Spare Change Read online

  Each breath is loud and angry, competing with the scanner mounted on the front dash to fill the air.

  All of that merely sits on the periphery of my consciousness, my true focus on the conglomerated movement going on just twenty yards away. On the pair of ambulances that have nudged up within inches of where Mira lays and the myriad people moving about, their bodies painted by the garish lights that continue to whip by atop the various vehicles.

  If I had to guess, I’d say it’s been twenty minutes since I was jerked up off the ground and forced down into the cruiser. Taking no less than three able-bodied officers, I had fought them every step of the way, wanting nothing more than to stay by my wife’s side. The cuffs had been little deterrent, my feet and shoulders and even forehead used to the best of my abilities to ward them off.

  Lot of damn good it did me.

  Now, in a prototypical cop move, they seem to be keeping me pinned away for no other reason than to simply prove they can. More than once I’ve seen them glance my way, any yelling or attempted struggles on my part doing little more than making my body ache and the car rock to either side.

  Something they no doubt see, making them wait even longer.

  Ten minutes ago, I gave up on fighting it. Instead, I turned my focus to the inert form of Mira on the pavement, on the fact that the frenzy of movement around her seems to have slowed.

  None of this is a good sign. She is hurt badly. Shot twice at short range, even a nine-millimeter bullet does a tremendous amount of damage. Ditto for the enormous amount of blood she’s already lost.

  Right now, they should be loading her onto a stretcher, hoisting her into an ambulance to be whisked away to the hospital. They should be pumping AB- into her veins. Using the paddles to jumpstart her heart. Something. Anything.

  More hot tears come to the surface, underlining my eyes. They burn slightly as I stare out, my vision blurring, barely noticing the single silhouette that breaks free from the crowd and heads my way. Starting as little more than an outline, small bits of detail became apparent as it grows closer.

  Slacks. Polished shoes. Shirt and tie. Hands thrust down into the front pockets of a designer jacket.

  Shifting my attention from Mira to the man, I can tell at a glance that he is not one that helped wrestle me into the car. He is wearing street clothes, meaning he is likely a detective rather than a regular officer.

  And he is black, something none of the other three were, the flashing lights gleaming against his bald pate.

  Going straight for the driver’s side door, he jerks it open and slides in behind the wheel, the car shifting under his weight. Slamming it closed, he opts for the rearview mirror over turning to look at me, giving me a full view of his bare scalp.

  Burning hatred ripples through me as I match his gaze in the mirror, taking in his solemn expression and the goatee that lines his mouth. Not because of his skin tone or his profession - neither of which I have the slightest problem with – but because he doesn’t seem to grasp that he is currently keeping me from Mira, his pace and demeanor much too deliberate for the situation.

  Still, I somehow manage to keep such thoughts down, knowing nothing good will come from voicing them.

  At least not yet, anyway.

  “My name is Detective Malcolm Marsh, SDPD,” he begins. His voice and delivery are both smooth, his complete lack of accent indicating he probably isn’t from around here. “And you are?”

  Again, the animosity within spikes. For him, for the situation, for that son of a bitch that shot my wife. It rises like bile, creeping up the back of my throat, bitter tasting.

  “Petty Officer Kyle Clady, United States Navy.”

  Like him, I use my full title. Normally, I would never think to do such a thing, but for whatever reason, I can already tell this guy is hung up on appearances.

  It isn’t a difficult call to make.

  “And the woman-“

  “My wife,” I say, refusing to let him get any further, to ever again refer to her in the infinitive. Just two words in length, it is impossible to mask the biting hostility I feel.

  Grunting softly, Marsh simply stares at me for several moments, his silence almost unnerving. Precious seconds continue to tick by as he does so, doing nothing for the anxiety I can feel.

  “Is she okay?” I ask, the scratchy remains of my voice becoming obvious. No part of me wants to ask the question or hear the answer, but I have to know.

  Ignoring the question, he replies, “Can you tell me what happened here tonight?”

  This time, I stare hard into the rearview mirror, my gaze making it clear that if I wasn’t cuffed and there wasn’t a screen of metal lattice between us, this would not be going nearly so well for him. “Is my wife alright?”

  Slow and measured, each word is spat out between gritted teeth, the best I can do under the circumstances.

  On some level, I already know the answer. I know by the fact that she wasn’t transported instantly from the scene. Even further by the medical examiner that arrived a few minutes ago.

  But I have to ask.

  In response, Marsh glances away from the mirror, breaking the staring contest we were locked in. Looking over to the swarm of people nearby, he says, “The man you assaulted is an EMT. Good guy. Has kids.”

  The man I assaulted should have been smart enough not to come up behind a husband who’d just seen his wife get shot. He definitely should have known better than to put his hands on me.

  Just like Marsh should know better than to try and make that the most important thing right now.

  “He’s not going to press charges.”

  I don’t give a damn if he does or he doesn’t. No prosecutor in their right mind – civilian or military – would ever go after a serviceman under such circumstances. It isn’t like I picked a fight with him at The Cartwright.

