Killer Swell

by Jeff Shelby

  “I am not interested in a ‘win her back’ contest,” I said, finally, setting the glass down and moving closer to the table to meet her gaze. “I’m an investigator, so in order to do the investigating, I normally ask questions.” I paused, watching her lean back, away from me. “I asked if things with Randall were okay because it’s what you ask when a married person disappears. You investigate—there’s that word again—the missing person’s relationships first.”

  I sat back in my chair, exhaling and folding my arms across my chest. I momentarily wished I’d had the guts to speak like that to her in high school.

  “I’m sorry,” Marilyn said, nodding tersely in my direction. “I was rude.”

  “Yeah. You were.”

  “It won’t happen again.” She paused and then refolded her hands on the table. “Their marriage is…a work in progress.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means their marriage is no different than anyone else’s. They have their good times and their bad times.”

  I stood up, angry with myself for having entertained the thought that I could work for Marilyn Crier. I had hated her in high school, and the eleven years that had passed hadn’t changed my feelings. So much for maturity.

  “This isn’t gonna happen,” I said, fishing some money out of my pocket. “In order to find a person, Marilyn, I need straight answers. About everything. You’ll be better off telling this story, whatever it is, to someone you won’t be embarrassed to tell it to.”

  I tossed several bills on the table and avoided looking at her. I walked away from the table and headed out of the bar. The gas fumes and salty haze were stifling in the evening air as I headed up Mission toward my place.

  “Noah! She needs help!”

  I slowed to a stop, listening to horns honking as cars cruised the boulevard. Kids leaned out of windows, waving at one another, their faces illuminated by the moon and streetlights. I turned around slowly.

  Marilyn walked quickly to me, her face as tight as a drum. But her eyes were different than they’d been. Worry now invaded them.

  “She needs help,” she repeated, clearly struggling for what to say. “I’m not sure what the problem is. I don’t know if she’s hiding. I don’t know much about her marriage, but I do know there are some things she is unhappy about.” She stopped, catching her breath, glancing at the line of cars moving slowly along the street. She looked back to me. “I need your help—to find her and to see if she’s okay.”

  I shoved my hands in the pockets of my shorts, her words making me uncomfortable. If she wanted my help, there was probably a reason to think Kate might be in trouble. Marilyn probably would’ve been happy never hearing my name again. But here she was.

  I looked past her at the roller coaster that dominated the Mission Beach skyline, rising high above the street. Small dots of light illuminated the tracks against the black night. Kate and I had ridden the coaster on our first date.

  “Where’s Randall?” I asked.

  “He’s here. He’s staying at the La Valencia,” she said, her voice relaxing at my interest. “He’s been here since Sunday.”

  I nodded absently, watching the coaster cars crest the top of the tracks and dive to the bottom, the elated screams of the riders echoing down the boulevard.

  “I’ll start with him,” I told her.

  “So you’ll help me then?” Marilyn asked, gratefulness almost creeping into her voice.

  The screams on the coaster died as the hydraulic brakes screeched and cracked in the dark, the ride coming to an end.

  “No,” I said, moving my gaze to Marilyn’s eyes, wanting her to see my face. “But I’ll try to help Kate.”

  3

  Marilyn Crier wrote me a check for two thousand dollars on the spot and assured me she would pay whatever it took to find Kate. I assured her I would ask for more money if I needed it. I also explained to her that I would be around asking questions and if she got uncooperative, my services would come to a halt without refund. She said she understood, told me Randall’s last name was Tower, and walked to her silver BMW 530i, edging it carefully out into the traffic and disappearing into the sea of cars.

  I wondered why she hadn’t contacted the police first and probably should have asked that question. But Marilyn hadn’t mentioned any danger, just that Kate was having some problems. I felt certain that she came to me first because involving the authorities would’ve meant drawing the kind of attention that families like the Criers did everything in their power to avoid.

