On page three of the paper, two photographs accompanied a short update on the nuclear waste protest. The first photo showed the mayor on the steps of city hall talking with a small group of residents, ostensibly about the merits of the project. Bernard Cornwell hovered near his right elbow. Cornwell looked like he had just eaten something rotten, probably irked to have the mayor take the limelight when he, Cornwell, was doing all the work.
The other photo made me sit up. It captured a scene from the latest protest, which, according to the caption, occurred two weeks ago. The action played out again at city hall, only this time, supporters and opponents faced off. Various signs read, “Bring jobs to Desert Rock!” and “Nuclear waste causes cancer!” But what interested me were the two young men standing under a mesquite tree on the periphery of the action: Pete Castillo and Matthew Thornton. Given what I had heard about their scuffles, I expected to see them shoving each other and yelling. But what I saw was, well, the only word I could think of was “intimacy.” Pete leaned in toward Matthew, his hand on Matthew’s arm, not grasping or pushing but reaching out, touching. Matthew looked intently at Pete, not angrily or hatefully, but with—tenderness. The two men stood close together and seemed totally unaware of the drama going on around them. They didn’t notice what I saw next: Bernard Cornwell, staring at them from the steps of city hall, eyes riveted on their figures, body taut to breaking. Alarm radiated from his eyes.
I jumped up from the couch and dashed to the kitchen junk drawer. Mom used to keep a magnifying glass there that she used during exasperating sessions repairing her eyeglasses. After much searching I found the thing and sat down again with the newspaper. Studying the photo once more, the magnification confirmed my initial impressions. Pete and Matthew did not look like combatants but friends—close friends. Cornwell looked at their exchange with clear alarm.
Well, now, wasn’t that interesting?
Cornwell had denied knowing Pete, had gone to great pains to make it seem as if he only “knew of him” in a general sense, as one of the people protesting the mayor’s plan. Cornwell had said something weird when I interviewed him, something about Pete being “misguided.” I had wondered at the time if he meant because Pete opposed the toxic waste plan or if he meant because Pete was gay. At the time I couldn’t think how Cornwell could have known that, but now I could see how. The photo suggested that Cornwell definitely knew who Pete was and that seeing the young man with Matthew caused him distress. The photo didn’t make clear what exactly was going on between Pete and Matthew, but one thing was for sure: By this time in their history, the young men had stopped being opponents and had become friends, possibly more. Had Cornwell seen this, too? If he somehow knew that Pete was gay, he would see this encounter, this burgeoning relationship, as a serious threat to his therapy business. And if he truly cared about Matthew being straight, he would be alarmed for his well-being.
With a jolt, I remembered two things. Gabby had mentioned that Pete had a new lover, whom Pete had refused to name, presumably because the guy was in the closet. The second thing I remembered was Sampson saying that everyone in the gay community knew that Matthew Thornton, the town’s “ex-gay” poster boy, still slept with men.
Was Pete one of them?
Again I wondered, did Cornwell know?
I felt my nerve ends sizzle. Pete was missing. Cornwell lied to me. Matthew had looked like a dead man walking when I met him today. If Matthew and Pete were sleeping together and Cornwell found out, how far would he go to protect his poster boy, his practice, and his reputation?
Then a flood of adrenaline rushed through me as I remembered something else Sampson had said. Matthew Thornton was married.
Faith and I would have to have a little chat.
12
Connor and I had a pizza delivered for dinner, but I was so stuffed from the cookies, I ate only two slices. Connor ate the rest, as though this had been the only real meal he’d eaten in months. Perhaps it was. I had an inkling that my brother had drained his resources some time before his arrival on my doorstep. He might have even slept in his car a night or two while he worked up the courage to come home. Instead of my usual disapproval, I found myself wishing he’d have come home sooner if he needed help.
Whoa—enough with the sentimentality, Sam. The overload of calories must have damaged my brain.
