I walked to the door. “He goddamn better, because if he doesn’t, he’s not gonna like where I’m gonna stick it.”
57
Charlie was in exactly the same pose I’d found him in before. He was in the middle of lighting a cigarette when he saw me coming.
He lifted his chin and blew out a huge puff of smoke. “You made it.”
“You told me it was ready.”
He sucked on the cigarette and brought his feet down off the ledge of his cart. “Yeah, sorry about that. Phones are dangerous, though, man. Never know who’s listening.”
“Right.”
“Fucking government controls everything,” he said, rummaging around in the drawer of the cart. “You think they don’t know exactly what we’re doing every minute of the day?” He tossed his ponytail over his shoulder and grinned sideways at me. “’Specially a guy like me.”
“Sure.”
He looked at me for a moment, then shrugged as if I didn’t understand and he didn’t care either way. He produced a small white envelope from the drawer. “Here it is.”
“What exactly can you tell me, Charlie?” I said, trying to remain patient.
He held the envelope up in his hand, wiggling it as his smile widened, his cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
“I’m gonna pay you based on what you tell me,” I said. “You tell me where that key goes, one-fifty’s yours. You tell me nothing, you get nothing.”
He pulled the cigarette from his lips and looked hurt. “Dude, you’re Carter’s friend. I ain’t gonna jack you around. Shit, I was pretty sure I knew where this little girl went when you showed it to me this morning.” He handed over the envelope.
I opened it. It contained the key and a small slip of paper with the number seven scrawled on it. I looked at him.
“Amtrak station,” Charlie said, kicking his toe on the ground. “You know the old depot?”
“Yeah.”
“One of the lockers there,” he said, breathing out the cigarette smoke. “I can’t tell you exactly which locker, but it’ll be one with a seven in the box number. Seventeen, twenty-seven, one-oh-seven, something like that. Look for an empty lock and that baby’ll open it.”
“How do you know it’s a seven?” I asked.
“Has to do with the serial number on the key,” he said, then grinned again. “I could tell you how it all works, but then I’d have to kill you.” When I didn’t laugh, the grin disappeared. “Hey, man, if it doesn’t open a locker there, come back and I’ll give you your money back. Like I said, I ain’t gonna jack around a friend of Carter’s.” He shrugged. “But it’s gonna open one.”
I pulled the money from my wallet and handed it to him. “I believe you. Thanks.”
He shoved the money in his pocket and squeezed the cigarette between his fingers. “Anytime.”
As I walked away, I couldn’t imagine another time that I might need Charlie’s help, but I guessed it wouldn’t hurt to be in with a key guy.
58
The old Santa Fe Depot was downtown, a couple of blocks east of the harbor on Kettner. A Mission-style building with wide arches, built in 1915, it represented the old part of San Diego that seemed to be disappearing with the tremendous growth. It had undergone several renovations and now hosted not only the Amtrak trains that ran the coast, but also the trolley that connected the Mission Valley area with downtown San Diego and the Mexican border.
The station was filled in the early summer evening, primarily with tourists looking to ride out to the stadium or down to Tijuana. The noise of the hustle and bustle echoed off of the hundred-foot ceilings and worn wooden benches.
It took me half an hour of looking before I hit pay dirt. It was the next to last locker bank that I had left to look at. I had looked at seven others in various places in the station, none of them matching the key in my hand.
When I shoved the key in locker fifty-seven, the lock clicked, the key turned, and I opened the small metal door.
A brown paper bag had been squashed into the small, square receptacle, the top of the bag folded and rolled over. I pulled the sack out and nearly dropped it on the floor, its weight surprising me. I gathered the package under my arm and walked over to a nearby bench.
The first thing I saw when I opened the bag was money. Still wrapped in bands. I didn’t count it, but I guessed it to be near the half million Costilla had told me he was missing.
A manila envelope was folded in half, slid in next to the stacks of money. I pulled it out and opened it. A piece of yellow legal paper was folded into quarters.
I unfolded it. I saw Kate’s name signed in the middle of the page, and I froze. My stomach dropped and the hair on my neck stood at attention. I stared at her name for probably five minutes before I read what was above it:
I read the letter three times, a cold knot settling in my gut. Kate had been afraid of Randall. She’d put it on paper, just in case. She’d taken Costilla’s money so she could get the hell away from him and try to rebuild her life.
But the thing that hit me the hardest was that she wanted to leave all of her past behind.
A past that included me.
It could have been Emily telling me that Kate mentioned me on her wedding day. Or perhaps it was Ken’s comment about Kate possibly looking for me. Or maybe it was me getting caught up in years of missing Kate and hoping she’d felt the same.
The letter crushed that hope with the force of a hammer to the chin, and it hurt badly.
A person sliding in beside me startled me. So did the gun in my ribs.
