San Diego Noir

“Not yet, but we’ve barely begun our investigation. Now, unless you’re a family member, please step back …”

I took a few snapshots with my cell and reluctantly started the trek home. In a strange state, I let feet and mind wander on the return route. I paused in front of a Thai restaurant to check the menu posted in the window. Choo-Chi Prawn. Chicken Volcano. Lard Prik. Was there a lesbian in Hillcrest who had ordered Lard Prik? Was there a gay man who had not?

I passed Milo’s Erotic Apparel and assessed their new window display. A reclining masked mannequin in a black leather bustier sat with one leg crossed over the bent knee of the other. A papier-mâché cucumber dangled from a chain on the spike heel of her silver boot.

This was the Hillcrest Betty had fallen in love with. She’d spent many years in Indiana being neurotic, closeted, and lonely. Finally she’d found the courage to move two thousand miles away from everything and everyone she’d ever known. In San Diego she was like a child who’d run off to join the circus and Hillcrest was the center ring. Everything had been fresh, colorful, exotic—the palm trees, the sunshine, the Pride Parade, the sense that diversity was a good thing. Here, even vegetable bondage was acceptable.

Despite her habit of complaining, Betty seemed reasonably content most of the time. I just couldn’t wrap my mind around the whole suicide concept. Yes, she suffered from mild depression, but it had been well controlled for years. Yes, she was single and sometimes lonely. But thousands of married people sit, equally lonely, in front of the TV every night and they don’t jump off the roof.

If I was going to find out what really happened, I couldn’t be encumbered by guilt. I began to strip it from my soul like so much old furniture varnish. If Betty had been depressed, she could’ve asked for support instead of complaining about laundry detergent. If she had given me any indication that our last conversation might be our last conversation, I would’ve paid more attention.

At Third and Robinson, I stopped in at Caterina’s scarf shop. The moment our eyes met, I knew she knew. “Now don’t blame yourself, darling,” she oozed. “Nothing you could’ve done.”

“I don’t know about that, but there’s something I can do now.”

“What do you mean?”

“The police are calling it suicide.”

“The woman jumped off her roof. What else would you call it?”

“The whole thing doesn’t smell right. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe she was pushed.”

Caterina draped a gold scarf decorated with black fleur-delis over a display. “Don’t you love what Burberry does with this new line?”

I stared out the window where orange birds of paradise, magenta bougainvillea, and blue agapanthus made the street look like Odin’s coloring book. “I’m going to be busy for a while; I’ll call when things calm down.”

“We have tickets for the San Diego Rep on Saturday.”

“I know.” I kissed her and headed for the door.

“Don’t spend too much time on the dead; it’s the living that matter.”

Her words echoed as I legged the last few blocks home.

I called a friend who works as a crime reporter at the San Diego Union-Tribune. “You get access to police reports right away, don’t you? I want to look at the preliminary report on the death of Betty Lou Thomas.”

“That the suicide over on Cleveland Avenue?”

“The police are calling it a suicide, yes. Can you e-mail me a copy of the prelim? Sooner rather than later?”

My friend hesitated; there’d been many favors over the years. There’d be a price.

“Can you get me four bottles of Sciortino’s 2006 Mourvèdre?”

Our ’06 Mourvèdre goes for about forty-five dollars a bottle. I did the math. “I’ll drop them off this evening.”

I drove to Sciortino’s that afternoon to attend a staff meeting and pick up the wine. Traffic was light on I-15 for a change and I arrived early. I wandered the grounds looking for my boss. Maybe he’d approve an employee discount.

Joe Sciortino wasn’t in his office. The vineyard supervisor said he wasn’t out among the trellises. I walked by the crush pad; no Joe. I checked the barrel room. When I opened the door, a sensual bouquet curled into my nostrils: the Angel’s Share. That’s what those in the business call the portion of wine that evaporates from the barrels during the aging process, while the remaining product soaks up oak vanilla tannins. Over the years, 5 or 10 percent of the wine will diffuse into the air, filling the tightly sealed barrel room with potent ambrosia. The angels know a good thing when they see it, and sip their share when no one’s looking.

I located Joe among the barrels and negotiated a deal on the Mourvèdre.

That evening I deposited four bottles at my reporter friend’s apartment. He handed me a sheaf of papers. “I e-mailed these too. I’ll update you every few days for a week. Fair?”

“Fair. Happy uncorking.”