Always Summer (18 page)

“You win,” he says. “I’ll lay low, but if
you’re not back in fifteen minutes, I’m coming in for you.”

I skim the parking lot to make sure no one
is around before getting out of the white car with the Arkansas
plates. I remove my sunglasses at the door and take a deep breath
before going inside. This is my only shot. I can’t blow it.

“Can I help you?” the deputy behind the
counter asks.

“I need to see Alex Pittman,” I tell him,
trying to keep a friendly tone in my nervous voice.

He rings into another office and tells
Pittman that a young lady is here to see him. Fortunately, Pittman
emerges instantly, probably expecting his girlfriend or someone
instead of me.

“Haley?” he asks. “Is everything okay?”

I quickly nod and ask if I can speak with
him in private. He leads me back to the office where he and Jace
were the other day. He closes the door behind us, tells me to have
a seat, and sits opposite of me at his desk.

“What brings you up here?” he asks.

“I need to hire a private investigator,” I
tell him. This may be a long shot, but I don’t know where else to
go. “I need a recommendation or referral. I figure you guys
probably work with a few of them, and you could hook me up with the
best.”

He stares at me for a moment, not saying a
word, studying me like he’s unsure if I’m being honest. His eyes
are dark but familiar, and part of me wants to know who he is –
like who he
really
is when he’s not some asshole cop
arresting my best friend. Until recently, I’d never seen him as
human.

“Is this about Drenaline Surf?” he asks.

I shrug. “Somewhat,” I tell him. “It’s also
about Colby Taylor. I think his family is paying someone to find
out anything they can about Drenaline Surf. It’s become personal,
so I want to take action.”

Who knew the truth could be so easy? I
played out a million different stories in my head this morning,
trying to find something that sounded legal and safe yet still
believable. I wasn’t planning on being honest with Pittman, but the
truth sounds better than any story I could’ve dreamed up.

“Look, you don’t need a P.I.,” he tells me.
He glances at the door, like he’s afraid someone may come inside.
He brings his chair forward and props his elbows on the desk.

His voice is low when he speaks again. “If
you need someone to check bank accounts, you need a computer
hacker, not a private investigator,” he says. “All they’ll do is
follow his parents around, maybe check phone records, and charge
you by inflated hours.”

Did a police officer just tell me I needed
an illegal hacker to do this job for me? No wonder Vin wanted to
come inside. This is exactly what he was talking about.

“With all due respect, Officer, I’m afraid
that would be illegal,” I tell him, crossing my leg over the other
and retaining a straight posture. I won’t be tricked. Just when I
was beginning to think he had a soul…

“I didn’t mean…I’m sorry. That came out
wrong,” Pittman says. “Look, I have a…contact…who owes me a favor.
I can’t exactly call him while I’m on the clock, but I’ll give you
my favor.”

What a freaking set up. He’s baiting me. If
I was a preschooler, he’d hand me a lollipop and tell me that he’s
lost his puppy and needs help finding it. I can’t believe he really
thinks I’d fall for this.

“I’m sorry, but I’d prefer not to have a mug
shot,” I say. “Thank you for your time.”

I stand quickly and hurry out of his office.
Vin was right. I should have brought him in with me. Pittman
wouldn’t have pulled a stunt like that if he’d had iceberg eyes
staring at him. I may run with criminals, but I’m not aiming to be
one.

“What happened?” Vin asks, raising the
driver’s seat back up.

“We have to leave,” I say, slamming the door
behind me. “Now. Drive. Seriously. He tried to get me to hire an
illegal computer hacker. He even offered to set it up for me.”

Vin throws his sunglasses against the
dashboard. “I’m talking to him,” he says. “He’s not going to set
you up like that. I’m going inside.”

Fuck. I do not need him going inside, making
his presence known, and I definitely don’t need him defending my
honor. This isn’t the time or place. Forget redemption, Vin. We
have to leave.

But he gets out of the rental car and heads
across the parking lot like a man on a mission.

