by J. R. Rain
He looked at me from over his steaming cup of joe. “I did my best to find him,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “I read the police report. You worked your ass off.”
“There were no leads. No clues. Forensics was in its early stages back then. Your mother had no enemies, and no friends for that matter. Your father had no motive for wanting her dead by hiring a killer—hell, they were even working on their relationship at the time of her death. She left behind no money. She wasn’t seeing anybody on the side. She wasn’t pregnant. From all accounts, she was a sweet woman.”
“She was beautiful,” I said. “She had that.”
“Yes, she was.”
“And someone could have wanted that. Wanted her physically, and then slaughtered her when they were done with her.”
“Yes,” said Bert. He looked away. “It’s the most likely scenario.”
“A random rape and murder,” I said.
Bert Tomlinson nodded. He looked at me again and set his big hand on my knee. He inhaled deeply and patted me once.
“Go find him, son. Find him for me, too.”
A black SUV pulled in behind my Mustang. Like a prison break, three young children spilled out of the back seat and up the walkway and into their grandfather’s arms. Bert laughed and fell back as the children swarmed over him like a litter of puppies.
“Who are you kids?” he asked, chuckling, completely succumbing to the unconditional love.
“Your grandkids!” they all chimed in at once. Now they were trying to tickle him. There were two girls and one boy. All were within a few years apart. The girls, I think, were twins.
“It’s like this every time,” said a male voice in front of me. “They love him more than anyone on the face of the earth. Definitely more than me.”
I looked up. The middle-age man in front of me was handsome. Tan and in good shape. Blond and blue-eyed. He gave me a winning smile, full of white teeth. His face was weathered and he looked a little older than he was, probably due to the fact he spent a lot of time in the sun, which was easy to do in Huntington Beach. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. I stood. He held out his hand and I shook it.
“Walt Tomlinson,” he said, introducing himself.
“Jim Knighthorse.”
He held my gaze a moment, and then nodded. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Knighthorse.” He turned to his father, who was buried somewhere under all the grandchildren. “I have to get running, dad. I’ll see you tonight.”
Bert raised a hand and waved. “See you, son.”
Gary left, and I wasn’t too far behind. Bert waved to me from the porch even while his grandson swung from his arm.
Chapter Thirty-four
The morning haze hadn’t yet burned off, and the sun was still hiding up there, somewhere. I considered getting some donuts, but didn’t want to overdo it, as I had already had breakfast and something that resembled a cinnamon roll.
At least it was made with love.
I passed a donut shop. Then another. I came upon a third.
My willpower shattered, I hung a U-turn and made my way back to the third donut shop, and left a few minutes later with a half dozen bars and cakes and crullers, two-thirds of which were chocolate. To wash them down, I got some chocolate milk. Chocolate may or may not be an aphrodisiac, but it sure as hell was a Jim Knighthorse picker-upper. I was giddy with anticipation.
I paid two bucks and parked in the public parking near the pier. I could have easily parked in my parking space under my apartment building and walked across the street and saved myself a fistful of dollars. But what the hell, I was feeling wasteful. I ate my first donut.
The beach was mostly quiet, although the faithful surfers were out here in droves. The waves were choppy, but that didn’t discourage the diehards. And in Huntington Beach, they were all diehards. I ate donut number two.
If I turned my head a little, I could see my apartment building across the street. My apartment was there on the fifth floor, overlooking Main Street. And next to my apartment, through an open sliding glass door, I could see my Indian neighbor dancing in his living room. Jaboor was wearing only cotton briefs and was singing into a microphone, although it could have been a TV remote control. He paused in front of the glass door and shook his ass for all of Huntington Beach to see. I ate donut number three. When the ass-shaking was done, he boogied away from view.
A cool breeze blew through my cracked open windows.
I contemplated the breeze. Donut four.
Outside, I gave the last two donuts, both maple bars, to the first bum I found. He seemed genuinely pleased and started on them immediately, despite the fact that they were not chocolate. Beggars can’t be choosers, after all.
I crossed over to the pier, where a handful of fishermen were fishing. Not a single woman in the bunch. Behind my Oakley wraparounds, I scanned the fishermen carefully, wondering what the blond punk would look like now.
He would be near forty. At twenty, he had looked like hundreds of other surfers. Blond, tanned, healthy, good-looking. What did he look like now? Most lifelong surfers didn’t allow their bodies to go to pot. No, if he were still surfing, he would still be fit and trim. I had to assume he was still surfing. It was all I had to go on.
If so, he would still have his tan. Still have his blond hair.
And if he was a lifelong surfer, he would still live in the area, or not far from here. Hard to give this weather up, unless he moved to Mexico, like some die-hards do.
But at the time he hadn’t been surfing, right? He had been fishing. But he looked like a surfer. His hair was stained blond by salt and sun. I knew he was a surfer. But that didn’t mean he was still surfing. Maybe he got married and moved to Riverside to start a family.
Still, if he were a surfer at heart, even with a job and family and a long commute, he would find a way to the waves. It’s in the surfer’s blood. They can’t escape the siren call of the waves. It’s a lifelong passion.
