Jonathan Kellerman - Flesh And Blood

Finally: “You followed him again ?”

“I know,” I said. “But this time, I was really careful. He definitely didn’t see me. The main thing is what I saw.”

“You think Dugger’s personally escorting a hit man.”

“You had to see the guy. He sure doesn’t look like a brain surgeon-”

“Whatever he is, Alex, if he flew in today from New York, he didn’t kill Jane last night in Sherman Oaks.”

“Granted. But he could’ve killed Lauren. And Michelle and Lance. Maybe there’s a team.”

“Musical mafiosi,” he said.

“That’s how I’d do it if I had the money. Use pros the locals don’t know, cover my tracks by transporting them back and forth.”

“All that flying means paperwork, Alex. If the guy is a professional – a really heavy hitter – he’d have to worry about that. And like I said, if you’re the contractor – a supposedly law-abiding fellow like Dugger – why would you also pick the guy up at the airport yourself ? Take him out to lunch in plain view, then truck him straight to Daddy’s place in broad daylight and give someone the opportunity to snap pictures?”

“So you have no interest in looking at the passenger list?”

“That,” he said, “would require a warrant. And grounds-”

“Okay, fine,” I said. “He likes black ’cause he’s a priest, lost his collar. Tony Duke flew him out for spiritual guidance.”

“Listen, Alex, I appreciate all you’ve-”

“Want me to toss the photos?”

Pause. “You have clear shots of this joker’s face.”

“Clear enough. In duplicate.”

He made a sound – not a sigh, too weary for a sigh. “I’ll come by tonight.”

He didn’t.

BY TEN THE following morning my phone was still silent.

Either my Brooklyn Pizza lens work had paled in comparison to some new lead Milo was chasing or, given the benefit of a good night’s sleep, he’d decided the snapshots were a waste of time. Still, it was unlike him not to call.

Robin was smiling again, and we’d made love this morning – though I’d felt some distance. Probably my imagination.

When in doubt, torment your body. I put on running clothes, stepped out into a cold, wet morning, and struggled clumsily up the canyon. Shoes squeaking on still-dewy vegetation, stumbling along the earthen patchwork laid down by a fast-shifting sky.

When I returned the house was echoing hollowly, silent but for the whine of the circular saw from Robin’s studio. I changed into a sweatshirt, old jeans, and grubby shoes, stuck a Dodgers cap on my head, and left.

The air had chilled even further, and the sun hid behind a big, iron saucer of the same sooty hue as yesterday’s cloud bank. A tongue of wind whipped past me, rattling trees, twanging shrubs. The earth smelled of loam and iron. Not winter in any real sense, but in L.A. you learn to live with pretense.

On days like this, the ocean was still beautiful.

I took Sunset to the coast highway, encountered no obstruction, and was speeding past Tony Duke’s copper octopus by twelve-thirty. No cars were parked on the shoulder, and all the gated estates looked forbidding. Continuing to the Paradise Cove intersection, I turned onto the speed-bumped asphalt that dips down past Ramirez Canyon and ends at the beachfront clearing where the Sand Dollar sits. As I passed the restaurant’s plastic sign, I noticed a rectangle of whitewashed plywood staked a few feet in, painted crudely in red.

The Dollar’s Renovation Continues.

Sorry, Folks. Please Remember Us

When We Re-open This Summer

I bumped my way past the oleander-planted berms that nearly concealed the trailer park on the north side of the cove. No chain had been slung across the blacktop, and the splintered placard warning that beach parking was twenty bucks a day if you weren’t eating at the restaurant appeared in its usual spot, bottomed by the halfhearted announcement BOOGIE BOARD, SNORKEL, AND KAYAK RENTALS. So far, so good.

West of Spring Street, renovation usually means extinction. The Dollar was going the way of all L.A. landmarks, and I didn’t know how I felt about that.

It had been nearly three years since I’d tackled a fisherman’s breakfast from the red-vinyl cradle of a Sand Dollar window booth. Back in the days when Robin and I had rented a drafty beach house ten miles up the coast, as we waited out the reconstruction of our burned-out home. Then a patient’s childhood nightmares drew me into a long-unsolved abduction and murder, and the victim turned out to be a waitress at the Dollar. The questions I’d asked had overridden six months of generous tips. Some time later I’d dropped in for breakfast again, hoping all had been forgotten. It hadn’t, and I never returned.

I drove fifty more yards, and the shack that serves as the Paradise Cove guardhouse came into view. The lowered gate was more symbolic than functional – I could’ve lifted it by hand, squeezed the Seville through. I wondered if it would come to that. Then I saw movement through the shack’s window, and the attendant was ready for me when I drove up, shaking his head and pointing at yet another sign that reiterated the twenty-dollar tariff. Older man – seventy-five or so – with blue eyes and a beef-jerky face shielded by a battered canvas hat. Big band music played from a tape deck in the shack.

“Closed,” he said.

Down below, through the twisting branches of giant sycamores, I could see ocean and what remained of the restaurant: The redwood façade and half of the shingle roof were in place, but empty holes gaped ulcerously where the windows had been, and through the wounds was a clear view of walls stripped to the studs and snarls of severed electrical conduit. What had once been the parking lot was now a table of raked brown dirt filled with backhoes, tractors, and trucks, sheets of plywood, stacks of two-by-fours. No workers in sight, no construction noise.

“Big project,” I said.

“Oh, yeah,” said the old man, stepping out of the shack. He wore a khaki shirt and gray twill pants cinched tight by a skinny maroon vinyl belt. “Didn’t see the sign, huh? They should stick it right out front on the highway, so folks don’t bother to turn. I’ll raise the yardarm and you can swing a U-ey.”

“I saw the sign,” I said, and held out a twenty.

He stared at the bill. “There’s nothing to do down there, amigo.”

“There’s still the beach.”

“Not much of it. They got wood and cement blocks and all kinds of garbage piled all over the place. Haven’t even had a decent film shoot in months – only thing they could film right now would be a disaster movie. They might be hotshots, but someone’s not making money.”

“They?”

“Corporate syndicate.”

“How long’s it been going on?”

“Months. Almost a year.” He looked back at the site. “Owner died, kids inherited, squabbled, sold out to some chain seafood outfit, and they sold to some holding company. They say they’re gonna preserve it, make it even better. Mostly, I see guys in suits driving in and out. Every so often they bring in a squad of Mexicans and there’s some hammering and nailing for a few days, then weeks of nothing. But they keep paying me, and they don’t bother the rest of us who live up there.” His thumb hooked toward the mobile homes. “Be nice, though, to have somewhere to eat out without driving to Malibu Road.”

“Yeah,” I said, waving the twenty. “Gonna take a look, anyway. For old times’ sake.”

“You’re sure? I don’t even think the Porta Potties are working.”

“I can handle it.”

“Wait till you’re my age – Nice car. Take much maintenance?”