Dalton tilted his empty glass and set it on the desk. I poured us each another drink. Liquid gold, settling in the late-afternoon sunlight through the blinds.
“Did you see something like that coming?” I asked.
“Nats has always been a real up-and-down person. She’d get down, spend money on things we didn’t really need. On the up weeks, pure positive energy and no stopping her. Gradually more intense, over the years. That Las Vegas episode was like an explosion, though.”
He looked down at his prosthetic with dislike, then hiked the cuff, unwound a couple of feet of medical tape, popped two latches simultaneously and wrenched off his calf.
Tossed it to me, shoe and all, high, like a free throw. I caught it, held it in both hands, arched it back to him. Dalton caught it with one hand. Slammed it down on the desk, raised his glass. We toasted silently. Then he reached into his pant leg and kneaded the stump hidden by his trousers.
“Has she talked of suicide?” I asked.
Dalton pursed his lips and shook his head. “Never.”
“Does she believe someone is out to get her?”
“Yeah, me. Very critical of me. She also claims there’s a stalker she almost sold a car to. There’s no evidence that he’s actually stalked her. Possibly, he drove by the house once. And she talked about a volunteer on my campaign committee who looks at her the wrong way. Somebody Weld, I think.”
“Do you put any credence in them? As threats?”
“Little.”
Dalton rolled the empty cuff, guided the prosthetic calf in and latched it back into place. I felt some admiration for him. And a sliver of gratitude that it hadn’t happened to me. And of course the weighty guilt over having such a thought.
I had seen Natalie Strait on local TV news, and featured in BMW of Escondido ads. A head-turning woman, bright personality, and something of the diva about her. Abundant black hair led by a widow’s peak. Dimples. If I remembered right, she and Dalton had been together since high school. They married young, had children. Then military service for Dalton, right after 9/11. Followed by college, family life. And a hero’s election to the state assembly in his hometown district, the 82nd, in spite of an extended family well-known to law enforcement in rural San Diego County.
“I’m not after the marine-brothers military discount,” said Dalton. “I expect to pay you full retail, although it won’t be until late next week. An assemblyman’s hundred grand and change, and a part-time car salesperson come up a little short sometimes here in California. We’ve got two boys in college. And I’ll tell you, this is a bitch of a campaign. I’ve spent more of my own money this time around than any time before. This is my fourth run. The Dems are funding my opponent with a vengeance. She’s Muslim and has terrorist links in her family past, and I intend to go public with that very soon. The Dems are trying to run the last Republicans out of the state assembly, me being one of them.” He took a breath. “More to the point, I miss Natalie and I’m worried. Very worried.”
I considered Dalton Strait’s open, almost boyish face, his wintry eyes, his heft and implied strength. I considered my current active caseload: a young wife had hired me to determine whether her husband was having an affair, and I already had the unhappy news ready to give her. That, and a grouchy old local had hired me to talk to one of his neighbors about her barking dog. He didn’t want to call the police because he hated the police. Didn’t want to talk to the woman because he hated confrontation. So, a slow week in May. The hillsides in bloom and the birds at play and Roland Ford waiting for something more meaningful to do than sadden a young woman and fight a curmudgeon’s battles.
“What do you know about the bomb at city hall?” asked Dalton.
“Only what I’ve read,” I lied.
The pipe bomb had arrived Monday, via United States mail in a flat-rate box, addressed to San Diego’s mayor. It had exploded in the mail room, injuring a young city hall intern, not seriously. There was swift reporting that the bomb had been more sophisticated than the crude pipe bombs sent to notable Democrats a couple of years back. And that our mayor had been targeted for different reasons. He is a Republican.
Yesterday, Wednesday, a letter signed “The Chaos Committee” had been published online and by The San Diego Union-Tribune, claiming responsibility for the bomb, and promising more bombs for “government thugs and conspirators throughout our once great state.”
An FBI friend of mine had told me just a few hours ago that the city hall bomb was well made but not intended to be deadly. A warning, maybe. He — Special Agent Mike Lark of San Diego FBI — had also told me that the flat-rate package had been mailed at the Fallbrook post office and he would have some post office security video of the mailer for me to look at. Lark’s theory was that Fallbrook is a small town and I’ve lived here several years and must know a good many of the people in it. Our population is roughly 37,000. So my theory was that the FBI was desperate for a lead.
“Do your old sheriff friends have anything noteworthy?” asked Dalton. “About the bomb?”
“Not that I know.”
“You probably don’t have any sheriff friends.”
“No,” I said. Not after I officially questioned my partner in the fatal shooting of an unarmed man who shouldn’t have been shot. I betrayed the blue religion. I will be forgiven gradually if at all, but more likely never. I understood this when it was happening and would do nothing different if that shooting happened tomorrow.
Dalton considered me again. The assemblyman was renowned for his battlefield valor and the oorah marine spirit he brought into public office. He was a tireless supporter of veterans’ programs for California and a stronger defense for the nation. He was the dictionary definition of team player. Me, on the other hand, I’m wired for noncompliance. Which lowers me in the eyes of some and raises me in the eyes of others. In the eyes of some, it suits me to stand alone, resistant to bureaucracy and conformity. But in Dalton’s eyes I suspected I stood lower. In my own eyes I mostly break even.
“I’ll find Natalie.”
“Semper Fi, man.”
“Sometimes fi, anyway.”
“Maybe it’s just a marine saying to you,” said Strait. “But it’s my faith. I believe we’re brothers. I believe we were heroes for what we did and lost over there. We can be heroes again.”
I thought about that for a short moment. “I’ll settle for finding your wife and a check that doesn’t bounce.”
“You’re not much fun but I’m told you’re good.”
“I’m plenty fun and all good.”
I got what I needed from Dalton Strait — names and numbers for Natalie and their sons, extended family, friends, doctors, and coworkers; credit card numbers, PINs, passwords, and security codes; vehicle information; pictures to my phone; favorite local hangouts; favorite Las Vegas hotels and restaurants; the names of the maybe stalker and the man on the reelection committee who looked at her wrong, etc. I got a promise of future payment.