I GOT TO the 400 block of State at about ten after midnight and parked in the same restaurant parking lot Krista had on the night she died. The restaurant was closed down for the night and there were plenty of spaces. I walked to the corner of Gutierrez and State and peered down the street toward Joe’s Café. Grimes and I had already walked north on State from this side and I didn’t remember seeing a payphone.
I crossed over State to the west side. A few people passed me on the sidewalk. A couple snuggled together in the brisk spring Santa Barbara night. A handful of college-age bros venturing out of the university town of Isla Vista for a night in the “big” city.
A cigar lounge, tattoo parlor, dive bar, but no payphones on the first block. Next block, a Japanese restaurant, a pizza place, and Paddy’s Pub but no payphones. I passed in front of Hotel Santa Barbara, where Dustin Peck cheated on his wife, then crossed Cota Street.
Passed a couple retail stores, then there it was. Next to a bus bench and a trash receptacle.
A payphone. An anachronism from another time. But now, a clue. I pulled out my cell and called the number I’d called at least ten times since I found it on Krista’s cell phone records. Three seconds later the payphone rang. I picked up the receiver and held it to my ear just to be one hundred percent certain. I said my name into my cell phone and heard my voice through the payphone receiver pinned to my ear.
One hundred percent.
I looked across the street and estimated the distance that I now knew Grimes was referring to when he said “Maybe one hundred” on my voicemail, then stopped himself.
One hundred feet. I squared myself even with the payphone and started walking south on State Street, taking long, even strides. Past the retail shops, across Cota, past Hotel Santa Barbara, and stopped in front of the door to Paddy’s Pub. Thirty-six steps. A shade over one hundred feet.
Grimes didn’t want to make the connection to the cop bar. Rather, didn’t want me to make it. Why not? Is that what he had to investigate? I called him on my cell. Voicemail again. I left another message to call me ASAP. Maybe he was still in the middle of his investigation or maybe he didn’t want to talk to me. Both made sense, except that he called me, originally. Sleep didn’t matter anymore. I was on the hunt for the truth and Paddy’s Pub was connected to it.
I peered through a window of the pub. I couldn’t see much. Dark inside. Definitely for an older crowd. Millennials liked their bars bright and cheery and loud. Paddy’s had none of that. No music thumping through the door. Cops and ex-cops like a cozy dark spot where you can sip amber whiskey and slowly erase the day. Unless you were raw and inexperienced like I’d been when I was on the force. Then you wanted to rehash overhyped heroics while standing at the bar chugging beer and shots so the waitresses could hear you when they loaded their trays with whiskey to take to the old hands secluded at dark tables in the back.
I entered the bar. It hadn’t changed much in the fourteen years since I’d spent a few nights a week standing near the waitress station spouting off. Red brick flooring around the bar and up the walls. Ancient thin slatted hardwood made up the main floor. Sports memorabilia hung on the walls. A private lounge upstairs. There were still probably a couple grills and picnic tables out back. The only difference between now and then was that ex–police chief Lou Siems was behind the bar pouring drinks instead of on the other side drinking them. He gave me a mini-nod, which was about the best I’d ever get from law enforcement anywhere. I returned it.
Three young bucks stood at the bar, chugging shots and backslapping each other. No good memories there and not who I was looking for. The tables around the outside of the room were manned by the older crowd. Detective-looking types.
I spotted them at a table in the back. Both of them. Looking comfortable and at home. Like they stopped in for a drink every night. For years. Unfortunately, Tom Weaver spotted me, too. He leaned over the table and said something to Jake Mitchell, and they both looked at me. I’d gotten the information I needed. Either one of them could have been the person who called Krista on the payphone and lured her down to State Street the night she died. But I’d been spotted. Time for plan B.
I smiled at both of them and walked over to their table.
“What the fuck do you want?” Weaver flashed to rage in an instant.
“I came in for a drink, but that seems like a bad idea now.”
