The Fallen. Jefferson Parker

Authority he policed the city government and the politicians and the businesspeople they have dealings with.’

      ‘A long list.’

      ‘Everybody, really.’

      ‘But who in particular?’

      She looked at me, then back to the window. ‘He never really told me details.’

      ‘Some of the circumstances suggest suicide,’ said McKenzie. ‘Do you think he would have killed himself?’

      ‘No. He was more full of hope the last time I saw him than at any time since Samantha drowned. He came close to killing himself last July when it happened. But no. Not now.’

      ‘Why not?’ I asked.

      Stella Asplundh’s eyes shone in the dark. I knew they were trained on me. ‘We were trying to reconcile. We had both been through so much. We fell apart. But we’d begun to come back together. I really can’t explain it, other than we once loved each other very much and we were trying to love each other again.’

      ‘What was the purpose of the neutral ground?’ I asked. ‘The Rancho Santa Fe date?’

      ‘Garrett could become emotional. If he was drinking it was worse, and he was often drinking.’

      I said nothing and neither did McKenzie. Nothing like silence to draw out the words.

      Stella looked down at the couch. Her hair fell forward. ‘We were separated. I moved out of our house four months ago, November of last year. Garrett got his own place, too, because we’d sold the house where it happened. You can’t live where there are memories like that. But I still would see Garrett, because I thought it was best for him. Unless we saw each other every week, or two weeks at the most, he’d become anxious and extremely irrational. We would sit in a restaurant or a coffee shop. Maybe just walk. He just needed…the company.’

      ‘Your company,’ said McKenzie. ‘Did you ever go to his apartment?’

      ‘No. Never.’

      ‘Did he come here?’

      ‘He never came inside. He would…I saw him down on the street several times. Looking up.’

      ‘He stalked you,’ said McKenzie.

      ‘That’s the wrong word,’ said Stella.

      ‘What’s the right word?’ asked McKenzie.

      Stella Asplundh sat still in the dark room.

      ‘Were you afraid of him?’ asked McKenzie.

      ‘A little. And afraid for him, too.’

      ‘When was the divorce final?’ asked McKenzie.

      ‘It wasn’t. I had the papers drawn up but never had the…courage to serve them.’

      After all that, I thought, she couldn’t quite let go of him. And he obviously couldn’t let go of her. As if I’d needed more evidence than his shrine of photographs.

      ‘What time were you supposed to meet in Rancho Santa Fe last night?’ asked McKenzie.

      ‘Nine.’

      ‘At Delicias restaurant?’

      Stella nodded and took a deep breath. She radiated an intense aloneness.

      ‘When was the last time you saw Garrett?’ I asked.

      ‘Last Thursday evening. We met down at the coffee shop and talked for almost two hours. He was very hopeful. He said he had stopped drinking. He said he was still in love with me and ready to move on with our lives.’

      Darkness had finally fallen. March afternoons race by, but the evenings seem to last for hours.

      ‘Do you know what Garrett would have said about his own murder?’ asked Stella Asplundh. ‘He would have said it wasn’t a murder, it was a piece of work.’

      I agreed but said nothing.

      ‘Let’s not jump to conclusions, Ms. Asplundh,’ said McKenzie.

      ‘You don’t understand very much, do you?’ Stella asked gently. She bit her thumb and looked away. Tears poured down her face but she didn’t make a sound. I’d never seen anyone cry like that.

      A few minutes later Stella showed us to the door and we rode the slow elevator back down. On Island, lights twinkled in the trees and the streetlamps glowed. Over on Fourth the hostesses stood outside their restaurants.

      A pretty woman in a white VW Cabriolet pulled over to talk with a guy. I wondered why she had the top down when it was cool like this, figured the heater was cranked up.

      ‘I like the Cabriolets,’ said McKenzie. ‘But they’re a little doggy in the horsepower department. I spun one out on a test drive once, totally freaked the sales guy. What did you think of the almost-ex?’

      ‘Wrung out,’ I said.

      ‘Yeah. Like a vampire sucked her blood.’

      

      Before going home we stopped by my office to hear the recording of the anonymous tip. It was made at 3:12 on the morning of Wednesday, March 9.

      

      DESK OFFICE VILLERS: San Diego Police.

      MALE VOICE: I heard a gun fire near the Cabrillo Bridge on Highway 163. There is a black vehicle such as a truck or sporting vehicle. Maybe a murder, I don’t know.

      DESK OFFICER VILLERS: Your name, sir?

      MALE VOICE: This will not be necessary.

      DESK OFFICER VILLERS: I need your name, sir.

      

      The caller’s voice was male, middle-pitched, and slightly faint. His words were clear but accented. There was a hesitation before he hung up.

      ‘Arabic?’ asked McKenzie.

      ‘I think so,’ I said. ‘Eddie Waimrin can tell us.’

      Waimrin is one of two San Diego police officers born in the Middle East – Egypt. He’s been our point man with the large and apprehensive Middle Eastern community since September of 2001. I tried Eddie Waimrin’s number but got a recording. Patrol Captain Evers told me Eddie had worked an early day shift and already gone home. I told him I needed help with the Asplundh tip tape and he said he’d take care of it.

      ‘Did Garrett kill himself?’ asked the captain.

      ‘I don’t think so.’

      ‘Garrett Asplundh was tough as nails. And honest.’

      ‘I know,’ I said. ‘We talked to a guy this morning who saw a red Ferrari pulled over to the side of Highway 163 that night. Not far from where we found Asplundh’s vehicle. Said he saw someone moving in the trees. Maybe Mr Red Ferrari saw something. Who knows, maybe he pulled the trigger.’

      I could hear him tapping notes onto his computer.

      ‘Tell the U-T,’ said Captain Evers. ‘Maybe they’ll run a notice or something.’

      ‘That’s my next call.’

      ‘Let me see what I can find out, Brownlaw.’

      I called a reporter acquaintance of mine who works for the Union-Tribune. His name is George Schimmel and he covers crime. He’s a good writer and almost always gets his facts right. During my brief celebrity three years ago, I’d given him a short interview. Since then George has told me many times he wants to do a much longer piece or, better yet, wants me to tell my own story in my own words. I’ve declined because I’m not comfortable in the public eye. And because of certain things that happened, and didn’t happen, during that fall from the hotel. I feel that some things are private and should stay that way.

      ‘So are you ready to sit down and give me a real interview?’ he asked,