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

That afternoon, I put Charlotte down for a nap and sat to review my notes.

The depth of Buddy’s recall impressed me. At the same time, I was perplexed by a number of things he’d said and more so by things unspoken.

I’d mentioned Claudia and Helen as suspects with personal motives, but Buddy had brushed that off, wanting only to talk about Norman, whom he obviously loathed. Yet he’d missed Norman’s visit to Linda Vista. Had never heard of Diane Olsen, the literal girl-next-door.

Had the other members of the Franchette family been questioned at all? Or did Buddy and his partner assume no involvement? If so, why? They had to know that most serious crimes against children are committed by relatives or close friends.

He’d spent much of our conversation harping on fugitive radicals. I could understand why. The era was tumultuous, and the bombings did appear to line up with the Franchette family’s misfortunes. But I could see another advantage to the political angle: Focusing on it distracted from the investigation’s shortcomings.

I knew better than to let hindsight make me smug. Every cop has had to let someone go for lack of evidence.

But we’re people, too. We bring our own quirks to investigations, and Buddy was a performer, with a need to be admired. So much of success in life boils down to acting like you know what you’re talking about, even when you don’t.

Especially when you don’t.

I needed to see that file.

I got out my laptop to follow up with Tracy Golden, my initial point of contact at the FBI. I hadn’t finished the email when Nate Schickman’s name appeared on my cell. I figured he was calling to let me know he’d been unable to find information on Mary Franchette.

Now I could tell him why: Mary was Peggy, and the records had been confiscated and lost.

I picked up. “Yo.”

My ear filled with noise.

“Clay? Are you there? Can you hear me?”

“Yeah. What’s going on?”

“I’m at People’s Park. We got sort of a situation. There’s a guy—fuck, hang on.”

Shouting in the background. Raw anger.

Nate came back on. “There’s a guy here stirring shit up, claims you sent him.”

“What?”

“That’s what he says.”

“What guy?”

“Big dude. Nazi tats. He has your card.”

I said, “On my way.”

—

I HURRIED OUTSIDE to find Maryanne kneeling by her planter boxes.

“Hello there,” she said. “Lovely day.”

“I’m so sorry to do this,” I said. “But would you mind listening for the baby? Amy’s at work, and something’s come up and I have to run out.”

“Not at all.”

I thanked her profusely, handed her the monitor, and told her I’d try to be back before Charlotte woke up.

She laughed. “I can hear her fine without that.”

No time to argue. I ran to my car.

—

ENTERING THE PARK on Haste, I hustled toward a massing crowd.

The shrine inside the Free Speech Pit had exploded since my last visit, expanding to fill its entirety and taking on the feel of an art installation. In addition to bouquets and signs were an altar table, edges dripping with candle-wax stalactites; two ratty, full-sized couches; a ratty chaise longue; meditation pillows and yoga mats; a bamboo teepee, lashed with twine and strung with Tibetan prayer flags. The stuffed animals had been raked into a single heap, like an offering. Amid the jumble of furry heads and limbs, a familiar patch of neon blue.

Letters of tribute to the “Child of the Earth” had been pinned to a huge corkboard and propped on an easel. A second corkboard displayed a gallery of other dead or missing children, along with people killed by law enforcement throughout the country, titled with the catchall VOICES OF THE VOICELESS. A map outlined the original territorial boundaries of Bay Area tribes. Posters divulged THE TRUTH ABOUT COAL. MEAT. GMOS.

The gardeners had stopped work and were giving a statement to a Berkeley city cop, who kept saying One at a time, please. Three more cops formed a porous boundary to contain some fifty onlookers, many of them waving phones and chanting anti-Nazi slogans.

I slipped on my neck badge and worked my way to the front, where a hand shot out to take me by the arm.

Nate Schickman, dagger-eyed, steered me to the sidewalk. “That’s him.”

Kelly Dormer sat on the curb, boots in the gutter, hands cuffed behind his back. He wore a leather motorcycle vest, and his left shirtsleeve dangled by a scrap of flannel, exposing the swastika on his shoulder. The knife sheath hung on his belt. The knife itself was missing. Blood trailed from his nose and ran fang-like over mouth and chin to dry in jagged brown bolts down his stubbled neck.

Two city officers kept watch over him.

Across Dwight stood a pair of men in soiled jeans, gloves, and kneepads. They appeared in similarly rough shape, one with a bloody T-shirt pressed to his face and the other flexing a sore elbow. They were uncuffed, talking to a single cop.

