Текст книги "Liquid Smoke"

Автор книги: Jeff Shelby

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FIVE

I showered, dressed, made a sandwich, and sat down in front of the TV with a beer to watch the second half of the San Diego State/UCLA basketball game. The Aztecs were starting to turn things around in the hoops program, and I was hoping the game would keep thoughts of Darcy Gill and Russell Simington out of my head.

The Aztecs were up by six when Carter bounded in the front door.

“Are you watching this?” he yelled as he hustled past me into the kitchen. “Gonna beat those Westwood weasels for the first time in forever.”

“Easy. Don’t jinx it.”

He jumped over the back of the couch and landed with a thud, two beers in one huge hand. “Done deal, baby.”

“Get a beer, why don’t you?”

He held one up to his mouth and emptied half of it, then let loose with a belch that rattled the windows. “Thanks. I think I’ll have two.” He was wearing a green tank top, red board shorts, and yellow flip-flops that matched the color of his hair. “I thought you were coming over to my place to watch this.”

“Forgot.”

“You forgot?”

I grunted in response.

The Aztecs threw the ball away four times in the last two minutes, which elicited a stream of profanity from Carter that would have cleared a locker room. But they managed to hit several free throws and hung on to win by four.

Carter stood, arms raised over his head, his fingers touching the ceiling. “I love beating those assholes.”

I walked into the kitchen and set my plate and empty beer bottle on the counter. “You on the team now? A uniform and everything?”

He brought his bottles to the kitchen. “Here’s a question. What the fuck is up your ass today?”

I dropped the bottles into the trash can beneath the sink. “Nothing.”

“Nothing is what a fat man leaves on his plate and what the ladies are yearning for when I’m done with them. But it is most definitely not what is bothering you.”

“That makes no sense.”

He waved a hand in the air. “Fuck off. You know what I mean.”

I did, but I wasn’t sure how to explain what was rattling around in my head.

I leaned on the counter. “Have I ever mentioned my father to you?”

His features softened, and he slid into a chair at the dining room table. “No, I don’t think so.”

That alone said so much about our friendship. I’d known Carter for fifteen years, and not once had he ever asked about my father. Not a single question. Somewhere along the road, he’d recognized that it wasn’t a subject I was comfortable talking about and he’d left it to me to broach the subject. He’d shown an enormous amount of patience.

“I don’t really know anything about him,” I said.

Carter shrugged. “I figured.”

“I mean, like nothing. No name, no location, nothing.”

He didn’t say anything, his face devoid of expression.

“Never really gave a shit, you know?” I said. “I had enough going on with Carolina. It was just the two of us, and I thought I didn’t miss what I didn’t have.”

Carter shifted in the chair and gave a slight nod.

“Figured if I ever ran into him, I’d just beat the shit out of him anyway, so it was better to not even bother.”

“Sounds about right.”

I flicked a stray bottle cap off the counter and into the sink. “So this woman shows up today

“What woman?”

“Just a woman who showed up while I was on the water.”

“Was she hot?”

I frowned at him. “Would you let me finish?”

“Okay.”

“She said she knows my father.”

He propped his elbow on the table and put his lantern-like jaw in his hand. “You believe her?” “Think so.”

“How does she know him?”

The insecurities that had plagued me for a lifetime came awake, and I couldn’t give him a completely truthful answer. “It’s complicated,” I said.

Carter didn’t miss a beat, letting me slide. “He wants to meet you?”

“Yeah. I guess that’s what it is.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Said I’d let her know.” “And I assume you’re working on that?” “All day.” I hesitated. “I have no idea what to do.” He laughed. “You asking me for advice, Noah?” “I don’t know what the hell I’m asking. But I guess I want your opinion.”

“First off, I’m not exactly a great candidate for this question,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “You know how I feel about my father.”

I did. He didn’t care for him. L. Martin Hamm was a Marine who failed miserably in trying to install Marine Corps discipline in his son. He’d taken that failure personally, declared his son a waste, and moved with Carter’s mother to Florida a week after Carter had finished high school. As far as I knew, they hadn’t spoken since.

“And I’m not sure my opinion will mean anything,” he said.

“Why not?”

“I’ve never been in your situation,” he said. “Master Sergeant Hamm and I never got along, but he was always a presence when I was growing up. Like him or not, he was there. I didn’t have a choice in knowing him. You, it seems, have a choice.”

