Dark Fissures

by Coyle, Matt;

  “Do you like him?”

  “Asshole.” Almost a laugh in her voice.

  “Me or him?”

  “Asshole.”

  “Me.” I still had it.

  “Yes. I’ll send you a bill, jerk.”

  “What’d you find out?”

  “The plate was reported stolen this morning off a brand-new Lexus IS owned by, ah, Transcope Technologies.” Sounded like she was reading from notes.

  “Where was the car when the plate was stolen?”

  “In a parking garage at their office building at 600 West Broadway in downtown San Diego.”

  “This plate was on a late model Range Rover last night. You sure it was reported stolen this morning?” Ski Mask and his pal must have stolen the plate last night and no one noticed until this morning. Pretty early this morning.

  “That’s what the police officer told me. You just asked me to have the plate run. I didn’t think it meant cross-examining the cop who was risking his job giving me the information.”

  “I guess the car could have been parked there a few days and no one noticed the plate missing until today. So there was no person attached to the ownership, just this Transcope Technologies?”

  “Again with the cross-examination?” Sincere irritation now. “The car is a company car owned by Transcope. That’s all I know. Next time, you develop a source in a police department and then you can ask him twenty questions. They love that.”

  “Thank you, Moira. I really do appreciate this. Send me a bill for dinner.”

  “Asshole.” She hung up.

  So my attackers stole a license plate from a late model Lexus and put it on the late model Range Rover they probably stole. These guys had a sense of style. But something about the plate and where they stole it bothered me.

  A downtown parking garage of an office building seemed like an odd place to steal a plate. Too much of a chance to be interrupted or seen by someone going to their car. The men who assaulted me were pros. They’d intended to kill me from the start last night, but still wouldn’t let me see their faces just in case I escaped.

  It had taken a miracle in the form of a kick-ass woman who risked her life to save me, but I did escape. Their precautions had been wise. They could have probably killed me in the hospital parking lot, but might have exposed themselves to witnesses to do so. They were cautious. That’s why stealing the license plate in the garage seemed like a mistake. Out of character. Why? If I could figure that out, I just might find out who killed Jim Colton.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  ALAN RANKIN LIVED on La Jolla Farms Road. I don’t know if there’d ever been real farms up there, but there were plenty of estates that could fit small working farms in their backyards. Rankin’s was no exception. I’d been to his home once about a year ago as an uninvited guest.

  I pushed the intercom button on the stacked stone arch that anchored a wrought-iron gate. A closed-circuit camera stared down at me and the gate opened. I drove down fifty yards of flagstone pavers surrounded by palm trees and a manicured lawn dotted by olive trees and stopped in front of a sunrise-colored Tuscan villa.

  A slab of meat in light blue sweats stood on the porch with its arms folded. Bald and buff. We’d met before. Briefly. I parked in the circular drive and got out of the car. The Smith &Wesson .357 heavy and reassuring holstered under my arm.

  Buff invaded my space once I hit the porch. He had three inches and forty pounds on me, plus bad memories from the last time we met. I had a gun inside my jacket.

  “Arms and legs out wide, Cahill.” Hot gusts of sour protein shake splashed my face. “No cheap shots with a black jack this time. Maybe after Mr. Rankin is done with you we can see what would happen in a fair fight.”

  “If I want a fair fight, I’ll join a boxing gym.” I kept my arms at my side and my legs together. “Besides, the HGH you flavor your protein shakes with and the needle packed with juice you stick in your leg hardly makes things fair. Step back and go tell Mr. Rankin I’m strapped with a Smith &Wesson .357. It stays with me or I turn around and go home.”

  Buff’s eyes went big, and I could see the hamster running on the wheel behind them. He was weighing making a move and possibly getting shot against telling his boss he hadn’t disarmed me.

  “Wait here.” He said it like he was still in control, then hurried into the house.

  A few minutes later, Buff opened the door, the hangdog look on his face erasing all pretense of being in control. “Follow me.”

