by Paul Charles
“Reminds me of this story I always tell Grace about a couple of old friends of mine. They had four boys, all born within a period of six years. The older three had black hair and dark eyes. The youngest had red hair and blue eyes. On his deathbed, my friend turns to his wife and said, ‘Sweetie, please be honest with me. Is our youngest boy my child?’ The wife, hand on the old, well-thumbed family Bible, replied, ‘I swear on everything holy, he is your son.’ A few minutes later my friend passed away a contented man. The wife then said through her tears, ‘Thank God he didn’t ask about the other three.’”
Kennedy laughed.
“It’s always important to ask your questions specifically, Inspector,” Donohue continued, dropping his feet from the corner of his desk and pyramiding his arms under his chin on the desk, “but it’s vitally important to ask the correct questions. So, just for the record, Inspector,” Donohue stated firmly, “I had no problems with my son-in-law. He was a good guy, and he and my daughter were happy and in love. They were good together. He was good at his work, considerate of his fellow officers, and got on well with everyone.”
The chief paused for a few moments then flicked through his large, brown, leather-bound desk diary. “On the night in question I was in San Francisco. Yes here it is, April 12th. Of course I know where I was, but I just wanted to show you my journal entry as well. I was at a meeting with a lot of my fellow chiefs about our on-going zero tolerance war against drug dealers. The meeting finished, as ever, late. I had dinner with a few of them, stayed overnight in the city, and my driver drove me down here the following morning. I just got in the door here on Kelly Street when the call came in from Coach Goldberg down at Pilarcitos Bridge.”
“Thanks for being so candid with me,” Kennedy said.
“And while we’re on this love-fest,” Donohue replied, “thank you for not shying away from getting into this. Grace says you’re a straight-up guy. Anyway, that over, where are you with all of this?”
“We need to find a way to view the creek from Asher’s bank.”
Donohue didn’t volunteer any solutions himself; he waited for Kennedy to talk him through it.
“Do you know Asher well?” Kennedy asked.
“He’s not one of the locals, and he’s not a community man. He’s new money. It appears he made his fortune buying and selling something that doesn’t exist. Having said that, he sold a big piece of his company for half a billion dollars, so he must have been doing something right. He’s got expensive lawyers with political clout. He’s forty at the most, divorced, never short of girls up at the ranch, I hear. He’s got one daughter. Liz in reception at the station here says she’s got a mouth on her.”
“Do you know any of his staff up on the ranch?”
“Never been invited around there, Inspector, and never had cause to pay him a visit.”
“What’s the protocol if I want to pay him a visit?”
“Just make sure Officer Scott is with you; that makes it official.”
“Is it okay with you if I chat with Liz on the way out?”
Donohue looked at his watch, “It’s six already, you just missed her. You’ll have to wait until the morning.”
“Okay,” Kennedy replied.
“How are you getting on with your own case?”
“I think I’ve got a lead, something I picked up over the weekend, and I have a piece of evidence from London hopefully being delivered here tomorrow.”
“Have you spoken to your person of interest yet?”
Kennedy loved the American-speak for suspect. He had heard Grace use it a few times.
“We’ll leave it until I’ve worked out a bit more of the case. We know where ... where our person of interest is,” Kennedy replied, trying the phrase out for the first time. It sounded good in an American cop show kind of way. “And Grace thinks it’s better not to tip our hand until we’ve something more to go on. She reckons Miss Chada feels she’s gotten away with it, so she’s going nowhere fast. We know where she is, and Grace has a tap on her.”
“Okay, you two seem to be turning into quite a team, and it seems to be a two-way street,” Donohue said, a hint of pride evident. He rose on his side of the desk, showing the meeting was over. “Keep fishing,” he continued. “Keep me posted, Inspector, and if you guys need anything, just give me a holler.”
