by Coyle, Matt;
“Moretti says he has new evidence.”
“You believe him?” I asked Rankin.
“You’re not as dim as I thought you were, Mr. Cahill.” Rankin smiled at me like I was supposed to take that as a compliment. “You think Moretti might be laying out a false narrative to put a scare into the killer and see if he panics?”
“Maybe.” I tossed the bloody towel onto Rankin’s desk. “You’d have a much better idea about new evidence than me.”
“I don’t know anything about any evidence. New or old. No way that I could.” He picked up my gun and pointed the barrel at the ceiling while resting his elbow on the desk. “Just make sure you don’t play into Moretti’s game and panic. I gave you a pass once. I won’t do it again.”
“You take care of your business, Rankin. I’ll take care of mine.” I stood up. “Now give me back my gun.”
“I trust this isn’t the same gun that you threatened me with last December and then used for something else.”
“It’s not. Give it to me.” I reached my hand across the desk and stared at Rankin. As a cop on the street ten years ago I’d shown command presence. Gun or no gun. Right now I felt naked without it. I held my bluff.
“I like you better without it, Mr. Cahill.” He flopped his wrist and let the gun barrel drop down and point at me. His finger curved around the trigger. “You’re much more reasonable and not so tough. But gun or no gun, you’re still a problem.”
“Give me the gun.” Sweat pebbled my hairline. The last man who pointed a loaded gun at me ended up dead. That didn’t make staring down the wrong end of a gun barrel any easier. Especially unarmed. I didn’t think Rankin would shoot me in his own office. Then I thought about the easy cleanup on the marble floor and wasn’t so confident.
“If we ever have the misfortune of meeting again, don’t bring a weapon or I’ll let Miranda give her pretty feet a real workout.” Rankin tilted the revolver up, disengaged the cylinder, and spun all five bullets out into his free hand. Then he set the gun down in front of me.
I picked up the gun, holstered it, and left his office.
Miranda stood next to the reception counter. She gently touched my arm as I grabbed the to-go container I’d left there. “Nothing personal.”
I stopped and turned toward her. “Maybe not to you.”
I left without saying another word.
The walk back to my car felt like a marathon at altitude. I’d left it a couple blocks away in a bank parking lot where I used to park when I managed Muldoon’s. Now, that seemed like a decade ago. The bleeding from my nose had slowed to a trickle. Still, the blood wouldn’t make way for any air to come in or out. I’d had my nose broken before and I’d had my nose not broken before. They felt about the same. A doctor could tell the difference or I could just wait a few days. I mouth breathed like a gaffed fish. The buzz continued to stream through my left ear and my head throbbed.
People stared and angled away from me on the sidewalk. I kept my head down and edged up along the passing buildings. I stashed my gun in the trunk and checked myself in the rearview mirror when I finally got back to the car. A gargoyle without the grin. My nose had swollen into a potato. Clotted blood caked my nostrils and above my upper lip. Raccoon black and blue had started to circle under my eye slits.
Repercussions. Every ill-conceived action I’d ever taken in my life had resulted in repercussions. This one was more painful than most and had taken eleven months to occur, but the debt for my beat-down of Alan Rankin had finally come due.
And there was still one more debt out there from actions I’d taken later that same night which had yet to be paid. That one would take all of me to pay back.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MIDNIGHT, SPIKED NECK hair, growled at me when I came in the front door. He realized his error and sidled up to me, tail low, swishing side to side. I couldn’t blame him. I’d barely recognized myself, either. I went into the bathroom and delicately washed the dried blood off my face. Midnight stayed tight to my side, like my disfigurement needed protection. I could have used him an hour ago.
I took an ice pack from the freezer, wrapped it in a thin dish-towel, then grabbed a bottle of Bushmills Irish whiskey and went into the living room and lay down on the sofa. Doggie bag dinner could wait. The chill of the ice pack bit through the dishtowel and doubled the pain in my nose. Gradually, the ice and the whiskey numbed down the pain.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I considered letting it go to voicemail, but thought better of it. Could be a new client. I’d need one soon. Brianne’s name showed on the screen. I answered.
