“Someone saw something?”
“Two people gave us the same rough description,” he said, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his hand. “A man, on the boardwalk about an hour before we got your call.”
“Was he with Darcy?”
“No. Alone. But both wits said this guy looked out of place. Moving too fast, head down, unfriendly. Male, about six feet, not sure on the age,” he said. “Not much else to distinguish him.”
“If we sit here for five more minutes, we’re gonna see at least five guys go by that fit that, Klimes.”
He shaded his eyes from the sun. “I know. We’re gonna do some door to door and see if we can turn anything else up.” He shifted in the chair, the seat groaning beneath his bulk. “You run across anything new?”
“Not really.”
“No, or not really?”
“No.”
“That name you tried to slip by me the other day? I ran it through our computers.”
“Landon Keene?”
“That’s the one. Couple of things. Assaults, weapons. Done some time.”
“Anything else?”
“Nope. So where did that name come from?”
I thought of my father tossing it out there, like bait. I had bitten, and yet it had gotten me nowhere.
“I don’t know who he is,” I said. “But if I find out, I’ll tell you, Klimes. I promise.”
He studied me for a moment, his eyes hard. “Not what I asked.” He smiled, letting me know he knew I was avoiding the question. “But I’ll settle for that for now.”
“You know anything about a Benjamin Moffitt?” I asked.
“The casino guy?” Klimes said. He rolled his massive shoulders and shrugged. “Like all those types, you hear rumors.”
“What kind of rumors?”
“Gaming industry never brings in the cleanest folks, you know? There’s always some doubt as to the legitimacy of those running them. Nature of the business.”
“Anything specific on Moffitt?”
“Nothing specific enough to get a hard-on over,” Klimes said. “Some whispers about money laundering, maybe some payoffs to the gaming regulators. Nothing that would make him any different from his peers.” His eyes sharpened. “Why?”
“Simington was employed as a security guard. At casinos owned by Moffitt.”
Klimes rubbed a perspiring hand across his chin. “Well, wouldn’t be the first time a piece of crap worked in that job. No guarantee that Moffitt even knew him, though. Not like he’s gonna mix with the help.”
“Sure.”
“Coulda been a guy like Simington, with all those debts, was working it off.” Klimes shrugged again. “I don’t know. I’ll ask around.”
Miranda and Zanella appeared at the wall. “All set?” Klimes asked. Zanella glared at me. “Yeah. All set.” I smiled at him. His eyes iced over.
“You’ll be in town for a while, young lady?” Klimes asked.
Miranda shrugged. “I don’t know. I just got here before Mr. Charm dragged me away and asked me a bunch of questions that he must’ve learned from
Miami Vice.”
I laughed out loud. Zanella’s eyes narrowed into tiny razor blades.
“Let us know if you leave,” Klimes said. He put a hand on Zanella’s shoulder. “Let’s ride, buddy.”
They started walking down the boardwalk.
Zanella was so predictable. I knew he’d turn around and throw a hard look my way.
Eventually, he did.
And before I could do it, Miranda blew him a kiss and showed him her middle finger.
I told Miranda she could stay with me.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” she said upon accepting the invitation. “I’ll be sleeping nowhere but the couch.”
“I’ll try to keep my raging desire in check,” I said, shaking my head.
I gave her a key and said I’d be back later.
“I have to go in there by myself?” she asked, glancing toward the patio door.
“No,” I said, heading down the boardwalk. “You can sit right there and wait however many hours it takes me to come back. And then I’d be happy to escort you in.”
I was pretty sure she was flipping me off behind my back, but I didn’t turn around to confirm.
I was exhausted and needed some quiet, some familiarity. I called Liz and left her a message, telling her I was coming over.
By the time I’d navigated the traffic out of Mission Beach, down I-5, and over the bridge to Coronado, she was waiting for me on the front steps of her house.
She wore a Padres T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, khaki capris, and white flip-flops.
She stood. “You look tired.”
“I am.”
“Well, too bad.” “What?”