***
Kennedy walked back up into town feeling foolish that he hadn’t organised a meeting point and time with Grace. He used the time to visit Half Moon Bay’s several taverns to see if he could spot either Green Cap or his pick-up, with no joy. Kennedy suspected that the locals probably had their own non-tourist hangouts somewhere on the outskirts of the town.
As he sat on a creaky community chair under the veranda over the boardwalk opposite The Half Moon Bay Inn, he wondered about Sharenna Chada and how she was fitting into her new life. Kennedy found that away from home you quickly fell into a routine. Having things to do at certain times gave you the security that came naturally when you were in your own town.
Kennedy didn’t know how long he sat there lost in his thoughts, but he noticed the sun was going down, it was getting cooler and the last of the tourists had long since disappeared. Even in the fading light, Grace Scott’s translucent, fiery hair screamed out for attention as she wearily waddled up the street in her waterproofs. She was still a vision to behold.
“You,” she called out when she reached the Half Moon Bay Inn opposite him, “you’re going to treat me to a slap-up meal in Pasta Moon.”
“Done,” Kennedy said.
“Could you bear to have dinner with me if I don’t have a shower? I’m soooooooo exhausted, I just don’t have the energy, and we’re old friends by this stage.”
“Anything that keeps the flies your side of the dinner table is all right with me,” Kennedy said.
“Inspector, that was hardly gallant.”
“You’re not sitting where I am,” he said. “Just kidding,” he added just in the nick of time. She broke into a large warm smile and ruffled her fingers through his hair in a matey kind of way.
Twenty minutes later, and both refreshed to some degree in the restrooms at Kelly Street station house, they were sitting down to dinner in Pasta Moon. They both had the same delicious meal as last time. Kennedy brought her up to speed with the details of his conversation with her father.
“And you?” he asked.
“Not a lot to report,” she replied, as if she were recalling every painful watery step, “except that the creek was deep enough for the water to go the whole way out to the sea. So, if Steve’s body hadn’t beached under the bridge on Main Street, we’d probably never have discovered it.”
She stopped talking at that point as if to let the drama of the statement register with both of them. Their glasses of white wine and the breadbasket arrived.
“You know, there are a few tunnels that come up from the seafront under the town. One comes in under the Half Moon Bay Inn actually.”
“Tell me more.” Kennedy, intrigued, felt she might have come up with a new angle.
“They were most likely built in the 1920s to help the rum runners get their contraband off the beach quickly and safely. Then, during World War II, the Italians were banned from the south side of town. We didn’t want them running down to the beach and giving signals to the Japanese. The Italians used these tunnels to move and hide, or to illegally get into their favourite bars when the police or military were in town searching for someone.”
“Are the tunnels used for anything today?”
“Nope. They’re mostly blocked up, but I was thinking it might have been another way they could have got Steve’s body down to the beach without being noticed. Dumping him in the creek still doesn’t make sense to me.”
“But there’s no connection between the tunnels and the flow of the creek?” Kennedy asked, as he noticed there was something very delicate about Grace Scott’s hands and fingers.
She agreed reluctantly. “I jus
t had to come up with some theories to fill my time.” Then her face grew serious. “Do you miss ann rea?”
Kennedy was just about to answer when she interrupted him.
“It’s just I was wondering about this as I was walking down the creek, on my very long walk down to the sea. You know, with Steve, he’s dead and I miss him desperately, but I’m officially allowed to grieve him. But with ann rea, well, that’s most certainly as big a loss from your life, but she’s still there. I was wondering if I had ever been given the choice of Steve being out of my life but still being alive, or him being dead, which would I have chosen?”
Kennedy returned his fork to the table. He thought that was just such a sad thing for her to be thinking about, and he felt guilty for leaving her by herself in the creek.
She saw all of this in his eyes.
“Inspector,” she protested, “this was about how you feel about losing ann rea. Please answer me that. It’s important.”
“Well, for me, the weirdness in ending a long-term relationship is that I feel I know all about her life, but I’m no longer allowed to be part of that life. I can still feel her closeness, but I’m not allowed to share it. And you know what the really annoying thing about it is?”
