Yesterday's Echo

Y
ESTERDAY'S
E
CHO

A Novel

Matt Coyle

Copyright © 2013 by Matt Coyle

FIRST EDITION

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-60809-076-1

Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing, Longboat Key, Florida

www.oceanviewpub.com

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

To my wife, Deborah, who has supported me unconditionally; to my late mother, Carol Coyle, who believed in me more than I did myself; and to my late friend, Tom Burke, who inspired me in life and continues to do so from the hereafter.

This book could not have come to fruition without the help and guidance of many people who deserve special thanks:

My wonderful agent, Kimberley Cameron, for believing in me.

The great folks at Oceanview Publishing, Pat and Bob Gussin, Frank Troncale, David Ivestor, and Susan Hayes for getting behind a rookie author.

My father, Charles Coyle, who undertook the heroic task of reading the very first draft of this book.

Nancy Denton who line edited a much later version, making it suitable to send out.

My writers' group, led by sharp-penciled and sharp-witted Carolyn Wheat, and composed of an assemblage of great writers over the years: Cathy Worthington, Judy Hamilton, Lisa Davis, Murray Hagen, and Cindy Tocci.

Friends who have helped me in ways that will remain secret: Joanne Murphy and Holly West.

Alan Russell and Ken Kulken for their generosity of experience.

Gar Anthony Haywood for his keen eye in early chapters.

Law enforcement experts: retired Chula Vista Homicide Detective Thomas Basinski, Sergeant Ken Whitley of the Garden Grove Police Department, and my brother-in-law, retired Los Angeles Police Department Detective III Gene Wolfchief.

Medical and forensics expert, D. P. Lyle, M.D.

Veterinarian John Morizi.

Any errors in law enforcement, medical, forensics, or veterinary issues are solely the responsibility of the author.

My wife, Deborah, for putting up with me and helping finetune many a phrase.

Finally, Raymond Chandler. I'd have never made it here if I hadn't read him first.

Y
ESTERDAY'S
E
CHO

The first time I saw her, she made me remember and she made me forget.

She sat at the bar in my restaurant sipping wine and turning heads. Her roots stretched back to somewhere in the Pacific Islands. Along the way, a dash of Anglo joined the lineage. Her skin had taken the sun and turned it into dark caramel. Black hair flowed down over toned shoulders, matched by a cocktail dress worn the way many women tried, but few could. Black slingback heels showed off her legs.

I watched her from the entrance to the bar. She caught me looking and I held her eyes, dark slices of Asian mystery that dared me to turn away. I'd turned away from a lot of stares over the last eight years. Some had accusations in them, others just questions coupled with faint recognition. All haunted me like echoes from my past. Her eyes were harder to read. There seemed to be hunger hiding underneath cool detachment. Or maybe it was just bored certainty. A veil she pulled down to separate herself from men's leering eyes.

Before I could decide if I wanted to risk getting behind that veil, a flash of blonde caught my eye. Angela Albright, wife of the mayor of San Diego, steadied herself with a hand against the wall adjacent to the bar's entrance.

“He's late.” Her words were slushy with alcohol and she seemed to be talking to herself, no one in particular, and everyone all at once. Her attire matched her condition: distressed blue jeans, baggy coat, and a homeless-woman-sized shoulder bag.

“The mayor?” I took her arm and guided her to a table and
barstool against the wall. She smelled like a margarita left out all day in the sun. I'd seen her cheerfully tilted before, but never stumbling drunk.

“No. Not him, Rick.” She pinched her eyes closed and waved a hand in front of her face. “He's up in L.A., begging fat cats for money and votes.”

Her husband was running for governor of California. His wife, seen frat-boy drunk out in public, wasn't the kind of publicity his campaign needed a month before the election. I liked the mayor okay, but I didn't care whether or not he won. Politics was best viewed from a distance. But the mayor and his wife were loyal customers and good for business.

“Let me get you some coffee and you can tell me who you're looking for.” I caught Pat the bartender's eye, held out my hand like I was holding a mug, and mouthed, “Coffee.”

Angela shook her head like a little girl told to eat her vegetables. In her early thirties, she still carried the youthful looks of a slightly sophisticated surfer girl. But the life of a politician's wife had started to pull at the corners of her blue eyes.

Pat arrived with the coffee, glanced at Angela, and raised an eyebrow at me as he left.

“I don't want coffee!” Angela pushed the cup away and some liquid sloshed onto the table. “Where is he?”

“Who?”

“The devil.”

We got all types at the restaurant, but I'd yet to see Satan. Maybe Angela was even drunker than she looked. She was usually the pretty wallflower who faded into the background. Tonight I smelled a scene about to explode. I owed it to my customers to keep things Southern California laid-back. I owed it to my regulars to keep them from making asses of themselves in my restaurant.

“I don't think he's coming in tonight.”

“No.” Her eyes went wide. “He'll be here.”