  I stepped inside quickly and angled to the right in case someone had been hiding behind the door. Clear. Apparently, Rankin was playing it clean. Buff led me through the foyer and a massive open kitchen with high-end appliances that made the cook in me envious. We exited a door to a long walkway in the backyard that ended in a courtyard with a magnificent view of the Pacific Ocean wallowing up against the horizon, La Jolla Shores to the south, and Black’s Beach directly below.

  Rankin, in full lawyer suit and tie, sat in a wicker chair and stared out at the ocean. He nodded at Buff and the slab of meat exited, leaving just the two of us.

  “Sit down, Cahill.” Rankin was short and thin. Somewhat birdlike, back when birds were still transitioning from dinosaurs. He gestured to a matching chair on his right next to a side table that held a bottle of eighteen-year-old Glenlivet single malt scotch and two glasses.

  “Tell me about the men who put Miranda in the hospital.”

  “They’re professional. Dangerous. Violent. That’s all I know.”

  “I need more than that. Names. Addresses.”

  “I don’t know who they are or even what they look like. But they’re my problem, not yours. I’ll handle them.” Somehow.

  “Yes, and you’ve done a fine job so far. When they laid their filthy hands on Miranda, they became my problem.” He squinted out at the ocean rolled out under a pewter haze. Possibly to clamp down on a rare human emotion he felt for Miranda. “I want you to contact me when you find out who these animals are.”

  “If I need your help, I’ll let you know. How’s Miranda?”

  “She’s improved. Conscious and able to speak.”

  “Has she talked to the police?” If she talked to LJPD and Moretti sent the men who tried to kill me and put Miranda in the hospital, both our lives could be in danger.

  “Yes. She doesn’t remember anything.”

  “That’s the truth or what she told the police?”

  “As far as you’re concerned, there’s no difference.” Rankin poured two fingers of scotch into a glass and raised it toward me.

  “No thanks. A little early for me.”

  He took a sip of scotch and gazed back out at the ocean for what seemed like minutes. Then he looked over my shoulder back at his mansion.

  “Is there something else you wanted to talk to me about or are we done?” I asked.

  “You know the market value of this property, Cahill?” Rankin panoramaed an arm that didn’t come close to encompassing his estate.

  “Twenty mil?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “Congrats, but you didn’t ask me here to discuss real estate values.”

  “It’s important that you know what this property is worth because you need to know that I’m not a frivolous man.” An ocean breeze lifted a wisp of Rankin’s remaining hair off his head. “I’ve worked hard to accumulate this kind of wealth. I’ve made tough decisions and sacrifices to get where I am.”

  “You’re a smart, powerful man. I knew that before I got here.” I lightly pressed my left arm against the gun inside my jacket. Still there.

  “That’s right, and I’m not going to give up any of this because some low-rent private dick wants to be a do-gooder and salvage his pathetic life.”

  “I guess that would be me. Tell me what you think it is that I should already know.”

  “Don’t play stupid with me, Cahill.”

  “This isn’t an act.”

  Rankin eyed me with reptilian eyes left
over from the pre-evolutionary period. “You are a pretty convincing idiot.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You think this is all a joke?”

  “I think you asked me to come here for a reason, but you’re wasting my time instead of getting to the point.”

  “Stand up.” He stood up and looked down at me.

  “You challenging me to a dual, Rankin?” I stood up and towered over him.

  “I’m going to pat you down since you wouldn’t let Buck do it.” He took a step toward me and touched my chest. I twisted his wrist off me, hard enough to hurt but not injure him.

  “I already told your boy, I’m armed.”

  “I’m checking for a wire.” He rubbed his wrist. “I don’t care about the gun. If I wanted you dead, someone would already be planning your funeral.”

  I took off my jacket and laid it on the chair, then pulled out the .357 and held it at my side. “Go ahead.”

  Rankin ran his hands down my sides, my front and back and my legs. His hand lingered in the crotch area, but not long enough for me to punch him in the head. He sat back down. I holstered my gun, put on my jacket, and sat down.

