by Rob Thomas
Keith often sat on his front porch to escape his gloomy apartment and quickly struck up a friendship of sorts with Marcia, who would walk by on her way to a 7-Eleven on the corner. With only four years separating them in age, they had plenty to talk about: the Padres, teachers, how much they both hated ABBA.
She was a different breed of cat than he’d been in high school. Keith had been a swingman between the gearhead and art-geek cliques. He’d also played bass for a local rock band that, infelicitously, played Springsteen and Warren Zevon covers at the exact moment punk rock was breaking. She was an avid JROTC member, socially maladroit, and a teacher’s pet. But Keith had always respected her scathing honesty and uncompromising intensity.
Then there was Tauntaun. Bobby “Tauntaun” Langdon was enormous, the kind of looming presence forged in iron for offensive line play. He was two years older than Marcia, and his steamroller blocking had powered a Neptune ground game that took the team all the way to State his senior year. Even beyond his status as a sports hero, he was a good dude, the type you could count on to break up a fight or to offer you a ride to a party.
Until graduation, anyway. Post-high school life didn’t agree with Tauntaun. He drifted, lost in the real world. Keith had only ever heard rumors, but not long after that, Tauntaun apparently fell in with a crew of guys who sold dime bags at the Boardwalk and broke into vacation homes to steal the hi-fis.
The summer after Marcia’s senior year, Keith was called as a backup when two other deputies arrived at the Langdon’s little apartment with a search warrant. He was just pulling up to the curb when they came out with fifteen kilos of coke that had been stacked neatly in Tauntaun’s bedroom closet. Marcia’s brother told them he’d been storing it for someone else, but when he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—name names, he took the fall.
It’d been Marcia who’d called the sheriff on him. Marcia who found the drugs while hanging her brother’s clean laundry in his closet. Marcia who’d been humiliated every time the cops showed up at the duplex to haul Tauntaun in again, for vandalism or public intoxication or breaking and entering. The night of Tauntaun’s arrest, the sound of breaking furniture and shouting echoed from the Langdon apartment. Keith heard later that Mrs. Langdon had kicked her out, claimed she never wanted to see her again. Marcia already had an ROTC scholarship at UCLA. She left Neptune and she didn’t come back. Not for thirty-three years.
And Tauntaun? He’d been stabbed to death in the showers at San Quentin a few short years later.
As Keith and Eli made their way down the long corridors of the mall, sidestepping moms with strollers and slow-moving teenagers, he remembered Tauntaun’s terrified face as the cop shoved him in the car. The whole thing had never sat easy with Keith, though it was hard to say why. It emerged at that trial that Tauntaun’s IQ had tested at eighty-seven, but even Tauntaun had to know that storing a dozen bricks of coke in his room was a bad idea. He’d committed a crime, and he’d gotten caught. That was how it worked.
But who turned in family?
Maybe there was more to it. Maybe Marcia had tried to reason with her brother before turning him in. Maybe she thought it was for his own good. Either way, she was honest. And, most important, not Dan Lamb.
Weevil turned a quizzical look toward him as they got in line in front of the Ben & Jerry’s.
“You all right, man? You look kind of…I don’t know. Spooked.”
Keith took a deep breath and smiled.
“Yeah, I’m all right.” He pulled out his wallet as the smiling scooper called them forward for their order. “Just thinking what a good sheriff she’s going to be.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The San Diego sky was bright and cloudless as Veronica turned down a quiet residential street, well behind the white Nissan that carried Bellamy and his sixteen-year-old daughter to his ex’s house.
Her decision to start tailing him had essentially been an impulse, born of frustration and restlessness. The e-mails she’d sent to the call girls had been met with silence, and the alerts Mac had put on his credit cards and bank accounts had turned up nothing.
And so had her surveillance. The three previous times she’d tailed him that week he went straight from his apartment to the PSU campus and back again, stopping only for take-out or fast food. Once home, he didn’t go out again. It wasn’t entirely surprising. Bellamy was all about measured control—until, of course, he snapped. After being questioned by the San Diego police, it followed that he’d play the part of model citizen.
