THE FINAL CHAPTER

BRIAN O’SULLIVAN

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is merely coincidental.

THE FINAL CHAPTER

Copyright @2024 Brian O’Sullivan

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 979-8-9853830-6-5

Published by Big B Publishing

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1

QUINT

Isaw her before she saw me.

Maybe I’d become too good at this whole private investigating thing. I knew when people were going to approach me, and I knew when they were looking to avoid me. 

And this woman was definitely the former.

“Are you Mr. Quint? The private investigator?”

Bingo.

I was at my local Trader Joe’s, enjoying some downtime. Or, at least, I had been. 

I could have lied and claimed I wasn’t Quint. And I certainly wasn’t Mr. Quint, considering it was my first name. 

But the woman standing before me was on the south side of five feet and wouldn’t break a hundred pounds if she carried a set of five-pound dumbbells. A strong wind would knock her over.

I couldn’t lie to this woman.

“That’s me,” I said. I extended my hand, and we shook.

Oddly, she wasn’t pushing a cart, nor did she have a basket in hand.

I had a feeling she’d come to Trader Joe’s with the sole purpose of seeing yours truly.

“How much do you charge?” she asked.

She was straight and to the point. A trait I’d come to appreciate more over time.

“It varies, obviously.”

“That doesn’t sound good. Maybe I couldn’t afford you, anyway.”

I hated hearing her say that. “We can squabble over the money later. Why do you need a PI?” 

“I’m guessing this will be one of the odder requests you’ve ever heard.”

I doubted that. I’d had many odd requests over the years.

A missing hamster. A missing shovel. Even some missing dentures.

I’d turned down all three of those jobs, and I had a feeling I’d be turning down this woman’s request unless she knocked my socks off. 

My PI firm had reached a certain status, so I didn’t have to take every potential case that came down the pike. Thankfully, that meant no more “I think my husband is cheating on me” cases. Those were the worst.

“I’d love to hear about your case,” I said, "however odd it may be."

She looked around, and while there weren’t people directly next to us, a few were within earshot.

“I’ll be outside, and when you finish, we can talk,” she said. “Thanks, Mr. Quint.” 

And with that, she meandered toward the exit.

It was early December, and the temperature was a brisk forty-something. I didn’t want this woman waiting for me, even if it was in the relative warmth of her car. 

I cut my shopping short and paid for the things I already had in my cart.

I walked outside, and the still-unnamed woman stood in front of Trader Joe’s. She appeared to be shivering.

“You don’t have a car you could have waited in?” I asked.

“Oh, I took an Uber here.”

“Just to see me?” I asked.

“Well, yes, but I planned on meeting you at your office. And then, when I approached the office, I saw you walking across the street to this Trader Joe’s.”

I felt like I was being stalked—the cute version of it.

“You don’t drive?” I asked.

“I used to drive all the time,” she said, her voice trailing off.

I could tell it was a touchy subject, so I let it slide.

“Let’s go to my car, and I’ll turn the heater on.”

“That sounds nice. Wait, you drove across the street?”

“That’s my office. I was going to be driving the groceries home.”

She laughed. “Of course. Silly me.”

“You’re fine,” I said.

I led her to my Toyota Camry. Despite my PI business doing well, I hadn’t gone wild with life's finer things. I still rented. I didn’t own a Rolex. And I still had my trusty Camry.

Plus, driving a brand-new car isn’t advisable for someone in my profession. The Camry didn’t stand out, which made it perfect.

After I set my puny bag of groceries in the backseat, we both sat in front, and I turned on the heat.

“I haven’t caught your name yet,” I said.

“Virginia Tumbler. Nice to officially meet you.”

We shook hands a second time. 

“All right, Virginia, why do you need a PI?”

I always called people by their first name until I was corrected, which was seldom. My late father, Arthur, taught me that. I miss him every day.

Luckily, my mother was still around, and she’d tell me stories about my father, including their first date to a little movie called Jaws, in which they both loved the character played by Robert Shaw. The character’s name was, of course, Quint, and the rest is history.

“I was married to a man named Carl Tumbler for thirty-two years,” Virginia said. “He died four days ago.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Thank you. He was diagnosed with terminal cancer about nine months ago. They gave him between six months and a year to live, which he ended up splitting right down the middle. When he got this diagnosis, I asked him if he had a bucket list of things he wanted to do. He was only sixty-two years old, but his health was already deteriorating, so it wasn’t going to be something like hiking Mt. Everest or anything crazy like that. I thought Carl would mention a few countries he’d never been to or something along those lines. Instead, he told me that he wanted to write a novel. It was something he’d always wanted to do. I supported him and told him it sounded like a great idea. I figured he’d write a page or two and either get bored or realize it was too big an undertaking. Writing a novel isn’t easy, and I greatly respect those who do. But Carl couldn’t have been more dedicated. He wrote every day for hours and hours and hours. He said the only two things he was staying alive for were me and to finish this novel. He’d go to his cancer treatments and then come home and try to write. Sometimes, he’d be so weak I wasn’t sure how he pressed the keys on the typewriter. That’s right, he used a typewriter. Carl was very old school despite being relatively young. His cell phone didn’t even have internet. Sorry, I’m rambling.”

I was fine with it. When people ramble, they tend to let their guard down and often tell you more than they realize.

“You’re doing just fine, Virginia,” I said.

“I’ll get to the point now. As I said, Carl died four days ago. He’d told me a few days before his death that he’d just about finished the novel but wanted to make a few minor changes before he showed it to me. You see, he’d been giving me each chapter as he finished and was about to give me the final chapter. He was excited to finish. I was excited to read it. But then he died. And after he died, I kind of just forgot about it for a day or two. It didn’t seem as important now that he was gone. But yesterday, I went back to his study in the hope of finding the final chapter of his manuscript. I looked all around the typewriter. That’s where he usually kept his loose pages, but I found nothing. I looked everywhere in that room. He had this little, I don’t know what you call it, but it’s like a black sleeve, like a mini briefcase, and he’d put every chapter in there when he finished. Then he’d take that sleeve down to Fed Ex and print out three more copies because three other people were reading the novel besides me. He’d give them the copies, but I’m the only person he’d let read the sheets coming directly from the typewriter. But now, that final chapter is nowhere to be found. I had told Carl before he died I would make sure to publish his book if, by some chance, he passed away before he could. That meant everything to him. And because of that, it also meant everything to me. That final chapter has gone missing, and I can’t exactly publish a novel without an end. That’s why I want to hire you. To find that final chapter.”

I didn’t say anything for several seconds. I hadn’t expected a five-minute filibuster by the diminutive woman sitting in my passenger seat. I was sure the final chapter of Carl’s novel had just been misplaced, and there was a logical explanation for all of this. But I couldn’t just come out and say that.

“Have you talked to the three other people reading it? Maybe he gave them that sleeve you mentioned. The one with the final chapter.”

“Not a chance in hell, Mr. Quint.”

“Why is that?”

“Because he always let me read it first. Always. Always. Always. There’s no way that when he got to the very end of the novel, he’d let one of them read it before me. You see, Carl worshipped the ground that I walked on. My reading of his novel was like our last great adventure together. He would have had me read the conclusion before anyone else.”

“If he knew he was dying, why did he take a few extra days to make the final chapter perfect? Why not just give it to you in segments?”

“Well, that’s the thing. His health had been pretty good lately. His cancer levels weren’t increasing. He was doing better. Don’t get me wrong, the chemo still made him very weak, and he wasn’t going to live forever, but all things considered, he was feeling okay. The timing is odd.”

She didn’t mean odd. I knew what she was leading up to, even though she hadn’t come right out and said it.

“Do you think Carl died of cancer?” I asked.

“No, I don’t. I think he was murdered. It wouldn’t have been tough. If you put a pillow over him for a minute or two, I’m sure that would have done the trick. I mean, he had terminal cancer. It’s not like he could fight back.”

“What time of day did he die? You weren’t with him?”

“I was at the grocery store, getting food for him. Since he was weak, I did all the shopping. When I returned, he wasn’t breathing. He died while I was at the store.”

Virginia Tumbler took a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. Her love for her husband ran deep.

“What did the autopsy say?” I asked.

“They didn’t do an official autopsy. They had the medical examiner come over and make sure he didn’t have any bullet holes or anything obvious like that. Once they heard he had terminal cancer, they kind of just believed that was the cause. Only I don’t believe it.”

I don’t know what I’d expected on my way to Trader Joe’s, but it certainly wasn’t this. 

I was intrigued; there were no two ways about it. I still had my money on the final chapter having been misplaced, but something about Virginia - and her story - had left an impression on me.

“Why don’t I come by your house tomorrow, and we can talk a little more?” I suggested.

“Oh, I’d be so grateful, Mr. Quint. Does that mean you’re taking my case?”

“Possibly. Let’s see how tomorrow goes first, okay?”

“Okay. Thank you so much. What time tomorrow?”

“Why don’t you give me your address? I’ll stop by around ten. Would that work?”

“That would be great. I live in San Ramon.”

That was about fifteen minutes from Walnut Creek.

“And can you get me a copy of the novel sans the final chapter?” I asked.

“Of course. Thanks for everything.”

She started to open the car door.

“You know what, Virginia? I’ve got some free time. Why don’t I drive you home?”

“I really appreciate it, but I already ordered an Uber. It’s arriving in a minute. Like I was telling you earlier, I used to always drive, but since Carl died, I occasionally just burst out in tears. I don’t like being on the road when that happens.”

“I understand completely.”

“But thanks for the offer to drive me home, Mr. Quint.”

I had a feeling I would be “Mr. Quint” from this point forward.

2

Virginia Tumbler lived in San Ramon, an upper-middle-class city about ten miles west of where I lived in Walnut Creek and approximately thirty-five miles northwest of San Francisco.

Virginia did not live the upper-middle-class lifestyle, however. In a town full of sprawling suburban houses, they lived in what appeared to be a small two-bedroom home that was likely built in the 1950s—and not in the cool, retro way.

Virginia was waiting for me outside of her home, a lemonade in hand. That’s right, in the middle of winter, she held a lemonade in her hand.

“I thought you might like something to drink,” she said.

I thanked her and took a sip, not wanting to be rude. It hit the spot more than I would have guessed. Lemonade in December: who knew?

We entered the house, and she gave me a quick tour. There was a master bedroom, family room, and kitchen; the second room was Carl’s study.

“This is where he did all of his writing,” she said as I examined the typewriter she’d mentioned.

I walked over and was instantly fascinated by the instrument in front of me. Can you be smitten by a typewriter? If so, I was. It was a Royal Typewriter from the 1930s. They were famous for their old-school typewriters, and this one was a gem.

It was gold, or at least, it had been at some point. Now, it was a faded rust color, which only added to its charisma. The ribbon looked like it was barely hanging on. The thing was so dense that bodybuilders could have used it for military presses.

I asked Virginia if I could pick it up; sure enough, it was heavier than ten laptops—maybe twenty.

The room was pristine, and my assumption that the final chapter was lost in this room suddenly seemed less likely.

“So, as you can see, the final chapter is nowhere to be seen,” Virginia said, as if reading my mind. “Neither is that sleeve he used to hold each chapter.”

“Can you describe the sleeve?”

“It was black, with a zipper that went up and down the top third of it. If you saw it, you couldn’t miss it. It was scaly, almost like alligator skin.”

Scaly with a zipper. That would be hard to miss.

“Did you save me a copy of the novel?” I asked.

“I did. It’s at the front of the house, and basically just a collection of the chapters he gave me. I will give it to you when you leave.”

I didn’t respond for a second.

“Are you going to take the case, Mr. Quint?” Virginia asked.

I was starting to take Mr. Quint as a badge of honor.

“I’ll sign on for two weeks,” I said. “If I don’t find anything meaningful by then, I reserve the right to withdraw from the case.”

Virginia Tumbler had a massive smile on her face. She probably didn’t even hear the last part.

“How much is this going to cost me?”

“I’ll do this for my bargain basement price,” I said. “A thousand bucks.”

I was too nice. 

“If that’s too much, maybe I could do it for five hundred,” I added.

I was way too nice.

“I can afford a thousand dollars, Mr. Quint. This house may not look like much, and we may have been poor by San Ramon standards, but a thousand dollars won’t kill me.”

I didn’t think “kill me” was the best choice of words. Not that I was going to say anything.

“Okay. Good.”

“Who should I make the check out to?”

“Mr. Quint,” I said and laughed at my stupid joke.

“What did you say?”

“Quint Adler.”

“Oh, Quint is your first name?”

“Yes.”

“So, no, Mr. Quint?”

“You can call me Mr. Quint if you’d like.”

Virginia laughed.

“I’ll try to say Quint, but don’t jump on me if I forget.”

I smiled.

“It’s no problem.”

“I’m just so glad you took the case. Everyone says you’re the best, and I know you’ll catch my Carl’s killer.”

I wasn’t loving the added pressure.

“I’ll try my best,” I said.

She handed me the check, which I put in my wallet.

“Thanks.”

You couldn’t live in the Bay Area making a thousand dollars every two weeks, but I couldn’t live with myself if I charged this woman any more than that.

“Would you like the names of the others reading the manuscript?”

“Yes."

“There was our neighbor, Vic Jacobs. Carl’s poker buddy, Constantin Pappas. And Carl's cousin, Jesse.”

The neighbor, the poker player, and the cousin.

It sounded like the premise of a bad movie.

3

I’d moved a lot over the years.

It hadn’t been intentional, but it seemed like I went apartment hunting each time I broke up with a girlfriend.

Cara had been my only long-term girlfriend over the last seven years, and while we always started hot and heavy, we were oil and water by the time our relationship ended, which it had three separate times.

The last I heard, she was living with a boyfriend in Sacramento. 

I was now forty-four years old and had no kids, so buying a house seemed impractical. Instead, here I was, my mid-life crisis fast approaching, living the apartment life. Oh well, I wasn’t complaining.

I was now living at a new spot called The Waymark, which I liked quite a bit. I had a large, two-bedroom apartment with vaulted ceilings and big bay windows that kept the place well-lit for most of the day. 

I’d converted the second bedroom into my study and spent almost as much time there as I did my bedroom.

I had a zig-zagging bookshelf on one wall with dozens of novels I’d read over the years. On the other wall, I had a gigantic, framed photo of “Nighthawks,” one of my favorite paintings.

In the remaining open wall space, I had a few framed newspaper articles of cases I’d seen to their conclusion, including the one that precipitated my becoming a private investigator: the death of Charles Zane, the man who’d had my father killed. There was also an article on The Bay Area Butcher with an artist rendering of where his life ended: The Golden Gate Bridge.

But my favorite part of the room was a recliner I bought a few years ago. It was the single most comfortable thing I’d ever owned. Recliners usually take years to wear in, but this one was delivered that way. It was like they’d had a guy my size sitting in it for fifty years, making the contours of the chair fit me perfectly.

It was my go-to place any time I wanted to read.

And it’s where I sat down to get started on Carl Tumbler’s novel.

Small Town Menace was the story of Cain Savage (not the most subtle name I’d ever come across) and his stronghold over the fictional small town of Freedom, California. 

The story is told in the first person, from Cain’s point of view. The first few chapters were a bit slow, as Cain discussed his childhood, growing up poor in rural California. People don’t think of California as rural, but it has huge rural areas in both the northern and southern parts of the state—really, over the whole state. 

The novel finally kicks into gear when Cain gets elected sheriff of Freedom at the ripe old age of twenty-six.

To start, Cain is a darn good sheriff who is trying to stop small-town corruption. 

Sadly, as the book progresses, Cain starts taking bribes and looking the other way at corruption, mostly because he’s become involved. By the last third of the novel, we go from liking and respecting Cain to despising him.

He’d come into his job as sheriff all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and by the time he was fifty, he was the villain of the small town he’d hoped to save.

Cain’s nemesis throughout the book is a man named Cable Gentry. And yes, I was sure that Cable was a fill-in for Abel despite the spelling being a few letters off. Cable rhymed with Abel, after all.

Cain and Abel.

A story as old as time.

The novel touched on many things: small-town life, poor rural people staying poor and rural, and how a select few people run small towns. 

And Carl’s overriding point seemed to be that money corrupts all men in power. Even a guy like Cain Savage, who had all the right intentions starting off. Every time money is dangled in front of him—or anyone else in the novel—they leap at the chance to take it.

If I had to summarize the novel in a single sentence, it would be the age-old saying, “Money is the root of all evil.”

I finished Small Town Menace in one sitting.

Well, I finished everything except the final chapter, which wasn’t going to be some pivotal plot point. Cain had won. He had framed Cable, who was going to jail for ten years over a crime he didn’t commit. Cain would continue to rule over Freedom, California.

As I sat back and thought about the novel, a few things sprouted to mind.

One, Carl Tumbler should have started writing novels a bit earlier in life. While it wouldn’t win a Pulitzer Prize, it was certainly impressive for a debut novel.

Two, even if Cain Savage was based on a real person, I saw no reason why someone would kill Carl Tumbler over Small Town Menace. 

It was an entertaining book. 

Nothing more.

Certainly not a book someone would kill—or get killed—over.

4

Idecided to keep it in the family.

Jesse Tumbler was related to Carl, so interviewing him first was an easy call.

Virginia had given me a brief description of him: Fifty-nine years old. Big drinker. Kind of a wise-ass. It wasn’t the most glowing review.

Or, at least, she hadn’t meant it to be. I thought he sounded kind of interesting.

I contacted Virginia, who gave me his number. I called him and suggested we meet up. I’d thrown out the idea of meeting at his place, my business, or a coffee shop, but Jesse chose a meeting place of his own: his local bar.

Bottoms Up Tavern was located on Chest Street in Pleasanton, about fifteen miles south of where I lived.

Pleasanton had a vibrant downtown, but Bottoms Up was off the beaten path. It was three miles from most of Pleasanton’s nightlife, and there wasn’t another business within a mile. It felt like an old-school roadhouse bar in the middle of nowhere.

Jesse Tumbler met me by the front door.

“You must be Quint,” he said.

“Thanks for meeting with me, Jesse.”

We shook hands. Jesse was about six feet tall and had a salt-and-pepper beard that wasn’t well-manicured. Oddly, the Unabomber came to mind.

“Not a problem. I was coming here anyway,” he said and laughed aloud.

He opened the door for me, and we walked into the legendary—yes, I’m kidding—Bottoms Up bar.

They had two pool tables in the back, one bartender behind an abnormally long bar, and five customers, all of whom were sitting at the bar.

At forty-four, I was the youngest customer by fifteen years. Jesse Tumbler was the second youngest by at least another decade. The other five were in their mid-seventies or fast approaching it. 

The female bartender was a pretty black woman around my age.

“What can I get you?” she asked.

I looked over at Jesse, who was already halfway through his cocktail, which I guessed was a bourbon and Coke.

“I’ll just take a beer,” I said. 

“Any preference?”

“You have Anchor Steam?”

“Nope. Sorry, they are done.”

Anchor Steam was a famous San Francisco lager that has existed since 1896. A few years ago, the company almost went under but was saved by its employees, who agreed to repurchase it—or so I thought.

“I thought the company had been saved,” I said.

“Those employees are still trying, but for now, they ceased making it.”

“I’ll just take a Guinness then,” I said.

“You know your beer,” Jesse Tumbler said.

“I’m usually a vodka tonic guy, but I’m driving today, so just one beer will be enough.”

“I’ll have that Guinness ready for you in a minute,” the bartender said.

“You play pool?” Jesse asked.

“I do.”

“Hey, Nina, can I get some quarters for the pool table?”

“Coming right up, Jesse,” she said as she finished pouring the first half of my Guinness. If you’re a bar of any import, you make a Guinness in two separate pours. I was happy to see Bottoms Up got that part right.

“Let’s go back to those pool tables, Quint. Nina will bring your Guinness back when it’s done.”

“So you do know my first name is Quint?”

“I do. Why?”

“Virginia seems to think it’s my last.”

“That bird ain’t always flying at 100%.”

It was a funny line, but not one I’m sure I’d use to describe a family member. Plus, Virginia Tumbler had seen completely with it to me.

Was there some friction in the family? Maybe I’d double back to that later. It’s not how I wanted to begin our conversation.

“So, you and Carl are cousins?” I asked.

“We were first cousins,” he said, accentuating were. “Our fathers were brothers.”

“Were you guys close growing up?”

“Locationally, we were. I only grew up a half hour from him. The problem was that our fathers didn’t always see eye-to-eye, so we didn’t see each other as much as we probably should have.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to probe too deep into your family.”

“It’s no problem. Both of our fathers died about fifteen years ago, and Carl and I started making up for lost time.”

I could tell it was a touchy subject, so I let it go.

Jesse put the quarters in the pool table.

“Lag for break?” he asked.

What was this, the US Open Pool Tournament?

“No, you go ahead and break,” I said.

Jesse Tumbler had a sledgehammer break, and I knew this wasn’t his first time playing pool. Or his thousandth time. He could play. I wasn’t so bad myself, though. This could be interesting.

“Nice break,” I said. “Can I ask you a few questions as we play?”

“Sure.”

Nina brought over my Guinness, and I took a sip. It was solid, as usual. The beer never disappoints.

She walked back to the bar. We were far enough away that I didn’t fear asking Jesse a few questions. Truth be told, the customers at the bar didn’t look like the gossiping type. 

Jesse had made a stripe on the break, so it continued to be his turn.

“Virginia told me that only she and three others were reading Carl’s novel. Is that correct?”

He took and made a stripe. I was up against it.

“Yeah, that’s right. Me, her, Vic Jacobs, and Constantin Pappas.”

“Is there any chance Constantin is Greek?”

Jesse laughed. “Yeah, how did you guess?”

Jesse. Vic. Constantin. Virginia.

Quite the cast of characters.

Even Tumbler was an interesting last name.

I thought this as I saw Jesse Tumbler take a sip from his tumbler glass.

Maybe he’d been destined to be a drinker with a last name like that.

“Virginia didn’t say much about the other two men. Can you give me a little rundown?”

Jesse made another striped ball. I was down three to nothing. 

“Vic Jacobs has been friends with Carl for probably thirty years. I just always remember them being close. They were neighbors, fishing buddies, and would occasionally travel together. Sometimes with their wives, and sometimes just on guy’s trips. He was Carl’s best friend, without question.”

I noticed that Jesse hadn’t mentioned any kids. Nor had Virginia come to think of it.

“Did Carl and Virginia have kids?”

“No, they never did.”

“Do you know why?”

I could tell the question hurt Jesse. 

“I don’t think they could. I’m sure it ate at Virginia,” he said.

It felt personal, like he was answering the question himself, so I decided not to press it.

“How about Constantin Pappas? What was he like?”

“What did Virginia tell you?”

“Just that he was Carl’s poker buddy.”

“Indeed he was.”

“Was Carl a big gambler?”

“Not really. He never lost the rent or put his family in harm’s way, but he liked betting on the NFL every Sunday, and I know he played poker every Saturday with Constantin, who I think played every day.”

“Does Constantin have a job?”

“Maybe he had a real job earlier in his life,” Jesse said. “But he’s been playing poker for at least the last thirty years or so. I think that’s been his primary source of income for a long time now.”

“Sounds like poker is his life.”

“It’s a big part of it, but don’t pigeonhole him as just a poker player. He’ll talk sports, religion, politics, the Middle Ages, you name it. He’s also one of the most well-read guys you’ll ever meet. Fiction. Non-fiction. You name it, the guy has read it.”

“A Renaissance man poker player,” I said.

Jesse smiled.

“Exactly.”

He shot and made another stripe.

“Do I ever get to shoot?” I joked.

“I see how you’re holding your cue, Quint. You know what you’re doing. I’m afraid if I give you a shot, I may not get another chance.”

I agree with Jesse that you can tell how good someone is at pool if you see how they hold their cue. But that’s when they are shooting. I had done nothing but hold the cue by my side.

A miracle happened. Jesse missed.

I got off my chair and scanned the table.

“And you’re sure there wasn’t anyone else who Carl let read his manuscript?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. And it’s only because he kept telling us that. Like we were the three luckiest guys on earth. It was as if William Shakespeare had returned from the dead and was writing one last novel. That’s how my cousin made reading his novel feel. So yeah, it was just Virginia, me, Vic, and Constantin.”

I shot and made my first solid, the green four.

“See, I knew you could play,” Jesse said.

“Anyone could have made that one.”

“That’s not the point. Like I said earlier, I can tell by how someone holds the cue, especially how he sets up his bridge before shooting.”

“Spoken like a true pool shark,” I said.

“Takes one to know one.”

I smiled. And then made my second solid, the yellow one-ball.

I took a sip of my Guinness, and Jesse finished his drink. 

He took five steps toward the bar and yelled, “Nina, another Jack and Coke, please.”

I would have gone all the way to the bar to order, but maybe it was different for regulars.

“Did Carl come here?” I asked.

“A few times a month. He certainly wasn’t a regular like me.”

“Was he a big drinker?” 

“He drank like he bet. Occasionally, but never excessively.”

“If only everyone could be like that,” I said.

“Indeed.” Jesse swigged a big sip of the drink Nina had just brought over.

I had a feeling Jesse wasn’t the drink-in-moderation type.

I scanned the pool table. Although I was down one ball, I was still shooting and had momentum on my side.

“What was Vic Jacobs like?” I asked.

“He was the perfect neighbor. A guy who could fix anything—dishwasher, fridges, and pipes that burst. He must have saved Carl and Virginia tens of thousands of dollars over the years.”

“Just call Vic. He’ll know what to do.”

“Exactly,” Jesse said.

I took and made the burgundy seven ball. We were now tied.

“We’ve got a ballgame here.”

“We sure do,” I said.

Jesse had been forthcoming, and I enjoyed our talk, but there was a slight hint of competition in the air. I think we both wanted to win this game.

As I eyed my next shot, I thought of another question.

“Were Vic and Constantin friends?”

“They knew each other, but it was definitely a different set of friends. Vic was the best neighbor ever, but he wasn’t much of a drinker, and I doubt he had ever placed a bet in his life. He was kind of a square, I guess you’d say.”

“It sounds like Constantin Pappas was the devil on one shoulder, and Vic Jacobs was the angel on the other.”

Jesse got a good laugh out of that.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Did Virginia prefer Vic?”

“I’m sure she preferred having him as their neighbor. But Virginia isn’t a shrinking violet. Don’t let her small stature fool you. She knew Constantin was a gambler, and I think they got along just fine.”

It was hard to imagine the Virginia I’d met hanging with poker players, but what did I know? 

“You said Constantin was a gambler. Did he do more than just play poker?”

“I guess there’s nothing Constantin hasn’t gambled on.”

I smiled and looked back at the table.

I’d left myself in a bad position but managed to make an unlikely bank shot.

“Hell of a shot,” Jesse said.

“That was luck.”

“I’ve seen luck on the pool table. That wasn’t it."

Jesse continued to be affable, but he definitely wanted to win this game.

“Now for the tough questions,” I said.

“Good. Anything to distract you from your next shot.”

I smiled.

“Did Carl ever give you the final chapter to read?”

“No. He didn’t. You can ask Virginia He wasn’t quite finished with it, and then he suddenly died. Carl was using his typewriter, so he couldn’t just email it to us. He’d put the pages in that black sleeve with the zipper. When he was ready to give us a chapter, he’d go to Fed Ex and print out three copies for me, Vic, and Constantin.”

“And do you know if either of them got to read the final chapter?”

Virginia had told me there was no chance any of them had, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t ask.

“No. Carl always gave the three of us the chapter on the same day. He’d send us a group text and either tell us he was dropping it off or that we could come pick it up. As he got sicker, he’d often tell us to come pick it up. He’d told us that there was one chapter remaining, but the next I heard, he had died.”

I had a few more challenging questions to ask and wanted Jesse on my side, so I did something I usually wouldn’t do: I intentionally, but very closely, missed my shot on the six-ball. 

“You didn’t miss that for my benefit, did you?” Jesse asked. He was perceptive; I’ll give him that.

“It went in and out. Even the best pool players can’t plan that.”

“Okay,” he said, doubting my little story.

I grabbed a sip of my Guinness, and he sipped his Jack and Coke.

“Here’s the big one, Jesse. Do you think Carl was killed?”

“I know Virginia does, but no, I don’t. And certainly not for what was in this book. Have you read it?”

“I have. And I’m with you. It certainly doesn’t sound like a book someone would be killed over.”

“Try telling her that,” he said, with a definitive emphasis on her. This wasn’t the time, but I’d be asking more questions about Jesse’s relationship with Virginia. I sensed some rockiness.

Jesse continued. “Virginia is convinced someone killed him. Shit, even the medical examiner said it was natural.”

“But Carl was working on the book's final chapter, correct?”

“Yeah,” he said, puzzled. “We just talked about that.”

Jesse took and made a stripe. He was closing in on the victory.

“Then what happened to the pages he was working on?” I asked. “Virginia said the black sleeve is gone, too.”

“I know. I heard. And I don’t have a good answer to that.”

“Who else knew that Carl was writing a novel?”

“Tons of people. He’d brag about it all the time. He’d say it would be a best-seller, and we’d all just shake our heads.”

“If he talked about it all the time, why did he only let four of you read it?”

“Well, I’m a relative. And then there’s his wife. And the other two were probably his two best friends. I guess he just decided on us four.”

“Where did Carl grow up?”

“Here, in California.”

“Freedom, California?”

He laughed.

“No, I’m pretty sure that’s a fictional city. I never checked for sure, though.”

“And Carl never claimed any characters were named or modeled after real people?”

“No. He insisted it was fiction.”

“The novel seems all but wrapped up by the final chapter. Did he give you any clue as to how the novel would close?”

“No, but more than once, he said the novel would close with a bang.”

Virginia hadn’t told me that, and it certainly seemed important.

“In what way?”

“He didn’t get into specifics.”

“What do you think he meant by it?”

“I don’t know.”

“To me, the story was wrapped up,” I said, repeating myself. “Cain had won. His nemesis was in jail.”

Jesse shot and made his last stripe. He hit it harder than necessary. I got a feeling he was getting tired of my questions.

“We agree,” he said, insinuating there wasn’t much further this conversation could go. “I’m on the 8-ball, you know?”

“I see. It’s not an easy one, though.”

“You’re right about that. I think I’ll bank it into the side pocket.”

I sat back and watched as Jesse Tumbler made a beautiful bank shot to win the game. I stood up and shook his hand.

“You play a mean game of pool,” I said.

“Maybe next time I’ll get your best game. I know you intentionally missed that shot earlier.”

He said it with a smile, but that belied his true feeling. He was mad I hadn’t given him my best game.

“Maybe we’ll bet a drink next time we play,” I said.

“Now you’re talking.”

“How about I call you a few days after meeting with Vic and Constantin?”

“I’ll be around. Nice meeting you, Quint.”

We shook hands, and I left a minute later; my Guinness never quite getting finished.

5

Imet Constantin Pappas at a poker room.

First a bar and now a poker room. You couldn’t say this case was boring.

I’d called Constantin, and he said it was Tuesday, and he always played cards on Tuesday. According to Jesse Tumbler, he played a lot more days than that.

The California Grand Casino wasn’t quite Vegas, but it wasn’t a hole in the wall, either. There were probably about thirty tables, of which two-thirds were for poker, and the other third were for some games I’d never learned how to play. One included tiles, and I knew better than to try and learn.

I’d been to the California Grand a few times over the years, but it had been a while.

I walked in, scanning the tables. Constantin had told me he was sitting at table six.

I loved the chatter of a poker room. In the twenty short seconds it took me to reach table six, I heard, “You got me on the river,” “Now, that’s a bad beat,” and “Screw it, I’m all freaking in!”

Poker had its own language, and it was a colorful one.

When I reached table six, even without knowing what Constantin Pappas looked like, I’d have made a sizable bet that he was sitting to the dealer's immediate right.

This man was probably around seventy. He was wearing a Tommy Bahama-type shirt with the top three buttons unbuttoned, and two big chains did a bad job covering his ample chest hair. He also wore a white Fedora with a green hat band at the base.

If you cast a Greek villain, he’d look like Constantin Pappas.

I made sure he wasn’t involved in the hand—that have been lousy poker etiquette—and then tapped him on the shoulder.

He turned around.

“I’m Quint. Are you Mr. Pappas?”

“No, but I am Constantin,” he said, and half the table laughed.

I couldn’t tell if they thought it was funny or if you were just expected to laugh when Constantin Pappas made a joke. He had that aura about him. And I’d been in his company for all of ten seconds.

I extended my hand. 

“Good,” I said. “I go by my first name too.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Quint. Why don’t you sit at the bar? I got two more hands until it’s my big blind, and I’ll come over then.”

“Great. I’ll see you there.”

I left the table and found my way to the bar in the back of the poker room. I sat and looked outside, where I could see about eight people puffing on their cigarettes. You could really partake in all your vices here: gambling, drinking, smoking.

Constantin arrived about five minutes later.

“Your regular?” the bartender asked.

He was in his fifties and looked and felt like a lifelong bartender. You could just sense the type.

“That would be great. Thanks, Sam.”

Sam went to the corner of the bar to pour the drink, which gave us at least some privacy.

“So, Quint, I heard that Virginia hired you.”

“That’s right.”

“Unnecessarily, I might add.”

“Why do you say that?”

“One, because Carl Tumbler wasn’t killed. And two, it certainly wasn’t because of his book.”

It sounded almost identical to Jesse Tumbler’s statement. Not that I could blame either one. I felt the same way.

“Why do you think Virginia is so convinced?” I asked.

“Because it’s her husband, and she doesn’t just want to think that cancer got him. He’d been writing this novel for several months, which meant everything to him. If she makes up this story that he was killed for the manuscript, it’s like the story keeps on going.”

It was an interesting theory. “Virginia doesn’t strike me as a woman who would do this just for attention.”

“I’m not saying this is some egregious, planned-out scam. I just think she’s having a tough time letting go of Carl. And I can’t blame her. He was a great guy. Coming up with this little story will help him go on living in her eyes. Watch, the coroner will say the cancer got him.”

“The medical examiner already basically said that.”

“See? But that begs the question as to why you’re here?”

Sam brought Constantin’s drink down and set it in front of him. Constantin slid him a twenty and told him to keep the change on what was probably only a ten-dollar drink.

“I’ve just been dealt my hole cards,” I said, hoping my poker analogy didn’t fall flat. “I’m not ready to fold just yet."

“Your analogy is decent, but it’s missing something.”

“What is that?”

“Once you see the flop hasn’t helped you out, it’s time to fold. You don’t just blindly stay in, hoping some miracle happens.”

I laughed.

“Your analogy is better than mine,” I admitted.

“Well, I’ve played poker my whole life. I’ll leave the PI thing to you. I just don’t want you working this dead-end case in a month when you could be spending that time catching real bad guys. I know some of the things you’ve accomplished.”

“I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It most definitely is.”

I decided to change the subject.

“How did you and Carl meet?”

“Twenty years ago at this very place. In fact, it may have been on table six. If not, it was over in that direction. I hated him the first time I met him.”

“Why is that?”

“A guy named Chris Moneymaker had just won the World Series of Poker, and everyone thought they could play with the big boys. Poker had a huge boom. The problem was that these amateurs would flood the poker rooms.”

“That seems like it would be a good thing for someone with your particular set of skills,” I said, knowing he wouldn’t get my reference to Taken.

“Financially, yes, you are right. But these newbies would come in, having no idea how to play. They’d raise the pot out of turn. They’d fold when it wasn’t on them, etc. It was just frustrating.”

“And Carl was one of these newbies?”

“You better believe it. He tried to turn one of his cards in for a better card. He thought this was 1986, and we were playing five-card draw.”

Constantin let out a laugh that emanated from his massive gut. I had a feeling this guy cracked himself reasonably often.

“So, when did you start becoming friendly with him?”

“Probably by his second or third visit. He picked the game up quickly and didn’t make the errors he had that first day. Plus, he was a talkative guy—those are the ones you want at the poker table. Half the fun of poker is the social aspect.”

“Sounds like you were fast friends.”

“We were.”

“And then he became a regular?”

“He sure did. Started coming every Saturday for the last twenty years, assuming he wasn’t on vacation with Virginia.”

“Just the one day?”

“Pretty much. Carl wasn’t rich, and I’m not sure Virginia wanted him to play daily.”

I thought Constantin felt Virginia wore the pants in their family. “He wasn’t a winning player?”

“There are only two people who always win in poker. Can you guess the two?”

“The house,” I said.

“Correct. And I’m the second.” Constantin laughed at his own joke once again.

He took a large sip of his drink, which was an Old Fashioned with an orange peel floating on top.

A guy came out of the blue and tapped Constantin on the shoulder.

“Hey, Constantin.”

“Hello, Xavier. What can I help you with?”

“You got any locks for this weekend?”

“I like the Ravens to beat the Steelers outright. No need to take the points.”

Like poker, sports betting had its own vernacular.

“Thanks, Constantin.”

And with that, the guy walked away.

“So you like to bet football, too?”

“I love giving my picks, but I don’t actually partake.”

“Why is that?”

“There’s only one winner in sports betting, and it ain’t me.”

I laughed. I was enjoying the gambling talk, but we hadn’t talked enough about Carl Tumbler.

“What did you think of Carl’s book?”

“I enjoyed it for what it was.”

“Which was?”

“A fictional novel by a first-time author.”

“I thought it was pretty good,” I said.

“Not to talk ill of the dead, but I didn’t think it was stimulating. Not much happened.”

“Not everything is as fun as poker and sports betting,” I said.

Constantin laughed. “You can say that again.”

“I’m going to assume you never were given the final chapter?”

“No. He’d texted me, Jesse, and Vic that he was close, but none of us ever received it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

He stared at me, not liking the question. “Because I talked to them after Carl died.”

“Were you close to either?”

“I didn’t know Vic very well. Honestly, most of our back-and-forth was on that text thread. I only met him in person a few times. I knew Jesse a little better. He’d come play cards once a month or so, and I’d been to that bar of his a few times.”

“Bottoms Up,” I said. “I met him there yesterday.”

“A bar and a poker room. There’s hope for you yet, Quint.”

I laughed. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”

“Maybe I’ll get you on the poker table one of these times,” Constantin said.

“Maybe you will.”

He took a sip of his drink. There wasn’t much left.

“Did either Jesse or Vic have any reason to harm Carl?” I asked.

I hadn’t asked Jesse the same question. I wasn’t sure why I’d broached it now.

“No, of course not. We were three of his close friends. And certainly not over some unfinished book like Virginia keeps telling everyone.”

“Word has got out?”

Constantin smiled. “When Quint Adler takes a case, word gets out.”

I smiled in return. Constantin took the final sip of his drink.

“Looks like I’ve finished my drink. Now, you can either buy me a second, or I can return to the poker table.”

“I’ll let you return to your game. Could we meet again in a week or so once I’ve learned more about the case?”

“No problem. There’s just one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“There’s not much more to learn about the case. A guy with terminal cancer died of cancer. It happens sometimes.”

Constantin Pappas got up from his chair and extended his hand. I shook it, and he patted me on the shoulder.

“It was nice meeting you, Quint.”

He then walked back to his poker table. 

Constantin liked sizing people up and treating every interaction like a poker game. 

That didn’t necessarily mean he was up to no good.

But it didn’t mean he wasn’t, either.

6

Looking back on it, I wish I’d met Vic Jacobs between Jesse Tumbler and Constantin Pappas.

He would have served as a nice buffer between the two—kind of a palate cleanser.

There was no bar or poker room to be seen when I met Vic. And he proved to be the most mellow of the three. 

I’d offered to take him out for coffee, and he’d countered by having me come over and have coffee at his place. I’d gladly opted for that, hoping I’d better understand the man if I saw his house.

I returned to the neighborhood where I’d met Virginia Tumbler, as Vic Jacobs lived only about three houses down. Despite living on the same block, the Jacobs’s house was probably twice the size of the Tumblers’.

Vic Jacobs answered the door less than a second after I rang the bell. I assume he saw me approaching.

His wife, Loretta, walked over and shook my hand as well.

“It’s very nice to meet you both,” I said.

“Well, thanks for coming to meet us,” Loretta said.

I hadn’t talked to her before this meeting, and I was somewhat surprised she seemed to be taking the lead.

“Do you guys have a place where we could talk?” I asked.

Loretta escorted me to what appeared to be their living room. Vic followed behind me.

A big L-shaped An oversized and some misplaced chairs were scattered throughout the room. They didn’t add much.

I sat on the couch as Vic and Loretta pulled chairs beside me.

“So, Virginia called me and said she’d hired you to look into Carl’s death,” Loretta said.

It dawned on me that I was dealing with a Loretta and a Virginia. It made me feel all warm and fuzzy. I missed the old-school names that had bypassed my generation.

At forty-four, I had to remind myself I wasn’t all that young anymore. In fact, I wasn’t that much younger than the women whose names I adored. Maybe I was a bit guilty of ageism.

“We both adored Carl,” Vic said.

Come to think of it, Vic and Carl were old-school names as well. Even Jesse and Constantin weren’t exactly run-of-the-mill names. Well, maybe Constantin was in Athens, but not the Bay Area.

Look who’s talking! Your name is Quint.

I brought myself back to the conversation at hand. “And you guys don’t believe he was killed, do you?” 

“No, we don’t.”

Loretta had beaten Vic to the punch, which I imagined happened often.

“Why do you think Virginia thinks so?”

Loretta looked at her husband, almost as if asking him permission to speak.

“It certainly makes Carl’s death more interesting. Maybe she doesn’t want to let him go, and this, in a weird way, prolongs his life a little bit.”

Constantin had sounded like Jesse, and now Vic was sounding like Constantin. 

“Carl was the nicest man,” Loretta said. “No one would want him dead.”

“Did you read the manuscript?” I asked her.

“No.”

I saw them quickly steal a glance at each other. It was pretty subtle, but a good PI like myself wouldn’t miss it.

I smiled. It was all I had to do.

“That’s not entirely true,” Loretta said. “Vic gave me samples to read from time to time.”

“Did Carl know this?”

“I didn’t tell him, but he wouldn’t have cared,” Vic said.

“Then why not tell him?” I asked, and it was the first time I sounded like I was actually investigating something. 

Loretta didn’t like it. “Because Carl had chosen the three guys to read it. I didn’t want to rock the boat.”

“It wasn’t a male/female thing,” Vic said. “He just happened to choose guys to read it.”

That struck me as odd. I hadn’t for a second thought there might be some sexist angle.

“Plus, his wife was reading it, correct?” I asked.

“Yeah, exactly,” Vic said excitedly since I’d help make his point. 

“Did you like the novel, Loretta?”

“It was fine. It wasn’t winning the Pulitzer, but I liked it okay.”

I’d had similar thoughts. We all seemingly had.

“How about you, Vic?”

“Kind of the same, I guess. It wasn’t the most exciting book I've ever read.”

“Then why do you think it meant so much to Carl?”

“I think he’d wanted to write a novel his whole life. He probably knew it wasn’t going to win awards. Look, I’ve never written a novel. Not even close. But I imagine just finishing one is an exhilarating feeling. So my guess is that the finishing meant more to Carl than whether it was a great novel. And he never got to finish it.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” I said.

“That’s true, I guess. Well, I never got to read the finished product if he did.”

“Would he have called you and told you he’d finished it, even if he wasn’t ready to give you the final chapter just yet?”

“I think he would have called me or sent a group text if he’d finished it. We’d been best friends for decades, and he’d have wanted to tell me.”

That made sense. Not much else about this case did, however.

“In your heart, how do you think Carl died?”

“I think he died of the cancer that was killing him. Virginia is a wonderful woman, but I think she’s probably wrong on this one.”

“If that’s the case, why would the final chapter have gone missing?”

Vic Jacobs shook his head. “I don’t have an answer to that.”

No one seemed to.

7

In the span of two days, I met with all four (five if you count Loretta) people who had been reading Small Town Menace.

There had been no smoking gun. In fact, there hadn’t been a single shred of evidence that Carl had died of anything but natural causes.

And yet, I felt something was amiss. Jesse Tumbler had been very competitive, and nothing was wrong with that. But he seemed like he’d rather talk pool or drinking than talk about Carl’s death. I concede that everyone handles death differently, but he didn’t appear enthusiastic about helping me solve the case if there was a case to be solved.

Constantin Pappas was a piece of work. He was as competitive as Jesse. He’d make a game of Tiddlywinks seem like the Super Bowl. Everything was a competition to him. You’d think someone looking into your friend’s murder would be different. Not with Constantin. He still treated our meeting as antagonistic, and like Jesse, he didn’t seem all that willing to help.

It was obvious they had really liked their friend. Why weren’t they being more helpful. The obvious answer was the one I’d come back to many times: they believed he died of cancer.

I had a few ideas rummaging through my head about what to do next. 

Ask around Bottoms Up to see if Jesse and Carl ever got heated while drinking there. Head back to the California Grand Casino and ask similar questions to the poker-playing patrons. Canvass the neighborhood where Vic and Carl lived. Ask if Vic and Carl were as friendly as they seemed to be.

The problem was this would inevitably get back to them. I still wasn’t ready to concede that Carl had been murdered, which had become a recurring theme. And until I thought he had, it was wrong to go around asking questions about the other three, at least for the time being. I held open the possibility of changing my mind on that.

I decided to go in a different direction.

Carl Tumbler had worked as a manager for his local Costco.

It may sound like a thankless job, but from what I’d gathered online, most made around 80k. That was higher than the median income of the United States and certainly nothing to smirk at.

Unless you did that thing, we all do too much of—comparing ourselves to others.

San Ramon was full of doctors, lawyers, and other well-paid professionals. Most homes were twice the size of Carl’s, at least.

Maybe Carl never compared himself to others, but I had a feeling he did just that. The overriding theme of Small Town Menace is that money corrupts you. He repeated this theme in different ways throughout the book. It was undoubtedly on the author's mind.

So I know money meant something to him. Maybe living in an affluent city while working a menial job caused him to think about money all the time. I can’t say I’d blame him.

When I still worked for the newspaper, money was always on my mind. That was true for the first few years of my private investigating career. Only over the last year or two had I truly become financially stable.

I had sympathy for Carl Tumbler.

He worked at the Costco in neighboring Danville.

I walked in the morning after interviewing Vic Jacobs. I had a feeling I’d be dropping this case after two weeks, so I was trying to give it my all while being employed by Virginia Tumbler—albeit at a discounted rate.

I showed my Costco card and headed to the section near the food court. I’d always see a few corporate offices in that area, and I figured it might be where a manager hung out.

“May I help you?”

A young, intense-looking man had seen me walking around aimlessly. Tate was the name on his tag.

“Yeah, I’m looking to talk to a manager,” I said.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did something happen?”

“Your chicken bake burnt the roof of my mouth.”

“What?”

I was being sarcastic for no reason, and his mindless stare told me he didn’t realize I was joking.

“I’m only kidding,” I said. “Did you know an old employee here named Carl Tumbler?”

“Everybody knows Carl,” Tate said.

“How long did you work with him?”

“I don’t know. It was probably like eight months total.”

“Did you like him?”

“Everybody liked Carl, even though he wasn’t the most outgoing guy.”

“Has anyone worked with Carl for a little bit longer than you?”

He looked at me, a bit perturbed. “I know who you should talk to.”

“Can you point me in his direction?"

“Give me a few minutes. I’ll bring him here.”

Tate returned with an employee twice his age. 

He had thin, balding hair and was wearing a pencil protector that ten-year-old Quint would have been jealous of. However, it did look odd on a middle-aged man.

Tate shuffled back onto the Costco floor. He clearly thought it was preferable to hanging out with me. 

“How can I help you, sir?”

There were some obvious situations where I didn’t want people to know I was a PI. Other times, it was to my benefit. This was one of those times. He’d be more likely to talk to me.

“I’m a private investigator and wanted to ask you a few questions.”

Usually, people are taken aback when I mention my job title. They figure they’ve done something wrong. Not with this guy. He seemed eager to help.

“Happy to help. I’m Bryan, and I’m a manager here. And that’s Bryan with a y. What can I do for you?”

Bryans with a Y were as bad as vegans and people who did CrossFit. They just had to tell you. They must have had an inferiority complex to Brian’s with an I. 

“I’m Quint with a Q,” I said.

He eyed me suspiciously, not loving my sarcasm.

“How can I help you, Quint?"

“Did you know Carl Tumbler?”

“Sure, I knew Carl.”

Did Carls with a C have a similar rivalry with Karls with a K?

You’re being random, Quint, with a Q.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news if you haven’t heard, but he passed away about a week ago.”

“I heard. I was very sad to hear that. We worked together for many, many years.”

“Were you guys close?”

“Not really. We were friendly, just not friends. If that makes sense.”

I nodded. “It does. Did you see him after he left work and went home to deal with his cancer?”

“Once or twice. Early on.”

That meant it was once, not twice. 

I was a good judge of human nature.

If Bryan had said he’d cheated on his wife once or twice, it meant it was twice (or more.) But if he said he’d visited a dying co-worker once or twice, it inevitably meant just once.

“Did he have a lot of good friends here?” I asked.

“Everybody liked him, but I don’t think many of us fraternized with him outside of Costco. He was a super nice guy, don’t get me wrong. I just think he preferred to spend time at home after work.”

Bryan with a Y surprised me with his fraternized word drop. I almost pretended to take out a mock thesaurus I didn’t have. I was extra frisky this morning.

“Why do you think that is?” I asked.

“Carl wasn’t the most outgoing. He never invited people over for a barbecue. He never joined Costco’s kickball or softball leagues, which we had quite often. But again, I’m not badmouthing him. He was easy to work with. He was just his own man.”

“Did he ever complain about his salary?”

“Not to me or to anyone else that I’m aware of. Why?”

I was still fixated on the money angle with Carl. Maybe it was misguided. “No reason. Just curious.”

“I know Carl died of cancer. Why would the family need a PI?”

I hadn’t said the family hired me, but it was a logical assumption to make, so I let it go. “I’m just making sure he died of natural causes.”

“I didn’t know that was up for debate.”

“You hadn’t seen him in months, so you probably wouldn’t know.” That was unnecessarily rude, even for how confrontational I’d been. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for,” I said.

“No problem. Will they have a funeral?” Bryan asked.

“No. I guess Carl had chosen to be cremated.”

“That makes me sad. We probably could have gotten five or ten of us to attend.”

“Could have gotten?”

“You know what I mean. Five or ten of us would have shown up. Like I said, Carl wasn’t the most outgoing guy.”

We were talking in circles, and I knew it was my fault. I wouldn’t want to talk to this version of me, either.

“Did you know he was writing a novel?”

“Carl?”

“Yup. Does that surprise you?”

“Yeah, I guess it does. Not sure the guy gave off the vibe of being an author.”

“What’s an author vibe like?”

“I don’t know. Someone who has mentioned literature once or twice. I can’t remember Carl ever bringing up books.”

