by Paul Snyder
“That’s a boomerang.”
She heard his voice, chuckling and hearty, and faced his name tag. “It’s a fishing pole. Can you help me, please, Gilbert? I want to sit. I totaled my car last night. I’ve been outside in the rain, and I am a little frazzled.”
“Sure.”
She stepped out of line and walked to the shoe department. “You said this is a boomerang, Gilbert. What do you mean, boomerang?”
Gilbert followed from behind. His voice sounded confident. “I told Rick Weber the day he bought that deep-sea rig that it would come back to me, unused. It’s not good for fishing off the jetty. And there it is, in your hand, just like a boomerang. It came back to me.”
“You’re right. It’s a boomerang.” Meghan sat on a couch perfect for privacy. She had worked this out for hours, preparing solely for this moment, and after walking in the rain, she was wet and weary. But it was a feeling she liked. Her plan worked well. She already knew Rick Weber purchased the fishing pole, and there was a sense she would be given his address and phone number, and the money would be out of her walk-in closet very soon.
She sized up Gilbert. He has a baby face, brown hair, and a button-up shirt with the store logo. His hands are smoother than Andrew’s and Philip’s, softer than men who do construction work. I hope he likes earning a quick buck.
Gilbert grasped the fishing rod. She sank into a comfortable couch with a rueful sigh as she lay her head back against the soft brown cushion. Hearing a squeaking noise, she sprang up, startled by a girl arriving with a shopping cart filled with shoeboxes. The clerk bumped her leg. There were touches of humor around the clerk’s mouth and eyes. Meghan sat back down, pulling her feet close to the couch, scrunching her legs together. Bribing Gilbert with cash would go nowhere, fast, if anyone hears our conversation.
For added privacy, Meghan moved to a tan, leather sofa across the room. If Gilbert is a kind man, she thought, he will accept my bribe and give me Rick Weber’s address and phone number. And if he isn’t, I have a concealed weapon. I may have to run and hide from security and police.
“Rick doesn’t need a bait caster. He uses a spinning reel.” Gilbert lowered his eyes to study her face while she sat on the couch. “He wanted bigger fish, but I told him that the bait caster was a waste of time.”
Meghan gave an impersonal nod and spent a moment searching for the right words. “You can’t pull big fish onto the rocks and then carry them by hand across the jetty. I know. I surf with Andrew every day.”
“Andrew used to fish with Rick every day on the Alamitos Bay breakwater. They’d use razor clams to catch buttermouth perch. Anchovies for sharks and there are a lot of stingrays and needlefish out there. They’re members of our night diving scuba team. But a few years ago, Andrew traded his scuba equipment and fishing pole for a surfboard.”
“I’ve been snowboarding and surfing for seven years longer than Andrew.”
“I heard about your cars and the fire in your tree. Seal Beach is a small town. Word gets around fast. I knew Rick Weber and Andrew and Philip long before they moved here. I met them on Naples Island. I like your black Cigarette Racing boat. Is it nice for surfing?”
“We use the boat to get in and out of secret spots fast around Laguna Beach and San Clemente, where street access to the beach is impossible because of high cliffs or private property and government land. That boat helps us get in and out the water fast and surf the best waves, without worrying about parking on the street or crowds.”
“How can I help you?”
“Please credit Rick’s account for the boomerang.”
“Fine.” He asked. “Anything else?”
“I need a receipt now.”
“It’ll go in the mail.”
“I need a handwritten receipt. We have a lot of accounts. I need to verify the address and phone number with the correct account on Excel spreadsheets. I’m balancing accounts.”
“Sure.” He leaned slightly to her, tilting his face down. “I’ll write one out for you.”
“Thank you.”
“Rick is still over on Sienna Drive, Naples Island.”
“Yes.”
“No, he isn’t. Rick Weber doesn’t live at that address at all. I gave you a fake address to test you and to see if you were on the level. You’re a liar.” Gilbert tested her, and she had failed, and he was flipping out and fighting mad. He was working off excess energy by pacing around her. He moved closer to her. Close enough to restrain her until security arrived. He looked down at her. “You will not get away with this in my store. We have armed guards. Who are you, and what’s this all about?”
