by Matt Coyle
Movement. Something slammed into my stomach. Air exploded from my lungs. I staggered backwards and doubled over. I gasped for air that wouldn’t come. Sucking sounds I couldn’t control from my mouth. My face ready to explode.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Arm around my waist. “Inside. Walk! Walk!”
I let Moira guide me into her house. Still hunched over. Still gasping for nonexistent air. We stopped and she grabbed my arms and lifted them up. Her tiny frame trying to get them over my head.
“Straighten up. Extend your diaphragm.” She pushed my arms higher. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
A wisp of air vacuumed into my diaphragm. Then another. I began to believe I might live. I sucked a few more breaths in like I’d done it before and finally regained my breath. Somehow, I kept from vomiting ground turkey all over Moira’s hardwood floor. Would have served her right, though. My stomach was a sore knot, like a heavyweight boxer had just sucker punched it. Not a forty-something five-foot tall woman.
“Mind if I sit down for a second or do you want to punch me again?”
“Shit.” An arm around my waist led me to a couch. Moira helped ease me down.
“I appreciate you’re not punching me in the nose.” I humphed a laugh. “Was that because you could see someone already had done that or because you couldn’t reach it?”
“I’m sorry.” Real pain. “I hope I didn’t hurt you badly. There’s no excuse for that. I’m sorry.”
“I’m fine. A female MMA fighter once kicked me in the face without warning and knocked me unconscious. Of course, I wasn’t blind then.”
“You make it hard for anyone to feel sorry for you.” She sat down next to me on the couch.
“Good, because that’s not one of my everyday goals.” Unless it could get me closer to the truth.
“What happened to your nose? It looks awful.”
If I told her about Turk, she’d never believe he could be innocent.
“Sometimes you bump into things you can’t see when you’re blind.” Like the foot of someone who didn’t want to go to jail.
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s not the first time.”
“I’m sorry about the things I said to you.” Moira’s head faced the floor. “Well, most of them. But Shay Sommers is not your fault.”
“She’s not yours either.” I found the back of her neck with my hand. “You were paid to do a job and you did it as best you could, but you didn’t get a chance to finish it.”
“Stop.” She twisted away from me. “I didn’t punch you in the stomach so you could cheer me up. Cheering people up is not one of your strengths. You have just enough empathy to keep you from being a sociopath. The bare minimum. So, stop. Even if you mean it. Stop.”
She was wrong about my empathy. I just expressed it differently than she did. Or most people. But now wasn’t the time to argue. And I still needed her help.
My needs.
“Do you believe Turk thinks you’re a good private investigator?”
“What? What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“Just play along for now.”
“I don’t want to play along with anything. You seem to be breathing fine now.” She stood up. “I don’t want to keep you any longer.”
“Give the narcissist one single minute.” I stayed seated on the couch. “Does Turk think you’re a good P.I.?”
“I guess.” A hiss.
“Then why did he want to keep you on to investigate who killed Shay? Pretty stupid if he killed her. Another pair of eyes searching for the truth.”
“To make himself look innocent.”
“Pretty big risk.”
“You’re down to thirty seconds.”
“Okay.” I grabbed my phone out of my pants pocket and commanded it to pull up the most recent photo. The one of the old man in La Sala. “Have you seen this man before? Specifically, last Wednesday when we were on Prospect Street, day or night?”
“Hmph.” She took the phone from my outstretched hand. “The frightened old man?”
“Yeah.”
“Nope. Never seen him.” She didn’t hand the phone back right away. “This is in La Valencia, isn’t it? La Sala.”
“Yep.”
“Why does the old man look so scared? What did you do to him?”
“He was wearing Dove deodorant. I thought he was peeking over my shoulder.” No further explanation needed.
“Oh, that again. The Dove Stalker.” She chuckled. “And you thought is was this poor old guy? Everyone in the bar is staring at you. Way to stay undercover.”
