Killer Swell (18 page)

I felt the early-morning sunlight on my face and woke up, squinting at the beam pouring into the room through a sheer curtain.

I turned over to find Liz awake, looking at me. “Hey.”

She had her hands tucked between her cheek and the pillow, her hair spilling around her shoulders. “Hey.”

I twisted the rest of my body around to face her and grimaced, my ribs and back knotting up in pain.

“A little sore?” she asked.

“Try a lot.”

“Carter took four bullets. He makes you look like a sissy.”

“I am a sissy.”

She laughed. “You said it, not me.”

“Actually, you did say it.”

“Whatever,” she said, rolling her eyes, a loopy grin on her face. Then her smile faded. “Remember how last night I said it was weird being around you again?”

“Yeah.”

“This is even weirder.”

I nodded, agreeing with her.

“I didn't come here to…for this,” I said.

“I know,” she said. “If I thought you had, I would've kicked your ass off the roof.”

“No doubt.”

She rolled over onto her back and sighed. “But this is weird.”

She had the sheet pulled up over her chest and tucked under her arms. Her shoulders were tan, probably from the running.

“So now what?” I asked.

“Little picture or big picture?” she asked, staring up at the ceiling.

“Your choice.”

She turned her head to me. “I choose little picture because I have no desire to draw the big picture.”

“Fine with me.”

“And little picture says, what's for breakfast?”

“Am I invited to stay?”

She reached over and placed her hand lightly on my chest. “Those are hideous.”

I peered down at the dark purple bruises that decorated my upper body. “Wish I could disagree.” I put my hand over hers. “Gonna answer my question?”

Her eyes lingered on the bruises for a moment before she looked up at me. “Since you're already here, you can stay. But since you're the guest, you get to do the cooking.” She gave a tiny grin, slid out from under the sheet, and stood. “I'm going to shower. The food better be ready by the time I'm out.”

I watched her walk to the bathroom, and despite not wanting to, I smiled.

I got up, found my shorts and shirt, and headed to the kitchen. It was small but sunny, the light from the west not nearly as blinding as it had seemed in her bedroom. I found the skillet where I remembered it to be, some eggs, cheese, and mushrooms in the fridge, and threw together two omelets.

I was sliding them onto plates when she came out.

“Wow,” she said, her dark hair still damp. She wore a pair of black cotton shorts and a gray T-shirt with UCSD written across it. “You were fast.”

I pointed to the coffeepot. “Even got that going.”

She grabbed a mug out of the cabinet. “You still averse to caffeine in the morning?”

“Yep.”

“Your loss.” She poured a cup from the pot, and we sat down at the table in the corner of the kitchen.

We ate in silence. Most of the time, when I'm quiet at a meal, it's because I'm uncomfortable. With Liz, it felt normal and right.

She pushed the plate away from her when she'd finished. “So. What's your plan of attack today?”

I wiped my mouth and set the fork down on my empty plate. “Got a couple of ideas.”

“Like?”

“Like working on that Charlotte thing you gave me.”

“I didn't give you anything,” she said, looking at me over her coffee cup.

“Right. Like working on this Charlotte thing I found.”

“Ah.”

“Yes. Tell me something. Have you guys looked at Randall much with this?”

“Kate's husband?” she asked. She gestured with the coffee mug. “Sure. Doesn't seem to be anything there, though. He wasn't in San Diego when she died.”

“Doesn't mean he couldn't have been involved, though.”

“No. Why?”

“He was a user, too.”

She nodded. “I know. We ran his record. He's on probation.” She looked at me, puzzled. “Why would that make him wanna kill his wife?”

My thoughts flashed on my conversation with Ken again, but I pushed them aside. I didn't want to put the idea that Kate had covered for Randall out there until I thought I could get Liz to take it seriously.

“Isn't there some statistic about husbands being the most likely suspects in the deaths of their wives?” I said.

“Sure. I don't know what it is, but it's high. But you've usually got motive and some sort of evidence.” She shook her head. “Randall's run clean so far.”

I tried a different track. “Emily thought he was having an affair.”

“Emily?”

I hesitated, feeling like she was asking me something different than what she'd intended.

“Yeah. Saw her at the funeral. She told me that he was screwing around,” I said.

“Wellton interviewed her, and I know it came up then, too.” Liz spun the mug on the table with her pinky finger. “But his alibi's tight. Hospital verified him being there for the last week. No way he was here.”