“Tell me?”
“I still can’t find anything wrong with her. I mean... I mean she was perfect,” Kennedy said, admitting something he’d never admitted to anyone, even himself before.
They were silent for a full minute before Kennedy spoke again.
“You know,” Kennedy said, as much to himself as to Grace Scott, “the thing I loved most about ann rea was the fact that she was the only one out of the two of us who knew we couldn’t work, and she went to a lot of trouble and pain to let me down easy.”
“Look, Kennedy, as we’ve had a few glasses and are making our confessions, I just need to tell you how much it means to have you as a friend. It was bad enough to lose Steve, but that’s what could destroy me. And I know that’s not what Steve would have wanted. He would not have wanted my life to end as well! I felt I’d lost a connection with everyone. That’s why it was great when you came along, just in the nick of time. Maybe it was just because you were jet lagged out of your brains, but you didn’t treat me with kid gloves. You made it clear you enjoyed my company, but you never for a second suggested there would be the usual trade-off cost for your company.”
She playfully punched him in the arm.
“I even noticed my dad look at me as if to suggest, ‘It might still be too early for you to be playing the merry widow role, Grace,’ because you’d made me happy again. Look, Inspector, I don’t want to get laid, but I do appreciate the company. Steve and I lived in a bubble, and I gave up everyone else. Well, maybe I didn’t exactly give them up, you know… but then he died, everything went to zero overnight, and then you came into town and you treated me with respect; that’s all I wanted to say. Now pay the freakin’ bill, Inspector, or I’ll kick your ass.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
Tuesday morning arrived much too quickly for Kennedy. He considered a night’s sleep to be like a train journey where you pulled into the station of a new day. Only on this particular Tuesday, it felt as if he’d not got all his gear packed, ready to disembark the train when it pulled into the station, and was panicking to have time to get off the train before it pulled out again with him on board.
Chief Edward Donohue was the reason for his panic. For the first time since Kennedy had arrived in Half Moon Bay, the chief had entered the log cabin. Even before he’d opened his eyes to greet the new day, Kennedy could hear Chief Donohue walking backwards and forwards in the main room, and it sounded like he was outside his door.
Big trouble in little Half Moon Bay, Kennedy thought. To be found in bed with the chief’s daughter in the chief’s own home… This was not going to be an easy one to get out of. Kennedy felt for Grace on her side of the bed. “On her side of the bed,” Kennedy whispered to himself in his semi-conscious state. “Would you just listen to yourself: ‘On her side of the bed.’”
He felt nothing.
Then he remembered, and allowed himself the luxury of a large breath. When they’d returned to the cabin from Pasta Moon on the previous evening, Grace kept her promise from Sunday evening. Claiming she was totally bushed, she gave Kennedy a brief peck on the check before retiring, without any great fuss or drama, to her own room.
Funny that this was also the morning the chief chose to disturb the sanctuary of the cabin. “Well, maybe not so much funny, as lucky,” Kennedy said as he hopped out of bed and searched in his wheelie for a change of everything.
By the time he’d showered, dressed, and entered the main room, the chief and Grace were at the table hugging their coffee mugs.
“Ah, there he is,” Donohue said.
“Good morning, Inspector,” Grace said, adding her wonderful smile.
Kennedy couldn’t figure out if she was smiling because she was happy, glad to see him, or just relieved the chief hadn’t arrived twenty-four hours earlier and found them in bed together.
“Good morning to you both,” Kennedy said, and then, addressing Grace, “How did you sleep?”
“Best for ages, Inspector, best for ages. There’s tea in the pot for you, and I’ve got some toast on the go.”
“Toast, toast!” Donohue near shouted. “The man needs a proper breakfast, Gracie. You’ve just been saying how much you like him being here, so we don’t want him checking into a hotel, now do we?”
“Nah, I’m good, Chief; tea and toast would be great. We’d a big dinner last evening in Pasta Moon.”
