by Matt Coyle
“Then why don’t you go down the block to the police station if it’s that serious?” Her tone softened down to annoyed.
“When the time comes, I will. But right now, I just need you to answer a couple questions. That’s all. No threats about going to the newspaper. No making you look bad in front of Windsor. Just a couple questions.”
Gloria looked around like she’d suddenly realized we were outside. She squeezed her hands together in front of herself. Finally, “What do you want to know?”
“What did Windsor do after I left the bank the other day?”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant or any of your business.”
“Come on, Gloria.” I was more tired of this dance than she was. “Answer a couple questions and I’m gone. What did he do?”
She let go a breath and shook her head. “He went back to his office. Does that solve your great mystery?”
“Did he make a phone call?”
“I don’t keep track of his every move.” She threw her hands up.
“But you did keep track of his moves that day because you were afraid he was upset with you and you wanted to smooth things over. Didn’t you?”
Gloria looked me dead in my good eye. For about five seconds, then her eyes found the ground.
“Did he make a call?” I asked.
“Yes.” Her face flushed, but not out of anger. “I went into his office after you left to apologize for him having to deal with an asshole like you, and he was on the phone. But so what? Bankers make phone calls like everybody else. That’s hardly a crime.”
She was right. Bankers made phone calls like everyone else. But I think this call went to the person who hired the team to bug my house. The team broke in. That was a crime.
“Did you hear any of the call?”
“No. He asked me to leave his office and told me that he’d talk to me after he was done with the call.”
“What did he say to you after he was done?”
“I’ve answered enough questions, Mr. Cahill. I’m not going to tell you about personal conversations I had with my boss.”
“You told me that it was unusual for Windsor to witness the opening of a deceased’s safe deposit box. You know that there’s something not quite right about this whole thing. You’re too smart not to. What did he say?”
She looked at her shoes again. I waited. She didn’t make a move to go back inside. She wanted to tell me. I just had to shut up and let her.
Finally, “He told me to call him if you ever contacted me or came in again.”
“Do me a favor and wait about an hour before you call him.”
“Why should I do you a favor?” This time she didn’t have any problem holding my eyes. “All you’ve done since I met you is cause problems.”
“I’m irritating, I know. But I’m guessing Jules Windsor doesn’t ask you to call him every time an irritating customer comes into the bank.” My eyebrows went up in case my words weren’t strong enough on their own. “All I’ve done is be a squeaky wheel, jump through the bank’s hoops, and examine the contents of my late father’s safe deposit box. Because of that, the president of the bank shows up to witness a common banking procedure, something he’s never done before, and then he makes a phone call after he sees what’s inside the box, and a couple guys …”
I left it there, touched my black eye, and let her fill in the blanks. Gloria had been right. I’d do anything to get my way. Relying on sympathy, included.
“Someone attacked you?” Her eyes went big and she put her hand over her mouth. Violence wasn’t a part of everyday banking life.
“A couple of someones. And I’m pretty sure they did so as a result of the phone call your boss made the day we opened my father’s safe deposit box. Something’s not right about the whole thing. I just need an hour head start to find out what it is.”
“Maybe you’re right, but my daughter depends on me staying employed.” She turned and opened the door to the bank.
“Just give me an hour. Please.”
Gloria entered the bank without saying another word.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
JULES WINDSOR DIDN’T have an ocean view, but he had his own little hill and about an acre of La Jolla real estate to look out over. The estate took up three lots on La Jolla Rancho Road, a mile down the shadow of Mount Soledad. A sprawling ranch house, more stately than modern, sat on a crest of the hill. Old money. Old La Jolla banking money. I stared up at the house through a closed wrought-iron gate. A Bentley sat on the crown of the red brick driveway in front of the house. The license plate read Windsor BT. You didn’t have to be a private investigator to figure out the car belonged to Jules.
I pushed the button on the intercom built into the gate’s brick stanchion. No chance for a ruse to get inside the gate and surprise Windsor with a knock on his front door. The closed-circuit camera staring down at me from atop the stanchion nixed that idea.
“Yes?” A woman’s voice.
“Rick Cahill to see Mr. Windsor.”
“One moment, please.” Ten seconds later, the woman came back on. “I’m sorry. Mr. Windsor is busy. Perhaps you could call ahead next time and make an appointment.”
“Okay.”
Her side clicked off. I pushed the button again.
“Yes.” A slight hiss on the end of the “S”.
“This is Rick Cahill. I’d like to make an appointment with Mr. Windsor for the next moment he’s available. I’m nearby and can be there in a moment’s notice.”
“Please leave or I’ll be forced to call the police.” She clicked off.
I wasn’t ready to see LJPD again. Yet. Now I’d never know if Gloria Nakamura gave me that hour or ratted me out. Didn’t matter. I wasn’t getting inside.
I’d parked my car in front on the street below the gate. The camera was focused on the gate area.
The fence that surrounded the estate was covered in ivy, à la Wrigley Field. You couldn’t see in, but they couldn’t see out, either. The entrance gate and the gate that opened to the driveway twenty yards in the other direction were the only vantage points in or out. I scanned the top of the fence for other cameras. Just one pointed down at the driveway entrance. None pointed at my car.
