Chapter Thirty-three

On a chilly Tuesday morning, with the sun hidden behind patchy fog, I parked in front of a single story house in Buena Park, near Knott's Berry Farm. It was seven in the morning, earlier than I am accustomed to working, but sometimes I don't make the hours. On the seat next to me were two ventis, which, when translated from Starbucks to English, means two large coffees. Lots of cream and sugar for me, of course.

Retired Los Angeles Police Department homicide detective Bert Tomlinson was waiting on the cement porch, sitting in a wicker chair. Twenty years ago, he had been the original homicide detective assigned to my mother's murder.

As I approached, he smiled warmly, stood and shook my hand.

"Right on time, kid," he said. He checked his watch. "I head out to yoga in thirty minutes, and after that my day's booked with grandkids. And yes, I am the oldest one in yoga."

"You look younger than me," I said.

He laughed. "I'll accept fifty, but certainly not thirty-ish."

I wasn't too sure about that. The man seemed to defy the aging process, and should probably write a book on how he did it. Bert's face was line free, despite the fact that I knew he was over sixty. He weighed maybe a buck fifty, but looked strong enough to pull a people-powered rickshaw.

I handed him the coffee. "Almond mocha easy on the cream, large. As requested."

He sniffed the container. "My one and only guilty pleasure."

"I have too many to count. Oreos being high on my list."

"I refuse to acknowledge the existence of Oreos. It's easier for me that way. As far as I'm concerned, Oreos and Nabisco went belly up."

"What about the Oreos you see in stores?"

"As far as I'm concerned the bags are empty."

"You have a vivid imagination," I said.

"Comes from being a homicide investigator. You think like the killer. Some you even think like the victim. Both of which can steadily drive a man crazy."

"I do the same thing," I said, sipping from my coffee. "When I look for a missing cat, I try to think like a missing cat."

He chuckled. "You live in Huntington Beach?"

"Yes."

"My boy lives there with his family. Owns and operates the Huntington Beach Surf Museum. He'll be here any minute with his three kids. We get them every Tuesday and Thursday."

I heard noises from within the house, the creaking of floorboards, the bang of pots and pans. The neighborhood was nice, but not great. Above the rooftops, rising up like the mother of all phallic symbols, was the Knott's Parachute Ride. At the moment there was no one parachuting. The park opened later.

"I remember you," said Bert. He spoke softly. I had the impression he had once shouted a lot in his life, and now he was making up for it. "You were just a kid. Although granted you were the size of most adults. Anyway, I would never forget your mother. I followed your career here and there in the papers. You did well in high school and even better in college. You were one of the best."

That meant a lot to me, coming from a man who had left a lasting impression on me. We shared one experience: we both had seen my mother's body that night. And after his investigation, Bert knew more about my mother than any other living soul on this earth. Probably even more than my father, who was a grade-A asshole.

We were silent. Bert sipped his coffee. A car drove slowly by. In the car, a woman was talking animatedly on a cell phone, and, I think, putting on make-up. Yikes.

The screen door opened behind us, and a slender older woman came out, carrying a tray of homemade cinnamon rolls. She left the tray on a potholder and smiled kindly down at me. She patted me on the face and went back into the house.

"Even Gerda remembers you, kid. Anyway, she made these for you. They're lowfat, made with applesauce instead of oil, and Splenda, instead of sugar."

"Um, sounds good," I said.

He grinned. "Try one

I did. At least it was hot.

"Very good," I lied. "Please thank Mrs. Tomlinson."

"I will," he said. "So you are a detective now."

"Yes. Perhaps it was inevitable."

"How's that working out?"

I shrugged. The cold from the concrete porch was seeping up through my jeans, numbing my buttocks. "It's still a new agency. I like what I do. I seem to be good at it."

"You've got the instincts, then."

"I suppose."

"So you waited before looking into your mother's murder."

I nodded. "I wanted to know what I was doing before I looked into it. Didn't want to screw things up. Just wasn't ready yet, I suppose."

"So do you know what you're doing now?"

"Yes."

I took a deep breath and told him about the day my father arrived with the pictures. Bert listened without comment, sipping from his coffee, which he cradled in both hands.

When I finished, Bert frowned. "I know about your parent's last day. Went over it in some detail with your father. However, he never mentioned the pictures."

"My father had them developed and forgot about them."

Bert set his coffee cup down, put his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers in front of his face. He contemplated his steepled fingers.

"Your father admitted to having numerous affairs. Would have been high on our suspect list had he not been out with you at the time of her death. Excuse me if I offend, but I didn't like him. There was always something different about your dad, something off. Something cold and calculating. Everything added up to him being the killer."

"Except for the fact that he was with me."

Bert nodded. "Except for that."

I took in a deep breath, filling my lungs to their max, and just held it. How could my father keep those pictures from me? How could he not care? My father, I knew, was a different sort of killer. He had been a sniper in the military, with many confirmed kills to his credit. A hair's breadth away from being a sociopath, he held little regard for things living, and even less regard for things dead. In my opinion, he was a hell of a dangerous man to have loose in our streets. But there he was, out in LA, running one of the biggest detective firms in the city, and making a shit load of money at it, as well.

Bert was no slouch. "Obviously something was in the pictures."

"Yes," I said.

"Tell me about them."

I described them in detail, especially the three photographs of the young man.

Bert was looking at me. "Sounds like he took an interest in your mother."

"Yes."

"It's not much," said Bert. "But it's something."

"Yes."

"Any idea who the young man is?"

"No, but I will."

"The picture's twenty years old. Might be hard to find him."

