Fair Trade Page 4

  As in the days before, the only two cars in the lot belong to the live-in manager and myself, the old guy barely lifting an eyebrow as I walked in with the mismatched duo at half past seven in the morning and asked for the room closest to mine with two beds in it.

  I guess doing what he does, in the place where is, there isn’t a lot he hasn’t seen.

  Without the burden of luggage or personal effects, moving in is easy, as simple as walking to the door and turning the key. Reaching it first, Valerie does the honors, pushing the front open and peering inside.

  “Home sweet home,” she mutters, a dour expression crossing her face as she steps to the side. She waits as her grandmother turns and offers me a tight-lipped smile, her head dipping slightly, the universal symbol for silent thanks.

  Returning the gesture, I watch as she turns and disappears within, swallowed up by a den of stale air and furnishings last manufactured when she was my age.

  A few feet away, Valerie waits until her grandmother is inside before leaning in and grasping the door handle. Pulling it just an inch short of closed, she takes a few steps my direction, closing the gap to less than a foot. Her arms folded, she lowers her voice and says, “You know we can’t stay here forever. I have a job, class. Nana has appointments.”

  I know all of that. Every bit of it she shared earlier, her tone noticeably more intense. Still, that doesn’t mean she isn’t right.

  This isn’t a permanent solution, by any stretch of the imagination.

  “You won’t have to,” I reply. “This is just to buy us a bit of time until we can figure out what’s going on.”

  Glancing up at me, Valerie swallows hard before shifting her focus back out to the parking lot. On her face is a look I’ve seen hundreds of times before, standard response for a person’s first exposure to peril.

  Once upon a time, I’m certain I wore the same exact expression.

  The world today is set up to insulate a person, to provide them with every creature comfort imaginable, wrapping them in a cocoon of familiarity. A person doesn’t have to drive if they don’t want to. They don’t have to cook if they’d rather not. They don’t even need to go to Wal-Mart if they so choose. Everything is just a button click away.

  Having those sorts of services, living in a society so heavily trafficked by rules and procedures and enforcement, inculcates people to the realities of life. It makes them forget that evil still exists, that most are more vulnerable than ever.

  Doing what I do for a living, it’s been a long, long time since I had even an inkling of such a bubble. For Valerie, hers was just shattered, ripped apart by the pair of men that stormed through her door.

  And unfortunately for her, never again will she be able to rebuild it.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  Flicking her gaze back to me, she nods. I can tell there are things on her mind, questions she wants to ask, but to her credit, they remain tucked away. Why that is, I can’t say, but I don’t press it.

  Right now, I’m going through the process of grieving my wife in probably the most abnormal way possible. I’m in no position to tell her how to process things.

  “Later on, we’ll run to the store,” I say. “Get you guys some toiletries, clothes, whatever you need.”

  Again, she nods. She swallows once more, a lump traveling the length of her throat, before she asks, “So what happens now?”

  “Now?” I ask. “Now, you wait here.”

  “I got that,” she snaps back, a bit of her original personality shining through the trauma of the last eight hours. “I mean, for what? What are you planning to do?”

  Matching her glance, I look away, peering across the parking lot, imagining the freeway in the distance. Already backing up with the start of another workday, I can practically see cars sitting nose-to-tail, filled with people growing increasingly agitated as bleary eyes fade and caffeine kicks in.

  My plans have been a fairly liquid thing for almost a week now. There is no blueprint for what I’m going through, no way to plan for it, to even wrap my head around it.

  If there were, my brother-in-law damned sure wouldn’t be laying in a hospital bed right now.

  “Traffic is too thick to bother heading in town,” I say. “So I’m going to rack out for a couple of hours. Then I’ll head in, talk to Detective Marsh, take a look at whatever he found.”

  After that, depending on how good his information is, I’ll make a quick decision on whether to follow that angle or go find the doctor the Ogo’s mentioned earlier.

  “You need a hand?” she asks.

  I appreciate the offer, but the best thing she can do is stay with her grandmother. Stay inside. Remain as hidden as possible.

  Which won’t be hard in a place as decrepit as the Valley View.

  “I’ll give a call if I do.”

  Chapter Eight

  A couple hours turned in to just less than three, which was more than I intended but infinitely less than I needed. Just long enough to go through one full REM cycle, by the time my conscious mind came back to the surface, pulling images of my Mira, and her shooter, and Balboa Park, and everything else that seemed to lurk just beneath the surface like some sort of perverse memory shark back to the fore, I knew that even attempting any further rest was futile.

  Not with my mind back to buzzing along, pushing through everything that happened, everything that still lays ahead.

  Rising and making my way to the bathroom, I inspected my face in the mirror, seeing the results of the night before etched plainly across my face. My left cheekbone looked to be distended more than half an inch, as if someone had spliced a golf ball in half and shoved it under my skin. In the center of it was the inverted crescent where the surface had broken, stubby ends of the stitches protruded like the legs of a spider.