I peeked through the opening between the gate and stanchion. Windsor’s house had a four-car garage. His Bentley was parked out front. If he was in for the day, the Bentley would be in the garage. It was a Bentley, not a Chevy SUV ready for another load of kids. Bentleys don’t stay out at night. Windsor would be heading out sometime before the end of the day.
La Jolla Rancho Road didn’t have sidewalks or even curbs. The estates’ boundaries just rolled right out to the street. No other cars were parked on the street. If you came to visit, each home had plenty of driveway to accommodate you and all your friends.
Staking out Windsor and waiting for him to leave without being noticed wouldn’t be easy. I got into my car and decided to do a quick reconnaissance of the area. A black Jeep Grand Cherokee rolled up and angled in front of me before I could pull out. La Jolla Private Security in white paint along the side. Tinted windows.
Windsor hadn’t called LJPD. He’d called his own police force. I punched the ignition off and waited for an ex-cop or a couldn’t-make-it cop to jump out of the Jeep and bring his attitude over to my window. I didn’t have to wait long and I got a bonus.
Two men with balloon chests stretching the seams of black La Jolla Private Security uniforms, beach volleyball Ray Bans, and Sig Sauer pistols strapped to their sides exited the Jeep and took cop vehicle stop positions. One circled behind my car on the passenger side and the other circled around me to stand behind my left ear, making me turn to look at him. Neither had pulled their Sigs. Highlight of the day.
I thought back to my father’s days as a security guard after he left the force. He didn’t drive around in an expensive late-model war wagon wearing a new custom-fitted uniform patrolling neighborhoods full of luxury homes. His twenty-two yea
rs on the force couldn’t get him that kind of job. The rumors of his corruption were in the coastal breeze that blew across La Jolla. No one of Jules Windsor’s stature would allow a bent man like Charlie Cahill to patrol his neighborhood. The best he could do was pace up and down a strip mall located on his old beat, protecting a liquor store, a frozen yogurt shop, and a Chinese restaurant. No gun. No badge. No dignity.
I was only ten at the time and didn’t understand why he’d changed uniforms and jobs or why Uncle Bob never came over for dinner anymore. I asked him once why he no longer wore a badge.
He told me, “I don’t wear one on the outside anymore, but I still wear one inside, close to my heart.”
That heart shrunk over the next nine years as he drank more and more and lost job after job until he just gave up.
The rent-a-cop standing next to my window didn’t wear a badge either. But he acted like he did.
“May I ask what you’re doing parked in front of this residence?” Buzz cut. Hoarse voice caught in his throat.
“I don’t think so.”
“In fact, I can. La Jolla Private Security has been contracted by residents in the area to provide them with round-the-clock security. Under the law, we are able to question and hold suspects who pose a threat to the residents until the police arrive.”
“Considering the only things posing here are you and your partner, I’m free to leave. So, move your wannabe-cop SUV out of my right to the road or we can all talk to lawyers.”
“Why don’t I call someone down at LJPD instead, and we can all wait here until they arrive and then you can explain why you’re harassing Mr. Windsor.”
“Go ahead. Make the call.” All in on a semi-bluff. My cards weren’t great, but I gambled that they were better than the rent-a-cop’s. “If you’re not going to move your toy truck, I’ve got plenty of time. Maybe you should check with old Jules before you make the call, though. He may not be as eager as you think to discuss with the police why I want to talk to him.”
That one stunned him. No quick retort. I couldn’t see his eyes behind his Ray Bans, but they were probably whirling in thought. Finally, “Wait here.”
He walked to the back of my car and conferred with his twin. The twin nodded and stared at me while the leader pulled a cell phone from his pocket and made a call. He had a conversation with someone that I couldn’t hear. He put the phone back in his pocket and walked over to me.
“You and your car are now on file with us as a possible threat to this neighborhood. If you harass Mr. Windsor again, or anyone else in this neighborhood, or are even found loitering in the area, there won’t be a discussion the next time we stop you.”
I let him have the last word. What I’d learned from our encounter was worth the hassle. The twins got back into their Jeep and backed up behind me. I drove away slowly. They trailed behind me for a few hundred yards, then whipped an illegal U-turn and sped off in the opposite direction to enforce the will of the wealthy elite of La Jolla.
I waved good-bye in my rearview mirror. I should have blown them kisses. Windsor knew my reputation with LJPD. He knew if he’d let the La Jolla Private Security guard call the police, LJPD would make the rest of my day, and possibly night, miserable. That would have been the most obvious and effective way to stop me from bothering him. But he passed. Because he was afraid what I might say to the police about why I wanted to talk to him. I didn’t even know what exactly it was he feared that I knew.
But I was certain he was hiding something. And that he, or whoever he called after I left the bank the other day, had hired the crew that bugged my house.
Whatever Windsor was hiding had something to do with my father, the contents of his safe deposit box, and the twenty-eight-year-old murder of Trent Phelps.
