I got up at six the next day and drove down to Ocean Beach. I had the morning watch of Sierra Fellows’ apartment, but not for another three hours. I had something else to do that Buckley didn’t need to know about, and probably wouldn’t be happy if he did.
Ocean Beach was elegant Point Loma’s kid sister. Cute when you cut through the ’60s hippie wardrobe. Sierra lived in a faded apartment building near Dog Beach. A yellow Volkswagen Bug parked in the mini-lot out front told me she was probably home. The local cops used to call the area the War Zone because of the drug deals done on the street and the belligerent bums. The area hadn’t exactly been gentrified, but the streets were now mostly clean of discarded drug paraphernalia and discarded lives.
Moira had gotten a confirmed sighting of Trey last night when he answered the door of Sierra’s apartment for a pizza delivery. Now he was probably sleeping off a buzz on the couch. Or, hopefully not, down by the Ocean Beach pier doing a stint with the surfing dawn patrol.
But he wasn’t my concern right now.
Fog grayed the morning and briny breezes lolled inland off the ocean. I sat in my car a quarter block down from Sierra’s apartment building and watched the door to her upstairs unit. She came out at 7:10 a.m. and trotted down the stairs to the parking lot. She wore black slacks, t-shirt, and shoes. The shirt had a red insignia over the left breast that I was too far away to read. Probably the logo of the Morning Cup restaurant where she worked.
I knew the restaurant. The best breakfast in La Jolla. I gave Sierra and her yellow Bug plenty of room as I followed her onto Sunset Cliffs Drive and out of Ocean Beach. No need to push it and show her the tail if I knew her destination. The fog eased a bit but still kept a lid on the morning as we hit La Jolla.
The Morning Cup was on Wall Street, a block down from the Brick House. I hadn’t been there in a couple years. Too close to the Brick House and bad memories.
I found a parking spot atop Park Avenue next to a grass circle that held a long-poled American flag. I never knew who ran the flag up the pole in the morning and down in the evening, but I always thought of my father when I saw it. The flag had been there even back when my dad patrolled the streets of La Jolla in an LJPD squad car twenty-five years ago. When we passed by it during the last ride-along I’d ever take with him, he pointed up at it and said, “That flag up there still means something. Honor still means something.”
Liquid filled his eyes. On someone else, I would have called it tears. But I’d never seen my father cry. And he didn’t that day. Not quite. I was too afraid to ask him what was wrong. I was ten years old and didn’t want to believe there was a world where my dad wasn’t the smartest, toughest, and most heroic man in it.
Two months later, he resigned from the police force under corruption rumors. Nine years after that, he’d be dead. Cirrhosis of the liver. By then, I’d learned all about that other world.
The Morning Cup sat in an old, white brick building that had avoided the trendy gentrification of other restaurants just a block away. This morning, it was full and had a wait-list. After I’d waited outside for five minutes, a hipster with the millennial generation’s perennial five-day facial growth called my name. I asked him if I could sit in Sierra’s section. He gave me a crooked smile like we were sharing a secret and said, “Sure, bro.”
The Morning Cup wedged ten small tables in its rectangular toy-box interior. Exposed brick and ductwork coupled with hanging knickknacks gave it a cool vibe. Five-Day Growth sat me at a two-top in front of the window and went over to Sierra, who stood at the coffee station filling morning cups. He said something to her and nodded over at me. I hid behind my menu. He’d obviously told her that I’d requested her section. No problem. I had a reason ready for her.
Sierra made the rounds of her tables and stood in front of me a couple minutes later.
“Are you ready to order?”
She strained a smile. The real truth rested in her blue eyes, which wanted to know who I was and why I’d asked to sit in her station.
“I’ll take the Rosemary Eggs, scrambled, sourdough, and a glass of OJ.” I handed her the menu. “Thanks.”
“Thank you.” She hesitated and pondered the question in her head. When she didn’t ask it, I answered it for her.
“I’m in town on business and my brother recommended that I eat here. He’s an old surfing buddy of Brad Larson.” Brad Larson. The lone picture on Trey Fellow’s wall had Larson and Sierra in it. “He hasn’t heard from Brad in a while and wanted me to ask you how he’s doing.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know a Brad Larson.”
“Really?” I played it light instead of accusatory. “My brother told me you were Brad’s girlfriend.”
Sierra’s face flushed. She had to feel the heat and know that her face betrayed her words.
“I don’t know a Brad Larson. Sorry.” She gave me a fake smile. “I’d better go put in your order.”
Sierra spun and hurried to the wait station. I kept my eyes on her, but she didn’t look back at me. Why the lie? She had dozens of pictures of Larson on her Facebook page for the whole world to see. I didn’t take her for stupid. She must have realized it would be easy for someone to put her and Larson together. Maybe it was a reflex reaction and she hadn’t thought it through. If that was the case, there had to be a reason the question caused a reflex.
Trey Fellows’ puzzle pieces, the Raptor and the lawyer, Sierra’s lie, and Brad Larson, all ran an itch up the back of my neck. I wanted to put my fingernails to that itch, but Buckley wouldn’t let me. Not yet.
I didn’t know how long I could wait.
Ten minutes later, Sierra brought my breakfast over to me. She wore the smeared-on smile and wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Here you go.” She placed a plate of scrambled eggs, rosemary-roasted potatoes, and a glass of orange juice down on the table in front of me and spun around to leave.
“Sierra, wait.” I said it loud enough for the table next to me to look over. Too bad. I was tired of accepting things at other people’s face value on this case.
“Yes?” Panicked eyes over the fake smile.
I lowered my voice, “Why are you lying about Brad Larson?”
She glanced around, and the couple at the next table went back to their own conversation.
“I’m not lying.” Still wouldn’t look at me. “I don’t know a Brad Larson.”
“I confess.” I raised my shoulders in an “aw shucks” look and smiled. “I’m a curious guy in a Facebook world. When my brother gave me your name, I looked you up on Facebook and saw a bunch of pictures of you and Brad together.”
Not a complete lie.
Her face burned a little brighter and the smile dropped. “You’re the one who’s lying. I don’t know any Brad Larson and don’t have any pictures of him on my Facebook page.”
She spun around and went back to the wait station. It would probably take a subpoena to get her to tell me who the man was on her Facebook page and on the walls of her brother’s apartment and Dianne Wilkens’ house.
Who was lying now? Me, yes. Trey Fellows, probably. Sierra Fellows, maybe.
Five-Day Growth brought me the check when I was done with breakfast. He gave me a stink eye along with it. Couldn’t argue with him. I left a large tip to buy off the guilt I felt about ruining Sierra Fellows’ morning.
I’d followed Sierra to work to find out about the man who’d been featured in so many of her Facebook photos. Now I wasn’t even sure I knew his real name. But his picture was still on the walls of Trey Fellows’ cottage, Dianne Wilkens’ house, and Sierra Fellows’ Facebook page. My gut told me that “Brad Larson” was the corner piece of that other puzzle Trey Fellows was working on.