Wounds (8 page)

“Okay. What else?”

“You can get some of the uniforms to canvas the block and see if anyone heard or saw anything. They could search for video cameras.”

“Will do. Keep me posted. Anything new on our Balboa Park vic?”

“Bizarre death. Seminary kid. He was studying to be a preacher.” She reiterated the first report from the ME.

“A dough docker. I thought I'd seen everything. Apparently not. Keep me posted.” He started to turn, then stopped and gazed at her for a moment. “Good job, Detective.” He walked to a uniformed officer with three stripes on his sleeve and pointed up and down the street as he spoke.

Carmen turned back to the crime scene. This was going to be a long day.

9

G
ood Friday. A special day. A day to be remembered. Not necessarily a day of celebration.

Dr. Ellis Poe sat in the cramped confines of his Canadian Sailcraft yacht, sipping coffee and thinking about the day.
Yacht
. The word made him smile. Before inheriting the small craft from an uncle, Ellis thought the word applied only to large craft worth millions of dollars. His 1977, 27-footer was hardly worth seven grand these days. It didn't matter. He had no intention of selling it or using it to impress anyone. The white craft with purple trim seldom left its mooring just off Coronado. He had been overjoyed to receive it and loved the boat most days. On those days when he had to fork over what little money he had for maintenance, marina, and anchorage fees, he loved the boat less.

Poe wasn't much of a sailor. On occasion, he would fire up the Yanmar diesel and motor into the bay, do a few laps, then return and tie up. He avoided open ocean, where the swells could rise and give him more of a ride than he wanted. Still, he kept the
Blushing Bride
. He considered changing the name, but that seemed disrespectful to the man who left the craft to Ellis.

In braver moments, he considered sailing alone to Catalina. He would daydream about it. So far, he had only made the journey in his mind. He had traveled to Catalina Island on one of the ferries. Each time he had to fight seasickness. Better to let the
Blushing Bride
stay in the calm waters of San Diego Bay.

Where some sailors used their boats for adventure and family outings, Ellis used it as a sanctuary, a place to hide from the crush of humanity that made up San Diego. He came here to be alone. He spent his weekdays in a condo in Escondido. He spent those days alone too, but the boat provided something different: a tiny hideaway. He also enjoyed the culture of those who lived on boats. Many were antisocial. No one ever came knocking on the fiberglass hull to ask for a cup of flour.

Ellis rubbed his face and tried to concentrate on the work before him. Not work really. Work implied drudgery. Translating the events that Christians revered as Good Friday brought him satisfaction. Nothing better than losing one's self in the Koine Greek of the New Testament.

Good Friday. Such an odd name for a day set aside to remember the suffering, torture, and murder of Jesus. Scholars debated how the term came to be. Some thought it was a variation of “God's Friday” and the title had changed over the centuries. Perhaps. Ellis thought different.
Good
, in this context, meant
holy, special, unique
.

Good Friday had been celebrated from the fourth century on, probably much longer. The fourth-century Archbishop Ambrose described it as “a day of bitterness on which we fast.” Many contemporary Christian holidays got their start a few centuries after the events they celebrated. Some came about as a response to pagan holidays. Easter, although clearly a Christian celebration, still carried the name of the goddess Estare and used pagan symbols such as eggs and rabbits. Not so, Good Friday. It was purely Christian and one of the most poignant times in a believer's life.

Ellis set his coffee cup down and listened to the gentle slapping of water against the fiberglass hull. He had his weekend planned. Most of it involved reading. The seminary was closed in observance of the religious holiday but would open for a few hours for the community Good Friday service. He would take his little skiff to the marina pier, retrieve his car from the parking lot, find a decent restaurant—maybe The Coronado Brewery—then make the drive to Escondido. The last part would take at least half an hour, probably more, depending on traffic. It was Friday. Traffic was guaranteed to be thick and sluggish.

He returned his attention to the Gospel parallels in front of him. It was an older book. There were newer versions of such books. The Gospel parallels laid three of the four Gospels into columns, allowing an easy comparison. John, the fourth Gospel, was included in a column of its own. Since it took a different approach to the telling of Jesus' life and repeated little of what the others had, it had to stand alone. Next to the book was the Greek text he was using for translation.

Determined to make better headway than he had since rising this morning, he focused on the texts, but once again his mind wandered. He had made the same translation every year for the last two decades. It should be easy, but attention undulated like the water around his boat. He had endured two shocks yesterday: news that one of his students had been murdered, and the appearance of Carmen Rainmondi in his office. She didn't recognize him.

For that he was thankful.

Of course there was no reason for her to know him. He had never been to her home. Shelly Rainmondi knew his name, but he couldn't conceive of any reason why she would talk about him to his sister. His fascination with her had been one chained by distance and silence. He wanted to ask her out. Every high school boy wanted to date her. Truth was, he wouldn't have recognized Carmen. He had seen her at school, of course, but they shared no classes. He couldn't recall ever exchanging a word with her. Carmen was a year ahead of Ellis. Theirs were different worlds.

He did, however, recognize the name.
Rainmondi
was not a common name, and after . . .

He had to force away the image of an overturned car . . . the echoes of her pleas for help . . . the violence . . . the pain of the punch he endured . . .

And. His. Cowardice.

Ellis slammed his eyes shut. He wanted to purge himself of the sight, rid himself of nightmares. Forgive himself and know God had forgiven him. His theology told him he was forgiven. He could cite chapter and verse, one after the other, but the feeling of forgiveness never came. For a man of his beliefs, the absence of peace was troubling.

If self-forgiveness were a requirement before God could forgive, then Ellis was doomed. He reminded himself that there was no theology behind the fear.

