Yesterday's Echo

by Matt Coyle

  I figured he was bluffing, but I’d been wrong before. Even though I talked around the truth about knowing Melody yesterday, Moretti didn’t have anything arrest worthy on me. But if his partner backed him up it didn’t matter. He had a badge, he made the rules.

  “Please.” Melody’s voice quivered. “Detective.”

  Dan didn’t say anything else, but trained basset hound eyes on his partner. Maybe he was the kind of cop I had tried to be. And failed.

  Moretti shot a key into the cuff and had it off my wrist in an instant. He gave me a contented smirk that said he’d had his fun at my expense. I couldn’t argue with the smirk, but I wouldn’t have minded putting my fist through it.

  “Miss Malana,” Moretti stepped around me toward the front door, “if you’ll come with us, we’ll make sure you get a ride to wherever you like after we done.”

  Melody let out a quick breath and gave her head a minute nod. Composed, she rested a hand on my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek. “I’ll be fine,” she whispered. Then she followed Moretti to the front door.

  I didn’t think so. “Let me call you a lawyer first.”

  Dan looked at me like I worked for the ACLU.

  Moretti opened the door and said. “This shouldn’t take very long.”

  Melody turned back and gave me a weak, crooked incisor smile. It sucked a breath out of me. “It’s okay, Rick, I’ll call you when I’m done.”

  Dan followed her outside and closed the door, sealing me inside my empty house.

  Muldoon’s

  CHAPTER TEN

  I washed the breakfast dishes and cleaned up the kitchen, hoping that if I kept my hands occupied my mind would follow. It didn’t. Melody kept creeping in. A woman I hadn’t known three days ago now seeped into my thoughts, flooding me with feelings I hadn’t had for almost a decade. Feelings I never thought I’d have again. Love? I couldn’t tag that label on it yet. But something strong, visceral. A need to protect. And I couldn’t protect Melody when she was down at the La Jolla Police Department’s Brick House.

  Of course, she was only there for routine questioning. Cops always called it routine when they took you down to the station. Just a few routine questions. Next thing you know, you’re in a holding cell waiting for the chance to call a lawyer.

  Until the coroner’s report came back with a cause of death that wasn’t homicide, Melody’s freedom was in the hands of a small-town cop with a big-city ego. And there was nothing I could do about it.

  When I was done in the kitchen, I headed for the front door. I didn’t have to be at Muldoon’s until five p.m. Normally I’d play golf or get a workout in. I was too beat up to do either and probably wouldn’t have been able to concentrate, anyway. I needed to take a drive to either clear my thoughts or focus them.

  I grabbed my keys and wallet off the end table by the front door and noticed the U-T newspaper that Detective Coyote had brought in with him earlier. Ever since Santa Barbara, I’d made a practice of skipping the front page and the local section and going right to the sports page. Everything else ended up in a pile and then in the recycle bin.

  Today, I scanned the front page and inside looking for Heather Ortiz’s article on Adam Windsor’s death at the Shell Beach Motel. I wondered if she had more information than Moretti had let out when he took Melody away. I found the article on the front page of the local section.

  The headline alone told me more than Moretti had: Son of Windsor Bank Founder Found Dead. And the accompanying picture of Adam Windsor told me more than Melody had been willing to. He looked younger in the picture and didn’t have a neck tattoo, but Adam Windsor was the red-haired man I’d seen talking to Melody in the bar at Muldoon’s Sunday night. Not just “some guy” hitting on her. Her ex-husband. The man who ended up dead.

  This wasn’t a matter of Melody not telling the whole truth, of holding something back. This was a lie. I’m sure there were plenty of legitimate reasons to lie about talking to your ex-husband. Especially, as Heather Ortiz’s article stated, after he just got out of prison. Embarrassment over bad choices, didn’t want to burden the new boyfriend with old baggage, wanting a fair chance at a fresh start. All that kind of bullshit. But the fact remained, Melody had lied to me. After I’d taken a beating for her, shielded her from the police, and shared my bed with her, I still hadn’t earned the right to the truth.

