The night was still alive with laughter and music. Lots of people were partying on their docked boats. Wes started asking around. Eventually he found some drunken college kids who were about to sail all night on a dare. He used Rosa's money to hitch a lift back to Santa Monica. The boat drifted silently into the night. Catalina backed away like a whore in sparkling silk. It faded into the cold darkness and disappeared.
One of the college kids had a laptop open and signed on to the internet. While the guy was throwing up over the side, Wes tracked down the website for Notre Dame High School and the year he'd graduated. Then back one year because she'd said he was a class ahead of her. He scrolled through every single name and picture and she wasn't there.
No one named Jessie Keaton. Not one girl who even looked like the one from the train station. No Miss Hot.
The suitcase.
Knowing the ISP would only be traceable back to this laptop and a drunken college kid who didn't even know his name, Wes sent a terse email to [email protected]. Even if the girl was dead already, and unaffiliated with whoever had killed his dad and Rosa and come after him, Wes figured that whoever they were, they'd be tracking her mail. Someone would get the message or pass it along.
His note read: You want it. I have it. Will be in touch.
SIXTEEN
Thursday evening
Stella and Callahan made love for a second time before they finally got around to eating the salad. Afterwards, they took a long walk along Ventura Boulevard. Most restaurants were closed for the night, but some bars and coffee joints remained open. Two guitar players held court outside a Starbucks, playing for tips. Callahan tossed change into their guitar cases. Stella listened intently, her eyes closed.
Part of Mick was a little shocked by how quickly and easily they'd come together. He thought he'd outgrown one night stands. Stella was different somehow. She had an ease about her that was difficult to pin down, but she certainly seemed like a woman comfortable in her own skin. She did not show any need for reassurance or support, or any trace of second thoughts. Callahan's responses were the stereotypical female ones. He felt guilty about betraying Darlene despite the fact that she was involved with someone else, and a little afraid of getting his feelings hurt by someone new.
They got coffee to go and stopped at a bookstore that was open late. Old fashioned bookstores were fast disappearing in the age of electronic books, so Callahan loved to haunt them. Kind of ironic that the bigger chains had driven many small mom and pop operations out of business, and now the chain stores, despite offering coffee and book clubs and speakers and all the other things the little stores once specialized in, were giving way to the age of the internet. They were going down like pine needles in a hale storm.
They prowled like divers looking for undiscovered treasure, down through history and mystery and true crime and the newly released popular fiction. Callahan enjoyed himself. So, apparently, did Stella. Somehow wandering around suggested book descriptions at Amazon, though fun, didn't feel quite the same, especially on a first date. Stella was a bright and articulate girl, with an independence and toughness about her. Still, beyond this initial infatuation, Callahan wasn't at all certain they'd go anywhere, Darlene was a tough person to match, though Stella certainly appeared to have a lot of the right stuff. They filled in the blanks. He spoke of Nevada, growing up on the ranch, but left out a lot of the abuse. Why bother?
"Me, I was born and raised in Iowa," she said. "So I know something about farms and living close to the land. I fed the chickens and milked the cows, all the usual stuff."
"A pretty rare thing these days."
"Yes, it is."
Two teen bangers rolled by on skateboards. The first, a thin kid in shorts and a wife beater, busted a cool move, spun around and roared down the sidewalk. People stopped to watch. The second kid hopped the curb, went flying, bumped a fire hydrant, fell and skinned his elbow. Stella laughed. Callahan winced. He started to get up to help, but she grabbed his arm. He waited. The kid was red-faced, but okay. His friend laughed too. The hurt boy shook it off, pressed the bottom of his shirt against the wound. He and his buddy rode away without looking back.
Callahan appraised Stella, one eyebrow raised. "You're pretty tough."
She shrugged. "You don't get much slack from me for acting just plain dumb."
"Been dumb enough times in my life to see the wisdom in that. Did your Mom really listen to me on the radio?"