  I crossed Mission Boulevard, cut down an alley, and headed north on the boardwalk. The moon was shining on the small, gentle waves, and the sand looked bright white because of it. Couples strolled along the walk; kids hung out on the beach, smoking and feeling adult, their small bonfires dotting the shoreline.

  I remembered hanging out at the beach in high school. It was a safe haven for teenagers. You could smoke a cigarette, drink a can of beer, or make out with a girl and feel like no one was watching, the ocean serving as a giant security blanket of noise and privacy.

  I ducked my head under the breeze, my chin digging into my chest. Kate and I had spent a lot of nights at the beach. She always told her parents we were at the movies or shopping. They didn’t like the thought of us going to those places either, but they seemed less illicit than the sand and water. Of course, my alcoholic mother, the father I had never known, the tiny house in Bay Park, and my penchant for spending more time on a surfboard than in class provided plenty for them to disapprove of.

  I hopped the wall into the small courtyard at the back of my house and slid open the glass door to the living room, shutting it behind me. My place is small, a one-bedroom bungalow built in the 1930s with wood floors and the permanent smell of wax. Four of us had lived here during college, two bunk beds in the one bedroom. Everyone had left but me. The old couple that owned it dropped the rent for me when I graduated and left me alone. It was a steal for the price, and you can’t beat eating your breakfast as you head down the sand to the early morning waves, which I tried to do most every day.

  I grabbed a Red Trolley Ale from the fridge and collapsed on the sofa. A knot had formed in my stomach, and I didn’t like it. It surprised me that Marilyn hadn’t asked me how I had become an investigator, but I figured that would’ve been too much interest in me for her. She would’ve loved to hear how it took me six years to finish college, that I waited tables for two years after that until I’d spotted an ad in the paper for an insurance company looking to train an investigator. I liked the job, the freedom of the hours, the solitary environment. I didn’t like the reports, the suits I had to wear to the office, or the fact that I had a supervisor. I completed my hours, applied for my license from the state, and said adios. Not glamorous, not lucrative, but it had become my life and I had grown to appreciate it.

  Marilyn probably would not, and that made me smile in the darkness of my living room as I sipped the beer.

  4

  I left the beer half empty on my coffee table, dug around in the piles of laundry for my car keys, and headed out to pay Randall Tower a visit.

  I found my Jeep in the alley, turned down Jamaica, forced my way onto Mission, and settled in for the snaillike cruise up to La Jolla. The police had tried to crack down on the cruising by employing curfews, roadblocks, whatever they could think of. Nothing worked with any degree of success so the cops had become content with just patrolling, making sure all were behaving themselves.

  I passed the Catamaran Hotel, moving into Pacific Beach. PB had recently moved itself into the upper class of San Diego beach communities, adding trendy restaurants and nightclubs to the beachfront hotels that sat between Grand and Garnett. The clothing switched from long shorts and T-shirts to polo shirts and sundresses, and the cars on the street increased in price.

  The traffic lightened as I swung around the curve onto La Jolla Boulevard and into the area known as Bird Rock. The houses hung off the cliffs protected b
y elaborate gates and hedges. An elite area of rich people who didn’t like you to see them while they watched the ocean from their living rooms.

  I moved through Bird Rock and parked at the very southern end of Prospect Street, near the Museum of Contemporary Art. If you lived in La Jolla, Prospect Street was downtown. Forget that the rest of San Diego referred to the harbor area about fifteen miles to the south with its high-rises and international airport as downtown. If I’d needed directions to the La Valencia hotel, Marilyn Crier would’ve said, “It’s right in the middle of downtown.”

  A pink place of lodging sounds obnoxious, but the La Valencia was able to pull it off. The luxury resort took up half a block on Prospect, sitting atop the cove with sweeping northern views of La Jolla Shores and Torrey Pines. Charge three hundred bucks a night for a room and you can put polka dots on the outside and it will still be chic.

