Chapter 33
STILWELL WAS SEATED in a conference room when Olester Bryant arrived with a sullen Matthew Allen in tow.
He had sandy-brown hair, an acne-scarred face, and a strong resemblance to his father.
In a decision that seemed to confirm Stilwell’s belief that most people who break the law are not smart about it, Allen had come to school wearing a black hoodie with a smear of what looked like blue paint on the left sleeve.
Stilwell saw recognition flare in the kid’s eyes: Stilwell was the cop who was trying to put his father in prison.
“You,” he said. “What do you want?”
“To talk,” Stilwell said. “Have a seat.”
He pointed across the table to an empty chair.
“I don’t want to sit,” Allen said.
“Just sit down and drop the tough-guy act, Matthew,” Stilwell said. “I guarantee this will go better for you if you do.”
Allen shook his head like he was being unfairly put-upon and slid into a chair. Bryant took one of the other chairs at the table and sat with his arms crossed over his chest. Stilwell pulled out his phone, opened the recording app, and put it down on the table.
“What the fuck?” Allen said. “You’re recording this?”
“Sheriff’s department regulations require me to record any conversation with a juvenile,” Stilwell said. “It protects you as well as me.”
“Whatever.”
“So, tell me about free speech. You think it’s dead?”
“Don’t you?”
“I’m asking the questions. Tell me about your group of free-speechers.”
“What about it? We get together and talk about how fucked up the world is. That’s it.”
“Do you think that marking historic structures and buildings with graffiti is covered by the First Amendment right to free speech?”
“I think that sometimes people need to stand up for their rights. And that’s what FSID is about.”
“You know, Matt, that hoodie you’re wearing? That’s evidence that could get you charged with felony vandalism.”
“Oh, so putting my father away isn’t good enough for you? You want me in jail too?”
“This is not about your father. It’s about you making bad choices. I know it’s been a rough year for you with your father and every—”
“Fuck my father. You think I care about him? He’s a crook. I’ve known that my entire life, but you people just weren’t smart enough to get him till now. As soon as I’m eighteen I am gone. I’m off this rock and never coming back.”
Stilwell waited to respond in case there was more adolescent angst coming. He glanced at Bryant, who looked uncomfortable but familiar with the rantings of youth.
“Good luck on the mainland, Matt. I want to see you make it out there. So what I need from you right now is a promise to me and Mr. Bryant that we’re not going to see any more damage to your hometown’s buildings.
You and your friends have to lay off that.
Have your meetings, fight the good fight for free speech, but leave the paint cans on the shelf at the hardware store. ”
Stilwell paused to let all of that sink in. He hoped that Allen would see the good deal he was being offered.
“Can I get that from you, Matt?” he asked.
“You think this makes up for what you’re doing to my dad?” Allen said. “Well, it doesn’t. He’s going to prison, and me and my mom have to live with it.”
Stilwell noticed the change. Earlier it sounded like the son despised the father. Now the son was rallying behind him. Stilwell assumed the first response was a front.
“We all make choices, Matt. Your father is separate from you. You need to make a choice now. An important one. I want you to promise me that this graffiti stuff is over. It doesn’t mean your fight is over. It’s a noble cause, if you ask me. But you gotta be smart and do it the right way.”
“Whatever. Fine. I won’t do it anymore. You happy now?”
“I want you to promise me and Mr. Bryant. Do that, and this doesn’t have to go anywhere outside this room.”
“I promise, okay? Can I just go back to class now? I already missed some of it.”
“Yes, Matt, you can go. Just know this: If you break that promise, you’re going to end up in juvie jail. And that’s not a good place to be.”
Allen stood up.
“I get it,” he said. “I get it.”
“Good,” Stilwell said. “Good luck.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Allen left, banging the door closed behind him. Stilwell was not a father, but he had been a son. In this case, he hoped the son would escape the legacy of the father. He looked at Bryant as he turned off the recording app and put his phone away.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“I think he doesn’t realize right now what a break he just got,” Bryant said. “But don’t worry, someday he will.”
“Maybe. You never know with people.”
“You got kids?”
“No. You?”
“Two. They’re all grown up and out on their own. You handled that like a father would.”
Stilwell stood up.
“Well, Matt’s going to be missing his father soon,” he said.
Stilwell thanked Bryant for his help and headed outside. He drove the ATV down to the town. Along the way, he checked his watch and saw he could make the ten o’clock boat to Long Beach. He called Kim Krabill and asked if she had room for him.
“Plenty,” she said. “We leave in fifteen.”
“I’ll be there,” Stilwell said.
He stopped at the sub first and checked in with Mercy. It had been a quiet morning, she reported. But he had gotten two calls from Lionel McKey about the graffiti on the casino and chimes tower.