“You’re damn right it is.” Weaver rose to his full height in his chair. “So piss off and go back to the hole you crawled out of.”
Mitchell watched me calmly and stayed silent.
“I understand why you don’t like me.” I looked at Weaver and feigned remorse. “I’ve given you plenty of reasons not to. I doubt you’d accept an apology from me at this point, but I’ll just tell you that I may have jumped to some conclusions that I shouldn’t have. Jim Grimes has convinced me that Detective Mitchell here and his unit are closing in on Krista’s real killer. I’m heading back to San Diego tomorrow. Let me buy you a round on my way out as an apology you might accept.”
“Fuck you, Cahill.” Weaver’s rage hadn’t abated. “Keep your wallet in your fucking pants where you should have kept your dick a long time ago. Stay away from me, or I’ll finish what I started the other day.”
I backed away from the table without another word, turned, and headed for the door. Lou Siems caught my eye behind the bar. He gave me his trademark life-is-good smile then nodded down at an empty stool opposite him. An invitation? Maybe he wanted me to sit at his bar so he could tell me to get the hell out. I took the bait.
“Chief.” I sat down.
“What are you drinking, Rick?” Flat smile. “It’s on the house.”
I’d never gotten to know the chief very well when I was on the job. Wasn’t around long enough for that. We met when he swore in my rookie class of five in 2002. Even at that size, I wasn’t the top of my class or the bottom. Right in between.
The chief had smiled and looked each of us rookies in the eye when he shook our hands.
Gave a nice speech. Everybody seemed to like him. I’d only spoken “hellos” to him the two and a half years I was a cop before I went in front of the disciplinary board and lost my badge. Even after the DA dropped the murder charges against me, they took away my badge. Presumed guilty in the court of public opinion. And behind the thin blue line.
He looked me in the eyes that day, too. But he didn’t smile.
Thus, I was a bit confused by the smile tonight, no matter how flat and devoid of joy.
“Jameson. Neat.”
“Of course.” He poured me two fingers of the Irish whiskey and two for himself. “True to your roots.”
“I guess if you’d been true to yours, this place would be a German stein house and we’d be listening to polka music right now.” I took a sip of the Jameson. Smooth. Hints of vanilla and honey and a pleasant burn down the back of my throat. I hadn’t sipped whiskey in a long time. Life hadn’t slowed down long enough for that.
“Wanted to keep everything the same when I bought the place. Most cops don’t like change. Besides, I’ve got a bit of the blarney on my mother’s side.”
“Erin go Bragh.” I raised my class and he clinked his off it. We both took sips.
“I always thought you got a raw deal at SBPD, Rick. Your separation from the force wasn’t my idea. It was political. There was a lot of pressure from the media, the mayor’s office, and the city council after that 48 Hours ran.” Siems’ eyes drooped. “And from outside forces.”
I knew all about the pressure from the media and the city government. If I hadn’t known the truth, I would have thought I was guilty, too, after watching 48 Hours. But I’d always suspected there was another entity vying against me behind the scenes as well as in front of the TV cameras.
“Was that other force John Kerrigan?” Colleen’s father. No one in my life had ever disliked me more. And that was before he thought I murdered his daughter.
“Yep.” Siems solemnly nodded. “A man with that kind of wealth can do a lot of damage.”
“Yeah, but I understand his point of view.” I drained my glass. Siems filled it up again.
“Still, just some bad luck for you, son. Bad luck for your wife, too. I’m really sorry about what happened.”
“Me, too.” I didn’t know about luck, bad or good. Maybe there had been some luck the night Colleen was murdered, but it had all been on the side of evil.
“I saw you talking to Weaver and Mitchell over in the corner. Detective Weaver didn’t look too happy.”
“He has his reasons not to like me, too.” I didn’t know how much ex–police chief Siems knew and I didn’t feel like bringing him up to date.
