Lost Tomorrows

by Coyle, Matt;

  “Yes. Sorry. Thanks for calling. I’m working for the family of Krista Landingham investigating her death.”

  “She was a fine lady. The best neighbor we ever had.” He cleared his throat. “But shouldn’t the police be the ones investigating her death?”

  “They are. I’m helping out with some peripheral investigating. If I find something that may raise questions, I turn it over to them.” Not a lie two days ago.

  “I thought it was an accident.”

  “It might be, but I’m tying up loose ends.”

  “Then I’m not sure how I can help. I was home when Krista was killed.” Open, not dismissive. Workable.

  “I was at Krista’s house today and noticed your security camera. Does it work?”

  “Yes, but Krista was killed downtown on State Street. I don’t understand how my camera could have seen anything that can help the police.”

  “Well, it may have, but I’m not at liberty to discuss what we’re looking for.” I tried to sound like a cop. I’d almost forgotten how. “I’m sure you can understand the police can’t divulge important information about an ongoing investigation.”

  “I certainly can. I was an MP in the United States Marine Corps for twelve years. But you’re not a police officer. In fact, you’re not even from Santa Barbara. Your card has a San Diego address.”

  A cop. Things had been going so well.

  “You’re right, but I used to be a cop on SBPD. Krista Landingham was my training officer, partner, and friend. I came up here for her funeral and her sister asked me to run a duel investigation to the police’s. She thinks they’re too narrowly focused on the drunk driver theory.” At least she used to. “So do I. We discovered some things are missing from Krista’s house, and I want to see if your security camera caught someone breaking into her house. I was working with the police, but they shut me out. I’m just trying to find the truth.”

  “Why didn’t you just start with the truth from the beginning?” Some military in his voice that I missed at first.

  “Because I was afraid you wouldn’t help me.”

  “And yet, you just did tell me the truth right now.”

  “I see your point.”

  “I’m not sure you do, Mr. Cahill. You tried to coerce me into a decision to help you instead of letting me decide on my own. That’s insulting.” He was calm despite his words. A father trying to teach morality to his son. He didn’t know I was a lost cause. “But Krista was a friend and a fine person. What do you need?”

  “Thank you for helping, Mr. Cornetta.” Genuine gratitude. Sometimes the truth works. “I’d like to get a look at footage from every day since Krista died through last Sunday. Do you have video saved back that far?”

  “Yes. Come by here tomorrow morning at eight o’clock.” He hung up.

  I got out of my car and headed to Joe’s Cafe. A minute into my walk, a metallic green Kia Soul passed me going the other way. I didn’t get a look at the driver, but the car fit Dustin Peck’s.

  The Soul cruised slowly down the street, probably searching for a parking spot. After a couple attempts at parallel parking, the car snugged up against the curb between two SUVs. I slid behind a palm tree a couple blocks from Joe’s Café and watched the driver exit the Soul. Peck. I waited behind the tree, then stepped out onto the sidewalk when he walked by.

  “Shit.” Peck jumped sideways. “Why the hell are you sneaking up on me?”

  “I was in the neighborhood. Why did it take you so long to do inventory the night Krista Landingham died?”

  “What?” He resumed his walk to work. More quickly now.

  “I used to manage a restaurant. I did my fair share of inventories.” I kept pace with him. “You could inventory that entire bar by yourself in an hour and a half at the most. What were you doing for the other hour and forty-five minutes before you left work?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” We were thirty feet from the corner of State Street and the entrance to Joe’s. He only had to keep moving and wait me out another fifteen seconds before he could find sanctuary inside the restaurant.

  Twenty feet from the corner, I noticed the Callahan building across the street from Joe’s that housed Hotel Santa Barbara and remembered Bree, the bartender clamming up after she realized the night Peck had the late inventory had been a Sunday.

  “Look.” I grabbed Peck’s arm and stopped his walk. “I don’t care who you met at the Hotel Santa Barbara the night you saw the accident. I just want to know exactly what you saw and where you were.”