  Already, several shades of black and purple colored the area, the total span encompassing a diameter of more than an inch and a half. Reaching all the way over to the corner of my eye, I could see a splash of red along the bottom, broken blood vessels plain to see.

  Having had enough bruises in my day to know how the general progression goes, it would be a week or more before things returned to normal. Much too long to put off the detective, and much too large to even try covering it, I jumped in the shower, letting the warmest water the place possessed wash over me for a few minutes.

  Once my muscles were loosened and I was feeling quasi-close to human again, I dressed and jumped in the car, no sign of the Ogo women as I went.

  A half-hour later, I now find myself sitting back in front of the Central District precinct. Wanting even less to be here than I did a few days ago, I sit and stare up at the building, considering my options, trying to determine if there is any way I can get around this.

  By nearly every calculation, there is not. Since the incident first happened, Detective Marsh has been looking for some reason to pin things on me. If I blow him off now, he’ll figure something is up. He’ll look at me closer. And I can’t have that.

  As far as he knows, I’ve done nothing wrong. I damned sure didn’t harm my wife, but I can’t quite say the same for her killer. If I don’t at least show up and go through the motions of trying to help identify him, it will be a red flag.

  And I’ve got too much left to do to afford one of those right now.

  Stepping out of the car, I pause for a pair of kids on motorized scooters to fly past, neither even glancing my way, before heading to the front door. The same young man with black skin and close-cropped hair is working the desk as I enter, his features crinkling slightly as he sees the side of my face.

  “Good morning,” he says. “Can I help you?”

  We had this exact exchange four days prior, though I don’t bother pointing it out. No doubt he sees dozens of people every day, none any more memorable than the last.

  Besides, right now, all he is seeing is the goose egg protruding from my cheek.

  “I’m here to speak with Detective Marsh,” I say. A
nticipating the next statement, I add, “He called earlier and said he would be in, asked me to stop by.”

  Pausing, the young man nods, working through what I told him, his immediate response no doubt stifled. Shifting to the right, he lifts the phone from his desk and mutters a few words before returning it to its cradle.

  “He’ll be right out.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Good God Almighty!” The words are out before the guy has even fully entered the room, a hand rising to his chin. Stepping over the threshold, he pauses, pulling his fist back a few inches and bending at the waist to inspect my face. “What the hell happened to you?”

  Saying nothing, I remained motionless in my seat. Back in the same interview suite we had used over the weekend, I am sitting with my chair turned parallel to the metal table in the center, my arm from the elbow down resting atop it.

  Arching an eyebrow, I look to Marsh sitting at the head of the table. Dressed in a suit that must have cost a minimum four figures, a cup of equally overpriced coffee sits before him, the smell permeating the room.

  On his face is an expression of agitation, not bothering to turn toward the sound of the voice entering behind him.

  “Mr. Clady,” he says, “this is my partner, Mark Tinley. He was out of the country when we met on Saturday. He’s been working the case with me since his return.”

  The guy is roughly the same age as me, though in a lot of ways he reminds me of the young recruits that pour into the base in equal batches every so often. Young and fit, he exudes unfounded confidence, the type that being able to wear a uniform instills, having not yet experienced the polar opposite end of the job thus far.

  He will, no doubt, but not quite yet.

  Stepping inside, he closes the door behind him. He drops a file down on the table beside Marsh before leaning across, extending a hand my way, “Detective Mark Tinley, SDPD.”

  Much like his partner on our first meeting, he insists on using his full extended title, a classic power move that I am in no mood for.

  Making zero effort to rise, I accept the shake and reply, “Petty Officer Kyle Clady, United States Navy.”

  Nodding slightly, he takes the chair exactly across from me, Marsh waiting for him to settle before turning his attention back my way. “Welcome, Detective, we were actually just discussing what happened to his face.”

  He pauses long enough to let me know the floor is mine, that an unspoken question has been asked. In no way do I want to answer, to give them even the slightest hint of a response, but I can’t afford to be openly antagonistic either.

  My face is clearly marred. I am a trained SEAL. And just a few nights earlier I was very nearly arrested for assaulting one of the paramedics that arrived to help my wife.

  “Haven’t been able to sleep,” I reply, “so a couple of nights, I went over to the base to work in the ring. Some were better than others.”

  Knowing it was best to leave the answer as short as possible, that the fewer details there are to keep straight the better, I stop there.

  Even at that, the sheer disbelief on Marsh’s features is palpable. “And neither of you wore gloves?”

  Without glancing down, I know he is referencing the scabs covering the knuckles on my right hand. First put there in the desert a few nights before, they were reopened just a dozen hours earlier by the unexpected intruders at the Ogo’s.

  Matching his gaze for a moment, I keep my features neutral. I let him see that the questions don’t bother me, that I’m not scrambling for a response, before replying, “Sometimes, you want the pain. Was kind of hoping it would help me sleep.”

  “Did it?” Tinley asks, my gaze lingering on Marsh before rolling over toward his partner.

  “No,” I reply, “still keep seeing that bastard’s face every time I close my eyes.” Shifting back to Marsh, I say, “Which is why you asked me here today, correct?”

