To Bring My Shadow

by Matt Phillips

  TO BRING MY SHADOW

  Matt Phillips

  PRAISE FOR TO BRING MY SHADOW

  “Phillips gets better with each book, using crime as a vehicle to penetrate the depths of the human soul…” —Travis Richardson, Derringer winner and author of Bloodshot & Bruised

  “An outstanding hardboiled police thriller full of intrigue, corruption, murder, existential dilemmas, and more. One of the best and most prolific contemporary authors working—make room on your bookshelf for Frank Pinson and Slade Ryerson.” —Andrew Davie, author of Pavement and Ouroboros

  “In To Bring My Shadow, Phillips treats readers to the down-and-dirtiest whodunnit they’ll ever read. Gritty, post-modern, and self-aware, this detective novel introduces readers to Frank Pinson and Slade Ryerson (the suave Watson to Frank Pinson’s slovenly, self-destructive Holmes). Let’s be clear: this ain’t no tea-cozy and hardboiled doesn’t quite cut it, either. Some of the central tropes are Tarantinoesque and Phillips’ dialog and eye for detail bring to mind The Wire. But this is something else—something unclean, cheeky and fun. Have a go.” —Steve Lambert, author of Philisteens

  “Relentless, gritty, and heart-pounding…To Bring My Shadow reads like a fast-paced novelization of a banger episode of ‘The First 48.’ An authentic portrayal of San Diego, fantastic characterization, and Phillips’ sharp-as-a-knife writing skill make this a must-read.” —Curtis Ippolito, author of Burying The Newspaper Man

  Copyright © 2021 by Matt Phillips

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by Math Bird

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  To Bring My Shadow

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by the Author

  Preview from Trigger Switch by Bryon Quertermous

  Preview from Radicals by Nik Korpon

  Preview from Sangre Road by David Tromblay

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  I was drunk the night we caught the Castaneda case. Not too drunk, okay, but blitzed enough to ask Slade if he wanted to do the driving. When the call came in, I was staring at a hole in my bathroom floor. In one hand, I held a glass of mezcal and, in the other hand, a rusted monkey wrench. The dim light from the bathroom’s lone bulb gave everything a vague yellowish tint, like I was seeing the world from a different dimension.

  But why the hole in the floor?

  In the hall, wrapped in cellophane and cardboard, I had a new toilet to install, an American Standard. Picked it up from the hardware store after work. The old shitter, with its rubbed-off brand name and chipped porcelain, sat to one side, next to the tub. It was still dirty from six months of my morning routine.

  Uncleaned. Tarnished.

  I’ll admit it: When Miranda died, I let our little house go to absolute hell. At forty-nine years old, I was a lazy housekeeper, a mal-practicing Catholic, and a widower with only my own denial keeping me from being officially declared a drunk.

  Don’t worry—the detective knows he’s a cliché.

  It’s funny what death can do to somebody. It doesn’t matter what side you’re on—you could be a cop or a crook, but death will sink her teeth into you like a ragged mutt on a Tijuana street.

  My wife was dead. And I was depressed.

  Maybe I was a lazy housekeeper, but I worked my ass off at the old day job. And had been working my ass off for more than twenty years. My shitter was filthy—so what?

  My phone chirped again. I dropped the monkey wrench—it clanged like hell—and pulled my cell from my pleated slacks. Yes, unwashed and un-ironed since Miranda got put in the ground. Best I could tell, I’d been through my entire wardrobe six times since her funeral. Surprising how often you can wear a shirt if you’re careful with the salsa in your tacos. Or, in my case, if you ate less and less. I knew the call was from Slade, so I didn’t bother with formality. “Yeah?”

  “Frank, it’s me.” Slade’s voice came across the line like cotton through a straw. Man was probably half asleep, calling from the landline he insisted on keeping. Slade slept like an alligator—he didn’t need Mexican medicine. Not like I did.

  “What’s going on, Slade? We catch a body?”

  “Under the bay bridge. Street cop said to bring a cigar or two.”

  “Rotten meat, huh?” I stared into the black hole in my bathroom floor.

  Slade cleared his throat and said, “I get the impression it’ll kill your hard-on, Frank.”

  I grunted, choked down some mezcal. The hole gaped at me, black as a crow’s eye. “You get any info from the guy, about the scene or whatever?”

  “You mean a pithy summation of the young man’s police work?”

  “Like that, yes.” Slade had his way with the dictionary, or thesaurus. He had some college.

  Slade took a long breath, chirped his lips, and said, “Sounds like we got a dead guy found his way into an oil drum.”

  “Now,” I said, “how in the hell did that happen? What was he doing in there, trying to find a heads-up penny?”

  “Could be it,” Slade said. “I guess I wonder why he cut off his own fingers with bolt-cutters though. Kind of hard to pick up pennies when you don’t have fingertips. You think maybe he cut off his dick so he didn’t have to piss in the barrel?”

  “Jesus H. They cut off the guy’s junk?”

  “What I heard from the street cop. Heard, too—they’re still trying to find it.”

