Spare Change Page 5

  It’s a look I thought I’d given up for good. One I damned sure never thought I’d be wearing in central San Diego.

  Not with Mira as the source of it.

  The building isn’t far from the Naval Hospital, just off I-5 in the center of the city. The type of place we all drive by every day without giving a second thought to anything that might be going on inside, it is a three-story affair, made of white brick with columns along the front. Stretched out to the side is an oversized parking lot, our truck and a small handful of other vehicles the only ones present.

  Most of the lights in the building have been extinguished for the night, blinds pulled low. A pair of spotlights on the front lawn give the place an ethereal glow as we walk forward, both deep in our own thoughts.

  What Swinger’s might be right now, I won’t even try to guess at. All I know is they damned sure can’t be as dark as the images passing through my mind, playing in a loop like one of those damn flipbooks I had as a kid.

  Getting to the door first, Swinger hops forward and grasps the handle, pulling it open. Without a word, I pass inside, going straight to the front desk positioned directly in front of me. Moving without pause, I can hear the door swing shut behind me, my friend’s feet slapping against the floor a couple of times before he appears in my periphery.

  Fifteen feet away, the desk is positioned on the back end of the foyer. Serving as the epicenter for the space, hallways jut to either side and straight back away from it, the man seated behind it serving as a gatekeeper, ferreting out who may pass and who should come back in the morning.

  The look on his face says we are firmly in the former category.

  The look on mine says there is no way that is happening without a fight.

  “Help you?” the man asks. Reclined in his seat, it’s impossible to tell how tall he is, though I would guess him to be several inches shorter than me, several more than Swinger. Wearing a bland security uniform, the neck of his shirt hangs loose beneath his chin, his white shirt a stark contrast from his caramel colored skin. Still having most of the hair on his head and a bit extra on his upper lip, all of it has trended toward silver.

  The nametag on his chest says Gomez.

  “My wife was just brought in,” I say, forcing the words out without letting my voice break.

  Across from me, Gomez seems to process for a moment, his lips parting slightly as he stares my way, computing what I just told him.

  “Oh, you mean...”

  “Yes, that was me,” I reply. I saw the coroner’s van sitting outside when we pulled up. One of just a small cluster of vehicles present, it wasn’t hard to spot.

  I know she is here.

  “Well, I’m very sorry,” he replies. “Sounded like quite an awful thing.”

  It was. Far worse than anything I encountered in the shit. Worse than whatever my mind might have conjured at night while I tried to sleep.

  “I need to see her.”

  His lips come together for a moment. He looks like he might be constipated, as if the next words out of his mouth are bringing him physical pain. “I’m very sorry,” he repeats, “but that’s not how it works here.”

  I can respect that the man is a retiree. That this is a second job and he is likely just trying to add some additional income later in life. Maybe Uncle Sam knows about it, maybe he doesn’t, it’s not for me to say.

  What I can see is the man has a band on his left hand, meaning he has a wife, probably for a long time. He can imagine what I will soon be going through, the instant I allow this night to penetrate. He can acknowledge how hard it will be.

  Or he can get his ass kicked by a pair of Navy SEALS that have been training for ten years to face people a hell of a lot nastier than him.

  “Please,” I say, resolute to give diplomacy one shot before moving on, “I just need to see her, to make sure she’s being taken care of. Then we’ll leave until morning.”

  The look on his face passes from sympathetic to surprised to contemplative in a matter of seconds. One after another, they slide by in a quick sequence, the man wearing his every thought for us to see. Twice his jaw flaps up and down, as if he is trying to figure out the best way to let me down easily.

  In doing so, his gaze lowers, settling on my hands, on the dark stains of my wife’s blood still lining them. Seeing it, I raise them so he can get a better look and say, “No man should ever go through the night I have. I just need to see her.”

  When his gaze rises to meet mine, the previous uncertainty is gone. Holding the look for a moment, he shifts to a computer monitor beside him, checking the screen before looking back our way.

  “Okay, but not right now,” he says. “They’re still checking her in and getting her processed at the moment, but if you boys can come back in an hour, I’ll take you down there to see her myself.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I hate the idea of leaving, of walking out of the building without getting what I came for, of feeling like I’m leaving my wife behind. My first reaction to Gomez’s offer is to leap across the desk, grab the old man by the front of his shirt, and mash my fist into his head until I feel better or he agrees to take us to Mira, whichever comes first.

  Just as fast, I push aside the notion. It isn’t the old man’s fault that we can’t go down right now. I can tell by the look on his face that just making the offer is enough to get him fired, so I let it go with a nod and a thanks, a promise to be back in an hour and not a minute later.

  Ten years ago, I would be a wreck right now. I would probably still be huddled in Balboa Park, curled into a tight ball, sobbing with everything I have. The sheer shock of the moment, the mere idea of losing Mira, would have washed over me, sweeping me into a state of sorrow I might never wake from.

