by Matt Coyle
“One in a long string of many.” His shoulders stooped and his head dropped. “But, hell, son, you look worse than I feel. I’m awfully sorry about you getting waylaid the other night. You didn’t have to come in today. How do you feel?”
“Better. Thanks.”
Buckley walked over to a maple credenza against the far wall of his office and grabbed a rectangle tin. He brought it over and set it on the desk in front of me. The tin had a Norman Rockwell picture of a boy sitting on Santa’s lap and had to be sixty or seventy years old.
“What’s this?”
“Open it.”
I did and found homemade chocolate chip cookies. I had a pretty good idea who had baked them.
“I told Rita Mae Eddington that you got hurt on the job, and she brought them over yesterday.” Buckley sat back down behind his desk. “Said she’d make some for you every few days until you’re all healed up.”
“Tell her thanks.” I took a bite of a cookie and fell in love all over again.
Buckley pulled an envelope from his desk drawer, walked around and handed it to me.
“What’s this?”
“Payment for the work you’ve done.” He smiled and patted my shoulder. “I added an extra week in case you have to take time off from La Jolla Investigations to recuperate from your injuries. You done good, son.”
“Did you already replace me?”
“We’ve got someone in the bullpen. I just have to make the call.”
I’d come over to talk to Buckley about the case, not to walk away from it. But maybe this was the out I needed and would be smart to take. I could tell Bob I was off the case and keep my job. Then I thought of Jack and Rita Mae Eddington and their grandson. They’d seen the state of California’s justice as blind and blunt and cruel. Unwilling or unable to follow any path that didn’t rest on the edge of Occam’s razor—the simplest answer is usually correct. Randall had the most to gain financially from the death of his parents, so he’s the one who murdered them.
As a kid, worshipping my father before it all went wrong, I was convinced the police never made mistakes. Even after my dad was pushed off the force, I still believed in the police. I just stopped believing in my dad.
After I became a cop in Santa Barbara, I saw that police were human. We were human. We made mistakes, but we tried to get things right and correct them when they were wrong. Then my brothers in blue arrested me for murdering my wife.
Occam’s razor.
Even after they released me, SBPD kept the spotlight on me, and all other leads grew stale. Colleen’s murderer was alive and free and still out there somewhere because the police made mistakes.
Two years ago, a blackmailer named Adam Windsor was murdered. LJPD rushed to judgment, made mistakes, then covered them up. People died because of it.
I thought of why I became a PI. To help people the police had overlooked or didn’t believe. Or those who couldn’t ask for the police’s help because they’d done something wrong in the law’s black-and-white eyes, but not in the gray world where people lived. People who had no place else to go. I wanted to help those people because I’d been one of them.
Bob Reitzmeyer had hired me at LJI because he thought he owed it to my late father. I was happy and lucky to get the job, but his clients didn’t need me. They had enough money to buy justice or enough to keep it at arm’s length.
Jack and Rita Mae Eddington had that kind of money once, but not anymore. They’d come to me because they had no place else to go. I was their last hope on a fool’s errand. But I knew from personal experience that LJPD made mistakes, and right now the cops in the Brick House were worried.
“Don’t make the call, Buckley.”
“You’re a fine investigator and I’d love to keep you on, but do you think you’re up to it right now?”
“I’m ready to go.” Almost. “But there are a couple new developments you need to know about.”
I told him about Bob Reitzmeyer seeing the Eddington crime-scene photos and learning that I was investigating the murders, and that La Jolla Police Chief Moretti knew too.
“They had to find out eventually, but this is much sooner than I’d planned.” Buckley ran his hand through a tangle of gray hair.
“I know. I’m sorry.” I shook my head. “I should have been more careful with the photos, but there’s a silver lining.”
“What’s that, son?” Buckley looked at me through red-ringed eyes. “All I see are storm clouds on the horizon.”
“They’re nervous. There’s something about this case that has them worried, and I think it’s the blood on the sock. Without that, they never would have gotten a conviction.”
