Wild Within (Wild at Heart #1) (12 page)

“And where was that, exactly?” The officer removed a small paper pad and pen from his jacket pocket.

Ed’s throat dried up. He coughed to clear it. “Around Mount Tam.”

The officer’s eye twitched. “Can you be more specific?”

Ed rose and retrieved a bike trail map from the front of the store. He spread it on the workshop counter, took a pen, and traced a route. “I parked here, at the lot across from the Mountain Home Inn.”

“Uh huh.” Officer Turangeo jotted notes. “About what time did you get to the parking lot?”

“Around seven thirty, I guess.”

“Okay. What did you do next?”

“I rode up here.” Ed pointed to a trail to the north. “Then around here, and here, and then down there and, after this, back to the car.” He traced a long loop on the map. The winding path crossed Mount Tam, circled two lakes, snaked down to Stinson Beach, and climbed the mountain west of Muir Woods. “It’s about thirty-five miles.”

“How long did that take you?”

“About six hours. I stopped for a bit at Stinson Beach.” Ed poked the map.

“Did anyone see you on this ride?”

“Yes.” He looked the officer in the eyes. “Someone saw me. Actually, it’s kind of funny. See, I met this woman in the parking lot.”

“In the parking lot across from the Mountain Home Inn?”

“Yeah. She parked near me and had trouble getting her bike off one of those trunk racks, you know? They’re kind of tricky. I helped her. We got talking. She was wearing one of those lycra body suits, the kind where you can see everything although you can’t see anything…” The officer drummed his fingers on the counter. “Anyway, I invited her to join me.”

“Then what happened?”

“We did what I said. We followed this route.” He pushed the map closer to the officer. “I split my lunch with her when we got to the beach. We ended up back at the parking lot.” Ed’s voice petered out.

“And then?”

“Well, she came back to my place.”

“In your car?”

“No, she followed me in hers.”

“Did she spend the night?”

“No. She left around nine.”

“So you’re saying you have an alibi from seven thirty in the morning until nine at night? I’m sure you won’t mind if we check that out with her?”

“Uh, no. I guess not.”

“I hope not. What’s her name?” Officer Turangeo poised pen over pad.

“Well, that’s the thing.” Ed ran his hands through his hair. “I didn’t actually get her name.”

“You mean her full name. What’s her first name?”

“I don’t know.”

The officer’s pen tapped the counter. “You expect me to believe you spent the whole day with this woman and never got her name?”

“It wasn’t that kind of a day. We were mostly riding bikes. You don’t talk when you’re riding.”

“And during the evening activities?”

“It never came up.”

“So can you describe anything about her? Her car? Her license plate number? Anything that would help identify her?”

“She had short red hair. Kind of straight…” His eyes roamed the ceiling as he searched his brain for information. “Her nose was…well, kind of normal, I guess. In general, she had this…normal kind of face. Pretty. With freckles, I think. One thing was unusual. She had this insane set of piercings around her…” He drew circles on his chest. “You know.”

“Her nipples.”

“Yeah. There were these rods and studs that made a heart.” Ed held up his thumbs and forefingers to demonstrate. “There can’t be many people who have something like that.”

“Probably not. But it’s not exactly a feature we can post on a milk carton. Besides red hair, what else can you remember?”

“Her car was blue, I think. Or maybe brown? Anyway, it was a sedan. I think a Japanese model. I wasn’t paying attention.” He closed his eyes. “She had one of those air freshener things dangling over the dash.”

Officer Turangeo stared at him.

The counter squeaked as Ed leaned on it. “I know I sound like an idiot. But you have to believe me. I didn’t know I was going to have to describe this to anyone.”

“The car’s probably going to help us the most right now.” Officer Turangeo snapped the notepad shut.

“So, I’m in the clear, right?”

The officer stood. “I wouldn’t say that. We have to find this woman to confirm your alibi. Right now the evidence against you is only circumstantial. Still.” He paused and stood in the doorway that led back to the store. “Don’t leave town without letting us know.”

Ed exhaled as though he’d been punched.

I can’t believe this. Getting laid was all I was thinking about yesterday.

Ed blurted one final thought at the door to the street. “You said someone identified me. That’s not possible.”

“A resident near the scene said he waved to you. You rode your bike past his car about ten minutes before the accident.”

“I don’t remember seeing anyone. Who was it?”

“I’d rather not say at the moment.” The officer opened the door. “I’ll be in touch. If you have any questions or remember anything else, call the Mill Valley Police Department. Have a nice day.”

Ed locked the door. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed Arnie exiting the alley that led to the back of the store.

The glass door rattled as he unlocked it and flung it open. “You fucking bastard. You spying scum.”

Arnie stopped and smirked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But if the back door was cracked and I heard you making up shit, well, it’s public property.”

“Don’t you dare spread lies about me in the shop. I have an alibi.” He marched up to Arnie and shoved him.

“Whoa, man.” Arnie brushed his polo shirt with exaggerated care. “You better think about what you’re doing before you start anything. You got enough trouble coming your way.”

Ed held up his fist. “They’re going to find her.”

“What? That dream woman you said you laid?”

“She was real.”

“What’s gonna be real is those guys who go after your pretty ass in prison, man.” Arnie sneered.

Ed sucked in a deep breath. He lowered his hand. “You’re fired, Arnie. Get out of here before I do something you’ll regret.”

Arnie stared but didn’t move. “I worked here before you were born, punk.” His mouth curled into a snarl and his tone dropped. “You do this, and you’re going down. I’ll bring you down, man.”

“I’m not scared of you.”

Arnie looked him in the eyes. “You should be scared. Real scared.”