Feeling like a stuffed pig, I took three Tylenols and slumped off to bed. My nose throbbed, and I felt exhausted. Lacy looked exhausted, too. Connor had completely worn her out with two hours of tug-of-war. When I crawled into bed, the dog gathered what energy she had left, groaned dramatically, then jumped into bed with me. The first time she did this was during my first night alone in the house on the day Mom died. I did not protest. I hadn’t the strength, and I found her warm body comforting. Clearly, Mom had encouraged the behavior, and I didn’t have the heart to say no. The dog was grieving, too, so we curled up together that night, completely annihilated.
Of course I discovered later that sleeping with a rottweiler is a big pain in the ass. The dog is a shameless bed hog. I’m the human, I buy the food, but who gets the lion’s share of the bed? Lacy. It’s a queen-size bed, but yours truly gets to sleep in a swath about the width of a bath towel. Lacy even has her own pillow!
As I glared at her the mutt went to sleep immediately and began to snore. This is a sound that can wake the dead. I have taken to wearing earplugs to reduce the cacophony to a manageable rumble, but I can still feel the bed vibrate. Feeling resentful of the dog’s blissful unconsciousness, I started to process—with a capital “P.” I went to bed completely wiped out, not having had the strength to watch another second of TV, then the minute my head hit the pillow, I was wide awake. My brain started yammering at me: Did I remember to lock the front door? Did I shut the oven off? Should I stop and gas up the Corolla tomorrow?
And why the hell couldn’t I get any sleep?!
The processing continued. While Lacy snored away, I found myself worrying about my job. Vince had put up with my missed deadlines for years, but lately I had sensed that he was reaching his limit. The problem was that twice now I let myself get pulled into criminal investigations I had no business getting involved in. I tried to work on my books and the cases at the same time, but the case inevitably took over, and the book languished. I should already have completed enough research on nuclear waste to begin an outline, but I’d only spent an hour and a half on it, and my main intent had been to prepare for my interview with Cornwell. At some point Vince would call to yell at me, and I’d apologize and promise to get him something the next day, which I wouldn’t, and then he’d call again, and. . . sigh. How long could I keep doing this?
I tried shoving Lacy back on her side of the bed, but it was like trying to move an SUV. She groaned, put her paws on my chest and pushed off, getting a nice stretch at my expense. I almost landed on the floor.
Despite fearing for my job, I knew I would not be able to stop myself from working on Pete’s case. I remembered this feeling from the wind farm case, the intensity of being involved in something important and exciting. When you’re used to living a hum drum life, “important and exciting” can be intoxicating. Officially, I had fulfilled my promise to Eddie. I had spent two days investigating Pete’s disappearance, and tomorrow I would give him a report. That, strictly speaking, could be that. But during these two days I had learned a lot about Pete Castillo, and I found myself liking and admiring him. I felt angry that someone may have murdered him. All that he was destined to be would have been obliterated by another’s hand. He would never earn a law degree, he would never be able to fight for those who did not have the power or money to fight for themselves. He would no longer be a good brother, a beloved friend, a musician, and an artist. He would never play another soccer match or go out for a beer with his buddies. His life would have been stopped before it even began.
I also found that I liked these cases because they were like puzzles. Applying logic, evaluating clues,
methodically working through the steps to arrive at a solution—this was incredibly satisfying work. In Pete’s case, I had discovered several possible theories to test. Gabby had identified the first: Raul. He hated Pete, lately their animosity had reignited, and he had provided Trent with a shaky alibi. The second theory was the nuclear waste protest. Controversies of this sort can generate intense emotions that can flare up into violence. Exploring that theory, however, had quickly led me to another: Pete was killed because he had gotten romantically involved with Matthew Thornton, the “ex-gay.” At the moment, this was the theory that intrigued me most. I looked forward to testing the theory further by talking with Faith Thornton.
I tossed and turned for fifteen minutes, trying to calm my brain. Uncomfortable thoughts defied me. If I were honest with myself, there was one more reason that I wanted to stay on the case. Eddie had asked me to. I didn’t want to disappoint him. He believed in me, he had volunteered my help because he thought I was good at this. His confidence in my abilities made me feel warm and loved and supported. Then I reminded myself that he was with Gabby now, that I had slipped to second position in his world. A rational person would drop the investigation right now—why do this for Eddie, which was essentially asking, why do this for Gabby? But I found my mind moving in the opposite direction. Staying involved in the case kept me involved with Eddie. As long as I kept working on the investigation, Eddie had a reason to see me. I realized with horror that I felt scared. With Gabby back in town, I stood to lose Eddie forever.