“Just doesn't feel right, that's all,” I said.

She looked at the clock on the wall and stood, grabbing the plates. “I've got to get moving. I'll look around some more, Noah, but I'm still not sure how he's connected to Kate's death. He may be an asshole, but that doesn't make him a killer.”

“Yeah, you're right,” I said as I pushed away from the table and slowly coaxed myself upright.

She dropped the dishes in the sink and walked over to me.

“Of course I am,” she said. “I'm a homicide detective.”

I smiled. “Yeah, you are.”

She poked me in the chest. “I'm not gonna let this get awkward. I have no idea what this is right now.”

“Me and you?”

“Yeah, me and you,” she said. “And to be honest, I don't want to think about it. So, no good-bye kisses, no googly eyes, none of that crap.”

“Googly eyes?” I asked.

“Yes, most likely from you,” she said, trying to keep a smile from hitting her mouth. “So here it is. I'm glad you came by last night and I'm glad you're here this morning. But let's just see what happens. No promises. Alright?”

“No,” I said.

She looked surprised. “No?”

“I'm kissing you good-bye,” I said as I leaned over.

When I pulled away, she kept her eyes closed for an extra moment before opening them. “Alright, good decision. Yeah. But definitely no googly eyes.”

As I put the key in the ignition of the Blazer, it occurred to me that I hadn't mentioned to Liz anything about the key Emily had given me. I still wasn't sure if it would tell me anything and Liz had been skeptical of my other ideas, so I didn't see the point of bringing it up. But I made a mental note to ask Carter about the key the next time I visited the hospital.

I drove back to my place and rather than shower right away, grabbed my board and headed out to the small swells that were rising along the shoreline. The water felt good on my body and eased the soreness.

As I cut through the water, I managed not to think about Kate or Randall or Costilla. The great thing about surfing is that you can lose yourself in it. Whether you're smashing into the lip or gazing into the front end of a tight barrel, everything else in the world falls away. Concentrate on your footwork, feel that back anchor foot driving the board back and forth, and let the rails slice through the face of the water and take you somewhere you've never been before.

In between sets, sitting on my board, watching the morning walkers along the shore, I did think about Liz, though. The night had felt like some sort of breakthrough. I didn't know exactly what it was we were breaking through, but I definitely felt good about it. I hadn't thought about Emily, and that fact made me realize that what she and I had been doing together was probably more out of confusion than anything else. What I didn't feel good about was having to have that conversation with Emily.

I watched a small set roll by and below me and continued floating in the water.

Regardless of whom Emily and I had been with, the conversation would be uneasy. It always is. Even if we both recognized that we had gotten together for the wrong reasons, our relationship would probably be tense and awkward in whatever shape it remained.

A nice three footer curled up behind me. I moved to my stomach, paddled in front of it, and let it pick me up. I pushed up to a crouch and dropped into the small face, a tiny ripple of excitement working through my stomach as the board slid to the bottom of the wave. It closed out quickly, and I bobbed my way to the shore, the white water sending me in.

After showering and tossing on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, I took the cordless phone out onto the patio with a phone book and a notepad, along with the scrap of paper Liz had given me. I paged through the phone book, without really thinking I'd find something. Looking for Charlotte T. would have to start somewhere, no matter how tedious and silly it seemed.

After thirty minutes of looking, I'd located only a Charlotte Thompson in El Cajon and a Charlotte Terry in Mira Mesa. Both were on the other side of sixty, and neither knew Kate or Randall Crier.

I called directory assistance in Marin County and the not-so-friendly operator told me that she had over twenty Charlottes with the last initial T and that she could not give them to me over the phone. She informed me that I could find current phone books at my local library and hung up.

I sat there for a few minutes watching the people strolling on the boardwalk. The sun was high, but haze from the morning marine layer was muting its glare. The people who had slept in late were just now arriving at the beach, toting chairs, coolers, and kids, and finding a spot in the sand to spend the next couple of hours.

I called directory assistance in Marin again, got a different operator, and asked for the number to Randall's hospital.

“St. Andrew's,” a pleasant voice said. “How can I direct your call?”

“Not sure,” I said, scrambling. “I'm looking for a Charlotte, but I don't know her last name.”

“Do you know the department, sir?”

“I don't, I'm sorry. My answering machine ate most of the message and I have no idea what the call is regarding.”

