by Matt Coyle
“Hello?” A woman’s voice.
“Is this Kelsey Santos from the University of Nebraska, class of 2003?” I didn’t want to hang up once I knew she was home, or try a ruse that might make her suspicious. I doubted that if she went to college, it would be at Nebraska. No beaches.
“This is Kelsey Santos, but I didn’t go to the University of Nebraska.”
“Sorry. I must have the wrong one. Thanks.” I hung up and hustled out to my car.
Mission Beach is a sliver of a town south of Pacific Beach, built on a sandbar between the Pacific Ocean and Mission Bay. It features a boardwalk along the beach and Belmont Park, a mini-version of Coney Island. A bit run-down, the park did most of its amusing back in the 1920s and 1930s, when land developers envisioned roller coasters with ocean views rather than hotels with the same. Belmont Park still had the Giant Dipper roller coaster from its 1925 birth. The wooden coaster was frightening, not because it went fast or very high, but because you had the sense that it could break down any moment and send you shooting off into space on your final ride before the hard landing.
Kelsey Santos lived on Mission Boulevard, kitty-corner from Belmont Park. The parking in Mission Beach made La Jolla look like the Qualcomm Stadium parking lot on a Charger off-day. I circled the block three times in turtle traffic, every driver’s neck straining to locate a car exiting a spot on the curb. After fifteen minutes, my turn came up in the rotation, and I parked a block down from Kelsey Santos’ apartment.
I walked down the block, passing a couple of bamboo bars, a sandwich shop, and a lot of bundled beach types with faded tans waiting for winter to end and spring to spring. In San Diego, that could happen in five minutes.
The apartment door opened up two steps before I could get to it. A woman stepped out, dressed in jeans and a blue Puma sweatshirt. Polynesian roots and a year-round tan. Sharp cheekbones pushed up to black-coffee, almond-shaped eyes. Full lips under a straight nose blew an “Oh” when she turned from closing the door and saw me. I’d startled her. She hadn’t been expecting a man to creep up on her porch. Or maybe she had, and I was the wrong man.
“Kelsey Santos?” I smiled against the sun that had just peeked through the morning fog and poked me in the eyes.
“Yes?” She elongated the word and her eyebrows pinched together. Wary.
“I’m hoping you can help me.” Still smiling.
“I was just on my way out. Maybe another time. Do you have a business card? I’ll call you.”
“It’s about Trey Fellows.” I dropped the smile and let my words echo my genuine concern.
Her eyes went half-lidded and her mouth micro-expressioned into a frown. She caught herself and gave me a beautiful, but false, smile. “I don’t think I know that person.”
“Kelsey.” I looked at her until she held my eyes. “We both know Trey is in danger. I can keep him safe, but I need your help.” I showed her my PI license. “Trey has probably mentioned my name to you. You can trust me.”
Kelsey dropped her eyes and her shoulders slumped. I stepped toward her because I thought she might drop to the ground. She stayed upright and leaned against the door of her apartment.
“I don’t know where he is.” She kept her voice low and her eyes darted over my shoulder. “He’s supposed to call me tonight at six.”
“When did you last talk to him?”
“Late last night.”
“What did he tell you?”
“That the Raptors were after him and that he had to lie low.” Almost a whisper.
“Where?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. He said it would be safer for me if I didn’t know.”
“I need to be with you when you get the call tonight.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Because I kept Trey from getting killed last night and his sister from being kidnapped by the Raptors. And because I’m the only person left on his side.” I gave her my business card with my cell phone number and told her to call if she heard from Trey before the six o’clock call.
My phone rang on the drive back up to La Jolla. I didn’t recognize the number or even the area code. I answered.
“My name is Max Greenfield. I’m a producer for the 48 Hours television series.”
I didn’t hear what he said next. My mind had gone back in time to Colleen’s murder. My blood flushed heat to my face. Ten years ago, 48 Hours producers had chased me around for an interview to get the husband/killer’s side of the story. I didn’t give them one and they told the story the way they wanted to. I was the killer either way. Just not in front of the camera.
“Mr. Cahill?”
“You had your chance.” I snapped my words out like left jabs to the face. “You already told the story. Can’t you let Colleen rest in peace?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cahill.” He sounded young and confused. “You must have misunderstood me. We’re covering the possible new trial for Randall Eddington and we’d like to get an interview with you.”
“How did you get my number?”
“From Mr. Buckley’s office.”
I hung up and hit Buckley’s cell phone number. He picked up on the third ring.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me about 48 Hours?”
“Pull the reins back in, son. Now, what are you talking about?”
“I just got a call from a 48 Hours producer who is doing a piece on Randall.”
“That’s true. I contacted them and they are going to cover the hearing, and, hopefully, the new trial. This can only help us.”
“It didn’t help me ten years ago.” I fought the urge to mash the gas pedal to the floor to see how far and how fast one tank of gas could take me. But no matter where I ran, the memories would stay with me. My shadow at high noon.
“That’s because you wouldn’t talk to them. All due respect, if I’d been your lawyer, I’d have had you cooperate with them. You let them tell your story. We’re going to do our best to shape the story with Randall.”
