San Diego Noir

“Picked him up a couple miles north of the cove, at Torrey Pines State Beach. He’s being held downtown. The DA’s office will be getting in touch with you after he’s charged.”

“Attempted murder?” I asked.

Baxter nodded. “That too. We arrested him for the murder of Wendy Woskowicz.”

This came as a surprise. “On what evidence?”

“Plenty,” said Baxter. “The guy’s name is Gunner Thomas. We figure he’s the one who filed complaints under the alias Thomas Gunn.”

“As in tommy gun. Cute,” I said dryly.

“The old man you visited at the condo was his grandfather. We got a warrant and found scuba gear on the back porch. Get this: the straps were cut and we found long blond hair strands caught in the mask. From initial tests we’re pretty sure they came from Wendy Woskowicz.” Baxter’s eyes were shining. It was the first time I’d seen him genuinely happy.

“You think the evidence will hold up in court?” I asked.

“It should. Technically, Wendy’s hair DNA is the strongest thing we got. But we found something on Thomas that’s even more damning, from a jury’s point of view.”

“What’s that?”

“We found a key that opens those funky handcuffs he used on Wendy. It’s an exact match of the key we found in the pouch around her neck.”

“So both keys are accounted for now.”

“Yes,” Baxter replied.

I felt a little let down. This meant the key I’d picked up in my vacuum cleaner hadn’t been sent from Wendy after all.

His expression turned solemn. “You’re lucky that kayaker came along when he did and bailed you out.”

“I thanked him a hundred times, believe me,” I said.

“I thought you were psychic. Thomas had outstanding warrants, one for assault with a deadly weapon. Didn’t you sense he was trouble?”

I hadn’t. Thomas had done such a good job of making me feel like an asshole for harassing the old man that I’d failed to notice what an asshole he was. I thought about standing on the beach and the sense I’d had of being watched through the opaque windows of the condo.

“I missed my cues,” I said. “So let me get this straight. Thomas killed Wendy because of her pig?”

“He killed her because he’s a sick son of a bitch. Now that we’ve made an arrest, all kinds of beach people are coming forward and describing his angry rants about the way ‘immigrants’ and ‘indigents’ are bringing down the neighborhood.”

“Now they speak up.” I wasn’t surprised. People have all kinds of reasons for staying silent about the suspicious behavior they see. They don’t want to get involved. They worry they’ll be wrong. They worry they’ll pay for talking.

“You were right about one thing,” Baxter said to me.

“What’s that?”

“The missing handcuff key. I blew you off about it, but it’s going to be an important piece of evidence. How’d you know?”

To tell, or not to tell?

“My vacuum cleaner picked up a handcuff key the day after Wendy’s drowning. This sounds stupid, but I honestly thought it was a message from her.”

“I don’t know about a message,” Baxter said, “but it is a pretty weird coincidence. The important thing is, Gunner Thomas is going down, and it’s because of you.” He started for the door. “It’s late. I’ll let you get some rest.”

I thanked him and waved from the door as he pulled out of the driveway. Walking back to the family room, I imagined the suntanned boy-man sitting in a prison cell downtown.

Thomas, I thought, you are one sick son of a bitch.

With that, the tears came. Thomas had attacked me and nearly snuffed out my life. He’d forced a brutal death on Wendy. I wished I could rage at the ruthless bastard, but the best I could do was cry. Better than numbness, I thought. At least I was alive and feeling something. When my tears were exhausted, I turned off the lights and trudged upstairs, feeling the full weight of the day in every step.

Before collapsing into bed, I went to my altar to light some fragrance and a candle, small gestures of thanks for my deliverance. I found a book of matches by the incense burner and fired up a stick of sweet Nag Champa. I moved the flame slowly to the candle and froze. Something wasn’t right.

Wait a minute.

The handcuff key was missing. I searched every inch of the bureau top, but it wasn’t there. I got on my knees and scoured the floor. No key. I turned on the overhead light and searched again. Nada. I widened my search. Zip.

Standing in the center of the room, I asked out loud: “Did you take the key?”

There was no answer, of course. But I swear I could hear Wendy, in her silent way, telling me that I could stop looking now.

PART II

NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH

THE NEW GIRL

BY DEBRA GINSBERG

Cortez Hill