by Jeff Shelby
He seemed pretty calm for a guy who hadn’t seen his wife in nearly two weeks.
6
Marilyn had told me that Kate had stayed at the San Diego Marriott Hotel and Marina during her visit to the city. Marilyn explained that Kate always stayed at a hotel when she came home, saying she didn’t want to be a bother to her parents, despite their objections. I wondered how Marilyn explained that one to her socialite friends as I made the drive to the hotel to see if there were any giant clues to trip over.
The Marriott sits at the southern edge of the downtown area, sandwiched between the revitalized Gaslamp Quarter and the finger of San Diego Bay that separates the mainland from Coronado Island. The two towers of the hotel jut into the horizon like glass spears, and the lights from the Coronado Bridge reflected off the mirrored exteriors in the bluish-black evening sky.
The girl at the front desk of the Marriott was less wary than the guy at the La Valencia, and, after a quick look at my license, she gave me what little info on Kate she had.
“The reservation was from the second through the eighth, but she checked out two days early,” she said, staring at the computer screen. “Bill paid in full.”
“Room been rented since?”
She nodded quickly. “Several times. We’re running close to full.” She frowned, obviously not appreciating San Diego’s push toward tourism. “It’s like that in the summer.”
“Anything else on the bill?”
She studied the screen, then shook her head. “Nope. Room and tax. That’s it.”
I thanked her for her help and wandered around the lobby. I glanced in the windows of the gift shops that lined the walkway to the outdoor courtyard. I saw expensive things. I poked my head into the bar and observed the noise and commotion. Nothing pointed me in the right direction.
I walked outside to my car and was heading toward the exit on Harbor when a solitary car at the end of the lot caught my eye. The red Mercedes was parked diagonally, taking up two spaces, shining brightly beneath a towering streetlamp. There were small dents on top of the trunk, as if someone had pounded a fist into it.
I made a U-turn and parked next to the car. I stared at the car for a moment before getting out.
I have always been baffled by my actions. I don’t know why I stuck a straw up the cat’s nose when I was six. I don’t know why I took my first drink at fifteen. I don’t know why I sometimes stop talking to friends for no reason. For as long as I can remember, I have done things simply because I felt compelled. No justification, no reason. I just do things.
That Mercedes was screaming for me to look at it.
I stepped out of my car and the smell hit me almost immediately. I swallowed hard against whatever was rotting in the area and walked up to the driver’s side window. A white leather purse was tossed casually into the backseat. The keys were in the ignition.
I tried the doors, but they were locked. The stench was smothering me, and I couldn’t ignore the fact that it was coming from the trunk. I pulled the tire iron from the rear of my Jeep and wedged it into the space between the trunk door and the body of the car. I jimmied the iron up and down for a minute before I heard the lock snap. I pushed up on it. The lid creaked slightly as it rose.
The odor emerged like a nuclear cloud, and I took a step back, the muscles in my throat convulsing. I held my forearm in front of my nose and mouth and looked reluctantly into the trunk.
Kate Crier’s face stared back at me, the life in it long gone.
7
The cops were unrolling yellow crime-scene tape like birthday streamers when Detective Liz Santangelo arrived just before eleven. She wore a white blouse under a black leather jacket, black jeans shimmying up her long legs, and open-heel sandals on her feet. The jacket was gathered at her waist, accentuating her figure, and more than a few of the twenty or so cops now on the scene tried to eye her inconspicuously as she strode in my direction.
Since I’d seen her naked a couple of years ago, the thrill was gone for me.
She strode right up to me and spread her hands out in front of her, palms up, and said, “You opened the trunk. Why?”
In my head, I kept replaying the moment I’d opened the trunk. I couldn’t make it stop. “I didn’t know she was in there, Liz.”
She narrowed her blue eyes beneath her jet-black hair. “You thought the smell was what, an old sandwich?”
Liz’s beauty was matched only by her sarcasm. “Gimme a break, Liz.”
She shook her head and folded her arms across her chest, disappointing much of the crowd. Her hair was pulled back away from her face, a small silver hoop in each earlobe. Her thin, pink lips were somewhere between a frown and a snarl. And her eyes could be hypnotizing, particularly when they were rolling.
“Noah, you know better,” she said, shaking her head. “This is junior varsity stuff.” She stared at me for a moment and her expression changed. “You know her?”
I nodded. “Kate Crier.”
Liz’s eyes blinked, she stood up a little straighter, and she glanced at the car. “Kate?”
I nodded and Liz frowned, her chin dropping slightly. Liz had been two years ahead of Kate and me in school. It occurred to me that they might’ve played volleyball together, but I wasn’t sure.
“Shit,” Liz said quietly. “Why are you here?”
I let out a deep breath. “Her mother hired me to find her.”
“They thought she was missing?”
“Yeah, I don’t think anyone knew she was in the trunk,” I said sharply, irritated by everything.
She stared at me with a hard look I’d become all too familiar with during our six-month relationship two years ago. The look was a mixture of condescension, disgust, and confusion. I always bring out the best in women.
