A single muscle twitches in his jaw. Why he’s pressing this particular line, I haven’t the slightest. I do know it appears that what I’m saying and what he wanted to hear don’t quite line up, the tapping of his thumbs having ceased completely.
“What was the substance of that interaction?”
The phrasing of the question is curious. Enough that a slow dawning begins to settle in, this having very little to do with the death of my wife.
“Mira,” I reply, leaving it at that.
“Did he ask to meet or did you?”
At this point, it is clear he has something. His questions have drilled down too far for him to merely be fishing. From now on, it will be best for me to stay as close to the truth as possible.
“I did,” I answer. Looking away, I hold the pose a moment before glancing back. “What’s this all about?”
Chapter Five
The air is just cool enough that Elsa Teller can wear a shawl wrapped around her shoulders without feeling like some sort of fashion wannabe. Like one of the countless women in San Diego that try so hard to conform to trends without considering that they live in the damn desert, a climate that has at most two defined seasons per year.
Summer, and bearable.
Blowing in off the Pacific, the breeze pushes her long blonde hair back from her shoulders. It carries with it the briny scent of the sea, the chill enough to keep it crisp and clean, without the underlying smells that the summer heat seems to emphasize.
Sitting on the veranda that comprises the western half of her top-floor apartment, Teller sits with her legs folded up beneath her. In hand is her third mimosa of the morning, a rare indulgence on a day when – mercifully – she doesn’t have anything scheduled until midafternoon.
No meetings to try and assuage the bruised egos of people her boss has steamrolled in the days prior. No sitting down with potential donors, telling them whatever they need to hear to open up their checkbooks. No running damage control or managing a potential crisis.
And damned sure no more needing to deal with some tiny medical clinic in National City.
Feeling her lips twist up in distaste at the mere thought of such a thing, Teller lifts her glass. Taking down a small sip, she stares out at the ocean, the bright glow of the rising sun falling across the water. So late in the year, the waves have started to come in with vigor, pounding against the shoreline, streaks of white stretching wide in either direction. Already they are dotted with surfers sitting atop their boards, bobbing along with the swells.
More than once in the last week, she has been forced to devote energy to this topic. Give time and head space to something so far beneath her, it is almost insulting.
The original impetus behind it all, she only barely understood at the time. With each passing day, it becomes even more ethereal, all of it seeming quite unnecessary. An exercise in futility growing ever more pronounced.
The sort of thing borne of ego and misplaced hubris. Male insecurity and political grandiose and a hundred other things all mashed together into a giant mess that has now landed in her lap.
Lifting the glass once more, Teller’s hand makes it only part way to her mouth before the cellphone on the table begins to vibrate. Rattling against the glass top, the sound is at odds with the natural setting of the rooftop. A harsh intrusion into the moment, a brief respite from the bullshit that demarcates so much of her life, it brings a sour expression to her face.
An expression that lasts only as long as it takes to set down her glass and snatch up the phone. Seeing the string of digits stretched across the screen, any distaste she might have had a moment before fades.
As does any acrimony that might have made it into her voice.
“Good morning.”
The sound of waves is the first thing to greet her. Stronger even than the faint background din of where she is sitting, it is as if the other party is standing amid them as they splash against the beach.
Which, if prior experience serves, is likely exactly where he is.
“Tell me about the second target.”
There is a directness to Sven’s approach that is at once both refreshing and chilling. A brutal efficiency perfectly aligned with what he does, a large part of why she had ventured out onto the sand a few days prior to enlist his services.
Barely have ten hours passed since they last spoke. His previous victim is likely still awaiting autopsy, and already he is moving on to the next one. Time of day, day of the week, all minor details.
There is more to be done. Aside from his morning jaunts into the ocean and his afternoon dalliances in his van with whatever young girl he currently has staying with him, nothing distracts from that.
“This one will be a bit more difficult,” Teller replies. “Not to dispatch, but to find.”
Grunting softly, Sven replies, “Good. The one last night was almost too easy.”
A small smile pulls at one corner of Teller’s mouth. Having access to someone that worked in Dr. Hoke’s clinic had made the man an exceedingly easy target. They had been gifted a full rundown of his schedule. A key to the place. Little things picked up over time, items that might be needed in the future but would do nothing to tip anybody off about what was happening in the moment.
Stuff that ensured someone like Sven would not say no to the job, the guarantee of easy money too much to pass up.
Even if this second part will likely prove much more difficult.
“Her name is Fran Ogo,” Telle replies. “Somewhere in her seventies, newly arrived from some island in the Pacific. Doesn’t speak a word of English.”
She pauses to allow Sven to respond, though a small grunt is the only sound.
“She shares a house in Chula Vista with her granddaughter, though word is she hasn’t been there in the better part of a week.”
There is no need to mention the Wolves or the mess they have made of things. Just as there is no point in telling him that she currently has no idea where Fran Ogo is.
Sven won’t care about either.
“Timeframe?”
“Whenever you can get to it.”
