by Matt Coyle
And deadliest.
Detective Denton, the cop who had taken my stolen-gun report, stood outside the crime-scene tape on the opposite side of the square from Moira. A tall, bald detective whom I didn’t know stood inside the tape near the techs taking notes. No sign of Chief Moretti. The second best highlight of the day only behind finding the golf club.
I showed my PI license to the patrolman nearest me and asked if I could join the other PI up the hill. He led me a few feet down the path and caught Detective Denton’s attention up on the hillside. The patrolman pointed at me then waved the OK sign with one hand and held his other up, palm open. Denton nodded and the patrolman let me walk up the path to the taped-off crime scene.
I caught Detective Denton out of the corner of my eye while I walked up the hill. She watched me with cop eyes. Unfriendly cop eyes.
Another fan from the Brick House. I’d have to start a club.
By the time I made it up to Moira, a crime-scene tech had already secured the golf club in the CST van. Two more techs examined the area around the cactus, and a third continued to film.
“I can take over and you can go home,” I said to Moira.
“You kidding? I’m on the clock.” She kept the video camera on the techs. “Gotta pay the rent and show the Cowboy Lawyer that I’m valuable.”
“I think he already knows that.”
“Hey, what did you do to the lady homicide dick?” She nodded her head at Detective Denton while holding the camera steady.
“Nothing.” Except for lying to her on a police report. “Why?”
“She asked where you were when she arrived, and I got the feeling she wasn’t a fan. Then she glared at you when you walked up here.” She gave a slight nod. “Still is.”
I looked over at Detective Denton. Moira was right. She lasered her eyes on mine, and even at twenty yards, I could see the hatred. I gave her a flat stare back with nothing in it. No anger, no amusement, no fear. Just a sponge to absorb her hate. The intensity of it surprised me. If she’d been a dog, she would have had bared teeth and drool hanging off a snarl. I would have expected that kind of hate from Chief Moretti. I’d earned it from him. Given it time to build, deepen, and fester.
I hadn’t known Detective Denton long enough for such enmity. Sure, I’d lied to her when we both knew I was lying. That was cause for dislike, but such upfront animosity? Maybe I’d gotten her into a beef with Moretti. There had to be something more.
I broke my eye wrestle with Detective Denton and watched the techs.
“Mr. Cahill.” Denton’s voice. A command. She might as well have said, “Stop. Police.”
I obeyed the command and looked back at her. She curled a finger at me to come. I looked at Moira, who gave me bug eyes.
“Tell Buckley to give my last check to you if Denton shoots me.”
“Done.”
I walked around the yellow tape over to Denton. “Detective. What can I do for you?”
“Do you know what that kid did to his family, Mr. Cahill?” She invaded my personal space. Bagel and cream cheese breath blew up at me.
“I know what someone did to that family. You don’t have to convince me of its savagery. I’m just not sure ‘that kid’ did it.”
“LJPD, twelve jurors, and the State of California were sure.” The gold flecks in Denton’s eyes burned the reflection of the sun. “What the hell do you know that they didn’t?”
“I’m just following the evidence, Detective. If LJPD had such a locked-down case, you have nothing to worry about.”
“You’re following a made-up story about a hearsay confession, and wasting the State of California’s time and money.”
Buckley must have had to give LJPD just enough information to get them to examine the scene.
“Wasting taxpayers’ money? That would make me a politician, Detective.” I smiled at Denton. “I take great offense.”
“This isn’t a joke. You’re trying to set a vicious killer free.” Her nostrils flared like she smelled something disgusting, and it was me. “I don’t find any humor in that.”
“If Randall Eddington is truly the killer, then the DNA on the golf club should only prove that. Why is everyone at LJPD so nervous, Detective? What am I going to find if I keep digging?”
“You’re going to find yourself in a deep hole without a way to get out.” She turned and walked along the tape in the direction of another detective.
Was that a threat? I’d already been threatened by Moretti, but he had something to lose if Randall’s conviction was overturned. He had worked the murder and was now chief of police. With the constant threat of a voter initiative to dissolve LJPD and farm out policing to the San Diego County Sheriff’s Department, any bad press could put Moretti’s job in jeopardy. He’d be forced to retire as a scapegoat to save the department.
