Dark Fissures

by Coyle, Matt;

  All in on the bluff.

  “Murder? Who was murdered?” All the color drained from his face leaving it the same shade as the tuft of chest hair poking out of his shirt.

  “James Colton.”

  “Who’s that? I’ve never heard of him.” He looked sincere.

  Townsend was dirty. Of that, I was certain. If I’d had a real badge of my own and a handful of warrants, I’d find out just how deep the dirt ran in Phoenix Holdings. But I also believed he didn’t know anything about the violent side of the people operating behind the cover of Phoenix Holdings.

  “He was a sergeant on La Jolla PD.”

  “A cop? When was he murdered?”

  “A few months ago.”

  Townsend put me back under the magnifying glass. “I remember now. It was in the news . . . I thought he committed suicide.”

  “The case has been reopened.”

  “You came in here asking me about a stolen license plate in San Diego and now you’re talking about a murder in La Jolla.” He smiled and the color returned to his face. My bluff was about to be called. “Do you work for San Diego PD or La Jolla? Or are you really a cop at all?”

  “La Jolla.” I stood up and did a quick coat flip to give him a glimpse of my father’s tarnished badge. “The cases are connected.”

  I sat back down and gave him my best cop stone face.

  “I’d like to get a better look at that badge, Detective. One can’t be too careful.”

  I pulled the badge off my belt and flipped it onto his desk as I would a poker hand of cards that had just been called. Townsend picked up the badge, looked at it, and then gave me a smile with a lot of teeth.

  “This isn’t even a gold shield. You’re not a detective and probably not even a cop.”

  “I’m in training.” I reached across the desk and grabbed the badge from Townsend’s hand. “And I’m just a bit ahead of the police, but I’m helping them get caught up.”

  “Really? By impersonating a police officer? That can get you time in county jail.” He stood up and his chest and the hair on it puffed out. He put his hand over his office phone. “Maybe I’ll give your friends at LJPD a call and let them know what you’re up to. You think you can come in to my office and run a con on me? Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “I’m someone who’ll rip the lid off this con you’re running if you call the police. Go ahead.”

  “Get the hell out of my office.” He thrust a hand at the door.

  “I’m the best shot you’ve got at not going to jail, Townsend.” I stayed seated. “I think it just dawned on you how dangerous the men you’re hooked up with are. Who do you think is going to be made the fall guy? Or worse. Let’s go talk to the police. Get out in front of this thing while you still can before your partners see you as the weak link.”

  “Wait a second.” Townsend pointed a bouncing finger at me. “I know who you are. It’s been itching at me ever since you walked in here with your phony badge. You’re the son of a bitch ex-cop who murdered his wife up in Santa Barbara and got away with it. Something Cahill. What the hell kind of scam you trying to pull now?”

  “I conned your assistant with the badge to get in here, but everything else is the truth.” I zeroed in on Townsend’s eyes to make sure he saw the truth in mine. “The men you’re connected with are killers. They killed James Colton and they tried to kill me. Give me their names and get out from under this thing. If you testify, I’m sure you won’t do time.”

  “You’re the only killer I’ve ever met, Cahill. Now get the hell out of my office.”

  “Give me their names, Townsend.”

  “Get out!” He picked up the phone receiver and pressed a number on the keypad. “Sue, get building security up here.”

  I stood up and walked to the door. I’d gotten as much as I could and, hopefully, rattled him enough to call his partners after I left. No need to get into a scuffle with security. Townsend might not call the cops on me for impersonating one of them, but security sure as hell would.

  A picture on the wall next to the door caught my eye. I wasn’t sure why until I stopped and examined it. The photo featured Townsend, shirtless, at the helm of a boat. He looked to be maybe twenty years younger when the color of the black hair on his head was natural. But he hadn’t been what caught my eye. It was a woman sitting behind him. A teenager really. Dark hair, deep tan, very fit. Twenty years later, she hadn’t changed much. I pulled the picture off the wall and turned back to Townsend.

  “Your daughter?” I pointed at the teenager in the photo.

