The Fallen

27

It was sunrise when I got home, the second all-nighter I’d pulled in one week. My ears were ringing and I felt slow and stupid.

I walked around my house with an exhausted eye, like a tourist too tired to care. I made frosted strawberry toaster pastries then sat for a while at the yellow table in the breakfast room and looked down at the scores of indentations and scratches and nicks that five years had brought to the cheap pine tabletop. While I traced with a fingertip the codes of my life with Gina, I wondered where she was and what she was doing. It was time for her father to tell me. You don’t leave five years of marriage with hardly a word to the man who loved and cared for you the best he could. Vince didn’t want her to do that. I wasn’t going to let her, though I had no idea what either of us would say.

I knew there were bigger problems in the world than why my wife had left me, so I thought about all of the corrupt and self-serving men and women who were conspiring to make San Diego their own. Why didn’t they care about this wonderful city? I was ashamed that there were men in my department who were so easily bought for a little flesh, a little cash, a little power. And I felt bad for the young guys like Mincher who tried to do the right thing but got in over their heads and couldn’t get out. The others you could understand: Sarvonola, a career manipulator in love with his own power; Rood and Stiles, politicians with grandiose appetites and even bigger senses of entitlement; Jordan Sheehan, a brazen retailer of youth and innocence, in love with money; Trey Vinson, a weakling in a powerful company; Peter Avalos, a vicious, dead hood who hadn’t finished tenth grade; the Squeaky Cleans, a battalion of pretty young women who wanted all the nice things right now; and a city full of guys eager to contribute to their desires a few hundred dollars at a time.

Which led me to Garrett Asplundh, who had found his way to the dark middle of all this, tried to get his bearings and labored under the tremendous weight of knowing. His old department had been compromised and used. His city was in the hands of gamblers and fools. His daughter had drowned. His heart had been broken, then begun to heal. The woman he loved more than anybody on earth was willing to take him back after nine months of hell. And I saw him sitting there alone in the dark and rain by Cabrillo Bridge, thinking of everything that he was going back to, everything he could have again. Like he could get up on that bridge with Stella and let it carry them away from a disastrous past to a future of promise.

I left messages for McKenzie and Captain Villas, then lay down on our bed with my clothes on.

Six hours later, just past noon, I felt the vibration of the cell phone on my belt. I had been dreaming of a distant land with good rivers and was not so sure I wanted to be called away. I sat up and answered it.

“Bob Cramer, DEA Miami,” he said.

“Oh, boy.”

“Sorry about that last call. Look, I’ve been thinking about your question, Detective. About who was present at the evidence transfer in New Orleans that day. At first I thought it was none of your business who was there from DEA. We impound and process a ton of weapons every year, especially here in Miami. You’re not DEA. We don’t open our books to local cops.”

“I heard all that the first time.” I wished I was back in the distant land.

“But it bothered me,” said Cramer. “It wasn’t sitting right. So I had some talks with my people here, to see if I could help you without breaching DEA rules and regs. You wouldn’t believe the levels of bureaucracy here, or maybe you would. Anyway, I got things smoothed out.”

“Good. I’m listening.”

“My partner that day was John Van Flyke. But he signed in, like everybody else. That’s what he says. I remember him making motions on the log with his pen. I didn’t stand there and look over his shoulder, but it sure looked to me like he was signing in.”

My scalp went cool. “New Orleans PD has no record of him being there,” I said.

“Look, Detective, Van Flyke is a good man and he had a spotless record with us. He was there. But there’s bound to be a reasonable explanation for this. If the Property Annex can lose a nine-millimeter autoloader, they can lose a sign-in sheet, right?”

I didn’t tell Cramer that the sheet wasn’t missing. The only things missing were a gun and John Van Flyke’s signature.

“When did you talk to him?”

“An hour ago. I told him San Diego PD was making inquiries. I didn’t name names.”

“Thank you.”

I called McKenzie and gave her the news. She met me outside the Ethics Authority Enforcement office half an hour later. So much for her trip to Jackson Hole.

We walked into the drafty old room and Arliss Buntz told us that Van Flyke had taken the rest of the day off.

“He has vacation time coming,” she said.

“Did he leave right after the call from Cramer?” I asked.

She nodded. “And he asked me to remove the ‘Wanted’ posters from the lobby. He said your sketch was useless.”

Outside, I dialed the cell number that Van Flyke had given me on our first interview.

