One In A Million (The Millionth Trilogy Book 1) Page 20

  She sat in Kyle’s recliner, a ridiculous relic that he’d begged for one football season, and let her mind rest. There were so many balls in the air, but it didn’t matter.

  She was dying to tell Trudy about Kyle’s card but this was a bad idea. Tamara knew she couldn’t wait too long to say something to the authorities or she’d be breaking the law by withholding information, and that would be putting the kids at risk, and they were her number one priority now. The last thing Janie and Seth needed was to have both of their parents end up in jail. Tamara figured she’d have a half-day, maybe a day at most, to dig.

  After a half hour or so, she knew just where to begin.

  After telling the kids to be quiet so Aunt Trudy could get some sleep, she crept into the garage, making her way past all the usual junk: rakes, a shovel, used clothes that hadn’t been dropped off at Goodwill yet, some old furniture and the lawnmower that Kyle had used only a half-dozen times before deciding, emphatically, that they needed a gardener. She smiled at the memory.

  The overhead light from the garage door opener was partially burned out, with only one working bulb casting weak shadows in all directions, her body cast like a stick person against the far wall.

  Pushing her hair out of her face, she squinted up into the storage rafters overhead. Off to the right there were boxes of Christmas decorations and plastic containers of school projects that Kyle had refused to throw away, and to the left, stacks of extra kitchen tile from the remodel they’d had a few years back.

  Frowning, she pushed on. They had to be in here somewhere, but it’d been years since they moved in. She was embarrassed to admit that the garage had been almost entirely neglected. There was barely enough space for one car, much less the two it was designed to hold.

  There was one small window in the near corner, and she startled when something moved on the other side of it. Jumping, she let loose a small squeal. She peered at the window but the stupid garage light cast her reflection back at her, preventing her from seeing what was outside.

  She’d come into the garage through the door in the house just off the hallway, and the garage door was closed, so she knew she was safe. Still, goose bumps ran up her arms and over her shoulders, her instincts insisting that she was being watched by something just on the other side of the glass.

  Standing perfectly still, she contemplated the few steps it would take to get back to the light switch. If she could turn it off, then she would be able to see through the window; and yet the idea of standing in the pitch dark in the garage did not seem comforting either.

  Too many horror movies, Tamara. Knock it off.

  She decided to just push on.

  After grabbing a ladder that was hanging from a hook on the back wall, she peered up at a high shelf stacked with boxes. She vaguely remembered the box sizes when they had moved, and since this shelf was the biggest in the garage, she suspected they would be here somewhere.

  The problem was that to reach them, she’d have to place the ladder right next to the window.

  She could go back and get Trudy, but that would bring complications. Telling herself to quit being silly, she took the few steps needed, opened the ladder, placed it next to the window and climbed rapidly up.

  Keeping one eye on the window and the other on the shelf, she shifted a few boxes around until she saw them, labeled by name. The four white boxes stored all the stuff from their younger days: college papers, awards, diplomas and what Tamara was really after: Kyle’s high school yearbooks.

  The ladder shifted beneath her, and she had the searing sensation that she was being knocked over. Instead, the corner of the ladder had simply moved as she had reached out awkwardly for the box she wanted, which was labeled “Kyle.”

  Righting herself, she scooted the box closer to her before trying to lift it again, when something in her told her, point blank, not to look at the window again.

  You might see something you don’t want to see, glowing eyes perhaps, or bared teeth.

  The garage was damp, with the smell of old dust and stale wood, but it was also warm and sticky, which made the chill that ran over her very unnatural.

  Just get the box, get down and get out of here!

  She remembered Kyle’s card, or rather, something he’d written in it, “I don’t know what did,” when referring to Caitlyn’ death. Not “who” killed her, but “what” killed her. Why would he write that? Was it just an honest slip up?

  Something told her that it wasn’t, but it made no sense. Anyway, maybe it was just some photographer creeping around outside trying to get press photos, or maybe it was one of the feral cats that ran rampant all over the hillsides here.