"For a lesser human being maybe," I said.

"But not you."

"Nope."

"You're going to bring her killer to justice if you find him?"

"No. I'm going to kill him the same way he killed my mother."

"Slit his throat?"

"From ear to ear."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

"Good."

He looked at me from over his steaming cup of joe. "I did my best to find him," he said.

"I know," I said. "I read the police report. You worked your ass off."

"There were no leads. No clues. Forensics was in its early stages back then. Your mother had no enemies, and no friends for that matter. Your father had no motive for wanting her dead by hiring a killer - hell, they were even working on their relationship at the time of her death. She left behind no money. She wasn't seeing anybody on the side. She wasn't pregnant. From all accounts, she was a sweet woman."

"She was beautiful," I said. "She had that."

"Yes, she was."

"And someone could have wanted that. Wanted her physically, and then slaughtered her when they were done with her."

"Yes," said Bert. He looked away. "It's the most likely scenario."

"A random rape and murder," I said.

Bert Tomlinson nodded. He looked at me again and set his big hand on my knee. He inhaled deeply and patted me once.

"Go find him, son. Find him for me, too."

A black SUV pulled in behind my Mustang. Like a prison break, three young children spilled out of the back seat and up the walkway and into their grandfather's arms. Bert laughed and fell back as the children swarmed over him like a litter of puppies.

"Who are you kids?" he asked, chuckling, completely succumbing to the unconditional love.

"Your grandkids!" they all chimed in at once. Now they were trying to tickle him. There were two girls and one boy. All were within a few years apart. The girls, I think, were twins.

"It's like this every time," said a male voice in front of me. "They love him more than anyone on the face of the earth. Definitely more than me."

I looked up. The middle-age man in front of me was handsome. Tan and in good shape. Blond and blue-eyed. He gave me a winning smile, full of white teeth. His face was weathered and he looked a little older than he was, probably due to the fact he spent a lot of time in the sun, which was easy to do in Huntington Beach. He looked familiar, but I couldn't place him. I stood. He held out his hand and I shook it.

"Walt Tomlinson," he said, introducing himself.

"Jim Knighthorse."

He held my gaze a moment, and then nodded. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Knighthorse." He turned to his father, who was buried somewhere under all the grandchildren. "I have to get running, dad. I'll see you tonight."

Bert raised a hand and waved. "See you, son."

Gary left, and I wasn't too far behind. Bert waved to me from the porch even while his grandson swung from his arm.

Chapter Thirty-four

The morning haze hadn't yet burned off, and the sun was still hiding up there, somewhere. I considered getting some donuts, but didn't want to overdo it, as I had already had breakfast and something that resembled a cinnamon roll.

At least it was made with love.

I passed a donut shop. Then another. I came upon a third.

My willpower shattered, I hung a U-turn and made my way back to the third donut shop, and left a few minutes later with a half dozen bars and cakes and crullers, two-thirds of which were chocolate. To wash them down, I got some chocolate milk. Chocolate may or may not be an aphrodisiac, but it sure as hell was a Jim Knighthorse picker-upper. I was giddy with anticipation.

I paid two bucks and parked in the public parking near the pier. I could have easily parked in my parking space under my apartment building and walked across the street and saved myself a fistful of dollars. But what the hell, I was feeling wasteful. I ate my first donut.

The beach was mostly quiet, although the faithful surfers were out here in droves. The waves were choppy, but that didn't discourage the diehards. And in Huntington Beach, they were all diehards. I ate donut number two.

If I turned my head a little, I could see my apartment building across the street. My apartment was there on the fifth floor, overlooking Main Street. And next to my apartment, through an open sliding glass door, I could see my Indian neighbor dancing in his living room. Jaboor was wearing only cotton briefs and was singing into a microphone, although it could have been a TV remote control. He paused in front of the glass door and shook his ass for all of Huntington Beach to see. I ate donut number three. When the ass-shaking was done, he boogied away from view.

A cool breeze blew through my cracked open windows.

I contemplated the breeze. Donut four.

Outside, I gave the last two donuts, both maple bars, to the first bum I found. He seemed genuinely pleased and started on them immediately, despite the fact that they were not chocolate. Beggars can't be choosers, after all.

I crossed over to the pier, where a handful of fishermen were fishing. Not a single woman in the bunch. Behind my Oakley wraparounds, I scanned the fishermen carefully, wondering what the blond punk would look like now.

He would be near forty. At twenty, he had looked like hundreds of other surfers. Blond, tanned, healthy, good-looking. What did he look like now? Most lifelong surfers didn't allow their bodies to go to pot. No, if he were still surfing, he would still be fit and trim. I had to assume he was still surfing. It was all I had to go on.

If so, he would still have his tan. Still have his blond hair.

And if he was a lifelong surfer, he would still live in the area, or not far from here. Hard to give this weather up, unless he moved to Mexico, like some die-hards do.

But at the time he hadn't been surfing, right? He had been fishing. But he looked like a surfer. His hair was stained blond by salt and sun. I knew he was a surfer. But that didn't mean he was still surfing. Maybe he got married and moved to Riverside to start a family.

Still, if he were a surfer at heart, even with a job and family and a long commute, he would find a way to the waves. It's in the surfer's blood. They can't escape the siren call of the waves. It's a lifelong passion.

Well, I had 40 or 50 years left on this planet. That should be enough time to cover all the beaches.

I spent the afternoon there at the pier, searching faces behind my shades. The sun did eventually burn through the low cloud layer, and when it did, and when most of the fisherman went home, I did too. Just a hop, skip and jump away.