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

I gave the baby to Amy, telling her to stay inside and lock the door.

I didn’t stop to get down the Sig Sauer, let alone take the ammo out of the bread machine. Jumping the child safety gate, I ran up the driveway, toward the sound of Maryanne’s cries.

Maryanne Reece had spent her career in the nonprofit sector, most recently as director of an organization working to reduce the high school dropout rate in urban areas. Her friendship with Amy’s parents had begun in grad school and spanned forty years.

She was in her sixties now, widowed and retired, with one son living in Los Angeles and another in Munich. In the past she’d rented the guest cottage out to strangers, but the arrangement always felt impersonal and sometimes adversarial. The risk of a tenant refusing to leave was so high—the cost of eviction so prohibitive—that she’d let the unit sit unoccupied for several years prior to our moving in. She told Amy and me we were doing her a favor. Having a baby around kept her young.

I’m almost ashamed to charge you.

By the time I reached the front lawn, the screaming had stopped. The house is a well-preserved Craftsman with original leaded-glass windows. One window’s center left panel was gone. Through the gap I saw the living room, cozily lit. Etta James played on the stereo.

Maryanne cowered by a bookcase, fumbling with her cell.

I called her name. Startled, she dropped the phone, snatched it up, squinted out fearfully into the darkness.

“It’s Clay,” I said. “Meet me at the front door.”

Pale and shaking, she cracked the door, then widened it to admit me.

“Are you hurt?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Your arm is bleeding.”

She looked down at it. “I didn’t feel anything.”

It wasn’t a bad cut. I fetched a box of tissues from the powder room and she pressed a wad to her wrist.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. I came in to get a book and…”

She waved toward the living room.

I edged into the doorway.

Glass flickered viciously on the carpet, splintering the moonlight, lurking in the nooks of an easy chair. In the window frame, broken strands of leading dangled, like a cobweb annihilated by one thoughtless stroke.

The weapon was a brick. A divot in the quarter-sawn oak marked where it had struck and bounced before settling, surreally, on edge. Painted on its broad side, in half-inch strokes, was a red swastika, glossy in the lamplight against the duller red of the clay.

I work for you baby Etta sang. Work my hands to the bone.

Care for you, baby, till the cows come home.

I shut off the music, retrieved a toppled wineglass, and returned to Maryanne in the foyer. “Come with me.”

We exited the house via the rear porch and crossed the yard to the guest cottage. Before entering I announced myself in a loud voice.

Amy sheltered in the bathroom, an irate Charlotte pressed close to her chest. “What’s going on.”

“Probably nothing more. Don’t worry. I’m going to call the police. Stay here, please.”

The women stared as I put on my windbreaker, dark blue with ACSO CORONER in yellow lettering. I didn’t want the cops to show up and draw on me.

In the kitchenette I got down the Sig Sauer and the bread machine.

“Clay,” Amy said.

“It’s going to be fine,” I said, loading the magazine. “Sit tight.”

After clearing the back and front yards, and calling the cops, I circled the block, peering into parked cars and bushes. It’s a pretty neighborhood, straddling the southern city limits. Handsome birches and brown shingle homes line rumpled streets. Our block alone enjoys no fewer than three Little Free Libraries, birdhouse-like cabinets, set on four-by-fours, that invite passersby to take or leave used books. A recent uptick in temperature had excited the wisteria, causing their gnarled branches to throw out purple clumps.

With the initial shock wearing off, fear began trickling in, infusing everyday objects with menace. I holstered my gun, leery of firing at someone’s pet or garden gnome.

I’d walked this exact route that morning, carrying my daughter.

Had they been watching me then?

The responding officer was named Young. She was perplexed to be greeted by a coroner. Dispatch hadn’t mentioned anything about a body. How had I gotten there so fast?

I gave her the thirty-second summary.

“Did you see a vehicle?” she asked.

“No. I didn’t hear tires, either, although I wasn’t paying a hundred percent attention. They could’ve been on foot or on a bike. Maybe Maryanne saw.”

Young called for a second car, and we walked back to the cottage.

Along with a thrashing, wailing Charlotte, the two women huddled on the futon. A box of Band-Aids and a tube of antiseptic sat on the coffee table.