“You’re sure about the old guy in the photo?”
“One hundred percent.”
What I expected to hear, but neither good nor bad news. It didn’t confirm or deny that we’d been followed. Just that it hadn’t been the old man.
I reached out my hand for my phone.
“Hold on a second.”
“What?”
“I don’t know who the old man is, but I do recognize someone else. Our friend from the ride in the Maybach. The man you fingered as Keenan Powell.”
“What?”
“He’s sitting in the back of the room by the window. I enlarged the shot to make sure. That’s him. Looks like he’s with someone else, but they’re blocked by another table of diners. Can’t tell if he’s with a man or a woman.”
“What’s Powell doing?”
“Looking at you. Most people in the photo are. You must have made quite a scene.”
“Not quite a scene, just a normal scene. Here.”
I stuck out my hand and Moira put the phone in it. I took off my sunglasses and stuck the phone up to my face, almost against my nose. All I could see was light with a dark human outline in the upper edge. I’d acted on instinct and then willed myself to see the features of Keenan Powell. Folly, of course.
“You can see?” Her voice broke high.
“Not really.” I pulled the phone away from my face. “But I am getting some vision back.”
“That’s great!” Elation in her voice. “How long has this been going on?”
“For a couple weeks. It gets better every day, but I still only see outlines and shapes. I don’t know if I’ll ever get enough back to be able to walk without a cane or recognize people I know.”
“I thought something was going on when we were in the car waiting for Shay to get off work that night.” She sat back down next to me on the couch. “I watched you looking out the window without your sunglasses.”
“I’m trying not to get too optimistic about it until I can actually really see things. Let’s keep it between us.”
“Must be hard for you to tamp down all your natural optimism.”
“It is, but I’ve been taking my cues from you.”
“I’m really happy about your eyesight, but I can’t get involved in one of your crusades right now. I’m beat up. I have to recover and reevaluate. The one thing I feared came true. I couldn’t save that girl.”
“You’re right. There was nothing you could do to save her.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“But it’s the truth and I’m going to prove it.”
“Are you still working for Ellis Fenton? I saw you on TV with him again after the arraignment.”
“I am a symbol of heroic sacrifice who stands up for another heroic sacrificer. That’s my gig. I’m even making hourly doing it.”
“But that’s not all you’re doing.” Gotcha voice. “You’re working something on your own.”
“Fenton has a plan and a timeline on how to handle things.”
“But you have one of your own, don’t you?”
“My timeline’s just shorter.” I turned toward Moira. Even her blurred outline was petite. “Kris Collins and her boyfriend saw Shay with Keenan Powell having dinner at Nine-Ten a month ago. A couple weeks before Turk followed her to La Valencia and got suspicious.”
“That doesn’t change a
nything. Actually, it makes it even more likely that Shay and Powell were having an affair.”
“Kris and her boyfriend didn’t get a romantic vibe between Shay and Powell and you didn’t either the night we followed them by the beach.”
“That doesn’t matter. It’s what Turk thought that matters, and he thought Shay was cheating on him.”
“It only matters what Turk thought if he killed her. If he didn’t, then everything else matters.” I told her about Shay’s angry discussion with Powell at dinner and about her first lying to Kris about where she was and then telling her that she met a friend of her father’s.
“Like I already told you. None of this changes anything.” She stood up. “I’m not going out on that limb with you. Not on this one. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
“Heroic symbols don’t have to be careful.” I got up and used my white cane to find my way outside, back into the world.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
I LET MIDNIGHT out to the backyard and went up to my office after I Ubered home. The only thing I learned from my trip to La Sala with Elk Fenton and at Moira’s afterward was that the Dove-smelling old man I scared the crap out of wasn’t the person who’d followed Moira and me last week. And I was down to fifty-fifty that someone had really followed us at all.
