FIRST ONE DOWN: A Paul Sutton Novel (19 page)

An hour went by before Kali ended her story. Once she fell silent for a few moments, Meg looked at her friend with saucer-sized blue eyes. Her mouth hung half opened and a piece of sushi pinched between bamboo chopsticks that had been raised half way to her mouth for the past ten minutes, sat suspended above her plate. She set her chopsticks down and took Kali's hand back in hers.

"K, I am terribly sorry that you went through all of this, alone. I'm sorry that, for whatever reason, you felt that you couldn't trust me enough to tell me before now. I wish I had been there for you during that time. What can I do to help? Who is this detective? What does he want from you? Oh my gosh - do you think Nate had something to do with a murder? And what in the hell - Andrew's wife? Talk about a twisted mess." Meg said, firing questions at Kali in rapid succession. Then Meg placed her face into her hands and quietly gasped then looked back up at Kali, her eyes teary and full of concern.

"You were there for me Meg, and I do trust you. I just didn't know how to tell you. I don't know what Detective Sutton wants with me, or what information I can offer that would help his investigation. I don't think Nate is capable of murder, but I don't have any idea what he did during the times we spent apart. The reality is I have no idea who the man I considered my boyfriend all those years really is. I know he has a malignant darkness deep inside of him, and I believe I only saw a tiny glimpse of it, but murder? That's hard for me to wrap my head around," Kali said, her eyes welling up with tears as she spoke.

"Andrew? Do you worry that he may have sought you out simply because you had a connection to Nate?" Meg asked.

"I...I don't know. I don't think so. Honestly, I don't think he knew I was connected to Nate until that night at Words By The Cup. I trust him, Meg."

"Considering the fact that you misplaced your trust before, I would keep a safe distance from the Colonel with that big heart of yours, K. People aren't always what they appear to be. I don't want to see you hurt again. Want me to check the Colonel out for you?"

"No Meg, please leave this alone. Just be there for me. I didn't fill you in because I wanted you to go snooping around."

Meg looked down, knowing she had said too much. Not wanting to force Kali to retreating back into herself and shut her out, she took a softer approach when she spoke again, "K, I won't get involved. I will stay out of it. But, if you need me to do anything, if you want to talk, if you want me to pull some resources, I'm here. Just ask. Do you want me to go with you to meet the detective?"

Kali smiled at her best friend, knowing that there was no way she was going to stay out of it, but secretly applauding the restraint Meg was using. "If I need anything, I will ask you Meg. I can handle the detective, I have nothing to hide."

The waitress appeared at the table with the lunch check. Meg swooped it up before it hit the table, placed her American Express inside the brown, leather check holder, and handed it back to the girl. As soon as that was handled, the two friends walked out to the side street where they were both parked.

"I'll call you tonight and let you know how it went with the detective." Kali said as she reached out to hug her friend.

"Don't forget," Meg said, pulling away and reaching for her door handle.

Kali walked to her SUV, feeling better having come clean with Meg and chastising herself for not doing so sooner. Feeling refreshed, and much lighter having the weight of the secrets she kept from Meg for years off her shoulders, she cranked up the volume on her stereo and made her way across the Coronado Bridge towards Harbor Drive, stopping in the parking area in front of Words By The Cup.

Ryan got off the elevator and made his way through the dank unit already filled with the musty scent of hard work and stress brought on by the many detectives housed on the same floor. He noticed Sutton sitting at his desk, talking into his desk phone with what looked like the color of blush painted on his withered cheeks. Sutton ended his call as Ryan sat down at his own desk.

"Morning partner, nice of you to make it in at a reasonable hour. We on vacation this week?" Sutton asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Don't start with me, old man. I had a long night with the wife. She is all over my butt about the hours put in on this case."

"Jesus Ryan, maybe you
should
take a vacation," Sutton said, trying to sound sympathetic. Having watched more of his colleagues than he could count end up in divorce court due to the strain put on a family unit by the long hours often required on the job, he was familiar with the plight of his married colleagues.