“You can do whatever the hell you want. Just tell me about it first. And ask the next time you want to give my phone number to an organization that did a hit piece on me.”
“I didn’t give them your number.” Honest surprise in his voice.
“They said they got it from your office.”
“Oh…”
We both came to the same conclusion at the same time. Jasmine. Buckley’s assistant and my biggest fan. She knew my whole story and had accepted the 48 Hours version. Plus, she just didn’t like me. She hadn’t been able to pass up the chance to make my life a little more uncomfortable. Score one for her.
“Well, I don’t want a damn thing to do with them, so please tell the producer to leave me alone.”
“Son, I think you’re coming at this from the ass end of the donkey.”
I hit La Jolla Boulevard and noticed a cop three cars ahead of me. I lowered the phone, switched it to speaker and eased off the gas. “Translate, Buckley.”
“As soon as this case is over, you’re gonna have to nail up your own shingle. I’ll get you as much work as I can, but it ain’t gonna pay your mortgage.”
“So you think I should go on air for a little free publicity?”
“Now you’re coming correct.” He sipped something. Probably his 100-proof coffee. “When we free that poor young man, people are going to take notice, and I’m going to tell them how indispensable you were in making it happen.”
“You think 48 Hours would interview me, and miss the opportunity to talk about a ten-year-old unsolved murder in which I was the only suspect?”
“I talked to Mr. Greenfield, and I think they’ll play it differently. A wrongly accused man helping to free another.”
“A Hollywood ending.” I pulled to a stop in front of the Morning Cup. “Tell them I’m not interested.”
CHAPTER FORTY
I met Kelsey Santos at the grassy park near the parking lot at Belmont Park at five forty-five p.m. I walked up to greet her like I’d
just arrived, but I’d been there since four, surveilling her apartment. If she’d run, I’d have been right behind her. Invisible. I almost wished she had run. Straight to Trey. That would have been too easy. Now I had to try to figure out where he was, or try to convince him to come in.
I gave Kelsey instructions on what to say when Trey called. We sat at a picnic table and waited. The cool winter day had just left the stage and pulled down the sun behind it. Kelsey sat rigid. Hands in the pocket of her mini-parka. Hood up. The winter night pulled the residual warmth out of the day, but it still wasn’t cold enough to be so bundled up. Her phone lay on the picnic table between us.
“It’s going to be fine, Kelsey. We’re going to make sure Trey is safe.”
“Then what?” Head down, but the hint of an edge hanging off the corners of her words.
“What do you mean?”
“What happens after Trey testifies?” An accusation more than a question, chin thrust out like a spear. “You think Steven Lunsdorf’s biker friends are just going to let bygones be bygones after Trey calls him a murderer in court?”
“After he testifies, things will die down. He may have to lie low for a while, but not too long.” I hoped Buckley had come up with a better plan than that.
But Kelsey was right. Trey’s post-trial safety was the elephant in the room that Buckley and I had tap-danced around. Theoretically, that was Trey’s and the police’s concern. But this was real life. LJPD was trying almost as hard as the Raptors to keep the trial from happening. That left Trey. Alone.
“Right.” Angry.
“You’re right. He’ll probably have to move somewhere else.”
“Where is he going to move? He’s lived in San Diego his whole life. He doesn’t know anyone anywhere else.” She shook her head. “And it’s not like he has any marketable skills.”
“You can sell weed anywhere. Doesn’t he have some friends in Los Angeles?”
“No.”
“He told his sister he was on his way there last night.”
“He didn’t go to LA.”
“I know. You have to get him to tell you where he is.”
“So he can testify and then get murdered.”
Her phone rang on the picnic table and we both froze. The phone number on the screen was blocked.
She looked at me. I nodded. She answered the phone and put it on speaker.
“Trey?”
“Yeah, it’s me, Kelse.” Calm. None of the panic that had been in his voice last night.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Are you on speaker? I can barely hear you.”
Kelsey put the phone closer to her mouth. “Bad cell. Is this better?”
“Yeah. Listen. Be careful. This will all be over in a few days and then we can chill.”
“Where are you?” She looked at me for confirmation. I nodded. “I want to see you. Can we meet somewhere, just for a little while?”
“Not yet, baby. But I’m okay.”
“Why won’t you tell me where you are? I’m worried about you.”
“I can’t. It’s safer this way for both of us. But I have some protection, so don’t worry.”
“What do you mean?” Kelsey raised her eyebrows and she looked at me. “What kind of protection?”
“A couple dudes are guarding me. Everything is fine.”
“Who? I’ve talked to all your friends. They don’t know where you are.”
“It’s one of my customers. A rich dude. He’s cool, so don’t worry. Everything’s cool.”
“I want to come see you.” On script, but the longing in Kelsey’s voice wasn’t faked. “Or at least give me your phone number so I can call you when I want to talk, instead of having to wait for you all the time.”
A voice in the background came out of the phone. The words indiscernible, but the voice belonged to a man.
“I gotta go, babe.” Nervous. “Bye.”
“No. Not yet.” But he’d already hung up.