  “You are a loose end, Cahill.” He took a sip of his expensive scotch. “And my clients taught me a long time ago that loose ends need to be clipped.”

  “But I’m still breathing.”

  “That’s mainly because you probably saved Miranda’s life in the hospital last night, even though you’re the reason she’s there in the first place.”

  “Still don’t know why I’m here. Am I supposed to thank you for not having me killed?” I stood up. “I don’t have time for this bullshit.”

  “Chief Moretti paid me a visit yesterday.”

  I sat down.

  “He told me he talked to you the night before last.” Rankin looked at me like he expected me to confess to something. I stayed silent. “I asked you last night if you’d talked to Chief Moretti and you told me you hadn’t. Why is that?”

  “’Cause it’s none of your damn business.”

  “It sure as hell is my business when he’s trying to implicate me in a murder that you committed.”

  “Get up.” I stood up and looked down at Rankin. “My turn to check for a wire.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Get up.” My lips moved over clenched teeth.

  Rankin stood up. I pulled off his jacket and checked for listening devices then patted him down. Clean. We both returned to our chairs.

  “You’ve now twice treated me with disrespect in my home, Cahill.” He gave me the predator eyes. “There won’t be a third.”

  He was right about that. If I made it out alive today, I’d make sure never to come back. “What did Moretti tell you?”

  “That he’s come across new evidence and that your arrest is imminent.” He studied me like I was on the wrong end of a microscope. “And that you’re prepared to implicate me once you’re arrested.”

  I didn’t know what game Rankin was playing or if he was telling the truth. I looked into the lizard eyes and saw cold practicality devoid of emotion. When I no longer fit into his equation, when I become more threat than ally, I’d be erased.

  “Moretti’s lying. He doesn’t have anything. He located the Eddingtons’ Volvo that disappeared with Randall. If the rest of your men are more competent than your manservant in the blue sweats, there’s nothing to worry about.”

  I grabbed the scotch and poured some into a glass. It was sipping whiskey, but I needed a jolt. I threw it back. A warm catch in my throat put a glow in my face, but not my attitude. “Moretti’s fishing and it sounds like you took the bait. If he had anything legitimate, one or both of us would already be in jail.”

  “What did he say about the Volvo?”

  “That it was found in Reno and that they were running forensic tests on evidence collected from it.”

  Rankin spat out a laugh and his eyes looked human for a microsecond.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “Strictly hypothetical, but I believe it’s somewhat difficult to collect DNA evidence from bleach.”

  “Doesn’t matter to me either way. As I told Moretti, I never came into contact with the Volvo.”

  “He’s still a loose end, just like you. Two loose ends might get tied together. One has to be clipped.” Rankin made a scissoring gesture with two fingers.

  “Are you asking me to kill the La Jolla Chief of Police?”

  “I’m not asking anything. I’m merely stating a fact.”

  “What are you going to do, kill the whole department? Moretti or not, the case will still be investigated.”

  “Maybe not.” He took a sip of scotch and smiled. This time no signs of humanity entered his eyes.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Moretti is currently undertaking the investigation into Randall Eddington’s disappearance on his own.”

  “What? How do you know that? What about his very public statement in the La Jolla Lantern?”

  “The Lantern statement was primarily to get my attention.” He tapped his chest. “It also served to make the public think that he’s a bulldog who never gives up. His department no doubt took it solely as a PR move with no teeth as there is no active investigation. Moretti may be a police chief now, but he’s a very political animal. Every move he makes, every public utterance is calculated toward a personal goal. Take it as gospel, Moretti is conducting a secret investigation.”

  I didn’t know whether or not to believe Rankin, but I knew I couldn’t trust him. However, Moretti’s last words from the other night came back to me. “Your secret’s safe with me.” Could Moretti really be conducting a secret investigation? Why?

  “He doesn’t have anything prosecutable on either one of us. We’re both safe.” Except Randall Eddington’s phone, but maybe Rankin didn’t know about that.