  She tipped the box and looked inside, briefly debating which yearbooks to take before deciding the last two would do. They were the most she could hold in one hand and she wasn’t letting go of the ladder or leaving herself defenseless to grab them all.

  Moving down the steps, she felt the cold aluminum of the ladder beneath her hand. She retreated out of the garage, not looking at the window but not turning her back on it either, always keeping it in her peripheral vision.

  Making it back into the hallway, she nearly slammed the door shut and locked it. She knew the living room sliding glass door was locked and the blinds were closed. The front door and kitchen door were locked as well. She’d checked them before leaving the kids.

  Yearbooks in hand she checked on Trudy, who was snoring softly, safe and sound in the guest bedroom. There was no breeze moving the curtains, but Tamara checked the French doors anyway, creeping softly up to them and jiggling the handles, again not looking through the glass.

  You’re losing it. You really are.

  Maybe she was, but better safe than sorry. Neither of the kids’ rooms had exterior doors, but she checked their windows: locked.

  Only then did she exhale, in one long breath, before making her way out to the dining table, where she could keep the kids in sight while she worked.

  It was time to get back to being a doer.

  If Tamara recalled correctly, Kyle and Victoria were in the same grade. Carefully, she opened Kyle’s senior yearbook. She would find Victoria’s full name, and from there Tamara could try and track her down.

  Because if Kyle was headed to where this Victoria girl was?

  So was Tamara.

  NAPOLEON JAMMED his finger into his right ear, which was still congested from his cold. The pressure on that side every time he moved his jaw was annoying. He shifted his cell phone to his left ear, so he could better hear the sheriff.

  “So what’ve you got?”

  “Well, Kendall struck out at Addie’s. No truck jockeys seen him, and we know a few who would tell us, for sure, if they’d heard of someone who had. It’s a tight-knit little community up there. No one at the greasy spoon there saw him either, and the assistant manager knew who Kendall was asking about right away, due to all the news coverage on this.”

  “Okay.” Napoleon started chewing on his lower lip, an old habit, and waited.

  “So, Kendall figured he’d check a few rest stops too, further up the highway, and a turnoff down by the lake area that a few of the smaller rigs use when they pick up hookers.”

  “No luck in Hooker Hangout?”

  “Only hard luck.”

  “No pun intended.”

  Conch chuckled and continued. “After that he bounced back and tried fishing around town, but nothing yet. I did my end around here too. We got no reports of stolen cars, no suspicious activity and no burglaries reported.”

  “The bus stops give us anything?”

  “A lot, actually, but it just leads to more hard luck.” The sheriff sounded flat, almost weary with frustration already. Napoleon smiled. Conch was getting a taste of what it was really like to be a detective: no glam, just a lot of grind.

  “Well, let’s hear it.”

  “Your boy might’ve taken the 82, but I doubt it.”

  Raising his eyebrows, Napoleon asked, “Wh
y?”

  “Well. He boarded the 17 first, which goes south to Dunsmore. The driver remembers him because he overpaid the fare and had no change. Even more notable was that Fasano didn’t argue for any, which is not the experience the driver usually has. He also asked for the transfer bus from Dunsmore to get to San Diego. That would be the 22. But that driver doesn’t remember anyone fitting Fasano’s description, which is funny, as her load of passengers was light. The driver turned me on to someone who was on the bus that day, a guy who works at a gas station about three miles outside of Dunsmore, a little hole-in-the-wall, unofficial kinda town called Edinbow.”

  “Unofficial?” Napoleon asked, a little confused.

  “Yeah… in the spirit of that little town outside the bayou in Deliverance.”

  “Unbelievable. In this day and age?”

  “Yep. Mostly Klan and bikers. Not a place you would want to… Shit, sorry, Detective, I didn’t mean you in particular. No offense?”

  Napoleon laughed. “None taken.”

  Conch continued. “Anyway. I went by to visit that guy as well, just to cross my ‘t’s as it were. The kid rides the bus six days a week, and he didn’t see anyone fitting Fasano’s description either, just remembered mostly old ladies and a group of stoners from town.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hmm is right.”

