I HELD ONTO Moira’s left arm as we walked down Prospect Street. She stayed on the outside of the sidewalk, the buffer between cars on the road and me. I’d always taken that position when I walked with a woman before I was shot in the face. An anachronistic blast from the chivalrous past my father drummed into me as a kid. I’d learned his lessons well. So much so that I always took the outside position whenever I was with anyone, man or woman. I felt comfortable out there. Being able to recognize potential danger and react to it instantly.
I didn’t feel comfortable holding onto Moira and being led. Not by her or anyone. But it was either that or the cane. The cane worked fine, but it made me stick out. After over a decade of being the main suspect in my wife’s murder and seven years as a private investigator, I’d worked hard to blend in. Now it was second nature and my comfort zone. Hidden in plain sight. The cane was a neon sign. “Look at me.”
I didn’t like to be looked at. Ever. I especially didn’t like being looked at when I couldn’t see who was doing the looking. I’d made some enemies during my time as a P.I. None of whom I wanted to bump into on the street. Or walk in front of at a crosswalk as they sat in their cars revving their engines.
Female voices approached on my left. Two women. Perfume commingling. More spicy than floral. Younger women. Probably thirties. The swish of a plastic shopping bag.
No threat.
Outdoors, away from the sanctuary of my home guarded by Midnight, my life morphed into constant threat-level assessment. Blind vigilance. Like animals hunting in the wild, criminals look for the weak and vulnerable to prey on. And I’d never been more vulnerable. Attitude and physical projection were the first line of defense. Head and chest high, confident walk. Even when I couldn’t see where I was walking.
And that was just for random criminals whom I’d never come across before. If any enemies from my past were on the hunt, I wouldn’t be able to see them coming. I had to find other ways to spot them. Or hear them. Or smell them. Even if I could, what then? Start shooting in the dark? Lock myself in my house twenty-four seven? Arm whoever I was with and tell them to shoot anyone I thought smelled suspicious?
There wasn’t a good answer. Nonetheless, I continued to use my heightened senses. If the day ever came, I intended to make it as difficult as possible for whoever tried to harm me.
“You get what you needed out of me?” I asked Moira as we walked at half speed down the sidewalk. Really three-quarter for me, half for her. Her short, sturdy legs fast twitched like an NFL running back’s. The speed of her gait was matched by the speed of her intellect.
“I won’t know until you give me your read on Turk.” Her voice trailed back to me from her slight forward position. A breeze pushed briny ocean air up from La Jolla Cove a quarter mile away.
“I’d like to, but it’s in braille.”
“Clever.” Her tone conveyed an opposite opinion.
“How stupid do you think I am?” I asked as we passed two sets of footsteps going in the other direction. A man and a woman, by their sound.
“Moderately. Why?”
“You asked me to be at your meeting with Turk because you knew I’d call him out on any bullshit and get under his skin.”
“Why would I do that?” I wished I could see the smirk on Moira’s face.
“So you could see how he’d react when pushed. You got to keep your distance but still have a bird’s-eye view while I did your dirty work.”
“Like I told you, my main reason was for your read on Turk. Deception or truth in his voice. The fact that you would probably antagonize him, like you do to just about everyone, was an added bonus. We can discuss it in the car. Right now, I need to focus on keeping you from getting run over.”
“Glad my disposition is a benefit to you.”
“It’s certainly not a benefit to you. Wait.” Moira stopped walking. The whoosh of cars passed by on the street. We’d come to the end of the sidewalk on the west side of Prospect. A railing was straight ahead. Cave Street circled below on its journey to Coast Boulevard. Moira turned us to the right. “Damn. I forgot there wasn’t a crosswalk here.”
“I can tap my way out into the middle of the street. That might stop traffic.”
“Don’t give me any ideas.” More car sounds. Prospect was one of the busiest streets in La Jolla and our stay at Muldoon’s now put us into early afternoon. Rush hour for shoppers and tourists.
Footsteps shuffled to a stop directly behind us. Single person. Long strides. Athletic. Something slightly heavier than tennis or running shoes, with a soft Vibram-type sole. Like a cop or military tactical boot. A silent stop to all but the blind.
The breeze off the ocean died, and I caught a deodorant scent mixed with a hint of sweat, and human musk. I knew the deodorant. Dove for Men. A brand I used when I had to fly and needed a travel-size antiperspirant. The person behind us was a man. Probably my age or younger.
Complete silence behind me against the sound of traffic on the street. An unnerving stillness. When I was a street cop, I learned to sense danger in the stillness of silence. I used that skill as a private investigator. Did I still have it? The tingle along my spine told me, yes. I turned my head to glance at the man. To spot the danger and let it know I was aware. But of course, I could only see shades of darkness.
“Okay.” Moira. “It’s clear. Step down. Let’s hustle.”
We stepped off the curb and walked at a speed that would have been about my normal gait before I lost my eyesight. I heard the soft-soled footsteps behind us. The Dove wearer was close. Moira stopped me after step twenty-one.