"Maybe after we put this one to bed. What's on the agenda today?" Ryan asked.

"I'm meeting with Ms. Hanson this afternoon, and I think I am going to book a flight to Portland."

"Portland?" Ryan asked, a perplexed look on his face.

"Ya, Portland, it's the closest airport to the city of Forest Grove, Oregon."

"Forest Grove?" Ryan asked.

"Forest Grove. NewWay Auto Sales is located there," Sutton said, holding up the DMV printout he had taken off of Ryan's desk earlier that morning.

"Do you have any reason to believe that Olivia Foster is in Forest Grove?" Ryan asked.

"I have no reason to believe she isn't." Sutton said, getting up from his chair and starting his pacing ritual.

"Man, I can't go on an overnight with you right now, I'll be single when I get back."

"I don't want you to go with me, Ry. I need you to be here in case new developments come up." Sutton said, while running his hand through his gray locks.

"Well partner, if I had a talking gut, it would be telling me that Olivia Foster is most likely in a resting place similar to that of Laura Carmichael."

"Why would you be inclined to run in that direction?" Sutton asked listening intently with his head cocked to one side.

"We have text messages proving that Nate was straight up threatening the girl, she vanishes from a job that by all accounts she loved, she doesn't say good bye to anyone, she leaves her personal belongings at work...I don't know, it doesn't take a detective to add it all up and run in that direction with it. Why do you think she's still alive?" Ryan asked.

"I think the transfer of auto registration is the last solid lead we have on Olivia Foster. I have to follow it all the way. I hope she's alive because I do have a talking gut, and my gut say's that Olivia is our link to nailing Nate Warner. It's worth a quick trip out to Oregon." Sutton said, and walked back to his desk.

Contemplating the two theories, Ryan preferred the one where Olivia might indeed still be alive. In all of the background that they were able to dig up on her, which wasn't much, they had found zero familial connections in San Diego or anywhere else. She had no traceable ties to Oregon, yet she sold her car to a car lot in a small town outside Portland. If she were still alive, and if she had left of her own free will, the only way it would make sense is if she left out of fear. People don't just take off, leaving everything behind, for no reason.

"You hear anything new from Carmichael?" Ryan asked.

"Nope he's been quiet, but I don't expect that to last for long. His grief makes him a loose cannon." Sutton said.

"And your gut makes you a loose cannon. Between the two of you, something is bound to break this case open, and soon." Ryan said, snorting out a laugh.

"Whatever works, partner. I'm going down to the cafe..."

"Strong," Ryan said, before Sutton was able to finish the question.

Andrew sat in his small office in a bare bones, drab, brown trailer being used as a temporary office for his newly formed unit. He was finishing his report on the facility, detailing the benefit of having both ortho surgery and rehabilitation preformed in the same office, when he saw a blinking, blue box on his open tab bar at the top of his computer screen. It was his civilian email account alerting him that there was a new message waiting. He clicked on the tab, and his email account page opened on the laptop.

The new message was from LT. He opened the attachment, and quickly glanced through it. He saved the attachment to a thumb drive, erased the email, and all traces of it from the laptop. Jumping up, Andrew packed up a few things, went into the small office adjacent his and told the Major that he was taking off for the remainder of the day, without going into any detail. As soon as he made it to the I5, he dialed Sutton's cell number, tried to stay within the speed limit and raced in the direction of the station.

"Sutton here."

"Sutton, it's Andrew, I am on way to the station, you there?"

"Ya, I'm here, what do you have?" Sutton asked.

"Let's just say, you are going to want to see it. It's big," Andrew said, almost breathless. He had only read a small portion of the military background report, the one done on Nate Warner before he was cleared for Recon training, but a small portion was enough. He was shocked that Warner was able to enlist at all, let alone become a Recon Marine with his childhood background. His background read like a text-book case study for looming trouble with a capital T.

"Have reception buzz me when you arrive." Hanging up the phone, he looked over at Ryan.

"I spoke too soon, partner," Sutton said.

