Chapter One-
The woman's back arched and
her head jerked backwards. Blinds cut shadows across her naked body. She stood
splayed, her arms pressed against the wall. Her shoulders shuttered and she
twisted towards the window, exposing the man's bald head. His face, a tight
grimace that only pain could produce. Well, pain and sex.
Click.
I got the shot I needed. The
proof required to trip the adultery clause in the prenup and open the divorce
settlement vault. It would be the last one I showed the man's wife, right after
the establishing photos of her husband walking into the La Jolla Inn motel room
with his mistress.
The adulterer drove a late
model, black Cadillac Escalade. He probably liked it because it was a status
symbol and a smooth ride. I liked it because it was roomy under the chassis.
Plenty of head room when you had to lie under it and shoot pictures up through
slanted motel window blinds of cheating hearts, and bodies. My Nikon D7100 got
me the shot without a flash lighting up the cool, moonless December sky. It was
early evening, but winter and clouds darkened the ancient inn's parking lot.
I crawled on my belly along
the asphalt out from under the SUV and stood up. Tiny pebbles and dirt clung to
my jeans and dark blue hooded sweatshirt. I tried to brush them off, but the
dew in the night air smeared the dirt into grime and stained the clothing. My
mind wandered back to my time as a cop. Way back then I'd never envisioned this
as a career. A well paid camera jockey, cataloging the weaknesses and bad
decisions of others.
A snoop. A Peeping Tom. A
private investigator.
I was good at what I did.
Maybe the best in San Diego. The stakeout specialist with the steady hands and
quick camera finger. I could sit, or stand, or lie and wait forever for people
to do what they shouldn't. Then, click, I had their wrongs captured for
posterity. Or infamy. I did my job so well that I never talked about it when
friends asked what it was like to be a PI.
I swallowed down my
introspection and headed across La Jolla Boulevard to the strip mall where I'd
left my car. The mall had a Haagen-Dazs ice cream shop. Bright and shiny and
full of sweet, creamy sin that went down a lot easier than self analysis. On
the drive home, after I'd chomped down the last of a waffle cone topped with
two scoops of mint chip, I hit my boss's number on my cell phone.
"You get it?" His
voice vibrated the Bluetooth in my ear.
"Hello to you,
too."
"I'm with a
client." His voice now hushed. "Just give me the news."
"In flagrante."
"You got a knack,
Bullet. Print them in the morning, and we'll show them to the client tomorrow
afternoon."
Bob Reitzmeyer had dubbed me
"Bullet-head" when I was a kid with a military crew cut. I'd listen
to his cop stories when my dad brought him home for dinner after their shifts
together on the La Jolla Police Department. Thankfully, he'd dropped
"head" from the moniker when I graduated from the Ventura Sheriff's
Academy and became a cop on the Santa Barbara Police Department. A long time
ago.
"Will do."
"Good work. You're
turning into a crack peeper. Your pop would be proud."
He hung up, saving me from
having to hold my tongue. I doubted my father would have been proud that his
son was a "crack peeper."
Dessert already consumed, I
was still hungry for dinner. I drove north until I hit La Jolla's restaurant
row, Prospect Street. I rolled past towering palm trees, neon and glass
edifices with ocean views and an aging cement rectangle sunk below street level
with a view of the office building blocking its view of the ocean. Muldoon's
Steak House. My former place of employment.
Before my life changed.
Muldoon's was stuck in a
1970's steak house time warp: lit in permanent dusk, redwood slats and brass on
the walls, salad bar buffeting an open grill area. It had once been a second
home to me. Now it was just a place where I ate dinner a few times a month.
A hostess I didn't know
greeted me in the entry.
"Is Turk in
tonight?" I asked.
"Mr. Muldoon?" Her
voice had a lilt that made sense matched with her big brown eyes.
I nodded.
"No. He may come in
later. I'm not sure."
I felt guilty that I was
relieved not to have to see my former best friend. Two years ago, Turk had
saved my life before I finally saved myself. But I hadn't saved Turk, and he'd
paid for my life with his mobility. A debt I could never repay. He'd been a
casualty of a bad decision I'd made in my life. There'd been other bad
decisions.
And other casualties.
I'd just pushed my empty
dinner plate away when a shadow crept across my table. I raised my eyes and saw
an old piece of Texas in a tailored western style suit wedged up under a cowboy
hat.
"Mr. Cahill." The
twang in his voice had been muted by years under the Southern California sun
but it still had some Lone Star state left in it.
When I first met Timothy
Buckley his wardrobe looked like it had been piecemealed together by Goodwill.
He'd spent his time shaking hookers and junkies loose from the legal system on
the ugly side of San Diego. Now he hung his shingle in La Jolla, a jagged slice
of paradise cut along the coast. The closest he got to hookers and junkies was
protecting trust fund babes from "Girls Gone Wild" videos and their
silver spoon brothers from DUI charges.
"I think we're past
Misters, Buckley. You can call me Rick."
"Well, there it is
Rick." He took his hat off, allowing a braided, gray ponytail to fall down
onto his back. "I've called you three or four times at your office, but
you never call me back."
"Nothing for us to talk
about."
"Son, I know we got off
to a bad start way back when." He scratched a permanent two week-old gray
beard and squinted watery eyes at me. "But you're 'bout as ornery as a
polecat with his tail up."
"Then why the phone
calls?"
"Sometimes a skunk
spreading stink around is the only way to flush out the truth."
