so she deflected the awkwardness by wiping the sticky tabletop with a paper napkin dipped in water. “So, did Brink act alone?”
Striker looked skeptical, like he knew she was withholding something but he wasn’t sure why. “Angela said her brother flew to Vancouver and planned to drive across the border from Canada, but when he found out Brink had already killed Zeke and Juno, he knew it was too dangerous. Latham claims he had nothing to do with the murders. He and his attorney have agreed to talk to us. Q and I are flying to Hong Kong in a day or two to question him.”
Davie felt a twinge of regret that she wouldn’t be in on that interrogation. Striker was a good detective. She would miss working with him, but once she transferred back to Pacific she would likely never see him again except in passing. It was the LAPD way. The department made vagabonds of its sworn personnel.
Striker loosened his tie. Silk, she guessed, with geometric shapes in shades of blue, including a sapphire tone that matched his eye color. She wondered if he’d figured that out by himself or if he’d had help. Salesperson? Wife? Girlfriend? It was a reminder of how little she knew about him. He eased his back into the chair and stretched out his legs, brushing his knee against hers.
She shot him a look.
He moved his leg. “Sorry.”
“No problem.” She wondered if his invasion of her personal space was inadvertent or intentional but was somewhat disappointed to see nothing in his expression that indicated the gesture was a come-on.
“I almost forgot,” Striker said, reaching inside his duffle bag. “I bought this for you at the Seattle airport.” He pulled out what looked like a compact umbrella. “You seem to have water issues. This won’t help next time you fall in a river, but it’ll definitely protect you from the rain, and it fits in a briefcase or even a pocket when you travel.”
Davie remembered Striker watching her when she returned to RHD from Seattle, still damp from the downpour. He hadn’t mentioned her appearance, but he must have noticed. She listened as he went on to point out the umbrella’s unique engineering features that allowed it to fold up into its small sleeve. The umbrella was a thoughtful gesture and the technical lecture was … Davie wondered if it would be excessive to call it charming. She fumbled for an appropriate response, but a simple thank-you seemed inadequate.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” she asked.
Striker crossed his arms and frowned. “Depends on how personal.”
“You have a tattoo on the inside of your right arm. What does it say?”
He didn’t respond for what seemed like a long time. “Why are you asking?”
Davie leaned forward. “Because I hate not knowing things.”
He nodded as if he understood the impulse and then his expression softened. “It’s a story I don’t share with many people.”
“But you’ll share it with me.”
His lips pressed together in a noncommittal smile. “We’ll see how it goes.”
42
Davie left the parking lot and walked into the cemetery grounds, burdened by the weight of the heavy tote draped over her shoulder. Nearby, a gardener fired up a leaf blower. A moment later she realized the noise hadn’t made her flinch. She paused when she saw all the white crosses—men and women who’d served in the military, many who had died for the cause. She thought of the oath she had taken when she’d graduated from the police academy, to protect and to serve. Her job was dangerous, but somehow, it wasn’t the same as trading fire day after day in conflict zones in faraway countries. And yet, she had also killed to save lives. Twice.
She didn’t presume to understand what happened between soldiers in war, but she and Lunds had shared a near-death experience that created a bond she would never forget. She hoped he felt the same. People processed emotions in different ways. Lunds had saved her life and she was grateful. Spencer Hall had never been able thank her for saving his life. The roses might have been his way of making amends. Maybe she’d ask him.
Shannon Woodrow had Zeke’s body flown back to Iowa for burial in the family plot outside of Albia. Telling her about the circumstances surrounding her father’s death was difficult, but watching Lynda Morrow’s emotional meltdown was hard to watch. It was a trite notion, but maybe understanding the death and violence Zeke endured but never shared would finally allow her to move on. That seemed to already be happening. Zeke’s Santa Barbara house was in Shannon’s name, but Lynda and her husband offered to pay the insurance, taxes, and upkeep so her daughter could keep the house Zeke loved. In return, Shannon suggested they use the cottage for holidays and family get-togethers.
Harlan Cormack’s cremated remains were scattered in a rose garden ossuary in St. Joseph, Missouri, near the graves of his parents and grandparents. Juno Karst had no family, at least none Davie had been able to find, so she had found a final resting place for his urn in a columbarian niche in the veteran’s section of a cemetery in West L.A. She’d tried the Veteran’s Cemetery on Wilshire, the one she’d seen from Alden Brink’s office window the first time they’d met. It seemed like a fitting place for Juno, but the cemetery was full. It hadn’t accepted new burials in forty years. There should be a rule, she thought. When the cemeteries are full, all wars must end.
A weight settled on her chest as she saw Dag Lunds sitting on a bench waiting for her. He wasn’t Juno’s biological brother, but he was a brother nonetheless, so together they would give Karst his final sendoff.
Lunds got up from the bench as she came closer. They embraced for a brief moment before she led him to the niche where Juno’s ashes rested. She’d ordered a nameplate but it hadn’t yet been installed, so yesterday she’d written some words on a post-it note and taped it to the metal so she could easily find the spot again.
Lunds ran his fingers over the niche and bowed his head. Grief had etched deep crevices in his face. His eyes seemed haunted with the violence he’d seen and the memories that would never go away. She wanted to reach out to him, touch his hand, but she held back.
She set the tote on the ground. “I’ll leave you alone if you’d like.”
He squeezed his eyes closed. “Stay.”
Lunds remained quiet for a few moments, long enough to say his goodbyes. She didn’t want to cry, not in front of him, so she redirected her focus toward the nearby chapel. The doors were open. About a hundred people dressed in black sat on benches and listened to a woman singing a capella—“Amazing Grace.” Her voice was plaintive but comforting. Davie’s breathing became deep and rhythmic until she regained control of her emotions.
