Killer Swell

8

I gave my statement and left without speaking to Liz again. I knew I’d been out of line but I wasn’t quite ready to apologize yet. I figured there would be another opportunity in the too near future.

I drove away from downtown and headed north toward La Jolla, to Marilyn Crier’s house. I had found Kate, and I figured I should let her know, if the police hadn’t already beaten me to it. I wasn’t looking forward to the conversation, but I owed her that much.

Mount Soledad has two sides. The south side is considered Pacific Beach, the homes looking back at Mission Bay. Once you passed the giant cross that emerged from the top of the hill, you were in La Jolla. The mansions jutted out from the side of the mountain with views that spanned the coastline. You could almost smell the money.

The Criers’ home rested just below the cross, a gated enclave that laughed at everything below it. The gate was open as I approached the drive, a police car turning out of the property and passing me in the opposite direction.

Marilyn was standing in front of the giant oak doors of her house between two huge white pillars, illuminated by the coach lights. Her arms were crossed tightly across her chest, and her chin was tucked down. Ken Crier, her husband and Kate’s father, stood next to her, his face as white as a sheet.

I stopped my car in the circular drive and got out.

Marilyn looked up as I approached. “Noah.” Her voice was hoarse and disjointed.

I held up my hand, an awkward attempt at a greeting. “The police were just here?”

She nodded slightly. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry, Marilyn.”

Marilyn’s lips puckered, and her eyes filled with tears. She turned and disappeared through the massive doors into the house.

Ken Crier walked down the stone steps. He cleared his throat and extended his hand. “Noah. It’s been a long time.”

Ken was a small, compact man with thinning brown hair. His eyes were small, his mouth perpetually tightened into what looked like an uncomfortable grimace. Large forearms extended from the sleeves of his white golf shirt, which was tucked tightly into a pair of immaculate khakis. In eleven years, he’d aged about an hour.

I shook his hand. “Yeah. I wish I were here for a different reason.”

He cleared his throat again, his eyes unsteady. “You spoke with Marilyn earlier?”

“Yes.”

He nodded and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Did the police tell you anything?”

“No. Not really.”

He sighed and shook his head. “It’s unbelieveable. I don’t know that I believe it.”

He was in shock, and I didn’t know what to say to him. I had never been able to speak comfortably with him. He’d intimidated the hell out of me as a teenager, always cutting me off in mid-sentence and making me feel small. It was his way. But I’d always known that he loved his daughter. I hadn’t seen Kate in years and her death was digging into me like an ice pick; I couldn’t imagine what Ken was feeling.

“Noah, I’d like your help,” he said, suddenly.

“My help?”

He nodded at me, his eyes beginning to refocus. “I need to know what happened to Kate.”

I squinted into the evening breeze. “I’m sure the police will keep you informed.”

He waved a hand in the air, dismissively. The wrinkles around his eyes tightened in contempt. “The police will take their time, tell me things I don’t understand, and treat me like an idiot.” He paused. “I don’t need that and I don’t want that.”

“I don’t know that I can do much better,” I told him honestly.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d try,” he replied, turning toward the house. He walked back up the stairs and stopped at the giant doors. He turned back to me. “She was in trouble, Noah.”

That surprised me because it was at odds with what Marilyn had told me. “Trouble?”

He bit his bottom lip for a moment, and his eyes blinked quickly. “Something was wrong,” he said, his voice tight. “This wasn’t random. I knew something was wrong with her or with her life. I could feel it. But she wouldn’t talk to me.”

Kate could be stubborn, but I remembered her being Daddy’s little girl. “Why?”

He turned toward the open doors, then paused. “She never forgave me,” he said, over his shoulder.

“For what?”

Ken Crier turned back and looked at me. There was little warmth in his smile. “For always intruding in her life.”