“Rick?” She seemed unsure. “You sound horrible. Did you catch a cold or something since you left my house today?”
“Or something.”
“What does that mean?” Her voice competed with road noise through the phone. She must have been driving.
My problems were mine. I’d caused most of them and could live with that. I didn’t need anyone to take them on for me or offer advice. Or commiseration. I’d have to see Brianne sometime in the next couple days. Even if the swelling went down and the black and blue faded to yellow, the way I looked would require explaining. I might as well get some of it out of the way now.
“Someone I’d pissed off in the past got even tonight.”
“That doesn’t sound good. Are you hurt?” Concerned, but calm. Her husband had been a Navy SEAL. Panic wasn’t in her makeup. “You sound like you have a broken nose.”
“I’ll survive.” Pretty good diagnosis. “Nothing that will prevent me from working your case.”
“I’m not worried about that.” She sounded hurt like I’d insulted her. “I’m a pretty good emergency medic. I’m coming over.”
“You don’t have to do that.” Hadn’t expected that. Especially after her anger at me today. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine. Cut the macho bull crap and stop being such a guy. I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime.” I heard a deep intake of air, a pause, and then an exhale. “Where do you live?”
She either took a hit of weed or was doing breathing exercises. I told her I lived in Bay Ho and gave her my address.
“I’m on I-5. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” She hung up.
I took the ice off my face and inched up to vertical on the couch. My nose and head objected. I took another slug of the whiskey and wondered what my head would feel like in the morning.
A few minutes later Midnight growled and then someone knocked on my door. I lumbered over and eyed Brianne through the peephole. The brim of a Charger ball cap covered her eyes. I settled Midnight and opened the door to get a better view. Gray sweatshirt over jeans. Cowboy boots. She looked up exposing half-mast blue eyes trailing tiny red saffron threads. She hadn’t been doing breathing exercises on the way over. Even my impacted nose couldn’t filter out the heavy skunk smell of marijuana.
“You really didn’t have to come over.”
“Oh my God.” Bloodshot eyes wide, but still composed. “You look worse than I thought.”
“Thanks.” I cleared the door to let her in. “You look like you just came from a reggae concert.”
“Funny.” Brianne kneeled down to pet Midnight, and he thumped his tail and licked her face. He liked the ladies. Especially the pretty ones. “What’s his name?”
“Midnight.”
“You are dark and mysterious, aren’t you?” She stood up.
“He’s black. Midnight. Nothing mysterious about that.” I pointed to the couch. “Have a seat. You want some of this?” I held up the Bushmills bottle. “Or are you fine flying redeye?”
She grabbed the bottle, took a tug, and handed it back to me. Still had some country girl to her.
“Thanks for saving me from washing a glass.” I followed her to the couch and we both sat down. Midnight came over and laid down against my legs.
“Tilt your head back.” She picked up the toweled ice pack I’d left on the floor and gently pressed it against th
e bridge of my nose. The ice pack covered my eyes closing darkness in around me. “What in the good Lord’s name happened to you?”
I released back into the couch and let her play nurse. I didn’t want anyone dealing with my problems, but it had been a while since someone had been there to cushion the aftermath. I’d forgotten what someone caring felt like. My stomach turned over. In a good way. The first time in a long time.
“Like I said on the phone. Just an old debt repaid. Nothing to worry about.”
“You don’t have many friends, do you, Rick?” A trace of sadness in her voice.
“I make new friends every day.” I hoisted the whiskey through the dark and found my mouth. “I appreciate your coming by and taking care of me, but you called me earlier for a reason.”
“It’s not important.”
“It’s all important, Brianne.”
She sighed. “Detective Denton called me today.”
