Bay of Deception

by Timothy Allan Pipes

  Tears streaming forth turned to sobs and she pulled the pillow from beneath her head, pressing its cool folds to her face lest someone hear. After a time she removed the pillow, tossing it on the floor in case she was tempted to start sobbing and knowing she couldn’t, somehow helped stem the emotional tide. A mental exhaustion of a sort she’d never felt before pinned her to the bed. Like a drifting current, her thoughts flowed first one way, then another. After a time Jenny found herself staring at the stucco ceiling with no thought other than how ugly this particular motel ceiling was. She thought of the many hotel ceilings she'd stared up at since leaving home, usually on the road before a game or rarely, while some local stud screwed the visiting cheerleader.

  That was something she’d quickly learned to avoid, discovering that one town’s stud knew the next and tended to brag of such conquests. After a few beers, that one expected the same privileges and she'd been forced to have a few of the players disabuse several insistent individuals of such notions. This was unfortunately, how Collin had come to her attention and he’d always been eager to ‘Go-a-round or two with the locals,' as he'd put it. Only after they'd married did she understand exactly what that meant.

  It occurred to her in a twisted sort of way, that her horrendous marriage to Collin and Carol’s murder might never have happened if she’d just stayed a virgin. A hiccupy kind of half-laugh, half-sob escaped from deep inside her and for a moment, thought she might need the pillow again. The moment passed and instead she thankfully drifted off to sleep, Her last thoughts were of the papers thrown onto the lamp stand, and the detective who’d saved her life.

  All of his problems were supposed to be gone by this morning. That was the way he’d planned it and that was the way it should have been. Rage swept over him once more and as he’d done at least ten times on the drive back from King City, reached over only to find his stereo missing. It had been nothing at first, merely one more thing to be replaced. But as his anger and frustration mounted at the mess-up, the need for soothing music became paramount. By the time he turned onto Del Monte toward the upscale condo, Collin McKenny was ready to tear into most anybody.

  Despite the early morning hour, he roared into the garage situated beneath the condo, even managing to produce a respectable squeal from the Porches' tires as he slid into a parking space. After sleeping in his clothes all night, he was ready for a shower and something else... Taking the stairs three at a time, his 300lb frame sent shudders through the stairwell.

  Collin found the door unlocked and slipped inside soundlessly. The bed's occupant was likely asleep and this pleased him, since he enjoyed terror on a girl's face before he took her. Careful to make as little noise as possible, McKenny reached the bedroom door, then slowly pushed it wide.

  Asleep, the woman's pretty, angular face seemed angelic in its state of rest but in two strides he was towering over her startled form. With one hand, McKenny ripped the covers from her lithe body, revealing the bright red Teddy which exposed far more then it covered. Fear shone in the woman's eyes as she frantically pushed herself against the headboard, her face a mask of terror.

  “What are you doing?" the young woman cried out. "My...my...husband, he'll, be home any minute!”

  McKenny laughed as he began to shed his beer and sweat stained clothes even as the woman attempted to futilely cover her breasts and pubic area with the nearby pillow.

  “Please! Please!" she begged, tears pouring forth as she pleaded. "I’ll...I'll do anything you want, just promise...you won’t hurt me!”

  More tears ran down her cheeks as she inched off the bed as Collin swung about, standing naked and erect before her. Grasping her ankle with one hand, he pulled her slight but shapely frame toward him before tossing her back onto the bed.

  “Oh don’t worry," he smiled deliciously as she stared up at him in abject terror. “You will do whatever I want, and my only promise is that I am going to hurt you.”

  She began to fight him but one arm, he slammed her down onto the bed and with his huge frame atop her, began to keep his promise.

  Her name was Courtney, daughter of Wallace Widlam: owner of several large corporation among other things. Collin referred to her as his sexual prodigy, and yet it was she who had found him in one of the trendy Monterey bars. It was she who had taken him home that same night and within a week, they’d gone through more sexual variation than most couples go through in a lifetime. A few months into it and they'd refined what each wanted and so the game had begun.

