Blind Vigil

by Matt Coyle

“The case is closed, Rick. The police are in charge now. I’m sending Mr. Muldoon a check for twenty-five hundred and then I’m done with the whole thing unless the police need to talk to me again.”

  She called Turk Mr. Muldoon to further distance herself from him. She may have quit on him, but I hadn’t. And I wouldn’t.

  “The police are tunneled in on Turk. The least we could do is finish the job for him. Don’t the champagne and chocolate cake ring alarm bells with you?”

  “No.”

  “They did last night.”

  “Everything changed this morning.”

  “But they still mean something. Cake and champagne is celebratory food. Especially for someone like Shay. Turk said Shay only drank at parties and Kris told me she was a health nut.” I looked over at Moira in my new sunglasses and saw only shadows. “She was celebrating something right after she met with the guy in the Maybach.”

  “The police will follow the leads where they take them. I’m done, Rick.” All the hiss had come out of Moira’s words, leaving her spent like a deflated balloon. The worst thing she feared that could happen had when she went against her gut and took the case. Whether or not she thought Turk murdered Shay, she’d already begun her dissent into the dark hole of self-recrimination. It was a lonely, 24/7 existence and took a long ladder to climb out of.

  My dictated text to Turk warning him about the reporters sieged outside the Brick House were the only words spoken by either of us on the drive to my house.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  TURK CALLED ME at 3:20 p.m.

  “They think I did it.” His voice clogged with emotion. “They think I killed Shay.”

  “Did you just get out of LJPD?”

  “Yeah. They took my DNA and Detective Denton kept twisting my words around.” Beaten and worn down after six hours of interrogation all while trying to deal with the loss of his girlfriend. The kind of stress that can choke off your will to live.

  “Did you have a lawyer with you?”

  “No. I don’t have anything to hide.”

  “You may not have anything to hide, but you need to get a lawyer.” I sat forward in my chair. “You just told me Denton thinks you killed Shay and that she’s twisting your words. I’m really sorry about Shay. I know you’re going through hell and there’s nothing anyone can do for you. But do me a favor, don’t talk to the police again without a lawyer.”

  I ignored my own advice when my wife was murdered. I knew what trouble that could lead to. Even if Turk hadn’t lied like I did.

  “If the police arrest me, I’ll have to refinance my house to pay for a lawyer. I don’t have the money to hire one now on the possibility that they’re going to arrest me.”

  “I’m not saying hire one now, but if you talk to the police again, don’t do it without a lawyer.”

  “I’m telling you I can’t afford one.” Anxiety in his voice up a notch. “Business has been down at the restaurant. I’m tapped out.”

  “Did Shay know your financial situation when you paid her rent monthly?”

  So much effort and expense by Turk for someone who seemed like a user to me. A manipulator. Was this the same woman Kris called the sweetest person she’d ever met?

  “No.” A snap. “Leave Shay out of it.”

  Did that make Shay less a user if she didn’t know that Turk was running out of money to pay her rent? Too late to prosecute that case. It didn’t matter anymore. Shay was dead and Turk was the number one suspect.

  That’s all that mattered now.

  Another thought about money popped into my head. As much as I didn’t want it to, I couldn’t avoid it. The catalyst to the end of my friendship with Turk.

  “Any other money problems?” I didn’t want to say the word out loud and stick a wedge back between us.

  “You mean gambling?” Not accusatory, even though he figured out that was exactly what I meant.

  “Anything. Including gambling.”

  “Nope. Haven’t laid a bet since the night I was shot at the Cross.”

  The night he took a bullet meant for me and saved my life.

  “Sorry. Had to ask.”

  “No you didn’t.” He sounded more hurt than angry. “Do you think whoever killed Shay has anything to do with the man she met at La Valencia last night?”

  “I think it’s a possibility and worth looking into. Hopefully the police will do just that.”

  “What does Moira think?”

  I couldn’t tell him what she really thought. Not with what he’d just gone through.

