A Deadly Legacy

by Julie Vail

  From the truth.

  The white light hit him between the eyes, and the sweet smell of loss filled his senses.

  And then the pain began.

  With the people we most suspected of this crime now running free, and running their mouths off, we had nowhere to go but up. We decided to pay the university Crew coach a visit.

  “You drive,” I said as we exited the rear of the station. I threw Alex the keys. He got behind the wheel and gunned the engine. As we headed over to Campbell, I sipped my coffee.

  Alex turned to me while he was driving. “So?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Like coitus interruptus, except . . . not really.”

  “Yeah.” I stared out the window. “I was kinda looking forward to the coitus part. We were on our way to the coitus part, actually.”

  “When the interruptus happened. Not the way the world should work, bubba.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, padna.”

  “Should’a sent Gonz. This shit never happens to him.”

  “That’s ‘cuz he never goes outside with a woman. You actually have to venture from the bed and out the door for shit like this to go down.”

  “You got that right.” He drove on for a while. “Think you’ll see her again?”

  I looked at him like he’d grown a third eye. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Was she freaked?”

  “Nah.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yeah . . . sure . . . why? You think she doesn’t see this shit, and worse, with her job?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe.” A full minute went by before he said, “Maybe not.”

  “I’m seeing her again, definitely. Not letting that go.”

  “Huh,” he finally said. “Good luck, pal.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  We arrived at the campus and went directly to the athletics office. When we walked in to the office, a kid was sitting at a table working on the computer.

  “Hi,” said this fresh-faced lad of eighteen or so.

  “Hey, buddy.” And I pulled out my badge and told him who we were. “We’re looking for the Crew coach. Is he around?”

  “Uh, let me think . . . yeah, he should be . . . somewhere. Hang on a minute.” And he got on the phone and spoke to someone. “Deb, is Grayson around there anywhere? There are a couple of cops here to see him. Yeah . . . yeah, okay.” The kid hung up and said, “He’s at the Boathouse. Know where it is?”

  “No.” He gave us directions. “How long will he be there, do you know?”

  “Until four. Workouts started already. Gonna be a good year. Team looks good, especially the women.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, thanks, kiddo.” I started out the door, when Alex asked for a bathroom.

  “I’ll see you at the car,” he said. I went outside, leaned against a tree, and dialed Karen’s office. A woman with a heavy English accent answered. I introduced myself.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” she said, like she knew me. “Hold, please.” In a moment Karen came on.

  “Hi, there,” she said. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m good, sweetheart. How you doin’?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Sorry, again.”

  “No, it’s alright.”

  I smiled. “Okay.” Just the sound of her voice sent me reeling. “What are you doing tonight?”

  “I have tickets to the Dodger game.”

  “Huh.”

  “Would you like to go?”

  “Where are your seats?”

  “Nosebleed.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Suit yourself.” Silence.

  “Where are your seats, Gennaro?”

  “You’re a sporting event snob, John.”

  “I’m a Yankee fan, fragolina. I’m considering lowering my standards to spend some time with you. I could do without the brain hemorrhage, is all I’m saying.”

  “If spending time with me, your fragolina, is the goal, then it shouldn’t matter where the seats are. You chest-thumping alpha-types do your best work in the rafters, I thought.”

  “Wrong. Unless I can reach out and touch Ethier’s ass in the on-deck circle, I’d just as soon stay at home.”

  “Ah. Then it’s a no?”

  “I never said that.”

  “What did you say? I missed it.”

  I smiled. “I’d love to go to the game with you, sweetheart.”

  “Good. Come over at five. We’ll have a glass of wine, then eat crap at the game.”

  “I like your style, lady blue.”

  “See you at five. You remember where I am?”

  “I remember. Sea-green building, all the way at the top.”

  “Yes, the top. So I’m closer to the Lord.”

  “Good thinking. You need the extra help.”

  “Funny.” She paused. “John?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Fragolina . . . what does it mean?”