  She’d never told Collin what had brought her to him and why she enjoyed what they did so much. Quite frankly he wasn’t interested and as long as she was there, ready to take whatever he dished out, he was a happy man. He’d suggested she might work for JenelCo, but she’d merely laughed, pulled a few thousand dollars from her purse and tossed it to him. He hadn’t suggested it again.

  When he came out of the shower, her bruised body still lay prone on the bed with her backside to him. Smoke rising from her cigarette trailed upward and she carefully rolled herself over to face him.

  “God, that was good,” she sighed languidly, a slight trail of blood still wet at the corner of her mouth.

  “That’s why we’re so good together, babe.” He smiled down at her. “You love pain and I love to inflict it...with a little sex thrown in." He pulled a pair of trousers from the closet and began to dress. She took a drag from her cigarette, then exhaled.

  “How’d it go last night?” she asked. “Is the bitch dead?”

  “No," he said, grinding his teeth at her questioning. "Jenel bailed me out himself this morning, then left before I could explain.”

  Her whistle was long and high. “I thought he said no more screw-ups.”

  His anger began to boil and suddenly remembered why he enjoyed hurting her so much.

  “He did.”

  “If I were you," Courtney said, taking a long pull on her cigarette. I’d make sure that bitch is dead by tonight...or you might be.”

  Collin resisted the urge to simply hit her, knowing she was right and because she’d just enjoy it. He slipped his shoes on, then stood before turning to stare down at her naked form.

  “Don’t worry, lover," he said, shifting his gaze to her face. "I’ll be here tomorrow to hurt you just like you need.” He laughed broadly at his little joke, hoping what he’d just saidwas true.

  CHAPTER TEN

  "I can’t believe you’d ask such a thing of me, Oliver,” Doctor Alicia Merrill stated as flatly as her Georgian accent allowed. “Information between counselor and client is strictly confidential.” She fixed a disproving eye on him. “You of all people should know that!”

  Oliver winced inwardly but continued to stare impassively at his former therapist. “Alicia, you know that’s not what I asked...”

  “Oliver,’ she cut in. “After all our time together, do you think I will allow you to hide behind semantics?” Her disapproving stare grew into a frown, causing Oliver to shift uneasily in his seat, as he’d often done under the glare of those clear searching eyes.

  Upwards of seventy years old, the doctor’s short but stylish gray hair gave the impression of a trendy grandmother. From their first session on, her large aqua-green eyes had always been ready to flash onto whatever was not completely honest and forthright. Something he’d been unable to do by himself at one time.

  Following the previous summer’s fiasco and Linda’s eventual departure, he’d started to break down, bit by bit. After chewing out the Duty Sergeant for the third time in a week, Chief Williams had put him on administrative leave, handed him Alicia’s business card and told him to show up the following Thursday at the address listed on the card. That first session with her had begun what developed into two solid months of twice weekly therapy.

  Every Tuesday and Thursday at 4:00pm, he’d shown up to face the tragedy which had broken his marriage, nearly derailed his career and, in general, turned his life upside down. It had not been pleasant but it had worked. During
their last session together just two weeks ago, she'd taken him to lunch, pronounced his mental state healthy and told him to stop calling her, 'Dr. Merrill.'

  “Okay, okay.” Oliver held up his hands in surrender. “I admit to eventually wanting more than the name of her therapist. But a woman is dead and I have good reason to believe that whoever was seeing her may have important information toward catching her killer.” He looked at Alicia and saw with relief her piercing eyes had lost a measure of their intensity.

  “What you say may be true, Oliver dear,” her lilting drawl suddenly became more pronounced. “But it does not negate the issue of client-therapist confidentiality.”

  “I’m not saying it does, Alicia. I’m simply making the point that, with the approval of Carol’s family, we may find something that will lead us to her killer.” He crossed his legs and fished his notepad out along with a worn looking pen. He scribbled his home and work numbers onto it, then ripped off the small page noisily and passed it to her.