  Peck’s eyes gaped wide and he yanked his arm free from my grip. “Leave me alone. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “We can get this over with right now.” I dropped the depth charge. “I don’t want to have to ask your wife if she knows anyone who you rendezvous with on Sunday nights at the Hotel Santa Barbara.”

  “You’re an asshole.” He tried to push me out of his way, but I firmed up my two-hundred-pound frame and flicked his arms away.

  “Just give me the truth about what you saw that night and this will be the last time we talk.”

  “I already told you. I looked up and the van swerved and hit the woman.” The anger ebbed from his eyes as he recalled seeing something he’d never forget. “Knocked her like ten feet in the air.”

  “Where were you in the street?”

  He blew out a breath. “I was right in the middle heading back toward Joe’s.”

  “And the woman was walking west across State Street?”

  “Yes. Heading away from the Casa Blanca.” The restaurant where Krista had parked her car.

  “I know you told that to the first cop on the scene, Officer Baines, but did you tell the detective who interviewed you later the exact same thing?”

  “Not at first.” Peck averted his eyes from mine. “I said I was on the sidewalk next to Joe’s, but the detective told me I couldn’t see the accident from there.”

  “Are you one hundred percent sure the direction she was walking? You weren’t the other day when Mr. Grimes and I interviewed you.”

  “I’m sure. That Grimes dude gave me the creeps. I didn’t want him to figure out what you did about me being at the hotel so I said I wasn’t sure.”

  “Last question and I’ll leave you alone for good. What was the name of the detective who questioned you?”

  “Mitchell.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  DUSTIN PECK WAS definitive. Krista was walking away from her car. And Detective Mitchell had left that off his report. An oversight or deliberate? Which way Krista was walking might seem like a minor point unless someone had contacted her about meeting them on State Street at that time of night. She’d received a call from an unknown caller three hours before she appeared on State Street and was run over. The last call she ever received. Had the call been to set up a meeting downtown?

  If any other detective had interviewed Peck and omitted which direction he said Krista was walking, I probably would have written it off as on oversight. Not with Mitchell. The cop who was a friend of Tom Weaver and gave him the convenient alibi after he’d seen me in bed with his wife the night Colleen was murdered.

  Another notch on the wrong side of the ledger for Jake Mitchell.

  I got over to my car and fought the rush to head back to Leah’s house and tell her what I’d learned. Instead, I drove to the Best Western on Cabrillo Boulevard. Leah had jumped ship and joined Grimes’ team. Follow the facts as long as they were all lined up uniformly in a box.

  SBPD held the box and two of their cops killed Colleen and Krista. And I was narrowing the remaining gap of certainty about which two.

  I picked up a sandwich and a six-pack of beer from a grocery store/deli on the way to the Best Western. I was glad I’d kept my suitcase in the trunk of my car after the drive back from San Diego. Kept me from having to awkwardly fetch it from Leah’s house after I dropped her off. Our impromptu sleeping arrangement had an even shorter expiration dat
e than I’d expected. I liked Leah. A lot. But I was on a quest. My last one.

  The hotel parking lot was full, so I parked in a lot to another hotel behind it and grabbed my suitcase out of the trunk. Along with the Ruger. I left the other guns behind. The Ruger was habit, for self-defense. The mini arsenal still in the trunk would be used for war. If the time came.

  I tossed the suitcase onto the bed and set the Ruger on the nightstand, then sat down at the desk and dug into my BLT and a pilsner. The sandwich and the beer went well together and I figured the beer would do well on its own. My work was done for the day. My budding relationship with Leah probably done for good. Beer for dessert seemed apropos.

  I finished my sandwich, grabbed another beer, and went out onto the balcony. Although on the West Coast, Santa Barbara faces south, so the sun went down off to the right of me rather than directly overhead. Dusk settled over Stearns Wharf and a few sailboats bobbed beyond it.

  I thought about Mike Richert sitting on a rich-man’s yacht late at night waiting to set sail off East Beach in the morning. Watching two men dump something on the beach. Something used up and disposed of at their will. Just over a mile away from where I now sat but forever out of my reach.