“I never asked,” she said. “Why did you call him Juno?”
A faint smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “It was a nickname we gave him back in basic training. Juno read everything he could get his hands on, from romance novels to Popular Science magazines. Factoids? He loved them and wanted to share everything with us, even when we didn’t want him to. Didn’t matter to him. He just laughed it off. He was always like ‘Did you know that Saturn is the second biggest planet in our solar system?’ Or ‘Did you know only the female black widow’s bite is dangerous to humans?’ He’d get so excited about the telling that his words would run together. They came out sounding like ‘Juno that Saturn’ or ‘Juno black widow spiders.’ It got to be funny, so we started calling him Juno. He didn’t seem to mind, so the name stuck.”
Davie watched as the mourners filed out of the chapel. “You once told me you wouldn’t go to Asia on assignment. Is that because of what happened with John Latham?”
He shook his head. “I went back once. A couple of years ago TidePool sent me to Ho Chi Minh City. The war had been over for a long time and I thought it would be interesting to see the place again. There was an old man on the street selling pieces of fish from a bowl.
He called to me in perfect English, so I went over to see what he wanted. He told me he worked for the US during the war. When Saigon fell, he didn’t make it onto that last helicopter. The North Vietnamese Army arrested him and sent him to prison. He never saw his wife and child again. I’ll never forget the way he looked at me—pure hate. Even after all those years, I think he would have killed me if he’d had the means. After that, I swore I’d never go back again. Ever.”
Davie saw the pallbearers wheel the casket toward a waiting hearse. “I wish I could have saved Zeke’s life. All their lives.”
His face looked pinched and weary. “You saved mine. Zeke would have liked that.”
“I’m sorry I never got to meet him.”
“He was a good man,” Lunds said. “They all were. All gone, except for me.”
The LAPD had made Davie sit through enough therapy sessions with a department shrink to recognize survivor’s guilt, but any attempt to counsel him would be playing shrink.
Davie watched the mourners walk along the road toward the gravesite, led by a woman who looked too young to be a widow. “I don’t know why you survived and they didn’t. I’m just glad you’re still around.”
“I’m alive because you saw a pattern and didn’t take no for an answer.”
“And I’m alive because you pulled me out of that river.”
He put his callused hands on her shoulders, brushed a windblown red curl from her forehead, and planted a fatherly kiss in its place. “It’s been great meeting you, Davie Richards. I just wish it had been under happier circumstances.”
“Will you be okay?”
He removed his hands from her shoulders and stared at Juno’s niche. “When I got home from Vietnam, I visited a guy in a hospital in Fort Campbell. He was suffering from PTSD and doing the Thorizine Shuffle. Every time he heard a door slam he’d hide under his bed. I thought he was weak and that it could never happen to me. After the Gulf War, I understood that PTSD can happen to anybody at any time.”
“We call it The Limit. It’s that last dead body you see before you can’t take it anymore.” She paused for a moment to think where she was on that spectrum but found her passion for the work still intact. “Where will you go now?”
“Oregon,” Lunds said. “I’m going to spend a week or two with my son. When I get back this way, I hope it’s okay to call you.”
She picked up the new cat tote she’d bought and handed it to him. It was softer and easier to handle than the old one. “Thanks for adopting Hootch. I think Zeke would have wanted him to stay with family.”
Lunds unzipped the top and draped Hootch over his shoulder. “He’s a fine-looking animal.” He buried his face in the cat’s fur and stroked his back. “I’ll take good care of him, don’t you worry. And thanks for giving Juno a proper send off. I’ll never forget it.”
She watched as he slid the cat carrier into the back of his SUV and got into the front seat. She wasn’t sure she was ready to see either one of them go, but it was too late now. Lunds gave her a final salute and drove out through the cemetery gates.
Striker was leaning against the city ride waiting for her, his arms crossed and his brow furrowed. The sun highlighted his long straight nose and the dusting of silver hair at his temples. “How did it go?”
She leaned next to him against the car and stared at the ground. “I’ve had better days.”
“You having second thoughts about Hootch?”
She squeezed her eyes closed and thought about his question. Truth was she’d grown fond of the cat. She would miss him. But Lunds had just lost his three best friends and he was suffering. Hootch had been Zeke’s cat and now he’d be Lunds’s comfort cat. She hoped they’d help each other work through the pain.
Davie met Striker’s gaze. “No second thoughts.” It was a lie, but whether it was a big lie or a small one had yet to be determined.
Striker stared at the gravestones in the distance. “I thought you’d want to know. SID opened Zeke’s computer with that code you found on Hootch’s microchip. They confirmed Zeke’s letter to the Army was stored on the hard drive.”
Davie’s phone pinged with an incoming text. It was Jason Vaughn, wondering where she was.
She centered herself and then turned to Striker. “Can you drop me off at Pacific?”
“Maybe your partner can pick you up on his horse.”
She smiled. “He hasn’t mentioned the Mounted Unit for a day or two. I think he’s moved on.”
Striker returned her smile and then folded himself into the driver’s seat.
Before joining him in the car, Davie tapped a reply on her phone: On my way. See you there.
About the Author
Patricia Smiley (Los Angeles, CA) is a bestselling mystery author whose short fiction has appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine and Two of the Deadliest, an anthology edited by Elizabeth George. Patricia has taught writing classes at various conferences throughout the US and Canada, and she served on the board of directors of the Southern California Chapter of Mystery Writers of America and as president of Sisters in Crime/Los Angeles. Visit her online at www.PatriciaSmiley.com.
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