Liquid Smoke

by Jeff Shelby

  “And unless I’m looking in some sort of trick mirror that takes me back a ways, you must be Noah.” A small, tired smile emerged on his mouth.

  I shifted in the chair. “Yeah. I’m Noah.”

  He folded his hands on the small ledge below the panel. “It’s nice for me to meet you, but I expect it’s not the same for you.” “Not exactly.”

  He nodded as if that was the response he expected. “I assume you’re here because that Darcy woman found you.”

  My heart was thumping, almost as if it was beating against my ribcage. “Yeah.”

  He shook his head, chuckling to himself. “She is a pistol, that one. Surprised she’s not here with you, actually.”

  Even if I could have, I didn’t feel the need to explain her absence to him. So I said nothing.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m not sure what else we’re supposed to do.”

  “Me either.”

  “She told you about me?” “I got all the highlights.”

  He studied me for a moment, then laughed. “Highlights.” We sat there in silence. It felt like everything I’d expected and nothing I’d expected, all at the same time. “How is Carolina?” he asked. “Fine.”

  “You and she close?”

  “None of your fucking business.”

  He pursed his lips. “I suppose.”

  Everything seemed to be closing in around me, and I needed to escape.

  “Look,” I said. “Darcy thinks you’ll talk to me and it’ll help her win your appeal. Are you going to do that?”

  He leaned back in the chair and readjusted the glasses again. “No appeal is going to change my situation. I’ve done what I’ve done, and there’s no going back.” He stared at me with my own eyes. “I’m going to die here, and I’m alright with that.”

  “Then I am, too,” I said quickly.

  “As you should be,” he said. “But seeing you here, in front of me, has given me some things to think about.” “Good for fucking you.”

  He came forward again, his hands folded together neatly on the ledge. “I’m not going to fight with you, Noah. All the reasons you hate me are the right ones. I’m not going to try to change that.”

  He was defusing the anger inside of me, and that made me hate him even more. I wasn’t ready to drop thirty years of anger like it was a used napkin. But I was sitting there for a reason, even if I hadn’t figured out what it was yet.

  “Darcy thinks that you were under orders from someone else to kill,” I said, deflecting the conversation away from me. “Were you?”

  Russell stared at me, almost through me, his mind elsewhere. Then he snapped back to the present.

  “Does it matter?” he asked.

  “It might. To her and to your case.”

  “How about to you?”

  I stood. “I’m not here about me and you. I could give a shit about me and you. Darcy is trying to help you. She convinced me to have a conversation with you, so here I am. But I’m not gonna sit here and let you get to know me. I may look like you, but that doesn’t mean I am like you.”

  He sat back in the chair, studying me. It was unnerving.

  “You wanna die without fighting, it’s fine by me,” I said. “You don’t wanna give me anything to pass along to Darcy, then I’m outta here.”

  I felt my chest heaving, and I was furious with myself for getting so worked up. I needed to get it together.

  Russell Simington stood up slowly. I saw the tattoo on his wrist clearly now. Small green letters. All capitals. Spelling out my name.

  If I could have changed my name on the spot, I would have done it. George, Tom, Mario, whatever. Anything other than what was on his wrist.

  “Landon Keene,” he said.

  I jerked my eyes off the tattoo. “What?”

  “Landon Keene,” he repeated. “See what you can find out about him.” He smiled reluctantly. “You find anything that interests you, then come back and see me. If you want.”

  Russell Simington disappeared.

  TEN

  I walked out of San Quentin feeling like I’d just been sprung. The clouds had lifted, leaving a frosty haze in the sky and a chill in the air.

  Or maybe it was me.

  A guy across the parking lot watched me as I came out. He made no effort to hide the fact that he had his eyes on me. He was about my height, extra thin, and wore a navy suit that looked too small for him, the pants rising an inch above his shoes and the coat sleeves revealing both wrists. Aviator sunglasses, totally bald.