  I finished off the six-pack out on the patio. Feeling worse after each empty bottle. I was a little drunk but it was only eight fifteen p.m. I went inside and turned on the TV, turned off the lights, kicked off my shoes, and flopped down onto the bed. Some mindless distraction to keep me from thinking about Leah. And Colleen. And Krista. Sleep caught up to me before the bad thoughts could. At some point in the night I woke up and turned off the TV, shed my clothes, got under the covers, and fell back asleep.

  My eyes snapped open and I held my breath. Someone was in my room. I sensed it before I saw it. Then a dark figure moved along the end of my bed. I grabbed for the gun on the nightstand. The figure spun and sped toward the door. My fingers bumped the Ruger and knocked it onto the floor. The door banged against the wall. I leapt out of bed, flicked on the light on the nightstand, and grabbed the gun off the floor.

  I dashed out of the room and sprinted down the hall, naked except for the gun. Forty feet ahead, a figure in black clothes and ski cap. One arm tucked to the side. It spun to the right down the outside stairs. I hit the staircase and heard him pounding down the stairs below me. I leapt the last two stairs to the ground floor and whipped around the staircase.

  A black lunge. Something hard crashed off my right arm. My gun bounced onto the ground. Another lunge. I twisted and threw up my injured arm to block it. A metal rod crashed off my forearm and across my face. Lightening flashed inside my head.

  I opened my eyes. Sky. Dark. Blurry. I rolled over onto all fours. A jag of pain in my right arm when I put weight on it briefly subverted the thumping in my head. I crawled around searching for something. I’d dropped something when I got to the bottom of the stairs. I couldn’t remember what it was. I couldn’t remember why I’d run down the stairs. Something wet dripped onto my arm and ran down onto my hand as I searched in the darkness. I put my hand up to my face and felt the source of the wetness. Blood. Dripping from the bridge of my nose.

  I must have fallen down the stairs. I sat back on the cement landing. It was cold on my rear end. Then I noticed I was naked. Had I sleepwalked out of my room and fallen down the stairs? No, I remembered running out of my room with something in my hand. Someone was running ahead of me. A man in black. I was chasing him with a gun in my hand. Then it came back to me. The dark figure in my room. The chase. Getting hit with something at the bottom of the stairs. Thin, cylindrical, and hard. I eased back onto all fours. My head pounded and I felt nauseous. My right forearm felt like it was broken. I couldn’t find the gun.

  I gave up after another minute. It was gone. Whoever ambushed me took it. Why hadn’t he killed me? I was laid out, defenseless. He didn’t have to use the gun, he could have cracked open my skull with whatever he used on my face.

  I slowly stood up and ate the pain vibrating through my body. Blood trickled down into my mouth. Coppery and warm. I’d tasted it before. And had always made my attacker pay. Not always right away. But when the time came, I was swift and ruthless. That’s where the man in black made his mistake tonight. He should have finished the job.

  I turned to sit down on the stairs and saw a light glowing from the floor above. No one was staring over the railing at me, but I noticed the position of the room. Just to the right of the staircase.

  Maybe that’s why my attacker let me live. He’d seen the light flash on and escaped rather than be seen killing me.

  Then it hit me. What had hit me. Long, thin, cylindrical, and steel. A policemen’s baton. The shadowed physique of the attacker matched Detective Jake Mitchell’s. He’d made his move. What if I wasn’t his only target?

  Leah.

  I bolted upright. The pounding in my head almost knocked me back down. I steadied myself and slapped my hand against my thigh looking for a pants pocket and a room key. I didn’t have either. No clothes. No key.

  I staggered into the pool area, grabbed a towel off a lounge chair, and wrapped it around my waist. Blood curled over my lip and into my mouth. Nausea hollowed me out. I wanted to puke. I wanted to curl up into a ball and go back to sleep. But I had to make sure Leah was safe.

  I did my best to steady my gait along the concrete path and walked into the lobby.

