Yesterday's Echo (23 page)

I knew Lamont Street well. It was the restaurateur's restaurant.
California comfort food prepared expertly. And the chef knew his way around a stockpot. His tomato garlic dill soup was a pool of crimson heaven. But dinner would have to wait. I had to find out if Grimes had come here for a quiet meal alone or to show someone the contents of his portfolio. No doubt, it had a file in it with my name on it.

I took a quick glance though the window in the gate before I opened it. A flash of outside diners, but no sight of Grimes. I entered the red brick courtyard that had seven or eight dinner tables. Half of them had diners. None of them were Detective Grimes. I scanned the windows that lined the main indoor dining room. Not there either.

I went up the steps under the wooden trellis and entered the restaurant. It opened onto a narrow foyer with a tiny hostess station just outside of the kitchen. A tan, blonde woman, probably just hours removed from the beach a few blocks down, welcomed me to the restaurant.

I quietly told the hostess I was waiting for someone and didn't want to be seated until she arrived. There were two dining areas I hadn't been able to see from the patio. One was down the steps from the foyer to the right and the other was in a separate room to the left of the hostess stand. Entering either would probably raise the heads of semiobservant diners. Especially if one of them was a cop.

I headed for the bathroom to the left of the kitchen and just past the entry into the small dining room next to the hostess station. I peered into the room over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of the back of Grimes's head. And the front of someone else's.

Timothy Buckley. Melody's lawyer.

The two of them were sharing a table and probably Grimes's report on me.

I went into the men's room and locked myself inside the lone stall, in case either of them needed to pee. The walls of the stall closed in on me like the bars of a jail cell.

Grimes and Buckley? What the hell was going on? Was Grimes
moonlighting for Melody's defense team in hopes of turning the case onto me and finishing the job he'd started back in Santa Barbara? It didn't make sense. If he was down here to put me behind bars, why wouldn't he have teamed up with the La Jolla Police Department? Maybe he'd retired and become a P.I., now free to pursue me on his own.

Whatever the reason, Grimes was sitting with Buckley right now relaying what he had on me. If Melody and Buckley had agreed to let Alan Fineman lead the defense, whatever Buckley had would make its way into Peter Stone's hands. If Grimes had followed me to the storage facility today, Stone would soon know it. I doubted anyone but me knew that Adam Windsor had a space there. But if I could get the woman in the office to talk, Stone's pros could too. They'd just be more direct about it, and when the woman was done talking they'd know that I'd been inside Windsor's unit.

My cell phone buzzed in my pocket. Muldoon's again. Somebody there really wanted to talk to me. Maybe Turk had my money or wanted to beg me to take my job back. Fat chance. I answered anyway.

“Rick!” Pat's voice was a hot sizzle. “You gotta come down here. There's some weird shit going on.”

“I don't work there anymore.” I tried to sound aloof, like the words didn't hurt coming out of my mouth. But they did. “Call Turk. It's all his now.”

“What!”

“Turk fired me this morning. Didn't he tell you?”

“No! He said you were taking a few days off.”

“Well, he fired me. So I can't help you.” I spat the words out hard and jagged, trying to spread around my pain. But Pat didn't deserve to be the target. “Sorry. Hope it all works out. Thanks for the hard work you put in over the years. I'm sure I'll see you around.”

“Rick, listen. Something's going on.” Fear clung to his words. “Turk brought a couple of big dudes into the bar and told me we were lending them some liquor and beer. They took half our premiums. Ketel One, Black Label, JD, Courvoisier, everything. Two
full boxes and four cases of beer. Then they went into the kitchen and came out with a couple cases of prime rib and filet mignon. When they left, they took one of the sofas in the hall. People were sitting on it, waiting to be seated for dinner and Turk asked them to wait in the bar. Then he just took off without a word. We've got a wait and Kris is in the weeds trying to work the hostess station and seat people all by herself.”

I had Pat describe the men who came in with Turk. They didn't sound like my earlier attackers. Maybe this didn't have anything to do with me. Maybe Turk had either lost his mind or was selling the restaurant one piece at a time. That might have explained his behavior this morning. It didn't mean I had to care or could do anything about it. I had my own worries, starting with Grimes and Buckley in the other room.