I still knew little about Carl Tumbler, but he was starting to sound like a lousy hang.

“What did he talk about?”

“Usually just a no-nonsense guy about work. He talked about his wife occasionally.”

“Would he say good things?”

“Of course. Why would he say anything different?”

“Carl wouldn’t have been the first guy to badmouth his wife to a few co-workers,” I said.

“That’s true, I guess. But no, Carl seemed to love his wife.”

I could have asked Bryan for other employees who knew Carl well, but I didn’t see the point. Bryan had no reason to lie to me, and I was getting a pretty good picture of Carl. It didn’t vibe with the man his wife described, but that was natural. Spouses usually had different views of their loved ones. Sometimes, they loved an unlovable guy. And sometimes, they couldn’t stand a person who was otherwise beloved. Marriage was a tricky thing. Even a never-married guy like myself understood that.

Virginia seemed to view her husband as some sort of superhero. Bryan said he was just a quiet, nice man. My guess was that Bryan’s picture was far more likely.

“Just a few more questions. Did Carl ever mention that he played poker?”

Bryan laughed ever so slightly. “Carl played poker? I never would have guessed that.”

“Sounds like he was pretty boring here at work. Is that fair to say?”

“Yeah, I think that’s fair.”

And then, the line I’d kind of been suspecting.

“To be honest,” Bryan said. “I think Carl was kind of embarrassed to be working at Costco. I mean, he was somewhere around sixty years old and still walking the floor. Shit, I do the same thing, but at least I have a smile on my face.”

“Carl wasn’t the friendliest guy?” 

I was asking a version of the same question over and over.

“He was friendly and nice, but not outgoing and someone you’d want to hang with. He wasn’t exactly memorable. Do you know what I mean?”

I did. Maybe Bryan with a Y was alright.

“Is there anything else you can tell me about Carl?”

“Not really. I was very sad to hear he died.”

“Okay. I appreciate your time, Bryan."

I shook his hand and headed toward the exit, picking up a chicken bake on my way out.

If karma were real, it would probably burn the roof of my mouth.

8

My phone started ringing at 6:05 on Thursday morning.

I’d only been awake for five minutes, was still in bed, and quite groggy.

I saw it was Virginia Tumbler.

Why the hell would she be calling so early in the morning?

“Hey, Virginia. It’s a little early.”

“They killed him.”

“What?”

“Jesse. He was murdered last night.”

I leaped up from my bed. “You’re kidding me?”

It was a lame response, but I’d been thrown for a loop and didn’t know how to react.

“I wish I was. He was killed last night.”

I could hear her sniffling on the other end.

“I’m very sorry, Virginia.”

“Thank you.”

“How was he killed? Where?”

“He was walking home from that bar where he always drinks. Bottoms Up.”

My heart sank. I’d been playing pool with Jesse at Bottoms Up a few days ago.

“How? Was he shot?”

“No. It was a hit and run.”

“How can you be sure he was targeted?”

“Because of the timing. They killed my Carl a week ago, and then his cousin died in a mysterious hit-and-run? I’m not buying it.”

“You said he was walking home?”

“He only lives a mile and a half away. He walks home when he’s too drunk to drive, which is most of the time.”

“What about when he’s too drunk to walk?” I asked rhetorically.

“I get your point,” Virginia said.

“Do the cops think it was intentional?”

“I’m sure they are investigating right now. I only found out about an hour ago. Jesse’s daughter, Alexis, called me.”

I didn’t know Jesse had a daughter, but why would I? We’d talked beer, pool, and Carl. That was about it.

And then I remembered a piece of our conversation. He’d said something like, “Sometimes kids drift away from their parents.” I remember thinking at the time that it sounded autobiographical. I wasn’t going to ask Virginia about Jesse’s relationship with his daughter. Not yet, anyway.

“This is terrible, Virginia. I’m so sorry.”

Her cries grew a little louder. My heart was breaking for her. 

“Is there anything I can do for you?” I asked.

“No. I’ll be okay.”

“All right, call me if you need anything. I’m going to start asking a few questions about Jesse’s death.”

“Okay, good.”

“You’re welcome. Once again, I’m so sorry, Virginia.”

“Thanks.” She ended the call, but not before I heard her crying one last time.

I sat back on my bed and took a deep breath.

What the hell had I got myself into?

This wasn’t what I expected when I took the case. Not at all.

I tried to remember my trip to Bottoms Up. Jesse was slightly evasive, but he also seemed like a decent guy. I could have seen us playing pool again and having another beer. Sadly, that wouldn’t be in the cards anymore.

Bottoms Up was on a secluded, desolate road.

If you knew Jesse’s schedule and that he often walked home from the bar late at night, it would be a good place for a hit-and-run. Considering he’d likely be heavily inebriated at that time would only make things easier.

This could also just be a tragedy on the heels of the death of a man with cancer. My gut told me it was more than that.

I bowed my head and said a quick prayer for Jesse Tumbler.

9

After the death of Ray Kintner at the hands of the Bay Area Butcher, there were very few police officers who wanted anything to do with me. They tended to see me as a nuisance. Or worse, someone who solved their cases before they could.

So there wasn’t anyone I could call and ask if Jesse Tumbler’s death was being investigated as a murder. 

Well, that’s not exactly true. There wasn’t a cop I could call.

I could always contact Paddy Roark and Dennis McCarthy. Dennis was the biggest bookie in the Bay Area by a wide margin, and Paddy was his right-hand man.

While investigating my father’s murder, I became close to Paddy and Dennis, and the friendship lasted to this day. Not only were they friends, but they also had their pulse on the police departments of the Bay Area, which often came in useful to me. 

I never broached how they got the information I requested. Maybe I didn’t want to know the answer.

I decided to call Paddy. Dennis was the boss, but I always went through Paddy first.

“Quint, you old bastard. How the hell are you?”

“Paddy, it’s been a while.”

“Thought you’d forgotten about us.”

“Never.”

“So, what’s up? Is this just a call to say hello, or are you working on something?”

“Now I feel guilty.”

Paddy laughed. “You’re working a case,” he said.

“Yeah, and I could use a little information. The thing is, this might be a big ball of nothing. I’m not sure if any crimes have actually been committed.”

“Tell me more.”

I told Paddy about Virginia approaching me and all I’d learned since then, culminating in her earlier call.

“And you want to know if the cops are looking into their deaths as possible homicides?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll see what I can do with one stipulation.”

“Anything,” I say.

“You visit me and Dennis when I get the information.”

“That would be a privilege.”

“If it’s such a privilege, why do I only hear from you when you’re on a case?”

Paddy could be an absolute peach.

“My father taught me when you have no good answer, it's better just to keep your mouth shut.”

Paddy laughed on the other line.

“He was a wise man.”

“He certainly was,” I said.

“I’ll be in touch, Quint.”

I wouldn’t have to wait long.

Two hours later, Paddy called me back and told me they had some information.

“Do we still have a deal?” he asked.

“I’ll see you in forty-five minutes,” I said.

Boyle’s Grocery Store was located on Geary Street in San Francisco.

I didn’t know if it served as a front for Dennis McCarthy’s bookie business or not, and I wasn’t going to ask that question.

I was friends with Paddy and Dennis but knew to refrain from talking business with them. If they brought it up, fine, but I wouldn’t be the one to broach the subject.

I found a parking spot close to Boyle’s. I walked in, and like clockwork, Paddy was waiting for me near the front of the store. He always had a sixth sense as to when I’d arrive.

“I’m surprised you remember where we are located,” he said.

We gave each other a quick hug.

“You’ve been using that joke since I met you.”

He laughed. “It’s been a bit longer this time.”

“That’s true,” I said.

“Shall we go to the back?” Paddy asked.

It was a statement, not a question. I followed Paddy to the back of the store, where I’d been numerous times. His office was located there, and if we were talking about anything serious, that’s where we did it. I knew better than to talk on the floor of the store, where customers or a snoopy employee might overhear us.

We entered his office, and he had me take a seat.

“Dennis isn’t here today?” I asked.

“He’s running a bit late, but I’m hoping he’ll get here before you have to take off.”

“I’ll hang around for a bit.”

“Good. Okay, let’s get down to why you’re here. First off, as you obviously know, Carl Tumbler died in San Ramon, and Jesse Tumbler died in Pleasanton. Those are two different police departments, and just because they are fifteen minutes from each other doesn’t mean they are great at communicating.”

“Understood.”

“I was able to talk to a police officer in each department,” Paddy said.

The reach of Dennis McCarthy always astonished me. Sure, Paddy did the dirty work, but Dennis established all of the connections.

“And?”

“And the San Ramon PD just learned about Jesse Tumbler this morning. They know that he was Carl Tumbler's cousin and had been reading Carl’s manuscript. When the San Ramon police showed up to Carl’s death, his wife kept screaming that her husband was killed over some unfinished manuscript. Your client left quite an impression.”

“You’d love this woman, Paddy. She’s barely five feet tall and weighs less than twelve packs of your beloved Guinness.”

“Do you think every Mick drinks Guinness?”

“Name me another country where one beer is so connected to their heritage,” I said.

“Corona?”

“Not bad, but they have Dos Equis, Tecate, and Modelo.”

“Budweiser?”

I laughed.

“Mmmerica!!”

“How did we get off on this tangent?” Paddy asked. “Oh yeah, you compared the deceased’s wife to twelve-packs of Guinness. She does sound like a piece of work. Do you believe this whole story about her husband being killed over a stolen manuscript?”

“If you’d asked me yesterday, I probably would have been 50/50. Now that his cousin is dead, it’s becoming harder to think these aren’t related.”

“And if memory serves, you don’t believe in coincidences.”

“I try not to make a habit of it. I’ve been burned too many times.”

“Maybe the two deaths are some family thing and have nothing to do with the manuscript. After all, they were cousins.”

“That’s possible. What do the Pleasanton police have to say about Jesse’s death?”

“It’s early, but they believe a large SUV hit him. The lethal blow occurred from behind him and was higher up on his body. This wasn’t a Toyota Camry that hit him. Speaking of which, you still driving that piece of crap?”

Paddy had the ability to bring levity to any serious situation.

“I am. Guess that means I can be eliminated as a suspect.”

Paddy laughed. Maybe I had that same ability. 

“And as I’m sure you heard, whoever hit him left the scene of the crime. That makes it more likely something sinister is going on.”

“I guess. But it was two a.m. There’s a chance it was just some drunk idiot.” I tried to play devil’s advocate for no reason.

“Yes. That’s in play also.”

“Did your guy tell you anything else?”

“They are treating it as a vehicular homicide for the moment, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it was intentional.”

“Have they made the connection to Carl Tumbler?”

“If San Ramon knows about Jesse, then I’m sure Pleasanton knows about Carl.”

“Good point,” I said.

There was a rustling behind us, and I turned around to see Dennis McCarthy walking in. He was a great deal older than Paddy or me, but his clothes were always perfectly fitted, and his fake tan was always on point, making him look younger than he was.

“You’ll let any riff riff in these days, huh, Paddy?”

I stood and gave Dennis a long hug. It might seem weird that I got along so well with a renowned bookie and his muscle, but they had helped me take down the man who had my father murdered. That mattered more to me than anything. Paddy and Dennis had become friends for life after that.

There was a third seat in the office, and Dennis took it. 

“So, what’s this I hear about stolen manuscripts and two cousins dying within a week of each other?”

I shouldn’t have been surprised that Dennis had been appraised of everything. He was a man who always wanted to know what was going on. No, that’s not fair. He didn’t want to know—he needed to.

It’s probably how he’d avoided prosecution all these years. That, and playing nice with the police to get them on his side. Dennis once told me that he had police officers from just about every department in the Bay Area betting through him. That’s one way to keep your tabs on what’s going on. And to avoid being targeted for illegal bookmaking.

“I was telling Paddy, I don’t know what to make of this thing yet. It could be the beginning of a wild case, or it could be nothing.”

“And all because of some manuscript?”

“That’s what the wife thinks.”

“Have you read it?” Dennis asked.

“Everything except the final chapter, which is what she alleges was stolen.”

“What’s it called?”

“Small Town Menace.”

“Ah, he was writing a book about Paddy.”

Everyone laughed.

“Only, San Francisco is not a small city,” Paddy said.

“No, it’s not. Nor are our tentacles limited to the city itself. As evidenced by Paddy reaching out to San Ramon and Pleasanton.”

“I really appreciate it, Dennis,” I said.

“No sweat, Quint. You’re an old friend at this point. I’m glad we helped turn Charles Zane into shark bait.”

Zane was the man who’d had my father killed, and he’d met his end in the icy Pacific Ocean. 

Something quickly came to mind. “Have you ever heard of a guy named Constantin Pappas? He’s a Greek guy who wears a Fedora and plays a lot of poker, but he seems to like gambling of all kinds.”

I wasn’t convinced that Constantin had never placed a sports bet.

Dennis punched Paddy in the arm. “Quint had to tell me that a guy named Constantin Pappas is Greek.”

They started cackling like it was the funniest thing ever. 

“This guy’s name is Paddy Roark,” Dennis said. “Can you believe that he is Irish?”

Their cackling continued.

“You guys enjoying yourselves?” I said, laughing through my words.

“We should play this game with Quint. See if he can guess their heritage based on their name.”

“I’ve got one,” Paddy said. “Chazz Anthony Di Bianco.”

Dennis laughed.

“Uh, Italian, obviously,” I said.

“Correct.”

“Is that a real person?” I asked.

“It most definitely is,” Dennis said. “I’m surprised you haven’t met him yet. If this case goes sideways, maybe we’ll put you in touch with him.”

“And don’t worry, Quint, despite the name, we can promise you he’s not in the mafia,” Paddy said.

“Yeah, it’s funny, but old Chazz prefers hanging out with us Micks.”

“I sure am glad I came here today to see your guys’ first comedy show,” I said.

They laughed.

“We’ll look into this Constantin fella, but he’s not a big bettor if he goes through us at all. We know all the whales in our business.”

Dennis looked at his watch quickly. “It’s been good to see you again, Quint. I wish I could stay, but I have a five-alarm fire I have to put out.”

He stood, and we shook hands again.

“Don’t be a stranger this time. Let’s set up a dinner for the three of us. Maybe we can come out to the East Bay and eat in your neck of the woods.”

“Let’s do it,” I said.

“Take care, Quint.”

And just like that, Dennis exited the office.

“When you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go,” Paddy said.

“So, where were we? The San Ramon police, who have the jurisdiction over Carl’s death, know that Jesse Tumbler is dead, and the Pleasanton police are trying to find out how and why he was killed?”

“Pretty much. I mean, he was killed less than twelve hours ago. You can’t expect miracles.”

“I know I expected a bit much. Can you keep me in the loop, though?”

“You know I will. I’m sorry if you felt this was a premature visit.”

“Not at all,” I said. “I got to see you and Dennis. That makes it worthwhile.”

“Seeing us is worth a trip all the way out to the city? Damn, you must be bored out in Walnut Creek. No girlfriend at the moment?”

“Currently single.”

“Your dating career is a train wreck.”

I laughed.

“How’s Cara?” Paddy asked. “I always liked her.”

I started to stand.

“I guess this is my cue to go,” I said. 

“Or Bridget? I liked her too,” Paddy said. “Angela wasn’t bad, either.”

“Always a pleasure. Call me if you hear anything new.”

I was halfway out the door when he got the last word in.

“Or Sophie? She was great. How is she?”

I kept walking through the store, a smile planted firmly on my face.

10

Now what?

I’d asked myself this question dozens of times since becoming a private investigator, but I couldn’t remember a time when I’d been so stuck, seemingly without a plan.

Jesse Tumbler’s death had thrown me for a loop. How could Carl and Jesse’s deaths be related? Virginia was convinced that Carl’s death was due to someone wanting to steal the final chapter of his manuscript. Was it something so toxic that people who had read it had to be killed as well? And if that somehow were the case, why were Vic Jacobs and Constantin Pappas doing just fine over a week after Carl’s death?

I had so many questions and so few answers.

Now what? I asked myself again. 

` When all else fails, head to the scene of the crime.

If you’d told me I’d be back at Bottoms Up for the second time in a week, I’d have assumed it was for another game of pool with Jesse Tumbler. 

Instead, he was dead, and I was trying to find out why.

I walked in at 12:07 p.m. The bar opened at noon, and I intentionally tried to arrive early for a one-on-one discussion with the bartender. Once customers started to file in, that would become more difficult.

There was already one regular sitting at the bar, a Coors Light in hand. The guy was approaching three hundred pounds and probably didn’t move as swiftly as a Silver Bullet.

Nina was not behind the bar this time. 

It was a man whose beard continued several inches below his chin. It was 75% salt and 25% pepper, and I guessed the guy was a few years older than me.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asked.

I’ve interviewed quite a few bartenders over the years, and my rule is that you always order a drink before asking questions. This puts you on their good side and makes them more likely to provide information you might not have gotten otherwise. 

“I’ll take a Guinness,” I said.

I intentionally sat on the other side of the guy drinking the Silver Bullet. The bar was long enough that if I talked low, he wouldn’t have been able to listen to our conversation.

The long-bearded guy started pouring the Guinness without even acknowledging my order. I had a feeling he would be a tough guy to crack.

Minutes later, after finishing the second pour, he brought it down to my side of the bar.

“Thanks,” I said and took a sizable sip. “Isn’t Guinness the best?”

“I’m not a Stout guy,” he said. “I think they are vastly overrated.”

Well, this was off to a great start. “What’s your drink of choice?” 

“Belvedere, straight up.”

Vodka straight up. This guy knew what he wanted. “Can I buy you one?”

“How much is it going to cost me?” he asked.

He was insinuating that every drink bought for you costs you something. There’s always a price tag. He wasn’t wrong.

I decided honesty was the best plan forward.

“Jesse Tumbler’s family has hired me.”

Well, that was at least partially the truth. Jesse’s cousin’s wife hired me. It just wasn’t to look into Jesse’s death.

“Terrible tragedy about Jesse, but I’m not sure how I can help,” he said.

“Did you know him well?”

“I’d served him hundreds of drinks, but that was about the extent of our friendship.”

“Did you ever just sit and shoot the shit with him?”

“We’d talk about the Warriors and the Niners. That was about it.”

“Was he standoffish?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that. He was affable but never really talked about his home life or anything outside of the bar.”

The bearded guy was more engaging than I’d expected. Dare I say affable?

“What did you know about him?”

“Honestly, not much. I think he said he had a daughter.”

“Anything else?”

“He liked sports and booze. Not that that narrows him down in this place.”

“Women, too?”

“He rarely brought a woman in with him, but he’d chat them up occasionally.”

“Did he ever mention any enemies?”

“All right, I am now going to pour that Belvedere. You’ve hit your free allotment of questions.”

I smiled.

“Make yours a double if you’d like,” I said.

His expression told me that I was speaking his language. The guy was having a double Belvedere at noon with what I assumed was a long shift ahead of him. He’s known as a “professional drinker” in the bar business. He’d probably be referred to by a more negative term by the general public.

He poured his drink and took a sip.

“They hired you to look into his death?” he asked.

“Yes. If someone wanted to kill Jesse, running him down when he was leaving the bar and intoxicated would be one option.”

“I guess, but back to your earlier question, I never heard him mention any enemies. He liked to needle people but did it nicely if that makes sense.”

That’s the impression I’d got during our game of pool. He did a little needling and was obviously competitive, but there was a sweetness about it. Wasn’t there? Or was I just remembering the dead fondly?

“Did he ever needle anyone a bit too much?”

“Yeah, I guess so. But it never descended into a bar fight and certainly never went far enough where someone would want to kill the guy.”

With no leads myself, it took a lot of work to know what to ask. 

“Has anyone who works here had any theories?”

He took a sip of his drink. I was trying to get a read on whether he was doing that to dodge the question. I didn’t think so. He was being pretty forthright with me.

“No theories. We assume it’s a tragic accident until we are told differently.”

“Do you know if Coors Light guy knows him?” I asked.

He laughed. “He comes in for one Coors Light daily and then heads home. He’ll turn down a second one even if you offer. He won’t be of any help when it comes to Jesse.”

“Where exactly was Jesse hit?”

“When you leave the bar, it’s to the right, about a quarter mile up. You can’t miss it.”

“Why is that?”

Belvedere guy paused before he answered. “Because his blood is still all over the asphalt.”

“Dumb question. I should have known,”

“It’s unavoidable for me. That’s the way I get to work.”

“I probably should have asked earlier, but what’s your name?”

“Myron.”

“Myron, I’m Quint.”

“Nice to meet you.”

I took out a business card.

“If you hear anything out of the ordinary regarding Jesse’s death, could you give me a call? Even if it sounds like the most outlandish rumor.”

“Sure. Listen, I’m sorry he’s dead. He was a fun guy to have around. But I can’t see why anyone would want to kill him. I’m not sure I can help you there.”

“Did he ever mention a book he was reading?”

“A book?”

“Yeah.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Did he ever mention someone named Carl Tumbler?”

“No. Wasn’t Jesse’s last name Tumbler?”

“It was. Carl was his cousin.”

“No, he never mentioned him.”

I could have told Myron that Carl had also mysteriously died, but I thought it would be counterproductive. 

I either ran out of questions or couldn’t think of any more good ones. I could always come back later.

“Thanks for your time, Myron.”

“That’s it? You have barely touched your Guinness.”

I took a decent-sized sip, but I was still only halfway done. “You can toss it. I’m going to look at the crime scene.”

“Waste of good booze right there.”

“Too bad you don’t like Stout,” I said.

He smiled.

“Remember to call me if you hear anything about Jesse.”

“Will do.”

For the second time, I left a half-drunk Guinness behind.

The Irish drinking gods were not amused.

Myron wasn’t kidding about the spot of the accident. Jesse’s blood was all over the concrete. It had started to become a dark maroon, but there was still a little red intermingled in. 

The blood was about two feet to the right of the yellow line separating where people drove from where they walked. Jesse would have been walking on the side of the road that hugged the highway. It would be easy for a speeding car to hit him from behind.

If that’s what happened, I imagine Jesse would have been killed instantly—the only positive thing in this tragic death.

On my way home, I got a call from Virginia. She told me they were having a memorial for Jesse, and we had the following sad conversation.

“When?”

“Sunday.”

That was only two days away.

“That came together quickly.”

“We don’t think it will gather too much of a crowd, but his daughter wants to do it.”

“Should I go?”

“Yes. Anything to make it look busier than it would be.”

“Okay, I’ll be there.”

She gave me the details.

I spent Saturday reading Small Town Menace for the third and fourth time.

I still couldn’t understand how or why this would lead to murder.

What could the final chapter have possibly contained?

Tomorrow was the funeral, and I would have been on the case for a week. 

Time was certainly flying. I just wasn’t having the proverbial fun that is often associated with it.

11

“Quint, this is Alexis. She is Jesse’s only child.”

I was standing outside the recreation center in Livermore, CA. We were minutes away from entering and starting Jesse’s funeral. Virginia told me it would be non-religious, and from the limited time I’d spent with Jesse, I wasn’t surprised. He didn’t seem the religious type.

After hearing Virginia’s introduction, I looked up from my phone. I’d been turning it off to ensure it wouldn’t go off during the procession.

I shook the hand of the woman in front of me. She was beyond pretty.

“Nice to meet you, Alexis,” I said. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

She was dressed in black and had recently been crying, but that didn’t detract from her beauty. And no, it’s not something I should have taken stock of at that moment, but her looks were unavoidable.

“Thank you, Quint. Virginia told me that you’re here because you’re investigating Carl’s death.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“Well, it looks like you might have another murder to look into.”

I hadn’t conceded that Carl’s death—much less Jesse’s—was murder, but Alexis was already lumping the two together. I couldn’t really blame her. Two family members were dead under suspicious circumstances in the span of a week.

“Let’s talk after the memorial,” I said. “If I’m looking into Carl’s death, then I’m sure I can find time to look into Jesse’s as well.”

“Okay. Thank you, Quint.”

Jesse’s funeral (or was it a memorial?) was a rather staid affair.

Only about twenty-five people were in attendance, and the speeches were tempered. Alexis tried to lighten the mood with a few anecdotes about her father, but I’m not sure her heart was totally into it. If I had to guess, I’d say they weren’t all that close. That’s the vibe I got despite her attempting to hire me. I kept returning to Jesse’s comment about children and parents drifting apart.

I recognized a few faces. Vic and Loretta Jacobs were there. Nina, the bartender from Bottoms Up who had served me and Jesse. I scanned the room once but didn’t see Constantin Pappas. If you didn’t see Constantin on your first scan, that meant he wasn’t there. The guy would stand out anywhere.

The whole thing only took about forty-five minutes. Your life comes to a tragic end, and then twenty-something people show up to a forty-something-minute affair. It was depressing when you looked at Jesse’s life through that prism.

When we exited into the cold Livermore air, I approached the bartender, Nina.

I extended my hand, and she smiled at me.

“I remember you. You were with Jesse at my bar a few days back.”

“That’s right. I’m Quint. Nice to see you again.”

“I’m Nina.”

“I remember. Can I ask you a few quick questions?”

“It’s not going to bring Jesse back, but sure.”

“Were you working on the night he was killed?”

“I was.”

“Was anything different?”

“In what way?”

“Was he on edge? More drunk than usual? Talking about something that surprised you?”

“No, to the first and third. And Jesse was often pretty drunk. I didn’t notice him any more lit than usual.”

I hated talking about Jesse outside of his own funeral, but I felt it was necessary.

“Are cars and trucks often speeding late at night in that area?”

“It’s been a concern over the years. But more so that there would be an accident with someone driving home drunk from the bar. I never thought Jesse would get hit while walking home.”

“And do you guys have cameras at the bar?”

“Yes. For the inside of the bar and then the parking lot. But Jesse was killed half a mile down the road. There was nothing on those tapes that showed anything.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because the cops came over the next day. I went through the tapes with them. The road is far enough from the bar where you’d have a tough time making out the model of a car. And getting a license plate? Forget it.”

“Gotcha. Thanks, Nina. Were you close to Jesse?”

“Not exactly close, but he’s been a regular at Bottoms Up for as long as I’ve been bartending, so I knew him well enough.”

“Are there some other employees or regulars from Bottoms Up here?”

“Yes. I feel like we’re half the people here. What’s with the weak turnout?”

“I agree,” I whispered. “It’s sad.”

“It sure is.”

“Did you and Jesse spend time together socially?”

“We never dated, if that’s what you mean.”

“I’m just talking about time outside of the bar.”

“We played in a few softball leagues representing Bottoms Up. And we’d have a customer appreciation night for our regulars once a year at some nice restaurant. A few things like that.”

“But nothing more substantial?”

“No, not really. Like I said, we never dated. Never double-dated. In fact, I think he only met my boyfriend once or twice. I live a good thirty minutes away. We didn’t really move in the same social circles. I still liked the guy, though. He was rough around the edges, but most barflies are. Deep down, Jesse was a good guy.”

She was near tears, and I knew I’d gone too far. This wasn’t the time or the place, and I needed to wrap this up. I could always swing by Bottoms Up if I needed her to answer more questions.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Nina,” I said. 

She thanked me and walked over to a group of her friends. I assumed they were some of the Bottoms Up people she’d mentioned.

Alexis walked over and stood next to me.

I got a better look at her this time. She had shoulder-length, dirty-blond hair. Her black dress was appropriate for the occasion, but it couldn’t hide that her body was a knockout. Every fiber of my being knew I should be thinking of literally anything else.

You’re at a funeral, Quint. Calm the F down!

“Who were you talking to just now?” Alexis asked me.

I was a little surprised she didn’t know, considering how big a regular her father was.

“Her name is Nina, and she’s a bartender at Bottoms Up.”

“I don’t know her. He only took me there once or twice.”

This time, she sensed my surprise.

“When I’d come over to see my father, he’d try to steer me away from his bad habits. It’s not like I didn’t know he was a drinker, but he wouldn’t want me to see that side of him.”

“That’s understandable. Do you live in the Bay Area?” 

“In San Francisco,” she answered.

“Would you see your father often?”

People were still milling around the front of the recreation center, but a few were heading toward their cars, in and out in less than an hour. I continued to lament the lack of a turnout.

“Probably three or four times a year.”

I hated asking what I did next, but it had to be asked. “That’s not very often for a father and daughter who live thirty miles from each other.”

Alexis looked like she wanted to cry. I couldn’t seem to control myself.

“We loved each other but weren’t overly close. I’m a lot closer to my mother.”

“Is she here?”

Alexis's face gave away her looming answer.

“Fat chance of that,” she said. “They divorced about ten years ago and have barely talked since. I doubt she shedded any tears.”

“I’m sorry, Alexis. Let’s talk about this stuff later.”

“If at all,” she said and mustered a slight smile.

I saw Virginia roaming around, talking to different people. I remember thinking she was frail when I first met her. She was still diminutive, but she moved with an elegance that I hadn’t expected. She was like a petite ballroom dancer, sweeping from one person to the next. I’d definitely sold her short—pun intended.

Someone came over and asked Alexis if they could talk in private, and when Virginia saw this, she headed in my direction.

“Talking to anyone interesting?” I asked.

“No one has mentioned they were the killer, if that’s what you meant.”

“You’re too much,” I said. 

“This hasn’t exactly been the most ebullient funeral I’ve ever attended,” she said.

“You’re right about that.”

“What do you think of Alexis?” she asked.

“She seems like a nice woman.”

Virginia smirked.

“Yes, Alexis is a nice woman, but that is rarely the adjective used to describe her. ‘Striking’ or ‘Stunning’ are much more common.”

“She’s very pretty,” I admitted.

“She’s single.”

“You’re a little more devious than I first gave you credit for.”

Virginia smiled.

“Guilty as charged. But don’t tell anyone.”

Alexis headed back toward us, and our conversation quickly switched gears. 

Five minutes later, everyone had left except for the three of us.

“I have things I have to do,” Virginia said. “So I’ll be heading home now, but why don’t you two hang out for a bit.” She must have known how that sounded, adding, “Quint, you can learn more about Jesse and decide if you want to take on his case as well.”

Freaking Virginia.

I’m unsure if I was mad at her for volunteering my services or happy with her for trying to set me up with a beautiful woman. Let’s be honest—it was the latter.

“I’d like that,” Alexis said. “But I have a few things I have to deal with today. Can we do it tomorrow?”

“Sure,” I said and gave her my number.

I got in my car and headed back to Walnut Creek. 

I felt a little dirty. Alexis was gorgeous, but the circumstances (her father's passing/meeting at a funeral) didn’t sit right with me.

The only person I’d heard of who picked up women from funerals was Will Ferrell’s nefarious character in Wedding Crashers—“Mom, the meatloaf!”

I wasn’t that guy. Far, far from it.

Maybe Alexis wouldn’t call, I told myself.

But I knew she would.

12

Not only did Alexis call, but she called me two hours after the funeral had ended.

“Hello.”

“Quint, this is Alexis. It was nice to meet you today.”

“I’m sorry it had to be under those circumstances.”

“Yes. Me too.”

It was hard to know what to say about the memorial. If I lied and said it was a raucous affair, she’d know I was full of you know what. So I didn’t bring it up.

“Did you take care of the things you had to?” I asked.

“A few of them. I know this sounds crass, but there’s a lot you have to do when your father dies. It all falls on you, especially when your mother is out of the picture.”

“Can I help?”

“Well, that’s why I called. This is not exactly for your help, but I wanted to know if you wanted to grab some breakfast tomorrow. I will be dealing with all this in the East Bay for a few days, and I don’t know that many people out here besides Virginia.”

“Sure. I’d love to do breakfast. What did you have in mind?”

“I have to go meet a realtor at my father’s house to put the early touches of putting his house on the market. Could we meet there and then maybe go eat in Pleasanton?”

“That would be fine. Why don’t you text me the time and the address? I’ll meet you at your father’s.”

“Thanks, Quint. And we can discuss his prospective case.”

“Sounds good,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”

At first, I thought Alexis had sent me the wrong address.

I was staring at a gorgeous house in front of me, finding it hard to picture Jesse Tumbler living in this alone. Could he have had a girlfriend? I guess, but no one had mentioned one, and I never met one at the memorial.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Alexis talking with a woman at the side of the house. I knew I was at the right place. 

I planned on remaining by the front door, giving Alexis all the time she needed with the real estate agent, but then she saw me.

“Quint,” she yelled.

I walked in her direction and shook her hand when I arrived. She then introduced me to the real estate agent, who looked to be finishing up.

“Great. Let’s try to meet in a few days,” she said. “I think we can get this on the market fairly soon.”

“Okay, thanks. I’ll let you know when I hire some movers to relocate all my father’s furniture and the like.”

“Sure. And we’ll set up a staging, but with this house and this area, you’ll have plenty of prospective buyers.”

“Thanks for all your help,” Alexis said. “I’m sorry to be pushing this through so soon, but when I’m working, I don’t have time for much else.”

“Of course. I’ll get started on the paperwork. Give me a call tomorrow.”

The real estate agent said goodbye, jumped in her silver Mercedes, and drove off.

Alexis turned to me.

“Would you like to see my father’s house?”

“Sure.”

Thirty minutes later, we had breakfast at a cute little place called Nonni’s Bistro.

We’d done a tour of Jesse’s house, which was as extravagant as the outside suggested. I asked Alexis if the police had been to the house, and she said she hadn’t been contacted if they had. 

Nonni’s had been Alexis’s suggestion, saying she and her father often ate here when she visited.

They had outdoor seating, but it was December and still chilly outside, so we opted to eat inside.

“So, what did you think of my father’s house?” she asked.

“It was a lot bigger than I expected.”

“You’re not the first one to think that.”

“It seems way too big for one person. He didn’t share it with your mother, did he?”

“No, they were divorced several years before he bought that house.”

“And it’s not like you were over here all that often. So, why?”

“Well, my father had some money and couldn’t spend it all at Bottoms Up.”

“I’m not here to tell someone how to spend their money. I’m not sure I’d want to live alone in a McMansion.”

“We agree. I never quite understood it myself. My Dad was peculiar in a lot of ways.”

“What were some of the others?”

“He was a millionaire who got his clothes from Ross. He was usually an unshaven mess. He owned a huge house but had a fifteen-year-old car. Some things just didn’t make sense with him.”

“I haven’t heard anyone mention a girlfriend.”

“He was single at the moment. He’d had some girlfriends over the years, but I don’t think he ever fully recovered from the divorce with my mother. No one else could quite stack up.”

“Did he ever try to woo her back?”

“She couldn’t stand him. That was never going to work.”

“Maybe he bought the house to show her how well he was doing,” I said.

“I wouldn’t put it past him. He was petty when it came to her. But they hadn’t signed a prenup. She did fine for herself with the divorce.”

“Can I ask what may sound like an invasive question?”

“Of course.”

“Why are you in such a rush to sell his place? He hasn’t even been dead a week.”

“I own a boutique clothing store and will be working fourteen-hour days when I return to work on Wednesday. I took the next few days off work to get all my ducks in a row.”

“That makes sense.”

“You think it’s weird, don’t you?”

“I don’t know about weird. Rushed, I guess I’d say.”

Our waitress came over and took our orders. I ordered an eggs Benedict, and Alexis ordered a Belgian waffle.

“The waffle is to die for,” she said.

“Then I’ll have to try a bite.” 

“I might give you a bite. If I’m feeling generous."

We’d gone from a serious subject to being playful. I wondered if that was the direction the rest of the breakfast was headed.

“If I don’t get a bite of the waffle, then you can’t try my eggs Benedict.”

“I’ve already had it here before. Nice try,” Alexis said.

“But you’ve never had it with the perfect mix of salt and pepper that I will add to it.”

“Bobby Flay better watch out. It’s Mr. Salt and Pepper.”

I smiled.

We casually flirted for a few more minutes before I asked another question about her father. It was tough to tell if this was more of a date or an interview to determine whether I would take her father’s case.

“How did your father make his money?”

“He bought a few properties in his twenties and then invested in the market.”

“How was he able to buy properties that young? The Bay Area isn’t cheap.”

“His parents helped.”

“Were your grandparents wealthy?”

“I guess that depends on the definition. I’d say upper middle class, but not quite wealthy.”

“Did your father have any siblings?”

“One sister. She lives in Europe and rarely returns to the States, as she calls it.”

“I’m sensing you’re not too close to her.”

“Her and my father butted heads over their inheritance, so I never really had a chance to get to know her well. Plus, she’s lived in Europe since sometime in the nineties.”

Alexis’s family life was a mess. 

“Maybe she’d want to start a relationship now,” I said. “Does she know about her brother?”

“Yeah, she knows. If I tried to become friendly with her, I’d feel like I was doing my father wrong.”

“Well, this has been a lovely breakfast so far,” I said.

Alexis laughed and then held my eyes for several seconds.

“Should we talk more about your business? I’m sure that’s a barrel of laughs.”

I smiled.

“It’s a laugh riot compared to your family life.”

She jokingly picked up a butter knife and fake-stabbed it in my direction.

The waitress saved us by bringing our orders over. We ate in silence for the next minute. Finally, Alexis put a big piece of waffle on her fork and leaned it over the table, and I took a bite.

“You’re right. It’s delicious.”

“I told you. How’s the Benedict?”

“Excellent. Sure you don’t want a bite?”

“Like I said, I’ve had it before. Thanks, though.”

“Do you have some good memories of eating here with your father?”

“Yeah, I do. I’m sure he’d rather have been at Bottoms Up, but we had some good times here.”

“He went to that bar enough,” I said. “I’m sure he much preferred being here with you.”

“Maybe. My dad was a tough guy to get along with. Ask his sister and his ex-wife. We got along well enough, but part of the reason was that I didn’t come out and visit him every weekend. We saw each other the right amount.”

“Did he have any enemies that you knew of?” I asked.

“Not that I know of, but that’s what I want to pay you to find out. That’s the reason we’re here after all.”

“Of course,” I said, trying not to sound disappointed.

She grabbed my arm, holding it as long as she’d held my gaze a minute earlier.

“Well, one of the reasons,” she said, batting her eyes at me.

Our breakfast ended twenty minutes later, but my time with Alexis was just beginning. 

We spent the day together. It hadn’t been the plan, but we bonded so well over breakfast that it felt natural.

I tagged along for some of the more morbid aspects of burying a loved one, including going to a mausoleum where Alexis picked up Jesse’s ashes.

“I bet you haven’t done this on too many first dates,” she said, quickly correcting herself. “Sorry, I know this isn’t a date.”

She continued to display a gallows humor that I was often guilty of, which only furthered my positive opinion of her.

If you’d told me I was going to follow a girl around as she did all the bureaucratic aspects of burying a loved one, I’d have said you were nuts. But somehow, it just felt right.

At around six p.m., she said, “I should probably be returning home.”

There was an awkward silence. The reason was apparent. We enjoyed our time together and didn’t want it to end. We also didn’t want to rush into anything, and we’d only met thirty hours previously.

“I understand,” I said, leaving it open-ended.

“Like I said, when I’m working, I’m swamped, but I’ll probably be out in the East Bay next weekend. We can meet up then.”

“I’d like that.”

She leaned in and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

“Until next time,” she said.

13

The following morning, I got a call from my mother.

For a split second, I considered the possibility she’d somehow found out about my time with Alexis. That was seemingly impossible, but if any human had a sixth sense of those types of things, it was my mother.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hello, Quint. What’s in that final chapter?”

The question surprised me almost as much as if she had actually mentioned Alexis.

“What?” I half stuttered.

“Don’t play dumb. The final chapter of your newest client’s dead husband.”

“How did you know about that?”

“It looks like you better get yourself a copy of today’s East Bay Times.”

Shit. “Wow. Really?”

“Yes, indeed. Do you want me to summarize it for you?”

“I guess.”

“The article is kind of all over the place. It starts by talking about Carl Tumbler and his bout with cancer. Then, it goes into the statistics on cancer and how many die every year, month, and day in the United States from it. And then it takes a sharp right turn and says something like, ‘But Virginia Tumbler doesn’t think her husband Carl died of cancer.’ From there, it talks about how he decided to write a book after his diagnosis and how Virginia claims he was killed because of the missing final chapter of the novel. It then mentions the death of a man named Jesse and wonders if maybe they are related. Finally, it mentions that Virginia has hired, and let me get this part correct, ‘local hotshot PI, Quint Adler.’”

This wasn’t good. As a PI, I never liked it when the public became interested in my cases, and this was far from the first time.

“Was Virginia quoted in the article?”

“She’s mentioned a bunch.”

“Yeah, I know. But did she give a personal quote to the reporter?”

“She gave several. The reporter mentions that he talked to her over the phone yesterday.”

This was getting better and better. And by that, I meant worse and worse.

“Shit. This case just got a lot more complicated.”

“Don’t make me wash your mouth with soap, Quint.”

I laughed. “Sorry, Mom.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this case?” 

“Because I didn’t think there was much to it. I honestly thought the husband likely died of cancer.”

“Do you still think that?”

“I don’t know what to think. This case is weird with a capital W.”

“I’d like to hear about it, and we haven’t had lunch in a few weeks.”

I was a sucker for my mother’s guilt trips. She’d now been a widower for five years, and I knew if there were a Heaven, my father would be looking down on me, insisting that I take care of his wife. So, whenever my mother brought up a prospective lunch, I could only give one answer.

“We should have lunch. You’re right, Mom. When are you free?”

“Believe it or not, your mother has a social life, and I’m busy tomorrow. How about we have a Sunday brunch?”

My mother had never remarried since my father died, and she had only casually dated. When she said she had an active social life, she most likely meant with some of her girlfriends. Then again, maybe she knew how much I had loved my father, and she’d spare me the perceived anguish if she were dating another guy. It wouldn’t have bothered me. I just wanted her happy.

“How about I’ll pick you up at 9:30 on Sunday morning? Does that work?”

“That’s great. Thanks, Quint. See you then.”

When I hung up with my mother, I opened my laptop and went directly to the East Bay Times website. 

The lead story mentioned a large earthquake in Turkey, but I found what I was looking for right underneath that.

A killer final chapter? Written by Evangeline Stephens

I couldn’t decide if I hated the article's title or whether it was deviously creative. I read the article twice; it was pretty much how my mother summarized it. It mentioned cancer, Carl’s death, the manuscript, the final chapter, Virginia’s suspicions, my being hired, and ended with the death of Jesse Tumbler. If you knew nothing about the case, you’d walk away thinking Carl had definitely been murdered.

Why Virginia?

I felt like I knew the answer. She wanted to keep her husband’s death in the news for as long as possible. It was the right decision in that regard.

But as a PI, it’s the last thing I wanted.

I called Virginia.

“I should have told you.”

That’s how she answered the phone.

“Sounds like you have a guilty conscience,” I said.

“The reporter just called me out of the blue. It’s not like I knew this was going to happen. So, I just started talking. You know how I am. I don’t know when to shut up.”

I’d called to reprimand her, but now I found myself defending her.

“It’s okay, Virginia. We’ll get through this.”

“That’s good to hear you say. You’re not mad at me, are you?”

“You did make my job a little more interesting.”

“But you’re not mad, are you?”

“No, I’m not mad at you.”

“Good. How was your day with Alexis?”

“Okay, now I’m mad at you."

Virginia laughed on the other end. “Can we meet up later this morning? I think I may have found something.”

This sounded interesting. “I can be there in an hour.”

“See you then.”

Within two minutes of hanging up the phone, I received another call about the article—this one I should have expected.

It was Tom Butler. He and his wife, Krissy, owned the Walnut Creek Times, a sometimes rival newspaper to the East Bay Times. I’d worked for the Butlers at the Walnut Creek Times for almost ten years before becoming somewhat insubordinate when I started investigating my father’s murder. 

After solving that case and getting my revenge on Charles Zane, I decided to become a private investigator. Tom had no ill will for me, however. He’d championed my move to being a PI, and we’ve remained friends to this day.

That didn’t mean he would be happy that their rival paper had picked up a scoop before them, especially since I was working the case.

“Hello, Tom.”

“Oh, I’m surprised you remembered my name. If you had, maybe I’d have gotten a call from you about this Carl Tumbler case.”

“The wife went rogue. I didn’t tell her to give an interview. In fact, if I had known about it beforehand, I would have advised her against it.”

“I’m just busting your balls, Quint. Sounds like a pretty interesting case.”

“The article makes it sound absorbing, but the case itself hasn’t been all that crazy. I’ve read the manuscript, and nothing jumps out.”

“I think you’ve worked too many wild cases, Quint. A cancer-stricken man who might have been killed over the final chapter of his unfinished manuscript? Netflix wishes they had writers who came up with storylines like that.”

“Maybe that’s my next line of work,” I said. “Thriller writer.”

“I don’t think so, Quint. Our editor at the paper spent half her time cleaning up your articles.”

I laughed. “Wow, someone got up on the wrong side of the bed.”

“We miss you, Quint. And I speak for Krissy as well.”

“Let’s get together soon,” I suggested.

“Talk to Krissy, and we’ll have you over for dinner in the next few days.”

“See you soon, Tom."

No, I didn’t love the idea of a local newspaper picking up my new case. But despite that, I did feel a little momentum growing as I set off for Virginia’s.

She was standing outside waiting for me again, but there was no lemonade this time.

“Hello, Quint.”

“Hi, Virginia. You don’t have to wait outside each time I come over.”

“I look forward to your coming. Don’t hold that against me.”

“How could I do that?”

We walked inside into the warm air of the house. 

“You said you found something,” I said.

“We’ll get to that. First, have you tried my world-famous cocoa?”

“I haven’t, but that’s all anyone is discussing these days.”

Virginia laughed. “You kidder.”

She handed me a mug, and I took a sip. I don’t know if it's world-famous, but it was terrific. 

“It’s excellent,” I said. “No more lemonade?”

“I made a batch a week ago, and my friends thought I was crazy. They asked me if I knew what month it was.”

“I had the same thought myself.”

Virginia smiled, and I took another sip. It was good. 

“Okay, so you probably want to know what I found.”

“It crossed my mind, yes.”

“Give me one minute.”

She went back into the room where Carl had done his writing. Could she have found the final chapter of the manuscript?

“This may not be much help, but I figured I’d give it to you, anyway,” she said when she reappeared.

She handed me a single sheet of paper. It had Carl Tumbler’s name in small lettering on the top right.

It was typed, and judging by the old-school lettering, it came from the typewriter that Carl loved to use.

Notes for Chapter 38.

“Maybe there’s something important, I don’t know.”

“Great. Thanks, Virginia. I’ll read it when I get home.”

I stayed a few more minutes, but it was mostly her apologizing for talking to the newspaper that kept me there, so I got out of there as soon as possible.

On my way home, I called Paddy to find out if there had been an update on either case. There was not much on that front. 

I’d always been good at rocking the boat. I knew what I had to do next.

14

“There is a table open for you.”

“Which table is it?” I asked.

I wasn’t at a restaurant, although they served food. I wasn’t at a bar, although they did serve booze.

No, I was back at the California Grand Casino, planning to see how Constantin Pappas reacted to my surprise visit. My goal was to put him ill at ease and see how he responded.

“It’s table seven,” the employee said.

“I’m sorry, but I’m waiting for table six.”

“May I ask why?”

“I’ve got an old friend on that table. I want to reminisce.”

The guy shook his head and said ‘whatever’ under his breath. 

Finally, ten minutes later, a seat opened up on table six, and wouldn’t you know it, Constantin Pappas was also sitting there.

“Hello again, Constantin,” I said as I sat down. 

“It was Quincy, right?”

For a guy whose name had been butchered approximately two thousand times over the years, Quincy was one of the better ones. It was close, at least. Some of my coffee cups over the years were comical: Quince. Quinter. Quintious.

I’d even been called Quinoa one time.

“It’s Quint,” I said. 

“Something tells me this isn’t just a random visit to the casino.”

“No, it’s not. In fact, I had to wait a long time to be seated at this table.”

“Being dogged in your pursuits is probably a good character trait in your line of work.”

“It hasn’t let me down so far.”

Seven other people were at the table, and they were all looking at us or trying to pretend they weren’t. 

The chip runner came over, and I gave him three hundred dollars, the minimum buy-in on this table.

“I’ll be right back with your chips.”

“Have you ever even played Texas hold ‘em, Quint?” Constantin asked.

“I’m a man of many talents, Const.”

He glared at me, undoubtedly because I had shortened his first name—payback for calling me Quincy.

The truth was I had no idea if Constantin Pappas had anything to do with Carl or Jesse’s murder. In all likelihood, he didn’t. He was a big personality, but I didn’t get the impression he was a killer. However, I had the impression that he’d been a little less than truthful with me during our first visit. So what better place to put him on the spot than his beloved green felt table?

The dealer started dealing the cards. I looked down at the jack of hearts and the three of diamonds. It was a terrible hand, but I called anyway.

The first three cards (known as the flop) did nothing to improve my hand. Anyone in the world would have folded, but I called when Constantin bet twenty-five. Everyone else folded.

The fourth card (the turn), didn’t help me, so I checked again. 

Constantin bet fifty.

I still had jack-shit (literally), but there was only one reason I’d called, and this was why: to get a heads-up with Constantin. My hand was terrible, and the only way I could win was through a bluff.

“I raise,” I said. “One hundred and fifty total.”

Constantin looked down at his cards, looked over at me, and then threw his cards into the muck in disgust. 

I could have just folded my cards face down and collected the pot, but I wanted to get Constantin angry—what poker players call being ‘On Tilt.’ 

So I took my measly jack-three and turned them over face up, showing Constantin—and the whole table!—that I’d bluffed him. There were a few murmurs amongst the other players.

“The great Constantin got bluffed,” someone said.

“Not bad for a PI,” I smugly added.

Constantin pushed his chair back in disgust.

“Deal me out,” he yelled.

I watched him walk away from the table and toward the bar. After waiting a few seconds, I pushed my chair back.

“Deal me out as well,” I said quietly.

As I approached the bar, it was like Constantin could tell I was coming.

“It never ends with this guy,” he said, his back still to me.

I sat next to him. 

“Oh, please, have a seat,” he said sarcastically.

“Are you mad because I bluffed you?”

“No, I’m mad because you disrupted my happy time. You had my phone number, but you had to make a scene in front of my friends.”

I almost felt guilty. Almost. “I needed to get you on tilt."

“Well, it worked. Jack fucking three? Nobody plays that hand.”

“I do.”

He smiled for the first time. “Well, if you’re going to play that crappy hand, you have to bluff, and you did it well.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Now, what do you want Quint? I’d like to return to that table before those guys start getting any idea that they are in the same ballpark as me poker-wise. A lot of poker is mental, and you just showed that I’m not always unflappable. That’s not the impression I want to give off.”

“Oh, you’ll be okay,” I said.

“What do you want to know?”

“I want to know why you’re not scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“Carl was killed, and as I’m sure you know, Jesse was killed as well.”