“That may be true, but you can’t get a new trial with scattershot theories. You need new evidence, and we have that with the confession by Mr. Lunsdorf.” Buckley’s eyes brightened. “If we can find the murder weapon, we can get that boy a new trial. Stay focused on the job at hand.”
“You’re the boss.” I saluted. “Now hold onto your Stetson, because I have new information which may tie into that new evidence. Seems Jack Eddington liked to play the ponies at Del Mar and wasn’t very good at it. A few months before the murders, he loaded golf clubs from the Eddington warehouse into his SUV and drove them up to a golf shop in LA’s Koreatown.”
“He could have just been making a personal delivery. Maybe the golf shop owner was an old friend.” Buckley seemed to be talking to himself as much as me. I don’t think he convinced either one of us.
“The clubs were loaded into another SUV, and the owner gave Jack a thick envelope.”
“Say this is true and Jack was stealing from his own company. Do you think Thomas found out about it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Buckley scratched his beard.
“Because the person who gave me the information was hired by Thomas to follow Jack and gave him a video of the transaction. A month later, Jack retired and Thomas took over as CEO of Eddington Golf. Five months after that, Thomas, his wife, and daughter were murdered.”
“Who gave you this information?”
“Can’t tell you, but the person is believable.” I’d knocked Moira MacFarlane off this case. The least I owed her was a professional courtesy.
“Don’t you think I should be the one making that decision, Rick?”
“In a perfect world, Buckley, but, even in La Jolla, nothing’s perfect. Sorry, you’re just going to have to trust me.”
Buckley rubbed his hands on his face like he was trying to scrub away the information he’d just heard. Finally, he dropped his hands in his lap and his cheeks matched the color of his bloodshot eyes.
“Well, that don’t make Jack a murderer. What did he gain from the death of his son?” Buckley began ticking off the fingers of his left hand with the index finger of his right. “He didn’t get his job back. It sure don’t look like he got anything out of the will, judging from where he lives now. And we still have the matter of a biker gang enforcer confessing to the murders.”
“Look, Buckley, this case is hardly a sure winner.” I leaned my forearms onto the desk. “All you have is a hearsay confession eight years after the fact, supposedly told to a drug dealer. Even so, let’s say it’s true. Aside from drug sales and extortion, the Raptors are known for loan-sharking and contract murders.”
“Son, I appreciate the hard work, and you climbing back up on that horse after it bucked you off and kicked you in the head, but you’re letting your imagination run wild. Jack Eddington hired us to find new evidence and get his grandson a new trial. You think he’d do that if he put a hit on his son and family?”
“No, but Rita Mae would if she took the phone call from Trey Fellows. Jack couldn’t tell her to let the matter drop once Trey called them with the Raptor confession.” I bit into another cookie. “All I’m saying is, we can’t ignore the information.”
“Jack has lived in La Jolla for over fifty years.” Buckley lifted his hands up, fingers open. “How is he
going to come across a contract killer from a biker gang? I doubt the Raptors attend black tie affairs at La Jolla Country Club.”
“Ever been to the racetrack, Buckley? There isn’t exactly a dress code.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Rita Mae Eddington picked up on the fourth ring. Damn. I’d hoped Jack would answer so I could set up an interview with him alone. The only number I had for him was his home phone. I hadn’t told Buckley I’d planned to talk to him. That way he couldn’t tell me not to and I could avoid defying him.
“Thanks for the cookies. Just what I needed.”
“Oh, it’s the least I could do.” Warm. Grandmotherly. Real. “Are you feeling better? Do you need some more cookies?”
I had half a tin left. That would last me two days, max. I thought about asking for more.
“I’m good for now. Thanks.” I had some sense of decorum. “May I speak with Jack?”
“He’s up at the golf course.”
“La Jolla Country Club?” I’d wait out Jack until he finished his round, then talk to him alone.
