Jared cracked open his algebra book. He fidgeted some before tackling the lesson with the same focus he applies to his golf game. The ocean breeze rustled the palm fronds as we worked on variables and constants.
CHAPTER 12
Working in the fifteenth century, Tomás de Torquemada ran the Spanish Inquisition in the open. He identified and tortured heretics without fear of reprisal.
Friar Tom did not have that luxury.
He had to run his personal Inquisition in secret. He had to pluck his victims without getting caught, then torture them in silence.
His bloody business would come to a swift end if even a peep from one of his victims were heard outside the walls of his self-storage unit.
The trouble was that torture victims tended to make a lot of noise. They screamed and begged for their lives.
The obvious solution was to gag them.
Friar Tom had amassed a fine collection of stifling devices. His favorite was a sixteenth century Mute’s Bridle, an iron collar with a thick metal tongue that was forced into the victim’s mouth. A small hole in front allowed the victim to breathe, but this could be covered with a fingertip when additional panic was desired.
He also adored his Scold’s Bridles. These ornate muzzles were fashioned in the images of animals, with exaggerated ears and noses. Blades and spikes on the inside mutilated the victim’s tongue.
Then there was the red, rubber ball he had used on Nina Tate. Simple, yet effective.
But none of these gags would do.
He needed to hear the screams. They thrilled him like nothing else. The screams were the sweetest music he had ever heard.
He got busy.
He spent the day soundproofing his torture chamber.
He had a head start. Cries coming from within Unit 67 would have to compete with the roar of planes on final approach to the airport. And the storeroom lacked windows, making it harder for sound to escape.
Still, he couldn’t take any chances that the wails of his victims would reach the ears of a single witness.
He covered the walls and ceiling with two-inch-thick foam with self-adhesive backing. The foam was guaranteed to squelch noise in excess of 150 decibels, beyond the point where eardrums start to bleed. He added an extra inch of the cheaper egg carton-shaped foam found in the rehearsal spaces of rock bands.
The tricky part was the storage unit’s roll-up metal door. A door that size meant lots of air cracks where sound could spill out.
The answer was to build a wooden wall about fifteen feet inside the door. He’d use the resulting gap in front to park his snatch van. That way he could transport his victims inside the unit without anyone spotting them, or the hideous contraptions on the other side of the wall.
He affixed two layers of foam to the new wall. He cut a hole in the plywood big enough for a man to fit through. A double-thick flap of foam was left to cover the hole.
The flap reminded him of the passages that pets use to enter a house. When he was a kid, many animals in his neighborhood died at his hands. He never had a dog, but he now had a doggie door.
His finishing touch was to hook up a small fridge, microwave and hot plate. He stocked the storage unit with frozen foods, canned goods and cases of bottled water.
Lengthy torture sessions required constant resuscitation. He didn’t want his victims to die too quickly.
CHAPTER 13
I drove to Mel and Hector’s for dinner. They live at Parkloft, an East Village high-rise with views of the baseball stadium and the bay.
Mel answered the door. I handed her a six-pack of Negra Modelo.
“Thought you might go for the harder stuff after last night,” she said.
“Not seeing my byline on the front page is hard enough.”
Hector whisked eggs in a mixing bowl. Custard cups sat on the kitchen counter. He wore a holstered gun over his dress shirt.
“Hector, I know your flan is to die for,” I said, “but you think someone will break in and steal the recipe?”
“Can’t be too careful, amigo,” he said, grinning. “Nah, just running late.”
“The Bureau got you on weekends now?”
“The Director’s in town. Wanted the tour.”
We drank beer on the balcony and watched the first inning of a late-season Padres game.
When we went back inside, I noticed a fourth plate at the table.
“I thought Satka was at a slumber party,” I said.
“She is,” Mel said.
“Didn’t we agree we weren’t going to do this anymore?”
“No, you said you didn’t want to do this anymore. I never agreed.”
The doorbell rang. Mel grabbed my hand. “At least try to keep an open mind this time,” she said.
Mel had invited one of her artist friends to dinner in her ongoing quest to find me a mate. This evening’s surprise blind date, Samantha, was gorgeous, intelligent and charming. And there wasn’t an ounce of chemistry between us.
The night unfolded like so many others before: a series of awkward silences punctuated by Hector’s amazing flan.
Samantha helped Hector clear the plates while Mel brought me an espresso—and a sound scolding—on the balcony.
“You’re impossible, Ty,” she said. “I don’t know why I even bother.”
I felt a twinge of guilt. Despite the tragedy in her life—her family butchered, her country torn apart—Mel remained an irrepressible romantic.
“I’m sorry, Mel. It’s not that I don’t appreciate—”
“Oh, stop,” she said. “All you do is work and golf. You have to make room for something more in your life. Don’t you want to grow old with somebody? My god, you’re almost forty, and you’ve never been in love.”
“Not true,” I said. “I’m only thirty-seven.”
“I’m serious, Ty.”
“So am I. I’ve got three years yet.”
Mel frowned. I couldn’t joke my way out of this one.
“I was in love,” I said. “Once.”
Mel couldn’t hide her surprise.
“A long time ago,” I said. “Before Bosnia.”
