by Coyle, Matt;
And tried not to think. But the harder I tried, the more I thought. And the one thing that kept popping up in my mind were the words of Irene Faye: What kind of a man was I? The answer grew worse every day.
Movement next to the Monte Carlo grabbed my attention and pulled me back into the present. Someone shuffled up to the car. Too dark to tell if the hooded person was a man or a woman. Just that it was a junkie. Time for the buying ritual to begin. Time for the muscle to earn their keep and hawk-eye the transaction to make sure the junkie didn’t try to rob the cash car. Their focus was straight ahead.
I got low and pressed along the two parked cars between me and the muscle. I stepped behind the right ear of the passenger in the Impala and slipped my gun through the open window.
“Don’t move!” I commanded in a harsh whisper.
The passenger jerked forward and the driver’s hand went under his seat.
“Hands behind your head!” I took a half step forward so the driver could see my gun.
The passenger leaned forward and put his hands behind his head. The driver slowly brought his hands up from the floor. I held my revolver in a Master Grip and cocked the hammer back with my thumb until it locked with a metallic click. For effect, not necessity. The click worked. The driver swallowed and put his hands behind his head.
I uncocked the hammer and opened the passenger door. The interior light went on, and I could see fear in both men’s eyes. Boys really, just barely men. But the weapon the driver had reached for gave a finality more powerful than wisdom to whomever held it. Just like I wielded now.
“Turn off the light with your right hand and keep the left behind your head.” I crouched down. He did as told and returned his right hand to his head without instruction.
“Malo? Everything okay?” This from the bank car.
“Answer,” I whispered.
“Just do your job, vato,” the driver yelled out his window at the bank car, then turned back to me. “Ese, we don’t have any money or drugs. You’re making a mistake.”
“Just do as I say and everyone lives tonight.” I kept my eyes on the driver and calmly took hold of the passenger’s hoodie and gently pulled him out of the car. “Lie down.”
“You don’t have to do this, man.” The passenger’s voice, a whispered wail. Afraid of what I might do.
My stomach flipped over and acid ran up my esophagus.
“Lie down.” Firm with a growl. I swallowed the bile. “This will take thirty seconds and no one gets hurt.”
The passenger lay down on a patch of dirt next to the curb. I put one knee on his back, with my gun and eyes still on the driver, and blindly patted down the prone man. I pocketed a large flip knife and dumped his wallet, cellphone, and weed onto the ground. No gun.
“You,” I said to the driver. “Lie across the seat and keep your hands behind your head.”
He just looked at me. My eyes had readjusted to the night, and I could see hate and defiance in his eyes.
“Heroes don’t live very long, ese. Lie the fuck down!”
He slowly lay down onto the Impala bench seat, mean-mugging me as he went. I patted down his torso with one hand. Nothing. I couldn’t reach his legs without putting myself in a bad position or running around the car to the driver side. I shoved my hand under the passenger seat and searched while I kept my eyes on the driver. Nothing. I opened the glove compartment. No gun.
“How many guns are in the car?”
“None.” His voice came up from the seat.
“Bullshit. There’s one under the driver’s seat.”
“One.”
“What about the trunk?”
“Just the one under the seat.”
“Malo? What the fuck are you doing? Are you sucking off Cheesy?” A laugh from across the way.
I grabbed Malo’s hoodie and pulled. “Slide out on top of Cheesy,” I said.
He army-crawled out of the car and lay on top of Cheesy. I patted him down and pocketed another knife.
“Don’t move. I’m getting into the car, but my gun is still on you, Malo.” I stepped around the pile of hard boys and got into the car on the passenger side and slid across the seat. My gun and eyes stayed on Malo as I slid my hand under the driver seat and came out with a Colt Super .38 or a Browning .45. Didn’t have time to check. Either would do the job I needed it for.
I holstered my Smith & Wesson inside my jacket, grabbed the keys from the car’s ignition, stuffed my new weapon into my coat pocket, then jumped out of the driver’s side and ran down the street in the direction I’d come from.
