Warning Shot
Page 5
“I spoke to Father Matthews this morning, after service.”
The tamale before me smells like some sort of spiced beef. The aroma rolling up from it is nothing short of divine, infinitely preferable to the pastry that was my breakfast.
Still, at the mere mention of speaking with Matthews, my appetite flees. My focus gets pulled in entirely on her and whatever she has to share.
“Yeah?”
“Yes,” she replies. “He said that he is familiar with St. Mary’s and has been down there a handful of times himself over the years to act as a substitute. I guess he and the father there came on at the same time, have been friends for decades now.”
On the far side of the table, Hiram begins to attack his food. A contrast to his mother in every way, he is at least twice her size, soft without spilling over into being obese. Cutting his tamale into thirds, he forks it into his mouth, chewing quietly, listening to every word that is shared.
“So there is a network of the various parishes in the area?” I ask.
“Not really,” Angelique says. “He said they knew each other by virtue of once being the new kids in town and now being the oldest ones left standing.
“As for whoever runs the Chuukese mass on Sunday afternoons, it’s some new guy he’s never met before.”
Hands resting on my gym shorts, I press my fingertips down hard into the tops of my thighs. Like so much else from the last week, there is no way it could have just been easy. That Father Matthews would know who to best speak with, clearing a path for us to go down and ask what we need to.
Again, I feel the same frustration that seems to be forever sitting just beneath the surface threaten to burst forth once more.
“He did say Father Wagner – that’s the name of his friend – should be there all afternoon preparing for evening mass. If you want to stop in, feel free to mention him.”
The simmering tension of a moment before remains, though the addendum does manage to tamp it down just slightly. Chewing on it for a moment, I eventually nod.
“Thank you,” I manage. “I told the Ogos to be ready at three and we’ll head down there together and see what we can find out.”
Her information dump complete, Angelique nods and turns to her food. Not wanting to interrupt, to take away what might be her only chance to indulge for a few minutes, I give her some time with her lunch.
Sitting in silence, I stare off, again trying to make sense of what was just shared, how my next steps will play out.
Most of my adult life, I have had someone doing the planning for me. Whether it be the navy in my professional capacity or Mira at home, I was the acting party. An instrument carrying out orders.
The deep thinking was left to someone else, always putting me in the best position to perform.
For the first time since sitting in Mira’s apartment after the shoulder surgery that ended my baseball career, I seem to have no one to tell me what to do next. To help me prioritize or strategize or any of the other things a situation like this calls for.
Not two feet away is the chair earmarked for my wife. The spot where she should be sitting, everybody laughing, sharing a Sunday afternoon meal.
Not this, the mood somber, all of us vacillating between heartbreak and anger, guilt and frustration.
“Okay, your turn,” Angelique says. Her voice snaps me back into the moment, blinking several times to see that her first tamale is gone, Hiram about to finish his second.
Gesturing to my untouched plate, Angelique continues, “You haven’t even looked at your food and you’re wearing a two-mile stare. What happened?”
Barely twenty-four hours have passed since I was last inside this house. Somehow since then, so much has taken place, making it difficult to even know where to begin.
So I do the only thing I can.
I start at the beginning, and I tell them every last bit of it.
Chapter Eleven
St. Mary’s Church is tucked away on a side street a few blocks from the main thoroughfares bisecting Point Loma. No more than a half-mile from the ocean as the crow flies, from where it is positioned there is nothing but small businesses and low-level apartment buildings in every direction.
Occupying a double lot, one side of the spread is parsed off for the parish itself. Made of white stucco, the main hall of the building juts out toward the road, a steeple rising high above. On the back end, it fans out wide to either side, a series of small signs pointing out restrooms and various offices.
Opposite the building is a parking lot large enough to hold well over a hundred cars, though this afternoon there is barely a fraction of that. All clustered together along the edges, they seem to be seeking out the bit of shade afforded by the king palm trees lining the outside of the lot.
Eschewing the shade for proximity to the front door, the sound of organ music greets us the moment we step out of the car. Spilling through the open doors at the top of the steps leading in from the parking lot, it acts to draw in the thin smattering of people milling about outside. Numbering no more than a dozen or so, they appear to be parsed off in pairs much like Valerie and her grandmother, family members separated by generations.
Making it as far as the sidewalk lining the side of the parking lot, I pull to a stop. Beside me, Valerie and Fran both do the same. All three of us are dressed in clothes picked up not an hour before at Kohl’s on the way into town, the ladies both opting for dresses, a pair of slacks and pullover for me.
Taken up on short notice, all three outfits are a little warm for the afternoon sun beating down from on high. Sweat is already starting to line our faces, though none of us bother mentioning as much.
Compared to everything else that has transpired, it is a minor inconvenience at most.
