by Julie Vail
I turned toward the Lady without answering, knowing I could never promise such a thing.
††††
I heard his footsteps on the wood planks of the pier. “Bill,” I smiled. “Good of you to come.”
Bill Grayson looked different in the role he was about to play with me—not the role of a coach extracting strength and character out of young people who lacked both much of the time, but that of friend, confidant.
He rested his elbows on the top railing, and stared out at the sea. I didn’t know quite what I was looking for from him, but he seemed to.
“You carry burdens, John.”
I squinted into the setting sun. I saw something breach the water a hundred yards out.
“You married, Bill?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Fourteen years, roughly. Two seven-year-itches.”
“Did you scratch?”
He laughed. “Yeah. Year seven I found a guru and moved to Bali for six months.”
“And year fourteen?”
“I married her again.” He paused. “You have someone, John?”
“Not anymore.”
“A woman?” he asked cautiously.
I laughed. “Yes.”
“Sorry. I took this road because I was never comfortable in the role of judge.” He worked a toothpick around in his mouth. “I was raised Catholic. I love God, but I also love people. All people.” He removed the toothpick and stuck it in his pocket. “The church . . .?” he continued. “I think maybe it’s a little rough on people . . . humans, you see my point?”
“Sure. Thirteen years in parochial school, I see your point fine. Me, I fear God. I keep my head down and hope no one notices.”
“Man in your business has a hard time keeping his head down, I suspect.” He stared at me for a moment.
“I can stand here and listen to your confession, and offer you the absolution you seem to be seeking, but after thirteen years in parochial school, I may not be enough. God is loving and He is forgiving. Remember that, no matter who you go to.”
I nodded, not sure in the least.
“This woman . . . do you still love her.”
“Yes.”
“Is she a good woman?”
“The best I have ever known.”
“She will ease your burdens, John.”
“She will never know my burdens. Never.”
“She must, for you to be with her, to share your life. And she will be a comfort to you.”
“How do you know this, never having met her?”
“I’ve met you. That’s all I need to know. ‘The best you’ve ever known’ is big, John. You will never be the man she deserves until she knows everything, no matter how bad it is.”
“It’s bad.”
“I suspect that it is.”
“It will change her life to know these things about me, and she’ll never stay. She’ll never stay with me if I tell her.”
“She’s not with you now,” he helpfully pointed out.
“I let her go rather than burden her with my sins, with the life I lead.”
“You think she hasn’t sinned?”
“Not like this. She’s in the business of saving lives, not taking them.” I watched the water breach again, and then again. Two dolphins, then three, then four, all came up out of the water.
He sighed, then placed his hand gently on my shoulder. Except for my initial greeting, I never once looked directly at him.
“I will be happy and honored to hear what you have to say, John. Unload it all on me, and we’ll go from there.”
My eyes filled. “I only have the strength to say it once, Padre.”
“Then go to her. Tell her. Tell her how you feel, then tell her the rest of it. I’ll be here if you need me.”
I nodded. He clapped me on the shoulder and walked back down the pier. The sun was resting now on top of the water. When I was a kid, my father and I would sit on the sand together and watch the sun go down.
Here it comes, Johnny . . . watch . . . listen . . . tssssssssss . . . there it is . . .
I only heard the hissing of the sun on the water when I was with my father. Only he made that happen, to my mind.
“Tssssssss . . .” I hissed aloud to no one.
A lone dolphin lifted his head out of the water directly below me.
What now, Johnny? What now? it said.
The dolphin turned and swam away.
Epilogue
One week to the day after Mark’s funeral, I was given an unrequested vacation. I told Dale B that I would do it only if he made Alex do it, too. Lisa and the kids needed him, and he needed them. They would stay at my house for a couple of days, then head down to San Diego to stay with Lisa’s family. Staying at my house was like a vacation for them.
Alex and I went back to the grind right after the funeral. I spent most of my time staying under the radar while I conducted my own investigation into the death of Mark Gonzales. Police work got in the way most of the time, though.
I drove over to see Karen. I didn’t call, and I took a chance that she was on her regular schedule and that she’d be home.
I walked through the door to the lobby. Rocky stopped me. I knew that he would. She had blocked phone calls from my home and cell numbers, and I was certain she had told Billy and Rocky to keep me away.
“She isn’t home, detective,” Rocky informed me before I even asked.
“Where is she?”
“I can’t say.”
“No, of course you can’t,” I said sarcastically. I took a deep breath. “Look, I need to see her. I just want to talk to her.”
“Not my call.” He was an immovable object.
“When will she be home?” I asked.
“Can’t say.”
The mailman walked in through the lobby, greeting both security guys by name. He walked over to the large bank of mailboxes, opened them all up as a group, and began stuffing mail inside. I’d stayed over with her often enough to be sent down to retrieve the mail a time or two, so I knew where her slot was, and I didn’t see the guy put anything in her box at all. He was at it a good five minutes before he closed everything up and started to walk out.
“Hey,” I said, stopping him in his tracks. “Anything for Doctor Gennaro today? I’m on my way up to her place now.”
“Nope,” he said. “There’s a vacation hold on her mail until the first of the month.”
“Oh, right. I forgot.” The mailman left and I turned to Billy.
“Cambria?” He averted his eyes, giving me the answer I wanted. “Thanks, Bill,” I said.
I got on PCH off Ocean and headed north. My mom asked me to come home for Christmas, be with the family. I said I’d see. Bring Karen, John. Please. We’d love to see her again. I never did tell my mom about Karen. She knew about Gonzo, but not about Karen. The weight of Gonzo’s loss was enough for anyone, I figured.