“No. We haven’t been members there for years.” Sad. “He’s up at Torrey Pines. He likes to use the putting green when he doesn’t golf with his friends. Should I tell him you called?”
Those country club monthly fees add up when you don’t have the cash flow from stealing from your own company anymore.
“I’ll call back. Thanks.”
“Is it about Randall? We sure appreciate all you’re doing.”
I doubted she’d appreciate it if I told her why I wanted to talk to Jack. “No. It’s nothing important. Thanks.”
Afternoon on a weekday, and I still had to circle the Torrey Pines Golf Course parking lot for five minutes until a space opened up. Financial setbacks, probably Jack’s gambling habit, had forced the Eddingtons to give up their membership to one of the most exclusive country clubs in Southern California. Now, Jack had to play the muni tracks like the rest of us. But if you have to play a public golf course, Torrey—with its ocean views, cool sea breezes, and rare Torrey pine trees—is hardly slumming it. The PGA holds a tournament at Torrey every year, and the USGA held the 2008 US Open there with another scheduled for 2021.
Two large, sloping, practice putting greens sat between the parking lot and clubhouse. I spotted Jack on the northernmost one. He practiced alone, putting three balls back and forth between two holes. He wore brown slacks and a sweater sporting the Eddington Golf logo. He didn’t wear the logoed clothes at home but did in public. The company he’d founded, built into an empire, and then been kicked out of by his son.
His murdered son.
“Hi, Jack.”
He popped his head up with a ready smile for whoever recognized who he once was. He saw me and the smile repositioned with less wattage. “Hello, Mr. Cahill.”
“Do you have a minute to talk?”
“Sure.” He stooped down and picked up his golf balls. “Let’s go over to the café.”
The café opposite the clubhouse had a red brick patio, and we sat at one of the outside tables.
“You enjoying your retirement?” I panorama-ed an arm. “Not a bad place to spend it.”
“Yes.”
“You still a member at La Jolla Country Club?” Conversational.
“No.” Wary.
“That’s too bad. I know the waiting list is a mile long for people wanting to join. Why did you give up your membership?”
“Does this have anything to do with Randall’s case, Mr. Cahill?” A vein pulsed under the wrinkles in his neck. “Because I’m not much for small talk.”
“Yes, it does.” I leaned across the table invading his space. “How many trips to Koreatown did you make before your son caught on and forced you to retire from Eddington Golf?”
I expected a reaction. Just not the one I got.
Jack reached into his pocket, and for a second, I thought I might have made a dangerous mistake. He pulled out a coin and placed it on the table between us. It had “Gamblers Anonymous” and “5 Years” on it.
“I’ve got five years without laying a bet of any kind.” His ears flashed red and his eyes challenged me. “I use that coin as a ball mark when I play golf to remind me that I can’t play in a game of skins or even make a Nassau bet. Anything else you’d like to know that will help free my grandson from prison, Mr. Cahill?”
“Yes.” So, Jack got straight three years after his son had been murdered. Didn’t mean he hadn’t hired the killer. “Who took the phone call from Trey Fellows about Steven Lunsdorf’s confession?”
“I did.”
My phone rang just as I left the parking lot. Buckley. That didn’t take long. I answered.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” No folksiness, just raw anger.
“Searching for the truth.”
“Fuck you and your truth. I told you to stick to the plan. The confession and the murder weapon are our only path to a new trial.” A swallowing sound. The desk drawer with the bottle of Maker’s Mark must be open. “The rest can be investigated if we ever get the damn trial. Pissing off Jack Eddington does nothing to further the cause of getting his grandson out of prison.”
“Did it ever occur to you that if Jack did hire Lunsdorf to murder his son, that he might try to sabotage your effort to free his grandson at some point?”
“You don’t give me much credit, son. Thanks for the work. Expect a check in the mail tomorrow.”
“Hold off on the check, Buckley. I’m taking Trey to find the murder weapon tomorrow. If we don’t find it, I’ll walk. The case will be over anyway.”
