Liquid Smoke (3 page)

“Yeah. I guess that’s what it is.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Said I’d let her know.” “And I assume you’re working on that?” “All day.” I hesitated. “I have no idea what to do.” He laughed. “You asking me for advice, Noah?” “I don’t know what the hell I’m asking. But I guess I want your opinion.”

“First off, I’m not exactly a great candidate for this question,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “You know how I feel about my father.”

I did. He didn’t care for him. L. Martin Hamm was a Marine who failed miserably in trying to install Marine Corps discipline in his son. He’d taken that failure personally, declared his son a waste, and moved with Carter’s mother to Florida a week after Carter had finished high school. As far as I knew, they hadn’t spoken since.

“And I’m not sure my opinion will mean anything,” he said.

“Why not?”

“I’ve never been in your situation,” he said. “Master Sergeant Hamm and I never got along, but he was always a presence when I was growing up. Like him or not, he was there. I didn’t have a choice in knowing him. You, it seems, have a choice.”

I nodded and stared out the kitchen window at the water. Choice was supposed to be a good thing, but I wasn’t buying it at the moment.

“That said, I’d think that if you believe this chick, then not meeting him might eat you up for a while,” he said. “Knowing that he really does exist.”

That exact idea had already worked me over since Darcy had announced her reasons for visiting me. “I know.”

“Nothing says you can’t beat the shit out of him when you meet him. You’re entitled.”

I figured the prison officials might see it differently, but didn’t say so.

“Are you curious?” he asked.

Anxiety pounded away in my gut. “Yeah. More than I want to be. But, yeah, I am.”

“Then just do it,” he said. “You don’t owe him anything. Don’t do it for him or for this chick. Do it for you. You can look him in the eye and walk away. It doesn’t have to be anything more than you want it to be. But don’t let it drive you crazy wondering.”

He was right, which wasn’t unusual. He knew me better than anyone and he was always honest with me. I valued that honesty, even if I didn’t always want to hear it. He saw things in me that I couldn’t or maybe didn’t want to see.

So I hated not telling Carter that there was more to be curious about than just this man’s identity. I felt guilty for initiating the conversation and only sharing half the story. But I wasn’t ready to pull the curtain all the way back on my life, even to my best friend.

Carter stood. “I think I’d wanna meet him. If it were me.”

“Why?”

“So he’d know that I knew who he was. So I could stand there, stare at him, and make him uncomfortable. I probably wouldn’t even say a word to him.” He paused, his intense, dark eyes fixing on me. “But I’m not you.”

He didn’t know how lucky he was.

I spent the next day poking around on the computer and at the library. Found some news articles on Russell Simington, but no photos. Nothing earth-shattering, but nothing that made me want to meet him either. As I was looking at those articles, I was also scanning my brain for any recall of my father. I came up empty and no closer to making a decision as to whether I’d join Darcy on the plane the following morning.

I didn’t disagree with anything Carter had suggested. It would eat away at me if I missed the opportunity to meet my father. But I’d gone nearly thirty years without knowing who the man was, and I felt like I’d done okay so far. Maybe I was kidding myself, though.

When I left the library, the sun was starting to move behind the water, the rain lying in wait. My time to make a decision was disappearing fast.

And I was going to be late for a date.

I went home and changed into a pair of khaki shorts and a Quiksilver button-down shirt and headed out into the evening.

I had the windows down in the Jeep as I drove south toward downtown. The remains of the day had receded into the dusky sky, leaving the air feeling crisp and clean. The sun was exploding into a kaleidoscope of purples and oranges to the west, flashing brightly as the ocean pulled it downward. I exited the freeway and curved around Lindbergh Field, not envying the pilots who had to land their planes while looking into the blinding sunset.

I went past the airport entrance and onto Harbor Island. The mile and a half long island had been created by the navy in the early 1960s when they dredged San Diego Bay to make it deep enough for the military ships arriving in port. The navy took the mud and sand from the bottom of the bay and turned it into this narrow strip of land that housed upscale hotels, restaurants, and marinas. Tom Ham’s Lighthouse, a seafood restaurant, sat at the western edge of the island, and I pulled into the parking lot. Liz was waiting out front.