“Of course, I know. But late-night car accidents do happen. It doesn’t mean he was killed.”

“He was definitely killed. You mean he wasn’t necessarily murdered.”

I was continuing to get under his skin.

“I know what I meant. God, you’re annoying.”

“Since that was my plan in coming here today, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Something passed over his face. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was a smile, more like a look of admiration for yours truly.

“You’re too much, Mr. PI. But seriously, what do you want? I didn’t kill Carl. I didn’t kill Jesse. And I read nothing in that stupid novel that would get anyone murdered.”

“See, now we’re getting somewhere. That’s the candidness I’m looking for.”

The bartender headed in our direction, but I waved him off. Constantin took a sip of his drink.

“I’m not scared, Quint. I think Carl probably died of cancer. And I don’t know how Jesse died, but I’m fairly confident it has nothing to do with me. Maybe they both died because they were cousins, and it was some family thing.”

I’d heard that a few times now. “Have the police contacted you since Jesse’s death?”

“No.”

“Have you talked to Vic Jacobs?”

“We sent a text to each other saying we were sad about Jesse’s death.”

“Why didn’t you go to his funeral?”

“See, every time I want to start to like you, you ask a question like that.”

“Well.”

“Well, my granddaughter graduated from St. Mary’s College. She finished after the winter quarter, which was not the standard summer graduation. So we had about twenty of us meet and celebrate. Jesse’s happened to be the same day, and I chose family over someone I didn’t know all that well.”

“Okay,” I said. “I understand that.”

“Truthfully, I didn’t know Jesse that well. Carl put us all on this text thread when he started giving us his novel, but before then, I’d met the guy maybe three or four times in my life. We’ve never done business together. We’d never vacationed together. There is no reason that someone would want to kill him and me for the same reason. Now, maybe Jesse pissed someone off, and his death was intentional, but it has nothing to do with me.”

I nodded. “That’s all I was looking for, Constantin. Brutal honesty looks good on you.”

“I’m always brutally honest.”

“Okay, then. Be honest, how did it feel when I bluffed you with that jack-three?”

Constantin laughed loudly.

“You sure are a ball-buster. Do you have any more questions? If not, let’s return to that table so you can give me a chance to get my money back?”

I stayed at the California Grand Casino for another hour, took a few more pots from Constantin, and left four hundred richer.

Maybe I’d missed my calling.

15

Tom and Krissy Butler lived in the hills overlooking Walnut Creek.

I’d been to their house dozens of times over the years. I have always loved the view and the camaraderie with them, but I often leave disappointed in myself for living the apartment life.

Their back patio was large, with views of the valley and city below. I could have gotten used to making coffee in the morning and taking in that view.

“Quint, it’s good to see you.”

As was often the case, Krissy greeted me first.

“You too, Krissy,” I said and embraced her. “You look great.”

“Thanks, Quint. Still looking pretty handsome yourself.”

Krissy wasn’t hitting on me. We’d always had this playfulness in our friendship.

“Where’s your worse half?”

“Getting dinner ready.”

“I said to make it casual.”

“And by getting dinner ready, I mean putting the pizza we ordered on paper plates.”

“Ah, now you’re speaking my language.”

Tom and Krissy were great cooks, and I’d had their food many times, but I’d asked for this dinner to be more casual. Usually, when they cooked, I had a girlfriend or a date, and I wasn’t ready to invite Alexis to dinner. We hadn’t even slept together yet, nor were we a couple. We’d hung out for one day.

We entered the house, and I saw Tom in the kitchen, putting the pizza on the plates as Krissy had said. If this had been even two months earlier in the calendar year, we’d surely have been eating outside with the view I loved.

But it was now December 15th, and there was no debate about whether winter was here. Whether it was officially winter on the calendar was just semantics at this point. It was cold outside, especially at night.

I approached Tom, and we hugged each other.

“Did I hear my wife say you looked handsome? There’s nothing I have to worry about, is there?”

I laughed. “I think she’s trying to make me feel good. Every time I look in the mirror, I see a few more gray hairs.”

“It comes to all of us, Quint.”

Tom was in his early sixties but could pass for fifty. Krissy was in her mid-fifties and could pass for forty. They both looked great.

“Why don’t we sit down,” Krissy suggested.

I did. “So, what’s on the menu?” I asked.

“We got one of your favorites, Amici’s Pizza.”

“We have pepperoni, one with everything on it, some meatballs, and a few wings.”

“Are you trying to fatten me up?” I asked.

“We figure you could take some home, maybe share it with a woman in your life.”

Besides my mother, Tom and Krissy were more concerned with my dating life than anyone else. We’d had our fair share of double dates, and they were always disappointed when the woman and I broke up, which we always did.

“Sorry, but I’m single,” I said.

“Married to your job,” Krissy said.

“You could say that.”

“I’ll tell you what, Quint. We won’t talk about your job while we eat, but that is part of the reason we invited you over.”

“I’m well aware, Tom. I know your tricks better than you.”

Tom laughed.

Four wings, three meatballs, and two slices of pizza later, I was stuffed, and we had reconvened to the living room. Krissy had put some coffee on, and Tom had put half of a Tuxedo cake in front of me. I wasn’t sure I could eat it.

Krissy brought us over a cup of coffee and sat down. That meant it was go time.

“All right, I know what time of the evening it is,” I said. “Fire away.”

Tom smiled.

“You do know all my tricks. Okay, we’ll start here. What does your gut instinct tell you?”

“Right now, my gut is telling me I overate. But if you’re referring to the Carl Tumbler case, I’m not sure.”

“Stop being Switzerland,” Tom said. “Pick a side.”

“If I had to pick a side, I’d say something nefarious is happening. However, if this were a courtroom, I’d be dead in the water. I couldn’t prove a single thing. Nor do I even have an inkling of a suspect.”

Krissy spoke up.

“The great PI Quint is baffled? I’ve never seen that. You were the guy who caught the Bay Area Butcher. You also caught the worst serial killer this area has seen in a few decades.”

“I think that’s what’s known as a back-handed compliment. Wow, you used to be great, but why can’t you figure out this case?”

“Well, why can’t you?”

Krissy was always straightforward. She reminded me of Virginia Tumbler in that respect. 

“If the case really is about this missing final chapter, and I don’t have a copy of it, I’m at a severe disadvantage. And honestly, I just don’t see the two remaining friends as killers.”

“And they are?”

“His poker buddy, Constantin, and his neighbor, Vic.”

“And the third was his cousin who died in the hit and run?”

“Yes. Jesse.”

“Do the police have any leads on that case?”

Tom had his own connections with the local police, but I usually went to Paddy and Dennis.

“They don’t. They seem to think it might be an accident and not murder.”

“Who are you?” Tom asked.

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t like this wishy-washy Quint. You were an excellent PI right out of the gate because you believed in yourself, even if others thought you were crazy. So, bring that guy out of retirement. Tell me what you honestly think.”

I stayed silent for a few seconds, taking his question seriously.

“I think there might be some underlying animosities between these people. For whatever reason, they aren’t willing to discuss it with me. But deep down, it’s there. I know it. And I think, even if these murders are related, that it has nothing to do with this manuscript. I almost feel like it’s a side story to what’s happening below the surface.”

“Boom! The old Quint is back.”

I’m glad I said what I had. I hadn’t told anyone my true feelings on the case. I’m not even sure I’d adequately formulated them until that moment. 

I told Tom the truth. I didn’t think the novel or manuscript had anything to do with what was happening.

“So, where does that lead you?” Krissy asked.

I smiled. “Well, that’s the problem. I’m still not sure exactly. I rattled Constantin’s cage, but he didn’t break. He’s a bit of a narcissist, thinking he’s better than everyone else, but I don’t think he’s a killer.”

“How about this Vic guy?”

“Only talked to him once. His wife was there, and it seemed like he had to be on his best behavior.”

“That’s how I feel every day,” Tom said.

Krissy shook her head and smiled. We all took the opportunity to have some of our cake and coffee.

“Is there anything we can do to help, Quint?”

Tom had leaked a few articles for me when I’d needed to bring someone out of the woodwork. This wasn’t that type of case. At least, not yet.

“I guess you could do me one favor. Maybe run these four people through your database and see if any articles pop up on any of them. Maybe there’s a skeleton in one of their closets that I know nothing about.”

“What are all their full names?” Krissy asked. “Hold on. Give me a second.”

She quickly entered the kitchen and grabbed a pen and a piece of paper.

“Go ahead.”

“Carl Tumbler. Jesse Tumbler. Constantin Pappas. Vic Jacobs. And you might as well add Virginia Tumbler and Loretta Jacobs to that list.”

“Ah, you think it might be a woman.”

“Don’t you remember that song from the nineties?” I said. “The Female of the Species is more deadly than the male.”

I had tried singing it, and I should have expected what came next.

“Don’t quit your day job,” Krissy said, and I laughed.

“I don’t think one of those women was involved. I mean, Jesse was run over by an SUV of some sort. I can’t see either of them running someone down at two a.m.”

“Never doubt what a woman scorned can do,” Krissy said.

Tom jokingly inched his chair away from her. 

“That’s why I love you guys,” I said.

“I’m instituting a new rule,” Krissy said.

“This should be good,” I leaned forward.

“You can’t make back-to-back visits without bringing a female with you.”

“You sound like my mother.”

“How is she?”

“I’m taking her to brunch tomorrow.”

“Give her my best.”

Just then, a text alert came through on my phone. I was a guest and hated being rude and taking my phone out.

“You can look at your text, Quint,” Tom said. “You’re not going to offend us.”

I pulled my phone out and saw a text from an unsuspecting source: Vic Jacobs.

I think maybe we should have another talk.

They could tell from my reaction that it might be important. These were newspaper people who were good at reading people, myself included.

“Anything you want to tell us?” Krissy asked.

“Vic Jacobs, the neighbor, says we should have another talk.”

“That sounds promising,” Krissy said.

“I agree.”

“We’ll let you get out of here, Quint. You can deal with the neighbor.”

“I’ve got a little cake left. You’re not getting me out of here that easily.” 

When I arrived home, I texted Vic back.

I told him I could meet at eight a.m. or two p.m. the following day. I hadn’t seen my mother in a while and didn’t want to change our brunch reservation. 

Vic said we could wait until two. 

I casually tried to ask what we’d discuss, but he didn’t fall for it.

He told me that could wait.

16

There should be a rule that if your mother is in her seventies and you’re having brunch with her, she should have your undivided attention.

With my looming meeting with Vic Jacobs, I had broken that unspoken rule.

We were halfway through brunch when my mother called me on it.

“They are making progress with robots these days, aren’t they?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah, I guess. What’s that have to do with anything?”

“Because a robot-like Quint would have been more interesting to have brunch with. It’s like you’re not even here.”

“I’m sorry, Mom. I’ve got a few things on my mind.”

“Just not me?”

I deserved every bit of her sarcasm. “I’m sorry, Mom. You have my full concentration from here on in.”

“Okay. Thanks, Quint.”

“Now, what were we talking about?”

“Robots,” she said, and we both laughed aloud.

The rest of brunch went by much more smoothly, and I promised her we’d do another one soon. 

My next stop was the Jacobs’s house.

I couldn’t decide if I preferred talking to Vic alone or if I wanted Loretta to be present. On the one hand, Vic had texted me and said we needed to talk. On the other hand, Loretta seemed the more outgoing and vocal of the two. She would be the more likely to spill the beans if there were any beans to be spilled.

I parked in front of their house and looked toward Virginia Tumbler’s home. Maybe I’d make an unexpected pop-in to her house next.

I walked to the front door and pressed the doorbell.

No one came for several seconds. When I looked at my watch, I realized I was seven minutes early, so I assumed Vic was there but hadn’t heard me. 

I knocked loudly on the door, thinking that might be easier to hear. In my history, a loud knock often worked better than a faraway ringing doorbell.

Still nothing.

I called Vic’s cell phone, expecting him to answer and say he was in the back and couldn’t hear me or something similar.

But there was still no answer.

A pit was starting to form in my stomach.

Vic had shown me the side of his house that led to the backyard, so I decided to try that route.

“Vic,” I yelled. “It’s Quint.”

It was a bit presumptuous of me to enter the house through the backyard, so I kept yelling his name to warn him—still nothing.

“Vic! Loretta!”

Nothing.

I passed by the side of the house and entered the backyard. There was a big lawn, and the house had a massive sliding glass door through which you could look inside. I was still probably fifty feet from that door when I saw something.

A shiver went up my spine.

It looked like two bodies were on the ground and not moving. I walked as briskly as I could toward the sliding glass door.

When I was about thirty feet away, my suspicions were confirmed. Two bodies were definitely on the ground.

At twenty feet, I could tell it was Vic and Loretta.

At ten feet, I could see the blood on the ground next to them.

Holy shit.

I reached the sliding glass door and looked down at the two bodies on the other side. They were dead. There was no question.

Vic was on his back, and his eyes were looking in my direction. They had an expression of outright fear. It’s something I knew —even in that moment —would stick with me for a long time.

Loretta was facing downward, so I wasn’t burdened with having to see her expression. She was not going to get up, though. That much I was sure of.

If I had thought there was any chance they were still alive, I’d have broken in and tried to give them CPR.

Instead, I just called 9-1-1.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency.”

“I just found two dead bodies.”

The dispatcher asked me for the address, and I gave it to her.

She wanted to ask more questions, but I quickly got off the phone.

I decided to walk to the front of the house to meet law enforcement, who would be arriving soon. 

I also left because I couldn’t bear to look at Vic’s expression for another second. It was disarming in a way I couldn’t explain. Death was bad enough, but his face suggested he knew at that moment his life was ending.

17

“Quint. Q-U-I-N-T. Adler. A-D-L-E-R.”

I had pointed the arriving officers—there were four in total—in the direction where I found the dead bodies. They could have just gone through the front door but decided to take my route, which made sense— to see how I saw and found their bodies.

One of the officers stayed back to interview me and wanted me to spell my name letter by letter. He was in his blues and was not a homicide detective. They would be arriving soon.

“You’re that PI, aren’t you?” he asked, but not in a pleasant way.

“I am.”

I looked over and saw an ambulance and medical examiner pulling up. I quickly wondered if Virginia Tumbler had noticed the commotion. Hadn’t that woman been through enough?

“And tell me, what were you doing here? Had the Jacobs hired you?”

“No. I was working on a related case.”

He looked at me, not too happy I’d given him a vague answer.

“What case?”

There was no reason to lie. The police would find out soon enough.

“Did you hear about the death of Carl Tumbler?” I intentionally didn’t say murder. This officer was riled up enough as it was.

“I work for the San Ramon police and was one of the responding officers. Yes, I know about it.”

“Well, I’m looking into that.”

“Do you often look into the deaths of people who die from cancer?”

This guy was being a jerk. Two could play at that game. “Do you often think four friends dying within two weeks of each other is a coincidence?”

“Don’t get sassy with me. And who is the fourth?”

“Jesse Tumbler.”

“What happened to him?”

“You work for the San Ramon police. I thought you’d know.”

“Listen, smartass, I can take you downtown if you’d prefer.”

He said downtown, like San Ramon was New York City. I didn’t want to go to their local precinct. I’d better tone it down a bit. “He was killed during a hit and run in Pleasanton.”

“And why would a San Ramon cop know about that?”

“Because he was Carl Tumbler’s cousin. They both had the same last name, you see.”

I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d thrown me in a cop car then and there. I wasn’t sure why I was being so sarcastic. Probably because he’d said, “You’re that PI, aren’t you?” in such a demeaning way. 

“How did you know to go around the back?”

“I’d met Vic and Loretta once before, and they showed me around the house. I got suspicious when they didn’t answer the doorbell, my knock, or my phone call.”

“Okay. Finally, a straight answer. Is there anything else you can tell us?”

I’d be better at your job than you are! “No, that’s pretty much it,” I said.

“Okay. You can stand away from the house, but don’t leave. I’m sure we’ll have more questions for you.”

With that, the officer moved toward the side of the house. I headed to the curb where I’d parked my car. People from the block were starting to descend upon the Jacobs’s home. 

What an ignominious way to go out. Your dead bodies are lying on the floor of your house, and your neighbors are coalescing around said house.

Five minutes later, Virginia walked down from her house.

Oh, Jeez.

She approached me. “What happened?”

“Vic and Loretta are dead. They were shot.”

Virginia bowed her head, and tears flooded her eyes when she looked back at me. “That can’t be true.”

“I’m so sorry, Virginia, but it is true. I saw them with my own eyes.”

“First, Carl. Then Jesse. And now our dearest, oldest friends.”

“I know. It’s terrible.”

Virginia leaned away and cried, taking out a handkerchief to wipe away the tears. When she’d gathered herself, she turned back to me. “Why were you here?”

“Vic had reached out last night.”

“What did he say?”

“That he was ready to talk. Something like that.”

“Talk about what?”

“He didn’t say. We agreed to meet today.”

“Any idea what he wanted to talk about?”

“No idea, but I don’t think it was the weather. I think he had something important to tell me.”

I heard someone yell, “Virginia!”

I turned around, and a woman in her forties walked toward us. She wore bright orange yoga pants and looked out of place at a crime scene.

“I’ll be right back, Quint,” Virginia said.

She walked ten feet and put her arm around what I assumed was one of her neighbors. There were now fifteen to twenty people gathered outside the Jacobs’s house.

What happened to you, Vic and Loretta?

I bowed my head and prayed for them.

Whether anyone was listening was a question way above my pay grade.

18

The rest of the day was a whirlwind.

They took me to the San Ramon Police Department—not because I’d agitated them, but merely to make a statement. It was now homicide detectives I was dealing with, not the cop I’d dealt with earlier.

I got a phone call from Alexis Tumbler. Virginia had told her what happened, and she wanted to know if their murders were related to her father’s death. I told her it was too early to say, but I don’t think I was very convincing. It sounded naive to continue denying that these deaths were unrelated. Four deaths in two weeks no longer constitutes a coincidence.

Alexis said she might visit the East Bay on Monday night to see Virginia. She asked if I’d like to meet her, and I said yes.

I talked to Virginia on the phone two separate times. She sounded odd, more distant than she had been. I guess I couldn’t blame her. This had to be overwhelming. She must have known in her heart that her husband was murdered. Sure, she’d assumed so from the start, but now she would be certain.

My mother called and was very shaken up. I had to tell her that I’d gone from having brunch with her to seeing the dead bodies of Vic and Loretta Jacobs. She asked if I was okay. I told her yes, and I truthfully felt that way. Maybe that wasn’t natural. I’d just seen two dead bodies. I shouldn’t be taking this as well as I had.

Tom Butler called and said he and Krissy were available to talk if I needed to. Like everyone else, I told him I was okay.

“It’s starting to feel like you’re immersed in something sinister,” he said before he got off the phone. 

He wasn’t wrong.

I woke up on Monday morning and went online.

The Jacobs murders were widely reported. Articles appeared in all the major Bay Area newspapers, most of which were the lead story. 

It is evident that all the authors of the articles had read Evangeline Stephens’s article. Numerous references to Carl Tumbler’s manuscript and the final chapter were included.

I threw on a few local news channels, and it was wall-to-wall coverage of the Jacobs murder.

“Who is Carl Tumbler, and why are all his friends dying?” asked one reporter.

“Are four recent deaths in the East Bay all related?” asked another.

My case had officially gone viral. It wasn’t the first time, but that doesn’t mean I had to enjoy it. Despite being labeled a celebrity PI by some, I preferred to keep things under the radar if possible.

Looks like it was too late for that.

Evangeline Stephens had worked at the East Bay Times for probably around fifteen years.

When I worked for the Walnut Creek Times, we knew each other in passing. We hadn’t been particularly friendly, but we were far from enemies, which many people working for rival newspapers became. So we were ahead of the game in that regard.

After seeing all of the papers and news programs hijacking Evangeline’s article, I decided to go to the source. 

I knocked on the corresponding door after asking the East Bay Times receptionist which office was hers. It was still Monday morning, the day after I’d stumbled upon the bodies of Vic and Loretta Jacobs. It seemed surreal that less than twenty-four hours had passed since I’d found them.

The office door was glass and see-through, so Evangeline saw who was knocking. She came and opened it.

“I know that face,” she said. “Come in, Mr. Adler.”

I entered her office and sat opposite her desk as she shut the door.

“No one calls me that,” I smiled.

“Quint it is. What can I help you with, Quint? I don’t know who killed the Jacobs if that’s why you’re here.”

“I figured you’d heard about that.”

She eyed me up and down. I’m not sure she enjoyed my lack of formality.

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” I said. “I use everyone’s first name.”

“I prefer Ms. Stephens when I’m working. But I guess Evangeline is okay since we’re old friends.”

When she said, “Ms. Stephens,” I instinctively looked down to see if she was wearing a wedding ring. She wasn’t.

“You heard me right. It’s Ms. Stephens, not Mrs.” 

It’s like she had read my mind, but maybe she’d just followed my eyes.

“That’s why you were looking at my ring finger, right?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Damn, you’re good.”

“I’m good for a newspaper reporter. I’m no PI.”

“I didn’t say that. Nor do I think that. We use the same part of our brains. Look at me. I’m still the same schlub who worked for Tom Butler.”

“You were never a schlub, Quint.”

I smiled. Evangeline Stephens was a beautiful woman, probably in her late thirties—“Age-appropriate,” as my mother would say.

“Thanks.”

“I don’t see a rock on your finger, either.”

“I’m married to my job,” I said, intentionally using a cheesy line.

“You and me both. Okay, enough small talk. What are you here for, Quint?”

“Can this be off the record?”

“Sure.”

“I was wondering who you talked to before you wrote the article on Carl Tumbler’s death?”

“Well, Virginia, as I’m sure you know.”

“I gathered that. Not that I was too happy about it.”

“I didn’t know I had to ask for your approval to do my job.”

“You didn’t get that memo?” 

She laughed. “Must have got lost in the mail.”

“Anybody else?” I asked.

“I’d contacted Jesse the day before I published the article.”

“Did he get back to you?”

“No, and he was dead less than twenty-four hours later.”

“Anyone else?”

“I’d planned on interviewing Constantin Pappas and Vic Jacobs, but once Jesse died, my boss insisted we run what I had. The death of Jesse made it front-page news. Maybe not for the San Francisco Chronicle, but for a small East Bay paper like us, it was enough for the front page.”

“You’re not a small paper. Where I used to work, now that was a small paper.”

“Indeed it was. And yet, there Quint Adler was, beating out bigger newspapers to the big story.”

“Maybe at the end with the articles on my father’s murder, but before that, I was doing bike thefts and high school basketball. I was a runt for several years.”

“Quint the runt. It has a certain ring to it.”

“Neither one of us knows anything about rings.”

Evangeline laughed. “You are too much!”

We were quiet for a moment, but it wasn’t awkward. I had to admit it. I was enjoying her company.

I finally broke the silence. “Is there anything you discovered that might be useful for me? I don’t usually ask people for help, but I’m up the creek without a paddle on this one.”

“So you don’t think these deaths are coincidences?”

“No,” I said. I’d grown tired of dancing around that question. No was going to be my answer going forward. And there really was no other answer anymore, not after the discovery of the bodies of the Jacobs.

“What I’m about to tell you doesn’t go past us. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“I thought Virginia Tumbler was a bit theatric.”

I hadn’t been expecting that. “What do you mean exactly?”

“She seemed to enjoy talking about the death of her husband. I couldn’t get her off the phone. She asked twenty questions. When will this article be released? Will it go all over the Bay Area? Etc. etc. She didn’t exactly give off the grieving widow vibe.”

I took a second to gather my thoughts, of which there were many. 

Virginia told me that the reporter (Evangeline) had surprised her and that she had just started ranting. Evangeline’s portrayal of the situation was different. She made it sound like Virginia was soaking in the attention.

I next asked myself if I thought Virginia had been hamming it up since her husband’s death. I hated to admit it, but there was some truth to it. Especially at Jesse’s funeral, when she seemed to enjoy herself a bit too much.

When I first met Virginia, she seemed so frail—standing outside of a Trader Joe’s, shivering, and me having to drive her back to BART.

I was having a tough time overcoming my initial impression of her. Maybe she craved attention, but I couldn’t see her having anything to do with the murders. And no, Evangeline hadn’t alleged that, but she was at least in the same ballpark as suggesting that.

Before I could muster a response, Evangeline spoke again.

“Now, maybe I’m way off,” she said. “I’ve encountered many people who have lost a loved one, and they all react differently.”

“You don’t have to sugarcoat it,” I said. “I just want to know how you truly feel?”

Evangeline looked up at me, and we locked our eyes.

“I don’t think she’s all that broken up about losing her husband. That’s my impression. She said some weird things at weird times during our conversation.”

“Interesting.”

“That’s all you have to say? Interesting.”

“The woman is five feet tall and doesn’t own an SUV. I’d be shocked if she owned a gun.”

“Woah. I’m not saying she had all these people killed.”

“What other conclusion am I supposed to jump to?”

“I said she seemed to be reveling in the attention. That doesn’t mean she killed her husband. Or Jesse Tumbler. Or the Jacobs. Maybe she just likes the attention.”

I didn’t know what to think. Evangeline had me second-guessing my impression of Virginia, and now, she was walking it back.

“Did you record your conversation?” I asked.

“Of course.”

“Can I get a copy?”

“Didn’t she hire you?”

“You know she did. I want to listen to the interview, and hopefully, I’ll come up with a different impression than you.”

“If the roles were reversed, would you give me the tape?”

“Probably not,” I answered honestly.

“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll let you listen to the recording, but you must do something for me in return.”

“What is it?”

“If there’s a scoop in this case, you have to give it to me before Tom and Krissy.”

“They are my friends of almost twenty years.”

“I’ve known you for quite a while as well.”

“We knew each other in passing. They were my bosses.”

“In passing? Ouch.”

I smiled. “Hey, we worked for different papers and were friendly. You can’t say that all that often.”

She nodded. “Okay, how about this? Any information that you pass on to them, you have to give me as well. At least then I’d be on level footing.”

Tom would say that Evangeline was being more than fair. He’d encourage me to take the deal.

I extended my hand. “All right. I’ll give you any new information I get on the case.”

She shook my hand.“Pleasure doing business with you, Quint.”

She asked for my email and said she’d send me the recording of her conversation with Virginia.

Maybe I was wrong to do this.

I felt like I was cheating on my client.

But I had to know if Evangeline’s allegations were true.

19

While driving home from the East Bay Times, I got a call from an unexpected source.

“Hello.”

“This is Constantin Pappas. We need to talk.”

“Then let’s talk,” I said.

“I was hoping we could meet up tomorrow morning.”

“The last person who suggested that is now dead, and so is his wife. Let’s talk now.”

“Okay,” he whispered.

“Pardon my French, Constantin, but what the fuck is going on? Four people are dead now, so don’t tell me this is all some coincidence.”

“No one would fall for that bluff anymore,” he said, but I didn’t laugh at his weak poker joke.

“You know who is going around killing people, don’t you?”

“I do,” he said, or I thought he did. It was barely audible. Shocking, coming from a man his size and with his loud voice.

“Say that again,” I said.

“I do,” he said, much louder.

“Well, who is it?”

He paused. I couldn’t tell if he was building suspense or debating whether to tell me.

“You’re not going to believe me.”

I was tired of this man and tired of people dying. “Just freaking tell me, Constantin.”

I never could have expected what he said next.

“Carl is killing us off one by one. From beyond the grave.”

20

“It’s a nice place you have,” Constantin said, trying to create small talk.

After dropping his bomb about Carl Tumbler somehow posthumously being involved in the murders, Constantin agreed to meet with me, and we decided he should come to my place. The poker room or some bar/restaurant/coffee shop didn’t offer us enough privacy. Not for what he was alleging.

We were standing in my reading room, and he was scanning over some of my articles on the wall.

“Why don’t we take a seat,” I suggested.

Usually, I just had the recliner, but I grabbed two chairs and set them down in the middle of the room. Constantin sat, and I did the same.

Killing people from beyond the grave was impossible, and hiring someone to do your killing seemed highly unlikely, but I was still coming into the conversation with an open mind.

I was also curious why he had called me instead of the police, but I would ask that question later. For now, I just wanted him to start talking. 

“All right, let’s hear it, Constantin,” I said.

“It’s going to sound nuts.”

“I invited you over. That means I believe you. So let’s hear it.”

“Okay. I have to start at the beginning, then.”

He looked at me as if asking permission to start. I nodded.

“I met Carl about twenty years ago. He had started working at Costco and walked into the California Grand one day. They are only a few miles from each other. He was terrible and probably should have been playing a lower limit. But it’s not like the Grand is Las Vegas. Even in the highest game, you’ll probably not lose more than $500 to $1000 unless you’re truly awful. And he probably lost about $500 those first few times. He was a quick study, though, and I’d say he was close to breaking even a few months in. We became friends because there are only two to three tables of the bigger limit games. We were at the same table often. So, that’s how we became friends. My wife would come in occasionally, and he met her. Virginia rarely came in, but I did meet her a few times, and at some point, Carl suggested the four of us go to dinner, which we did. And by that point, we were friends, without question.”

Constantin took a sip of the bottled water I’d given him.

“It was probably three years into our friendship when I came to him with an idea for an investment. My friend was trying to get financing to start a rival poker room. There’s a lot of red tape involved, and it’s not easy to secure the license, but if you do, it’s a gold mine, like a retire-from-your-job gold mine. I knew Carl hated his job at Costco, so I gave him a chance. Now, he didn’t have half a million dollars to put up or anything like that, so he’d be on the smaller investment side, but he said he could come up with twenty-five thousand, which he did. We’d raised about two and a half million overall, so he had one percent. 

The problem is once we got the financing, everything went to shit. The gambling license we’d been promised was suddenly not a sure thing. There were legal fees upon legal fees. There were fees to apply and then reapply for the license. We’d bought a warehouse and spent way too much money trying to turn it into a potential poker room. Money started dwindling. This is already a long story, and I think you get the gist, so I’ll cut it short. A few years in, the man who raised the money, Parker Buellton, fled to Europe. Less than half of our initial 2.5 million was left, and he spent the rest of our money lavishly, and we never got a cent of our money back. Finally, with the FBI closing in on him, Parker Buellton took his life in a yacht off the coast of Serbia.”

Constantin took a long breath. He was a huge man, and all the talking took something out of him.

“And let me guess, Carl didn’t take this too well?”

“Nope, he took it great.”

That surprised me. “Really?”

“Yes. I figured he’d hate me. Or, at the least, end our friendship.”

“And he didn’t do either?”

“No, we remained friends until his death. Or, at least, I thought so.”

“Now you’re not so sure?”

“There’s another thing I didn’t tell you.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Jesse and Carl had a business deal that didn’t work out, either.”

“What happened?”

“Jesse came to Carl with the opportunity to buy into a four-unit apartment complex. Initially, Carl was all in. The complex was near Cal Berkeley, and real estate near a college campus is almost always a gold mine.”

“Something went wrong?”

“Carl couldn’t afford to pay the mortgage. Keep in mind, this was only a few years after he’d blown twenty-five grand with me.”

“So I don’t understand. They signed on as business partners, and Carl started paying half the mortgage, but at some point, couldn’t afford it anymore and dropped out.”

“You understand it perfectly. That’s exactly it.”

“How soon did he drop out?”

“Less than a year, I believe. He just said it was going to be too much.”

“So Jesse took over the property himself?”

“No, and this is where you’re going to have your mind blown.”

“I’m all ears,” I said.

“Vic Jacobs took over. He bought up Carl’s half.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. So, two of the three guys who did Carl wrong with investments are now dead. And I’m the third.”

“And you think that Carl would kill you because of a twenty-five thousand dollar investment he made almost twenty years ago?”

Constantin threw his arms up in the air. “What else am I supposed to think? It’s the only thing that Jesse, Vic, and I have in common with Carl. Besides reading that silly book.”

“And the fact that you guys were all friends,” I reminded him.

“Yes, of course. But I’m starting to get the feeling that maybe we weren’t friends, and he was just biding his time.”

“Maybe Carl died of cancer, Jesse’s death was a terrible accident, and the Jacobs were murdered over something completely unrelated to you.”

“Now you’re the one who sounds crazy,” Constantin said.

“That’s fair. You can’t be sure he wants to kill you, though.”

“Of course not, but if you were me, would you sit around and take your chances?”

“I get your point.”

“That didn’t work out so well for Jesse or the Jacobs.”

I shook my head. “I guess it makes sense in one regard.”

“What’s that?”

“His novel is all about money being the root of all evil. Maybe in some crazy, outlandish way, he was trying to tell us something.”

“What? That he’s a psychopath who wanted to kill us all?”

“Settle down. I’m in no way condoning his actions.”

He tried to calm himself down. “Okay. I’m sorry. I’m a little high-strung at the moment.”

“I can’t blame you,” I said. 

“So you believe me?”

“I didn’t say that. No offense, Constantin, but I don’t think many people will believe your theory. It’s pretty out there.”

“I concede that,” he said. “But it’s the only thing that makes any sense. Would you agree it’s a possibility then?”

“Of course. I haven’t said it’s not a possibility. I’m just skeptical.”

“That’s fine. It’s not your life on the line.”

“I found Vic and Loretta’s bodies. It’s not like I’m some outsider in all of this.”

Constantin bowed his head. “You’re right. So you’ll look into this?”

Virginia had hired me, and now Alexis Tumbler and Constantin Pappas have suggested I take on their cases as well.

“I’ll be looking into it, yes. But I’m still Virginia’s client. I’ll be looking at it from the point of view of Carl’s death.”

“Maybe the dead guy is the killer as well.”

It was meant to be rhetorical, so I asked him the question I’d been meaning to ask. “Why didn’t you go to the cops?”

Constantin looked down at his watch. He’d been getting antsy for the last few minutes. I could tell he was ready to go.

“You’ll know tomorrow,” he said.

“What the hell does that mean?”

Constantin got up from his chair and patted me on the shoulder.

“You’ll know tomorrow,” he repeated. “I’ve got somewhere I have to go. Sorry.”

21

“Nice to see you again, Quint.”

After my conversation with Constantin, I contacted Alexis to learn more about her father’s relationship with Carl Tumbler. As luck would have it, she would be in the East Bay the following morning, so I suggested a coffee shop.

She’d sounded perturbed by my whole line of questioning but eventually agreed to meet with me. She didn’t sound like the same woman who’d been hitting on me less than a week previously. 

I’d ordered the coffee and was waiting for her when she arrived.

“Still busy with work?” I asked.

“Yeah, but I got someone to open the shop for me this morning. I have to meet with that real estate agent again, and then I’ll drive straight to work.”

“Well, thanks for giving me a few minutes.”

“You’re welcome,” she said.

She wore a casual purple sweatsuit. It was cute but hardly something you’d wear while working at a high-end clothing boutique. I tucked that information away for safekeeping.

We both took a sip of our coffee.

“I don’t have too much time, Quint. You better ask what you want.”

The flirtatiousness from our last visit was missing. No, it was more than missing. It was DOA. She’d been all business thus far. Had she soured on me already? It wouldn’t have been the first time. Women tended to like me rather quickly, but the souring people often came about just as quickly. Maybe a PI who deals with the things I do isn’t that easy to deal with.

“Did your father and Carl ever do any business deals together?” I knew the answer, but I wanted to gauge her reaction.

She tapped her index finger on her chin. Something was up. “No,’” she said.

Her answer was rushed.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because he would have told me.”

“What if it happened when you were young?”

“I told you, they didn’t do any business together.”

“Maybe I could reach out to your mother and ask her. No offense, but maybe she’ll remember something that you didn’t know about.”

“Don’t bring her into it.”

“Why not?”

“I told you, she grew to hate my father. She didn’t even go to his funeral, and she lives fifty miles away. You think she wants to meet some PI who is looking into Carl’s death.”

It was an odd answer. “Didn’t you want me to look into your father’s death as well?”

“I’m reconsidering that.”

That was an odder answer.

“Why is that?”

“Maybe he really did just get hit by some drunk driver who then fled the scene.”

Alexis fidgeted in her chair.

“What is going on here, Alexis? Why the one-eighty?”

“This isn’t a one-eighty”

“You went from flirting with me and asking me to look into your father’s murder…”

I didn’t need to finish my sentence. I’d made my point.

“I wasn’t flirting with you,” she said.

I laughed. “This isn’t my first time around the block, Alexis. Don’t play me for a fool.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re a bad liar,” I said.

What could have happened to change her attitude so completely? Maybe Constantin had reached out. 

I had an idea. Alexis was going to hate me, but what the hell? She’d soured on me anyway.

“How is your business doing, Alexis?”

“It’s fine,” she said.

I was right about her being a bad liar. I could tell when she was lying.

“I don’t think it is.”

She looked up from her coffee. “You’ve got a lot of nerve,” she said as something approaching hate filled her eyes.

“Why are you trying to sell your father’s house so soon after his death?”

“I told you. I’m busy at work, and this was just the best time to get it done.”

“I don’t think you are busy at work.”

“Fuck you,” Alexis said.

I felt several eyeballs turn toward us. I didn’t give them the satisfaction of an apology. I’d hit a nerve with Alexis, and I think I knew why.

“I’m going to lay out a little scenario, and in the end, you can tell me what you think. How’s that sound to you?”

“Does it matter what I say? You’re going to do it anyway.”

“That’s true,” I said.

“Fine. Say what you got to say.”

“My guess is that your father didn’t have that much money upon his death. He had his house, and that was basically it. And I’m going to assume that your business has been hit by some hard times. I’m not judging. It happens to a lot of us. And if I’m right about both of those, then it would make sense that you’d want to sell the house quickly.”

“If that were true, it wouldn’t make me the first person who tried to get some of her inheritance fast.”

“No, you certainly wouldn’t be the first. And you’re not going to be the last.”

“So, then, why make a big deal out of it?”

Alexis had lowered her voice since cussing at me. I was trying to do the same. I could still feel the occasional glance in our direction, and there was no need to bring more unwanted attention to ourselves.

“I’m less worried about that,” I said. “And more worried about why you no longer want me looking into your father’s murder.”

“What do you want me to say? I just changed my mind.”

“I don’t think it came out of left field.”

“Oh yeah, smart guy. Where do you think it came from?”

“I think Constantin called you."

I looked closely to judge her reaction. Her shoulders slumped, and I knew I had her.

“He didn’t call me.”

“You’d make a terrible poker player.”

She was about to say something, and I quickly interrupted.

“And don’t F-bomb me again.”

To my surprise, a slight smile emerged.

“My God are you a pain in the ass,” she said. “No wonder you’re so good at your job.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll take it. And I’ll also take that as you admitting I was right about Constantin.”

She shook her head, not in denial but in defeat.

“Yeah, he called me.”

“And he told you about an investment gone wrong?”

“Yes.”

It was time to go fishing. “And you remembered that your father and Carl had done a business deal at some point?”

“Yes.”

“And you were scared that someone would have a claim on his house? The one you’re so eager to sell.”

Alexis broke down and started crying. 

More eyes looked back over at us. We must have been grade-A entertainment.

“I’m sorry,” I said, patting her shoulder.

She grabbed the napkin on which her coffee sat and dabbed her eyes with it. What she said next contained another F-bomb, but this was the complimentary kind.

“You’re good at your fucking job,” she said.

I couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you.”

She dabbed her eyes one more time and looked to be on the improve.

“But you’re wrong about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I wasn’t worried about someone having a claim on the house. I was just worried that it would get tied up, and I wouldn’t get the money for a long time.”

Carl Tumbler was right. Money was the root of all evil. 

“Why would it get tied up?”

“I don’t know. Constantin thinks Carl might have hired someone to kill my dad. If that were the case, maybe the police wouldn’t release the house. I don’t know. I just know I need an influx of money, or my business is going belly up.”

This had started as a fishing expedition, and against all odds, I’d returned with a few marlins. 

“What about the property your father bought with the Jacobs?”

“They sold that when my parents got divorced. After my father paid off my mother, he used the rest of the money to buy the house.”

She’d finally admitted knowing about the apartment complex her father had bought with the Jacobs—another thing I was right about, but I wasn’t in a celebratory mood. This was not the same confident, beautiful woman I’d met at her father’s funeral.

“It’s too bad your father couldn’t have held on to the property.”

“Yeah, divorce is a bitch,” Alexis said. “My mother could tell you that.”

“Do you think she’d talk to me?”

I know she’d rejected the idea earlier, but the entire tenor of our conversation had changed.

“I’ll put in a good word for you,” Alexis said, and I finally saw a smile.

“Thank you."

This conversation had been a roller coaster. I figured, why not go for one last ride?

“Do you think Carl could have killed your father over an old business deal?”

“I would have said that was crazy twenty-four hours ago, but after Constantin’s call, I just don’t know. You got a better theory?”

“No, I don’t.”

Alexis looked down at her watch. “I really do have to go. I’m meeting the real estate agent in ten minutes.”

Like Constantin, she was ending our meeting early. 

“Okay. Thanks for meeting with me.”

“Sure.”

“And I’m sorry, Alexis. I don’t get any joy out of this. I hope you get the money for the house quickly and your business turns around.”

“Thank you, Quint.”

“Could you message me your mother’s number? I want to follow up with her.”

“Are you going to tell her about Constantin?”

“Do you want me to leave that out?”

“Yes, please. Until you know for sure.”

“I’m a long way from that.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Alexis stood up, and I followed suit. As we left the coffee shop, we realized our cars were beside each other.

“I have one last question,” I said.

“Just when you’d gotten back into my good graces.”

I smiled. “It’s an innocent one.”

“What is it?”

“Why were you flirting with me last time? Was it some plan to get me on your side?”

“No, it wasn’t that.”

“What was it then?”

“I just thought you were cute.”

And with that, Alexis shut her car door and drove off.

I’d gone from a pretty girl who fancied me and wanted to hire me to having neither one of those things.

You sure have a way with women.

Nice one, Quint!

22

Iarrived back to my place and sat down on my bed.

I wanted to take a long nap, but that was impossible. Too much was going on.

And I had yet to acknowledge the potential elephant in the room: the possibility that Virginia Tumbler was involved. 

I hated even considering it. 

But it couldn’t be avoided.

Not after Constantin’s bombshell and not after Evangeline Stephens's assertion that Virginia seemed to relish the attention. 

And that’s when it hit me that I had so much going on that I hadn’t listened to the interview.

I grabbed my laptop —so much for the nap—and opened my email. I clicked on the file and pressed play.

The entire interview took about fifteen minutes. Evangeline gave Virginia several opportunities to get off the phone, but she never took the bait. She talked and talked and talked.

I’d wanted to defend Virginia, but Evangeline was right; the interview wasn’t a good look.

Why would Virginia be so talkative to Evangeline? Was she just nervous and rambling after being contacted by a member of the media? Maybe. Was she just using the time to bring attention to her husband’s murder? Maybe. Was she secretly a news media junkie who couldn’t wait to see her name in print? Maybe.

And the one I had to start considering: Was there a chance she was part of her husband’s retaliatory revenge tour?

I hated to admit it, but that was also a maybe.

It was seven p.m., and I was getting ready to watch a movie. Jaws had been popping up every time I turned on Netflix. Should I watch the movie that spawned my name? Why not.

A text came through as I was about to press play on my remote. I looked down at my phone and didn’t recognize the number. 

The text itself threw me for a loop.

“You’re way off. Look at who had the most to gain financially in Jesse’s death. That’s how you’ll find your killer. Vic and Loretta were just collateral damage.”

What the hell was going on? 

My first impulse was to call or text the phone number back. Confront the person.

Then I thought better of it.

It was probably just some twenty-something living in his parents' basement. The local news stations were starting to pay more attention to this case, and maybe someone wanted to intervene in the story. 

But why single out Alexis? She hadn’t made the news. She wasn’t part of the story, at least not to the general public.

That made me think it wasn’t some crackpot living in his parents' basement but someone closer to the case.

But why?

To throw me off from the real killer? Possibly. 

One thing I knew for sure. This case had way too many maybe’s and possibly’s.

I’d contact Paddy to see if they could possibly trace the phone, but I wasn’t expecting much. If someone was going to text me something alarming like that, I assumed it was a burner phone. 

I wasn’t putting much stock in it, anyway.

Alexis Tumbler didn’t kill her father and then an innocent couple of two. 

There was no chance.

Was there?

At nine p.m., I got another text.

It was Constantin.

“Hello, Quint. I’d like to thank you for all you’ve done. I can be a handful, and you’ve been fair to me. I know you were originally trying to find out what happened to Carl Tumbler, and now that’s morphed into finding the killer of Jesse and the Jacobs’. But you know whose death I don’t want you investigating? My own. 

“With that in mind, my wife and I have decided to fly to Europe. I don’t know when we’ll be back. This is why I told YOU about my suspicions about Carl. If I’d told the police, they’d probably have me answering millions of questions. If they got nosy, they might stake out my house or maybe not allow me to leave the country.

I couldn’t let that happen. I’d considered leaving the country when Jesse was killed, but once the Jacobs’ were murdered, I knew I was in harm’s way. It took my wife a bit of convincing, but she eventually came around.

You could tell the cops about this text, but I’d prefer it if you didn’t. You could probably find out what country we are flying into, but I’d prefer you didn’t do that, either. I don’t know who exactly is doing Carl’s killing for him, and I’m not putting it past the killer to fly to Europe and finish the job with me. So, I'd appreciate it if you could keep silent about this text. You never know who is listening.

A few more things. I’m turning this phone off right after I press send. You can try to text or call me, but it will serve no purpose.

Lastly, since I’m fleeing, I wonder if I will now become a suspect in the murders. Probably. I assure you that I had nothing to do with them. I hope you will take me at my word. I’m getting out of the country to prevent being a victim. That’s the truth.

Take care, Quint. And good luck.”

I quickly tried calling the phone number. 

It went straight to voicemail.

I tried sending him a text. It appeared in the dreaded green color, and I didn’t get the “Delivered” notification.

Constantin had, in fact, turned off his phone.

I leaned back on the couch.

This case was getting crazier and crazier.

Two texts in a matter of minutes had thrown this case for another loop—or loops, as it were. 

Could Constantin have sent both?

One proclaimed his innocence, and the other accused Alexis Tumbler of being involved. This made me think it was her, so his fleeing the country wasn’t my focal point in the coming days.

It was possible. Shit, anything was possible at this point. 

I didn’t believe it, though. I had come to trust Constantin Pappas. I believed everything he told me in the text, and that included the fact that he didn’t kill anybody. 

He was probably right. He would become a suspect in the eyes of homicide detectives. He’s literally the last man standing amongst the people that Carl had reading his manuscript. The detectives were assuredly already looking into Constantin. How long until they found out he’d fled the country?

Would I tell them about his text if they came calling?

I wasn’t one to rat out a friend, so I’d try to avoid saying anything. But I also didn’t want to make a pattern of keeping things from the police. That wouldn’t work out well for me, either.

My head hurt.

I needed something to pass the time.

I pressed play on Jaws.

23

Mika Tumbler wasn’t that enthusiastic to meet me.

That had become par for the course.

She’d seemed cordial enough on the phone, but there was a bit of a scowl when she opened her door for me.

I’d driven up to Mill Valley to meet her. It was an affluent city about forty-five miles west of Walnut Creek. 

She had been adamant that she’d rather talk over the phone, but as usual, I preferred doing it in person. It’s a lot easier to lie over the phone. After going back and forth for five minutes, she agreed to meet me.

It’s like Constantin’s beloved poker. I’d much rather play at a table surrounded by the people whose money I was trying to take. I could read their reactions and absorb some small visual clues.

You couldn’t do that if you were playing online poker from the ease of your laptop.

Investigations were similar. Meet with people in person whenever possible. That’s my free PI advice.

And her daughter had a lousy poker face. I was hoping Mika had the same.

“You must be Quint,” she said, the scowl slight but noticeable.

“Actually, I’m Publishers Clearing House with your million-dollar check.”

Despite trying to hold it in, she let out a quick smile. “I’m Mika.”

“Quint. Nice to meet you.”

“Come on in.”

We shook hands, and she led me into her house. It was mid-December, and the heater was turned up to an almost unbearable temperature. I wasn’t going to say anything—I was at her house, after all—but it felt like a sauna.

“Would you like a coffee?”

Only if it’s iced, I almost said.

“No, I’m okay. Thanks.”

We sat on an expensive-looking tan leather couch. While the outside of the house hadn’t been anything to write home about, the room I currently sat in gave off wealthy vibes. The artwork. The couches. Even the blinds.

“So, you wanted to talk in person, and here we are. What did you want to know?”

“You probably know that I’ve been looking into Carl Tumbler’s death.”

“Actually, I didn’t know that. My daughter called me and said you might have a few questions about my ex-husband. That’s all I really know.”

Her choice of “ex-husband” over “Jesse” told me everything.

“You do know who Carl Tumbler is, correct?”

“I was married to his cousin. Yes, I know who Carl is.”

“And you know he died suspiciously?”

“No, I didn’t know that. My daughter told me he died of cancer. And you probably already know that I wasn’t on speaking terms with my ex-husband.”

“Jesse,” I said.

She glared at me as I expected. “Yes, I know his name.”

“Did you hear that after your husband’s death, Carl’s neighbors were killed as well?”

“Yes, my daughter mentioned it. And she said she was worried that maybe her father’s death wasn’t an accident.”

“Did you have an opinion on it?”

“You probably don’t want my opinion on my ex’s death. You might start to suspect me. As for Carl’s neighbors, I’m sorry for what happened to them. I heard they were shot.”

“They were. I was the one who found their bodies.”

“I’m sorry,” she said and seemed to really mean it.

“Thank you.”

“I’m trying to be cordial, Mr. Adler, but I’m not sure how any of this involves me?”

This wouldn’t be one of those bubbly conversations using the other person’s first name.

“I’m here to inquire about the real estate deal between your ex-husband and Carl.”

“Oh, yeah. That.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

“Jesse knew that Carl was having a tough time financially. He knew about the money he’d lost with the Greek guy. So he told him about this four-unit complex that he swore was a can’t lose proposition.”

“What did you think?”

“Listen, I liked Carl and wanted what was best for him. But he wasn’t exactly flush with money. He worked at Costco, after all.”

“Your husband thought differently?”

“He thought it was the right thing to do. Good for him. I won’t disparage him for that. But I certainly wasn’t surprised when, like six months in, Carl realized he couldn’t make it work.”

“That must have been tough.”

“It was. Tougher for Carl, though. We got the Jacobs to take over Carl’s half, which worked seamlessly.”

“Did Carl hold a grudge?”

“Not that I ever noticed. Carl and Jesse remained friendly.”

Mika seemed to have a positive view of Carl.

“What was Carl like? I’ve had a hard time getting a good read on him.”

“He was hard working. A blue-collar guy in a white-collar town.”