I nodded and stared out the kitchen window at the water. Choice was supposed to be a good thing, but I wasn’t buying it at the moment.

“That said, I’d think that if you believe this chick, then not meeting him might eat you up for a while,” he said. “Knowing that he really does exist.”

That exact idea had already worked me over since Darcy had announced her reasons for visiting me. “I know.”

“Nothing says you can’t beat the shit out of him when you meet him. You’re entitled.”

I figured the prison officials might see it differently, but didn’t say so.

“Are you curious?” he asked.

Anxiety pounded away in my gut. “Yeah. More than I want to be. But, yeah, I am.”

“Then just do it,” he said. “You don’t owe him anything. Don’t do it for him or for this chick. Do it for you. You can look him in the eye and walk away. It doesn’t have to be anything more than you want it to be. But don’t let it drive you crazy wondering.”

He was right, which wasn’t unusual. He knew me better than anyone and he was always honest with me. I valued that honesty, even if I didn’t always want to hear it. He saw things in me that I couldn’t or maybe didn’t want to see.

So I hated not telling Carter that there was more to be curious about than just this man’s identity. I felt guilty for initiating the conversation and only sharing half the story. But I wasn’t ready to pull the curtain all the way back on my life, even to my best friend.

Carter stood. “I think I’d wanna meet him. If it were me.”

“Why?”

“So he’d know that I knew who he was. So I could stand there, stare at him, and make him uncomfortable. I probably wouldn’t even say a word to him.” He paused, his intense, dark eyes fixing on me. “But I’m not you.”

He didn’t know how lucky he was.

SIX

I spent the next day poking around on the computer and at the library. Found some news articles on Russell Simington, but no photos. Nothing earth-shattering, but nothing that made me want to meet him either. As I was looking at those articles, I was also scanning my brain for any recall of my father. I came up empty and no closer to making a decision as to whether I’d join Darcy on the plane the following morning.

I didn’t disagree with anything Carter had suggested. It would eat away at me if I missed the opportunity to meet my father. But I’d gone nearly thirty years without knowing who the man was, and I felt like I’d done okay so far. Maybe I was kidding myself, though.

When I left the library, the sun was starting to move behind the water, the rain lying in wait. My time to make a decision was disappearing fast.

And I was going to be late for a date.

I went home and changed into a pair of khaki shorts and a Quiksilver button-down shirt and headed out into the evening.

I had the windows down in the Jeep as I drove south toward downtown. The remains of the day had receded into the dusky sky, leaving the air feeling crisp and clean. The sun was exploding into a kaleidoscope of purples and oranges to the west, flashing brightly as the ocean pulled it downward. I exited the freeway and curved around Lindbergh Field, not envying the pilots who had to land their planes while looking into the blinding sunset.

I went past the airport entrance and onto Harbor Island. The mile and a half long island had been created by the navy in the early 1960s when they dredged San Diego Bay to make it deep enough for the military ships arriving in port. The navy took the mud and sand from the bottom of the bay and turned it into this narrow strip of land that housed upscale hotels, restaurants, and marinas. Tom Ham’s Lighthouse, a seafood restaurant, sat at the western edge of the island, and I pulled into the parking lot. Liz was waiting out front.

She wore black walking shorts, black sandals, and a sleeveless white blouse, exposing her olive skin. She pushed her sunglasses up off her face into her mane of raven hair, her smile reaching her bright blue eyes. She held up a hand and waved.

I tried not to trip.

“I was starting to wonder if you’d forgotten me,” she said. “Maybe run away with that little surfer girl from yesterday.”

I kissed her. She smelled like strawberries and mint and everything else good. “Not ever.”

Her hand slid into mine. “Suck up.”

“Not ever.”

Her smile broadened, sending a shot of electricity through me, and we strolled into the restaurant.

We were shown to a small table along the window with a view of the city skyline and the boats bobbing in the harbor. Liz ordered a Cosmopolitan, and I asked for a Jack and Coke.

She gazed at me across the table as we waited for our drinks. “You look tired.”

I folded my hands on the table and took a deep breath. “I am.”

“Were you in the water all day?”

“Actually, not at all today. Not much happening. I think the threat of rain smothered the swells.”