  “You’ll have to wait for that.”

  She tsked and huffed. “Bye.”

  “Ciao, dolcezza.”

  I snapped the phone shut just as Alex appeared.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” he said, heading for the car. “I can’t piss?”

  “You can piss.”

  “Excellent,” he muttered to himself.

  We drove down Fiji Way to Fisherman’s Village, a tourist area in Marina del Rey. We parked in front of a boat house located at the end of a row of restaurants and gift shops. Campbell Cougars was painted on the side in crimson. We went inside and I asked an athletic young woman for Bill Grayson. Canoes and ores littered the floor, and several tanned and athletic guys and gals sat on buckets and chairs, just shooting the shit.

  “In the office,” the girl informed us, motioning us to find it ourselves.

  A man looked up when we entered, then smiled and introduced himself. He’d been made aware we were coming. I didn’t blame the kid back at the university. A visit from a homicide detective was a big deal, unless you were a killer. Then it became old-hat after a while, I supposed.

  “Take a seat, guys. This is a first. I hope everything is alright. I’ve never had a visit from detectives before. Lifeguards, firefighters . . . yes.” Bill Grayson was a small guy in stature . . . about five-foot eight, but built like a steam train. He had the swagger and verbal delivery of a typical coach; used to commanding young people in the ways of competitive sports. I liked the guy immediately.

  “You know this guy?” I asked, laying David Crane’s picture in front of him.

  “Yeah . . . Davey, my coxswain. What’s going on?” He was smiling, totally unaware of the bomb we were about to lay on him.

  “Coach, we have some bad news,” Alex said.

  ††††

  We walked with Bill Grayson down the planked walkway of the village. Several pleasure boats that cruised the marina and only dreamed of seeing open water, sat docked. A half-dozen canoes were out on the water, containing crews of four and eight. The eight-crew boat had a small person in back, yelling orders. The coxswain.

  “This is incredible. I can’t believe what you’re telling me.” Bill Grayson stopped and turned around. “I’m waiting to wake up.”

  “Coach, do you know these people?” I showed Polaroids of Jesse Walters, Matt Chambliss and Rob Chambliss.

  “Yes. Walters and Chambliss are part of an eight-man, along with David. This guy,” he said, pointing to Rob Chambliss’ picture, “is Matt’s brother, I believe. A real pain in the keester.”

  “How so?”

  “He hangs around, tries giving pointers to his brother. I think he lives vicariously through Matt. Wishes he was in college, rowing, dating the women athletes.”

  “You ever know this guy to have a problem with David Crane?”

  “Not that I saw. But I am so busy concentrating on what they’re doing out on the water, that one would probably have to kill the other before I’d notice.” He caught himself. “Oh, fellas
. . . I didn’t mean that . . .”

  “Is there anything else you can tell us about these kids? Their relationships, what kind of students they are . . .”

  “Well, they all maintain a B average or better, or they can’t be on the team. And this particular crew . . . they are very keyed in, very focused. The entire eight have been together for two years, with the exception of the three who started as freshmen last year.”

  “Chambliss, Walters and Crane.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, good friends, then, would you say?”

  “I would say, yes.”

  “Is there anyone else you could recommend we speak to?” Alex asked, speaking for the first time.

  “You can talk to the assistant coach, Kevin Meyers, but he’s not in today.”

  “When will he be in?”

  “Well, Monday’s Labor Day, then school begins on Tuesday. We won’t start workouts again until probably the following Monday.”

  “We’re going to need to talk to him before then, coach. Why don’t you have him contact us. Tell him we’d like to talk to him.”

  “I can do that,” he said, taking my card.

  We started to walk away, when he called after us. “David had his problems, and I wasn’t sure if he’d be back this year.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He was having some arm pain. He was being treated by a doctor, that much I know.”

  I stopped and turned around. “You know this doctor’s name?”