“I like that,” I said.

“Thanks. It’s probably not easy working at Costco in a town like San Ramon.”

“I live in Walnut Creek. I know what you’re saying.”

“I’m not saying the wealthier people are snobby. I’m saying if you’re not doing as well, it can’t be easy going out to dinner with a bunch of professionals and saying you work at Costco.”

She was right. It must have been tough on Carl. No wonder he was so fascinated with money.

“How did Virginia accept losing the property?”

“She never said anything. Virginia was a pretty dutiful wife. She wouldn’t have made a scene because it would have embarrassed Carl, who she loved dearly.”

“It sounds like you thought pretty highly of Carl and Virginia.”

“I had no problem with them. Yeah, I guess you could say I liked them. I liked most people. Just not Jesse,” she said and laughed.

“Your daughter told me Jesse had to sell the four-unit complex as part of the divorce.”

“You’re growing on me, Mr. Adler, but if you ask one more question about my divorce, that may well change.”

I smiled. “Got it.” I decided to double back to Virginia. “Did everyone think Virginia was a sweet woman?”

Mika moved around and switched positions. I couldn’t tell if she was uncomfortable with the answer she was about to give or by my question itself.

“That’s a weird question,” she said. “No one ever had a bad word to say about Virginia. Even me, who could be as judgmental as anyone.”

“That’s nice to hear.”

“Jesse liked her too,” she said. “And don’t get any ideas.”

“About what?” I asked, genuinely not sure what she was alluding to.

“Just because I’ve called him Jesse a few times doesn’t mean that I forgive my ex-husband. He was a jerk and tried to bring our daughter between us during the divorce. Who does that?”

“I’m not here to open old wounds. And like I said, we don’t have to discuss the divorce.”

“What exactly are you here for?”

Considering my line of questioning, it was a fair question. “I just wanted to get the answers to a few questions that no one else could answer. Like the apartment complex, for one.”

“I’m a bit confused. Carl is dead. And Jesse is dead. But you’re asking questions about a real estate deal from twenty years ago? And you keep asking about Virginia? What the hell is going on here?”

I’d promised Alexis I wouldn’t broach the subject, but this might be the only time I’d get to meet with her mother. Plus, Alexis had led me on. I had to get Mika’s take.

“If I tell you something, can you keep it between us?”

“Yes.”

“Someone suggested that maybe Carl was getting revenge from beyond the grave.”

“What? That’s insane.”

“I know, but I have to look into every possibility. Even the crazy ones.”

She looked me over. “Only you don’t think it’s crazy. You wouldn’t have driven all the way up here if you thought it was.”

“I don’t know what I think. Have you heard about this book that Carl Tumbler was having some people read, including your ex-husband?”

“No. I’m being serious when I said I never talked to him.”

“I thought maybe your daughter told you.”

“No, she didn’t tell me.”

“Well, two of the three people who were reading this novel are dead, including your ex-husband. As is the wife of one of the men reading it. And the third man is Constantin Pappas, the guy you referred to as the big Greek guy. And as you mentioned, he cost Carl some money as well.”

She moved around again, obviously uncomfortable. “But Carl is dead.”

“Yes.”

“And I know you asked about Virginia, but that woman couldn’t hurt a fly.”

I was happy to hear her advocate for Virginia. I didn’t want to believe she was involved in this.

“I never said Virginia was a suspect.”

“Did everyone think Virginia was a sweet woman?” she said, repeating the exact words I’d used.

“Like I said, just investigating every possibility.”

“And like I said, you wouldn’t come all the way up here on a lark.”

I smiled. We were talking in circles, using phrases the others had already used. I’d learned all I was going to learn from this woman. She’d proved formidable.

“You’re all right, Mika,” I said.

She smiled in return.“This has been interesting.”

“If I have more questions, can I contact you?”

“Yes. Via telephone. Not a knock on my door.”

' I laughed. “It’s a deal.”

24

When I arrived back in the East Bay, I drove straight to Virginia’s.

As with Mika Tumbler, I wanted to see her in person. I was starting to get a tiny bit suspicious of Virginia—how couldn’t I?—and I didn’t want to give her the opportunity to lie her way out of it on the phone.

Luckily, she was home when I arrived.

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” she said. “Can I make you a hot chocolate?”

“No thanks, Virginia. I just want to talk.”

“Okay. This sounds serious.”

“It is.”

We went and sat on her couch. I didn’t want to keep interviewing people in the privacy of their homes, but it’s where the case was taking me. I couldn’t just go out and confront people on the street, asking if they were the killer. The killer was a silent one, and if you believed Constantin, a dead one.

“What did you want to know, Quint?”

“Why, you haven’t been completely honest with me.”

“What are you referring to?”

“Have you lied so much that you don’t even know which lies I’m referring to?”

I had planned to be a little more aggressive than usual, but I didn’t like how I sounded. Virginia seemed uncomfortable, but not in a guilty sort of way. In a confused sort of way.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

Sometimes, my more confrontational approach was the way to go, but I didn’t think that was the case with Virginia. We’d become friendly. This was unnecessary.

“I wish you had told me that Carl had gone into business with Constantin.”

“What are you talking about?”

She genuinely seemed not to know.

“Constantin told me that Carl tried to invest twenty-five thousand into a poker room, but the deal went belly-up.”

Virginia wracked her brain. Or, at least, it appeared so to me. If not, she was a better actress than I ever could have guessed.

“Carl handled most of our finances, but I’m sure he would have told me if he’d lost twenty-five thousand. I honestly don’t remember. How long ago was it?”

“Almost twenty years ago.”

Virginia laughed. “I sometimes forget what I had for breakfast. And you expect me to remember twenty years ago?”

“It seems like something you wouldn’t forget.”

“Well, either I have, or I never knew about it to begin with.”

“How about with Jesse? Jesse bought a four-unit apartment complex, and Vic Jacobs took over when Carl couldn’t afford it.”

“I remember that one.”

“What do you remember about it?”

“That Carl was pissed.”

Now we were getting somewhere.

“For like five minutes,” Virginia finished. “And then he got over it. Carl didn’t care about money.”

“His entire novel is about money.”

“Exactly. About how people sell their souls to have a lot of it. He was clowning the people who can’t live without money.”

If you looked at Small Town Menace as a satire of accumulating wealth, it had a completely different meaning. Had I missed the whole meaning of the novel?

“So, he didn’t care that he’d been replaced in owning a four-unit apartment. That could have come in huge in his later years.”

“Well, he didn’t make it there.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know. I’m just being snappy. He wasn’t mad. He liked the Jacobs. And they had children. Who were Carl and I going to hand it down to?”

“I guess.”

“Plus, didn’t they have to sell that property like five years later?”

“It was over ten years. When Jesse was going through a divorce.”

“Whatever. My point is that we wouldn’t have owned it after Jesse’s divorce anyway. We probably would have put more into it than we got out of it.”

“Carl really didn’t care about money.”

“No. Maybe less than any man I’d ever known.”

These were not the answers I was expecting. 

“How about you?” I asked.

“How about me what?”

“Do you care about money?”

“More than Carl ever did. I wanted to do the occasional expensive vacation. High-priced cruises. Things like that. I’m not above being a bit materialistic.”

“Then Carl must have been disappointed he couldn’t deliver those things to you.”

“Maybe a little bit. But only because it was me.”

“How would you characterize your guys' financial situation over the years?”

“Not awesome,” she said. “Like I said, we always had plans to go see more of Europe. We only got to go one time. We kept saying once Carl retired that, we’d spend our later years traveling around. But then Carl got sick, and all of our attention went to looking after him, which wasn’t cheap. Sure, Costco’s insurance covered a lot of it, but there are always extra fees when it comes to medical bills. And as you now know, we weren’t rich to begin with.”

“You have a better outlook than most people would,” I said.

Virginia paused as if something had finally registered. She leaned forward on the couch. Uh oh. I knew what was coming.

“What’s with all the questions about our finances,” Virginia asked.

“I’m just covering my bases,” I said.

“What does that mean? What bases need covering?”

This was getting tricky. I didn’t know if I could talk myself out of this one.

“Someone suggested that maybe these murders had something to do with money.”

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying? You’re not suggesting that Carl has anything to do with all these deaths, are you? That’s ridiculous. He died first. And like I told you fifty freaking times, he didn’t care about money. He never held a grudge against any of them. Shit, Jesse was his cousin.”

“I know, Virginia. I don’t believe it. I’m just going where this case takes me.”

I’d used that last sentence dozens of times in my career, but it didn’t really fit in this case, and Virginia pounced on it.

“You’re supposed to be investigating my husband’s murder. Not accusing him of other murders.”

That stung.

“I’ve talked to the cops, Virginia. They don’t think your husband was murdered.”

Actually, Paddy had talked to the police, but I was already on my back heels and was tired of defending myself, so I tried to quickly change the subject.

“Well, they are wrong,” Virginia said. “And you’re dead wrong if you think Carl had anything to do with these murders. It’s the most outrageous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m sorry, Virginia. Let’s look at it in a different way. Maybe if Carl had some business transactions that went wrong, that gave someone a motive to murder him.”

I was reaching, and she knew it.

“That doesn’t even make sense. Those were twenty years ago, and he was never even really part of it. Maybe for about six months with Jesse. That’s it. Why would anyone kill him over that?”

“I understand your frustration. I’m just having trouble coming up with any motive.”

“So you pin one on my husband?”

“I’m not pinning this on him.”

Virginia rose from the couch.

“I’d like you to leave,” she said.

“Virginia,” I pleaded.

“Please leave, Quint. And don’t make me ask a second time.”

I had to pick my battles, and this wasn’t one of them. I'd make it up to Virginia, but not today. 

I walked to the door, and she began to shut it on me.

“I’m sorry, Virginia,” I said, but she was having none of it.

“I need to think about a few things,” she said. “And then I’ll let you know if your services are still needed.”

She followed that by shutting the door in my face.

25

Iwas driving back from Virginia’s, regretting how things had gone, and feeling down on myself.

My phone rang, and I picked it up without looking at who was calling.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Quint. This is Evangeline.”

I noticed my spirits pick up almost immediately. Uh oh. I knew that feeling. 

“What’s up?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Are you in Walnut Creek right now?”

“Headed back that way from San Ramon.”

“Want to stop by my work? Something pretty wild is going on.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here.”

Ten minutes later, I was pulling into the offices of the East Bay Times.

I bypassed the front desk, having already been to Evangeline’s office. She saw me approaching and opened the door. 

“Have a seat,” she said. “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course. What’s going on?”

“If you already know about it, then I apologize for bringing you here. But I’m guessing this will be news to you as well.”

“Let’s hear it,” I said.

“Small Town Menace is now available on Amazon.”

It took a few seconds for me to process that information.

“Wait, what?”

“I know, it’s crazy. Someone has published Small Town Menace, and you can now buy it on Amazon.”

“How did you find out about it? Has anyone bought it? Can you do this posthumously?” I had so many questions.

“I found out randomly. I was reviewing my interview with Virginia again, and she mentioned the name of Carl’s novel. I decided to google it and just see if there was anything on the internet about it. I wasn’t expecting much, but maybe someone else was secretly reading it, or someone had made a post alleging there was some sinister secret contained in the book. I knew I’d probably just scroll through a bunch of pages, thinking ‘small town menace’ would be featured in articles that had nothing to do with his book. Turned out I was wrong. I googled ‘Small Town Menace Carl Tumbler,’ and the first thing that popped up was this.”

Evangeline took her computer screen and swiveled it around to face me. Sure enough, there was a book cover with the words ‘Small Town Menace’ on it. The cover wasn’t much. Something anyone could make on Photoshop in a matter of seconds. The novel's title was at the top, and ‘Carl Tumbler’ was at the bottom. There was no picture or anything else, just the title and the author. The screen notified me I was looking at the Kindle edition.

“This is crazy. When did it become available?”

“That’s the first thing I looked for as well. Two days ago.”

“How can you do that after you’re dead?”

“I wondered that as well.”

“And.”

“And I have the answer. A co-worker has published a few novels through Amazon, and I asked her a million questions. She said that anyone can set up a release date. You can set it up for two days or two months from now. Carl —assuming he’s the one who did this—could have set this up to be released on any day he wanted.”

“Got it. I see that it’s the Kindle version. Is there a paperback version as well?”

“Yes.”

“Why wait until after his death to release it?”

Evangeline shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“And why release it at all if you haven’t finished the final chapter?”

“That’s an even better question,” she said. 

“I mean, isn’t that the million-dollar question? If he was purportedly working on the final chapter, that meant his novel wasn’t done. Why would he publish a novel that wasn’t complete?”

“Maybe the novel that’s available is complete, and Carl just never got around to giving it to his friends.”

“I guess there’s a chance, but he’d had them read the whole novel up to that point. Seems unlikely he wouldn’t give them the finished product.”

“I agree,” Evangeline said.

“Unless he knew the end was coming,” I said.

“As in, knew he was going to die?”

“Yes. I need to go visit Carl Tumbler’s doctor soon.”

“I know you’re good, Quint, but I’m not sure you’re good enough to bypass the whole doctor/client privilege.”

I smiled at her and didn’t break eye contact. “Watch me.”

Evangeline laughed and then broke eye contact.

“We should grab lunch sometime,” I said.

“I’ll tell you what. We solve this case together, and I’ll let you take me to lunch.”

“Shit, if we accomplish that, you deserve a nice candle-lit dinner.”

“Dinner it is,” Evangeline said, and I felt like my fourteen-year-old self with a crush on the teacher, but I knew this wasn’t the time to press it any further.

“Does anyone else know about this?” I asked.

“About our prospective dinner?”

I laughed loudly. “Good one. About the book.”

“Just me and my co-worker. But you can be sure it will be in my next article, which I hope will be posted online tomorrow morning.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“Not even Tom and Krissy?”

“Even them. You trusted me enough to tell me about this. It’s your find, so you have the right to run it first.”

“I wish everyone in the newspaper business had your morals.”

“I’m not perfect.”

She shot me a devilish smile. “Oh, I know. I seem to remember a case where you went rogue and investigated it without going to the cops.”

“That case ended up involving my father’s death.”

“Did you know that when you started?”

“Well, no.”

“I’m just busting your balls, Quint. It’s amazing what you accomplished on the Charles Zane case.”

“Thanks,” I said, memories of my father flooding my mind.

She looked at me and could tell I was about to get emotional.

“So, where does this leave us with Carl Tumbler? Does this change your opinion on anything?”

She’d asked me the question to change the subject from my father. I appreciated the small gesture.

“Well, I’ve actually learned a few things since I last saw you.”

“I thought we’d agreed I’d be the first to hear them.”

“I haven’t told Tom or Krissy. You are the first.”

“Thanks. What have you learned?”

“This stays between us, okay?”

“Okay.”

“After I saw you last, Constantin Pappas came by my house.”

“And…”

We’d switched roles. Now, Evangeline was using “And…” to get me to talk. “Maybe you should sit down.”

“Very funny. I am sitting.”

“Constantin alleges that Carl is killing these people from beyond the grave. Or, more accurately, he has hired someone to kill these people. All for financial reasons.”

“Jesus.”

“That was my reaction.”

“Is there any validity to it?”

“Not that I can prove, obviously. I didn’t believe it when I first heard it, and I’m not sure I do now. However, some things that won’t let me dismiss it altogether.”

“What are those things?”

“For one, Small Town Menace is all about how money ruins everything.”

“Sorry, but that’s not nearly enough.”

“I know. I’m just getting to the meat and potatoes.”

“The favorite foods of any reporter.”

I smiled. Here we were, talking about death and possibly even murder for hire, and she was trying to add levity to the situation. It’s something that I would do. Evangeline continued to grow on me. Dinner with her would be a treat.

“Constantin told me that Carl went in on a business deal with him, and it went sideways. Carl lost twenty-five grand.”

“That’s a lot of money, but would you really kill over it?”

“I’d hope not. Carl also lost an investment opportunity with Jesse Tumbler.”

“I’m sensing a trend.”

“Exactly.”

“What happened?”

“It was a four-unit apartment complex. Originally, Carl was a partner, but he couldn’t afford the mortgage. You’ll never guess who Jesse had replace Carl.”

She raised her hands, the universal expression for “I don’t know.”

“Vic and Loretta Jacobs.”

“Holy shit,” she said, but didn’t like that she swore. “I guess I’m running out of expressions that convey surprise.”

“Go with “’m flabbergasted. I’ve always liked that one.”

“Will do. Have you brought this up to Virginia?”

“About an hour ago,” I said.

“How did she take it?”

“Not well. She threw me out of her house.”

“Really. I’m flabbergasted.”

I laughed out loud. Literally. "We’re bad. This is a very serious subject.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Where does this leave us? Have you gone to the cops?”

“Hell no,” I said. “I’m not even close. If you’ve followed any part of my career, you’d know that’s the last thing I like to do.”

“If what Constantin says is true, we have a killer out there.”

“We have a killer out there, regardless.”

“True. I meant you have a killer hired by Carl Tumbler, which somehow makes things scarier.”

“Indeed,” I said.

“You don’t think Virginia could possibly be involved, do you?”

I looked around as if someone else might be listening. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

“I do the same.”

“I’ve grown to like Virginia. No, that’s not fair. I’ve liked her from the beginning. And I don’t think she is someone who could be tied up in murder. I just don’t see it.”

“I sense a but coming.”

“Not really. Unless I’m way off about her.” 

“I told you I thought she was a bit awkward in our interview, but I never thought she was a killer or anything like that.”

“Keep those thoughts coming. I want any reason to believe Virginia, and I’m usually a pretty good judge of character. But she was his wife, so if Carl is behind all of this, there’s that chance she is as well.”

Her eyes caught mine.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I said.

“Oh yeah, what’s that?”

“You’re imagining what a monstrous story this could be.”

“I’m a reporter. It would be unnatural if I didn’t consider it,” Evangeline said.

“Well, like I said, all of that information I just gave you stays between us.”

“I’ll respect that, but for how long?”

“I need to talk to more people about the real Carl Tumbler. I won’t be able to question Virginia the same way from here on in. She’s on to me. This has now hit too close to home for her. Literally. I think she loved Carl with all her heart, and if evidence starts to point to Carl being involved in these murders, she’d never allow herself to admit it.”

“Can’t see the forest through the trees.”

“That’s why you’re still writing, and I’m out chasing bad guys.”

Evangeline smiled. “Why didn’t we hang out back then.”

“Because we were rivals. I wanted to beat you to the punch, and I’m sure you were the same.”

She nodded, and no one knew what to say.

“Why don’t we meet again in a few days?” I asked.

“Sure. I’m always a phone call away if something sudden comes up.”

“Sounds good. Thanks for calling, Evangeline.”

I stood, we shook hands, and I turned to go.

“One more thing, Quint.”

I swiveled around. “What is it?”

“I have a feeling when my article is posted tomorrow morning, it might go viral. This case is already getting a lot of attention locally. Now, people will find out that Carl’s novel is available for purchase. I can just see hundreds of web sleuths ordering the novel and trying to see if it gave any clues as to why people are dying.”

“I think you’re probably right.”

“We should be ready for the heat to be turned up on this case.”

“Bring it on,” I said.

And then we said our goodbyes.

26

Iawoke from a nightmare at three a.m.

Most of my nightmares are hazy at best, and some I can only remember for a split second. This one was different. I was able to recollect almost all of it.

I was at a restaurant, and like most dreams, it was surreal. I was having dinner with Alexis and Evangeline, but not at the same table.

I was running back and forth, trying to pretend I was only at dinner with each of them individually. I was basically like Robin Williams in the closing restaurant scene of Mrs. Doubtfire, a chicken with my head cut off dashing from table to table.

At some point, Alexis grabs my hand and starts whisking me away from the table toward the front door. I want to stay, but I follow her lead for some reason. 

Once we arrive outside of the restaurant, Alexis’s mouth opens wide, becoming a distorted monster. She takes my head and snaps it in her jaws. I’m still alive but unable to escape this now ten-foot monster.

I look over at Evangeline, who has walked to the front door, and I can see her mouthing something.

You should have chosen me.

You should have chosen me.

Then, the monster Alexis snaps my neck in two.

Most dreams are impossible to dissect. 

This one was easy.

Alexis became a monster because of the text I’d received, telling me to be suspicious of the person who had the most to gain from Jesse’s death. I hadn’t put much stock in it when I received it, but obviously, my subconscious had.

Why would someone text me that I should be suspicious of Alexis?

It could have been the real killer trying to distract me from him or her. It could have been someone who had a grudge against Alexis and wanted her to go through some things.

I couldn’t think of any other reason. It was baffling.

The second part of the dream was my subconscious telling me that I shouldn’t be juggling two women. And maybe having your neck snapped in half by a monster is the price you pay.

As we know, our dreaming mind usually skews things; in this case, mine had missed the boat entirely.

I wasn’t juggling two women. Nothing had happened between me and Alexis. She had flirted with me, but that was it. I could honestly say I didn’t have any feelings for her. 

I’m not sure I could say the same about Evangeline. She was fun, and I liked her company. 

But I certainly wasn’t juggling two women. 

Piss off, my subconscious mind.

I woke back up at eight a.m.

I was about to jump into the shower when I received a call from an unlisted number. Since it was my own area code (925), I answered.

My first thought was that it might be the person who texted me about Alexis. However, that would not be the case.

“Hello.”

“Is this Quint Adler, the PI?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“This is Detective Schilling from the San Ramon police.”

“How can I help you, Detective?”

“Would you mind coming down to our precinct sometime today?”

“This isn’t something we could clear up over the phone?” I asked.

The shoe was now on the other foot. The detective wanted to meet with me in person, probably because I always demanded the same.

“No, I’d rather if you came down to the station,” he said.

“Okay. I can do that. What time?”

“Can you get here by ten?”

“I’ll be there.”

The San Ramon Police Department wasn’t on par with San Francisco’s. Or Oakland’s. Or Berkeley’s. Or even Walnut Creek’s.

It was a small, personality-less station that had probably overseen less than five murders over the last decade.

Now, they had three on their hands, however. Carl Tumbler, along with Vic and Loretta Jacobs. Jesse Tumbler had been killed in Pleasanton and wouldn’t be under their jurisdiction.

I approached the front of the precinct when someone exited a car sitting out front. He was of average height and weight. 

“Quint Adler?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“I’m Detective Schilling. Let’s take a ride.”

He wasn’t wearing his blues, and I could have asked him for identification, but I didn’t feel the need. I generally tried to get off on the right foot with people, and asking himself to prove who he was would only piss him off. And I could tell he was a detective. His light brown Ford Crown Victoria was about the most obvious undercover cop car I’d ever seen.

We shook hands, and then I got in the car with him. He backed out of the driveway and took a left on the main street. I had a feeling I knew where he was taking me.

“How’s your investigation going in the Carl Tumbler case?”

It’s a question that could have been asked by either of us, but in this case, it was asked by him.

“I haven’t found any evidence that Carl didn’t die of natural causes,” I said.

“That sounds like a pretty stock answer. I heard you were different than most people and spoke your mind.”

I knew what he was trying to do. He was trying to loosen me up, and maybe then I’d spill my secrets. And while I might give him a few things just to keep him at bay, I’d never tell him my significant findings, like the fact that maybe Carl himself was a killer.

“Well, it’s a tough case, Detective Schilling. Like I said, I have no evidence that Carl was murdered. But obviously, Vic and Loretta Jacobs were murdered.”

“And Jesse Tumbler died under suspicious circumstances.”

“Exactly.”

He took a right on Vines Avenue, which confirmed my suspicions. We were headed toward the Tumblers and Jacobs’s Street.

“So, do you think all of these deaths are related?” 

“I try to think like a prosecutor,” I said. “And I have nothing that comes close to proving they are related.”

“That’s not what I asked you,” Schilling said. “I asked you if you thought they were.”

I wasn’t particularly impressed by Detective Schilling’s personality, but he hadn’t been a total jerk. 

“If not, then it’s one hell of a coincidence,” I said.

He surprised me with a slight nod.

“You can say that again.”

We took a right turn, and twenty seconds later, we were parked outside Virginia Tumbler’s house. Detective Schilling turned off the car and swiveled toward me.

“Have you talked to Constantin Pappas recently?” he asked.

I should have known this was coming.

“Yeah, probably about three days ago now.”

“What did he say?”

I didn’t have much time to make up my mind. I decided I wouldn’t rat Constantin out, even if that meant getting on the bad side of the San Ramon cops—all five of them.

“Listen, we know he fled to Europe. There’s no need to protect him.”

Maybe Schilling was a better detective than I gave him credit for. And there was no longer any need to protect Constantin. They knew.

“He told me he was considering going on vacation. It looks like the old guy took the plunge.”

Schilling eyed me, not sure if I was being sarcastic or not. That was good. I wanted to keep him guessing.

“Why did he say he wanted to flee the country?”

“He didn’t mention anything about fleeing. He said he was considering taking a vacation.”

“Semantics,” Schilling said. “He was involved in a murder investigation. When you leave during one, that’s fleeing to me. Not a vacation.”

“I’m just telling you what he told me.”

“Do you find it odd that Constantin was the last living member of those reading Carl Tumbler’s manuscript?”

I wondered if Schilling knew that Small Town Menace was now available on Amazon. My guess was no, but the entire Bay Area would know once Evangeline published her story this morning. I know she hadn’t yet because my phone would be blowing up.

“I don’t know if odd is the word I’d use,” I said.

“What word would you use?”

“Fortuitous. I think he’s lucky to still be alive.”

“So you do think this is all related?”

I looked over at Virginia’s house. She was an intelligent woman. If she looked out, I’d bet she noticed the undercover cop car with two people sitting in it.

“I think that if I were in Constantin’s shoes, I wouldn’t take the chance that these were all coincidences,” I said.

“That’s a fair point,” he conceded. “But there’s also the chance that Constantin had been killing them off one by one, and he fled to avoid getting arrested.”

“Have you met the guy? He sure doesn’t seem like a killer to me.”

“And you’re pretty good at judging who and who isn’t a killer?”

“Actually, yes, I like to think that I am.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” he said, albeit without much conviction. “You do have a good track record. I’ll give you that.”

Detective Schilling looked to be coming around on me.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Look, I’m not trying to come down on you. We both want to solve this case. And for me, that would have been easier if Mr. Pappas were still in the country.”

“Have you tried calling him?”

“Yes. He turned his phone off. Did he give you an alternate way to get ahold of him?”

Constantin had said he might contact me, but he hadn’t, and I wasn’t ready to give that information despite the detective exceeding my expectations.

“No, he didn’t.”

“Did he tell you why he was leaving?”

“He told me he feared for his and his wife’s safety.”

He nodded.

“Is Carl Tumbler’s case now considered a homicide?” I asked.

“Carl’s is still open, but the Jacobs’s deaths are obviously homicides, and I’m working those as well.”

“Were you at the Jacobs house on the day they were killed? I’m not sure we met.”

“I was. I got there right after they took you back to the station to be questioned. My partner interviewed you.”

“I don’t mean this in a pejorative way, but how many homicide detectives are there in San Ramon.”

He smiled, which surprised me. “You’ve met us both. There’s a grand total of two.”

“It’s busy season for you guys.”

“Yes. We’ve never had three murders so soon in succession. And yes, that’s me assuming Carl Tumbler’s death wasn’t from cancer.”

“Couldn’t the medical examiner be more conclusive about Carl’s death?”

“He ruled it as death by cancer. It’s not like Carl was bashed over the head or something obvious, so I see how it’s difficult for the ME. Carl Tumbler was very weak due to cancer, and it’s very conceivable he did actually die of cancer. If someone killed him, they likely strangled him.”

“You’d still think that would leave a mark,” I said.

“Maybe he had a shirt around Carl’s neck to prevent marking, but yes, you’d still think there’d be defensive wounds of some sort.”

I was the king of crazy theories, and at that moment, one entered my mind: What if the reason there were no signs that Carl had been strangled was that he didn’t resist? What if he’d paid someone to kill him? Carl knew he was dying; maybe he didn’t want to go through the agony that surely faced him as he got sicker. And perhaps he’d hired the man to kill more people than just himself. 

“Were you going to say something?” Schilling asked.

Snap out of it, Quint! “No, just thinking about Carl’s final moments.”

“Maybe the ME was right. And maybe we’re all wrong, and it was cancer.”

“Yeah, and maybe cancer was driving the car that ran into Jesse Tumbler, and maybe cancer was holding the gun that shot the Jacobs.”

Schilling stared me down, and I couldn’t tell if he wanted to sucker punch me or break out in laughter. He did neither.

He did move his eyes from me toward the house we were facing. Virginia had barreled out of her front door and was headed toward us.

She walked to the driver’s side. Schilling rolled down the window.

“You detectives think my husband died of cancer. You don’t deserve to be on my property,” she said. I’d never seen her more fired up, and she’d just kicked me out of her house. “And tell that to your partner, too.”

She leaned down to see who was sitting in the passenger seat and was shocked to discover it was me. She looked genuinely hurt. I felt terrible.

“I can explain, Virginia,” I said.

“First, you accuse my husband of murder, and now you’re hanging out with these dumbos. I really thought you were better than that, Quint. Guess what? You’re fired.”

With that, she stormed back toward her house and vehemently slammed the door—it was loud as can be.

I looked over at Schilling, and it finally hit me as to what Virginia had said.

“You know what?” he said. “Maybe we will go into the station. I want to know why you think Carl is a killer.”

Shit!

27

The ride back to the San Ramon Police Department was quiet. Detective Schilling had begun to like me and had even opened up about their investigation, but that went out the window after what Virginia said.

Schilling put me in their one observation/interview room and said he’d be back soon. He didn’t come back for thirty minutes, which I knew was to punish me. Finally, he and his partner returned and spent the next hour interrogating me.

There was no need to lie about what Virginia said. If I did, they’d just go to the source, and I wanted to prevent Virginia from having to do that. I know she hated me at that moment, but I still had a soft spot for her.

I was released after the interview was over. The San Ramon police now knew everything I did. Which I guess is the way it should have been. We were both trying to catch a killer, after all.

As I drove home, I realized I had left one thing out.

I hadn’t told them that Small Town Menace was available on Amazon. I’d protected Evangeline Stephens.

I called her and told her all that had happened.

“I’d run that article as soon as you can,” I said. “I think all hell is about to break loose.”

“It’s going up on our website in less than an hour,” she said.

“Good.”

“Sounds like you’ve had a busy morning.”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” I said.

“What’s next?”

“I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

I heard her laugh on the other end. “Bye, Quint.”

When I arrived home, I did a deep dive into how Amazon books worked and discovered that it would have been easy for Carl Tumbler to set up a release date in the future. It confirmed what Evangeline had told me.

I also learned that you could set up your payment any way you wanted. I’m assuming he connected it to his and Virginia’s checking account. 

At noon, I went to the East Bay Times website, and sure enough, Evangeline’s article had been posted. 

She didn’t take long to get to Carl’s novel. It was mentioned in the first paragraph.

When I read books, they were always paperbacks, and I didn’t have a Kindle. I didn’t want to wait two days for Amazon to deliver the paperback.

And I knew my mother had a Kindle. I made the call.

“Hey, honey.”

“Hi, Mom.”

“You know, I’d really prefer if you went back to being a news reporter. I’m stressed out daily by this case of the missing final chapter.”

“I’ll be fine, Mom. And that’s actually one of the reasons I called. You still have a Kindle, right?”

“Of course. It’s like my American Express card. I don’t leave home without it.”

I laughed. “The young kids would eat that joke up.”

“Are you making fun of my age?”

“No. I’m in my mid-forties now. I think every time I make an age joke, it’s actually just a reflection of myself getting older.”

“Wow. You’re pretty introspective today, Quint. So what did you need my Kindle for?”

“Actually, Carl Tumbler’s novel has been released on Amazon.”

“What? Really?”

“Yup.”

“And you don’t want to wait until a paperback arrives?”

“Nailed it. You’re on a roll, Mom.”

“Didn’t you read the novel, though?”

“I read what Vic, Jesse, and Constantin had been given. I want to see if, by some chance, Carl has added the missing final chapter.”

“Oh, I see. And when did you want to come read this?”

“I was thinking in an hour or so. I could pick you up some food.”

“It’s a deal. How about Amici’s Pizza?”

“Always a good choice. See you in an hour, Mom.”

I sat and had lunch with my mother, like the dutiful son that I was.

It had already been a long day, and it wasn’t even two p.m.

After lunch ended, she gave me her Kindle, and I instantly downloaded the book. Although I was still loyal to my paperbacks, the ease of the Kindle was undeniable. And if you’re going on a trip and don’t want to lug around a few books, I totally get it.

My mother said I could read the book in her study if I preferred. Since I would have to return the Kindle if drove back to Walnut Creek, I took her up on the offer.

I wasn’t going to read the whole book again, obviously. While I was most interested in how it ended, I was also curious about everything listed before the book started—the dedication, the acknowledgments, etc.

Maybe one of those would give away Carl’s motivation for writing the novel.

I started at the beginning. This novel is a work of fiction. All characters …  Blah. Blah. Blah.

The next page was the dedication, which was a doozy.

This novel is dedicated to my wife, Virginia. I hope I can give you in death what I couldn’t give you in life. I love you.

I was floored. I don’t know what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t this. 

What exactly did he mean? What could he give her in death? The death of Jesse, Vic, and Loretta? A finished novel? A steady income?

I’d had a lot of crazy thoughts lately, but this one blew them all out of the water.

What if Carl meant he could give Virginia a lot of money in death? He’d have to know that this book would garner a lot of attention with people dying and his final chapter missing.

You’re crazy, Quint.

Was I?

It sounded believable to me. Then again, I could be convinced to believe just about anything with this case.

I pressed the fast-forward button on the Kindle and arrived at the acknowledgment section.

I acknowledge that I couldn’t have done this without the help of others. That’s all you’re going to get.

It was very cryptic, and I didn’t know what to read into it.

I clicked the button, and the book’s title appeared on the next page, followed by the first chapter. I read the first paragraph, which was identical to what I’d already read.

I skimmed the chapters as I made my way toward the end. Everything appeared to be the same. And I’d know since I’d read Small Town Menace too many times. 

I arrived at Chapter 46, the last chapter I’d been given. I read all of it, making sure I didn’t miss anything. I arrived on the last page, and after I read the final sentence, there was a big THE END to close out the book.

I clicked ahead, but knew there wouldn’t be another chapter. The book I’d read was the one that had been released.

The final chapter was still nowhere to be seen. 

I left my mother’s study and returned the Kindle to her.

“Did you learn anything?” she asked.

“Not really. I’m pretty sure it’s word for word what I read originally.”

“How can you be sure? You were only in there for like thirty minutes.”

“I read the beginning and the end. That was enough.”

“Maybe there’s an Easter egg hidden in the text.”

She was right. I should read the novel again, just in case.

“I’ll order the paperback. I couldn’t dare leave you without your beloved Kindle.”

“Once your eyesight starts to go, you’ll go the Kindle route, too.”

“You’re probably right, Mom. I have to run. Should we grab dinner sometime soon?”

“That would be nice. Can I bring someone?”

“Of course. Margaret? Jane?”

“His name is Ted.”

I wasn’t expecting that.

“Sure, you can bring Ted. Whoever that is.”

“I can tell you all about him. We met at.”

“I’m not listening,” I said and started singing some nonsense, trying to drown out her talking about Ted—her Ted talk. 

I was behaving like a child, and we both knew it.

“Your Dad died five years ago, Quint.”

“I know. And I want you to be happy. I just don’t want to know the details.”

I kissed her on the cheek and turned to go.

“You’re going to love Ted.”

“Bye, Mom.”

28

Call this number back in the next five minutes.

The following morning, I was making cereal when I looked down and saw this peculiar text message. The phone number was longer than your standard ten, and I had a feeling I knew who had sent it.

I called back immediately, and a familiar voice answered.

“Is this Quint?”

“Constantin. Good to hear from you.”

“How is the case progressing?”

“There’s something new every hour. It’s a whirlwind."

“Does anyone believe that Carl is orchestrating these killings?”

“The police know your theory now.”

“How?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Give me the brief version.”

“I confronted Virginia about some of Carl’s business dealings. She threw me out of her house. She then saw me talking to a cop and told the cop I’d accused her husband of being involved in the murders. I couldn’t really lie anymore at that point.”

“Do the cops know I’m gone?”

“Yes.”

“Do they suspect me?”

“I told them I don’t think you have anything to do with the murders.”

“Thanks for that.”

“But a phone call wouldn’t hurt. Ask for Detective Schilling with the San Ramon Police Department. All things considered, he was pretty fair with me.”

“What should I tell them?”

“The truth. I think they’ll understand.”

“In my history, that’s not always how it goes with the police.”

‘ “You’re somewhere in Europe. What are they going to do?”

“Extradite me.”

“Now you’re starting to sound guilty.”

I heard a shrug on the other end. Yes, I do believe I can hear a shrug.

“To be honest, I’m not scared about the cops. I am scared of whoever is out there killing Carl’s friends. And yes, I do use that term liberally.”

“This is a long shot, but do you know anyone Carl could have gone to for a job like this?”

“Do I know a hitman for hire that Carl knew?”

“I know it sounds ridiculous.”

“It does, but then again, I’m the one who came to you with the allegation, so I should be able to answer it without getting upset. No, I didn’t know any sociopaths that Carl ran with.”

“Were there sociopaths at the California Grand?”

“Hmmm. That’s interesting,” Constantin said. “There were certainly guys that were down on their luck. A lot of them had gambling problems, and some had financial problems. I’d hope that none of them would resort to murder for hire, but if Carl is indeed behind all this, it wouldn’t be the worst place to start looking.”

I could imagine my next visit there.

Yeah, deal me in, and by the way, is anyone at this table a paid killer?

“Are you going to have this phone on you for the next week or so?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Why?”

“In case a question comes up that I’m forgetting to ask right now.”

“We’ll see. I can’t be sure,” he said.

“Call the police, Constantin. I’m sure they’ll let you give a statement over the phone. That should be enough.”

“All right, Quint. I’ll call them.”

Our phone call ended a few seconds later.

It was time to bite the bullet and call Virginia.

I had no idea how she was going to react. I dialed her number.

“I have nothing to say to you,” she said.

“Don’t hang up, Virginia. I just want a minute of your time.”

That wasn’t the truth, but I hoped it would keep her on the phone long enough for me to get back into her good graces.

“You’ve accused my husband of murder. And then you’re out cavorting with the police. I don’t want anything to do with you.”

“I wasn’t cavorting with them. I went to the San Ramon police station, and they had me jump into their car. They drove me to your house.”

“Whatever. That doesn’t even matter. You accusing Carl is what really matters.”

“Can we talk about this civilly?”

I was asking if Virginia could talk about her husband without letting her emotions get the best of her, but I could never phrase it that way.

“Yes, I can be civil about this,” she said. “Can you?”

“Yes.”

“You have one minute, Quint.”

“Your husband had two business deals that went awry,” I said, choosing awry to sound less accusatory. “One was with Constantin Pappas. And the other involved his cousin, Jesse. When Carl dropped out, Jesse brought on Vic Jacobs.”

“We already covered this.”

“C’mon, Virginia. Work with me.”

“Business deals go awry every second of every day.”

“And if one of those people ends up dead, the police will get suspicious.”

“Not if it happens twenty years later,” Virginia said.

I understood her point.

“I mean, honestly,” she continued. “Why would Carl wait twenty years to get revenge on these people?”

Her sentence intrigued me. It was the first time she’d even tacitly admitted it was possible by asking why Carl would wait so long. She’d also referred to everyone else as “these people.”

It was alarming, and I had to call her on it. “These people?”

“You know what I mean,” Virginia said.

“I’m not sure I do. These people were friends with you and Carl.”

“Were they? I had forgotten they’d screwed Carl over. And now you’ve got Constantin accusing my dead husband of murder. It has to be him. Maybe they weren’t such great friends. Maybe they were bad people.”

I was shocked at the direction our conversation had gone in. It had morphed from Virginia not even accepting the idea that Carl could have been behind the murders to disparaging the people who had been killed.

And yet, I still didn’t believe Virginia was in on it. It felt like she was taking all of this in as we went as if it was all new to her. If she knew what Carl had planned, she had me fooled.

“Did you think they were bad people two days ago?” I asked.

“Well, no. All I’m sure of is that my Carl was killed. I know it in my heart. Maybe the person who killed them killed Carl, too.”

“Carl was the one who got the short end of the stick. He lost twenty-five grand with Constantin’s potential investment, and who knows how much he lost with Jesse’s apartment complex? No one had a reason to kill Carl. He didn’t screw anyone over. He’s the one who got screwed.”

I was ostensibly saying that Carl was the only one with a motive.

“I still think Carl was killed,” she said. 

I was reminded of my wild notion that maybe Carl had himself killed.

“How was Carl doing in the days leading up to his death?” I asked.

“He was doing better.”

If I broached the subject of Carl having himself killed, Virginia might excommunicate me forever. I decided to take the chance, but I was going to finesse it.

“I think if I were in a lot of pain and knew I was going to die, I’d just want to go peacefully,” I said. “Not have to deal with those grueling final weeks.”

“It’s not that easy,” Virginia said. “You can’t just snap your finger and die in your sleep. God works in mysterious ways, and you never know when you’re going to go.”

“Do you think if Carl could have snapped his fingers and died peacefully, he would have?”

There was a pause on the other end.

“I don’t know,” Virginia finally said. “But I’m starting to realize what you’re suggesting. And guess what, I don’t like it.”

“What did you hire me for, Virginia?”

“To find out who killed my husband.”

“Exactly. And that’s what I’m trying to do.”

“You’re trying to drag his name through the muck.”

“I’m not. I’m going where the evidence takes me.”

“You don’t have any evidence.”

“You’re right,” I said. “And if you can give me another motive for all these murders, I’d gladly investigate it. The truth is that Carl’s business dealings with Jesse, Vic, and Constantin are the only things I have to go on.”

“We’re talking in circles here.”

She wasn’t wrong.

“I have one final question, Virginia.”

“What?”

“Do you want to know the truth about what happened to your husband, or do you just want to protect his good name?”

There was a long pause. I can’t say I blamed her. I’d really put her on the spot with a no-win question.

I heard what I thought was crying on the other end. I instantly felt guilty.

“I’m sorry, Virginia. I’m being a jerk. You don’t have to answer the question."

I heard a few more whimpers, but she returned to the phone.

“Do you really think it’s possible that Carl hired someone to kill all those people?"

She continued to refer to her friends as those people, but there was no way I would call her on it again.

“I think it’s possible, yes. That doesn’t mean I’m convinced.”

“And you also think it’s possible that maybe Carl had himself killed?”

“It’s just a wild theory of mine, but yes, I think it’s a possibility.”

“This is terrible,” she said.

“I know it is. I’m sorry.”

“All right, Quint. I hired you to find out who killed Carl. I guess I can’t turn back now, even if some of the details are becoming very painful to me.”

“So you want me to stay on the case?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’ll try to be as gentle as I can regarding details on Carl.” I was about to hang up when I remembered something. “Virginia, are you still there?”

“I’m still here.”

“Did you know that Small Town Menace is available on Amazon?”

“What? How?”

“Apparently, Carl had set this up before his death.”

“But he hadn’t finished the final chapter.”

“I’m starting to think that maybe he had.”

“What do you mean?”

“The book you originally gave me was a finished product. I’ve thought that from the beginning.”

“Then why would he talk about a final chapter.”

“I’m not sure. I haven’t figured that part out yet.”

“This is a lot for me to take in. It’s not even nine in the morning, and I feel like my brain is mush. Can we talk in a few days?”

“Sure. I’m sorry, Virginia. This wasn’t my intention when I took your case. I’d love to find out your husband had nothing to do with any of this.”

“Yeah. Me too. But everyone seems to now think he’s a killer.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yeah, it is. Maybe they are right. Maybe I didn’t realize who my husband really was. Take care, Quint. I think I’m going to go cry myself back to sleep.”

She hung up, and it was now me who wanted to shed a tear.

29

You’re still investigating the wrong people. The Jacobs weren’t saints. They are the key.

The text came through early in the afternoon. It was from the same number that had told me to look out for who would benefit from Jesse’s death. This text was just as odd as the first one.

I called Paddy Roark.

“Hello, Quint.”

“If I give you a phone number, can you try to find out who bought it or where it was purchased? Those types of things.”

“Sure. You have some secret admirer?”

“You could say that. It’s either some crackpot or someone pretty close to my case.”

“I wouldn’t expect much on my end then. If they are sending text messages to a famous PI like yourself, I’m going to assume it can’t lead back to them.”

“You’re probably right, but I need to make sure.”

“Of course,” Paddy said.

“There are a lot of dumb criminals out there.”

“There sure are. I’ll be in touch soon.”

“Thanks, Paddy.”

“And by the way, this case is starting to get a lot of attention. It was on the news all morning.”

I’d watched a few segments myself. I was shocked at how big this case had become.

“Anything new?” I asked.

“All they did was talk about how Small Town Menace is now available on Amazon.”

“Crazy, right?”

“You could say that, yes. They even said they have a book reviewer reading it, and he’ll be on the news tonight with his review.”

“This is insanity. What channel was that?”

“KPIX. Channel five.”

“I’ll be watching.”

“Haven’t you read the book?”

“I have, but I’m curious. I’m sure they will make it out to be a potential Pulitzer Prize winner.”

“This guy will be another in a long line of authors who got more famous in death than they ever did in life. Richer, too.”

“You want to hear the craziest theory you’ve ever heard?” I asked.

“You know the answer to that.”

“And you realize this stays between us?”

“Do we have to do this every time?”

“Fair enough,” I said. “So here’s my wild, outlandish, crackpot postulation. What if Carl Tumbler, a man who never achieved wealth in life, wanted nothing more than to make his wife rich, so he had people killed because he knew that would make his novel a smash hit and his wife would receive all of the residuals?”

Paddy laughed. “That’s pretty out there, even for you, Quint.”

“I know. But that doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

“Sounds like you could use a cold beer or something.”

I laughed. “You think I’m going cuckoo?”

“No, I know you’re a stable guy. I also know that sometimes you get a little too involved in these cases. Aren’t PIs supposed to keep their distance and not get emotionally involved?”

“That’s what they say. I’ve never been good at that part of the process. Virginia is likable, and I only want the best for her. And then I remind myself that there is a better than zero chance that she knew her husband was going to have someone murder his closest friends. Shit, there’s even a chance that she participated in the killings. It’s not impossible for a diminutive woman to run over a drunk guy and shoot two people with a handgun.”

“I was wrong.”

“About what?”

“A beer wouldn’t be strong enough. You need like a double vodka on the rocks or something.”

“You’re probably right.”

“I mean, are you listening to yourself? A dead guy who hired someone to kill his best friends so his wife could become rich?”

“I said it was crazy. And yet, it’s the only motive that really makes any sense. And murder for money isn’t exactly the most outlandish thing of all time. Even if it is through a novel.”

“What has this mystery phone number been texting you?”

“Saying my investigation was way off. That I was looking into the wrong people.”

“Maybe that means you are close.”

“That crossed my mind.”

“I’ll see what I can find out. Anything else, Quint?”

“This wasn’t enough?”

Paddy laughed. “Good point. I’ll get back to you soon.”

I re-read the text a few times. 

You’re still investigating the wrong people. The Jacobs weren’t saints. They are the key.

I hated to admit it, but there was some truth to the first sentence. I’d spent so much time learning about Carl, Jesse, and Virginia. I’d spent a good deal of time with Alexis Tumbler and even interviewed her mother.

What had I done about the most gruesome murder of all? Not a whole lot. Besides being there and seeing the bodies, which was more happenstance than anything.

I decided to spend the day looking into the Jacobs. I hated it because it felt like I was ostensibly crediting the text I’d received. 

Whatever. It was something I should have been doing anyway.

30

“Quint fucking Adler! I’m a big fan of yours. When you caught that guy who was dressed as Elmo and trying to poison all those kids? Well done, mate. Well done.”

There were times when I confused Australian and English accents, but this was not one of those times. The guy standing in front of me was most definitely Australian. He looked like Crocodile Dundee was auditioning for another movie. And the accent was something to behold.

His name was Jack Bell—no wasted syllables with this guy.

Jack was a deep-sea fishing guide whose boat left San Francisco and would fish for anything you wanted: sea bass, halibut, rockfish, and even sharks. 

I’d met him on the docks, and he’d walked me down to his boat, Fishing Down Under. Fitting. 

Maybe Crocodile Dundee had been the wrong reference. Perhaps he was more Steve Irwin. Regardless, you couldn’t help but like the guy, and I’d known him for all of twenty seconds.

It probably seemed like an odd choice of someone to ask questions about Vic Jacobs, but I was told by Virginia and a few neighbors that Vic loved going out on the fishing charter as much as anything in his life besides his wife. 

From what I’d gathered, Carl and Vic used to go charter fishing about four times a year and always chose Jack Bell as their captain. Virginia said that Vic continued to go once Carl got sick and wasn’t strong enough to make it himself. She said this really dampened Carl’s spirits. Whenever Vic returned from a day at sea, Carl inevitably wanted to hear how it had gone.

I’d hear stories like these and wonder if Constantin was way off and Carl had nothing to do with the other murders. He didn’t seem like a bad guy—quite the opposite. 

“Thanks so much,” I said, thanking Jack for the compliment about the Bay Area Butcher case.

I knew he would be sobered once he heard what I was here for, so I didn’t lay it on him right away.

“What case are you working on now, mate?”

He’d forced my hand. “Actually, the deaths of Carl Tumbler as well as Vic and Loretta Jacobs.”

“Shoot, I should have known that’s why you were here. Sorry for all the bells and whistles when you got here. I was just excited to meet you, is all.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m honored.” 

“So, how is the case going? Are you going to catch the guy? Send him to death row? He certainly deserves it after killing two good men like Carl and Vic. And a good woman like Loretta, even though I only met her a few times. I can’t wait till you catch the guy. Be a great day here in the Bay Area. I’ll definitely throw a drink back in their honor.”

Jack Bell was upbeat even when he was talking about his friends' deaths. I didn’t mean it as a putdown; I was jealous of this character trait. 

“The case is moving along. That’s why I’m here. You knew both of the deceased, and I’m just trying to find out if you had any knowledge you could bring to light.”

“I wish I could, mate. I don’t know who would want to kill those people, and I don’t know why they want to kill those people. These were good people.”

Jack said “people” three times in five seconds. I guess it was easier than saying Carl, Vic, and Loretta each time. And I’m not even sure he knew about Jesse Tumbler.

“When you would take them out on the boat, what type of things would they talk about?”

“That’s hard to say, considering I took them out so many times. Their conversations pretty much ran the gamut, if you know what I mean.”

“Were they friendly?”

“Is that a trick question, mate? They were the best of friends.”