She betrayed Gilbert after he opened the door to his heart, and they had bonded. And now he was like a ticking time bomb. She met his accusing eyes without flinching. Here it goes. Just be brave and honest. She drew in a deep breath. “I own the home on Ocean Avenue, where the cars exploded. The Bugatti was everything to me. I loved it… it’s gone.” Meghan reached into her pocket and then shoved two hundred dollar bills into Gilbert’s hand. “Andrew lives with me. He’s my boyfriend, and neither Andrew nor I know how to contact Rick Weber. Because of the fire, we need Rick’s help now. Please keep the money. I’ll say nothing to anyone. I promise. Please give me Rick’s address so I can talk with him. It’s important.”
“Okay, on one condition.”
“What?”
“You’ll keep this a secret. You will never again come back to this store. Do you understand?”
“I was never here in the first place, I promise.”
22
A small shark pulled hard at the end of Rick Weber’s fishing line. He had been fighting it for forty minutes too long. During Hurricane Yolanda, every twelve minutes, a set of five waves rolled over the Alamitos Bay breakwater. Since the last wave, it had been a short moment. Rick figured he had about five minutes to walk down to a small sandbar. If he could grab the fish with a Kevlar-reinforced glove within five minutes, he would climb back up to the top of the jetty before the next wave crashed on the breakwater.
He grasped a five carat diamond cross pendant hanging around his neck. After kissing the cross, he stepped down across the wet rocks, noticing small crevices he used for hand and footholds. He had to do this now. With a good posture, relaxed expression, legs spread wide on the wet sand, he began pulling the fish onto the sandbar. The shark’s blue dorsal fin rose in the gray water.
A blue pointed tail hit the surface like a cannonball, splashing water in Rick’s face. Rick smiled and reached for the fish. A loud whining noise came from his reel, releasing the fishing line. Rick fought back. The fish had tremendous power. They couldn’t fight forever. Rick was running out of time. How can I do this? Moments later, a large swell came. Rick looked twenty-five feet straight up at the top of a wave.
Above his head, at the wave’s crest, white, foamy surf fell to the sandbar like crystal chandeliers from a vaulted, palatial ceiling. Soon it’ll hit me. I’ll be underwater. He stepped back and jammed his left hand and his feet into the crevices in the jetty. I can do this! He braced his body against the breakwater as the water fell across his back. Breath in! Good work! You’re underwater with a lot of air in your lungs. Now, just relax until it’s over. The ocean yanked at him, hard, from all angles. His body banged against the rocks, the force pulling at his left hand and feet with increasing, unrelenting power, as he further wedged his fingertips and feet into the rock’s crevices. Hang on harder, don’t let go.
It took all his might to hold the rocks as the shark pulled hard on his fishing pole. Rick opened his eyes while underwater. The spinning reel whined and released more line. Stop pulling off my line. It’s all I have. I don’t care about you. Stop stealing my line. Stop it! His muscles tightened further while the wave pulled at him from underwater. In a moment of victory, the fish stopped drawing off his line. Yes! Thank you, God! The shark is tired of fighting… or broke my line.
Rick spun around beneath the ocean's surface, looked out into the
deep blue sea, and saw nothing but silvery bubbles in sparkling blue water. Then, moments later, the blue mako shark floated upward from the sandy bottom, with an open mouth and big white teeth, curling backward. What do I do now? I get out of the water, right? He’ll rip up my leg. I’ll stay, right here.
The shark’s dark eyes settled on Rick’s face. Rick held his breath as their eyes met. Just relax… back up into the rocks. Rick found a small space, an underwater cave, and squeezed most of his body back inside the stones. The shark stared at him with dark and round eyes that were hard and passionless. The shark moved closer and closer to Rick’s head. Mako sharks eat bonitos and crabs. Don’t tear off my face. Don’t pull me out the jetty and into the sea. I’m a human. You won’t like how I taste. You want crabs and Bonita… go away. The shark made an abrupt move, veering back into the blue water, and then returned a slow look with eyes that were black and lifeless. The swell subsided. The water went down fast around Rick’s shoulders, then his waist. The shark can still tear at my legs. Rick opened his mouth and took in a breath of fresh air while the water went down around his ankles. Yes! I escaped the shark, and the cold air feels good in my lungs.