“I’m going to head down this way and see if I can catch Father Wagner. You both take your time, I’ll meet up with you afterward.”
Unable to recognize a word I’m saying, Fran merely stands and stares. Beside her, Valerie meets my gaze, nodding once in confirmation of what we’d already discussed on the way in.
The plan for this afternoon is so thin, it can’t even really be construed as such. It is an idea that was first implanted yesterday by my wife’s former coworker Mallory. Under our strong urging for anything that might explain why Mira had been targeted, the best she could manage was to swing by here. A known congregation point for Chuukese and the occasional other COFA migrant, her reasoning was that maybe somebody else had experienced or heard of another such run-in.
It was clear the notion was put out there more as a means of getting away from us, though it wasn’t entirely without merit. Even in a city the size of San Diego, the number of people fitting the demographic of Fran Ogo is fairly limited.
If what happened to my wife had anything to do with her attempting to help Ogo, this place makes as good of sense as any to poke around.
“You have your phone on you?” Valerie asks. She doesn’t bother taking the question further, though there is no need.
After days of hiding out at the Valley View with me, it is their first time out in public, never mind alone.
“I do,” I reply. “And even if I wrap up with Wagner quickly, I won’t go far.”
Chapter Twelve
The neighborhood looks a lot like the one Sven was in the last couple of nights. Technically, his previous location had a mailing address of National City while this one is in Chula Vista, though to look at them there is little difference.
Same when looking at a map, a mere handful of miles all that separates the two.
Employing the same ruse he did in his last reconnaissance, he is dressed in jogging pants and running shoes. With the sun shining high above, there is no need for a jacket or sleeves, though he is careful to wear a t-shirt that falls to his elbows.
A daily regimen of bodyweight movements and beach running has honed his physique to the exact specification of someone that does what he does for a living. By avoiding weights, keeping his pr
otein intake from becoming excessive, he has insured that his musculature never reaches cartoon proportions.
At the same time, such a regiment coupled with hours of being out on a surfboard has blasted away any bit of body fat. It has also turned his Scandinavian complexion to that of honey, his form the kind that won’t necessarily turn a head, but won’t soon be forgotten either.
To combat that, today he is wearing a shirt that is at least two sizes larger than necessary. Falling almost to his forearms, it billows away from him in all directions, hiding his shape. Light gray in color, the front is a simple design, a single graphic from the former San Diego Chargers.
Like his prior trips, ear buds extend down from either side of his head, the end of them disappearing into his pants pocket, connected to nothing. His chin is tilted down as if lost in thought as he powerwalks along.
Dark sunglasses cover his eyes, hiding their movement as they dart from side to side, taking in everything.
Both sides of the street are lined with houses that look like they came off an assembly line. With the exception of the faded paint changing from one to the next, there is very little differentiating them.
All two stories, they are boxy in shape, set back twenty feet from the road. Chain link fencing separates front yards from the sidewalk and one another, a few with small dogs roaming, a couple others with oversized fan palm trees providing limited shade.
If forced to guess, Sven would venture that the area was first erected in the seventies. Meant to serve as low-income housing for people coming up over the border, as time went by and the cost of real estate in the area went up, the street ascended into the bottom tier of the middle class.
The sort of place where tenants are schoolteachers or manual laborers, many of the vehicles wedged in tight on either side bearing out as much.
Compared to the first assignment given to him, this one is much different in nature. Whereas the doctor came complete with a full working schedule and an exact location as to where he would be, this one arrived only with an address. A last-known-whereabout that will serve as a starting point, meaning this time he will actually need to earn his fee.
A thought that can’t help but tug upward at the corners of his mouth.
What had happened the night before had been quick and efficient, but there was no joy in the act itself for Sven. There had been pleasure two nights ago in the scouting, in stalking his prey, in standing in the man’s presence without him even knowing it. Just as there had been satisfaction in returning a day later and performing the task a second time. Crafting the murder weapon with his own hands. Performing what needed to be done without leaving behind a single clue save the one that had been provided to him by Elsa Teller.
The best in this particular line of work aren’t the ones that love what they’re doing. Not those that enjoy standing over someone, watching the life fade from their eyes.
Those people need their fix. They enjoy the fight, the notion of physical dominance. And they inevitably end up doing something foolish that becomes their downfall.
Like the proverbial junkie always chasing a better high, at some point they will become sloppy. Their need for fulfillment will outweigh their better judgment, even their notions of self-preservation.
Sven has no such shortcomings. The pride for him lies in situations like this, knowing he is the one that is called when things look bleak. When all there is is a name and an address and the hope that he can not only find but also eliminate the target.
In the plurality of skills he presents and the efficient method in which he wields them, much like his Viking forebears before him.
Hands shoved into his pockets, Sven flicks his gaze to the opposite side of the street. Careful to keep his pace even, he counts off houses, adding up the numbers before sighting in on his target sitting halfway down the block.