The sound of waves returns, punctuated by the occasional puff of breeze passing through the mouthpiece. For nearly a full minute there is no further conversation before, finally, he says, “Send over the information. I’ll be in touch.”
Chapter Six
It took over twenty-five minutes for Detective Marsh to get around to the real reason he called me there. It had nothing to do with my previous meeting with Hoke or even how I knew the man.
It was entirely so he could sit across from me and gauge my reaction as he shared that the doctor was now dead. Not just killed, but murdered in a way that made what happened to my Mira seem humane.
A test I have no problem saying I completely aced, the news landing like a bombshell, just one more thing that I did not see coming. Yet another piece that makes no sense at all, everything I go near these days seeming to end up destroyed in one way or another.
After he shared the information with me, there were a few follow-up questions. Things that I barely even remember answering as I sat in a daze, trying to unravel what he just shared with me.
A task I am still having difficulty with, the prolonged silence on the opposite end of the line indicating Ross is processing in much the same way.
“Damn,” he mutters, finally breaking the extended dry spell. “A garrote? Seriously?”
Setting my jaw, I glance to the mirror, a grim expression on my face. “What the man said.”
“Wow,” he manages to get out. “That’s...”
Awful. Horrendous. A clear message sent to whoever might find him.
“Yeah,” I agree, neither of us having the right words for the moment. “Anyway, I was just calling to say I’m out. Thanks for standing by.”
“Mhm,” he mumbles, it clear his mind is elsewhere. Most likely it is doing the same as mine, trying in vain to make everything that is happening fit into place. �
��I mean, there’s no way this isn’t all related, is there?”
Again, I flick my gaze to the rearview mirror. “You’d sure as hell think not.”
Leaving it at that, we both sign off. Settling back in my seat, I retrace the route I drove just over an hour before. The traffic heading into town has picked up slightly in the time since, though there seems to be little interest in heading out. The cool of my morning run has already burned off, replaced by what promises to be another warm afternoon, people taking advantage to head toward the coast.
Driving through with little more than muscle memory, I make a quick stop at Von’s for a handful of drinks and food, arriving back at the Valley View just after ten.
Pulling up in front of my door, I notice that the green minivan has already departed. Otherwise, nothing seems out of place as I step out. Grocery sack in hand, I bypass my own door and go to the one beside it, knocking twice before stepping back.
The warmth of the sun lands flush on my neck as the sound of footsteps approaching can be heard. A moment later the door swings open three inches, stopped by a thin brass chain pulled taut at chest height.
Peering up at me from beneath it is Fran Ogo, her brown eyes wide as she takes me in.
Lifting the grocery sack in hand, I say, “Breakfast?”
I’ve only just remembered that she can’t understand a word I’m saying when a shadow falls in behind her, Valerie appearing with a towel wrapped around her head.
“Morning,” she says, placing a hand on her grandmother’s back and gently steering her to the side. “Sorry, I was in the shower when you knocked.”
Sack still extended before me, I use it to wave off the comment. They aren’t prisoners here, are in no way beholden to answering every time I appear, even if it must be starting to feel that way for them.
“I brought food, if you guys are hungry.”
Flicking her gaze to the bag and back up, she seems to sense there is more I’m not sharing.
“What happened?”
A lot. Far more than I can possibly begin to share standing on the walkway and speaking through a semi-locked door to a young woman with a towel on her head.
“Can we talk?” I ask.
She does a quick scan. My guess is she’s searching for any new wounds. Markings that indicate I have been in another tussle or might give her some hint as to what has taken place.
Much like myself a few minutes ago though, there is no way she can foresee this.
“How bad?” she whispers.
“Very.”
Her eyes meet mine before shifting to the parking lot. Without a word she steps back, disappearing from sight as she closes the door long enough for me to hear her slide the chain from its tract.
A moment later, she pulls it all the way open, a plume of cooled air rushing out to meet me. Wrapped around her upper body is a threadbare white towel matching the one currently holding her dark hair in place, though she seems oblivious to it as she motions me inside.
“Anything good in the sack?”
Chapter Seven
Whether or not there is anything good in the sack is most likely a matter of taste. Despite having done a deployment to Guam, I wouldn’t say I’m terribly familiar with the local diet. Even less with that of Micronesia, giving me no chance of walking into the local grocery store and picking out anything I know for a fact the older Ogo will enjoy.
Having no access to anything more than the cheap combination minifridge and microwave that looks like it might explode the moment we turn it on, I kept my selections pretty basic.
Bread with deli meats and cheeses. Hummus and veggies. A couple of protein bars. Some fruit and baked goods, along with some assorted beverages.
Currently spread across the small round table in the corner, it looks like the clear winner on the day is the pastries. Both Valerie and I sit with apple fritters in hand, her grandmother opting for hummus and carrot sticks.
Orange juice for both of the women, a Gatorade for myself.
Having pulled on cloth shorts and a t-shirt, Valerie sits on the front corner of the bed. Behind her, Fran leans back against the wall, her food spread across her lap. Eating slowly, the sound of her crunching is just barely audible.
