Night Tremors

by Matt Coyle

  I hadn’t talked to Dan since he retired. We’d seen each other at Torrey Pines a few times, but pretended we hadn’t. About time we finally talked.

  I found Dan’s phone number in my iPhone address book. I stared at the number but didn’t punch it. Whatever had happened between Dan and LJPD aside, the Windsor case had turned Dan against me. I doubted that he’d be happy to hear from me, or be willing to set up an appointment to talk about the Eddington case. I needed to catch him off guard. At home.

  Dan lived in La Mesa, a bedroom community twenty-five minutes southeast of La Jolla. La Mesa had the rolling hills of La Jolla and the same small-town feel. But fifteen degrees hotter in the summer and without the ocean views.

  I’d been to Dan’s house for dinner with his wife, Tracy, and young son, Tommy, once about three years ago. Neither Dan nor Tracy had accused me of killing my wife or called my father a bagman. Only because they had yet to learn about my past. Now they knew.

  Dan lived up a windy hill just south of downtown La Mesa in a two-story house that would have cost over a million anywhere in La Jolla. It probably cost him less than half that. His pickup truck sat in the driveway just under a basketball hoop. We had played a game of horse with little Tommy the last time I came here. I didn’t think Dan would have to move his truck tonight.

  I knocked on the door at 6:25 p.m. and waited, still not sure what I would say to Dan. Tracy opened the door. Petite and fit, she still looked like a college student, even though I knew she was older than me. Her blond hair, cropped in a youthful bob cut, had a red ribbon pinned above her left ear. She wore tights and a t-shirt and looked like she’d just returned from the gym. The smile she wore for front-door greetings dropped when she saw me.

  “Hi, Tracy. Is Dan home?” I smiled like I was the next-door neighbor instead of a disgraced ex-cop and two-time murder suspect.

  “Rick. What do you…Hold on.” She gently closed the door on me. I figured she would have slammed it if she weren’t coming back.

  I waited. A minute later, Dan opened the door. Even less happy to see me than Tracy. PI work had been good to him. He’d dropped a few pounds since his LJPD days and, even though he was down to a dwindling half-moon of hair around his head, he looked younger than when I’d last seen him wearing a badge.

  “What do you want, Rick?” Still no nonsense.

  “About thirty minutes. I’ll buy you a beer, then drop you back home. No damage done.”

  He looked over his shoulder, then stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind him.

  “You think you can just drop by here without calling ahead, and we’ll go have a beer like old times?” His Apache cheekbones flashed red under the porch light and he stabbed his chin at me. “After what happened? After everything you did?”

  He was right. What the hell was I thinking? Nonetheless, Eddington case or not, I had to set the record straight. “What I did was try to help someone wrongfully arrested for murder and keep myself out of jail.” I gave him a piece of my own chin. “Oh yeah, and try not to get killed.”

  “You don’t even see it, do you?” He raised his hands and shook his head. “You are so self-involved that you can’t even see what you did.”

  “What did I do?”

  “People died because of you. If you had just come to me with what you knew instead of playing hero—”

  “You worked for a corrupt police force. Remember? Or have you forgotten the reasons for your early retirement? I couldn’t trust any of you.” But he was mostly right. I could have done things differently. But so could have LJPD.

  “Call next time, Rick. You’ll save yourself a trip.” He turned and opened the door.

  “How come Bob Reitzmeyer isn’t mentioned in the police report of the Eddington murders?”

  “Eddington murders?” He closed the door and turned back to face me. “That was seven or eight years ago. Why the hell are you asking about that now?”

  “Let’s go get that beer and I’ll tell you.”

  “You’re not listening.” He shook his head. “We’re not pals anymore. I wouldn’t be caught dead in public with a man who got away with murdering his wife.”

  I didn’t think he believed that. Or maybe he did. It didn’t matter.

  “I’ll wear a hat and we can sit in a dark corner.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Believe what you want about me, Dan. I don’t care. But I know, beyond all else, you care about justice. That’s why you quit LJPD two years ago.”

  “Randall Eddington got justice.”

  “Then what’s the harm if we have a beer and talk about it?”