Hurricane Yolanda's heavy surf pushed orange Dungeness crabs from inside the jetty and out onto the sandy seafloor where the sharks were feeding. Rick found orange crab legs in the shark’s belly while cleaning the fish. After cleaning fish here for five years, he knew when the sharks were feasting that was the best time to fish off the jetty.
The shark was still pulling on his line as Rick climbed back to the top of the rocks. Rick tightened the drag on his reel as his cell phone rang from inside a waterproof bag in his jacket. “Looks like Hurricane Yolanda is here.” Rick answered. “The sharks are eating the Dungeness crabs.”
“Yes,” Gilbert replied. “Meghan’s in trouble. The Bugatti and Lamborghini were destroyed in a fire last night.”
“Meghan’s trouble,” Rick asked. “What about my trouble. I’ve got maybe twenty yards of line left before I lose this fish and all my fishing line, and I’ll have to go home empty handed.”
“Move up to the thirty-pound test.” Gilbert suggested. “You’ll reel them in faster.”
“I tried that. It’s harder to cast the thirty-pound test. I like light tackle and steel leaders and a good fight,” Rick asked. “How’s Meghan been?”
“Meghan credited your account by returning the deep-sea pole,” Gilbert spoke eagerly. “One of your homes was on the credit slip.”
“Which one?”
“Meghan’s walking to the Naples Island house right now. Her car was totaled last night, and the poor woman’s on foot and in the rain. She looks like a wet puppy. She wants to talk with you about the fire last night.”
“Does she know about my Balboa Island, the Colony, Forest Falls, Palm Springs, Corona Del Mar, or Laguna Beach homes?”
“She only knows about your Naples Island address.”
“Thanks for calling,” Rick ended the call, carefully weighing his options. Helping Philip and Andrew back in Oregon was bad business. Things will be worse with Meghan in the mix. Rick tightened the drag on his spinning reel until his fishing line snapped. The shark swam free. After packing up his fishing equipment, Rick walked back to his car at the marina, rehearsing his lines and polishing until perfecting the first of his moves. I’ll have to call Philip and find out what Meghan knows.
23
Temple’s hope to close half a dozen cases may have interfered with his better judgment. But he would not fall victim to the assumption he could have prevented the cars from exploding, and last night’s fire was too fresh in his mind.
Temple walked to Meghan’s backyard, feeling the same horror he felt when he found the father and the mother and their baby burning to death in the dirt in Iraq. And again, he was pushed into something he hated. I wish I could explain to Philip and Meghan why I have to give Jennifer the rope she needs to hang herself. I will indict the contract killers. I’m doubling down on it. There will be closure for Philip and Andrew and Meghan too.
Long ago, during his days at Georgetown University, Temple learned of police corruption and hate and killing and why the Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King Jr. won the Nobel Peace Prize. It was strange, though, how Temple felt as though he had learned of non-violent resistance not decades ago, but only yesterday. And, now, his academic life and career were so dissimilar that it was hard for him to imagine them together. Youth knows no fear but never listens to age. My youthful idealism clashes hard with my real-world intent to use any means necessary.
Temple stood very still at the side gate, and while opening the latch to enter Meghan’s backyard, he listened to the sound of crashing waves. Fresh and salty winds pushed against his blue FBI windbreaker, and a moment later, Temple was fascinated by the array of beach towels, blue beach chairs, and everyone drinking sodas in the middle of the day.
Beyond the fire pit, several white yachts motored out to sea beyond the San Gabriel River jetties. Philip was leaning forward, his eyes bright during a conversation with Andrew. Julie stood there quietly as she searched the shoreline where Dan held a long, orange leash to Snickers.