That afternoon, though, he’d broken his routine and taken his daughter to a used car dealership, where they walked through a lot filled with ten-year-old Toyotas. Bellamy had obviously thought he was going to make her day with the promise of her own wheels. From a few rows away, Veronica had heard snatches of his eager words: “…know it’s not flashy, but it’ll be all yours!”
The girl had hung back the whole time, looking sullen and dispirited. Veronica couldn’t tell if it was her dad’s company that had her in this state, his taste in cars, or something else entirely. His ex had sole custody of both kids, and Bellamy had to request visitation on a case-by-case basis. While there was no evidence of abuse or neglect in the official documents, the arrangement struck Veronica as unusual.
Maybe she threatened to go public with something if he didn’t give her the kids. She could have known about the prostitutes—or maybe she’d been his first victim.
Now he pulled up at the foot of a sloping yard, dryscaped to survive the SoCal droughts. In addition to the kids, his ex had won the house in the divorce, a stucco two-story with flower boxes in the windows, a grand step up from his two-bedroom rental in a drab apartment complex called Sunset Cove, which offered neither a sunset view nor proximity to a cove. Hard to feel too sorry for the guy, she thought. Somehow he still manages to scrounge up enough cash to hire $500-per-hour call girls.
Veronica passed him without slowing, then pulled up to the side of the road several blocks ahead, taking out her phone and pretending to make a call. In her side mirror, she watched as the morose-looking girl got out of the car and started up the driveway without pausing to hug her father good-bye. Bellamy stood awkwardly next to the car until his daughter disappeared through the door. Then he got in his car and started the engine.
Veronica checked the time on her phone. It was almost five thirty; she and Logan had plans to go to her father’s for dinner that night. If she was going to be on time, she had to leave right now. She sighed, and put the car into drive. Just then, Bellamy sped up the street toward her. In her rearview mirror, she saw his light blue eyes narrow.
For a split second, she was sure he recognized her. But a moment later he blew past her, turned on his blinker, and cut left, no doubt going back to his apartment, stopping for something tragically unhealthy in a foil wrapper on the way.
—
By the time Veronica pulled up in front of Keith’s house, she could smell the burgers cooking.
She and Keith had instituted the Daddy-Daughter Dinners when she first moved out of his house a few months earlier—a weekly night set aside for them to hang out and catch up. Even working in the same building, there were weeks when they barely saw each other. Since Logan’s return he’d been a sincerely welcomed, if mildly awkward, addition.
When she opened the gate to the backyard, Pony scampered up to her, barking shrilly. She knelt down and ruffled the puppy’s fur. Keith stood at the grill, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and shorts; Logan clutched a sweating glass of water at the patio table. He cast her a relieved look as she approached.
“Perfect timing. You missed all the cattle-slaughtering, butchering, and grilling—just in time to eat,” said her father.
“I know better than to come between men and their blood rituals. I figured the whole meat-on-fire thing was a chance for you two to bond.” She took Logan’s water out of his hand and took a sip.
They settled around the table, the light starting to dim over the yard. Keith p
iled his plate with salad, then passed the bowl around to Logan. “Dig in, guys.”
“Three months on shore, and I have to tell you, real food hasn’t gotten old yet,” said Logan. He picked up his burger and eyed it appreciatively before taking an enormous bite. Then he closed his eyes and sighed with deep satisfaction.
“Those monosyllabic reviews are the ones you like to hear,” Keith said, grinding pepper over his salad.
Veronica’s mind began to wander as Keith and Logan made small talk. She was trying to decide whether she should drive back out to San Diego the next day. It was Saturday, so there wouldn’t be basketball practice. Maybe Bellamy would break routine in a real way. Then again, maybe he’ll just sit around his apartment watching ESPN all day, and I’ll be stuck in a parking lot watching his car bake in the sun.
Logan’s phone buzzed. He glanced down at the screen and frowned.