  “What?”

  “The guy’s Johnson.” Slade chuckled. He was shaking off his slumber.

  I sighed from the swell of my belly up through my throat. The last thing I wanted was a whodunit drug murder down in the barrio. Another swim in the deep end for me and Slade, that’s what it sounded like. “Maybe we call the guy a homicide, but file a missing person’s report for the junk.”

  Slade gasped. I could hear him working that one through, sitting there in his jammies. “But the guy is there. And the junk isn’t another person, is it? I mean, shit, we got the guy. I never heard of a search for a dude’s junk. Not that I can remember.”

  “My junk,” I said, “ain’t never had trouble being found.” I moved toward the black hole, unzipped my pants. I gulped the last of my mezcal, set the glass on the toothpaste-spotted vanity. Miranda wanted me to replace that, too. And the old porcelain tub. And the Mexican tile in the kitchen. “You mind driving tonight, Skinny? I loosened a few screws when I got home.”

  “I’ll be over there in about ten minutes. Hey, you pick up that new shitter?”

  “I’m staring at a black hole in my bathroom floor.”

  “Another project that’ll have to wait.”

  I said, “Like making the world a better place, huh?”

  “That’s a job that’ll never finish.”

  I wedged the phone bet
ween my shoulder and cheek, whipped out my junk and pissed straight down the throat of the black hole. “Say, Skinny, you ever sit around and wonder…Are we pissing this life down the fucking drain?”

  Slade hung up without responding.

  Chapter 2

  Slade “Skinny” Ryerson had a criminal justice degree from an HBCU back east. Tiny college with a long name I never remembered. Man came out west for his juris doctorate, but along the way he got snagged for police work, found himself patting crooks on the back with a nightstick. Slade was too smart to be a cop—first thing he knew, an old school commander made him take the detective examination. Four years in and Slade Ryerson moved his badge from over his heart to a chain dangling around his neck. Became a stone-cold murder police.

  Like me. A homicide detective.

  Slade pretended—though he didn’t admit it—that he was a movie star cop. You know the type: Dude wore a black leather jacket, faded at the elbows. Had himself a nice set of expensive shades, a spare pistol—one of those .25s the movie star girls carry in their purses—tucked slim and sweet in an ankle holster. Left leg, always. The man sauntered like Denzel Washington, eye-fucked gangbangers while I smoked cigars and thought about my pension. Slade was fifteen years my junior and had a lot to learn about the human capacity for cruelty, murder and death. He smiled too damn much.

  But when it came to being a cop, I was the immature one.

  On this August night—clear, but with a hot breeze—Slade slid the black department-issued Ford Focus (fucking budget cuts) to the curb outside my house. This was what passed for undercover in our city. Fix Or Repair Daily, just like my soggy melon of a brain. Through the tinted passenger window, I made out Slade’s widow’s peak shining like a vampire fang. Slade never went anywhere without his hair slicked back, those precious black locks coated in Murray’s-brand pomade. Did I mention Slade was a ladies’ man?

  I opened the door and got in, ignored the seat belt. “Thanks for the ride, partner.”

  “You sober enough for this?” Slade slid his dark eyes over my face. I could feel his brain firing judgment down into his throat, but he knew what I’d been through. He knew how it went down with Miranda, my son and daughter, the life insurance policy. And my own sweet, precious little detective’s heart. Slade knew about the burn running through me, the fire, and he kept his righteous remarks to himself. That’s why me and Slade got along, how we did the job so damn well. “If you’re not sober,” Slade said, “we can stop for coffee and some eggs. Trust me, the dead don’t hurry, if you know what I mean.”

  I cleared my throat and said, “I could use a snort of tequila. Hit that dive bar down off––”

  “Coffee, Frank. We got a case to work.” Slade shifted into drive and the compact car accelerated, a rattle coming from somewhere under the dented hood.

  Slade drank too. Don’t think he didn’t. But Slade knew when to stop. Hell, he had a knack for how to stop. Not me. I’d put one drink down the gullet and I’d already have the second one ordered. The third would be waiting for me by the time I started the second. That way my whole life. If you asked me to be honest, I’d say it hurt me not to drink. It hurt me to be healthy. Sure, I was killing my body. But I was keeping myself alive.

  “Shit,” I said. “Coffee will have to do then.”

  Slade turned east on Market, drove for a few blocks and pulled into an empty parking lot. I lurched into a rundown McDonald’s for some cheap coffee. We lived in a coffee city, whatever that is, but most cops wear their taste buds through after a year or two. It’s the midnight shift that does it, all that 7-Eleven coffee and the bitter taste of human deviance. You’re a cop for a few years and the whole world starts to taste like hell. It’s pitiful when you say it like that, but here’s something to remember: a lot of us like that taste.

  When I got back to the car, Slade’s cell was pressed to his ear and his brow was crushed down toward his jagged nose. He grunted once, whistled a high note.

  “What is it?” I said, handing him a coffee.

