Darkness & Shadows

by Kaufman, Andrew E.

  Adam Waters died instantly.

  The community flew into an uproar, demanding Pike’s resignation, and the media lapped it up like hungry dogs. The reporters were brutal, painting Pike as a hotheaded cop with a lousy attitude. Unfortunately, they’d jumped too soon. Internal Affairs completed their investigation and exonerated Pike. His sergeant, the one who supposedly cleared the room, took the brunt of the discipline. The report said Pike had acted appropriately, fearing his life was in danger, and if his boss had done his job properly, the tragedy would never have happened.

  Though his name had been cleared, Pike’s reputation was severely tarnished by the bad press. Now the detective was notorious for blacklisting reporters if they so much as looked at him the wrong way. With Pike working the Clark case, getting information would be a serious challenge. Patrick knew he’d have to work overtime to find any decent leads.

  In his office at home, Patrick contemplated his next move. He needed to see what the Clark compound looked like, but with sheriff’s deputies keeping a round-the-clock watch on the place, chances were next to nil he’d have much luck.

  Then he got an idea.

  Searching for the Clarks’ address scored a direct hit. The home had been featured on Santa Fe Realty’s website just months before the couple purchased it. Asking price: a cool $9.8 million. The listing was still archived on the Wayback Machine, a repository of every web page published since the mid-’90s—even deleted ones. Among other things, the listing included a virtual tour of the home. Patrick decided to take it.

  And couldn’t believe his eyes. The place was massive, over fifteen thousand square feet, the kind of home better suited for a rock star than a doctor, complete with a movie theater, huge library, and main dining room the size of a reception hall.

  That chandelier alone probably cost as much as a Mercedes-Benz.

  All of it was wildly extravagant, and all of it was far too much. He tried to imagine Marybeth living this sort of life but just couldn’t. She’d never seemed the type who was into money, and material things hardly impressed her.

  Looking at the top-floor observatory, Patrick wondered if the Clarks did anything other than spread their wealth around like water. Even more, he wondered how they’d become so filthy rich. Doctors made good money, and owning a top research and treatment facility surely did more than simply pay the bills. But this? It bordered on the ridiculous.

  It was unlikely he’d get anywhere near the compound, but Las Brisas, Charlene Clark’s other residence, might be easier. Even more important, it held more meaning in the scheme of things: it was ground zero, the last known place both Clarks went before disappearing.

  Patrick shut his laptop down.

  Bullet let out a whimper.

  He looked down to find the boy at his feet, gazing up with a face Patrick knew well: Don’t leave again. He reached down and Bullet’s expression relaxed instantly, his eyes closing in bliss as he pushed his head harder against Patrick’s hand.

  “Wanna go see how the rich folk live?” Patrick asked.

  Bullet barked.

  Patrick took that as a yes.

  Chapter Eight

  Las Brisas was an exclusive gated community just five miles up the road from the Clark-Fairchild Center. Patrick parked across the street from the main entrance. No guard shack, he observed, but security cameras were perched high atop posts on both sides of the gate. Anyone entering through conventional means would be captured on video. Surely, detectives had reviewed that by now. Bullet was probing the scene too, but his investigative instincts were honing in on other aspects: shiny things that moved fast. With his head out the window, he followed each car as it zoomed by, intrigued as only a dog would be.

  Patrick took a moment to check his phone for messages: still nothing from Julia. Going through the main number would be an act of futility. He dialed her cell again.

  This time he only made it halfway through a ring before getting her voicemail.

  He sighed. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that she’d just rejected his call, and it didn’t take one to figure out why he’d lost his InfoQuest privileges, either. Message received: Don’t bother. You’re finished here.

  He decided to make a final attempt, or rather a plea, via voicemail.

  “Julia. It’s me… It’s Patrick.” He paused, trying to collect his thoughts and dignity. “Look, I know… I know I screwed up, and I’m sorry.” He stopped again, thought some more. “I let you down. I let everyone down, really badly. I’ll have to live with that, but I’m better now—I really am—and I just want to make this right.” He spoke through a worn-out sigh. “Please… call me back, okay? Give me a chance.”

  Bullet let out a despondent groan.

  Patrick looked at the dog, then stared out through his windshield, and the memories took over—memories of the first time he and Marybeth met.

  It was the beginning of freshman year, and the August heat had been unbearable. Patrick decided to dodge into the air-conditioned campus bookstore, hoping to find reprieve, while at the same time, purchase his books for the semester. Just as he turned the corner, someone knocked into him, throwing him off balance, sending his books tumbling onto the floor. He dropped to his knees and began gathering them into a pile.

  “Oh, my God! I’m so sorry!”

  He looked up and froze. He was staring into the most beautiful face he’d ever seen, a beautiful face now smiling bashfully.

  “I didn’t even see you coming! I’m so embarrassed!” She leaned down to grab a book, but Patrick couldn’t have cared less about it—he was positively transfixed by her magnificence, stunned by her beauty. As she handed him the book, their gazes locked, and the most captivating eyes he’d ever seen stared back at him—eyes so pale, so green, they were electric, eyes that nearly took Patrick’s breath away. He couldn’t speak—he wasn’t even sure whether he could stand.