That it took four times as many people, numerically, to control Kelly gave me a hint of what had occurred.

“He says you told him the baby’s his brother,” Schickman said.

“It is.”

Nate blinked.

I said, “Really.”

“And that he had to come down here.”

You’re free to head over and have a look yourself.

I think you’ll come to the same conclusion.

There are people, perfect strangers, leaving flowers and notes.

It doesn’t bother you that they care more than you do?

I said, “I was trying to get him to pay for burial.”

“Whatever,” Schickman said. “He didn’t like what he saw, cause he jumped into the pit and started ripping the other pictures down. The gardeners are like, ‘Cut that out.’ He gets mad and starts knocking shit over. Those guys”—the injured men—“decide they’re gonna be heroes.”

Each side claimed the other had thrown the first punch.

“I don’t give a shit,” Schickman said. “I’m trying to avoid an international incident.”

Translation: Your mess. Get a mop.

I left him on crowd control and went over to Kelly. The city cops stood back.

He eyed me groggily, said nothing.

I said, “Why are you messing with the stuff in the pit?”

“They turned it into a goddamn circus. That’s my brother died in there. All that other shit don’t belong.”

“It’s a public park.”

“I’m supposed to let them disrespect my family?”

“They’re not. That’s how this place works. It’s what it’s known for. People are free to express their opinions.”

“Cept me.”

“There’s expression and there’s destruction.”

He hawked and spat into the street, in the direction of the two men. They flipped him off.

“Fuck you,” Kelly yelled.

“Hey,” I said.

“Fuck you, Nazi scum.”

“Little bitch,” Kelly yelled, trying to stand.

“Hey.” I clamped a hand on his shoulder, pressed him down to the curb. “Knock it off.”

The crowd jeered.

Fuck you, Nazi.

Clap, clap, clap-clap-clap.

Fuck you, Nazi.

Schickman stared at me imploringly. Get him out of here.

“They attacked me,” Kelly said.

“They say the same about you.”

“Self-defense.”

“Arrest them, they gotta arrest you. Is that what you want?”

“Fucking bullshit.”

“Go home, Kelly.”

“I’m still cuffed.”

“I can tell them to let you go, but then you got to clear out.”

He didn’t respond.

“You hear me?” I asked.

“Yeah, fine.”

I nodded to one of the uniforms, who uncuffed him. “Where are you parked?”

“Over that way.”

“Let’s go.”

Kelly sat rubbing his wrists and banging his boot heel against the asphalt. “My fuckin foot’s asleep.”

“Come on. I don’t have time for this.”

“Those cops took my knife.”

“That’s for the best.”

“I want it back.”

“We’ll FedEx it to you,” I said, reaching to haul him up.

I guess his foot really was asleep. He stumbled as he rose, head-butting me lightly in the chest. To prevent us both from toppling over, I grabbed him—a reflex—and we ended up performing an awkward little waltz, drawing ire from the crowd.

Nazi lover.

“Pussy-ass bitches,” Kelly yelled.

“Go,” I growled.

I frog-marched him toward Telegraph. He kept trying to turn around and confront the crowd; I kept shoving him forward.

“Gunnar was right about you,” he whined. “You want my money, but you won’t do shit to protect my rights.”

“One has nothing to do with the other. Get this straight: The money’s not for me. It’s to give your brother a proper burial. And you haven’t spent a dime, yet.”

We rounded the corner, the heat of the crowd diminishing.

“I won’t pay for something before I’ve seen proof,” Kelly said.

“The remains aren’t here. You want to see them, you can come to the morgue.”

“I ain’t gonna do that,” he said quickly.

“Then I need to know what you intend to do. Pretty soon I’m going to have to act, with or without you.”

He sulked, and we walked on, passing a stop sign someone had updated with a sticker.

He’d left his bike outside a ramen shop.

“End of the week,” I said. “Let me know what you decide.”

—

HE DIDN’T CALL, not by the end of that week or the end of the next. Left without an option, and with Sergeant Brad Moffett growing impatient, I sent the bones of the People’s Park Infant for cremation. The proper course of action, but that didn’t make it less disappointing.

Flo Sibley said, “It’s just so freakin sad. Poor, poor kid.”

“It sucks, but what can I do. How’s the camera going?”

“You had to ask, huh? Our privileges are about to run out. So far nothing.”

“Per Tom?”

