Payback (15 page)

He excused himself after ushering me into a tiny room with a table and two chairs. The room was painted a horrific pea green, and a large mirror dominated one wall. There was no one else in the room. Immediately after I arrived, a stenographer walked in with a pad of paper and a small tape recorder, which she set up on the table and plugged into an outlet in the floor. She ignored me until she had everything to her satisfaction, then she cast me a friendly smile and sat in one of the chairs, arranging her notepad in front of her.

“Detective Martin will be back in a minute.”

I nodded. She stared at her nails until the door opened behind us and Chris walked in, accompanied by another man. Chris gave me a reassuring smile before he reached out to the light switch on the wall by the door and flipped it, flooding the room with darkness.

The minute the lights went out, another light went on in an adjoining room, which was exposed through what before had been the mirror but was now simply a window. In the other room, six men stood against a wall. Three of the men looked bored, and I suspected they were cops, just there to fill out the lineup. Two of the men looked arrogant. The last man looked scared.

They were all cut from the same mold. Thin, tall, rangy, and Mexican. Two of the men had moustaches that could best be described as less than lush. One had a full beard. The other three were clean-shaven. It wasn’t the fat man Chris thought he had found, but the skinny one. The one with the crappy moustache. The one who had swung the metal rod.

“Take your time,” Chris said from the darkness at my side.

One by one, the six men stepped forward, facing the mirror. When they were cued by someone I couldn’t see in the other room, they each recited the line they had been prompted to speak.

The first man spoke with almost no inflection at all, obviously reluctant to speak the words. He had a thick Mexican accent. “Enough of this shit. Let’s kill these fuckers.”

My heart shot into my throat. Not at the voice but at the words. Everything about that night came flooding back. I remembered telling Chris during that first interview in the hospital about what the man had said in that darkened public bathroom—telling him about the words I was hearing now.

After dutifully reciting his lines, the man stepped back into the line, and the second man edged forward, as reluctant as the first. He recited the same words in a high, reedy voice with no accent whatsoever. “Enough of this shit. Let’s kill these fuckers.”

And one by one, the six men stepped forward and played their part.

When the last man moved backward to stand against the wall, I turned to Chris in the shadows beside me and said in a voice hoarse with emotion, “It’s none of them.”

Then I stumbled my way through the darkness toward the door, those same eight words ringing in my head. Over and over again.

Enough of this shit. Let’s kill these fuckers… kill these fuckers… kill these fuckers.

I found my way out of the building and was standing in the parking lot sucking in fresh air when Chris discovered me. He drove me home in silence. Once during the drive, he reached out to touch my hand. Just a gentle brush of fingertips against my skin. Then he pulled his hand away.

“Thank you,” I whispered, and as soon as I did, he placed his hand back over mine and left it there all the way home.

At the house, when I finally slid my hand from underneath his and stepped from the car, he leaned toward the open door and said, “I’m sorry I put you through that, Tyler.”

I ducked my head in to peer at him. He looked so earnest and caring, I had a sudden urge to clutch my chest to silence the pounding of my heart.

“I need to think about things,” I said softly, and he nodded.

In a voice even softer than mine, he said, “So do I.”

I gently closed the car door between us and walked away. He didn’t drive off until I stepped onto the porch.

I fumbled with the key, and once I was safely in the house where no one could see me, I pressed my forehead to the inside of the front door and closed my eyes.

Spence’s face filled my mind. And behind his face, peering through the shadowed memory of the only man I had ever loved, I saw Chris’s eyes brightly burning.

Watching me.

Friends

I
KNEW
my friends in the city must have given up on me by now. It was four months since Spence’s murder, three months to the day since I came home from the hospital, and I had spoken to almost no one.

To say my life had changed didn’t quite cover the realities of it. I had shut myself away from the world completely. I had lost my job. And while the agoraphobia had lessened of late, I still spent my sleepless nights roaming the house and checking the locks.

