“That’s where you live?”
He took a drink from the bottle and nodded. “Yeah. North of the city in Marin County.”
Randall and Kate were making some big bucks to live in one of the most expensive counties in the country.
We didn’t speak for nearly a minute, the silence in the bar broken by the bartender’s polishing of the brass rail that ran the length of the bar. A quiet shushing sound.
“Enough of the small talk,” he said, suddenly, his voice serious. “I hate small talk. It’s what I do with Marilyn.”
I raised my glass in his direction. “You said it, not me.”
“You’re an investigator?”
“I am.”
“Can you find Kate?”
“I don’t really know enough about what’s going on to give you a good answer to that,” I told him.
He thought about that and stared at his Heineken. His eyes were elsewhere, though. “I don’t think she wants to be married anymore,” he said.
“Why’s that?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Because that’s basically what she told me.”
I didn’t react right away because I felt bad for him. No matter the state of their marriage, hearing that had to hurt. I remembered her conversation with me on Catalina and feeling as if someone had just died.
“Someone else?” I finally said.
He hesitated for a moment, glancing at me as if I’d asked an unexpected question. Then he looked back at the beer bottle. “I don’t think so. I think she just doesn’t want to be married.”
I found that odd. “So why would that make her disappear?”
He held the neck of the beer bottle loosely between his fingers, swinging it back and forth. “Not sure. We’ve been arguing, though.”
“About?”
“Oh, everything, I guess,” he said, a frustrated expression on his face. “We can’t get along. I get mad at her, she gets mad at me. Neither of us can please the other.”
I nodded. “When was the last time you spoke to her?”
“The night before her flight was supposed to leave. She seemed fine, said she was looking forward to getting home after being down here for a few days,” Randall said. “That was it. When she didn’t show up and no one had heard from her, I flew down right away.”
I finished my drink, and we walked back to the lobby. We shook hands again.
“Thanks for doing this,” he said, giving a quick nod.
“No problem,” I replied. “You’re staying in San Diego for a while?”
“As long as I need to,” he said, a weak smile creasing his face.
I said I’d be in touch and walked outside. The valets were talking and laughing. They glanced at me and then went back to their conversation. Guess I didn’t look like I owned a car they would consider parking.
Dr. Randall Tower hadn’t given me much. Normal marriage problems, seemed surprised that Kate would take off. But one thing bothered me as I walked back along Prospect to my car.
He seemed pretty calm for a guy who hadn’t seen his wife in nearly two weeks.
6
Marilyn had told me that Kate had stayed at the San Diego Marriott Hotel and Marina during her visit to the city. Marilyn explained that Kate always stayed at a hotel when she came home, saying she didn’t want to be a bother to her parents, despite their objections. I wondered how Marilyn explained that one to her socialite friends as I made the drive to the hotel to see if there were any giant clues to trip over.
The Marriott sits at the southern edge of the downtown area, sandwiched between the revitalized Gaslamp Quarter and the finger of San Diego Bay that separates the mainland from Coronado Island. The two towers of the hotel jut into the horizon like glass spears, and the lights from the Coronado Bridge reflected off the mirrored exteriors in the bluish-black evening sky.
The girl at the front desk of the Marriott was less wary than the guy at the La Valencia, and, after a quick look at my license, she gave me what little info on Kate she had.
“The reservation was from the second through the eighth, but she checked out two days early,” she said, staring at the computer screen. “Bill paid in full.”
“Room been rented since?”
She nodded quickly. “Several times. We’re running close to full.” She frowned, obviously not appreciating San Diego’s push toward tourism. “It’s like that in the summer.”
“Anything else on the bill?”
She studied the screen, then shook her head. “Nope. Room and tax. That’s it.”
I thanked her for her help and wandered around the lobby. I glanced in the windows of the gift shops that lined the walkway to the outdoor courtyard. I saw expensive things. I poked my head into the bar and observed the noise and commotion. Nothing pointed me in the right direction.
I walked outside to my car and was heading toward the exit on Harbor when a solitary car at the end of the lot caught my eye. The red Mercedes was parked diagonally, taking up two spaces, shining brightly beneath a towering streetlamp. There were small dents on top of the trunk, as if someone had pounded a fist into it.
I made a U-turn and parked next to the car. I stared at the car for a moment before getting out.
I have always been baffled by my actions. I don’t know why I stuck a straw up the cat’s nose when I was six. I don’t know why I took my first drink at fifteen. I don’t know why I sometimes stop talking to friends for no reason. For as long as I can remember, I have done things simply because I felt compelled. No justification, no reason. I just do things.
That Mercedes was screaming for me to look at it.
I stepped out of my car and the smell hit me almost immediately. I swallowed hard against whatever was rotting in the area and walked up to the driver’s side window. A white leather purse was tossed casually into the backseat. The keys were in the ignition.
I tried the doors, but they were locked. The stench was smothering me, and I couldn’t ignore the fact that it was coming from the trunk. I pulled the tire iron from the rear of my Jeep and wedged it into the space between the trunk door and the body of the car. I jimmied the iron up and down for a minute before I heard the lock snap. I pushed up on it. The lid creaked slightly as it rose.
The odor emerged like a nuclear cloud, and I took a step back, the muscles in my throat convulsing. I held my forearm in front of my nose and mouth and looked reluctantly into the trunk.
Kate Crier’s face stared back at me, the life in it long gone.
7
The cops were unrolling yellow crime-scene tape like birthday streamers when Detective Liz Santangelo arrived just before eleven. She wore a white blouse under a black leather jacket, black jeans shimmying up her long legs, and open-heel sandals on her feet. The jacket was gathered at her waist, accentuating her figure, and more than a few of the twenty or so cops now on the scene tried to eye her inconspicuously as she strode in my direction.
Since I’d seen her naked a couple of years ago, the thrill was gone for me.
She strode right up to me and spread her hands out in front of her, palms up, and said, “You opened the trunk. Why?”
In my head, I kept replaying the moment I’d opened the trunk. I couldn’t make it stop. “I didn’t know she was in there, Liz.”
She narrowed her blue eyes beneath her jet-black hair. “You thought the smell was what, an old sandwich?”
Liz’s beauty was matched only by her sarcasm. “Gimme a break, Liz.”
She shook her head and folded her arms across her chest, disappointing much of the crowd. Her hair was pulled back away from her face, a small silver hoop in each earlobe. Her thin, pink lips were somewhere between a frown and a snarl. And her eyes could be hypnotizing, particularly when they were rolling.
“Noah, you know better,” she said, shaking her head. “This is junior varsity stuff.” She stared at me for a moment and her expression changed. “You know her?”
I nodded. “Kate Crier.”