  Two young high school students in tuxedo shirts, bow ties, and black shorts hustled around the valet stand, parking expensive foreign cars. I walked through the courtyard, wondering how much the meals cost that were being served on the outdoor patio. More than they were worth, I figured.

  The front desk was a small, oak-encased area off the main hall. The door at the end of the hall was open, the Pacific sparkling out in the distance. Expensive perfume and cologne mingled in the air above the antique furniture in the lobby. I probably should’ve worn a jacket, but that would’ve looked silly over my T-shirt and shorts.

  The gentleman behind the desk wore a dark suit and tie over a light blue dress shirt. His blond hair was slicked back off his forehead, and he didn’t cringe when I stepped to the desk.

  “I’m here for Randall Tower,” I said, smiling.

  The clerk managed to look me up and down before I realized he’d done it. “He’s a guest, sir?”

  “That’s what I was told.”

  He nodded, as if he already knew he was correct. “I can’t give out room information, sir.”

  I nodded, as if I already knew that. “Can you ring his room?”

  He thought about it, which I understood because it was a tough question. “Your name, sir?”

  “Braddock.”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “I have no idea. Possibly.”

  His eyebrows arched, and I hoped he hadn’t pushed the secret alarm button beneath the desk.

  “Sir, our guests expect a certain amount of privacy,” he began, sounding as if he were reading from a brochure. “If you’d like to leave a message—”

  “I wouldn’t,” I said, cutting him off and smiling. “Please let him know a friend of his wife’s is here.”

  Now the eyebrows knitted, concern frosting his eyes. He was clearly casting me for the jilted lover or other man, or some other figure in the dramas that play out in rich people’s lives.

  “Sir, I really…” he began, puffing his chest out.

  “Let’s not make this silly,” I said. “I’m here to help the guy, not cause trouble. So either you can ring his room and tell him Noah Braddock is here and wants to see him, or I can start going floor to floor, room to room until I find him.”

  He bristled and lifted his chin. “Or I can throw you out of the hotel.”

  I smiled. “You personally?”

  His cheeks reddened slightly. “I meant, I would call the police and have you removed from the premises.”

  “Right,” I said. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my wallet, flipped it open to my license, and laid it on the counter. “Call the police. They’re friends of mine. I can give you a couple of names to ask for specifically. I’m sure they’d be happy to respond to a case where you simply wouldn’t dial a room number. I’m sure they’d see your side of it.”

  The color in his cheeks brightened, and he pursed his lips, glancing at my license but not wanting to stare at it. He looked back at me, knowing he was beaten.

  “Tower, you said?” he said, straightening his tie and trying to regain his dignity.

  I grabbed my wallet and deposited it back in my pocket. “You got it.”

  He picked up the receiver, punched several numbers on the console in front of him, and shook his head. “I hate this place.”

  I smiled, feeling sorry for him. “You and me both, pal. You and me both.”

  5

  I was standing at the open back door of the lobby, admiring the sparkling black evening ocean when a finger tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Mr. Braddock?” he asked as I turned around. “I’m Randall Tower.”

  Randall was slightly taller than me, maybe six-four, and movie-star handsome. His thick, dark hair was cut stylishly short on the sides, a longer shock combed off his bronze forehead. Bright blue eyes rested above a very Waspy nose, thick lips, and a dimpled chin. A black cotton dress shirt and white linen slacks hung loosely on his thin frame. Black loafers covered his feet.

  He offered his hand, and his grip was stronger than I expected.

  “Noah,” I said.

  He nodded, a small smile turning up a corner of his mouth. “Marilyn said I might be hearing from you.”

  “That’s funny?”

  He waved a hand in the air. “Marilyn said to watch out for ulterior motives. Those were her exact words, I believe.”

  “I’m sure they were.”

  He aimed a thumb back over his shoulder. “Buy you a drink?”

