by Jeff Shelby
“You already told me he’s not talking.”
“Not to me. But he might to you.”
I couldn’t imagine what he’d have to say to me. And I’d reached a point in my life where I didn’t think I really had anything to say to him. Not anything that was worth the anger it would bring to the surface, anyway.
“Why would he talk to me?” I asked. “We don’t know each other.”
“The only words he’s said to me were about you,” she said. “Coming from a man facing a death sentence, that says a great deal about where his mind and heart are.”
I feared she was right.
FOUR
“You said Simington might have been working for someone,” I said, folding my arms across my chest. “You know that for sure?”
Darcy shook her head. “Not for sure, no. But looking at his history, Simington’s never been a leader. His record shows that he’s always been a middle man. A guy who takes orders.”
“What else has he done time for?”
“Armed robbery, assault, and various weapons charges. He did five years on the robbery and less than a year each on the others. Walked on several other charges.”
A bank of clouds moved in front of the sun and shaded the beach. The shadows added to the sour feeling in my stomach.
“Any idea who he was working for?” I asked.
“Not really,” she replied. “But I found a pattern in his employment. For the previous three years until his final arrest, he was working as a security guard for some different casinos.”
Putting a convicted felon in a casino was enough to raise anyone’s eyebrows.
“Any explanation for the murders?”
“None that Simington would give,” she said. “The detectives that put his case together tied him to an alien smuggling ring, but he never confirmed. Or denied.”
“Alien smuggling. You think Simington helped bring Mexicans across the border?”
She fixed me with her gray eyes. “Yes. I’m not sure exactly what his role was, but I believe Russell Simington—your father—was involved with that.”
I forced my mouth to keep from asking another question. I hated the fact that I was already curious, wanting to know more about Russell Simington. I didn’t want to want any part of this, and yet, I was already feeling a gravitational pull.
“Look, I know this will be difficult for you,” Darcy said.
“Will be difficult?” I said, equally amused and annoyed. “When did I say yes? Did I miss it?”
She pursed her lips, accepting the chastisement. “I understand that you never knew him. But I’m not asking you to develop a relationship with him.”
“That’s exactly what you’re asking,” I said. “The moment I look at him, it becomes a relationship.”
She pulled at the yellow rash guard as if the neoprene T-shirt was too tight. Her intensity was almost tangible, like a force field around her.
“I don’t believe in the death penalty,” she finally said. “It’s wrong. I decided a long time ago that I would commit my life to stopping it. I don’t apologize for that. But I can’t control who it brings me to or whose lives I have to disrupt in order to stop it.” The first bank of clouds passed, and the sun splintered through. “This time, it’s brought me to you.”
“Lucky fucking me.”
“Just go talk to him,” she said, leaning closer. “Just once. If he won’t talk to you or it gets ugly, fine. You’re out, and I won’t bother you again.” She leaned back and shrugged. “I’ll figure out another way to get his story, and I won’t involve you.”
“How about not involving me now?” I said. “Or for that matter, ever? I don’t recall any of this being on my Christmas wish list.”
She shook her head and looked away, not appreciating the remark.
The ocean was dying as the storm trudged in, going flat with thin lines of white foam trickling in to the shore. We stood there for a few moments, not saying anything. We both knew she was getting to me, yet I wasn’t willing to acknowledge it and she seemed content to wait me out.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“San Quentin,” she said. Her cheeks were bright pink, a combination of sunburn and emotion. “It’s the only place in California that houses male death row inmates.”
“Do I just show up?” I asked. “Knock on the door and ask when visiting hours are?”
“I’ve already set up a visitation time,” she said. “I’ve booked a flight that leaves for San Francisco the day after tomorrow. For both of us.”
I laughed and shook my head at her bravado. “At least you’re confident.”
She rose from the wall and stood in front of me, the muscles in her jaw tense. “I told you his execution date is a month away. Twenty-seven days. I can’t afford to waste time. Because it’s his time I’d be wasting.”
I wanted to tell her that all of this was going to be a waste of time—that, no matter what, I wasn’t about to overlook all of the years this man had already pissed away. I may have been able to overlook the void in my life growing up, but it didn’t mean that I appreciated it, forgave it, or would ever accept it. Those feelings were bound to come out in any conversation with him. His death would just add finality to the void that had been a partner in my life.
I stood. “I’ll think about it.”
Her face screwed up with irritation. “I just told you I had the visitation set up.”
“Yes, you did. Congratulations.”
“We can’t afford to waste time.”
“You explained that, too.” I ignored the “we” and stepped over the wall onto my patio. “You’ve been aggravatingly thorough.”
Darcy stood on the boardwalk, the small wall between us seeming more like a gigantic barrier now. She picked up the rental board, clearly agitated.
“The flight leaves at nine,” she said, her voice edged with frustration and anger. “How will I know if you’re coming?”
I glanced at her. “Are the seats on the plane together?”
She brushed her wet, blond hair off her forehead and glared at me. “Yeah. Of course.”
