“We’ve got a few. Most of ’em are more like riverbeds—arroyos. So being riverside isn’t necessarily high-priced real estate with scenic views. And since it looks like we’re heading toward the airport, I think we’re doubling down on the potential ugly.”
As Shay looked out of the truck’s windows, she had to agree. This was the part of town where she and the boys had camped out when they’d first moved to San Diego. The truck carrying their furniture had been delayed by two whole weeks, so they’d gotten a suite at one of those extended-stay hotels. It had been relatively nice, but just a few blocks away were pawnshops, strip clubs, massage parlors—and, apparently, a worn-down, three-story brick box of an apartment complex loftily called “Riverside Arms.”
Peter found a parking spot on the street and as they got out of his truck, the roar of an airplane taking off made it impossible to hear. He pointed toward the building’s front door, and Shay nodded, and together they went up the pitted concrete path. The door was locked, but there was a panel of a dozen buttons for buzzers near a dented, ancient speaker.
Peter hit the buzzer for 350. There was no name next to it—there was nothing written next to any of the buttons, except for one marked Manager in childishly careful block print.
Nothing happened. He hit it again, holding it longer this time.
Shayla pointed to the speaker. “That might not even work,” she said—the jet engines now a rumble in the distance.
“Or no one’s home,” Peter said. He hit the button for the manager, as he glanced at her. “You up for playing private eye? A few white lies for the sake of information gathering?”
She nodded. “Of course. What are you thinking?”
But instead of the speaker squawking on, the manager came out of an apartment that was at the very front of the lobby—they could see a man peering at them through the glass as he came to push the door open.
“You here about the rental?” he asked. It was clear he was wary of Pete’s naval uniform, but his semi-unwelcoming demeanor went even farther south when he looked at Shayla. “Sorry to say it, but management just upped the security deposit to three full months.”
There was no way that was true for anyone but a family of color—or maybe a white sailor from the Naval Base, who was in an interracial relationship.
As if this man had the right to judge anyone, with his beer belly gaping between the bottom of his stained white sleeveless undershirt and jean cutoffs that were much too short, considering this was not the 1980s. And that wasn’t even taking into account his beady little blue eyes, orange-tanner skin tone, and lack of chin. His fleshy face just went straight from his head down to his shoulders, and God, he smelled like a bad combo of locker room and distillery. But he was white and male and presumably hetero, which in his mind gave him the right to assess and find them lacking.
Shayla smiled sweetly at the man, even while inwardly she was performing a Game of Thrones–style massacre—and maybe even writing warning messages on the lobby walls with his entrails. White lies? Nope. They were gonna hit this man with a full fictional fucking.
And before Peter could respond—it was clear he was both astonished and outraged—she said brightly, crisply, “Oh, that’s well within the studio’s budget—I’ve been authorized to offer in the neighborhood of seventy-five thousand for the month, with the possibility that we’ll need to stay for two. Maybe three—four at the most. At the same monthly rental amount, of course.”
The manager’s jaw had dropped. “I’m sorry, I’m—” he started, but Shayla cut him off.
“Excuse me, I’m sorry, I’m so rude! I’m Harriet Parker from Heartbeat Productions, and this is Lieutenant Thomas McGee—the film’s official military consultant. We’re scouting locations here in San Diego for Mr. Howard’s latest film, SEAL Team Sixteen—working title, of course. Lieutenant McGee is with me today, since the movie’s based on a true story, and he was there. And while apartment three-fifty isn’t exactly right, it’s very close to what Mr. Howard needs. We’ve all seen pictures, and we were supposed to meet the leaseholder here this morning—” she took her phone from her handbag and scrolled through her latest texts from Tevin, pretending they contained vital info from Mr. Howard’s studio “—a Daryl Middleton…?”
The manager was shaking his head, but his eyes had turned into cartoon dollar signs and he pushed the door open wide enough for them to come in. “I’m not sure where you got that info—three-fifty’s one of our currently-vacants. But I’m happy to show it to you, and talk to the owner about working out some kind of short-term deal.”
Yeah, Shayla bet he would. But as she and Peter stepped into the lobby—which smelled like locker room, distillery, urinal, and sauerkraut or maybe that was rotting cabbage, hard to tell—she said, “Three-fifty’s vacant? That’s strange. Unless…Oh, in his last email, Daryl said something about his father’s failing health, so maybe he had to leave town unexpectedly. And then we got delayed because of the thing with Ryan Gosling….You know, but shhh, can’t talk about it.”
The manager was trying to lead them toward the back of the lobby, to an elevator door that didn’t quite close all the way—as if someone had taken a crowbar to it in order to allow someone else to escape. No way was she getting into that, so she planted her feet and took Peter’s arm to stop him, too.
He complied and even covered her hand with his and squeezed—it was clear he was trying not to laugh as the manager realized they weren’t following and came back.
Shay asked, “Has three-fifty been empty for long?”
“Oh,” he said, “um, yeah, actually. I think the tenants moved out in December. Yeah, it was right before Christmas, when the semester ended. They were students.”
“Wow,” Shay said. “So…months ago. That’s strange. Are you sure we’re talking about the same tenant—Daryl Middleton? Maybe I got the apartment number wrong.”
The manager shook his head, absolute. “I’ve been here ten years. I know everyone. No one named Daryl Middleton in three-fifty or any other apartment. At least not as a leaseholder.”
“I’m certain it was three-fifty, Harriet,” Peter told Shay before turning to the manager to say, “Daryl’s tall, white, long straight hair, beard, early twenties…?”
The manager laughed. “Tenants were co-eds. From Ohio—nice girls, pretty. Blondes and maybe not the sharpest tools in the shed, if you know what I mean. This Daryl sounds like one of their boyfriends. They had shitty taste in men.”
In other words, he’d hit on them and gotten turned down.
“I’m happy to show you the apartment though,” the manager continued.
Both Shayla and Peter reached for their phones at the exact same time, feigning an incoming call—because there was no need to go upstairs.
Shay pretended to look at her phone and covered by saying, “Oh my God, Lieutenant McGee, are you getting a call from Ron’s office, too? Hang on, I’ve got to take this.”