They drove to the tiny rented house on the edge of Cobalt Cove, almost at the town limit. The street was lined with parked cars and old pines that dumped needles in clumps on the cracked sidewalks.
“Tank’s place is one-twenty-seven.” Dan pulled the truck to the curb, next to a one-story stucco house with barred windows and a wild scalp of lawn. An elderly lady walked past leading two tiny dogs, eyeing them carefully as she did so.
“Neighborhood watch?” Dan said.
Join the parade, Angela thought. Why did it feel as if everyone was watching them? Shaking off the ripple of anxiety, she got out and headed for the front door. She rapped on the metal, the sound echoing.
A dog barked in the neighbor’s yard, wet nose visible through a knothole in the warped wood. Angela knocked again. “It’s Navy Chaplain Angela Gallagher,” she called. “I’m a friend of Tank’s, Mrs. Guzman. Please open the door.”
She leaned close. “I think I heard someone,” she whispered to Dan. Seconds ticked by.
“Please, Mrs. Guzman,” she tried again. “Tank’s in trouble and we want to help.”
The door opened a crack, grating against the fastened security chain. A young woman with wavy dark hair peered out, frowning. “What do you want?”
“We need to talk to Tank,” Angela said. “Are you Mrs. Guzman?”
“My husband is not home.”
“Where is he?” Dan said.
Her eyes grew more fearful. “Who are you?”
“This is Dr. Blackwater. He’s a surgeon. He treated Tank at the clinic.”
Dan peered down at her, bending a little. “Tank spoke of you, Mrs. Guzman. Your first name is Cora, right?” Dan offered a smile that even Angela had to admit was charming. “Tank told me you were going to scold him solidly for fighting in the bar. He said he didn’t deserve such a good woman.”
Cora’s expression softened with the hint of a smile. “He doesn’t,” she murmured.
Dan’s charm was a powerful thing, Angela noted. It was the kind of quality that used to attract her—confidence, a man who was clear on what he wanted and needed in life. Someone who enjoyed his blessings and shared them readily with others. Focus, Angela. She pressed the advantage. “Mrs. Guzman, has Tank told you about what is going on?”
“He’s gotten into some trouble. He’s going to straighten things out. It will be okay. Thanks for your concern, but we’re fine.”
“Did he tell you that he’s afraid Harry Gruber is trying to kill him?”
Her lips thinned. “Gruber is a monster.”
“How so?” Dan leaned closer. “What exactly has he done to Tank, Cora? Please tell us.”
From next door, a baby wailed.
“Tank told me not to talk about it,” Cora said.
“We need to know so we can help him.” Dan offered another devastating smile. “All we want to do is help him and you. We’re not working with Gruber. I can assure you of that. I’m a doctor and she’s a chaplain, like we said. He came to Angela for help, but he ran before we got the story. Please, Cora. Tank needs us whether he knows it or not.”
Cora hesitated. “Gruber knew Tank needed the money. It’s wrong to take advantage of someone’s desperation,” she said. “That’s a sin.”
“Did Gruber loan Tank some money?” Angela said. “And now he wants the loan repaid?”
“He—” Cora broke off as a tan truck rumbled up the street. As the vehicle creaked toward them, Angela’s chest tightened. The sign on the scratched door read “Gruber and Gruber Trucking.”
It rolled closer, the silhouette familiar, the long nose, jutting chin, balding head.
The driver was Harry Gruber’s brother, Peter.
Angela’s palms went cold. The truck crept along until it was even with the house.
Peter did not look at them, merely inched his way along the street with excruciating slowness. The message was clear. Watching you. Every move you make. Cold, hard fear roiled through every muscle and nerve.
Angela heard Tank’s wife suck in a breath, and then she slammed the door. The bolt grated home.
“Cora, wait,” Angela called.
Silence.
They turned to watch the truck.
The unsmiling Peter gave them a grim salute as he drove away.
Dan strode to the curb, but Peter had already driven on by.
Though Angela knocked again on the door, Cora would not answer. She scrawled her cell number on the back of a business card and shoved it in the crack of the door. Dan was still staring in the direction the truck had taken.
“You know, I’ve always thought of Cobalt Cove as a sleepy little town, sort of a coastal Mayberry.”
“And now?”
“Peter. Harry Gruber. Tank. Lila.” He turned a thoughtful gaze on her. “I’m beginning to get a real bad feeling.”
Though her own nerves were still hitched tight, his erect posture, the muscled shoulders and the determination on his face brought her a small measure of reassurance.
“I’m going to go back to the clinic and comb through Tank’s computer records again,” he said. “There wasn’t much, but maybe I missed something. Lila’s notes should be there, too.”