“I know they were friends, but was there any underlying tension?”

“No, never. And I mean that. I took them out on probably fifty charters over the years and never remember them getting mad at each other. Then again, it’s hard to get mad when you’ve hooked a thirty-pound salmon under the Golden Gate Bridge. You know what I’m saying?”

You could do worse than to have Jack Bell as your pitchman.

“Maybe I should get out there.”

“With a name like yours, you’re darn right you should get out there. You were named after Quint from Jaws, right?”

I’d just watched the movie a few nights previously, and now, it was getting mentioned again. I’d never run from my name; I mean, I did like it. But I also never went out of my way to tell people who I was named after because then it would always lead to the story of Jaws being my parents' first date. Not that it wasn’t a great story. I’d just told it 2,028 times. Give or take.

“That’s right. I was named after Robert Shaw’s character.”

“What a cool name. Sounds a bit Australian if I do say so myself.”

“I could see that. Could we get back to Vic and Carl, if you don’t mind?”

“No problem,” Jack said.

I realized it was Jack and Quint talking about Vic and Carl—all one-syllable names. It’s weird the things that randomly came to mind.

“So they always got along?” I asked a second time.

“Yes. Always.”

“No underlying tension?” I also asked a second time.

“Not that I ever noticed. But like I said, I hope you’d leave those things behind when you come out on the boat.”

“Does it always work out that way?”

Jack Bell laughed.

“Nope. Especially when we hit some turbulent seas, and god forbid, someone starts throwing up overboard. That’s when the blame game and the name-calling starts. I could tell you some stories.”

“I bet you could.”

A decent-sized ripple approached, and we both grabbed onto the boat's side.

“But Vic and Carl weren’t like that?”

I was trying one last time.

“C’mon. I’m not joking, mate. These guys were both so mellow that nothing affected them.”

I’d heard that so many times about Carl Tumbler that I had to remind myself that there were psychopaths who were mellow as well. Dozens of killers have been described as icy or steely. 

“I’d think it would be hard to be mellow when you’re reeling in a shark,” I said.

“I’m not saying they were mellow all the time, mate. That’s just who they were at their core. But once they got a big fish or a shark on the line, those smiles brightened, and their faces lit up.”

Jack Bell’s was doing the same thing.

“You love your job, don’t you?” 

It was a question Captain Obvious would have been proud of.

“How can you not love being out on the water every day? I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”

I’d come here hoping to get some gossip about Vic and Carl. Maybe their true colors came out on these charters, and some underlying tension would be exposed. Instead, I was hearing the opposite. These two truly were best friends.

“Give me a good story about one of them,” I said, feeling melancholy over their deaths.

“I’ll give you a story that involves both,” Jack said and laughed. “This was a great one.”

He stepped into the middle of the boat. Telling stories was in this guy’s DNA.

“So, this was probably about five years ago. Well before Carl got sick. My boat usually takes six people and myself, but sometimes we don’t fill up. And on this occasion, it was just Vic, Carl, and myself. This probably only happened a handful of times over the years. Usually, I’m able to sell out. Good thing, too. This story doesn’t happen if the boat is full. When a boat is full, you tell everyone to bring up their line if someone gets a fish on. I don’t want lines tangled or the fish entangled in someone else’s line. I’m sure you get it.”

I nodded.

“So, Carl gets ahold of a nice fish. A big California halibut. Probably thirty or thirty-five pounds. Because only two people were spread far apart, I didn’t immediately tell Vic to pull up his line. Another thing that would have prevented this fantastic story. Carl keeps working on bringing the halibut in and is progressing. That’s when Vic gets a big hit, and I can tell within thirty seconds that he’s got a Thresher shark on the line. Trust me; you know the fish in how they hit the bait and how hard it is for the fisherman to start reeling in. Thirty years on the sea will teach you that. Carl keeps reeling in his halibut, but he’s more interested in Vic’s fish once I tell him it’s a Thresher. So, while Carl is reeling in slowly, Vic is trying to get the shark closer with all his might. This thresher is not exactly, and sorry for the reference, but Jaws. He’s maybe four feet and skinny, so Vic is able to reel him in fairly quickly. He’s got the Thresher probably thirty feet from the boat after only a few minutes. I’m sitting back, enjoying myself, and watching both of them. I start to see Vic’s line heading toward Carl’s line. I realize it well before they do. Vic’s thresher is going after the injured and now very slow-moving halibut. The thresher has a hook in his mouth, but nature takes over. He sees a wounded fish and goes after it. I let both Vic and Carl know what’s going on, and Carl tries to reel in faster, not wanting to lose his fish. Both fish are now about twenty feet from the boat, and you can see them coming to the surface. Carl’s Halibut appears first, and then, in a matter of seconds, Vic’s Thresher comes and attacks the halibut, biting him in half in one fell swoop. I think it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen, and I start laughing up a storm behind them. You can tell they aren’t sure how to react, but finally, Carl starts getting the giggles, and soon after, Vic joins him. It’s almost like Vic wanted permission since his shark gobbled up Carl’s halibut, which, by the way, would have been a great fish to cook. That’s the only downside. I head over and help Vic get the Thresher on the boat and subdue it. That’s when Carl holds up his fishing pole with only the top half of the halibut still remaining. I realize this is an amazing photo-up and snap a picture of the two guys holding up their fishing poles next to each other, with the two fish, well, one and a half fish, lingering on the lines below.”

I smiled and laughed in equal measure. “That is fantastic. What a story.”

Was every Aussie this fun and as good a storyteller?

Maybe I was stereotyping, but at least it was in a complimentary way.

“I still have the picture below deck. I framed it, and I’d always show the guys whenever they returned on the charter. Give me a minute.”

He went below and returned with the framed picture, which was just as Jack had described. It was a fantastic picture, and Carl and Vic’s expressions were priceless.

“Pretty good, huh?”

“Amazing,” I said.

I took out my phone and snapped a photo of the framed picture. I’m sure Virginia had seen it, but I was looking forward to bringing it to her attention again. I’d done enough badmouthing of Carl lately. This would be a nice change of pace.

Jack went downstairs to return the picture, and I looked out at the bay. I imagined the great times that Carl and Vic had out on this boat.

And I suddenly realized I’d never wanted to be wrong about something more. I hoped beyond belief that Carl didn’t have a hand in Vic’s death. They truly did seem like best friends.

Jack Bell came back up thirty seconds later. I thanked him for his time and the amazing story.

“We’ll get you out on this boat soon, mate.”

“You can count on it.”

31

Dr. Xander Crews had quite the name. 

I didn’t know if I would visit a doctor or see the star of a new Marvel movie. 

He was in his mid-fifties and wore lime green glasses, which certainly attracted attention. I don’t think doctors should try to stand out, but what do I know?

I was on the third floor of the San Ramon Regional Medical Center, a well-regarded hospital. Over the years, I’d had a few cases in Danville and San Ramon and had visited this hospital probably three or four times.

“How can I help you, Mr. Adler? I was told you wanted to discuss Carl Tumbler, but I’m sure you’ve heard of attorney-client privilege. Well, the same thing exists for doctors and their patients.”

He didn’t look—or sound—like he was long for this conversation. 

“Does that continue after death?” I asked.

“Yes, unless there’s a legal reason.”

“Well, that’s why I’m here.”

“Oh, you’re a lawyer now?”

Dr. Crews thought he was Joe Cool. I held my tongue…for now. He was giving me Frederick Chilton vibes. The administrator of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane who looked after Hannibal Lecter and was about to meet his demise at the end of The Silence of the Lambs.

“No, I’m not. I’m just trying to figure out why Carl Tumbler died.”

“Didn’t the medical examiner give a cause of death? Why do you need his oncologist?”

“Virginia Tumbler said the ME knew he had cancer and that his autopsy was perfunctory more than anything else. Once they saw there wasn’t a bullet to the brain or a knife to the chest, they chalked it up as being from cancer.”

“It very likely was from cancer. Mr. Tumbler was a sick man.”

“How long did he have to live?”

“Now, this is where we enter that whole doctor/patient privilege.”

“I’m not trying to get you into trouble, Dr. Crews. I just want to know how far along Carl’s cancer was.”

I found it odd that I kept referring to Carl Tumbler by his first name, even though I’d never met him. Meanwhile, Xander Crews, his doctor, likely had known him for a long time, yet he still referred to him by his last name. 

Most doctors may prefer not to become too friendly with their clients. I imagine that would be especially true if you were an oncologist.

“He wasn’t going to get better,” he said.

“I know, but I just want to know how imminent his death was.”

Dr. Crews fidgeted with his pen. He was debating how much to tell me.

“Why does this all matter, Mr. Adler? He’s dead.”

Being a PI always involves a little give-and-take. You had to give something to get something, and this scenario was no different.

“I’m trying to figure out if Mr. Tumbler had received some dire news before his death. Maybe something that would lead him to want to end his life prematurely.”

That got his attention. He turned to face me for the first time.

“I shouldn’t be talking about Mr. Tumbler in this way.”

He was leading up to something. He had my attention now.

“I’m just trying to do my job, Dr. Crews. Certainly not get you in any sort of trouble.”

He removed his stupid green glasses and slowly but surely set them in his jacket pocket. I was hoping this moment lived up to the buildup.

“The last time I saw Mr. Tumbler, I had to tell him that his cancer had spread and that he didn’t have long to live.”

My initial reaction was that maybe Carl Tumbler really did die from cancer. 

“How long did you give him?” I asked.

“I told him it would be a matter of weeks.”

“How did he take it?”

“He put on a brave face, but that was just for show. It crushed him, just like every other patient I’ve had to tell the same thing.”

“I’m sorry. That must be incredibly difficult.”

I’d made fun of his glasses and didn’t like his overall vibe, but I meant every word I’d just said. I couldn’t imagine having to tell someone they had weeks to live.

“Thank you,” he said. “I was hoping it would get easier over time. Nope. It’s still the toughest part of my job and always will be.”

“Do you remember how long this was before his death?” I asked.

“Only a few days.”

“Was that the last time you saw him?”

“Yes.”

“Were you surprised when you heard he’d died?”

“Yes.”

I think he knew what I was leading up to. “You’d given him weeks, not days, correct?”

“Yes.”

“As a doctor, could you have expected he’d only live a few more days?”

Dr. Crews stood up from his chair. I’d conducted thousands of interviews, and standing up was the universal sign that our conversation was coming to an end.

“No, I did not expect him to die a few days later. Was it possible? Yes. But from everything I know and all the tests we’d done, he should have still had at least a few weeks to live. I was surprised.”

“Thank you, Dr. Crews.”

“I think we should end it there.”

“I understand. I appreciate your candor.”

I stood up.

“I just have one last question.”

“What is it?”

“Was Virginia with Carl when you gave him this news?”

“No, she wasn’t.”

There were only three possibilities when it came to Carl Tumbler’s death.

One, he died of cancer. Two, he hired someone to kill him. And three, he was murdered by someone he hadn’t hired.

According to Dr. Crews, the first option was unlikely. This left me with two options, neither of which left a good taste in my mouth.

The fact that Virginia wasn’t there added a layer of intrigue to it. 

When Carl found out, would he tell his wife? He’d surely know that it would crush her. 

Maybe he thought it would be better if he died sooner rather than later. He wouldn’t have to go through weeks of pain, and his wife wouldn’t have to see him deteriorate. 

Now, getting strangled to death sounds horrible, but is it better than weeks of pain and rapid deterioration?

It’s certainly a tricky subject, but let’s just say that I wouldn’t disagree with someone who prefers a two—or three-minute—death.

Fuck, my life had become morbid.

32

Virginia agreed to meet with me.

We’d had a roller coaster of a friendship recently, and this visit would be no different. I’d be asking her some extremely difficult questions. Probably the toughest ones yet.

I arrived at four p.m. She no longer waited for me with a lemonade or a hot chocolate in hand. It’s hard to remember exactly when that ended, but I’d say it was roughly when I accused her husband of being a killer.

I knocked, and she let me in. We sat in our usual seats on the couch.

“I sometimes wish I hadn’t hired you at all, Quint.”

“I can’t blame you.”

“No, I take that back.”

“Oh, good.”

“I oftentimes wish I hadn’t hired you.”

I smiled.

“That’s better. Sometimes wasn’t nearly enough.”

She shook her head. “You’re one of a kind. I’ll give you that.”

“You’re not so duplicable yourself.”

“Wow. That’s quite the word, Quint.”

“Well, I was a reporter once upon a time.”

I’d literally never used the word duplicable in my life. Being a reporter had nothing to do with me pulling that word out of my you know what.

“It’s a cool word. Anyway, what did you want to talk about? I’m sure it’s something that will make me upset.”

“Probably,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“What’s that called when you get injury upon injury, and it toughens your skin up?”

“Scar tissue?”

“Yeah, that’s it. I think I’ve developed scar tissue because of our talks.”

“Maybe, but I think you’ve been pretty tough from the outset.”

“Look at us getting along again. Who would have thunk?”

“Right? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves because I’m about to start the tough questions.”

“Fine. Let’s get it over with.”

“Actually, before I get to that, I wanted to show you a picture.”

“Okay,” she said, confused.

I took out my phone and brought up the picture of Carl and Vic with their fishing poles—one shark on Vic’s pole and one half-eaten halibut on Carl’s.

She smiled as wide as could be.

“I love that picture so much. I have it in a few old photo albums. I wanted to blow it up like that fishing guide did, but Carl was too modest and wouldn’t let me.”

“Have you ever heard Jack, the fishing guide, tell the story?”

“I met him a few times, but he never told me the full story.”

“I might drive you down to San Francisco one of these days. It’s worth it just to hear the story.”

“They loved going fishing together.”

“Jack painted a very nice picture of your husband. And he said that Vic and him really got along.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you since the beginning.”

“I know, Virginia. It’s just that this case has been pushing me in so many different directions.”

“It doesn’t need to. My Carl was a good man and didn’t have anything to do with anyone else’s death. That’s the only direction you should be headed in.”

“I understand how you feel,” I said.

“I loved seeing that old photo, but let’s get the grimy stuff over with,” she said. 

“Okay. Did you know that Carl went to see Dr. Crews a few days before his death?”

“No, that’s not right. We went a few weeks before he died. Not a few days.”

“You’re going to have to trust me on this one, Virginia.”

“You went and saw Dr. Crews?”

“He has a patient/doctor privilege to uphold. He wouldn’t dare talk to me.”

She read through my sarcasm.

“Was he wearing those stupid lime green glasses?”

“He sure was.”

“I never understood it. He’s telling people they are dying of cancer, and meanwhile, you just want to laugh at his ugly-ass glasses.”

“I thought the same exact thing.”

“Besides that, though, he was pretty fair with us. I can’t complain.”

“He seemed fine to me. After that initial impression, obviously.”

“Did he tell you what he told Carl?”

“Yes.”

“Is it bad?”

“He told Carl that he only had weeks to live.”

I looked over to see how she was going to take this. She was a tough woman, but Carl meant the world to her, and she’d already cried a few times in my company. She put on a stoic face this time.

“Carl never told me that,” she said.

“I believe you.”

“I mean, I knew he was sick. Obviously, I’d sat in many meetings with Carl and Dr. Crews, where he’d say it was a matter of months. I think four to six months was the last one I’d heard. I never heard weeks, I can promise you that.”

“When I first met you at Trader Joe’s, you said he was feeling better.”

“He was. He looked pretty good in the days leading up to his death.”

“Does it change how you feel?” I asked.

“In what way?”

“I hate to bring this up again, Virginia, but is there any way Carl would have hired someone to kill him?”

“No.”

“You’re immediately thinking of this as a bad thing. If Carl did do it, I think he did it out of his love for you. He wouldn’t want you to see him wither away and die. It would be an act of generosity.”

I’m not sure I wholeheartedly believed that, but there was an element of truth to it.

“Yeah, and if he had everyone else killed? What was that an act of?”

“I’m not accusing him of that right now. I’m just asking about the other thing.”

She shook her head.

“I don’t know. Maybe. He had made a few suggestions that he didn’t want me to see him deteriorate.”

We were getting somewhere.

“What would he say?”

“Basically, what I just told you. That it would be easier if he just died and we didn’t have to go through the end together.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Because I thought it was all talk. I wanted to be there to the end. I wanted to hold his hand one last time before he passed.”

I looked at her, and my admiration for Virginia had never been higher. For probably the fifth time, I told myself that there was no way she was wrapped up in murder. 

“What if it were true?” Virginia said. “Then what? It doesn’t explain anything else. Jesse, Vic, and Loretta certainly didn’t hire someone to run them over and shoot them to death.”

“You’re right, and I have no idea how it all ties together.”

“Maybe you should go back to that ME again,” Virginia suggested.

“He probably has some paperwork, but I’m not sure how useful that will be. Carl was cremated, so it’s not like he can go and reexamine the body.”

“Point taken,” Virginia said. 

“Is there anything else you can think of?”

“No. We’ll talk soon again, I’m sure.”

But we wouldn’t.

33

“Virginia killed herself.”

It was ten p.m. when I got this earth-shattering news from Alexis Tumbler.

“Please tell me this is some kind of terrible joke,” I said, knowing it wasn’t.

“The police just called me. She’s been taken to the San Ramon Regional Medical Center.”

“Are you sure she’s dead, Alexis? They wouldn’t be taking her to a hospital if she was dead.”

“I was told she shot herself in the head, and they expect her to die. Maybe she’s holding on longer than expected. I mean, how many people survive a self-inflicted bullet to the head?”

Alexis was right, of course. Very few survived, although there had been examples over the years. I didn’t want to get into a back-and-forth with her. I just wanted to get to the hospital.

“I’ll meet you at the hospital,” I said.

I hung up the phone and cried for a minute.

I’d seen Virginia earlier that day, and we’d gotten along better than we had in several days. 

Please, please don’t let her die. 

I kept telling myself that if she was alive, there was a chance she’d make it through. Maybe she reconsidered at the last second and only hit a small segment of her outer cranium.

My most immediate thoughts were ones of sadness. Virginia, who I’d become friends with and whom I’d certainly had my ups and downs with, had tried to take her own life. It was heartbreaking.

My second round of thoughts were the ones you’d expect from a private investigator. I told myself that Virginia wasn’t the type of woman who would kill herself. 

She was in pretty good spirits mere hours ago. She certainly didn’t seem like a woman who wanted to end it all. 

Could the news that Carl was told he had mere weeks to live sent Virginia over the edge? Maybe. It’s not conceivable that hearing that and the cumulative effect of the last several weeks would cause her to want to meet her maker.

I had to remind myself that you never really know. I’d known two people who had tragically taken their own lives. One of them seemed to be happy with life. I never could have sensed those two coming. The other one had had mental health issues for years, and as sad as it was, it wasn’t completely shocking.

I just prayed Virginia wasn’t the third. I was hoping for a miracle.

I arrived back at San Ramon Regional Medical Center for the second time that day. My meeting with Dr. Xander Crews had been that morning, even though it now felt like three days ago.

I approached the front desk and was greeted by a young man.

“How can I help you?” he asked.

“I have a friend who has been shot. I’d like to visit her.”

“Name of the patient?”

Patient hardly seemed the right word for someone who sat dying or, possibly, having already passed. Then again, I’d said my friend was shot when I’d been told Virginia had shot herself. It’s not like I wasn’t fudging the truth a little, as well.

“Virginia Tumbler.”

He typed her name into his computer.

“Are you a friend or family?”

“Friend.”

“I’m sorry, but she cannot have any visitors now. It looks like she’s in surgery.”

“So she’s still alive?” I asked the guy.

“It does not say that she is deceased.”

That was going to have to do. About twenty feet away, I saw a padded bench. I went and sat down on it, waiting for Alexis to arrive.

Ten minutes later, a familiar face approached the front desk, but it wasn’t Alexis Tumbler; it was Evangeline Stephens. She walked over to me.

“What are you doing here?” I asked rather indignantly.

“Virginia Tumbler texted me before she … did what she did.”

“What did she text you?”

“C’mon, Quint, you know I can’t.”

“I thought we were sharing information on this case.”

“This is different,” she said.

“Why? Because she might be dying?”

She looked around, and while the only people near us were the two attendants at the front desk, they were within earshot.

“No, because I’m here to meet the police,” she whispered.

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“You promise not to say anything? If you break my trust on this one, I’ll never speak to you again.”

“I promise,” I said.

Evangeline continued to whisper.

”Virginia took credit for the murders,” Evangeline said. “She told me that the police would find the murder weapon that killed Vic and Loretta Jacobs.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“At her house?”

“Yes.”

“Did they?”

“I don’t know, Quint. When I got the message from her, I had no alternative but to call the police.”

“And they went there and found her?”

“That’s my assumption, yes. They asked me to meet them here.”

“Shit. The police are coming to meet you right now?”

“Yes.”

“This isn’t possible,” I said.

“It’s very possible, Quint. In fact, you’re the one who first told me about the possibility.”

“I said that maybe Carl was involved. Not Virginia.”

“Well, it looks like she did his bidding for him.”

I shook my head violently. I didn’t want to believe it.

“No. No. No,” I said.

Think, Quint!

“Did you talk to Virginia personally?” I asked.

“No. She texted me.”

Evangeline looked at me, knowing where I was headed next, but there wouldn’t be any more questions. Detective Schilling approached and beelined in our direction.

“Thanks for coming, Ms. Stephens. If you could follow me, we have some questions to ask you.”

He looked at me, and I had no idea what to expect.

“Looks like you may be right, Mr. Adler,” Schilling said.

“About what?”

“About Carl Tumbler killing off his enemies.”

“I never thought Virginia was involved,” reiterating what I’d said to Evangeline.

“I didn’t say you were right about everything,” the detective said.

With that, he whisked Evangeline away. 

I sat back on the bench, put my head in my hands, and waited for Alexis.

This was the real nightmare, not the stupid one I’d had a few days back.

Virginia Tumbler was in surgery, fighting for her life.

And that was the best-case scenario.

Alexis arrived ten minutes later from San Francisco, and we hugged each other. 

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“Thanks. I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Me either.”

Alexis approached the front desk, and they told her they were now allowing family outside the operating room. She tried to claim I was family, but the receptionist knew better.

“Sorry,” she said, walking back over to me. “I tried.”

“Thanks. Listen, I’m tired of waiting down here. They have a little place next to the cafeteria where they serve coffee. Can you come down and meet me once you hear something?”

“Of course.”

We hugged a second time, and Alexis walked toward the elevator. I said a quick little prayer that Virginia was still alive.

Thirty minutes later, Alexis was back.

I was dreading what she was going to say.

“She’s still alive.”

I was happy but measured. She had been shot in the head, after all.

“That’s a good start,” I said. “What else did they say?”

“It was a self-inflicted gunshot, but it didn’t kill her, obviously. The way the doctor made it out was that she hit the side of her cranium.”

“Do they think she’s going to make it?”

“They aren’t sure. They put her in a coma to ease bleeding on the brain. They said the next few hours were crucial and that even if she survived, she could be in a coma for weeks, could be a vegetable, etc. None of it sounded good. Maybe it’s better if she …”

“Don’t say that,” I interrupted.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“So, is there anything we can do?” I asked.

“Sit and wait…"

34

In the days that followed, it quickly became apparent that I was in the minority.

Everyone else—well, everyone else in a position of power —believed that Virginia had not only taken part in the murders but had perpetrated them by running over Jesse Tumbler and shooting and killing Vic and Loretta Jacobs.

And it was hard to argue.

On the night that Evangeline Stephens called the police after receiving a text from Virginia, Virginia was found at her house in critical condition with a self-inflicted gunshot. 

They tested that gun and found that it was the same gun used to murder the Jacobs’. As if that weren’t enough, they also found the cell phone used to text Evangeline Stephens.

Her exact words were: I can’t take this anymore. I’ve taken three lives, and even though it was at the behest of my husband, I have sinned. I can’t go on living this lie. I’m going to die of guilt. So, I’ve decided to take my own life instead of rotting inside from the guilt. I apologize for my actions, and even though I know my suicide won’t bring the others back, hopefully, it will bring closure to some.

It got worse.

The cell phone was the same one that texted me both to look into Alexis Tumbler as a suspect and that the Jacobs were the real reason for all these deaths. From my subsequent conversations with Evangeline, she told me Detective Schilling felt Virginia was trying to pawn other suspects on me.

And then the kicker, as if the gun and phone weren’t enough.

They discovered that Carl Tumbler’s truck, the one I’d passed by several times, had a massive dent on its front right, and there were a few traces of Jesse Tumbler’s blood on the truck.

Game. Set. Match.

At least to the San Ramon and Pleasanton police departments.

They charged Virginia Tumbler with three counts of murder. 

A one hundred-pound woman lying in a coma, being charged with murder. It didn’t seem right. Then again, they had all the evidence they needed. I guess I couldn’t really blame the police. 

This was a slam dunk, if there ever was one.

I continued working on the case.

I just couldn’t let go of the feeling that this all ended a little too perfectly. A text. An attempted suicide. And all the evidence wrapped up in a nice little bow.

Mostly, I just went on gut feeling. I still didn’t think Virginia Tumbler was a killer. Yes, I had entertained the possibility. And yes, I had long considered that Carl may have been involved. And yes, the fact that Carl Tumbler had lost out on two real estate deals still was the only motive I —or anyone else— had come up with.

And still, I wasn’t ready to concede Virginia was a killer.

I got to visit her a few times.

She was still in a coma, so I didn’t stay long, but I told her that I wasn’t giving up on the case just yet. Talking aloud to someone who couldn’t hear you was weird, but it’s not like you have many options.

The doctors said she was in a holding pattern. The bullet had missed the most important parts of the brain, and they said a full recovery was not beyond the realm of possibility. They also said that she might never wake up from the coma. They weren’t being very definitive, but I guess in their defense, they didn’t know what the future held, either. Our bodies can be very unpredictable, capable of miraculous recoveries at times.

That’s what I was hoping for.

I decided to keep my investigation on the down low. 

Virginia had been charged with three counts of murder, and I knew the local police wouldn’t like me poking around. 

The first people I interviewed were the neighbors, although to them, it probably just felt like we were having a conversation. I didn’t want them alarmed, so I tried to make it feel casual, almost like I was just tying up a few loose ends.

My goal was to find out if, by some chance, any of them saw a mysterious person around Virginia’s house on the night in question. None had.

If Virginia was innocent—which I knew was a huge if—hen someone had to have shot her at close range. 

But no neighbors had seen anything.

We were about a week out from the shooting, and Virginia’s health was in a holding pattern.

I'd talked to Detective Schilling, and he gave me no indications that they were looking into foul play in the shooting of Virginia Tumbler. I didn’t outright ask him because then he’d know I was suspicious and not ready to concede the police’s version of events. I was subtle and danced around the question at hand.

This wasn’t my first rodeo.

I came away convinced that Schilling felt everything had been settled. Virginia Tumbler had run over and killed Jesse Tumbler. She’d also shot and killed Vic and Loretta Jacobs with the gun she used to attempt suicide. This was likely done on the orders of her husband, Carl. And then, because of the guilt she felt, which she outlined in her text to Evangeline, Virginia Tumbler shot herself.

With all the evidence stacked against her, defending Virginia continued to be tough.

I kept poking around but wasn’t getting anywhere.

Suddenly, it was tough to find defenders of Virginia. Once you’re charged with three murders, good luck trying to get someone to stand up for you.

This included Alexis, who said she wanted to believe Virginia, but there was just too much evidence. 

I met with Evangeline twice. Because Virginia had chosen to text her, she had been thrown into the mix even more than she already had been. I imagine the articles she was churning out every other day were among her most read ever. I tried to give her her space for the time being.

The case was all over the news, and from what I’d gathered, Small Town Menace was selling like hotcakes on Amazon. 

Virginia Tumbler would have had a lot of money coming in if she wasn’t sitting in a hospital, unaware of the outside world, and slowly dying.

I returned to Costco, hoping to speak with Bryan with a Y. 

I was running out of places to turn. I hated to admit it, but if I didn’t find any new evidence soon, it might be time to turn the page on Carl and Virginia Tumbler. I’d be there for her if she ever awoke from her coma, but I couldn’t just spend the next several weeks looking into this case. 

Maybe I was wrong, and Virginia had been a killer. As they say, ‘All signs point to yes.’

I showed my Costco card and headed toward where I’d last spoken to Bryan with a Y. Sure enough, the obstinate young man I’d met last time was standing in the same spot.

“Remember me?” I asked.

“I never forget a face. Carl Tumbler’s friend, right?”

“Not exactly a friend, but yes, I’m here about Carl. Is Bryan with a Y here today?”

The guy laughed.

“He does love to set you straight on the spelling of his name. Yeah, he’s here somewhere. Want me to go get him?”

“Please.”

“All right. I’ll go get him. Even though I’m sure he won’t be happy to see me.”

“Thanks,” I said.

He headed towards the offices. 

It hit me a few seconds later.

Even though.

What the fuck. It had to be a coincidence, right?

In Virginia’s alleged suicide message to Evangeline, she used the term “even though” twice. 

And now this guy uses it?

I looked up, and at that moment, the man turned around and looked back at me with an odd expression. 

Had he realized he’d used that phrase?

Or was I jumping to some wild conclusion, and he was just looking back to let me know he was on his way to get Bryan?

He waved at me, and I waved back.

I tried to think of the name on his nametag.

Think, Quint!

I was pretty sure it said Tate.

Well, Tate, it’s time I learned more about you.

35

TATE COAKLEY

The first time I ever met Carl Tumbler, he asked me about my police record.

I was applying for a job at Costco, and he was in charge of the hiring process. I’d learn later that Carl was a jack of all trades. He could roam the floor, do the hiring, and even fix the computer glitches that always seemed to pop up.

The guy could do it all but will not be recognized in this lifetime. After all, he worked at Costco.

Which I ended up having the “privilege” of doing as well.

Carl was able to overlook my battery conviction (more on that later) and welcomed me to the Costco team. It was a misdemeanor, and he made it abundantly clear that if it had been a felony, I would not have been hired. He also made it clear that they were in desperate need of employees (Christmas was approaching) and that I was lucky to be getting a chance. 

The last thing he stated was that if I fucked up one time, I was a goner. That would include something as trivial as being ten minutes late to work.

“I’m going out on a limb here, Tate,” Carl had said. “Don’t make me look like a jerk.”

“I won’t,” I had replied. “Thank you for this opportunity.”

“You’re only twenty-one years old. You have a long life ahead of you.”

“Yes, sir.”

I felt indebted to Carl from the beginning. He’d given me a chance to turn my life around.

We were slow to become friends.

Carl wasn’t the easiest guy to get to know; plus, he knew my history. I think, at first, he just wanted to keep his distance. He’d hired me, and that was his good deed. It’s not like we had to be best friends. 

I can’t exactly say I blame him. I’m a tough guy to get along with—some would say impossible.

A few months into my employment, we had an incident that brought us closer.

It was almost closing time, and Carl and I had a long day. Our shifts overlapped, but we had only crossed paths once or twice. As everyone knows, Costco warehouses are gigantic, and even if it’s an eight-hour shift, you might only see your co-worker a few times. It’s all contingent on your job title and what part of the warehouse you’re operating in.

This was especially true of Carl. As I said, he was a jack of all trades, so you never quite knew where he would be. Considering he was a manager, that was probably a good thing. It would make employees less likely to fuck around if you knew Carl might be turning the corner at any moment.

Not that anyone was afraid of Carl. He was a sweet man—the opposite of myself.

Anyway, back to the day we bonded for the first time. I had found my way to the front of the building. There were many times when my shift included cleaning up after closing hours, but on this day, I got to go home at the same time as the customers were forced to leave, which was always 8:30 p.m. during the week. I don’t know why they couldn’t just choose eight or nine. Fucking Costco.

I never worked the register, but I often helped them find boxes for the customers who wanted them. I’d also help the elderly—or people on scooters—get to their car and drop their groceries off in their car. Always with a big smile. Rarely was it genuine. Old people aren’t my thing. Neither are kids. Nor are middle-aged people. I’m not joking.

On the night in question, I was looking for some boxes behind the register when I heard someone yelling behind me. 

“Calm down, my friend,” someone said, and I recognized the voice as Carl’s.

I didn’t know the situation, but I already knew Carl had made a mistake. You don’t tell someone to calm down. It ensures they will do the exact opposite.

“Fuck off,” the guy said. “And I’m not your friend.”

I walked over and stood next to Carl. He was the manager on duty (MOD) and by far my superior, so I knew not to interrupt unless I was forced to.

The man who’d told him off was probably three hundred pounds and had more tattoos than he had sense. He was an intimidating guy. Well, he would be for most people. I don’t get intimidated despite only being 5’9”. In fact, it’s probably the reason that I’ve become the unflinching man I’ve become. I’ve had to deal with shit my whole life that’s toughened me up.

“We can solve this,” Carl said. “You’re alleging this guy cut in line?”

If someone told me to “Fuck off,” I can assure you I wouldn’t be telling him we could solve this thing. Or, at least, not if I was out in public. At Costco, I had to behave myself. It was the one place that gave me a job, and I had no plans on losing it over some stupid shit.

“I’m not alleging it. It happened. This fucker right here,” the troublemaker said.

The guy who he was accusing of cutting in line was half his weight and twice his age. He looked petrified. The monster of a man was five feet from his face, yelling at him. It seemed highly unlikely that this guy would have cut in line.

“Here, we’ll find you another aisle to close out in,” Carl said.

“It’s not that, bro. It’s about respect. I was in this line, and I will close out in this line.”

“He can go in front of me if he wants,” the meek man said.

“Good.”

The big guy took his cart and started pushing it to get by his adversary. He intentionally ran over the wheel of the other guy’s cart, and as if in slow motion, the other man’s cart toppled over. A bottle of alcohol shattered as it hit the floor.

“That was your fucking fault,” the behemoth yelled, despite everyone knowing the opposite was true.

This was going downhill fast.

“I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Carl said.

He was standing his ground. That a boy, Carl.

“If you think I’m leaving without all this shit, you got another thing coming.”

“Do I have to call security?” Carl asked.

By security, he meant more employees. What Carl didn’t realize—or maybe he did—was that the one employee he really needed was already standing next to him: me.

“Bring those motherfuckers on.” The man pointed at Carl. “And I’ll start with you.”

The big guy looked at his cart, hoping to grab something as a weapon. Finding nothing meeting his approval, he cocked his fists, getting ready to fight. 

It was time for me to act.

I stepped in between Carl and the other man. 

I was a tough guy, and even if you didn’t know me, that’s the vibe I gave off. My height almost helped. People would think, Well, if this short guy is ready to brawl, he must know how to fight.

And my stare game was next level. I could usually stop someone from doing something stupid with a well-timed stare. I exuded craziness, which is what I hoped to accomplish here. As tough as I was, the guy in front of me was a monster. Either I got my butt kicked, or I laid a beating on him.

The latter might actually be worse for the prospects of my continued employment at Costco.

I stared the behemoth down. Oftentimes, tough guys, of which this guy undoubtedly was, were able to recognize crazy and know that person wasn’t someone to be fucked with. That’s what I was counting on.

“Let’s not do anything we’re going to regret,” I said as I approached him.

My eyes never left his. I tried not to blink. It made me look even crazier.

Ten seconds passed. I still hadn’t broken eye contact or blinked.

Two employees had made their way over. Finally.

But they couldn’t do shit. Both were fat and out of shape.

I was a different story, and the big guy was starting to realize that. However, he couldn’t just cow down and act like I’d won. He had to save face.

“Man, fuck this place. I don’t need all this shit anyway.”

He flipped his cart, causing everything to fall to the floor, and then started to walk away. As he passed by me, he said, “Maybe I’ll see you around, pal.”

I leaned in and whispered, “If you’re lucky, you won’t.”

He kept walking.

“Well done, Tate,” Carl said once the man was out the front door.

The rest of the people took notice, and everyone thanked me. It was a proud moment for me.

Twenty minutes later, when the customers were all gone, and most of the staff was about to leave, Carl asked me to come to his office. He shut the door behind him.

“You handled yourself maturely today, Tate. Thank you for your help. I realize that could have gotten out of hand.”

“I was happy to help, Carl.”

“How did you manage to scare a monster of a man like that?”

“The scare is in the stare,” I said. 

Carl laughed.

“Try me,” he said.

I stared him down, and he didn’t last five seconds.

“I don’t think I’ll be beating you in a staring contest anytime soon,” Carl said.

“Don’t worry. Very few can.”

“Well, thanks again, Tate. I won’t forget this.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And you didn’t even have to batterize him,” Carl said, instantly regretting his bad joke. "Wow, I’m sorry. That was so uncalled for.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not even a word, anyway.”

“You’re not mad at me, are you?”

“I forgive you, Carl.”

He nodded in my direction. “I have a feeling that would have ended differently if we weren’t in a Costco.”

“You’ve got that right,” I said.

“And you would have come out on top.”

“You’ve got that right as well.”

“I’m glad we’re friends. Not sure I’d want you on my bad side.”

“That’s three in a row. You got that one right, too.”

“I’ll make it a point of remembering that,” Carl said.

“Just don’t be disloyal to me; we’ll be fine.”

I tried to say it in a joking manner, but I could see Carl tense up ever so slightly.

“I’m just playing,” I said, leaning over and patting him on the back.

My life outside of Costco started to improve. 

I could move out of my mother’s house and rent a one-bedroom apartment in Antioch, which was about thirty-five minutes from where I worked. I couldn’t afford Danville rent, anyway. Plus, I never liked the rich vibe that Danville and San Ramon gave off.

Carl was different. He may have lived in San Ramon, but he didn’t live like people from those areas. And when I say San Ramon, that could also mean Danville or Alamo, even as far down as Walnut Creek. All those freaking people were the same.

Except for Carl. I owed him everything. I’d never had my own one-bedroom apartment. I’d always lived at home, crashed on people’s couches, or shared rooms with people. That shit got old.

Antioch wasn’t on the same economic level as Danville, but I didn’t care. I had my own apartment and a full-time job. Life was good. I was even staying out of trouble.

I was three months from turning twenty-two, and things were looking up.

And I owed it all to Carl.

I would do anything for that man.

From a young age, my father taught me that loyalty was the most important thing in the world. 

No other trait on earth mattered as much. If someone is loyal to you, cherish them, protect them, and stand up for them if they can’t stand up for themselves.

He hit me over the head with that idea again and again and again.

That’s why I stood up for Carl. If it was some other employee I didn’t give a shit about, I probably would have just let it play out.

My father also taught me that disloyalty was unforgivable, and he meant what he said. Traitors were never to be forgiven.

They were worse than vermin.

My father had been a chef my whole life. 

Although he was more often referred to as a cook. He wasn’t working at one of these swanky San Francisco or New York restaurants where every dipshit referred to each other as “Chef.” How pathetic is that?

My father started as a line cook and eventually became the head chef/cook at some local Denny’s and IHOP-type places. No, it wasn’t the Ritz Carlton, but he was still a freaking head chef/cook. I was proud of him, and more importantly, my mother was.

They’d had a rocky marriage, and there were dozens of times when I thought they were going to get a divorce. And probably should have.

They argued about two things more than any other—money and me.

Money was an obvious one. Every marriage argues over money at some point, and when you’re poor —as we were—it happens a lot more often.

They also argued over me. I had been a handful since birth. A problem child would be the politically correct way to put it. A hellion would be more apt.

I was getting into fights from the age of ten. My first trip to juvenile hall was at twelve years young. I’d beat up a schoolmate until people jumped in and pulled me off. I’d have a similar experience as an adult.

I threatened teachers. I even threatened to blow up my school at one point. I got expelled for that stunt.

My parents moved frequently, and often, it was because neighbors and classmates had grown tired of me. 

My last time in juvie was when I was seventeen. It was another fight. This kid was five inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier, but it didn’t matter.

I probably would have been thrown in jail during my first few months of being an adult if it weren’t for my father.

Two weeks before I turned eighteen, my father took the leap and decided to buy a taco truck. He would specialize in street tacos but also serve burritos, tostadas, and all sorts of Mexican food.

My father was white and pretty light-skinned. He was German/Irish/English, and who knows what the fuck else. But he definitely wasn’t Mexican. 

I only bring this up because he specialized in Mexican food and was a shade lighter than most people he was competing against. In my father’s eyes, people wouldn’t think the food was authentic Mexican food if it was cooked by a Gringo. I’m sure there was some truth to that.

My father always wore a bandana when he cooked; I think he thought it made him look more Hispanic. I thought it made him look like a tennis star from the 1980s. He’d use a bronzer to make him look darker than he was. He’d say it was just to try and get a fair shake.

He even chose a name that made him sound Mexican: Tico’s Tacos. 

Now, that wasn’t totally out of the blue. My father’s name was Timothy Coakley, and he combined the first two letters of his first and last name to create Tico.

He claimed that a few friends called him Tico in high school. I had my doubts, being that it was the first I’d ever heard of it. I think it was bullshit, but it gave him a story whenever anyone asked who Tico was or who the food truck was named after.

Whatever. My father had worked hard, so I’d let him make up some bullshit nickname if he wanted. 

In his defense, the food industry, at least at the restaurants he worked at, was 80-90% Hispanic. He was, at minimum, an honorary one and had worked with Hispanics his whole life.

Plus, his tacos were fucking good!

It shouldn’t matter that he was a Gringo.

On my eighteenth birthday, we had a big talk. My father told me I could spend the rest of my life going in and out of jail or work with him at the Taco Truck. 

I chose to work with him. 

My father had owned the truck for about three years when things started to go bad. 

The previous three years had been pretty good. Tico’s Tacos was open six days a week, and my father and I both worked all six days. The truck was only big enough for the two of us, and we worked well together. I asked him a few times if we could cut back to five days a week, but he would say no. The reason was obvious: He felt the busier I was, the less likely I was to get in trouble.

Our family was pretty happy, all things considered. 

That would soon change.

Taco trucks aren’t cheap, and my father took out a loan for the truck itself and another to secure the money needed to make the truck a drivable kitchen. That’s more expensive than you’d guess. 

The man who gave him the loans was named Rick Reyes, and he seemed like a godsend to begin with. 

My father was able to get the business off the ground, and he was making pretty decent money, or at least that’s what he told me. He also was doing what he loved, and people enjoyed his food. Whenever he got a good Yelp review, he’d show it to my mother, who was supportive of him. And proud as well. My father had gone from cooking job to cooking job to owning (at least partially) his own food truck.

It was an American success story. 

Until it wasn’t.

My father approached Rick Reyes one day and asked him how close he was to paying off the loan. He told me later that he figured he only owed about ten or twenty grand more.

Rick Reyes said he still owed him $75,000.

My father was in shock. The entire loan was $100,000. How the hell could he still owe $75,000 on it? He’d been paying it off every month for three years.

“Look at the loan again,” Rick Reyes said.

My old man wasn’t the sharpest pencil in the box, and I guess he hadn’t paid attention to the fine print. Percentage-wise, the loan went up each year. If it wasn't already paid off, it took a huge spike after year one, year two, and year three.

My father had just gotten into the habit of paying Reyes $2,500 every month. He didn’t check whether the loan was shrinking. He was not a look-at-the-small-print type of man.

This may sound unbelievable, but not if you knew my father. He put his hard hat on—or, in his case, his apron—and went to work and worked his ass off. He wasn’t good at math or finance or anything of the sort and probably didn’t even understand the specifics of the loan when he first signed it. He’d just been eager to own his own business. 

I was newly eighteen when my father signed the loan, and while I’m no Einstein, I’m not a dummy, either. I wish he’d had me look at it. I just assumed it was on the up and up. It turned out that Rick Reyes was the loan equivalent of a slum lord. I later found out he was an actual slum lord as well.

While my father thought he was paying it down each month, it had gotten to the point where he was only paying off the minimum, and his debt was increasing with Rick Reyes. He’d actually had it paid down to fifty grand at one point, but now it had ballooned back up to seventy-five thousand once the third year’s percentage rate had kicked in.

Rick sued my father in court, and that’s when it got really ugly.

Anyone with any sense would have seen that my father was in the right. He’d worked hard and was paying down his debt. He was a good man who was being taken advantage of.

However, by the letter of the law, Rick Reyes was right, and my father still owed him seventy-five thousand dollars. Making it even worse, until it was paid off, Rick was also the co-owner of Tico’s Tacos. Since my father didn’t have the money to pay off his debt, Rick threatened to either shut down the business or take it over himself.

My father was incensed, and so was I. I wanted to kill Rick Reyes and thought about ways to get away with it. 

I’d been a law-abiding citizen for three years, but that went out the window when I found out what Reyes had done to my father. Disloyalty was unforgivable, and traitors were worse than vermin. 

I was an overthinker, but not in the traditional sense, where someone is a worrywart. When I felt I (or a family member) had been screwed over, I became consumed by the thought of revenge. Like, literally consumed. It’s all I could think about. 

This had been one of the themes of my life, dating back to first grade, when I took the screws off of Victor Madsen’s chair and watched him fall off his chair and hit the back of his head on the ground. All because he’d given a girl I liked some Valentine's candies. I’d avoided juvie at that time, being too young.

Considering my life history, it probably shouldn’t have been that big a surprise that I took this so personally. The man was fucking over my father. Most people wouldn’t react like I eventually did, but they could at least understand where I was coming from.

This went on for a few weeks.

It wasn’t like this was the OJ Simpson trial, but there was just so much paperwork, pushing the trial back, etc., that it went on longer than it ever should have. This should have been concluded in a day or two.

At this point, my father and I were still working the truck. Then, one day, Rick Reyes repossessed the taco truck and said that Tico’s Tacos was no longer.

He must have known what was coming because the court ruled in Rick’s favor the very next day. 

In the days and weeks that followed, my father became a broken man, rarely leaving the house. He lamented the fact that he didn’t have $75,000 to pay off Reyes. He lamented the fact that he’d have to go back to working some shitty cooking job. He lamented the fact that I was now going to be unemployed. I know he worried about my future.

He had seemingly lost the will to live.

And he was too much of a chicken shit to do anything to Rick Reyes. 

But not me.

You see, my father taught me that disloyalty was amongst the worst things a man could do, and I do really think he believed that. 

But he still tried to be a nice guy and didn’t love confrontation. That was not true of his only child. I had taken his disloyalty speeches to heart, and I wanted to disembowel Rick Fucking Reyes.

I knew where Reyes worked, and I wasn’t going to take this sitting down. It had gone on for too long already.

One day—only about eight months before I applied to Costco—I surprised Reyes as he walked out of his office. And by surprised him, I mean I attacked him. That’s right. I was lying outside of his office waiting. I hadn’t exactly thought this through. I was running on adrenaline, emotion, and my thirst for revenge.

I got in two punches before he knew what had happened. Reyes went to the ground, and I got in another two in rapid succession. He was furiously bleeding from the nose when I hit him again. And again.

I’m not going to lie. My plan was to kill him. 

I reared my fist back one last time, ready to explode his nose, when two monstrous guys grabbed me from behind. 

One man I could have fought off, but two was too much.

They grabbed my wrists and lifted me up off the ground and off of Rick Reyes. They restrained me, and one of them called the cops.

I knew I was in trouble with the law, and I hadn’t even accomplished my goal of killing that motherfucker. No one steals from my family and gets away with it. Disloyalty is unforgivable.

The judge took pity on me when he heard the reason why I’d attacked Reyes. 

I gave him some fake tears—one of my few talents —and said that Reyes was ruining my family. That part was true.

If anyone had seen my attack on Reyes, they would have known this wasn’t a misdemeanor. It’s one of those cases of you know it when you see it. What I had committed was an extremely violent act. I deserved a felony and probably some jail time.

But since the two guys pulled me off only about thirty seconds into the “fight”, the district attorney was within his rights to charge me with misdemeanor battery. 

It certainly helped that I had no record since turning eighteen. My juvenile record had been expunged.

I’m pretty sure that if I’d gotten just one more punch in, they would have been forced to charge me with a felony.

My public defender told me I should thank my lucky stars.

This was all too much for my father. 

He took his own life a few weeks after I pleaded guilty to the misdemeanor. I know that the primary reason was the money that Rick Reyes stole from him, but my stubborn ass getting arrested certainly didn’t help matters. I’ll take that burden to my grave.

My mother didn’t directly admit it, but I know she held me partly responsible.

I became lost with no taco truck to return to and no father figure to steer me in the right direction. I was turning into a menace, and with no job, I’d returned to living at home. My mother wanted me out of the house. With no money, fat chance of that.

One day, I woke up and knew I had to look for a job, or things would worsen at home.

If this was the old days, I could have flown under the radar and picked up some random job. But everyone does background checks these days, and I was turned down from six or seven potential jobs before I finally made my way to Costco, where Carl Tumbler helped change my life.

I was hired, and within a few months, I could move out of my mother’s home. 

I owed Carl everything.

He’d hired me, and now I looked at him as a loyal friend.

I would have killed for him.

And that’s not hyperbole.

36

TATE

The first turning point in Carl and I’s friendship was when I stood up to that asshole at the end of our shift.

The second was when he was diagnosed with cancer. I was crushed. 

We had become more than just co-workers. We were definitely friends. 

No, I hadn’t met his wife or been invited to dinner. No, he hadn’t invited me out for a beer. And yes, we were mostly just work friends. But we were friends. At least, I thought so at the time. Looking back, maybe I’d been wrong all along, and he merely tolerated me.

I cried when Carl first told me of his cancer diagnosis. They were genuine tears of sadness, probably for only the second time in my life. My father’s death being the first.

When Carl and I closed at the same time, we’d usually spend a good half hour shooting the shit at the end of the shift. 

This might have sounded creepy—a guy in his early sixties hanging out and talking with a man who was still only twenty-one. Trust me, it wasn’t like that. If I thought the guy was trying to hit on me, I’d have gone Rick Reyes on him.

No, I think Carl looked at me as a project. He and Virginia—whom I wouldn’t meet until much later—never had kids, and I think he saw me as a surrogate son. And not for the right reasons, mind you.

It’s because I was a fuck-up. I knew that. Carl Tumbler saw me as a reclamation project. If his cancer got worse, at least he could say he steered young Tate Coakley in the right direction. He never came out and said that, but it was obvious that’s how he felt.

Keep in mind he was still healthy and working at Costco for several months after being diagnosed. Sadly, that wouldn’t last.

One day, I finally explained why I had the misdemeanor battery on my record. Carl was equally fascinated and horrified by the story I told in all its gruesome detail.

He understood why I was so angry but also warned me. “You can’t just seek revenge on anyone who wrongs you. That’s no way to go through life. You can’t let it consume you.”

He was always fatherly like that, telling me not to rely on my emotions and to think things out. Knowing I was a loose cannon, he spent half his time trying to curtail that part of my personality. 

When I told him that my father had offed himself because of what Rick Reyes did, he showed genuine compassion. No one else in my life had done that, with the exception of my mother. My opinion of Carl had never been higher.

