by Matt Coyle
Pain echoed along my ribs. A memory from the ambush beating I took two nights ago. My neck flamed hot, and I clenched my fists. I eyed a bottle of Jack Daniel’s behind the bar. JD had given me plenty of headaches over the years. Time for it to give one to someone else. The hard way.
I took a deep breath, let it out slowly through my nose, and relaxed my hands. Maybe I should find out who the Raptor was talking to before I acted out a bad Patrick Swayze movie.
I nonchalantly angled my head back around and eyed the murky mirror behind the bar. It probably hadn’t been cleaned since the Rolling Stones were young, but I could just make out the biker in its reflection. Pacific Beach with its surfers, college-age kids, and homeless, didn’t seem like the hang for a biker gang member. I didn’t see any other bikers in the bar, and they rarely traveled alone. Maybe the person he was talking to in the booth was another biker and they were scouting out new turf. My view of the person was blocked by the massive back of the Raptor.
Five minutes later, the mountain rose up and headed in my direction. He had a lumberjack beard and a mane of dark-brown hair. He looked familiar and could have been in The Chalked Cue the other night. One thing I was sure of, he wasn’t the man with the scar who had cracked my ribs, given me a concussion, and stolen my gun. Him, I wouldn’t forget. And if we met again, I’d make sure he wouldn’t forget me, either.
I kept my head tilted down over my glass, another boozer lost in thoughts of happier or unhappier times, and eyed him in the mirror. He lumbered past me and out the front door, and my barstool vibrated on the wooden floor like an earthquake’s aftershock had rolled through.
I pinned my eyes to the mirror and focused on the booth in the back to see if the person the Raptor had been talking to would follow him out of the bar. He didn’t. He sat staring down at the table through his blond dreadlocks.
Trey Fellows.
Was this a business arrangement? The place they met to make deals? Maybe, but I doubted Trey needed to buy any more weed right now. Two nights ago he had five pounds in his refrigerator. That would take him a while to move, even to the stoners in PB. Maybe he was here to talk about something else. Could the Raptor have been warning him about me dropping his name at The Chalked Cue to get information about Steven Lunsdorf? Or maybe he was there to thank him for setting me up, and to plan another trap. Paranoia? Probably, but I’d been ambushed enough in my life to justify it.
Trey finally raised his head. I couldn’t nail his expression through the shadows in the back of the bar, but I thought he looked sad. The view of his hands was blocked by the top of the booth, but I could tell by the movement of his shoulders that he was doing something with them. A second later he put a cell phone up to his ear. At the same moment, my own cell vibrated in my pocket. I was thankful that I made a habit of turning the ringer off when I worked surveillance. A ring in the bar now would have zeroed Trey’s eyes on me. I wasn’t ready to give up my identity just yet.
I let the vibration tickle my leg and kept my eyes on Trey’s reflection. After the buzzing stopped, he mouthed words into his phone. No doubt, leaving me a message. I was a bit surprised that he’d returned my call. I’d expected him to be running scared and that I’d have to track him down.
He slid out of the booth and started walking toward me. I shot my eyes back to my scotch and felt him pass behind me, then watched him go out the door. I stood up, dropped a ten on the bar, and followed Trey outside.
The sun pushed down on the horizon, trailing dusk behind it, and a winter nip rode in on the breeze off the ocean. I followed Fellows on foot as he headed in the direction of his home. I stayed back a half block and on the opposite side of the street. He went home without any stops along the way. I went to my car, tossed my surveillance get-up into the trunk, and put on my bomber jacket.
I listened to Trey’s message on my phone. He said he was sorry that he’d missed me and that he’d be available for the rest of the night if I needed to reach him. A lot more agreeable than I’d expected. Something didn’t fit. A sharp-edged puzzle piece that scratched me when I tried to force it together with the other pieces.
Trey opened his door in a halo of marijuana smoke. It hadn’t taken him long to start the evening bake after his talk with the Raptor. Because he was trying to settle his nerves, or because it was what he did every day?
“Come in, bro.”