"Yeah, she did. But I was already seventeen, Callahan, so quit letting it make you feel like an old man."
"I'll do my best, but I can hear forty sneaking closer, you know?"
"Are you starting a premature mid-life crisis on me here, or something?"
"Or something."
They walked some more, not saying much. The air grew cooler. They stopped again outside a juice bar. The waiter brought them water and two menus. They weren't hungry, just occupying a table and killing some more time. Callahan wondered if Stella wanted him to stay, or was just being polite. He couldn't tell. She was always polite, pleasant, but somehow detached at the same time, difficult to read.
A small plane grumbled by, probably on its way back to Burbank airport. Tires screeched a block or two over. A moth careened into the heater and fried.
Stella leaned forward on the small table. Her iced tea tinkled slightly like far away sleigh bells. A business a couple of doors down dimmed its lights twice to indicate they were closing up. They were running out of places to hide.
Out of nowhere, Stella said, "I believe we have right now, and nothing else but that. So we shouldn't waste a single minute."
"I sometimes tell my clients that everything is hurtling through space at 186,000 miles a second on a spinning ball, and we are trying to keep things from changing. The things we struggle to manage don't always turn out well. Often it makes more sense to just go with it." Callahan looked down at the table. He studied his thumbprint on the glass. "Sometimes that's an easy thing to do, sometimes not."
She studied him for a moment, gravely but not without warmth. "You're carrying somebody around on your back, aren't you? Maybe a woman? Someone you're not over."
"What do you mean?"
"Don't be an ass, Mick. You're a shrink. It kind of shows."
Callahan didn't answer. Which was all the answer she needed.
"It's okay, I've got no claim here. Can I ask you something?"
"Sure." Callahan looked up again, directly at her. "Shoot."
"Are you going to come back all fired up and tear into Marvin Roth and Quinn one of these days? Because if you are, I really don't want to be around."
"Would make sense to make sure you're not. I'll do what I can about that."
"So the answer is yes."
Callahan shrugged. "It depends on whether or not I can prove something, Stella."
"Prove what?"
"Look, it's like this. He may have had something to do with what happened to a friend of mine."
"And what happened to your friend?"
"He's dead."
Stella just looked at him.
"He was a pro bono client, and I was trying to help him out. He owed money to Roth, and couldn't pay it back. Someone killed him last night. That's what got me so wound up. I was being stupid about it, and I'm grateful you had the instinct to break things up."
"If I had known it was that serious, I might have left you to your own devices, cowboy."
"Wouldn't blame you" He watched an elderly couple get into their car, then continued. "Calvin was his name. He has a son. The kid went to Vegas with their last bit of cash and tried to gamble them out of it. News flash, the house won."
"Damn," she said, softly. "So somebody killed Calvin?"
Callahan nodded. Guilt burned a hole behind his belt buckle. He covered by sipping some ice water.
"Wow, I have to say that feels like one hell of a lot of trouble to go through over a gambling debt." Stella seemed to be thinking aloud. Still, the words se
emed odd coming from her.
"Yeah, it does."
"So what do you do next anyway? I understand that it feels pretty damned personal, but you're not the police."
"I'm trying to find the guy's son. He's disappeared."
"I've seen a lot of true crime shows on television, maybe too many."
"Meaning?"
"She shrugged. "Hell, maybe Wes did it. I mean, what if the son killed his own father?"
Callahan blinked. A chill passed over him. He sipped more water. "That doesn't really make much sense. Everything Wes has done so far was intended to help Cal out of the mess. But this is murder. I guess everything has to be on the table, right?
Stella said, "Just an idea."
"I doubt that it could have happened that way, Stella. But I do want to find Wes one way or another."
"And how do you plan to do that?"