I told him about some of my altercations with the law as a minor but tried to minimize them. I told him that they started prescribing me SSRIs, and I was a lot more mellow. 

That was partially true. I’d hardly describe myself as mellow, but the meds I took helped me to control my anger.

We weren’t always talking about me.

He’d open up about his childhood, his marriage, and the decision not to have kids. 

I once asked him, “Were you able to put some money away for a rainy day?”

“Not really. I should have been able to, but I never really got around to it. As you know, Costco isn’t exactly paying their employees like royalty.”

“You can say that again.”

“But hey, they helped get you an apartment, and I’m proud of you for that, Tate.”

“Thanks. Yeah, I’m happy. Maybe someday I’ll be able to buy or own some property.”

He paused, and I sensed something was up.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Well, that’s kind of why I wasn’t able to put any money away,” he said, keeping it vague.

“You can’t leave me hanging like that. Spit it out.”

He looked at me, and I could tell he was debating whether to spill the beans. In retrospect, he probably shouldn’t have. It led to everything that followed.

Carl then told me the story of his doomed investment with Constantin Pappas and the four-unit apartment complex he and Jesse Tumbler had bought before Vic Jacobs took over Carl’s share of the mortgage.

He could tell this incensed me.

“It’s not your battle to pick, Tate. Don’t worry about it.”

I didn’t like to be told what to do, and I didn’t like my friends getting fucked over.

“I’ll decide what to worry about,” I said.

He looked at me oddly. It’s almost like it finally hit him that I wasn’t a great guy, but he should have known that already. Our talks had divulged that side of me. Maybe he just didn’t like it when it hit closer to home. When it potentially involved him.

“Tate, this was long ago, and I never let it bother me. So don’t let it bother you. Those three guys are still friends of mine.”

“Real friends don’t fuck you over.”

“It was a long time ago, and they weren’t trying to fuck me over. They were trying to help me out.”

“You keep saying it was a long time ago. But money—and real estate—doesn’t work like that. Those properties would make your life easier now.”

“Yeah, maybe I’d be rich and not working at Costco. And who would have approved your résumé then?”

Carl was trying to lighten the mood, but I wasn’t taking the bait.

“Yeah, and maybe you’d be on an extravagant cruise with your wife and taking her to places you’ve never been able to afford.”

“Fuck you, Tate.”

It was one of the few times he raised his voice at me and definitely the first time he swore at me. I was irate and impressed in equal measure.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, you’re right. I should stay out of your business. I’m sure those guys are great people.”

I believed none of what I’d just said, but even a hothead like me knew it was time to calm things down.

I’d seen the look on Carl’s face. There was no mistaking it. It had registered that I wasn’t some adorable reclamation project. I was way too intense for my own good. I wasn’t a good person. 

I didn’t want him to end our friendship right then and there.

“I have some good news,” Carl said.

It was evident that he wanted to calm things down as well, so I planned on letting him.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Since I’ve been diagnosed with the big C, I’ve decided to try and do something I always wanted.”

“Great. What is it?”

“I’ve started writing a novel.”

“Impressive. What’s it about?”

“I don’t totally know yet. It’s early on. The main character is a young sheriff in a small California town, but I think I’m going to have him break bad. Do you know what that means?”

“Of course. Breaking Bad is one of my favorite shows ever. Walter White is my hero."

Carl looked at me oddly for about the third time during this conversation. The reason was obvious. Walter White was a drug-dealing, murdering sociopath and an inordinately odd person to pick as your hero. I probably should have left that tidbit out.

“Mine was Mother Theresa,” Carl said.

We shared a laugh.

“Can I read the novel as you go?”

“Sure, Tate.”

Our conversation looked to be ending on a high note, but underneath, I was seething. Jesse, Vic, and Constantin were no better than Rick Reyes. They deserved an ass-kicking just like he got. But I had to contain my emotions. Carl was starting to see me for who I really was. 

I had to watch it.

In the weeks and months that passed, Carl continued to work at Costco but changed his schedule depending on what times he was having chemotherapy that week.

And truth be told, I think he was changing his shifts so that we didn’t close simultaneously. I couldn’t come right out and accuse him of it—he was battling cancer, after all—but I could tell he was trying to distance himself from me.

He still allowed me to read the novel and would give me a new chapter every other week or so. I knew a few other people were reading the novel with me, but I didn’t know who they were.

When I found out, our friendship took another precipitous dive.

It wasn’t the end but the beginning of the end.

“I’m loving the novel, Carl. Who else has the pleasure of reading it?” 

It was one of the few times lately when our shifts actually ended at the same time. I had walked into his office unannounced, and he didn’t look happy at all.

It had been several months since he’d first been diagnosed with cancer, and his novel was progressing nicely. If I had to guess, he was around three-quarters done.

“Oh, just some old friends. And my wife.”

“When do I get to meet her?” I asked.

“We’ll try to have you over soon,” Carl said. “It’s hard with my cancer and all.”

I gave him a courtesy smile, but I didn’t believe a word he said. He’d known me for months before he was diagnosed. There had been ample times to invite me over for dinner. Or a cup of coffee. Or even just for a two-minute introduction to his wife.

But no. I’d received none of those.

“I’d really like to meet her. You hold her in such high esteem.”

“You mentioned you’re enjoying the novel,” he said.

He didn’t want to talk about his wife. That much was clear.

“Yes, it’s very good. Maybe a bestseller,” I said, believing neither of the two things I’d just said. 

For someone who prided himself on being a straight shooter, I sure seemed to be lying to Carl Tumbler a lot lately.

“Thanks.”

I noticed he was using my name less and less when we talked. That wasn’t a coincidence. I continued to consider Carl a friend, but I didn’t like this new version. Not one bit.

“So, who are the old friends?” I asked again.

“What?”

“You said some old friends were reading Small Town Menace. Which ones?”

“What is going on here?”

“I’m asking a simple question, and you’re evading it.”

“Because you’re not going to like the answer.”

“Why not?” I asked, although I knew why. We both did.

“Just trust me.”

“Answer the question, Carl.”

He shrugged, and I could tell he legitimately didn’t want to tell me. I also knew that he would because he was scared of me. More scared than he’d ever been. He’d done a one-eighty on me over the last several weeks. 

I guess that wasn’t the surprise. The surprise was that he’d been friendly with me for as long as he had. Most people don’t last that long. 

“It’s …” he started. “I’m sorry, I really can’t tell you.”

I unleashed my lethal stare, and, as always, it worked.

“It’s a few of the guys that I mentioned to you.”

“The people who fucked you over?”

“They didn’t fuck me over.”

“I’m going to ask you one last time, Carl. Who else is reading the novel?”

“Jesse, Vic, and Constantin.”

“Wait, all three of them?”

Carl hung his head like a little puppy. What a pathetic excuse for a man.

“Yes,” he said, barely audible.

“I guess I should be honored. I’m reading it, and I didn’t even fuck you over.”

“Tate, stop.”

“So you do remember my name?”

“Yes, I remember your name.”

“Well, you sure don’t seem to use it much anymore.”

“I’ve got cancer, Tate. What do you want?”

“I don’t want you to use your cancer as an excuse for everything. Oh, you can’t meet my wife because I have cancer. Oh, I can’t call you Tate because I have cancer.”

Carl’s jaw didn’t literally drop, but it was close enough.

“What, does the truth hurt?” I asked, getting more infuriated by the moment. I could feel my emotions getting out of hand.

“Those people are my friends. You may not like it, but it’s just how it is. And stop saying they screwed me over. They were all trying to help me out.”

“With friends like these …” I said, not needing to finish the famous phrase.

Carl tried to be forceful.

“Listen, we can change the subject, or you can leave. Don’t forget who hired you. I can undo that at any time."

I did not respond well to threats, but I couldn’t afford to lose my job. I hated to do it, but I had to back down—for now. This wasn’t over.

“I’m sorry. I won’t bring that up again. Now, how much is left in the novel?” I asked.

“I’m getting toward the end. I’d guess there’s about four more chapters to go.”

“That’s exciting news, Carl. Congrats.”

He said, “Thanks,” but his heart wasn’t in it.

Something had changed between us forever.

He now saw me as a threat.

It reminded me of our old conversation when Carl said, “I don’t think I’d want to be on your bad side.”

You were right, Carl.

37

TATE

Over the course of the next few weeks, our friendship went from crumbling to unsalvageable to downright hostile.

It was probably my fault.

My inner paranoia started to get the best of me.

When I saw Carl talking to Bryan, I assumed they were talking about me. I imagined conversations in which they were debating whether to fire me. 

I knew Carl probably wanted to fire me, but he feared how I would take it. 

Not well, Carl. Not well.

Once, Carl was talking to a police officer roaming around Costco in his blues. I was far away and unsuccessfully tried to read their lips, a talent I didn’t even possess. Needless to say, it was a failure.

Were they talking about me?

I couldn’t be sure.

I knew I was starting to lose a grip on reality, but I couldn’t stop it. 

Someone I’d once seen as a friend and a father figure was now becoming an enemy.

I called Carl on it a few hours later.

“No, I was not talking to the police about you,” he said defensively.

“I don’t believe you.”

“You’re mental, you know that? Maybe you should take a few days off.”

“I’m fine right here,” I said.

“This is your last chance to start behaving.”

“Unbelievable. You still can’t say my name. It’s Tate. This is your last chance to start behaving, Tate.”

“You’re cuckoo,” he said. “I don’t know why I tried to be friendly with you.”

“And now you can’t even say we were friends,” I roared. “You were just trying to be friendly."

He asked me to leave.

I was fuming as I walked around Costco's floor.

I wanted to take people’s faces and ram them into the massive freezer doors. 

Calm down, Tate. You can’t lose this job. And you’re going to if you keep this up.

I knew I had to apologize. More than that, I had to kiss Carl’s ass. If I didn’t, I was going to be a goner.

The beef between Carl and I was far from over, but I had to make him think it was.

It was closing time, and I saw Carl in his office.

He looked pissed as I approached the door, so I quickly raised my hands, signifying that I was “surrendering.”

“I’m so sorry, Carl. Can I apologize, please?”

His face told me he was skeptical.

“Sit down, Tate.”

Oh, now he uses my name!

I sat in his tiny office, and Carl sat across from me.

“What did you want to say?”

“I just wanted to apologize. I know I’ve been acting crazy.”

“That’s an understatement.”

I wanted to jump over the table and strangle the guy. Instead, I said, “You’re right. I’m sorry. I told you about my father and Rick Reyes, and I think you know how much loyalty means to me. So when you told me about your friends and your past real estate stuff, I wanted to defend you because I’d never do you wrong like that. When I heard that not only were you still friends with them, but they were like your best friends, I flipped out. I’m sorry. It’s only because I consider you a good friend and wanted what’s best for you.”

I tried to contort my face to resemble a lost puppy. Or whatever the human equivalent was. I’d done a great acting job. Now, let’s hope he bought it.

“Thank you for that, Tate. That’s all I wanted to hear. It sounds like you’re coming to your senses.”

“You won’t hear anything about it from me again. I need this job and want to repair our friendship.”

“I like this version of Tate.”

Only he’s not real. 

“Thanks. Okay, I’ll get out of your hair, Carl. Thanks for understanding.”

He stood up and, to my surprise, came in for a hug.

“Let’s leave that other Tate at home from now on. Okay?”

“It’s a deal, Carl.”

And then, a week later, Carl didn’t come to work for his scheduled shift.

I’d usually have gone and asked Bryan about it, but his shift was already over.

I approached another manager named Eugene, whom I didn’t like very much.

“Is Carl okay?” I asked. “He never misses a shift.”

“Carl is going to be taking some time off to deal with some personal things.”

“Is his cancer getting worse?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that, Tate.”

“I’m a friend of his. You can tell me.”

“I’m sorry. I really can’t say anything.”

I wanted to knock Eugene out, UFC-style.

Keep your wits about you, Tate.

Instead, I just walked away.

I gave Carl a few weeks to see if he’d get in touch with me, but he never did.

Our friendship had never reached the point where we exchanged phone numbers. I was starting to think that we were work friends and nothing more. Had I put too much importance on Carl as a friend? Maybe.

You don’t even have the guy's number! You two aren’t friends.

My inner voice was starting to play devil’s advocate with me. I hated it when it did that.

I was able to get Carl’s cell phone number when I sweet-talked Bryan one day. This convinced me that Carl had never ratted me out. One, I would have been fired, and two, Bryan certainly wouldn’t have given me his phone number.

But Carl could still call at any time and have you fired.

I hated that voice…

But it wasn’t wrong.

“Hello.”

I was afraid Carl wouldn’t answer an unknown number, but he answered almost immediately.

“Hey, Carl, this is Tate.”

There was a pause, and then he deliberately said, “Hello, Tate.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Sicker.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you going to be coming back to work?”

“Doubtful.”

His answers were monosyllabic, and it was crystal clear that he wasn’t happy to hear from me.

“How’s the novel coming? You have to be almost done.”

“One chapter left.”

“Did you forget about me?”

“I’ve been dealing with some other things, Tate.”

“Yeah, I know. But you promised me I could read the end of Small Town Menace, and then I don’t hear from you for a few weeks.”

“I’m sick, Tate. Give me a break.”

He’d gone through a phase where he wouldn’t say my name, and now he was saying “Tate” every other sentence. He wasn’t fooling me.

“Too sick to give a friend what you promised? How about I just stop by and get the chapters? I won’t make you hand deliver it since you’re not feeling well.”

There was a long pause.

“No, I don’t want you to stop by and pick them up. Tate, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but I don’t think we were as good of friends as you think. I took pity on you because of your situation, and I genuinely did feel bad about the whole situation with your father. But that was it. We weren’t best friends, far from it. I didn’t even know you had my phone number.”

I was beyond furious. 

You took pity on me, motherfucker?

No one talks to me like that!

I had evil thoughts circulating, but I decided to play it cool. This was happening way too often, and I hated playing it cool.

“I’m sorry, Carl. You won’t hear from me again,” I said and hung up.

But Carl would hear from me again.

This phone call had made that a certainty.

38

TATE

Iquickly found the address to Carl’s house.

Early the next morning, I went to stake it out.

I had evil thoughts running through my head. I didn’t know how everything would play out, but I knew it could get ugly.

I was sure his wife would be home with him most of the time, but she couldn’t just stay there all day. 

She’d have to go to the store or the post office or to see a friend. Some fucking thing.

And sure enough, I saw a car pull out of their garage only an hour after I arrived. I quickly glanced as the car drove by, and there was a petite woman behind the wheel with no one in the passenger seat.

I waited a minute, then left my car and walked to Carl’s front door.

Whatever I was going to do, I had to do it fast. I didn’t know how long his wife would be gone.

I knocked on the door but stepped to the side so he couldn’t see me if he looked out the peephole.

I had no idea how sick Carl was. He might have been bedridden and couldn’t get up to answer the door.

Forty-five seconds later, I heard someone staggering toward the door. The labored steps could be heard even from the other side of the door.

“Who is it?”

It was Carl’s voice, but I didn’t dare answer. He wouldn’t let me in willingly.

“Is anyone there?”

I leaned my finger over and pressed the doorbell a second time.

“What the hell?” Carl said, and I heard him open the door ever so slightly.

Once he did, I pushed my way in and quickly shut the door behind me.

“What the fuck, Tate,” he said.

He was wearing a brown bathrobe and was extremely sickly looking. He’d aged twenty years in the few weeks since I’d seen him. He looked near death.

“It’s good to see you, too,” I said. “You look out of breath. Let’s go sit.”

He was about to object but realized there was no point.

“Follow me,” he said.

As I walked behind him, I saw him fidget inside his robe pocket. I guessed he was looking for his phone to call 9-1-1. 

We didn’t have far to walk. He led me to the adjoining living room, where he sat in a recliner. He had a walker next to him and a small table with some sort of milkshake, some scrambled eggs, and a set of keys next to his plate of food.

I grabbed a chair and pulled up close to Carl.

“We’re going to talk, but first, I have to do something.” I reached down, went through his pockets, and found the phone I assumed would be there.

“Were you trying to call 9-1-1, Carl?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I saw you fidgeting with your phone.”

“You’re mistaken, Tate.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But I doubt it."

Luckily, we were a decent distance from the next house, and I didn’t think they’d hear Carl if he started screaming. If he did, I’d quickly subdue him.

“What are you here for, Tate?”

“I wanted to talk. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”

“We could have talked over the phone.”

“That didn’t work out too well last time. You said you took pity on me.”

“I did,” Carl said. “I never should have hired you.”

I laughed. “Yeah, that’s probably true. And you never had me fired. Thanks for that, too. I have a shift in two hours. I’ll be there.”

“You’re beyond repair.”

“Maybe.”

“And you’re not going to kill me.”

“Oh yeah, why not?”

“Because I’m going to be dead in a few weeks. The doctor just told me I don’t have much time to live. Why risk going to jail for life for a guy who is going to die anyway?”

“Those are some solid points, Carl. But what if I just came here to get those final few chapters you haven’t given me.”

“Is that really why you’re here?”

“Maybe.”

“Then come with me.”

Carl slowly got out of his chair. I offered to help, but he wouldn’t accept it.

“Follow me.”

We walked into an office that had a vintage typewriter on the desk.

“Is this where you’ve been writing your novel?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve been using this relic,” I pointed at the typewriter.

“Yes.”

Carl was rummaging around his desk, trying to find his manuscript. There was a black, alligator-skinned sleeve in which I saw some papers.

“Maybe it’s in that sleeve,” I said.

“No, it’s not in there,” he said, and I saw him subtly pull the sleeve closer to him.

He kept looking until he finally found what he was looking for. 

“Okay, I got it,” Carl said. “Let’s go back to the other room.”

He started walking back to the living room. I quickly leaned past him and grabbed the alligator-skinned sleeve.

“Those are just my notes. You don’t need to read those,” he said.

“I’d love to read your notes, Carl.”

He tried to put on a tough face, but he looked like I’d killed a pet of his.

What the hell was in this sleeve?

Carl sat back in his recliner and me in my chair.

“Here’s those final three chapters,” he said. “I can’t wait to hear what you think of them.”

He was trying to make it out like we were old friends again. That ship had sailed. 

“Can I take this sleeve with me? It’s very cool, by the way. I love the scaliness of it.”

“No, that has my notes. Please just leave that with me.”

“Okay, then I’ll read it here.”

I started to take the pages out of the sleeve.

“Please, Tate, don’t read that.”

“Well, now, with a warning like that, you know I’m going to have to take a look.”

I shot a glance at Carl, who now looked like a defeated man.

There were two sheets of paper in the sleeve. I pulled them out.

“Please, Tate. It’s personal.”

I waved him off and started reading it.

Dear Jesse, Vic, and Constantin,

Thanks so much for reading my first manuscript. I don’t think there will be many more, haha. 

The final chapter of Small Town Menace will be done in a few days, but I wanted to give you this letter first. 

I think I made a grave mistake. I tried to be nice to this guy at work named Tate Coakley, and now I’m genuinely scared of the guy. I haven’t said anything to Virginia. She’s got enough on her plate. But if something happens to me, give the police his name.

I should have had him fired, but I was honestly afraid that would set him off even more. I haven’t seen him in a few weeks and am scared to exacerbate things. This guy Tate is loony! I never should have tried to be nice to him. What a nutcase. He belongs in a fucking psychiatric ward. I was friendly to him but nothing more. He thinks we are best fucking buds.

I kept reading, and it only got worse from there.

After reading the two pages, I put them back in the sleeve and looked up.

“I’m so sorry, Tate. I didn’t really mean what I wrote,” Carl said.

“I stood up for you. I was your real friend, not these fucking fucks. And now you’re telling them to be wary of me. You’ve got some nerve.”

“Tate, please. I’m very weak. Can you please just leave?”

“Sorry, Carl. I can’t just leave like nothing happened. We can’t just put the toothpaste back in the tube. Not after reading that. You were going to tell your friends. Give them this copy. Probably tell the police, too.”

Carl was getting frantic. 

“You haven’t done anything illegal, Tate. The cops can’t get you for anything.”

I looked down at the paper.

“This guy Tate is loony! I never should have tried to be friends with him. What a nutcase.”

“You haven’t done anything illegal,” Carl repeated.

“Yet,” I said and inched toward Carl and his chair.

“Please don’t do this, Tate. My cancer is going to kill me. There’s no need for this. We are friends.”

“We were friends, Carl. Not anymore. You don’t call friends terms like loony and a nutcase.”

“I was being hyperbolic. I don’t really think that.”

I inched closer. “I’m going to let you in on a little secret, Carl.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Sorry,” I said, ignoring his request. “But I’m going to tell you anyway. Okay, here we go: I am a nutcase. I am a loon. You were correct.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Oh, but I am. And to prove it, I’m going to beat cancer to the punch.”

It was then that Carl started to yell. I quickly straddled him on the recliner and put my left hand over his mouth and my right hand around his throat. This probably wouldn’t have been possible even two months ago, but in his weakened condition, Carl couldn’t prevent being manually strangled by one hand. I wanted to punch him and beat his face to a pulp, but I had to make this look like he’d died of cancer. So, I didn’t put too much pressure on his neck. This was going to be a slow case of death by strangulation. 

After a minute, he didn’t even struggle anymore. I knew he was still alive but too weak to resist. Or maybe he just wanted it to end quickly.

Because I knew he was still alive, I leaned in and whispered to him.

“I’m going to kill your friends and your wife, too.”

His eyes had been shut, but he opened them ever so slightly at that moment. I’d never seen angrier eyes in my life, and nothing will ever approach that look again.

A minute later, Carl Tumbler was dead.

I stared at his body. 

There was no bruising around his neck. There were no obvious signs of trauma.

While I was strangling him, his body had taken a weird position on the recliner. I adjusted him back to what looked like a natural position.

My fingerprints were all over the place, but if they believed it was cancer that killed him, they’d have no reason to dust for them.

I thought there was a darn good chance I’d get away with this.

I grabbed the sleeve and the two sheets of paper I’d read. They would have served as my motive, so I wouldn’t leave them lying around the house. I also took the final three chapters and set them in the sleeve. Carl may have been dead, but I still wanted to read the end of the novel. 

I was about to leave the house when I saw a spare key set inside the front door.

They were labeled House Key, Truck Key, and Car Key.

I’d seen the truck out front and knew it was Carl’s. He’d always drive it to work.

This was well before I’d formulated my plan of framing Virginia for the murders. I couldn’t have had an idea I’d kill Jesse Tumbler using a truck. All I knew was that having the keys to Carl’s truck might come in handy.

I couldn’t steal the key from the labeled ones by the front door. Virginia would definitely notice, so I went back to the keychain on the table by Carl’s recliner. 

There was a good chance Virginia would never notice that it was gone. How often do you check your spouse’s keychain? 

Her husband was dead. Why would she even think about a missing key? She wouldn’t.

I removed the truck key from the keychain and left the house seconds later.

Carl had been disloyal to me in the most extreme way possible.

He’d pay for it, and more than just with his life. That could almost be considered a mercy kill. He was close to death. 

However, his friends and his spouse were not, so I delivered on my promise. 

Well, for the most part. 

I killed Jesse Tumbler. I killed Vic Jacobs, and his wife Loretta became collateral damage. Constantin Pappas was next on my list but he fled just in time.

I may indeed have been a nutcase, as Carl alleged, but I wasn’t a dumb nutcase. After following him around for several days, I used the truck to run over Jesse. He was at that stupid bar every night, and I knew he’d be easy to mow down on that old country road. 

I took the truck from Virginia’s house late at night and returned it even later at night, and she was none the wiser. I turned my headlights off and drove in ever so slowly. I was cautious.

“Borrowing” the key to Carl’s truck on the night I murdered him had been an ingenious decision. 

For the Jacobs’s murders, I bought a pistol on the black market. 

By this point, I knew I’d be using the same gun to frame Virginia for the murders. It was all coming together.

The Jacobs murders were probably my sloppiest. I’d staked out their home for a few days and couldn’t come up with a foolproof plan. I wasn’t impressed with what I came up with, but it worked, so who am I to complain?

Like Carl’s house, the Jacobs had a good deal of space between their closest neighbor, which was necessary for my plan. 

I gained entry in a similar matter. Both Carl and Vic opened their doors without knowing who was there. What dumbasses.

I stood next to the Jacobs’s sliding glass door in the backyard. You couldn’t see me from inside. I started banging small pebbles off the glass door. I did this for about three minutes before I heard the sliding glass door being opened. Vic was being a protective husband and had come to see what the fuss was about.

I moved to the door and pushed Vic inside. His wife must have heard the added commotion and walked into the room just as I was about to fire the pistol.

Neither of my first two shots killed Vic or his wife, and I went a little crazy, emptying the gun of all its bullets. 

I was not very proud of how it went down.

Not that I’d killed two people. I no longer cared about that. I was disappointed in myself by the messiness of the crime scene.

Still, I knew I wouldn’t be caught.

I’d worn gloves and never touched the sliding glass door, anyway. I’d pushed Vic inside and shot the two of them with an untraceable gun.

Why hadn’t I started killing earlier?

I was getting good at this shit.

I had bought the burner phone at a store forty-five minutes from the Bay Area. I pre-paid for it. They’d never be able to trace it back to me. 

This was before I’d killed Jesse, Vic, and Loretta and before my plan morphed.

When I first secured the phone, I had planned to anonymously text Quint and say that Virginia was responsible for all of the killings that I planned on committing. I’d plant the gun at her house and mention checking Carl’s truck for Jesse’s blood as well.

That might well have worked, but that would mean Virginia was alive, and maybe she’d manage to convince people she was innocent despite the overwhelming evidence I left to frame her. 

I couldn’t take that chance.

That’s when my plan morphed, and I came up with the brilliant idea to kill Virginia and make it look like a suicide. It would tie up all the loose ends, and the text to Evangeline Stephens would be both Virginia’s confession and suicide note.

I’d become infatuated with Evangeline. I’d read a few of her articles and thought she was an excellent writer. It didn’t hurt that she was a beautiful woman. I didn’t care that she was twenty years older than me. I wanted her.

And the fact that she was writing about me (unknowingly) made it all the better.

That’s why I decided to include Evangeline and text her, pretending to be Virginia.

Virginia’s was going to be another perfect murder. 

Unfortunately, her suicide didn’t go exactly as planned.

I waited until the sun went down and knocked on Virginia’s door.

I didn’t want neighbors to see me, so I waited until dark. I was wearing dark clothes and gloves. I knew what I was there for.

Virginia was instantly skeptical, but I told her that I had evidence of who had really killed her husband. There were all sorts of red flags to not let me in, but I think her curiosity got the best of her. Plus, I told her I was a co-worker of Carl’s and rattled off some names she’d know, like Bryan and Eugene. 

I didn’t mind giving Virginia this information, considering she’d be dead minutes later. Her face was blank when I told her my name was Tate. That bastard Carl had never even mentioned me. 

That’s when I knew I was doing the right thing. What a worthless scumbag he was. He wasn’t a friend. He was a stone-cold enemy. I was happy to be eliminating people he was close to. 

Once Virginia grudgingly let me in, the game was over. We sat down on the couch. 

“So you want to know who killed Carl?”

“Of course.”

“Here, lean in, and I’ll tell you,” I said.

At that moment, she must have realized she was in a dire situation, but as I said, her curiosity as to who killed her husband consumed her. I know all about being consumed by something.

As she leaned in, I grabbed the pistol from my right pocket, and put it in my right hand. I had followed Virginia several times and was able to deduce she was right-handed. If she were committing suicide, she would use that hand.

“Well, who was it?” Virginia asked.

My gun was mere millimeters from her head, and I could have fired it then. But a leopard can’t change his spots, and I couldn’t resist what I did next.

“I did,” I said.

I had to see her reaction.

Her head turned toward me, and her face was filled with anger, surprise, sadness, and, most of all, fear. 

“On the plus side, you’re about to join him.”

I then fired a bullet into her brain. 

I knew right away that it hadn’t been a perfect shot. 

When I said she was about to join him, she knew what was about to happen, and she moved her head ever so slightly. 

Because of this, I didn’t shoot her in the middle of the right side of the head. It was farther right than I wanted and closer to the top of her head.

She had still taken a bullet to the brain, however, and she fell off the couch and slumped to the floor. She looked dead to me. I had attached a silencer, but getting out of the house as soon as possible was still advisable.

I made sure to leave the truck key before I left. I placed it in a random drawer, not wanting to draw suspicion by leaving a solo key out in the open. I also left the phone, but not before texting Virginia’s suicide letter to Evangeline Stephens.

Yes, I’d developed an infatuation with Ms. Stephens. But more so, since she was a member of the media, I knew a text to her would have a more far-reaching effect than if I texted Quint again.

I left the phone by Virginia’s body on the floor. The police would assume Virginia had texted Evangeline right before taking her own life.

I’d planned this to perfection.

I looked outside their front door, and when no neighbors were walking around, I made my way out into the dark night.

I’d been to the Tumblers’ house twice and had killed both Carl and his wife.

I was two for two, baby.

In the immediate days that followed, I got about as introspective as a guy like me can get. 

Did I have to kill Carl’s good friends?

No, but I wanted to. 

This guy pretended to be my friend and to care about what happened to me. He had also pretended to be interested in my family and all the hardships we’d gone through.

None of that was true. It had all been a lie.

He thought I was a nutcase, and not only that, he was about to tell all of his friends about me. I’m sure the police weren’t far behind.

So yes, I was taking revenge on Carl Tumbler, but there was also a second reason. I didn’t know if Carl had maybe told one of his friends in passing about me. I couldn’t take that chance.

But if I’m being honest, that’s mostly just an excuse on my end.

I was killing them to take revenge on Carl.

As my father had taught me, disloyalty was unforgivable.

It hadn’t been perfect. I found out that Virginia was still alive, but from all I'd been able to gather, she was likely to be a vegetable for the rest of her life. I wasn’t too worried about her. 

No one had batted an eye at me. No cop had knocked on my door. No neighbor of the Tumblers had come forward to the press. None of Evangeline’s articles mentioned an old, disgruntled Costco employee as a suspect.

No one knew I had anything to do with it.

I was in the clear.

So why was Quint Adler walking into my Costco two weeks after Virginia had been shot?

39

QUINT

This was getting fucking weird!

With a capital F.

Maybe I was jumping to conclusions, but my Spidey senses told me something was wrong with this guy, Tate.

As I waited for him to return with Bryan, my radar was on full alert. I would judge his actions, reactions, and overall demeanor. 

Something was up. I could feel it.

I saw them approaching and reminded myself to act naturally.

“As you asked for,” Tate said.

“Thanks,” I said, trying to be nonchalant.

I shook hands with Bryan, and Tate entered the sea of people. I guess I’d have to get a read on him later.

“Hello again, Quint,” Bryan said, and I remember we’d bonded over our respective first names.

“Thanks for coming over, Bryan. That Tate sure is a nice guy, isn’t he?”

He briefly paused. “Uh, yeah. He’s great.”

The pause and the “uh, yeah” was all I needed to hear. It’s not like he was going to badmouth a fellow employee, but those two quick actions led me to believe he wasn’t a fan of Tate’s.

“It was Tate what …” My leading questions never ceased.

“Tate Coakley.”

And they always worked. “Thanks. Was he close to Carl as well?”

“Who? Tate?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm, let me think,” he said. “Yeah, I guess they were kind of friendly, but I’m not the best person to ask.”

A couple of people shuffled by us.

“Would you like to talk in my office?” he asked.

If Tate were among the sea of customers watching us and then saw us walk into an office, he might become suspicious. That’s not what I wanted.

I wanted him on my radar. I didn’t want to be on his.

“No, out here is fine. I won’t keep you too long. You said you think Carl and Tate were friendly, but you’re not the best person to ask. Why is that?”

“Because Carl and Tate would mostly work the late shifts. I worked earlier shifts. Like today. I’ve been on since we opened and will be off soon. Carl and Tate had shifts that ended near the time we’d close, and I’d only overlap for a few hours, if at all.”

I wanted to ask more questions about Tate, but I couldn’t risk it getting back to him. I’d investigate on my own. It was time to change the subject. I didn’t want Bryan to think our conversation had been Tate-centric.

“Gotcha,” I said. “I’m sure you heard the sad news about Carl’s wife?”

“Of course. It’s been the talk of the employees. Who would have thought that Carl and his wife were killers?”

“That’s what people think?”

“Well, that’s what the police think, so it’s not that crazy.”

“You’re right. You’re right.”

“What brings you here, Quint?”

“Did you know that most PIs have outlandish theories? It’s kind of in our DNA."

“If you say so,” Bryan said, and I noticed him getting uncomfortable.

“And since the whole world, including the police, seem to think Carl and Virginia are killers, I’m out here trying to protect their good name. Or, more to the point, to salvage what’s left of it.”

“That’s commendable, but as I’m sure you know, the police have a lot of evidence.”

“I know. And I’m getting close to wrapping up my investigation on Virginia’s behalf. I just came to see you and if, by some miracle, you had some tiny piece of information that didn’t vibe with what the police think.”

“No, I don’t have any evidence that exonerates Carl. Listen, I liked the guy, just like most people here. But I didn’t know him all that well, and I won’t sit here and say I know he’s innocent. Because I don’t. And that goes for his wife as well.”

Bryan with a Y was fired up. 

“I understand. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t come to Costco one last time.”

Just then, Bryan got a call on his cell phone.

“Listen, I’ve got work I have to do. I’m sorry you didn’t get what you came for …”

Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I could see Tate looking in our direction. I moved my eyes back to Bryan so that Tate wouldn’t realize I saw him.

“Maybe I did get what I came for,” I said.

Part of me wanted to roam the aisles of Costco, intentionally run into Tate, and see how he took it. But I knew that discretion was the better part of valor—at least for the time being.

If I was becoming suspicious of Tate—which I certainly was—there was no reason to alert him.

I left Costco and went home.

40

TATE

About twenty minutes after I watched Quint the PI leave, I pretended to randomly run into Bryan.

“We meet again," I said.

“Oh, hello there, Tate.”

Bryan had always seemed distant with me, and the explanation was simple: He didn’t like me. None of my co-workers really did. Early Carl was the lone exception.

“How did your conversation go with that PI?” I asked.

“Good. It didn’t last long.”

“I guess he didn’t get the memo that Carl’s case is over,” I said.

“That’s what I was thinking. This guy is still out here looking to prove Carl and his wife weren’t killers.”

“Well, that’s just silly. Look at all the evidence the police have.”

“That’s exactly what I said.”

“You always were a smart one, Bryan.”

He looked at me, wondering if I was mocking him.

“And I mean that sincerely,” I said, changing his expression to one of gratitude.

I didn’t bother telling him that I didn’t have a sincere bone in my body.

“Well, I’ve got a few things to finish, Tate, and then I’m clocking out. See you tomorrow, right?”

“Actually, I’m off for the next few days.”

“Well, enjoy your little break.” 

“Hey, one last thing, Bryan.”

“What is it?”

“Did that Quint guy ask about me at all?”

“Come to think of it, he did ask a few questions.”

“Like what?”

“He just asked if you were close with Carl?”

“And what did you say?”

“I told him I work the day shifts and rarely crossed over with you and Carl, so I didn’t know if you guys were close.”

“Thanks.”

“What’s going on here, Tate?”

It was time to set his mind at ease.

“Oh, nothing. He just asked me the same questions about you.”

“Jeez. This guy won’t quit,” Bryan said.

“It’s probably a good trait to have if you’re a PI. But it sure is annoying if your co-worker is a guy he’s investigating. Am I right?”

“You sure are, Tate. Listen, I should probably run.”

“See you tomorrow, Bryan.”

“See you then.”

This was, far and away, the most civil and pleasant conversation Bryan and I had ever had. He was downright affable.

I didn’t think he was going to be a problem going forward.

Quint was different. I knew how dogged he could be.

He was definitely going to be a problem.

Not one that I couldn’t take care of, but a problem, nonetheless.

41

QUINT

Had I broken the case wide open, or was I getting a little crazy in my “old” age?

I wasn’t sure.  

Even though.

Was it an often-used phrase? If so, Tate Coakley may have been guilty of nothing more than being unlucky.

But as I’d made abundantly clear since becoming a PI, I don’t believe in coincidences.  The fact that a guy who worked with Carl used the same phrase that Virginia used—twice in her “suicide” text wasn’t something I could chalk up as being a coincidence.

It’s not like he said, ‘Better late than never’ or ‘A blessing in disguise’ or another phrase that is repeated thousands of times around the world every day.

Even though was different.  It wasn’t a phrase, per se.  

It was a specific way of wording something, and I didn’t think it was very common.

I'm sorry, Tate Coakley.  If you turn out to be an innocent man, I’ll apologize. Until then, consider yourself a suspect.

“To what do I owe this surprise,” Evangeline asked.

I showed up to her work, ostensibly to tell her about meeting Tate Coakley, express my suspicions about him, and ask her if I was off my rocker.

I also just wanted to swing by and say hello.  I hadn’t seen her much since Virginia shot herself/was shot.  I’d told myself to give Evangeline her space, but now I had some potentially pertinent information, so I thought I should tell her.  In person, obviously. 

“I thought maybe you missed me,” I said.

She hugged me and slid her hand along my back as I sat in her familiar chair, and that didn’t go unnoticed.  

“I have missed you.  Sorry I haven't reached out.  I’ve been swamped with this case, but I think I’m running out of things to talk about.”

“I read your last article about Small Town Menace being in the top 100 books on Amazon.  It’s wild.  Virginia will have a lot of money waiting for her if she ever wakes up.  Instead, she’ll be arrested for murder.”

“Have you gone and seen her lately?”

“Not in a few days.  I’ll probably go tomorrow.”

“Any update on her condition?”

“No, but they wouldn’t tell me, anyway.”

“Have you read my other articles?” Evangeline asked.

“Of course,” I said.

“And what do you think?”

“I think you have no choice but to write what you’ve been writing.”

She glared at me.  “What does that mean?”

“It means that you don’t really have a choice.  All the evidence is damning against Virginia.  It’s not like you could take the other side.”

“What other side?”

“That Virginia was a victim in all of this.”

“C’mon, Quint, you don’t really believe that, do you?  Do I need to remind you of Carl’s truck, the gun, the phone, and Virginia’s confession to me?”

“All explained away if you were to concede that somebody shot Virginia.”

“Okay, explain it.”

“Whoever killed these people needed a fall guy.  Or in this case, a fall woman.  Let’s assume this killer is a man.  If he were the murderer, he’d have the gun that killed the Jacobs.  That’s an easy plant.  He could have easily bought a burner phone, texted me a few times, and then texted you once he’d shot Virginia.  And then left the phone at Virginia’s house after he shot her.”

“What about the truck?”

“My assumption is that the killer was close to Carl.  He either stole the car keys or knew where to find them.”

“Did you ever ask Virginia about the keys?” Evangeline asked.

“No.  Carl’s truck was never considered as the potential murder weapon in Jesse’s death until after Virginia was shot.”

Evangeline gave me a shake of the head.

“You’re just going to keep claiming she was shot, aren’t you?”

“Until I’m 100% convinced otherwise, I’m going to give my client the benefit of the doubt.”

“I guess I can’t blame you for that.”

I pushed my chair up a few inches and leaned over the desk toward Evangeline.

“This better be good,” she said.

“You’re probably not ready for it.”

“Ready for what, exactly?”

I stopped leaning over the table and pushed my chair back.  “Yeah, what was I thinking?” I said to myself.

“What are you doing, Quint?  If you’ve got something to tell me, speak your mind.”

“You’re not ready for fire like this.”

“You’re behaving like a child,” she said.

I smiled.  “That’s probably true.”

She wasn’t amused.  “It wasn’t a compliment.”

“If I tell you this thing, you have to go out to lunch with me.  This week, not once this case is officially brought to a close.”

Most people would probably say my timing was suspect.  

You’re investigating a string of murders, Quint.  And you’re choosing now to ask out this woman?  Have some tact and wait till it’s over.

I don’t subscribe to that line of thinking. Evangeline is a newspaper columnist who specializes in crime, while I’m a private investigator whose cases focus on the same subject.

If I had waited a few months, Evangeline might have been writing about a family annihilator, and I might have been working on a case featuring some dead teenagers.

My point is that there will always be something in our respective fields of work. Virginia’s case was just the case of the moment, and I was in no way denigrating its magnitude by trying to secure a date.

Plus, I liked the woman in front of me.  I was tired of just flirting.

“What if the information you give me is a big nothing burger?” Evangeline asked.

“Ah, you didn’t immediately say no.  I’ll take that as a good sign.  If you think it’s a nothing burger, then I promise our lunch won’t be at a burger spot.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she said.

“Ah, but you said it with a smile.  That’s the good kind of ridiculous.”

“Okay, Quint.  I’ll have lunch with you this week.”

I quickly looked at my phone to remember the day of the week.  The days were blending together.  It was Wednesday.

“How about Friday?”

“Fine.  Now, what do you have?”

I told her everything about Tate Coakley.

“This is a joke, right?” she said.

“No.”

“The guy said a phrase Virginia had used, and then he looked over his shoulder at you?”

“Yes.”

“It’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.”

“That’s not the first time I’ve been told that my theories are absurd.  And you know what?”

“What?”

“I’m usually proved right.”

“Listen, Quint.  I know you’re good at what you do.  And who knows, maybe by some miracle, you’re right.  But you used to work in the newspaper business.  You know as well as anyone that I can’t just come out and say something like this. I’d be sued from here to kingdom come.”

“I wasn’t telling you this hoping you’d publish it.  I was just keeping you in the loop.”

She seemed to relax a little bit.

“You know what I think?” she said.

“What’s that?”

“I think you made up the most outlandish thing you could, knowing it wasn’t true, and then withheld it from me until I agreed to go out on a date with you.”

“That’s more insane than my theory,” I said.  

We both took a second and smiled at each other.

“You really believe this guy is involved?” Evangeline asked.

“I don’t know if I’d go that far, but I think there’s a chance.  There’s something odd about him.  I’m telling you.”

“All right.  If you believe it, I’ll believe it.”

“So, what time on Friday?” I asked.

“I can’t believe I’m really doing this,” Evangeline said.  “How about picking me up here at one?  I can take an hour lunch, but no longer.”

“It’s strictly lunch,” I said, a glint in my eye.

“You’re insufferable.  Now get out of here.  I have work to do.”

I called Paddy and got an address for Tate Coakley.

He had come through several times on this case.  I owed him and Dennis big time.

I did my usual check of social media but found nothing on Tate.

It didn’t appear he had any accounts, or at least none I could find.

Google was a different story. I was able to find an arrest warrant issued for battery. However, there wasn’t much information about the case, so I went to the well again.

“Two calls in five minutes,” Paddy said. “This is aggressive, even by your standards.”

“I’m sorry, Paddy.”

“No problem.  What do you need?”

“Tate Coakley was arrested for battery and pled guilty less than a year ago.  Could you get me a copy of the police report?”

“Sure.  Anything else?”

“Is there anything that you and Dennis can’t get your hands on?”

“I’m sure there’s something, but I can’t think of it off the top of my head.  We’re pretty well dialed in if it’s anything in the Bay Area.”

“Impressive.”

“I’ll let you know when I secure the police report.”

“How about his juvie records, too?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

42

TATE

They don’t have any evidence against you.

Play it cool.

I had to remind myself of this several times in the hours following Quint’s unexpected visit to Costco.

When I got off work that night, I bought a camera and installed it outside my apartment.

I didn’t buy it at Costco, however.

I figured that if the heat ever did come down on me, buying a camera on the day that Quint came to Costco wouldn’t be easily explained. So I went to a Target a few blocks from my house and paid with cash.

I knew that Quint was infamous for dueling with his enemies and relentlessly going after them. Why would I be any different?

If Quint decided to pay me another unannounced visit, I’d know.

I spent the next several hours doing a deep dive on him.

I was most fascinated with how often the “bad guys” had interjected themselves in the case. The Bay Area Butcher being the most obvious.

Part of me wished he’d got the best of Quint up on the Golden Gate Bridge, but then, I wouldn’t have the chance to settle the score.

I also read of Quint avenging his father’s death while out at sea.

One is a coincidence; two is a pattern.

Maybe I’d end Quint’s life in a body of water.

To bring everything full circle and all.

43

QUINT

After reading over the police report that Paddy sent over, I concluded: Rick Reyes had probably deserved to get his ass kicked.

From what I could ascertain, he owned an apartment complex and was also a co-owner of a bail bonds company.

The apartment complex received an overall rating of 2.1 on Google Reviews, and not to be outdone, R & R Bail Bonds received a whopping 1.6.

His tenants repeatedly described him as a slumlord, and his clients who needed bonds seemed to all claim that they had been screwed over. They said he’d add unknown fees at the end and charge more than the standard ten percent. There was a laundry list of complaints against Rick Reyes.

If the Tate Coakley motive was to be believed, Reyes was also a bit of a loan shark who took advantage of those who borrowed money from him. Reyes was reprehensible in every sense of the word.

If this were a different life, maybe I’d have given Tate Coakley a fist pump for what he’d done. Not in this life, though. 

If my suspicions were correct, Tate was far worse a person than Rick Reyes—or, to be clearer, had done far worse things.

That didn’t absolve Reyes. He was still a scumbag.

“Yeah, I’m Rick Reyes.”

Three men stood in front of me, and they probably weighed 750 pounds collectively. Reyes, the man standing in the middle, was the lightest, at around 220 pounds. I couldn’t tell if the other two were bodyguards or friends—maybe both.

“I’m Quint Adler. We talked on the phone.”

“The PI we all know and love,” he said, but there was no love in how he said it.

“Why don’t your clients ever use Mr. Reyes?”

The man on the left asked me the question. It was out of left field.

“Do you mean his services as a landlord or as a bail bondsman?” I asked.

“As a bondsman.”

“My clients are usually not in jail and do not need a bondsman. But I’ll certainly keep Mr. Reyes here in mind.”

“That’s a good idea. You keep that in mind,” the guy on the right said.

These guys were so ridiculous as to be comical, which was ironic because neither gave the vibes of having a sense of humor.

Reyes put his arms to his side and slowly moved them up and down. I think he was telling his cohorts to STFU.

“You said you were here to talk about Tate Coakley. Is that correct?” Reyes asked.

“Yes.”

“I hope you’re here to tell me that little cocksucker is dead.”

“No, he’s still alive.”

“Damn,” Bozo #1 said. “And here I had my hopes up.”

“I know,” Bozo #2 said. “Me too.”

They continued to be absurd. It was easier to see them as caricatures than as real people.

“Shut up, you two,” Reyes faced me. “Then why are you here?”

“I just wanted to learn more about Mr. Coakley.”

“Are you working on a case that he’s involved in?”

“Yeah, are you working on a case that he’s involved in?” Bozo #1 asked.

It was to the point where I had to try not to laugh deliberately.

“He’s on the periphery,” I said.

“Periph a what?”

This came from Bozo #2, and I had to put my hand over my face to hide my smile.

“It means he might have something to do with the case,” Reyes said. 

He may have been a scumbag, but Rick Reyes was a borderline genius compared to the men flanking him.

“So, what’s the case?” Reyes asked.

Obviously, I wasn’t going to tell this motley crew anything relevant to the Carl Tumbler case. 

“A woman was attacked, and I’m looking into possible suspects,” I said.

“He has a history of attacking people,” Bozo #2 said with the confidence of someone making a groundbreaking statement.

“Mr. Reyes, did you know any of his friends?” I asked Reyes directly, fearful of how I’d react if the members of the sideshow act kept talking.

“That loser didn’t have any friends. He was a lone wolf. He was friends with his dad and that’s about it. He had nothing left to live for once I’d repossessed the taco truck. I’m not kidding. The guy is a loser.”

“Is that why he attacked you? Because you repossessed his father’s taco truck?”

“Yes,” Reyes nodded. “But if it weren’t that, he would have attacked someone else. I’m telling you. He’s evil. I was able to get a copy of his juvie records. He was a menace to society. And the only reason he stayed out of jail was because he worked for his father’s taco truck from eighteen to twenty-one. He should be thanking me.”

Tate sounded worse than I’d imagined. Paddy had also got his juvie records for me as well, and he had a history of arrests for fighting. 

If anyone can seem to get records of someone’s juvie record, I guess expunged didn’t quite have the meaning I’d always thought.

“Did you deal with him much before he attacked you?” I asked.

“When I was in the process of the repossession, he’d threaten me. Hang outside my work here and stare me down when I left. I should have known the attack was coming.”

“And the police said two men dragged him off you. Would that be your two friends here?”

“Yes,” they said in unison.

“You’re a pretty big guy, Mr. Reyes, yet Tate Coakley got you to the ground.”

“He ambushed Rick and sucker punched him,” Bozo #1 said. 

“It was a total ambush,” #2 added.

“They are right about that,” Reyes said. “But I think you might be subtly asking if Tate is a tough kid.”

“That’s very good,” I said. “I was.”

“Yes, he’s unquestionably a rough and tumble young man. And he’s crazy, which only makes him scarier.”

“I imagine you’re not a man who scares easily, Mr. Reyes?” 

“No, I’m not.”

“But Mr. Coakley, for the lack of a better term, put the fear of God in you?”

“He would have killed me if he could have. There’s no question about that. He had these piercing dark eyes staring down at me, and they were lifeless.”

I was reminded of a line from Jaws. My namesake, Quint, said, “You know the thing about a shark … he’s got lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll's eyes.”

“Have you seen Mr. Coakley since he attacked you?” I asked.

“Only in court. I was able to get a restraining order against him.”

“I hope he comes back,” Bozo #1 said. “He won’t get off so easy this time.”

“Now, now,” Reyes said. “Let’s not give away our whole game plan to our new friend, Quint.”

I’m not sure why exactly I’d come to see Rick Reyes. I guess to get an overall sense of Tate Coakley. Reyes had delivered on that front. I now knew what I was dealing with—a vindictive, vengeful, formidable opponent.

I handed Rick Reyes my business card. 

“If you think of anything else, give me a call,” I said.

I went home on Thursday night and debated what to do next.

Even though it wasn’t advisable, I knew what I would do: Put a little pressure on Tate Coakley and see if he cracks. 

It’s not like I could go to the police with my outlandish reason for thinking Tate was involved. I had to do this on my own.

I had his address. It was time to make my presence felt, to rock the boat, to show up at his apartment, and to see how he reacted. 

Shit was about to go down.

I also had my lunch with Evangeline the following day at one p.m. 

That gave me a whole morning to poke the bear; by the bear, I meant Tate Coakley.

I’d go see Virginia at night as well. I wasn’t family, so I wasn’t getting notified of any changes in her prognosis. 

I had hoped Alexis Tumbler would reach out if there was anything significant to report, but she’d been MIA since the night Virginia had been shot. She was probably trying to save her business. That day we spent flirting with each other felt like a lifetime ago.