“Rick, we need your help.”

But I did care. I'd given the restaurant almost half my adult life. I'd hired every employee who worked there. They'd depended on me, not some absentee owner who'd decided to give the store away. I still had ten grand invested in Muldoon's. It might take a lawyer to sort out the legalities if Turk didn't come up with my money, but right now the restaurant needed me.

Finding out what Grimes and Buckley were up to would have to wait.

“Run a half-price special on all house liquor and draft beer.” I left the stall and peeked out the bathroom door to make sure Grimes and Buckley weren't looking, then bolted though the front door and out of the restaurant.

I still had the cell phone up to my ear as I hustled along the sidewalk to my car. “Have the dishwasher and a busboy center the remaining couch so there's not a gaping hole there. Make sure Hector vacuums around where the old couch used to be. Give me a list of the premiums you think we'll run out of. I'll borrow them from Alfonso's and be there in fifteen minutes.”

After he gave me the list, Pat asked, “Rick, what's going on?”

“Don't worry. It's under control,” I lied.

I got to Muldoon's by eight fifteen p.m. All three of the remaining sofas in the front hall were full of customers waiting to be seated for dinner. Busy, even for a Friday night. Some of the guests' eyes flashed wide, fingers hit smartphone keypads, and whispers hissed in the hallway when I strode into the restaurant. My life had turned into a giant fishbowl and everyone had now seen me crap in the water. But judging by the headcount, maybe my infamy was good for business.

I was famous just by virtue of being in the news and online. Good or bad, it didn't matter, you just had to be seen. Welcome to the United States of Celebrity. Maybe I should start selling my own line of cologne.

Kris and I quickly got the wait list under control, and Pat now had what he needed to make it through the night in the bar. I had to comp a few drinks and desserts to soothe some customers' jangled nerves, but, hey, the liquor and food costs were no longer my concern.

Kris did her job efficiently as always, but her smiles and conversation were saved for the customers. Me, she kept at a distance. My rough handling of Eddie Philby last night, coupled with the newspaper's finger-pointing, had shoved a wedge between us. The little sister-like affection I used to see in her eyes had been replaced with uncertainty and disappointment.

Celebrity is overrated.

Things had slowed down enough by ten to let Kris go home. She left with a rushed “Good-night” and without eye contact. I withstood the side-glances and the whispers of customers with
practiced stoicism as I stood alone at the hostess stand. This wasn't my first swim in the fishbowl.

At ten thirty, my stoic facade sprung a hairline fracture when Peter Stone walked though the front door of Muldoon's. Over-dressed in Italian silk, he showed me his dead-eyed smirk. Violence leaked from my eyes, but I quickly smoothed them into a flat stare. Best not to show your cards to the guy holding the rest of the deck.

“Stone.” Murderer, possibly. Asshole, unquestionably.

“Rick. Delightful to see you.” He looked at the bandage on my arm and the scab on the side of my face. “My, it looks as if the world has turned ugly on you. That must be discomforting.”

“No goons to hide behind tonight, Stone?” I gave him a smirk of my own. “How courageous.”

“Of course, you know all about courage. Don't you, Rick?” He stopped at the hostess stand and looked down at me. “A simple man's blunt instrument.”

We stared at each other for a while to keep from peeing on the other's leg. Finally, Stone broke the silence.

“It's that everyman earnestness that's going to do you in, Rick.” He showed me his teeth. “A conscience is a dangerous thing.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, so I just kept up the stare.

“Have you spoken with our lovely Melody, now that she's a free woman?”

I didn't say anything, but he must have read surprise in my eyes.

“Oh dear.” A hand over his heart. “You relay the message to Melody's lawyer about Alan Fineman taking her on like a good little errand boy, and she doesn't even call you to thank you when he gets her bail reduced? Yes, the world has certainly turned ugly for you, young man.”