I told Mel about Jordan. How I found happiness. And how I threw it all away.
I met her at a party in Washington, D.C., the year I abruptly quit the PGA Tour and broke in with the Journal. The host introduced her as a fellow San Diegan. She was in her second year of law school at Georgetown.
Jordan wasn’t a fashion model. She was prettier than that. She wore no makeup, not even to cover the two freckles on her otherwise flawless nose. She had sun-streaked, wavy brown hair past her shoulders, crystal blue eyes and high cheekbones that could cut diamonds.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
As the party was breaking up, I asked her for her number. She said that wasn’t a good idea. She smiled in a way that made me yearn to hear bad news from her on a daily basis.
I walked home, giddy with the knowledge that she was somewhere in the same city. I woke the next morning thinking of her.
We ran into each other a week later at Kramerbooks & Afterwards, a bookstore-cafe near Dupont Circle. Easy chat led to coffee, and coffee led to dinner. It was past midnight when I hailed her a cab on Connecticut Avenue. This time she gave me her number.
Jordan and I were friends at first. She was the best friend I never made time for all those years I was chasing my dream of becoming a pro golfer. Then one day everything changed.
I fell in love with her the afternoon I sat on her bedroom floor and watched her clean her closet. She came upon an old UCLA sweater that belonged to her late father. She buried her face in the blue and gold sweater and breathed deeply, summoning a scent whose source had been dead for more than a decade. It was a heartbreaking, yet poignant moment. In that instant, I glimpsed the mystery and power of love. I knew I wouldn’t stop until Jordan loved me the way I loved her.
The problem was that she had a boyfriend. A fiancé, to be precise. They had been high school s
weethearts. The guy was in medical school a thousand miles away, but Jordan remained as true to him as if he were standing in the room with us.
I’d never been the type to bust up somebody’s engagement, but I had to have Jordan. Being friends was not enough. I wooed her relentlessly. When she failed to stop me, I misread her signals. What I mistook for a green light was actually a yellow one. She didn’t intend to leave her fiancé, but she didn’t want to lose her best friend, either. I had put her in a rotten situation. For me, it was all or nothing. When I forced the issue, she tearfully told me she couldn’t see me anymore.
Weeks passed. I threw myself into my work. I tried to forget Jordan, but I couldn’t. It was hopeless. I cried for the first time since I was a child.
One Sunday afternoon, Jordan surprised me at home. It was raining and she was soaked to the skin. I saw her through the window of the front door and knew instantly that she had broken off her engagement. I knew that I had won her heart. And in the next instant, I knew I would eventually lose it.
“What happened?” Mel said.
“Bosnia happened. The chance to cover a war. I didn’t think my career could wait.”
“You had it backwards,” Mel said. “There’s always another war.”
I had pursued journalism with the same abandon I had pursued golf. Bosnia was the hot story. It was where careers and reputations would be made. I had to go.
“It will only be for a couple months,” I told Jordan. “I’ll be back for your graduation. I promise. After that, we’ll have forever.”
We drifted. Or I should say I did. I didn’t call Jordan because I didn’t want to come back. I was out to bag the big story.
Two months became two years. I’d heard that Jordan had moved back to San Diego. When I came home to work for the Sun, I didn’t try to contact her.
At first.
It took years to fully understand my loss. It’s terrible to find the most precious things in life, but not grasp their importance at the time you found them. Pro golf, my journalism career, the Pulitzer—these pale compared to what I found and lost with Jordan.
I’d learned my lesson too late.
“She still in town?” Mel asked.
I nodded.
“So call her.”
“I’ve tried,” I said. “She doesn’t want to hear from me. She even returns my letters.”
Mel shot me a curious look.
“She’s married,” I said. “And she’s got a kid.”
Mel held a hand to her heart. “Forget her, Ty.”
“I can’t stop thinking about her. I drive by her house sometimes.”
“You what?” Mel said. “I don’t believe this. You listen to me. Forget her. She’s somebody else’s wife. Forget her and move on.”
Mel looked through the French doors and nodded toward Samantha. “Move on tonight.”
“I can’t, Mel. I’m stuck.”
CHAPTER 14
It was two in the morning. I drove aimlessly, brooding over Jordan.
I tried to rock myself out of my malaise, blaring music by the Stones, Hendrix and Pearl Jam. When that didn’t work, I gave in to my melancholy, listening to Bryan Ferry and Chet Baker.
I continued my pity party with a back-to-back playing of the great Lucinda Williams heartbreaker “Side of the Road.”
Nothing soothed me. Only one thing left to try.
I exited the I-5 in Carlsbad and parked on a quiet street.
It was a moonless night. I grabbed my night-vision goggles. Then I shouldered my golf bag and disappeared through the shrubs.
There are two advantages to night golfing. You have the course to yourself, and it cuts down on greens fees.
I headed for the second tee of the exclusive Aviara Golf Club, avoiding the security guard I knew was watching the clubhouse.
My ball was marked with fluorescent orange nail polish to make it even more visible. But when you’ve hit as many golf balls as I have, you can tell the direction from the feel at impact.