  “So he stayed in Dunsmore, ya think?”

  “I dunno.”

  There was silence, and then Conch spoke up. “You guys?”

  “Jack shit, sadly. Both leads down here were dead too. If he headed this way, it wasn’t for the people we thought.”

  “Well. What now?”

  Napoleon rubbed the middle of his forehead with his free hand, as if to somehow massage out an answer. He had nothing. Surprise, surprise. “Sheriff, can I talk this over with my partner and call you back in a bit?”

  “Sure. I’m heading back to town now. Got a dinner party for my grandson tonight. He graduated eighth grade on Friday. But I’ll keep my cell on.”

  “Thanks, Sheriff.”

  “You got it.”

  Napoleon hung up and filled Parker in on Conch’s details. Napoleon had been here before. Parker? Not so much. He was either getting antsy or had restless leg syndrome, because he couldn’t stop moving.

  “Well, time for the inevitable.”

  “What’s that?” Parker asked.

  “Gotta call the cap and update him.”

  “Shit. Good luck with that.”

  Napoleon nodded and got out of the car. “I’m gonna take my throttling in private, if you don’t mind.”

  The conversation was short. The cap sounded exhausted, his voice drained. He asked a few questions and seemed to listen carefully. The bravado and bark from their last chat was gone. “Well, Nap. This is just great. We got dick. After three fucking days.”

  “I shoulda called sooner, but we’ve been running at this guy hard.”

  “I know. I figured though, and really, this thing is already gobbling up six of you guys.”

  “Six?”

  “Yep. The DA’s office, the mayor’s office, Jan Ready from the city council… The heat is unbearable. Even the Red Cross is in it now, trying to drag in Senator Hopkins somehow.”

  “Anyone tell them we do better when people leave us the hell alone?”

  The captain laughed, but it was absent any humor whatsoever. “You wanna take a crack at that? Just let me know. The chief is taking bullets all over the place, but this one… I dunno. Quite frankly I was hoping you’d come up with more than your dick in your hand in sunny San Diego, Nap.”

  “Who’s on what?”

  “Klink and Murillo are doing the background on the girl. Arias and Hollywood are working the details on lover boy.”

  “Nothing?”

  “He used his ATM in Beaury. Wells Fargo. We forwarded the info immediately to the Beaury Sheriff’s office but by the time they got back to us they told us you already knew he’d been there and was on the move.”

  Napoleon was defensive. “Why didn’t anyone notify us too?”

  “Murillo texted an old number for you that we had on file. Dipshit.”

  “Brilliant,” Napoleon said sarcastically, shaking his head. “What about the girl?”

  “Well, she briefly had an S and M fetish in college, to go along with a stellar GPA—that enough for ya?”

  Napoleon yawned. “You talk with Beecher?”

  “Shit! Don’t even bring up her name,” the captain spat, “or any of her Linda-fucking-Blair theories. Just the thought of that Exorcist shit getting out has my hemorrhoids flaring.”

  “Great. How we gonna play this then?”

  “Listen. If Klink or Murillo come up with something that takes us down that road, something firm and solid, mind you, then so be it. But right now, nothing. And unsubstantiated shit like that is like napalm. You know that. Her mother will come in here and rip my eyes out.”

  “What are Hollywood and Arias doing?”

  “Oh. Nothing important. They were working on some guy carving up hookers by the Cecil Hotel. Three in the last five weeks. But who cares about them, right? Now they’re working their way through Fasano’s co-workers and neighbors.”

  Napoleon shook his head. He felt it now. His career was getting old. Ancient even. He wanted out. The thought that so little had really changed in all these years made him want to drink again. Money still talked. Reason still walked. One dead white Pasadena princess and the resources of the whole department were unleashed. Three dead hookers? Meh.

  The captain’s voice came at him from seemingly far away. “What’s next on your end?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “Great. I know that line. Shit. Give me something, Nap, because I guarantee you I’m already gonna kick the dog when I get home.”