What did Detective Denton stand to lose if Randall was set free? Her job, like all the other cops, if LJPD was dissolved. But that was a long shot. This seemed more personal to her. Why? She hadn’t worked the original Eddington investigation. There’d been one female detective mentioned in the police report and that had been Detective West. Detective Denton had been Bob Reitzmeyer’s partner, and he hadn’t worked the case. If Denton had, Bob would have too.
Denton might be right about me being in a hole if I kept digging. But I had the feeling that I’d uncover a lot of LJPD secrets before I hit bottom.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Buckley had called for a meeting at his office at six p.m., which gave me a couple hours to kill. I went home and threw a ball with Midnight in the backyard for a while. As much as he enjoyed it, I think I enjoyed it more. Watching Midnight sprint after the ball and nab it like a Gold Glove shortstop kept my mind off the Eddington case, my long-term job prospects with La Jolla Investigations, my messed-up relationship with Kim, and, always, Colleen. But reality and responsibilities clawed at the edges of my idyllic respite, and I soon went back inside the house and up to my office.
As helpful as Trey Fellows had been to the case—without him there was no case—I still didn’t trust him one hundred percent. Or even fifty. I needed more info on him, his sister, his sister’s boyfriend, Brad Larson—the guy in the lone picture on Trey’s living room wall that Trey inadvertently glanced at a few times when he was uncomfortable—and on Dianne Wilkens, the owner of the house where he now hid out.
I googled Dianne Wilkens first and found nothing about a woman with that name in San Diego. The name came up on Facebook, but the person didn’t live in San Diego. Next, Brad Larson, San Diego. Hundreds of links came up and even a few pictures. None matched the picture on Trey’s wall, and none of the links seemed like a match for Trey or his sister.
Only eighteen Brad Larsons listed on Facebook. None matched the picture on Trey’s wall. I’d searched Trey on both Google and Facebook after I decided to take the case and hadn’t found a match. Dianne Wilkens, Trey, and Larson should give classes on how to avoid your fifteen minutes of fame in the Internet age.
I typed Sierra Fellows on Facebook. There was one who lived in San Diego. Her profile picture was taken down by the Ocean Beach pier. It was her. The woman in the photo on Trey’s wall and the one who drove him to Candlelight Drive in the yellow Bug. Big blue eyes, tan, long blond hair with natural ocean-air waves in it.
I searched Sierra’s Facebook photo albums and didn’t find any photos of Brad Larson. Not in the last three years. I finally found some in the album from 2011. The picture of her and Larson was there along with many others. There were also ones of Larson and Trey at various beaches. The two of them smiling in wet suits, flashing mahalo fingers. All the captions used only first names. I clicked on Larson’s face to see if he’d come up with a Facebook page under another name. Nothing.
So, Trey had lied about being friends with Larson. Lie number…too many to remember. Either that, or they’d had a huge falling-out in the last four years. I doubted it, not with the photo of Sierra and Larson still on Trey�
�s wall. Why the lies from the man Buckley was balancing his whole case on to get Randall a new trial? There was always that other puzzle he was working on, and I didn’t know where the pieces fit.
I went back to the more recent photos in Sierra’s albums. No more photos of Larson or anyone to replace him. I now noticed that her smiles weren’t as big and easy as the ones in the earlier years with Larson. Where was he now, and what had happened between Sierra and him?
Buckley’s receptionist, Jasmine, greeted me in his outer office. Well, greet was a bit generous. She grunted something monosyllabic. Jasmine was pretty in a semi-Goth sort of way, but with hard dark eyes. Skin ink peeked out from an open button just above her cleavage. I’d always figured she wasn’t just a wannabe tough chick, but really had a story. I’d never asked Buckley about it. Some people don’t want their story told, especially by someone else.