  “For now, Cahill. Are you willing to wait until he has enough evidence and goes public with his investigation by arresting you? Sooner or later, it’s going to come down to you or him. In your gut, you know I’m right.”

  He finished the rest of his drink and stood up. “Now it’s time for you to go. Better Homes and Gardens will be here soon to do a cover story. Wouldn’t want them to think I do business with unsavory characters.”

  When I got to the front door, Buff was there to open it wearing a dress shirt, slacks, and loafers. Another façade in a mansion full of them. I got into my car, turned on the ignition, and gunned the gas as I let out the clutch. The tires spun in place before they grabbed flagstone and left a black smear as I sped up the driveway.

  At least there’d be one stain that would be hard to erase.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  THE COASTAL MARINE layer hung low over the morning, compressing the sky. Out of habit grinded into necessity, I constantly scanned the car mirrors, the road, and everything surrounding it for trouble. Once, LJPD was my only worry; now I radared for trained killers, too.

  If Rankin had told me the truth about Moretti, something was missing from the story. Why would Moretti run a secret investigation on Randall Eddington’s disappearance and not use the full resources of his department? I didn’t doubt Rankin’s contention that Moretti only took action that would personally benefit him. But wouldn’t an arrest for Randall Eddington’s supposed murder do just that? And putting all his detectives on the case would only enhance that possibility. It wasn’t as if they had other murders to investigate. People in La Jolla died of old age and heart attacks, not murder.

  No, something was missing from the equation. Moretti wanted something from Rankin. Why else would he lie about me implicating Rankin? Money? Something as crass as blackmail? I knew Moretti to be corrupt, but only in abusing his power. Maybe after years of policing for the wealthy, he wanted to take a shortcut to become one of them. To me, it was still a stretch.

  Whatever it was to Rankin, he wanted Moretti dead. And he wanted me to pull the trigger.


  Now I had to watch out for Rankin, too.

  * * *

  Special Agent Mallon had agreed to meet me at the Del Mar Plaza. Theoretically, neither one of us knew what the other looked like, but I figured I could spot a Fed in the wealthy, yet laid-back beach town.

  Del Mar hugs the coast ten miles up the road from La Jolla. Much smaller, it’s like a condensed version of La Jolla. Cooked down so the fat has been rendered and all that’s left is succulent protein. Expensive protein. Its tiny downtown maintains a village charm, but the homes on the hills with ocean views would stretch even La Jollans’ pocketbooks. Unless you’re in the Alan Rankin tax bracket. The riffraff is tolerated in the summer when they come to the annual fair and then the horse races. Other than that, Del Mar is mostly populated by One Percenters vacationing in second or third homes and young upwardly mobile couples vying to get into single-digit percentages.

  I chose Del Mar because it was out of Moretti’s jurisdiction and a short drive for both Agent Mallon and me. Just enough sun poked through the clouds to make my sunglasses appropriate. I’d traded my jacket in for a sweatshirt and ball cap. The sweatshirt was a better blend with the casual locals than the bomber jacket. Even though I had a conceal carry license, I left my gun in the car. This was to be a friendly meeting, and I didn’t want a gun bulge to make Mallon nervous.

  We’d scheduled our meet for one at Enoteca Del Fornaio, an outdoor café version of its big brother, Il Fornaio, across the way. I arrived a half hour early and took a seat on the patio outside the restaurant area that afforded me a view of the street and the two entrances up to the third level. I nursed a beer and watched the wealthy and the wannabe wealthies dressed in casual wear like me. Except my clothes came from JC Penney, theirs from Neiman Marcus. We all drank the same beer.

  Special Agent Mallon arrived at the front of the restaurant at exactly 1:00 p.m. Blue suit with a neutral tie, perfectly coiffed brown hair, aviator sunglasses. Right out of an FBI catalog. I checked the entrances and the crowd for a partner in a matching blue suit or someone dressed like me paying too much interest to Mallon or to everybody else. No partner. Nobody working undercover.