  “I was rushing to get a book for sociology class. I’m late as usual—I’m always late.” She smiled a tiny smile. “It’s the story of my life and…” She paused, and her tiny smile faded toward concern. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” Patrick said, nodding nervously, trying his best to force casual.

  “I’m Marybeth, by the way. Marybeth Redmond.”

  “Patrick Bannister,” he managed to say.

  They both stood up. “Well, really nice to meet you, Patrick Bannister,” she said, awkwardly pushing a lock of hair behind an ear, “and again, I’m so sorry.”

  “Really, it’s fine,” he said, and it really was. It was more than fine.

  A group of students came breezing past the bookstore entrance, apparently rushing for their classes. Distracted by them for a moment, a worried expression washed across her face. “Oh, God. I’m really late now.”

  She leaned over to pick up the last book, and the bottom of her blouse rode higher, exposing a tattoo above her hip that read: hope(less).

  Marybeth looked up at him, realizing he’d seen it. Hastily, she pulled her blouse down. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything and neither did she, but for some reason the silence didn’t feel awkward to him, and something in his expression must have offered comfort because hers began to relax.

  And then Patrick found the courage to do something he’d never done before.

  “I was just wondering…” he said, looking down, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’m kind of hungry, and, I mean… well… since you’re already late for your class and all, I was thinking maybe—”

  “I’d love to,” she said and smiled.

  And that was the beginning of something wonderful. Something amazing.

  A Lexus turned into the entryway of Las Brisas and jarred him into action. The gates parted, and he started his engine. He glided up behind the car and followed it in without a hitch, his memories of Marybeth and that day trailing and fading.

  He continued down a beautifully and expertly landscaped road, tall palms bending to the wind on each side, bird
s of paradise at their feet with orange flowers like flaming torches. In the distance, Patrick could see homes along the hills, rows of white balconies and patios saluting the ocean.

  Bullet barked his approval.

  When Patrick approached the house, he saw no sign of law enforcement, but that didn’t mean he could go prowling around; after what had happened here, neighbors were likely hypersensitive and on high alert. Instead, he decided to pull up across the street, take in his surroundings.

  The home was set far back and was quite a bit larger than its neighbors, perhaps five thousand square feet, surrounded by a tall wrought iron fence and a security gate across the driveway. Getting through all these deterrents unnoticed would not be impossible, but it would be difficult.

  He took some notes, then continued down the street; it looped around toward the front gate. One way in, one way out: nobody had snuck in through a rear entrance—at least not in a vehicle. He glanced past the rear of the development and observed a sturdy, concrete wall approximately ten feet high. Beyond that were even more homes. Again, not impossible to sneak in, but no cakewalk.

  Clearly, the Clarks had been separated, but even so, their Rancho Santa Fe compound certainly offered plenty of space if they’d needed it. Indeed, the two could have easily avoided crossing paths for days. So why did Charlene come here?

  Because she wanted to get as far away from his ass as she could—that’s why.

  Patrick remembered one of the articles suggesting a witness saw Wesley Clark follow his wife out of the parking lot after the fundraiser. Since the earlier story had said the couple never returned to the compound, Patrick guessed that the doctor had pursued her here.

  So many questions, he thought, and getting closer to the house didn’t seem to bring him any closer to finding answers.

  He was about to start the car again when his cell went off. He looked at the caller ID, clicked it mid-ring.

  “Sully. Got something for me?”

  “Well… yes.” Sully paused. “And no…”

  “Meaning?”

  “Not sure how to tell you this, bud, but your girl is a dyed-in-the-wool mystery. I’ve checked every database I have. Your Marybeth Redmond doesn’t exist. Never did, as far as I can tell.”

  “What do you mean, doesn’t exist?” Patrick let out a contained laugh, but it was less humor, more nervous consternation. “Of course she did.”

  “Not where the records are concerned. No evidence anywhere the woman was even born.”

  “That can’t be. What about her death?”

  “Scored a big goose egg there, too. The only thing close is a kid with the same name who died in an auto accident, but she was sixteen, and way the hell out in Beaumont, Louisiana. Won’t help you much.”

  Patrick glanced out his window, shook his head. “Is there a way to check records at the college? Maybe there’s some sort of trail.”

  “Already did—it’s a dead end. No documentation of a Marybeth Redmond ever attending the college.”

  “What the…? She was a student there. I was with her. This doesn’t make any sense, Sully.”

  “The records don’t lie, bud.”

  “And neither do I,” Patrick said, a bit too punitively.

  “Hey,” Sully said, sounding a little bruised. “Remember me? Your best friend? The guy who wants to help you?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” Patrick said, cradling his forehead with a hand. “It’s the stress talking. I feel like I’m walking into walls.”

  “Well, I’m not one of them.”

  Patrick didn’t respond.

  “Don’t wig on me, dude.”

  “I’m okay,” Patrick said.