Jasmine didn’t seem to like me, but maybe she didn’t like anybody. I was used to both. She ushered me into Buckley’s main office. Moira MacFarlane stood talking to a stunning young woman with long blond hair wearing a short tight dress. I’d never seen the woman before; I would have remembered. A short man with curly black hair and horn-rimmed glasses stood a step back from the women and listened to their conversation. I don’t think I’d seen him before either. If I had, I wouldn’t have remembered.
I was surprised to see Moira. I thought her gig had only been for the day. Maybe she was there to replace me and my reprieve was over.
A card table sat in the middle of the room with appetizers and booze on it. Buckley-style appetizers: cheese and crackers, mini pigs in a blanket, and little wedge quesadillas. Buckley held three fingers of Maker’s Mark in one hand and a blanketed pig in the other.
He spotted me. “Good, everybody’s here. Rick, grab a drink and a nibble, and let’s get started.”
He introduced the two younger people as Melinda and Jacob, his first-year associates. They had been working on the law behind the scenes while I’d been snooping around prisons, biker bars, and crime scenes.
Buckley sat down behind his desk and gave us the rundown on the case now that the police had the golf club. Once they had it booked into evidence, their lab would determine whether there was human DNA on the club. If there was, we would be given a sample to test at an independent laboratory.
Buckley anticipated LJPD dragging their feet, so he had Jacob write a brief for a judge to demand that they turn over the sample to Buckley tomorrow. Once they did, he would get it to the lab. State DNA laboratories could be backlogged for months, even years. Buckley said the private lab could provide results in a matter of days. If the sample came back positive for the Eddingtons, we knew we had the murder weapon. If it came back without Randall’s DNA, but with someone else’s, coupled with Trey Fellows’ testimony about Steven Lunsdorf’s confession, we probably had a new trial.
If the golf club came back with Randall’s DNA on it, case closed. An argument could be made that he had used his father’s golf clubs when he played golf. Under normal circumstances in the first trial, that might have been enough to cause reasonable doubt. But, the bar to get a judge to throw out Randall’s conviction was much higher. There couldn’t be any doubts lingering about Randall’s participation in the crime.
Buckley wanted Moira and me to trade off keeping eyes on Trey Fellows to make sure he’d testify when needed. My turn to chime in.
“Fellows has taken up residence elsewhere.”
“What?” Buckley leaned over the desk. “How do you know that?”
“I saw him load two duffel bags into his sister’s car and drive off with her.” I didn’t mention that I’d probably put a scare into Fellows by telling him that the police would soon be interested in him and that he ought to curtail his marijuana sales.
“Where’d they go?”
“To a home in La Jolla owned by a Mrs. Dianne Wilkens. Husband deceased. Sierra Fellows left alone about an hour after arriving.”
“You just happened to be at Mr. Fellows’ house when his sister picked him up?” Buckley stroked his gray-bearded chin.
“I had just dropped him off after we located the golf club.”
“So, Mr. Fellows knew you’d followed him to this house in La Jolla?”
“No. I staked him out and tailed him.”
“What am I missing here, Rick?” His usual syrupy Texas twang now had a burr in it. “It sounds like you’re running your own investigation again.”
“I’m using my instincts. What you’re paying me for. Or were, at least.” I was all in now, so I gave him the rest; Trey’s meeting with the Raptor in the bar yesterday and the Brad Larson mystery.
“Well, son, I appreciate you being thorough. I suppose.” He scratched his beard. “But it seems to me that a drug dealer meeting with his supplier is not exactly the Kennedy assassination when it comes to conspiracies. And the mystery of Mr. Fellows’ sister’s boyfriend…well, that ain’t Watergate.”
Moira tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile, and the two associates suddenly took interest in the carpet. I didn’t care. I was long past shame.
“Look, I know Trey’s story is mostly matching up so far, and we found the golf club that Lunsdorf told him about. But there is something off about it. There’s something else at play that I can’t get my hands around, but I will. Soon.” Maybe.
“Ms. MacFarlane, do you agree with Mr. Cahill’s razor-sharp instincts?” He looked at Moira, who tried not to giggle.