And there’s only one thing I can do – follow
him inside.

“Alex Pittman, please,” he says to the guy
up front. “You can tell him Vin Brooks is here to see him.”

Moments later, I’m back in the same chair,
but this time, an angry Vin Brooks is next to me.

“What the hell, Alex? Are you seriously
trying to walk Haley into a trap?” he asks. “I really thought maybe
you were in this job for the right reasons, but after the shit
you’ve done to A.J. and now this? I should have them pull your
badge.”

Pittman takes the cursing like a pro. He
sits silently, letting Vin say what he needs to say. The calmness
actually disturbs me. I know it’s probably part of his police
training, to remain calm while a criminal or suspect is lashing
out, but he’s emotionless, sort of like how A.J. gets after an
outburst. It’s like the calm after the storm rather than before. I
never thought I’d see them have something in common, aside from the
same first initial.

“Are you done?” Pittman asks once Vin stops
ranting and sits next to me.

“For now,” Vin says. “What the fuck are you
doing?”

“Helping you,” Pittman says. “At least, I
was trying to. I know I’ve done a lot of shit I shouldn’t have, and
I’ve abused my authority a time or two. I’m not going to pretend
I’m perfect. I’ve screwed your friend over a few times before, so I
thought if I helped you out, maybe it’d help make amends.”

Does he really expect me to buy into that?
He’s screwed A.J. over by arresting him for no reason multiple
times, so he’s going to set me up with illegal activity to make
peace? This guy is crazier than my screwed up friends – and Miles
Garrett is pretty crazy.

“I can’t do this here,” Pittman says. “But
if you come to my apartment tonight, when I’m off duty, I can help
you out. Just me. Not Officer Pittman. Just Alex.”

If I hadn’t already thought that Vin was
losing his mind, I’d think it now. We walk up a third flight of
stairs because Pittman’s apartment complex doesn’t have an
elevator.

“Thirty-one, oh-six,” Vin says, reading the
numbers off the door. He knocks three times, and I hate this.

A deadbolt turns on the other side, and
Pittman opens the door. He’s in a pair of red flannel pajama pants
and a white muscle shirt. I’ve never seen him in civilian
clothing.

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t show,”
he says. “C’mon in.”

His living room is pretty bare. There’s a
futon in the middle of the room and a TV on a small stand. A stack
of DVDs sits on the floor, and an X-Box is hooked up next to
it.

A photo of him with an older man, probably
his dad, rests on the ledge of the kitchen counter, facing into the
living room. I invite myself over to look at it. A CD case for a
Sebastian’s Shadow album sits next to it, along with a set of keys
and a bottle of Dasani water.

“So, tell me,” Vin says, pacing the living
room. “How does one of Crescent Cove’s finest end up with a link to
a computer hacker?”

Pittman offers us a seat, so I take one on
the futon. Vin remains standing, though. Pittman leans against the
kitchen counter, next to the picture of him and the older man.

“It was my first night on patrol,” he says.
“They had me doing random traffic stops, all the rookie shit that
no one else wants to do. I was supposed to stop every sixth
vehicle, and one was an eighteen-wheeler.”

He moves from resting against the counter
ledge and sits on the other end of the futon. He seems
uncomfortable.

“The guy was just a kid, probably eighteen
or nineteen. I asked him to put out his cigarette and told him I
needed to see inside the back of the trailer,” he explains.

He talks about the veteran cops who provided
no back up or supervision for him. According to Pittman, they
didn’t expect him to last long outside of the academy. They thought
he was a pretty boy who couldn’t handle the heat.

“I was being set up to fail, and my dad had
just been diagnosed, so I was feeling like shit about my life at
the time,” he tells us.

I wish I hadn’t come here tonight. I like
the idea of him being an asshole cop. I don’t want to see him as a
human because he’s spent years refusing to see A.J. as a human. He
doesn’t deserve any respect or sympathy.

“When the guy opened the truck, he had a…
You’re not going to believe me,” he says, defeat evident in his
voice.

