Half Life Page 2

  But it was Eddie. How could I say no?

  I looked around the café. The old prospector with the eye patch was still muttering at his cell phone. Sonia and Mike still hustled behind the counter, sweat beading their chubby faces. The line to order was just as long, the line to pick up even longer. The front door kept clanking in the wind. I felt damp and stinky, tired of being there, angry at being asked to do something I didn’t want to do.

  “Okay,” my mouth said without my consent. “A couple of days. But I can’t promise anything.” Under the table, I socked my thigh. Why was I doing this?

  Gabby gave a curt nod and sat down.

  Eddie said, “Thanks, Sam.”

  But he was smiling at Gabby.

  3

  After inexplicably committing to investigate Pete’s disappearance, I asked Gabby to take me to his apartment. I wanted to see for myself if it held any clues as to what had happened to her brother. I thought Eddie would bow out of the field trip so he could help Sonia and Mike, but he quickly volunteered to accompany us. He seemed loath to leave Gabby and me alone together. Smart man.

  Eddie agreed to drive the three of us over to Pete’s place, and too late I remembered he drove a white Ford Ranger with an extended cab. This meant that either Gabby or I would have to crawl un-ladylike into the back compartment and sit like a tot in the tiny fold-down seat. When we got to his vehicle, Eddie unlocked and opened the passenger-side door and then made his way to the driver’s side. Gabby and I stood outside the truck, glaring at one another. Though the sun was hot, the wind was fierce and had a cold edge to it. Gabby faced into the blast, her ebony tresses flowing out behind her, looking like the heroine in some romantic novel. The wind was at my back and had blown my sweat-stiffened ponytail over my right shoulder like a hairy boa.

  Eddie climbed into the truck and stared at us hopefully, hand poised over the ignition. “Hop in, Sam,” he said finally.

  So, Eddie expected me to end the stalemate. Incensed, I climbed up into the cab ungracefully, squeezed into the back, and sat my butt down on the tiny jump seat. I felt like the family dog. Meanwhile, Gabby got in and shoved the front seat back into me so she’d have more leg room. She settled in next to Eddie, running her fingers through her locks in a gesture clearly picked up from Glamour. Her icky perfume choked the cab. Eddie smiled at her.

  I simmered.

  .

  Pete’s apartment was located in one of the newer complexes built off the main drag on Shasta Street, not far from my house. The Silver Creek Apartments are nowhere near a creek (we live in the desert—duh) and was not silver at all, but terra cotta. What is it with construction naming conventions in this town? Desert Rock is a place so hot and barren, someone made T-shirts that read, “You are at the End of the World. Next stop: Desert Rock.” Yet we have “The Breezes” apartment complex (“breeze” being what happens between thirty-mile-per-hour wind gusts out here) and the “Shady Lake Condos” (no lake; ditto on the shade). Why not “Damn Desolate Apartments” or “Miserable Blistering Condos”? On the other hand, maybe it was better to leave the naming to the likes of Richard Sampson, developer extraordinaire and hulk who once wanted to kill me for accusing him of murdering the owner of the local wind farm. Touchy!

  Gabby let us into Pete’s apartment with her key. I didn’t see any signs of the lock being jimmied, and the two windows in front looked intact. When Gabby swung the door open, a miasma of stale air enveloped us. I walked in and looked around the small apartment. When Pete’s cat failed to appear, I asked Gabby about it, and she explained that she had taken him home with her, even though she wasn’t crazy about cats. She wasn’t crazy about any animals, she added emphatically, as though she suspected me of plans to foist a barnyard on her. I wondered how she’d react to Lacy, the rottweiler I had inherited from my mother when she died. That gigantic slobbering beast would test even an ASPCA diehard.

  I saw right off that Pete was not the neatest person on earth. Tennis shoes and socks had been discarded by the sofa, dirty dishes and empty beer bottles sat on the coffee table, and the kitchen sink looked like it hadn’t seen cleanser since plumbing was invented. I felt shivers of disgust thinking about someone eating in that kitchen. I’ll never earn an award for good housekeeping, but I do maintain a level of cleanliness above that of a pig sty. I held my breath when I opened the fridge. It was half full of stuff I assume bachelors eat: bread, cheese, a couple packs of raw steak (going greyish-green—yish), and lots of cheap beer. The freezer revealed several weeks’ worth of frozen dinners. Pete seemed especially fond of steak burritos, a favorite of mine as it happens.

