Second Chance

Chapter 79

“FUCK HIM,” Jacobi said as we left the house. “Old-school asshole.”

“We're halfway down the peninsula already.” I said to him. “You want to drive down to Stanford? See Frankie's kid?”

“What the hell.” He shrugged. “I can use the education.”

We hooked back onto 280 and made it to Palo Alto in half an hour.

As we pulled onto the campus drive - the tall palms lining the road, the stately ocher buildings with their red roofs, the Hoover Tower majestically rising over the Main Quad - I felt the spell of being part of campus life. Every one of these kids was special and talented. I even felt some pride that Coombs's son, despite his rough beginnings, had made it here.

We checked in at the administrative office on the Main Quad. A dean's assistant told us Rusty Coombs was probably at football practice down at the field house. Said Rusty was a good student, and a great tight end. We drove there, where a student manager in a red Stanford cap took us upstairs and asked us to wait outside the weight room.

Moments later, a solidly built, orange-haired kid in a sweaty Cardinals T-shirt wandered out. Rusty Coombs had an affable face spotted with a few freckles. He had none of the dark, brooding belligerence I had seen in photos of his father.

“I guess I know why you guys are here,” he said, coming up to us. “My mom called, told me.”

The heavy sound of weight irons and lifting machines clanged in the background. I smiled affably. “We're looking for your father, Rusty. We were wondering if you have any idea where he might be?” “He's not my father,” the boy said, and shook his head. “My father's name is Theodore Bell. He's the one who brought me up with Mom. Teddy taught me how to catch a football. He's the one who told me I could make it to Stanford.”

“When was the last time you heard from Frank Coombs?”

“What's he done, anyway? My mother said you guys are from Homicide. We know what's in the news. Everyone knows what's going on up there. Whatever he did before, he paid his time, didn't he? You can't believe just because he made some mistakes twenty years ago he's responsible for these terrible crimes?”

“We wouldn't have driven all the way down unless it was important,” Jacobi said.

The football player shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet. He seemed to be a likable kid, cooperative. He rubbed his hands together. “He came here once. When he first got out. I had written him a couple of times in jail. I met with him in town. I didn't want anybody to see him.”

“What did he say to you?” I asked.

“I think all he wanted was to clear his own conscience. And know what my mother thought of him. Never once did he say ' great job, Rusty Look at you. You did good.' Or, ”Hey I follow your games...' He was more interested in knowing if my mom had thrown out some of his old things."

“What sort of things?” I asked. What would be so important that he would drive all the way here and confront his son?

“Police things,” Rusty Coombs said and shook his head. "Maybe his guns.

I smiled sympathetically. I knew what it was like to look at your father with something less than admiration. “He give you any idea where he might go?”

Rusty Coombs shook his head. He looked like he might tear up. “I'm not Frank Coombs, Inspectors. I may have his name, I may even have to live with what he did, but I'm not him. Please leave our family alone. Please.”