Well, I had 40 or 50 years left on this planet. That should be enough time to cover all the beaches.
I spent the afternoon there at the pier, searching faces behind my shades. The sun did eventually burn through the low cloud layer, and when it did, and when most of the fisherman went home, I did too. Just a hop, skip and jump away.
Chapter Thirty-five
I was parked two rows down from Cindy’s Jetta with a clear view of the walkway down from the east side of campus. Without a Staff Parking permit, I was risking a ticket.
The night was young and I was hunkered low in my seat. I am six foot four, so hunkering is difficult. On the floor between my feet was a six pack of Bud Light.
I drank the first beer.
Clouds obscured the night sky. The wind was picking up, blustering through my open windows, bringing with it the metallic scent of imminent rain. Students drifted in and out of the parking lot, using it as a sort of shortcut into campus.
Like a chain smoker, I finished beer number two, started on three. Drinking in the car...not exactly a role model for today’s youth.
A light drizzle began to fall, turning the dust on my windshield into a thin film of muck. The drizzle turned into something more than a drizzle, although I wasn’t sure what that might be. Heavy drizzle? In southern California we don’t have many words for rain. We do, however, have nine different words for tan.
My windshield morphed into a surreal canvas as splattering raindrops fused with parking lot lights. Living art.
Which reminded me. I hadn’t painted in a while. Maybe I should. Except lately I didn’t feel much like painting. Instead, I felt like getting drunk every second of every day.
I opened beer number four. Two left. I considered getting more. Really considered it, but that would mean leaving the parking lot. Leaving Cindy’s car unattended. Derelict in my duties as boyfriend and bodyguard. And driving with a heavy buzz probably wasn’t a great idea.
Still, another six-pack sounded good. Too good.
<
br /> Shit.
I needed to find my mother’s killer. I needed to catch him, and I needed to serve justice, and I needed closure. No kid should find his mother dead. No kid should have to see what I saw.
It’s a wonder I’m not more fucked up.
Hell, after what I’ve been through, I should be allowed to drink as much as I want. Maybe I would talk to Cindy about that.
Or not.
Chapter Thirty-six
An hour after my last beer, an hour in which I spent debating getting more, I saw a shape emerge from the oak trees lining the parking lot. The shape was holding something heavy.
I sat up a little in my seat, blinking through my mild buzz, trying to focus on the stumbling figure, which, I was certain, was a small woman.
She was dressed in black and wore a wool cap. She paused momentarily behind the rounded fender of a newer-style VW Bug and waited for a student at the far end of the parking lot to move on.
Once done, she crept forward again, passing in front of my Mustang, where I had a good look at her. Dark hair pulled tightly back. Straight bangs. Eyebrows in bad need of plucking. She was carrying what appeared to be a full paint can.
Her name, I knew, was Jolene Funkmeyer.
I scanned the surrounding parking lot, looking for her male accomplice but didn’t see anyone suspicious. Maybe tonight she was going solo. Taking some stalking initiative.
She kept to the shadows, as any good stalker should, and moved quickly from car to car. By my best calculations, she was heading towards Cindy’s sporty red Jetta, which was parked directly beneath one of the parking lot lights.
Funkmeyer hovered at the perimeter of the light, momentarily confused. Like a vampire witnessing the sun after a long night out raising hell. Finally, mustering some inner stalking courage, she stepped forward into the light and promptly tossed the contents of the paint can across the hood of Cindy’s Jetta. Bright yellow splashed everywhere, even onto some of the other cars.
Then she bent over the hood and feverishly began finger-painting. Tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth. As she did so, working her way around the hood of the Jetta, I called the campus police.
I hung up and waited. The figure in black continued writing. Her face gleamed wet in the drizzling rain. Her thighs were now covered in yellow paint. Still she wrote. Perhaps she was writing her dissertation. Her face was mostly hidden, but I could see that her hair wasn’t entirely black; it was also streaked with gray.
As she wrote, she looked up occasionally to scan the parking lot. Luckily, she was alone. Or thought she was alone.
She continued her magnum opus.
I watched.
Just keep writing, darling.
Movement beyond the oak trees. I looked up. Bounding along a narrow path was a three-wheeled campus security vehicle, packed with police officers. Like a scene from the Keystone Cops. Either they were here for the vandal, or someone had lost a stray golf ball.
In an explosion of grass and twigs, the vehicle burst over a curb and into the faculty parking lot, a powerful beam swept across the hoods of the car. Like a deer caught in headlights, Funkmeyer froze in mid-scrawl and looked up. Her mouth dropped open. Then she tried to go a couple different directions at once, finally decided on one, and dashed through a row of cars and into the night. As she ran, her hands flashed yellow. Like a beacon.
The campus police made a hard right and gave chase, cutting across a connecting swath of grass. I watched until everyone disappeared from view around the performing arts building.
I stepped out of my car and walked over to Cindy’s Jetta. The woman had made quite a mess of things. I read her surprisingly neat writing:
Darwin was wrong. You live a lie. You will burn in hell.