She tilted her head to the side. “Is that even possible?” “No. But it sounds good.”

Our drinks arrived, and I emptied half of mine before setting it down.

“How was your day?” I asked.

She made a face like I’d dropped a skunk on the table. “Shitty. Picked up two new cases that we don’t have the time for. John’s ready to quit.”

John Wellton was her partner in the homicide department. The city’s annual mismanagement of funding had resulted in more budget cuts, this time slashing through law enforcement. She and Wellton were doing the work of four teams.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

She picked up her menu. “And that’s the last I’m saying about work tonight.” “Fine by me.”

Our waitress came back, and we ordered. Mahi-mahi for Liz and swordfish for me.

Liz took another sip of her drink and reached across the table for my hand. “Are you going to tell me about your admirer or do I have to pry?”

Being with Liz lifted my spirits, but it couldn’t eliminate Darcy’s revelation from the previous day.

I squeezed her hand. “I was getting there.”

“Okay.”

I pulled my hand away and picked up my drink. “You ever run across a case involving a guy named Russell Simington?”

She made a face. “I recall the name. Something about killing illegals.”

I glanced at the window. Outside, the lights on the Coronado Bridge were bright against the darkening sky.

“From several years back, I think,” she said, swirling the light pink liquid in the glass after she took a sip. “We didn’t handle it, though. Riverside or El Centro did. Does that sound right?”

“It does.”

She set her glass down. “I assume you heard me say no more work talk tonight.”

I smiled at her. “I did.”

“Then I’ll also assume you have a pretty good reason for bringing this guy up.”

I stared into my drink, the ice melting slowly in the alcohol and sugar.

“I think Russell Simington is my father,” I said.

We sat there for a few minutes without speaking. Liz’s face told me she was working out what to say next. Our food arrived, and the waitress asked if we needed anything else. We both shook our heads.

“Will you explain it to me?” Liz finally asked.

I told her about my conversation with Darcy Gill, ignoring the twinge of guilt I felt for not opening up the same way to Carter. I told her about San Quentin and death row and everything else.

She stuck a fork in her food, then rested it on the plate, distracted. “I can check it out. If you want. See if she’s legit.”

I shook my head. “I think she’s telling the truth. But I’ll find out for myself.”

She nodded and picked up her fork.

We ate quietly for a few minutes. I knew I’d changed the course and tone of our evening, but I wanted to tell her. It was the kind of thing I would have kept from her in the past.

“He was a bad guy,” she said.

“Figured.”

“No, I mean bad,” she repeated. “If I’m remembering correctly, the way it went down, it was ugly.”

Her conviction was like a kick in the groin. “That’s the impression I got from this lawyer.”

She bunched up her napkin and laid it on the table next to her plate. “Are you gonna go?”

I leaned back in the chair. “I haven’t decided.”

She started to say something, then stopped.

“Say it,” I said. “Whatever you were just about to say.”

“I think it would be hard, Noah,” she said, softly. “Not that you shouldn’t do it, but I think it will be tough and you should be ready for that.”

“I know. Seeing this guy who’s done all these things,” I said. “And then realizing that I’m his son. I’m not sure what I get out of it or if I should even want anything out of it.”

She nodded. “Yeah, I think you should consider all those things. But I was looking at it a little differently.”

“What do you mean?”

The waitress came and cleared the table, and we passed on dessert.

Liz put her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Let’s say you go and meet with him. You learning anything that might enable this woman to get him off death row is really unlikely. In California, once they punch your ticket for the chamber, it’s a done deal. He’s probably going to die regardless of what he may tell you.”

“I know that. And it sounds like he deserves to,” I said.

She shook her head and pushed a stray strand of hair away from her face. “You’re assuming that he’s going to be this awful person, this guy who matches the image you’ve created of him. What if he’s not like that at all?”

“I’m not following you.”

She stared at me, her blue eyes radiating concern. “What if you like him?”

Silverware clinked against plates and murmured conversation drifted in the air around us.

“I’m not saying I don’t want you to do this,” she said, reaching across the table and taking my hand. “I’m really not. You probably need to do it. But you’re talking about him as if you’ve already met him and you know exactly how he’s going to be.” She paused. “You need to consider the idea that he’s not going to be a monster and that you may feel some connection to him. And that might be hard to deal with when the time comes for him to die.”

