Dead in the Water (12 page)

“Do you think Nick had anything to do with Jackie’s accident?”

“Jac Kay” she said emphasizing each syllable, “is a skanky beaatch.”

“The woman almost died. She drove off a cliff.”

“BFD. She is a total slut. I heard her and my dad fighting. She was dating DickWad and my dad at the same time. Dad didn’t like that. I really wished he would dump her. I’ll run away if she ends up my stepmother, I swear.”

This conversation was more than strange. I actually thought that her father was somehow involved with Waddell’s accident that ultimately took his life. But what about Jackie? And my car? Could Nick and maybe some of his friends be involved, like Daisy said?

“Daisy, you better speak to your father. Have you talked to Nick about this?”

“I got to go.”

“One more thing. What does your father do?”

“He sells stuff.”

“Stuff? Like shoes, computers?”

“Airplanes, jumbo jets, that kind of thing.”

“You sell things like that out of an office?”

“He works mostly from home.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Dad just came home” and the line went dead.

As 4:30 p.m. came around, I considered leaving early, shutting the office down and heading home. Daisy’s call was unsettling; so was Justin’s visit. Was he as sorry as he said? I have a feeling that if I asked that question to my immediate circle—Lena, Dr. T, my NPS security pal, and probably even ditzy Daisy Menton—they would all stand in front of me, stick out their right arm, and give a unanimous thumbs down.

.

18

I changed my mind
at least four times after I slipped into the driver’s seat of the Checker cab. But I was now parked down the street from El Oriente Salvaje, in the Mission District. And I was early.

The Mission is a high-strung neighborhood with an active pulse. The sidewalks were packed—people rushing out of the BART station, San Francisco’s subway, coming home from work, families stopping into taquerias to pick up dinner, and young teenagers in tight black jeans skateboarding around parked cars. I’d do the ‘one Mississippi’ thing a few times. If I didn’t see Justin go in, I was on my way home.

I was on the ninth ‘one Mississippi’ when I saw him walk through the restaurant’s front door. A combination of dread and relief flushed over me. Okay, I was going in.

But first, I texted Lena and asked her to call my cell in about an hour. A quick look in the flip down mirror showed that I looked… like me. No miracle change. Just the same dark brown eyes stared back at me that have stared at me my whole life. I took my hair out of the ponytail and ran a comb through it. Lena was lucky. She had the bouncy curly hair that always looked good. Mine was reddish brown, fine and straight.

“This is as good as it gets,” I said, and headed for the front door.

The restaurant appeared closed. I could barely see the small twinkling lights through the thick blackish-grey window shades. I walked slowly toward the front door. Just as I pushed it open, an older Latina pulled up one of the shades.

“Hola,” she said smiling.

It was like walking across the border. Outside, horns honking, motors running, the starkness of concrete sidewalks and streets, graffiti and too many hurrying people. Inside, I found myself in a warm family restaurant. Wider than it was long, the kitchen where the abuelitas—the grandmothers—were preparing the food, was at the back. Couples and families with small children sat at tables topped by Formica. The walls were covered with black and white photographs of a dusty rural El Salvador. Laughter and chit chat were mostly in Spanish. Some people stood at the back counter picking up food to go.

Justin sat at a corner booth talking with a short olive-skinned woman, in her early thirties with round deep brown eyes, and long dark hair pulled back and up, held in place by two combs of golden sunflowers. Even from the front door, I could hear the music and joy in her laughter.

He saw me when I walked in and waved me over.

“Nancy, this is a good friend of mine, Trisha. Nancy is one of the owners.”

“Hello, very nice to meet you,” she smiled a warm gracious greeting. “Ever eaten Salvadoran food?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Very tasty. My mother, Patricia—see back there—she runs the kitchen. You are a friend of Justin’s. Then special papusas for you.”

With that she walked toward the kitchen behind the bar and started rattling off a mile a minute in Spanish. “Si, si,” said Patricia, holding a large dark frying pan in her hand over the stove. She looked up at me, smiled and called out, “You will like.”

I sat down across from Justin.

“You came. I didn’t think you would. I’m not sure I would have.”

He’s right, I thought. Anyone with common sense would have stayed away. My 3 x 5 cards came to mind. I could see his name on one of them. Why exactly had he invited me? Was it really to apologize again? Or was it something else?

“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” I said.

I glanced up at him. His shoulders sagged and he rarely met my eyes. Every now and then, he gave me a tentative and lopsided smile. Basically, Justin was non-descript—you wouldn’t even look up when he walked by, but there was an undeniable undercurrent, a low voltage of electricity, running through him.

On the side of his neck, he had a tattoo of a clock with no hands in blue ink. When his hands were on the table, I could see the remnants of tattoos right above his knuckles. Above that was a faint spider web.

“You said yourself that you probably wouldn’t have come.”

“So why did you?”

“I’m not all that sure. But, I believe that people can make mistakes. I know I’ve made my share.”

“So we’re cool?”

“I’m not ready to go that far yet, but I’m still here.”

“Nancy and Patricia are cooking just for you. I don’t want to disappoint them. After we’ve eaten, if you want to leave, well… that’s the way it will be.”

Nancy brought over a plate of papusas, thick corn tortillas filled with melted cheese, pork and beans. With it came curtido, a simple tangy cabbage salad. It looked good and smelled great. I have to say that the food kept me in the restaurant more than Justin. For a few minutes, I did nothing but revel in the gooey cheesiness.

Patricia had come out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a white apron. Like her daughter, she had a lilt in her high-pitched voice. She sounded happy no matter what she said. “Justin, he is one of my favorites.” She patted him on the cheek. “You like?”

“Es bueno,” said Justin.