I sat down on the loveseat and he sat on the recliner opposite his bong on the coffee table.
“How you feeling?” he asked.
“Better. Thanks.” I nodded at the baggie of weed next to the bong. “Is this medical or from your Raptor stash?”
“Dude, I want to help with your investigation.” He held his hands out open in front of himself. “I’ll do whatever you and Mr. Buckley need me to. But can you give me a break on the weed? I can’t take a hassle with the police, man.”
“We’ll see how things go.” I had no intention of reporting Fellows to the police, but I wasn’t going to give up my leverage. Not yet. “You keep cooperating, and I’m sure everything will turn out okay.”
“I’m cooperating, man.” He slumped back into the recliner, a hurt child look on his face.
“I know you are.” I nodded some reassurance. “Hey, when you called the Eddingtons about the confession, who did you talk to?”
“The old guy. Jack.” Steady eyes, no sign of deception. “Why?”
“Just checking something. Did he answer the phone or did a woman?”
“He did.”
“Did you just call them the one time?”
“Yeah.” He gave me wide bloodshot eyes, wondering where this was going.
It wasn’t going anywhere now, and I probably owed Jack an apology. If he’d hired the hit on his family, he would have sat on the information Trey had given him. I doubted Trey, having once risked his safety to bring the confession to light, would follow up if nothing came of it. One conspiracy theory put to bed and a meal of crow soon to be ordered.
“I need your help tomorrow.” Time to finish the job I’d been hired to do. “I’ll pick you up around ten a.m. Okay?”
“What are we going to do?” A slight waver in his voice.
“You’re going to take me to the place where Steven Lunsdorf said he buried the golf club he used to kill the Eddington family.”
“Okay.” No hesitation.
Not what I’d expected. The Trey puzzle piece scratched a little more. I looked at the refrigerator and remembered another piece that didn’t fit. During my first interview, Trey had told me he had a couple beers with Steven Lunsdorf the night Lunsdorf confessed to the murders. Lunsdorf’s sister, the bartender at The Chalked Cue, told me Trey didn’t drink. I’d checked his refrigerator the other night looking for beer and instead found marijuana. No beer.
“It’s been a long day, Trey.” I motioned to the refrigerator. “Would you mind giving me a beer so I can start the night early?”
“Sorry, bro, I don’t—I’m all out.” His face flushed and he shot up from the recliner. “I can get you a guava juice.”
“That’s okay, Trey. Sit down.” He did as told, and I stood up and looked down at him. “You don’t have to hide the fact that you don’t drink alcohol. It’s commendable.”
He just stared at his bong.
“Why did you lie to me the other night about drinking a few beers with Lunsdorf?”
“I didn’t think you’d believe that I hung out in a bar if I didn’t drink.” He fired up the bong and sucked in a hit.
“So you lied to me in order for me to believe the truth?” Trey and I had that trait in common.
A long exhale of indoor smog and then a cough. “Yeah. Sorry, but the rest is true. All of it.”
The puzzle piece still didn’t fit. I’d caught him in one lie. I’d give him a chance to tell me another.
“What were you doing when you ignored my call this afternoon?”
“I didn’t ignore it. I was going to pick it up, but I…I was down at
the beach and just needed to chill. This whole thing with the Raptors is kinda scary.”
Lie number two.
“Have they hassled you? Tried to talk to you?”
“No.” Lie number three. He shot a glance up at the lone picture on the wall.
I let his latest lies lay. I’d confront him after a little more recon. I started to have the feeling that the puzzle pieces that didn’t fit might belong to a whole new puzzle.
“Ten o’clock tomorrow. Right?”
“I’ll be ready.” He took a deep breath. His first one without marijuana smoke in it.
I opened the door and was hit by fresh air for the first time since I’d entered Trey’s smoke den. I swung the door back and forth a few times to remind Trey what fresh air smelled like. I caught him looking at the picture on the wall again.
“Who’s in the picture, Trey?”
A long pause. “My sister.”
“That her boyfriend?”