  But I also know I have to play the game. I have to at least feign remorse or sincerity or whatever it is this sanctimonious prick is looking for if I ever hope to get out of this cruiser.

  “Tell him I’ll pay for whatever medical expenses he has.”

  Shifting his focus back to me, Marsh fixes a stare my direction. His eyes narrow slightly, seemingly trying to weigh whether I’m telling him the truth, before nodding just slightly.

  “First thing tomorrow morning, I need you to come to the station and give a full statement. Central Division, on Imperial. You know the place?”

  I don’t, but I’ll find it. Right now, I just need out of this damn car.

  “Yeah.”

  “Nine o’clock. Don’t be late.”

  I’ll get there when I get there, but I don’t trust myself to say that. Or anything else for that matter.

  Marsh manages to drag the silence out for almost another full minute before finally acquiescing to something I can tell he doesn’t want to.

  “Until then, you’re free to go see to your wife.”

  Chapter Nine

  It’s only ten o’clock, meaning there is still plenty of traffic on the streets surrounding Balboa Park. San Diegans like to hit the town, oblivious to the time of year or night of the week. Per capita, it spends more on entertainment than almost any other major city, a fact that becomes immediately apparent after spending more than a couple days in the place.

  Despite the number of cars flying by on the busy streets surrounding Balboa Park, I recognize the headlights as soon as they come into view. Far and away the largest truck roaming the city streets, it is a monstrosity that was designed for agriculture work or worse. Why such a behemoth was ever purchased in the first place, I’ll never pretend to understand, not particularly caring at the moment as I step away from the curb.

  The loud and pervasive rumble of the oversized engine lowers itself just slightly as the truck coasts to a stop, not bothering to pull off to the side as I grasp the passenger side door. Hooking a foot onto the chrome step along the underside of the cab, I hoist myself up and inside, loud music and the scent of wintergreen chewing tobacco both hitting me at once.

  A bemused expression is splashed across Jeff Swinger’s face as he looks over at me, the interior light flashing across his features, extinguished just as fast as I slam the door shut.

  “Drive.”

  In the darkness, we do nothing but idle for a moment, Swinger taking me in, computing what’s going on.

  The decision to call him was an easy one. Once Mira was loaded and taken away, there was no way I was standing around in the park for another moment. Not with them already treating it like a crime scene, peering my direction, asking questions between one another they had no way of answering but hoping I might.

  Damned sure not with my wife headed in the opposite direction.

  With the sea of response vehicles blocking any hope of getting my own car out, my only choice was to call for help. Stapleton I knew was at home in Pacific Beach, a good fifteen minutes away under the best of circumstances. Given that I knew she was sitting in her pajamas and watching bad television, this hardly qualified as that.

  Ross had been the first to leave from Cartwright’s, headed home to tuck our goddaughter into bed. No chance in hell I was going to call and pull him back out, not and leave his family home alone, especially considering I knew he had to be back on early the next morning.

  And the fact that it would take him even longer to get to the park than it would Stapleton.

  That left Swinger. I wasn’t sure where he was or how many he’d had, but I’d been through enough with the man to know if I called, he would be there. None of this shit about moving heaven and earth to make it happen either.

  There was no question, he would get up from his bar stool, he would be sober by the time he hit the door, and he would be where I asked him to be within five
minutes.

  And he was.

  “What happened?” he asks, pulling forward, giving the gas a nudge to make it through a yellow light. Keeping his gaze aimed forward, he doesn’t bother looking my way, nor asking any further questions.

  Like why I’m not wearing a shirt. Why there are streaks of dried blood on my hands, around my wrists, and down my right arm.

  Or where Mira is.

  He simply extends his hand and kills the music, the engine the sole sound between us.

  “It’s bad,” I respond simply.

  Grunting softly, he continues to roll straight ahead. He doesn’t press his original question, and he doesn’t ask the natural follow-up, seeking to know how bad. He’s been through enough with me to know how I process things. Right now, I’m keeping everything at arm’s length. I’m not allowing anything to get below the surface because if I do, I’m going to be a wreck.

  Worse than that, I’m going to be worthless.

  And Mira deserves better than that right now.

  “Where to?” he asks.

  “San Diego County,” I reply.

  “Hospital?”

  The word catches in my throat the first time I try to respond. A fresh sheen of moisture comes to my eyes, the traffic lights outside blurring into oversized orbs of green as we pass beneath them. I can feel my nostrils flare as I pull in a deep suck of air, hoping to calm the jumble of emotions fighting in a tangle deep in my core.

  “Coroner.”

  The word is no more than a whisper, barely audible, but it is enough. The big engine revs as he speeds forward, neither saying another word for more than ten minutes.

  “I’m sorry, this wig is a thousand degrees, I have to step outside.” As she said it, Hetty Ames scratched at the bright orange locks she was wearing, the entire thing shifting atop her head. Smearing the edge of the dark green face paint she was wearing, I couldn’t help but laugh, the pillow I wore beneath my shirt bouncing from the effort.

  “I told you keeping up with me on the dance floor wasn’t for the faint of heart,” I replied. “Better folks than you have tried and failed before.”