  I took out my cell phone, called the cab company, and heard it would be about ten minutes.

  The guy pointed at me and walked in my direction.

  I put the phone back in my pocket and waited for him.

  “Mr. Braddock,” he said as he approached.

  “Yeah?”

  He pulled out a badge. “Detective Ken Kenney with San Francisco PD.”

  “Did you just stutter or is that really your name?” I asked.

  Kenney smiled, exposing a bunch of crooked teeth. “You have a moment?”

  “Not really.”

  “I think you do,” he said, removing his sunglasses. “Then why’d you ask?”

  “Just being polite,” he said. He nodded at the prison. “Visiting a friend?”

  “No.”

  “Taking a tour?”

  “No. I was getting a manicure.”

  “Did you visit with Mr. Simington?” His voice was precise, each syllable pronounced.

  “Yeah.”

  “Was he doing well?” “I didn’t ask.”

  “Ms. Gill asked you to visit him?” Kenney asked.

  “Yep.”

  “But she didn’t accompany you?” “Nope.”

  He waited for me to elaborate. I didn’t.

  “Interesting guy, Simington is,” Kenney said, twirling his sunglasses by the arm. “You know why he’s incarcerated here, correct?”

  “Sure. You busted him for parking tickets. You guys take that shit seriously in San Francisco. Well done.”

  Kenney laughed and stopped the twirling. “Simington was rather humorous, too, from what I recall.” He looked at me, the humor gone from his eyes. “Like father like son, I guess.”

  The blood rushed to my face. “Fuck you.”

  “Mr. Braddock, we arrested Mr. Simington for a different crime than the one he’s currently serving time for. Unfortunately, the case was not prosecuted successfully. Nonetheless, we are very content now that he is residing here, awaiting his punishment.” He paused. “We do not wish to see that punishment changed.”

  “What did you arrest him for?”

  “He was hired to kill a young man approximately eight years ago,” Kenney said. “He killed the young man in exactly the same manner as the crime he was eventually convicted of.”

  Russell Simington’s past got a little darker and, by default, so did mine.

  “So what?” I said. “You think I went in there with a magic wand and commuted his sentence?”

  “No, sir,” Kenney said, looking at his shoes, then bringing his eyes up slowly to meet mine. “I just want to make it clear that I will do everything in my power to see him remain where he is.”

  “Good for you.”

  “I’d hate to have to follow you around the whole time you’re visiting San Francisco,” Kenney said, with a forced smile, “just to find out what occurred in there.”

  I sighed, already too tired for so early in the day. “I asked him a few questions. That was it. Darcy wanted some information. He didn’t give it to me. And I don’t think he ever will.”

  “I am intrigued that Ms. Gill did not attend with you today,” Kenney said, his eyes crinkling as he said it. “That seems atypical of her.”

  “What can I tell you? Don’t know where she is.” The cab pulled up outside the main entrance. “My ride’s here. See you later.”

  “Will you be visiting again?” Kenney asked.

  “You did a good job of finding out
about me this time,” I said, smiling at him as I walked away. “Keep on detecting.”

  ELEVEN

  I gave the driver directions back to the offices of Gill and Gill.

  The detective’s surprise visit rattled me. I was pretty sure he saw it, too. Probably what he was hoping for. I knew that Kenney’s case was most likely more complicated than what he had told me. For him to hang on to it like he was doing meant that it had hung on to him.

  The cab dropped me off at the same spot outside the old building. Miranda looked more frazzled this time.

  “Did she call you?” she asked as I came through the door.

  “No. You?”

  “No.” She gnawed on a black fingernail. “Man, she never goes this long without checking in. And I can’t believe she would let you talk to him without being around.”

  “You know a cop named Kenney?”

  She let go of the fingernail. “Yeah. How do you know about him?”

  “He was waiting for me when I came out of the prison.”

  She scowled. “Figures. Even more reason Darcy should’ve been with you. You tell him anything?”