“Try me,” Vin says, walking over and
standing in front of the futon.

“He had a dead toucan in the back,” Pittman
says, as clear as the cove’s blue waters. “He was supposed to be
disposing of it, legally, but he was keeping it to have his
taxidermist friend stuff it. Everything about it was illegal and
insane.”

I don’t want to believe this insanity –
because that’s exactly what it is – but I don’t think Alex Pittman
is creative enough to come up with something like this had it not
actually happened. Even if he could weave a wild story, I don’t
think he’d share it with Vin or me.

“Did you take him in?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “The guy told me about a
friend of his who was dying of leukemia. He was just a little older
than me, and he couldn’t leave his house because he was so sick. He
couldn’t go on adventures, so they were bringing the adventures to
him,” Pittman says.

He shrugs, like it’s not that big of a deal,
but it’s still the weirdest thing anyone’s told me since my
forever-chasing journey began. And that includes Colby’s
not-so-real death, which is far-fetched in its own right.

“What can I say?” Pittman asks, shrugging.
“The cancer line got me. My dad was in stage four, and so was their
friend, and I let him go. Another friend was with him, some guy
named Caleb. He’s a hacker. He gave me a card and told me they owed
me. I never used it because, well, I’m supposed to represent the
letter of the law.”

So, let’s pretend for five minutes that I
believe this story. I’ll play along and pretend that Pittman was
the officer of the day who let these creepy guys go, even with a
dead exotic bird in their vehicle. I’ll even assume the guy who
gave him the card was a legit hacker. But I can’t pretend that this
won’t bite me later.

“Let me get this straight then,” Vin says,
talking with his hands. “You’re going to call in a favor to this
Caleb guy and get him to figure out who is blackmailing Drenaline
Surf, and you expect me to believe you won’t turn us in?”

I can’t deny it. Vin and I still think very
much alike, very much on the same page. He may not be free-spirited
and chasing dreams, but he’s rational and realistic. I’ve missed
having another level head around here. Reed and I are often
outnumbered.

“I’ll make the call,” Pittman says. “From my
personal phone. You tell me what you need. Fair enough?”

Making deals with the devil isn’t something
I prefer to do, but Vin is willing to take that risk. He has
Pittman make the call, and a guy named Caleb answers. He doesn’t
reveal his last name, for protection purposes. Smart guy.

After Pittman explains our blackmail
situation, Caleb says it won’t be a problem.

“Give me about thirty minutes,” he says
through the phone. “I can hack a bank account pretty easily. Any
names in particular I’m looking for?”

We don’t give him any. We just ask him to
see what he can find. I don’t want to tip him off to anyone in
particular. We may not be able to use this information legally, but
it’ll give us an answer – I hope. Then we can work in reverse.

While we wait, Pittman talks about his dad’s
recent passing and how blessed he was to be able to spend time with
him before it was too late. As an only child with an absent mom and
deceased father, I wonder if he sees part of himself in A.J. and
that’s why he wants to make amends. Maybe he finally gets it or
maybe his dad told him to be a man and start doing the right thing.
Vin offers condolences just as Pittman’s phone rings.

“Hey, you were right about the payoffs,”
Caleb says through the speaker. “The Burks family is definitely
funneling some hardcore cash. They don’t even seem to be hiding it.
There are about twenty or thirty transfers to this one
account.”

My heart speeds up, racing like a surfer
trying to get through a tube ride before it closes out.

“Can you give us an account number or bank?”
Pittman asks.

“I can do better,” Caleb says. “I know who’s
being paid off. You want a name?”

Gabriel. Emily. Jeremy.

Obrigado. Thank you. Merci.

Nikki Godwin is a YA/NA/LGBT author. She
can't live without Mountain Dew, black eyeliner, and music by
Hawthorne Heights. When not writing, she internet-stalks her
favorite bands and keeps tabs on surf competitions. Her favorite
surfer is Gabriel Medina. If you ever get her started on surfing or
music, she'll never shut up. You've been warned.