  He took the coffee with one hand, waved me off with the other. “What do I think it means? Hell if I know. I’ll run it by Frank, see what he says. I guess it could be a cartel thing. Or, shit, maybe he upset a pretty little lady somewhere. Sounds like something a lady—”

  A voice cut him off, droned on for a minute.

  “I’m not saying a lady did the guy,” Slade said. “Only that it could have been—”

  Slade slumped back in his seat while the voice interjected. He sipped from his coffee while the lecture burned across the line. After a minute or two, Slade pressed the red end call button on his cell, tossed it into one of the cupholders in the center console.

  “Crime techs are on scene, huh?” I smirked at my coffee, sipped. There it is, I thought, that hellish bitter taste. “Those fuckers already telling us how to do our job?”

  Slade said, “They found the guy’s junk.”

  “You mean his Johnson?”

  “Yes, Frank.”

  “And?”

  Slade sighed, got that world-weary look on his face: fucking eyebrows drawn down into a V, his chin all wrinkled like a baby on the verge of crying. “And, they found it in a pickle jar, floating beneath the bridge. The jar was half-full with piss.”

  A yellowish tint, I thought. My turn to whistle. “Kudos to the techs,” I said. “Good find, man: some guy’s Johnson bobbing out there in the bay like a message in a bottle. Like searching for a needle in a…well, you get my meaning. You think it’s the guy’s piss?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Can’t rule it out,” I said. “Take a wee-wee and chop off your weener—can’t say I ain’t seen worse.”

  “Nope, sure can’t.” Slade started the car, slid us into the empty street. He made an illegal U-turn and headed west, toward the sea.

  Ahead, on the horizon, I made out the flared hump of the Coronado Bay Bridge cutting through the sea mist, yellow-orange lights spanning its length. The bridge ran for a mile across the open bay, landed on Coronado Island. Different jurisdiction over there—the island had its own PD.

  I wondered aloud: “They found the Johnson on our side of the bay?”

  Slade grunted. “You got it.”

  “No jurisdiction issues then,” I said.

  “It’s all ours, Frank. You and me and the weener makes three.” Slade loosed the half-hearted laugh of a tired detective. Hollow. Less than melodic.

  “The case of the missing weener,” I said. “How sweet is that?”

  Ahead, in the soft glow of the midnight horizon, the bridge rose above us like an inverted smile.

  Chapter 3

  We stood beneath the bridge, right where it took flight over the bay and curved toward the distant shape of Coronado Island. Beside us, a barrier of jetty rocks stretched down into the black, lapping water. I imagined an audience of spotted bay bass watching, their fine-toothed mouths opening and closing like giant pupils. The hot wind somehow blew a chill through me. I took notice of the shipyard to the south, a smattering of warehouses to the north. We were standing in a kind of no-man’s-land, an access point to the bay that was likely unregulated. The city was responsible for it, but I doubted any maintenance team had been here in the last couple years. Everything was bathed in yellow from the security lights that lined the chain-link around the shipyard. I saw a security guard lingering beside the fence, one hand dangling on the fence, the other waving a flashlight in aimless boredom. I said, “Might have seen something.”

  Slade was sketching in his notebook. He eyeballed the security guard and squinted. “Could be. Or maybe just a looky-loo on the midnight shift. You know how it is.”

  A crime scene tech who appeared too young to grow a beard approached in his yellow windbreaker. “Detective Pinson, Ryerson. We got a homicide here—brutal, as you might imagine—and a detached, eh, penis along with some missing fingertips and—”

  “Slow it down for me, pal.” I
said. “I’m an old motherfucker and I need to write this shit down, okay?” The tech nodded, watched my callused hand as I swept half a pencil across a tiny notebook.

  He said, “The way those fingers came off, through and through, bone flat, I can guess it’s something sharp. But it looks like a hand tool from the way the skin and tendons tore at the bottom. I can see––”

  “What are you, the fucking coroner?”

  The kid frowned, adjusted the flapping collar on his lab coat. “You know, you dicks are all the same. Too fucking worried about jokes to––”

  “Keep your complaints to yourself. Nobody gives two fat shits. Let me do the thinking.”

  The tech shrugged, sighed. “Fine. So, the guy is folded up, like a doll, and he’s shoved into the oil drum. I mean, shit...”

  “You got all the shit flagged, like they taught you over at City College?”

  “Fuck you, man.” The kid stomped off, climbed inside his panel van. A small stencil on the passenger door said, Crime Scene Investigations.

  Slade shook his head beside me. “I know an ambassador job you could put in for.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Fucking North Korea, Frank. Give the kid a break. You bastard...Are you still drunk?”

  “What makes you ask me that? I wasn’t drunk in the first place.”

  “The fuck you weren’t.”

  I shrugged.

  “Fuck me,” Slade said. “Another body and another fucking midnight.”

  “That’s the gist,” I said. “You done set the scene.” I shoved my notepad into a shirt pocket. Most cases, I let Slade handle the documentation––he was good at that kind of thing. And, at the time, this case was no different.