"The big guy is on his way, eh?"

"Ya, he has something big, so he says." He pulled the case file from under a notebook he was crafting questions for Ms. Hanson on. He flipped it open and pulled out the large stack of text transcripts between Nate Warner and Laura Carmichael.

Reading through the text correspondence in the weeks leading up to her death, he hoped Andrew would never have to see these transcripts. He secretly prayed to a God that he was vaguely familiar with that there would be no trial, and that this information would never become public. Andrew was a big, tough Marine, but no man, no matter how strong, could survive hearing such filth, written by a wife that he loved, and presumably trusted.

Andrew arrived at the station, passed through security, and asked the woman at the main reception counter to ring Sutton. She did so without hesitation. Andrew figured she recognized him by now and guessed Sutton had advised her that he was expected. He sat down, but before he had time to pull the background out and read it further, Sutton called his name out from the front of the elevator bank. Andrew stood, walked toward Sutton, and the two men got into the elevator and headed up to Sutton's unit floor without saying a word to each other. When they reached Sutton's desk, Ryan drug a chair over for Andrew and pulled his own chair over as well. Sutton and Ryan looked on anxiously as Andrew pulled the background report out of a plain manila folder and flipped it to what looked like a police report. Sutton noted the agency crest at the top of the report, it was written by a detective out of a small parish in rural Louisiana.

"I haven't read the whole thing. I've read very little of it, actually, but what I read here was enough to make me come your way." Pushing the report towards Sutton, he raised his arms, locked his hands together behind his neck, and took a deep breath.

Sutton began reading through the vivid details of a young, male child found covered in his mother's blood two days after she was said to have been murdered. A call was placed to check on the welfare of the mother and child after they had failed to show up at a relative's home for Christmas, and several calls placed to the home had gone unanswered and unreturned.

The child had painted on the walls what was described by the Louisiana parish detective as a "hieroglyphic-like account of what had happened to the mother, in the mother's own blood, on four separate walls in the home's living room."

The word “horrific” was used by the detective multiple times to outline not only the scene but, the fact that the murder had taken place in front of the child of the deceased woman.

Ryan watched as Sutton shook his head and let out small sharp exhales while reading through the police report. He looked back and forth between Sutton and Andrew Carmichael, curious as to what exactly the report contained. Sutton set the report down, pushed his chair back away from his desk and arose abruptly sending the chair sliding backwards violently to crash into an empty desk knocking over a nearby trashcan. Several heads on the unit floor popped up from their desks, all looking on as Sutton paced loudly back and forth between his desk and the main case board at the far side of the unit.

"What does it say?" Ryan asked.

"It say's we are dealing with one sick fucker," Andrew answered, surprising Ryan with his abrasive language.

"What's in the report, Carmichael?" Ryan asked again, his tone growing serious.

"I guess Nate witnessed his mother being murdered as a kid." Andrew answered his tone flat, matter of fact.

"And..." Ryan said, waiting for the rest of the story.

"And, apparently, he sat in her blood for two days writing an account of her murder on the living room walls," Andrew said, pausing briefly, "with her blood."

Ryan's mouth fell open, "How in the hell did we not find this report?" Ryan asked, more to himself than to Andrew.

"Hmmm, good fucking question," Andrew said, a sharpness rising in his voice. He got up, walked over to Sutton, and stopped in front of his path, causing him to discontinue his pacing.

"I assume this will light a bigger fire under the ass of this investigation? I don't understand how this wasn't uncovered early on and I can only hope, for your own sanity's sake, that this fuck hasn't hurt anyone else in the past two years while you all dicked around, searching in the dark, when the obvious trail was there, waiting to be discovered. Jesus - it was practically screaming out your name, Sutton!" Andrew said, almost screaming in Sutton's face toward the end of his tirade. A few detectives from the unit, including Ryan, had crossed the floor and were standing directly behind Andrew, ready to take him down if necessary.

Sutton waved them off with his hand, "I got this," he said to the awaiting detectives.