“Brownlaw, why didn’t you just ask me if I was in New Orleans that day?” he said. “I fetched more weapons for DEA than you guys see in a year. Cramer bother to tell you that?”

“More or less. But if you signed in, why isn’t your name on the sheet?”

“Police ineptitude? San Diego PD lets a murderer walk out of the courthouse. New Orleans can’t keep track of guns or paper. I think most of you cops must originate down near the bottom of the gene pool.”

“Did you lift the Model 39?” I asked.

“No. And I didn’t shoot anybody either. You’ll have to work a little harder to close your case, Brownlaw.”

No colored shapes came out to greet me. I’d never seen them during a phone conversation. I wanted to see Van Flyke’s answers for myself.

“We need to talk face-to-face,” I said. “I’ve got a few questions.”

“Monday okay?”

“Right now.”

“Fine. I’m at a sushi bar in La Jolla, into my first martini, my first helping of salmon sashimi, and looking forward to the rest of my Friday afternoon away from Ethics, the San Diego PD, Erik Kaven, and Arliss Buntz. I just met an interesting woman. You’re welcome to join the party. So is Cortez. But I’m not going to move one inch from this stool.”

In the background I heard what sounded like faint music and the muted tones of restaurant activity.

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

“Sushi on the Rock, Girard Avenue. The salmon is the best I’ve ever had.”

I aimed my Chevrolet toward Interstate 5.

“You’re not really thinking Van Flyke, are you?” asked McKenzie.

“I’m just thinking.”

She was quiet for a moment.

“I don’t see any reason why he’d kill his friend,” said McKenzie. “What on earth does that get him?”

I’d been asking myself that question since Cramer called, and I kept coming up with the same answer. The answer came from somewhere inside me that was disturbing and seldom visited. “It gets him a shot at Stella.”

I merged into the freeway traffic, feeling McKenzie’s stare on the side of my face.

“No,” she said. “It was business, Robbie. It was something Garrett knew. It was something he was going to do.”

“Why can’t it be personal? Van Flyke moved all from Florida a few weeks after Samantha drowned, to be here while the Asplundh marriage collapsed. He hired Garrett. Every time Garrett or Stella turned around, there he was. His office is just a few blocks from Stella’s apartment. Maybe those are Van Flyke’s eyes she’s been feeling for so long. He saw the reconciliation coming and he saw a chance to cancel out Garrett forever. He didn’t listen to the tape of Garrett’s last conversation with Stella — he heard it live from his office in that hollow old building. Sound carries so easily there, haven’t you noticed?”

McKenzie nodded but said nothing for a long moment. “That’s ugly stuff, Robbie.”

“Very.”

“Okay, if you want to do ugly, then what about his dear brother, Sam?” asked McKenzie. “You told me he was the one who discovered Stella. Then Garrett took his big find away from him. The blonde finally ditched him. Samuel was at the party when Samantha drowned. He was probably also at lots of other Asplundh family events. So every time Garrett or Stella turned around, there was Samuel, too. He lives close enough to drive down and stalk her around town. He’s a Bureau guy, so, hell, he could have her apartment bugged with hidden cameras, right?”

“I thought of that,” I said. “But a brother? No. My blood won’t let me believe it.”

“I don’t believe it for a second either, Robbie. I’m still thinking business. Business, dollars, and the people who run this city. I’m thinking that Garrett had the videos and they couldn’t let him act on them. That would ruin everything, from City Hall to Wall Street. The rulers can’t let it happen.”

“Okay,” I said, “Tell me who and how.”

“Kaven,” she said. “If you stuff all that hair up under a Chargers cap and put on a pair of shades, you got Hummer Man. He wouldn’t even need to fake the mustache.”

“Why shoot Garrett?”

“Garrett’s set to spill to the attorney general. He’s holding out on his own director, because Garrett thought Kaven was too friendly with Sarvonola — even Stella knew that. If you can’t see Kaven pulling the trigger, then try this: Maybe he and Sarvonola dumped the job on Fellowes, who got Mincher to do the dirty work. Both Fellowes and Mincher got caught on tape with the Squeaky Cleans, and Sarvonola had seen it, right? So he’s got plenty of leverage. And Mincher’s got no alibi for that night.”

“But Cass at Dream Wheels made Hummer Man for mid-forties. Mincher’s twenty-six.”

“Age is tough to estimate, Robbie, when a face is covered up like that.”

Everything she said was welcomed by my head but rejected by my guts.

