The Fallen

Then what was it about?

I sat in the dark and watched a big passenger jet come barreling down through the dark sky, lights blinking on its descent to Lindbergh Field. I thought of all the lights blinking in Las Vegas right now and I imagined a big marquee of clear bright bulbs streaked with the headlamps of the cars on the boulevard and a wisp of red hair from someone passing on the sidewalk below.

Maybe that’s what Garrett Asplundh’s murder is about, I thought. Something dark and private and contained within his heart.

I wanted to see the place where Garrett had been murdered because I’d never gotten a good look at it after dark. I picked up the 163, got off on Quince Drive and wound around to Laurel.

I found the dirt road and picked my way down toward the highway. When I reached a place where I could see where Garrett’s Explorer had sat, I killed the engine.

Directly in front of me I could see the swale in which Garrett had parked and the gentle hillock down which he had driven to get there.

To my left was a very large and beautiful palm tree and to my right was a thicket of eucalyptus, the leaves flickering and flashing in the headlights on the highway. Beyond the swale towered the Cabrillo Bridge, lit and rising up into the night like one of the Roman aqueducts on which it was modeled. It looked like a great ruin from history protruding up from the lush greenery, something so strong and elegant that the centuries had accommodated rather than ruined it.

A man stood in the middle of the swale. At first I didn’t see him in the flashing, strobelike headlights from the highway.

He was paying me no attention at all. He simply stood exactly where Garrett’s car had been, then backed up a few steps and slowly turned. His arms were up and he was holding something to his face. It looked to me like he was shooting pictures, or maybe video.

A big rig roared toward me from the highway and I lost sight of the man in the blinding headlights. When the truck passed and I could see again, the guy was gone.

I got out and closed my door quietly. I took my flashlight from the trunk and eased into the eucalyptus grove. Through the pale trunks I could just make out the clearing where the man had been, ahead of me maybe fifty yards.

Then he stepped back into view.

I angled out from the trees and aimed the beam of my flashlight on him.

“You there! Hold it there a second, will you?”

He looked at me, made some adjustment to the instrument he held in one hand, and relaxed his arms to his sides.

“You wait right there,” I called out. “San Diego PD.”

“Brownlaw?”

“That’s right, who do we have here?”

“Walk over and find out.”

It took me another few steps to recognize Samuel Asplundh. He’d changed from his funeral suit back into jeans and boots and a black sport coat.

An uncomfortable moment of silence passed between us. I felt the shadow of suspicion glide effortlessly over my heart.

“Come down here to pick up a scent?” he asked.

“That’s right,” I said. I watched the traffic flashing by. I looked up at the magnificent bridge lit in the darkness. I pictured Garrett Asplundh sitting right here in his Explorer in the rain, looking through the dripping passenger-side window as the Hummer drew up alongside him.

“What scent have you picked up?” I asked.

“Garrett wasn’t surprised,” said Samuel. “Garrett wasn’t surprisable. He knew the guy. He rolled down the window to talk to him.”

“The Explorer doors lock when you put the vehicle in gear,” I said. My gut was telling me to share some information with Samuel, in order to get some back. “So Garrett would have to have hit the unlock button to let him in.”

“He was shot from the passenger side?”

I nodded.

He looked at me, then back up the swale. “There was another vehicle?”

“White Hummer, new.”

“Anyone see the shooter?”

“Maybe. Male, large. It was dark and raining.”

Samuel reached into his jacket pocket and handed me a silver flask. “Johnnie Walker,” he said.

“Black, like Garrett?”

“Black.”

I unscrewed the top and sipped some. It reminded me of my night at McGinty’s.

“And what about you, Brownlaw? What flavor do you get from this place?”

“I know it was special to them.”

“Garrett proposed to her here,” said Samuel.

“But I don’t understand why he would come here,” I said. “I don’t see a reason for that, yet.”

“Sentimental journey?” asked Samuel. “Garrett was a romantic guy. Flowers and poems and the little things a woman appreciates. Garrett was the kind of guy who would revisit a sentimental place because it would give him good luck. Really. He would. Back in high school he wore the same undershirt for all our league football games, but he wouldn’t wash it between games. He would go back and back and back again to things that were important to him or that he believed in.”