I stole a glance at the woman in the black dress with the mysterious eyes at the far end of the bar. Apparently, she'd been stealing
one of me. She looked down at her wine glass when my eyes met hers.

“Angela, if the devil comes in, I'll tell him you were looking for him. In the meantime, I'm calling you a cab.”

“No!” She sprang off the barstool and bumped into the next table, knocking over a half-f Corona. I grabbed the bottle before it toppled all the way over, but a stream of beer splashed across the table and cascaded onto the board shorts of a sun-aged surfer.

“Dude!” He shot up and looked down at his damp crotch.

I felt heads swivel and eyes lock onto me. Angela swerved around the surfer and out of the bar.

“Next two are on the house,” I said and followed Angela down the hall toward the dining room. She bumped into the hostess, managed to stay upright long enough to make the turn toward the front door, then crashed onto one of the leather sofas in the entranceway, her purse spilling its contents.

Makeup, lipstick, keys, tampons, a wallet, a cell phone, and an overstuffed manila envelope lay strewn across the floor. Kris, my ace hostess, bent down and started shoveling the items back into the purse. Angela bounded off the sofa and grabbed the envelope before Kris could get to it.

“Thanks.” She took the purse from Kris and shoved the envelope inside.

I nodded Kris back to the hostess stand and knelt down next to Angela. Tears slid down her cheeks and her watery eyes were the color of a shallow bay.

“I can't go back there.” Her voice, a wet whisper. She fell back onto the sofa, mashing the purse to her belly like a fullback protecting a football.

“We'll just stay out here.” I sat down and gently laid an arm around her shoulder. “I'm buying the guy a couple rounds. He'll be fine.”

“No. You don't—” She jerked out a breath and tucked her head into her shoulder. The tears became a steady flow.

I slipped my cell phone out of my pocket and called a cab. After
a couple minutes, Angela finally let me lead her out of the restaurant, through the terra-cotta courtyard, and up the stairs to Prospect Street. The October night had a hint of winter in it and the stars hung low in the sky. A taxi waited at the curb.

“Time to go home, Angela.” I opened the cab's door.

“He doesn't know who I am.” Angela looked at me through tear-drained eyes.

“He'll get you home.” I steered her into the cab, gave the driver two twenties, told him her address, and then shut the door. I watched Angela lean over the front seat and say something to the driver as he drove away. Maybe she redirected him. Maybe she asked for a barf bag. It didn't matter.

I liked Angela, but she was someone else's problem now. People were free to screw up their lives as they pleased. Just not in my restaurant.

I surveyed Prospect Street, La Jolla's restaurant row. The sidewalks were almost empty.

Most of the tourists had gone home and paradise was again left to the locals. Old-money natives felt safe enough to venture down from fortresses high on hillsides above the ocean. Type As were back from their Hawaiian vacations, packing in overtime until they could jet off to Aspen in the winter. And pub crawlers could again publicly slip into private stupors in peace.

Kris waited for me back at the hostess stand. “The women's bathroom is backed up again and a lady needs to use it.”

One crisis averted, another one to solve.

Muldoon's Steak House was an old-school restaurant with a casual atmosphere. Redwood slats and polished copper on the walls, big gas grill out in the open flanked by a salad bar, hardwood tables, captain's chairs, waitstaff in Dockers and golf shirts. We kept our prices reasonable and our labor costs down. Sometimes that meant me waiting tables or helping out behind the bar or the grill. Whatever it took to keep the doors open and the creditors from walking through them.

Tonight it meant playing plumber.

The ladies' john was just outside the kitchen door, opposite the grill. A woman in a green baby doll dress stood outside it. Blonde, but not by birth. The gold around her neck and the diamond on her finger glowed like hard-won trophies. She looked to be holding off middle age with the help of a personal trainer and a plastic surgeon.

“Sorry about the inconvenience, ma'am.” I pointed to the busboy station ten feet away. “You can use the men's restroom around that corner. I'll have someone watch the door for you.”

“Thank you for coming to my rescue.” She gave me a perfect smile.

The busboy stood loading place settings into water glasses at the bus station.

“Justin, make sure the men's restroom is empty and then guard the door while our guest uses the facilities.”

Justin, a gangly high school kid, looked at the woman, blushed, and went around the abutment that separated the bus station from the men's room.

The woman didn't move. “You look familiar to me.”

It could have been a line. It could have been a ghost from my past. Either one led me down a path I didn't want to go. “I'm here almost every night.”

“I've never been here before.” She peered up at me. It felt like she was staring into my past. “I think it was on TV. Have you ever been on TV?”

A familiar knot tightened my stomach.

“It must have been someone who looked like me.” I pointed toward the bathroom. “The restroom is right around that wall.”

The woman kept staring and smiling. Then the smile fell and her hand went to her throat.

She recognized me now.

The knot in my stomach grew tighter.

She took a step backward, then spun and hurried to the men's bathroom.