by Jeff Shelby
I thought back to Keene messing with the guy in the casino. At the time, the argument hadn’t made sense, but after listening to Asanti, what had been going on seemed clear.
“Did you ever hear anything that put Simington and Keene together?” I asked.
“No,” Asanti said. “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t happening. Some things I get wind of, some I don’t. Immigration isn’t too gung-ho on bringing the local cops into their cases unless they have to.”
“Do the casinos know what guys like Keene are doing?” Liz asked.
“They have to know,” I said. “They’ve got cameras covering every centimeter. Nothing happens without their awareness. They wouldn’t let some random guy hassle their customers.”
“That could mean the casinos are involved,” Liz said. “At least to some extent.”
An image of Moffitt and his two thugs flashed through my head. I had no doubt they were capable of being involved in something like this.
“It would be risky for the casinos,” Asanti said. “But I tend to agree with you. It could not happen without their knowledge.”
“And if a casino owner is approving something, he’s got a piece of the action,” I said. “It would mean that a guy like Keene, one way or another, is working for the casino.”
Liz and Asanti nodded in agreement, then Asanti glanced at his watch.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve got a meeting. I need to go.” “Thank you for your help,” Liz said.
“I’m sure you’ll extend me the same courtesy someday,” he said. He turned to me. “Good luck.”
He walked back into the station, and we headed toward Liz’s car. “What do you think?” she asked.
One thing in particular had parked itself front and center in my thoughts, and I wasn’t happy about it. It was like buying a new game and emptying all the pieces onto the table. Everything was there—I just needed someone to show me how to play.
THIRTY-THREE
Liz and I made the long drive back to San Diego, the silence punctured only occasionally by small talk that went nowhere. I knew I had to go back to San Quentin—Simington threw out Keene’s name like a challenge, and I’d met it—and I couldn’t think about anything else.
We crossed the bridge into Coronado, and Liz pulled her car behind my Jeep when we reached her place. I got out and the burst of salt air wafting in from the bay gave me a temporary sense of comfort.
Liz came around to me. “When are you going to go?” she asked, reading my mind.
“Tomorrow, I think,” I said. “I have to arrange the visit, and I’m not sure how that works. I’ll have to ask Miranda and I need to make sure she’s settled at my place. But the sooner I get up there, the sooner I can talk to Simington.”
“This is gonna sound like a dumb question,” Liz said, brushing her hair away from her face. “But why are you doing this? I mean, Darcy’s the one who hired you, and she’s dead. You’ve already recognized that you can’t get Simington off the row, and I don’t even think that’s what you want. Talking to Simington and staying in the middle of this might help solve Darcy’s death, but …” She paused, thinking about her words. “I don’t think that’s your responsibility.”
Liz was right. With Darcy dead, there was no reason to keep looking. Hell, Simington had been clear on not wanting any help. There was no one pushing me to keep going forward. But I couldn’t get past the fact that Simington had thrown out Keene’s name. There had to be a reason for that.
“I think it’s just that it’s him,” I said, leaning against the car and watching the water. “I know he killed Vasquez and Tenayo. He deserves to die. That’s not going to change.” The bay sparkled under the late morning sun. “But he’s my father. Before he goes, I want to be clear on what he did. And I want to know why. Not for him. For me.”
Liz snaked her arm around mine and pressed up against me. “I’m not telling you not to do it. I’m not. But knowing why he did it may hurt more than not knowing at all.”
“I know,” I said, shifting my weight against the car.
She was right. The reasons, if Simington did talk, wouldn’t make sense to me. There was nothing he could say to me that would justify what he did. But now that I had connected with him—no matter the bizarre fashion—I felt an urge I couldn’t push away. I needed to learn as much about him as I could.
“Maybe he can tell me something that will help with Darcy,” I said. “He acted like he didn’t want her help, but I don’t think he disliked her. Maybe he can do one good thing before he dies.”
Liz’s hand slid down my arm, and she folded her fingers into mine. “Do you really think he’ll do that?”
A bank of gray clouds drifted in front of the sun, turning the bright glare on the water into a black shadow.
“Probably not,” I said, squeezing her hand, glad to have something to hold onto. “But what else do I have?”
WEEK TWO
THIRTY-FOUR
I spent the night with Liz and got up early the next morning. I told her I’d call to let her know what I was doing, then headed back to Mission Beach to talk to Miranda and make my plans to go back to San Francisco. I parked a couple blocks from my place and walked up the boardwalk, watching the clouds get darker and grayer over the ocean. Liz had mentioned rain was in the forecast, and it looked to be only a couple hours away.
Carter was on my patio, staring through the slider into my place like he couldn’t see what was inside.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked as I stepped over the wall.
“Dude,” he said, jabbing his finger toward the door. “You’ve got a wiccan in there.”
“A wiccan?”
“She’s dressed in black, has the personality of a pissed-off cobra, and is about as charming as cancer.” “Oh. That’s Miranda,” I said.
“I went in to get something to eat,” he said, still staring at the door. “She came out of nowhere. Like a puff of smoke or something. Told me to get out. I was afraid she’d sic her flying monkeys on me if I didn’t.”