So, my goal was to get closer to Tate Coakley in the a.m. Get closer to Evangeline (for entirely different reasons) in the p.m., and appear at the bedside of a woman in a coma that night.

Quite the Friday I had planned. 

44

TATE

My camera paid dividends right away. 

I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes. 

I installed the camera on Wednesday night and attached the little monitor to the inside of the front door so I could see it at any time. 

And here it was on Friday at 10:46 a.m., and Quint had parked across the street from my complex. I had to do a double take, but once I did, there was no mistaken who it was.

What did he expect to accomplish? Was he going to knock on my door? On the door of the on-site property manager? I had no idea what his next move would be.

For five minutes, he didn’t do anything. 

Then, he slowly exited the car and walked toward my apartment. 

He was going to knock. Should I answer? I didn’t know what to do.

Quint was now the one putting the pressure on me, and I didn’t like it.

He rang the doorbell. I was a mere three feet from the door and didn’t dare make a peep. I tried not to move a muscle.

Quint rang it again. I stood as still as a statue but couldn’t look away from my new nemesis on the monitor.

This time, he knocked. That old familiar refrain: “Da dada da da, da da.”

Did he think this was a joke? Why knock like that? Did he know something I didn’t?

“Hello, Tate,” he said from the other side of the door, shocking me.

How could he know I was there? I hadn’t made a sound!

I continued to watch the monitor with fascination, reminding myself not to move.

“I guess we’ll have to catch up with each other later,” Quint said and then waved at the tiny camera I’d installed. 

Then, mercifully, he started walking back to his car.

I should have been mortified. I should have been thinking about getting the fuck out of the Bay Area.

Instead, I was enthralled.

The stakes had been raised.

Game on, Quint.

45

QUINT

As I approached Tate’s apartment, I saw a camera peering down at me. 

It wasn’t very welcoming.

I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d installed that since seeing me at Costco.

I pressed the doorbell first and was almost positive I heard the slightest noise coming from the other side of the door.

I listened intently but didn’t hear the noise again.

It didn’t matter. I’m not one who generally believes in feeling one’s energy, but this was different. I felt Tate on the other side of the door.

I rang the doorbell a second time, knocked on the door once, and even called out his name twice, but he didn’t answer.

I knew he was there, though. 

This certainly wasn’t the right time to break into his apartment. That was his turf, and he may have a few guns lying around.

I’d pick a better time and place, but we’d be seeing each other again. 

There was no doubt about that.

I went home and got ready for lunch with Evangeline. I could have considered it a date, but that would have put added pressure on me, so I preferred to treat it as just lunch with a friend. 

A very talented, beautiful friend.

I picked her up a few minutes before one at the entrance to the East Bay Times.

She looked beautiful, which was like saying water was wet. Evangeline could wear a tiger-striped onesie with Crocs and still look great.

“So this is really happening?” she said as she stepped into my car.

“Just two friends having lunch,” I said. “Nothing to see here.”

She laughed, and I figured I was off to a good start.

Rooftop Restaurant and Bar was a vibrant restaurant in the middle of downtown Walnut Creek.

I’m not sure if its cuisine would earn any Michelin stars, but it was definitely solid, and the views were fantastic. It was on the third story of a huge structure and open-aired with views of downtown Walnut Creek and Mt. Diablo, the highest mountaintop in the Bay Area.

While it was open-aired, they’d built a roof to protect you from the elements. That meant the blistering sun in summer, but in December, that meant the cold. We were creeping closer to Christmas every day, and I needed to talk to my mother and see what she had planned. I hadn’t been the best son lately.

“Have you eaten here before?” I asked Evangeline.

“I sure have. We’ve had many a few work meetings at Rooftop.”

“Perfect. I’m glad I chose a place you know like the back of your hand,” I said playfully. 

“Oh, stop. If this ever graduates to a dinner date, you can take me somewhere I’ve never been.”

“Now you’re talking.”

Our waitress came over and gave us each a menu. 

“Have you guys been to The Rooftop before?” she asked.

“This is her five hundredth visit,” I said.

The waitress looked at me, trying to get a read.

“He’s kidding,” Evangeline said. “Calm down, Quint.”

The waitress’s eyes quickly moved toward me. I have a feeling she’d recognized my name.

“Can I get you guys started with a cocktail?”

“Only if you promise to go back and work for me after lunch,” Evangeline said, and the waitress laughed.

“No drinks for you either, sir?”

“Not today, thanks.”

“Okay, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

She walked away.

“Wouldn’t it be great to be on an exotic island right now?” Evangeline said. “No work. No deadlines. No pressure.” 

“All I heard is that you want to go to the Bahamas with me.”

“Have you been?” she asked.

“Yeah, five hundred times. Every time you go to The Rooftop, I go to the Bahamas.”

She tried not to laugh but couldn’t hold it in.

“You can be a funny guy, Quint.”

“Thanks. I’m probably trying to compensate for all the death I’ve had to deal with lately.”

“Tell me about it. My boss wants me to write about that DUI case where the guy hit three people in the crosswalk. Did you hear about that?”

“I did. Let’s make a deal,” I said.

“Sure. What is it?” 

“No work talk for the remainder of the lunch.”

On the drive over, I told her about my visit to Tate’s apartment. There wasn’t much more to discuss for now.

“That sounds perfect. What shall we talk about?” Evangeline asked.

“Your dating life.”

I expected Evangeline to say talking about work would be preferable, but she surprised me.

“What do you want to know?”

“Why a beautiful woman like yourself is still single?”

“I’ll answer that. And then after that, I’ll ask you the same question.”

“But you’ll replace beautiful woman with handsome man, right?”

Evangeline blushed. “But of course.”

“So, let’s hear it,” I said.

“I was in a relationship for a long time. He worked in real estate, was successful, and everyone thought we made the perfect couple.”

“Thought …”

“I’m not going to badmouth him. He was a nice man and treated me nicely, but I eventually grew bored with him. I know that’s a terrible thing to say.”

“You said nice two times in three seconds. He might be more offended by that. No one likes to be described as nice. Especially men.”

“You’d make a tough marriage counselor.”

“Just calling it like I see it. How long were you two together?”

“About eight years. It was too long, but you have to understand something.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’ve always been married to my job. The newspaper business was my first love, well before boys.”

“Tell me more,” I said.

“I’d watch these old movies. All the President’s Men. Network. Broadcast News. Any movie that featured a newsroom or a newspaper. I loved it and knew that’s what I wanted to do with my life.”

“That’s refreshing. So few people have a love for their occupation these days.”

“You didn’t love working for The Walnut Creek Times?”

“I enjoyed it, but I think I took the job because I was a journalism major in college, and it was the thing I was expected to do. It’s certainly not because I watched All the President’s Men…”

“Five hundred times,” she interrupted. 

I laughed. “Exactly.”

“Just so we can put a bow on this part of the conversation, we broke up about a year ago, and I haven’t been looking since.”

“Until you got blown away by my charisma?”

The waitress came over and asked for our orders. I’d have preferred to hear Evangeline’s answer my question, but once your orders were taken, the waitress sauntered to another table.

“Yes, your charisma overwhelmed me,” Evangeline said. “It was all-consuming.”

I laughed. “You can be as sarcastic as me.”

“I sure can. Your turn, by the way.”

“What? Why am I single?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I had an off-and-on relationship with one woman for about the same time that you dated the nice guy. We were never quite right for each other, though. We could have a good six weeks but never a good six months. Besides that, I’ve had some flings, but nothing serious.”

“Flings?”

“Yeah, I knew that sounded bad. Trust me, I’m not a dog. I prefer being with one woman. I’ve had very few flings. Less than five hundred, for sure.”

The five hundred joke had probably worn out its welcome, but we were still getting a kick out of it.

“Haha,” Evangeline said.

“I didn’t know you could actually say haha. I thought it could only be texted.”

“You can say, haha, but if you say lol, you belong in a psych ward.”

“Lol,” I said.

Evangeline playfully grabbed my arm.

This was going well.

The food itself was solid, and we got along famously. 

Do people still use that phrase?

We flirted, ate, and, most importantly, enjoyed each other’s company. I really like Evangeline. It had been a while since I could say that about a woman.

She tried to split the bill, but I told her it had been my idea and I was paying for lunch. She begrudgingly relented.

We took the elevator down to the ground floor. We walked into the brisk December air.

I waned to grab her hand but thought it might be too soon. We’d had a great lunch, so I told myself not to push it.

She looked over at me.

“What is it?”

“You graduated,” she said.

“Okay. And what does that mean exactly?”

“You were a gentleman. You were funny. You were conversant. And because of that, you’ve graduated, and our next date will be a dinner.”

Ignoring my earlier advice, I grabbed her hand this time, and she happily accepted it.

“I’d love to take you out to dinner,” I said.

I was unbelievably happy in that moment. Probably the happiest I’d been in months.

“Quint, is that you?”

I heard the voice before I saw who it was, and when I saw who it was, my heart sank.

“It’s me. Tate. The guy from Costco.”

46

TATE

Quint didn’t head directly to his car when he walked away from my apartment.

Instead, he loitered around the front of the complex, looking lost.

That’s when I knew I had my chance. The back door to my apartment led into a communal garden, and Quint wouldn’t see me leave from there. I could walk down to my car, which was always parked on the street. 

This wasn’t some fancy apartment with underground parking. Leave that for the San Ramon and Danville types. Actually, fuck that. They usually owned houses.

I ducked out my back door, left through the garden, and walked away from the apartment complex and toward my car. Luckily, I was a block down and had a good view of Quint’s car. 

Less than ten minutes later, he headed back to it. I imagine he had just walked around the apartment complex to get a feel for it, or maybe he’d been waiting for me to leave my apartment. 

Quint started up his car and slowly drove away. 

I followed him, keeping my distance. I don’t think he saw me. 

He drove to a complex called The Waymark and entered an underground parking garage. Of course, he had fucking underground parking!

I waited outside.

An hour later, I saw him leaving once again. I ducked down as he approached my car.

I popped up five seconds later and did a quick U-turn. 

I started following him again. 

Three minutes later, he pulled up in front of the East Bay Times. 

And soon after that, none other than Evangeline Stephens was walking toward his car.

I’m not sure I’d hated anyone more than I hated Quint Adler in that moment.

Evangeline Stephens had been the apple of my eye since I’d started reading her articles. She was brilliant. Her articles were to the point and expertly written. She was also gorgeous. 

And now she was hanging out with this fucking loser?

I’d increased her exposure—and readership—by sending Virginia’s text to her. I’d made her a star. Everyone in the Bay Area was now reading Evangeline Stephens, all because of me.

And she’d gone behind my back. If it had been anyone else, I probably could have lived with it. 

But not Quint. Not the guy at my apartment complex taunting me earlier that morning. 

I was now dead set on ruining his life.

Or maybe ending it.

And if she got in the middle, oh well. 

She deserved it, too.

Disloyal bitch.

I followed them to a parking spot and saw them enter a three-story building. 

A minute later, I approached. There was some small, casual pizza place on the bottom, and they weren’t there. A sign notified me that Teleferic Barcelona was on the second story and Rooftop was on the third.

I knew I should turn around, return to my car, and head home, but I also knew I wasn’t going to do that. 

I was in what athletes refer to as “being in the zone.” Only my zone wasn’t one that people strived for. Mine was more like being stuck in a dryer, thrown against the sides, and unable to escape. 

All my mind could think about was Quint and Evangeline together. Their presence took over my every thought, and if I tried to direct my thoughts in a different direction, I was unsuccessful. I returned to thinking of them together.

So, you see, I couldn’t just leave. My body—and mind—wouldn’t let me.

I ordered a slice of pizza and lingered until I saw my two enemies walk out, which they did a little less than an hour later.

Approaching the two of them was the wrong thing to do.

Just like I knew beating up Rick Reyes was wrong. And all those times I’d attacked people when I was still a juvenile. 

But knowing it’s wrong insinuates that I have a choice. When I get stuck in that proverbial dryer, I just can’t get the hell out.

When Quint and Evangeline got out on the street, I ducked into an alley and ran about a hundred yards ahead. I returned to the main street and started doubling back in their direction. I wanted this to look random, even though I’m sure they wouldn’t believe it.

There I go again. Even though. I can’t stop using that phrase.

As they approached, I walked directly toward Quint. There’s no way he could miss me.

They were twenty feet from me. Fifteen. Ten.

It was now or never.

“Quint, is that you?” I asked. “It’s me. Tate. The guy from Costco,” I said.

When he lifted his head, his face looked like it had seen a ghost. Even Evangeline appeared shocked. 

Had he fucking told her about me?

“Tate, yes. Sorry, I forgot your name.”

That was bullshit.

“Good thing you didn’t forget my address.”

I couldn’t hold back. Not to this asshole. Not with Evangeline watching.

Quint didn’t know what to say. I’d stumped the big, bad PI.

“There’s a little alley right up there, Tate,” he said. “Why don’t we step in there so we don’t block all this pedestrian traffic.”

“If that suits you,” I said.

Quint walked up twenty feet and took a left in an alley. Evangeline followed him. And she was followed by me. We were all alone in the narrow alley.

“It’s good to see you, Tate. How’s Costco?”

“Don’t change the fucking subject. I was asking you about my address.”

“Your address?” Quint said, trying to play dumb. 

“Yeah, the fucking place you were at this morning.”

Evangeline was frozen in fear. Good. Fuck that bitch.

A friend of my enemy is my enemy. And she was friends with Quint. Or, God forbid, something more substantial than friends.

I turned to face Evangeline. “While Quint tries to come up with another lie, let me introduce myself. My name is Tate.”

I extended my hand to her. She shook it. A dead fish handshake if there’d ever been one.

“Evangeline,” she said.

“Oh wait, are you that woman who has been writing about the Carl Tumbler case? Your articles are soooooo good.”

I pronounced “so" for a solid three seconds. 

Quint jumped in.

“Why don’t you talk to me, Tate? You don’t need to include her.”

“Are you protecting her? Is she your girlfriend?”

“We are friends. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Evangeline is an excellent journalist. I’m sure she can fend for herself. And by the way, Quint. I went back and read some of your old articles. You were downright shitty. I hope you’re a better PI than you were a journalist. Then again, I was able to spot you in front of my apartment today, so I guess you can’t be that good.”

“If I really was there, then why didn’t you respond to me calling your name?”

“Hard pass from me. That’s my apartment. Not your place. I don’t react well to trespassers. I could have shot you and been within my rights.”

“I wasn’t in your apartment. You can’t just shoot someone who comes to knock on your door.”

“Well, you could. You just might have to deal with some repercussions. And maybe I’d decide that the act itself was worth the repercussions.”

“What is wrong with you?” Evangeline asked.

“Quint and I are having a big boy conversation,” I said. “Maybe you should just shut up and listen.”

Quint moved toward me, and Evangeline quickly put her hand between us.

“No, Quint,” she said. “It’s not worth it.”

I decided to use my patented stare, but Quint wouldn’t look away. Neither of us blinked for a solid twenty seconds until I couldn’t hold out any longer. I blinked first.

“Amateur hour,” Quint said.

I wanted to kill him then and there. I was so embarrassed. He’d beat me at my own game.

I needed to focus. This wasn’t going the way I’d envisioned it.

“No, amateur hour is being seen when you don’t want to be,” I said.

“I called out your name. What part of that suggests I didn’t want to be seen or heard?”

Fuck.

I didn’t have a good response to that.

“What are you doing here, Tate?” Quint asked.

“I was just walking through Walnut Creek and ran into you. All very random.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe that.”

“I’ll recover from you not believing me. It might take years of therapy, but I’ll get through it.”

“No offense, Tate, but you don’t seem like the type who would make a breakthrough with therapy. Did you have to go to therapy after you attacked Rick Reyes? How about all those people you beat up when you were still a juvenile?”

What the fuck!

Those records were supposed to be sealed and or expunged. 

I didn’t like what was going on. Not one bit. 

Quint had the upper hand, and I couldn’t get my feet planted. I was on the defensive the whole time.

“Cat got your tongue?” Quint asked. “Listen, I’m about to get out of here, but just know, I’ll be watching you. I know you’re involved with all these murders. I know you were friends with Carl Tumbler. I know you guys talked a lot. Were these done at his request? No, I don’t think so. Carl loved his wife. He’d never have you hurt her. In fact, he loved his friends too. Jesse, Vic, and Loretta. He wouldn’t have had you hurt them, either. He had love in his heart, something I don’t think you possess. Was your daddy not nice enough to you?”

If I had a gun on me, I’d have shot him dead on the spot. No questions asked.

“If you mention my father again, I will kill you,” I yelled.

“Is that what Carl did? Badmouth your father? I can tell you take grudges quite seriously. I saw the pictures of Mr. Reyes after you ambushed him.”

“You don’t know anything,” I said.

“Really?” Quint said sarcastically. “It seems like I know a whole lot. And I’m only going to learn more. Next time I knock on that door of yours, there’s going to be some police with me, arresting you for murder.”

“I didn’t murder anyone.”

Quint laughed. “Yeah, you did. Only, you didn’t finish the job with Virginia. And when she wakes up, she’s going to identify you as her shooter, and you’ll spend the rest of your life in jail. That will be glorious.”

I couldn’t think straight. If this were a boxing match, the ref would have called it.

“Let’s go, Evangeline,” Quint said. “I’ll be seeing you around, Tate.”

They walked down the alley and out into the bustling street.

I couldn’t even come up with a parting shot.

Quint had completely embarrassed and emasculated me. 

And it was in front of Evangeline. 

I’d never hated a man more. Not Rick Reyes. Not Carl Tumbler.

No one.

47

QUINT

Iwas shaken by the confrontation with Tate Coakley.

I think, all things considered, I’d dominated our verbal sparring, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t alarmed by what had happened.

I had no evidence linking Tate to any of the crimes, but after that outburst, I had no doubt he was involved.

Could I prove it in a court of law?

Hell no.

But did I think there was better than a fifty percent chance that Tate either committed the murders or had a hand in them?

Hell yes.

Evangeline took it much worse than I did. As we walked back to my car, she said nothing.

Finally, once we were in the safety of my car, she spoke.

“Something is seriously wrong with that guy.”

“I know. I’m sorry you had to be there for that.”

“You were amazing,” she said. “I didn’t know you had that in you.”

“I’m not sure I’ve ever quite done that before.”

“He probably wants to kill you now.”

“I have no doubt about that. And I’m beyond convinced that Tate had something to do with the murders."

“I’m starting to think you might be right. He was nuts. Why would he think it was a good thing to confront you?”

“Because he’s freaking crazy. His mind doesn’t work like yours or mine.”

“Did you mean everything you said to him?”

“Like what?”

“Like that, maybe Carl pissed him off, and he was exacting revenge?”

“Yes, I think that’s a possibility.”

“What happened to Carl having a role in these murders? Didn’t you used to believe that was a possibility?”

“I’d had so many people tell me Carl was a great guy that I started to think it couldn’t be true. Now I’m starting to think everyone was telling the truth.”

“Constantin Pappas thought he might be behind this.”

“Constantin was scared, and being scared makes you act in a way you otherwise wouldn’t. The one thing tying him, Jesse, and Vic together was business deals with Carl. So, his mind led him in that direction, leading him to think Carl was seeking revenge. It wasn’t a crazy theory. It did make some sense. The problem is that no one seems to think Carl was hung up on the lost business opportunity. Virginia has repeatedly told me that Carl couldn’t care less about money.”

“Something had to set Tate off. You don’t just kill a co-worker for no reason.”

“You’re right about that, but like I said earlier, he’s so high-strung that it could have been something trivial to me or you.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, like he embarrassed Tate at work.”

“Would that be enough to start killing people?”

“You saw the look he gave me after I’d just embarrassed him.”

“True. He wanted to kill you.”

“Maybe he was going to fire Tate?”

“I mean, that’s at least in the ballpark of believability. But then, why kill his friends?”

“I don’t know, Evangeline, but I’ll bet if Tate were behind these, it wouldn’t be some motive that makes a lot of sense.”

“Wow. This is a lot to take in,” Evangeline said.

I pulled up to the front of the East Bay Times.

“So, what did you think of our first date?” I asked. “I tried to pull out all the stops.”

She started laughing. “You really do try to bring levity to serious situations.”

“It’s how I cope,” I said.

“Could you do me a favor tonight, Quint?”

“Anything.”

“Could you follow me home? This Tate guy has me creeped out.”

“Of course. What time do you get off?”

“Six.”

“I’ll be here.”

“Thank you.”

She leaned over and gave me a two-second kiss on the lips.

“Thanks for a memorable first date,” she said.

Before I could respond, she was out the door and walking to her office.

48

TATE

I’m a fucking idiot.

What the hell was I thinking? 

I’d committed the perfect murders and could have just gone on living my life. 

But no, I had to go and confront the most famous private investigator in the Bay Area and bring even more unwanted attention to me.

I could feel my sanity slipping ever so slightly. 

All I could think about was getting revenge on Quint. On Evangeline. And maybe even getting my complete revenge on Rick Reyes.

I was falling apart, and I’m not sure I could put myself back together.

I was becoming Humpty Dumpty, and I didn’t like it.

I looked at my SSDI meds and realized I hadn’t taken them in a few days. Could that be the cause? Maybe. But they put me in a partial haze, and I couldn’t be dealing with that right now.

I had to try and focus.

49

QUINT

As soon as I saw Evangeline safely enter her office, I called Paddy Roark.

“Hello, Quint.”

“Didn’t you say you had a guy with an Italian name who could help me out?”

“Yeah. Chazz Anthony Di Bianco.”

“How about I just call him Chazz?”

Paddy laughed.

“That would be fine."

“I’ve got a job for Chazz.”

“What is it?”

“He can take care of himself, right?”

“You don’t want to fuck with Chazz,” he said.

“Okay, great. Here’s what I have in mind."

I told Paddy my plan.

In what was already a whirlwind of a day, there was something else I needed to do.

I headed south on Highway 680.

Fifteen minutes later, I was pulling into the San Ramon Police Station.

There was a younger male officer behind the front desk.

“Is Detective Schilling here?” I asked.

“He is. May I ask your name?”

“Quint Adler.”

“Give me a second.”

A minute later, Detective Schilling walked in from the back.

“Hello, Quint. How can I help you?”

“Can I have two minutes?”

“Our position hasn’t changed on Carl and Virginia Tumbler.”

“I know. It’s only two minutes.”

“All right, follow me.”

I went back to his office and explained everything I knew about Tate Coakley. I told him about his use of the phrase ‘even though,’ his creepy vibe, and how he’d confronted Evangeline and me less than an hour ago.

He listened, and while I’m not sure he believed me, he was cordial and didn’t interrupt.

“Is that it?” he said once I’d finished.

“Yes. I know it’s not much, but trust me, I’ve got a feeling this guy is neck-deep into this.”

Generally, cops don’t like the phrase, ‘I have a feeling.’ They wanted evidence, not notions, inklings, or hunches.

“I’ll take this under advisement. Thanks for coming in, Quint.”

He stayed in his office, and I walked toward the exit. 

The young officer stopped me before I got to the door.

“I grew up with Ronnie Fisk,” he said.

Ronnie Fisk had been a young kid who’d gone missing from Berkeley twenty years ago. I took the case of trying to find out what happened to him. It led me to Leonard Rolle, a serial killer who’d gone on killing all those years since. It was one of the most rewarding cases I’d undertaken.

The officer and I spent a good ten minutes talking about the extended Fisk family. He said he still talks to them, and they are doing well. Finding out who had killed Ronnie had allowed them to move on with their lives.

“Thank you so much,” I said. “You don’t know how much that means.” 

As I said that, Schilling and two other cops walked out from the back. I was shielded by the officer I’d been talking to, and they couldn’t see me.

“What time you coming back, Walters?”

“Probably about three, even though I’d much rather just go home. How about you, Pendergast?”

“I’d like to go home, too, even though my wife’s cooking leaves something to be desired.”

And then I heard Schilling.

“You guys should stop this, even though it’s cracking me up.”

The three officers lost it and laughed uncontrollably. 

I stepped out from behind the other officer, and they stared at me in stunned silence.

And then I said something I never suggest you say to a room full of police officers —or anyone else for that matter.

“Fuck you, guys!”

50

TATE

It was time to go underground.

To live off the grid for a bit. 

I’d been so excited to get my own apartment, but it had now been infected. Quint had been on my porch. He’d pressed my doorbell and knocked on my door.

Most importantly, he knew where I lived. After my actions with him and Evangeline, that snake might have gone to the police. And I didn’t really feel like answering questions from any pigs right now.

I thought back to right before I killed Carl. He said something like, “You haven’t done anything illegal yet.”

He had been right. I could have left his house and lived happily ever after. 

Not anymore.

I’d committed some serious crimes, and the walls of justice were closing in on me. The thing is, I wasn’t scared. I’d never been long for this world. If my time were coming, I’d be okay with that.

That doesn’t mean I was going to take things sitting down. I still wanted to take out a few of my enemies before departing this wretched world.

Maybe I was just having one of my episodes, and I’d feel better in a day or two. It’s possible. But something had changed. I now view my time on Earth as a finite thing.

And I can assure you of one thing: I was not going to spend the rest of my time in prison. No, thank you. I had enough visits to juvenile hall, and that’s nothing compared to prison.

I started to make some final plans.

I knew in my heart this wouldn’t end well for me.

But I can guarantee one other thing: It wouldn’t end well for my adversaries either.

51

QUINT

Iwas waiting outside of the East Bay Times office by 5:45.

I figured it was better to be early, so I texted Evangeline and told her I was outside whenever she was ready.

A few minutes before six, she was walking to my car. I rolled down the window.

“Hey. Thanks for doing this,” she said.

“Of course.”

“I’ve got a black Chevy Malibu that’s about five years old. I’ll pull up next to you in about five minutes. And I’ll text you my address just in case you get stuck at a light or something.”

“I won’t lose sight of you, Verstappen.”

“What?”

She had no idea what I was talking about, so I decided that Formula 1 driver references were probably unwise going forward.

“I won’t lose sight of you,” I said more succinctly this time.

“Okay, great.”

I followed her home. It was ominously dark for only six p.m. I reminded myself that we were only six days from Christmas. While winter didn’t officially begin until December 21st, both the temperature and the dark nights made me feel like it was already here.

Evangeline was no Max Verstappen.

She drove slowly and ensured I was behind her at every step. 

We arrived at her place ten minutes later. 

It looked like a cute little cottage house, and I’m sure it was beautiful in the sunlight. She parked in the driveway, and I remained in the street.

“There’s something I want to ask you. Why don’t you park right up there?” she pointed toward some street parking.

I parked, and Evangeline was mere feet from me when I got out.

She put her arm on my shoulder.

“Do you want to spend the night?” she asked.

“Like, as a bodyguard?”

“No, not as a bodyguard.”

I would only ask her once, but I had to ask. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Don’t make me change my mind,” she said.

“I’d love to stay the night.”

She kissed me briefly on the lips and led me toward her front door. 

52

TATE

Ileft my apartment for the final time that afternoon.

I decided to leave a few things behind. 

I left Carl’s sleeve at my apartment. It would show what a reprehensible human being he was. People would have no choice but to side with me and understand why I did what I did.

I also left my meds behind. 

What was the point anymore?

All they had done over the years was delay the inevitable.

But now, the inevitable was here. 

If I were leaving this world sometime soon, I would be leaving just as God had brought me in.

Of clear mind and body.

I also amused myself by making a piece of art and leaving it on my front door. 

I don’t know why I found out so funny, but I couldn’t stop laughing as I left for that final time. 

I was acting a little cuckoo. 

I did take one thing with me—my Glock 19.

When I killed the Jacobs, I made sure I bought a gun on the underground market that they couldn’t trace back to me. 

I was no longer concerned with such trivialities. 

I wanted them to know it was me.

There was a truck stop about twenty minutes out of town.

That would suffice for the night.

After tomorrow, I was going to be a wanted man, and I’d have to come up with a better hiding place.

I couldn’t wait for what was to come.

53

QUINT

Evangeline and I slept together that night.

It was a lot closer to making love than it was to banging, hooking up, or whatever the kids call it these days.

It was the opposite of a wham bam, thank you, ma’am.

We explored each other’s bodies and all those other phrases that usually made me want to puke. And yet, they fit for the two of us.

Safe to say, we enjoyed each other’s company.

The following morning at eight-thirty, Evangeline had just poured me a cup of coffee when I received a call from Chazz.

When Paddy connected me with Chazz, I gave him a thorough summary of the case. 

And then I asked for two favors. I’d given him Tate Coakley’s address and asked if he could keep an eye on the man. Second, and maybe more importantly, I asked him to put a GPS tracker on Tate’s car if he could locate it.

After his outburst at me and Evangeline, I wanted to know if Tate was ever on his way back into Walnut Creek. Partly for myself but more so for Evangeline. I was worried. Tate seemed infatuated with her, and that’s the last guy in the world you want to have a thing for you.

“I’ve found something you’re going to want to see,” Chazz said.

“That didn’t take long. You already find Tate’s car?”

“No, I couldn’t locate that yet.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m outside of his apartment.”

I was reminded that Tate said he should have shot me outside of his apartment and lived with the consequences.

I wasn’t in a rush to get back there and let him deliver on his promise.

“I told you when we talked yesterday, Chazz. Don’t get too close to his apartment. He might do something crazy.”

“This isn’t my first rodeo, Quint. And call it a sixth sense, but I don’t think he’s coming back here. I think you should come and see what I found.”

“Fine. I’ll be there in thirty.”

I hung up, and Evangeline walked over.

“You have to go?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“To Tate Coakley’s apartment.”

“You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

“You remember what he said about shooting you.”

“I know. But my guy there said he thinks Tate is gone for good.”

“Hmmm. If he’s going mobile, that just makes him more dangerous.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Listen, I have to head to Antioch, but I’ll be safe. And I’m going to follow you to work first. No need to debate it because I’m doing it regardless.”

“I’m fine with it. After all, I asked you to follow me home last night.”

“That’s just because you wanted to invite me in.”

She laughed, pushed my shoulder, and leaned in for a kiss, which I obliged.

“You’re too much,” she said.

“How long do you think you’ll be? Take your time, but I’m going to tell my guy I’ll be a little later.”

“I’ll be ready in twenty,” she said.

“Okay. Great.”

“And, Quint.”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks for making sure I get to work safely. I like having you look after me.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Okay, I’m going to go get ready.”

It was an unusual situation. We’d had sex, and everything should have changed, but we were pretty ho-hum about it. I think we both realized that there was a lunatic out there, and we needed to keep our wits about us.

Acting all lovey dove would have felt odd.

I followed Evangeline back to the East Bay Times, and once she walked through the front door, I headed to Antioch.

By the time I’d dropped her off and sat in traffic longer than expected, I was pretty late. It was 10:15.

Chazz met me on the street outside of Tate’s apartment complex. Paddy had sent me a picture, so I knew what he looked like. 

We shook hands.

I imagined him as 6’4” and 250 pounds, the Italian equivalent of Constantin Pappas.

But he was more like 6’1” and 200 pounds. Big, but not overly intimidating.

“Nice to officially meet you,” I said.

“You as well.”

“You come highly recommended by Paddy and Dennis.”

“As do you,” he said.

Usually, I’d want to know how someone in his position had come to work for the biggest bookie in the Bay Area, but I’d come to learn that tactfulness was usually the better path. 

There had been only a few times I’d seen Paddy of Dennis angry, and it had usually involved me asking one too many questions about their employees.

Chazz had come highly recommended, and that’s all that mattered. I trusted their judgment implicitly. 

“So, what am I here for?” I asked.

“Walk with me,” he said.

“And you’re sure he’s not here?” 

“I’m sure,” he said, with the confidence I wanted to hear from someone I’d put a lot of trust in.

We headed toward Tate’s apartment, and as we neared, I could see that his front door was no longer the same boring beige color it had been. Instead, it had a collage of pictures plastered all over it.

When I finally saw the pictures, I knew why Chazz had me come out here.

The collage comprised approximately thirty pictures, all in black and white. Every single image was of yours truly. It looks like they’d been uploaded from the internet and printed on a subpar printer. They were grainy and muddled. The pixels were way off, giving all the pictures an eerie feeling.

No, eerie wasn’t a strong enough word to use. It was unnerving. Sinister.

And then, my eyes reached the banner at the top of the collage. 

The following was in big, bold black letters: “RIP, Quint Adler. 1980-2024.”

Yes, I knew it was just Tate trying to get a rise out of me. But it was still disconcerting seeing the year of your death, especially from someone who would delight in making it come true. 

I didn’t want to look at it any longer. Thirty seconds had been ample.

“Let’s go back to our cars,” I said. “I’ve seen enough of this shit.”

Before I left, I took a few pictures of it for safekeeping. 

“Why are you so sure he’s not coming back?” I asked Chazz once we were back to the relative safety of the street.

“When I saw what he did to the front door, I got a gut feeling that it was him saying goodbye. You don’t put something like that up and return like nothing has happened. He’s gone. I’m sure of it.”

“That’s not exactly foolproof evidence, but I respect your opinion. I go with my gut all the time. Is there anything else?”

“Yes. I called Costco about twenty minutes ago. If I’m tailing someone, I like to get a feel for where they are. It leaves less for chance. I asked if Tate Coakley was working today. The woman said no but seemed rather frantic when I dropped his name. I tried to probe further, but she wouldn’t give any more information, and quickly got off the phone. If I had to guess, something happened this morning. Her uneasiness was palpable. This wasn’t something that happened a day or two ago.”

Chazz had gone above and beyond what I’d expected. I had told him that Tate worked at Costco, but I didn’t expect this amount of diligence. Paddy had been right about this guy.

“Great work. I’m going to Costco to see what I can find out.”

“Do you want me to stay here?”

“Yeah, for a few more hours. Make sure Tate doesn’t return. And if he does, find a way to put the GPS on his car.”

“Will do.”

I arrived at the Costco in Danville.

It was early enough that I figured there was a good chance Bryan with a y was there. He’d made clear that he worked earlier shifts while Carl and Tate had often overlapped on later shifts.

I flagged down an employee and asked if Bryan was working today. She nodded and pointed me in his direction. 

When he saw me approach, Bryan was dealing with an employee in the middle of the warehouse. 

He quickly left the employee and almost ran in my direction.

“I bet I know why you’re here. You know he asked me about you?”

“Tate?”

“Yes, of course.”

“What did he ask?”

“After the last time we talked, he came up to me and asked if you were inquiring about him.”

This didn’t surprise me in the slightest. “What did he do today?” 

“What did he do before today?”

“You should ask the cops that.”

“I did. They were here about twenty minutes ago but gave me the old runaround.”

“What happened?” I asked a second time.

“He attacked two of our employees. Punched one of them out. Totally unprovoked. And then, just like that, he left the warehouse and, I’m guessing, drove the hell out of here.”

“Did you see it?”

“Someone called my office, and as I walked over, I passed Tate, who was headed toward the exit.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Cleanup on aisle paper towels.”

“He was referring to the guy he’d punched?”

“Yes. What an asshole.”

“Is there anything else?” I asked.

“That’s not enough.”

I shrugged.

“Good point.”

“I guess there is something I’d like to get off my chest,” Bryan said.

“Let’s hear it.”

“First off, let me say that I never liked Tate. I couldn’t just come out and tell you that because he was still employed here. But now that he’ll never be back, I can reveal that he was quite unpopular. I would have fired him long ago, but Carl was my superior, and he chose to keep him on. In fact, before Carl left to deal with his cancer at home, he asked me not to fire Tate. I felt he was scared of how Tate would react to being fired. Once Carl died, I probably could have approached upper management and requested that Tate be fired, but honestly, I felt the same way Carl did. I was afraid of how Tate would handle being fired. It’s like the old phrase, ‘Keep your enemies closer … ‘”

Bryan butchered that phrase.

I would have gone with a different phrase. 

Better the devil you know …

They’d rather deal with work Tate. That devil they could control. Who knows what he’d become if they fired him?

“I don’t blame you for keeping him on,” I said instead.

“Well, we don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

Maybe not you, Bryan.

The rest of us most certainly do.

54

TATE

Iwas spiraling out of control.

Happily. Joyfully.

Wasn’t that a song? I don’t know. I wasn’t being logical at all.

My whole life had been a grind, and now it would soon be grinding to a halt.

And I was okay with that.

My visit to Costco hadn’t gone as planned.

I looked like a nut, yelling at several of my former co-workers.

I didn’t even really hate some of them all that much.

But one got in my face, and I had to put him in his place.

I left Costco disappointed in myself.

It had been unnecessary.

I drove from Costco back to Concord.

I wasn’t going to be disappointed after I completed this mission. This one was necessary. This one was pure. This one had been coming for a long time.

I stared at the front of Rick Reyes’s office.

55

QUINT

Leaving Costco, I knew there was something I had to do.

I hated that it had to be done.

The last time I’d seen Detective Schilling, he’d acted like an unprofessional asshole. It was probably a fireable offense. You can’t mock private citizens who provide you with information.

Not that I was going to raise a fuss about it. I’d dealt with far worse.

And while I didn’t want to deal with the douchebag, if Tate was out there, genuinely being a menace to society, the police had a right to know.

Schilling had given me a business card during an earlier visit. 

I texted him the picture of Tate’s door and the following message.

“Tate Coakley just went off on his employees at the Danville Costco, including punching one of them out. This guy is a menace to society, and you really should look into him. He seems to have a thing for me as well.”

Less than a minute later, I got a phone call from Schilling.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Quint. First off, let me apologize. I acted wholly unprofessionally, and I am truly sorry. It’s unforgivable what me and my fellow officers did.”

This was no time to hold a grudge. 

“Apology accepted,” I said.

“And you may have been right about Tate Coakley.”

“You heard about Costco?”

Danville and San Ramon were right beside each other, so it would make sense that he’d already heard about it.

“Yes, I heard about that, but I’m talking about something far worse.”

“What?”

“Can you come by the office right now?”

“I’ll be there in less than ten minutes.”

The same officer who grew up with Ronnie Fisk was at the front desk. 

I said a quick hello to him. 

I also saw the two other officers who had mocked me. They both gave me a slight bow of their heads and said sorry. Detective Schilling walked out from the back.

“Quint, why don’t you come back here.”

I was led to a conference room, and the two other officers joined us.

“Do you know the name Rick Reyes?” Schilling asked.

“Yes. I met with him when I became suspicious of Tate Coakley.”

Schilling raised his head, surprised by that news. I noticed the other two officers catch a glimpse of each other. They seemed impressed by how in touch I was with this case.

“Well, he was shot and killed about forty-five minutes ago. Along with two co-workers, who doubled as bodyguards for him.”

Assuming it was the same men I’d made fun of, I suddenly felt very sad about their deaths. Even Rick Reyes, who was a Grade-A jerk, didn’t deserve to die like that.

“And you suspect Tate Coakley?” I asked the obvious.

“He attacked Rick Reyes in the past and certainly has a motive.”

“Are you actively looking for Tate?”

“Yes. Some officers were sent to his place of residence as soon as we got news of Reyes.”

“Antioch police?”

“Yes, but we are all coordinating at this point. Antioch, Concord, San Ramon, and Danville.”

If only Chazz had put the GPS on Tate’s car, we could have read Tate’s location, and this would all would have been over soon. Instead, he was out there terrorizing the community.

“Did the officers mention the “artwork” I’d texted you?”

“Yes.”

“So what now?” I asked.

“I’m here to admit that maybe I was wrong. Maybe Tate Coakley truly is a sociopath, and he had a part in the other murders. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to keep apologizing. I just want to get this MF’er off the streets.”

“What evidence do you have that Tate was involved in the murders?”

“Very little,” I admitted. “It did all start with his ‘even though’ comment. But ever since then, he’s acted like somebody hiding something. I talked to some co-workers, who said he and Carl were close and would talk incessantly. And then, this confrontation he had with me and Evangeline Stephens sealed the deal for me. Tate didn’t deny any of my allegations and almost seemed to relish in them. He obviously has an enormous temper, demonstrated by his beating of Rick Reyes, and now it sounds like he probably killed him and two others. He’s capable of anything.”

Schilling looked at his co-workers. “Any ideas, fellas? I’m all ears. We can’t have this maniac running around the Bay Area.”

In the blink of an eye, it came to me. “I’ve got an idea that might just work.”

“What is it?”

Evangeline Stephens arrived twenty minutes later.

Schilling escorted her back into the conference room.

I gave her a quick hug. We both knew to keep it professional.

“Thanks for coming,” I said.

“I have no idea what I’m doing here,” Evangeline responded.

“If it makes you feel any better, neither do any of us,” Schilling said. “Quint wouldn’t tell us his plan until you arrived. Well, she’s here. Let’s hear it, and this better be worth it.”

“One thing we know about Tate Coakley is that he reads Evangeline’s columns. He referenced them a few times when he confronted us. I think he has a crush on her.”

Evangeline looked at me as if to say, Why is this necessary?

“I only say this because Tate wouldn’t miss one of Evangeline’s articles. I’m sure of it.”

Schilling spoke up. “Okay, let’s say I concede that. I still don’t know what you have in mind.”

I turned to Evangeline. “Do you have final edits on your articles?”

“For the most part. But as we’ve discussed talked about, I can’t just come out and accuse someone of murder. The higher-ups would red flag that for sure.”

“That’s not what I have in mind.”

“Spit it out, Quint,” Schilling said.

“I think Evangeline should publish an article that says Virginia is coming out of her coma.”

The room went silent as the officers, and Evangeline contemplated what I was suggesting.

“Virginia is the one person who can identify Tate as her attempted murderer. Now, we don’t know if Virginia will ever wake up from this coma. And even if she does, she’ll likely have no memory of the night in question. But Tate doesn’t know that. And if he thinks that Virginia is coming out of her coma, I think there’s a good chance he might come to the hospital to try and knock off Virginia once and for all.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Schilling said, which was his way of saying it was a very good idea.

He turned to Evangeline.

“Would you be willing to run something like that?”

“I think so.”

“We don’t want to get you in trouble,” I said, speaking directly to Evangeline. “You could just say a police source told you that. Your higher-ups would never be the wiser.”

Evangeline shook her head. “No. If we’re going to do this, we have to go all-in. I can’t just say I heard it from a source. In the article, I’ll want to make it abundantly clear that Virginia is waking up. That’s the only way to ensure that Tate comes after her.”

“Okay.”

“How soon could you post one of these articles?” Schilling asked.

“I could probably get one up later this afternoon.”

“Why don’t you wait until tomorrow morning to post it?” Schilling asked. “I know we’re in a rush to get this guy off the streets, but I’ve got a lot of work to do on my end. I need to talk to the hospital and hire police officers from neighboring cities. Our five-person police department isn’t enough to patrol a hospital of that size. We’ll need an undercover officer at the front desk, a few watching Virginia’s room, a couple patrolling the parking lots, and the hospital in case something goes wrong. I can’t risk having you publish the article and us not being ready on our end."

“That will give me time to perfect what I will say. Is there anything else I should include, Quint?”

She’d asked me instead of the assembled officers. 

“Maybe something like, Officers are confident that Virginia will be able to give them valuable information. Her gunshot wound didn’t affect the part of the brain that affects memory. Something that insinuates she’s not just waking up as a vegetable. That she’s going to be able to converse.”

“Very smart.”

“Thank you. Anything to ensure Tate has no choice but to come after Virginia.”

“I think this just might work, Quint,” Schilling said.

“Let’s hope so. If not, Reyes and his friends won’t be the last blood that’s shed.”

56

TATE

Iread Evangeline’s new article the morning after killing Rick Reyes.

That had been a pleasure. He and his two fat friends had pulled me off of Reyes way back when. They deserved it, too. Hahaha.

I was parked in the far left corner of a Walmart, my car shielded from a huge Winnebago.

A razor was one of the few things I’d brought from my apartment. I’d spent the morning shaving my head, mohawk style. I wanted to look like Travis Bickle, Robert DeNiro’s character in Taxi Driver. 

Travis Bickle. Tate Coakley. 

Our names were even similar. Our first names start with a T, and our last names contain a C, K, and E.

Here’s to you, Travis. From one crazy mohawk-wearing guy to another.

I was reading Evangeline’s article on one of the two flip phones I’d bought the night I moved out. From this point forward, these would be my internet sources. 

Evangeline’s article had no mention of me. I was hoping to see her again soon.

We’d have a swell time, Evangeline. 

The article said that police still believed Carl and Virginia were responsible for the murders of Jesse, Vic, and Loretta. It also mentioned that Virginia’s condition was improving and that the police hoped she’d soon be emerging from her coma, where she could help police with the motive as to why she and Carl killed three close friends.

The article was typical of Evangeline. Well-written, descriptive, and straight to the point.

But something felt different to me. 

She kept mentioning that Virginia was still considered a suspect, which seemed unnecessary. Everyone who had followed this case knew that.

It felt forced.

Could this article be for my benefit?

Could they have made up a bullshit article in hopes that I read it and then try to go after Virginia? They’d surround San Ramon Valley Medical Center with police, and when I entered, I’d be arrested.

It wasn’t impossible, and the more I sat and considered it, the more I thought it was more than just impossible. It was quite possible.

The problem on their end was that they assumed I was worried about being caught. That had gone out the window when I murdered Reyes and his lackeys. 

I was well aware this wasn’t going to end peacefully for me.

So, I don’t give a fuck if Virginia comes out of her coma or not. I’m going to be dying soon and won’t be spending the rest of my life in some restrictive cell. So if Virginia identified me, it wouldn’t change a single fucking thing for me.

Nice try, though, Evangeline. And Quint. And assorted local police.

But thanks for letting me know you’ll all be at the San Ramon Valley Medical Center. 

Maybe I can think of something.

Be seeing you guys soon.

57

QUINT

Ifound time to call my mother amidst all the chaos surrounding me.

I probably told her too much, including my confrontation with Tate Coakley.

“Why don’t they just arrest him?”

“They are trying, Mom. The police now are actively looking for him.”

“Is he actively looking for you?”

“Of course not,” I said, although that was a distinct possibility.

“I don’t know. This guy sounds worse than a lot of the other ones. Confronting you on the street and making a collage of just you. This guy is crazy, Quint. Keep your distance.”

“I will.”

“And who is this Evangeline that was with you?”

“Go pick up a copy of the East Bay Times. She’s one of their most prominent reporters.”

“Oh, that Evangeline? She’s very pretty.”

“She’s the one that I mentioned a few weeks back.”

“When do I get to meet her?”

“How about Christmas or Christmas Eve?”

“Don’t say that unless you mean it, Quint.”

“I don’t actually know her plans yet, but I’ll find a way to sneak her away for a few hours.”

“I can’t wait to meet her.”

“Great. Talk soon, and stop worrying about me.”

“You know that’s not possible. You’re my only son. I couldn’t go on living if I lost you.”

My next call was to Detective Schilling, who was busy organizing everything at the San Ramon Valley Medical Center.

He recruited extra police officers from around the area, and at ten a.m., fifteen were already at the hospital. They all had pictures of Tate Coakley and had orders to arrest him immediately.

He also said the number of police would double as the day went on. Evangeline’s article had only been published an hour ago, and Schilling said it was unlikely Tate would go to the hospital this quickly.

“If it all,” I added.

I’d become a bit skeptical that my plan would work.

I asked Schilling to keep me posted and told him I’d swing by the hospital around five p.m. If this were going to happen, it wouldn’t be during the daylight hours.

I called Evangeline and told her the article was just what we’d been asking for.

“Thanks,” she said. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m all right. You?”

“Stressed, but I’ll get through it.”

“Are you going to the hospital tonight?”

“I was considering it.”

“It might be the safest place to be. There’s going to be a lot of police officers there.”

“Are you going?” she asked.

“I am. Want me to pick you up?”

“Sure. I get off work at six.”

“I’ll see you then.”

58

TATE

My working assumption was that the article about Virginia was a ploy, but my judgment had been suspect lately.

To ensure I was right, I made a phone call.

“Is Alexis Tumbler there?”

“Speaking.”

“We finally get to talk on the phone,” I said.

“Who is this?”

“My name is Richie. My father was cousins with your father and Carl Tumbler.”

“Are you a Tumbler?”

If I had been, she would have likely heard of me, so I pretended to be a more distant cousin.

“No, we were related on your father’s mother’s side. Your paternal grandmother. We didn’t get a cool name like Tumbler.”

If she happened to ask me what her grandmother’s maiden name was, I was screwed.

“Tumbler’s okay. I feel like it’s almost been a punchline more than it’s been cool. When I was younger and would get drunk, it was always, “Did you see Alexis last night? She was tumbling everywhere. What a tumbler that girl is.”

I intentionally over laughed. “That’s hilarious. Sorry, was I not supposed to laugh?”

“That’s okay. It was pretty funny, I guess.”

“But I see how it could get annoying as well.”

“It hasn’t left any scars. I’m fine. So why are you calling now, Richie?”

She remembered my name. That was a good sign.

“I live in Oregon, and my wife and I have been following the papers closely. In fact, that’s how I knew how to call you at your shop. It sounds like a great business, by the way. We saw today’s paper and read that Virginia might be coming out of her coma. It was an article by Evangeline Stephens. That girl seems to get all the good scoops.”

That last line had been more for my benefit than Alexis’s.

“I’ve been at work all day, but a few people texted me about it. I haven’t had time to verify it.”

“You are family. Wouldn’t they have called you if Virginia was getting better?”

“Right? You’d think so.”

“Have they been keeping you in the loop?”

“Well, yes and no. They called me several times a day after it first happened, but I haven’t heard from them in at least ten days.”

“Maybe that’s because there had been no change in her condition,” I said. 

“That’s probably true.”

“I bet they would have called you if Virginia was truly coming out of her coma.”

“Yeah, I tend to think you’re right.”

“Me too,” I said and laughed. It was unnecessary. Alexis had already fallen for my little charade.

“So, do you think you and your wife will come down?” Alexis asked. “We could meet at the hospital. It’s always nice to meet a relative.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow morning and see if there’s been an update. We’re at the very southern tip of Oregon and could reach the Bay Area in probably five or six hours.”

“That would be great.”

“What floor is Virginia on?”

“The ICU is the third floor, I think.”

That had been an unnecessary question. Obviously, she’d be in the ICU.

“Great, thanks,” I said. I’d been flirting with an idea that had been diabolical, even for me, so I said, Fuck it, what did I have to lose? “Have you had the pleasure of working with Quint Adler on this case?” 

“Yeah, I’ve met with him a few times. Quint is a good guy. He may not come off that way on TV, but he’s a pretty charismatic guy and a darn good PI.”

Charismatic? I didn’t ask anything about that. Don’t tell me Quint had slept with Alexis, too. I despised him so much.

“He sounds swell. I’d love to meet him as well.”