"I've got folks who've worked with me before. I know an ex-cop who runs a detective agency." Callahan didn't mention Darlene, or go any further about Jerry or Hal Solomon. Suddenly Callahan realized he didn't know this woman half as well personally as he did sexually. So maybe it would be best to shut the hell up. Stella chewed her upper lip for a bit and then shook her head and kind of chuckled.
"Maybe I need to find a new job."
Callahan nodded. "It's not the best job market of course, but if I were you and it's not too much trouble, I'd move on down the road. Maybe find another restaurant to hostess."
"I'll take that as a warning."
She extended her hand across the table. "This was fun, but considering that puppy dog look in your eyes and the way your head clearly belongs to some other woman, I think we'd best stop right here, you know?"
"Yeah," Callahan said, "you're probably right."
"Walk me home?"
"Of course."
They traveled the three blocks back to the street south of Ventura Boulevard to where Callahan's car was parked. They didn't say much of substance. They were already letting go. They even walked apart, saying goodbye with their bodies too. Stella laughed about the lyrics to a song on a car radio. Callahan stared straight ahead most of the time. At one point he dropped his keys as an excuse and looked back. Someone appeared to be tailing them, but Callahan wasn't sure. An average sized man in slacks and a short-sleeved shirt. He could have been someone out for a stroll, on the way home to an apartment building. Something about the timing of his walk made Callahan nervous.
Callahan didn't like guns, though he kept a .357 in his house for emergencies. Still, part of him wished he'd come armed. This whole enterprise was spinning rapidly out of control. He doubted this was paranoia, in fact Callahan figured he'd pull the tire iron out of the trunk if their tail didn't fade soon.
They walked down Stella's street. The man stayed back on Ventura, or Callahan lost him in the shadows and the trees along Dickens. They moved in total silence then stopped at the metal gate to her building. Stella turned, polite but cool. She kissed Mick on the lips and said, "Let's just call it a night here, okay?"
"Sure." Callahan kissed her back. The moment was odd and clumsy. His mind was somewhere else. Stella didn't seem upset by cutting things off right at the start. Her goodbye felt like a dismissal. She waved goodnight, closed the gate and vanished up the stairs.
Befuddled, Callahan turned and went back out onto the sidewalk. He stood in the night, listening for a long moment. He turned and walked down the row of cars as quietly as possible, straining to sense any movement behind him. He still didn't notice anything unusual.
At his vehicle, Callahan looked around again. He got in his car and locked the doors. Started the engine, drove off and circled the block. Still no sign of anyone following him, but of course that didn't prove anything. Callahan wandered down Ventura Boulevard in his car, pondering everything he'd learned or suspected. Then he called Jerry.
"What's up, my man?"
"Any word from Donato? Anything change?"
"Nope. Our man Julius is still in the house."
"Then I'm on my way there. Let them know I'm coming."
"Julius too?"
"If you can figure out a way, sure."
"Trust me, maybe I can't hack him but I'll figure out some way to send him a message. Can't have you getting shot."
Callahan drove west and then north, heading for Calvin's neighborhood. He told Jerry to search for anything he could find on Stella, gave the address. He shook off another wave of unease. "Any luck finding Wes McCann?"
Jerry found something up on his computer. "He bought a ticket this morning and took the fast boat out to Catalina. Paid with his dad's Visa, so when I hacked the account I saw the time and amount. He would have arrived there about ten this morning. If he bought anything on the island, he must have paid cash. It was a round trip ticket, but he didn't come back tonight, it would have shown up."
"You sure about that?"
"Yeah, they would have punched it into their system. If you want, I can try to screen all the security camera footage of people in line for the evening boats, but it's probably a waste of time."
Callahan headed up Sepulveda. The hookers were out and the walls bore gang tags. "There are other ways he could cross, it's what, less than thirty miles, right? Twenty-six if you believe the song."
Jerry coughed. "Maybe I should ask Donato to put a guy on the dock first thing in the morning, just to see if he tries to come back across, but he'd have to have gotten the cash over there and used a different name and ID. I'd bet he's still there, or hitched a ride on somebody's yacht."