If I walked now, I’d still have my steady, good-paying job. If I followed the case to its conclusion, I might not. All for a case I wanted no part of less than a week ago. But I couldn’t quit now. Buckley’s words from the first night he approached me hung in my head: “a case that matters.” I finally had my teeth into one and I couldn’t let go now.
“It’s done, son.” The anger was gone. He just sounded tired now. “Jack wants you off the case.”
“Just get me a day, Buckley.” A hint of desperation hung off my words and surprised me. Maybe I needed this case more than I even knew. “Tell Jack you need me and that I won’t talk to him again. I need to see this thing through.”
“Sometimes being a truth seeker can be a hard journey.” Silence. I waited. Then, “I’ll get you a day. Then, no promises.”
“Thanks, Buckley.” I let go a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. A day might be all I needed. The case hung on finding the murder weapon. “Also, I’m going to need an extra set of hands to videotape the search tomorrow.”
“I’ll be in court tomorrow for another client. I guess I could hire the detective I was fixin’ to replace you with for just the day.”
“Fine. Tell her I’ll pick her up in front of your office tomorrow at nine-thirty.”
“How do you know I’m hiring a woman?”
I thought of Moira MacFarlane and her machine-gun voice.
“Just a hunch.”
She might get more work than just the one day if Trey Fellows didn’t back up Jack Eddington’s version of their first phone call.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I knocked on Trey’s door. No answer. His bike was parked in the small patio in front of his house and the old Volkswagen van registered to him was parked on the street. I peeked in the small window on the side of the house. No Trey, but his surfboard was leaning up against the far wall. That eliminated one possibility of where he might be.
I pulled out my cell phone and called him. Straight to voicemail. I left a message to call me. Trey could be anywhere, but I feared he might be out peddling weed. If he got busted, Randall’s shot at a new trial was over. Trey was a questionable witness now. Tack a drug bust onto him and his credibility became a quick toilet flush.
I went back to my car and put on a knit beanie and a faded Charger sweatshirt that I kept in the trunk. I already sported a two-day growth.
With the rough cheeks, the beanie, and the sweatshirt, I could pass for one of the disassociated former youths that cruise the bar scene in PB. It might give me enough camouflage to sneak up on Trey if I spotted him. Late afternoon at a bar in a town where few people held regular jobs figured to be as good a place as any to make a weed connection. I figured under any scenario, Trey wouldn’t be happy to see me and would rabbit.
The first bar I hit on Garnet had surfboards on the wall and a lot of wicker furniture. If one of the tiki torches on the patio fell over, the whole place would go up like the King of Pop’s hair in a Pepsi commercial. A lot of sun-bleached blond hair and board shorts, even in winter, but no Fellows.
The next stop was more upscale, with music too loud to talk over and too synthesized to dance to unless you were European with an open shirt and a lot of chest hair. No Trey here, either. He would have been as out of place as I was.
The next bar was a dive. Old and dark and populated by middle-aged run-downs who sat in silence and threw back shots of hard amber-colored whiskey. There wasn’t any fruit-flavored vodka behind the bar and the jukebox in the corner didn’t have any songs in it penned after 1975.
On the surface, not a likely place for Trey’s wares, but I’d met a lot of children of the ’60s on the job in Santa Barbara who still played with childish things when it came to marijuana. I grabbed a stool on the corner of the bar so I could get a look at the tables and booths in the darkened rear area. The bartender was gray all the way around and looked like a Dead Head or a ’70s Berkeley professor gone to seed. Maybe both. He wasn’t much on conversation, so I ordered a scotch rocks and peered into the back of the bar, waiting for my eyes to adjust.
When they did, I saw something that made my stomach knot up, and made me eye the bottles behind the bar looking for a weapon. A sunglassed velociraptor stared at me through the darkened bar. The hip predator was on the back of a leather vest of a biker faced the other way in one of the booths. The man was so massive that his upper back and shoulders showed above the top of the booth.
