Half Moon Bay: A Novel (Clay Edison Book 3)

Loose blue threads marked the spot of the missing eye. The right eye was bulbous, with a bright-blue iris and an attachment loop on the reverse. Those threads, too, were loose, only a couple left to keep the eye from falling off.

In every respect, it appeared identical to the eye Flo Sibley had found, currently sitting in an evidence locker.

A paper tag, yellow and brittle, gave a clue to the doll’s age.

Marjorie’s Menagerie

Kuwagong Happiness Co. (H.K.) Ltd.

Kowloon, Hong Kong

Reg No. PA-2739 (HK)

Faded logo, an owl hovering over its young.

I took photographs, climbed out of the pit, and began making the rounds.

The gardeners had more important things to do than answer my questions. They were reconsecrating a temple. No, they couldn’t tell me who had created the shrine in the pit or how long it had been there, let alone the provenance of a specific teddy bear. It’s not like there was a guest book. These things happened organically.

Ditto the picnickers and the dice players and everyone else I approached. They denied knowing anything or flat-out ignored me.

The patrol cop at the southwest corner hadn’t observed anyone go near the pit.

I jogged back to Schickman.

“Fuck’s sake,” he said. “Give me a little time. I’d said I’d follow up.”

I brought him over and showed him the bear.

“Huh,” he said. “I mean, I don’t know. I can find out who’s been on shift, see if they saw anything.” He glanced at me. “What do you want to do with it?”

Leaving it behind was not an option. What if the donor had second thoughts and came back for it? What if someone else swiped it? By time-honored tradition, items deposited in People’s Park became free for the taking.

The rules said I should call Tom Nieminen. His scene. His responsibility.

But Nieminen was my responsibility. Didn’t that make the scene, and the bear, mine by transitive property?

Schickman watched me uneasily.

I said, “I’ll call the detective.”

He relaxed and nodded.

—

TOM NIEMINEN ANSWERED with his mouth full. “Early lunch,” he mumbled.

He could be there by noon. I told him I’d wait.

As insurance, I texted a photo of the bear to Flo Sibley, along with the words found it.

Ten seconds later she texted back for my location.

Twenty minutes later she came jogging up to the pit and put her hands on her hips.

“Dang,” she said.

She climbed in to examine the bear. Then she climbed out and proceeded to do what I’d done: turn in a circle, clocking everyone within a hundred yards.

“I tried,” I said. “Nobody saw shit.”

“Do you believe them?”

I shrugged.

Sibley addressed Schickman. “How’s it going?”

He acknowledged her with a nod. UCPD and city cops have a lukewarm relationship, with the latter regarding the former as bush league, and the former regarding the latter as arrogant. Ordinarily they each mind their own business, but that moment highlighted everything uncomfortable about the dynamic. The operation had started out under UC’s authority—specifically Sibley’s. She outranked Schickman. Yet here he was, juggling the consequences and dodging bodily fluids.

To his credit, he stepped away, promising to ping me.

After he’d gone, Sibley said, “Thanks for the call.”

“Called Nieminen, too, but figured you’d want to know.”

“It’s been driving me up the wall. I go to sleep and dream about teddy bears. I wake up and it’s more teddy bears.”

“The tag’s old,” I said. “Like it’s been in a closet for forty years.”

Sibley nodded. “I’m trying to imagine what’s going through her head.”

I didn’t have to ask whose head she meant. “Not a place I’d want to be.”

“The kid gets dumped, and all this time she’s been hanging on to it? I mean, this is guilt we’re seeing, right?”

“As opposed to.”

“Psycho killer taunting.”

“I don’t see it that way,” I said. “When I got here the bear was hidden behind another doll. No effort to call attention to it.”

“What I’d really like to do is set up a camera, in case she comes back.”

“You think they’ll go for that?”

“I dunno. Maybe I can get Tom to sit out all night on surveillance.” She checked her phone. “The heck is he?”

“Did he tell you about our talk with Fritz Dormer?”

She shook her head.

I recounted.

“Sounds like a peach,” she said.

“Maybe the bear will jog his memory.”

The sun pried through the clouds, flushing the air with warmth.

“Honestly,” Sibley said, scanning the lawns, “I almost prefer they keep it like this. Don’t get me wrong. It’s a toilet. But take everything away and what’s left?”

“One fewer toilet?”

“What this place is,” she said, “is your asshole cousin. He’s an asshole. But he’s also your cousin. All of a sudden he starts acting nice, it makes you nervous. Well looky here, the noble explorer has reached shore.”

I followed her gaze to the opposite end of the park. Tom Nieminen wandered among the tree stumps, shading his eyes with his hand. Sibley waved, and whistled, and—when that didn’t get his attention—phoned him.

“Hey, Tom. Here. At the park. Yeah. I know, he’s with me. Over here. Not—other side.”

He finally spotted us.

She put her phone away. “Never ceases to amaze.”

“Really?” I said. “Cause you don’t sound that amazed.”

Sibley smiled.

Nieminen came up, wheezing, a mustard stain on his tie. “What’s this about a bear?”