I made my way through Malibu, into Ventura, through Oxnard and into Santa Barbara, where I stopped for gas. She wasn’t an easy catch the first time, and nothing made me think this time would be any easier. We loved and fought with enough energy and intensity to light an entire city. I loved that about her—her fire. We shared a talent for calling it like we saw it and I wasn’t used to that. She was not going to compromise herself to please me, and that was a first for me. I hadn’t been totally honest with her about commitment, or about the burdens I carried. I wanted her to think there was hope, and frankly I figured that someday there would be, that someday I’d reach the fence and climb up and over without hesitation, believing that secrets kept would remain just that—kept. But I needed her, like air.
I passed a sign welcoming me to Cambria By The Sea. Cambria is a little beach town north of San Luis Obispo and south of Big Sur. It is a typical central California coastal town, with rocky beaches and cool weather. I wound my way down through the tiny town full of gift shops and mediocre restaurants and made my left onto Sherbo
urne Drive. I pulled up to the house, at the end of the block. Her car was in the driveway. At least I thought it was her car. It was an Audi R8 in an ice-blue color. Not quite the red one Shapiro picked out for her. I wondered if she let him buy it for her after all. I doubted it. I suspect she got behind the wheel and couldn’t resist. To me, it was too much car for such a lady. But who was I to judge? Maybe she needed a little zoom in her life.
I took a deep breath, mentally scanned the town and Moonstone Beach Drive for motels in case this didn’t work out to my liking.
I got out of the car, walked up to the door and rang the bell. I didn’t hear the padding of feet coming to answer, so I rang again. And after a thirty second wait, I tried the knob, and it opened easily.
I stepped in and did a quick search of the living room and kitchen and, finding no body—alive or otherwise—I looked in the master suite. Glass doors took up one wall of the room. I looked out, and below. I saw her down on the beach.
I opened the slider and went out on to the balcony. A large group of rocks jutted out into the sea just to the left of the house, and a large elephant seal sat atop the largest of the rocks, pointing his face into the sun. To the left, above the sand, was an open field, where people hiked and walked their dogs. This open field stretched for about a quarter mile until it came to another bluff, which jutted out over the ocean. I knew that another community lay on the other side of the bluff, accessible only by car. To the right was another house, about 50 yards away, and beyond that was another bluff. Between the two bluffs that jutted out to sea, a nice cove was created for just these two houses.
She stood at the shoreline, letting the waves hit her bare feet. She wore a black flowered sarong and a white t-shirt. The temperature was in the high 60’s, still unseasonably warm for November—especially here, where it was always 10 to 15 degrees cooler than the beach communities in L.A. The sun was bright and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. I knew that within a half hour the sun would begin to set, and in an hour the orange ball would be sitting right on top of the water.
She took a few steps back and then she reached down at her waist. The sarong fell to the sand. She crossed her arms and pulled the top over her head, and suddenly she was naked. The areas not touched by the sun stood in alabaster contrast to her darkened parts. The sun reflected off her hair, and I knew in that moment that I would never again see anything this beautiful. I wondered if she remembered that there was another house here, and that the occupants were probably looking at her naked body right now. She simply didn’t care. Remember, I did not share well with others, so I cared very much. Then I remembered she wasn’t mine anymore to share . . . or not.
She walked toward the water, and then she broke into a run and dived in. As warm as the air was, I knew that water was freezing. I scanned the beach and all I saw were the clothes she had just shucked, and it became clear rather quickly that she gave no thought to a towel.
“Lady, you’d forget that gorgeous head if it wasn’t attached,” I said aloud. I grabbed a towel that was hanging over the balcony and I went to the stairs. I descended the first twenty, came to the landing and then went down the last twenty. I walked out onto the sand and started toward where she had entered the water. I reached down and picked up her t-shirt and her sarong, and I held them to my face, inhaling her scent.
I’ve got a whole lotta love to give ya
I’ve got a whole life to spend if you’d just let me . . .
It will click in with her soon enough that the water temperature is not conducive to even the toughest of humans, and she will turn and head for the shore.
. . . sing sweet love songs
Lady blue.
Until then, I will wait. “Sarete ancora caldi, cara mia. Sarete ancora caldi,” I said aloud.
You will be warm again, my darling. You will be warm again.
Author’s note
The book you just read came to me organically out of respect for the men and women who protect the city that I love. Good, bad or indifferent, they lay their lives on the line every day in a city that hits them hard, all the time, right where it hurts. They have my upmost respect. I wanted to write a book about people, like other authors I admire: Joseph Wambaugh, Robert Crais, the late Robert Parker. I wanted to write about relationships and how they matter, like Pat Conroy, Wally Lamb and Sue Monk Kidd. I wanted to write about people I cared about, with the hope that my readers would feel the same. Testarossa, in its original draft, was not about steroids. That came later, and I have my eldest son to thank for that. In 2005, around the time that Mark McGwire refused to answer questions about his own steroid use, Blaise was fortunate to participate in a program called Young Storytellers through his school. With the help of a mentor, my then-10-year-old wrote a screenplay about steroid use in the world of professional sports—a world he hopes to be a part of one day. While sitting in a small classroom watching professional actors act out his screenplay, I realized how profoundly McGwire’s actions had affected my son. I recalled the poster he ripped down off his wall after McGwire retired amid accusations. I remembered seeing the Hallmark Christmas ornament, depicting the buffed-up Cardinal mid-swing, in the trash. (Athletes, if you think the kids aren’t watching, think again.) In 2010, this subject is far from interesting news, and it certainly isn’t sexy. No matter. I dedicate this story to Blaise, with love, gratitude and thanks.