Eyes Wide Open

Chapter Thirty-Eight





Thirty minutes later I handed the cigarette to Don Sherwood.

I had carefully picked it up—a Salem—put it out, and placed it in a bag from my Dopp kit. Then I called Sherwood, who alerted the Pismo Beach police, who arrived minutes later, lights flashing, along with a detective named Reyes.

“You wanted something real,” I said, handing it to Sherwood. “Here—this is real! Go to town!”

The threatening call had come from an untraceable number. I had checked with the front desk before I’d even called Sherwood. The motel had security cameras, mostly on the stairwells, but the one on my outside corridor was on the fritz. It hadn’t even been turned on. The night manager said they hadn’t needed to look at them in years.

“How’re you doing?” Sherwood asked, taking me aside.

I was angry. Who wouldn’t be? And upset. “I’m not used to receiving these kinds of threats.”

“You want to file a complaint, Dr. Erlich, Detective Reyes will be happy to take it for you.”

“I don’t want to file a complaint!” I said. “What I want is for you to look into my nephew’s death. I told you what the guy said. He was warning me to back off. He referred to someone close to me who would be put in danger. You need a scorecard to figure who he meant by that? You need to put a car outside Charlie’s house. How much more ‘real’ does it have to get? Or maybe you just want to wait until he ends up like Evan. Or maybe next it’ll be me.”

Sherwood just looked back and shrugged. “So maybe you oughta think on that advice,” he said. “There’s a lotta people around here you’ve already managed to piss off. Let’s start with the hospital. While we’re at it, why not toss in the local police? See what I mean? No telling who might’ve done this. I can’t just station a car. There wasn’t even a direct threat made against your brother. In the meantime”—he held up the bag—“Detective Reyes will take this back. Not that I’m particularly hopeful they’ll find anything.”

“How about Susan Pollack’s DNA?”

“I thought you said the caller was a man.”

“So someone else is involved.” I fixed on him. “You can’t keep ignoring this, Sherwood. Evan’s death wasn’t a suicide. You know it—I know it. Please, I’m begging you, station a car . . .”

He looked at me like his hands were tied.

“At least check Cooley and Greenway. You’ll find something. I know you will. Please, Sherwood, just do it. You’ll see.”