  Again, Marsh employs his annoying habit of pausing before responding. He waits, as if trying to assert his control over the moment, making sure every other person is looking his way, before nodding. Shifting his focus to the table, he slides over the folder that Tinley had placed beside him.

  Drawing it into the space between us, he keeps all five fingertips pressed down atop it, his palm tented upward in the middle. “Like I mentioned on the phone, we were able to pull some images from a camera on the opposite side of the park. Six minutes prior to the 911 call, this man was spotted coming out of the canyon between the Municipal Gym and the Air and Space Museum.”

  I don’t know the park nearly as well as my wife or her family, but I’ve been around enough to know the landmarks. The two buildings he’s alluding to are on the opposite side of Park Boulevard from where we were, at most a quarter mile from the spot Mira was shot.

  The last I saw of the guy that night, he was running off in that direction. Moving at even a moderate pace, the timeline fit.

  My stomach draws tight, adrenaline seeping into my system, as my focus moves down to the folder. Waiting, I watch as Marsh grabs the top flap and draws it back, revealing a single black-and-white photograph.

  Using the pads of his middle and index fingers, he slides it to the side, revealing an enhanced copy of the previous one. Filling in the grainy pixels, a glossy veneer covers it, making the image at least three times as clear as the original.

  Not that I needed it, the first being more than enough to confirm.

  All air ceases to enter or exit my lungs as I lean forward at the waist. Warmth creeps to my face, along my back, as I stare at the image.

  There is no doubt the man is who I first met that night. The man whose carcass is currently serving as coyote chow in an unmarked cabin out in the desert thanks to me and my friends.

  But that doesn’t stop the image from gripping me tight, every physiological response I have spiking in concert.

  “Who is he?” I mutter.

  “Is that him?” Marsh asks, ignoring my question.

  I don’t take my eyes from the page. Not because I know what they’re expecting and want to play the part, but because again I can’t begin to tamp down the anger roiling through me.

  “One hundred percent,” I reply.

  “Guy’s name is Mark Lincoln,” Tinley says, an admission I can tell instantly was never meant to be shared.

  Extending a hand out to the side, Marsh cuts him off, slapping at the table in front of his partner. “And he is a person of interest right now.”

  Looking at the photo one extra second, juxtaposing it with the last I saw of the man, his lifeless body propped in a chair, I move back in my seat. I work to keep my face clear of reaction, shifting my glance between them.

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning we will bring him in for questioning, begin to build a case,” Marsh said.

  There will be no questioning, no case, but I don’t bother saying as much. The longer they stay on that path, the more freedom I have to do what I need to elsewhere.

  “Okay,” I say, shoving out a sigh, a sound mixed of grief and frustration. “Thanks for calling me in. Glad to know there’s some movement.”

  Flipping the folder closed, Marsh draws it back toward himself. He keeps his fingers pressed down into it, staring at me, before saying, “Of course. We’ll be sure to do the same if anything else comes up.”

  Chapter Ten

  A few years north of forty and a few pounds north of two-forty, Ringer would ballpark the number of cheeseburgers he’d had in his life at a thousand or more. No exaggeration, no excessive hyperbole, just simple math. Once a week or so for at least the last twenty years put things right at the number, which was conservative to say the least.

  Of those, some were better than others. Just like some beer was better than others. And some sex was better than others.

  But at the end of the day, by and large, they were all just burgers. Meat, cheese, bun.

  Which was why he had never understood the California fascination with In-N-Out Burger.
A transplant himself, he had called the state home for most of his cheeseburger-eating adult life, only trying it a handful of times.

  All were decent, but not spectacular. And certainly not worth sitting and waiting upwards of a half-hour for.

  Parked in the back of the Mission Hills franchise lot, the thought again goes through his head as he walks past the line of cars filling the drive-thru. Wrapping around the side and back of the building, it contains everything from rusted pickups to shiny BMW’s, all full of people looking to get their lunch fix.

  Meanwhile a Wendy’s sits across the road, almost empty.

  Shaking his head slightly, Ringer walks past the side entrance into the place. His gait long and slow, he spots who he is looking for sitting on an outdoor table at the far front edge of the property, alone beneath an umbrella’s shade. With no food of any kind on the table, she sits with her bag beside her, phone in hand.

  Glancing through the front glass of the establishment, he sees a couple of people immediately look away, standard practice for someone with his appearance.

  Which is kind of the point.

  Giving no indication that he even noticed, Ringer walks on to the front table. He makes sure to drag his boot heels to announce his presence before arriving, stopping alongside the table and folding his arms, staring down at Elsa Teller.

  Without looking up from her phone, she says, “I heard that monstrosity you rode in on pull up five minutes ago. What took so long?”

  “Damned place is packed clear out to the road,” Ringer says. “Why the hell did you pick this spot?”

  Staying silent a moment, Teller finishes her business on the phone, pressing a flurry of buttons, before shoving it into the bag beside her. Offering a frosty smile, she says, “Because it’s packed clear out to the road.”