“I like Van Flyke best,” I said.

“You’ve got some dark spots inside, for being such a nice guy.”

I shrugged and gunned the Chevy down the on-ramp.

Van Flyke wasn’t at Sushi on the Rock. I checked the men’s room then asked the hostess about him. He had left shortly after taking a brief phone call — about one o’clock. He paid with cash for a mixed sushi platter and three martinis. There was no woman seated near him. He was serious and unfriendly and she had seen him furtively inspecting what appeared to be a small vial, which she assumed to be insulin because she was a type 1 diabetic who still injected herself manually.

When we stepped back outside into the mild March sun, I called Van Flyke’s cell and got a recording. I had just clipped the phone back on my belt when I felt it agitating my side again.

“Detective Brownlaw? This is Miranda at Higher Grounds Coffee Pub. The man who bought the coffee from me that night in the rain? He just walked past our window here and got into a big white car with an antenna on the roof. I was right — I’ve seen him in here several times without the shades, the mustache, or the hat. That’s why he looked so familiar but so different that night. Because he usually wears a suit, and that’s what he had on just now. He had one arm around this pretty woman, a brunette. She was a little wobbly — drunk, maybe. He kind of helped her into the car. I’ve seen her around here a bunch of times, too. I couldn’t tell if she was struggling or if he was keeping her on her feet.”

My heart dropped. Stella.

“You’re positive it’s him?”

“Positive.”

“Did you get the car plates?”

“I couldn’t get close enough without calling attention to myself. I’m pretty sure it was a Ford.”

“Which direction did they go?”

“North on Fourth Avenue.”

“Give me your phone numbers, please.”

She gave me her work, home, and mobile numbers.

I punched off and looked at McKenzie. “Hummer Man and Stella just got into a white car with an antenna on the roof, then headed north on Fourth. Try to get Stella on her cell.”

We scrambled into the car and I hooked a U-turn on Girard against the traffic. While McKenzie tried to get through to Stella, I got Dispatch to issue a computer alert for a white sedan with a roof antenna, possibly a Ford, last seen headed north on Fourth Avenue toward Broadway. I gave a description of the driver and identified his companion as Stella Asplundh. I said that she may have been abducted. I requested that officers stop and hold the man for questioning.

“Consider him armed and dangerous. I think he killed Garrett Asplundh,” I said.

“Copy, Robbie. You want SWAT and ABLE?”

“ABLE” stands for Airborne Law Enforcement — we’ve got four choppers and one fixed-wing aircraft in our department. The choppers have scopes on board that can read a license-plate number from the sky and infrared sensors that can see the body heat of runaway suspects and locate them for officers on the ground. They’re awesome tools for us.

I told dispatch to get SWAT assembled and ready to roll on a code eleven and all four of the choppers into the air as soon as possible.

“You mean both choppers,” she said.

“I said all four.”

“Only two of them work. Sarvonola and the budget crunch, you know.”

“Christ. Over and out.”

I gunned the Chevy through posh La Jolla, back toward Stella’s apartment in the Gaslamp Quarter.

The landlord let us in. Nothing looked unusual. No sign of a struggle. No sign of anything at all.

“Let’s see if our sharp-eyed friend at Higher Grounds recognizes a mug of John Van Flyke,” I said.

“I’ll call sweet Arliss,” said McKenzie.

Ten minutes later I stood at Arliss Buntz’s desk, looking down at a blown-up print of the picture used on John Van Flyke’s city-issued photo ID. Arliss also gave me the license-plate numbers for his white Ford Crown Victoria and his home address on Coronado.

“Is Mr. Van Flyke diabetic?” I asked.

“If he is, he kept it from his employers,” said Arliss.

I handed the photograph to Miranda at Higher Grounds.

She looked at it and nodded. “It’s him.”

We continued north on Fourth, just as Van Flyke had done. I saw four patrol units still slowly cruising the area. And I spotted two unmarked detective Delta units, drifting like sated sharks, but I knew these guys would be quick to depart at the next hot call. Both of our ABLE choppers were in the air. I saw one stream across my windshield toward the ocean as I continued north and another hovering over the 163 where it spills into downtown. I knew that their best chance of spotting the car was already gone. I cursed unskillfully. McKenzie glowered out the window.