She wore black walking shorts, black sandals, and a sleeveless white blouse, exposing her olive skin. She pushed her sunglasses up off her face into her mane of raven hair, her smile reaching her bright blue eyes. She held up a hand and waved.

I tried not to trip.

“I was starting to wonder if you’d forgotten me,” she said. “Maybe run away with that little surfer girl from yesterday.”

I kissed her. She smelled like strawberries and mint and everything else good. “Not ever.”

Her hand slid into mine. “Suck up.”

“Not ever.”

Her smile broadened, sending a shot of electricity through me, and we strolled into the restaurant.

We were shown to a small table along the window with a view of the city skyline and the boats bobbing in the harbor. Liz ordered a Cosmopolitan, and I asked for a Jack and Coke.

She gazed at me across the table as we waited for our drinks. “You look tired.”

I folded my hands on the table and took a deep breath. “I am.”

“Were you in the water all day?”

“Actually, not at all today. Not much happening. I think the threat of rain smothered the swells.”

She tilted her head to the side. “Is that even possible?” “No. But it sounds good.”

Our drinks arrived, and I emptied half of mine before setting it down.

“How was your day?” I asked.

She made a face like I’d dropped a skunk on the table. “Shitty. Picked up two new cases that we don’t have the time for. John’s ready to quit.”

John Wellton was her partner in the homicide department. The city’s annual mismanagement of funding had resulted in more budget cuts, this time slashing through law enforcement. She and Wellton were doing the work of four teams.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

She picked up her menu. “And that’s the last I’m saying about work tonight.” “Fine by me.”

Our waitress came back, and we ordered. Mahi-mahi for Liz and swordfish for me.

Liz took another sip of her drink and reached across the table for my hand. “Are you going to tell me about your admirer or do I have to pry?”

Being with Liz lifted my spirits, but it couldn’t eliminate Darcy’s revelation from the previous day.

I squeezed her hand. “I was getting there.”

“Okay.”

I pulled my hand away and picked up my drink. “You ever run across a case involving a guy named Russell Simington?”

She made a face. “I recall the name. Something about killing illegals.”

I glanced at the window. Outside, the lights on the Coronado Bridge were bright against the darkening sky.

“From several years back, I think,” she said, swirling the light pink liquid in the glass after she took a sip. “We didn’t handle it, though. Riverside or El Centro did. Does that sound right?”

“It does.”

She set her glass down. “I assume you heard me say no more work talk tonight.”

I smiled at her. “I did.”

“Then I’ll also assume you have a pretty good reason for bringing this guy up.”

I stared into my drink, the ice melting slowly in the alcohol and sugar.

“I think Russell Simington is my father,” I said.

We sat there for a few minutes without speaking. Liz’s face told me she was working out what to say next. Our food arrived, and the waitress asked if we needed anything else. We both shook our heads.

“Will you explain it to me?” Liz finally asked.

I told her about my conversation with Darcy Gill, ignoring the twinge of guilt I felt for not opening up the same way to Carter. I told her about San Quentin and death row and everything else.

She stuck a fork in her food, then rested it on the plate, distracted. “I can check it out. If you want. See if she’s legit.”

I shook my head. “I think she’s telling the truth. But I’ll find out for myself.”

She nodded and picked up her fork.

We ate quietly for a few minutes. I knew I’d changed the course and tone of our evening, but I wanted to tell her. It was the kind of thing I would have kept from her in the past.

“He was a bad guy,” she said.

“Figured.”

“No, I mean
bad,”
she repeated. “If I’m remembering correctly, the way it went down, it was ugly.”

Her conviction was like a kick in the groin. “That’s the impression I got from this lawyer.”

She bunched up her napkin and laid it on the table next to her plate. “Are you gonna go?”

I leaned back in the chair. “I haven’t decided.”