“Yeah.” He looked down at the coffee table.
“Buddy of yours?”
“Not really.”
“What’s his name?”
“Brad.”
“Brad what?” I felt an edge in my voice.
He looked back at the coffee table and scratched his scalp. Finally, “Larson.”
“He and your sister still together?”
“Why all the questions about Brad?”
The only photo Trey had in his house was of his sister and Brad Larson. No pictures of girlfriends, present or ex, none of his parents, none of his sister alone. He looked at the picture when he got nervous and he was defensive about Larson. Trey was hiding something. Sooner or later, I’d find out what it was.
“I like to be thorough. What’s the big deal?”
“It’s my sister’s business to talk about. Not mine.”
I already figured I’d have to talk to Sierra Fellows, but not before I had a story from Trey to line up against hers.
“So they broke up?”
“No. I don’t know.” His eyes got big and rolled around the room. “Listen bro, it’s none of my business.”
I decided not to press him anymore. He still had to lead me to the supposed murder weapon tomorrow morning. I didn’t want him to run and hide before I got back here.
“See you tomorrow at ten a.m.”
He had the bong back to his mouth before I made it out the door.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I pulled in front of Buckley’s office building. Moira MacFarlane stood on the curb, arms folded across her ample chest, frown pulling down her puckish mouth.
She whipped open the Mustang’s passenger door and jumped inside without a word.
“Morning,” I said, and gave her a big smile.
“You think this makes us even?” She reassumed her street posture with her arms crossed.
“No, but I really appreciate you helping me out.”
“Let’s get something straight, Cahill.” The marbles in the blender again. “I’m here because Mr. Buckley hired me to be here. I do what my employer asks and don’t go off on any tangents of my own.”
Sounded like Buckley had given her instructions to try to keep me in line and, maybe, report back to him when I veered off.
“Fine.” I took a left onto Prospect Street and headed toward La Jolla Boulevard, which would lead me to PB and Trey Fellows. “I just want you to film the search today, but keep an eye on Fellows. I want to know what’s in your gut. Is the guy believable? What’s going on behind his smoke-stained eyes?”
“Why?” She relaxed her arms and softened the edge on her voice. “You think he’s lying?”
“I don’t know. I just want your gut on him.”
“Okay.” She nodded her head. “But I still think you’re an asshole.”
“Of course.” I side-glanced her and caught a tiny upward curl to her lips.
We arrived at nine forty-five a.m., fifteen minutes early, as I had planned. I wanted to keep Trey slightly off balance. Keep the edge on. Then somewhere down the road, I’d let him get comfortable and see what came out of his mouth. Maybe a few more pieces to that side puzzle. The one I knew was out there, but wasn’t supposed to be working on.
I found a rare parking spot outside the main house and left Moira in the car. Trey opened on the second knock. His eyes were clear and the smell of marijuana smoke was faint, like he hadn’t smoked since last night. Probably a personal record.
“You ready?”
“I think so.” But his eyes weren’t sure. I caught a whiff of BO under deodorant. I had the feeling he’d been waiting there in his cottage since nine a.m. Sitting, straight-backed, in the recliner, flop sweat moistening his armpits.
Why so nervous? This was the time to test his story. Was he afraid because it was a lie? Or because it was the truth?
Hopefully, we’d find out today.
I led him out to the street where my car was parked. He saw Moira in the passenger seat and froze.
“Who’s she?” His voice, high and tight. He stopped walking.
“She’s another investigator working for Mr. Buckley.”
“You didn’t tell me there’d be anyone else coming.”
“She’s on our team, Trey.” I turned and faced him. “You’re going to have to get used to talking to other people about this. You knew this day was coming. Can you handle it?”
He looked down at the ground and slowly stroked his dreadlocks. Then he looked back at me. “Yeah. I can do this.”
He didn’t sound convincing, but I wasn’t the one he’d have to convince. Not yet.
Moira opened her door, scooted her seat up, and pulled the seatback forward so Trey could get in. She could have pulled the seat forward all the way to the glove compartment and she’d still have leg room. She didn’t offer him a smile or any small talk. Maybe she’d already made up her mind on him.
