by Tyler Dilts
I had a grilled turkey sandwich and spent half an hour telling him nothing. It wasn’t hard, considering how much I actually knew.
The night was cool and clear, with an ocean breeze blowing lightly inland, and I felt a bit chilly until the walking began to warm me. As I ambled along Park Avenue, I looked in the large picture windows, common in the old houses in Belmont Heights, and wondered how long it would be until Christmas trees and other decorations began to appear. We were only a few weeks shy of Thanksgiving, and it wouldn’t take long after that.
I used to think the bright holiday displays were nothing but an invitation, shouting, “Come and get it,” to burglars—and from my days in uniform, I knew it was true. There would be dozens of calls in the weeks before Christmas reporting break-ins and the theft of gifts right out from under the trees standing so proudly in the windows. I wasn’t ever able to understand how people could be so stupid.
The last few years, though, have been different. I’ve found myself walking up and down the streets, pausing in front of curtainless windows, staring. Sometimes I’ll walk an extra mile to Naples Island and gaze, openmouthed, at the displays of Christmas trees, lights, and other decorations. Last year, I even stood alongside the canal as Santa floated past, perched in a thronelike chair on a platform suspended between the hulls of two outrigger canoes, and watched him wave to the families crowded on each bank.
But it’s the houses in the Heights that have held me the most—the Douglas and Noble firs dominating the expanses of glass fronting the old bungalows, restored Craftsmans, and aspiring Victorians. What once seemed so sad to me now seems something else entirely. These people aren’t naïve, as I’d once believed. There’s a tender and defiant hopefulness in their displays that’s almost strong enough to make me believe in…I don’t what, exactly, but something.
SIXTEEN
The next morning was sunny and clear, with the clean and crisp air that only appeared in Southern California in the late fall and winter. Every now and again, I am glad I live in Long Beach.
I called Jen before I left home. “I’ve got to make a stop on the way in.”
“Where?” she asked.
“I’m going to see Waxler.”
“By yourself?”
“I have something I want to try that I think might open him up, but I’ll need to front him by myself for it to work.”
“You sure this is a good idea?”
“What other kind do I ever have?”
Waxler’s initial interview hadn’t been as productive as we’d hoped. There was more there, and I thought if I played my cards right, I might be able to tease it out of him.
His office was on the top floor of a fairly modest brick building in the Torrance Crossroads shopping/dining/entertainment center that he’d had a hand in developing. I left my car in the acres of parking lot between the twenty-screen AMC megaplex and Romano’s Macaroni Grill.
Behind a large oak-veneered door flanked by three-foot-wide swaths of glass brick, a receptionist named Stacey told me that “Mr. Waxler is unavailable.”
I showed her my badge and said, “I think he’ll want to see me.”
She adjusted her glasses, checked the face in the photo on my ID against my face, and when she was satisfied, picked up the phone and dialed Daryl’s extension. “There’s a Detective Beckett here to see you.” She nodded and hung up. “He’ll be right out,” she said.
“Thank you, Stacey,” I said. “You’ve been very helpful.” I held her gaze until she lowered her eyes.
“Hello, Detective,” Daryl said, only seconds later, stepping around a potted palm at the corner of the reception desk.
I nodded. “Mr. Waxler.”
“Before you say anything else, I should tell you that Trevor told me I’m not to say anything at all to you or to anyone else from the police without having him present.” Daryl did have a bit more of an air of authority about him in his tailored white shirt and tie, but his remark still came out sounding almost like a question.
“That’s all right, Mr. Waxler,” I said. “You don’t need to say anything at all. But I would appreciate it if you’d listen for just a moment.”
That confused him. He looked at Stacey, then back at me, then he nodded, more to himself, it seemed, than to anyone else. “Why don’t you come back into my office?” he said to me, his voice wary.
I followed him down the short hallway, past a few office-drone cubicles, his-and-her restrooms, and a couple of small offices, and on into his own. This office was larger by far than any of the others, much better appointed, and obviously meant for the company’s head cheese. I walked over to the sliding glass door that opened out onto a small balcony carved into the corner of the building. The view over the tops of the eucalyptus trees surrounding the building and beyond Torrance Municipal Airport was much better than I had expected. “That’s a great view,” I said, looking out at the cloudless blue sky pressing down on the coastal hills of Redondo Beach.
“One of the perks of the office,” he said. “Sometimes I just go sit out there and look. You wouldn’t believe the sunsets.”
I nodded and smiled. “I’m not really here officially, Mr. Waxler. It’s actually sort of personal.” He didn’t know what to say to that.
“What is it, Detective?”
“Call me Danny,” I said, trying to toss a little of that Waxler sheepishness back at him. “I just…I felt that we might have given you the wrong impression the other day. As far as I’m concerned, you’re not a suspect in this case.”
That surprised him. “Maybe we should sit down,” he said. He gestured for me to sit in the chair in front of his desk and then took a seat of his own behind it. Both were upholstered in cocoa brown leather.