  “She’s going to send you a check for $2,500 since there’s no reason to investigate anymore.” Sounded like he needed the money anyway.

  “Tell her to keep it. I want you two to find out who Shay met last night at La Valencia.”

  Easier said than done. For a lot of reasons. The first of which was that Moira already presumed Turk guilty of killing Shay. She’d do anything she could to help Turk get convicted, not the opposite.

  “It’s not that simple.” I told him about the Maybach being rented from a rental agency and that they wouldn’t give up the names of their clients, but that the police were probably investigating it.

  “You think the police are really going to dig deep when they already think I did it?”

  A valid question.

  “I might not if anyone but Detective Sheets was the lead investigator on the case. He’s thorough and fair. He’ll investigate all leads.”

  “Maybe, but Detective Denton is convinced I’m guilty.”

  “She’s full of bluster and was trying to get you to confess because that’s what she tries to do with everyone she interrogates. Confession first, facts later. Don’t worry about her. Sheets will do the right thing.” I hoped he still had that capability after years working with Denton.

  “I’d still like you and Moira to investigate for a couple more days.” The wariness returned to his voice. “If not, could you get me the information about the car rental agency and I’ll try on my own.”

  “We’ll investigate.” Or I would. I didn’t need eyesight to use a telephone and ask questions. And, if I had to, impersonate a police officer. I’d done it before. “You work on taking care of yourself. Is anyone with you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Anyone with you at the house? Your sister?”

  “She’s out of town.”

  “I’ll grab an Uber and head over.” I knew there wasn’t anything I could do to lessen Turk’s pain. I knew the pain. Your stomach is turned inside out and the tears run until there are none left, but the pain doesn’t go away. Ever. It lessens a little with each year, but it never goes away.

  “You don’t have to do that. I’m better alone, but I can’t just sit back and hope the police look for the real killer.” His voice caught. “Shay was the best person I’ve ever met. I was going to ask her to marry me.”

  The cake and champagne. A celebration.

  “When were you going to ask her?”

  “Right about the time she started lying to me.” A long pause. I didn’t interrupt. “I was hoping you and Moira would find out I had nothing to worry about. That whatever Shay was lying to me about was insignificant.”

  That never seemed like a reasonable possibility to me. You don’t lie about what you’ve been doing at night, meet someone in a $1,000-a-night suite in La Valencia, and get in the back of a quarter million-dollar car for innocuous reasons. But no need to point that out now.

  Most of the time being quiet is better than being right.

  “Was there anything Shay wanted to celebrate recently or in the near future? Did she think you were planning to ask her to marry you last night?”

  “Not that I know of.” Bewildered. “And no, I don’t think she knew that I was close to asking her. Why?”

  The why. Maybe I was way off about the champagne and cake. Nonetheless, I told Turk what Moira had seen Shay buy at Gelson’s. A minor detail she’d left out in her report to him last night.
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  “Kris told us that Shay was really into health and fitness and didn’t eat sweets very often. Is that true?”

  Turk didn’t say anything for a while, but I could almost hear him thinking. I wasn’t off about the cake and champagne. They signified something, and whatever it was was running through Turk’s head.

  “The night of the year anniversary of our first date, we had champagne and chocolate cake.” Barely audible, his voice hollowed out.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I TURNED ON the block caller ID function, then opened the TapeACall app on my phone and called the Luxurious Limousine rental agency. TapeACall recorded phone calls so I could store information on my phone in lieu of taking notes. Theoretically, illegal in California if you don’t alert the caller that you’re recording the call, but I never used the recordings for anything other than note taking. Easier for me than using a braille reader. I hadn’t learned braille, yet. Same reason I hadn’t sold my car. Hope.

  A man answered. Early, to mid-twenties. Slight Middle Eastern accent.

  “This is Officer Bud Gardner with the La Jolla Police Department, badge number 1785.” I gave the man the license plate number of the Maybach and told him I needed to know who rented it.

  “I’m sorry, Officer, but I can’t give out that information.”