She pointed to her car, a gray Volkswagen Jetta. Two surfboards were strapped on top: the long, soft board I had bought for her to learn on and the six-three Rusty I’d started leaving in her garage.
“I thought we could go out for a while,” she said, sounding like a kid whose parent had just arrived home.
We’d taken a trip to Santa Barbara a few months back, and I’d gotten her on a board. Now she was hooked and getting good. I liked that she liked it. I didn’t know if it was coincidence that our relationship had finally come together when she took up surfing, but I liked the parallel anyway.
“Okay,” I said. “Lemme go in and change.”
“Can I watch?” she asked, as I passed her and headed into the house.
“Might not get to the water.” “You wish.”
I changed—alone—and ten minutes later we were standing on the sand at a strip of beach just north of the Hotel Del. So late in the day, with the sun getting ready to wave goodbye, we had the place to ourselves.
“You’re going to be amazed when you see me ride,” she said with a grin, pulling off the T-shirt and capris to expose white bikini bottoms and a matching white rash guard.
If the beach had been full, it would have come to a standstill.
I refocused. “You’ve been practicing on your own?”
“You’ll see.”
It didn’t surprise me. She’d nearly had a fit the first hour she’d been in the water with a board. She was strong and athletic, but learning to get your feet in the right spot and your weight balanced was tough for everyone. Getting up and falling over right away had not thrilled her. She’d eventually gotten the hang of it, but she still had that I’m-new-at-this pose on the board and it irked her. She wanted to look like she belonged, and she’d probably been doing pop-ups in her living room every day to get it right.
We waded in and got out to just in front of the break line so she’d have some strong white water to use.
“Have at it,” I said.
She turned herself around, slid onto the board, checked behind her, and started paddling just before a big surge of water pushed into her. It propelled her forward and two seconds later she was up. Knees bent, relaxed, actually trying to maneuver the board with her back foot.
She had been practicing.
She looked back at me to make sure I’d seen her, then jumped off and paddled back out to me. “I’m impressed,” I said.
She pushed the wet hair off her face. “As you should be.” “You ready to paddle into something real?”
“Bring it on.”
We paddled out a little further, just beyond the break line. The sets were small but rolling pretty consistently, no more than three feet high.
“Watch when I start paddling,” I said, spinning myself around. “And then when I pop.”
The wave came in behind, rising sharply out of the ocean. I paddled hard for a couple of seconds, letting it pick me up. I could feel the speed of the wave and knew I had it. At the top, I moved to my feet and guided the board down the small face and along the bottom of the wave. I snapped the board back up into the lip, pointing it almost straight up at the sky, spraying water into the air, the mist fanning out like a rooster tail. I came back down softly on the top of the falling water and bounced a little, then jumped off.
“How do I do that spray thingy?” she asked when I reached her again.
“One thing at a time,” I said, laughing.
“Can’t be that hard if you can do it.”
“Just worry about staying upright first.”
“Nothing to worry about,” she said, pivoting into position.
“Push up when you feel it lift you,” I said as the wave came in behind her. “Paddle now.”
She drove her arms through the water. The wave picked her up, and she pushed herself up at the top, just like I told her. The board slid down the face, and her eyes got big, the drop and speed probably surprising her. She shuffled her feet, tilted backward, tried to correct, and tumbled face-first into the water.
I turned around so she wouldn’t see me laughing.
“I know you’re laughing,” she yelled.
“No. Huh-uh.”
“Screw you.”
The laugh was gone by the time she reached my side. “That was good,” I said. “Screw you again.”
“I’m serious. Except for the part where you face-planted, you had it.”
She pointed to the break line. “Go show off some more. I need to watch a couple more times.”
I did as directed. For about fifteen minutes, I rode everything that came in, cutting and dropping, snapping and maneuvering. The fresh air and salt water felt good against my face. Everything that had been cluttering up my mind was gone. The ocean was always my cure all, cleansing me in every way. It never let me down.
Liz glided out to the line. “Okay, I think I’ve got it.”
“After watching someone like me, you should have no problem.”
“Whatever,” she said.