  “You threatening my family, you son of a bitch?” He rushed around the desk and grabbed at the picture. I pushed him off.

  “Nope. Just figuring out who all the players are.” I took one last look at the twenty-year-old photo of Alyssa Bates, wife of Jim Colton’s old SEAL buddy, Kyle Bates. I handed the photo back to Townsend. “The police are a lot smarter than I am, Townsend. Once they get a whiff of this, they’ll connect the dots a lot faster than I did.”

  I walked out of his office and left the door open.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  BRIANNE STOOD NEXT to the elevator down the hall from Phoenix Holdings’ office. Dressed in slacks and a jacket, she could pass for an executive about to take the elevator down to the parking garage. I’d called her from my car on the way over to One America Plaza and told her to Google a photo of Benjamin Charles Townsend and then get down to the building and stake out the elevator on the fourth floor.

  “Townsend is probably on the phone right now calling the men in the Range Rover or he’ll soon be heading down to his car.”

  “So, he believed you were a police detective?”

  “No, but I found another way to rattle him.” The elevator door opened, and I pressed my hand against it. “Give him twenty minutes to head for his car. If he’s coming, I think it will be much sooner. If not, at least we tried.”

  I kissed her on the forehead and went inside the elevator.

  I sat in my car for twenty minutes. No call from Brianne, yet. I’d give her another five minutes and then shut it down. Maybe I hadn’t rattled Townsend as deeply as I thought. Maybe I was wrong about everything.

  My phone rang, pulling me out of my head or the other end of me. I’d been right after all. I turned on the ignition and checked my phone expecting to see Brianne’s name on the screen. Wrong. Unknown. I turned off the ignition and answered the phone.

  “Gloomy day, huh, Cahill?”

  The phone number was unknown, but the voice wasn’t.

  “You can skip the weather report, Moretti.” My voice held steady, but my gut didn’t. It wrapped around itself and squeezed. “I’m in the middle of something.”

  “You certainly are.” A chuckle. “I’m hoping you can help me with a missing persons case that’s looking like a homicide.”

  “Just get to it, Moretti.” My time was running out.

  “I’d like to eliminate you as a suspect in the Randall Eddington investigation. DNA has been recovered from Randall’s phone. All I need is a buccal swab from you, and if your DNA doesn’t match the sample, we can just about eliminate you.”

  “Don’t you need a warrant for that?” Congressman Peterson must not have made it through the day.

  “Only if you’re uncooperative. I thought you’d jump at the chance to clear yourself.”

  “That DNA came back pretty fast. That has to be a record for the state lab.”

  “Yes, things are moving quickly now, Cahill. Why don’t you head down to the station now and ask for me when you get here?”

  “Shouldn’t I ask for Detective Denton? She’s your top homicide dick, isn’t she?”

  “You get my personal touch.”

  “Like I said, I’m in the middle of something. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “You’re running out of tomorrows, Cahill.”

  “Why were you so quick to rule Jim Colton’s death a suicide, Moretti?” He was right about my tomorrows. Offense w
as the only defense if I hoped to have many more. Moretti was no longer on my suspect list for Jim Colton’s murder, but I still had some leverage. “He was about to blow the whistle on your asset forfeiture scam and suddenly ended up dead. You work on getting your warrant, and I’ll work with the California Department of Justice on getting Colton’s death investigated. Along with any surrounding corruption.”

  “You’re playing a dangerous game, Cahill.” His voice pushed through clenched teeth. “The ME made the determination of death by suicide, not me.”

  “With your rubber stamp. You wanted the Colton investigation closed down as soon as possible. A homicide investigation might uncover everybody’s dirty little secrets, so you made sure it was tagged a suicide.”

  “The wife just wants the insurance money. She’s playing you like one of her guitars. You’re a fool, Cahill.”

  “I’m just following the evidence, Moretti. Something you should have done in the first place.”

  “I am following the evidence, Cahill. And we both know where it leads.” His voice a hoarse snarl. “Don’t leave town.”

