Eyes Wide Open (11 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

K
athy called when I got in the car. I had just pushed off a procedure on the daughter of a friend. Now I was pushing for a few days more. Her patience was running thin. Mine might have been too, if the situation was reversed.

“It's time to come home, Jay.”

I didn't answer for a second. I wasn't exactly sure how to. “I can't, Kath. I just can't.”

“What the hell is going on out there, Jay? This is beginning to scare me a little now. I'm sorry about what happened to Evan. My heart goes out to Charlie and Gabby. It really does . . . But people need you here. It's time to come back.”

“I can't, Kath.” I sucked in a sharp breath without explaining.

“You can't?
” There was an edge to her tone.

I pulled the car over to the side of the road. “I've just found out a few things. And it's hard to explain. Especially right now.”

“Well, try, Jay.
Try!
You've been there almost a week. So please, try . . .”

There was about the toughest silence I'd ever felt pass between us. Maybe twenty seconds, but it felt like an eternity.

I wanted to say,
I love you, honey. You know that. I need you. Especially right now.

But I just can't tell you.

Until I knew for sure.

I saw something starting to open up. Something only I saw. Something only I could put together.

I flashed to Russell Houvnanian. To the time he'd been up to my dad's.

And then to Evan. The flashing “eye” they had found in his pocket. The eerie knife marks on Walter Zorn's tongue.

And finally to something I'd held back, from Charlie, from Sherwood.

And now, even from my wife.

The image of someone staring at me from their car the other night outside Charlie's apartment. Their face obscured by the darkened glass.

I didn't know for sure, but it all added up to me. Maybe only to me.

I thought I'd seen Susan Pollack.

And if I had, I knew what it meant.

It meant my nephew Evan had been murdered.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

C
harlie didn't know what to do with the photos of Sherry's gruesome murder.

He'd hidden them away—at the bottom of a drawer, with all his old music. And Evan's sneaker.

He didn't show them to Gabriella. They would only make her more distraught.

And he didn't know what to make of them anyway. Or what they meant. Why would someone want to harm her? She was someone who wouldn't hurt a fly. It was a message. After all these years. A message for him.

But what troubled him most was how they had even known where to find him.

His mind was jumbled, running wild with crazy thoughts and long-buried fears. Images he couldn't put together or stop. The unsettling feeling that the walls of the past were closing in on him.

He was tired of hiding all these years. Tired of the fears, the guilt, the shame. Of having to protect his family.

From what?

Zorn knew of Evan. The old detective had played a role in Charlie's past, more than thirty years before.

And Sherry—blond, sexy, free-as-a-butterfly Sherry—she was a part of that dark past too.

He sat there on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, afraid of where it was all going.
Poor Evan . . .
How he wished he could have him back. What hope was left for them now? Charlie knew his part would catch up with him someday. But Evan . . . Evan had been innocent. His innocent little boy.

Yet it had sucked him in too
 
. . .

Charlie had let it.

And now the walls were closing in.

He went downstairs. Gabby was calling for the cat, putting out her food. “
Here, Juliet. Here, my baby . . .”
She noticed Charlie. “The stupid cat is missing. I haven't seen her all day. Maybe she misses Evan. Maybe she knows there's nothing here for her anymore.”

“Maybe it's time we moved on,” Charlie said, out of the blue.

“Move on?
” His words surprised her.

“Yes.” He was excited now. The thought of packing up and starting a new life seemed right. “Maybe we ought to get out of here . . . Go back to Miami. Or Vancouver. We know people there.”

“Vancouver . . . ?
” Gabby chortled derisively. “Are you crazy, Charlie? That was twenty years ago. We just lost our son. We live on what the state gives us. We have to be here, Charlie. That rock has killed us. There
is
nowhere to go. Go
where
?”

He sat down and put his hands to his head, afraid to contemplate what might be happening. She was right. There was nowhere to go, only to wait. Wait for it to happen.

Go where?