My increasing doubt about being followed hadn’t eroded my confidence that Turk was innocent. Even if the “facts” pointing to his guilt were as strong as the ones pointing to my not being followed. There was work to do. A single thread to pull.
I commanded my laptop to search Keenan Powell, San Diego. Google didn’t have anything different from the pay investigative websites I checked last week. The mechanical voice read me info I already knew. Keenan Powell, lawyer, partner, COO and General Counsel for Clean Slate Capital, licensed to practice law in New York, California, Nevada, and Idaho; University of Idaho Law School graduate; Boise State undergrad.
Idaho. Something clicked in my mind. The information Moira gave me about Shay Sommers the day we met Turk. She’d been born in Bellevue. My mind registered the state of Washington at the time, but now it was trying to convince me I’d heard Bellevue, Idaho. I didn’t even know if there was a Bellevue in Idaho. According to my Google search, there was. Barely. Less than 3,000 people lived there. The nearest “big city” was Twin Falls, sixty-five miles away.
Was Shay from Idaho and not Washington? The same state where Keenan Powell had gone to college and law school? Kris said Shay told her she’d met with a friend of her father’s when she was with Keenan Powell at Nine-Ten. An Idaho connection?
I searched the University of Idaho where Powell went to law school and found out it was in Moscow. Idaho, not Russia. Over 400 miles from tiny Bellevue. A long haul. Next, I found that Boise, where he was an undergrad, was 135 miles from Bellevue. Closer, but still a hike.
I dug deeper on Keenan Powell and found something that I’d glossed over on the first go-around. That he went to the College of Southern Idaho in Twin Falls for a year before he went to Boise State. Twin Falls. Just 65 miles from Bellevue, Idaho.
I called Moira. I needed her intellect and abilities on Turk’s side. My side. My needs.
“I hope you’re calling to tell me you’ve quit Muldoon’s defense team and are going to write that autobiography Leah told me about.”
Just like old times.
“Not yet. Did you tell me that Shay Sommers was born in Bellevue, Idaho, not Bellevue, Washington?”
“Another Rick Cahill It Will Only Take a Minute request.” I could hear the head shake in her voice. “That’s what I remember, but let me check the file to be sure.”
“Thanks.”
“Shut up.”
The clunk of the phone set down on a table. Somewhere in between a set and a slam. I hoped it had a protective case.
“June Elizabeth Sommers of Bellevue, Idaho, gave birth to Shay on April 16, 1991, at the St. Lakes Wood River Medical Center. Father listed as Colton Riley Benson.”
“Thanks. That puts a different spin on things.”
“Okay. Well, good luck. Good—”
“Kris Collins said Shay told her she met a friend of her father’s at Nine-Ten the night Kris saw her there with Keenan Powell.”
“I know. You already told me that. I have to go.”
“Wait. Hear me out. Keenan Powell—
“You already used up your Rick Cahill It Will Only Take a Minute request.”
“Well, give me another one.” Now I was irritated. “Powell is from Idaho. He went to the College of Southern Idaho for a year, then to Boise State as an undergrad, and got his law degree at the University of Idaho.”
“Idaho is a large state.”
“The College of Southern Idaho is in Twin Falls, which is only sixty-five miles from Bellevue. You can look it up.”
“I already told you, I’m not joining you on this ride.”
“Keenan Powell and Idaho are the keys to Shay’s death.”
“You’re way out on a limb again, and I’m not climbing out there with you.” A release of air and then a shift of the phone like she stood up. “Sixty-five miles is not just around the corner. That’s about the same distance from San Diego to Dana Point. Do you have friends you hang out with in Dana Point?”
“I don’t have many friends anywhere.”
“Don’t be a jerk. You get my point.”
“Idaho is largely rural. Twin Falls is probably the nearest place to Bellevue that has a mall or a Walmart. People from Bellevue probably drive there a couple times a month to stock up on supplies.”