“Hey!” This from the other car.
Doors clanked open and slammed shut. I dropped the car keys and kept running. No car ignition behind me. The bank probably went to check on the muscle. I turned right on East Masson and jumped into my car three houses down from the corner. I ripped off my ski mask and sped down to South Voluntario Street, made a hard right and then a left on Quinientos, and geared down to the speed limit and calmly drove away like a citizen making a late-night run to a convenience store.
Sweat cascaded down my face. Adrenaline continued to pump as I headed to the freeway.
For the last seven months I’d clung to the notion that there was still some humanity left in me. That the things I’d done last year had been to keep myself and others safe. Most of that had been true. But I’d been the one making the decisions. I’d been the judge of what was right and what was wrong. Outside of the law and the courts. My sense of justice was paramount. The actions I took, backed by what I considered good intentions, had made me the final say. Enforced with violence.
I had to do what I did for the greater good. Isn’t that what all megalomaniacs say? Did the fact that I recognized what I’d become give me a chance to change? A choice? Yes. And I’d made my choice. I slipped my hand into my coat pocket around the grip of the gun I’d just stolen at gunpoint. Armed robbery. It didn’t matter that I’d stolen the gun from gang members who sold drugs and probably committed murder to maintain control of their turf.
I’d made my choice.
Tom Weaver and Jake Mitchell had to die. And despite the self-doubt, I could learn to live with what I’d become.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
I MADE IT down to the Walmart in Ventura just before it closed at eleven p.m. My shirt still damp with flop sweat. One item left to procure. This one legally.
Ventura was a thirty-minute drive south along the coast from Santa Barbara. Just far enough away to be able to find a Walmart. I paid cash for a metal cash box with a key lock. The kind waiters used as banks when I managed Muldoon’s Steak House.
I pulled the gun out of my coat pocket when I got back to my hotel room. I studied it for the first time since I stole it. My first assessment had been correct. It was a Colt Super .38. Shiny stainless steel. A gun favored by the Mexican cartels even though modern handguns were more efficient. They’d found a home with Mexican Mafia affiliate gangs in the States.
I’d just robbed some truly bad dudes who had friends in low places. That was my last trip to that part of town. At least in Santa Barbara. I prayed there wouldn’t be other towns where I’d drive the mean streets looking for untraceable guns to impose justice.
My justice.
The weapon looked to have been recently cleaned and oiled. I removed the magazine and ejected the cartridge in the chamber and field stripped the weapon, removing the barrel bushing, the mainspring, and finally the barrel to get a look at the floating firing pin. It looked to be in working condition. I reassembled the gun.
I would have liked to take the gun to a range or a secluded area and test it out, but then I’d be seen with it and have to buy more ammunition. Another chance to be seen and traced. A dry fire was the best I could do. I aimed at the dresser under the TV, pulled the trigger to check the action. An easy pull and a pleasing click. A few rapid pulls. I’d fired enough weapons to know that the gun was mechanically sound. I was certain of it.
When I pointed it
at another human being and pulled the trigger, it would do what it was designed to. If it didn’t, I’d probably die.
Fortunately, the serial number had been filed down. There were ways to recover filed serial numbers, but my guess was that the gun had had many owners and no sales receipts or transfers of ownership, except maybe the very first one.
I picked up my phone off the nightstand and checked for texts and messages that might need to be returned. In today’s world of twenty-four-hour instant accessibility, messages unreturned within an hour could make people wonder where you were and why you hadn’t replied. I didn’t want anyone wondering. Not now and not in the next twenty-four hours.
No texts, one phone message. From Grimes at 9:42 p.m. Two hours ago. Shit. I didn’t want to talk to Grimes, but I didn’t want him to wonder why I hadn’t returned his call. I hit play.
“Cahill, I found the phone connected to the incoming call to Krista at 10:49 the night she was killed. It’s a pay phone on State Street, maybe one hundred … it’s a couple blocks from where she was run over. I need to check something out. I’ll get back to you later.”