I rolled over and put my arm around Lacy. Her big ribcage rose and fell under my elbow. It was creepy, really, lying in bed with my dog, thinking about Eddie. I should probably stop hugging the stupid beast before I called the psych ward on myself. But somehow I couldn’t pull my arm away. She was so warm, alive, here.
Sleep finally came. My last thought was that somehow I would have to balance work on the case with work on the book. Then, as the fuzzy edges of my mind collapsed into nothingness, I remembered that balance was not my strength.
13
The morning after my late-night session processing the fate of my career and my life, I took Lacy for a walk. Or, rather, she took me. The big lug dragged me behind her as she smelled bushes, peed on lawns, and ate poop. By the time she yanked me back to the house, my arm was stretched to twice its length. I sweated profusely despite the chill wind and breathed like I’d just run the forty-yard dash.
Once we arrived in front of the house I unclipped the leash like I always do, and like she always does, Lacy exploded away from me as though being on a leash were akin to torture. I watched her bolt up the walkway to the front door, where I knew she would stand until I opened the door. Dumb dog.
I noticed that my newspaper had been tossed, as usual, into the bushes. I do not understand this. Compared to just launching it somewhere on the expansive driveway, to send it scooting under a bush requires careful aim. Is this how the carrier exerts her power? Was she unhappy with the enormous tip I give her every Christmas? Sighing, I stooped to retrieve the paper and suddenly found myself eclipsed in a giant shadow. A strong hand grabbed my elbow and spun me around, nearly knocking me off my feet. I struggled to right myself, my head dizzy and nose throbbing. Once my vision cleared, I looked up to find Raul looming over me, his face distorted, scowling. I felt my heart bang behind my ribs. Where the hell had he come from? Then I noticed a huge black truck parked in front of my neighbor’s house. It was exactly what Raul would drive.
“Remember me?” He growled, his fingers digging into my elbow. I could smell sweat and that stale beer odor one gets after a good night of bingeing.
I tried to rip my arm free and failed, which made Raul laugh. Actually, “snarl” is more apt. He sounded like a big dog with a bad temper. Speaking of dogs, where the hell was Lacy? Here I was, being mauled by a goon, and my ferocious rottweiler was standing on the porch staring at the front door. Of course, even if she did come to investigate she would probably rush up to Raul with tail wagging, hoping for a scratch behind the ears.
So I was on my own. “Let go, Raul,” I said icily. I would not let him see me scared.
He jerked my arm again and pulled me closer to him. We were so close I had to strain to look up at his ugly face. “I just thought I’d stop by to remind you to stay the fuck out of my business. If you don’t, I’ll make sure you can’t ask another fucking question.” He peered at me, registered my broken nose. His top lip curled in what I took to be a smile. “Looks like I’m not the only one who wants to shut you up.”
I could tell that he enjoyed seeing my bruises—I could see it by the gleam in his eyes. As I watched his amusement, I had time to wonder how he found out where I lived. Then I remembered. I was not in San Diego anymore, I was living in Desert Rock, which has a phone book as thick as a magazine. It doesn’t take an Einstein to locate someone if you have three minutes. I tried to wrench my arm free again, which enhanced the gleam in his eye. “I get the point, Raul. Now let go.”
He gave my arm another squeeze, which made me squeak in pain. He grinned, clearly enjoying my suffering. “You better mind your own business, and while you’re at it, go tell my sister Gabby to go to hell. The both of you can go to hell!”
At this point Lacy suffered an epiphany and realized that I was missing. She left the front porch and trotted down the driveway to see where I was, looking all dopey and bewildered. When she spotted Raul she sped up, her steps bouncy with excitement. Yippee! Someone new to play with!
Raul took one look at her, gasped, then tore off toward his truck like his butt was on fire. He jumped into the vehicle and slammed the door.