We drove through the heart of PB until we hit Mission Boulevard, which became La Jolla Boulevard. The homes grew nicer and the trees out front, larger. Nobody said a word. We could have been strangers on a bus or relatives in a funeral procession. But the funeral had already taken place eight years ago.
The Eddingtons had lived on a long cul-de-sac atop one of the many hillsides of La Jolla. The death house was at the bottom of the cul-de-sac horseshoe.
I parked next to the curb, one house up. Something instinctual kept me from parking in front of the Eddington house. Moira gave me a pop-eyed look, but I ignored it. I opened the car door and looked back at Trey as I got out, “Time to go to work.”
He followed me out the door, and the three of us stood in silence and looked at the death house. The architecture was hardly spooky. A large, rambling ranch house, painted white with brown trim that sat out on a bluff, separated from its neighbors. The right side of the house had a fantastic view of the Pacific Ocean a mile away. The landscaping was well-kept, and the house would have been cheery if three people hadn’t been bludgeoned to death in it.
It had been eight years. The blood-soaked carpet and splattered walls had long since been replaced and scrubbed clean. Another family had moved in and made it their home. New happy memories made. A different set of lives in full bloom. Still, none of us said anything or moved, until we each bowed our heads in our own contemplation or prayer.
Respect for the dead.
“Let’s get a move on.” Moira was the first to break the trance.
Trey started walking toward a dirt path to the left of the house that ran along a neighbor’s hedge and meandered down below the houses, rimming the hillside until it made a steep drop to the street at the bottom of the bluff. I opened the trunk of the car and handed Moira a video camera. She followed Trey. I grabbed the metal detector from the trunk and brought up the rear. I stopped just below the right side of the Eddington house, which faced the ocean.
The view was magnificent. A tree-filled swath of residential La Jolla spread out below until the ocean filled up everything but the horizon. This was why
people lived in La Jolla. Views that added a million-plus dollars to every home and a climate to enjoy it year round. It took a lot of hard work to live this kind of life of leisure. Or someone up the lineage chain willing to do the work so you wouldn’t have to. Thomas Eddington had had the luck of birth, but had worked to earn his spot. A jury said he hadn’t been as lucky with his choice of lineage.
I went down the dirt path and caught up with Moira and Trey. They had stopped next to a raised sewer pipe just above the path, about a hundred yards down from the Eddington house. It was cement, except for the iron cap, and protruded about two feet out of the dirt. The cement was painted blue. Moira aimed the video camera at the pipe, then swung it around to film the terrain below the path. It was mostly scrub brush dotted with clusters of nasty-looking cactus.
“Lunsdorf said he shoved the golf club under a bush next to a cactus plant about fifty yards below the blue sewer pipe.” Trey looked out at the mass of bushes and cactus below.
“Did he get any more specific than that?” I asked. “There’s a hell of a lot of bushes and cactus within fifty yards of the sewer.”
“That’s all he said.” He stroked a dreadlock and kept his head tilted downhill. Fifty yards below or not, I started at the top of the hill to be thorough. The first bush was about ten yards below the sewer pipe. Like all the bushes on the hillside, it was dense and surrounded by overgrown weeds and cactus. It was too well protected to get down on hands and knees and stick a head or hand into it. Even with my denim coat and leather gloves, I was certain to be punctured by cactus needles. I’d save that discomfort for when I got a hit with the metal detector. I turned the detector on and moved the wand in tight figure eights over the bush. Nothing.
We repeated the procedure from bush to bush down the hill and came up with more nothing. Not a single beep. The detector was supposed to work from as far away as four feet for something above ground. I wondered if I’d been doing something wrong, so I ran a test with a quarter. Beep, beep, beep.
Moira had kept the film running the whole time, occasionally eyeing Trey while she kept the camera trained on the search. He seemed to get more and more nervous with each negative reading. Once again, I got the nagging feeling that he was working on a different puzzle than the rest of us.