  Click.

  I’d stunned Moretti with the asset forfeiture and Department of Justice remarks, but he was still coming for me. I couldn’t stop him unless I chose Alan Rankin’s way out. Rankin wouldn’t kill Moretti on his own or pay someone else to do it. He wanted distance and a fall guy. That was me. And even if the police never suspected me, Rankin would have leverage over me. A crowbar to wield whenever he wanted me to perform some black bag operation.

  Moretti lived and he was coming. I needed to find another way out of prison besides murder. But unless I dealt with the men trying to kill me, I might already be in a coffin when Moretti knocked on my door with an arrest warrant.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  I CHECKED THE clock in the dash. It had been a half hour since I left Townsend’s office. My ploy hadn’t worked and I was running out of options. I didn’t have enough to take to the Department of Justice. Rankin wouldn’t let Miranda back up my story on Ski Mask and his partner. DOJ would just send me back to LJPD. The head of the local FBI office had already turned me down. FBI Agent Mallon was too scared of his own shadow to take it up the chain.

  I called Brianne to tell her to shut it down.

  “Hello, Mr. Taylor.” A hint of excitement in her voice. “I’ll be back in your office in twenty minutes.”

  The game was still on. Townsend must have finally taken the elevator, with Brianne in it, down to the parking garage. I hung up and waited for her call. Twenty seconds later my phone rang. “He’s driving a new red Cadillac ATS-V Coupe. He just backed out of his space on the first floor.”

  “Great job. Go back to the hotel.” I sped out of my parking space toward the exit sign. I was a floor lower than Townsend and needed to catch up or I’d lose him.

  “I just got to my car. We can do a two-team tail.”

  “This isn’t a game or a movie, Brianne. It could be dangerous.” A car backed out of a space in front of me forcing me to hit my brakes. I’d just made the first floor but couldn’t see the exit. “Shit!”

  “What?”

  “Some jerk just cut me off. I may not catch Townsend.”

  “That’s okay. He just left the garage, but I’m twenty yards behind him. He’s turning right on Kettner.”

  “How’d you get ahead of me?”

  “I lucked into a spot on the first floor when I got here.” A hint of glee tickled her voice. She enjoyed the chase. “He just turned right on A Street.”

  “Okay.” I finally made it to the exit. “Stay with him until I catch up.”

  “Will do, partner.” A pause. I thought she’d put the phone down. Then, “He did something a little strange before he left the garage.”

  “What?”

  “He was carrying two briefcases when he left the office and he put one in the trunk of his car and the other in the front seat with him.”

  “Hmm. That is strange. Just stay on him, and we’ll figure out the rest later.”

  The rain still pounded down and it pulled the night down on top of it. Late fall and the rain blurred the night’s visibility. Rush-hour traffic and the wet turned the streets into slo-mo brake light conga lines. Without Brianne, I would have lost Townsend. But I still had a hunch about where he’d end up.

  “He just got onto 5 South.”

  “Okay. When he takes 75 to get onto the Coronado Bridge, you can turn around and head back to the hotel. I know where he’s going.” To see Kyle Bates, his son-in-law, who was connected with Oak Rollins and probably Dwight McCafferty. At least one of whom, maybe all, had killed Jim and tried to kill me.

  “He got onto the 94, going east.”

  “You sure? Maybe you lost him and are following the wrong car.”

  “Not a chance. I’ve been behind him the whole way. Here’s his license plate number.” She gave it to me.

  Maybe Townsend was headed home, wherever that was, and he’d meet Dwight McCafferty and Odell Rollins there. I finally made it onto 5 South. The traffic was worse going north. I hit the 94 in a couple minutes.

  “Brianne, you still on him?”

  “Yes. He just passed the 15. Still heading east.”

  I weaved through traffic and sped up. The exit to Interstate 15 whizzed by. The further east I went, the more the traffic thinned. I saw running lights ahead that could belong to a ’65 Mustang. It got off on 125 North.

  “He just took 125 North.”