“Be right back,” she said.
She walked over to the cops stringing the tape, pointing at several spots that she wanted secured. She then made her way over to the medical examiner’s people. Beneath the bright police lights that bit into the darkness, they were taking Kate’s body from the car. I turned away. I knew that I would never be able to remember Kate as the gorgeous eighteen-year-old high school senior again. She would always be looking at me from the inside of that trunk.
“Noah,” Liz said, back at my side. “What else do you know?”
I shook my head. “Not much. I talked to her mother and her husband earlier tonight.”
She nodded and watched over my shoulder at what I assumed to be the removal of the corpse. I closed my eyes and tried to flush the image of Kate’s dead face from my memory.
“I’m gonna need you to make a statement,” Liz said, as I opened my eyes.
“Tomorrow,” I said, exhausted. “I’ll come down in the morning.”
“Tonight,” she said, the hard cop look returning to her face. “You’ll make the statement tonight. I don’t want to miss anything.”
I had never appreciated the fact that Liz could turn her cop behavior off and on so easily. More often than not, it was the cop behavior that I had to deal with in our relationship, and that had never worked for me.
I stared at her for a moment, and she held my gaze. Then I said, “Now I remember.”
The corners of her mouth twitched. “Remember?”
“Why we broke up. I remember why now.”
Her eyes went flat, and she glanced over my shoulder again. “Really. Why’s that?”
“Because I decided you were a bitch,” I said, and walked away.
8
I gave my statement and left without speaking to Liz again. I knew I’d been out of line but I wasn’t quite ready to apologize yet. I figured there would be another opportunity in the too near future.
I drove away from downtown and headed north toward La Jolla, to Marilyn Crier’s house. I had found Kate, and I figured I should let her know, if the police hadn’t already beaten me to it. I wasn’t looking forward to the conversation, but I owed her that much.
Mount Soledad
has two sides. The south side is considered Pacific Beach, the homes looking back at Mission Bay. Once you passed the giant cross that emerged from the top of the hill, you were in La Jolla. The mansions jutted out from the side of the mountain with views that spanned the coastline. You could almost smell the money.
The Criers’ home rested just below the cross, a gated enclave that laughed at everything below it. The gate was open as I approached the drive, a police car turning out of the property and passing me in the opposite direction.
Marilyn was standing in front of the giant oak doors of her house between two huge white pillars, illuminated by the coach lights. Her arms were crossed tightly across her chest, and her chin was tucked down. Ken Crier, her husband and Kate’s father, stood next to her, his face as white as a sheet.
I stopped my car in the circular drive and got out.
Marilyn looked up as I approached. “Noah.” Her voice was hoarse and disjointed.
I held up my hand, an awkward attempt at a greeting. “The police were just here?”
She nodded slightly. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry, Marilyn.”
Marilyn’s lips puckered, and her eyes filled with tears. She turned and disappeared through the massive doors into the house.
Ken Crier walked down the stone steps. He cleared his throat and extended his hand. “Noah. It’s been a long time.”
Ken was a small, compact man with thinning brown hair. His eyes were small, his mouth perpetually tightened into what looked like an uncomfortable grimace. Large forearms extended from the sleeves of his white golf shirt, which was tucked tightly into a pair of immaculate khakis. In eleven years, he’d aged about an hour.
I shook his hand. “Yeah. I wish I were here for a different reason.”
He cleared his throat again, his eyes unsteady. “You spoke with Marilyn earlier?”
“Yes.”
He nodded and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Did the police tell you anything?”
“No. Not really.”
He sighed and shook his head. “It’s unbelieveable. I don’t know that I believe it.”
He was in shock, and I didn’t know what to say to him. I had never been able to speak comfortably with him. He’d intimidated the hell out of me as a teenager, always cutting me off in mid-sentence and making me feel small. It was his way. But I’d always known that he loved his daughter. I hadn’t seen Kate in years and her death was digging into me like an ice pick; I couldn’t imagine what Ken was feeling.
“Noah, I’d like your help,” he said, suddenly.
“My help?”
He nodded at me, his eyes beginning to refocus. “I need to know what happened to Kate.”
I squinted into the evening breeze. “I’m sure the police will keep you informed.”
He waved a hand in the air, dismissively. The wrinkles around his eyes tightened in contempt. “The police will take their time, tell me things I don’t understand, and treat me like an idiot.” He paused. “I don’t need that and I don’t want that.”
“I don’t know that I can do much better,” I told him honestly.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d try,” he replied, turning toward the house. He walked back up the stairs and stopped at the giant doors. He turned back to me. “She was in trouble, Noah.”
That surprised me because it was at odds with what Marilyn had told me. “Trouble?”
He bit his bottom lip for a moment, and his eyes blinked quickly. “Something was wrong,” he said, his voice tight. “This wasn’t random. I knew something was wrong with her or with her life. I could feel it. But she wouldn’t talk to me.”