"You seem to have gone a
little more country since I last saw you, Buckley. Is that for my
benefit?"
"I'm afraid it's out of
habit. My upper crust clientele expect an attorney from Texas to be folksy. I
aim to please." He threaded the brim of his cowboy hat through his
fingers. "Mind if I sit down, Rick?"
I weighed hearing Buckley out
against the possibility of seeing Turk hobble in on his cane. I gambled and
nodded to the right side of the booth. Buckley slid in, set his hat on the
table, and steepled his fingers.
The waiter came by and asked
if he could get me anything else. By the way Buckley wetted his lips, it looked
like he had his mind set on the first nip of the day.
"Just the check.
Thanks." I looked at Buckley. "Despite the fact that I ignore your
phone calls, you keep making them, and you somehow track me to a restaurant I
only decided to eat at an hour ago. What the hell do you want?"
"I'm not trying to
pester you, son." He spread his hands open over his hat. "I heard you
eat back at your old haunts every now and again. It's that important that we
talk."
"It's important to
you."
"I know I put a burr
under your saddle during that Windsor mess, but I was just protecting my
client. And everything turned out okay come closin' time."
The "Windsor mess"
had ended two years ago, but it still haunted my dreams.
"It turned out okay for
you. A change in clientele and zip codes." I slowly nodded my head.
"But, come closin' time, three people were dead." And one left
walking with a cane.
"Actually four people
died." He avoided my eyes. "If you include the one you killed."
"Why are you here?"
"Fine. We'll put the
brass tacks on the table." He leaned forward. "You remember the
Eddington boy?"
"Randall
Eddington?"
"Yes."
"The murderer?"
Randall Eddington had been
eighteen when he killed his parents and younger sister. The murders went
national as the networks' tragedy of the month. Every three letter combination
of the alphabet had news vans in La Jolla for the trial later that year, even
though the judge wouldn't allow cameras in the courtroom. It had been good for
Muldoon's business for a month or so. Even breathless reporters with nothing
new to report had to eat after the red light went dark.
"Well, the jury found
him guilty. That's true." Buckley's eyes had a little hang dog in them.
"In the first trial, anyway."
"First trial? I only
remember one."
"One so far."
Buckley wiped his lips like that phantom drink couldn't come soon enough.
"So, what does getting a psychopath a new trial have to do with me?"
"I don't believe he is a
psychopath."
"Okay. Let's just call
him a kid with anger management issues." I leaned forward and crossed my
forearms on the table. "But why me? There are plenty of private dicks in
San Diego with more experience who can fudge up some evidence for you."
"I'm not looking for a
prop job, Rick." He put a leathery hand on my arm. "I'm looking for
the truth. And if the Windsor case proved anything to me, it's that you're a
truth seeker."
"I'm a guy who peeks
through windows and snaps photos of married men locked onto unmarried women."
I slid down the leather bench
opposite Buckley and stood up outside the booth.
"You gonna' do that for
the rest of your life, son?" Buckley grabbed his hat and stood up next to
me. "Or, do you want to work a case that matters. Something that won't make
you want to scrub yourself with a wire brush in the shower at the end of the
day."
"I use Comet and
sandpaper." I strode around him down into the main dining room. "See
you around, Buckley."
The moon still hid behind the
clouds and the ocean down below Prospect Street pushed up a heavy breeze that
poked cold fingers in my face. I'd almost made it to my car when I heard boots
clomping behind me. Cowboy boots.
"Rick!" Buckley was
out of breath, his cowboy hat clenched in his hand when he caught up to me. His
face was red, either from wind or exertion. "Just hold on one dang minute
and hear me out."
"I've heard enough,
Buckley." I opened the door to my car. "I'm not interested. The kid
got what he deserved."
"Cops make mistakes,
Rick. You and your ex-girlfriend are proof of that."
"Sometimes they get it
right." I slid into the car.
"Tony Moretti was lead
detective on the case." Buckley let his bloodhound eyes droop a little
lower. "You still convinced the boy got what he deserved?"
Moretti was now Police Chief
of the La Jolla Police Department. He'd only been a detective when he tried to
pin a murder on me a couple of years back. But just because Moretti had been
wrong about me didn't make the kid innocent.
"Look, Buckley. I
couldn't help you even if I wanted to." I closed the car door and rolled
down the window. "I work exclusively for La Jolla Investigations. I can't
freelance. You want our firm on it, talk to Bob Reitzmeyer."
"He's not the right fit.
We want you."
"Sorry. Can't help
you." I turned the ignition key. "Good luck, Buckley."
I started to roll up the
window, but Buckley's hand on it stopped me.
"Randall's grandparents
remember you from that article in The Reader about the Windsor
murder. The one about you being the fella who really caught the killer. The
rest of the media got it wrong and made Moretti out to be a hero. The
Reader got it right."
"I'm sorry for the
grandparents, but there's nothing I can do." He was wrong about The
Reader. It didn't get it right, either.
"They've got their
life's savings liquid and ready to pour out to the man who'll find the truth
about what happened to their family. They just want to make sure their grandson
gets a fair shake."
"Are you more interested
in the fair shake or the liquid assets?"
"You don't know me very
well, Rick." His watery eyes went dry and all the Texas hospitality left
them.
"I know you well enough,
Buckley." I pulled out of the parking spot and gunned it down Prospect
Street as the cool, moonless night drew down around La Jolla.