  He stared dark cop-eyes at me for what seemed like an hour. Finally, “I’ll give you thirty minutes.”

  Dan picked the bar. A hole-in-the-wall pub with dim lighting and customers uninterested in anything but the drinks in front of them and their own sorrows. My kind of bar. Not Dan’s. Except for tonight. I bet he picked the place because he’d never been in it before. If anyone recognized me because of my history, they wouldn’t recognize him. We found a table in the back and settled in over a couple beers. I told him I was moonlighting with Timothy Buckley to try to get Randall Eddington a new trial.

  When I finished, he said, “You’ve got twenty-four minutes left, Rick.”

  “I understand you think this is a waste of your time, Dan.” I gave him a Clintonesque squint and tried to look earnest, then delivered the lie. “I’m just doing my due diligence. I’ve been stuck on the infidelity detail at LJI, and when Buckley came to me, I jumped at the chance to do something different. Now I wish I hadn’t. The kid probably did it, but I owe it to the grandparents to cover all the bases. I’ll try to be brief.”

  He studied me through dark eyes wedged between sharp cheekbones and a prominent forehead. Finally, “What do you want to know?”

  “I know Bob Reitzmeyer was at the crime scene the night of the murders.” I wasn’t sure, but now was time to find out. “Why isn’t he listed in the police report? Detective West was, and I know she and Bob were partners.”

  “They were partners, all right.” The words and his raised eyebrows told me they were more than partners. Maybe the reason for West/Denton’s divorce and one of Bob’s three. “But why aren’t you asking Bob this instead of me?”

  “I’m walking a tightrope.” I blew out a loud breath. “Bob allowed me to moonlight on vacation time, then got mad when he found out it was the Eddington murders. I’m trying to keep my real job and give the Eddington grandparents full value at the same time. I can’t ask Bob anything.”

  Dan downed the rest of his beer. Good. His body language had loosened up. Maybe the beer helped. I waved for the waitress to bring us two more.

  “Bob, Hailey West, and Chief Moretti were already at the crime scene when I got there.” Dan air quoted “Chief” with his fingers. I’d been right about there being animosity between the two of them. “Randall Eddington arrived soon thereafter, and Denton, or West, whatever her name was before the divorce, and I took him back to the Brick House to question him. When I went back to the scene, Bob was gone.”

  “Any idea why he left?”

  The waitress arrived with round two, and Dan took a healthy swig before he answered. “I see you’re not taking notes, and I don’t suppose you’re illegally taping me with some hidden recorder.”

  “No tape recorder. This is all background.”

  “If you attribute to me what I’m about to tell you, I’ll deny it and do my best to make it difficult for you to work as an investigator in San Diego.” He hit his beer again.

  “No attribution.”

  “You know your boss is a hound, right?”

  “I’d be a pretty crappy PI if I hadn’t figured that out by now.” Three divorces and too many girlfriends to count. “So, he and Detective West/Denton were having an affair.”

  “Of course, but that’s not why Moretti took him off the case.”

  “Why, then?”

  “You claim to be a good PI, Rick.” He
downed the rest of his beer and stood up. “You figure it out. But when you do, it won’t change the facts of that night. Randall Eddington murdered his family. He’s where he belongs as long as hell isn’t an option. Thanks for the beers. I’ll take a cab home.”

  He walked out of the bar.

  Bob Reitzmeyer had had an affair with Alana Eddington before she was murdered. That had to be it. Moretti knew and couldn’t allow Bob to be a part of the investigation. If he was and the defense found out, they’d put Bob on trial in the courtroom.

  The affair was plausible. Bob had gone to the Eddingtons’ at Thomas Eddington’s request to find out who’d been stealing jewelry and money from the house. Bob and Alana had probably met then. I’d seen Bob around attractive women. The charm oozed out of his pores, unforced. It was almost Pavlovian, as if he couldn’t help it. And I’d seen dozens of women succumb to his charm. Alana Eddington must have joined the long list.

  Had Bob and Alana still been involved at the time of the murders? If so, did it matter? I didn’t believe he had anything to do with the murders, but how long had he been at the crime scene that night? Did he investigate the scene at all? And why did he retire within a few months of Randall Eddington’s arrest?

