“The guy? What was his name?”
Again, an eye roll. “Lincoln. Mike Lincoln.”
“Right,” Morgan says, nodding as if he remembers, or even cares what the man’s name is. Insignificant details like that are why he has her on the payroll.
“And that is bad,” Teller says, her tone continuing to mock him, “because there was one other thing we asked him to look into.”
With one statement, things finally click into place for Morgan. From Teller’s appearance to her acting as if he should be supremely concerned, everything fits in order. Leaning back, he feels saliva return to his mouth, the trepidation he was experiencing just a moment before fading away.
This isn’t a problem. A minor blip perhaps, but nothing to worry about. Certainly, nothing that would call for her to have barged into his office the way she did. Extending a hand, he draws his lunch sack over and begins to unfurl the top. With it comes a plume of smell, his appetite suddenly rushing back to the fore.
There are a great many things that originate in his office that require legit oversight, many of which Teller is directly involved with. This is no such thing.
“So again I ask, what are you doing here?”
For a moment, there is no response. She merely sits and stares at him, her visage unreadable. Extending one hand down, she brings her purse up to her lap and drops both feet to the floor.
“Call it a courtesy visit. Other things will now need to be put into motion.” She extends a hand across the desk, motioning to his thickening paunch and the sack of fried chicken parts before him. “And since for some reason people see fit to make you the face of this organization, I thought you should be aware.”
Chapter Three
Emily Stapleton is sitting on a bench just off the long walkway outside the building where Dr. Botkins has an office. Positioned directly beneath a pair of palm trees with weak foliage above, she is half in and half out of the sun, the midday rays shining brightly off her red hair. Seated parallel to the building, I can only see her side profile as I approach, her head cover off and sitting on her knee, her hands folded in her lap.
Deep in thought, she doesn’t look my way as I approach, not moving until I speak, her body flinching at the sound of my voice.
“Hey there,” I say. “Hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
Jerking her attention my direction, her cheeks color, a bashful smile coming to her face. “Naw, all good. CO cut out a few minutes early, so I thought I’d grab some sun until you were ready.”
Rising from the bench, she moves for just a moment as if to hug me, her arms both spreading a few inches, before remembering where we are and thinking better of it. Jerking a glance around, she shoves her hands into her pockets, the blue uniform a harsh contrast to her features.
“Still thinking about hitting the mess?” I ask.
A few days prior, a joke had been made about how now that I was more or less out, she would treat me to the finest grub the on-base dining facility could produce. As if I haven’t had enough of that in the last ten years.
“Meh,” she replies, her mouth twisting up slightly, “we could.”
Reaching into my pocket, I extract my keys, jangling them before me. “Or we could make good on the fact that my car is parked right over there.”
A smile brightens her features as she nods, already looking toward the parking lot. “Now you’re talking.”
I had a feeling this was how things would play out. Normally, there would be no problem with us staying and eating in the mess hall. For as much as the food isn’t exactly gourmet chic, it isn’t the worst thing on the planet. And it isn’t like I haven’t been forcing it down for the last ten years with decent results. At thirty-four years old, I am in shape and as good of health as can be expected, all things considered.
Events of the last half-week have changed things. Beginning with Mira’s death and including Stapleton’s role in helping me nab and ultimately eliminate her killer, the last several days have been a whirlwind beyond imagination. Nearly every moment that I’m not actively doing something my mind is free to scour through things, still barely scratching the surface of making sense of it all.
I can only imagine what Stapleton and my friends Jeff Swinger and Wendell Ross – both of who were also present that night – must be going through.
Falling in beside one another, we walk in silence toward the parking lot. Extremely aware of where we are and the open windows lining the very building I’d just exited, we opt against small talk, allowing quiet to settle between us. As we walk, scads of personnel pass us in both directions, many moving just shy of a jog, anxious to grab food and get back to whatever it was they were doing.
Neither of us has any such compunction.
Three minutes after leaving the bench, we both climb into my car, the interior having warmed tremendously under the San Diego sun. Opting against the windows, I turn on the air conditioner, maneuvering us away from the base and toward the bridge connecting Coronado Island to the mainland.
“Where to?” I ask.
“Habit?” she responds.
A California burger joint that for my money puts In-N-Out to shame, I don’t even pretend to put up a fight. Whether that is the reason she picked it or not, I don’t much need to know right now.
Responding with a grunt, I work my way over the bridge, the lunch traffic thicker than usual. My focus on the cars to one side and the concrete barrier to the other, I ask without looking over, “So how you doing?”
I leave the question open, letting her interpret it as she will. If her immediate response is about her weekend or the weather, the boundaries for today will be clearly drawn.
Not surprising in the least, she goes for something a bit meatier.
“How are you doing?” she replies, answering the question with one of her own.
Glancing away from the road for just a moment, I consider extending the game I’d started with Botkins an hour earlier. I could continue to dodge, giving half-answers or vague references, letting her infer the rest. Just as fast, I push the notion aside. Even before a few nights ago, my friend deserved better than that.
