by Mike Markel
Landing in San Diego, I flipped open my phone and called Ryan as I walked to the car rental booths. “Hey, what’ve you got?”
“Not much,” he said. “Endriss went to Budget when he landed. He rented a Ford Focus, dark grey. I got the plate number to the San Diego PD; they’ve put it out already.”
“Okay, good. You got a hotel or anything?”
“Nothing. Either he’s using cash or he’s staying someplace. I got in touch with Allen Pfeiffer. When our guy was Warren Endriss, he was married to Patricia. I don’t have a maiden name.”
“Okay, why don’t you head home? I’m gonna get a room at a Sheraton here at the airport. I’ll check in with you tomorrow morning.”
“All right, Karen. Later.”
I got a rental car and a local map and made my way to the Sheraton. Checking in, I was glad to see that the bar in the lobby was still open. I got my room, threw my bag on the bed, and went downstairs. At 1:15, the bartender told me he needed to close up. He offered to make me another JD to take up to my room, but I had already had three, which was enough since I was cutting back.
* * *
I phoned Ryan first thing the next morning.
“Bad news, Karen. He cleaned out his account.”
“How much?”
“He took out thirty-four hundred. There’s twelve bucks in the account.”
“Sounds like he doesn’t plan on leaving us any more of a trail.”
“Yeah,” Ryan said, “but why didn’t he clean out the account while he was here in Rawlings. That’d make it harder for us to figure out where he went.”
“True, but maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly, or he figured we could track his flight and his rental car easily enough.”
“Okay, so he’s in San Diego and he has to figure we’ll catch up with him sooner or later.”
“Way I read it,” I said, “whatever he’s gonna do, he thinks he can do it before we catch him. And after that, he doesn’t care.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“Shit, I don’t know. Let’s start with trying to figure out where he’s staying. I’m gonna go to SDPD headquarters, see if they can help.”
“Okay, stay in touch,” Ryan said.
I took a quick shower, made a pot of coffee in the room, and headed out. I walked over to my car. It was forty eight degrees at 8:30. I was carrying my winter coat. I hadn’t even realized it would be like May in Rawlings. I tossed the winter coat in the back seat of the rental and headed out to I5, which was, as I had read, always slow. It took forty minutes to drive the seven miles downtown to 1401 Broadway.
Police headquarters was a six-story mass of glass and concrete, a good ten times the size of the building occupied by Rawlings Police Department. Inside the large atrium, I explained my situation to the receptionist and was told to see a Lieutenant Davenport on the third floor. On three, I asked an aide and was directed to Davenport’s office.
Davenport was a large black man wearing a three-piece suit and a placid expression. He listened to my problem.
“If I understand where you are, Detective, your trail is about eight years old. There was a man named Warren Endriss, wife Patricia, lived on 7922 Southgate. That right?”
“Yeah. I don’t know if he grabbed the identity of Jonathan Ahern while he was still in San Diego, or whether he left and went to Atlanta and started using that name. So I’m hoping you can get me an address on Patricia, if she’s still in town.”
Davenport said, “Let me see if I’ve got anything on Warren Endriss or Patricia Endriss in our system.” He typed, hit Enter, and waited while his system churned. “Warren got a speeding ticket in 1994. That’s it. There’s nothing on Patricia. All I’ve got is that address on Southgate. You want to go over there and take a look? If Patricia isn’t there, maybe the new people know where she headed.”
“Yeah, let me try that. Do you have a driving map?”
“Sure,” Davenport said, taking out a map, unfolding it, and directing me to Southgate.
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” I said, getting up and heading out of the big building. The sun was breaking free of the downtown buildings, and I guessed the temperature was in the mid fifties. The streets were full of traffic now, delivery trucks fighting it out with private cars and bike messengers snaking their way through the melee. I headed south, getting farther and farther from the noise, dirt, and crowding of the city. I was now in the residential section, with lush green lawns, stucco houses with two and three-car garages, and orange tile roofs. Some kind of palm trees, like in the movies.
