by Banks, R. R.
As far as I can tell, this guy – whoever killed these women – was a professional with their methodology down cold. I'm not ruling Billy out though, just because of his age.
I walk over to the wall across from my table and tape Billy's picture up on the whiteboard I have hung up there. Next to it, I tape the second picture I have – a photo of Carlyle Hawkins. Carl, as he's most commonly called, is fifty-four, and known as a pillar of the Long Beach community.
Carl is a longtime businessman in the city and even sat on the City Council for a while. He's wealthy beyond measure, has friends in high places, and a sterling reputation in the community. I couldn’t find one person with a single negative thing to say about him, and best of all, he's incredibly charitable. People really love this guy.
It makes him the unlikeliest of perps, which ironically, makes him one of the top suspects to me.
Granted, I need more to go on than just him being an unlikely killer. I need actual proof. Hard evidence. Which is something I currently lack. If I'm being fair and honest, I can see why Helen spiked my story. You don't take a shot at a guy like Carlyle Hawkins without actual evidence to back yourself up. If Helen had let me run off all willy-nilly, chasing this story with my characteristic zeal, Hawkins could have sued the Times Daily into oblivion.
So, as much as it pains me to admit, Helen did the right thing by the paper. Now, however, I'm a woman free of the constraints of corporate America. Yeah, I need to be careful and not open myself up to a libel suit, of course. Not that they'd actually get much if they sued me.
The point is, I can go anywhere and dig as deep as I want and there's nothing they can do to stop me.
It's a feeling that's both exhilarating and terrifying.
I'm walking around my place, flipping through all my old notes, and finally feeling good about myself, when my cell rings. Dropping the notebook down on the desk, I turn and face my whiteboard, looking at the pictures of my two suspects on top, and pictures of the three victims below, when I answer the call.
“Hello,” I answer, pressing the phone to my ear.
“Emma, it's Jeannie.”
“Hey, Aunt Jeannie,” I say. “How are you doing?”
I hear her sniffle and can tell she's crying, which immediately sets off a rush of emotion inside of me. My Aunt Jeannie is one of the most positive, optimistic people on the planet. Nothing ever gets her down. She's the living embodiment of positive thinking and perseverance. So, hearing her as upset as she is, worries me immensely.
“What is it, Jeannie?” I ask, almost afraid to hear her response.
She sniffles again. “You need to come home.”
“What's going on, Jeannie?”
“I – it's your father,” she says. “He had a heart attack. He didn’t make it.”
And just like that, my entire world turns upside down. I nearly drop the phone as I fall to my knees, tears spilling down my cheeks, nausea rising in my throat. I don't hear another word my aunt says as I try to process the bombshell of shock, disbelief – and grief – that just exploded inside of me.
Suddenly, nothing else matters – nothing but getting home.
Chapter Five
Brice
I have my driver take me straight to the cemetery. I'll worry about checking into the hotel later. The last thing I want to do is be late for the services.
The sky is slate gray and the air cool. Even all these years later, the difference between here and Southern California is so stark, it's almost like an entirely different state. Back home, the temperature is rising, and I'm sure it'll be mid-nineties at some point today. That's just summer in LA. Up here, however, it seems to stay temperate the entire year.
It's pretty much the only thing I miss about being up this way.
The car pulls to a stop outside of Whispering Pines cemetery, and I wait for the driver to open the door for me. In the distance, I can see the coast and the world-famous Morro Rock standing sentinel out there in the water as it has for time immemorial.
A cool breeze blows in, making me pull my coat around my body a little tighter. I slip my hands into my coat pockets as I walk through the gates toward the crowd up on the hill I can only assume is there to lay Arnold Simmonds to rest.
The gathered crowd is about as large as I assumed it would be for a man as beloved as Mr. Simmonds was. Former students, current students, colleagues, and family, of course, are scattered around his final resting place. I find a small opening and manage to weave my way through until I'm standing near the front row.
I scan the crowd and see some familiar faces, but my eyes stop when they land on whom I was hoping to find – Tyler Simmonds, my best friend back in high school. We were thicker than thieves, as that old saying goes. Back then, we were like brothers.
It feels like I grew up in the Simmonds household. With my parents traveling the world for this or that, I was more or less left to be raised by the house staff. When Tyler and I first met, we instantly clicked. We shared the same thoughts, dreams, and passions. Over time, I really did come to think of him as a brother.
Tyler's parents welcomed me into their home with open arms. I could eat and stay over whenever I wanted to. I was pretty much an adopted member of the Simmonds family. It was Tyler's dad, actually, who put the fire in me about football. My parents opted to send me to a public high school, rather than a private one, thinking it would help keep me grounded and humble.
Yeah, because they were such stellar examples of that themselves.
Mr. Simmonds, the head coach at the high school, insisted that I come out and play for the team. I took to it like a duck to water and by my sophomore year, was starting for the varsity team. Tyler, who played receiver, and I were the most potent combination in the entire district. Our senior season, we made it all the way to the state championship.
