Jefferson Parker - The Fallen

The drawer above had my answer: stubs from City of San Diego payroll checks issued weekly for $1,750 – give or take a few dollars and cents. That was before deductions for income tax, Social Security, and a Keogh account. Ninety-one grand a year wasn’t making Asplundh rich. I was making eighty-one, counting overtime, as a firs-year dead dick.

Behind the pay-stub folder were two folders marked ‘Entertain 1’ and ‘Entertain 2.’ I opened ‘Entertain 1’ and scanned through the receipts – high-line restaurants, the Del Mar Thoroughbred Club, exotic car rentals. Lots of nights out. Some of it was charged to a credit card in Asplundh’s name. Some of it was paid in cash.

A right-side drawer was full of light blue hanging files, all related to fly-fishing: ‘Dream Trips.’ ‘Casting.’ ‘Strategy.’ ‘Misc.’ I fanned through the ‘Misc’ file and saw clips from some of the same goofily intense magazines I read. Technical stuff – graphite modulus and flex ranges. Esoteric stuff – ‘Delicate Presentations’ and ‘Mono Versus Fluoro.’ Favorite articles – ‘Harrop’s Top Baetis Patterns’ and ‘Nymphs for Pickerel.’

‘Look,’ said McKenzie. ‘Garrett liked to dress.’

She stood in the doorway with hangers in each hand. ‘Dude was wearing Armani and Hugo Boss. Dude’s got shoes in the closet that cost three hundred a pair. He had a suit on last night, when he got it.’

‘Investigating ethics,’ I said.

‘Yeah, you gotta look sharp to know right from wrong. Black from white. No grays. I wonder how much they were paying him?’

‘About what we pay a lieutenant.’

‘Must have had a kick-ass expense account.’ McKenzie eyed the suits, then whirled back into the short hallway.

The closets in the weight room/office contained golf clubs, fly-fishing gear, and more file cabinets.

Back in the kitchen we listened to the messages on the answering machine.

Someone named Josh Mead had called about Garrett’s rounding out a foursome at Pala Mesa in Fallbrook on Saturday, left his number.

A recorded voice tried to sell him lower-cost medical insurance.

A woman who identified herself as Stella said she had waited until eleven. She said she hoped he was okay, would try him later. Her voice sounded disappointed and worried.

‘Not very friendly, is she?’ asked McKenzie.

‘She sounds anxious.’

The secretary for John Van Flyke of the Ethics Authority called with some expense-account questions about last week’s pay period. Van Flyke was Garrett’s direct boss, the supervisor of the Ethics Authority Enforcement Unit. We cops thought Van Flyke was quirky and overly serious. When he was hired, the Union-Tribune had showered him with praise because he could help Erik Kaven get tough on San Diego corruption. Van Flyke had not allowed himself or any employee of the Enforcement Unit to be photographed for the articles. He reported directly to Kaven and was allowed to recruit his own staff. I had no idea where the Ethics Authority Enforcement Unit offices even were.

‘I was introduced to Van Flyke once,’ said McKenzie. ‘He stared at me like he was guessing my weight. Drummed his fingers on the table like he couldn’t wait for me to leave. So I left.’

‘Where?’

‘Chive Restaurant down in the Gaslamp. Another macho fed, just like Kaven.’

Stella called again, said she could meet him at ten o’clock tonight in the bar at Delicias in Rancho Santa Fe.

Garrett , said Stella, if you’ve been drinking, don’t even bother. I thought we might really have something to celebrate last night. I’d appreciate a call if you can’t make it this time. I’m trusting you’re okay .

‘She doesn’t seem real concerned about him,’ said McKenzie.

‘I think she sounds worried.’

While McKenzie played the messages again I found Stella’s phone number and address in Garrett’s book. She lived downtown. Legally, Stella wasn’t next of kin, but she was the one we needed to talk to. Death notifications are my least favorite part of Homicide detail but I couldn’t ask McKenzie to do it alone because of her bluntness.

Asplundh’s garage was like the apartment – neat and clean. It was big enough for one vehicle, two tall shelves of boxes, and a small workbench. Two pairs of eight-foot fluorescent bulbs cast a stiff light on everything. I sat on the metal stool at the workbench. It felt like a place where a guy would spend some time. On the bench was a shiny abalone shell with a pack of smokes in it, and a book of matches on top of that. In the cabinet over the bench were stacks of fishing magazines, boxes of flies and reels and tackle, a mostly full bottle of Johnnie Walker Black. In the drawers were the usual hand tools you’d expect to find and a five-shot .38 revolver, loaded and good to go.

I had the thought that if Garrett Asplundh were going to kill himself he’d have done it right here. But my opinion was that Garrett hadn’t done himself in. He must have parked down there near the bridge because he was meeting someone. Someone he knew. Someone he trusted. That someone had killed him. And if someone else had driven him away, that meant at least two people were involved. Which could mean conspiracy, premeditation, and a possible death penalty.

Ballsy guys, I thought.

Head-shoot a city investigator in his own car. Leave him in a public place and don’t bother to make it look like anything but murder.

Don’t bother to take the wallet, briefcase, or car.

Didn’t bother – I was willing to bet – putting the gun into Garrett’s trembling hand and firing it into the night so we’d find GSR and work the case as a suicide.

No, none of that. They were too confident for that. Too matter-of-fact. Too cool. They had put a cap in Garrett, then cleaned up and had a cocktail at Rainwater’s or the Waterfront.

I wondered when was the last time that Garrett Asplundh had sat where I was sitting. I looked across the workbench to the wall to see exactly what Garrett saw when he sat here – late at night, I guessed – as sleep escaped him and the endless loop of memories played through his mind over and over and over again.

I couldn’t tell you what Garrett had seen. Maybe it was a picture. Possibly a photograph. Maybe one that he had taken. Maybe a postcard. Or a poem or prayer or a joke. Or something cut from a magazine.

All that was left were four white thumbtacks, four by six inches apart.

‘No matter how long you stare, it’s still four thumbtacks,’ said McKenzie.

‘Makes me wonder what was there,’ I said. ‘A lot about Garrett makes me wonder. There isn’t enough.’

‘Enough what?’

‘Enough anything. There’s not enough of him.’

McKenzie gave me a puzzled look. Not the first time.

‘What I wonder is why a cop would want to work for the Ethics Authority in the first place,’ she said. ‘Why spy on the city you work for? Why sneak around? What, to feel important?’

‘It goes back to watching the watchdogs.’

‘Sooner or later you have to trust somebody,’ said McKenzie. ‘Otherwise there’s no end to all the layers of bullshit.’

‘Well said.’

I stood for a moment in the garage, facing the street. The March afternoon was rushing by and it was going to be a killer sunset. From a beach it would look like a can of orange paint poured onto a blue mirror. I thought of Gina and how much she wanted a place on the sand, and of the savings account I’d opened for that purpose. We were up to almost twenty thousand dollars in five years. Multiply by ten and we’d almost have enough for a down payment. At the current rate, I’d still be less than eighty years old. My Grandpa Rich is eighty-five and still going strong.