Officer Young asked if Maryanne would accompany her to review the damage and give a statement.

Maryanne stood. “Yes, of course.”

The door shut.

Amy put Charlotte on the play mat and faced me. “Are we safe?”

“Whoever did it is gone.”

“They might come back.”

“Not with the cops here.”

“The cops aren’t going to stay forever.”

I shook my head. “No.”

Amy chewed her lip. The baby rolled around, mewling with delight, her misery of one minute prior forgotten. I envied her.

“I’m going to spend the night at my parents’ house,” Amy said.

“Okay.”

“You think I need to.”

I realized that her first statement, I’m going, had been a question, probing for danger. “I don’t think it’s necessary. But if it’ll make you feel safer.”

Together we packed an overnight bag; a second, larger bag with baby supplies.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Deal with the cops.”

“Are you coming with us?”

“Depends what time we wrap up.”

“You should stay here with Maryanne. She’s scared to death.”

Amy didn’t sound frightened. But I knew she was. Foolish not to be.

“It’s you they wanted,” she said. “Right? Not her.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

She accepted my words for what they were, a comforting lie.

I’m a sheriff. My wife is a psychologist. It doesn’t matter that I work primarily with the bereaved or that the overwhelming majority of her clients are benign.

We try to be careful. Our mail comes to a PO box. We’ve taken steps to reduce our online footprint. But it’s hard to hide these days. All it takes is one disgruntled lunatic with a credit card and an internet connection to gain unlimited access.

I shouldered the bags to the curb, snapped the car seat into its base, and bent close to Charlotte. “Be good for Mommy.”

She seized me by the nose, digging in with her tiny talons. She didn’t look remotely tired. Why would she? She’d taken a seven-and-a-half-hour nap.

I freed myself, kissed her, and turned to embrace Amy. “Say hi to your folks for me.”

“Call me, honey. Please.”

“I don’t want to wake you up.”

“I’ll turn the ringer off if I go to sleep.”

Her turn for a comforting lie. She’d be up all night.

We held each other for a while.

Behind us, the second squad car pulled up.

“I love you,” I said.

We kissed, and she climbed into the driver’s seat and I watched them leave.

The arriving officer came over. His nametag read ANZA. He gave a confused smile. “Coroner?”

—

MARYANNE APOLOGIZED. SHE’D had her back to the window, hadn’t seen the perpetrator.

“I don’t understand. I have no issues with anyone. Why would they do this to me?”

“It’s not you,” I said.

Outside, I showed the officers the trellises scaling the side of the main house, wisteria and bougainvillea and white pinpricks of star jasmine. Along with the poor angle, the profusion of new growth completely hid the guest cottage from the street.

“Her address is 3130. We’re 3130A. It’s a smash-and-go. No way are they taking the time to go prowling in search of a subunit. If they even noticed the A.”

They looked skeptical. But the swastika and the potential threat to a fellow peace officer were enough for them to call a detective.

Officer Anza went off to cruise the neighborhood. Many a bad guy has been nabbed simply because he was running, in street clothes, for no apparent reason.

Young and I sat with Maryanne in her kitchen over cups of tea. From the living room seeped a low, steady draft, the open window frame a wound refusing to clot.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“There’s no need to apologize.”

“We’ll pay for the repair.”

“Don’t be silly. We don’t know that it has anything to do with you.”

It was a night for comforting lies.

“It’s just glass,” she said bravely.

The detective turned up around eight. His name was Billy Watts. I knew him, or of him, through Delilah Nwodo. When he learned who I was he broke into a shit-eating grin.

“The man, the legend,” he said.

I was glad Amy wasn’t around to hear him chuckling.

“Anybody you think I should talk to?” he asked.

I told him of my visit to the Dormer brothers’ compound.

Bricks lying on the ground.

A young woman painting her nails blood red.

Gunnar’s mild drawl. Tomorrow.

I described my recent run-in with Kelly Dormer.

He said, “Makes sense. We’ll drop in on them. Anyone else you’ve pissed off?”

“What do you think?”

“Yeah, huh?” Watts arched his back. “Everyone’s a critic.”