“How could that not be important?” I pulled her hand with the ice pack away from my face and straightened up. “What did she say? Are they going to reopen the case?”
“No. She called about you.” Her stoned eyes got serious.
Not one single good thing could have come from that call. Plenty of bad ones. “And?”
“She doesn’t like you very much.”
“The sky is blue. Is that it?”
Brianne shifted on the couch like she couldn’t get comfortable. Neither could I.
“She said you have a hero complex and that you don’t care who gets hurt when you’re on one of your missions because you’re convinced you’re always right.”
Denton was wrong about one thing. I did care who got hurt. “Isn’t that why you hired me?”
“I hired you because you don’t give up.” Brianne grabbed the whiskey bottle off the floor and took another slug. Longer this time. “Detective Denton also said that you’re dangerous and that I should be careful.”
“Coming over here tonight alone wasn’t very careful.”
“I don’t believe a word Detective Denton said.” Brianne edged closer on the couch and laid a hand on mine. Warm. “I came to apologize for being a bitch today and . . .”
Her eyes half-closed, but not from the weed now. I only saw the blue, cool and hot at once. Full lips parted. Blood rushed, but the pain in my face dissolved. Brianne could make all my pain go away tonight. But the morning would eventually come.
I lived by few rules. Not romancing a client was one of them.
I took the bottle from Brianne, threw down a gulp of my own, and leaned back into the couch. Damn rules.
“You had a right to be mad.”
“I’ve made mistakes in my life, Rick, but I have few regrets. Leaving Jim wasn’t a mistake. Leaving him for Seth was.” Brianne removed her hand from mine and looked down. “Coming here was just a way to forget about that for a while.”
“It would have been more than a replacement memory for me, Brianne.” I touched her chin and lifted it up so our eyes could meet. “But it would complicate things and right now your husband’s death is complicated enough.”
“Settle down, cowboy. It was just going to be a roll in the hay.” Her eyes didn’t seem quite so sure, but that could have been my hero complex talking.
“I thought you already had a hay-rolling partner.”
“Not anymore. It had been over for a while. I just made it official tonight.”
“Why?” I wanted her to say because of me and I didn’t want her to say because of me.
“Lots of reasons.” She gave me a smile that said the discussion was over.
“When was the last time, before today, that you talked to Denton? Has she been checking in with you?” Back to the “mission.”
“No. This is the first time she’s called me since she told me the medical examiner ruled Jim’s death a suicide two and a half months ago.”
“Somebody told her that I was investigating the death. Did she say anything about the investigation?”
“Not a thing. Just the diatribe about you and the warning to be careful.”
“Dr. Lin must have called Denton after I talked to her.”
“That can’t be good.” Brianne looked up from scratching Midnight’s head.
“Actually, it might be. I took Lin as a professional, someone who would want to do the job right. Especially if her death determination left some murderer in the wind. Maybe she had second thoughts about her decision and asked Denton about the rope and the missing cell phone.”
“Yeah, but you solved the mystery of the climbing rope.” She tugged on the Bushmills again. “That’s one less thing to point to homicide.”
“Just because the rope was in Jim’s toolbox doesn’t mean he put it there. If he was murdered, the killer could have put it there figuring the police would find it if they were competent.”
“So you’re back on my side about Jim being murdered?” Brianne raised an eyebrow.
“Not quite, but I’m not convinced that he wasn’t either. LJPD didn’t look hard enough to find the truth. I’m not stopping until I do.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CORONADO IS A step back into the 1950s, at least how I envisioned them. Red vinyl stools at the counter in the diner on the corner, pristine California Craftsman, Spanish revival, and Victorian neighborhoods. And, of course, the iconic Hotel Del Coronado where some still like it hot. Built entirely of wood in 1888, it’s still a getaway playground for the rich and famous. The island is also home to the Naval Special Warfare Center where Navy SEALs train.