“I don't know.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

T
he thing
is . . . ,
Sherwood reflected as he parked his Gran Torino along the road in Morro Bay, in the shadow of the giant rock there:

He didn't really buy into any of this: not the thirty-year-old connection to that ritual killing case; not the meeting between Walter Zorn and Evan Erlich; not the markings on Zorn's tongue, which could be anything; not Dr. Erlich's far-fetched suspicions about the Houvnanian woman who had recently been released from jail.

Yet he was here. Spending a day in the damp and wind when he could be working a case that actually
needed
his attention. Instead he was going over for the tenth time one he had already put to bed.

Explain that.

Since he'd gotten that stupid pastor's liver he found himself doing a lot of things he didn't fully understand.

A year back, he would've told this persistent doctor from back east to take his endovascular scope for a hike.

And hardly that nicely.

But somewhere in the closed bins of his mind, Sherwood had to acknowledge, something the guy was saying must have been making the tiniest bit of sense to him. It was the old 1 percent axiom—a detective's rule, hijacked by the previous vice president:

If there was even a 1 percent chance he was wrong, that there was something there, something he was overlooking . . . then what the hell?

He had never done much tire-kicking on Evan Erlich. Why would he? The kid was found at the base of the rock. His body signs showed he'd spent much of the night up there. Days before, he had wailed about killing himself. He had tried to buy a gun. He was off his meds.

Jesus,
this isn't exactly rocket science here . . .

Sherwood hadn't even advised his boss what he was doing, wasting office time on a case he had already put to bed, when there was a pile on his credenza the size of the rock itself, and one of them a case with a family that could apply pressure.

He was fifty-six; his wife was gone; he had come back from a four-month medical leave with a brand-new lease on life. And he knew he was lucky to have this job.

Sherwood took out the police photo of Evan he had printed from his computer. He walked up to the ranger station at the entrance to the rock. A uniformed female ranger stuck her head out amiably. “Help you, sir?”

Sherwood flashed his badge and asked her, “Any chance you happened to be on last Thursday?”

“Every Thursday.” The female ranger nodded.

“Any chance you happened to see this guy?” He showed her the photo. “He was the kid who jumped off the rock.”

“Oh.” Her eyes lit up as she studied it closely. But she shook her head. “No. We close the station at five. Don't know what time he might have come through. Didn't it supposedly happen at night?”

“It did.” Sherwood nodded. “Long shot . . .” He put the photo back in his jacket and smiled. “Thanks.”

He waved and walked along the road toward the rock. Two fishermen were casting out lines in the bay along the shoals. This time of the afternoon was always a good time for rock crabs and halibut. He went up and flashed his badge. “Either of you out here last Thursday afternoon? Around the same time, maybe?”

A black man with a scruffy white beard wearing an L.A. Angels baseball cap nodded. “I came here after my doctor's appointment.” He smiled at his companion, a white guy with a sunburned face in a sleeveless tee. “Caught me a three-and-a-half-pounder too.”

“You happen to see this guy go by?” Sherwood brought out Evan's photo. “Maybe around six?”

The black man took the photo and scratched his head. “No, sir, can't say I did. Sorry.” His partner said the same. “But you're welcome to hang around, detective.” He grinned to his buddy. “Always room for the county's finest. Catch you some of those fancy Morro Bay oysters.”

“Morro Bay oysters . . .” Sherwood smiled. What the locals called pelican shit. Not that there were any pelicans around here anymore. They were gone. And no one knew exactly why. “Next time.”

He continued to show the photo to anyone he saw on the road, then went around the lot at the base of the rock and asked a bunch more there. Clammers. Cyclists. Joggers. Anyone who looked local. Some said they hadn't been around that afternoon. Others said they were—and had heard what had happened, how terrible it was. Everyone looked, but no one said they'd actually seen Evan.

It was getting late. Heading on six. The sun was low in the sky behind the rock, creating a beautiful orange crown. A Dodger game had started at four, and he'd like to catch the end of it with a beer.

He'd given it his best. He promised himself this was the last effing time he would get caught up in this. Sometimes no matter how hard you believe in something, you just can't make it the truth.