  “Sure. He treats most of the athletes on the team. Dr. Stan Ondrak.”

  ††††

  She lived in one of those new condo complexes in the Marina—all green glass and steel. I pulled up and a guy came around and asked me my business. When I told him, he acted like he had been expecting me. He pointed to a row of parking spots. “Over there.”

  After I parked, I walked through a set of etched glass doors. A guy named Rocky, wearing a polo shirt with a security patch on the chest, directed me to a set of elevators. “Take the elevator to the top floor then exit to your left. All the way to the end.” I did as I was told, and knocked when I came to her door.

  She greeted me with a smile. Every time I saw her, it was like the first time.

  “Hi. Come on in.”

  I leaned in and kissed her, then stepped in to a large entryway. I could see straight into a large living area.

  “Rocky, huh?”

  “Yes, Rocky. He’s great.”

  “Uh huh.” I looked around. “Wow, Gennaro. This is nice.”

  “Thanks,” she said, smiling. “I’ll show you around.” She wore a terrific pair of jeans that fit just right, and a cream colored sweater. “Want a drink?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s in the bag?” she asked.

  “Show me around first.”

  “Tease,” she pouted. I poked my head in the kitchen, which was right off the entryway. It was done in black granite and stainless steel, which gave the room a modern look, warmed by the wood cabinetry. An island sat in the middle of the kitchen, and a round table with a mosaic tile top sat beyond. Every color of the rainbow was in this table, and it was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen.

  “This table,” I said, entering the kitchen. “Where did you get it?”

  “I made it.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Yeah. Back when I had some free time and I was getting over someone. I needed an outlet and I thought making a mosaic kitchen table was the safest and sanest route to go. Better than drugs and alcohol, since, you know, I’m a surgeon and all.”

  I looked at her for a long time. I couldn’t imagine who would hurt her. Who did she have to get over to produce this? “Good thinking. Will I hear that story someday?”

  “Hmmm . . . probably not.”

  I set the brown bag on a side table in the entry way, and we went into the living room. A room sat to the right, off the kitchen. A large black granite dining table, surrounded by modern, high-backed chairs, filled part of the room. A large glass bowl in a swirl of colors sat in the center of the table. Colorful art hung on the walls. A small hallway came next.

  “Spare bedroom and a bathroom,” she informed me before I could ask.

  “Is there a master bedroom you want to show me?” I wiggled my eyebrows up and down. I grabbed her around the waist and pulled her close. “Any chance we could skip the game and get right to . . . where we left off?”

  “So, you’re more interested in sex than the game?”

  “I think I am, yes.”

  “And if the Yankees were playing? Any chance of staying home then?”

  I growled. “They’re not playing. It’s moot. Let’s go to bed.”

  “I think not.”

  I leaned my forehead against hers. “Okay. You smell good.”

  She giggled. “Stop.”

  I did. I held her hand and we stood in the living room. It was large, with expansive views of the ocean and the marina. Two modern Italian leather couches sat in front of a fireplace and media center. To the left of the living area, framed by a wall of glass, sat a gleaming white baby grand piano.

  “You play?” I asked, running my hand over the smooth surface.

  “A little.”

  I looked out the window. “This view is fantastic.”

  “I bought this place before it was finished, because of this view.”

  “Smart, and right on the corner. Your view will never get blocked by another structure.”

  “Oh, I made sure of that before I bought it.”

  I turned to her. “You’re very smart, Gennaro.”

  “No, but I have a very smart father.”

  “Ah, right. I forgot.” Dunn/Gennaro. I opened the sliding glass wall and stepped out onto the patio. Another mosaic table done in sea greens and blues sat gleaming in the twilight, surrounded by four comfortable looking chairs, and another small table sat off to the side with two more chairs on either side.

  “Another table. You make this, too?” I asked.

  “No. Just the one. Open the wine.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I went behind a small art deco bar in the corner of the living room and popped the cork on a nice bottle of 2006 San Valentino Eclissi di Sole.

