Deadly Echo (eBook)

4

The drive back to my place was short. My thoughts were long. What got me—what gave me that surprise punch—was the way grief seemed to enjoy catching me unaware. Grief can be, if not handled, somewhat manipulated, finessed, concealed. But grief also likes to hide . . . anywhere. My grief enjoyed leaping out of nowhere to startle me, mock me, and strip away any pretense of normalcy. Grief lulled me to sleep. It made the blind-sided hits even more jarring.

I walked the perimeter of my property and spotted nothing that would warrant concern, just peace. Rufus walked ahead and occasionally stopped to turn and inspect and protect. I looked to the west and estimated the sun had about forty-five minutes or so before it dropped out of sight behind the Baboquivari Mountains. Several chores awaited, but none of them inspired me. However, starting up the fire pit did.

I have always liked to work night hours. In that respect, I am lucky in my career choice. It had never been a chore or drudgery or something I do simply to put food on the table. I disappeared into my work. Like a troubled athlete, I forgot everything when I was playing the game. I entered the zone. I was at my best.

I see now. I was selfish.

I pushed the dried mesquite logs around with an old two iron and looked for answers in the sparks and whispers of smoke. Another beer would help, or better yet, a couple slugs of tequila.

Nope. Forget that. Rufus would have to drag my ass to bed.

I poked at the embers some more. Red flames began to dance. Katie would move to music in the same way, with eagerness and enthusiasm. She was red haired and fiery. She was fit and gorgeous and liked her men the same way, I was told. I always thought it was wrong to apply that to me, but she did her best to convince me I was wrong.

I drug another log into the fire and watched the moisture trapped inside spit in several directions. It triggered a memory—the night I found my soulmate.

It was in San Diego. I was there with my teammates for the Police/Fire Games–a huge softball tournament. On the last night, we all headed to Coronado Island for a beach party at the Del Coronado Hotel. It was almost impossible to hear a conversation over the loud crush of music. I spied a vacant spot atop a nearby breaker wall and, after filling a large glass in the Margarita Fountain, made my way there. I had that eerie feeling of someone staring at me.

It was the first time I had seen Katie away from the hospital environment. She smiled and gave a subtle wave. No, the music didn’t stop, or doves appear, but something happened to me. I got that chill thing inside. I moved off the wall a bit too quickly. My drink found my lap. Katie’s hand covered her mouth and mine covered my crotch.

I didn’t care. I moved to her place at the bar. “What brings you here?”

“You.” Katie said.

“Excuse me!” I blurted.

“I am out here with some girlfriends,” Katie said, “and I overheard you telling somebody at the hospital that you had a tournament in San Diego. You also mentioned this party. We said what the hell and came out. Not a problem I hope.”

“Do I look like it’s a problem?”

We shared laughs and a few more margaritas. We took a walk to the water’s edge and then found a much quieter, secluded area away from loud noise and loud people. I kissed her; she responded. We started to make out. We made out all night and I didn’t push it any farther. I held her. We talked some more. I loved her laugh. I loved her face. I loved everything about her. We fell asleep in each other’s arms, fully dressed.

Back to reality. It was 6:12 pm.

With no leads, no clues, and no suspects, I decided to start my off-the-books investigation. I asked myself, where do I start? Katie’s last hair appointment.

It seemed like a stretch, even to me, but it was the only thing I had.

I considered driving to the north entrance of the mall. Walk through Macy’s and by the food court. The Imagine! hair salon would be on the right.

No. Why would I avoid the south lot? I was there to try to understand what went on before the shooting.

Katie’s 2004 red Camaro convertible had been parked two rows south of the south entrance and seven slots to the west.

That’s where I went because that’s where Katie died.

Two shots from a .357—one pierced the heart, the other severed the aorta.

Her death was instant. A bit of mercy.

I drove around the parking spot—twice—but didn’t park there. I had put aside the pain the visual had left. I had other reasons not to pull into it. I needed a bigger picture when I did my visualization.

