A few minutes later Stella showed us to the door and we rode the slow elevator back down. On Island, lights twinkled in the trees and the streetlamps glowed. Over on Fourth the hostesses stood outside their restaurants.
A pretty woman in a white VW Cabriolet pulled over to talk with a guy. I wondered why she had the top down when it was cool like this, figured the heater was cranked up.
“I like the Cabriolets,” said McKenzie. “But they’re a little doggy in the horsepower department. I spun one out on a test drive once, totally freaked the sales guy. What did you think of the almost-ex?”
“Wrung out,” I said.
“Yeah. Like a vampire sucked her blood.”
Before going home we stopped by my office to hear the recording of the anonymous tip. It was made at 3:12 on the morning of Wednesday, March 9.
DESK OFFICER VILLERS: San Diego Police.
MALE VOICE: I heard a gun fire near the Cabrillo Bridge on Highway 163. There is a black vehicle such as a truck or sporting vehicle. Maybe a murder, I don’t know.
DESK OFFICER VILLERS: Your name, sir?
MALE VOICE: This will not be necessary.
DESK OFFICER VILLERS: I need your name, sir.
The caller’s voice was male, middle-pitched, and slightly faint. His words were clear but accented. There was a hesitation before he hung up.
“Arabic?” asked McKenzie.
“I think so,” I said. “Eddie Waimrin can tell us.”
Waimrin is one of two San Diego police officers born in the Middle East — Egypt. He’s been our point man with the large and apprehensive Middle Eastern community since September of 2001. I tried Eddie Waimrin’s number but got a recording. Patrol Captain Evers told me Eddie had worked an early day shift and already gone home. I told him I needed help with the Asplundh tip tape and he said he’d take care of it.
“Did Garrett kill himself?” asked the captain.
“I don’t think so.”
“Garrett Asplundh was tough as nails. And honest.”
“I know,” I said. “We talked to a guy this morning who saw a red Ferrari pulled over to the side of Highway 163 that night. Not far from where we found Asplundh’s vehicle. Said he saw someone moving in the trees. Maybe Mr. Red Ferrari saw something. Who knows, maybe he pulled the trigger.”
I could hear him tapping notes onto his computer.
“Tell the U-T,” said Captain Evers. “Maybe they’ll run a notice or something.”
“That’s my next call.”
“Let me see what I can find out, Brownlaw.”
I called a reporter acquaintance of mine who works for the Union-Tribune. His name is George Schimmel and he covers crime. He’s a good writer and almost always gets his facts right. During my brief celebrity three years ago, I’d given him a short interview. Since then George has told me many times he wants to do a much longer piece or, better yet, wants me to tell my own story in my own words. I’ve declined because I’m not comfortable in the public eye. And because of certain things that happened, and didn’t happen, during that fall from the hotel. I feel that some things are private and should stay that way.
“So are you ready to sit down and give me a real interview?” he asked, as I knew he would.
“Not really, but I could use a favor.”
I told him about the red Ferrari parked off to the side of the southbound 163 on the night of the murder. I gave him Retired Navy’s name and number.
“What was the very last thing you thought about?” he asked. “Before you hit.”
“Gina, my wife.”
“That’s so human, Robbie. I mean, wow.”
“Thanks for the red Ferrari.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
By the time I got home Gina had already left. Her note said that she’d be with Rachel, probably downtown or in La Jolla. Just dinner was all, and maybe one drink after — she’d be back early. Rachel and Gina are best friends. Their chairs at Salon Sultra are next to each other. They pretty much carry on like they did before Gina and I were married but Rachel resents me. At times Gina feels torn between her best friend and me, which is understandable. Rachel drunkenly hit on me one night just before we got married. I drove her home and didn’t tell Gina about the offer, just that Rachel was too drunk to drive herself. Rachel has ignored me since then, which is pretty much what she did before that.
I heated up a pot pie and opened a can of asparagus for dinner. I drank a beer. After dinner I opened another beer, sat down at the tying table in our garage and tied some fishing flies. I’ve been working on a little pattern to catch the wild rainbow trout in the San Gabriel River above Pasadena. The San Gabriel is my closest river for trout, actually more of a stream than a river. The fish can be picky, especially in the evenings. I’ve invented two flies to attract the fish: Gina’s Mayfly and Gina’s Caddis. Come late springtime — another month or two — and I’ll be able to see if they work. Part of the fun of tying a fly is fooling a fish with it. The other part is sitting in my chilly garage with the radio on in winter, imagining the currents and pools and eddies and riffles of the San Gabe on a summer morning, and picturing my little fake bug bounce along on the surface above the fish. There is a specific joy to coaxing a wild thing from the river and into your hand, then back into the river again. I can’t explain it. Gina good-humoredly says the whole thing is boring and pointless. I certainly value her opinions and understand that fly-fishing isn’t for everyone.
Later I worked the digital camera out of Garrett’s Halliburton case and looked at the pictures he’d taken. There were only two. One was a close-up of Samantha Asplundh’s headstone. It was red granite, simple and shiny. The other was a shot of Stella, with her hands up, protecting her face from the camera. She wasn’t smiling. I put the camera back and looked at the tape recorder, saw that there was no cassette in it.
Then I surveyed Garrett Asplundh’s datebook. His next-to-last appointment on the day he was murdered was with HH at HTA in La Jolla. Five P.M. There was a phone number.
His last appointment was with CAM at Imp B. Pier at six-thirty. The Imperial Beach Pier, I thought. Odd place for a meeting. Another phone number. I sat in our little living room and leafed through his datebook. Garrett Asplundh kept a busy schedule.
I called the La Jolla number and got a recording for Hidden Threat Assessment. I called the CAM number and got a recording that told me to leave my name, number, and a brief message. I didn’t.
It was odd to flip ahead in Garrett’s datebook and look at the appointments he’d never make. One caught my eye because it was underlined twice: Kaven, JVF & ATT GEN.
It was set for next Wednesday, March 16.
Our crime lab director called just after seven to tell me that the gunshot-residue test on Garrett Asplundh had come back negative. They’d tried everything for residue — fingers, thumbs, hands, shirt cuffs, jacket sleeves. Left and right. No GSR at all. But lots of it on and around his right temple, because the gun had been discharged close to his head. They’d found gunpowder burns, tattooing, the works. Two inches close, is how it looked.
He also told me that the Smith & Wesson nine-millimeter autoloader in the Explorer had been reported stolen in Oceanside, San Diego County, back in 1994. It yielded no latent fingerprints and had been recently wiped with a product such as Tri-Flow, a popular protectant for firearms.
“Cool customer, to pack a stolen gun and his own wipes,” said the director.
I thanked him and called McKenzie and told her she owed me fifty bucks.
Gina got in late and hungry so I whipped up an omelet with bacon and cheese and made some guacamole for the top of it. She stood in the kitchen and told me about her evening and drank a vodka on the rocks while I cooked. When Gina is excited about something she can talk for paragraphs without a comma, but that night she didn’t have much to say. Her soft red hair was up but some of it fell over her face and down her neck and I kissed her. I smelled perfume and smoke and alcohol but tasted only my wife. There is no other taste like it. I actually thought about that taste as I fell from the Las Palmas, though, to be honest, I thought of millions of things in a very short period of time.