It was an observation that was correct at the time and has grown even more astute over the course of the afternoon.
Two hours have yielded nothing. They have pushed my defenses, my training, my ability to block things out, past what I thought possible. They have called to mind memories that I haven’t thought on in ages. They have unearthed photographs and mementos I didn’t even know we still had.
But they have not brought us any closer to a reason for all of this.
“You guys hungry?”
The voice of Hiram jerks my head up from the framed photograph in my hands. Taken the summer before, it is of us and a group of friends at Fiesta Island, a barbecue set up in the foreground, a pair of stand-up paddleboards moored behind us. All standing in a loose cluster, there are more than a half-dozen in total, all in some form of beachwear, smiling broadly.
It was a great day, our first group outing since circling back from Guam, a welcome home for those of us that had been away.
And if I stare at it another moment, it’s going to be dappled with salt marks from gravity winning out against the moisture underscoring my eyes.
Standing in the doorway from the back patio, Hiram has two large paper sacks in hand. He makes no attempt to come any further, still not trusting himself to enter the house.
I don’t blame him.
“Starving,” I say, forcing a half-smile. I turn toward the corner, to the woman that seems to be getting smaller by the moment, a stack of odd papers and notebooks piled on her lap. “Angelique?”
As she raises her head to face me, her eyes are even glassier than mine. “Yeah, I could eat.”
Extending a hand, I place the frame back where it belongs. My fingertips linger on the surface of it, tracing over the image of Mira, before my hand falls to my side and I head for the door. My legs feel almost leaden as I walk back over the patio, the sun having traced more than thirty degrees across the sky while we’ve been inside.
Hiram is the first to reach the table, a trio of paper cups already placed before each of the chairs. Setting the bags down, he begins to pull sandwiches from them, arranging them all in a row.
“I didn’t know what you guys might want, so I just went to Green Papaya and got some of everything.”
I sidle up to the chair I’d used earlier in the day. The sun has shifted so that it is now in the shade, though I make no attempt to move it. Right now, it is hardly the point.
“Sounds great. Thank you.”
In total, he pulls five sandwiches out, all bulky and square, wrapped in thick white paper. He waits as Angelique takes a seat before extending one her way.
“Turkey, bacon, avocado.”
She nods. “Thanks.”
“I didn’t know what you might want Kyle, so I got one of everything else. Ham, chicken, roast beef.”
Eating is the last thing on my mind. Being inside all day has tightened my stomach into a tight bundle, occasional waves of nausea passing through me. Alternating between feeling like I might cry or vomit, I can barely consider putting anything in my system.
But like everything I’ve consumed in the last few days, I know I must. I have to keep going. There is still so much to do.
“Thanks,” I say, reaching out and grabbing the closest one. I don’t bother even checking what is scribbled in black marker on the top, just placing it before me, my gaze on the canyon behind the house.
Doing much the same, Hiram lowers himself into his chair, his hands folded in his lap. “Any luck?
I wait for a moment, ceding the floor to Angelique, before realizing she has no intention of answering. “No.”
We’ve both found a whole lot of heartache, but nothing more.
“Oh,” Hiram replies. “I’m sorry. About earlier, I mean.”
I knew what he was alluding to, even before the last sentence. “Don’t be. It got me the first time too.”
Just as I know it will get me an infinite number more before it passes.
He turns his head to look at me, his mouth working up and down twice, his eyes crinkling as if he may begin to cry again. Despite the man’s size, his age, his occupation, there is no way to mask the fact that above all else, he is simply a saddened sibling. He is a younger brother that always had Mira looking out for him, and without her, he is like a rudderless vessel, left to the whims of fate to steer him through.
In short, he is feeling the exact same thing I am.
“What now?” he whispers.
I’ve had most of the afternoon to consider the question, a fair bit of the weekend before that. My every hope had been that something would pop out during our search of the home, but now it is clear that was nothing more than wishful thinking.
“Right now? We eat.”
Chapter Eleven
The tufts of gray hair and leathered skin are more a result of climate and lifestyle than actual age. Upon first approach, Elsa Teller had pegged Ringer somewhere around fifty, assuming his ascent to the top position was a result of longevity. Now seated directly across from him, she can see he is actually younger than she first thought, the skin on his face still taut, his word choice and delivery that of someone still in their late thirties.
The weight of more than a few stares is heavy on her back, their combined heft practically burning. All six men appear to have followed her in from the porch, taking up various posts around the room. Not that she can see any of them directly, her positioning across from Ringer leaving her with only a faint reflection in the windows to either side of him.
“You have got some serious sand,” Ringer says, his head rocking back as he takes her in, making no attempt to hide the long sweep of his gaze. “I’ll give you that.”
Seated with her purse on her lap, her hand tucked inside, Teller says nothing. She keeps her features neutral, one eyebrow rising slightly.
“Though you can you release your grip on that,” Ringer adds, gesturing with his chin toward the bag. “Let me guess, .38 Special?”