“And you have yours for not liking him? I always thought he was a hothead.”
An opening I hadn’t expected. A chance to further sow the seeds of my newfound doubts about Weaver’s guilt in my wife’s and Krista’s murders.
“I thought I did, but I was wrong.” Turned out it was time to get Siems up to date. “I don’t know how much you know about the investigation into Krista Landingham’s death.”
“Well, I was once the chief of police. That allows me certain access that other civilians never get.” Siems took a sip of his whiskey. “I know that Leah Landingham hired you to investigate along with Jim Grimes. And I know that you think your wife’s murder and Krista’s were done by the same person.”
“I used to think that. Grimes helped me to see the light. That’s why I came in here tonight. I wanted to apologize to Weaver.” I glanced over at Weaver’s table. He continued to mean-mug me. “That didn’t go over too well, but he must be happy to know that I’m heading back to San Diego tomorrow. Grimes convinced me that the forensics from the vehicle paint chips found on Krista’s clothes has MIU narrowing down suspects and that an arrest will come from it.”
“I think you’re right about that.” Siems leaned over the bar and turned his voice down low. “You find anything out that would make me doubt that outcome? I know you and Weaver got into an altercation the other day. Something about someone sleeping with Krista the night of your wife’s murder.”
Siems was definitely dialed in. Probably by his former driver and gofer, Captain Kessler. If that was the case, he might know about my two-cop theory on Colleen’s murder. I didn’t know Siems’ angle. Maybe he did think I got a raw deal from SBPD. Or maybe he was just bored and missed the action of running a police force.
“A misunderstanding.” I pulled back from the bar. “Thanks for the talk and the free drinks, Chief. It’s nice to know someone was in my corner a while back when it seemed I was all alone.”
I just wish he’d fought harder in that corner, but I’d put myself in it and had no one else to blame.
“Safe travels, young man.” Siems gave me a smile and wiped down the bar. “We’ll take care of things up here.”
Grimes and the hundred feet from the payphone to the bar popped into my head.
“Was Jim Grimes in here tonight?”
“Briefly.” Siems stopped wiping. “Why?”
“He left me a message, and I haven’t been able to track him down.” I glanced over at Weaver and Mitchell. “Did he talk to anyone?”
“No. Just had a drink at the bar and left.”
I’d already convinced myself that I was one hundred percent on Weaver killing Colleen, with help from Mitchell after the fact, and that the two of them killed Krista. When it came to a man’s life, there was no reason not to get to one hundred and ten percent.
“One last thing. I’ve been thinking about the night Krista died and how the crime scene was protected and how everything went down. I know Detective Mitchell got to the scene well after everyone else. That surprised me. He’s a pretty by-the-book cop. I’m wondering why he was late. Were he and Weaver here drinking that night? Maybe he had to wait a while to sober up before he went to the scene. I’m sure he had a good reason, but that’s always bothered me about this case. Maybe I’m thinking too much.”
“No. As a matter of fact, they were here that night. They are most nights.”
“Around midnight. That’s when we close on Sundays. Why?”
“Just curious whether Mitchell had to sober up before he went to the crime scene.” I flinched my shoulders like it wasn’t that important. The next question was. “Did either of them leave earlier? Maybe just for a little while a bit before eleven?”
The call to Krista from the pay phone.
“I don’t think so.” Siems squinted at me. “Why?”
I’d pushed too hard. I didn’t have a good answer to why. The question itself would point a finger at me when Weaver ended up dead tomorrow night.
“Someone thought they saw Mitchell outside the bar around that time.” I smiled. “Just doing my due diligence for Leah Landingham. She’s very thorough. That wraps it up for me. Back to San Diego tomorrow.”
“Safe travels then, young man.” He gave me a flat-eyed smile. “We’ll hold down the fort up here.”
I left the bar praying that Siems didn’t tell Weaver and Mitchell about my interest in when they’d left the bar the night Krista died.