“Curb.”
We stepped up onto the sidewalk and Moira waited on the corner. Mr. Dove passed behind us as particles of his scent floated in the air. Again, my instincts forced me to turn in his direction.
“Did you see that guy?” I said in a low tone to Moira.
“What guy?”
“The guy who just passed behind us. Thirties, athletic. Maybe a cop, or a soldier?” I realized how stupid the cop or soldier reference sounded, but I didn’t care. I was riding adrenaline and instinct.
Moira’s arm shifted to the right like she turned her upper body.
“I don’t see a cop or a soldier or anyone like that. How can you tell what he looks like?”
“An educated guess. You didn’t see the guy behind us before we crossed the street?”
“No. I was watching traffic so you didn’t become a hood ornament. Is there a problem?”
“No.” Maybe. Probably not. I hadn’t been down to La Jolla since I was shot. Maybe the trip to my old haunts had put me on instinct overload.
Moira led me across another street. We walked for three or four minutes until she stopped and opened the door to her Honda Accord for me.
“I should have valeted the damn car and expensed Turk for it,” she said and waited for me to get into the passenger seat. I listened for her to enter through the driver’s door.
“Does that mean you’re taking the case?” I asked.
“I need to hear what you have to say first.” She started the car and pulled away from the curb. “Did you believe Turk when he said he loved Shay?”
“I think so, but I’ve never seen him in love. Maybe this is what being in love looks like for him.”
“Do you believe that he’d just move on with his life if he found out that Shay was seeing someone else?”
“The old Turk wouldn’t have blinked.” Inertia tried to pull me to the left and then pushed me back into the seat as Moira turned right and climbed the hill before Prospect bisected Torrey Pines Road. We stopped at the light at a forty-five-degree angle in astronaut blastoff position. “But he’s changed.”
“Do you believe him or not? Would he just move on with this life?” Terse. The old Moira.
“I don’t think so. He might be trying to convince himself that he would, but the guy I just listened to doesn’t want to lose his girlfriend.” Push to the right as Moira turned left onto Torrey Pines. “If your real question is would he hurt Shay or himself if we found out she’s cheating on him, the answer is no. Turk’s changed, but not in that way. If anything, he seems gentler.”
“You said if we found out she’s cheating on him.” She rode out the “e” sound of “we.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But I heard it, too. My subconscious had forced “we” out of my mouth instead of “you.” It told me, and Moira, what I didn’t want to, but needed to, hear.
“I’ll split the retainer sixty-forty.” The tommy-gun delivery. “After all, I’m doing all the driving.”
Despite my subconscious interjection, I didn’t want to be a private investigator anymore. To get tangled up in other people’s problems. Make a bad decision, or even a good one, and have people get hurt.
But I couldn’t avoid the fact that getting out of the house today and trying to solve the puzzle of Turk Muldoon’s emotions had given me a lift. A rare lightness. A purpose. My only purpose since I lost my eyesight had been to learn how to cope and adapt. I’d been isolated by my situation, but even more so by my own narrow goals.
I needed something new, even if it was something old. And even if it was a charity case. Moira didn’t really need my help. I couldn’t be part of a two-person surveillance team. The best I could hope for was not to be a liability. But I could live with that. Losing my eyesight had forced me to be more dependent upon other people. At least it had so far. I was slowly regaining a sense of independence but couldn’t lie to myself that I was all the way back. I’d take the charity because I needed it to move forward. I wouldn’t even bother to swallow my pride.
Plus, I didn’t have to worry about the effect my decisions would have on other people’s lives. I wouldn’t be making any decisions. Moira would. My goal was to aid her however I could to help Turk. And be a friend to him again if we had to deliver bad news.
“Deal.” I shifted in my seat and thrust my right hand toward Moira. Her small hand grabbed mine and gave it one firm shake.
“I’m the Boss.” Punctuation on the end of the handshake.
“Smart ass.”
“What’s the plan for Shay Sommers, boss?”
“I’ll pick you up at eight fifteen tonight, and we’ll drive down to La Jolla and park somewhere within view of Eddie V’s. If Shay follows the routine Turk mentioned after she gets off work, she’ll stop at Muldoon’s to see him and then go to La Valencia.”
“And you’ll be following her on foot?” A statement more than a question
“Yep.” We slowed to a stop. Had to be at the stoplight at Torrey Pines and La Jolla Shores Drive.
Moira’s response made me think back to working cases as a P.I. Tailing targets on foot used to be my favorite part of the job. Blending into the background. Following the mouse to the cheese. A lot of the time, there was no cheese, no payoff. The target was just out for a day of shopping or a night out on the town. Still, my body dosed me with a jolt of adrenaline every time I followed someone on foot. Even more so than in a car.
As much as I’d sworn off private investigative work, and couldn’t continue to do it anymore even if I wanted to, I knew I’d be envious as soon as Moira left the car tonight and tracked Shay Sommers on foot.
Reverberations from a life that wasn’t anymore.