“Hey, this is a buddy of mine on the Truman. You guys mind if I grab this?”
“Go ahead,” Keith said, smiling. Logan stood up from the table and went in through the sliding glass doors, already pressing the phone to his ear. Pony followed at his heels.
Keith looked at Veronica. “You’re somewhere else tonight. What’s up?”
She shook her head. “Sorry, Dad. This case is making me crazy.”
She briefly summarized what she’d done since Bellamy’s test results had come back. He listened, raising his eyebrows when she described The Erotic Critique, nodding with approval when she told him how she and Mac had combed through the reviewers and pinpointed Mr. Kiss and Tell.
“But it’s been three days and none of the women have responded to my e-mail,” she finished. “I’ve got no word from potential vics, no witnesses, and no other leads.” She stabbed at her salad with her fork. “I’ve been following him, but he’s not doing anything wrong that I can see. I don’t know what else to do.”
Keith leaned back in his chair and looked up thoughtfully. “Well, have you tried talking to Lamb?”
For a moment the only sound was a car backfiring somewhere in the neighborhood. She stared at her father in disbelief.
“Lamb? What’s he going to do?”
“Well, the crime happened in his jurisdiction.” Keith gave her a humorless smile. “He can request a search warrant.”
Veronica snorted. “Sure. I’ll just call my BFF Dan Lamb and ask him to do me a solid.”
“Lamb knows this election depends on how good his stats look. He’ll want this collar.”
She set down her fork, suddenly not hungry. But her dad was right; she didn’t have a lot of options. And Lamb might just be desperate enough in the midst of this election to listen to her.
She looked up at the sound of the glass doors sliding opening. “There you are. That was a long…”
She came up short at the sight of Logan’s bone-white face. The jagged line of a single tear ran down one cheek and he bit at his lip, clearly trying to control his emotions. Instinctively, Veronica stood up from her seat, her skin going suddenly clammy.
For a moment he stood there, his phone still clutched in his hand. Then his eyes met hers.
“There was an accident,” he said. “On the Truman.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Lieutenant Vincent “Bilbo” Malubay, twenty-nine, naval aviator, husband, and father, had gotten his call sign because of the weekly Dungeons and Dragons game he ran in the USS Truman’s rec room. Apparently no one in the Navy was actually called “Maverick” or “Iceman”—real call signs were embarrassing, ridiculous, or patently disgusting. “Stewbeef,” “Big Bird,” “Purge.” Logan’s was simply “Mouth” for reasons Veronica took to be obvious.
“Bilbo” had brought a sack full of twenty-sided dice and a Monster Manual from home, and every Sunday he and a handful of other proud geeks would colonize one of the long folding tables to play. Logan had even played once, half ironically. “I was a bard,” he told Veronica, smirking a little. “I spent the whole time writing limericks about the other characters.”
“I bet they loved that.” She squeezed his hand.
It was the following morning, and they were in line at the Delta ticket counter at the airport, waiting to check Logan into his flight for the funeral. Harried travelers moved in every direction, tired parents ushering their children toward security, college kids in hoodies and backpacks heading back to their campuses for the fall semester. Logan wore service khaki and a garrison cap that increased his already imposing height by two inches. People kept glancing at him out of the corners of their eyes as they passed along the busy concourse.
Late Thursday night, Bilbo had been on the return leg of a six-hour mission in the Persian Gulf. It was all routine. He’d made dozens of these nighttime landings, sometimes in fiercely pitching seas with the flight deck tilting back and forth beneath him. But this time something went wrong. Bilbo apparently miscalculated the angle of descent as he brought his Hornet in to land. He’d flown in too low and hit the ramp instead. The plane was turned into a white-hot mass of shredded metal, skidding violently across the flight deck.
Logan rubbed his eyes and kept them closed for a moment, and Veronica noticed how tired he looked. He’d barely slept since he’d gotten the call. When he reopened his eyes, they flashed with sudden anger. “It’s not fair. Bilbo made that landing hundreds of times. He could park his bug on a dime. And then one mistake. One mistake with no margin of error.”