I went back to my car, resuming my vigil.
One stalker down, one to go.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Cindy and I were in bed together. Ginger the dog was lying on the comforter between us. Her little face was scant inches from my face. Her little doggie breath wasn’t so little.
“She needs a doggy mint,” I said.
“She doesn’t have bad breath,” Cindy said.
“I beg to differ.”
“You’ve done enough begging for tonight.”
“True,” I said. “Still, I’m surprised you can’t see the green radioactive cloud hovering over her head.”
“You have a sensitive nose.”
“I have a sensitive something else, too.”
“Sometimes too sensitive.”
“Let’s change the subject.”
Ginger got up and stretched, legs vibrating down into the bed. She turned two circles, lay again and burrowed her little muzzle under her front paws, sighing loudly, absently licking her front paws, eyes closed. I’m not even sure she was awake.
“Any leads on the other vandal?” she asked.
“I’m looking into it,” I said. “According to the police, Jolene Funkmeyer denies having an accomplice.”
“The word ‘accomplice’ suggests something more grandiose than vandalism.”
“How about vandal buddy?”
“Better.”
“Anyway,” I said, “turns out Jolene has been arrested before.”
“For?”
I hesitated. “Arson.”
“Shit.”
“Spent a year in prison.”
“What did she burn?”
“An abortion clinic in Buena Park. No one hurt. The clinic had been vandalized weeks on end prior to the arson.”
“So the vandalism escalates into something more than vandalism.”
I nodded again. “She was arrested with her boyfriend.”
“You have his name?”
“Chad Schwendinger.”
“You think he’s our man?”
“A good chance,” I said. “The Irvine Police checked out his last known address this afternoon. He moved out long ago. And no leads where he might be. Yet.”
“Maybe he’s been shacking up with his vandal girlfriend.”
I shook my head. “I checked out her place this afternoon. She lives alone. Although one neighbor mentioned she had seen a middle-aged man in a BMW come by on a few occasions.”
“Maybe he will want revenge for the arrest of his girlfriend.”
“What he wants and what he gets are two different things.”
“But you’ll still watch over me just in case?”
“Like a hawk,” I said.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Sanchez and I were in my car on a Sunday afternoon, parked outside the big Lutheran church on Fifth and Edinger.
“He’s the last one. Name’s Ricardo Gomez,” said Sanchez, consulting a list of names. There were eight names on the list, seven of which were crossed off.
“You do realize we’re outside a church,” I said.
Sanchez wasn’t listening. “Ricardo hasn’t been alone in nearly a week. This might be our only chance to nail him.”
“I think you’ve let this go to your head.”
Sanchez looked at me. “Hell, this went straight to my head the day I heard my boy was in the hospital. This went straight to my head the day eight boys kicked his face in.”
“Take a deep breath,” I said.
He ignored me. “Besides, we’re doing the neighborhood a service. My son has single-handedly broken up this so-called gang. According to his school principal, these kids have been harassing students all year, not to mention vandalizing property.”
“Did the principal know what happened to your son?”
Sanchez nodded. “And he knows my son is picking them off one at a time.”
“What did he say about that?”
“Hallelujah.”
“That because your kid’s name is Jesus?”
“Hay-zeus, asshole.” Sanchez looked at his big cop watch. “Church will be out soon.”
“Kid named Jesus kicking ass at church,” I said. “Maybe it’s the Second Coming.”
There was a box of donuts balanced on the console between us. I had insisted on getting the donuts at the Von’s grocery store this time, which often had better donuts than most hole-in-the-wall chains. Sanchez thought getting donuts at a grocery store was sacrilegious but he ate them anyway.
“Church is out,” Sanchez reported, leaning forward eagerly. “And there he is, walking home alone.” I thought Sanchez might wet his pants. He pulled out his notepad and made an entry. I leaned over his shoulder and read the entry: 11:53 AM. Sunday. Church out.
“Don’t you have murderers to catch?” I asked.
“Not on Sundays,” he said. “Day of rest.” Then he made another entry: Intercept target. Next Sunday. Noon.
“Target?” I said. “You need to get a life.”
“I’ll get a life after next Sunday.”
“You have a sprinkle on your chin.”
“Fuck you.”
“Such language at church.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
I met Rawhide’s assistant museum curator at a coffee shop in Barstow. I was nursing a Diet Coke when Patricia McGovern arrived straight from work, wearing low heels, jeans and a red cowboy shirt.
“Would you like something to drink?” I asked her.
“Coffee would be nice.”
“In a coffee shop? Surely you jest.”
She smiled at that. I think she thought I was funny. Or retarded.
The waitress was older than the surrounding rock-encrusted hills, although she was sprightly and had a certain spring to her step. She took our orders. One coffee, black. One refill of Diet Pepsi, also black. Everyone at the table laughed at that one. I was on a roll.
“So what did you want to see me about?” asked Patricia, leaning forward on her elbows. She was as cute as I remembered, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. I was flattered by the intensity of her gaze, as if I was the only person important enough to look at in the diner. I happened to agree.
