Yesterday's Echo (16 page)

They didn't know that I'd been boxing Golden Gloves for three years and hadn't lost a fight. Jackson made a move toward me and I dropped him with an overhand right. Then one of his toughs charged in, and I stopped him with a left hook under the ribs and a right uppercut. There was some huffing and puffing to try to save face, but that was the end of it. Jackson never bothered us again.

The next fall I blindsided Elk in practice and heard his collarbone crack through the ear hole in my helmet. The hit was legal, but one I could have held up on.

“I think we're even, Elk.”

Mount Soledad rose eight hundred feet above the ocean and had panoramic views of the Pacific, La Jolla, and San Diego. Even Mexico, way to the south. The famous cross stood forty-three feet high above the summit and had rested there for over ninety years. First wood, then cement. It was put there as a war memorial to honor all those who had fought for our country. Black granite plaques memorializing veterans had been added to the base of the monument over the years. My dad always saluted it when he took me up there as a kid. I would, too.

He stopped taking me there after the LJPD brass kicked him off the force. He stopped going anywhere after that. Except the liquor store. When I was old enough and had bought a car of my own, I'd sometimes drive up to the cross alone. I just didn't salute anymore.

I parked in one of the parking spaces that ringed the monument and got out of my car. Melody hadn't yet arrived, and no one else was there. Just me, the cross, and the view. By day, the view was spectacular. At night, it was magical. Scattered rainbows of lights from the restaurants, stores, and hotels of the Golden Triangle to the north gave way to the intermittent twinkles of house lights among the dark vacuum of hills rolling down to the black expanse of ocean rimmed by white splashes of broken waves.

I looked from the beauty below up at the cross, white and shadow above footlights, towering overhead. Thoughts of Colleen floated into my head. They always did when I climbed up the mountain and faced the cross. There was no distraction from the
truth up there. No hiding the guilt. No running away from the fact that Colleen was dead because of me.

Car lights came off the main street onto the road that led up the hill to the monument. The car circled behind the cross and parked next to my Mustang. Melody got out and walked up the monument's steps to me. She wore jeans and a dark sweater, her hair in a ponytail, her face hidden in the shadow of the cross.

Two quick steps and she had her arms around me, her breath on my neck, cinnamon and lavender in the air. Just like the first night outside Muldoon's. She felt good in my arms, a longing satisfied. But I was still hungry for more. I'd missed her more than I'd realized.

But why? Was it just the sex? Or the need to be needed again? No, I'd already had that with Kim. Colleen had been the only woman I'd ever loved. Melody was so different from her, yet so alike. Strong, confident, yet vulnerable. Their voices were even similar. Still, there was something else with Melody. Something inexplicable, just out of reach.

Then Peter Stone's words echoed inside my head, “She could always make them fall in love with her.” Had I been that easy? I took a step back and held Melody at arm's length. She tilted her head and her dark, almond eyes questioned me. I dropped my arms to my side and tried not to let those eyes pull me back in.

“I guess I should have called before I came down.” A quiver of hurt in the gravelly voice.

“A lot's happened since you left.”

“I know. I'm sorry.” Her hand came out toward me, but I let it hang in the air until she brought it down empty. “It made the news in San Francisco because of Adam's connection to me. Other reporters even staked out our studio to try and interview me. I had to get away.”

“Is that why you came back? To get away?”

“I came here to see you, Rick.”

“Bullshit.” I wanted to believe her, but wanting to wasn't enough anymore.

“It's true!” A trace of anger surrounded by hurt.

“Maybe it is. But there's always another reason. Something hidden beneath the truth.” I put my hands on her shoulders and tried to penetrate her eyes. “First you tell me your source on the Albright story was the man who hit you, but you hide the fact that he was your ex-husband. Then you say Peter Stone is just some old boyfriend, but you don't tell me that you have something he wants. What's the other reason this time, Melody?”

“What did Peter say?” Her eyes flashed wide, then shrank back down.

