Ships Passing Page 4

  Doing either would be a sign of disrespect. And that would be a faux pas far, far worse than anything those self-important bikers in El Cajon could ever throw at her.

  Stopping just off the edge of the door standing open, Teller extends a hand. Knocking against the side of the van three times, she makes sure it is loud enough not only to be heard inside, but also by anybody that might be within listening distance nearby.

  Taking a step back, she waits, seeing the vehicle shift just slightly with signs of movement.

  Such posturing, Teller would just as soon do without. Never has she been one for making people jump through hoops merely for the sport of it, though in this particular case, she is willing to make an exception.

  “Aloha,” a voice calls out. A moment later, the head of a young woman no older than twenty appears from the open door. Descent matching her greeting, light tan skin belies dark eyes and matching hair on a face that looks to have been awake no more than a couple of minutes. Completing the ensemble is a sleepy smile.

  “Good morning,” Teller replies. “Sven around?”

  Despite the girl currently being in a van of no more than ten feet in length, she pulls back to check. Gone just a second, she replies, “Nope, sorry. Must have gone surfing already.”

  Of that, Teller has no doubt. Just as she has no doubt he was back hours ago, once the best waves of the morning started to taper off. And that he made her the instant she stepped onto the beach – if not before – tracking every step she took.

  More posturing.

  “Okay,” Teller replies. “Can you tell him Elsa Teller stopped by to see him?”

  Taking only a single step back, Teller hears movement above her. Drawing back another foot or two, she pulls her focus to the surfboards piled atop the van and the man currently crouched amidst them. Both forearms resting on his knees, his hands hang down. In either one is a matching handgun with a silencer threaded down on the end, no effort being made to hide them.

  “Thought I recognized you,” Sven says, his Scandinavian accent seeping in just slightly. “Don’t get many blondes like you venturing this far down the beach.”

  Perched where he is, Teller has no idea where the man was hiding. Even less how he got up there without her hearing a single thing.

  “Hello, Sven,” Teller replies. “Good to see you. Been a long time.”

  “Three years,” Sven replies, content to come no closer. Or to hide the weapons he’s brandishing in both hands. “Ever since the thing that time.”

  Coming from anybody else, Teller might have thought the line was a bad joke. An attempt by someone to make themselves seem dark and mysterious, or to legitimize the work they do.

  Spoken by this man, Teller knows it to be much more than that.

  Besides, it isn’t like she doesn’t remember the incident clearly herself.

  “Word was you were working with cheaper help these days.”

  Lifting an upturned palm, Teller answers with a what-can-you-do gesture. “Decisions made above my paygrade. You know how it goes.”

  “I do,” Sven replies. Flicking his gaze out toward the water, he remains stationary a moment, seeming to contemplate how to respond, or even if he should.

  Eventually deciding whatever it is he is considering, he pushes himself to full height. Still wearing his wetsuit from the morning ride, the bottom clings to legs honed through years on the water. The top half has been peeled down to his waist, revealing a body operating without an ounce of unwanted mass – fat or muscle. Every rib and muscle striation stands out along skin stained by the sun, a few inches of blonde hair shifting with the breeze.

  If Teller had to guess an exact age, she would say late thirties, though exposure to the elements and his chosen profession could easily push that in either direction.

  Much like his heritage, he is a Viking, seemingly frozen in time.

  “And like you said,” Teller adds, “I’ve been working with cheap help. But this time, I’ve been given free hand, so I came to see a pro.”

  The comment sounds a bit contrived, even to Teller’s own ears, but this isn’t Mike Lincoln she is talking to. This isn’t the cheapest available option, someone employed to merely point and shoot without a care as to the mess left behind.

  Sven is the one that is called when there isn’t supposed to be a mess left behind. Or if there is, it says exactly what they want it to.

  If that includes a bit of ego stroking, so be it.

  At least this is far more palatable than someone like Carter Flynn.

  Pulling his gaze back her way, Sven stares down at her. Weapons both still in hand, he folds his arms across his torso, the elongated ends jutting out to either side.

  “My rate has gone up.”

  “Done.” No questions asked. When Flynn said to make it go away, the directive came with the underlying assumption that meant to hire whoever and pay whatever was needed to make that happen.

  Focus still locked on her, Sven takes another full minute. Tallying things in complete silence, he comes to whatever conclusion he needs before lifting his chin just slightly.

  “What’s the job?”

  “Actually, there are two.”

  Chapter Eight

  Most days, Detective Malcolm Marsh doesn’t set foot inside the office before at least one o’clock in the afternoon. Working out of the Central District precinct of the San Diego Police Department, his days are a harsh contrast to his counterparts in the posher areas of La Jolla or Del Mar along the coast. Tucked just south of downtown on Imperial Avenue, the area he is responsible for serves as the transition point of the city.

  To the south are Chula Vista and National City, suburbs where the demographics tilt heavily Hispanic, so much so the preferred language is still Spanish. Coming in tight from the north are Golden Hill and South Park, the latest to get hit by the gentrification surge in the area.