I looked in through the door. Miranda was sitting on the sofa watching television, paying us no attention. “She’s harmless,” I said.
He glanced at me, skeptical. “Wiccans aren’t to be messed with, dude. Spells, curses, shit like that.”
“Come on,” I said, opening the slider. “I’ve got some garlic in the fridge.”
“Garlic is vampires, man,” he whispered. “Witches are a whole different thing.”
“How would you know?” I asked.
He moved in right behind me as if we were two kids walking into a haunted house. “I watch the Discovery Channel. Trust me.”
Miranda looked up as we stepped into the living room. “Well, well. Nice of you to finally show up.” She looked past me to Carter. “And you brought a pet.”
Carter walked slowly around the dining room table and into the corner of the room, so that he was as far away from her as possible.
“Miranda, this is Carter,” I said. “Carter, Miranda.”
Carter stared at her like she was a giant spider. Miranda smiled back like she was about to sink her fangs into him.
“Gorilla-boy startled me this morning,” she said. “Thanks for the tip on the towels and the food. I slept in your bed. When I came out this morning, he was lurking.”
“I was not lurking,” he said.
“You’re lurking right now,” she said, raising a blackened eyebrow. “I’m fairly certain you’ve been lurking your whole life. It seems to be in your nature.”
Carter started to say something, then stopped and shot me a look wanting my help. It was rare that anyone could get him off balance, and I was enjoying it.
“She doesn’t bite,” I said to him.
“You don’t know that,” Miranda said, her licorice-colored lips curling into a you-have-no-idea-what-I’m-capable-of sneer. Carter took a step back and bumped into the wall. “Anyway,” I said, “I need to go back to San Francisco.” The
sneer faded from her face. “Why?” “I’m gonna go talk to Simington again.” “What about Darcy?” she asked.
“The police here are on it. There’s not much I can do. And I might actually be able to get some information from Simington that could help them.”
She tucked her knees beneath her and leaned against the back of the sofa. “What kind of info?”
“I’m not sure yet. But remember when I asked you about a guy named Landon Keene? I know who he is now.” I turned to Carter, who was still wedged into the corner. “Remember that guy in the casino?”
He reluctantly pulled his eyes off Miranda and moved them to me. “That asshole in the shitty shirt?” “Yep. Him.”
“Who is he?” Miranda asked.
I gave them a brief version of what Liz and I had learned in El Centro.
“So Simington worked for Keene?” Miranda asked.
“It sounds like they worked together in some capacity,” I said. “I’m just not sure how. That’s what I want to know.”
Miranda slid off the sofa and stood. She was wearing a black T-shirt, cut above her waist, that had “GOOD GIRL” written in white letters across the chest. Stainless steel gleamed in several painful looking piercings around her exposed navel.
“No offense,” she said. “But I don’t see how that’s gonna help figure out what happened to Darcy.”
“It may not,” I said. “I’m going to go talk to him, though. Can you set up the visit like you did last time?”
Annoyance rippled across her face. “Finding out who killed Darcy is more important to me than setting up a reunion with your daddy. I know you’ve got issues, but I came down here to figure out what happened to Darcy, not to be your secretary.”
“I’m not asking you to be my secretary,” I said, resisting the urge to yank on one of those metal bars in her stomach. “If you don’t want to make the call, fine. Tell me what I need to do.”
“Do you really think the cops are working hard on Darcy’s murder?” she asked. “Please. They’ve probably got fifteen other cases just like hers.” She folded her arms across her chest. “No. We do something about Darcy first before you go back to San Francisco.”
I felt my teeth grind together and the muscles in my jaw twitch as I tried to keep from picking her up, carrying her down to the ocean, and drowning her little gothic ass. I looked at Carter.
He held his hands up like he wanted no part of her.
Which, unfortunately for him, gave me an idea.
“How about this, then,” I said to Miranda. “You set up the visit with Simington, I go to San Francisco, and you and Carter stay here and do some interviewing.”
“What?” Carter said, his voice shooting up about three octaves. Miranda and I both looked at him. He cleared his throat and tried for his normal voice. “What?”
“Start checking with the neighbors and see if you can’t find out more about the guy who was seen here the night of Darcy’s murder,” I said. “You know the people who live around here. They’ll talk to you. They won’t talk to Miranda if she’s alone.”
Miranda nodded. “Alright. I can live with that.” She looked at Carter and the sneer from earlier reappeared. “How about you, King Kong? Think you can ask a few questions without sounding like your nuts are caught in the drawer?”
Carter’s cheeks reddened. I wasn’t sure I’d ever had the pleasure of witnessing that before.
“As long as you keep your cauldron and broom away from me,” he said, trying to save a little face.
She sauntered around the table toward him. He pressed himself further into the wall, which only made it easier for Miranda to corner him.
She looked him up and down, then placed her index finger on his chest. “Don’t you worry, sweetheart. I’ve got other plans for you.” His eyes widened.
She let her finger fall down to his stomach, gave a short, harsh laugh, and disappeared into my bedroom.