  “Well, I need to speak to the person who can give me that information.”

  “He’s not here right now.”

  Better for me. The person in charge would be less likely to fall for my ruse.

  “What’s your name?” Terse. Command presence hearkening back to my time as a cop in Santa Barbara fifteen years ago.

  “Jamal.”

  “Last name?”

  “Amari.”

  “Please spell your full name for me.” I didn’t care about his name. I just wanted him to think I did.

  He spelled his name.

  “Jamal Amari, your company’s vehicle was involved in an accident that has caused massive property damage.” I was skating a thin line around a misdemeanor by impersonating a police officer, but since I wasn’t victimizing someone I probably wouldn’t be convicted if I went to trial. “The driver fled the scene before we arrived and there aren’t any witnesses. All we have is your Mercedes Benz Maybach sitting in the living room where there used to be a wall in someone’s house. Thank God no one in the home was injured.”

  “That’s terrible, but it’s not my vehicle. It’s owned by the company.”

  “Of course it is. And as owner of the vehicle involved in the hit-and-run accident, Luxurious Limousines will be held responsible if we can’t locate the driver. Somewhere down the line in court, I’m sure everything will be sorted out. Maybe your boss can afford the attorney fees to spend a few weeks in court and absorb the loss of business and damage to your reputation. Maybe not. But I’ve got a crime I’m trying to solve and time is of the essence.”

  “Let me call my boss and call you back.”

  “Jamal, you don’t seem to understand. We’ve got two tow trucks and a construction crew at the residence right now. You know how much the city bills an hour for these kinds of services? A lot more than the private sector. Luxurious Limousines is going to be charged unless you give me that name and I can track that person down right now.”

  I waited.

  A lump of anxiety grew in my belly. Not in anticipation of Jamal refusing to give me the man’s name. But regret that I fell so easily back into my P.I. posture of lying for what I deemed the greater good. I might be putting this man’s job on the line because I needed information. That was more important to me than a stranger’s livelihood. My quest for the truth and another possible collateral victim.

  I hadn’t changed. And I wasn’t even a real P.I. anymore.

  “Jamal, you don’t—”

  “His name is Keenan Powell. There’s a corporate address. Blank Slate Capital, 7850 Ivanhoe Ave., La Jolla 92037.”

  Ivanhoe T-boned right into Prospect Street where La Valencia was located. Why did this Keenan Powell rent a limo to drive around La Valencia and La Jolla if his office was only a couple blocks away? Was he trying to impress Shay?

  Another mystery to solve.

  I had Keenan Powell’s name and Blank Slate Capital’s address. My deception with Jamal was complete. I’d now try to mitigate the damage. And assuage my guilt.

  “Thanks, Jamal.” I took a deep breath and stepped into the confessional. “Your company is not in any trouble. Everything I just told you is a lie. I’m not a cop. There was no accident. As far as I know, the car is fine.”

  “What?” An octave higher. “Who are you? What’s your name, you fucking asshole?”

  “Fucking Asshole works.” I hung up. Guilt unassuaged. But I could live with that. Part of the bargain I’d made with myself long ago.

  I went up to my office on the second floor. Leah had suggested that I move my office downstairs to the dining nook off the kitchen since I spent most of my time on the ground floor. There was more than enough room and we ate most of our meals on the butcher block island in the kitchen or outside on the deck. An office downstairs made a lot of sense and was easier to navigate for someone in my condition.

  I think Leah held her breath every time I went up or down the stairs. But I didn’t. It was one of my early challenges that had become routine. I still had to be careful going up and down stairs, as evidenced by what happened last night. But I wasn’t going to sidestep challenges for safety sake. That would be too easy and further cocoon my existence. I’d spent most of the last three months cloistered in my house. I wasn’t about to close off any piece of that tiny universe.

  Midnight settled in under my desk. He liked routine, too. I opened my laptop computer, woke up the voice recognition function on Windows, and commanded the computer to open one of the paid people finder websites I used for P.I. work before Santa Barbara. I commanded the name Keenan Powell and San Diego into the website’s search engine and waited.