  Napoleon froze, the captain’s words ringing in his ears.

  Dogs. This was the second time a dog analogy had been thrown his way. Conch had said something too, hadn’t he? Yes. He had. “South? He heads here, north of Los Angeles, only to double back?” Then Parker had said some shit and then Conch replied, “I’d say that dog don’t hunt.”

  It was the loose drawer that Napoleon had been waiting for. That’s how cases turned: not on squeaky drawers, the ones that caught your attention, but on loose drawers, the ones that rattled open or refused to be shut.

  Kyle Fasano was a smart man after all, wasn’t he? Not in getting involved in this mess in the first place, but since then? He was consistently smart. He’d fled the hotel but hadn’t taken his car. He hadn’t gone home. He’d destroyed his phone to kill the GPS signal. And there was the brief time Napoleon had actually spoken to the man, on the phone at the Fasano house. Kyle was emotional, yes. That was to be expected. But his words were measured, and he’d cut the call off, probably figuring on a trace or something. Then he went to the diner… then his shopping spree at the CVS and Dickies… before the library opened.

  “Shit.”

  “What?”

  They’d been rushing too much. Sloppy.

  “Nap?” The captain sounded confused, as if the call had dropped.

  They shot straight over to the library and the computer and… Parker found that shit on Joaquin and…

  What had Napoleon told Parker about Fasano? He was in sales, yeah, but he wasn’t a complete idiot when it came to computers.

  And he’d left all that information for them to find on that one computer. One computer out of eight.

  Shaking his head, Napoleon muttered, “Son of a bitch.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Not you, Cap. Sorry. I think I got something.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do me a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Give me some more time.”

  The captain laughed mockingly at him. “This guy! As if I have choice?”

  “Go home and kick that dog. When you do, I hope he bites your ass.”

  “Yeah, ri
ght. Keep me posted.”

  “Sure thing.” Napoleon looked up. The sun was on the decline. It wouldn’t be long before the moon started to bleach its way through the sky.

  He waited. The drawer was loose. It would open more, all by itself. He just had to wait for it.

  You were on that bus, Fasano. You paid extra fare, didn’t you? And talked bus routes with the same guy. Man. For a civilian, a domesticated man, you’re smart. I don’t know where you’re headed yet, but I know it ain’t south, and I think I’m pretty sure where I’m gonna find the answer. Because I think you’re cocky too, Fasano. I think you got too far ahead of yourself, just like we have.

  Napoleon walked back to the car, leaned down into the open window and smiled at Parker.

  The smile seemed to knock Parker speechless. Then he composed himself. “What?” “That dog don’t hunt, Parker. But that dog leads. And he’s been leading us in circles.”

  CHAPTER 23

  As the sun began to set, Kyle camped out near the Monterey pier. The barista had said that Victoria owned a wine shop that was doing well, and sure enough, there it was, Casa del Vino, just across from Bubba Gump’s and sandwiched between an antique lamp store and a shop that sold handmade soaps.

  He’d been brave enough to wander by the window a few times, but a display box shielded him from seeing inside. That this also shielded anyone inside from seeing him at the window gave him little comfort. Walking by it the first time he barely stopped, and the second time he nervously lingered a few minutes and read the store’s awards for its wine selection.

  Apparently, Victoria had become quite the wine expert. Her shop sold reds and whites from all over the world, locally from Napa, just a few hours north of here, and as far away as Venezuela, with a solid base of French and Italian wines.

  Near the door of the shop hung a lacquered and framed section of the Monterey Herald, highlighting the shop in a feature article written the prior year called “Local Treasures.” A photo of Victoria and her husband accompanied the story, and Kyle noted that he looked heavier now than he had in the internet wedding photo Kyle had seen in the library. He was tall, with sunken, weary eyes. The article made brief mention of their two children, but Kyle got fidgety, worried that Victoria might walk out of the shop at any moment and discover him, so he moved on.