So the big bad Raul Castillo was afraid of dogs. Ha! I bent down and patted Lacy on her withers, then looked up at Raul with a big grin on my face.
He scowled and simmered for about a minute and finally shook himself. He pointed at me, then made a slashing motion across his throat. Suddenly, the whole encounter seemed less funny. He was one scary man, and I didn’t doubt he would hurt me if I crossed him. After staring fiercely for another few moments, he finally started the engine. He threw the truck in gear and with a screech of tires drove off, practically losing control of the vehicle. I could hear the truck’s engine roar as he drove out of the neighborhood.
“Stupid jerk,” I said to Lacy, who still stared at where Raul had been standing. Her brain had not yet digested that her new playmate was gone. I shook my head. Raul’s behavior had been such a disproportionate response. All I’d done was go out to his construction office and ask a few questions about Pete. It made me wonder why he felt the need to threaten me. Was he guilty after all? Or was this just Raul’s way of making it clear he doesn’t like anyone in his business? Maybe he just enjoyed bullying people and took any opportunity to do so. One thing was for sure, Raul’s little visit had the opposite effect of the one he intended. Rather than scare me off, it had simply made me more determined.
14
My drive to Ming’s Mandarin Palace after Raul’s little visit was classic Desert Rock. Eddie’s and my favorite restaurant is only three miles from my house, so it should only take five minutes to drive there. I spent five minutes at every stop light, and there were four of them. There I was, the only car at the intersection, and the light would not change. Have they never heard of sensors in this town? I almost bottomed out my Corolla driving through one intersection where the tarmac was so buckled it was like driving on a roller coaster. And, apparently, while automobiles were expected to obey traffic lights, pedestrians were not. Not less than three times I had to slam on my breaks for some soul who felt the need to cross against the light. And they had the nerve to look at me as if I did something wrong!
When I pulled into Ming’s parking lot and stepped out of the car, I noticed the wind that had breezed around for days had now intensified, and the mild temperature had dropped. Looking west I saw masses of black clouds obscuring the mountaintops. Another storm had hit the coast. Unfortunately, this meant lots of wi
nd for us and probably—we were a desert after all—no rain.
As I made my way through the parking lot, my body bumped around by the gusts, a ferocious little canine barked at me from a car window. From its safety in the car, the ugly dog, hairless and filthy, snapped and snarled at me. The window was all the way down, it could have launched itself at my person, but I could see at heart it was a coward. The car was a total beater. A four-door sedan some twenty years old, it was a patchwork of Bondo and swatches of unmatched paint, with plenty of dents and scratches. The tires looked like they would explode into a pile of rubber dust if you breathed on them. I predicted that the owner of the car was some old desert rat who would look a lot like the dog. I looked forward to picking out this person from Ming’s patrons, knowing I’d recognize him or her immediately by the scraggly hair, unmatched soiled clothes, weathered skin, and eyes perpetually squinting from a life spent looking into the desert sun.
I was glad to have something amusing to look forward to because I was not happy about this outing. Eddie had asked me to meet him and Gabby here. But Ming’s was Eddie’s and my restaurant; I didn’t like that Gabby would be here with Eddie. Here I was, though, to give Gabby a progress report on the case and to let them know if I’d be continuing with my investigation.
I didn’t get any happier when I entered the chilly restaurant and saw that Eddie and Gabby had already arrived. They sat in our favorite booth, heads together, looking chummy. I forgot all about looking for the old desert rat. The energy drained right out of me. I looked across the room at them, their attention totally on one another as if nobody else in the joint existed. I saw that Eddie was dressed up again, his usual Coffee Buzz T-shirt apparently hung up for good as long as his ex was in town. His wavy hair was gelled into place, and his yellow button-down shirt looked crisp and fresh. The color made his bronze skin glow. Gabby, of course, looked gorgeous, a level of feminine beauty and grace that I would never attain. I felt awkward and unkempt by comparison even though I had spent triple the time I normally do on my hair and makeup. Compared to Gabby, I looked like I had crawled in from the desert after being stranded in the heat and wind for a week. And also like I had been beaten up by a biker gang.
Half Life Page 9
