I didn’t disagree with anything Carter had suggested. It would eat away at me if I missed the opportunity to meet my father. But I’d gone nearly thirty years without knowing who the man was, and I felt like I’d done okay so far. Maybe I was kidding myself, though.
When I left the library, the sun was starting to move behind the water, the rain lying in wait. My time to make a decision was disappearing fast.
And I was going to be late for a date.
I went home and changed into a pair of khaki shorts and a Quiksilver button-down shirt and headed out into the evening.
I had the windows down in the Jeep as I drove south toward downtown. The remains of the day had receded into the dusky sky, leaving the air feeling crisp and clean. The sun was exploding into a kaleidoscope of purples and oranges to the west, flashing brightly as the ocean pulled it downward. I exited the freeway and curved around Lindbergh Field, not envying the pilots who had to land their planes while looking into the blinding sunset.
I went past the airport entrance and onto Harbor Island. The mile and a half long island had been created by the navy in the early 1960s when they dredged San Diego Bay to make it deep enough for the military ships arriving in port. The navy took the mud and sand from the bottom of the bay and turned it into this narrow strip of land that housed upscale hotels, restaurants, and marinas. Tom Ham’s Lighthouse, a seafood restaurant, sat at the western edge of the island, and I pulled into the parking lot. Liz was waiting out front.
She wore black walking shorts, black sandals, and a sleeveless white blouse, exposing her olive skin. She pushed her sunglasses up off her face into her mane of raven hair, her smile reaching her bright blue eyes. She held up a hand and waved.
I tried not to trip.
“I was starting to wonder if you’d forgotten me,” she said. “Maybe run away with that little surfer girl from yesterday.”
I kissed her. She smelled like strawberries and mint and everything else good. “Not ever.”
Her hand slid into mine. “Suck up.”
“Not ever.”
Her smile broadened, sending a shot of electricity through me, and we strolled into the restaurant.
We were shown to a small table along the window with a view of the city skyline and the boats bobbing in the harbor. Liz ordered a Cosmopolitan, and I asked for a Jack and Coke.
She gazed at me across the table as we waited for our drinks. “You look tired.”
I folded my hands on the table and took a deep breath. “I am.”
“Were you in the water all day?”
“Actually, not at all today. Not much happening. I think the threat of rain smothered the swells.”
She tilted her head to the side. “Is that even possible?” “No. But it sounds good.”
Our drinks arrived, and I emptied half of mine before setting it down.
“How was your day?” I asked.
She made a face like I’d dropped a skunk on the table. “Shitty. Picked up two new cases that we don’t have the time for. John’s ready to quit.”
John Wellton was her partner in the homicide department. The city’s annual mismanagement of funding had resulted in more budget cuts, this time slashing through law enforcement. She and Wellton were doing the work of four teams.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She picked up her menu. “And that’s the last I’m saying about work tonight.” “Fine by me.”
Our waitress came back, and we ordered. Mahi-mahi for Liz and swordfish for me.
Liz took another sip of her drink and reached across the table for my hand. “Are you going to tell me about your admirer or do I have to pry?”
Being with Liz lifted my spirits, but it couldn’t eliminate Darcy’s revelation from the previous day.
I squeezed her hand. “I was getting there.”
“Okay.”
I pulled my hand away and picked up my drink. “You ever run across a case involving a guy named Russell Simington?”
She made a face. “I recall the name. Something about killing illegals.”
I glanced at the window. Outside, the lights on the Coronado Bridge were bright against the darkening sky.
“From several years back, I think,” she said, swirling the light pink liquid in the glass after she took a sip. “We didn’t handle it, though. Riverside or El Centro did. Does that sound right?”
“It does.”
She set her glass down. “I assume you heard me say no more work talk tonight.”
I smiled at her. “I did.”
“Then I’ll also assume you have a pretty good reason for bringing this guy up.”
I stared into my drink, the ice melting slowly in the alcohol and sugar.
“I think Russell Simington is my father,” I said.
We sat there for a few minutes without speaking. Liz’s face told me she was working out what to say next. Our food arrived, and the waitress asked if we needed anything else. We both shook our heads.
“Will you explain it to me?” Liz finally asked.
I told her about my conversation with Darcy Gill, ignoring the twinge of guilt I felt for not opening up the same way to Carter. I told her about San Quentin and death row and everything else.
She stuck a fork in her food, then rested it on the plate, distracted. “I can check it out. If you want. See if she’s legit.”
I shook my head. “I think she’s telling the truth. But I’ll find out for myself.”
She nodded and picked up her fork.
We ate quietly for a few minutes. I knew I’d changed the course and tone of our evening, but I wanted to tell her. It was the kind of thing I would have kept from her in the past.
“He was a bad guy,” she said.
“Figured.”
“No, I mean bad,” she repeated. “If I’m remembering correctly, the way it went down, it was ugly.”
Her conviction was like a kick in the groin. “That’s the impression I got from this lawyer.”
She bunched up her napkin and laid it on the table next to her plate. “Are you gonna go?”
I leaned back in the chair. “I haven’t decided.”
She started to say something, then stopped.
“Say it,” I said. “Whatever you were just about to say.”
“I think it would be hard, Noah,” she said, softly. “Not that you shouldn’t do it, but I think it will be tough and you should be ready for that.”
“I know. Seeing this guy who’s done all these things,” I said. “And then realizing that I’m his son. I’m not sure what I get out of it or if I should even want anything out of it.”
She nodded. “Yeah, I think you should consider all those things. But I was looking at it a little differently.”
“What do you mean?”
The waitress came and cleared the table, and we passed on dessert.
Liz put her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Let’s say you go and meet with him. You learning anything that might enable this woman to get him off death row is really unlikely. In California, once they punch your ticket for the chamber, it’s a done deal. He’s probably going to die regardless of what he may tell you.”
“I know that. And it sounds like he deserves to,” I said.
She shook her head and pushed a stray strand of hair away from her face. “You’re assuming that he’s going to be this awful person, this guy who matches the image you’ve created of him. What if he’s not like that at all?”
“I’m not following you.”
She stared at me, her blue eyes radiating concern. “What if you like him?”
Silverware clinked against plates and murmured conversation drifted in the air around us.
“I’m not saying I don’t want you to do this,” she said, reaching across the table and taking my hand. “I’m really not. You probably need to do it. But you’re talking about him as if you’ve already met him and you know exactly how he’s going to be.” She paused. “You need to consider the idea that he’s not going to be a monster and that you may feel some connection to him. And that might be hard to deal with when the time comes for him to die.”