A mall security guard in his pickup with flashing yellow lights stopped. Waved me across in front of him. He smiled and waved again. I didn’t return it. Where were you then? I shook my head. I had become a bitter citizen.

Robert. I didn’t know his last name and I’m not sure Katie ever did. All I remember is this guy would always remain a part of her life. Every month or so, he would satisfy her whims, challenge her wishes, and ultimately have her leave happy. Robert was her hairdresser…or whatever the term du jour is for that occupation. I tagged along on one occasion to see what he could make out of my Irish curls. He said, “Sir, I am a hair stylist, not a magician!” That ended that experiment.

The “Walk-ins Welcome” sign greeted me in the window before the large opening to the parlor. The inside was pristine with perfect lighting effects. A waiting area to my left consisted of leather, overstuffed chairs and a glass topped coffee table with numerous periodicals on top. To the side was a liquid serving station and a tray of goodies. Elton John was in the background.

“May I help you, sir? My name is Heidi,” greeted the young, cheerful receptionist.

“Quite possibly. I see you take walk-ins,” I answered.

“Yes, sir, we do. It will be about a forty-five-minute wait.”

“Thanks, names Michael, but I’ll just wait around here.”

I glanced at the window on the other side of the entrance. Claire Danes, Owner/Manager.

“Is Ms. Danes available?”

Heidi looked to her left and nodded toward the woman talking to what appeared to be a vendor. “She’s busy at the moment, but I’ll tell her you asked for her if you would have seat.”

“How long has she owned this salon?”

“Since it opened, I guess.”

“Really,” I said. “When did you start?”

She looked up into space. “End of August or first of September, I think. About six months ago.”

Interesting. “Really busy here, I would guess.”

“Yeah, for the most part,” Heidi answered. “The stylists stay busy.”

“I heard Robert is very good.”

“Robert doesn’t work here anymore. I’ll take your name and you can certainly wait here or visit other stores in the mall.”

That statement was rather matter of fact. I sat in a posh, leather chair and waited another twenty-five before Claire Danes introduced herself.

“You asked for me, sir?”

I stood. “Yes, ma’am. A friend of mine referred me here.”

Claire forced a smile and looked quizzically at my hair. “I’m sure one of the stylists can accommodate you. But may I ask why you asked for me by name? I’m the owner and manager but I don’t style hair anymore.”

She looked expensive. Late forties was my guess, rich clothing, and jewelry to match. Brown hair with highlights, pulled back with a longer portion falling to her shoulders. Probably one of those extension things. She reminded me of a big cat, a panther or a tiger, fangs that smiled at you while the eyes never left your throat.

“I was told to ask for Robert, but I just found out he no longer works here. So, I thought you would be the one to refer me to someone else.”

“That’s logical. I’ll set you up with Audrey. It will be just a few…and what is your name?”

“Michael.” I had to think about it.

She smiled a different smile this time. The half smirk kind of smile that someone gave when they already know the answer to the question they asked. “I’ll tell Audrey you are waiting.”

She did and then disappeared into the back part of the salon.

Heidi gestured to Audrey’s station. “She’s ready for you, sir.”

“Curly hair is always fun to work with.” Audrey’s face was soft, but her dark, almond shaped eyes looked sad. Two, framed pictures sat to each side of the mirror in front of me. A boy of around eight and Audrey with the same child, perhaps two years earlier. They shared dark hair, hazelnut skin.

“A beautiful child you have there, Audrey.”

“He is my life.”

“So, how long have you worked here?” My head leaned back into the sink.

“Three years, Michael. Maybe a little more than that.”

“Do you think you can do anything with this mess? A guy named Robert cut my hair here before with not much luck.”

“We’ll see,” she said.

“I don’t see Robert. Did he go to another salon in town?”

Audrey’s hands paused. “Not that I know of.”

“You didn’t stay in touch?” People that shared occupations usually did.

She shrugged. “He didn’t interact much with the rest of us. Did his own thing.”

I...