  We sat outside and I watched the boats go in and out of the marina as the sun began to go down. “Goddamn, this is beautiful.”

  “Yes.”

  I turned to her. “About last night . . .” I wanted to explain that things like this happen, and that maybe I’m not the guy to hang it all on—if that’s what we were doing. I wanted to tell her that the slime I carried around on my hands—which eventually dried, leaving a crust—was a mixture of sick and piss and rot from someone who stopped being human a long time ago, and that touching her at all after that would have brought the filth closer to her than it already was, and that wasn’t going to happen as long as I had a say. I wanted to tell her about the man who went ass-over and landed on his little dog, how he held the small, lifeless body in his arms and cried like a baby, and how I couldn’t wait to get away from him. I wanted to drum into her that I was not good for her. That someone else out there could—and would, if he was smart—give her what she needed. I wasn’t him. I wasn’t that man. I wanted to say that last night reminded me why I never allow myself to get close.

  “You think I don’t see horror and violence in my job? You think I don’t get shit on my hands, carry the smell of my day around, knowing everyone else can smell it, too?” She took my hands in hers. “You think I don’t understand why you backed away when I tried to touch you? I saw how you held your hands away from your body. I do it, too. And until I can clean up, I stick my elbow in people’s faces when they get too close because I don’t want to touch them.”

  I wanted to say it wasn’t the same, comparing her to me, me to her. But it was. We were both in the lifesaving business. To tell her that what I did was better, bigger, faster, stronger, more important, more dangerous, would ha
ve been offensive—and inaccurate, and unimportant.

  “It dawned on me last night, as we were walking along the beach, and I let it sink in that you were carrying a gun, that I was out with a cop. Not a grocer, or an art dealer, or a commodities broker, or a lawyer, but a cop. An officer of the law, who is on duty twenty-four-seven because that’s the way he is, this particular cop.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re not easy.”

  “Either are we. And I’m different than most. Many doctors have become jaded and uncaring because the insurance companies make it so damn hard to just be a doctor. But I tend to get right in there, even when someone else is better suited to the task. I’m arrogant enough to think I can do it better than everyone else. There isn’t much that scares me. Last night was nothing. You came out of it unharmed, and for that I was profoundly grateful. But do not ever apologize for what you do, or who you are. I like who you are, John Testarossa.”

  I smiled. “Tu sembri sicuro.” You seem so sure.

  She looked into my eyes, and she saw right through me. “So quello che vedo.” I know what I see.

  ††††

  Her seats were so close to the field that I could, and almost did, touch Ethier’s ass in the on-deck circle. She knew the game and talked statistics with ease. And I ate hot dogs for dinner.

  “I saw a different side to you to night, Gennaro,” I said as we waited for cars to clear out of the parking lot of Dodger Stadium. “You know the game. I like that. I’m very impressed.”

  “Still girly enough for you?”

  I ran the back of my hand over the hair that rested on her soft cheek, moving it off her face as she maneuvered into the exit lane.

  “Yeah. Still girly enough for me.”

  “So, where do you stand on the notion of a man wanting a lady on his arm and a whore in his bed?”

  “Truthfully? A lady on my arm and in bed works for me. I also appreciate a friend by my side at a baseball game. Naughtiness in bed is a bonus, definitely. I see potential in you there, Gennaro. Am I right?”

  “I guess we’ll have to see.”

  “When?”

  She turned to me and smiled.

  “Okay then.”

  I held her hand, caressed her seductively all the way home, my hands, my words moving her into a zone. I planned to prolong the foreplay once I got her inside. I wanted her begging. I wasn’t above a little begging myself. A block from her place she got a call. It sounded serious. She extracted her hand from mine to better concentrate. She moved easily between medical terms and calming words, and when she parked outside the entrance to the underground garage at her place, and mouthed ‘I’m sorry’ to me, I knew that, once again, it wouldn’t be tonight.