I hadn’t found out where Trey was, but I had learned something. A rich customer was protecting him or confining him. Or both. From the tone of his voice early in the conversation, I doubted it was the Raptors. A friendlier situation. But the voice at the end had proven that whoever it was, they were in control, not Trey.
Kelsey put the phone down on the picnic table like it had suddenly caught fire. She looked at me with more concern than before the call. “I don’t like this. Who was the guy talking at the end?”
“I don’t know.” If I did, I’d have Trey. But I didn’t like it either. “Do you know any of Trey’s wealthy customers?”
“No. I know he has a couple, but I don’t know who they are.”
Could they have made the body at Candlelight Drive disappear? Somehow, someday, I’d get answers out of Trey. First I had to find him and make sure he testified. Then Buckley’s kid gloves would come off.
“I’m sure he’s fine.” I smiled like I believed it. “You did great.”
“Don’t patronize me.” Anger mixed with fear. Black-coffee eyes wide. “You think Trey is just some small-time drug dealer that you can use to get what you want. But that’s the least of who he is.” She got up from the picnic table and shoved the phone in her coat pocket. “He’s a good person. Better than you.”
She spun and walked across the park to her apartment. I let her go. She’d done what I’d asked her to and had gotten all Trey was willing to give. And I’d gotten all I could out of her. Used her just like she said I used Trey.
I told myself it was all in the name of a good cause.
A case that mattered.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
I picked up Sierra from her second waitressing job of the day at ten p.m. This one was in the ground-floor restaurant in a luxury hotel in downtown La Jolla. Buckley had agreed to let her stay at the Marriott for the next few nights until after Trey had testified at the hearing. That is, if I tracked Trey down in time to get him to the hearing or he showed up on his own.
The police scanner crackled in the background as we drove down Prospect Street. I’d had it on all day and had yet to hear the discovery of a dead body or a BOLO out for my Mustang or me. Eric Schmidt’s corpse was out there somewhere waiting to be found. Unless it was buried in the East County desert, cut up in little pieces and scattered in dumpsters around San Diego, or feeding the fish off La Jolla Shores.
“Trey called me about twenty minutes ago,” Sierra said, her voice surprisingly bubbly.
“What?” I almost slammed on the brakes. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“He wouldn’t tell me where he was, so I didn’t learn anything that would help you find him. And I knew I’d see you soon anyway.”
“That wasn’t the plan.” A long day had put some broken glass in my voice.
“I know. Sorry, but I didn’t think it would matter.” A little hurt, like disappointing me upset her. “But he told me to tell you and Mr. Buckley that he was going to testify and that he is being protected.”
Protected. Same as he’d told Kelsey Santos. The declaration to testify was new. Just trying to keep me at bay, or telling the truth? Could his “protectors” have a vested interest in Trey testifying?
“Did he tell you who was protecting him, or why?”
“No.” She shook her head. “But he told me it was one of his customers.”
At least he was consistent with that. “A customer in Los Angeles?”
“No. He decided to stay in San Diego.”
No more lies to his sister. Maybe Trey did feel safe.
“Do you know any of his customers? Any wealthy ones?”
“I know a couple surfers who buy from him, but I doubt they’re wealthy.”
“How about somebody new? Maybe some new friend. Do you remember him talking about any new people in his life?”
She thought for a second. “No.”
“Did you hear anything or anyone else’s voice in the background?”
“No. But he sounded real
ly good. Relaxed. He’s safe now and everything is going to be okay.”
I nodded like I agreed with her. But I doubted everything was going to be okay.
I drove to the garage where I’d parked the Mustang and transferred my gear from Kim’s RAV4. The police didn’t seem to be looking for me or the car. Fine by me. Sierra followed me in the Mustang to Kim’s house.
Kim’s BMW was in the driveway and the lights were on in the house. She was home and awake. I took the keys up to the front door and stood staring at it. My body, my heart, and my mind begged me to knock. I could win her back. I was fully committed now. This time it would work. Then I thought of Kim and what she had asked me to do.
I slipped the keys through the mail slot and walked away.
Buckley called me at nine-fifteen the next morning. Early for him.
“Son, you can call off the search for Mr. Fellows.” Clear voiced. Neither hungover nor drunk.
“Why? Is he there with you?”
“Not yet. But he will be. He called and said he’d meet me at the office the morning of the hearing. He’s going to testify.” There was some Texas yahoo in Buckley’s voice. I’d never heard him sound so happy.
“Wouldn’t you still like to know where he is?”
“In a perfect world.” No more yahoo. “But heaven’s not on earth yet. So, you need to leash the bulldog right now. Okay, son? I don’t want that boy spooked.”
“Can I at least be at your office when he gets there?”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“I’m sure you would, but we’re so close right now.” Hopeful emphasis. “I don’t want to take any chances. Besides, the hearing’s closed, so there’s no reason for you to go with us to court. Other than your scintillating personality.”
If the DNA from Lunsdorf’s cigarette butt had already come back from the lab, I would have testified about its collection to the judge. But Buckley had used up all his favors with the lab, so we were in the normal rotation.
“Your loss, Buckley. I’ll have to scintillate somewhere else. Call me when the judge makes his decision. Good luck.”