I drove past McGinty’s on India Street where Garrett sometimes drank. Then I passed through the intersection of Hawthorn and Kettner where the festive St. Patrick’s Day marbles had spilled in time to get into the tire of Garrett’s Explorer. Then I drove down Kettner past the Ethics Authority Enforcement Unit, where Garrett had been employed. Then back onto Hawthorn and past the shining vehicles of Dream Wheels. Finally back to Higher Grounds in the Gaslamp Quarter.

I knew it was illogical to cruise the area again, but it was the only thing I could think to do while my mind tried to spin a web of comprehension around what was happening.

What was Van Flyke going to do with her?

I called Coronado PD for backup.

Van Flyke’s house was tucked away on Astrid Court in Coronado. The neighborhood was older, with tree-lined streets, neat lawns, and a quiet blush of afternoon sunlight on it.

The house was a wood and glass two-story. The wood was stained almost black and the windows were darkly smoked. The angles were sharp and concealing. In the middle of the front yard stood an enormous magnolia tree, its leaves waxy and sleek. The house seemed to be hiding behind it. A detached garage sat to the right.

“Ethics pays about the same salaries that we do,” said McKenzie. “How’d he afford that?”

“Maybe he rents it.”

“It looks a lot like him. Tight-assed and grim.”

I unsnapped my holster strap and got out.

We kept an easy pace down the sidewalk. Two Coronado PD uniforms and two plainclothes fell in with us. A newspaper sat on the driveway. I picked it up — Friday’s Union-Tribune — and checked the mailbox, but it was empty.

“His name is John Van Flyke,” I said to the others. “He’s abducted a woman and he’s probably armed.”

“Who is he?” asked one of the plainclothes. “What’s he do?”

“He’s with the San Diego Ethics Authority,” I said.

“No shit?”

“None. Be careful, guys,” I said. “He’s a capable man.”

We walked past the big magnolia tree toward the dark angles of the house. There was a planter by the front porch but it had no plants or flowers in it, just a private security sign poked in and leaning at an angle. The porch was shaded and the front door was solid wood except for a peephole. There was no welcome mat.

I dropped the paper near the planter, knocked twice, and stood to the side. A moment later I rang the doorbell. I heard a distant chime but that was all. I knocked again, harder, and waited.

I stepped forward and to the right and peeked quickly through one of the sidelights that ran up either side of the front door. I made out the foyer, a coatrack, a high-backed bench, and a mirror before pulling my face out of there. Too good a target. I went to the other side of the door and did it again. I saw that the foyer opened up to a room diagonally divided into shade and sunlight. I saw a sofa and a chair.

I tried the door but it was locked. Then I drew my sidearm and turned to the Coronado cops.

The four men drew their weapons. McKenzie’s was already out and ready.

“We’ll take upstairs,” I said. “You guys get the ground.”

I kicked the door open on my first try. An alarm wailed to life. I spun away and the officers went in yelling. Then McKenzie and the plainclothes. I went last, my vision clear and my muscles buzzing with adrenaline.

The light inside was good. I followed the barrel of my Colt through the foyer and down the hallway, then right. I climbed the stairs through a slant of sunlight. I made the landing and swung the gun left to right while everything jumped at me: a doorknob, a wall sconce, a tree limb wavering just beyond a smoked window. The alarm was screaming in my ears as I pivoted into the master bedroom.

Empty. Bed made.

McKenzie barged in behind me. I heard the breath catch in her throat, watched the steady sweep of her barrel across the room. “Shit,” she said quietly. “That would have been nice.”

“Too easy.”

A few minutes later one of the Coronado detectives called the security company and got the alarm turned off. Twenty minutes after that we had searched the house and the garage and the grounds and found no one and no evidence that Van Flyke had committed even the smallest crime.

“Where did he go?” asked McKenzie.

I’d been asking myself that question since Miranda had confirmed Van Flyke as the man who’d gotten into the car with a woman who was almost certainly Stella Asplundh.

Where had he taken her? Why hadn’t our patrol cars and ABLE come up with such an obvious car? It had been approximately two and a half hours since the abduction, and the white Crown Victoria, so punctually pinpointed by Miranda of Higher Grounds, had vanished.

I didn’t think he’d made it out of San Diego County — not in a law-enforcement vehicle that could be spotted easily from the air or ground.

I didn’t think he’d even made it out of the city. He’d simply parked the car out of sight, where it wouldn’t seem too unusual, and let us scurry around all night looking for it.

He had chosen someplace close. Someplace private. Someplace he could take and conceal Stella and the car.

“What about Garrett’s apartment?” I asked.