  What else had she lied about? Could I believe her stunned surprise at hearing about the death of her ex-husband? Or had that been a lie, too?

  I tried to set aside my anger and went back to the newspaper article. It said that Windsor had just been released three weeks ago after serving an eight-year term in Nevada’s High Desert State Prison for drug distribution. He hadn’t been a guest at the Shell Beach Motel, and his body had been found in an unoccupied room. The article closed by stating that the cause of death was believed to be from a drug overdose.

  It wouldn’t be the first time an ex-con died of a drug overdose, but according to Detective Moretti, Heather appeared to be jumping the gun. He had said the cause of death was still undetermined. I didn’t know Heather that well, but she didn’t seem like the kind of reporter who would let the need for a scoop get in the way of verifying facts. Maybe information about the cause of death had changed since the newspaper’s deadline yesterday.

  Windsor not being a guest at the motel bothered me. He got into a room somehow. Melody had told me the first night we were together that her source had hit her and she fled the motel. Had Windsor been her source? And had he been staying with her?

  Ugly scenarios started speeding out in front of me. I needed some answers to reel them back in. Melody wasn’t around to give them to me. I’d have to find them on my own.

  I looked up the number for the Shell Beach Motel on my iPhone and dialed it.

  “It’s a great day at the Shell Beach Motel,” a chipper, young female voice said. “How may I help you?”

  “I’m going to be in town for a few days and have heard great things about your motel.” Except for the dead bodies. “A friend of mine was just there and she loved her room.”

  “That’s great to hear. All of our cottages have ocean views and offer cozy amenities.”

  “I was hoping to stay in the same bungalow she did, but I forgot to ask her what number it was. Her name is Melody Malana and she checked out yesterday.”

  Suicide or homicide, the room that Windsor checked out in wouldn’t have been released back to the motel yet. Even if it had, management would give it an intense cleaning before they allowed anyone to stay in it again.

  I heard fingers clicking a keyboard for a few seconds. “I’m afraid that bungalow is unavailable. I can reserve another one for you that is equally as nice. In fact, it has a little better view.”

  “Wow, rented already. I thought October was the slow season in La Jolla.” I let out a little grunt like I was disappointed. “Do you know how long the new occupant is going to stay? Maybe I could stay in another room and then move over when the person leaves.”

  “Well, there’s . . . it’s not really . . . ah.”

  “Oh, my word!” I tried to sound giddy and shocked at the same time. “It’s not the room where the dead body was found. Is it?”

  “Ah, well . . . we’re not supposed to really . . .”

  Bingo.

  “Oh, there goes my other line,” I said. “Let me call you right back.”

  So, Windsor’s body had been found in the room Melody had checked out of earlier that morning. The morning I woke up and she was gone. She must have taken a cab from my house to the La Valencia Hotel where she’d left her rental car the night before and then gone back to the motel to get her belongings before checking out. Unless she’d thrown everything into the rental when she left the motel the night before. Hard to imagine she’d had time to pack a suitcase when she was fleeing an ex-con who just punched her in the face. One thing was certain. Melody didn’t have a suitcase with her when she showed up on Muldoon’s doorstep aski
ng for my help.

  Unless Windsor broke in after Melody checked out, he must have been in her room when she returned to get her stuff. Was he lying on the floor with a needle jammed in his arm or a crack pipe lodged between death-clenched teeth or was he still alive?

  Some answers required Melody. Maybe she was giving them to the police right now. I’d have to wait for mine, but not locked up in my own house looking for distractions.

  I went outside, got into my car, pointed it toward La Jolla. I’d gotten Melody’s cell phone number over breakfast and now dialed it. Her voice mail came on immediately. I hung up. She’d been with the police for an hour and a half. Plenty of time if everything was just routine. Not nearly enough if it wasn’t.

  The sun had sweated off any remnants of fog and left the sky a crisp blue. I broke off Highway 52 up the ramp into La Jolla, breaching the first rolling hill that protected its east end. The ocean came into view out beyond a canopy of evergreen trees that hid homes with million-dollar views.