“I’ve reviewed the footage,” she said. “There’s a few people who show up more than once, but for the most part it’s the same faces you get in the park during the day.”

“So we’re SOL.”

“With the surveillance, yeah. I had another idea, though. My sister in Bakersfield, she’s got three boys. The youngest got in with a bad crowd when he started high school. My brother-in-law decided to stick a tracking device in his backpack to see where he was going after school.”

“Did it help?”

“Nope. It was crap. It beeped when the battery was low, so Matty found it on the second day and dropped it in the trash. But this was a couple of years ago. We live in the greatest country on earth, right? They’re constantly coming up with new and exciting products.”

She directed me to the website of a company called EyeKnow.

Their deeply creepy motto was Always Watching.

The GPS tracker Florence Sibley had requisitioned was the size of a deck of cards.

“I sewed it inside the bear,” she said.

I burst out laughing.

“No big deal,” she said. “I had to take out some of the stuffing so it weighs a little more. But it’s not that noticeable unless you squeeze hard. It’s back in the pit as we speak.”

“Damn, Sibley. You’re like if James Bond and Martha Stewart had a baby.”

Rather than put out a steady signal, the tracker updated its location at twenty-four-hour intervals. The spec page claimed the battery lasted last up to a year on a single charge.

“You believe that?” I said.

“Yeah, well, the pit’s not going to be there in a year, one way or the other.”

I wasn’t so sure. “What’d you tell Nieminen?”

“I didn’t tell him anything. I don’t need him bugging me to share.”

—

FOR A SHORT while, Amy and I had been making progress, the baby managing as many as five hours at a stretch. Then sleep regression kicked in. Four to three to two. Then a host of dreadful ninety-minute swings.

The previous night had been particularly rocky, and while Amy rushed through her morning routine, I paced around the cottage, yawning, Charlotte chewing on my neck and sobbing.

“Did you give her Orajel?” Amy called from the bathroom.

“Yes.”

“There’s a teether in the freezer.”

“She doesn’t want it. Can I give her Tylenol yet?”

“Not for another hour.”

“Then I’m going to put her down.”

Eyeliner in hand, Amy leaned out to stare at me in horror, as though I’d suggested deep-frying our daughter. “Do not do that.”

“You don’t think she sounds tired?”

“She’s barely been up for an hour.”

“She’s exhausted.”

“Because she was awake all night. That’s why we have to keep her up during the day. Did you read the book I gave you?”

“Which book.”

“Zombie Baby. There’s a chapter on circadian rhythm. Did you read it?”

“I think so. Mostly what you highlighted.”

“Jenna said Riley learned to sleep in two weeks. But you have to follow the rules. It’s a system. We both need to be on board or it’s never going to work.”

“I’m on board.”

“Promise me: Under no circumstances will you put her down before nine thirty.”

“I’ll try.”

“No. Clay. Promise.”

“I promise.”

“And you can’t let her sleep for more than two hours. Any longer and we’re completely fu—screwed. Please. Two hours in the morning, one in the afternoon.”

“Understood.”

“Thank you. What time is it?”

“Eight twenty-five.”

“Shit.” She ran to grab her bag, pecked me on the cheek. “I’ll pick up dinner.”

—

THE REMAINDER OF the morning can only be described as baby Guantánamo. I tickled Charlotte, bounced her, blasted Tupac. I took her outside to show her Maryanne’s asparagus standing proud. I made repeated lead-footed circuits of our block, passing the same stop sign, defaced with a pair of stickers.

“Stay awake, please. You have to stay awake.”

Charlotte moaned and drooped and lowed mournfully.

“You sound like Chewbacca.”

“Gaaahh. Gaaaahh.”

“That’s right, lady. You’re Wookiee of the Year.”

At nine seventeen a.m., she shut her eyes and her little body relaxed. I held her for another thirteen minutes, at which point I could tell Amy truthfully that I had not put her down before nine thirty.

Collapsing onto the futon, I flipped on the TV.

When I opened my eyes it was four fifty-two in the afternoon.

I lurched to the nursery. Charlotte was sitting up in her crib, babbling. She looked perky and content. Which made sense. She’d taken a seven-and-a-half-hour nap.

“Mommy’s going to murder me.”

She giggled.

I fed her and changed her and bathed her and changed her again. At six fifteen Amy returned toting take-out bags. I caught a whiff of Thai.

“How’d it go?” she asked.

My reply was cut short, as from outside came a peal of shattering glass, followed by a woman’s scream.