  “Nothing to tell. He was basically just letting me know he doesn’t care for Simington.”

  “He’s still pissy about striking out on him years ago,” she said. “Probably has front-row reservations for the execution.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Why does he care so much?”

  Miranda sighed. “Simington killed Kenney’s nephew. Went ballistic, I guess, when he got off. I wasn’t around, but Darcy told me about it.”

  “Did Simington kill the kid?”

  “Definitely,” Miranda said. “But the evidence they had was for shit so he skipped. Kenney couldn’t work it and Simington did a good enough job covering it up that the cops who did pull it couldn’t do a thing with it. Kenney’s been sour since.”

  I was trying to equate the image of a cold-blooded killer with the man I’d just met inside the prison. I was having a hard time getting the two to mesh.

  “Kenney’s apparently followed his case since he was convicted five years ago. When Simington’s number came up on the row a year and a half ago, Kenney made contact with us. He’s been by several times to see Darcy, to try to intimidate her and get her to back off, I guess.”

  “Hard to do,” I said.

  Miranda’s black lips curled into a smile. “She lets him do his thing, talk up all the ways he can end her career and all that. Then when he’s done, she opens up the door and waves him out without saying a word.” Miranda laughed to herself. “You can almost see his aorta explode.”

  If Kenney was certain Simington had killed his nephew, I had a hard time blaming him for his stance. Opponents of the death penalty were fond of saying that you can’t make the crime personal. The problem was, murder was always personal for someone. Murder left a trail of victims in its wake. In this case, Kenney was one of the victims.

  The amusement died on Miranda’s face, replaced with concern. “Where the hell is she?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, heading for the door, irritated by the entire situation. “But when you find her, tell her to call me.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to San Diego.”

  “You’re going home?” she asked, incredulous. “You just got here.” “I did what Darcy asked,” I said. “She wants to know what he said, she knows where to find me.”

  TWELVE

  My return flight wasn’t until the following morning. I tried to change it and was informed it would cost me two hundred bucks, so I spent fifty on a crappy airport motel room instead. I got back to the airport in time for my flight the next morning, my mind swimming with images of Simington’s face and voice.

  As we descended into San Diego, the clouds were playing tag in the sky, waiting to see which one dropped the first bucket of rain on the ground. I drove to my place, my thoughts bouncing between Darcy, Kenney, and Simington but never coming together to give me an answer about anything.

  I shoved my key in my front door to unlock the deadbolt and twisted. There was no resistance, which told me it hadn’t been locked to begin with.

  I took my hand off the keys, letting them hang in the lock, and listened. If Carter was in there, the TV would be blaring or the stereo rattling the walls.

  Nothing.

  I walked back to the Jeep, grabbed my gun from beneath the seat, and walked around to the patio off the boardwalk. The blinds were pulled shut.

  I’d lived in that place a long time, since college, because I loved being on the beach and being able to watch the ocean and the sunsets. I could walk to that back slider and gauge the waves every morning or watch the sun slip away each evening.

  Not once in all the time I’d lived there had I pulled those blinds shut.

  I walked to the front door again. I twisted the knob and swung the door open and stepped to the side, listening. Quiet.

  Dropping to a crouch, I pivoted around the corner into the doorway, my gun leading the way.

  Nothing seemed out of place. The sofa was empty, the coffee table as I’d left it. No one in the kitchen or sitting at the dining room table.

  I crept in slowly, my ears picking up every tiny sound. I peered down the hallway toward my bedroom. Again, everything seemed normal.

  I came up out of the crouch and took a deep breath, my heart rate having spiked. Through the hallway, I could see part of my bed through the open doorway. It hadn’t been tossed; it was still made, a habit of Liz’s.

  I slid next to the sofa to get into the hall and take a more thorough look at my bedroom when something in the area between the back of the sofa and the kitchen caught my eye.

  I looked down.