Through it all though, Mr. Simmonds was there. Always pushing me. Always encouraging. Constantly getting after me to be better as a player – and a human being. And with his help – or maybe because of him – I landed a full ride scholarship to USC. Tyler got a scholarship to Texas A&M, officially ending our on-the-field partnership.
Once we both went away to school, we tried our best to stay in touch. But, it pretty much went the way of most high school friendships when there's considerable distance involved – it slowly faded away. Nothing happened between us. There was never a blowout or anything. Eventually, the daily phone calls and text messages became weekly, then monthly – until they ultimately ceased altogether as we got busier with our lives and new friends.
It's been years since I've seen Tyler, and he looks a little – aged. His hair is mostly gray now, and there are lines etched deep in his face. He looks – tired. He's still a strong, imposing looking guy. That hasn't changed. But, he looks rougher around the edges than he used to. It makes me wonder what his life has been like. What happened to him?
When I see the girl sitting next to him, my jaw very nearly hits the ground. Initially, I thought maybe, it's his wife. But, after a few moments of looking at her, I know exactly who she is – Emma. His younger sister.
As I look at her, I'm blown away by how beautiful she is as an adult. She is no longer the geeky little kid I used to know. Twelve years our junior, Emma was a nerdy, sweet girl, with wild hair, thick glasses, and her face constantly buried in a book.
Times have obviously changed. Even in a dark, shapeless dress, Emma looks absolutely stunning. I can see the outline of her round, full breasts. Her skin is the color of alabaster – cool, pale, and flawless. Large, black sunglasses hide dark, bottomless eyes that match the raven-black color of her hair.
I silently chastise myself for allowing my mind to go there – not to mention the stirring in my belly as I drink her in. This is neither the time nor place for that. I'm here to pay my respects to her father – to Tyler's father – not to dream up perverted fantasies about a woman I haven’t seen in nearly two decades. A woman who probably doesn’t remember me, to be honest.
After all, she was just a child the last time I saw her.
Tyler's eyes meet mine, and he stares at me for a long moment, recognition slowly dawning upon his face. He gives me a tight smile and a nod, which I return. Emma, noticing her brother acknowledging somebody, turns to me.
I can't see her eyes behind her sunglasses, but I do see a sudden tightness cross her face. Her lips compress into a tight line, and the corners of her mouth pull down into an even deeper frown than before. And the already cool air seems to drop another ten degrees as she glares at me, presumably, from behind her glasses.
For reasons I can't begin to understand, I'm getting a strange feeling that Emma Simmonds may not be my biggest fan.
She turns away and faces the casket in front of her. She leans over and says something to Tyler that makes him shake his head and cut a quick glance over to me, then quickly drop his eyes. I wonder what she said, but I kind of get the impression that she was asking what I'm doing there, and if he invited me.
The reverend presiding over the services begins his eulogy, snapping me back to reality. It's a nice speech, thankfully light on the religion. Afterward, Tyler and then Emma give personal tributes to their father. Tyler is stoic and delivers his remarks through gritted teeth. He talks about growing up, his speech drawing laughter in some parts, but open sobs in others. It's moving, and through it all, he remains stone-faced and dry-eyed.
Emma, on the other hand, lets her emotions free. Her tribute to her dad is full of funny stories, as well as heart-wrenching ones. She speaks about what a great father he was, and how he encouraged her to move to Southern California to pursue her dreams.
That last bit piques my interest. I didn't know that she was living in my neck of the woods. She speaks for about twenty minutes or so, and by the time she's done, there's not a dry eye to be found. Even Tyler's eyes are red and shimmering with tears he's fighting like hell to keep from falling.
When she's done, she takes a seat next to her brother, and he pulls her close, trying to comfort her through his own grief. I think that's one of the things I remember most about Tyler – his protectiveness about his sister. Being more than a decade younger than him, she was obviously unplanned. And for some reason, that sort of made him feel like it was his responsibility to protect her. To keep her safe. To prevent any kind of harm from ever befalling her.
Obviously, that's not realistic. Life is going to happen whether you want it to or not. You're going to be unhappy sometimes. You get hurt. That never stopped Tyler from trying to minimize his sister's pain though. Even at the cost of his own happiness. I can't count the number of double dates we'd lined up back in the day, only to have him back out because he needed to care for Emma.
Tyler doted on his sister and catered to her every whim. I remember being annoyed by it back then. Like – a lot. He always let her hang around and tag along with us. Because she was literally, just a little kid, she often ruined our plans. And though Tyler never seemed to mind, I sure as hell did.
After Tyler and Emma were finished speaking, they invited anybody else who wanted to step up and say a few words to do so. I listened to people speak for more than an hour, with each story they told reminding me of something from my past. Some were good memories, some bad, but they all made me remember how good of a man Arnold Simmonds was.
As I look at the sleek casket draped in flowers in front of me, the feeling of remorse in my chest is sharp. Painful. I regret never thanking him for all he did for me in person. I regret never coming back to Morro Bay after I left for college. I felt like there was nothing for me here – nothing to come back to.
As I stare at the casket though, I realize just how wrong I was about that.