  I hit the bottom of the hill and merged onto Torrey Pines Road, winding up the next rise into La Jolla proper. Multimillion dollar homes clung to a hillside on the left, on the right a view of the coastline below arced its way from La Jolla Shores north to Black’s Beach. I turned right on Prospect Street, still not sure where I was going, but felt the pull of Melody at the La Jolla police station. A chill crept up my spine at the thought of going back inside the Brick House. I’d seen enough of that place and the people inside it.

  Restaurants, art galleries, and curio shops drifted by until I approached Muldoon’s. I thought about stopping in, but kept going. Turk’s putting the restaurant up for sale still stung. Muldoon’s no longer felt like a second home to me.

  Traffic was slow, and I got caught behind a Mercedes that was older than I was. A mop of blue-gray hair was just visible above the back of the driver’s seat, level with the steering wheel. Whether it was granny tanks or rentals driven by swivel-headed tourists, traffic was slow in La Jolla year-round.

  The Mercedes had a red, white, and blue Albright for Governor bumper sticker. It reminded me that the mayor was having a rally at the La Jolla Recreation Center at eleven a.m. I’d seen a headline about it in the paper this morning while I searched for the story about Adam Windsor. One local son made good and striving for more. Another, a ne’er-do-well done with striving, good or bad, forever.

  Melody had told me, way back when I could trust her, that she’d come down to San Diego to cover Mayor Albright’s run for governor. If that were true, she’d probably try to make his rally before she had to fly back up to San Francisco. That’s if she got out of the Brick House in time. And providing everything she’d told me since we met hadn’t been a lie.

  Muldoon’s

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The La Jolla Recreation Center was on the southern end of Prospect Street, a few blocks down from Muldoon’s. I’d played football there as a kid and still played in an occasional pickup basketball game there when my knee allowed. The Rec was old when I was young. Hell, it was old before my father was born and was now considered a historic site. That meant nobody wanted to spend the money to modernize it.

  Three to four hundred people sat on the recreation center’s truncated flag-football field in metal folding chairs and listened to Mayor Albright speak as he stood at a podium on top of a small wooden stage. Albright was in his early fifties and kept in shape, though his white hair and sun-worn face made him look older. Physically, he wasn’t a big man, but he had a powerful presence motored by nonstop energy that filled up any room he entered. Today it spread out over the football field.

  Behind him on stage were his wife, Angela, looking more sane and sober than the last time I saw her, their six-year-old daughter, Cassandra, and Chief Parks. I guessed Parks was there to lend law-and-order support. Albright won loud cheers from his audience as he talked about education reform, lower energy costs, lower taxes, and holding Washington, D.C., accountable for safeguarding the border. He then segued into the safety of the people of California.

  “We can’t expect the federal government to do all our policing.” Albright gripped the podium and looked out over the crowd. “They’ve got their hands full and we need some hands-on leadership right here in California!”

  He waited for the cheers and the crowd obliged.

  “That’s why when I become the governor I’m going to create the Department of California Security that will work in conjunction with the federal government.” He paused and smiled. “I know you’re probably thinking, ‘not another bureaucracy.’ But bureaucracies are created by bureaucrats, not men of action. And I can promise you that the man who’ll run the department is a top-notch investigator, an inspired leader, and a proven law enforcement officer. He’s made La Jolla the safest town in the state. Please show your support for the man who will travel with me to Sacramento to ensure California’s safety, La Jolla’s own, Police Chief Raymond Parks!”

  Albright turned and motioned behind him. Chief Parks, attired in his dress blues, rose from his chair and waved. He smiled, but on his black-mustached, coal-eyed face it looked more like a wolf snarl. He sat down before his charm vacuum sucked up some of Albright’s charisma.

  The Mayor finished his speech and invited everyone to a reception inside the Rec Center’s meeting room. I scanned the crowd looking for Melody. I didn’t see her but did find a familiar face. Or more precisely, a familiar head. A square one atop a square body. My old kidney-punching pal from yesterday. He looked like a block of granite in a Men’s Warehouse suit. He stood next to the door of the building that housed the room where the mayor’s reception was to he held.