  “We’ll figure this out.”

  Patrick gazed out his car window again, inhaled sharply. “So, what about Charlene Clark?”

  “Um… yeah, about that…” Sully said with more hesitation. “Same problem. No existo.”

  “What?”

  “No birth, no death. Just a DL number, and those are easy to fake in California.”

  “But I don’t…” He gritted his teeth. “… It’s like I’m looking at two friggin’ ghosts here.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “What about the husband? Please don’t tell me he’s one of the walking dead, too.”

  “Nope. Happy to report he’s a mere mortal. Dr. Wesley Clark, model citizen. Richer than Roosevelt, but nonetheless clean as a whistle. Wish I could give you more, but…”

  “Thanks, Sul. Appreciate it.”

  “I’ll ask you this again because I care… You okay?”

  “Yeah.” Patrick let out a wry laugh. “Life’s shooting me roses.”

  “Now I’m worried.”

  “I’ll be fine once I get to the bottom of this.”

  “Do me a favor in the meantime, will you?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I kinda like you a whole bunch. I need you to stick around. Don’t fall apart on me, okay?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “And I’ll keep looking.”

  “Promise?”

  “You have my word, buddy.”

  Patrick exited the development shaking his head. No evidence that Marybeth had died in the fire, not even something to prove she was a student, and now this—no indication she had ever existed? As if finding out she’d been alive all this time hadn’t been enough.

  And something else to rattle his brain: Marybeth’s new identity had no tracks either.

  He pulled off the road and reached for his phone. Obviously, there was more to this case than anyone knew, and he was willing to bet that Steve Pike was holding all the cards. He looked up the number and felt a pinch in his stomach while dialing.

  “Yeah, Bannister, what’s up?” Pike said, already sounding as if he’d reached the lean end of his tolerance.

  Patrick cleared his throat. “I’m covering the Clark case, was wondering if we could meet for a quick—”

  “Don’t have time,” the detective shot back with a generous ration of attitude.

  “Then can I ask you a few questions right now?”

  “No time for that either.”

  Patrick knew the call was coming to a quick end. With nothing left to lose, he blurted out, “Are you aware that other than a driver’s license, there seem to be no records indicating that the woman who called herself Charlene Clark ever existed?”

  Pike hung up.

  And Patrick stared at his phone, nodding as if coming to an agreement with his thoughts. Pike knew—he had to. If he didn’t, he would have asked questions instead of hanging up as if his ass had just caught fire.

  He started his car, took off down the road.

  Who are you, Marybeth?

  “She was real,” he said to Bullet.

  The dog let out an unqualified bark.

  “Thanks, buddy,” Patrick said. “Nice to know someone believes me.”

  But I need more. I need proof.

  And then he remembered.

  The beach.

  Chapter Nine

  He branded a path up La Jolla Village Drive, but the wheels in his mind were turning even faster. Bullet couldn’t have looked happier, head out the window, tongue hanging down, pure bliss on his face. The dog was so easy.

  Not Patrick. He was riding that reckless rollercoaster again, old memories bombshelling through him, now tarnished by time, circumstances, and events. With each mile that passed beneath his tires, his thoughts wheeled further into confusion.

  A sudden and wildly powerful urge to list needled at him, but Patrick did his best to beat it down, returning his focus to the road, reassuring himself that if he could just get there, he’d find relief, feel better.

  He took the sharp incline into the cove, and a few miles later, started searching for the Trade Winds Inn. Many years before, he and Marybeth had spent a long weekend there. It had been the defining moment in their relationship, and for that matter, in Patrick’s life. He had never known love before, al
though he’d been searching for it his whole life. Finding her had saved him.

  Or so he’d thought.

  He turned a corner directly into another memory. Suddenly, he was lying on the beach again, hot sun on his face, warm sand tickling the backs of his legs. The smell of suntan oil lifting on the breeze.

  And Marybeth beside him.

  They’d been enjoying themselves for hours. Melissa Etheridge was on the radio, belting “I’m the Only One” as if she were singing it especially for them. It was their song. He felt a soft, warm hand on his ribcage and looked up to find Marybeth’s devilish smile aimed right at him like a loaded weapon; it seemed dangerous, seductive, and he did not want to resist. She leaned over and pressed her lips against his skin, the exact spot where her hand had just been. Then she looked up at him.

  “Baby,” she said, still grinning, “do you have any idea how simply insane your body drives me?”

  He felt an awkward smile sweep across his face, knew he was probably blushing something awful. What in the world is this amazing, beautiful creature doing with me?

  Then he clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back, closing his eyes. He smiled some more, allowing himself this indulgence. Reveling in this moment.

  “You don’t, do you?” she said, the words rolling off her tongue like warmed honey. She smoothed her hand over his ribs and past his hip, eventually settling beneath the waistband of his bathing suit. Gently but firmly, she squeezed him.

  Patrick’s entire body quivered to life as if she were unlocking it for the first time. He sucked air through his clenched teeth, still caught up in the heightened sensation and with a trembling voice said, “Don’t what?”