Eventually, the last of the speakers wrap up, and there are no more. Overall, it's been a nice, fitting tribute to a great man. It's the type of send-off I think he would have enjoyed. Certainly, with laughter and love mixed in with the tears, it's the sort of send-off Arnold deserved.
The mourners all begin to drift away from the gravesite, some of them bound for the catered reception that follows. I linger at the edges while Tyler and Emma speak with some of the people expressing their condolences. I notice Emma stealing glances at me, the frown never leaving her face.
When they're finally alone near the casket, I walk over to them. Emma reaches up to Tyler, whispers something in his ear, and quickly walks away. I watch her go, once again, chastising myself for wanting to watch her ass swish as she leaves.
I step over to Tyler and extend my hand. He looks at it for a moment and then pulls me into a fierce hug. I can feel him finally let loose, his body trembling as he quietly cries against my chest. I look around, feeling slightly awkward, but hold on to him, and let him cry it out. Slowly, he seems to regain his composure, takes a step back, and looks up at me.
“Been a while,” he says.
I nod. “Too long,” I reply. “It's good to see you, Ty.”
He gives me a tight smile. “Good to see you too, Brice. I'm really glad you made it.”
“Of course,” I say. “I had to come and pay my respects. Your father was a good man. He was a huge influence on my life.”
Tyler looks at the casket and then back at me, his eyes filled with sorrow. “How did you find out?”
“Mitch forwarded me the obituary from the paper,” I explain.
He nods and looks off in the direction of old Morro Rock in the distance, a contemplative expression on his face. Giving himself a little shake, he turns back to me.
“Beard's new,” he says.
“Been rockin' it for a few years now,” I say. “Thought it gave me a more dignified look.”
“Maybe a bit,” he says with a small smile.
There's an awkward silence between us – the kind that never used to exist before. Back in the day, we filled the air with mindless chatter about pretty much anything – a lot about football and life, but mostly about girls. Girls we had banged, were going to bang, wanted to bang. We were typical red-blooded American boys in that regard.
Now, twenty years removed from those relatively halcyon days of our youth, it seems like we've finally run out of things to talk about. I'm once again struck by how much Tyler has aged. He's thirty-eight, a year younger than I am but he looks at least ten years older. Maybe more.
The deep lines on his face tell the story of a hard life. A life that didn't go as planned. His slightly ill-fitting, off-the-rack suit, is several years old. Or, at least, several years out of style. It's a little threadbare in some small spots, and the cuffs of his slacks are a little frayed.
His eyes are less vibrant than they used to be. They're a little dull. Kind of lifeless. I feel a tide of pity for my old friend rise up within me, and I wonder what has happened to him since I’ve seen him last. I want to ask, but realize this really isn't the right time or place for that.
“How are you holding up, man?” I ask.
“About as well as can be expected, I suppose.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Emma's really grown up. Last time I saw her, she was still a kid. I mean, I assume that was Emma who darted off so quickly.”
“Yeah, she wanted to get to the reception hall to greet the guests,” he says, casting a glance in the direction she'd headed. “She didn't mean to be rude.”
I wave him off. “No big deal,” I say. “It's been a while, and it's not like we were ever exactly close or anything back then.”
“Yeah,” he says, chuckling softly. “I guess not.”
The way she looks now though, I sure wouldn't mind being close to her. I cringe inwardly at the thought as it rolls through my mind. I honestly can't recall the last time I’ve felt this attracted to a woman. When it comes to relationships – and women in general anymore – I guess my attitude can be described as ambivalent at best. I've been burned way too many times to blindly trust a woman ever again.
Which is why I find my automatic reaction to Emma, a woman I haven't seen in a very long time, interesting, if not a littl
e disconcerting.
“How's she doing, anyway?” I ask. “Emma.”
“About the same as me,” he replies, shaking his head. “She's got extra shit on her plate right now though. She lost her job recently.”
“That's rough,” I say. “What was she doing?”
“Reporter,” he says. “Hey listen, I should probably get over to the reception. Why don't you come by? You can ask her about it yourself.”
“You sure?” I ask. “I mean, I don't want to impose.”
He grips my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. Even though he appears to have aged ten years or more, he's still as strong as an ox.
“I'm grateful you came. It really is good to see you again, man,” he says. “You're always welcome. You should know that.”
“Thanks, Ty,” I say.
As we head for the parking lot, I find that I'm glad he feels that way. It's been a long time, and we didn't fall back into our friendship like only a single day has passed, like so many people claim, but at this point, I'm just thankful he's not harboring any hard feelings. I'm relieved that Tyler still welcomes me as a friend.
Judging by the cold shoulder I got from Emma, I doubt she feels the same way.
Chapter Six
Emma
When I get to the reception hall, I have to sneak away and have a glass or two of wine by myself. I need a quiet place to settle my nerves for a little while. Not only am I having to deal with the avalanche of emotions surrounding my father's death, but I'm suddenly having to deal with the unexpected appearance of Brice Kelly.
I drain half my glass in one long swallow as I sit in a quiet corner in the rear garden of the reception hall. Everyone else who came to pay their respects to my father is gathered inside, eating, drinking, rehashing old stories about him – or, whatever it is people do at these things.