The arched eyebrow goes a bit higher as Teller extracts her hand, the Smith & Wesson still clutched tight. Moving slowly, she places it down on the table before her, feeling the tension in the room rise slightly.
“Shield 2.0,” she corrects. “Nine-millimeter, extended magazine.”
A trace of amusement comes to the smile as Ringer looks at it before raising his gaze over her shoulder. Extending a palm, he wags it twice, waving off whoever might have been getting antsy behind her.
“Like I said - sand.” He keeps his focus on the gun another moment before looking up to her, the smile fading. “What do you want?”
“Mike Lincoln,” she replies.
A crease appears between his brows, a touch of surprise apparent. “Linc? What the hell do you want him for? Haven’t even seen him in days.”
The conversation is playing out much the way Teller thought it might. She has no interest in extended discourse, would really like to keep this from devolving into a one-sided affair where misogyny or worse are lobbed her way.
“I haven’t either,” Teller replies. “And we have business together.”
The particular line of business Lincoln is in is no secret. It took no more than a single phone call after the initial recommendation for her to confirm as much. There is no chance Ringer isn’t also well versed in what the man does.
Reclined in his seat, Ringer remains impassive. He peers across at her, his features unreadable.
“If you and Linc had business, that’s on you.”
“I don’t think it is,” she says, careful to keep her tone level, free of hostility. Despite the gun sitting just inches away from her hand, there’s no doubt there is at least a handful more waiting behind her.
It’s the only reason she’s gotten to the chair she’s now in.
“See, he was hired – at a substantial price – to do a job with two parts. The first of those is done.”
She leaves it there, hoping the open-ended insinuation will be enough to make her point. Based on
the hardened visage of Ringer, it doesn’t appear it will be.
“And?” he asks.
“And that was four nights ago, and we haven’t heard from him since.”
For an instant, the same lack of response stays in place. Ringer merely sits and stares, until a single chuckle parts his lips. Soon a second is added, followed by a third and fourth.
Within moments, he is laughing loudly. The men behind them join in, an uneven chorus that rolls out into the street, sending a ripple of palpitations through Teller’s core.
“Lady,” Ringer says between chortles, his entire body quivering with amusement, “did you not see the bikes sitting out front? Or the leather vests we’re wearing?”
Teller recognizes the questions as rhetorical, knowing better than to say a word.
“We’re not nine-to-fivers here. This is the life we live, the freedom we crave. It’s not uncommon for someone to be gone for weeks. If you made the mistake of dropping a serious pile of cash on someone and got burned, that’s your own fault.”
He extends a finger out, tapping it against the newspaper folded on the table in front of him.
“Lesson learned.”
Blood rushes to Teller’s cheeks. So badly she wants to unleash some of the vitriol on her tongue, to tell these bastards who she is and who she represents. To point out that while they might feel like real men in their vests, she could have the entire dump they are sitting in wiped off the map with one call.
“I get that,” she responds, “but tell me this, shouldn’t one of you maybe be worried about the fact that his Panhead is parked outside, but he’s not here? Or that nobody has been by his place in days either?”
Leaving her comments there, she sits and stares, watching as whatever mirth existed a moment before fades away. In its place, the same stony gaze returns, a clear indicator that he is at least considering what she said.
Where Mike Lincoln is is of no consequence to her. He was hired for the simple fact that he was expendable and completely non-credible should anybody ever come sniffing into things.
Just as the man sitting across from her now is. Despite his thinking he is in charge, acting as if she is a lost child out of her element, she has a full file in her folder about the man named Jimmy Wilson that had somewhere along the line decided he didn’t want to continue studying accounting and instead had decided to grow out his hair and start going by the name Ringer.
And just like her previous meeting with Mike Lincoln, she can practically smell the smoke of the gears in his mind turning, pushing him to where she wants him to be.
“Tell me about this job.”
Chapter Twelve
Our usual spot is The Cartwright. A family-owned bar in the South Park neighborhood, it is a quintessential encapsulation of our crew. Right across the street is an Italian restaurant that is the definition of pretentious, with white table clothes and wine decanters sitting everywhere. Waiters in tuxedo shirts and vests speak with faux accents, their hair and makeup always done to perfection.
On the corner sits an open-air bar that specializes in having kombucha and microbrews on tap. From the kitchen, they tout something called a vegan fusion menu. Combined, I’m pretty sure the takeaway is to be prepared to eat like a rabbit and pay dearly for it, but I’m purely speculating.
It’s not like any of us have ever gone any closer than walking along the sidewalk to get to The Cartwright.
Our spot, by contrast, has been around since before the gentrification moved into the neighborhood, and it shows. The booths are made from roughhewn wood, the bar lacquered to a mirrored gloss. I’m not sure the old guy behind the bar – Billy Cartwright himself – would even know what a kombucha is, though he has PBR and Coors Light available any night of the week.
If someone is hungry, they get their choice between burgers, wings, or nachos. Dining alone, they can watch a ballgame on the TV’s above the bar.
In short, a floor-to-ceiling mecca to everything such a place is supposed to be.