I pulled into Southgate, a tidy, orderly street, with pastel houses centered neatly on their quarter-acre parcels. There was no on-street parking allowed. A little island near the end of the cul-de-sac had a tall palm tree, a park bench, and a two-car slot for guest parking. I found 7922 and pulled up to the curb.
Out of the car, walking up the brick path to the house, I noticed a portable basketball pole and hoop in the driveway. The hoop was set low—it looked like six feet. The kid here would be ten or twelve. As I climbed the three steps to the door and pressed the doorbell, the annoying whine of an edger somewhere off in the distance drifted in on the soft breeze.
A few seconds later, a thirty-something woman answered the door. She was wearing a pink sweatsuit, her blond hair tied back in a ponytail. I took out my badge.
A look of fear came over the woman’s face. “Oh, my God. What’s happened?”
“Nothing’s happened, ma’am. My name is Karen Seagate. I’m a detective from Montana. Could you tell me your name, please, ma’am?”
“Ellen Winston.”
“Ms. Winston, how long have you lived in this house?”
“A little over three years,” she said, still anticipating bad news.
“Do you remember the names of the people you bought the house from?”
“I think it was Patel. He was a professor at San Diego State.”
“He was Indian?”
“I’m not sure. That or Pakistani.”
“So you wouldn’t know the people who owned the house before the Patels, a family named Endriss?”
“No. Never heard of them.”
“Do you know if any of your neighbors have been here maybe ten years or more?”
“Try the Harbisons, in the yellow house over there.” She pointed across the street. “They’re retired. I think they’ve been here a long time.”
“Okay, thanks a lot, Ms. Winston. Sorry I scared you.”
“It’s not your fault. Just that I’ve never had a real police officer come to my door.”
“I know what you mean,” I said, “but we’re not always bringing bad news.” I walked across the street and up to the Harbison house. I knocked. There was no reply. I looked through the frosted-glass panels on either side of the door. Nothing moving. I was walking down the path when the door opened.
“Hello?” the elderly lady’s voice called.
I came running back. “Ma’am, are you Ms. Harbison?” The lady was wearing faded jeans and a baggy blouse. She had an attractive face and close-cut grey hair.
“Yes, I am, dear. Who are you?”
“My name is Karen Seagate. I’m a detective from Montana.”
“From Montana?” she said, a sparkle in her eyes. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but you took a wrong turn.”
I laughed. “Yeah, I am pretty far from home. Can I talk to you a minute?”
“Sure, I’m always happy to talk. Have a seat,” she said, pointing to the front stoop. She grabbed the handrail and lowered herself to the stoop. “What would you like to talk about?”
“Well, I’m trying to track down a man named Warren Endriss. Your neighbor, Ms. Winston, told me she thinks you might remember them, in that blue house, 7922.”
“Oh, yes, I do remember them. What was that, four or five years ago they left?”
“I think it was closer to eight or nine, Ms. Harbison.”
“Isn’t that funny, the way that ha
ppens?”
“It sure is. Can you tell me what you remember about them?”
“They were a nice family. His name was Warren. She was Patty. And they had a little girl. I think I was Alison. No, I remember, it was Amber, because one day—she was only three or four—I explained to her what her name meant.”
“Do you know why they left this neighborhood?”
“It was very sad. I don’t know exactly what happened, but the couple split up. Warren left, and soon after Patty and Amber left, too.”
“Do you know where Patty and Amber went? Was it someplace here in the area or far away?”
“I’m not sure, but I think it was here in town somewhere. It was tough for Patty and Amber, I remember that. She was such a brave little girl.”
“You mean about the divorce?”
“No, the disease. She had diabetes. She had to take those shots, five times a day, I think it was. You could see it in her parents’ faces. It was like torture for them.”
And at that moment I knew why Warren Endriss killed Arlen Hagerty.
* * *
I got back in the car. The sun was climbing in the east, shining straight into my eyes. The car was already warm. I turned the ignition halfway so I could lower the windows. I got my cell out and hit the speed dial for Ryan.
“Hey, Karen.”