He could have been lying, but I doubted it. I had the feeling Stone used lies to get what he wanted and the truth to inflict pain. If Melody was out of jail, maybe she knew about Buckley hiring Grimes to tail me. Maybe she'd even given her approval.

Maybe my world had turned even uglier than Stone thought.

“You in for dinner, Stone? Drinks?” I was tired of being the stupidest guy in the room. “The band's on a break. You might be able to find some single women you can bully before they start up again.”

“Rick, you never disappoint.” He gave me the full Great White smile. “When I take over ownership of this dinosaur, I might just keep you on for your wit. Every kingdom needs its court jester.”

The joke was on him. I didn't even work there anymore.

“I'm here to see Mr. Muldoon,” he said. “The real owner.”

His barbs had lost their sting, and I was tired of the game. I was tired of Stone, period. But because of Melody and Muldoon's, he'd wedged his way into my life. If I admitted I had what he wanted and would give it to him, would he go away or sink his hook deeper?

Or just erase me like someone had Adam Windsor?

“Turk's not here tonight. I'll tell him you dropped by the next time I see him.”

“He'll be here.” Stone swept around behind me and headed toward the bar. “Tell him I'm waiting.”

Ten minutes later, Turk walked through the door and proved Stone correct. He didn't look happy to see me. I wasn't happy either. He was drunk. Not staggering, but his gait was wide and his eyes were red. Turk was mostly a happy drunk, but could turn mean quickly with the right impetus.

If I didn't light the fuse, Stone would.

“What are you doing here?” He leaned into the hostess stand and blew hundred-proof breath at me.

“Someone had to be here after you walked out.” I nodded my head at a couple who came in behind Turk and headed for the bar.

“Don't tell me how to run my restaurant!” His voice boomed off the walls in the entryway. The band had started up again covering most of Turk's volume, but heads nearest the entrance of the bar turned.

This could get ugly.

I grabbed Turk's arm and tried to guide him to the front door. He shook my hand off, but followed me outside. A group of people stood in the courtyard smoking, so I went to the lookout spot behind the restaurant next to lawyers' offices. Turk trailed behind.

The ocean lay dark and infinite below, a cracked mirror to the night sky. Off to the right, the calm waters off La Jolla Shores lapped up onto the long, smooth swath of sandy beach. Dead ahead, the coastline turned jagged creating La Jolla Cove between saw tooth rocky cliffs. Waves crashed against the cliffs, patiently imposing their will.

I put my back to the lookout's metal railing and braced for Turk's arrival. When he got to me, he had a lit cigarette in his mouth. Further proof that he was drunk.

“I thought I fired you this morning.” The cigarette bobbed in the corner of his mouth as he spoke out the other side.

“What the hell's going on, Turk?”

He pulled the cigarette from his mouth, let go a halo of smoke, and rested his barrel forearms on the railing.

“It's not your concern anymore.” A hint of sadness took the place where I'd expected anger.

“Whether or not you fired me, I owe you for hiring me in the first place.” A lump surprised me in my throat as I flashed back to the day Turk had offered me a job when no one else would even talk to me. “But you owe it to the people working in there to do things right.”

He hit his cigarette and looked out at the water, but stayed silent.

“You've got that Vegas slimeball waiting in the bar to talk to you and two goons walking out of the restaurant with booze and a couch.” I pointed back at Muldoon's. “Is Stone shaking you down? What's this all about?”

His head dropped and he stared at the ground.

“My old man started this place forty-two years ago.” His voice, a rumbling groan. “My mom told me later that he didn't know a thing about the restaurant biz at the time. But he was an Old-Country
Irishman and wouldn't listen to anyone. By sheer hard-headedness, he figured out how to make it work.”

He straightened up and clutched the railing with his hands, his eyes blank, starring inward. “I worked here every day as a kid and swore that when I was old enough, I'd leave here for good. When I got the scholarship to UCLA I thought, ‘I'm done with this place.' Then I got out of college and went to see the world. Did you know I was running with the bulls in Pamplona when my old man died?”

I nodded. I'd heard the story before, but I let him go on. I didn't mind hearing it one last time.