  Almost a full decade of training with the SEALS has made it so that is no longer the case. The emotions exist, that much is for certain. I can feel them roiling just beneath the surface, undulating waves threatening to burst through any possible opening. Reducing me to nothing but a catatonic shell, whenever that moment arrives, it will render me virtually worthless.

  Which is why I have to keep pushing now, while my training enables me to compartmentalize what I can.

  Because it is coming. That much I know for a fact.

  Stepping out of the front door, I move fast for the parking lot, Swinger beside me. Falling in on my hip, I can sense him glance my way as we head for the truck, saying nothing until we are both loaded inside. Sliding the key into the ignition, he doesn’t bother turning it over, instead glancing at me.

  “You need anything? Coffee? Food?”

  There are a hundred things I need right now. I need time to think. I need my heart rate to slow so I can process in the way I need to. I need the damn annoying throb in my arm to stop so I can concentrate better.

  I need my wife to not be dead.

  What I damned sure don’t need is caffeine or cholesterol, both only serving to make this night that much worse.

  “No.”

  “Is there anybody you want to call? M-“ he begins, catching himself before saying her name. “Her mom? Your mom?”

  My mom is two and a half thousand miles east of us. She’s an amazing lady and will be on the next plane out the instant that I call her, but right now she can’t help. And I can’t trust myself to try and tell her what happened.

  Mira’s mom is a much more pressing matter, but like my own, she will have to wait. At least a little while longer.

  “Drive,” I say. The word isn’t said with hatred, and it isn’t issued as a command. I merely state it, my gaze aimed out the front window.

  “Okay,” Swinger replies, his tone implying he took no offense. “Where to?”

  “Cartwright’s.”

  We both know I’m not much of a drinker. Of all the guys in our unit, Swinger is far and away the most likely to imbibe, and despite his bravado, even he doesn’t actually put down all that much.

  I can see the surprise on his face as he computes what I tell him, but to his credit, he says nothing as he puts the truck in drive and pulls forward, his headlights cutting through the darkness.

  Chapter Twelve

  I have no interest in alcohol. Earlier tonight, during my big celebration, I had no more than two beers, which is the most I’ve had since I joined the Navy years ago. That’s not to say I’m a teetotaler, nor do I judge others that like to put it down. There was a time and a place for me as well – after all, I was a Division I athlete – but those days are gone.

  And at the moment, the mere idea of trying to consume anything that might dull my senses repulses me, my focus narrow and singular.

  Sliding to a stop on the curb opposite Cartwright’s, Swinger puts the truck in the spot Ross was parked in earlier. Around us, much of the traffic has thinned down, the evening crowd having turned in, giving way to the locals and diehards. Most of the decorative lights in the neighborhood have even been turned off, the world two shades darker than our previous visit.

  A perfect parallel for my own mood if there ever was one.

  An uneasy look sits on Swinger’s face as he lowers his head to get a full look at the bar before glancing over at me. I know exactly what he is thinking, so I cut him off before he has a chance to say a single thing.

  “Nobody else in the world knew we were going to the park,” I say. A crease appears between his brows, though he remains silent, waiting for me to continue. “She and I hadn’t even talked about it earlier, that’s just our go-to when we need a quick exit.”

  I don’t bother adding that the thing we needed a quick exit from was his invitation for a nightcap. All outward appearances to the contrary, he is a very astute man that can infer where I was going with the comment.

  And that I meant n
o ill will in it, merely using it as a starting point for explaining why we were now sitting outside the bar.

  “Wasn’t until we were leaving earlier that we really even discussed it.”

  The crease remains as my friend tries to compute things for a moment. One bit at a time, I can almost see him working things into place before it finally clicks, his features clearing.

  “So you think someone overheard us standing out on the sidewalk?”

  There is just enough of a tinge of something in his voice to let me know he isn’t entirely buying the theory.

  If in his place, I might not be either.

  “Had to,” I say, looking past Swinger to the front of Cartwright’s. So badly I wish I could press rewind on the night, take us back to the last time we were all here, when Mira was still safe and breathing, and everyone was happy. If I could, I would take Swinger up on his offer. Or take Mira home and straight to bed. Or insist we swing by Lefty’s for a late-night slice.

  But I can’t, so I’m taking the only other option I have available.

  “Kyle, I mean...” Swinger begins. One of the few times in my life he hasn’t referred to me by my rank or my last name, I know he is trying to be sincere. That he wants nothing more than to entertain my thinking while at the same time trying to inject some reason.

  “Because otherwise, that means it was random,” I say. “It means that some asshole was just sitting in the park, waiting for any old random person to come along so he could use his little spare change ruse. That he shot my wife in cold blood, without provocation, and then didn’t bother to shake us down for a single thing afterward.”

  Across from me, I can see Swinger trying to process the words, his mind racing to catch up with the conclusions I’ve already drawn.

  Sometimes in life, shit happens. If I didn’t know that before going to work for the government, I became brutally aware of it as they sent me bouncing into some of the worst spots imaginable on the planet.

  Sometimes people were born into terrible situations. Or they had them thrust upon them.

  But never did something like what happened to us occur. Not here, and not in that manner.