I was already four under par when I reached the par-three eleventh hole. I knocked a six iron stiff, nearly holing it.
As I strolled up the fairway in the dark, something big splashed in the water hazard on my right, causing me to nearly jump out of my skin.
“Tyler West?” came a husky voice out of the shadows.
“Jeez,” I said, “you scared me.”
“Yeah, thought it was you,” said the man. “I can recognize that pure swing in the dark.”
I peered through my goggles and spotted a burly figure in a wet suit and scuba gear standing waist-deep in the pond. A fishnet bag full of golf balls was slung over his shoulder. He was one of those people who made his living selling balls reclaimed from watery graves. I’ve heard some of these ball hawkers pull down six-figure incomes.
“Do I know you?” I said.
“No, just a fan,” the scuba diver said. “I saw you chase down Mickelson at Hilton Head. A shame what happened to you after that.”
I was an All-American at San Diego State. After my sophomore year, I won the U.S. Amateur. I quit school and turned pro.
I had a seven-figure endorsement deal before I hit my first professional shot. It wasn’t a question of if I could win on tour, but when. Some golf writers called me the next Nicklaus, and I believed them. For a while.
I started fast, finishing sixth in Hawaii, third at Phoenix and fourth at Pebble Beach. I nearly won the Masters, the year’s first major, dueling Fred Couples down the stretch until my birdie putt lipped out on the last hole.
My first victory came a week later at Hilton Head. I slept in that goofy plaid winner’s jacket. I was twenty-three, and the future looked as bright as the red Radio Flyer wagon I loved as a kid.
Then the wheels came off.
My first missed cut came at the Houston Open. I followed it with seven others in a row. “WEST HEADS SOUTH,” proclaimed the headline in the sports section of USA Today.
I tried everything. Swing doctors. Shrinks. Even hypnosis. I couldn’t hit my ass with both hands.
At the British Open in St. Andrews, Scotland, I stood on the first tee of the Old Course before the stately stone Royal and Ancient Golf Club and hit two consecutive balls out of bounds. I sliced the first onto the beach where they filmed the opening scene from Chariots of Fire. I hooked the second into the lobby window of the Raffles Hotel.
When I teed up my third ball, I noticed a spectator who held a sign that read: DON’T HIT ME, TY. I tossed my ball to the guy and walked off the course.
I didn’t pick up a golf club for two years. When I finally did, I was stunned that my old true swing had returned. I was soon breaking par again, and I’ve played the game with passion ever since.
I regret that I quit the tour in a huff. I’ve wondered whether I could’ve made it had I persevered through that slump. Maybe I would have broken some of Nicklaus’ records. I’ll never know.
“Yeah, well, I got over it,” I said to the scuba diver.
That was the truth. Besides, my stillborn golf career didn’t make me feel half as low as I felt over losing Jordan. That’s something I’ll never get over.
But I saw no reason to share that with a stranger swimming in a chemically-treated pond.
“What ball you hitting these nights?” he said.
“Pro-V1.”
He fished a Titleist Pro-V1 from his sack and tossed it to me. “For your comeback.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” I said.
He tapped his oxygen tank. “No need to,” he said, then disappeared underwater.
When I got back to my car, the police scanner on the dash was crackling.
There was a bomb scare at the airport.
It was probably a hoax. But it was five in the morning, and no other Sun reporter would be on the story. If it turned out to be something newsworthy, Rampling couldn’t keep my byline off the front page.
CHAPTER 15
Lindbergh Field teemed with cops: The bomb squad, S
DPD, the FBI, ATF and the Harbor Police, which has jurisdiction over the airport. Fire trucks and ambulances stood at the ready.
Ground personnel were pushing planes back from the gates to the far end of the runway, out of the blast zone.
The West Terminal was sealed off. Antsy passengers who had arrived for early morning flights waited in the parking lot on the other side of the sky bridge, luggage in hand.
The East Terminal had yet to be closed. I ran down the long corridor connecting the two terminals. An accordion-style divider blocked my entrance to the West Terminal, but there was no one to stop me from observing the activity through the metal slats.
The focus of the intense scrutiny was right in front of me. A black hardened-plastic suitcase sat by itself on a baggage carousel. The last flight to land would have been before last night’s eleven o’clock curfew. Airport personnel would have retrieved any unclaimed luggage. The large suitcase on the carousel had no bag tags or identification. It clearly had been carried in and left there in the middle of the night.
Two bomb squad members wearing protective clothing and helmets tentatively approached the big suitcase. They visually inspected the bag and hovered wands over it.
The men lifted the suitcase from the carousel and carefully rested it on the floor. They placed a square detection device over it that resembled a small oven.
When they finished the test, one of the men removed his helmet and shook his sweating head at the rest of the authorities. There was a collective sigh of relief.
Law enforcement waiting across the baggage hall moved closer. I spotted Detective Darrell Walton. He was the first to reach the suitcase.
He struggled to lift the suitcase upright onto its wheels. He tried the latch. It was locked. He gestured for a cop to hand him his baton.
Walton bashed the lock with the baton. He crouched and opened the suitcase. He recoiled as something tumbled out.
The Scavenger's Daughter: A Tyler West Mystery Page 4