“Then check the seat next to yours,” I said to Darcy Gill. “That’ll give you your answer.”
FIVE
I showered, dressed, made a sandwich, and sat down in front of the TV with a beer to watch the second half of the San Diego State/UCLA basketball game. The Aztecs were starting to turn things around in the hoops program, and I was hoping the game would keep thoughts of Darcy Gill and Russell Simington out of my head.
The Aztecs were up by six when Carter bounded in the front door.
“Are you watching this?” he yelled as he hustled past me into the kitchen. “Gonna beat those Westwood weasels for the first time in forever.”
“Easy. Don’t jinx it.”
He jumped over the back of the couch and landed with a thud, two beers in one huge hand. “Done deal, baby.”
“Get a beer, why don’t you?”
He held one up to his mouth and emptied half of it, then let loose with a belch that rattled the windows. “Thanks. I think I’ll have two.” He was wearing a green tank top, red board shorts, and yellow flip-flops that matched the color of his hair. “I thought you were coming over to my place to watch this.”
“Forgot.”
“You forgot?”
I grunted in response.
The Aztecs threw the ball away four times in the last two minutes, which elicited a stream of profanity from Carter that would have cleared a locker room. But they managed to hit several free throws and hung on to win by four.
Carter stood, arms raised over his head, his fingers touching the ceiling. “I love beating those assholes.”
I walked into the kitchen and set my plate and empty beer bottle on the counter. “You on the team now? A uniform and everything?”
He brought his bottles to the kitchen. “Here’s a question. What the fuck is up your ass today?”
I dropped the bottles into the tra
sh can beneath the sink. “Nothing.”
“Nothing is what a fat man leaves on his plate and what the ladies are yearning for when I’m done with them. But it is most definitely not what is bothering you.”
“That makes no sense.”
He waved a hand in the air. “Fuck off. You know what I mean.”
I did, but I wasn’t sure how to explain what was rattling around in my head.
I leaned on the counter. “Have I ever mentioned my father to you?”
His features softened, and he slid into a chair at the dining room table. “No, I don’t think so.”
That alone said so much about our friendship. I’d known Carter for fifteen years, and not once had he ever asked about my father. Not a single question. Somewhere along the road, he’d recognized that it wasn’t a subject I was comfortable talking about and he’d left it to me to broach the subject. He’d shown an enormous amount of patience.
“I don’t really know anything about him,” I said.
Carter shrugged. “I figured.”
“I mean, like nothing. No name, no location, nothing.”
He didn’t say anything, his face devoid of expression.
“Never really gave a shit, you know?” I said. “I had enough going on with Carolina. It was just the two of us, and I thought I didn’t miss what I didn’t have.”
Carter shifted in the chair and gave a slight nod.
“Figured if I ever ran into him, I’d just beat the shit out of him anyway, so it was better to not even bother.”
“Sounds about right.”
I flicked a stray bottle cap off the counter and into the sink. “So this woman shows up today
“What woman?”
“Just a woman who showed up while I was on the water.”
“Was she hot?”
I frowned at him. “Would you let me finish?”
“Okay.”
“She said she knows my father.”
He propped his elbow on the table and put his lantern-like jaw in his hand. “You believe her?” “Think so.”
“How does she know him?”
The insecurities that had plagued me for a lifetime came awake, and I couldn’t give him a completely truthful answer. “It’s complicated,” I said.
Carter didn’t miss a beat, letting me slide. “He wants to meet you?”
“Yeah. I guess that’s what it is.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Said I’d let her know.” “And I assume you’re working on that?” “All day.” I hesitated. “I have no idea what to do.” He laughed. “You asking me for advice, Noah?” “I don’t know what the hell I’m asking. But I guess I want your opinion.”
“First off, I’m not exactly a great candidate for this question,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “You know how I feel about my father.”
I did. He didn’t care for him. L. Martin Hamm was a Marine who failed miserably in trying to install Marine Corps discipline in his son. He’d taken that failure personally, declared his son a waste, and moved with Carter’s mother to Florida a week after Carter had finished high school. As far as I knew, they hadn’t spoken since.
“And I’m not sure my opinion will mean anything,” he said.
“Why not?”
“I’ve never been in your situation,” he said. “Master Sergeant Hamm and I never got along, but he was always a presence when I was growing up. Like him or not, he was there. I didn’t have a choice in knowing him. You, it seems, have a choice.”
I nodded and stared out the kitchen window at the water. Choice was supposed to be a good thing, but I wasn’t buying it at the moment.
“That said, I’d think that if you believe this chick, then not meeting him might eat you up for a while,” he said. “Knowing that he really does exist.”
That exact idea had already worked me over since Darcy had announced her reasons for visiting me. “I know.”
“Nothing says you can’t beat the shit out of him when you meet him. You’re entitled.”
I figured the prison officials might see it differently, but didn’t say so.
“Are you curious?” he asked.
Anxiety pounded away in my gut. “Yeah. More than I want to be. But, yeah, I am.”