“Ryan, I need you locate Endriss’ ex-wife, Patricia. They got married in the early nineties, either in the Sacramento area or San Diego. Get her maiden name off of that. Then check for an address in the San Diego area. There’s a Lieutenant Davenport at SDPD who’s human. See if he can run it down. If you don’t get a hit, see if she’s remarried, using her maiden name on the marriage certificate.
“Anything else?” Ryan said.
“Yeah, do it fast, Ryan, then call me back immediately, okay?”
“I’m on it,” he said and hung up.
I sat in the car, letting the sun warm my face, trying hard not to think about the case. I couldn’t get it out of my head. Had Endriss been acting the whole time, going out to drink with Hagerty like they were friends, laughing with him, standing there patiently during the debates when Hagerty gave his slippery-slope arguments? Maybe Endriss was the one slipping down the slope, trying as hard as he could to understand what Hagerty was saying. And maybe Endriss succeeded, at least some of the time. Until that last night, at least, when he got the call.
Ten minutes later, I got the call from Ryan.
“Got some paper?” he said.
“Yeah, go ahead.”
“Her name is Patricia Kesler. K-E-S-L-E-R. She’s married to Captain Robert Kesler, U.S. Navy, retired. They live on Coronado Island. Get on I5 heading south, past downtown. Take the San Diego-Coronado Bay Bridge. It’s marked as California 75. The bridge spills you onto 3rd Street, heading west. Take your first left, that’s south, on Orange Avenue. The house is number 111 Orange. Got that?”
“Thanks, Ryan. I’ll check in with you when I can.” I made it back to I5 in ten minutes, then I hit traffic. Another ten minutes to go two miles. I got up on the big bridge, traveling a brisk thirty miles per hour, taking in the battleships and destroyers off to the right.
Just as I got to the middle of the bridge, I felt a rumble beneath me. It was a carrier headed out of the harbor. I was able to pick out the men, tiny against the massive grey steel boulevard of the deck. I had to force myself to concentrate on my driving, get myself squarely in my lane. I snuck a glimpse of the enormous ship sliding away, its hull taller than any building in Rawlings.
I made it through the tiny commercial center of Coronado Island, left on Orange to the older homes. I pulled over to the curb near number 111. It was as I had feared. I looked through the forsythia to see the brick circular drive leading past the front door and up to the garage. It was a beautiful old house, a white clapboard colonial. It looked like it had three or four bedrooms, which would have been considered showy when it was built. Now, it would probably have to be sold hard by a realtor if it had only two baths.
There were two dormer windows on the second floor. One had pink curtains, one had blue. The windows were open a half foot, the breeze rustling the curtains on what was turning out to be a fine day. It would hit fifty-eight degrees or sixty in a few hours.
I waited, looking at the black limousine parked in the driveway. All along the width of the house was a beautiful flower garden, set off with large ornamental rocks embedded with some sort of crystals that reflected the sun like mirrorballs. I don’t know much about flowers, but I recognized marigolds, bluebells, carnations, and lavender. It was a dizzying palette of blues, yellows, reds, and whites.
I wondered if it would be enough. Would Captain Kesler, retired, and his new wife, Patricia, and their young son be all right? What would they do? Would they sit on the wrought-iron patio set on the front porch and look at the garden? What would they say to each other? What was there to say?
The front door opened. The first one out was Captain Kesler, wearing his dress uniform, the brass and the silver catching and reflecting the sun. He was tall, a good-looking man, forty-five years old, I guessed, square jawed, dark hair turning to salt and pepper. He held his young son in his arms. The boy, about three years old, was wearing a dark blue suit, with short pants. He wriggled in his father’s arms, but the father restrained him and moved deliberately.
Next came Patricia, wearing a plain black dress, low-heeled black shoes, a black purse. She clutched a white handkerchief in her hand. I couldn’t see her face behind the black veil attached to a simple hat. She moved unsteadily. Her husband took her hand. The uniformed chauffeur was holding the door open.
The family slowly made its way to the limousine. Patricia got in first. As Captain Kesler tried to hand his son to Patricia, the little boy grabbed at the roof of the limousine. The father disengaged the son’s tiny fingers from the roof, one by one, and guided the boy inside. Then Captain Kesler disappeared inside the limousine, and the chauffeur closed the door.