  A surge that almost always comes with an influx of money. Which in turn brings out the criminals preying on easy marks, two distinct classes butting up tight to one another. An unending cycle that keeps his desk covered in paperwork and his schedule shifted to coincide with the evening hours when the majority of such things take place.

  Today, Marsh finds himself seated at his desk a full hour before lunch. Since leaving the smoldering remains of Kyle Clady’s home the night before, he’s been unable to think of much else, finally giving up on trying mid-morning and making his way into the office. Looking to take advantage of having the space to himself before the arrival of his partner Mark Tinley, he sits with a pair of files before him.

  On the left is the original case of the murder of Clady’s wife more than a week before. As the lead detective on it, he has been through every line a dozen times, skimming it so often he can now recite everything verbatim.

  When he’d first gotten the call, his interest in the matter had been nominal at best. Another domestic squabble turned violent, this one had the unusual twist of being done in Balboa Park, though that still didn’t make it any more appealing.

  In the vast majority of such incidents, the spouse turned out to be the one that pulled the trigger. Even more obvious here were the facts that the husband was a SEAL just days from discharge and that he had assaulted a medic that attempted to help his wife.

  While at first appearing pretty straightforward, over the course of the ensuing days, a few new threads began to shake loose. Threads that are now involving a known contract killer and the biker gang he rides with.

  Leaving that file off to the side for a moment, Marsh instead moves his attention to the one sitting opposite it. Having arrived just a few minutes earlier, the name CLAIREMONT MESA is stamped across the top. The home precinct for the fire the night before, Marsh makes it no further than flipping open the top before the phone bursts to life beside him.

  Completely unexpected in the quiet of the office, he flicks his gaze over to it. A bit of dread rises as he stares at the flashing red light at the bottom of the device. For just an instant, he considers letting it go to voicemail before snapping it up.

  “Detective Malcolm Marsh.”

  “Good morning, Detective,” a prim female voice replies. “This is Sergeant Susan Benoist from the Gang Unit returning your call.”

  For as quick as the earlier thought to ignore the call had arisen, Marsh can feel an equal surge of relief that he picked up. Rising from his seat, he crosses straight over to the door and swings it shut.

  “Yes, thank you for getting back to me,” Marsh replies. Shifting the phone from his right ear to his left, he drops back into his seat. Pulling a legal pad over before him, he peels back the top couple sheets, revealing a clean page.

  “My pleasure,” Benoist replies. “How can I help you?”

  To hear the woman speak, she sounds more like a secretary than a sergeant. Every word is fully enunciated, the tone never changing.

  When Marsh had first made the request, he’d imagined a harried guy with a loosened tie and a walrus moustache on the other end. Having a name like Ralph or George, he could practically envision him munching on a sandwich, crumbs clinging to his facial hair before falling to the desk.

  Of course, that was what he got for leaning into judgements. Just as unlikely was the voice now on the other end of the line expecting Detective Malcolm Marsh to be a thirty-something black man with a shaved head and a penchant for designer suits.

  “I’m working the Clady murder in Balboa Park from the other night and I have a witness confirmation on a visual pulled from one of the security cameras in the area. Seems the shooter was known to ride with an outfit called the Wolves.”

  Pausing there, he allows a moment. When Benoist inserts nothing, he continues, “They’re known to frequent a spot called The Wolf Den in El Cajon. Was wondering if we have a file on them anywhere.”

  “Okay,” Benoist replies. In the background is the sound of a keyboard, as if she is pulling things up in real time. “Yes, here we go. The Wolves. First came up on our radar in the summer of 2000. Small interaction with another group calling themselves the Rajahs.”

  As she speaks, her voice is completely detached. It resembles a reference librarian, focus completely on the screen before them as they rattle off information.

  A stance that can’t help but raise Marsh’s ire as he jots down a stray note.

  “From there, things escalated at a pretty standard rate through the years,” Benoist continues. “Assaults, a couple of breaking-and-entering cases, things of that nature. According to the file here, very few of the charges they were ever originally brought up on turned into much.”

  Recalling the sheet on Lincoln that Tinley had pulled a couple of days before, Marsh nods. Something like that isn’t terribly uncommon with groups like the Wolves. Their main goal being to stay well beyond the scope of law enforcement, most small issues they would make go away through either money or violence.

  “Any idea on numbers? Who is in charge now?” Marsh asks.

  “Hm,” Benoist replies. Her demeanor seems to hint she is still reading, barely listening to him. Remaining silent, she continues working through whatever she has onscreen before saying, “The last known listing we have for a leader is someone named Rick Spielman, who was killed in a bar fight in Lemon Grove two years ago.

  “As for total numbers, the most recent estimate we have is twenty-five, though that was given in 2009.”

  Halfway through writing the information down, Marsh lets the pen slip from his grasp. Dropping it down atop the legal pad, he feels his frustration spike. Every single thing she is giving him is ancient history. Information better suited for someone working a cold case than trying to unravel a murder that occurred days before.

  Just one more thing about the Clady case that refuses to come easy, even the department itself now seeming to work against him.