Her words felt like a slap to the side of my head. She was right. I hadn’t thought of it that way. The indecision and fear I’d been fighting all day went up a notch.

She laced her fingers with mine and squeezed my hand. “I’ll help any way I can. But are you ready for all those possibilities?”

I appreciated her asking, but we both knew I wasn’t.

SEVEN

We spent the night at my place, and I was awake at four in the morning, staring at the ceiling, knowing I was going to the airport.

I didn’t pack a bag. I wasn’t planning on staying longer than the afternoon.

I woke Liz after I showered and told her I’d call her later on. She hugged me, maybe a moment or two longer than usual, then kissed me goodbye without saying a word.

The drive to Lindbergh took twenty minutes on the empty freeway, and I was ticketed and through security by seven thirty. I didn’t feel like talking with Darcy until I had to, so I bought a paper and sat down with it in the coffee shop to have some breakfast.

Neither the paper nor the greasy eggs were able to keep my mind off what I was venturing into. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to balance what Darcy wanted me to find out and what I needed to know for myself. I didn’t think that Simington would have given her my information just so he could tell me the entire truth about his crime. I had a feeling it had more to do with making amends before his death.

I watched people walk to their gates and questions kept popping into my head. Did I really look like his son? How would he introduce himself? What was it like inside San Quentin? Would he have excuses for his actions or would he take pride in what he’d done?

I wasn’t sure I wanted answers to any of those questions, but I knew I was getting on that plane.

The first boarding call went out over the loudspeaker, and my stomach tightened.

At eight fifteen, I figured I couldn’t postpone the inevitable as they made the last call for passengers to San Francisco.

I walked through the Jetway, my stomach already churning. I was carrying self-doubt and second guesses like pennies in my pocket.

The cabin was three-quarters full. Business travelers in suits. Some college-aged kids. A mother with a small child strapped to her body in the first row. She smiled at me as I went by, and I returned her smile.

My ticket said 10C.

I worked my way up the aisle and reached row ten. D, E, and F were occupied by two teenagers and a guy reading the Wall Street Journal. A guy reading the New York Times was in A, next to the window.

B was empty.

Darcy Gill was nowhere to be found.

I slid into my seat and glanced around. I didn’t see her. I wondered if she’d taken a flight the previous night, our conversation on the beach convincing her I wouldn’t be joining her. Or maybe she was running late.

The doors to the plane closed, we pushed back from the gate, and the attendants began their run-through of the safety procedures.

Darcy didn’t strike me as someone who ever ran late.

I was annoyed that I’d gotten up in the dark and boarded a plane at her request and Darcy was a no-show. I wondered momentarily if she was playing some game.

But just as she didn’t strike me as someone who showed up tardy, I didn’t think Darcy was a game player either.

I glanced at the empty seat next to me.

As the flight attendants took their seats and the plane taxied down the runway for takeoff, the anxious burning that had taken up residence in my gut since Darcy had accosted me in the water gained new life.

EIGHT

The flight was bumpy and rough as the plane navigated the thick marine layer along the coast, and I felt like a ping-pong ball by the time we landed.

I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. Darcy was supposed to be my tour guide.

I dialed information on my cell and asked for a number for Darcy Gill. Information had a business number for her at a law firm called Gill and Gill. When I was connected, I heard a recording giving some perfunctory information. One of those pieces of information was Gill and Gill’s address.

I walked outside and jumped in a taxi. I gave the driver the address, and we moved away from the congestion of the airport.

San Francisco had never been my favorite place. Cold, rainy, and carrying an inferiority complex that it constantly denied, the city never felt like it belonged in California. The views were spectacular across the bays and the Golden Gate was pretty enough, but the place never felt comfortable.

A missing Darcy and a meeting with Russell Simington had taken that uncomfortability to new heights.

The taxi driver, a small Asian man who didn’t speak a word to me, navigated the streets of the city with the care of a wounded bull. The plane ride was nothing compared to the lightning-quick lane changes, rocket-like acceleration, and indifference toward red lights.

The taxi pulled up to a three-story building that appeared to be waiting for a breeze to knock it over. The drywall on the outside was chipped away, a window on the top floor was boarded up, and the wooden door looked about two hundred years old. A small sign next to the door read “Gill and Gill.” Law firm, crack house. Same difference.