  I thought I knew of a way to get some answers, but there were other questions that needed answering first.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I got up at six the next day and drove down to Ocean Beach. I had the morning watch of Sierra Fellows’ apartment, but not for another three hours. I had something else to do that Buckley didn’t need to know about, and probably wouldn’t be happy if he did.

  Ocean Beach was elegant Point Loma’s kid sister. Cute when you cut through the ’60s hippie wardrobe. Sierra lived in a faded apartment building near Dog Beach. A yellow Volkswagen Bug parked in the mini-lot out front told me she was probably home. The local cops used to call the area the War Zone because of the drug deals done on the street and the belligerent bums. The area hadn’t exactly been gentrified, but the streets were now mostly clean of discarded drug paraphernalia and discarded lives.

  Moira had gotten a confirmed sighting of Trey last night when he answered the door of Sierra’s apartment for a pizza delivery. Now he was probably sleeping off a buzz on the couch. Or, hopefully not, down by the Ocean Beach pier doing a stint with the surfing dawn patrol.

  But he wasn’t my concern right now.

  Fog grayed the morning and briny breezes lolled inland off the ocean. I sat in my car a quarter block down from Sierra’s apartment building and watched the door to her upstairs unit. She came out at 7:10 a.m. and trotted down the stairs to the parking lot. She wore black slacks, t-shirt, and shoes. The shirt had a red insignia over the left breast that I was too far away to read. Probably the logo of the Morning Cup restaurant where she worked.

  I knew the restaurant. The best breakfast in La Jolla. I gave Sierra and her yellow Bug plenty of room as I followed her onto Sunset Cliffs Drive and out of Ocean Beach. No need to push it and show her the tail if I knew her destination. The fog eased a bit but still kept a lid on the morning as we hit La Jolla.

  The Morning Cup was on Wall Street, a block down from the Brick House. I hadn’t been there in a couple years. Too close to the Brick House and bad memories.

  I found a parking spot atop Park Avenue next to a grass circle that held a long-poled American flag. I never knew who ran the flag up the pole in the morning and down in the evening, but I always thought of my father when I saw it. The flag had been there even back when my dad patrolled the streets of La Jolla in an LJPD squad car twenty-five years ago. When we passed by it during the last ride-along I’d ever take with him, he pointed up at it and said, “That flag up there still means something. Honor still means something.”

  Liquid filled his eyes. On someone else, I would have called it tears. But I’d never seen my father cry. And he didn’t that day. Not quite. I was too afraid to ask him what was wrong. I was ten years old and didn’t want to believe there was a world where my dad wasn’t the smartest, toughest, and most heroic man in it.

  Two months later, he resigned from the police force under corruption rumors. Nine years after that, he’d be dead. Cirrhosis of the liver. By then, I’d learned all about that other world.

  The Morning Cup sat in an old, white brick building that had avoided the trendy gentrification of other restaurants just a block away. This morning, it was full and had a wait-list. After I’d waited outside for five minutes, a hipster with the millennial generation’s perennial five-day facial growth called my name. I asked him if I could sit in Sierra’s section. He gave me a crooked smile like we were sharing a secret and said, “Sure, bro.”

  The Morning Cup wedged ten small tables in its rectangular toy-box interior. Exposed brick and ductwork coupled with hanging knickknacks gave it a cool vibe. Five-Day Growth sat me at a two-top in front of the window and went over to Sierra, who stood at the coffee station filling morning cups. He said something to her and nodded over at me. I hid behind my menu. He’d obviously told her that I’d requested her section. No problem. I had a reason ready for her.

  Sierra made the rounds of her tables and stood in front of me a couple minutes later.

  “Are you ready to order?”

  She strained a smile. The real truth rested in her blue eyes, which wanted to know who I was and why I’d asked to sit in her station.

  “I’ll take the Rosemary Eggs, scrambled, sourdough, and a glass of OJ.” I handed her the menu. “Thanks.”

  “Thank you.” She hesitated and pondered the question in her head. When she didn’t ask it, I answered it for her.