  Leaning back in his seat, Marsh runs his palm back over his head. So many things he’d like to say to this woman, so many more questions he’d love to have answered, but there doesn’t appear to be any point. Whatever information he is seeking clearly won’t be found here.

  Nor will even the slightest interest in helping him obtain it.

  If he wants to know anything about the Wolves, he’s going to have to get closer to the source.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?” Benoist asks, pulling his attention back to the conversation.

  “No, thank you. This has been very helpful.”

  Chapter Nine

  Angelique and Hiram offered for me to go home with them. In fact, they damn near begged it. With the latter all set to check out later in the morning, they suggested that I ride back with them. Along the way, we could all stop somewhere for lunch, and then head to the house and clock some much needed rest.

  Hiram, after his anxiety attack and accompanying arrythmia in the wake of the incident at the Ogo’s a few nights before. Angelique from sitting vigil by his side in the hospital, too afraid of the mere notion of something happening to her one remaining immediate family member to even consider leaving.

  Myself for the ongoing hell I am marching through, the effects plastered clearly across my features.

  Which is the same exact reason why I politely excused myself from their offer.

  Instead, I opted to retreat back into the desert. Back out to Santee, the northeastern most satellite that could still be considered a part of San Diego. Site of the Valley View Inn & Suites, my default home for the time being, a single-story structure painted mud brown that currently has a total of two rooms occupied.

  Mine, and the one right beside it, serving as the hiding place for Valerie and Fran Ogo.

  Arriving at the Valley View shortly before noon, I cut the engine upon approach and coasted across the parking lot. Wanting to minimize any noise as much as possible, I’d parked on the far side of my room, as far away from the Ogo’s room without making it obvious. Slipping out, I’d gone into my room and promptly passed out face down on the bed. No time for a shower, no attempt to even shed the borrowed clothes I was wearing or adjust the thermostat.

  Letting the exhaustion of the past week crash over me in a wave, I’d succumbed straight to darkness. There I stayed for an indeterminate amount of time, clear until the moment when my mind was able to finally work past the physical toll of all that had occurred.

  When it began to process again, REM sleep setting in, bringing back with it a host of assorted images. All of them in vivid clarity, not one was heightened or exaggerated in the slightest, though they were still sufficient to force me straight up in bed.

  How I got onto my back at some point, I’m not real certain. Nor how the shoes I was wearing ended up on the floor.

  Sitting upright on the rock-hard mattress, I raise my hands and rub at my eyes, little pops of light bursting around me. An unknown number of hours having passed since I fell into bed, my eyes are almost completely crusted over. My tongue feels like sandpaper, swollen to twice its usual size.

  Making no effort to rise just yet, I simply sit in the middle of the bed. Getting my bearings, I make a quick pass around the room, taking in the remaining furniture and the aging décor, all of it a snapshot from sometime when the original Magnum P.I. was still on television. In the air, I can detect hints of cleaning solution and smoke, the aromas half belonging to the room and half from my presence in it.

  Sitting in the sole chair in the place is a lone duffel bag, items I nabbed a couple of days before when Angelique and Hiram and I attempted to go through the house. In the bathroom are a few toiletry items.

  Outside of my car and whatever is stowed inside, the bag and the random bathroom necessities now represent the sum total of my earthly possessions.

  That’s it. Thirty-four years old, newly widowed, and the proud owner of less than what most people would take on a weekend trip.

  Pushing the thought away, I turn and focus on the digital alarm sitting by the bed. According to the red block letters splayed across it, the time is now a quarter past six, the afternoon having slipped by, pushing things now into early evening.

  Raising both hands again, I press the heels of my palms into my eye sockets. Pressing hard, I leave them there until random amoebas of color begin to dance across my vision before dropping them back to the mattress beneath me.

  Pushing aside all other concerns for the time being, I strip my situation down to its most basic components. I zero in not on what is occurring around me. The Wolves and the house and all that other stuff can wait for the time being. Instead, I circle back to my training, to the things that I can most control.

  The items that will put me in the best position to succeed.

  Upon leaving the hospital this morning, my main focus was on rest. After running on little more than catnaps and occasional dozing for a week solid, the concentrated events of the previous days finally caught up to me. Exacerbating it was the combination of smoke and sweat and tears and everything else that had assaulted my senses.

  Now that that has been alleviated to some degree, my secondary concern has to be on nourishment. Both outside and in, I need to shower. I need to scrub away the unclean from the surface, and I need to fill it from within.

  Swinging my feet over the side of the bed, I cut a path toward the bathroom. Ripping away the plastic wrap from one of the cups lining the sink, I fill it from the tap. The lukewarm water slides down easily in one gulp, and I can feel it traveling the length of my throat and into my chest. The instant it is gone, I fill it a second time, taking it down just as quickly.

  Pausing there for the moment, knowing better than to take in too much too fast, I step back from the sink and peel Swinger’s shirt up over my head. Tossing it out onto the bed, I return to the sink and fill my cupped hands, splashing handfuls into my face and over my hair. Each one seems to lower my body temperature by a couple of degrees as I turn off the faucet and step back, letting droplets run down over my chest and the length of my back.