He headed to his car. There was a long-haired souvenir peddler in a tie-dyed T-shirt packing up his stand. Cheap, bronze-plated re-creations of the rock. T-shirts with its image on the front. Pennants. Guidebooks.

A tiny chunk of sandstone contained in a plastic dome, the inscription
GUARANTEED PIECE OF THE MORRO BAY ROCK
on the plastic base.

Sherwood went up to him. “You out here on Thursday afternoons?”

“Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays . . . Sundays, Mondays, Tuesdays too,” the ponytailed peddler replied, loading a cardboard box into his SUV.

“What happens Wednesdays?” Sherwood asked him.

“Wednesdays, I'm
there
.” The guy grinned, pointing to the other side of the road.

“Comedian.” Sherwood pulled out Evan's photo. “Any chance you saw this kid?” The merchant continued to pack up his wares, glancing at the photo. “Last Thursday,” Sherwood said, clarifying. “Around this time. Would've been headed toward the rock.”

“He the kid who took the dive?” the man asked.

“Could be,” Sherwood said, showing displeasure at the guy's choice of words.

“I seen him.” The vendor nodded. He taped up a box and lugged it over to his van.

“You're sure?”

“You a cop?”

“Coroner's office,” Sherwood answered. “San Luis Obispo.” He took out his badge.

“No worries.” The man waved him off. “The dude came by here about five twenty-five or so. Headed up that way.” He sort of pointed with his chin. To the rock. “Guess the rest is history.”

“You're sure it was him?”

“Sure I'm sure. He stopped here.”

Sherwood felt a spark light in his chest, like a fire to kindling.

“He took a look at one of my things.
This . . .”
He picked up the piece of the rock in the dome. “Seemed fascinated with it. Here, take it; guaranteed to change your luck—that jumper dude excluded, of course. One day I might just drop your name when someone asks to see my license.”

“You say he was headed toward the rock?” Sherwood asked, stuffing the souvenir into his pocket. “Anything else?”

“One thing . . .” The peddler put down his box. “The dude wasn't alone.”

Now the spark became a charge of electricity shooting through Sherwood. “What do you mean?”

“Someone was with him, that's what I mean. A woman. Older. I remembered thinking then it could be a kid and his mother, tourists. But given what took place, that doesn't seem likely.”

“You sure it was a woman?” Sherwood asked.

“Damn sure.” He pointed to the road. “She was standing right over there.”

The jolt in Sherwood's chest had now become a jumping live wire. He reached into his jacket and came back out with the newspaper photo. The one of Susan Pollack leaving jail. “This her, by any chance? The woman you saw?”

The vendor scratched his head, pressing his lips together, foggily. “Can't be sure . . . She was in kind of a blue sweater and a cap. And she had on sunglasses. She put out a cigarette on the road.” He shrugged. “Could be. I was packing up. Sorry. I don't know if that helps.”

“I'm not sure either,” Sherwood said. He put the photo back in his pocket.

What he did know was that his jaw had begun to throb.

Chapter Thirty

I
was in the motel's breakfast room the next morning. I was getting edgy, not having heard from Sherwood in a day. Charlie had gone back to acting like Charlie. Maxie was back from lacrosse camp.

Kathy was pushing hard for me to come home.

Our conversation the day before had been one of the toughest of my life. We had never kept things from each other, and for the first time in our marriage, I felt like I was. I knew I was! And I had other patients I ought to have been back for.

Since I'd arrived, it seemed like someone had been telling me to go back home. I was wearing down and starting to feel like that was what I ought to be doing.

“This seat free?”

I looked up, recognizing the voice before I saw the face. Sherwood.

The burly detective pulled out a chair without waiting for me to reply.

I looked at him, upbeat. “Tell me this is just a coincidence and that you just happened to wander in.”

“Yeah, like all your weird coincidences, doc . . .” He spun the plastic chair around and sat, facing me. “I was just wondering what you had going on tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? I know what I should be doing! Staff meeting at nine. Possible interview with a new surgical candidate at eleven. My high school senior's pushing for a new computer, so I thought I'd take him to the Apple store . . .”