I paddled in toward the shore, then turned back so I could watch as she came at me.
She missed the first, paddling too late, and it swept under her, leaving her behind. She got into the second, but fell over trying to get up. Ditto the third. And the fourth.
On the fifth, I could see she was pissed. She popped up at the top, her mouth a tight line of determination. Her knees bent with the drop, and she slid down smoothly. She followed it down the line and looked like she knew what she was doing.
As the wave cashed out, she thrust her fists into the air and fell into the water backward.
There was something in that moment, something in those raised fists and her determined look, in the ocean, that opened a door inside of me. Watching her, being with her, I felt like I was right where I belonged with whom I belonged. It occurred to me that Liz trumped all of the negative cards in my life. I hadn’t ever felt that way that I could recall, and I didn’t want that feeling to ever leave.
She emerged from the water about twenty feet away, her hair everywhere, those eyes gleaming in the shadowy sunlight, hands on her hips, waiting for my critique.
“Well?” she said, as impatient as ever.
My heart was thumping like a jackhammer. Right where I belonged with who I belonged.
“I love you,” I said to her across the water.
She stared at me, her hands sliding off her hips. A small wave crashed into her, knocking her off balance for a moment. She regained her footing and waded awkwardly over to me, her board leashed to her ankle, dragging behind her.
She ran a hand through her hair, moving it away from her eyes and smoothing it back. “What did you say?”
The jackhammer was working overtime, and I felt like a high school kid again, embarrassed over a crush.
“I said, A-plus.” I nodded toward the shore. “Let’s head in.”
I slid onto the board before she could object and paddled in, letting the tiny waves push me forward. I rolled off and squeezed my eyes shut as I submerged myself in the ocean.
I came up for air, and Liz was standing right in front of me.
“That’s not what you said,” she said.
The sun was a third gone, spraying pinks and yellows across the horizon.
I stood. “No, it wasn’t.” “I heard what you said.”
The water was cold around my feet, my toes digging into the sand. “Okay.”
She moved her eyes away from me, looking down the shore. Beads of saltwater clung to her cheeks and neck. A sliver of her stomach was visible where her rash guard had ridden up. She pulled her hair around, gathered it at the bottom, and squeezed the water out.
She cut her eyes back to me. “You can’t take that back, you know?”
I reached down and ripped the Velcro leash off my ankle and tossed it to the ground. “I don’t want to.”
“You say that now,” she said, the green in her eyes bright. “But somewhere down the line you may want to. Something might change, and maybe you won’t feel the same way.”
High tide was coming in, and the water crashed a little higher against our legs.
“I don’t think so, Liz,” I said, as sure as I’d ever been about anything.
Her eyes held mine, probably waiting for me to look away, to see if what I’d said was impulsive or impetuous. I didn’t look away. “Fine,” she finally said. “Fine?”
And standing there against the sunset, the pinks and yellows glowing against the blue and white of the water, Liz said to me, “I love you, too.”
We went back to her place, cleaned ourselves up, and walked down to Peohe’s for dinner.
Our conversation in the water had confirmed things between us. In reality, we weren’t telling each other things we didn’t already know. You spend that much time with someone in the way that we did and you just know. But saying it out loud had obliterated that invisible barrier that stayed up until each person came clean. An easiness and sense of permanency descended on me as we strolled to the harbor, holding hands.
The hostess recognized Liz and placed us at a table near the immense window overlooking Glorietta Bay. The lights of the downtown high-rises were gleaming in the early evening darkness.
We ordered a bottle of Merlot and our food, and Liz was looking at me a little funny as she finished her first glass.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing’s really changed,” she said, a faint pink sunburn on her cheeks. “But it feels like everything’s changed.”
“I agree.”
“You think that will be a problem?”
“Only if we continue to analyze the hell out of it.”
“Then let’s not do that.”
I picked up the wine bottle, held it out, and refilled her glass. “Agreed.”
“Tell me about your day,” she said.
I recounted my trip to the casino, my conversation with Carolina, and Miranda’s arrival.