"This guy doesn't seem like the kind a rich family would offer a ride to, Jerry."
"I'll do it anyway, just to be on the safe side. Is Hal in town yet? I'm getting all pumped up about this."
Callahan wasn't. He was ashamed of his behavior of late, and reluctant to face his old friend and sponsor. Said, "I'm still waiting to hear from him."
Jerry typed. Callahan passed a clump of bangers in front of the liquor store. He didn't meet their eyes and ignored their taunts. He turned, then turned again and finally pulled up Calvin's street. Callahan searched for signs of Donato's men, saw a car parked three doors down with two men in it. Of course, what if it was someone else? How could he know for certain? Jesus, I'm getting paranoid.
"I'm here. Are Donato's guys in a beat up Chevy?"
"Roger that. And hang on, okay? Don't go in yet."
Callahan waited in the car. Jerry was probably trying to get a message to Julius. After a moment, Jerry came back on the line.
"Okay, there's one more thing, boss. Your hunch was right."
"Yeah?"
"Well, Wes spends the day in Catalina, and guess what was on the police wire tonight? Seems that three men and a woman were found dead in a closed mall at the north tip of the harbor. The three men are unidentified, no IDs on them, all dressed in black like professionals. All shot at fairly close range. The woman's name was Rosa Germano, and she was an employee of a parasailing company on the island."
Callahan got out of his car. He stood on the curb in front of Calvin's home. Felt ice crawling up his spine. "You know my next question then, right? Any connection you could find between the woman and Wes McCann?"
"Yeah," Jerry said, perhaps a bit too smugly. "They went to high school together. Better yet, they dated for a while before he went into the Army for his tours in Iraq and Afghanistan."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Thursday night
Callahan sat in the car for a few moments. He ran several scenarios through his mind. Coincidences can happen, but meaningful ones are rare. When studied, most seemingly unrelated events assume a specific, if barely discernible pattern. Matters of life and death can hinge on such an awareness. Mick Callahan didn't consider that point of view theoretical. It was real. He'd found it out the hard way, after losing many battles, some good friends and numerous pieces of his own heart. His was knowledge gained over many years and after a great deal of effort and suffering. What Carl Jung called "sy
nchronicity" was quite real.
One teasing hint of that mysterious, eternal truth has led many a manic depressive or amphetamine freak down a gloomy, winding path into madness.
Callahan looked around. The distraught neighborhood sat sullenly beneath the light of a pocked moon and a handful of functional street lamps Most of the homes were abandoned or inhabited by squatters unable to pay a power bill. The night air was unseasonably chilly and carried a hint of rain.
The car down the block contained two shadowy figures. Hired detectives, assigned to watch the scene of the murder and wait for Julius to return. They'd notified Donato who'd passed word to Jerry and Mick. The two knew Callahan was coming. They sat quietly waiting for him to make his move. No one else was outside that night, at least not visible. Four houses down a lurid flickering against tattered curtains gave away the presence of a large screen television playing porn—dark shadows thrusting, huge shapes writhing for a probable audience of one. An ambulance wailed in the distance as someone's life took a nasty turn.
Callahan turned the overhead light off, opened his car door a crack. A dog barked, and several others responded. The cacophony continued for a time. The canine choir fell silent as if expecting another group to retaliate. He breathed in the air, sniffing for trouble, willing his senses to know more than was humanly possible. Something about the rapidity of recent events nagged at Callahan. Calvin, his son, the murder, all of it. The way one domino had tipped over the next, the overall pattern beyond him but the broader pattern undeniable. He just didn't have the right perspective. Not yet.
Callahan slid out of the car, stood in the dark. Almost wished he'd brought a gun, although guns escalated things. Mick preferred his hands and his wits. A preference which he knew, all too well, might someday prove his undoing.
Running Cold (The Mick Callahan Novels) Page 17