There’s no place to park in Coronado, and you can’t afford to own a home there unless you bought one fifty years ago or are part of Dot.com wealth Version 2.0, but the city hums with a vibe of what life should be.
Kyle Bates lived in a California Craftsman a couple streets back from Orange Avenue, Coronado’s version of Main Street, USA. A woman answered my knock on the door. Midthirties, dark hair, and tan. She wore a white tennis outfit, complete with racket, and could only be described as stunning.
“You must be Mr. Cahill.” She smiled and was the first person who seemed happy to see me since I’d started investigating Jim Colton’s death. She hadn’t seen me without my sunglasses on, yet.
“Rick.”
“Well, come in, Rick. I’m Alyssa.” She extended a hand, which I shook. “Kyle is in his study. Down the hall, first door on your right. I’m late for a match.” She went out the door after I came in.
I took off my sunglasses after she closed the door behind her. One frightened look avoided.
The living room of the Bates house was classic Craftsman, dark wood floors matched by paneling up the walls. A stone fireplace dominated the left wall. The furniture wasn’t quite in the same league as the furniture in Alan Rankin’s office, but it hadn’t come from a discount warehouse, either. Antique plates with hand-painted military themes hung on the walls. A glass and wrought-iron chandelier that would have been at home in a La Jolla art gallery hung from the ceiling. The kitchen that opened up into the living room was equipped with high-end appliances and modeled to blend with the Craftsman bungalow look.
Internet searches on Bates had turned up security consultant as his profession. Nothing more specific. He’d either found consulting work that paid like a La Jolla lawyer or his wife did more than just play tennis. A lot more.
I went down the hall and peeked into Kyle Bates’s study. He sat behind a desk worthy of the rest of the house eyeing a computer screen. Two towering oak bookshelves took up one wall. The other walls looked just like the ones in Jim Colton’s office covered with military plaques and photos.
I gently knocked on the opened door.
Bates looked up. Blue eyes, sculpted features, a wedge of straw-blond hair atop his head. “You must be Mr. Cahill.”
“Rick.”
“Okay, Rick. People call me KB.” He stood up, strode around his desk, and shook my hand. Six foot two, ropey muscles, vice grip. Boyish good looks, but I figured him f
or midforties. “Have a seat.”
I sat in a leather chair facing the desk, and he went back to his ergonomic chair behind it.
“What happened to your face, Rick? You look like you came out on the wrong end of a bar fight.”
“Something like that.” I didn’t think telling him a woman had done it would raise his opinion of me.
“Be careful who you insult in a bar. People can surprise you.” He flashed a thirty-two-tooth smile that probably won him his drop-dead younger wife. Made me want to punch him. Probably a bad idea.
“Yes, they can. Especially when you’re not looking. Anyway, thanks for seeing me on short notice.”
“Sure.” He leaned back in his chair. “Now you said you wanted to talk about Jacks Colton. What would you like to know?”
“How many years were you in a unit together?”
“Eight.”
“So you knew him pretty well?”
“I knew how he’d react on the battlefield. Beyond that, I didn’t know him that well.”
“How would he react on the battlefield?”
“Like a SEAL.” Bates’s chin rose an inch.
“Meaning?”
“You never served, did you, Rick?”
“No.”
“If you had, you’d know what I mean.” Blue eyes turned hard and vised down on me.
This went south even quicker than normal. “That’s why I asked.”
“Dependable. Lethal.”
“Not the kind of man you’d think would commit suicide.”
“Sometimes people surprise you.” He tilted his head.
“So you think Jacks Colton took his own life?”
“Is this about insurance money? His wife trying to squeeze what’s left out of Jacks even after he’s dead?”
Now I understood the attitude. Another fan of Brianne Colton. Two for two on Colton’s friends who didn’t like Brianne. What did they know that I didn’t? Right now it didn’t matter.
“What insurance money?” Bates claimed not to have known Colton very well, but he knew about the insurance policy.
“The two-million-dollar life insurance policy Jacks took out a while back.”