Fear didn't care.

The usual lunch crowd at Jimmy Chen's Authentic Mexican Cuisine had thinned. Of course, lunchtime had begun three hours before and ended two hours later. The large clock with the image of a cold, frothy Budweiser on it showed ten minutes past three. Carmen hadn't eaten breakfast or lunch, and a sharp-toothed gnawing in her gut reminded her of the fact. That, and a growing sensation of low blood sugar: headache and the feeling that her internal organs were vibrating.

Chen's place was a popular spot in North Park, especially with police. James Chen—once Sergeant Chen of robbery division before a bullet in the hip changed his career path—ran a clean place with an eclectic menu of oriental, Italian, and Southwest food. Cops from all over San Diego County came in, at first to support a wounded comrade, then because he served food worth far more money than he charged. It was a cop restaurant. Like a cop bar that catered to police, Chen's was a safe place where uniformed officers and detectives could let their hair down and not be on. The brass never came in. They understood this was a working cop's place and respected it. Most of them had been in many times before getting kicked upstairs.

Chen had been a better-than-average officer, but he was a better restauranteur, one who knew his clientele and their needs. That meant keeping a back room, one away from the noise and questioning eyes of others. Detectives could discuss cases without other ears listening in.

Carmen and Bud hadn't taken two steps into the place before Chen met them. He limped from behind the counter and into the main dining area, a wide and long space with painted and sealed concrete for its floor. Most of the space looked as if it had been transplanted from Tijuana, across the border, but with art from Asia. The checkered tablecloths gave the place the feel of an Italian bistro. The decor shouldn't work, but somehow it did.

“Late lunch, guys?”

“Yep,” Bud said. “Such is the life of the best cops on the force.”

Chen grinned. “You're the fourth person today to claim that title.”

“Posers, Jimmy. Nothing but posers.” Bud slapped him on the shoulder. “You got anything in the vault?”

“I think I can squeeze you in.” Chen led them through the near empty front dining area and through a doorless hole in the wall. The room was smaller than the front, holding only six tables. A row of windows on the west side of the room overlooked a narrow garden. Chen's wife was a gardener and nagged Chen into putting in the verdant strip. Something about the “salubrious powers of a simple planter.” Chen admitted to having to use a dictionary to look up
salubrious
.

“What's it gonna be?” He sat them at a table next to the windows. A fence blocked out sight of the rest of the world.

“Enchiladas for me.” Carmen sat and set a notepad on the table. “Chicken. Green sauce.”

Bud sat opposite her. “Tacos, Jimmy. Beef. Let's go with the pinto beans.”

“No, you don't, pal. Bring him anything but beans, Jimmy. I gotta spend a lot of time in the car with this guy.”

“Hey, you're my partner, not my wife.”

Carmen let the corners of her mouth lift. “She'd say the same thing.” She shifted her attention to Chen again. “No beans, Jimmy. And remember. I carry a gun.”

“So do I,” Bud said.

Jimmy chuckled. “True, but she knows how to use hers. No beans.”

Bud shook his head. “I get no respect.”

“Would you like to know why?” Carmen leaned closer to the table.

“No.”

Chen laughed and left. He returned a moment later with two glasses of water, a glass of tea for Carmen and Coke for Bud. He left the room. Carmen sipped the tea, eager for the caffeine.

A few moments of silence passed as Carmen let the hardened cop veneer dissolve. Bud broke the silence.

“Claymore really used the phrase ‘Ice Queen'?”

“He did.”

“Why didn't you shoot him?”

“It crossed my mind.” Carmen sipped her tea. “Besides, it doesn't bother me. He's not the first to call me that. He won't be the last.”

Bud's lips tightened into a line. “Of course it bothers you. It bothers me. You could file a complaint.”

Carmen huffed. “That might put a dent in my career. I complain about him, and the other assistant chiefs will be waiting for me to do the same to them. Before you know it, I'll be working traffic accidents.”

“They wouldn't do that.”

“Okay,
you
file a complaint.”

“No way. You think I'm crazy?” He laughed.

She joined him. The bit of humor felt good, like a brain massage. “Captain Simmons came to my rescue.”

“He's a good man. I have no problem following his lead. He should be assistant chief.”

“Then we might have Claymore as our captain.”

Bud looked as if he had been chewing a lemon rind. “Nah, he's never worked homicide. He made his name in narcotics.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“True that.” He lifted his soda. Condensation dripped from the base and splattered on the table top.

“So why do they do it?” Carmen studied the red-and-white pattern of the tablecloth.

“Do what?”

She waved a hand. “It doesn't matter.”

“Sure it does. Spill it or I'll make Jimmy bring a double portion of frijoles.”

“That's a terrifying thought. Okay, but only because I'm trying to protect the city from your digestive system. Why do they call me ‘Ice Queen'?” She leaned back. “I have an idea, but . . .”

“You never asked before.”

“I shouldn't be asking now. Knowing doesn't change anything.”

“What do you do after your shift?”

“I go home just like everyone else.”

Bud shook his head and lowered his voice. “That's it, Carmen. We don't all go home. We pal around. Not a lot, but from time to time, we hit a bar, catch a Padre or Charger game, do a barbecue on the beach. You go home. Always. You did so when you were in uniform. Being a detective hasn't changed that. You come across as aloof.”

“Aloof? I am aloof. I'm a loner, Bud. You know that. You know me better than anyone else on the force.”

He nodded. “That's why I can say this to you. People like you, but they don't know how to deal with your . . . idiosyncrasies. You've never married. You live alone. You never hang with the crew. You do your job, then go home. People think you have a superiority complex.”