  “I’m just asking for the name of her therapist, nothing more,” he said smiling. "And I don’t know of anyone more capable of finding out who that person is than you.

  “Flatterer.” She said, returning his smile.

  “Guilty.”

  Several long seconds passed as Alicia stared at the numbers, then with a nearly inaudible sigh she set the paper aside with a slight trembling of her hand.

  “Very well, Oliver, I will find this poor woman's therapist for you, but be aware...” The elderly doctor leaned forward slightly. “Those in the counseling professions feel quite strongly about this subject and more than likely a receptive audience will not be waiting.”

  “Fair enough, Alicia, I consider myself warned.” He rose and saw too late the look in her eyes.

  “Please, Oliver, sit.” She waved him back toward the seat. “I have a few minutes before my next client comes in and I’d love to know how things are in your life.”

  Twenty minutes later he escaped the probing inquiries he'd needed at the trial's end, but which now felt as if somebody were digging into a nearly healed wound. Climbing into his cruiser he radioed PG central.

  “Hello, Ollie,” the dispatcher responded. “Glad you called in.”

  “Yeah! How come, Tom?”

  “John left you a message, said he tried your cell but to no avail," Richardson responded. "Wants to meet you at The Poppy at one-thirty, so you got...” Oliver felt Richardson look at his watch. “...about eight minutes to get there. Said to tell you he had a good meeting with the deceased’s family.” Oliver wondered what Collinson meant by that but knew he'd find out soon enough.

  “Okay, Tom, thanks. I’ll be there if you need me and if he calls, tell him I’m on my way. Oh, and one more thing, would you check my box for an address I requested this morning. I’ll call back in for it after lunch.”

  “You got it, Ollie, PG central out.”

  Oliver replaced the microphone to its cradle and brought the car’s engine to life. Easing out of the typically small Carmel parking lot, he was careful to not duplicate his exit from JenelCo. Once onto Santa Fe however, his speed picked up to where he might have a shot at meeting Collinson on time.

  Luck was with him in Monterey and he found a space the first time he cruised down Alvarado Street. A shiny new Accord pulled out less than a hundred feet from where he saw Collinson sitting in the restaurant window. Despite its perverse tendency to add an hour occasionally, the digital clock said he’d made the trip from Carmel in just under ten minutes.

  “Cops get ticketed as well, Ollie," Collinson said to him he slid into the booth opposite of him.

  Years ago he and Collinson had begun frequenting the aging Poppy Restaurant and for some reason, had continued to patron it. While he'd sat out the investigation process from the Monterey jail, Oliver had had more than a little time to think about such things and he’d reached a epiphany or two. The food at the Poppy was passable on most days, the service adequate and the staff helpful. But he’d realized then that if that had not been true, they would still have eaten there.

  The Poppy was their place and the staff, especially, Carla, who treated them like anybody else: much as a sister might give you crap, just so didn't get a big head. Opening the yellowed menu, Oliver ignored Collinson’s self-righteous sounding comment and hunted for something he hadn’t eaten twenty times in the last three years. The roast beef sounded best and closed his menu.

  “Hello, boys,” Carla said, appearing and placed cold water glasses before them.

  “Hi, Carla,” they responded in near unison.

  “What’s the special today?” Collinson reopened his menu as if he’d missed some key item.

  “Fried chicken with mashed potatoes,” Carla offered with minimal enthusiasm.

  Collinson seemed to consider briefly, then closed his menu before handing it to Carla. “The bologna on white with extra pickles and lettuce.”

  Carla sighed and said, “Only for you, John." Collinson ignored the sarcasm as she began to write his order, then turned to Oliver.

  Oliver stared at Collinson for several seconds, then handed his own menu over to the waitress.

  “Roast beef on a Kaiser roll, with a soda." Scribbling briefly, the waitress turned and was gone.

  Oliver again looked at Collinson, who after several, seconds noticed his attention.

  “What?”