  I nodded and followed him through the lobby into a small room that housed a bar and half a dozen stools, all empty. Apparently, in expensive hotels you didn’t hang out in the bar. Maybe you had the bartender hang out in your room.

  We sat at the farthest end of the bar. I ordered a Jack and Coke, and Randall asked for a Heineken. The small man behind the bar had the drinks on the bar in less than thirty seconds and then moved away from us. Probably didn’t want my T-shirt to rub off on him.

  “You knew Kate?” Randall asked me.

  “In high school.”

  “Marilyn said you dated.”

  “We did.”

  He chuckled, his eyes amused. “So are there ulterior motives that I should be aware of?”

  “Nope. Marilyn hired me to find Kate. That’s my motive.”

  He eyed me for a moment. “Sure about that?”

  I stared back. “Yeah. I promise that if I find Kate, I won’t ask her to go to the prom with me,” I said. “Believe it or not, I have moved on since high school.”

  He nodded. “Good.”

  Something in the way he said it made me think that he was telling me that if I did have other reasons for taking on the case, I could forget them. Kate was his. It shouldn’t have, but it irritated me.

  “How long have you been married?” I asked, sipping the drink.

  “Three years,” he told me, his eyes focused on the green beer bottle. “We met at Stanford. Kate was finishing her master’s and I’d just completed my internship at the hospital.”

  “You’re a doctor.”

  “Orthopedic surgeon,” he said. “I’m practicing now at St. Andrew’s in San Francisco.”

  “That’s where you live?”

  He took a drink from the bottle and nodded. “Yeah. North of the city in Marin County.”

  Randall and Kate were making some big bucks to live in one of the most expensive counties in the country.

  We didn’t speak for nearly a minute, the silence in the bar broken by the bartender’s polishing of the brass rail that ran the length of the bar. A quiet shushing sound.

  “Enough of the small talk,” he said, suddenly, his voice serious. “I hate small talk. It’s what I do with Marilyn.”

  I raised my glass in his direction. “You said it, not me.”

  “You’re an investigator?”

  “I am.”

  “Can you find Kate?”

  “I don’t really know enough about what’s going on to give you a good answer to that,” I told him.

  He thought about that and stared at his Heineken. His eyes were elsewhere, though. “I
don’t think she wants to be married anymore,” he said.

  “Why’s that?”

  He laughed, shaking his head. “Because that’s basically what she told me.”

  I didn’t react right away because I felt bad for him. No matter the state of their marriage, hearing that had to hurt. I remembered her conversation with me on Catalina and feeling as if someone had just died.

  “Someone else?” I finally said.

  He hesitated for a moment, glancing at me as if I’d asked an unexpected question. Then he looked back at the beer bottle. “I don’t think so. I think she just doesn’t want to be married.”

  I found that odd. “So why would that make her disappear?”

  He held the neck of the beer bottle loosely between his fingers, swinging it back and forth. “Not sure. We’ve been arguing, though.”

  “About?”

  “Oh, everything, I guess,” he said, a frustrated expression on his face. “We can’t get along. I get mad at her, she gets mad at me. Neither of us can please the other.”

  I nodded. “When was the last time you spoke to her?”

  “The night before her flight was supposed to leave. She seemed fine, said she was looking forward to getting home after being down here for a few days,” Randall said. “That was it. When she didn’t show up and no one had heard from her, I flew down right away.”

  I finished my drink, and we walked back to the lobby. We shook hands again.

  “Thanks for doing this,” he said, giving a quick nod.

  “No problem,” I replied. “You’re staying in San Diego for a while?”

  “As long as I need to,” he said, a weak smile creasing his face.

  I said I’d be in touch and walked outside. The valets were talking and laughing. They glanced at me and then went back to their conversation. Guess I didn’t look like I owned a car they would consider parking.

  Dr. Randall Tower hadn’t given me much. Normal marriage problems, seemed surprised that Kate would take off. But one thing bothered me as I walked back along Prospect to my car.