  “I think I’m right behind you. Put on your right turn signal.” The right turn signal flashed on the car ahead of me. “Got you. How far ahead is Townsend?”

  “About a hundred yards in my lane.”

  “Okay. Get in the right lane and I’ll pass you.” Brianne moved over and I passed her. I think I saw her wave. “That him straight ahead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. I got it from here. You can head back to the hotel. Thanks. You saved my butt.”

  “I think we should tag-team him. We can switch places every so often so he doesn’t see the same headlight configuration behind him all the time.”

  She was right, but who knows where Townsend was leading us? Maybe he knew we were tailing him. I’d already walked into one ambush in the last week. I didn’t want to lead Brianne into another one. But my gut told me that Townsend was running scared and had no idea we were following.

  “Okay. If he doesn’t get off the freeway soon, I’ll move over and you can take the lead. We’ll change every few minutes.” I’d send her back to the hotel as soon as Townsend finally made it to his destination. “Get behind me.”

  “Roger. Red Stallion out.” She didn’t hang up.

  “Stay on the line.”

  “Roger.”

  Townsend took 8 East and the minutes ran by. I’d been on his tail for over half an hour. I feared he might be driving to Phoenix or until his car ran out of gas. My Mustang started the day with a full gas tank, but I was sure the Caddy had a much bigger tank. Brianne and I stayed a hundred yards or so behind Townsend and took turns taking the lead.

  About forty-five minutes into the tail, Townsend exited the freeway onto Pine Valley Road. I followed but gave him a lot of slack. He drove through the tiny town of Pine Valley in the foothills of the Laguna Mountains.

  There weren’t many cars on the road, so I faded back as far as I dared without losing him. Townsend went all the way through the town, which wasn’t very far, and turned up a residential street. I made the turn well after Townsend and thought I’d lost him. The street forked, and I didn’t see any taillights. I gambled and went to the right up a winding hill. Brianne’s headlights disappeared behind me. Homes sat scattered on huge lots along the hill, shadows on the unlit street. I rounded a bend and got a glimpse of red. Taillights.

  The car turned into a twisting driveway up to a house on a butte overlooking the valley below. I killed my lights, pulled over, and picked up my phone.

  “Brianne, I got him from here. Go ba
ck to the hotel and call me when you get there.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. Go.”

  I checked the rearview mirror for headlights, ready to dive down if any approached, figuring they could be Townsend’s partners. Clear. I looked up the driveway and could just see the top of the car and caught a flash of white, then darkness. Must have been the dome light of the Caddy turning on when Townsend opened the door and then off when he closed it.

  The rain tattooed the roof and windshield of my car and squeezed down the night’s visibility. I could barely see the top of the front door and windows along the front of the darkened house. The front door opened into darkness, and I caught the top of someone’s head entering. The door closed. An orange spark lit up the front window then vanished, like Townsend had lit a cigarette.

  I waited for lights to go on in the house.

  Dark.

  I looked for the glow of a lit cigarette through the window.

  Dark.

  A minute. Two. Three.

  Dark.

  Headlights behind me. I slid my torso down to the right onto the empty passenger seat. A hole exploded through the windshield. My left arm burned. The headlights passed. Another hole punch through the windshield thudded into the seat above me. Gunshots! Silenced.

  I shoved the passenger seat release back, dove into the feet well below the seat, my legs stretched along the console tangled against the stick shift. The night now silent except for the sound of my heart and my pistoning breath. Warm blood trickled down my left arm, fright sweat rolled off my body.

  The gunshots hadn’t come from the car that passed by me. At least not the first gunshot. It had been fired through the windshield while the car’s headlights were still behind me. My guess was both shots came from the area around the house up on the hill where Townsend had parked his car and gone inside. I hadn’t taken Townsend for a killer, but maybe I’d been wrong.

  Then I remembered the silencer on the muzzle of the rifle sticking out of the Range Rover the other night in the hospital parking lot. Townsend wasn’t alone. At least one of his partners was up on the hill with a rifle.