by Coyle, Matt;
I took the list of Jim Colton’s friends Brianne had given me earlier that day out of my pocket and scrolled through her phone taking pictures of the addresses that matched the names. Plus one more. Cash Colton’s address up at UCLA. Brianne was busy acknowledging waves from her fans and didn’t seem to notice. I quickly found her cell phone photos and found numerous pictures of a scowling teen with brown hair and blue eyes. Cash Colton. His father’s hair and his mother’s eyes. I took a picture of one of the photos, shut off the screen on Brianne’s phone, and slid it to her across the table.
“Thanks,” I said. “A couple questions and then I’ll leave you to your fans.”
“Okay.” She looked away from the crowd and smiled at me.
“Did Jim rock climb or go mountaineering?”
“I don’t think so.” Pinched eyebrows. “Why?”
“The rope he was hang . . . the rope is the kind used by climbers.”
“In all the years I knew him, he never talked about climbing. He may have had to do some on his missions, but he never mentioned it.”
“And you told me you’d never seen the rope before, right?”
“Yes.”
“Was there more of the rope in the garage or just the one used in his death?”
“Just the one rope. Why?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
The band’s guitar player walked up behind Brianne. Clean-cut for a musician and granite good looks. He smiled at me and put his hand on Brianne’s shoulder. “Bri, it’s time to get started again.”
Brianne lifted her hand and squeezed the guitar player’s. The movement almost involuntary, like a reflex. Something someone in a relationship would do. A romantic relationship. She caught me watching and dropped her hand.
“Be right there, Seth.” Brianne looked at me and smiled. Dazzling, but tight around the mouth.
I smiled back and held onto the new piece of information, not sure what to do with it yet.
“You going to stick around or go home now that you got what you needed?”
I wasn’t sure if I’d gotten what I’d needed, but I got more than I expected. “I’m going to stick around and listen to some country.”
“See you in forty-five.” Brianne stood up and took the stage to excited applause from the crowd.
The band started playing and Brianne made every man in the room wish he were a cowboy. I wondered how I’d look in a Stetson. I stuck around for the second set, watching Brianne’s interplay with the guitar player. What I’d taken for shared musical kinship in the first set now took on deeper meaning. Brianne went back to back with all the band members during their solos, but her contact with the guitar player now hinted of intimacy.
How long had she been seeing him and did the relationship play any role in Jim Colton’s death?
While Brianne performed onstage and commanded the attention of the entire crowd, the truth whispered to me, beckoning.
CHAPTER SEVEN
UCLA, THE UNIVERSITY of California at Los Angeles, is in the middle of some of the choicest zip codes in California, if not the country. A couple of wrong turns could put you on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. Exiting there, you could spend the rest of your day counting Rolls-Royces in Brentwood, to the west, or Bel Air, to the north.
Royce Hall, not related to the Rolls, is the iconic Lombard Romanesque brick building with twin towers and high arches that anchor the UCLA campus. Atop the mesa above mini grassy rolling hills, it was my favorite building while on campus as a scholarshipped jock almost twenty years earlier. Before I blew out my knee and transferred to UC Santa Barbara to be near the woman who became my wife.
I staked out Royce Hall’s main entrance and waited for Cash Colton to exit after attending a lecture on the pedagogical disciplines of early Peruvian cave dwellers. I checked the picture I snapped on my phone last night against the students leaving Royce Hall. Fifty or so students in, I spotted Cash sleepwalking down the entry steps. An early morning class of any kind for college-age students was cause for somnambulism. Toss in cave dwelling and you had Zombie U.
“Cash. Hi.” I plopped a friendly hand onto his shoulder when he hit the cement walkway. “I’m a friend of your mom’s and just need to talk to you for a minute.”
Cash stopped dead stride and eyeballed me. Tall like his mom and wide through the shoulders like his dad, he looked like a young movie star. I could tell, right off, that he hadn’t bought the “mom’s friend” ploy.
“I’ve got to get to my next class.” He shook off my hand and started walking north.
A lie unless it took him an hour and a quarter to get there. I’d found his class schedule online. A half-truth by me and a lie by him. I’d call it even.
“This will only take a couple minutes.” I matched his stride. “It’s about your dad.”
“You’re not a friend of my mom’s.” He stopped and faced me. Challenging. “You’re the private detective she hired.”
“Yes, I am.” After listening to Brianne sing and talking to her between sets, I felt I’d moved from hired hand to at least acquaintance, but no need for a semantics argument.
“What are you doing here?” Hard scowl. “She told me I had to talk to you when I went home this weekend.”
“Change of plans. Give me five minutes, and we’ll get it out of the way now so you can do whatever you want with your weekend.” Plus, he’d be free to answer questions without his mother hovering over his shoulder.
“My mom know you’re here?”
The kid could think on his feet, freshly awakened from zombie sleep or not.
“I don’t know.” Time to challenge back. “Do you need her to be here or can you handle it yourself ?”
He squinted his eyes down on me like his mom had yesterday when she’d tried to figure me out. Only, I don’t think she’d contemplated punching me like I thought her son might. I slid my right foot back half a stride and loosened my shoulders just in case.
