Night Tremors

by Matt Coyle

  “It’s not a badge of honor.”

  “It is to me.”

  “Nuh.”

  Kim slowly steered a finger at the scar, like it might hurt us both if she touched it. She finally did. A jolt shot through me. Not pain. Warmth. And more.

  “Does it hurt?” She slowly traced her finger along the scar.

  “No.” More tender than discomfort. The pain was in the memory.

  She bent down to me, our foreheads almost touching. “There’s so much pain in your life, Rick.”

  Her scent enveloped me. Fresh and clean, like the first sunrise in winter. Memories bubbled up of lazy days with Kim. She’d been my first and only steady girlfriend after Colleen. She’d been perfect. But she hadn’t been Colleen. Her ghost had hovered over the two of us. All memories of how our relationship hadn’t worked at the end, forgotten. Only the good remained.

  Unattainable, because it wasn’t real.

  My guilt for not matching Kim’s love, a wedge between us. She gave me all of herself. I gave back measured amounts. Not enough for either of us. Finally, it ended, but the friendship remained. Always with the promise of something more.

  “Kimmie.” I touched her cheek.

  She held my face in her hands and slowly pressed her lips to mine. Old and new came together. Better. The pain in my head moved to the background. I unfolded back onto the bed and pulled Kim down on top of me. She maneuvered to avoid my ribs. Still, they grabbed at me, but I ignored the pain. I held Kim tight against me, and our mouths explored old paths found anew.

  Kim suddenly pulled away and rolled over onto her back. “Rick, I can’t do this.”

  “I’m not sure I can in my current physical condition, either.” Bad humor was all I had.

  “This is wrong.” Sadness pulled at her face. “I have Jeff now.”

  “I understand. We just got caught up in some good memories.”

  “It’s not that. Rick. Not for me.” She rolled onto her side and looked at me. “We’re just wrong. We’ll never be right.”

  She was being kind, as always. We were wrong because I was wrong. We both knew it. If she slept with me tonight, she’d never go back to the real estate king. She’d end it tonight because she wouldn’t lead a life of cheating and deception. Not even for a day. All I had to do was commit to her in full.

  I couldn’t. Even in the throes of desire, I knew down deep I wouldn’t be able to give her all she needed. So the decency that was left in me, tucked behind the neurosis and stupidity, wouldn’t allow me to make false claims that would ruin her life.

  “You don’t have to stay and babysit me.” I patted her hand. “I’m fine.”

  “No. You told me the doctor said you need to be awakened every few hours to make sure your mental acuity is up to par.” She got off the bed and walked around to my side.

  “I’m starting with a deficit to begin with.”

  “I know.” She gave me a sad-eyed smile, and I felt guilty for putting her in this position. I wished for the thousandth time that I could be the man she needed me to be. The man I should be.

  She helped get me under the covers and kissed me on the forehead. Just long enough for me to regret all the bad decisions I’d made to get me to this point.

  She turned off the light and left me alone in the dark.

  Kim woke me up before the nightmares could. I’d take staring at her through the dark over a gun pointed at me in my dreams any night. She asked me a couple questions to make sure I hadn’t gotten any stupider. I passed the test, and she walked to the door to leave.

  “You stay here and I’ll sleep on the couch.” I swung my legs out of bed and my ribs punched at me.

  “Get back in bed. The couch is fine.” She put her hand on the light switch by the door, but paused and looked at me. “Why haven’t you put a bed in the guest room? It’s just an empty space.”

  I thought of the nursery that would never be. “I guess I never expected to have guests.”

  “This is your home, Rick. A place to start new memories.” She turned off the light and left.

  Kim stuck around until morning to make sure I hadn’t died in my sleep, then left without having breakfast. Said she had a busy day, but I think she wanted to get away from what almost happened last night as quickly as possible.

  After breakfast, I called LJPD and tried to report that my gun had been stolen. I didn’t want the police involved in my business, but I couldn’t have the gun show up at a crime scene still belonging to me. If the Raptors wanted to frame me for something heavy, I wouldn’t make it easy for them. I’d already been their punching bag; I wasn’t going to be their stooge too.