I paid the silent man his money and stepped out into the wet, heavy morning air. The taxi exploded away from the curb, its tires screeching on the damp pavement.

I pushed open the old wooden door. I was in a short, low-ceilinged hallway book-ended by another door at the opposite end. A frosted glass pane in the middle of the door had “Law Offices” stenciled on it.

I opened that door into a room the size of a Geo Metro. A young woman looked up at me from behind a cluttered desk. Her hair was dyed jet black, with a purple streak right through the center. Each ear held a multitude of earrings. Her eyes were heavily lined with eyeliner and mascara, and her lipstick was nearly as dark. Her pale skin seemed to glow against the hair and makeup.

“Can I help you?” she asked, sounding like she didn’t want to.

“I’m looking for Darcy Gill.”

“She’s not in,” she said.

“Know where I can find her?”

“No. I wish I did,” she said, annoyed.

“Is she still in San Diego?” I asked.

Surprise and curiosity appeared on her face. “I don’t know. Who are you?”

“Noah Braddock. She came to see me yesterday.”

She stood up. She wore a long-sleeved black sweater and black jeans that looked too big for her skinny frame. She looked me over like she was seeing me for the first time.

“She’s not with you?” she said, her voice now sounding like she cared.

“She was supposed to meet me on the plane. I was on it. She wasn’t.”

She stared hard at me for a moment, her eyes cold and unfriendly.

“Shit,” she said.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Miranda,” she said, her eyes on her desk now, thinking. “I’m her paralegal.”

“Who’s the other Gill in the firm?”

“There isn’t one. Darcy thought it sounded better than just her name.”

“Ah.”

“When did you last talk to her?” I recounted our conversation on the beach. “And she was gonna meet you at the airport, right?” “She said she’d be on the plane. I told her I wasn’t sure what I was doing.”

Miranda nodded. “Yeah. I talked to her right after that. She said you were kind of a dick.”

“I’ll be sure to ask her about that. So she didn’t come back last night?”

“If she did, I haven’t talked to her,” she said. “But she had reservations on the morning flight. I left a couple of messages on her cell, but she never called back.”

It didn’t feel right. Darcy had come down to San Diego for one reason—getting me to San Francisco. It made no sense that she would miss the flight. If anything, I had half expected her to show up at my house and escort me to the airport.

“Do you know where she was staying?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Miranda said. “I need to make a couple of calls. She may have just got caught up with something else.” She pointed a finger at me. Her nails were black. Shocker. “And you need to get over to Quentin to see your dad.”

I bristled. “His name is Russell Simington, and I don’t know that he’s related to me.”

She held up her hands in mock apology. “Right, dude. Sorry. Not like you don’t look just like him or anything.”

Darcy had said the same thing, and I didn’t feel any better hearing it a second time. “You’ve seen him?”

“Of course. It’s the only thing we’re doing now.”

“You and Darcy are the whole office?”

Miranda started looking through the papers on her desk. “The whole office.”

“And you’re a paralegal?”

She snorted. “That’s my title. I’m third year at Hastings. Secretary, paralegal, investigator, office manager. I do it all.” She pulled a piece of paper from a stack. “Here we go. Eleven thirty is check-in.”

“For what?”

“Visiting hours start at noon,” she said. “You need to be there at eleven thirty so they can check your ID, do the cavity search, all that stuff.”

Miranda thought she was funny. I thought different. She shoved the paper in my direction. “Fill this out before you get there. They’ll want it from you at the gate.” I took the paper. “What about Darcy?”

The corners of her mouth flashed into a little smile. “You need someone to hold your hand?”

“No. I meant what are you going to do to find her?”

“It’s a scary place over there,” she said, still smiling. “All those mean, nasty men. I could get my sister to go with you. She’s thirteen, but she’s tough.”

“You treat all your clients like this?”

“Other than Russell, we don’t have any clients right now,” she said, the smile fading.

“Imagine.”

She waved a hand in the air. “Go. They won’t let you in if you’re late. I’ll work on tracking down Darcy.”

“Maybe your sister can help you out,” I said, turning to leave.

“Hey,” Miranda called out. “Noah?”

I opened the door. “What?”

“Say hi to your daddy.”

I slammed the door behind me.