“My partner and I disagreed about this,” I said. “That’s why I’m here by myself. You’re a resource that I don’t believe we can do without.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Well, a few reasons, really. I’ve talked to some people who know you. Just about everyone you’ve ever met swears you don’t have a violent bone in your body. And I’m a pretty good judge of character. I get a feeling about you, and I’m not often wrong.”
“You’re not?”
“No,” I said. “I’m not. But there’s something else, too.”
“What’s that?”
I looked down at my lap and rolled the hem of my coat between my fingers before speaking. “I lost my wife eighteen months ago.”
He studied me for what seemed a long time and then picked up the phone. “Stacey,” he said, “could you make us up a couple of mochas?” He paused, a look of concern suddenly on his face. “You like mochas, Danny?”
“I do, Daryl, thank you.”
He wanted to talk—about his failings in life before losing his wife, about her long illness, about how he blamed himself for the difficulties that D.J. experienced during the ordeal, about how he struggled to reconnect with his distant and sullen son after the death. We spent almost an hour there in his office, and by the time we finished, Daryl probably thought we were pals. Later, I would wonder what was worse—that I had exploited Megan’s memory in such a way, or that it had worked so well.
“You really did that? With him?” Jen asked. There was an odd tone in her voice that I couldn’t quite get a handle on—something between chagrin and indignation. It made me wonder what she had sounded like as a teenager. “What did you tell him about her?” she asked.
“Nothing, really,” I said. “Just that she died in a car accident less than two years ago.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing else?”
“Well, only that I missed her and I know how hard it is to lose someone.”
She nodded.
“What’s the big deal?” I asked.
“You don’t think it’s a big deal to be bonding with a murder suspect over your dead wives?”
“And what did you uncover with your brilliant investigative technique?”
“I don’t think he did it.”
“Well,” she said. “Imagine that.”
It was nearly noon when Jen pressed the buzzer outside Rachel and Susan’s loft. The sun shone directly overhead and filled the alley with glaring light. It looked better in the dark.
“Who’s there?” Susan said through the tinny-sounding intercom speaker.
Jen pushed the button and spoke. “It’s Detectives Tanaka and Beckett.” She released the button and took a step back, waiting for Susan to buzz us in. After several buzz-free seconds, Jen looked at me. “What do you think?”
“Maybe they’re hightailing it down the fire escape.”
“Maybe,” Jen said. She reached for the button to ring again.
“Are you still outside?” Susan asked.
“Yeah,” Jen answered.
“Shit. Hang on. The buzzer’s fucked up again.”
Twenty seconds later, we saw Susan through the dirty glass. She wore baggy, paint-stained jeans and a white T-shirt. The lines in her face looked more pronounced than they had the week before. Maybe it was the brightness of the sunlight. “Hi,” she said, pushing the door open for us.
We nodded our hellos. “How’s Rachel?” Jen asked.
“She’s taking it hard. But she’ll make it. She’s stronger than she seems.”
“She is?” Jen asked as we followed her upstairs.
“After everything she’s been through, she’d have to be.”
Jen looked over her shoulder at me. I shook my head. I didn’t know what Susan was talking about either. She assumed we knew something about Rachel’s past. We didn’t.
Susan stopped on the landing above Jen and me and turned to face us, realizing she’d given us a new piece of information. We pretended we didn’t notice. She took a long pause and then looked from Jen to me and back to Jen again. Opening the door, she said, “Come in.”
Rachel’s blond hair was pulled back and looked a shade or two darker than it had the last time we’d seen her. She sat on one of the two sofas facing each other on either side of a coffee table near the tall windows, with her legs curled beneath her. She wore a navy Long Beach State sweatshirt and khaki shorts. The sportiness of the outfit clashed with the dark circles under her eyes and the worn expression on her face. Susan sat next to her and motioned Jen and me toward the other sofa.
“Hi, Rachel,” Jen said.
“Hello.” She tried for a smile but didn’t quite make it. “How are you?” she asked, obviously more out of habit than interest.
“We’re fine, thanks,” I said. Neither Jen nor I returned the question. It doesn’t take long, working homicide, to discover that most people suffering from grief can’t answer that question without telling a lie that trivializes their loss. Rachel uncurled one of her legs and pulled her knee into her chest.
“I’m sorry we have to do this now,” Jen said, “but we need to ask you a few more questions about Beth.” Jen looked into Rachel’s eyes. “And about your family.”
“It’s okay,” Rachel said, her voice barely bridging the distance across the coffee table.
“Have you thought of anything that might be relevant to the investigation?” Jen asked.
“No, not really,” Rachel replied.
“Anyone Beth might have been involved with?”
“She hasn’t been involved with anyone lately. Well, except for Daryl, I guess.”
“You guess?” Jen asked.
“Well, she was never involved involved, I mean.” Rachel tugged at her bottom lip with an incisor.
“You mean they never slept together?”
She nodded and looked down at the stack of magazines on the table.
“Does it make you uncomfortable to talk about this?” I asked.
She nodded again. “A little.”
“How well do you know Daryl?”
“Oh,” Rachel said, “I never met him. But Beth talked a lot about him.”
“What did she say?” I asked.