“Then just do it,” he said. “You don’t owe him anything. Don’t do it for him or for this chick. Do it for you. You can look him in the eye and walk away. It doesn’t have to be anything more than you want it to be. But don’t let it drive you crazy wondering.”
He was right, which wasn’t unusual. He knew me better than anyone and he was always honest with me. I valued that honesty, even if I didn’t always want to hear it. He saw things in me that I couldn’t or maybe didn’t want to see.
So I hated not telling Carter that there was more to be curious about than just this man’s identity. I felt guilty for initiating the conversation and only sharing half the story. But I wasn’t ready to pull the curtain all the way back on my life, even to my best friend.
Carter stood. “I think I’d wanna meet him. If it were me.”
“Why?”
“So he’d know that I knew who he was. So I could stand there, stare at him, and make him uncomfortable. I probably wouldn’t even say a word to him.” He paused, his intense, dark eyes fixing on me. “But I’m not you.”
He didn’t know how lucky he was.
SIX
I spent the next day poking around on the computer and at the library. Found some news articles on Russell Simington, but no photos. Nothing earth-shattering, but nothing that made me want to meet him either. As I was looking at those articles, I was also scanning my brain for any recall of my father. I came up empty and no closer to making a decision as to whether I’d join Darcy on the plane the following morning.
I didn’t disagree with anything Carter had suggested. It would eat away at me if I missed the opportunity to meet my father. But I’d gone nearly thirty years without knowing who the man was, and I felt like I’d done okay so far. Maybe I was kidding myself, though.
When I left the library, the sun was starting to move behind the water, the rain lying in wait. My time to make a decision was disappearing fast.
And I was going to be late for a date.
I went home and changed into a pair of khaki shorts and a Quiksilver button-down shirt and headed out into the evening.
I had the windows down in the Jeep as I drove south toward downtown. The remains of the day had receded into the dusky sky, leaving the air feeling crisp and clean. The sun was exploding into a kaleidoscope of purples and oranges to the west, flashing brightly as the ocean pulled it downward. I exited the freeway and curved around Lindbergh Field, not envying the pilots who had to land their planes while looking into the blinding sunset.
I went past the airport entrance and onto Harbor Island. The mile and a half long island had been created by the navy in the early 1960s when they dredged San Diego Bay to make it deep enough for the military ships arriving in port. The navy took the mud and sand from the bottom of the bay and turned it into this narrow strip of land that housed upscale hotels, restaurants, and marinas. Tom Ham’s Lighthouse, a seafood restaurant, sat at the western edge of the island, and I pulled into the parking lot. Liz was waiting out front.
She wore black walking shorts, black sandals, and a sleeveless white blouse, exposing her olive skin. She pushed her sunglasses up off her face into her mane of raven hair, her smile reaching her bright blue eyes. She held up a hand and waved.
I tried not to trip.
“I was starting to wonder if you’d forgotten me,” she said. “Maybe run away with that little surfer girl from yesterday.”
I kissed her. She smelled like strawberries and mint and everything else good. “Not ever.”
Her hand slid into mine. “Suck up.”
“Not ever.”
Her smile broadened, sending a shot of electricity through me, and we strolled into the restaurant.
We were shown to a small
table along the window with a view of the city skyline and the boats bobbing in the harbor. Liz ordered a Cosmopolitan, and I asked for a Jack and Coke.
She gazed at me across the table as we waited for our drinks. “You look tired.”
I folded my hands on the table and took a deep breath. “I am.”
“Were you in the water all day?”
“Actually, not at all today. Not much happening. I think the threat of rain smothered the swells.”
She tilted her head to the side. “Is that even possible?” “No. But it sounds good.”
Our drinks arrived, and I emptied half of mine before setting it down.
“How was your day?” I asked.
She made a face like I’d dropped a skunk on the table. “Shitty. Picked up two new cases that we don’t have the time for. John’s ready to quit.”
John Wellton was her partner in the homicide department. The city’s annual mismanagement of funding had resulted in more budget cuts, this time slashing through law enforcement. She and Wellton were doing the work of four teams.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She picked up her menu. “And that’s the last I’m saying about work tonight.” “Fine by me.”
Our waitress came back, and we ordered. Mahi-mahi for Liz and swordfish for me.
Liz took another sip of her drink and reached across the table for my hand. “Are you going to tell me about your admirer or do I have to pry?”
Being with Liz lifted my spirits, but it couldn’t eliminate Darcy’s revelation from the previous day.
I squeezed her hand. “I was getting there.”
“Okay.”
I pulled my hand away and picked up my drink. “You ever run across a case involving a guy named Russell Simington?”
She made a face. “I recall the name. Something about killing illegals.”
I glanced at the window. Outside, the lights on the Coronado Bridge were bright against the darkening sky.
“From several years back, I think,” she said, swirling the light pink liquid in the glass after she took a sip. “We didn’t handle it, though. Riverside or El Centro did. Does that sound right?”