  Darcy Gill was lying on my floor, a bullet hole above each eyebrow.

  THIRTEEN

  Thirty minutes later, an army of cops was wrapping yellow crime scene tape around the perimeter of my place.

  I was sure my neighbors would find it charming.

  I’d called 911 immediately, then called Liz and told her what I’d walked in on. She put me on hold for a moment, then came back to let me know the responding detectives were already on their way and she’d be there as soon as she could.

  Her colleagues found me on the boardwalk.

  Harold Klimes looked like a life-size beach ball. Between his neck and his knees, he was a perfect circle of what I guessed to be about three hundred pounds. Not attractive on a guy just under six feet. His pudgy cheeks were bright red and sweat clung to the thinning gray hair above his ears. His eyes looked like tiny targets. He wore a white short-sleeve polyester shirt, a tie that I thought was a clip-on, and gray slacks that barely contained him. A badge was stuck to his belt below the rolls of fat.

  I introduced myself, and he stuck out a thick hand. “Hey, Noah.” He motioned to my house. “Not good in there, huh?”

  I shook his hand, and his grip was what I imagined Superman’s to be. “No.”

  Through the glass slider, I saw several people in coats milling around, staring downward. A camera flashed, no doubt capturing an ugly image of Darcy Gill. I looked away.

  Luis Zanella gave me the once-over longer than he needed to before reluctantly holding out his hand. “Hello.”

  Zanella was a runway model next to Klimes. Brown hair slicked back off a chiseled, tanned face. Alert, green eyes. An expensive-looking pale blue button down open at his neck, exposing a thin, gold chain. Tailored tan slacks that fell to shiny burgundy loafers. Cologne, too much of it, drifted off him. He was a little over six feet with a broad chest and the puffed-out shoulders of a guy who liked looking at himself in the mirror at the gym.

  Liz had told me on the phone that Klimes was a good guy and Zanella was a bit of a prick. I thought she was dead on with Klimes but had underestimated his partner.

  Zanella lifted his chin at the house. “When did you meet the vic?”

  I recounted my meeting with Darcy and my trip to San Francisco again.
r />   Klimes’ laugh sounded like he was coughing up a cat. “San Quentin’s a fun place, huh?” “Lots,” I said.

  “So we should assume this has to do with Simington?” Zanella asked, his eyes moving between me and the house as though he were watching a tennis match.

  “Seems like a safe bet. Why else?”

  Zanella’s eyes zeroed in on me. “Good question. Why else?”

  I didn’t like his look. “You wanna ask me something, then ask.”

  He shrugged and the eyes went back to moving.

  “No sign of forced entry,” Klimes said, dabbing at his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. “Remember if you had any doors open?”

  “Patio might’ve been unlocked,” I said. “Normally is. Liz was here when I left, but I’m sure she locked it behind her. You can check with her.”

  Klimes nodded. “Makes sense. The tech located blood on the patio near the door.”

  I glanced in that direction. Two men were hunched over the area, and I couldn’t see anything.

  “Anybody else’s blood on your patio, Mr. Braddock?” Zanella asked.

  “Christ, Luis,” Klimes said. “Santangelo vouched for him.”

  Zanella made a face like he didn’t know what was what. “Maybe she did that for other reasons.”

  I’d already had a long day and now Zanella wanted to make it personal, rather than concentrating on the dead woman in my home. I’d had enough.

  “How fucking dumb are you?” I asked, stepping in close to him.

  I’d caught him off guard, and he took a step back.

  “You know I didn’t kill her. You know where I was. So that means you’re just being an asshole.” I leaned closer. “And I don’t like assholes, especially ones that smell like they showered in their mothers’ perfume.”

  Zanella’s attention was now focused solely on me. He tried to take a step toward me, but I was too close. It was like an awkward hop on his part. And he was pissed.

  “I’m running an investigation,” he said, the skin around his eyes pinching tight. “You don’t like it? Get over it.”