Liquid Smoke

FIFTEEN

Liz and I walked up the boardwalk, away from the chaos that had enveloped my house. We were surrounded by bikers, skateboarders, and runners, but I felt more at home among them than I did with the cops and techs in my living room.

“First things first,” she said. “You aren’t a suspect. Obviously, I was with you thenight before last and was at your place until eight yesterday morning. They’ve confirmed you were on the plane and the visit to the prison. Zanella may be acting like an asshole, but they’ve cleared you.”

I figured Zanella couldn’t help acting the way he did. You are what you are.

A shirtless guy on rollerblades, bouncing to his iPod, sliced between us, the aroma of coconut oil swirling off him as he flew by.

A dull pounding was working my temples, a headache on the way. “Was she killed here?”

“Klimes said it doesn’t look like it. Whoever did it brought her here already dead.”

That explained the blood on the patio, but it didn’t explain why. I thought of Darcy standing on the boardwalk, pressuring me to go see Simington. Tough and feisty.

“Any sign of a struggle?” I asked.

“They’re checking.”

I let out a long, slow sigh. A lot had gone on in the last twelve hours, and I didn’t like any of it.

“Obviously, I won’t be involved,” Liz said. “Because of me and you. I called John. He’ll keep an eye on it, stay in touch with Klimes and see where it goes.”

Two middle-school-aged girls shrieked as two boys chased them up the sand, spraying them with water pistols.

“They brought her to my house for a reason,” I said as the kids ran behind us.

Liz nodded. “I thought the same thing. Sending a message.”

“A loud one. Darcy only came to see me about one thing. Means it has to be about Simington. Which is what I told Klimes and Zanella.”

“So a dead Darcy is someone’s way of telling you to stay out of it and away from him.” “Oops.”

We did a U-turn and headed back toward the house. The dark clouds were still threatening but had failed to deliver a single drop of precipitation.

“How was San Quentin?” she asked. “Did you meet him?”

“Yeah. Simington’s a swell guy.” I waved a hand in the air, dismissing any of our conjecture that Darcy or Simington had been a fraud. “He’s my father, Liz. No doubt.”

She looked at me, her eyes heavy with concern. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

“I don’t either.”

“What was he like?”

“Looks like me. He wouldn’t fight with me. Seemed to know how I was gonna feel about him. I was too numb to take in anything else, really.” I paused. “And he had my name tattooed on his wrist.”

She didn’t say anything, waited for me to continue.

“He also gave me a name.”

“A name?”

“Landon Keene,” I said. “He said to start with that and see if I found anything.”

“Name doesn’t sound familiar,” she said. “I’ll run it and see if it pops.”

“I honestly don’t think he wants off death row,” I said. “He didn’t talk specifically about killing anyone, but he seemed at ease with what he’d done and where he is now.”

She nodded. We kept walking.

“I met a cop who doesn’t want him off, either,” I said.

She raised an eyebrow in question. I told her about Kenney and what Miranda had told me.

She didn’t seem surprised. “If he thinks Simington killed his nephew, it’s a wonder he didn’t just kill Simington himself.”

“Yep.”

“So that makes two then,” Liz said. “Two what?”

The breeze off the water ruffled through her hair. She pushed it away from her face.

“Two people who don’t want Russell Simington leaving San Quentin,” she said. “That cop and whoever killed Darcy Gill.”