  Without pause, she drew her hand into a fist. Driving it straight forward, she jabbed her bony knuckles into the soft tissue between my chest and shoulder, tiny pinpricks traveling up the nerves between them, before pulling back and repeating the movement a second time.

  “One for thinking it had anything to do with the spastic chicken routine you call dancing,” she scolded, “and the second for thinking there are any folks better than I.”

  Around me, a few folks had overheard the exchange, chuckles rolling out as I raised my palms in submission.

  “Truce,” I managed. “Punchbowl or patio?”

  “Air,” she replied, already turning and heading toward the back door. Around us, the Red Sea of drunken revelers parted without opposition, Hetty leading us to the door and pushing her way out.

  The annual Sigma Chi Halloween bash was one of the few things on the Oregon State social calendar that was not to be missed. The weekly farmer’s markets were great, and the annual Harvest Festival had topnotch food, but anybody with even a passing interest in their social status had to make an appearance on All Hallow’s Eve.

  The fact that combined we equated to just barely a passing interest was immaterial.

  Two years prior, Hetty Ames was the very first person I met upon arrival in Corvallis. Not my roommate, not even one of my teammates, but the tall and gangly girl in the parking lot of my dorm beating the Holy Hell out of her Vespa, trying in vain to get it started.

  Ever the gentleman, I had tried to offer a hand, but the tiny moped was a far cry from any of the tractors I’d grown up working on. Instead, I’d ended up giving her a ride over to the American Dream for a few slices of pizza and a pitcher.

  By the time she had kicked my ass three good times in darts, a friendship had been forged.

  The temperature plummeted more than twenty degrees as we moved from the packed living room that for the night was doubling as a dance space. Stepping out onto the concrete patio, she reached up and tugged off the wig, instantly transforming from the Fiona to my Shrek into a woman with pixie-cut hair and an unhealthy amount of face paint.

  “Man, that feels good,” she said, raising her face toward the sky and letting the cool Oregon air wash over her.

  “Yeah, I think your mascara was starting to run a bit in there,” I replied.

  Narrowing her eyes slightly, she said, “Yours isn’t exactly perfect, you know.”

  “So says you,” I managed.

  Opening her mouth to respond, Hetty knew better than to press it. Walking over to the brick ledge lining the outside of the patio, she dropped the wig down and leaned against it. Folding her arms over her torso, she again raised her face toward the heavens, the standard sign that she was fast approaching her fill for the evening.

  Which was just fine by me.

  Sliding the green bandana that was doubling as a bald cap from my head, I could feel the cool air picking at the perspiration in my hair. I walked over and took up a post beside her, muted light and sound spilling out from the back end of the house.

  “Now we both look the Wicked Witch gone horribly wrong,” Hetty said, giving me a smile.

  Lifting the bandana, I looked at the Styrofoam ears we had fashioned taped to the cloth and said, “Yeah, I don’t think either one of us would be allowed within a few hundred yards of an elementary school right now.”

  On pure reflex, Hetty spit out a laugh, a short, harsh sound that pitched her body forward at the waist. This time she bypassed the punch and went for a backhand, swatting me against the arm. “You’re an ass.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  A smile came to her face as she started to respond, the words cut short by the sound of retching nearby. Pained and guttural, it was just behind where we were leaning, so close we both jumped as if whatever this poor soul was spewing might somehow make it over the wall and come for us.

  Standing a few feet back we both looked at each other for a moment, listening to the digestive pyrotechnics. One time after another they came forth, sounding like whoever it was would no longer be with the nutritional benefits of anything they’d eaten in the last week or longer.

  “Freshmen,” Hetty said, a slight smile on her face, the look suggesting she had already forgotten that I had helped her through a few similar instances over the years.

  “Still,” I said, my brows rising, “you think they’re alright? That sounds bad.”

  “Of course, they’re okay. It’s Halloween. These things happen.”

  Knowing better than to banter with her any longer, I let it go with a simple raised hand, conceding the debate. Waiting for the smallest gap in the sound coming from over the wall, I tiptoed forward, pressing my body against the cool brick and peering down.

  “I told you,” Hetty said behind me as I looked at what appeared to be Raggedy Ann in a state far worse than the people that created her could have ever imagined. A blue and Red dress was covered in various forms of liquid both natural and not, and a red wig lay strewn in the leaves piled up beside her.

  Those things registered for just a moment, seen, inventoried, and dismissed as I stared down at the dark hair and tan skin belying the costume.

  “Mira?”

  Chapter Ten

  The shirt Swinger gives me is too big, okay on the length but a full size larger than anything I own through the chest and shoulders. I say nothing as I tug it down over my head, my arm having receded into a dull throb. Tugging the sleeves up to mid-forearm so they don’t rub the open wounds on my wrists, I circle around the hood of the truck, meeting him in front of the grille.

  Side by side we approach the building together, neither saying a word. Whatever joviality we might have shared earlier, whatever inebriation he might have been feeling when I called, is gone. In their stead are nothing but a pair of steely expressions, the looks ones we’ve shared in places as far-flung as Afghanistan or the Philippines.