“He thinks you have something the police didn't find.” I squeezed her shoulders. “He told me that right after he had someone poison my dog.”

“Oh, my God! Is Midnight all right?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God. Rick, I'm so sorry I got you involved in all of this.”

She sounded sincere. She always did.

“I'm sorry, too, Melody. I'm sorry I'm front-page news in the morning paper and that half of La Jolla thinks I had something to do with Windsor's death, including the police.”

“What can I do, Rick?” Her voice caught in her throat. “What do you want me to do?”

“Tell me the truth or it ends here.” I dropped my hands from her shoulders.

“What do you want to know?”

“Did you kill Windsor?”

“No.” Her eyes held mine. She didn't blink. No deception that I could see. She looked exactly the way someone telling the truth would look. Exactly the way someone lying would try to look, too. It was one or the other. I just didn't know which.

“How did my Callaway Golf hat end up in your hotel room with Windsor's dead body?”

“I accidentally took it from your hall closet when I left early that first morning.” She kept her eyes steady. “It was dark and I
didn't want to turn on a light and possibly wake you. I thought it was my Giants hat. I didn't realize I grabbed the wrong one until I got back to the motel. By then, it was too late.”

That's how I'd pictured it, but that didn't mean it wasn't a lie.

“Why did you leave it in the motel room?”

“Adam was still there when I got back.” She shook her head and blew out a loud breath. “We had another argument, and I left in a hurry. I didn't have time to grab it.”

Feasible.

“What was the argument about?”

“I wanted him out of my life. He tried to use the Albright campaign for governor story as a way to weasel his way back in.”

Possible.

“What do you have that Stone wants?”

She took a halting breath and stared at my chest like she was debating whether or not to tell me. Finally, “Something that Adam had.”

“What is it?”

Another pause. “Take me to your house and I'll show you.”

“No more games, Melody.” I grabbed her shoulders again.

“It's not a game, Rick, I promise. I can't show you here.”

I searched her eyes. “Why did you come back?”

“Because I'm scared and you make me feel safe.” She grabbed my coat at the chest and pulled herself into me. I let my arms accept her.

Colleen used to say she felt safe with me and that she knew I'd always protect her. And I had. Except for the one night that had really mattered.

“Let's go.” I took Melody's hand and lead her down the steps from the monument.

She stopped at the bottom and looked up at the cross and then at La Jolla sparkling below. “It's beautiful up here, but why did you choose here to meet?”

“This is where I come to face the truth.”

• • •

Melody followed me down the mountain in her rental. A thin wisp of fog pushed in from the ocean. The road, steep and winding, traced through modest homes worth millions of dollars nowhere else but in La Jolla. The mansions above them, hanging off the mountain with views of the ocean, were where the real money in La Jolla lived.

I led Melody onto Highway 52, heading east. Back home. Where the people lived who worked for the owners of the hillside mansions.

I scanned the street in front of my house. No TV vans. Things were looking up. I pulled into the driveway, and Melody parked across the street behind me.

Bright lights exploded on the street and a cop car, light bar aflame, skidded to a stop behind me, blocking the driveway.

Running feet and then a gun at my window and a flashlight in my face. “Police! Out of the car, hands first!”

My adrenal glands vibrated my body, but I did as I was told. Someone slammed me against my car, kicked my legs apart, making me assume the position. Rough hands patted me down.

My mind rattled on overdrive. Were they going to arrest me for Windsor's murder? What new evidence could they have? Had Melody planted something on me at the cross and this was some sort of setup? Is that why she wanted to come to my house?

“Clean!” The cop who searched me yelled out to the street.

“Melody Malana.” Detective Moretti's voice came out of the fog. “You're under arrest for the murder of Adam Windsor.”

The cop behind me shouted to Moretti, “What about him?”

“Let him go. For now.”

I turned and saw Moretti walking Melody, her hands behind her back, toward a slick-top Crown Vic.

Tears ran down her face.

“I didn't do it, Rick! You have to find the truth!”