Kate could be stubborn, but I remembered her being Daddy’s little girl. “Why?”
He turned toward the open doors, then paused. “She never forgave me,” he said, over his shoulder.
“For what?”
Ken Crier turned back and looked at me. There was little warmth in his smile. “For always intruding in her life.”
9
“I lied,” Kate Crier had said to me.
It was a July night, two months after our high school graduation. We were sitting on a bench on the boardwalk on Catalina Island. We’d had dinner at a small Italian place, near the casino at the north end of the island.
I didn’t know what she was talking about.
“What?” I said. “You lied?”
She took a deep breath and brushed the blond bangs from her tan forehead.
“You asked me earlier if I was alright,” she said. “When we got off the ferry. And I said I was.”
I was puzzled. “And you’re not?”
Kate looked at me, her green eyes sad. She was trying to smile but it wasn’t reaching her face.
“No,” she said. “I’m not.”
We sat there quietly for a few minutes, watching the people stroll up and down the walk, their sunburnt faces glowing in the evening air. They looked comfortable, carefree, happy to be on an island off the coast of southern California. Everything that, at that moment, I was not.
“So what’s wrong?” I finally asked.
Kate folded her arms across her chest, tugging at the sleeves of her white cotton blouse. She turned to me, but her eyes were just missing my face.
“Us, Noah,” she said. “Us is what’s wrong.”
Any time a girl breaks up with you, it’s painful. Always. But it may never be more painful than when you hear it for the first time.
I leaned back into the stone bench. “What’s wrong with us?”
She looked away for a moment, biting down on her bottom lip.
“I’m leaving next week,” she said.
“I know. So?”
She turned back to me. “So what happens then?”
I shrugged. “You get on a plane and go to Princeton?”
She frowned, faint lines of irritation tying up around her eyes. “Noah, you know what I’m talking about.”
“No, I don’t,” I said. “We came over here to have dinner and spend the night at your family’s place. Now you’re telling me there’s a problem. Between us.” I paused. “Kate, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She let out a sigh and shook her head. “Fine. I’m going to the other side of the country. You’re staying here. How does that work?”
I shifted on the bench. “I don’t know.”
“I don’t either,” she said. “And that’s the problem.”
“That’s a problem with location. Not with us.”
She glanced at a group of junior high school kids ambling by, talking loudly and laughing. She looked back at me.
“We’re eighteen,” Kate said. “We’re going in different directions.”
Her words stung me. It didn’t matter to me if they were true. They hurt. And I didn’t like the feeling.
“Your mother write that speech for you?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes. “You know better.”
“Sounds like her,” I said. “All of a sudden, we aren’t compatible because you’re going to live in another state? That sounds exactly like her, Kate.”
We sat there quietly for a few minutes. Her parents had been a sore spot during the entire year we’d been together. They didn’t approve of their daughter dating someone who wasn’t going to an Ivy League school and whose family was dysfunctional at best. I hadn’t made it any easier by playing the surly, disaffected teen. We had put Kate in a difficult spot. And until that moment on Catalina, she’d always chosen me.
“Maybe it does sound like her,” Kate finally said. “But maybe she’s right, Noah.”
“She’s right about me, you mean.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” she said. “But is it realistic to think that we’re gonna stay together over the next four years, three thousand miles apart?”
I turned and looked at her, her eyes tearing into the heart that she had created.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I never thought we wouldn’t try.”
Her eyes fluttered, maybe surprised by what I said. She bit her bottom lip again. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes.
“Noah,” she started, but choked up and stopped.
I looked away, my throat tightening.
She cleared her throat and tried again. “Noah, they won’t…” Her voice trailed off.
The smell of popcorn wafted in the air from somewhere down the boardwalk. That same smell would forever evoke an unpleasant reaction in my gut.
“They won’t what?” I asked, turning to her.
The tears were now rolling down her cheeks, dancing off her face and into her lap. She shook her head, her lips pressed together. The pain in her face answered my question.
“They won’t let you go to Princeton,” I said for her, “unless you cut me loose.”
She nodded quickly, a sharp sob escaping from her mouth.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, my brain numb. Her parents had played the toughest card. Me or her future. She’d tried to do it herself without laying the blame on her parents, trying to save me the embarrassment of being a black mark on her life.
“It’s not fair,” she mumbled.
“No, it’s not,” I said. “But that’s your parents.”
We sat there, not looking at one another for a while. Over the years, I would come to realize that it was a no-brainer of a choice for too many reasons to run through. But at that moment, my second-place finish filled me with unfettered bitterness.
I stood up and shoved my hands into the pockets of my shorts. “You gotta go to Princeton.”
“I don’t have to,” she said, trying to hold the sobs in her chest. “I could figure out another way to go, without their help.”
We both knew that wasn’t true, not at that point in our lives. And I knew, somewhere in my mind, that Kate wanted to go to Princeton. She wouldn’t say it and I couldn’t admit it, but even then, I think, I knew it was true.
“It’s okay,” I told her, turning to her. “You need to go.”