“Alright, dude.” He tossed up his hands. “You got five minutes.”
I led him over to a concrete bench, and we sat down as students passed by in all directions.
“I know this is difficult, but please walk me through the day you found your father.”
“What do you want to know, man?” His voice rose. “I came home at midnight and found my dad hanging in the garage.”
Anger. Maybe to hide the tears.
“When did you last see your dad alive?”
“Why don’t you just read the police report?” Lips snarled, chest and chin out.
“I did. But I want to hear it from you. Five minutes and we’re done. When did you last see your dad alive?”
“About five o’clock that night.” Cash looked down at the ground. The anger evaporated from his voice leaving sadness behind. “Right before I went to the last rager of the summer.”
“Did he seem depressed?”
“Yeah. He was depressed. He’d been depressed since my mom moved out.”
I thought of Brianne and the guitar player’s hand on her shoulder. Too delicate to broach now, if ever.
“Did he ever talk to you about the separation or his depression?”
“If he did, I wouldn’t tell some asshole like you.”
Back on familiar ground.
“Did your dad ever go rock climbing?”
“Rock climbing?” He jerked his head back. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Humor me. Four minutes to go.”
“My dad didn’t like heights. Why the hell would he go rock climbing?”
Because the rope around Jim Colton’s neck was the kind climbers use.
“Your dad was a Navy SEAL. I’m sure he jumped out of airplanes and repelled down cliffs. How could he be afraid of heights?”
“I don’t know, dude, but he was.” A scowl, but he went on. “We were in one of those outside elevators in San Francisco one time, and he couldn’t look down. He never told his SEAL buddies, but he didn’t like heights.”
Then why the rock climbing rope? He would have had to have driven to a climbing specialty store to buy it instead of just going to a Home Depot for a regular rope. More expensive, too.
“Had you ever seen, ah, the rope that was . . . had you ever seen the rope before?”
“No.”
The image of his father’s lifeless body hanging from the rafters must have run through Cash’s head. It ran through mine. But still no tears. A gruff façade.
“Did anything seem unusual or stick out to you in the garage? Anything out of place?”
“Yeah, my dad was hanging from the rafters, asshole.” He stood up like he’d won the argument and our talk was over.
“Point taken. Now sit back down.” I let some command presence from my days as a street cop slip into my voice. “We’re not done yet.”
Cash remained standing just long enough to convince himself that he was still a tough guy before he sat down. The kid was stuck with an image imprinted in his brain that he’d never be able to erase and a loss he’d never be able to fill. I could cut him some slack, but I doubt he’d appreciate it or that it would get me any closer to the truth.
“Your mom is paying me to investigate your father’s death. She already paid some thief five grand to investigate, and all he did was count the money. I know you probably think she can just pull hundred-dollar bills off a money tree in the backyard, but it doesn’t work that way. She’s getting her money’s worth this time. Anything strange or out of place in the garage?”
“No.”
“Do you think your dad killed himself ?”
“Yes.” A slight tremble in the lips. Cash stared down at the ground. “He was hanging there so still. I tried to push him up so his weight wouldn’t be on the rope, but I knew he was already . . .”
My dad went to his sister’s to die of cirrhosis of the liver. I didn’t even have to watch him turn yellow and waste away, much less find his body at the end. I’d seen my wife on the cold steel of a coroner’s table. I knew the pain of seeing the body of a loved one hollowed out in death. But I’d had time to prepare myself. Cash Colton hadn’t had that remove. I couldn’t imagine what it felt like to find your dad hanging at the end of a rope.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that, Cash.” I now wished I hadn’t gone so hard at him. I gently patted him on the back, but he slid down the bench out of my reach. “Why do you think he did it?”
“’Cause my mom is a whore and broke his heart.” Now the sadness escaped, and his eyes filled with tears. He turned away hoping to hide what he couldn’t control.
“Why do you say that?” The guitar player?
“Fuck you, man.” Tears in his voice now, but he still wouldn’t look at me. “This is none of your fucking business.”
“Is that why your mom moved out, Cash? Who did your dad think she was fooling around with?”
“Fucking Seth Macklin.”
Seth, the guitar player.
“The only reason she’s trying to have Dad’s death made into a murder is for two million in insurance money.” He stood up and glared down at me. “Ask her about that, asshole. That’s her money tree.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
MY CELL PHONE rang before I even made it out of the UCLA parking garage. I checked the screen. Brianne Colton. That didn’t take long. I answered the call.
“I thought you were going to talk to Cash down here this weekend.” Voice off the leash and a little higher than when I’d talked to her last night.
“I didn’t want to wait that long.”
“It would have been nice of you to let me know.” A creeping edge squared off her words now.
“I’m not going to be able to alert you to every move I make before I make it, Brianne.” I eased my Mustang onto Sunset Boulevard. “I asked you to trust me last night, remember?”
“Yes, and I want to trust you, Rick.” Still some serration. “But my son went through an incredibly traumatic experience. He’s still recovering. I don’t appreciate your ambushing him and undoing all the therapy he’s been through.”