She nodded, thinking that a private eye should have suggested that, but she was not a private eye. She was not even sure she was still a chaplain. The sadness of it tugged at her along with a surge of depression.
“Score one for the Grubers, but they haven’t won yet.” He touched her forearm in the jovial, friendly way that made her pulse kick up in spite of her good sense. “I’m starving and it’s lunchtime. Want to go get a bite?”
Yes, her mind said. “No,” she replied. “Um, I should go back to the hotel and wait for Marco and my sister.”
“They won’t be here until evening, like you said.”
“I could do some computer research.”
He raised a mischievous eyebrow. “You’re faking, Chaplain. You don’t know what to research any more than I do.”
Her cheeks burned. “I...I don’t like crowded places.”
“Then I’ve got the perfect solution.” He opened the passenger door with a flourish. “Onward.”
She tried to find an excuse to avoid spending any more time with Dan. By the time she thought of a good reason, she was already sitting in the passenger seat, buckled in, being driven back toward the beach. The merry glint in his eyes brought back a memory, her encounter with Dan before Julio had died.
He’d been playing basketball on the makeshift court behind the hospital. She’d been on her way out after praying with a soldier who had requested her presence.
Dan had called out. “Hey, Chaplain. Need a player here. My guys are getting creamed. How about it?”
She’d laughed, declined, reconsidered and then played a vigorous game where she’d scored four baskets and earned the nickname of Swisher. He’d invited her back to play again the next day, and she’d been looking forward to it. But the next day brought bullets instead of basketball, and Julio’s death.
Everything that had transpired since she had arrived in Cobalt Cove had tested the limits of her self-control. Would she have another panic attack? Run in a frenzy when the next car backfired or burst into tears at the sight of someone who looked like Julio? She imagined her humiliation at having Dan witness yet another episode. Worst of all, he knew the root of her unraveling was guilt, pure and simple. Guilt that Julio had offered up his life for hers.
She tried again to come up with an excuse, but instead she found herself relaxing in the seat as Dan turned on some music, old gospel hymns.
“Helps me think,” he said. “Used to play it...” He trailed off.
In Kandahar.
Ironic, as that was when she’d stopped listening to music, the day Julio was killed. The silence grew wider and deeper until she couldn’t hear from Him anymore, either.
He reached for her hand. How did he know? Why should he care?
Still, she let his warm palm remain cupping her fingers until they pulled up, once again, at the beach.
* * *
Dan purchased two Red Rocket hot dogs from Bill, the heavyset vendor with his graying hair pulled neatly back into a ponytail.
“Hey, Doc Man,” Bill said as he handed over the food. He jutted a chin at Angela, who stood a few feet away, making a phone call. “That’s the minister lady?”
“Chaplain,” he said. “How did you know that?”
“Small town,” Bill said. “News travels fast. I hear everything.”
“Yeah?” Dan said. “What do you know about Harry Gruber?”
Bill’s smile stayed in place, but Dan thought he detected a stiffening in the man’s wide shoulders. “Runs a trucking company. They transport back and forth from Mexico and all that. Opened the clinic here a year or so ago. Brother’s a dentist at the clinic.”
“I already knew that part.”
He shrugged. “Gruber funds the clinic. He’s a good guy, right?”
“You tell me.”
“Sure. Good guy.”
Dan held Bill’s gaze with his own. “What’s the real story, Bill?”
“Real story is I’m a hot dog vendor and that’s all. I got no gossip to spread, huh?” A couple of bodyboarders strode up, wetsuits unzipped and speckled with sand. Dan stepped back to allow them to order. He wasn’t going to get anything further from Bill.
Angela accepted the foil-wrapped dog with a polite thank you, and they helped themselves to condiments. He was amused to see that she piled on everything from jalapeños to sauerkraut. He stuck with mustard, swathing the thing in extra napkins to avoid any mess. They scored his favorite spot on a bench overlooking the cove. The shore was still busier than usual with out of towners who had come to enjoy Beach Fest and decided to make a weekend of it, but it was quieter than a restaurant would be and that was better for her.
The wind whipped at Angela’s hair, and she tried to keep it out of her towering hot dog mess. Her laughter was warm, light and airy like the sprays of foam that danced above the waves. He handed over a napkin to catch the condiments that threatened to slide off the hot dog.
“I guess I got greedy,” she said. “I’m not actually hungry enough to eat all this, but old habits die hard. My dad used to take us to watch the Padres play and he said a proper hot dog was merely a platform for all the toppings you could fit on top.”
“Sounds like my kind of guy. I’d love to meet him.”
A shadow darkened her green eyes to olive. “He’s dead. He was murdered just before Christmas.”
Dan nearly dropped his hot dog. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry. Did you... Was the murderer caught?”