But all of this paled next to the fact that I had also committed murder. It wasn’t a revenge killing for what had happened to Spence. The man on the trolley had had nothing to do with Spence’s death. Still, I had lured him to me that night. There was no denying that. Why else had I gone out into the city with a gun? And now, after getting away with murder, or so I sincerely hoped, I found myself continually thinking of the gun stashed in the greasy backpack and stuffed behind the furnace in the basement. I longed to hold it in my hands again. I longed to once more feel the pressure of the trigger beneath my finger.

I ached to take out my anger yet again on the human race for what they had done to Spence—and what they had done to me. For what they had reduced me to—what they had reduced us
both
to.

Yet hate and grief and anger were not the only emotions I was dealing with. They had carried me this far, yes, but suddenly I found myself with another emotion to battle.

Guilt.

Detective Martin—
Chris
—had
begun to intrude on my thoughts more and more, and every time he did, I found myself racked with guilt. Funny that I could shoot a man in the throat and not feel a thing, then turn around and find myself consumed with remorse because of the kindness of the detective in charge of Spence’s case. And the feelings I was beginning to have for him.

And what about the motives behind the detective’s kindness? Did his attentions mean what I thought they meant? And if they did, how did I feel about that? Or more importantly, how would
Spence
feel about that?

Or was it all imagination? Was I reading the guy all wrong? Was it illusion brought about by loneliness? Jesus, just how desperate for attention had I become? Had I pushed away my real friends, only to now be seeking out friendships from strangers when the old ones would have served me better?

And was it really friendship I was talking about here? Or was it more?

A hundred times a day I remembered the feel of Chris’s touch on my skin. Cupping the back of my neck atop the fence at the park. Brushing my hand with his fingertips all the way home from the police station after the lineup. Was Christian Martin just a touchy-feely kind of guy? Is that all it was? Was he simply being kind because he was working my case, trying to find my husband’s killer? Was this all part and parcel of the cop/victim routine? Was I really anything more than a case number to him after all? Or was I becoming more?

Two weeks later I found a letter in my mailbox. There was no stamp on it. It had been hand-delivered. I almost tossed it in the trash unopened, but the unfamiliar handwriting on the envelope, a spidery scrawl, really, piqued my curiosity. I ripped it open, and before I read the letter, I skimmed to the bottom to read the signature. Only then did I realize the message came from Chris.

His words were brief.

I’m worried about you, Tyler. Since you won’t answer your phone, you’ve forced me to pull this cloak and dagger crap of slipping a letter in your mailbox to get your attention. Meet me tonight at eight o’clock at the bar we passed that night we walked to Doggie Park. Hess’s. The one not far from your house. I want to have a drink with you. And hopefully dinner.

If you don’t show up by 8:05, I’ll come to your house and arrest your ass.

I can’t believe I’m doing this. Chris.

Doing
what
? I wondered.

I read the letter three times.

I
ARRIVED
at the bar ten minutes late. I almost didn’t go at all, but something pulled me there. Curiosity, maybe. At least that’s what I told myself it was.

The bar had been established in a resurrected warehouse only a couple of years earlier, and Hess’s was already one of the most popular microbreweries in San Diego. It was another example of gentrification Spence used to love to cite when he bragged about South Park being his favorite section of the city. We had drunk at Hess’s often. To reach the bar, the patrons crossed a grated metal walkway above a dozen gigantic stainless-steel brewing vats where Hess’s ale was made.

It was early on a Saturday night, but the place was already booming. It was so crowded you could hardly hear yourself think. Well, no, that’s not quite true. The minute I stepped inside, I found myself thinking of Spence with an ache that was almost debilitating. Even with all the racket around me, those thoughts were coming in crystal clear. I tried to shake them away as I forced myself across the walkway and studied the faces at the tables ahead, looking for the detective.

I spotted Chris sitting at a small table near the back. The moment I saw him, he raised his hand in greeting, then he lifted his beer to take a sip. His glass, I noticed, was almost empty. His gaze never left me as I wove a path between tables to join him.