“Heading home?” He grinned amusedly. “So soon?”

“Yeah.” I sniffed back a wistful smile. “So soon . . .”

“Too bad,” Sherwood said. “I was hoping we might take a ride.”

“Since I met you, you've been telling me to get the hell away, Sherwood. Now you want to take me sightseeing.
Where?
”

“Sonoma coast. Beautiful up there. Town of Jenner.”

“The Sonoma coast? It's a nice offer. You want to have a picnic too?” I cut the sarcasm and pushed a corn muffin his way. “I've got a living to get back to. And a wife who thinks I've lost my mind . . .”

“I'm sorry about that, doc.”

“ 'Cause I'm out here, trying to connect these dots on my nephew's death where there might not even be any frigging dots. So if you have something, Sherwood, tell me, and
please,
make it a good one, 'cause I'm really hanging by a thread right now, trying to do the right thing. Jenner, what's there?”

“Susan Pollack.” The detective looked at me.

His answer hit me like a bludgeon. I waited for him to grin, like he was only screwing around. But he didn't grin. He just kept staring at me with those heavy gray eyes.

Except now there was kind of a spark lit up in them. And it looked a lot like vindication.

“You found something, didn't you?”

“Now, let's not get ahead of ourselves . . . But instead of just ‘washing my hands of it,' ” he said with a smirk, “I went back out to the rock—not that I was buying much of what you were selling, understand—and started asking around.” He picked up the muffin and started tearing it apart on the paper plate. “Someone saw Evan there—the day it happened. Around five thirty . . . Heading to the rock.”

My blood was revving, and I had the feeling he was holding something back. I waited while he made a shambles of the muffin. “And . . . ?”

“And . . .”
He looked back up at me. “It seems he wasn't alone.”

Those words hit me like a bus slamming into a wall at a hundred miles an hour.

First it was the possibility that maybe I wasn't so off the deep end after all—Zorn, Evan, Susan Pollack, the two sets of “eyes” leading back to Houvnanian.

Then I realized that
that,
in itself, couldn't be why Sherwood, the last person who had a reason to buy into this, was there.

“It was a woman, right?” I stared at him, my blood surging. And then I knew! “
It was her
. Susan Pollack.
She
was with him!”

“Look, we can't be sure,” Sherwood said, finally jamming a crumbled piece of muffin in his mouth. “I don't want us to be like ‘buds' or anything, but a street vendor spotted them together, as Evan was heading toward the rock. I showed the guy a photo of her and he couldn't be entirely sure. She was a ways away and was wearing sunglasses and a cap. Smoking.”

My mind immediately darted back to the person in the car outside Charlie's apartment. She was in a drawn-down cap. Behind a car window.

Then she tossed out her butt at me.

“But you think it's true.” My blood was hard to hold back. “You must, or else you wouldn't be here.”

“What I think, doc—and trust me, it's all I'm thinking—is that it's worth checking out. Just too bad you had to be heading home today, after investing all this time. Would've been nice to have the company.”

My face edged into a grin, a surge of anticipation filling me up expansively. Sherwood never once changed his expression. He only twisted his face up at the half-stale muffin. “This is what you eat every day?”

“How did you find out where she is?” I asked.

“California Department of Corrections. I have made a few buddies washing my hands of things over the past twenty-five years. While technically she's not on parole, the state requires a convicted felon to file a place of residency. Jenner's just a dot on the map. A tiny fishing village. Maybe four, four and a half hours from here.”

“What are you telling your boss?” I asked him. I thought of the stack of unresolved cases on his desk.

“Less the better.” He smiled at me. “What are you telling yours?”

“That maybe she was right.” I smiled at him as well. “Maybe the sun out here
has
made me a little dizzy.”

“What sun?” Sherwood got up, dropped the rest of the muffin back on my tray with a twist of his mouth. “How about seven
A.M.
then? In front of the hotel. And in case there's any doubt, I'll bring breakfast.”