* * *
Moira called me on the drive home.
“Got ’em.”
“Who?”
“The assholes who bugged your house and gave you the black eye, dummy.” A little lightness to her voice. More bongos than snare drum. Maybe this was what friendship sounded like.
“Who are they?”
“Edward Armstrong and Jamal Ketchings. They go by Discreet Investigations. They’re out of Fairbanks Ranch. They don’t even have a website. Strictly word of mouth.”
“Any criminal records?” I asked.
“No. They both spent over a decade in the Army. Must have been how they met. Get this—they were both in military intelligence.”
“Military intelligence covers a lot of ground. They could have gathered intel for troop movements or worked as spooks. Nice prerequisite for spying on people and planting bugs. How did you find them?”
“I’ve been at this game for fifteen years.” Back to the snare drum. “I’ve made a lot of friends along the way. Friends who know things. You should try making a new friend every once in a while.”
“I don’t have to. I have you. Especially now that we’re friends.”
“You’re pushing it, Cahill.”
“Give me the address of Discreet Investigations. I want to go make some new friends.”
She gave me the address.
“You want to come with me?” I asked.
“I have a better idea.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Shut up and listen.” She let out a breath. “These guys are exmilitary. They probably have an arsenal at their office.”
“They didn’t seem like rough and tumble types to me.”
“You mean when they gave you a black eye and got away from you?”
“Sneak attack. Two against one,” I said.
“Whatever. You don’t have to be tough to pull a trigger. Listen, how about I hire them for a job. We have them come to my house. I tell them that I think my boyfriend is cheating on me and I want them to bug the house we share because I have to go away on business. That way, we get them on our turf. Fewer guns. You can surprise them and threaten to go to the police for breaking into your house. Some leverage to get them to spill on who hired them.”
“That’s why you have seventy-five hundred in an envelope in your back pocket. You’re smart.”
“You forgot charming.”
“Yeah. That, too. When are you going to set this ruse up?”
“Ah, I already did.” Not the usual staccato voice. “Tonight at seven.”
“Who’s running this investigation?”
“Me.”
“I guess you are. Thanks for including me.” Another call buzzed my phone. “See you tonight.”
“Roger.”
I checked my screen for the incoming call. La Jolla Police Department. I should have known.
After good news, there’s always some bad to follow. I answered.
“Mr. Cahill, this is Detective Sheets.” The grad student voice. Friendly. “I’m hoping you can come down to the station and talk. It shouldn’t take long. Could you make some time today or tomorrow?”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“We just want to tie up some loose ends about your discovery of Sophia Domingo’s body.”
“I can be down in ten minutes.” I’d learned over the years it’s best to take bad news head-on. Or maybe I just had a hard head.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THE LA JOLLA Police Department was in an old white brick building that had once been the La Jolla Library. Not much had changed on the outside of the building known as the Brick House in the twenty-seven years since my father had worked there. Maybe a paint job or two, but it still looked the same as when my father brought me to work for the last ride-along I took with him when I was nine. Everything in our lives would change within a year later.
My sweat glands went Pavlovian as soon as I entered the building. Not from what happened to my father. I had my own history with the Brick House. A woman in a starched blue uniform with sergeant stripes sat behind the raised desk in the lobby. Blond, younger than me, intelligent eyes. She actually smiled. An improvement to the young and old fl
attops and pointed attitudes I’d had to deal with in my other Brick House encounters.
Even so, sweat still slid down from my underarms.
“Rick Cahill to see Detective Sheets.”
“One moment, please.” She picked up a phone and told someone I was downstairs. “Detective Sheets will be right down.”
Still smiling. She must not have known my and my family’s history with LJPD. I thought they taught a class on it at the police academy. Detective Sheets came down the stairs from Robbery/Homicide holding a leather portfolio. He thanked me for coming, and we shook hands like we were new friends, then he led me up the stairs to the Homicide division. The sweat pump under my arms, which had fallen back to neutral, slammed into overdrive as soon as we turned down the hall leading to the interrogation rooms.
Sheets stopped at the nearest room on the left, pushed open the door, and flipped the light switch. The small room went white from two buzzing fluorescent light bulbs above. A small table with three chairs in the corner. One chair facing the door and the camera hanging over it. My chair. I’d sat in it a couple times over the last four years and mostly told the truth. Today I didn’t have anything to lie about. Still, the sweat pumped.
I followed Sheets in. He left the door open, signifying I could leave at any time. But I knew if I left before Sheets got what he wanted from me, I’d probably end up back in the same room again. And the door would be closed the next time.
“Have a seat, Mr. Cahill.” Sheets pointed at the seat I already knew to take. A bottle of water sat on the table in front of me. I hoped I wouldn’t stay long enough to get thirsty. Sheets sat down kitty-corner to me and set the portfolio on the table. He didn’t open it. Good. I didn’t need to see crime scene photos of what I’d seen in person and still saw in my dreams at night.
“Call me Rick. Let’s keep it friendly.” I turned off my phone to show him how he’d get my full attention. Friendly like.
The red light on the camera over the door lit up. Action.