“Well, she usually talked about how nice he was and how he was so kind and thoughtful.”
“Anything else?”
“She felt bad about breaking up with him because she said he was such a sweet guy.”
“Then why did she break up with him?” Jen asked.
“Because, she said, even though he was nice, they just didn’t connect, you know?”
“No chemistry?” I said.
“Yes, no chemistry.”
“Nice, but kind of dull?” Jen offered.
“Uh-huh, exactly.” Rachel nodded. “You know how that is.”
“Yeah.” Jen looked at me. “I do.”
The corners of Rachel’s eyes crinkled, and she let go of her knee and wrapped her hands in the hem of her sweatshirt.
“And Daryl’s the only guy she’s been involved with lately?” I asked.
“Yeah. For a long time.”
“Did she date much?”
“Hardly at all.”
“How long had it been, before Daryl, since she’d gone out with anyone?”
“A long time.”
“A year?” I said.
“Maybe two?” she said.
Jen took over. “When was the last time she was really serious about someone?”
“A long time. Seven or eight years.”
“That is a long time,” Jen said. “Do you remember his name?”
“Kirby. Roger Kirby. But everybody called him by his last name.”
I recognized the name. In my mind’s eye, I began connecting the dots, but then Jen unknowingly dropped the bomb. “Why is it, do you think, that she had such a hard time connecting with guys?”
The traces of comfort Rachel had found vanished as quickly as they’d appeared. She looked at Susan and hugged her knee to her chest again.
“She had some problems with guys. Issues,” Rachel said, her eyes on the Entertainment Weekly on the top of the stack on the coffee table. Julia Roberts’s head grinned back up at her. “She didn’t trust men too easy.”
“Do you have any idea why?” Jen asked quietly, inching herself forward.
“Uh…” Rachel looked at Susan.
Susan said, “No particular reason.” She focused her attention on Jen, speaking directly to her. “You know how it is. So hard to meet anyone interesting. And if you do manage to find someone who can hold your attention, they turn out to be an asshole.” She exhaled hard through her nose. “I’m glad I’m not out there anymore,” she said, winking at Rachel. Rachel looked embarrassed. I couldn’t tell if it was what Susan said or why she said it that was making her uncomfortable.
Jen looked at Rachel. “It must be a relief, I guess.” Rachel nodded, and in her expression, I saw the reason for her discomfort—she didn’t realize that Jen and I knew the nature of her relationship with Susan. She was either embarrassed that she was a lesbian or embarrassed to be with Susan. I was putting my money on the first, but I didn’t rule anything out. Maybe her parents didn’t know, and having them around made her insecure. Maybe they knew and didn’t approve. Maybe she didn’t approve herself. Too many maybes.
We let the silence sit awhile. Rachel adjusted herself on the sofa, sat for a moment, and then adjusted herself again. Susan spoke first.
“What will happen with Beth’s body?”
“Hasn’t anyone called you?” I asked.
“No.”
I looked at Rachel. She shook her head and sunk deeper into the cushions.
“They should have. Rachel, you’re listed as the next of kin, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Where would I be listed?”
“Well, you’re the emergency contact person and the beneficiary of her school life insurance policy, right?”
“There was an insurance policy?” Rachel asked. The idea seemed troubling to her, a
s if there were something more palpable in the promise of bureaucratic paperwork than in the disposition of the body.
“Yes, there was,” I said. I didn’t want to lay anything on Paula or her office, but Rachel should have been notified. “Have you talked to your parents today?”
“No,” Susan said, cutting off Rachel before she could answer.
“The coroner’s office may have contacted them,” I explained.
“But Rachel is the one to make the arrangements, right?”
“Technically, yes,” I said, wondering about the animosity toward Beth and Rachel’s parents that seemed to be oozing out of Susan. “But the colonel’s been calling the office like clockwork. They may have assumed he was the responsible party.”
Rachel leaned forward. “But they wouldn’t let them take her, would they?”
“Is there some reason that would be a problem?” Jen asked.
“No,” Rachel said, “um…I guess not.”
Susan continued for her. “We just don’t agree with them about the final arrangements. I’m sure we can work it out.”
Jen locked her eyes on Rachel. “Is there something you’re not telling us about your parents?”
Rachel shrunk back into her chair and looked at Susan. “No,” she said. Her voice sounded small and far away. There obviously was something. I didn’t think we should push too hard to find it out yet because we might risk the rapport we’d managed to build with Rachel. It wasn’t much, but it was something. I kept my mouth closed, though, and let Jen deal the play.
Jen said, “We’ll check with the coroner’s office and make sure we get it straightened out, okay?”
Rachel tried to smile again and came a bit closer this time. “Thanks.”
Jen and I stood up. “If you think of anything else, or if there’s anything we can do to help, give us a call,” I said to Rachel. Then Susan gave us a polite nod and showed us to the door.
In the alley on the way back to the car, Jen said, “So why do they hate the parents so much? Suppose it’s a homophobia thing?”
“Don’t know,” I said distractedly.
She obviously expected something more in the way of an answer. “What do you know?”
“I know Roger Kirby.”