  A few seconds later, my computer told me that a Keenan William Powell lived at 10943 Glencreek Circle in Scripps Ranch. Scripps Ranch isn’t La Jolla when it comes to prestige and real estate value, but it’s a hidden gem with a lot of undeveloped terrain, snug up against Mira Mesa and Marine Base Miramar to its west and sandwiched between Poway and Tierrasanta to its north and south.

  Powell’s age was listed at forty-three. From Moira’s description, that could have fit the man Shay Sommers took a moonlight drive along the beach with last night. Divorced, two teenage children, one each. That fit about half the population of America. Blank Slate Capital, LLC was listed as his most recent employer.

  I commanded the computer to look up Blank Slate Capital, LLC. There were only three listings on Google. Rare to find only three of any listing on Google. Blank Slate was a hedge fund management firm. The firm’s address was the same one on Ivanhoe that Jamal at Luxurious Limousines gave me. I listened to the computer list the firm’s leadership team. There were no doubt photos attached, but they didn’t do me any good.

  The founder was someone named Charles “Chuck” Baxter. A few names later came Keenan Powell, Partner, Chief Operating Officer, and General Counsel. A long title with a lot of responsibility at a hedge fund management firm. No doubt, Powell made a lot of money. Someone who could afford a couple nights in the Sky Suite at La Valencia and a few days in the back seat of a rented Mercedes Benz Maybach. But why stay at an expensive hotel when he lived only twenty minutes away?

  I command copied Blank Slate’s URL, pasted it on an email to Moira, and asked her to look up Keenan Powell and tell me if he was the man she saw with Shay last night. I didn’t hold my breath waiting for a quick response. Or any response at all. Moira blamed herself for Shay’s death. And, down deep or closer to the surface, she blamed me, too. The last time she blamed me for something, something awful, she refused contact for months.

  I’d have to go the investigation alone. Something I did all the time before I met Moira and started teaming up wi
th her on a few cases a year. She made me a better investigator when we worked together. And she could see.

  But I’d stumbled through a lot of investigations blind before. Even when I had 20/20 vision.

  I had a name, a business address, and a phone number after I commanded my computer to read it off. I called Blank Slate Capital and opened TapeACall again.

  “Blank Slate Capital, LLC. This is Rory Bryant. May I help you?” A woman’s voice. Friendly, professional with just enough sensuality dripping off it to get the blood and money flowing from a qualified male investor.

  “Keenan Powell, please.” Brusque. Like I had the kind of money that made my time limited.

  “Mr. Powell is out of the office. May I take a message?”

  “I need a number where I can reach him.”

  “May I take a message, please?” She’d figured me out. Anyone important enough to get hold of Powell when he was out of the office would already have his cellphone number.

  “Yes. Please have him call Rick Cahill as soon as possible.” I recited my number.

  “May I tell Mr. Powell what this is concerning, Mr. Cahill?” Enough patronizing “I won” in her voice to make it hurt for someone who took those sorts of things personally. I didn’t.

  “Yes. You can tell him it’s about Shay Sommers. The woman who was murdered in La Jolla last night.” Maybe I did take those sorts of things just personally enough to score the last point. I hung up.

  I called La Valencia and asked to be connected to the Sky Suite.

  “I’m sorry, the Sky Suite doesn’t take unsolicited calls from outside the hotel.” Male nasally voice. Another gatekeeper happy with his power. “I can take a message and relay it to the guest at an appropriate time. Who’s calling?”

  I only lied because gatekeepers kept getting in my way.

  “This is Detective Bud Gardner with the La Jolla Police Department and I need to speak to the occupant of the Sky Suite forthwith.” More command presence with a dash of cop lingo.

  “Would you like me to take a message for the guest?” Coy, like he was having fun. “Or would you like to talk with one of your own detectives? Detective Denton is in our lobby right now.”