Having opted for the chair in the corner, the half-empty Gatorade is gripped tight in my hand. Already my fritter is gone, nothing more than a piece of wax paper wadded up on the floor by my feet.
After some of the things I’ve been through, it takes more than what Marsh described to drive away my appetite. As any SEAL can attest, the need to nourish supersedes most all else.
“Tell me about Dr. Hoke,” I open. The sound of my voice draws the attention of both women my way. For a moment, neither responds as Valerie slowly lowers her fritter to her lap.
There is no point in sharing everything that has happened since we last spoke. No need for them to know about my trip to the Clairemont Mesa Fire Department and hearing the arson investigator confirm what we already suspected, that my home was destroyed with clear intent. Just as there is no purpose in them hearing about what happened at Mike Lincoln’s last night.
All of it will only serve to worry them, and – more importantly – potentially instill some distrust.
Right now, for all of our sakes, I can’t allow that to happen.
“Not a lot to tell,” Valerie replies. “We had only met with him once. Like I said the other day at the hospital, he’s kind of the first stop for migrants arriving from the islands.”
“According to whom?” I ask.
Lifting her eyebrows, she asks what I’m referring to without voicing as much.
“I mean, who told you to go to him?” I asked. “I can’t imagine he was handing out pamphlets at the airport or something when your grandmother arrived.”
The look of confusion flees, her chin rising slightly in a nod. “Oh, right. Her doctor, back in Micronesia. When he first diagnosed her and suggested she consider coming to America, he told her to find Dr. Hoke.
“I guess a lot of people had been coming to the States for care. None of them have insurance, so the standard procedure at the bigger facilities was fast becoming to give them the bare minimum or shunt them to the side altogether.
“Said if she was smart, she would start with Hoke, who would do what he could or put her in touch with people that might help.”
Nodding slightly, I add the information to what I already know. Information taken from speaking with the doctor myself a few days ago and previous conversations I’ve had with Valerie. Even a few rants I’ve heard from my wife over the years.
“But you said that’s not what happened here, right? You knew Mallory, which is who put you in touch with Mira?”
“Right,” Valerie confirms.
I won’t pretend that I have been around all the time since Mira and I returned to San Diego. When I have been in town, I’ve done my best to swing by her office, to ask about her day and take an interest in her work.
Fact is, though, a fair chunk of the last couple of years, I’ve been rolling on and off deployments. In the times when we were lucky to speak to each other for more than a few minutes at a time, our conversations were spent espousing how much we missed each other or ensuring we were each okay.
Didn’t really leave a lot of time for getting into the minutiae of our days.
In spite of that – or maybe because of it – most of the work I knew her to do involved people migrating north over the border. She’d certainly had her run-ins over COFA before, but most often it had been with some form of uncompensated care from one of the larger hospitals Valerie was alluding to.
“Did Hoke ever put you in touch with anybody? A name? Phone number? Anything?” I ask.
“He did,” Valerie replies, “but it didn’t amount to much. Took the guy almost a week just to return my call.”
Her face curls up with distaste, her opinion on the matter quite clear. “Once he did, gave me some story about being backed up and needing another week b
efore he would be available to meet. By that time, I had already called Mallory...”
At the head of the bed, Fran has stopped eating. Despite not knowing what either of us are saying, she is simply sitting and staring, reading our body language and voice tones to try and decipher what is going on.
Again, I can feel my head bob slightly. I add the new information to the tangle of disparate facts floating through my mind, the mash seeming to be ever growing without any clear sort of order emerging.
“The other morning, at the hospital-“
“I know,” Valerie says, cutting me off before the question can become fully formed. “I told you and your mother-in-law Hoke introduced us, and I’m sorry for that. I was just trying to protect Mallory. She had gone out on a limb for us, and I figured since we were all set to meet with Hoke anyway...”
A hint of agitation plays up in me, though it doesn’t rise to the state of becoming full-blown anger. At this point, I’ve vetted her story with both she and Mallory enough to know she is now telling me the truth.
And it’s not like I can be too overly angry about her trying to protect her friend, especially given all that has transpired.
“My turn,” Valerie says. “What happened? And why the sudden interest in Hoke?”
“Remind me again how you got us to agree to this?” I asked. Jumping down out of Jeff Swinger’s oversized truck, my feet slapped against the pavement. Behind me, Wendell Ross did the same before slamming the door closed.
“Because I said I would buy?” Swinger replied.
“For me, it was the promise of air conditioning,” Ross chimed in, both comments bringing a smile to my face.
Drifting a few steps to the side, I waited as Ross fell in beside me. Moving ahead together, we met Swinger by the front grille, the truck so large we were forced to park in the back corner of the lot.
Over seventy yards of open ground to cover, all of it across scorched blacktop. Even well after the sun had gone down for the evening, the residual heat of the day was still oppressive. Two weeks into what some were calling the worst June heatwave on record, reports looking ahead indicated it would be days before the smallest reprieve.
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