  The scarred kitchen table was littered with articles on nuclear energy, toxic waste, and the failed Yucca Mountain waste repository. There were also a couple of photographs of a run-of-the-mill dump, which, given all the sand and rocks interspersed with garbage, looked to be located somewhere in our neck of the woods. The mountains of debris were not a lovely sight but certainly not frightening like the photos that accompanied the articles on toxic waste. These featured wimpy-looking drums with yellow radiation warning signs—I got chill bumps just looking at them. I also noticed a couple of newspaper clippings from the local Desert Tribune, which described the protests over the mayor’s plan to create a nuclear waste dump here. There were several photographs with the articles, one featuring Pete in a shoving match with another man outside city hall. Pete appeared to be yelling at the guy, who looked intimidated but seemed to be holding his ground.

  “Do you know who that is?” I asked Gabby, pointing to the man in the photo.

  “No clue. Pete told me the protests sometimes get pretty heated.”

  I loved this stuff. People of good faith arguing passionately with one another. This is what I write about, the essence of what Blue Nest Press is all about. I would definitely ask Vince if I could write my next book about this issue. The drama was unfolding right here in Desert Rock. I could sweeten the deal by telling Vince that one of the people involved in the controversy had gone missing and could possibly have been murdered. After my success in solving the wind farm mystery, which Vince used shamelessly to market my book on wind energy, he would probably drool at the idea. I shivered at the vision of Vince’s mouth opening and spittle dribbling out between his yellow teeth. Disgusting though he was, corporeally speaking, he had an excellent mind for books and business. He would make a great show of rejecting my idea (because it wasn’t his), but ultimately he would embrace it. Then, if I did commit to investigating Pete’s disappearance after the two days I had promised, I could use the book as a pretext to talk to the protest people.

  I brought my mind back to the present and heard Gabby saying that she had taken the trash out and cleaned the litter box. But, she said, she had left the rest as it was so as not to spoil any evidence. Of course, the deputies hadn’t found anything indicating foul play, as Gabby had reported. To them, it looked as if Pete had left voluntarily, probably on a trip out of town. My thought was that most people tidy up their place before a trip, but if you were a slob like Pete, maybe you’d skip that step. You’d want the place to feel like home when you returned to it. Ah, the comforts of the landfill!

  I looked around the apartment some more and saw three electric guitars leaning against the wall, a sign that Pete may not be the complex’s favorite tenant. Two crooked shelves of the cheap variety purchased at a home improvement store held numerous trophies and medals, which on closer inspection proved to be soccer awards. Everything on the shelf looked in danger of sliding off during the next temblor, a decided probability in a town located within seventy miles of the San Andreas Fault. Gabby explained that the framed charcoal sketches hanging in the bedroom were done by Pete. I could see he was good, the cactus and boulders and greasewood bushes he had drawn rendered with fine accuracy. A sketch of Gabby hung there too, her proud beauty captured by her brother’s hand.

  A quick glance in the bedroom closet revealed two suitcases, a giant orange one with wheels and a s
mall black carry-on. The ensemble looked especially suited for travel on Halloween. Back in the living room, I saw that the phone machine on the end table was unplugged; Gabby said Pete never used it, in fact had cut off his land line years ago. Gabby reported that Pete’s cell phone was not in the apartment.

  I stood there in the middle of the room, thinking about what I do when leaving for a trip. Obviously, I take my suitcases. Pete’s were still in the apartment. I tidy up the house, which Pete may or may not have done—with his level of slovenliness, it was hard to tell. I’d definitely make arrangements to have Lacy taken care of in my absence, but Pete had not done the same for his cat. A couple more questions popped into my head.

  “Did the deputies talk with Pete’s employer, find out if he asked for time off?”