I watched the limo start up. I stayed back. There was no need to follow the slow-moving Cadillac up close. We traveled only a few minutes on the small island. We entered Hillside Cemetery, a gorgeous shaded sanctuary. I followed the limo down the sun-dappled lane, the tall pines standing like sentries, until it came to a gentle halt. Some thirty cars were parked along the lane. The hearse was already there. I parked away from the others.
From where I stood, under one of the pines, in the shade, I could see the Pacific in the distance, unnaturally blue, the waves bright white lines that appeared, then disappeared as they approached the shore. Suddenly I felt a chill and went back to the car and grabbed my coat. I put it over my shoulders.
The minister was standing by the graveside, his Bible open. At his side was Captain Kesler, with his son cradled in one arm. Next was Patricia, her face downturned. Even from thirty yards, I thought I could see her shaking. She was holding on to her husband’s arm for support. On her other side stood Warren Endriss, his hands at his side.
Endriss looked older, his face ashen, his shoulders dragged down by an enormous invisible weight. The ceremony proceeded, the mourners sobbing as the coffin was lowered into the grave. In a few minutes, the minister closed the Bible, walked over to Patricia, and hugged her. He shook Captain Kesler’s hand after the Navy man transferred his squirming son into his other arm. The minister then shook Endriss’ hand. Captain Kesler started to escort his wife back to the limousine. Endriss was still gazing at the coffin, unwilling or unable to move.
Endriss’ gaze lifted. He saw me standing beneath the pine, across the narrow, unpaved road. He nodded to me. We both stood still as the mourners filtered away from the graveside. Captain Kesler and his family got in the limousine. It started and slowly drove away, leaving the other mourners’ cars to follow for the reception at the Kesler house.
A pickup with a king cab drove up to the graveside. Three men wearing overalls got out. They stood by the side of the truck awkwardly, waiting for Endri
ss to leave. He nodded to them and walked slowly over to me.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Endriss,” I said.
“Thank you, Detective.” I saw that Endriss was weeping. I could not stop my own tears. Endriss said, “Do you need to put handcuffs on me?”
Regs called for cuffs, behind his back. “No, I don’t think that’s necessary.” I took his elbow and escorted him to my rental car. He got in the passenger seat.
“Put on your seatbelt,” I said to him.
“I’m sorry to have put you to this trouble, Detective. I couldn’t ask for permission to come. If I did, you would have had to arrest me and prevent me from coming.”
I nodded. “I understand.”
“May I ask for a favor, Detective?” I turned to him. “Before you take me in, I’d like to show you where Amber and I used to come.”
“Where’s that?”
“Torrey Pines State Reserve. It’s about a half hour from here. A little north of La Jolla. It would mean a lot for me to see it one more time.”
“All right,” I said.
He directed me back to I5, then north to La Jolla and out to the coast. We were silent on the trip. Torrey Pines State Reserve hugged the Pacific Ocean, a series of dunes, trails, and sandstone canyons rising up from the ocean.
“This parking lot would be great.” I shut off the car and we got out. “This was our favorite trail.” He led me out on the Guy Fleming Trail, winding deeper and deeper into a stand of Torrey pines. Soon the trees thinned and the sun pierced the needle canopy. We came to a lookout point.
Three hundred feet above the ocean, we leaned against the wooden guardrail. I looked out at the waves rolling in, the gulls drifting above the surfers in their wetsuits, tiny black figures on their red and yellow and white boards. “This is so beautiful,” I said. Warren smiled and closed his eyes. We stood there silently for a long time.
Finally, I said, “Tell me what happened.”
“Amber was getting worse. She was ten when she had to have her left leg amputated. She used to run track. She got it fitted with one of those metal feet for track, and she kept running. Eventually she had to stop. She tried to put on a brave face, but she was really scared. I could see it in her eyes. Patty and I were so torn up about it, Amber told us we had to be braver. The marriage ended. I wasn’t brave enough, I guess.”