—

BY NINE FORTY-FIVE the cops were gone, taking the brick in an evidence bag. I helped Maryanne sweep up the glass and patch the hole with cardboard.

She declined my offer to sleep in the main house.

“That’s what they want, isn’t it? To cause panic. Thank you, though.”

“I’m here if you need me.”

“I didn’t realize you kept a gun on hand,” she said. “I suppose I should have.”

“I apologize if that upsets you.”

“I assume you know how to use it safely.”

“I do. It’s part of our training. I practice regularly.”

“And you keep it far out of reach from Charlotte.”

“Yes.”

She nodded. “Well, then. Have a good night.”

—

THE BAGS OF Thai sagged on the kitchenette counter, ice-cold and untouched. I hadn’t heard from Amy in hours, not since she’d texted to let me know she’d arrived.

I wolfed peanut noodles from the carton, typing. Are you awake

We both are

I winced. Before I could figure out a reply she wrote again:

What’s happening there

Everything ok. Cops are gone

Maryanne?

Upset but sturdy

My parents are worried. They think we’re fighting

What did you tell them

We had a gas leak and you’re fixing it

I can come over

No stay I don’t want her to be alone

Ok

When can we come home

That’s my girl.

Whenever you want I wrote.

Ok. I’m not planning to go in to work tomorrow

Sounds good. I’ll probably be out when you get back. I need to take care of a few things

There was a pause.

Please don’t do anything dangerous she wrote.

I frowned.

The cops were on it. Why would she think I would do anything at all?

She was right, though.

I did want to do something.

Very much. Right now.

I’m not sure if her words created the urge, or if she anticipated me, laying her finger on a blemish in my character that I preferred not to acknowledge.

I won’t I wrote. See you tomorrow. I love you

You too

I stretched out on the futon, listening to the life cycle of the night. I wasn’t tired, either. I’d taken a daylong nap.

Eventually the walls began to smolder, a fragile rose-gold, indecisive, like a childhood incident remembered only from photographs.

I got up. I put on my vest. I took my knife and gun and car keys.

The lights were on in Maryanne’s kitchen. Dressed in yesterday’s clothes, she stood at the sink, filling the kettle, oblivious to me as I passed in the shadows.

—

I MADE IT to Carlos Canyon Road in under an hour.

Sunlight flooded the open plain between the barbed-wire fence and the trailers. Columns of dust would signal my approach. Presumably that was one reason for setting up so far back: to have advance warning of visitors.

In day I noticed the sign Dale Dormer had referred to, nailed to a fencepost.

NO TRESPASSING

VIOLATORS WILL BE

TAUGHT A LESSON

Small and rust-eaten and baked colorless. Practically illegible. They wanted people to miss it. Good excuse to shoot someone under plausible legal cover.

I swung the car around, doubling back half a mile to the four-way intersection that led out of the hills and toward civilization. I veered onto the shoulder and parked.

Anyone going anywhere—a gas station, Walmart—would have to pass by.

No telling whether that would happen. The Dormer brothers were homebodies. I doubted they ventured out any more than necessary. Probably once a month, to shop in bulk.

If someone did pass by, it might be Kelly or either of his brothers.

A wife.

Those twin boys—they looked old enough to drive.

Could be no one or anyone I was waiting for.

Probably I was wasting my time.

Please don’t do anything dangerous.

I tuned to sports talk radio and racked the seat back.

By nine the air felt like a sweat sock and I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Rummaging in the pockets and compartments yielded an ancient granola bar. As I started to unwrap it, a shape appeared in my rearview mirror.

I sank down.

A single-cab pickup chugged by. It was primer white, its passenger side door a solid panel of rust.

Its law-abiding driver signaled right.

Dale Dormer.

I dropped the granola bar in the cupholder.

I let him make the turn, counted twenty, and followed.

He didn’t go far, just past the wind farm substation and under the freeway, to a liquor store on the outskirts of Tracy. The parking lot was large and, at that hour, empty. I pulled up to see him entering the store, braids swinging.

I parked cater-corner to the truck.

Please don’t do anything.

I left one hand on the steering wheel. Moved the other to my knife.

I didn’t know Billy Watts. Had no idea if he was a good investigator. Maybe he was humoring me when he asked who I thought he should talk to. Maybe he’d let it slide.