  Gabby nodded. “Yes. The bank said Pete didn’t. They expected him at work that Saturday.”

  “Did the deputies check his mailbox?” If Pete had planned a trip, he may have put a hold on his mail.

  “They did. It was piled up with mail.”

  I felt a low-grade dread. There may not be obvious signs that Pete had been snatched or killed, but I started to share Gabby’s feeling that something was very wrong.

  As we left the apartment, I asked Gabby if Pete’s car was missing.

  “It’s gone,” she said gesturing in the general direction of the tenants’ carport.

  So, if foul play had occurred, it did not happen in the apartment. Pete had driven somewhere, either on a trip he failed to mention to anyone, or to some assignation in town that maybe got him killed.

  The three of us stood in the parking lot by Eddie’s truck, the brisk wind knocking into us. Pete had been gone now for two weeks. That was not good. I remember reading that the first forty-eight hours in a missing person case are crucial. If the person isn’t found by then, he or she probably won’t be. The thought depressed me. Having been in Pete’s space, seen his things, I felt him become a real person in my mind, not just a character in the story Gabby told. He was an athlete, an artist and musician, he had a social conscience. He worked at a bank to pay his way through school. He looked a bit like Eddie.

  I asked Gabby, “Where was Pete taking classes?” Desert Rock has both a community college and a state university, the latter an extension campus of the California State University system. I was wondering how far along in his studies Pete had gotten.

  Gabby answered, “At the community college.” Then she added, pride in her voice, “He was nearly ready to transfer to the university. And after that, he planned on applying to law school.”

  I had to admit that Gabby’s affection for Pete was something I liked about her. Pete was lucky to have a sister like that. I thought of how my brother Connor must feel about having me and Vanessa as sisters. All we ever seemed to do was tell him how immature and irresponsible he was. Whenever he told us about life plans, we scoffed, telling him we were sure he would fail. I felt sick thinking about it. Poor Connor.

  But Connor wasn’t Pete, who seemed ambitious and responsible, going places.

  Thinking out loud, I said, “That must be really hard, working full time and working toward a law degree. That’s a lot of schooling.”

  Gabby seemed to warm for the first time. “That was Pete. He was determined to become a lawyer. He wanted to be able to advocate for environmental and social justice. And he actually loved his work at the bank. He worked in the loans department, and he liked it when he could help people achieve their dreams. He helped Eddie get his small business loan, you know.”

  Huh? Eddie had gotten a small business loan? How come I, his best friend, didn’t know about this, and Gabby did? I gaped at him. “What did you get a loan for?”

  He said carefully, perhaps sensing my hurt, “I’m going to open a second shop. Coffee Buzz 2.”

  I was utterly amazed. Eddie had worked so hard to get the money for the first shop. He had scrimped and saved, worked two jobs, denied himself trips and new gadgets and nights out with friends. It was hard to believe he felt financially ready to open another store just two years after the first. I realized that I might have underestimated his ambition. He had never wanted to go to college, but he had always longed to make something of himself, to make his mom and dad proud. And I knew they were proud of him. I certainly was. But I was seriously annoyed at him, too, at the moment. Why had he excluded me in this major life development?

  Gabby said to him, “Pete felt bad that he couldn’t get more money for you. He worked as hard as he could, even got his boss to go a little bit out of the bank’s comfort range. It really bothered Pete, he couldn’t stop talking about it.”

  Eddie shook his head. “He shouldn’t have felt bad. He did what he could. And I was able to come up with the difference.”

  That was impressive. Eddie obviously had saved his profits, and now he had enough money to expand his business. Eddie was truly a self-made man. “Good for you, my friend,” I said and touched his arm. “Really, you are amazing. Congratulations.”

  Instead of glowing with pride, though, Eddie just looked uncomfortable.

  “What is it?” I asked. “Everything still on for the new Coffee Buzz?”

  “Oh yeah,” he said. “It’s going fine.”

  I thought he should be happier about the whole thing, but then I realized that maybe he was feeling bad that he hadn’t told me about this.

  “So,” he said to me, “Did you learn anything from Pete’s apartment?”