  “I’m in town on business and my brother recommended that I eat here. He’s an old surfing buddy of Brad Larson.” Brad Larson. The lone picture on Trey Fellow’s wall had Larson and Sierra in it. “He hasn’t heard from Brad in a while and wanted me to ask you how he’s doing.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know a Brad Larson.”

  “Really?” I played it light instead of accusatory. “My brother told me you were Brad’s girlfriend.”

  Sierra’s face flushed. She had to feel the heat and know that her face betrayed her words.

  “I don’t know a Brad Larson. Sorry.” She gave me a fake smile. “I’d better go put in your order.”

  Sierra spun and hurried to the wait station. I kept my eyes on her, but she didn’t look back at me. Why the lie? She had dozens of pictures of Larson on her Facebook page for the whole world to see. I didn’t take her for stupid. She must have realized it would be easy for someone to put her and Larson together. Maybe it was a reflex reaction and she hadn’t thought it through. If that was the case, there had to be a reason the question caused a reflex.

  Trey Fellows’ puzzle pieces, the Raptor and the lawyer, Sierra’s lie, and Brad Larson, all ran an itch up the back of my neck. I wanted to put my fingernails to that itch, but Buckley wouldn’t let me. Not yet.

  I didn’t know how long I could wait.

  Ten minutes later, Sierra brought my breakfast over to me. She wore the smeared-on smile and wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  “Here you go.” She placed a plate of scrambled eggs, rosemary-roasted potatoes, and a glass of orange juice down on the table in front of me and spun around to leave.

  “Sierra, wait.” I said it loud enough for the table next to me to look over. Too bad. I was tired of accepting things at other people’s face value on this case.

  “Yes?” Panicked eyes over the fake smile.

  I lowered my voice, “Why are you lying about Brad Larson?”

  She glanced around, and the couple at the next table went back to their own conversation.

  “I’m not lying.” Still wouldn’t look at me. “I don’t know a Brad Larson.”

  “I confess.” I raised my shoulders in an “aw shucks” look and smiled. “I’m a curious guy in a Facebook world. When my brother gave me your name, I looked you up on Facebook and saw a bunch of pictures of you and Brad together.”


  Not a complete lie.

  Her face burned a little brighter and the smile dropped. “You’re the one who’s lying. I don’t know any Brad Larson and don’t have any pictures of him on my Facebook page.”

  She spun around and went back to the wait station. It would probably take a subpoena to get her to tell me who the man was on her Facebook page and on the walls of her brother’s apartment and Dianne Wilkens’ house.

  Who was lying now? Me, yes. Trey Fellows, probably. Sierra Fellows, maybe.

  Five-Day Growth brought me the check when I was done with breakfast. He gave me a stink eye along with it. Couldn’t argue with him. I left a large tip to buy off the guilt I felt about ruining Sierra Fellows’ morning.

  I’d followed Sierra to work to find out about the man who’d been featured in so many of her Facebook photos. Now I wasn’t even sure I knew his real name. But his picture was still on the walls of Trey Fellows’ cottage, Dianne Wilkens’ house, and Sierra Fellows’ Facebook page. My gut told me that “Brad Larson” was the corner piece of that other puzzle Trey Fellows was working on.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Buckley called me off my surveillance of Trey at noon and told me to meet him at his office. Uh oh, maybe my discussion with Dan Coyote last night or the one with Sierra Fellows this morning had somehow gotten back to him.

  I was surprised to find Jasmine in the office on Saturday. She didn’t cower in fear or point pepper spray at me. Instead, she ignored me. Progress. I quickly went into Buckley’s office. Better his wrath than Jasmine’s terror. Moira was there and actually smiled at me. Buckley did too. So, the meeting wasn’t to chew me out. The day was looking up.

  “Ya’ll hungry?” Buckley put on his cowboy hat. “Follow me.”

  He led us downstairs to the restaurant across the street. Roppongi featured sushi and Asian fusion. I’d taken Kim there a few years ago. The food was excellent and expensive. I was glad Buckley was picking up the tab.

  After we’d been seated and ordered, I raised my eyebrows at Buckley. “You expensing this one, Buckley? Did the Eddingtons cash out their last 401(k)?”