The Fallen. Jefferson Parker
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conspiracy, premeditation, and a possible death penalty.
Ballsy guys, I thought.
Head-shoot a city investigator in his own car. Leave him in a public place and don’t bother to make it look like anything but murder.
Don’t bother to take the wallet, briefcase, or car.
Didn’t bother – I was willing to bet – putting the gun into Garrett’s trembling hand and firing it into the night so we’d find GSR and work the case as a suicide.
No, none of that. They were too confident for that. Too matter-of-fact. Too cool. They had put a cap in Garrett, then cleaned up and had a cocktail at Rainwater’s or the Waterfront.
I wondered when was the last time that Garrett Asplundh had sat where I was sitting. I looked across the workbench to the wall to see exactly what Garrett saw when he sat here – late at night, I guessed – as sleep escaped him and the endless loop of memories played through his mind over and over and over again.
I couldn’t tell you what Garrett had seen. Maybe it was a picture. Possibly a photograph. Maybe one that he had taken. Maybe a postcard. Or a poem or prayer or a joke. Or something cut from a magazine.
All that was left were four white thumbtacks, four by six inches apart.
‘No matter how long you stare, it’s still four thumbtacks,’ said McKenzie.
‘Makes me wonder what was there,’ I said. ‘A lot about Garrett makes me wonder. There isn’t enough.’
‘Enough what?’
‘Enough anything. There’s not enough of him.’
McKenzie gave me a puzzled look. Not the first time.
‘What I wonder is why a cop would want to work for the Ethics Authority in the first place,’ she said. ‘Why spy on the city you work for? Why sneak around? What, to feel important?’
‘It goes back to watching the watchdogs.’
‘Sooner or later you have to trust somebody,’ said McKenzie. ‘Otherwise there’s no end to all the layers of bullshit.’
‘Well said.’
I stood for a moment in the garage, facing the street. The March afternoon was rushing by and it was going to be a killer sunset. From a beach it would look like a can of orange paint poured onto a blue mirror. I thought of Gina and how much she wanted a place on the sand, and of the savings account I’d opened for that purpose. We were up to almost twenty thousand dollars in five years. Multiply by ten and we’d almost have enough for a down payment. At the current rate, I’d still be less than eighty years old. My Grandpa Rich is eighty-five and still going strong.
I turned and looked up at the neatly stacked boxes on the shelves. Everything Asplundh did was neat. I pulled down one box and set it on the workbench. It was surprisingly light. McKenzie cut the shipping tape with my penknife. Inside, individually wrapped in tissue paper, like gifts, were small blouses, shorts, dresses, coats, sweaters. A pair of tennis shoes with cartoon characters on them. A pair of shiny black dress shoes. Barrettes and combs for hair. Even a doll, a pudgy baby doll with a faded blue dress. None of it was new.
It all looked like it was made for a three-year-old, which was the age of Garrett’s daughter when she drowned. There was a black felt cowgirl hat stuffed with tissue to keep it shaped. Stitched into the crown in bright colors were buckin’ broncos and ponies and a saguaro cactus and a campfire. Samantha was embroidered across the front in pink.
‘Memorial in a box,’ said McKenzie.
‘When my Aunt Melissa died, Uncle Jerry couldn’t figure out what to keep and let go,’ I said. ‘He kept most of her stuff.’
‘Little doll,’ said McKenzie. ‘Man, tough call. You don’t want to see it every day, but you can’t just toss it out like it doesn’t matter. You can’t look at it, but you can’t let it go.’
Stella Asplundh slid open two dead bolts and one chain, cracked the door, looked from McKenzie to me, and said, ‘He’s dead.’
Four black triangles tumbled into the space between us. Black triangles are dread.
‘Yes, ma’am. Last night.’
‘Was he murdered?’
‘We don’t know yet,’ I said. ‘It’s likely.’
The black triangles derealized and vanished.
She was wearing a loose black sweater, jeans, and dark socks. She was a beautiful woman although she looked disheveled and unhealthy. The elevator clanked down behind us.
‘Come in.’
Her apartment was a Queen Anne Victorian down in the Gaslamp Quarter, once a red-light district and now a place for restaurants and clubs. She was on the fourth floor, above an art gallery and two other flats.
We sat in the unlit living room on a big purple couch with gold piping. The walls were paneled in black walnut and the windows faced north and west. I could see the darkening sky and the rooftop of another building across the street, which reminded me of falling from the sixth floor of the Las Palmas. The room smelled faintly of cinnamon and a woman’s perfume.
I explained to Stella Asplundh what we had found.
She watched me without moving. She said nothing. Her hair fell loosely around her face and her eyes were black and shiny.
‘So much,’ she said quietly.
‘So much what?’ asked McKenzie. She had gotten out her notebook and was already writing.
Stella looked down, brushed something off her knee. ‘He went through so much.
‘We have…we had an unusual relationship. It would be very difficult to explain. We were going to meet last night in Rancho Santa Fe – neutral ground. He didn’t show. That’s never happened before. In the twelve years I’ve known Garrett, he never stood me up. That’s why, when I answered the door just now…’
‘You knew something had happened,’ said McKenzie, head bowed to her notepad.
‘Yes, exactly. Excuse me for just a moment, please.’
She rose in the twilight and walked past me. A light went on in a hallway. I heard a door shut and water running. A toilet flushed. After a minute McKenzie set down her notebook and pen and went into the hallway. I heard the knock.
‘Ms. Asplundh? You okay?’
Stella answered, though I couldn’t hear what she said.
I stood and went to a small alcove hung with photographs and mementos. Mostly there were pictures of Stella, Garrett, and a cute little girl. A police commendation hung beside a day-care diploma for Samantha Asplundh. A master’s degree in psychology for Stella Asplundh hung next to a photograph of ten college-age women in bathing suits standing in front of a swimming pool. The engraved plate said SAN FRANCISCO MERAQUAS, PAN AMERICAN GAMES SYNCHRONIZED SWIMMING CHAMPIONS 1983.
The toilet flushed again, and the door opened. They were talking quietly. Then they came back to the half-lit room, McKenzie with a hand on Stella Asplundh’s arm.
Stella sat again and stared out the window. The streetlamps went on down on Island and a car horn honked and honked again. A pigeon flashed by.
‘We can come back,’ I said.
‘If we have to,’ said McKenzie.
‘No,’ said Stella Asplundh. ‘Ask your questions.’
‘It’s brave and good of you,’ I said.
Stella nodded but looked at neither of us.
‘Was