  I felt chastised. This change of subject probably explained Eddie’s muted enthusiasm. He would feel uncomfortable talking about his life plans when Pete’s life might be over. I admitted to Eddie and Gabby that the apartment had not suggested to me a man who had left on vacation. Yet I had found nothing to shed light on what had happened instead. I told them I would spend today and tomorrow attempting to discover what I could about Pete, then I would assess further commitment. I admit, the case was pulling me in.

  Not that I would tell Gabby that.

  4

  Before I spent another minute investigating Pete’s disappearance, I had to get my paying job in order. I drove straight home after searching Pete’s apartment and called my editor. Calling Vince is better done without thinking about it, like taking a nasty medicine. After five rings he finally answered, his phlegmy voice barking “Vince!” I took a deep breath and launched in. I explained that I wanted to write my next book on the nuclear waste controversy. I described the protests going on in Desert Rock and how I’d have access to some of the players, one of which had gone missing. I even admitted to him that I had been asked to investigate the man’s disappearance. My editor’s response was quintessential Vince: “God damn it, Sam! Blast it all to hell! Can’t you just write the damn books I assign to you? You’ve got a lot of nerve asking me this favor when you’re late now with your current book! You better not get so wrapped up in that missing person case that you forget to write the bloody book!”

  In that tirade, of course, was tacit permission to proceed with my plan. Vince had anger management problems, but underneath all that spleen was a very smart editor. He knew a good topic—and writer, if I do say so myself—when he saw it.

  I had only a day’s worth of work to do on my current project, so naturally I’d delay it. I decided to interview Raul first to see if Gabby’s accusation had merit. Then I would talk to people involved in the toxic waste protests. That would allow me to ask questions about Pete and do research for my book at the same time. Before I went out questioning people, however, I needed to find out where the sheriff’s department was in its investigation.

  Before I drove to the sheriff’s station, I took a well-needed shower. While letting the conditioner soak in longer than usual, I shaved my legs, which had begun to look like Lacy’s. Out of the shower, I put on makeup, trying to do a better job than I usually do, which isn’t saying much. My eye was still watery from the pebble lodged in it, but I did my best to work around that. Hopefully, the mascara and eyeliner we
re waterproof or I’d look like The Joker by lunchtime. For the finishing touch, I blow-dried my hair and left it down for once, noticing that the thick chestnut strands needed a trim. When I surveyed the results of all this scrubbing and brushing and primping in the mirror, I grimaced. While certainly an improvement from my usual slapdash “style,” I looked like an amateur compared to Gabby Castillo. I couldn’t get out of my mind the vision of her sitting in Coffee Buzz, all preened and painted and gorgeous, and me looking like a perspiration machine. No wonder Eddie couldn’t keep his eyes off her.

  I roused myself from this painful rumination and headed out the door. Remembering Trent’s affinity for donuts, I swung by Donut Haven and picked up a dozen greasy blobs of dough and two large coffees. I found the sheriff’s station much as it was eight months ago, when I had ventured in to talk to Trent about the wind farm murder. The building was ancient and smelled like mold from the evaporative cooler. Flooring consisted of scuffed asphalt tiles, and the walls were painted a disturbing yellow-gray color, probably some hue mixed in error at the local hardware store and bought on the cheap. Security, paradoxically, was lax, and I was free to wander the halls looking for my friend. I found Trent in his office, filling out forms, an activity that seemed to consume the majority of his time.

  “Hey, Trent,” I said when I entered the cramped space. Vanessa’s walk-in closet is bigger than Trent’s office. Of course, her hall closet is bigger than my house, so it wasn’t really a knock against Trent.

  “Hey there, good lookin’!” He said reflexively like he always does when he sees me. Then he actually saw me and jumped to his feet. “Whoa! I mean, wow, you look, well, wow, fantastic!”

  Okay, so I don’t usually look that bad. I put my hands on my hips and huffed. “Jeez, Trent, you act like I usually go around looking like a bag lady.” He was so nice and always such a gentleman, I enjoyed needling him whenever possible.