The Boys from Santa Cruz

for.

…a skinny guy with fading reddish brown hair…two buddies cruising the Golden State…a private investigator from San Francisco.

San Francisco it is, then. Taking the appropriate directories down from the shelf, Asmador checks out the white pages first. There are dozens upon dozens of listings for Epsteins, but no Skip. So he flips to I for Investigators in the yellow pages, and hot damn if there isn’t a quarter-page advertisement for Epstein Investigative Services, featuring a photograph of the proprietor, captioned “David ‘Skip’ Epstein, Licensed Private Investigator.”

Asmador quickly memorizes the address on Buchanan Street, then turns back to the residential listings. There he finds an entry for one Epstein, David, on Francisco Street, which he also commits to memory. Then he flips to the map section of the directory, traces out a route with his fingertip.

Good job! thinks Asmador triumphantly as he reshelves the directories. And what’s more, you did it all by yourself.

“Oh, did you?” whispers a voice in his ear. “Did you really?”

Asmador whirls around, but there’s no one there. Just a faint whiff of demon-they smell like burned matches, in case you’re interested-and the echo of Sammael the Red’s mocking, sac-shriveling laughter.

CHAPTER THREE 1

The flying dream again. The school yard-Skip’s old elementary school. The usual chaos: a game of tag, kids running, dodging, shrieking in pretend fear. Skip stumbling, limping, ducking, hiding, making up in stealth what he lacks in speed. But the crowd of kids keeps thinning out and thinning out, until there are only two of them, Skip and the big kid who’s it. The sky is growing darker, the big kid is closing in on him, and Skip is clumping along as best as he can, pushing off on his good leg, ka-thump, ka-thump. The school yard is deserted except for Skip and his pursuer when Skip suddenly realizes this is no longer a game and starts running for his life. He’s running fast, faster than he’s ever run, and smoother, too, zooming along, picking up more and more speed, until the next thing he knows he’s airborne, with the ground rushing along beneath him and his pursuer falling behind, growing smaller and smaller. And just as Skip is beginning to understand that he’s flying, really flying-

Most of the covers were on the floor when Skip awoke. The exhilaration of dream flying had given way to a pervasive feeling of loss and longing. But that was the way that particular dream always went: as soon as he realized he was flying, it was over.

Leaving his bedclothes and pajamas on the floor-today was Thursday, the maid’s day-Skip downed two Norco tablets, then took a hard-won dump (opioids’ll shut you down faster than seeing a highway patrol car in the rearview mirror), and a long hot shower.

On his way out, he paused to inspect his appearance in the hall mirror. Straw-colored sport jacket, open- necked shirt of royal blue oxford cloth, navy slacks; curly hair moussed and shiny. He patted through his pockets to make sure he had his keys, money clip, wallet, and cell phone. As he reached for the doorknob, his eyes were drawn to the lacquered, mushroom-shaped umbrella stand, where the cane his chiropractor had given him two months ago stood gathering dust.

No, not today, he told himself. Because to Skip’s way of thinking, using a crutch when he could still manage without one would be like, well, like using a crutch.

The morning Chronicle was still on the doormat. PROMINENT ATTORNEY STILL MISSING had been relegated to the local news section. “Caddy still dead,” muttered Skip-he couldn’t get over how quickly the poorer and darker of the two victims had become a nonperson.

There were no new developments detailed in the Chron article, but around ten o’clock Warren Brobauer called to tell Skip that the judge’s body had been discovered by a pair of backpackers earlier that morning, on a hillside just south of Big Sur.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry, Warren. Is there anything I can do?”

“As a matter of fact, there is. I’m up to my ass in alligators here, and Lil’s under sedation. I was wondering, would you mind terribly going down to Monterey to make a formal identification of the body? Seems they need one before they can perform the autopsy.”

“Of course.”

“Thanks so much. And, Skip?”

“Warren.”

“Lil and I want whoever did this caught and punished. Have you made any progress on your end of the investigation?”

“Matter of fact, I have.” He told Warren what he’d learned so far.

“Stay with it, then, if you don’t mind. Because quite frankly, Skip, I’ve spent half the morning on the telephone with the lead homicide detective down there, and just between us, I’m neither thrilled by his attitude nor overwhelmed with his intelligence. In fact, I’m not sure he could find his ass with both hands if he were sitting on them, something at which he appears to have a good deal of practice.”

“Okay, Warren, I’m on it. I’ll give you a call as soon as I have anything to report. And once again, I’m so, so sorry about your dad.”

“Thank you. ’Preciate it.”

Skip clicked off, then hit the intercom button. “Tanya, would you get me the address of the Monterey County morgue? I think it’s part of the sheriff’s department. I also need directions to Meadows Road, that mental asylum that blew up a few weeks ago. I was there ten years ago, but all I seem to remember is that it’s somewhere north of Santa Cruz.”

“So is half the state of California,” the receptionist pointed out. “Could you be more specific?”

“Remind me again why I put up with your crap?”

“Because nobody else is willing to work for this pitiful salary.”

“Oh, right. Never mind.”

2

Asmador had arrived in San Francisco around two o’clock in the morning and parked the Beemer just down the street from Epstein’s building. He’d climbed in back to catch a few hours of sleep, which was all he really needed, and awoke with the sun. Pissed into a plastic milk jug. Broke his fast with a Snickers bar. Waited and watched Epstein’s door from the front seat, absentmindedly fingering the gun in his pocket.

Gradually the street had come to life. Female human walking a dog. Chronicle truck spitting out rolled-up newspapers that thud and thump against doors, onto walkways, into hedges. Garage doors opening, disgorging single-occupant vehicles. Little humans skipping or plodding off to school by twos and threes.

Epstein’s building was two stories high, beige stucco with dark brown trim. Asmador’s attention had been focused on the front door, waiting, watching, willing it to move, when someone tapped on the car window. Startled, Asmador had pressed his nose against the tinted glass and seen a meter maid rapping the window with her summons book, then pointing to the alternate side of the street parking sign, and giving him the thumb-g’wan, get outta here.

And of course, no sooner had Asmador pulled away from the curb than he spotted a white Buick backing out of the garage of Epstein’s building and driving away. With an oath, he’d started up the BMW, pulled out without signaling, and tromped down on the accelerator. At the end of the block he’d almost plowed into the back of the Buick, which had stopped for a light, and had to slam on the brakes.