Now, I wouldn’t dream of such a thing.
“You first.”
Meeting my gaze, Stapleton seems to consider it a moment before nodding. “I’m okay. Friday night was a little wild, and I didn’t sleep a ton this weekend, but I’m alright.”
My eyes slide shut for just an instant at the admission. The last thing in the world I want is to bring any harm – physical or emotional – to my friends. As vital as their help was, I just can’t do such a thing.
If not for myself, then for the fact that Mira would have never allowed it.
“And before you say a word, it wasn’t your fault,” she says, somehow sensing to the letter what I was thinking. “I came up with the plan, remember?”
As I recall, she was actually a co-architect, she and Swinger putting it together and presenting it to me nearly fully formed. Still, I don’t press it. I don’t say anything, in fact.
“And it actually isn’t about the other night,” she continues. “Yeah, it was a mess of a thing to see, but it needed to be done. Hell, in the moment, I kind of wanted to get in some licks myself.”
Without even realizing it, I twist my hand from the top of the steering wheel to again glance at the scabs lining my knuckles. Of everything that had happened that night, the inclusion of Emily was the part I was least comfortable with. Not because of her gender, but because she was the only one of us that wasn’t an active soldier.
Swinger and Ross have been through the shit with me, both physically and metaphorically. I knew that whatever happened, they would be able to withstand. Our training had implanted an ability to compartmentalize in them that would push the realities of the situation away.
That very training is the only thing that is allowing me to keep going at the moment. Every so often the walls come down and I have no choice but to let my anguish escape, b
ut not long thereafter the barriers return, letting me move forward.
It is a pattern I look to continue for the foreseeable future.
“It’s everything else,” Stapleton continues. “The fact that Mira is gone. The way it happened. What that bastard said before he died.”
She lists the items out one at a time, but there is no need. Every last thing is something I’ve thought about a hundred times over, the questions keeping me from sleeping as well.
“And you?” she asks, again flicking her attention my way.
Checking the rearview, I change lanes, pushing north along the coast. Bypassing downtown, I point us toward Point Loma, the Habit there far from base and any potentially prying ears.
“Same,” I mutter. “Exactly the same.”
For a moment, it looks like she is about to admonish me for dodging before she realizes I am telling the truth. There’s more to it, layers I can add, but the take-home is a carbon copy.
“You been back home yet?” she asks.
“Once,” I reply, nodding. “Had to grab a few things.”
“How was it?”
Like me earlier, she leaves the question open-ended, allowing me to answer on the obvious emotional level, or to allude to the fact that right after Mira was killed, our house was ransacked and left turned on its head.
“Nobody’s been back,” I reply. “I had to go grab a few things and I set the security alarm on it, but I just wasn’t ready to be in there alone yet.”
Even in the sea of chaos that it was, there was just too much Mira present. Within minutes, I could feel the despair I was working so hard to keep tamped down bubbling to the surface, threatening to spill from any opening.
“Hiram is going back over with me this afternoon to go through the place,” I add.
For a moment, she says nothing, processing the information, before asking, “Were you able to find anything else out?”
The smell of charred meat filled the air. Equal parts beef and chicken, it rolled up off the grill before me, the plume of smoke and steam rising in a cloud, enveloping me in the only kind of facial I would ever admit to enjoying. Accompanied by an entire sauté pan of onions and peppers, the scent alone had me almost floating, like a cartoon character being led along by their nose.
“Hey, Iron Chef, we going to get to eat any time soon?”
The grill was placed in the far back corner of our tailgate spot, which put me facing away, toward the stadium. Even without seeing who was asking the question I recognized the voice, my eyes sliding shut as my face lifted toward the sky, a smile crossing my features.
“You cannot rush perfection,” I responded, raising my voice to be heard.
“I’m starting to think you can rush starvation, though.”
The smile grew even larger as I turned, a sea of orange-and-black-clad people filling the small parcel of space we had commandeered for the afternoon. Beyond them, a veritable swell of people moved back and forth, all in town for the first Beavers football game of the season, as sure a sign of fall in Corvallis as the leaves that would start shifting colors in just a few weeks.
Standing in the center of the crowd was Hetty Ames, my best friend since arriving on campus three years prior. The very first person I had met in Corvallis, each year seemed to bring about a new look, another reinvention underway to kick off the new semester.
This being our senior year, she had let her hair grow from her previous pixie cut, the locks hanging to her chin. Dyed dark purple, she stood out, even in a crowd already so brightly festooned.
“Well now, from where I’m standing, I’d say we have a way to go before the topic of starvation comes up, wouldn’t you?” I asked.
Dropping her face to the ground, Hetty’s face creased into a smile, a few fellow tailgaters looking our way, their jaws dropped.
Clearly, they weren’t privy to the sort of friendship we were famous for.
“You ass,” she replied.
“No, not my ass,” I replied, extending a spatula her way.
More chuckling was all Hetty could manage. Working her way through the crowd, she held her hands up before her. Extending the dripping spatula to the side, I wrapped my free hand around her, the two of us embracing for several moments. Giving one final squeeze, we stepped back, each sizing up the other.