A payphone? Not many of those left. Whoever had called Krista two hours before she left her house on the night she died had made the call from a pay phone on the street where she’d later be run down. Had to be the killer. Had to be Weaver or Mitchell. What did Grimes have to check out? What did he know that I didn’t?
I tapped his number. No answer. Voicemail. I left a message to call me as soon as he could. I hoped it wouldn’t be too late. I had to try to get some sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.
I lay back on the bed and went over everything I had to do. A lot. And many miles on the road. If I got caught and the police were able to backtrack my day, they’d find plenty of premeditation. I’d be charged with first degree murder. Even so, with that dark cloud hovering over me, Grimes’ voicemail message kept pushing through my thoughts.
I sat up and listened to the message again.
A pay phone on State Street. He said, “Maybe one hundred …” and then said it was a couple blocks from where Krista was run over.
Maybe one hundred what?
I checked the time. Five to midnight. I needed sleep, but knew I wouldn’t get any until I found the payphone.
I grabbed a hand towel from the bathroom and wrapped the Colt Super .38 in it, then locked it inside the cash box.
One stop to make before I searched for the payphone on State Street.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
I GOT TO the 400 block of State at about ten after midnight and parked in the same restaurant parking lot Krista had on the night she died. The restaurant was closed down for the night and there were plenty of spaces. I walked to the corner of Gutierrez and State and peered down the street toward Joe’s Café. Grimes and I had already walked north on State from this side and I didn’t remember seeing a payphone.
I crossed over State to the west side. A few people passed me on the sidewalk. A couple snuggled together in the brisk spring Santa Barbara night. A handful of college-age bros venturing out of the university town of Isla Vista for a night in the “big” city.
A cigar lounge, tattoo parlor, dive bar, but no payphones on the first block. Next block, a Japanese restaurant, a pizza place, and Paddy’s Pub but no payphones. I passed in front of Hotel Santa Barbara, where Dustin Peck cheated on his wife, then crossed Cota Street.
Passed a couple retail stores, then there it was. Next to a bus bench and a trash receptacle.
A payphone. An anachronism from another time. But now, a clue. I pulled out my cell and called the number I’d called at least ten times since I found it on Krista’s cell phone records. Three seconds later the payphone rang. I picked up the receiver and held it to my ear just to be one hundred percent certain. I said my name into my cell phone and heard my voice through the payphone receiver pinned to my ear.
One hundred percent.
I looked across the street and estimated the distance that I now knew Grimes was referring to when he said “Maybe one hundred” on my voicemail, then stopped himself.
One hundred feet. I squared myself even with the payphone and started walking south on State Street, taking long, even strides. Past the retail shops, across Cota, past Hotel Santa Barbara, and stopped in front of the door to Paddy’s Pub. Thirty-six steps. A shade over one hundred feet.
Grimes didn’t want to make the connection to the cop bar. Rather, didn’t want me to make it. Why not? Is that what he had to investigate? I called him on my cell. Voicemail again. I left another message to call me ASAP. Maybe he was still in the middle of his investigation or maybe he didn’t want to talk to me. Both made sense, except that he called me, originally. Sleep didn’t matter anymore. I was on the hunt for the truth and Paddy’s Pub was connected to it.
I peered through a window of the pub. I couldn’t see much. Dark inside. Definitely for an older crowd. Millennials liked their bars bright and cheery and loud. Paddy’s had none of that. No music thumping through the door. Cops and ex-cops like a cozy dark spot where you can sip amber whiskey and slowly erase the day. Unless you were raw and inexperienced like I’d been when I was on the force. Then you wanted to rehash overhyped heroics while standing at the bar chugging beer and shots so the waitresses could hear you when they loaded their trays with whiskey to take to the old hands secluded at dark tables in the back.