THIRTY-FIVE
I caught an early-evening flight to San Francisco, and by the time I’d landed in the mist and fog, Miranda had left a message on my cell phone telling me that she arranged a visit with Simington the next morning at nine. No word on how she and Carter were getting along.
After renting a car, I spent the night at a hotel near the airport, watching TV in between useless fits of sleep. The anxiety of the entire situation was doing its best to wrestle me to the ground, and I was doing a poor job of fighting it off.
I crawled out of bed at six and did an hour of running on the treadmill in the hotel’s fitness room. I showered, dressed, checked out, and made the drive up to San Quentin under a wet, gray sky.
The guard at the gate found my name on the visitation list and seated me at the same window as before. Simington appeared in the yellow coveralls, his hair damp and slicked back, the glasses gone from his face this time.
“Surprised you’re back,” he said as he sat down.
I saw the letters of my name tattooed on his wrist again, snagging me like a piece of cloth on a nail. I ripped my eyes away.
“You and Landon Keene worked together,” I said. “I’m not sure how. My guess is you worked for him. He handled the money and the business.” I paused. “You handled the killing.”
Laughter drifted in from somewhere behind me. It seemed heavy and awkward and out of place.
Simington didn’t move. His expression didn’t change.
“Am I right?” I asked.
“Does it matter?” he responded.
“You were the one who threw his name out there,” I said. “You wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t matter.”
Simington looked away. I knew I was right. I hadn’t said it to Liz when she’d asked me why I was doing this, but I felt like there had to be a reason for Simington to have thrown Keene’s name out to me. He could have said nothing and let me walk away. But he chose to give me a crumb.
Simington let his gaze come back to me. “You meet Keene?”
I nodded.
“You tell him who you were?” “Does it matter?” I said.
The corners of his mouth tightened. It was as much emotion as I’d seen from him in either visit. But I could tell he was agitated. And I took some juvenile pride in having splintered his exterior.
“Did you tell him who you were?” he repeated.
“I didn’t know it was him when I met him,” I said. “But I got the sense he knew who I was.”
The corners tightened again and the green in his eyes went a little darker. “Where did you meet him?”
“Bareva Casino. I met the casino operator, Ben Moffitt, too.”
Simington folded his hands together and several of his knuckles cracked. He brought his eyes back to me.
“Don’t go back there,” he said, his voice dropping an octave.
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
I leaned forward, my face close to the window, the anger washing through me like a dam had burst.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I said. “Because you said so?” My neck burned, the blood working its way up my body. “Don’t ever speak to me like you’re my father again. Ever. We don’t have that kind of relationship.”
We stared at each other through the plexiglass. I realized I was breathing like I’d just run a five-minute mile. I pulled back and tried to catch my breath.
Simington looked cool and collected. He unfolded his hands, seemed unsure of what to do with them, and then put them back together.
“I shouldn’t have given you his name,” he said. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Why?” I asked, my breathing returning to a normal cadence. “Because I learned what you did with him? You think I thought you were in here for littering?”
“Nothing good is going to come from messing with Keene,” he said.
“Surprise. What about Moffitt?”
Simington licked his lips slowly, then shook his head. “Him either.”
“But you gave me Keene’s name, I fo
und him, and now I’m here. You owe me.”
“I don’t owe you anything, Noah,” he said. “Remember? We don’t have that kind of relationship.”
Throwing my words back in my face. Clever. And effective. “Darcy’s dead,” I said, trying a different path. “The lawyer?” I nodded.
His eyes shifted away for a moment, and he glanced down at his hands. He pulled them apart, laid them flat on the small overhang in front of him, and looked at me. “That’s too bad.”
“Yeah, it is,” I said. “She didn’t deserve it. She was trying to help you.”
“I didn’t want her help.”
“And, yet, she tried anyway. So maybe you don’t owe me. But you at least owe her.”
A guard appeared behind Simington. He stood there for a moment, just checking to make sure things were okay. We both watched him until he moved on.
“I figured Keene would be dead,” Simington said.
“What?”
“When I gave you his name. I figured he’d be dead by now,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Why?”
“Because he’s a piece of shit, and I thought someone would’ve punched his ticket by now. I wanted to make sure he was in the ground.” He took his hand away from his face. “You’re in danger.”
“I can handle myself.”
He laughed and shook his head. “You think because you have a PI license you’re tough? Because maybe you get in a few scrapes here and there? That makes you tough?” Simington leaned closer to the window. “Keene is a different kind of tough, Noah. Not your kind.”
I shifted in the seat, uncomfortable under his hard watch. “You still haven’t explained your relationship with Keene.”
He grunted, pushing back from the window. “You got it right. I worked for him. I killed those two men in the desert because he told me to.”
“Why?”
Simington stared at me like he was trying to make a decision. Sitting under his look was uncomfortable, but I didn’t turn away. I refused to be the one who blinked. And in that hard, unflinching stare, I could see it—all the years of what he’d done and the time in prison. There wasn’t much that could reach or scare Russell Simington.