Please don’t do

My knife is a Ka-Bar. It’s more or less identical to the one Kelly Dormer carries, which is more or less identical to the one first manufactured for the US Marine Corps during World War II. Seven-inch carbon-steel blade, partially serrated near the hilt for ripping. Grooved nonslip handle, well balanced. Mine seldom sees use other than opening packages, so it keeps relatively sharp.

I felt confident it would pierce a truck tire, certainly a bald one.

Please don’t

The Dormers had sent me a message.

We can do whatever we want.

To you.

To your family.

I was sending one back.

That’s my family.

My wife. My daughter.

I reached for the door handle, scorching metal.

The truck’s dull surface and single rusty door gave it a strangely two-dimensional aspect, like a colorblock collage made from construction paper.

I imagined Dale coming out to find it disabled.

I imagined the conversation that would take place in Gunnar’s trailer.

Escalate. Retaliate.

Please

Time thickened. I left my fingers on the handle.

Dale exited the store carrying two stacked cases of beer. He set them on the ground, opened the truck’s passenger door, and transferred the cases to the seat. The clerk brought out another two cases. They belted them in and filled the passenger footwell and went back inside for two more cases apiece.

Eight cases made close to two hundred cans of beer. I wondered how long that would last them. The Dormers drank Schlitz. No fucking Mexican imports for them, thank you very much. Dale and the clerk were having a hard time figuring out how to Tetris the remaining cases into the truck. They’d used up the available interior space. They settled on the truck bed. Dale had a tie-down strap, but the ratchet was busted and kept slipping. They laughed about it. They’d done this before. They were buddies. The clerk didn’t care what tattoos or opinions Dale had. He was a good customer, he bought in bulk.

Dammit, Dale, every damn time.

Finally they gave up and tied the strap into a chunky granny knot. I doubted it would hold. He’d have to keep it below fifteen miles an hour or beer would end up flying all over the highway. I doubted, too, that Dale Dormer could exercise that much self-restraint. He eased out of the lot, but I could see him picking up speed as he went, thirsty and ready to be home.

The clerk waved him goodbye, then turned to stare at me across the warped asphalt. He was a heavyset guy, midtwenties but already scalpy up top. Pleated Dickies. Hunter green polo, dark at the underarms and between the breasts.

Maybe he thought I was going to rob him. Liquor stores are high-frequency targets. Many keep a firearm behind the register. One of Amy’s great-uncles, on her father’s side, owned a liquor store. He was murdered during a robbery. He never managed to get a shot off. The case was never solved.

The clerk raised a fat, quaking hand and pointed to the tin-box security camera fixed askew above the store entrance. There was zero chance it was working.

I took my fingers off the door handle. I picked up my granola bar, started my car, and drove away.

—

AMY SAT AT her parents’ breakfast table, talking with her mother. Theresa stood to pour me a cup of coffee.

“You’re here,” Amy said.

“I’m here.”

“I thought you had errands.”

“Just a quick one. How was your night?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Go rest,” I said. “I’ll listen for her.”

“Do you mind? I feel like shit on toast.”

“Please.”

“Thank you. She didn’t fall asleep till like four. If she’s not up by eleven thirty please wake her. She last ate at seven so she’s going to be starving.”

I kissed her on the head and she shuffled down the hall to her childhood bedroom. I joined Theresa at the table, folding my legs under and blowing on my coffee.

“Problem solved?” she asked.

I remembered Amy’s cover story about the gas leak. “Loose valve.”

Theresa nodded. Whatever conflict she imagined between her daughter and me, she wasn’t the type to pry. “Sounds like you had a hard night yourself.”

“I’m okay.”

“Why don’t you lie down? I can get you when she wakes up. Or,” she said, “I can feed her myself. I know Amy doesn’t believe it, but I do know how to feed a baby.”

I smiled. “It’ll just make me groggy. Thanks, though.”

Soon enough we heard Charlotte starting to stir.

I brought a bottle to the guest room and lifted her, bawling, out of the portacrib.

“It’s okay, lady. Daddy’s here.”

I draped her on my shoulder, feeling her body calm. “I’m right here.”