I entered the bar. It hadn’t changed much in the fourteen years since I’d spent a few nights a week standing near the waitress station spouting off. Red brick flooring around the bar and up the walls. Ancient thin slatted hardwood made up the main floor. Sports memorabilia hung on the walls. A private lounge upstairs. There were still probably a couple grills and picnic tables out back. The only difference between now and then was that ex–police chief Lou Siems was behind the bar pouring drinks instead of on the other side drinking them. He gave me a mini-nod, which was about the best I’d ever get from law enforcement anywhere. I returned it.
Three young bucks stood at the bar, chugging shots and backslapping each other. No good memories there and not who I was looking for. The tables around the outside of the room were manned by the older crowd. Detective-looking types.
I spotted them at a table in the back. Both of them. Looking comfortable and at home. Like they stopped in for a drink every night. For years. Unfortunately, Tom Weaver spotted me, too. He leaned over the table and said something to Jake Mitchell, and they both looked at me. I’d gotten the information I needed. Either one of them could have been the person who called Krista on the payphone and lured her down to State Street the night she died. But I’d been spotted. Time for plan B.
I smiled at both of them and walked over to their table.
“What the fuck do you want?” Weaver flashed to rage in an instant.
“I came in for a drink, but that seems like a bad idea now.”
“You’re damn right it is.” Weaver rose to his full height in his chair. “So piss off and go back to the hole you crawled out of.”
Mitchell watched me calmly and stayed silent.
“I understand why you don’t like me.” I looked at Weaver and feigned remorse. “I’ve given you plenty of reasons not to. I doubt you’d accept an apology from me at this point, but I’ll just tell you that I may have jumped to some conclusions that I shouldn’t have. Jim Grimes has convinced me that Detective Mitchell here and his unit are closing in on Krista’s real killer. I’m heading back to San Diego tomorrow. Let me buy you a round on my way out as an apology you might accept.”
“Fuck you, Cahill.” Weaver’s rage hadn’t abated. “Keep your wallet in your fucking pants where you should have kept your dick a long time ago. Stay away from me, or I’ll finish what I started the other day.”
I backed away from the table without another word, turned, and headed for the door. Lou Siems caught my eye behind the bar. He gave me his trademark life-is-good smile then nodded down at an empty stool opposite him. An invitation?
Maybe he wanted me to sit at his bar so he could tell me to get the hell out. I took the bait.
“Chief.” I sat down.
“What are you drinking, Rick?” Flat smile. “It’s on the house.”
I’d never gotten to know the chief very well when I was on the job. Wasn’t around long enough for that. We met when he swore in my rookie class of five in 2002. Even at that size, I wasn’t the top of my class or the bottom. Right in between.
The chief had smiled and looked each of us rookies in the eye when he shook our hands.
Gave a nice speech. Everybody seemed to like him. I’d only spoken “hellos” to him the two and a half years I was a cop before I went in front of the disciplinary board and lost my badge. Even after the DA dropped the murder charges against me, they took away my badge. Presumed guilty in the court of public opinion. And behind the thin blue line.
He looked me in the eyes that day, too. But he didn’t smile.
Thus, I was a bit confused by the smile tonight, no matter how flat and devoid of joy.
“Jameson. Neat.”
“Of course.” He poured me two fingers of the Irish whiskey and two for himself. “True to your roots.”
“I guess if you’d been true to yours, this place would be a German stein house and we’d be listening to polka music right now.” I took a sip of the Jameson. Smooth. Hints of vanilla and honey and a pleasant burn down the back of my throat. I hadn’t sipped whiskey in a long time. Life hadn’t slowed down long enough for that.
“Wanted to keep everything the same when I bought the place. Most cops don’t like change. Besides, I’ve got a bit of the blarney on my mother’s side.”
“Erin go Bragh.” I raised my class and he clinked his off it. We both took sips.
“I always thought you got a raw deal at SBPD, Rick. Your separation from the force wasn’t my idea. It was political. There was a lot of pressure from the media, the mayor’s office, and the city council after that 48 Hours ran.” Siems’ eyes drooped. “And from outside forces.”