  Only problem was, LJPD wouldn’t take the complaint over the phone. Some police departments would. Police Chief Tony Moretti’s wouldn’t. That meant I had to get dressed. Alone. Getting out of bed was hard enough. I made it into slacks and a shirt without crying. If I had to put on socks and shoes the tears would have flowed. Thank God for loafers. I slipped my feet into a pair without having to bend over.

  I hoped my meeting at LJPD would go just as smoothly.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The La Jolla Police Department was housed in an old two-story, white brick building that had once been a library. Cops called it the Brick House. I hadn’t been inside in two years and I hadn’t missed it. Or the people in it.

  I didn’t expect a warm cuddly feeling when I walked through the glass door entrance, but the cool trickle of sweat down my spine surprised me. I guess the compartment I’d pushed that piece of my past into had overflowed. No problem. I took a deep breath and opened up another chamber for the spillage.

  The desk sergeant, mid-fifties, had a buzz cut and a military demeanor. He checked the stitches above my eye before he spoke. “May I help you?”

  “I need to report a stolen handgun.”

  “Name?”

  “Rick Cahill.”

  His chin went up and his eyelids pinched down. Exactly why I didn’t want to come down here. I didn’t know the desk sergeant and he didn’t know me. But he knew my reputation.

  He frowned and shook his head. “Have a seat and I’ll call you when an officer can take your complaint.”

  I went over to a wooden bench and eased myself down. My ribs cried out during the slow motion descent. A few minutes later, a woman in a navy blazer and gray slacks approached me.

  “Mr. Cahill, I’m Detective Denton.” She was on the far side of forty, had dark hair and eyes with tiny gold flecks in the irises. Desk work looked to have filled out what was probably once an athletic body. She was pretty in a full-faced sort of way.

  A detective? This wasn’t standard operating procedure. Normally, a uniform would handle something minor like a stolen weapon report.

  She stuck out a hand and I stood up to shake it. A little too quickly, and a low groan involuntarily left my body.

  “Do you think you can make it up the stairs so we can file a report?” She put a hand on my shoulder like I was a toddering old man.

  “Stairs might be a little tough right now.” Chief Moretti’s office was upstairs. Today was hard enough. “I can just give the information to one of the uniforms down here and save you the trouble. Sorry you had to come downstairs.”

  Detective Denton glanced at the staircase, then at a large vacant room to the right of the front desk.

  “I guess we can go into the roll-call room.”

  Not the answer I’d been hoping for. I just wanted to report the gun to a uniform and get the hell out of there.

  She led me past the front desk and cop cubicles to the roll-call room. She held the door open for me, then ushered me to a chair connected to a half-moon desk. The kind kids sit in at school. There were about twenty of them in the room. The only other piece of furniture was a podium.

  I’d spent a lot of late nights in a room like this back at the Santa Barbara Police Department, getting briefed on the bad guys roaming the streets as I prepared to go out on the graveyard shift. It had
been ten years ago, but I still felt a surge of adrenaline as I sat down at the desk.

  Detective Denton sat down at the desk next to me. She pulled out a pen and notepad from her blazer and got the basic information from me, then asked me to tell her what happened.

  “Someone stole my gun.” I handed her my concealed weapon permit that had the make, caliber, and serial number of my .357 Magnum Ruger SP101.

  She frowned and made a few notes, then handed me back the permit. “I need details, Mr. Cahill. When did this happen? Where was the weapon when it was stolen? Where were you when it was stolen? Do you have any idea who took it?”

  Not only did I have to get a detective, I had to get one who didn’t have better things to do than get every detail about a stolen gun. I didn’t want to tell her about the Raptors or about the case. If I told Detective Denton, she’d probably follow up and ask people questions. The Raptors might reach out to Trey Fellows and hurt him or scare him enough that he would change a story they didn’t even know about yet. I might not yet be 100 percent convinced of Randall Eddington’s innocence, but I was close enough to go all in on the case.