***

Over the course of the following week, customer traffic dropped off sharply. By Friday evening it was clear something unusual had happened. Posts about Ed flooded Yelp, Google, and biking blogs. Vitriolic, insinuating comments hinted at his involvement in the now famous hit-and-run that put a little girl into a coma. He read veiled accusations staying slightly to the right of slander that emphasized his police record, past threats of violence, and lack of a concrete alibi. Many posts referenced the confrontation with his head mechanic.

Ed lay sleepless that night, his mind unable to stop swirling from the injustice of his situation. Toward morning, he only half noticed an off-hours documentary about an annual gathering of twins in Ohio. In the middle of scenes from the Double Take Parade, Ed jerked awake.

Twins. That’s the answer. “People will think we’re twins.”
The guy who bought all the bike gear the day before the accident. Jerry something. He had my bike. My clothes. He must have been the one. Why didn’t I think of him sooner?

Ed swung out of bed, feeling lighter.

This will give the police something to investigate.

He left Officer Turangeo a voice mail and got a call back in the late morning.

Exasperation flowed through the connection. “You don’t have a credit card receipt. You have a shoddy description of the man. Most importantly, once again, you don’t have a name. Do you know how many Jerry’s there are in greater San Francisco? Hell, I’ll even narrow it down to Oakland for you. Jerry’s short for Jerome, Gerald, and Jeremy, for starters.”

Ed turned the phone, talking directly to the screen, as if being face to face with the officer’s voice could help convince him. “But I don’t have a bar code reader in the store. We only have handwritten receipts. They’re not specific. And the guy paid in cash.”

“If you remember more, give me another call.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Right.” Officer Turangeo sighed. “Look, Mr. Galeano, we can’t arrest you, because we’ve got nothing concrete, but we’ll be watching…and waiting. I’d keep my hands clean and stay well under the radar if I were you.”

“I’ll remember his name.”

“Good luck with that.” Officer Turangeo hung up.

In the evening, Ed analyzed the public Facebook pages of Oakland’s Jeremys, Geralds, Jarreds, and Jeromes, looking for a clue. He sent friend requests until Facebook blocked him for phishing.

Maybe the guy doesn’t have a nickname. Maybe Jerry is Jerry.

That’s how he found him: Jerry Kriebel. A guy with a green and red snake tattoo crawling across his profile photo.

The next morning, he shared his news with Officer Turangeo.

“How do I know you didn’t pick some person off Facebook at random?”

Ed almost threw the phone across the room in frustration. He sucked in a quick breath. “I told you yesterday his name was Jerry and said he had a tattoo. Now I found Jerry with a tattoo. The
same
tattoo. Can’t you see it all fits?”

“We’ll look into it. But don’t start thinking you can accuse anyone you like of a crime.”

“Are you kidding? What about me? Aren’t I being accused?” Ed’s hand trembled. “If you don’t look into this, I’m going to find Jerry myself and bring him to you. I don’t care how long it takes.”

“Watch your step, Mr. Galeano.” His voice had the ominous rumble of thunder on a clear blue day. “That girl’s getting better, but she’s not going to walk again. Don’t involve any more innocent victims.”

“Innocent? Jerry Kriebel’s not innocent. He’s the one who did it.” Ed punched the
end call
button and hurled the phone onto the sofa.

Most of Jerry’s information on Facebook was private, but his page displayed his likes. Photos abounded of a large selection of scrubby East Bay punk bands.

I’ll conduct my own goddamned investigation.

But months and innumerable punk band concerts later, he knew nothing more about Jerry. And business at Stoke’s had sunk to an all time low. Previous five-star ratings had plummeted to two. Competition in the surrounding area drew away existing customers who had second thoughts.

The foreclosure sale happened on a sunny afternoon in late March.

The same day, Ed sold his furniture and moved into a room in a San Leandro Bay motel, a noisy location between US 880 and razor wire protected warehouses. It was the kind of motel where pickups and old sedans crawled into the parking lot after midnight in the semi-darkness of one working floodlight and couples of all descriptions disembarked, eager to find a room for a few hours of passion, lust, or employment. Night after night, he stared out his window at the continual human parade. More than once in the following weeks he startled awake in the early morning, roused by the rhythmic knocking of his neighbor’s headboard.

As the time between his old and new lives grew, his finances shrunk. He grew a beard to save on shaving supplies. When his contact lens supply ran out, he reverted to squinting and guessing at street signs. He bummed laundry detergent off hookers at the laundromat.

Pale, haggard, and gaunt, he knew few of his friends would have recognized him. The only reminders of his previous existence were his computer and his bicycle. The room’s rattling window air conditioner propped up his Gary Fisher Superfly, with its dusty handlebars leaning forlornly against drawn curtains. He spent most waking hours using the motel’s spotty Wi-Fi to search for signs of Jerry.

I’m not leaving Oakland until I’ve settled the score.

One evening at the Stork Club, a raucous dive on Telegraph Avenue, Ed began a conversation he’d had a hundred times previously.

He cornered a blue-haired youth in black leather and chains at the bar. “Ever heard of Jerry Kriebel?”

“Jerry Kriebel? Sure, I know him.” The youth’s voice floated through the thump of the music. “Used to share a house with a buddy of mine. What’s it to you?”

Ed clutched the counter. “You know him? You’re sure?”

“Guy with a snake tattoo on his chest, right?” His blue hair caught the strobe lights as he threw back half a beer.

Ed held his breath. “That’s him.”

“Yeah. Well, that’s the Jerry I’m talking about. Like I said. What’s it to you?” He swayed unsteadily, his eyes trying to focus on Ed but frequently missing, fixing instead on the crowd or the floor.

Ed took him by both arms and shook him gently. “The police want to ask him a few questions.”

The guy jerked away. “Shit, man. You a cop?”