Four nights prior, we were all here together. Emily Stapleton, who now sits beside me. Chief Jeff Swinger, a friend I met on my very first day of SEAL training years before. Large and muscular, he is directly across from me, actively surveying the room, a thick arm curled in front of him like a snake coiled around his beer glass.
In the corner is Petty Officer Wendell Ross, a man I have known even longer than Swinger. The sole black man in the bar, he is beyond even noticing such things, his gaze tracing the room, much like Swinger’s.
At a glance, I recognize what they’re doing, having more than once thought myself that the last time we were here, Mira was with us. And that sitting in this very place was where her killer spotted us, tailing us to Balboa Park where he ultimately cut her down.
Why we’re sitting here now, I’m not sure, beyond the fact that none of us could think of anywhere else to go. Having agreed over the weekend to reconvene after what took place on Friday night, there is a nervous tension between us, all of us lost in thought, minds in a dozen different places.
“How did it go today?” Stapleton asks, looking up from her beer to glance my direction.
At the sound of her question, both Swinger and Ross look my way, not quite certain what she’s referring to.
“Not much luck,” I say, shaking my head. Glancing across to the guys, I add, “Mira’s family and I went through the house today. Didn’t find shit.”
Nodding once, Swinger goes back to watching the room. It is a futile exercise. We all know there is no chance one of the Wolves walk in tonight, just as we recognize every single face sitting at the bar. Monday night isn’t exactly the most active of the week, even in a place as enamored with its social life as San Diego. The fact that the Cowboys and Patriots are playing on Monday Night Football has brought out a couple more than usual, but nothing out of the ordinary.
Still, I don’t begrudge him for taking up the stance, practically daring someone to so much as glance our direction. Sure beats the hell out of doing nothing, which is what it feels like the rest of us have been doing for days now.
“How they doing with all this?” Ross asks.
If Swinger is the muscle for our small band of misfits, Ross is the brains. Married with twins at home – one of which Mira and I are, were, the godparents of – he has a bit more perspective on things.
“Same as the rest of us,” I reply. “Zombie shuffling through the day, wanting to ask a million questions that nobody knows the answer to.”
Recognizing there is absolutely no malice in my response, Ross nods. His own eyes relay the sorrow he is feeling, Mira having been a part of all their lives for almost a decade as well. Her presence is so strong at the table, it may be the last time we ever come back, her absence palpable.
“Have you guys started making funeral arrangements yet?” he asks.
“No,” I reply, shaking my head slightly. “Her mother won’t even consider such talk until all this is straightened out.” I glance to Swinger and Stapleton, seeing bits of surprise on both of their faces. “Old-school Catholic family. They believe that if a person is buried with unfinished business, their soul will never rest at peace.”
Swinger nods slightly.
“Well, this would certainly qualify as unfinished business,” Stapleton adds, her voice just a murmur.
“Right. Until then, she wants to keep her at the morgue. Technically, there’s still an open investigation, so they’re in no hurry to move her.”
Beside me, I can hear Stapleton suck in a sharp breath of air. It is the same way I feel about the topic, the idea of my beloved laying on a sliding metal tray for an untold length of time enough to make my stomach turn. At the same time, there’s no way I can even fathom putting something together right now. Not in my state, my nerves as frayed as they are.
And I’m damned sure not going up against Angelique on the matter.
“How’s that going?” Swinger asks, looking from the barroom floor to me. “The investigation?�
�
Snorting slightly, I lift my glass. Out of pure habit, I give it a small twirl, barely realizing that usually it is almost empty when I do such a thing. Tonight, I have had no more than a few sips, warm liquid sliding over the side and sloshing over my fingers, dotting the table.
I leave it there, barely noticing any of it.
“There is none,” I reply. “I imagine they’re running the blanket to see if anything comes back, and when it doesn’t, they’ll go through the motions for a couple days and give up on it.”
Whether they’re even doing that much, I can’t be certain, though I’m not holding my breath. It was made clear to me while sitting in the back of that cruiser Thursday night and again at the Central Division precinct the next morning exactly what Detective Marsh thought of the whole thing.
“Detective is a climber,” I add. “If he sees personal gain in it, he’ll follow up. If not, it’ll just be another thing they write off as homeless violence or whatever other bullshit they assign to things they don’t feel like investigating.”
I’m aware of my heightened level of profanity, of the bitterness permeating my words, though I can’t seem to bring myself to correct it. Everything I know, right down to the very bar I’m sitting in, has been turned on its head in the last few days, the questions surrounding it mounting.
“So what’s the next step?” Ross asks.
In the wake of Friday, I know all three must be practically jumping from their skin. Together we had effectively lured Mira’s killer – a known member of a motorcycle gang – to an abandoned cabin in the desert and tortured him to death.
Well, I had tortured him to death, but they were all there, had played a role in some way.
In the time since, we all had been left to our own thoughts, replaying the incident many times over. For me, I would love nothing more than to do it all again, this time taking things a bit slower, extracting some more information while inflicting infinitely more pain.
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