  I had to lie. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d lied to the police. Not even the second. But the other times things hadn’t turned out too well.

  “I noticed this morning that it wasn’t in the trunk of my car. I’d left it there a few weeks ago and forgotten about it until today. I’m not sure when it was stolen.”

  Detective Denton frowned. “So, the injury to your forehead and the pain in your movements have nothing to do with the theft of your gun?”

  “No.” All in. Technically, I’d just committed a misdemeanor if my lie inhibited a police investigation. But I had my own investigation to worry about.

  “How did you receive these injuries?”

  “I fell down some stairs at home.”

  She stared at me and drummed her pen on her notepad. I knew she didn’t believe me. I didn’t know what she’d do about it.

  “Please wait here a minute.” She grabbed her notepad and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  I could have left. No law obligated me to remain. Just my curiosity and good manners. I stayed seated.

  When the door opened again, I wished I hadn’t.

  Police Chief Tony Moretti walked into the room. My headache just got worse. Moretti hadn’t changed much in two years. Deep tan, slicked-back black hair, coal eyes, oxen musk cologne, and a ’70s porn mustache. Only his clothes budget had changed. He’d gone from tailored American suits to Italian ones.

  “Rick.” He surprised me by sticking out a hand that didn’t have a gun or handcuffs in it. I struggled up from my grade school chair and shook it. “You okay? You look a little beat up.”

  “Fine. Just a little accident at home. Thanks.”

  “You always did have bad luck. Didn’t you?” He leaned against the podium. “Please, sit down.”

  He knew that would cause me more discomfort than remaining standing. I sat anyway and ate the pain.

  “Rick, I’m willing to start fresh.” He tried a sincere smile instead of his usual smirk. It was close, but not quite convincing. “You obstructed my investigation during that Windsor affair a couple years ago, but I’m willing to forget the past and move forward.”

  “Me too.” What choice did I have?

  “This is my town now. Crime is down, and everyone’s happy. Let’s keep it that way.”

  “I’m all for keeping the peace.”

  Moretti used to be as direct as a straight right to the nose. His newfound diplomacy must have come with the office and the title. I liked it better the old way. You could see where the punches were coming from.

  “That’s what we do, Rick. Keep the peace. That’s our job. Your job is like that of a lawyer, sort of a necessary evil. You find dirt on people for other people who are dirty themselves.” He came around the podium and parked his ass on the corner of the desk next to me. “This department could be a help to you in your career. We know where all the dirt is buried in this town.”

  I didn’t say anything and waited for the hammer to drop.

  “But we try to help people who help us. Who know how to play ball. People who don’t try to make us look bad.” His coal eyes hardened on mine. “You know why crime is down, Rick?”

  “No.”

  “Because we arrest the bad guys and lock ’em up. And we want to keep them locked up. In fucking cages where they belong. So they can’t come back to civilization and murder someone else’s family.”

  Bingo. He knew about my investigation of the Eddington murders. And there was only one person who could have told him. Bob Reitzmeyer.

  “I’m all for keeping the bad guys behind bars, Chief.” My anger at Bob bled over to Moretti, who was doing fine on his own at pissing me off. “But your record isn’t exactly a hundred percent in separating the good from the bad.”

  “Listen to me, you stupid prick.” His finger was in my face and he was all teeth like a snarling wolf. “You think you’re gonna play hero again. Swoop in with your toy PI license and save the day. But you are dead fucking wrong this time. Lightning won’t strike twice in your lifetime. That kid up in San Quentin is a stone killer. He’s evil. But you weren’t a cop long enough to know what true evil is.”

  “What’s your worry, Chief? If you made a righteous collar, then the streets of La Jolla will stay crime free and everybody will be happy.” I stood up.