“Yes, and that’s a blessing, but it still doesn’t bring my dad back.” She sighed. “That’s why I’m part of this investigation thing. It was my dad’s business. It just felt right to help keep it running. It means the world to my sisters.”
“I get it.”
After a few moments, Angela walked over to the trash and threw away her half-eaten hot dog.
He felt like kicking himself for asking to meet her father. The memory of her laugh lingered. You will find joy again, Angela, he wanted to tell her. Someday.
She stood with her face to the wind, looking out onto the water. For a moment, he imagined himself putting his arms around her, sheltering her body with his. What would her hair feel like, whisking against his face? The soft curve of her shoulders tucked in his embrace? Then he blinked back to reality.
“Ready to go to the clinic?”
She nodded, and they retraced their steps back to the parking lot.
They passed Bill, wreathed in steam from his hot dogs. As they went by, Bill ducked his head and began wiping down his cart with vigor. No smile. No eye contact.
Gruber was a good guy?
Instinctively Dan moved closer to Angela.
Yeah. Right.
* * *
Dan let them into the darkened clinic with his key. “Closed on Sundays,” he said. “The building used to be the old Cobalt Cove library, and the hospital in town was a college. Eventually they built a nice library there, too.” The clinic was a three-story structure with ornate molding along the roofline and a redbrick front. The first floor had been turned into a reception room, lined with filing cabinets.
“Second floor is the clinic where we see patients for minor injuries and basic health care. Third floor is divided between dental and eye care. Three doctors total, two opticians and one dentist—that’s Peter Gruber.”
“So Peter and the other doctors on the third floor are private practice?”
“Yes, but they all do pro bono work on Saturdays for the clinic. Lila donates her time during the clinic days. Peter pays her for the rest.”
“That’s kind.”
“Yeah. The clinic was started up about ten years ago by a church group, and Harry took over the funding of it last year when they couldn’t continue. After his wife died, he bought the building, set his brother up on the third floor, along with the eye doctors, and he lets the clinic operate rent-free on the second floor.”
“Why?”
Dan frowned. “Up until now, I’d say it was a philanthropic gesture, but I’m not sure anymore.”
“Harry has no love of doctors,” she mused. “You sure he doesn’t make money off it somehow?”
“Not off the clinic. The private practice guys pay rent, but Harry funds the clinic.”
He led her to the stairs. “I’ve got a cubicle office upstairs where I keep my own files.” He flicked the light switch. Nothing happened. “That bulb goes out all the time. I think it’s wiring in this old building. I keep meaning to fix it myself.”
He heard the smile in her voice in spite of the darkness. “Are you any good at electrical stuff?”
“I can restart a heart,” he said, a touch indignantly. “How hard can it be to rewire a lightbulb?”
Her soft laugh told him that it had been an arrogant statement, and he shot her a rueful smile. He heard AnnaLisa’s voice in his memory.
“You’re a surgeon, not a superhero.”
Deep down, he didn’t believe it. When he held a scalpel in his hands, he felt the power, given straight from God. The power to heal if he was only clever enough, to save lives if his fingers were agile enough. His gut throbbed.
And the ability to let a life slip away, in spite of his extreme effort.
You’re only as good as God allows you to be, hotshot.
And sometimes, he was not good enough. Not a superhero. Not even a good enough surgeon to save a life. Not good enough to save Julio’s.
Angela clasped his arm. He realized he must have been lost in thought. “Sorry.”
She gave him a squeeze. “Glad I’m not the only one who wanders away sometimes.”
He straightened. “Let’s go.”
They passed a paneled opening, boarded up.
“Basement. Floods when it rains.”
They headed up the darkened stairs, holding on to the old wood railing to feel their way up. Emerging onto the second floor, he was about to turn on the lights when he froze.
A whirring sound echoed through the still space.
“What is that?” Angela whispered.
“A shredder.”
“From the third floor? Does anyone work Sundays?”
“Not to my knowledge. I’m going to go up and see,” he whispered. “Stay here.”
“I’m going, too.”
He wanted to argue, but instead he continued on, Angela following. The old wood stairs creaked in spite of their care. He winced, hoping the sound of the shredder would cover their progress.
The grinding of the shredder grew louder. He could feel Angela tense behind him. He put out a hand. She gripped his palm, her skin icy to his touch.
He wanted to reassure her, but he didn’t want to risk alerting the Sunday shredder of their presence.
They moved up another step, and the wood creaked loudly under Dan’s weight. The sound of the shredder ceased abruptly.
She crept up onto the step next to him, mouth close to his ear.
Whatever she was about to say, he never heard. The door slammed open and Dan was yanked off his feet and pulled into the darkened office.