“That's alright,” she said. “Happens to the best of us. Let me check…okay. I have two Charlottes in the directory. Dr. Charlotte Kollack in oncology and Charlotte Truman, our deputy administrator.”

Bingo. “Let's try the latter. I think I might've heard Truman on the machine.”

“I'll connect you to that office,” she said. “One moment.”

Ten seconds later, a voice came on the line. “Charlotte Truman's office.”

“Is Ms. Truman in?” I asked.

“No, I'm afraid not,” the female voice said. “She's out for the week.”

“The whole week?”

“Yes, sir. She's down in Los Angeles for the conference at the Bonaventure and won't be back until next Monday.”

“I see.”

“Can I take a message, sir?” she asked. “She's checking in periodically.”

I thought about it and decided against it. I told her no thanks and hung up.

I figured a drive up to LA would get me a quicker answer.

One of the things I admired about San Diego was that despite the fact that the population in the county continued to grow, it hadn't changed its attitude. Sure, there were more cars on the road and housing prices were soaring, but no one seemed stressed out by it. Everyone was happy to be in a beautiful city by the ocean with weather that bordered on spectacular.

I couldn't say the same for Los Angeles. The Angelenos had seemed to adopt a hustle and bustle lifestyle that was more appropriate for the East Coast. The result was something that gave the city the feeling of a spoiled younger sibling, and I rarely enjoyed venturing into the area.

The drive up the snarled 5 and 405 through Orange County and Long Beach took me a little over two hours. I read somewhere that Southern California possessed eleven miles of permanently clogged freeway where the traffic was at a constant standstill. As I took the interchange to the 110 and entered the massive maze of concrete and asphalt that made up downtown Los Angeles, I thought eleven miles might have been a conservative guess.

The Westin Bonaventure is LA's largest convention hotel, a series of circular glass towers that rise out of the financial district like something from the future. It boasted of spectacular views of downtown Los Angeles from the higher floors, but never mentioned the possibility of those views being choked off by the smog.

I parked in the massive garage and found my way inside the hotel. The enormous six-story atrium, housing restaurants, bars, and shops, gave me the feel that I was in an oversized greenhouse. I saw a sign that directed me toward the conference and meeting rooms and found a tall thin man in his forties sitting at a table next to a giant easel that said
CALIFORNIA PHYSICIANS AND ADMINISTRATORS ASSOCIATION CONFERENCE
.

“What can I help you find?” he asked, smiling.

“Well, I'm not sure,” I said. “I'm actually looking for a person, but I have no idea where she might be.”

“Presenter or attendee?” he asked, grabbing a thick black binder from the corner of the table.

“Don't know that either,” I said, shrugging.

He clutched the binder and looked at me. “Sir, are you here for the conference?”

“Actually, no,” I said, shoving my hands in my pockets. “I'm trying to track down a friend.”

“A friend?”

“Her office told me I could find her here,” I said, trying to look harmless. “Charlotte Truman?”

He set the book on the table, frown lines wrinkling his forehead. “You're a friend?”

Can't fool everybody all of the time. I reached into my back pocket and flipped my license open at him. “Not really, but I do need to find Ms. Truman.”

He stared at the license, the lines on his forehead deepening. “Is she in trouble? Has something happened?”

“No, everything's fine. I just need to talk to her.” I smiled. “I'm not looking to rock the boat.”

He looked at the license again, then at me. “I hope not. She's giving the keynote address this evening. It would be a disaster if she weren't able to do that.”

I tried to look sympathetic to his cause. “I promise. My visit will do nothing to change her availability for this evening.”

He bit his bottom lip for a moment, clearly not wanting to be a party to the potential ruin of the conference.

“Look, you told me she's speaking tonight,” I said. “If you won't tell me where she is now, I'll have no choice but to hang around until I find her tonight.” I shoved my wallet back into my shorts. “Your call.”

His left eye twitched, then he opened the binder. He flipped through several pages, ran a bony finger down one, and tapped the middle of the page.

“The Santa Anita Room,” he said, pointing to his right. “Last room at the end of this hall.”

“I appreciate it,” I told him and started in that direction.

“Sir?”

I turned back to him.

He held up a plastic badge with a nylon string attached to it. The card in the clear plastic badge said
VISITOR
.

“This might make it easier,” he said, offering it to me. “You'll look like you're supposed to be here.”

I took the badge and hung it around my neck. “That, buddy, is something I don't hear too often.”