Two stories in height, it looks to have originally been painted red, a color that has since faded to something closer to pink. From what he can see, there is neither trees nor dog in the front yard. Curtains appear to have been pulled closed over most of the windows.
Behind the others, no lights or movements is visible, the bright afternoon sun turning them into reflective surfaces.
Sliding his right hand a bit lower in his pocket, he lets his fingers drag over the tip of the bump key stowed inside. He feels the sharp tang of the metal against the pad of his index finger, his gaze never once leaving his destination on the opposite side of the street.
There is no way of knowing how long it has been since his target fled the property. Any interest he has in the place isn’t in finding her there, but in scouring for something that will tell him where to look for her.
A task that is instantly abandoned as Sven passes even with the front gate.
And sees the small sedan parked directly in front of it, a pair of men sitting inside, both staring intently at the same place he was just a moment before.
Chapter Thirteen
The interior of the cramped space looks more like a broom closet than an office. Barely eight feet in either direction, it is on par with the bathroom at the Valley View, a taller person with their arms outstretched almost able to touch the walls on either side.
How in the world the man sitting on the far side of the desk has managed to cram so much stuff into it is beyond me.
Why he would then want to use it as his main place of employment for more than three decades is an even greater mystery.
Wooden bookcases built directly into the wall line the entire left side of the room. Every last one of them is filled to capacity with volumes ranging time and subject matter. Some have crumbling leather spines while others still have the price sticker from Barnes & Noble clinging to glossy covers.
In the rare spot where a book isn’t parked, various potted plants fill in, their vines snaking downward, obscuring some of the titles below. Also present in equal measure are various framed photos and plaques, the sort accumulated through a lifetime spent in service.
Consuming a good chunk of what space remains is a desk that looks like it was imported directly from some ancient church in Europe. The wood looks to have been harvested a century ago, the top battered and nicked in a way that is crying to be resurfaced.
Much like the bookcase, the top is covered with open tomes and various papers, a standard phone with a cord the sole piece of technology visible.
A fact that seems to match precisely with the man sitting across from me. Fast approaching what would have to be twice my age, his face is lined with deep crevices, harsh parentheses framing his mouth and temples. Inset between them are a bulbous nose and watery blue eyes, thin wisps of white hair combed straight back from high on his head.
Dressed in a clerical collar, his outer cassock hangs from a coat rack in the corner behind him. Seated on a wooden chair to match the one I am in, he is twisted to the side. One leg is crossed over the other, his fingers laced around the front of his knee.
Like me, he seems to be feeling the sun streaming in through the window to our right, bits of perspiration visible along his brow.
“Thank you again so much for meeting with me today,” I say once the opening pleasantries have been exchanged. “I really do appreciate it.”
“Of course,” Father Wagner replies. “My door is always open to anybody that wishes to come by.”
Angelique told me earlier that the priest from her parish had called and alerted Wagner that I was coming, though I have no idea beyond that how much information was shared. Or even if he knew anything to pass along.
In no way do I want this to devolve into some form of confessional. Already I am trending dangerously close to that just swinging by the base three times a week for forced counseling sessions with Dr. Botkins.
At the same time, I don’t want to openly lie to this man, both because he is in a position to help and because I’m pretty sure being dishonest to a man of the cloth while sitting in a church is the last thing I need right now.
Then again, I can’t imagine there being much else that can be taken from me at this point.
“The reason I wanted to swing by today was to ask about the Chuukese congregation that gathers here at St. Mary’s,” I say.
Stopping there, I give the man the opportunity to take the opening line in whichever way he may choose.
A tact that deepens the lines on either side of his mouth, a frown forming.
“What about them?”
The question is asked without much inflection, though it isn’t hard to understand any defensiveness that might creep in. There are only so many ways a statement like the one I just made can be interpreted.
For someone like him, used to looking out for the less advantaged, none of them are good.
“I...” I manage to get out, though nothing more follows. For most of the last day, I’ve been trying to frame the best way to approach this. Ever since Mallory first asked if I’d been here, I’ve contemplated a number of ways to proceed, none seeming to fit.
Just one more thing. One more item I’m not equipped to approach because I shouldn’t have to. I should be home, with my wife. Or at the very least, I should be somewhere grieving her loss.
Not this.
“Last night, a Dr. Brendan Hoke that is known to work with the Chuukese and other COFA migrants in the city was found dead at his clinic,” I say. “Murdered.”
This manages to pull his brows down, a deep cleft forming between them. “And you think someone here had something to do with that?”
“No. Quite the opposite, in fact,” I reply. “I think someone is targeting them, and those that are helping them.”
The man’s lips part slightly with the news. His eyes shift from me to the back wall as he absorbs the information.