As I approached, he stood and pushed the opposite chair out with his foot, waving me into it. He was dressed in tennis shoes, faded blue jeans, and a white T-shirt, giving me a glimpse of just how long and lean his frame really was. I couldn’t help but notice he fit into the jeans very nicely.

Seeing me eyeing his clothes, he said, “Sorry. I wear suits every day at work. You’d have to drug me to get me to wear one when I’m off.”

“Understandable,” I said, trying to dredge up a friendly smile. I had to drag my eyes away from his hairy forearms to do it. While he was thin and rangy, I could see a pair of very attractive biceps peeking out from beneath the sleeves of his tee. His arms were tanned, the sinews in his forearms constantly moving. There was a beauty and an elegant grace to his large hands with their broad pale nails that drew my eyes every time I was with him. Tonight was no exception. He wore no jewelry. Not even a watch.

He settled himself back into his chair. His pose was relaxed, but his eyes were wary. He looked nervous. I got the impression he was trying to hide his nervousness behind a joke. “You’re lucky you showed up, Tyler. I was just getting ready to come over to your house and drag you out in handcuffs. I would have, too, but I couldn’t bear to leave an unfinished beer behind. This shit’s good.”

“Handcuffs,” I said. “Kinky.”

He blushed, then he immediately took another sip of beer, smacked his lips, and gave me a nervous grin. He opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind and snapped it shut. He had obviously decided to let my comment go.

I stared at his grin while I parked myself in the chair across from him, uncomfortable at first, leery, just like him. What the hell was I doing here? And why were we both making jokes to cover our unease? But more to the point, why was I so surprised that the goofy grin on Chris’s face should make him suddenly so appealing? He looked like a different person altogether. I had never seen a smile create such a transformation before. On anybody.

His teeth were small and white and damn near perfect. Even his horrible haircut was lost and forgotten behind the glow of that gleaming smile. Chris waved a hand at a waitress and held up two fingers as he pointed to his glass. He didn’t bother to ask if I wanted something different. And of course he was right. It would have been a sacrilege to order anything other than the house brew. Spence always said the same thing.

“I’ve tried every microbrewery in San Diego at one time or another, Tyler. This is one of my favorites.”

He seemed determined to ignore the fact that we were both obviously ill at ease.

I looked around, groping for something to say. “Spence and I used to come here. It was one of his favorite spots too.”

Chris scooted forward, trying to hear me over the raucous crowd surrounding us. It was a happy bar. The ambient noise was almost a roar. People were chattering and laughing all over the place. When the waitress came with our beers, Chris dropped a ten on her tray and waved off the change.

In the dim light, I studied Chris’s face. He still looked determinedly cheerful, as if he would consent to no grumpiness on my part. No grumpiness and no grief. This was the first time I had seen him when there was no hint of a five o’clock shadow on his face. He must have just shaved. I had the sudden odd urge to reach across the table and see what his bristle-free cheeks felt like. I shifted in my chair, unhappy with myself for even thinking such a thought.

“If he liked this place, then Spence was a bright guy,” he said, studying me, thankfully having no clue the direction my mind had suddenly taken me. “The beer here is great.”

He took a long pull from his glass, and I followed suit with mine. I guess Chris felt the need to fill in the silences I was leaving in the conversation, which were many. “There are eighty-seven craft breweries in San Diego. Did you know that? San Diego is quickly becoming known as the Craft Beer Capital of America. Look it up, Tyler. Even Wikipedia says so.” He laughed. “And I should know. I’ve left my ass print on damn near every chair and barstool in every brewpub in the city at one time or another.”

I shifted in my chair again. Was it because I was thinking about his ass print, and how that ass undoubtedly looked in those faded jeans he was wearing? I was pretty sure that was
exactly
what I was thinking, which didn’t make me feel any less guilty. “So,” I said. “I guess that means you’re either a connoisseur or a fucking drunk.”