Jim waited, combing the crowd for Meghan, but not finding her. Then suddenly, Snickers saw Temple and jumped in wild circles, his big red paws flying high. Dan was quick to reach down and release Snickers from his orange leash. Snickers ran past the white ice coolers and everyone at the fire pit.
Outfitted with a new, pink bandana and an orange collar, Snickers shook his floppy ears, barked, and jumped happily on Jim. “Hello, Snickers.” The Irish Setter’s chestnut-colored paws landed hard on Jim’s chest. Jim swept Snickers up and off the ground and into his arms, hugging the Irish Setting puppy tightly. And then Snicker’s silky coat looked too perfect. “Someone must have brushed Snickers coat today, Julie.”
“Yes.” After Julie ran up to Jim, her voice crackled with emotion as Temple lowered Snickers back down to the sand. “We have a new dog now, thanks to you, Jim.”
“How’s that?”
“After Dan fixed the fence for free, Mary and Ralph, our neighbors, came over to our house and told us that we could take Snickers to the beach, anytime, to play with the seagulls.”
“Would you show me the fence?” They walked to Philip and Andrew at the fire pit. Philip offered to put a hot dog on the grill while Andrew reached out with steady eye contact and shook hands with Jim. Julie led Temple down the beach to the white picket fence. The swinging gate had a new zinc hinge, a locking latch, and fresh white paint. “Dan did a lot of work.”
“We had all the parts in Meghan’s garage with the roller covers and paint thinner to paint the slats. Dan is quick. He did this in half an hour.” Julie added with a smile. “It’s what we do all the time on Andrew’s properties.”
Jim returned to the fire pit to find Tom Clayton, deep in conversation with Philip. Temple questioned Tom’s presence at Meghan’s fire pit. After breaking into Meghan’s bedroom and installing Wi-Fi spy cameras for Steve Davis, Tom shows up here? Returning to the scene of police misconduct, violating Section 1983 of the United States Civil Rights Act, is worse than a bad joke… but predictable for a habitual offender, an unrepentant jailbird. He must have an IQ under seventy and a whole slew of cognitive disorders. Jim put his hand on Tom Clayton’s shoulder. The muscles were hard beneath his fingertips. Jim whispered. “I guess you want to get shot dead by Steve Davis.”
Tom sighed slightly rebelliously from beneath his black baseball cap and then stepped back and shook his head with a slack expression. “I’d just arrived and was talking with Philip.”
“Tom Clayton said you knew in advance about last night’s premeditated attack on Meghan’s property.” Philip edged toward Jim, and his voice was sad. “You could have stopped the firebombing from happening, but you let it happen anyway.”
“You’re right.” Jim reached down and picked up a soda from the white cooler. “I did let it happen.” Jim opened the can, then cup
ped the soda in his hand and took a drink.
“We’ve heard your excuse for allowing the police department to destroy my body with brucine ten years ago in Oregon,” Philip shook his head and studied Jim’s face. “What’s your excuse for allowing the police department to destroy millions of dollars of our property in a deadly firebombing?”
Temple explained. “I can’t stop what hasn’t happened yet.”
Julie held up her hand in protest, her face shaky. “Who is this guy, Tom?” Julie gave Tom a curt nod of welcome. “Why are you letting Jennifer Davis do more evil?”
“Tom can speak for himself.” Temple paused for a long moment. “I don’t rule the world. I fight to live free in it.” Julie watched Tom with steady eyes. Tom’s face was full of strength, shining with a serene peace. It was clear Julie wanted to spend time with Tom. “I look at the purpose of an event, but I need evidence. It’s easier to criticize what has already happened in the past than it is to stop what may or may not happen in the future.”
“Detective Davis has claimed responsibility for firebombing our house.” Julie nodded and looked into his eyes. “She’s already threatened to kill Meghan and Andrew, me, and Dan, everyone in our home.”
“Then you know something that I don’t know,” Jim admitted. “We’ll talk more about this.”
“I know something more than you know, Jim.” Tom Clayton threw up his hands.