  “So you think...?” he asks, the question left open-ended.

  “No doubt in my mind.”

  And there isn’t. Finding out the answer to it is a long way from my most pressing concern right now, but with fifty minutes to kill before I can see Mira and hours before I can call her family, this is the best I can do.

  And I have to keep doing something.

  Giving me one last glance, Swinger shifts his focus up to the front of the bar. Raising a finger, he taps at the glass and says, “There are cameras above the register and both of the restrooms. You think you’d recognize the guy again if you saw him?”

  “There is not a chance in a hell I will ever forget that face for as long I live.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Old Man Cartwright’s name is actually William, which at some point in his life was shortened to Bill, and eventually transitioned over to Billy. With a thin beard moving from salt-and-pepper to white and a propensity for always having a towel draped over his shoulder, the moniker fits him to the letter, the man a throwback in every way.

  Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he was the original inspiration for Ted Danson’s character in Cheers.

  Shifting his gaze to the door as we enter, he seems to pick up on our change in demeanor instantly. Most of the crowd has thinned down for the evening, just a handful of singles and couples strewn about, all looking content with their drinks and conversation. As such, he drifts down toward the end of the bar, sensing that our second visit – and light three crew members no less – isn’t quite as jovial as the first.

  “Everything alright?” he asks. He goes as far as the curve of the bar will allow him before stopping and resting his palms on the front edge of it. Small triceps muscles shift beneath his white long-sleeve undershirt as Swinger and I pull up across from him.

  “Those cameras you’ve got record anything, or are they just for show?” I ask, bypassing any sort of greeting.

  Billy’s eyes narrow just slightly as he looks at us before shifting his gaze up to the black apparatus mounted above the cash register. “Twenty-four-hour loop. Insurance company made me put them in when we refinanced a few years ago.”

  Not once does he mention the divorce that precipitated the new arrangement. Nor does he inquire as to why I’m asking.

  “Any chance we can take a look at the tapes?” Swinger asks.

  Again, Billy shifts his glance between us. He considers things for a moment, nothing but his eyes moving. “Look, fellas, I don’t want any trouble.”

  “We don’t either,” Swinger answers.

  Going for something a bit more demonstrative, I raise my right arm. Curling my hand into a fist, I let him see the faint pink of my wife’s blood staining the skin. “Trouble found us.”

  Fine lines appear around his eyes as he winces slightly. Sucking in a sharp breath of air, he pulls back an inch or two. “Jesus. Yours?”

  “Mira’s.”

  More lines come to the surface, these of concern. “She okay?”

  Keeping my hand up for him to see, I shake my head slightly.

  “And you think it started here?”

  “Maybe,” Swinger interjects. “Not sure, but worth taking a look.”

  Flicking his focus from my hand to my face, Billy jerks his head back in the opposite direction. Tugging the towel down off his shoulder, he wipes his hands as he walks the length of the bar and meets us in the corner. A few of the patrons lining it glance over as we pass, nobody saying a word as Billy pushes into the rear office, leaving the door open wide for us to follow.

  The space looks exactly like the outside would intimate. Resembling a repurposed closet, the walls are dark and lined with wood. A black desk is against the back, either end almost touching the wall to either side. A file cabinet sits in the corner, a rolling chair between the two.

  Vintage boxing posters and a Chargers pennant with the words San Diego underlined three times in black marker hang on the walls.

  Pulling up short, Billy again thrusts his chin out, this time pointing to the aging computer monitor and keyboard sitting atop the desk. “Cameras feed into a file on the desktop. Three different angles, all dated and timestamped.”

  “Thanks, Billy,” Swinger mumbles.

  “Thanks,” I add. “Won’t be five minutes.”

  Nodding slightly, the old man pats me on the shoulder as he heads for the door. “Take all the time you need.”

  A moment later the door closes, any residual sound from the bar falling away, the room growing two shades darker and infinitely smaller around us. Not that I particularly notice, my focus going straight to the computer as I slide into the single chair. The wheels push across the floor as I settle down in front of the monitor, grabbing for the mouse and calling the screen to life.

  The desktop is littered with a handful of folder icons, all labeled in the most basic of terms. Invoicing. Receiving. Deliveries.

  “Cameras,” Swinger says, extending a finger to the bottom left corner of the screen. One hand he places on the back of the chair, the other on the desk, veins and striations standing out along his arms as he peers in at the screen.

  Following his directive, I go to the icon and click it open, seeing things just as Billy described them.

  “Register?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Swinger agrees. “Start there.”

  Giving it a double tap, the icon opens directly into a live feed of the bar outside. Entirely in black-and-white, it gives a nearly vertical view of the cash register, Billy now standing behind it in his usual position, staring up at the television mounted just a couple of feet away. On his face is an expression of concern, no doubt stemming from our very presence.

  Meant to sniff out any skimming that might be going on, the camera is positioned to get a clear view whenever the cash drawer is opened. Beyond that, there is nothing more than a couple of feet in diameter around it, only a single other person visible before us.