“It’s beyond bueno. Delicioso,” I said, using my limited Spanish. Patricia smiled. Her waist length dark hair had a streak of grey that began at her left temple and stretched to its end. It was pulled back in a ponytail and wrapped into a circle on the back of her head. She continued to walk around the small room, stopping at tables and chatting in Spanish. If Nancy and Patricia liked Justin, maybe he was more than the jerk I thought he was.

But I still had no idea what to say to him. Where to start? So I said the only thing that came to mind.

“You like tattoos?”

“So-so. Why do you ask?”

I tapped the faint markings on his knuckles and pointed to the clock with no hands on the side of his neck.

“When you’re young you do stupid things.” He dipped his head. “Well maybe, when you’re older too. Anyway, I had these tats done a while ago. Now I’m getting them undone. Not cheap.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Getting inked or de-inked?”

“Both, I guess.”

“Yes, to both.”

Justin’s cell phone rang. He looked at the screen. “Sorry, but I have to take this.”

Turning sideways, he spoke quietly into the phone.

“Yes. Now. This is the time. Okay.”

He hung up and looked at me with a sad smile. “Sorry about that. Business gets in the way of everything sometimes.”

“Do you know when you’ll be able to swim again?” I asked, trying to fill up the dead air floating between us.

“The doctor says a few more weeks. I miss it. You swim, don’t you?”

“No, well yes, but not like you and my sister. I just float around. I like the water. For me, it’s relaxing.”

“Your sister swims?”

“Yeah, Lena Shriver is my sister. She competed in high school and college. Now it’s mostly for fun, to stay in shape. She likes the open water swims and I usually end up driving her.”

“What does she do?”

“Website designer. She’s good at it, too.”

“Maybe I’ll check her out. My business could use a more sophisticated site.”

He glanced over at Patricia in the kitchen, then looked back at me. “So how’s the job?”

“You know what surprises me about it? The accidents. I never expected people would get hurt.”

“That’s right. You were showing me your cards. Girl detective. Do you still think someone is after open water swimmers?”

“Yes, I do. But I don’t know why and I don’t know who.”

“Although you couldn’t really classify open water swimming as an extreme sport, it has definite dangers. This community here has been accident-free for years. Maybe it’s just time. Still have your cards and your clues?”

“No clues. I’m just trying to connect the dots. See who is related to who.”

“A genealogy for the accidents?”

“Sort of. Hey, when we first met, you mentioned that you had something to do with the food booths that are at the swims. What exactly do you do?”

“I started a company with a friend. We make this product called RazzleD. We develop nutritional supplements for athletes. We’re fairly new, but we have a pretty good foothold in the local open water swimming community. We’re branching out and hitting the national swims. We’re in talks now with the triathlon head honchos to see if we could get a spot at their events. There’s a lot of money there. Thousands of triathletes compete in a season—pure gold for us.”

“How’d you get involved with that?”

“Well, I’m trained as a chemist. You wouldn’t believe that, would you? I’ve been interested in how nutrition and nutritional supplements can help performance. And I’m a swimmer, been one since as far back as I can remember. I have two partners, one is silent, gives us money and looks over our shoulders. The other is a big wheeler-dealer, entrepreneur-type. I’m the grunt worker, coming up with the formulas. You’ve seen the booths then?”

“At the Cold Water Clash, I saw some teenagers giving out drinks from a booth. Was that your booth?”

“Yeah. Do you remember seeing the name of the product?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Mmm, well. That’s interesting. We need to do something to get more name recognition. Maybe your sister could help with that.”

Nancy stopped by the table. “Anything else you’d like?”

The papusas had been filling, but I had seen Nancy carry out a wonderful looking dish that looked like bananas.

“What is that?” I asked Nancy, pointing to a nearby table.

“Fried plantains with crème. Usually you have it before a meal or maybe breakfast. But it’s sweet, so people in this country eat them for dessert.”

“We’ll share an order,” Justin said.

Like the rest of the food, the fried plantains were very tasty. Again, we were quiet for a while as we ate.

“How do you know Nancy and Patricia?”

“I know Nancy’s brother, Roberto.”

“Is he working behind the counter…one of those guys back there?”

“No. He comes in later. Guy’s been in and out of trouble. Sad story, wonderful family, but a sad story. That’s enough. Let’s finish up and get out of here,” he said, calling over Nancy for the check.

I felt like a door had closed. Was asking about Roberto taboo? Or was it something else? I was just about to ease into some questions about Jackie and Dick. What was going on?

“Let’s head back to my office,” he said. “You can try out some of our products.”

Don’t think so, I thought. I’m not ready to be alone with you.

Just then my phone rang. It was Lena. I’d forgotten that I asked her to call.

“Yes?”

“Well, here I am,” said my sister. “I’m still at Stinson, but the group is getting ready to leave. It will be dark soon.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“You didn’t know what? Trish, what’s this all about? Are you okay?”

“Yes, not a problem. But I’ll be there. I’ll leave now.”

“Trish, where are you?”

“Still in San Francisco. I’ll be there soon,” I said and put the phone back in my bag.

“I better be going,” I said.

As we stood outside the restaurant, Justin kept looking around. When a car backfired on Mission Street, he jumped and backed up closer to the front window of the restaurant.

“We’ll do the office thing some other time,” he said, looking over my shoulder to the sidewalk across the street. I saw him nod. I turned to see who he was looking at, but there was nobody that I could see, just a woman walking down the street holding her son’s hand, two twenty-somethings in the middle of an animated conversation and three men all in sweatshirts gathered around an ATM machine.

“Sure, it was fun. Food was great.”

Before I finished my sentence, he had started to walk away, quickly turned the corner and vanished.