Moretti guided her into the backseat of the car and slammed the door. He jumped in the front passenger side and the car drove off. The taillights left red smudges in the fog.

Once inside my house, I called Elk Fenton and told him about Melody, Adam Windsor, and the cops. I didn't tell him everything, just about the arrest and Melody's connection to Windsor. He said he'd talk to his contact at the courthouse in the morning and find out when Melody was to be arraigned and if she had an attorney. I gave him my cell number, and he assured me he'd call as soon as he knew something.

I grabbed a beer from the fridge, sat down in my La-Z-Boy, and stared at the blank flat screen in the entertainment center. The picture in my head was much hazier. Could Melody have killed Windsor? The police obviously thought so, but I knew from experience they could be wrong. Most of the time, though, they were right. If they were right this time, maybe Melody was making up stories to implicate me. She'd already put my Callaway hat in the motel room with her dead ex. An accident as she claimed? Not if she'd murdered Windsor. The hat had me at the murder scene at a time when Melody knew I was asleep alone without an alibi. What else could she have planted to put me there?

My cell phone buzzed me out of my worst-case scenarios. It was too soon to be Melody. Besides, her one call would likely be to a lawyer. I pulled the phone out of my pocket to see whose call I'd probably ignore. It was Kim's phone number. I answered.

“Rick! Turn on
Channel Ten News
! Quick.”

I grabbed the remote, flicked on the tube, and found channel ten. Just in time to see myself throwing Eddie Philby out the front door of Muldoon's. The picture was grainy and low-res, like a bad YouTube video, but clear enough to catch my Charlie Manson eyes
as I turned toward the camera and stalked away down the entry hall.

In the era of Andy Warhol's fifteen minutes, I was already well into my second hour. Unfortunately, somebody had immortalized it on a cell phone cam. With the help of the news, I'd be viral in no time.

A blonde talking head summed it up for everyone, “Shocking video.”

Then she went onto a story about a seventeen-year-old starlet's new haircut. I turned off the TV. My phone was still pressed to my ear.

“Rick, what happened?” Worry shrouded Kim's voice.

“How's Midnight?”

“He's fine.” A pause and then a soft plea. “Rick, talk to me.”

“Some punk was trying to sell drugs in my restaurant, so I threw him out. Maybe with a little too much emphasis.”

“The news anchor mentioned that you'd been questioned in the Windsor murder and—” A deep exhale. “And she talked about Colleen. They tried to make out that you're a violent man.”

“That's their job, Kim. To make it sensational and get it wrong. Then let someone else set the record straight after the fact.”

“Ricky.” Kim was the only person who'd ever used that name. Not family, not friends, not even Colleen. It was Kim's alone and I let her have it. “I'm worried about you.”

“I'm fine.” I tried to sound like I believed it. “You don't mind keeping Midnight for a few more days?”

“No, of course not. He's sitting next to me on the couch right now.” She cooed something to Midnight. “Oh, before I forget. What kind of food should I buy tomorrow? I know you get him the good stuff.”

“Damn. Sorry, Kim. I forgot all about his food. Don't buy anything. I've got a forty-pound bag sitting in the closet. I'll bring some over in the morning on my way to work.”

“Ricky, take care of yourself.”

I put the phone in my pocket and went outside to move my car
around the corner to its new, permanent, parking spot. With my wild-eye cameo on the TV, there were sure to be more news crews or just Lookie-Loos hoping to find me home and see more of the same.

I got back inside and went into the kitchen to gather up some of Midnight's dog food to take to Kim's in the morning. I grabbed a saucepan from the pot rack and started shoveling brown pellets from the huge bag in the closet into a paper sack. On the third scoop I hit something that made a soft “clink” sound.

I reached inside the bag and pulled out a small two-inch by half-inch blue rectangle with a plastic loop on the end. A computer flash drive—a memory stick. The loop hooked around a key. The brand name Chateau was etched into the black plastic handle of the key. Just like the one I used to have to unlock the public storage unit where I'd kept my father's stuff after he died. Before I sold or gave most of it away.