  “You want to keep that paper badge, you better play by the rules.” Moretti now had to look up at me, but still showed his teeth. “If I find you even thinking about bending the law, you’re gonna see what the bars look like from the inside. Then your bullshit career playing fake cop will be a bad memory just like your career as a real cop was.”

  He stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind him.

  Moretti was worried. A confident man wouldn’t have threatened me for chasing a fool’s errand. Not even one who hated me as much as Moretti. That, along with everything else I’d already learned, hadn’t yet convinced me that Randall Eddington was an innocent man. But now I was certain that something was wrong with the case LJPD made against Randall in the first trial.

  I just needed to find out what it was without getting arrested.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I e-mailed Buckley a report of my adventure at The Chalked Cue and subsequent interview of Trey Fellows, then planted myself horizontally on the sofa. With remote in hand, only hunger and the need to urinate would compel me to get up. Midnight sat next to the sofa and leaned in so I could scratch his chest. I hit the power button on the remote, then Midnight growled and someone knocked on the front door.

  Shit.

  I got off the sofa and went to the front door with the speed and urgency of the continental drift. Midnight shadowed me, ready to defend me from whoever was behind the door. I checked the peep hole and hoped I wouldn’t need defending. I opened the door and let in Bob Reitzmeyer. He bent down and scratched Midnight and was rewarded with a tongue to the face.

  “Get you a beer? Something to drink?”

  He stood up and looked at the stitches in my forehead.

  “Are you okay?” Concern echoed in his deep voice.

  “Yeah.”

  I forced myself to swallow the pain and walked as normally as I could fake into the kitchen. I opened the fridge and thanked God I kept the beer on the top shelf. I pulled one out and handed it to Bob, then sat on one of the high stools at the butcher-block kitchen island. The emergency room doctor told me no alcohol for a few days. Too bad. I could use a beer right now.

  Bob sat down opposite me. “What happened to your head?”

  Bob had been to the house a few times, but never unannounced. Not a coincidence that he dropped by after I’d been to the Brick House. Bob was most likely playing for the other team now, on a mission to find out what I’d discovered. I could lie to the police and live with it. But I had never lied to Bob.

  Had he ever
lied to me?

  “Did someone at LJPD tell you that I’d reported my gun stolen today?” Better to charge ahead than to backpedal.

  He rubbed his Van Dyke and studied me with cop eyes. “Yeah. Detective Denton. Said you were pretty beat up, so I came by to see if you were okay.”

  “Why would she call you?”

  “She used to be my partner at LJPD. She knew you worked for me and was concerned about your well-being.”

  “Did you talk to Chief Moretti?”

  “No.” No blink or avoiding eyes. But maybe a bit too quickly. “You going to tell me what happened?”

  “I took a tumble.” I didn’t care about lying anymore. Neither did Bob. “Thanks for checking up on me.”

  Bob stood up. Irritation pulled at his mouth. “Did you read the Eddington police report?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you know he’s guilty, why are you still working the case?”

  “I’m on vacation, Bob.”

  “Let’s hope it’s not a permanent one.” He set his beer down and walked out the front door.

  I didn’t know if Bob got what he needed, but I did. He and LJPD were on the same team, and they were worried about what I might find on the Eddington murders. If I kept digging, I may or may not help free a man who was innocent or guilty, but I’d probably lose my job. And the new house I was supposed to make new memories in.

  I met Buckley in his office at one p.m. the next day. I still had a 24/7 headache and a knife in my ribs, but both had dulled a bit from yesterday. The day and a half of relative inactivity had me on the mend.

  The view of the ocean over Buckley’s shoulder was a gray muddle. Fog hung low and dulled the afternoon. Buckley didn’t look much better. Bloodshot eyes above deep circles. Gray hair, long and frizzed, hung down over his shoulders like a dirty mop. He looked older than the last time I saw him. I took him to be in his late sixties, but with a bourbon drinker you never can tell. The aging spins faster as the years slow down.

  I eased myself down into a chair opposite him. My ribs grabbed at me, but not enough to make me go fetal. “Rough night, Buckley?”