That didn’t surprise me. Two illegal aliens involved in criminal activity. No one on this side of the border would have cared enough to track down their families. And once they got the guy they wanted—Simington—it was case closed.
I was pondering that when Detectives Klimes and Zanella came strolling up the boardwalk.
Klimes held up a fat hand in greeting. Even his sweat had sweat on it. “Afternoon, Noah.”
Zanella glared at me and didn’t say anything.
I smiled at Zanella, then looked at Klimes. “Hey.”
Klimes nodded at Miranda. “Hello, miss.”
She sat up in the lounge chair and pulled the glasses off her face, squinting at him but saying nothing.
“You are?” Klimes asked, with a smile.
“Hotter than hell,” she said, frowning at him. “Who are you?” “Detective Klimes with the San Diego PD,” he said, still smiling. He motioned at his partner. “This is Detective Zanella.”
Zanella was still glaring at me.
“This is Miranda,” I said. “She worked for Darcy Gill.”
Klimes raised an eyebrow. “Really? Tremendous. Saves me some time. Would you mind taking a walk with Detective Zanella so he might ask you a few questions?”
She cocked her head at Zanella. “What happened to your mouth? It looks like someone punched you.”
The muscles around Zanella’s jaw quivered, the various shades of purple at the corner of his mouth flushing. I thought I could make out the imprints of my knuckles in the bruising, but I wasn’t sure.
“Miranda,” Klimes said, offering her a big hand to pull herself up. “Would you mind?”
She looked at me, and I nodded.
Klimes helped her up, and she stepped over the wall next to Zanella.
She leaned in closer to him. “Are your teeth loose?”
Zanella glanced at me and then led her down the boardwalk.
Klimes fell into the chair Miranda had been sitting in. “Gonna take Zanella awhile to get over that punch.”
“Gonna take me awhile to get over his being such an asshole.”
“I love a good catfight,” Klimes said, letting out a chuckle. “We got a description of a guy in the area around here early this morning.”
“Someone saw something?”
“Two people gave us the same rough description,” he said, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his hand. “A man, on the boardwalk about an hour before we got your call.”
“Was he with Darcy?”
“No. Alone. But both wits said this guy looked out of place. Moving too fast, head down, unfriendly. Male, about six feet, not sure on the age,” he said. “Not much else to distinguish him.”
“If we sit here for five more minutes, we’re gonna see at least five guys go by that fit that, Klimes.”
He shaded his eyes from the sun. “I know. We’re gonna do some door to door and see if we can turn anything else up.” He shifted in the chair, the seat groaning beneath his bulk. “You run across anything new?”
“Not really.”
“No, or not really?”
“No.”
“That name you tried to slip by me the other day? I ran it through our computers.”
“Landon Keene?”
“That’s the one. Couple of things. Assaults, weapons. Done some time.”
“Anything else?”
“Nope. So where did that name come from?”
I thought of my father tossing it out there, like bait. I had bitten, and yet it had gotten me nowhere.
“I don’t know who he is,” I said. “But if I find out, I’ll tell you, Klimes. I promise.”
He studied me for a moment, his eyes hard. “Not what I asked.” He smiled, letting me know he knew I was avoiding the question. “But I’ll settle for that for now.”
“You know anything about a Benjamin Moffitt?” I asked.
“The casino guy?” Klimes said. He rolled his massive shoulders and shrugged. “Like all those types, you hear rumors.”
“What kind of rumors?”
“Gaming industry never brings in the cleanest folks, you know? There’s always some doubt as to the legitimacy of those running them. Nature of the business.”
“Anything specific on Moffitt?”
“Nothing specific enough to get a hard-on over,” Klimes said. “Some whispers about money laundering, maybe some payoffs to the gaming regulators. Nothing that would make him any different from his peers.” His eyes sharpened. “Why?”
“Simington was employed as a security guard. At casinos owned by Moffitt.”
Klimes rubbed a perspiring hand across his chin. “Well, wouldn’t be the first time a piece of crap worked in that job. No guarantee that Moffitt even knew him, though. Not like he’s gonna mix with the help.”
“Sure.”
“Coulda been a guy like Simington, with all those debts, was working it off.” Klimes shrugged again. “I don’t know. I’ll ask around.”
Miranda and Zanella appeared at the wall. “All set?” Klimes asked. Zanella glared at me. “Yeah. All set.” I smiled at him. His eyes iced over.
“You’ll be in town for a while, young lady?” Klimes asked.
Miranda shrugged. “I don’t know. I just got here before Mr. Charm dragged me away and asked me a bunch of questions that he must’ve learned from Miami Vice.”
I laughed out loud. Zanella’s eyes narrowed into tiny razor blades.
“Let us know if you leave,” Klimes said. He put a hand on Zanella’s shoulder. “Let’s ride, buddy.”
They started walking down the boardwalk.
Zanella was so predictable. I knew he’d turn around and throw a hard look my way.
Eventually, he did.
And before I could do it, Miranda blew him a kiss and showed him her middle finger.
TWENTY-NINE
I told Miranda she could stay with me.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” she said upon accepting the invitation. “I’ll be sleeping nowhere but the couch.”
“I’ll try to keep my raging desire in check,” I said, shaking my head.
I gave her a key and said I’d be back later.
“I have to go in there by myself?” she asked, glancing toward the patio door.
“No,” I said, heading down the boardwalk. “You can sit right there and wait however many hours it takes me to come back. And then I’d be happy to escort you in.”
I was pretty sure she was flipping me off behind my back, but I didn’t turn around to confirm.
I was exhausted and needed some quiet, some familiarity. I called Liz and left her a message, telling her I was coming over.
By the time I’d navigated the traffic out of Mission Beach, down I-5, and over the bridge to Coronado, she was waiting for me on the front steps of her house.
She wore a Padres T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, khaki capris, and white flip-flops.
She stood. “You look tired.”
“I am.”
“Well, too bad.” “What?”
She pointed to her car, a gray Volkswagen Jetta. Two surfboards were strapped on top: the long, soft board I had bought for her to learn on and the six-three Rusty I’d started leaving in her garage.
“I thought we could go out for a while,” she said, sounding like a kid whose parent had just arrived home.
We’d taken a trip to Santa Barbara a few months back, and I’d gotten her on a board. Now she was hooked and getting good. I liked that she liked it. I didn’t know if it was coincidence that our relationship had finally come together when she took up surfing, but I liked the parallel anyway.
“Okay,” I said. “Lemme go in and change.”
“Can I watch?” she asked, as I passed her and headed into the house.
“Might not get to the water.” “You wish.”
I changed—alone—and ten minutes later we were standing on the sand at a strip of beach just north of the Hotel Del. So late in the day, with the sun getting ready to wave goodbye, we had the place to ourselves.
“You’re going to be amazed when you see me ride,” she said with a grin, pulling off the T-shirt and capris to expose white bikini bottoms and a matching white rash guard.