“Not exactly.” She kept her Kewpie Doll eyes on Buckley and wouldn’t look at me. “Fellows is a little jittery, but I think anyone would be under the circumstances.”
“Let’s stick with the original plan for now.” Buckley fished out a toothpick from the pocket of his snap-button cowboy shirt. “Keep an eye on Mr. Fellows for the next couple days. You two can rotate shifts to, say, ten o’clock at night. I think that should be late enough.”
“Do you think we should just call him and see if he tells us on his own that he’s moved?” Moira asked Buckley.
I jumped in before Buckley could answer. “I wouldn’t do that. If he’s really hiding out from everyone, including us, he might spook and try to hide somewhere else. Forever.”
Moira’s entire face pinched in on itself.
“Well, Rick might be right.” Buckley smiled like a dad trying to correct his daughter without hurting her confidence. I guess he didn’t see me as a son, despite the number of times he addressed me that way. “Let’s watch him for now and then decide how to proceed.”
I hoped we’d be the only ones watching.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I took the first night of surveillance of Trey’s hideaway on Candlelight Drive. I parked up the hill where I had earlier that day, well out of Trey’s view but an easy distance with the help of binoculars.
Christmas lights hung from the eaves and trees of most of the homes on the block. Multicolored old-school teardrops, modern icicles, and single-color themed homes. Twinkling trees in front of open-draped windows. The Christmas season was in full bloom in La Jolla. Except for Trey Fellows’ hideout.
I pulled some binoculars from my backpack and pointed them towards 5564 Candlelight. The front of the house came into sharp view. The driveway sat empty. A planter box with geraniums fronted the big bay window that was probably part of the family room. Closed white curtains gave off a soft backlit glow. No light on the porch, but I could make out that the front door was closed.
An hour in, a beat-up Ford F-150 pickup truck made a left at the bottom of the hill and roared up Candlelight. I hit it with the binoculars. A wide stack of shoulders with a buffalo head of beard and sagebrush hair took up the driver’s side. The man-mountain could have been the same biker I saw talking to Trey in the dive bar yesterday. Also may not have been. Those bikers all looked alike to me. A man about half the size of the driver sat in the passenger seat. Beardless and mostly hairless, he looked like Jeff to the driver’s Mutt.
The truck wasn’t goi
ng fast enough to be worthy of its roar, but its muffler was either broken or had been removed. It Y-turned and stopped in front of Trey’s new place, and the odd couple got out. The mountain wore a leather Raptor jacket and jeans. His sidekick was older and wore slacks and a blazer. He carried a briefcase with him. I grabbed my camera out of my backpack and snapped off a shot of the mountain and the thin man and the truck.
They went up to the front porch, and I could just make out the big one knock on the door. A couple seconds later the door opened and Trey stood backlit in the doorway. I couldn’t make out his face, but he didn’t hesitate to let the men inside. His body movements gave off neither fear nor surprise. He’d been expecting his guests.
I replaced the camera with the more powerful binoculars, zeroed in on the truck, and jotted down its license number on a small notepad. Then I called Moira.
“You have a friend at LJPD or San Diego PD who can run a plate for you?” I didn’t have any friends on any police departments. Not for over ten years. Bob Reitzmeyer always made the phone calls for me when I needed car registration information while working for LJI.
“I got somebody in La Jolla.” She sounded relieved that I hadn’t asked for a bigger favor. She wouldn’t be for long. “Give me the plate number.”
I read her the letters and numbers off my pad.
“I’ll call you back in a few minutes.” She hung up.
I brought the binos back up to my eyes and focused on the house. Five minutes passed. No action. No phone call from Moira. On the job for Reitzmeyer, I’d spent hours waiting with binoculars pinned to my eyes. Watching people commit marital sins or waiting for them to. Sometimes, in uncomfortable positions. Sometimes, relaxed. I knew how to wait. But waiting was only worth it if you were gathering information. Short of Moira’s call with the name of the owner of the truck, I’d gotten all the information I could sitting in my car. Guests had dropped by a house that Fellows had made his hideout. They looked like invited guests. Time for a little reconnaissance.