“Okay, seriously,” I said, turning back to the grill to make sure the chicken didn’t burn, “looking very well. And I’m digging the new ‘do. Very...festive.”
“Good word for it,” Hetty replied, sidling up beside me and surveying the offerings. “You’re not doing too bad yourself. How was Arizona?”
“The baseball was better than Montana, the rest of it not so much. And San Fran?”
“Meh,” she replied, tilting at the waist to get a better view of things. “Good to be back. I don’t suppose you have anything to eat that isn’t comprised mainly of flesh?”
Opening my mouth to respond, about to point out that she had failed to mention she would be making it back in time, I was cut off by a hand sliding along my lower back. A moment later, Mira pressed her body against mine, a tray of hummus and veggies in hand.
“Of course, we do,” she replied, extending the platter across my torso toward Hetty. “Didn’t know if you’d make it, but thought we’d bring along something just in case.”
Extending a hand, Hetty took up a sprig of broccoli, running the fuzzy end through the hummus. “Why thank you, Mira. It’s nice to know at least one of you cares.”
“You’re welcome,” Mira replied.
“Hey,” I added, again pointing the dripping end of the spatula her way, “I care too. I care enough to keep hoping you’re going to give up this crazy vegan stuff and enjoy the delicious bounty of nature.”
Beside me, I could feel Mira trying to stifle laughter, her body shaking slightly as it pressed into me.
“Nope,” Hetty replied, reaching in for more veggies. “Can’t do it. Not even once.”
“Not even once? It’s not meth, it’s a delicious chicken sandwich.”
In unison, both my best friend and my girlfriend swatted me across the shoulder. Behind us, I could hear people chuckling, apparently enjoying our random three-person show.
Hetty was right. It was good to be back.
Chapter Four
Detective Malcolm Marsh is seated behind his desk when he hears the commotion begin out in the office. Not the sort of angsty, charged shift that immediately permeates the space, letting him know that something is wrong. Definitely not the kind that accompanies an especially hostile arrest or a family member cursing the police and claiming there’s no way their loved one could have done whatever it was they were brought in for.
The other type, the one of actual joviality. The kind that the place could use a lot more of.
And the sort that generally seems to follow wherever his partner Mark Tinley goes.
Shoving the stack of files he’s been going through across the desk, Marsh leans back in his seat. He lets a smile settle on his face, not needing to rise and join the procession taking place outside. Tinley’s path from the front door ends at his desk. There’s no need to rush things.
One by one, Marsh listens as Tinley makes his way through the room. Just barely past thirty, he already has the charm to work a crowd, a born politician if there ever was one.
Had he just a bit better background – barely a BA from SDSU decorating his resume – Marsh might even be inclined to bring him along for his own future aspirations.
In total, it takes a full six minutes for Tinley to make his way to the threshold of the office the two share. Stopping with his feet spread wide, he extends his hands before him as if waiting for a hug, a broad grin on his freshly tanned face.
“Partner!” The word is drawn out in length, said at a decibel much too loud for the enclosed space.
In short, a perfect encapsulation of the young man.
“Detective,” Marsh replies. Rocking forward, he uses the momentum of the
springs in his chair to propel him to his feet. Taking a single step forward, he extends his hand across the desk. “Looks like you got some sun down there.”
Stepping into the room, Tinley meets the shake, pumping twice before releasing. “That I did. If there’s one thing Costa Rica has a lot of, it’s sun.”
Casting a glance to the door, he raises the same hand to the side of his face, using it as a shield as he lowers his voice. “And if there’s a second thing, it’s beautiful women.”
Marsh can feel his cheeks bunch as he stares at the young man. With thick brown hair buzzed short and wide cheekbones, he has the natural look of a model. Now adding the sun splashed across his features and the tinge of gold bleaching his locks, he appears the quintessential surfer type, as much a San Diego trope as Hispanic architecture or craft breweries.
It isn’t hard to imagine he did quite well with the ladies in his travels.
“Now don’t you let Ethel hear that,” Marsh replies, his voice lowered to match the tone. “Word is she has her eye on you.”
Playing right along, Tinley leans back at the waist, peering into the crowded bullpen outside their office. From their vantage, they can’t see the reception desk or the sixty-three-year-old woman that has been manning it since before either of them were born, though that does nothing to detract from his commitment.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Marsh replies. “Word is she thinks you’d make a great Husband Number Six.”
At that, Tinley is unable to control the laugh that spills out. A single burst, it sounds akin to a horn, one long blast that almost reverberates through the room. Just as fast, he clamps his mouth shut, slapping a hand down over it as his eyes grow wide.
“Damn,” he whispers, pulling it back for an instant. “That was loud.”
“Yes, it was,” Marsh confirms, lowering himself back into his seat. Across from him, Tinley goes to the small table that serves as his desk, the tiny piece of furniture closer to something belonging in a high school classroom than any proper police precinct.
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