  “Ugh!” The woman behind the counter thrust her hands to her face and backed up against the wall behind her. She was petite with big brown eyes that were now the size of saucers.

  “I know I’m a bit underdressed and not at my best.” I smiled and felt a drop of blood slide off my lip and splat down onto the floor. “But I locked myself out of my room when I went for ice. Could I have another key? Room …” I couldn’t remember my room number. “My name’s Rick Cahill. It’s on the second floor, down the hall from the staircase. It’s 2 … 219!”

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, you mean this?” I pointed at my face. “I stumbled out of bed on my way to the bathroom and banged into the dresser. Thus, the need for ice.”

  “I don’t think I can do that. I mean, normally I would, but you don’t have any ID or clothes on or anything. Maybe I should call 911. You look like you should go to the emergency room.”

  “I appreciate your concern, but I just want to go back to my room. If you want to follow me up to it, I can show you my ID inside. Look me up in your system. You’ll see the room is comped because I’m a friend of a vice president in the Best Western corporation.”

  She rattled on the keyboard and looked up at me.

  “I’ll make you a key right away.” Thirty seconds later, she handed me a key envelope with two keycards in it.

  “Thanks.” I turned to leave and staggered two steps before straightening out.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to call 911, Mr. Cahill?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks.” I walked to the door and noticed a dotted blood trail on the tile floor from my walk into the lobby.

  I made it to the elevator and went up one floor to my room level. The stairs were too tough. The new key worked, and I flung the door open and hurried to my cellphone on the nightstand. I found Leah’s number and hit dial. Five rings. Voicemail. I left her a message to call me immediately and to not let anyone in her house. Especially anyone from SBPD. I called again. Rings. Voicemail. I sent her a text then threw on a pair of jeans, sweatshirt, and shoes.

  I caught a glimpse of myself in the wall mirror when I walked over to the desk to grab my car keys. A gash across the bridge of my swollen nose leaking blood. Swelling around both eyes with red seeping into the skin. A knot half the size of a golf ball on my forehead above my left eye.

  No time for a diagnosis or treatment.

  I grabbed my car keys off the dresser and noticed what wasn’t on the desk. My computer. I’d been right. Mitchell looking for info on my investigation. But I didn’t know what I could do about it.

&nb
sp; First, I had to protect Leah.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  I CALLED LEAH three times with no answer on the fifteen-minute drive to her house. I could have made it sooner but briefly got lost when I made the wrong turn in her neighborhood because I couldn’t remember her street name. I shouldn’t have been driving but I didn’t have a choice. Whoever ambushed me may come for Leah.

  I slammed to a stop in her driveway. No other car there. All the lights were off in the house. I got out of the car, grabbed the Smith & Wesson from the trunk, and rushed to the front door. I hammered on the door and rang the doorbell. The neighbors’ dogs next door started barking. Still dark inside Leah’s house.

  I pounded on the door some more and yelled her name. The lights went on next door, but not inside Leah’s. More pounding and yelling. Finally, the porch light over my head went on.

  Leah opened the door. “Rick! My God, what happened to you?”

  She pulled the door wide and I went inside.

  “Sorry. I had to make sure you were okay. I called but you didn’t answer.”

  “I turned my phone off when I went to bed.” She led me over to the couch and we sat down. The pain in my head bounced back through the adrenaline that had kept it at bay when I was afraid for Leah. “Wait here.”

  She ran into the kitchen. I heard a drawer roll open then slam shut and the same with the refrigerator. Then a few clunks. She ran back to me and gently moved my head back against the cushion and pressed a towel with ice against the bridge of my nose and the knot on my forehead. It focused the pain, but I knew the ice would help and that I should probably go to the hospital.

  I told her about the break-in and the police baton and my stolen gun and missing computer. And my suspicion that Mitchell attacked me.

  “Rick, you can’t be sure it was Detective Mitchell. It could have been just someone burglarizing your room.” Leah stared into my one uncovered eye. “Either way we should call the police and take you to the emergency room.”