“Shay would have been four or five when Powell went to the college in Twin Falls. Are you saying she met him hanging out at the mall after she rode her tricycle sixty-five miles from Bellevue? This is a coincidence, not a clue. You’re starting to get all spun up like you do before you do something stupid.” Her own voice was spun up. “Tell Ellis Fenton about your theory and let him run with it. Stay on the sidelines. At least until you can see for real. And I pray that when that day comes, your vision will be coupled with wisdom. Please don’t do anything stupid. Goodbye, Rick.”
She hung up. Moira may have been right about talking to Elk, but she was wrong about the rest. Keenan Powell and Idaho were the keys to finding the truth about Shay Sommers’ death.
Unless I was wrong and everyone else was right.
And Turk really killed her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
I CALLED ELK Fenton and told him about Keenan Powell and the Idaho connection.
“That’s an interesting theory.” The tone of his voice put a lie to his words. “But right now we’re working on Turk’s alibi timeline. Once we get that nailed down, we’ll start working on alternative murder suspects.”
“Since I’m not a part of the timeline investigation, I’ll continue digging into Keenan Powell and Idaho.”
“Hmm.” A disconcerting pause. “That could be helpful. However, I’d prefer that you didn’t contact anyone directly. I want my investigator to be the first person to talk to any potential witnesses. We don’t want to come across as a split team.”
Or, I was suddenly a liability who couldn’t be trusted to talk to potential witnesses.
“I think I’d be coming across as a member of a single team.” I cinched down the lid on my temper. “I could save Coyote some time by getting preliminary information that he could prioritize however he wanted to.”
“Rick.” Solemn voice. “You haven’t worked a case in almost a year. Of course, that’s not your fault. However, it does make you out of practice for a murder defense. I’m sure, given the time, if you decide you want to continue as a private investigator that you can be an effective one once again.”
Effective. Hardly a ringing endorsement.
“This is about my misunderstanding with the old guy at La Sala, isn’t it?”
“We really need everyone doing what they do best to keep Turk from going to prison. And, right now, you being a visible support
er of Turk is how you can best help him.”
“A symbol.” I snapped off the words.
“That’s not how I see you.” Talking to a child again. “But I really have to return to getting my associates back up to speed on the case before I fly out of town. I’ll call you when I get back home on Monday night and we can discuss how to handle the press at the early disposition conference on Tuesday. Okay?”
“Roger.” I hung up.
Whatever confidence Elk had in me as an investigator, and rational human being, evaporated when he came out of the bathroom at La Sala and saw me about to pounce on an old man whose only sin was rolling on Dove deodorant that morning.
That didn’t mean I was going to sit still and wait for my next iconic appearance as a sidekick in front of the press.
I got online and made an appointment to visit Turk at the Central County Jail downtown tomorrow at 1:00 p.m. I didn’t bother to get Fenton’s consent. Firstly, because Turk wasn’t yet a potential witness in his own defense. And more firstly, because I didn’t want Fenton to tell me not to and have to defy him.
I just hoped Turk had forgiven me for stopping him from fleeing the police and would agree to see me. Or, agree to see me even if he was still mad. I needed to find out how much Turk knew about Shay’s childhood in Idaho.
I walked Midnight later that evening, sans my sunglasses. Streetlights gave off enough illumination that I could follow Midnight’s head at my side, slightly ahead of my left knee. After twenty-five steps, I folded up my cane and stuck it in the back pocket of my jeans. Above the auras of the streetlights, I could make out the blurred three-quarter moon. I felt freer than I had since my painkiller-induced altered reality dreams in Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital nine months ago.
The rectangle forms of houses and parked cars slid shadows across the sidewalk, but I kept following Midnight’s head and listened to the happy tinkle of his license tapping against his metal name tag with each stride. He stopped when we got to the end of the block where it T-boned into Moraga Ave. Our normal routine was to go back the way we came and walk around the horseshoe cul-de-sac. Tonight, I wanted to push the boundaries.