  A horde of people in front of me broke for the reception and obstructed my view of the man with the python arms. I jostled through the mass of three-piece suits, sundresses, and Hawaiian shirts, catching glimpses of him every few steps. When I finally edged into the clear, his billboard-size back was disappearing into the reception up ahead. I followed him inside the old, mission-style building.

  The rectangular room had a creaky wood floor and was packed shoulder to shoulder with Albright supporters. Red, white, and blue bunting hung from the walls, and two refreshment tables held punch and red, white, and blue cookies. The mayor and his entourage stood at the far end of the room shaking hands with supporters at the front of a roped-off reception line. The big guy filled a doorway that led outside. He ushered people through it after they had their fifteen seconds with the mayor, his family, and Parks. My attacker was working security for the mayor, ten feet away from the police chief.

  The only way to get to him was to join the slow-motion conga line of true believers. Not that I knew what I’d do when we were face-to-face. I decided I’d let the chief decide. Give him the chance to arrest a dangerous criminal or, if I was right, continue to cover up for one. I got in line.

  Every few seconds I shuffled a couple feet forward, wedged between an aging surfer in shorts and flip-flops and a 1970’s beauty queen showing silicone cleavage and a surgically reborn face.

  After a couple minutes, I finally stood in front of the guests of honor, only twenty feet from the goon who’d tried to squeeze Melody’s whereabouts out of me. First up was Mayor Albright.

  “We’ve missed you in Muldoon’s, Your Honor.” My attempt at small talk.

  “Well, yes, the campaign you know—” Albright gave me a strained smile like I had European youth hostel BO and he just found out he had the bunk under me. “Thank you for your support.”

  He turned to the beauty queen, and I was already forgotten. The mayor had always been friendly in Muldoon’s, but that was out of the way of reporters. Best not to be seen too chummy with a suspected murderer in public. I wondered if he knew the pedigree of his security bulldog.

  I peeked over at man mountain as I shuffled in front of Angela Albright. His eyes glanced off mine just before I turned them on Angela. I couldn’t tell if he recognized me.

  Angela grabbed my hand with both
of hers. She wore a turquoise blouse that made her blue eyes pop. No residue of Sunday night’s drunkenness shone in them.

  She leaned into me and spoke in a low voice under the din of the crowd, “Rick, thanks so much for looking after me the other night.” She looked over and made sure her husband was busy with the beauty queen. “The campaign has been so hectic. I’m afraid that when I let down my hair, I went a little bit too far. I’ll send a check over to you at the restaurant to reimburse you for the cab fare.”

  “No need. Consider it my contribution to the campaign.” I started to release her hand, but she held on and pulled me closer and whispered in my ear, “No one’s asked you about me being in the bar that night, have they?”

  “No.” Melody had, but nothing seemed to have come of it. I didn’t see the need to add to a nice lady’s worries.

  I moved off Angela over to little Cassandra Albright, a mini version of her mom. She smiled up at me and put out a tiny hand. “Thank you for your support.”

  I shook her hand, patted her on the head, and shot a glance at my extra-large nemesis. But he was gone. Replaced by another mountain of testosterone in a suit. I doubted that it was because it was the mauler’s turn for a break. He’d seen me. He was in the wind. But Chief Parks was still there, the last of a line of glad-handers.

  He didn’t look glad to see me. I’d become as popular with La Jolla’s Police Department as I was with Santa Barbara’s.

  Parks was as stiff and starched as his uniform and looked as approachable as a porcupine at full quill. Up close, his cheeks were smooth and shiny like someone had taken a belt sander to them and finished with a buffing brush. His dark eyes burned into me. No attempt to hide their malice under a politician’s smile. His outstretched hand, a bayonet waiting to impale me. I grabbed it anyway. A cloud of Moretti’s cologne wafted over me, but I had it backward. The mustache, the cologne; Parks was Moretti’s icon, not the other way around.