She started to say something, then stopped.

“Say it,” I said. “Whatever you were just about to say.”

“I think it would be hard, Noah,” she said, softly. “Not that you shouldn’t do it, but I think it will be tough and you should be ready for that.”

“I know. Seeing this guy who’s done all these things,” I said. “And then realizing that I’m his son. I’m not sure what I get out of it or if I should even want anything out of it.”

She nodded. “Yeah, I think you should consider all those things. But I was looking at it a little differently.”

“What do you mean?”

The waitress came and cleared the table, and we passed on dessert.

Liz put her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Let’s say you go and meet with him. You learning anything that might enable this woman to get him off death row is really unlikely. In California, once they punch your ticket for the chamber, it’s a done deal. He’s probably going to die regardless of what he may tell you.”

“I know that. And it sounds like he deserves to,” I said.

She shook her head and pushed a stray strand of hair away from her face. “You’re assuming that he’s going to be this awful person, this guy who matches the image you’ve created of him. What if he’s not like that at all?”

“I’m not following you.”

She stared at me, her blue eyes radiating concern. “What if you like him?”

Silverware clinked against plates and murmured conversation drifted in the air around us.

“I’m not saying I don’t want you to do this,” she said, reaching across the table and taking my hand. “I’m really not. You probably need to do it. But you’re talking about him as if you’ve already met him and you know exactly how he’s going to be.” She paused. “You need to consider the idea that he’s not going to be a monster and that you may feel some connection to him. And that might be hard to deal with when the time comes for him to die.”

Her words felt like a slap to the side of my head. She was right. I hadn’t thought of it that way. The indecision and fear I’d been fighting all day went up a notch.

She laced her fingers with mine and squeezed my hand. “I’ll help any way I can. But are you ready for all those possibilities?”

I appreciated her asking, but we both knew I wasn’t.

We spent the night at my place, and I was awake at four in the morning, staring at the ceiling, knowing I was going to the airport.

I didn’t pack a bag. I wasn’t planning on staying longer than the afternoon.

I woke Liz after I showered and told her I’d call her later on. She hugged me, maybe a moment or two longer than usual, then kissed me goodbye without saying a word.

The drive to Lindbergh took twenty minutes on the empty freeway, and I was ticketed and through security by seven thirty. I didn’t feel like talking with Darcy until I had to, so I bought a paper and sat down with it in the coffee shop to have some breakfast.

Neither the paper nor the greasy eggs were able to keep my mind off what I was venturing into. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to balance what Darcy wanted me to find out and what I needed to know for myself. I didn’t think that Simington would have given her my information just so he could tell me the entire truth about his crime. I had a feeling it had more to do with making amends before his death.

I watched people walk to their gates and questions kept popping into my head. Did I really look like his son? How would he introduce himself? What was it like inside San Quentin? Would he have excuses for his actions or would he take pride in what he’d done?

I wasn’t sure I wanted answers to any of those questions, but I knew I was getting on that plane.

The first boarding call went out over the loudspeaker, and my stomach tightened.

At eight fifteen, I figured I couldn’t postpone the inevitable as they made the last call for passengers to San Francisco.

I walked through the Jetway, my stomach already churning. I was carrying self-doubt and second guesses like pennies in my pocket.

The cabin was three-quarters full. Business travelers in suits. Some college-aged kids. A mother with a small child strapped to her body in the first row. She smiled at me as I went by, and I returned her smile.

My ticket said 10C.

I worked my way up the aisle and reached row ten. D, E, and F were occupied by two teenagers and a guy reading the
Wall Street Journal.
A guy reading the
New York Times
was in A, next to the window.

B was empty.

Darcy Gill was nowhere to be found.

I slid into my seat and glanced around. I didn’t see her. I wondered if she’d taken a flight the previous night, our conversation on the beach convincing her I wouldn’t be joining her. Or maybe she was running late.

The doors to the plane closed, we pushed back from the gate, and the attendants began their run-through of the safety procedures.