“I could probably arrange that, depending on how busy he is, obviously."

“There’s another reason as well.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?”

And now, for the real reason I’d brought Quint up. “My mother, who is very sick right now, grew up with Quint’s mother.”

“Wow, small world. I’m sorry to hear about your mother.”

“Thank you. We don’t think she’s going to live much longer.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Thank you. She’d love it if we popped in to say hi to Quint’s mother, but don’t tell him. I want it to be a surprise.”

“I won’t say a word.”

“You’re good people, Alexis. It’s obvious we’re related.”

Alexis laughed.

“Do you happen to know where Quint’s mother lives?” I asked. “I can’t wait to tell my mother about this.”

“I could probably find that out for you.”

“And remember, don’t tell Quint. This is going to be a surprise.”

“My lips are sealed, Richie.”

“You’re the best."

59

QUINT

Evangeline and I arrived at the hospital at 6:26, and by 6:36, I was convinced Tate wouldn’t show. The ICU was its own little entity, and I just didn’t see how Tate could get past everyone. It was a suicide mission.

But it was more than that. The police officer at the front desk may have been dressed in civilian clothes, but he might as well have been wearing a bright neon sign saying, “I’m an undercover police officer!”

He fumbled his way around, getting me an entry sticker. He had to ask the actual employee next to him five questions before he figured it out.

Plus, the guy’s muscles rivaled Schwarzenegger or Stallone’s in their prime, and anyone with a morsel of common sense knew this guy wasn’t a hospital employee. Well, maybe an orderly, but certainly not a front desk clerk.

Yes, there was a second entrance to the hospital, but if Tate tried to enter through this one, he’d turn around in a split second.

He’s crazy, not dumb. I had to keep reminding myself of that.

We arrived on the third floor, and the first person we saw was Detective Schilling. 

“Thanks for coming up with this great idea, Quint. Nice to see you, Evangeline."

“He’s not going to show,” I said.

“How the hell do you know that?”

“Have you seen the guy at the front desk? He looks like he should be training for Mr. Olympia, not manning a hospital.”

“That bad?”

“Yes.”

“All right, we’ll switch him out for someone else.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“What’s with all the negativity, Quint? This was your idea.”

“I know, and it sounded good at that moment, but now I’m not so sure. I think Tate Coakley is crazy, but I don’t think he’s dumb. Mentioning that Virginia is coming out of her coma probably didn’t ring true to him. Why would Evangeline publish that info?”

Schilling was getting mad, and I got an annoyed glance from Evangeline. She couldn’t have liked hearing this, either.

“I think you’re fucking wrong,” Schilling said, accentuating you’re.

“I hope you’re right,” I said, doing the same.

“You say that Tate is crazy, not dumb. Right, Quint?” Evangeline asked me.

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure I agree. Maybe in practice, but lately, he’s been acting a lot more crazy than smart. Confronting us, for example. Killing Rick Reyes, obviously. These aren’t the actions of someone who is currently thinking things through. Maybe he’s going through a manic episode. I don’t know. But he’s not acting like someone with all his marbles. And if I’m right about this, then he might well come here and try to kill Virginia. It’s the one person who can ID him.”

And just like that, my mind was changed. Schilling and I looked at each other, both impressed with her logic.

“Watch out, Quint,” Schilling said. “She might be coming for your job next.”

We all managed to smile during what had been a tense conversation.

“Well said, Evangeline.”

“Thank you.”

“I have one disagreement, though,” I said.

“Let’s hear it.”

“I don’t think Tate is worried about Virginia IDing him. He just killed Rick Reyes in broad daylight. Does that sound like someone who is trying to get away with it? He must have known he’d be the number one suspect. I think he’s on a revenge tour.”

“Then maybe he’ll be coming to the hospital for a different reason.”

Evangeline didn’t have to finish her sentence. I knew what she meant: Tate would come to exact revenge on us.

“How would he know you two are here?” Schilling asked.

“He’ll just know,” Evangeline said, taking the words out of my mouth.

Just then, a young doctor, probably in her early thirties, approached us. Her name tag said, Dr. Candace.

I didn’t know if it was her first or last name, but it certainly sounded more like a first name. Maybe I’d encountered the medical equivalent of Madonna, Prince, or Cher. Dr. Candace was known by one name only.

“Detective Schilling, is everything set up to your approval?”

“Yes, Dr. Candace, it is. Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

“This is Quint Adler and Evangeline Stephens. You’ll be seeing them around tonight.”

Dr. Candace shook both of our hands. 

“I’m a fan of both of your work, but just remember who the boss is at the hospital.”

I smiled. “You’re the boss, Dr. Candace.”

She nodded and left abruptly, leaving the three of us standing in the hallway.

60

TATE

The fact that the police, Quint, and Evangeline were all likely to be at the hospital didn’t discourage me. In fact, it had the opposite effect.

My end was coming soon, and I didn’t want to miss out on a party.

I’d come up with a plan. 

I’m not sure it was foolproof, but what the fuck was at this point?

It began with me stealing a license plate from another car in the Walmart parking lot. This was easy. I always have a toolbox in my car, and I was able to remove the plate in seconds. 

I then took my license plate off and attached the stolen one. 

When the police discovered Rick Reyes had been killed, there’s no doubt they put a BOLO out on my car. That’s why I hid in the back corner of a Walmart, thirty minutes from the Bay Area.

But now, I had a car that wouldn’t appear on any searches, and I could roam freely.

I started driving back into the eye of the storm.

A few minutes after nine p.m., I parked in a strip mall down the street from the San Ramon Valley Medical Center.

If only the police knew the man they were looking for was mere blocks away.

But I wouldn’t be staying. I just needed to leave my car close for my eventual getaway.

My plan was flawless. I was impressed with what I’d come up with.

I called a Yellow Cab and gave him my address.

The cops might well be monitoring my Uber account.

They couldn’t monitor me calling Yellow Cab and leaving a fake name.

Ten minutes later, I saw the Yellow Cab pulling up.

I left my wallet, phone, and keys in the car and made sure to leave the car door open.

Central Park in San Ramon was a trendy little park with jungle gyms, a skate ramp, fountains for kids to jump in, and huge fields for youth soccer and baseball games.

It was also one mile from the San Ramon Valley Medical Center.

The time was 9:15.

It was much more of a daytime park, but a few people were still roaming around. All I’d need was one. 

I found a bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror as I passed.

The mohawk looked ridiculous, but Travis Bickle would be proud.

I made my way to one of the end stalls. If someone walked in, I’d quickly stop what I was doing.

This was going to hurt, but I had no choice. 

“Here goes nothing,” I said and punched myself in the face.

Over and over.

Again and again.

61

QUINT

By nine, Evangeline and I were sitting in a waiting room, just the two of us. We’d been there two and a half hours, and not a single interesting thing had transpired.

“Well, this is exciting, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Maybe exciting isn’t what we are looking for. I’ve had enough of that lately.”

“Fair point. Do you want to stay the night at the hospital?”

“And sleep in one of these chairs? No thanks.”

“That’s what I was thinking. I can barely sit in these things. Good luck falling asleep in one.”

“We’re pretty lucky,” Evangeline said. “There’s a lot of people at this hospital because their loved one is sick or dying. You’ve got a healthy mother. And my parents are both still alive. We’re the lucky ones.”

“I wasn’t expecting that.”

“I’m not great at hospitals. I tend to get emotional.”

“Where do your parents live? We haven’t talked much about them.”

“They are in Florida. I invited them out here for Christmas, but they couldn’t make it this year. I’d considered flying out there, but as you know, I’m swamped with work.”

“Why don’t you come over to my mother’s for Christmas dinner? It’s small, but she’s one hell of a cook.”

“Is it just you two?”

“No, she’s got a few fellow widowers she invites. A few neighbors. Sometimes, a friend or two of mine. There might be like ten of us.”

“I’d love to come. Thanks.”

“Good, she’ll be delighted to meet you.”

“I can’t wait to meet her as well. If she raised you, she must be an extraordinary woman.”

“Hey, what does that mean?”

Evangeline laughed. “That she’s probably a saint. Having to raise your stubborn ass.”

“Maybe I’ll nominate her for sainthood for Christmas.”

“See? It’s that type of sarcasm you probably gave her growing up.”

“I was the perfect child.”

“Yeah, fucking, right.”

“Hey, no swearing. We’re in a hospital.”

Evangeline leaned over and put her head on my shoulder.

“For real, though. I can’t wait to meet her.”

62

TATE

My plan had worked to perfection.

When I’d beat myself to a pulp, when I was a bloody and bruised mess, I left the bathroom, walked into the park, and fell on the ground.

“Help,” I screamed.

The park was well-lit, and people would be able to see the damage to my face.

A woman came running over seconds later. She looked down at me and then quickly looked away. She couldn’t bear to look at me. Good, that’s exactly what I wanted.

“What happened?”

“Someone just mugged me. Please call 9-1-1.”

“Of course. I’ll call right now.”

The ambulance was there a few minutes later. Two paramedics came to my side.

“What the hell happened?”

“I got mugged and beat up. Two guys. They must have hit me fifty times. How do I look?”

“It’s bad,” one of them said. “Your face is bloody and bruised all over. You could easily have a concussion or something worse. Possibly a subdural hematoma.”

“Are you taking me to the emergency room?”

My speech sounded labored, but that was no act. I’d beaten myself up really bad. I probably had caused some real damage. Not that I cared at this point.

“You need more than that. We’ll get you your own hospital room.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you have your driver’s license?”

“No, they stole it.”

“I’m so sorry. What’s your name? We need to put something in the system.”

“Richie. Richie Bickle.”

“Okay, Richie. We’re going to load you up on a gurney and put you in the ambulance. We’ll take you to the San Ramon Valley Medical Center, and they’ll take good care of you.”

“Thank you.”

63

QUINT

By 9:45, Evangeline and I were ready to get out of there.

I’d had a pleasant conversation with Dr. Candace. Candace was indeed her first name. Her last name was always mispronounced when she first started, so it became a running joke just to call her Dr. Candace. It stuck.

Detective Schilling was pacing around. He was visibly nervous.

I’m sure he desperately wanted Tate Coakley to show. Even though it was initially my idea, Schilling had taken the idea and ran with it. This had become his shindig. He’d organized the police, talked to the hospital, and probably several other things I didn’t know about.

He wouldn’t look very good if this all turned out to be much ado about nothing. Tate's showing would make Schilling look like a hero. 

Assuming they caught him.

“Let’s give it till 10:15,” Evangeline said.

“Fine.”

64

TATE

The plan continued to work to perfection.

I was driven in an ambulance to San Ramon Valley Medical Center. One of the paramedics was in the back with me while one drove. The one in the back was gingerly trying to treat my injuries, knowing how much pain I must be in. He was using a cloth to soak up the blood and was applying some gel to my open wounds.

We arrived at the hospital, and they parked next to the other ambulances with a direct path into the hospital. I would have been shocked if they had a cop monitoring that area. This was for people who were in really bad shape—most in much worse condition than me.

They wheeled me into the hospital, checked me in under Richie Bickle, and then took me to a room. They said a doctor would be swinging by soon.

It gave me a few minutes to think.

I decided the San Ramon Valley Medical Center would not be where I made my last stand. 

I didn’t have a weapon, and there were likely many undercover police officers roaming the halls of the hospital.

I began to wonder why I’d even come up with this elaborate scheme if I didn’t intend on doing any harm to Quint, Evangeline, and the fucking cops.

To show I could. 

To show that I knew what they were doing, and they still wouldn’t stop me.

To show that I was better than them.

And just because I wasn’t going to announce my arrival with a ticker tape parade doesn’t mean I couldn’t do a little something.

I’m sure something would come to me.

65

QUINT

It was 10:15, and I had said my goodbyes to Schilling, some other cops, and even Dr. Candace.

Tate Coakley could still show, but I wouldn’t be here if he did. Virginia’s room and the hospital in general were safely guarded. 

They didn’t really need me or Evangeline. I had the idea, and Evangeline was the leading voice on the entire case, so I understand why we were invited and showed up.

But it was late, and I was ready to get home. So was Evangeline, and I’d driven her to the hospital, so she was my responsibility. Not that I didn’t enjoy it.

I asked Schilling to call me in the morning and headed toward the elevator. 

And then, I heard my name.

I turned around and saw an adorable ten-year-old girl talking to a male nurse.

“Are you Quint?” she asked.

That got everyone’s attention. 

The nurse looked in our direction. He’d been working Virginia’s room and knew who we were.

I walked toward the little girl. Evangeline walked with me. Even Schilling had heard it halfway down the hall.

“I’m Quint,” I said.

“I’m supposed to tell you something,” she said.

All of us stared at her in stunned silence.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Tate says you get a state of execution. There’s too many cops here right now.”

None of us could believe a word she said.

Tate is here!

“And one more thing,” she said.

“What is it?”

“He said Vangelee will be next."

Vangelee would have been a cute mispronunciation of Evangeline at any other time. In these circumstances, it was downright terrifying.

I hugged Evangeline as Schilling walked over.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Mia,” the young girl said. 

“Who told you to say this, Mia?”

“The guy with all the bruises on his face.”

“Which floor was that on?”

“The first. That’s where my daddy is, too.”

“Thank you, Mia.”

Schilling quickly walked away, phone in hand, barking orders as he headed down the hall. 

“Get to the first floor. Coakley will have bruising and blood on his face.”

I walked back up to Mia.

“Is there anything else you can tell us about the man?” I asked.

“He had a weird haircut. His hair was all in the middle.”

I saw Evangeline pull out her phone and, a second later, raise it up to Mia. She’d googled “Mohawk.”

“Did he look like this?” she asked.

“Yes,” Mia said. “But it’s not all spiky like the other ones.”

“Thank you.”

“Can I go back to my daddy now?”

It broke my heart that Tate had intercepted this girl and sent her up here.

Schilling was at the elevator with three other cops, about to head to the first floor.

I didn’t want Mia to see the commotion that would occur in a matter of moments.

“Yeah, we’ll take you down in just a few minutes,” I said.

“Okay. Thank you.”

Evangeline grabbed her hand.

“Here, Mia. Let me show you around this floor real quick.”

“Okay.”

As I stood there, a dark thought entered my mind.

If Tate wanted to get the majority of the cops off of Virginia’s floor, this was one way to do it.

66

TATE

Within a minute of leaving my hospital bed, I saw a little girl walking around by herself.

I immediately knew she would be perfect. I befriended her, explained what I wanted, and told her I’d give her a present when she returned.

I had to repeat what she was to say several times, but she finally got it. A few people passed us in the halls, but I didn’t get a second look. I was just some injured guy in the hospital taking a few minutes to walk around with his niece.

As soon as I sent her to the ICU, I found the nearest hospital exit. Once outside, I walked toward the strip mall to retrieve my car.

If Quint was truly there and the little girl conveyed my message correctly, I was sure twenty cops would be converging on the first floor in mere moments.

Luckily, I would be in my car, heading to some rest area or desolate park to spend the night.

I needed to get some sleep.

Tonight had been fun, but tomorrow was the real show-stopper.

It's what I’d be remembered for.

67

QUINT

Ididn’t get to leave the hospital until midnight. 

So much for getting home early.

Evangeline walked Mia around for about fifteen minutes. She was great with her, but you could see that Mia wanted to be reunited with her family.

“I’m going to take her back,” Evangeline said.

“I’ll head down with you.”

When we returned to the ICU, Schilling was back and clued us in.

They were certain that Tate Coakley was no longer on the first floor. They’d sent a dozen cops to run roughshod over it and had found nothing. They had now started going floor by floor to see if he was anywhere in the building. This could take a few hours.

“But I am very doubtful he’s still here,” Schilling added.

“If you’re not tired of my ideas, I’ve got a few to share,” I said.

“Hey, Tate showed. Your idea worked. What do you got?”

“I’m sure this hospital has hundreds of cameras. I’d see who left the building about thirty minutes ago, likely in a hurry.”

“We’re already on that. I’ve got officers looking at the tape right now. Next.”

“Do they know how he got in?”

“Yes. This stays between us. That goes for you, too, Evangeline. No mentioning it in your next article.”

“I know how to keep a secret,” she said.

“Tate had allegedly been beaten up in a park. The little asshole probably did it to himself. Anyway, he was btought by ambulance here from Central Park, about a mile away.”

“That would explain all the bruises the little girl mentioned.”

“Yes. The paramedics said it was pretty bad.”

“Smart way to get in,” I said.

“Yes, it was.”

“I’ve got another idea.”

“Shoot.”

“I’d call Uber and find out if Tate took an Uber to Central Park. He wouldn’t want to leave his car there, so I’m guessing he was driven there. We might learn something if we find out where the Uber picked him up. If I had to guess, I’ll bet he parked his car close to the hospital so he could make a quick getaway.”

Schilling looked at me as if I was some stranger from the future.

“I’d joked earlier about Evangeline taking your job. It’s probably you taking my job that I should be afraid of.”

“Just trying to help.”

“What else you got?”

“Since I’ve often conceded that Tate Coakley is smart, he probably would know better than to use Uber, which leaves a paper trail. So I’d call any local cab companies as well. Find out if they dropped anybody off at Central Park or anywhere close.”

“Consider it done. Anything else?”

“No, that’s it. Thanks for not getting offended.”

“I want to get this guy as much as you. Sending a young girl up here? What a scumbag.”

“Evangeline was great with her,” I said.

“I was just doing what had to be done. You guys are doing the heavy lifting.”

“That’s not true. You’ve been part of this since the beginning.”

“Agreed,” Schilling said. “You’ve been an important cog in this machine, Evangeline.”

Evangeline and I waited around another hour, and when we realized they wouldn’t be catching Tate Coakley tonight, we headed home.

68

TATE

Istayed at a rest stop thirty miles south of San Ramon.

I had a new license plate, but I still parked at the far end—anything not to be seen.

I woke up at seven a.m., but my plan couldn’t commence until at least ten or eleven.

I didn’t want early morning traffic or late afternoon traffic, considering I would be transporting a kidnapping victim in my car. Sure, she’d be tied down and unable to talk, but if cars were right next to me in bumper-to-bumper traffic, they might be able to see her.

So I waited.

69

QUINT

Iwoke up the next morning at my apartment. Evangeline was lying next to me.

There was zero chance I would let her sleep at home with Tate Coakley on the loose. 

I made some fresh coffee, and we drank it in bed.

“I can’t wait for this to be over,” she said.

“Agreed.”

“I mean, this thing has gotten completely out of hand. The guy gets into a hospital that is supposedly surrounded by police. What can we expect next?”

“You’re right. It’s going to be something dramatic. He’s not going to downsize now.”

“I believe you’re right."

“Do you guys have security at the East Bay Times?”

“We have someone who roams around outside.”

“Is he armed?”

“No.”

“I think I might call Chazz and see if he’ll keep an eye on you and your co-workers today.”

“You don’t really think Coakley would do that, do you?”

“As you said, he just managed to get into a hospital manned by police. He’s capable of anything.”

“Maybe. But everything seems ultra-personal with this guy. It’s not just randoms he’s killing.”

“You’re exactly right about that, but you missed one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ve become personal to him.”

She shook her head. “I can’t wait for this to be over,” she repeated.

We swung by her house so she could take a quick shower and change, and then, as had become customary, I followed her to her work.

I returned to my place and called Detective Schilling.

They found footage of Tate leaving the hospital, one of which caught him walking down the street toward a strip mall.

They were tracking down the businesses in the strip mall and determining which ones had cameras. 

Schilling said he’d update me as the day went on.

I called Chazz at 9:45, with the intention of him keeping an eye on the entrance to the East Bay Times.

He had something else in mind.

“You need to come back to Mr. Coakley’s apartment,” he said.

“Why? I thought we agreed he wasn't coming back?”

“It’s not that.”

“Spit it out, Chazz.”

“The cops did a number on his place a few days back. After he killed Rick Reyes, I believe. There’s yellow police tape on the door, which is barely standing. The door is at this bent angle, so you can actually see in the apartment. So I looked. The inside is a complete mess with things scattered all about. Obviously, they were looking for something that might give away where he’d gone. It’s what they didn’t take that I thought might interest you.”

This sounded promising. ”What is it?”

“You remember that sleeve you told me about? The one that went missing from Carl’s house?”

“Holy shit. You see it?”

“As clear as day. Unless Tate Coakley has multiple snake/alligator/weird animal sleeves lying around, which I find highly unlikely.”

I had wanted to stay around my area today, but this was too good to pass up.

“I’m going to drive up to Antioch right now, Chazz. Can you get through that door and grab the sleeve.”

“No problem.”

“Great. I’ll see you in thirty.”

I arrived outside Tate’s apartment, and Chazz was waiting for me, the sleeve in hand. I stared at it. I’d finally found the much-talked-about sleeve.

“Have you read any of it?” I asked.

“Nope. That’s your business.”

He handed it over, and I looked inside. There were two sheets of paper. One was typewritten, and I assumed it was from Carl and his old-school typewriter. The second was handwritten, and I could see that Tate had signed along the bottom. 

That could wait.

I’d start with Carl’s.

“I’m going to sit in my car and read this real quick,” I said.

“Do what you got to do.”

Dear Jesse, Vic, and Constantin,

Thanks so much for reading my first manuscript. I don’t think there will be many more, haha. 

The final chapter of Small Town Menace will be done in a few days, but I wanted to give you this letter first. Plus, the story is pretty much over. The Final Chapter is basically just an addendum. What I’m sending you here is the true final chapter.

I think I made a grave mistake! I tried to be nice to this guy at work named Tate Coakley, and now I’m genuinely scared of the guy. I haven’t said anything to Virginia. She’s got enough on her plate. But if something happens to me, give the police his name.

I should have had him fired, but I was honestly afraid that would set him off even more. I haven’t seen him in a few weeks and am scared to exacerbate things. This guy Tate is loony! I never should have tried to be nice to him. What a nutcase. He belongs in a fucking psychiatric ward. I was friendly to him but nothing more. He thinks we are best fucking buds.

He beat up a guy really badly and should have gone to jail. Instead, I hired him at Costco. Boy, what a mistake that was. But I can’t just call the police because he hasn’t done anything yet. I just know what he’s capable of. And if I did get the cops involved, he’d probably just go more agro.

I have decided to release it on Amazon in a few weeks. I figured if this guy Tate kills me, the book will probably go viral, and maybe Virginia can get a few book sales out of it. Haha.

I should have the novel finished in a few days, and you will get your final chapter. Finally, right? 

And then we are going to talk about my health.

It’s not good news, fellas.

I haven’t told Virginia, and I know it will crush her.

I love that woman.

Please take care of her when I’m gone.

Your friend,

Carl

I was near tears. 

How had I ever suspected Carl and Virginia? These people were the salt of the earth. 

I opened the second piece of paper, written by hand.

Carl Tumbler is a liar.

We were friends. We talked all the time. I’m not some courtesy fucking case.

Too bad that Carl turned out to be just as bad as his wormy friends. 

And he got what was coming to him. 

And so did Virginia.

You know, the easiest way to really hurt someone is by harming one of their loved ones. That leaves a pain that never goes away.

So I hope Carl is up there, watching his beloved Virginia sit and rot.

I’m not a big wordsmith, so I’ll be ending this now.

Carl Tumbler was a disloyal piece of shit, and he deserved everything that he had coming to him. 

So did his horrible group of friends, and I’m glad for what I did.

Signing off,

Tate Coakley

I stepped out of the car.

“Well?” Chazz said.

“It’s terrible. Carl Tumbler was a good man and didn’t deserve any of this. Tate Coakley is a sociopath.”

“Did he give away anything as to where he might be?”

I reread it a second time, and this time, a certain section stood out:

You know, the easiest way to really hurt someone is by harming one of their loved ones. That leaves a pain that never goes away.

“Give me a second, Chazz.”

I walked down the street about fifteen feet and called my mother. Tate’s letter had scared me. He obviously went after people close to the individual he hated. Jesse, Vic, Loretta, and Virginia were all proof of that.

The phone rang four times and went straight to voicemail.

That wasn’t like my mother. She was usually good about answering phone calls.

A knot formed in my stomach.

Maybe she was at the store or getting her hair done or something.

I called again, but still no answer.

I left a message and told her to call me back immediately.

I tried to keep dread at a distance as it filled me.

I decided to call my mother’s next-door neighbor of over twenty years, Meredith Chapelle.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Meredith, this is Quint.”

“Quint. How are you?”

I had no time for small talk. “Have you seen my mother today?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“I’m having a tough time getting ahold of her. Can you walk over and just make sure she’s okay?”

“Sure. I can do that, Quint.”

There was a pause for a second.

“I just looked over there, Quint, and it looks like she might have company.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a car there I don’t recognize.”

I wanted to jump out of my skin. I was petrified. “Can you make out the license plate?”

“I’m getting old, Quint. Let me go grab my glasses”

“Please be quick.”

I walked over to Chazz. “Be ready to write this down,” I said.

Meredith got back on the phone. “Okay. It’s 7GCC901.”

“Thank you, Meredith.”

“Do you still want me to walk over there?”

“No, stay in your house and lock the door.”

I hung up and was about to call the cops when I saw Detective Schilling's incoming call.

“Schilling, I need you guys to go to my mother’s house. It’s five minutes from your station.”

“What is going on?”

“There’s a car outside her place that’s never there.”

“Oh, shit. You don't think.”

“I do.”

“We were able to trace down a video of Tate driving away from the strip mall. He had stolen a license plate number and put it on his car.”

I couldn’t handle much more of this. “What is the license plate number?” I asked.

“It’s 7GCC901.”

I couldn’t speak for a few moments. Tate Coakley was at my mother’s house. This was the absolute worst-case scenario.

“Schilling, send whoever you have to my mother’s house. Right fucking now! That’s the same license plate that the neighbor saw.”

“Oh, God.”

I gave Schilling my mother’s address. “And call me if you hear anything. I’ll be driving that way."

I was in a daze. I couldn’t believe my worst nightmare was coming true. I was having trouble breathing and thought I might hyperventilate.

“Are you okay?” Chazz asked.

“I’m far from okay, but I can’t dwell on it. I’m going to head back to San Ramon.”

“What do you want me to do?”

I looked down, and Meredith was calling.

“What happened?” I asked.

“The car just left,” she said.

“Was my mother in it?”

“I couldn’t tell.”

Meredith sounded near tears. “What is going on, Quint?”

“I have to go.”

I quickly called Schilling and told him what happened. I asked him to put out a BOLO on the car.

“I have to go,” I said to Chazz.

“What should I do?”

“Go back in his apartment. See if, by some miracle, you can find anything that shows where Tate might be going.”

I got on the freeway and drove ninety miles an hour as if I could catch up to Tate Coakley. 

I didn’t even know if my mother was still alive. I’d find out soon enough.

Schilling called back four minutes into my drive.

“Please give me good news,” I pleaded.

“We have not located Tate’s car, but we did raid your mother’s house. She was not at the house.”

She was likely still alive. But it was hard to think of this as good news.

My mother was currently being held captive by a madman.

What could I do?

Think, Quint!!

“Did you put a BOLO out on the car?”

“I told you I would, and I did.”

“Call me if anyone sees anything."

“I will.”

I hung up and drove even faster.

My heart felt like it was going to jump out of my chest.

70

TATE

“This is Detective Schilling,” I said. “Tate Coakley has kidnapped your son, Quint.”

And just like that, Quint's mother opened the door to a stranger. It was that easy.

She was just being a good mother, scared of the news she’d just heard.

I pushed her inside when she opened the door and quickly locked it behind me.

“Who the hell are you?” she asked.

“I’m the bad guy your son has been chasing.”

She didn’t cry. She didn’t beg. She looked at me with pure scorn. 

“This won’t end well for you,” she said.

I laughed. “For you, either.”

Twenty minutes later, I’d taped her ankles together and taped her hands behind her back. I’d also put three pieces of duct tape over her mouth.

I then opened her garage door, backed my car into it, closed it, set her on the floor in the vehicle's back seat, re-opened the garage door, and drove away.

Lying on the floor in the back seat and without the use of her arms or legs made it difficult to get to a sitting position. The gun I’d shown her was a preventive measure as well.

When we got out of the suburbs and approached the freeway, I turned around.

“When was the last time you saw the Golden Gate Bridge? It really is marvelous this time of year. A great day for us to spend our final day on Earth."

She tried to yell something.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I can’t hear you. You see, you’ve got three strands of duct tape covering your mouth.”

I then laughed hysterically.

71

QUINT

“We have something, Quint,” Detective Schilling said.

“What is it?”

“A neighbor saw the car leave and said it took a left on Crossview Street. That leads to the on-ramps for Interstate 680 North and South.”

I assumed Tate wasn’t taking my mother to some secluded house in the San Ramon suburbs, so the fact that he was headed toward a freeway wasn’t jaw-dropping, but every piece of information was helpful.

“Keep me updated. I’m ten minutes from the 680 interchange in Walnut Creek,” I said.

I got off the phone.

If you take 680 South from San Ramon, you will head toward San Jose. If you took 680 North, you would head toward Walnut Creek, Antioch, Oakland, and San Francisco. It seemed much more likely he’d head that way.

Could he be headed to the East Bay Times?

I called Evangeline.

“Hello, Quint.”

I updated her on everything that was happening. 

“Don’t go anywhere without an escort or two,” I said. “Better yet, don’t leave your office if you don’t have to.”

“You’re going to get your mother home safely,” Evangeline said.

“I can’t consider the other possibility.”

Chazz called me a minute later. 

I was getting closer to the 680 freeway.

“Got anything?” I asked.

“Maybe. He seemed to be fascinated with The Bay Area Butcher. There are three articles about him, each with some scribbling near it. He even put a big circle over the Golden Gate Bridge on one of them.”

“Good work. I want you to drive back to Walnut Creek and stand outside the East Bay Times. Make sure that Tate doesn’t try to go there, and please look after Evangeline Stephens."

“Okay. I’ll head there now.”

I was five minutes from Interstate 680. 

I had two options.

Take 680 South and head toward San Ramon. 

Or get on California State 24, also known as Highway 24. If someone from 680 were headed toward Oakland or San Jose, they would merge into that.

Chazz’s mention of the Golden Gate Bridge was resonating. I’d already told Evangeline that Tate would do something over the top. If not, he could have just killed my mother at her house.

And there was nothing more theatrical than the Golden Gate Bridge.

If my math were right, Tate would have likely entered Highway 24 about three or five minutes ago.

Antioch was about fifteen miles farther from Highway 24 than San Ramon was, but I was driving like a bat out of hell. Before Tate got on the freeway, he would have to navigate a few stops in the suburbs.

My mind was made up. 

I’d get on Highway 24 and drive one hundred mph until I caught up to Tate’s car.

Assuming he’d gone that way.

If not, I was relying on Detective Schilling and the rest of the East Bay police.

72

TATE

Idrove through the suburbs to the Highway 680 interchange and headed north. 

It was a little after eleven a.m., and the traffic wouldn’t be too bad. I’d take the Bay Bridge into San Francisco and then head up the Embarcadero until I reached the Golden Gate Bridge.

Where it would all end. 

For me.

For Quint’s mother.

And for Quint’s chance at any sort of life going forward.

He would never recover from the death of his mother.

73

QUINT

Istarted going west on Highway 24, driving way too fast but unwilling to slow down.

If a cop saw me and turned on his lights, I wouldn’t pull over. They could follow me until I caught up to Tate’s car.

If I ever did.

I bypassed Lafayette, Orinda, and Berkeley but still hadn’t seen any sighting of the car. I’d somehow avoided being spotted by a cop. I couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Maybe having a caravan of cop cars behind me if I reached Tate wasn’t the worst idea.

However, as each minute passed, I had to consider the possibility that Tate had never driven in this direction in the first place—that he was headed toward San Jose, Antioch, or any other place in the Bay Area besides Oakland and San Francisco.

I couldn’t focus on that and most certainly couldn’t focus on what my mother was going through. 

I continued to look at the cars as I passed them. Highway 24 became Interstate 580 West. We were now only a few miles from the Bay Bridge, which led you into San Francisco.

A minute later, Interstate 580 West became Interstate 80 West. We were now one mile from the start of the Bay Bridge, and I’d have to start slowing down very soon.

I looked around and, as had become par for the course, saw nothing.

74

TATE

Iwas approaching the Bay Bridge and would be in San Francisco soon.

Everything was working out perfectly.

I looked back and saw Quint’s mother on the floor. She hadn’t moved a muscle and was still focused on me.

If looks could kill, I’d be a dead man.

But luckily for me, they couldn’t.

You know what could kill? Falls from the Golden Gate Bridge. 

Hahaha.

I was about a quarter mile from the toll booth to enter the Bay Bridge when I heard someone behind me driving like a bat out of hell.

I looked in my rearview mirror.

75

QUINT

Holy fuck, I’d spotted him.

76

TATE

Iwas in shock as I looked through the rearview mirror and saw Quint. 

I quickly moved to the lane on my left and merged one farther down. 

I was hoping he hadn’t seen me.

I ducked down and kept moving a lane over. 

The Bay Bridge entrance probably had fifteen lanes, so I made my way toward the farthest on the left.

And I stayed low so he couldn’t see me.

When I’d moved about five lanes to my left, I allowed myself a quick glance to my right. I couldn’t believe it.

Quint was in the next lane over.

Staring at me.

77

QUINT

When I saw the license plate I’d been looking for, I pumped the brakes a little bit, but I was driving so fast that there was no way to act inconspicuously.

Tate must have realized—or saw—that it was me because he quickly started moving to the far left lanes.

I followed and did the same.

And then, I saw his face pop up and turned around. We caught each other’s eyes.

He quickly accelerated and side-swiped a car, causing a small chain reaction involving about three vehicles. This slowed me down, and Tate was the first to enter the Bay Bridge.

I quickly called Schilling.

Before he could say “Hello,” I yelled, “He’s on the Bay Bridge heading into San Francisco. Send anyone you can!” And I quickly hung up.

Tate was now the one driving maniacally.

I was able to keep up, but this was extremely dangerous, and my mother was in the other car.

I couldn’t just slow down and let him get away, though. Once he got into San Francisco, losing me would be much easier.

I pulled up next to his car, hoping to catch a glimpse of my mother. I assumed that Tate had her in their trunk or on the ground in the back.

As I looked over, Tate pulled out a gun and shot it several times in my direction. 

One shattered my rear driver’s side window, and glass went flying everywhere. I heard a few more shots hitting metal. 

Nothing had hit me. 

As I looked back in front of me, I realized I was about to slam into the guy in front of me. I quickly darted to the right and, after I passed him, got back in the lane next to Tate.

He was in the far left lane, and I was to his immediate right.

In front of us, you could start to see the San Francisco skyline.

If Schilling had immediately gotten in touch with the San Francisco Police Department, there was a chance that some of SFPD’s finest might have been waiting by the first exit off the Bay Bridge.

Or some motorist had called the California Highway Patrol, alerting them to the two cars putting people at risk.

I had a few things going in my favor, but after what happened next, I had to take things into my own hands.

I looked over, and once again, Tate raised the gun toward me, but then he smiled and swiveled his gun toward the back seat of his car.

He was going to shoot my mother.

On instinct alone, I aggressively jerked my steering wheel to the left and barreled into Tate’s car.

We both careened into the guard rail, which did its job and prevented us from plummeting two hundred feet into the frigid waters of the Bay.

But it couldn’t stop the force with which we hit it. 

The first quarter of my car had lodged itself into the guard rail. A few more feet and it would have taken my legs off.

I looked to my left, and Tate’s car had flipped over on its roof.

Somehow, he’d managed to hold on to his gun, and it was pointed in my direction.

I was a sitting duck.

78

TATE

Our high-speed chase across the Bay Bridge must have been something to behold.

Not that I could indulge in the moment.

My entire focus was on my battle with Quint. 

I couldn’t let him win.

I could die—and probably was going to— but I either had to kill Quint or had to kill his mother.

Preferably both.

As we reached the top of the Bridge and saw the beautiful city below, I decided that I couldn’t wait any longer.

Quint’s mother had to die. I couldn’t risk a crash and her somehow getting out of this alive. 

So I raised my gun in her direction, but right before I was able to pull the trigger, Quint barreled his car into mine.

As if in slow motion, we both hit the guardrail simultaneously. My car was sent high in the air and flipped onto our roof.

Somehow, I hadn’t lost hold of my gun.

It took me a few seconds to regain my bearings, but when I did, I saw Quint’s car embedded in the guardrail. It wasn’t going anywhere.

Quint was in my direct line of sight, about thirty feet away.

Being on my back in an overturned car wasn’t the most straightforward shot, but it was only thirty feet. I could do this.

I heard Quint’s mother wrestling around in the back seat. 

I’d take care of her after I shot her son.

I guess she’d be going off the Bay Bridge—not the Golden Gate—but she’d still get a water death.

I took aim at Quint and yelled, “Don’t worry. Your mother will be joining you soon.”

And then I fired.

79

QUINT

“Don’t worry. Your mother will be joining you soon.”

The words had barely registered as I saw him take a second aim at me. 

There would not be a third. Tate was about to shoot.

I ducked down as much as I could. The gun went off, and I felt the reverberation of it hitting some part of the car—but not me.

Tate was upside down in his car and could not get off a great shot.

I then heard a beautiful sound that I'll remember forever.

The sound a gun makes when it’s out of bullets.

My car was undrivable, but I was able to open the door ever so slightly and get out of it.

Knowing his gun no longer posed a threat, Tate found a way to open his upside-down door, and I saw him getting to his feet.

It was the first time I was able to look at the mess around us. We’d started a chain reaction, and several cars were in the middle of the bridge. No cars could drive through. We’d created a massive log jam.

I turned around, seeing if anyone would come to my defense. Tate’s gunshot had eliminated that possibility. Everyone remained in their cars, probably trying to protect themselves and their loved ones. I can’t say I blamed them.

I assumed my mother was still in Tate’s flipped-over car. She was safe as long as Tate was going after me.

Which he was.

Tate walked to within ten feet of me.

“I guess this is how it ends,” he said.

“This ends with you rotting in Hell.”

“Maybe. But I’m taking you with me.”

“Not to Hell you’re not.”

With that, he ran at me.

I was quite a bit bigger, but I knew he could fight.

I stood my ground and connected with a perfectly-timed right hand.

He stumbled back and wiped his lips, revealing a little blood.

“That was a good one, Quint. You can fight.”

It was impossible to avoid thinking that only ten feet from us was a two-hundred-foot drop and an almost certain death.

“If anyone comes out to help, I will shoot him dead,” Tate said, toward the surrounding vehicles. It was smart. Help minimize the chance a hero jumps to my defense.

There was no point in my yelling, “He has no bullets.”

The damage had been done.

Tate was moving toward me again. This time, I couldn’t rely on my punching ability. He was coming in hard and fast and would attempt to tackle me.

I couldn’t give him all the momentum, so I also moved toward him—two masses about to collide.

Mass times acceleration equals force, and he had more of that because he was moving faster. I was in trouble.

We collided, and I was sent backward, the back of my head hitting the ground with a thud.

Tate quickly climbed on top of me. He grabbed the back of my shirt and used both hands to drag me. He was taking me to the edge of the bridge, passing the guardrail.

He removed his right hand from me for a moment, quick enough to get two brutal haymakers to my face.

I was in deep, deep trouble, and it didn’t help that I was surely concussed and still groggy from the fall on my head.

He tugged on the back of my shirt and tried to get me to my feet. In a few seconds, I would be standing tall enough for Tate to try throwing me off the bridge. 

I had to do something. And now.

I heard some police sirens, but they wouldn’t get here in time to save me.

I had been resisting, not allowing him to get me to my feet, but I then I allowed him to, and when I did, I pushed off my feet and went backward into Tate. 

There was the chance we were both going to catapult toward the bay, but there was a five-foot-high railing that would likely prevent that. I hoped.

Tate’s back collided with the railing, keeping him from going over and pulling me with him.

I quickly swiveled around. I could tell his back had been compromised, but that wasn’t going to be enough.

I hit Tate with a left and then a right. I did the same thing again, and he started bleeding profusely.

“Push him over,” I heard someone yell.

It wasn’t that easy. The railing was about four feet high, and you’d have to lift someone over to send them downward.

A few more punches might weaken him enough to make that possible.

I hit him with another left and another right, striking him with all the force I could muster.

He crumbled to the ground.

In one sense, this was good. I was winning the fight.

But I wasn’t going to be able to grab him and throw him over, not with him huddled on the ground.

Fuck it!

I’d kill him on land. 

I connected twice more, this time with my right leg. I felt a bone shatter in his face. I was ready to finish him off forever.

“Freeze!” I heard someone say.

While I never should have moved my eyes from Tate, my instincts took over. There was a police officer with a gun pointed at both of us. Three other police officers were fifteen feet behind him, walking in our direction.

I put my hands up.

“I’m the good guy,” I said, not knowing what the hell to say.

“I don’t know who is who,” the officer said. “So don’t move and give me a reason to shoot.”

Tate slowly got up from the ground, his face a bloody mess. He’d already beaten himself up the day before, and now, combined with the punches and kicks I’d given him, he barely looked human.

“Don’t move, I said!” the policeman barked.

Tate made it to his feet. 

He put his hands behind his back and grabbed the railing, raising himself a few inches. 

“If you move one more inch, I’m going to shoot you,” the officer screamed.

Several people had now left the safety of their cars and were looking on in fascinated horror.

“Don’t shoot,” I said. “I don’t want to get hit in the crossfire.”

I’d noticed Tate moving ever so slightly in my direction. I think he was going to attempt suicide by cop and hoped to take me with him.

“Hold your fire,” the officer said to the assembled officers behind him. “No one else uses their weapon.”

And then he turned toward me.

“I’m not going to shoot you, Quint. I know you’re the good guy. Now, you can put your hands on top of your head and walk backward in my direction.”

I did just that.

When I got to be parallel to the officer, he told me to stop. 

I was now amongst everyone else, looking out at Tate Coakley.

He hadn’t said a word.

Tate probably couldn’t believe it had come to this.

He rose a few more inches on the railing. He was now high enough on it that if he leaned back, it would send him toward the ocean and not knock him back to the ground.

Everyone knew what was coming, but it played out in slow motion.

Tate looked at me.

“I guess you got the better of me, Quint. Your time will come, though.”

I couldn’t let him get the last word in. “Yeah, but not today,” I said.

With that, Tate flung himself backward. His lower back cleared the railing, and he hurdled toward the water below.

It turned out he wouldn’t make it that far.

About three seconds after he jumped, we heard the earth-shattering sound of a body hitting concrete. 

Tate had hit the base of one of the massive concrete and steel piles that went from the water below to the bridge above. 

It was a sound that few of the people gathered would ever forget.

80

As I plummeted toward my death, I only had time for one thought.

How the fuck had Quint gotten the best of me?

And then, my eyes adjusted, and I realized I wasn’t even going to make it to the water.

This was going to be ugly.

SPLAT!

81

QUINT

After the initial shock of what we’d witnessed wore off, I asked the officer to check on my mother. I pointed toward the dead man’s car.

He emerged a few minutes later with her. 

She walked freely, but I saw red swelling around her wrists and ankles. I hoped beyond anything that she hadn’t been through too much.

She was crying as she approached me, and I quickly realized that I was, too. We hugged each other for a long time, and I felt dozens of eyes upon us.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m alive, and that’s enough for me.”

“That’s better than I can say for him.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“I’m so sorry, Mom.”

“For what? You saved my life.”

I couldn’t get a word out. The tears had got the best of me.

The officer was walking in my direction.

“Quint, can you come to the station with us? We have some questions to ask, and if we do it here, this Bridge will be closed until Christmas.”

“Sure,” I said. “Can you get my mother a ride home?”

She interjected.

“How long is this interview going to be?”

“We can make today’s quick. Maybe an hour.”

“Then I’ll go the station with you guys.”

The officer wasn’t completely honest.

The interview had taken two hours, but the extra time served me well.

As I walked out of the interrogation room, I saw my mother talking to someone unexpected: Evangeline Stephens.

They looked to be laughing and having a good time—it certainly didn’t match the severity of the moment.

They stood up, and we headed toward the exit.

“When did you get here?” I asked Evangeline.

“About a half hour ago. I would have got here earlier, but traffic was backed up. Apparently, something happened on the Bay Bridge.”

Against my better judgment, I managed to smile. My mother thought it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard, and she and Evangeline shared a laughing hug.

“How about you, Mom?”

“Well, you know, I don’t get out of the house enough these days. It was nice to get a little road trip in today.”

I couldn’t quite laugh at that one—it was still too raw—but the two women enjoyed it.

“C’mon, Quint,” Evangeline said. “How many times were we bringing levity to a serious situation?”

“I’m fine doing it when it involves me. Not when it involves my mother.”

“That’s sexist,” my mother said. “Women will never truly be the same until they can bring levity to a serious situation without being thought of as victims.”

They shared another laugh.

“You guys are weird,” I said.

“Plus, we had our Hallmark moment on the bridge, Quint. I got my tears out.”

“If you say so.”

I pushed the door open, and the bright sun surprised all three of us. It was borderline warm. We were only a few days from Christmas, and this was very unlike San Francisco's Christmas weather.

“Evangeline is going to give us a ride home,” my mother said. “My driver wasn’t available, and your car might still be lodged in the Bay Bridge.”

Evangeline laughed for what seemed like the 10th time. “Is your mother always this funny?”

“Only when she undergoes a traumatic event,” I deadpanned.

I’m sure my mother was going to have some residual effects of the kidnapping, but damn if she wasn’t taking this better than I’d expected.

“You didn’t want to go to the hospital, Mom?”

“They offered. I told them I was fine. I’d always heard about these adventures you went on. I finally got to live one myself.”

“You’re acting wacky.”

“I’m very clear-headed, believe it or not.”

“All right, I believe it.” 

“And you were way off on one thing, by the way.”

“What was that?”

“You said Evangeline was age-appropriate. I was expecting a woman in your age bracket. This girl looks like she’s twenty-eight.”

Evangeline blushed. “I appreciate the compliment, but I’m way closer to Quint’s age than twenty-eight.”

“We can dive more into this at Christmas dinner,” my mother said.

“Good,” I said. I’m glad we’ll all be together. And I may be making a big announcement.”

The women looked at me.

“Just tell us now, Quint,” my mother said.

“I’m going to hang up the P.I. gloves.”

“Forever?”

“For a while. Maybe forever.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I’m tired of dealing with guys who kidnap my mother and become infatuated with reporter friends of mine.”

“Reporter friends of mine?” Evangeline said. “Is that even English? Just call me what I really am.”

“And what’s that?”

“Your girlfriend.”

I smiled and kissed her. 

“My girlfriend.”

“There you go. That’s not so hard.”

We’d reached Evangeline’s car.

“You can sit in the front, Mom.”

She took me up on my offer. Probably because she wanted to talk to Evangeline, but I’m sure she’d had enough of back seats for a while.

“Quint, have you ever seen the movie Mr. Mom?” my mother asked.

“No, and I’m afraid to ask why.”

“Well, it’s about a stay-at-home Dad. And since you’re about to be unemployed and Evangeline has a good job, maybe that’s your future.”

“Couple of things. One, I said I was done being a PI for a while. I didn’t say I was going to completely retire at forty-four. And more importantly, we’ve been dating for about two minutes, let’s not make us married with kids just yet.”

“Oh, I’m just playing around, Quint. Evangeline knows it. Right, Evangeline?”

We were approaching the entrance to the Bay Bridge. No one mentioned what had transpired there a few hours ago.

“Keep 'em coming,” Evangeline said. “I think they are great, and I like seeing Quint feeling uneasy.”

They gave each other a high-five.

I took out my phone for the first time since leaving the interrogation room. I had sixteen missed calls and forty-four texts.

They could wait.

I was enjoying the company I was now keeping. 

82

Virginia came out of her coma a little over a week later.

She’d surprised her doctors, her friends, and most of all, me.

I’d been delighted to finally solve the murder of her husband, but I’d resigned myself to the fact that I’d never get to tell Virginia herself.

That changed three days after she came out of the coma when the doctors finally allowed Evangeline and me to visit.

It was now the second day of 2025, and I had to remind her a few times. She repeatedly asked how far away we were from Christmas.

She was having trouble processing everything, but that wasn’t unexpected. She’d just woken up from a coma, after all.

“So, Carl had nothing to do with those murders?”

“Nothing at all,” I said.

Evangeline let me control of the conversation since Virginia was my client. She was there more as a supportive girlfriend. Our first few weeks of dating had been bliss. It was so good I was using silly words like bliss.

“And you said his book was published?”

“Yes. Not only that, Virginia, it’s a bestseller, and the money goes to you. You’re going to have some money waiting for you when you get out of the hospital.”

She started crying.

“I’m not crying over the money. I’m crying because I was right. My Carl was a good man.”

I nodded. “Yes, he was.”

Virginia grabbed my hand. “Thank you for everything, Quint. They were right. You truly are the best P.I. there is. You’re going to have a long career.”

Evangeline glanced at me, and we smiled.

Virginia then turned to Evangeline, “You take care of this man, you hear me?”

“I will.”

“And you take care of her, Quint.”

“I will.”

“Hopefully, one day those “I wills” become “I dos.”

“And on that note, we will be leaving,” I said. 

The three of us shared a laugh.

“Come back and see me soon.”

“We will.”

We exited the hospital, arm-in-arm.

I recalled walking out of the hospital after avenging my father’s death. That was my first case, so it felt fitting that if this was my last case, it also ended with me walking out of a hospital.

Evangeline grabbed my hand. “What are you thinking about?” 

“You. Me. Life. Death. Family. Kids. You know, the usual.”

“That’s too many things. I want you to focus on just one thing right now.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?”

“My lips.”

I gave Evangeline a longer-than-expected kiss.

2025 was going to be a damn good year.

THE END

Also by BRIAN O’SULLIVAN

Thank you so much for reading THE FINAL CHAPTER!

I’d be honored if you left a review.

My next novel will the 3rd in the Bobby McGowan series, but it’s not available for pre-order yet.

If you don’t already, will you please follow my Facebook Author Page. And it’s backup :) Brian’s Backup Facebook Author Page.

Thanks so much!

Here’s a full list of my novels if you haven’t read them all:

QUINT BOOKS:

Revenge at Sea

The Bay Area Butcher

Hollywood Murder Mystery

Nine Days in Vegas

Quint Adler, P.I.

A Knife Through the Heart

Persona Non Grata

The Final Chapter

BOBBY BOOKS:

The Photo Album

The Other Annie

STANDALONES:

The Bartender

The Mastermind

And the final three are available through my Facebook page, or will be soon:

STANDALONE:

Debut Novel

FRANKIE AND EVIE NOVELS:

The Puppeteer

The Patsy

Thanks so much for you support!!

Sincerely,

Brian O’Sullivan