Eyes Wide Open

Chapter Twenty-Nine





The thing is . . . , Sherwood reflected as he parked his Gran Torino along the road in Morro Bay, in the shadow of the giant rock there:

He didn’t really buy into any of this: not the thirty-year-old connection to that ritual killing case; not the meeting between Walter Zorn and Evan Erlich; not the markings on Zorn’s tongue, which could be anything; not Dr. Erlich’s far-fetched suspicions about the Houvnanian woman who had recently been released from jail.

Yet he was here. Spending a day in the damp and wind when he could be working a case that actually needed his attention. Instead he was going over for the tenth time one he had already put to bed.

Explain that.

Since he’d gotten that stupid pastor’s liver he found himself doing a lot of things he didn’t fully understand.

A year back, he would’ve told this persistent doctor from back east to take his endovascular scope for a hike.

And hardly that nicely.

But somewhere in the closed bins of his mind, Sherwood had to acknowledge, something the guy was saying must have been making the tiniest bit of sense to him. It was the old 1 percent axiom—a detective’s rule, hijacked by the previous vice president:

If there was even a 1 percent chance he was wrong, that there was something there, something he was overlooking . . . then what the hell?

He had never done much tire-kicking on Evan Erlich. Why would he? The kid was found at the base of the rock. His body signs showed he’d spent much of the night up there. Days before, he had wailed about killing himself. He had tried to buy a gun. He was off his meds.

Jesus, this isn’t exactly rocket science here . . .

Sherwood hadn’t even advised his boss what he was doing, wasting office time on a case he had already put to bed, when there was a pile on his credenza the size of the rock itself, and one of them a case with a family that could apply pressure.

He was fifty-six; his wife was gone; he had come back from a four-month medical leave with a brand-new lease on life. And he knew he was lucky to have this job.

Sherwood took out the police photo of Evan he had printed from his computer. He walked up to the ranger station at the entrance to the rock. A uniformed female ranger stuck her head out amiably. “Help you, sir?”

Sherwood flashed his badge and asked her, “Any chance you happened to be on last Thursday?”

“Every Thursday.” The female ranger nodded.

“Any chance you happened to see this guy?” He showed her the photo. “He was the kid who jumped off the rock.”

“Oh.” Her eyes lit up as she studied it closely. But she shook her head. “No. We close the station at five. Don’t know what time he might have come through. Didn’t it supposedly happen at night?”

“It did.” Sherwood nodded. “Long shot . . .” He put the photo back in his jacket and smiled. “Thanks.”

He waved and walked along the road toward the rock. Two fishermen were casting out lines in the bay along the shoals. This time of the afternoon was always a good time for rock crabs and halibut. He went up and flashed his badge. “Either of you out here last Thursday afternoon? Around the same time, maybe?”

A black man with a scruffy white beard wearing an L.A. Angels baseball cap nodded. “I came here after my doctor’s appointment.” He smiled at his companion, a white guy with a sunburned face in a sleeveless tee. “Caught me a three-and-a-half-pounder too.”

“You happen to see this guy go by?” Sherwood brought out Evan’s photo. “Maybe around six?”

The black man took the photo and scratched his head. “No, sir, can’t say I did. Sorry.” His partner said the same. “But you’re welcome to hang around, detective.” He grinned to his buddy. “Always room for the county’s finest. Catch you some of those fancy Morro Bay oysters.”

“Morro Bay oysters . . .” Sherwood smiled. What the locals called pelican shit. Not that there were any pelicans around here anymore. They were gone. And no one knew exactly why. “Next time.”

He continued to show the photo to anyone he saw on the road, then went around the lot at the base of the rock and asked a bunch more there. Clammers. Cyclists. Joggers. Anyone who looked local. Some said they hadn’t been around that afternoon. Others said they were—and had heard what had happened, how terrible it was. Everyone looked, but no one said they’d actually seen Evan.

It was getting late. Heading on six. The sun was low in the sky behind the rock, creating a beautiful orange crown. A Dodger game had started at four, and he’d like to catch the end of it with a beer.

He’d given it his best. He promised himself this was the last effing time he would get caught up in this. Sometimes no matter how hard you believe in something, you just can’t make it the truth.

He headed to his car. There was a long-haired souvenir peddler in a tie-dyed T-shirt packing up his stand. Cheap, bronze-plated re-creations of the rock. T-shirts with its image on the front. Pennants. Guidebooks.

A tiny chunk of sandstone contained in a plastic dome, the inscription GUARANTEED PIECE OF THE MORRO BAY ROCK on the plastic base.

Sherwood went up to him. “You out here on Thursday afternoons?”

“Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays . . . Sundays, Mondays, Tuesdays too,” the ponytailed peddler replied, loading a cardboard box into his SUV.

“What happens Wednesdays?” Sherwood asked him.

“Wednesdays, I’m there.” The guy grinned, pointing to the other side of the road.

“Comedian.” Sherwood pulled out Evan’s photo. “Any chance you saw this kid?” The merchant continued to pack up his wares, glancing at the photo. “Last Thursday,” Sherwood said, clarifying. “Around this time. Would’ve been headed toward the rock.”

“He the kid who took the dive?” the man asked.

“Could be,” Sherwood said, showing displeasure at the guy’s choice of words.

“I seen him.” The vendor nodded. He taped up a box and lugged it over to his van.

“You’re sure?”

“You a cop?”

“Coroner’s office,” Sherwood answered. “San Luis Obispo.” He took out his badge.

“No worries.” The man waved him off. “The dude came by here about five twenty-five or so. Headed up that way.” He sort of pointed with his chin. To the rock. “Guess the rest is history.”

“You’re sure it was him?”

“Sure I’m sure. He stopped here.”

Sherwood felt a spark light in his chest, like a fire to kindling.

“He took a look at one of my things. This . . .” He picked up the piece of the rock in the dome. “Seemed fascinated with it. Here, take it; guaranteed to change your luck—that jumper dude excluded, of course. One day I might just drop your name when someone asks to see my license.”

“You say he was headed toward the rock?” Sherwood asked, stuffing the souvenir into his pocket. “Anything else?”

“One thing . . .” The peddler put down his box. “The dude wasn’t alone.”

Now the spark became a charge of electricity shooting through Sherwood. “What do you mean?”

“Someone was with him, that’s what I mean. A woman. Older. I remembered thinking then it could be a kid and his mother, tourists. But given what took place, that doesn’t seem likely.”

“You sure it was a woman?” Sherwood asked.

“Damn sure.” He pointed to the road. “She was standing right over there.”

The jolt in Sherwood’s chest had now become a jumping live wire. He reached into his jacket and came back out with the newspaper photo. The one of Susan Pollack leaving jail. “This her, by any chance? The woman you saw?”

The vendor scratched his head, pressing his lips together, foggily. “Can’t be sure . . . She was in kind of a blue sweater and a cap. And she had on sunglasses. She put out a cigarette on the road.” He shrugged. “Could be. I was packing up. Sorry. I don’t know if that helps.”

“I’m not sure either,” Sherwood said. He put the photo back in his pocket.

What he did know was that his jaw had begun to throb.