On the way to Fort Funston, Colleen pulled off the Great Highway into a small parking lot on the beach where there was a pay phone next to the public restrooms. Half a dozen cars were parked facing the booming Pacific, and even though clouds churned low and rain spit, a few die-hard surfers were out, battling the waves. One lanky kid with a tanned face and long white blond hair sat on the tailgate of a beat-up pickup truck, zipping up his wetsuit. Fine sand blew across the parking lot, heading inland, dusting the Great Highway.
Colleen found a dime and dialed retired Lieutenant Daniel Moran’s number in Santa Cruz. Her intention had been not to get him involved. But she needed his assistance. And he owed her. The operator came on the line and told her to deposit thirty-five more cents. She had change ready and slipped the coins into the slot. A wave crashed.
His wife, Daphne, answered the phone. She didn’t sound particularly happy to hear from Colleen. Not surprising, considering the events that brought Colleen and Lieutenant Moran together in the first place, last year. The result of that shaky alliance was the arrest and conviction of a corrupt Santa Cruz homicide detective, the death of a local drug kingpin, and a girl with no name interred in a cemetery north of Santa Cruz. Eva Unknown. After all of that hell, Colleen still had not been able to reconnect with her daughter. Pamela had joined a commune that kept Colleen at arm’s length. But the truth was, her daughter just didn’t seem to want to know her anymore.
Moran was out in the yard gardening. Daphne reluctantly went to get him.
Colleen heard him pick up the phone as a gust of wind blew her hair into her face. She pulled it away, flipped up the collar of her leather jacket.
“What can I do you for, Hayes?” Moran said. She pictured the man, in his mid-sixties, medium build, dark hair cut short, pushing his glasses up his nose with his finger. His voice sounded older, wearier. That case had taken much of the strength he’d had left.
“I need to find someone who fell off the face of the earth eleven years ago,” she said.
There was a pause. “I take it this has to do with Edward Copeland?”
“It does indeed.”
“So you took the gig.”
“I almost didn’t. But I have this obsession with regular meals.” The truth was, it was more than that, but she didn’t want to discuss it.
“Better bring me up to speed, Hayes.”
She filled Moran in on the case.
When she was done, there was another brief silence. “This has gotten out of hand, Hayes. I was just trying to throw a little work your way. I thought it might simply be a matter of you filing for a police report and checking a few addresses and such. But it’s turned into a rat’s nest. A dangerous one. Jim Davis killed?” She could almost see Moran shaking his head.
“I’ve just hit a snag,” she said. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“You want my advice?”
“My clairvoyant side is telling me you want me to let the case go.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. SFPD aren’t going to stand by and let you implicate them in some kind of cover-up. The death of Jim Davis doesn’t sit right. Just like his early retirement for disability.”
“Disability? Is that what happened?”
“Oh yeah. Right after the Copeland thing, eleven years ago, he was given a package. You can call it early retirement, disability, whatever you like, but Jim Davis was shown the door.”
She had suspected something. “He stepped on some toes.”
“And he was a boozer. Just like me. That’s how I met him. Years ago, when we were both sent away to dry out.”
Neither one of them made it.
“Best thing for you, Hayes, is to tell Mr. Copeland that you don’t have the authority to take this any further. Which happens to be true. Then, get your license, guard your paint plant. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
“Loud and clear. But I’m not ready to hang it up. Not yet.”
“The writing’s on the wall. Learn to read.”
“I think I might wait for the movie.”
“You sure this doesn’t have something to do with your Jane Doe? The one up at Four Mile Beach?”
Eva Unknown. Possibly. “All I’m asking is for you to make a phone call,” she said. “Help me find what became of the girl who leased the place where Margaret Copeland was crashing. She might have a record. That house on Frederick was Party Central. Maybe she got popped for dope or something.”
There was a pause while a salvo of waves pounded the surf behind her.
“Maybe,” Moran said. “But does the phrase ‘needle in a haystack’ mean anything to you?”
“She might know something about Margaret that can help me figure this out.”
“Possibly,” Moran said. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Colleen said. “If nothing comes of it, I can tell Mr. Copeland I did what I could. Then I’m done.”
“Not sure I believe you.”
Neither did she. “That’s because you have trust issues.”
Another pause while Moran cleared his throat.
“What’s the girl’s name?” Moran said.
“Lesley Johns.”
She heard him scratch it down. “You got a number where I can reach you?”
She gave him her number.
“If anything comes of it, someone’ll call. But, be forewarned: it’s not likely.”
“I really appreciate this,” she said. “Really.”
“Good.”
“How’s retirement?”
“Did you know that gardening is the number one pastime in this country?”
“No, I did not.”
“They can keep it. Watch your back, Hayes.”