She had a point, but it was too late now. “Trust goes both ways, Brianne.”
“What do you mean by that?” The catch in her voice told me she had an inkling that I knew she’d been holding back information from me.
“You get a check from the life insurance company for Jim’s death yet?”
Brief silence. “No.”
“Is that because the suicide clause kicked in? Jim had had the policy for less than two years?”
A longer silence this time. “Yes.”
“Don’t you think that might be pertinent information for me to know?”
“Would you have taken the case if I’d told you?”
“I don’t know. But it’s not about that. It’s about trust and the truth. You told me last night you wouldn’t lie to me. Well, I consider holding back information lying.”
“Okay, Rick. You’ve made your point.” Soft, like I’d hurt her feelings.
“Two million dollars would go a long way toward resurrecting a promising singing career.” I exited off Sunset Boulevard onto the 405 freeway.
“The money would be to put Cash through college and law school.”
“But you’re the sole beneficiary, right?”
“Yes, but what kind of a mother do you think I am?”
Wasn’t sure what kind of mother, but I had an idea about what kind of wife.
“Tell me about the guitar player, Seth Macklin.”
“What do you want to know?” A quick cadence.
“Whether you started sleeping with him before or after you moved out of the house you shared with your husband. And son.”
“You’re not a very nice man.” Sadness over anger. “I moved out before anything happened between Seth and me.”
“How long?”
“A week.”
That didn’t take long. “So Jim didn’t have any delusions about the two of you getting back together.”
“No.” A sniffle. “Anything else you’d like to know, Rick? I don’t want you to accuse me of lying again for holding back some personal and private information.”
“No. Sorry.”
“No you’re not.” She hung up.
I was sorry. I could have kept my peeve to myself and just asked Brianne about the insurance and let the affair lie. It would have been the professional and smart thing to do. I told myself I’d spoken up because of my unrelenting quest for the truth. But there were other ways of finding the truth. I’d felt a connection to Brianne that had been strengthened by seeing her perform. Deep down, I feared that learning the truth about her had knocked her off the pedestal I’d erected.
An hour later I was on Interstate 5, California’s cement desert. Populated by never-ending lanes of hot rubber and steel. All in a hurry to get somewhere else at the speed of a glacier. There are hundreds of beautiful places in California, the 5 takes you to all the ones that aren’t.
Except for San Diego at the tail end. Los Angeles and San Diego really aren’t that different. San Diego is just more condensed and squeezes out most of the ugly that fills the voids between LA’s beauty spots.
I’d moved two-tenths of a mile in five minutes when my phone rang again. The screen read Odell Rollins, the last person Jim Colton called before he’d died. I’d called Rollins in the morning on my drive up to UCLA and gotten his voicemail. I answered the call on speaker.
“You left me a message about Jim Colton, Mr. Cahill. What can I do for you?” Crisp and clipped, echoing his military pedigree.
“I’m going to be in Lake Tahoe tomorrow.” A lie only if he didn’t agree to see me. “I’m hoping we can meet and have a brief chat. I’ll buy you lunch or dinner. Whichever you like.”
“What’s this regarding?”
“Jim Colton’s death.”
“Brianne hired you?” A hint of contempt. Jim must have told him about the separation and Brianne’s new boyfriend.
“Yeah.�
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“Why don’t we just take care of this over the phone. I’ve got a busy week.”
“We could, but I’d rather do it in person. We can skip the food and it will only take about thirty minutes.”
“Sorry, Mr. Cahill, I just don’t have the time.”
“You think your best friend committed suicide?” Maybe the direct approach would work.
Silence. Finally, “That’s how the police ruled it.”
“I’m not so sure they’re right. Meet me tomorrow and we can talk about it.”
More silence. Better than a reflex “no.”
“Meet me at the Grand Lodge Casino in Incline Village at one tomorrow afternoon.”
“How will I know you?”
“Ask for the head of security.” He hung up.
CHAPTER NINE
RENO, NEVADA, PRIDES itself as being the Biggest Little City In The World. They got half of it right, but Reno does have the only commercial airport within fifty miles of Lake Tahoe. The drive to Incline Village took about forty-five minutes of steady climbing through mountain passes. The six-thousand-foot-high November air had a winter sting to it, but I kept the rental car windows at a crack to smell the pine mountain air.
Lake Tahoe is a vacation destination half the year, split between summer and winter. The mountains that hug the lake have some of the best powder for skiing in the country, and the crystal-clear water ranges from cobalt-blue at its bottomless center to turquoise in the shallows along its shoreline.
In a playground of unmatched beauty, Incline Village is where the adults with the most toys reside. The lake-level villas and mountainside chateaus aren’t residences where people live, they’re second and third vacation homes.
The Grand Lodge Casino is nestled among pine trees and bumps up against the Incline Village Country Club as part of the main building of the Hyatt Regency Hotel. The Hyatt also features cottages right on the shore of lapping Lake Tahoe. I wished I hadn’t scheduled my return flight that evening so I could stay overnight and loll in the view. Mostly, I wished I’d taken my life on a different trajectory so I could afford the price of a cottage for one night.