  Oliver sat back in frustration. “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Go through the same old menu every time, then ask what the special is when you’ve yet to order something other than a baloney sandwich?”

  Collinson eyed him before answering.

  “I am a creature of habit, Peidmont. You’d think you’d know that by now, after working with me for three years.”

  With that he pulled out a small note pad from his side coat pocket and flipped through several pages. Oliver decided to drop the issue and again understood why Collinson had never married.

  “Carol Montoya grew up in Salinas,” Collinson began, his tone all business now. “However, because of the gang problem there she went to junior high and high school in Monterey, using an uncle’s local address. A good kid overall, she dated around and after a few years of low paying temp jobs, got on at JenelCo. She has no siblings and her parents are well into their seventies.”

  “Late baby!" Oliver said in amazement. "Carol’s mother had to have been in her forties when she had her.”

  “Forty-seven, to be exact,” Collinson said, consulting a particular page. “Both mother and daughter nearly died during the birth.” The restaurant seemed quieter suddenly and the Detective spoke in somewhat hushed tones. “Needless to say she’s utterly devastated by her daughter’s murder, could barely speak actually. Most of this came from her father and uncle.”

  “How bad?” Oliver asked as Carla appeared with their orders.

  “Total and complete rage,” Collinson replied as their plates were set before them. “I honestly believe that if either of them were twenty years younger, both would be out hunting for her killer.”

  He nodded thoughtfully as Collinson set his note pad aside. “Can’t say I’d blame‘em.”

  Without comment, both turned their attention toward the food and for several minutes only the sounds of eating passed between them. Finally, Oliver pushed his plate forward with a half sandwich still on it. A minute or two later Collinson followed his example and snagged a passing busboy to clear the debris.

  “Does the family have any idea who might have killed her, an old boyfriend maybe or even a jealous wife?” Oliver pulled a nearby coffee cup toward him, then placed it upright onto its saucer.

  “Not a clue. In fact, her father believes the murder was some kind of robbery gone awry and I wasn’t about to tell him she was murdered execution style.” Collinson halted as Carla appeared with a pot of coffee.

  “Anything for you, John?” she asked, filling Oliver’s cup.

  “No, no, I think
that’ll do it, Carla. Just the check.”

  Fishing in her worn apron, Carla pulled out the green and white slip, set it down then turned and left.

  “Be right back,” Collinson said, sliding from the booth and then walked toward the restroom.

  Oliver sipped the hot liquid, savoring the dark flavor and thought of Jenny for several minutes, hoping she was somewhere safe, perhaps even trying to find a new life. Carla reappeared, replenished the half-cup he’d drunk and disappeared without a word.

  He added some cream and stared out the window as he stirred the cloudy mixture. Some kids were hanging out across the street, many with cigarettes tucked between their fingers. He watched them for a few minutes before Collinson slipped into the opposite booth, but kept his gaze on the group milling about across the street.

  “Monterey cops ever bust kids for smoking?” Oliver motioned toward the youths.

  “Rarely. Most know it’s a misdemeanor and don’t even bother to hide it.”

  The two watched as an impromptu game of hacky-sack began. The palm-sized leather bag traveled around the constantly shifting circle, bouncing from foot to foot for close to a minute before going astray. Wild hoots erupted from all but the boy who’d missed the ball. This boy slunk over to retrieve the now inert ball and soon the game was in motion once again. Oliver turned his attention back to Collinson.

  “So what did you learn about Carol’s engagement to Jesse Beeler?”

  “Not a single thing.” Collinson settled back against the booth. “In fact, they’d never heard of him or their engagement plans and I was a little embarrassed to tell them about it. Only a month before, she’d told her mother there was nobody in her life.” For a minute Collinson looked shaken before a frozen stare settled on Oliver. “Do you know what her mother said after I told her about the mystery engagement?” Oliver shook his head, visualizing the grief stricken elderly mother and braced himself.

  "She said," Collinson swallowed thickly as he spoke. "'I guess there never will be a wedding now.'”