“Okay, but I find I can’t get into my stride if I don’t have a proper breakfast.”
Kennedy poured his tea and honeyed his wheaten toast, sensing the chief watching his every move closely while also observing his daughter’s reactions.
When the chief seemed convinced that Grace was genuinely ignoring Kennedy completely, he went on, “I have business in the city today, Inspector, but I just wanted to advise you before I go that the Home Office has a package for you. It’s going to take another day to get through the system. In the Blair/Bush days it would have flown straight through to you, but our side aren’t as keen on Cameron, so all they’ll do now is send you a message saying it’s on its way. Is that the package you were waiting for?”
“Hopefully,” Kennedy said, slightly disappointed.
“Our guest here,” Donohue continued for the benefit of his daughter, “has got friends in high places. There’s a personal note in the package from the Home Secretary to our Inspector Kennedy.”
“For heaven’s sake, you didn’t open it, did you?”
“Of course not. His office details are on the address sticker.”
“We better let him get to his tea then, Dad. We don’t want to risk an invasion just because he’s teed off with us for letting his tea go cold.”
The chief drained his own cup of coffee, bade his goodbye, and wandered off muttering something to himself about the Boston Tea Party.
It was still only seven-forty, but Grace was raring to go.
“What’s first today, Inspector?”
“I want to talk to Liz, down in the station house,” Kennedy replied.
“Okay,” Grace replied slowly, “and that would be why?”
“From what the chief said yesterday afternoon, Liz seems to know Florence Asher.”
On the journey down to the station house, Grace said, “I feel great today, Inspector.”
Liz hadn’t arrived when Kennedy and Grace Scott reached the station.
Mactoo was in residence though, and he shot the breeze with Kennedy for a few minutes.
“Tell me this, Inspector,” Mactoo said as Grace wandered off somewhere, “Brillo Pads. Did we invent them or did you guys?”
“I haven’t a clue,” Kennedy replied, amused and wondering where all this man’s bizarre thoughts came from. Grace maintained he’d taken too many mushrooms in his youth.
&nbs
p; “No, me neither, but I always figured that if a man went to all that trouble to invent something like a Brillo Pad, then I should at the very least buy some now and again in appreciation.”
Grace heard the end of the conversation as she returned and laughed, “You don’t mean to tell us you’ve gone all domesticated on us, Mactoo?”
“Heck no, that’s the FPO’s domain,” he protested, hands to the sky.
“That’s the Fun Prevention Officer, a.k.a. his wife,” Grace clarified for Kennedy’s benefit.
“But I have got a shelf full of them in my study,” Mactoo continued, completely ignoring Grace. “Twenty-four boxes stacked six high, four along, together. Looks pretty cool to me. I’m thinking of framing them - you know, a variation on the Andy Warhol vibe?”
At which point the black-haired, slim-framed receptionist arrived in the lobby where Mactoo, Grace, and Kennedy had been discussing Brillo Pads.
“Can we talk to you privately, Liz?” Grace asked.
“Yes, sure. Did I do something wrong? Am I in some kind of trouble?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Kennedy replied. “We’re just collecting information.”
The all-American Liz seemed to relax a little as they entered the interview room. Grace sat on the same side of the table as Liz. Kennedy felt the gesture was to relax Liz even more.
“We wanted to talk to you about Florence Asher,” Kennedy started. “Do you know her well?”
“I don’t actually know her at all; I only know of her.”
“Oh,” Kennedy said in surprise, “I understood from the chief you felt she was, ah, rude.”
“Oh that,” Liz replied, on the same page at last. “I was here one evening when she came into reception, bold as brass, and demanded to see Officer...” she stopped mid-sentence and turned to look at Grace.
“What is it, Liz?” Grace asked gently.
“Well, she was asking for Steve, your husband.”
“Okay,” Grace said, processing the information. “That’s okay, and did you know what she wanted him for?”