It could have been you. It could just as easily have been you. The thought had an edge of giddy hysteria to it, the sense of a disaster narrowly averted. But she couldn’t tell him that. Couldn’t tell him that, in the six months he’d been gone, she’d looked up every fighter-class aircraft accident listed on Wikipedia. That she’d read, over and over, about G-LOC and midair collisions and the various malfunctions that could lead to a jet slamming to earth at four hundred miles an hour. She didn’t tell him that there was a perverse sense of gratitude mixed in with her sympathy and her sadness. If it was that easy for a skilled pilot to destroy himself in the blink of an eye, she’d enjoyed several months blissfully ignorant of how close she always was to losing Logan.
“I wish you’d be there tonight,” he said suddenly, opening his eyes. The words cut through her reverie. She squeezed his hand again.
“I just need one more day.”
“You can’t just make some calls from the hotel?”
“Lamb’s not taking my calls and I need him to get a search warrant for Bellamy’s computer and phone. I’ll be on the first flight to Seattle tomorrow morning, I promise.”
He didn’t answer. His fingers felt limp and heavy in her hand. She moved closer, putting her arms around his waist and trying to ignore the guilt tightening in her chest.
“Come on. You know you’ll be out drinking with your squadron tonight anyway. I’ll be there tomorrow in time for the funeral.”
“Veronica.”
She looked up at him. For a few seconds he stood in silence, his mouth parted slightly as if trying to find the right words.
Then: “They want me to go back.”
She frowned. “Go back where?”
“Aboard ship. They’re short now.” He ran one hand over his face. “You know, with Bilbo gone, they’re shorthanded.”
“Yeah, but…” Several people in the line looked her way. She realized her voice had gone shrill. When she spoke again, she concentrated on keeping it low. “Logan, you’re on shore duty. That’s supposed to last another five months, at least.”
“I know. But they need me, Veronica.”
“Wait.” Her heartbeat felt uneven. The world tilted around her, unsteady. “Are they telling you that you have to go back? Is it an order?”
“No, but…”
“So you could choose not to.”
“Veronica…”
“You could choose not to.” She realized several people were looking at her again. She didn’t care. “If you wanted, you could tell them no.”
He
put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. “Look, I haven’t decided for sure what I’m going to do, okay? But you have to understand—this is what the job is. I trained for this, I worked my ass off for this. I chose this life. You of all people should understand that.”
She opened her mouth to answer. Before she could, the ticket agent called them forward. Logan stepped up to the counter, his ID outstretched.
He checked his bag, and they walked in strained, painful silence to the security checkpoint. When they got to the line, he hesitated for a second, his eyes meeting hers in what she realized was their first moment of real intimacy all day. She pressed her hand against his cheek; he took it in his and gently kissed it, holding it against his face for a moment before letting go.
“We’ll talk after the funeral, okay?”
Then Logan took Veronica in his arms and kissed her forehead, sweet and simple. She forced a smile. “Okay.”
—
Veronica arrived at the courthouse at eleven, her emotions frayed. A young female deputy sat at the front desk, her hair braided tightly behind her head. She gave Veronica a sour look when she came through the door. Her name tag said GANDIN.
Veronica stepped up to the desk. “I need to speak with the sheriff, if he’s available. It’s about a criminal investigation.”
One smooth, over-plucked eyebrow lifted skeptically.
“You can fill out a report and leave it with me,” said the deputy. “Or I can give you the CrimeStoppers tip line.”
Veronica feigned consideration. “The tip line, you say? Interesting. And who answers that tip line?”
“It routes to one of the deputies on duty.” The woman leaned on the counter. “Then they fill out a report, and leave it with me.”
Veronica smiled tightly, leaning on the counter as well so she and the deputy were facing off. “The thing is, Deputy Gandin, my information is time sensitive. I don’t have the luxury to wait for whatever elaborate filing scheme you use to move paper around this place. So if you wouldn’t mind…”