“Can you call him back and tell him it’s an ongoing investigation?” Stilwell asked. “No comment at this time. The usual.”
“I will,” she said. “He won’t like it.”
“He never does. I’m going over to the mainland. I might not be back till late.”
“Are you going to see Ilsa?”
“First stop.”
Mercy opened a drawer and pulled out an envelope.
“Please give her this card,” she said. “We’re all thinking about her.”
“Sure,” Stilwell said. “That’s really nice.”
He took the card.
“Call me if anything comes up,” he said.
He headed out the door for the walk over to the ferry dock. He was indeed planning to visit Ilsa Ramirez on the mainland, but it wasn’t the only stop he would make.
Stilwell was one of the last down the gangway to the boat to Long Beach.
It appeared to be half-full. Once aboard, he went up the steps to the commodore lounge.
He went directly to the pilothouse and knocked.
Captain Krabill opened the door and he gave her his thanks.
Afterward, he turned and scanned the lounge, looking for an empty aisle seat.
Most were taken but he saw some empties in the two-seat rows that ran along the windows.
When he spotted a row where both seats were empty, he headed toward it.
“Stil.”
He turned and saw that he had walked right past Kent Middleton, who was sitting by a window with an open seat next to him.
Stilwell forced a smile and went back to Middleton’s row.
“Hey, you’re going over too,” he said.
He didn’t have to fake his surprise.
“Yeah, I’ve got an interview,” Middleton said.
Stilwell pointed to the empty seat. “Is Gwen sitting here?” he asked.
“No—sit,” Middleton said. “I’m on my own.”
As Stilwell took the seat he glanced back across the lounge and saw Laffont and Masser sitting together. They briefly met Stilwell’s eyes but gave no sign of recognition. Stilwell, knowing he had stumbled into the Middleton surveillance, ignored them as well.
“Who’s it with?” he said. “The interview.”
“State parks,” Middleton said.
“You going to tell them you want Malibu?”
“I’m going to tell them I’ll take whatever they’ve got.”
“Good plan.”
“What are you doing?”
“Oh, I’m going to visit Ilsa Ramirez, the deputy who got shot last week. See how she’s doing. Then I have to go downtown for a meeting at HQ.”
“How is she doing? I haven’t seen anything in the news. It’s kind of dropped off the radar.”
“She’s good. I mean, she’s fucked up for life, but she’s going to live, and that’s pretty lucky.”
“I guess.”
Stilwell heard the thrum of the boat’s big motors throttling up and felt the slight initial tug of movement as it started pulling away from the dock.
Over the next forty minutes the two men talked casually about girlfriends and island life. Middleton didn’t ask one question about the investigation of the Angela Metier murder. That stood out to Stilwell as much as if he had asked repeated questions.
Forty-five minutes into the crossing, Stilwell said he had to hit the head and got up. As he walked through the lounge, he locked eyes with Laffont and made a slight nod toward the restroom.
Once inside the restroom, he checked under the stall doors. It was empty. He waited, and Laffont stepped in.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Laffont said.
“What the fuck am I doing?” Stilwell said. “What the fuck are you doing? Why wasn’t I told that he was on the move? I walked into this because I had no idea—”
“Okay, okay, our bad. We should have told you. But you sit down with the guy? What is that?”
“That is maintaining cover. If I didn’t sit with the guy, he’d think something was up, that I was following him.”
“Jesus, this makes me nervous.”
“What’s done is done. You got anything you want me to ask him?”
Before Laffont could answer, they heard the outer door of the restroom open. Stilwell immediately turned on the sink faucet and put his hands in the water. Laffont turned and grabbed a paper towel out of the rack. He was wiping his hands when the inner door opened and Middleton entered.
“Yo,” he said. “Gotta take a leak.”
Laffont grabbed the door before it closed and left. Stilwell finished washing his hands while Middleton went to a urinal.
“You know that guy?” he said as he unzipped.
“What guy?” Stilwell said.
“The one who was just in here. He just moved into Bird Park with another guy. I think they’re gay.”
“Okay.”
“The word is they’re looking to buy the ABC vineyard.”
“Really?”
“Maybe you should go tell them about all the vandalism happening up there.”
“Nah, not my place. I’m sure they’ll find out on their own. If they do their due diligence on it.”
Stilwell dried his hands on a paper towel, balled it up, and tossed it into an overflowing trash can.
“See you out there,” he said.
“Sure,” Middleton said.
Stilwell went through the door and headed back to the seats. On the way, he glanced over at Laffont and Masser. Laffont raised his eyebrows. He was asking if they were burned. Stilwell gave a short head shake. He didn’t think so.
Middleton had left his backpack to hold his seat. Stilwell was tempted to unzip it and take a quick look inside. He looked back toward the restroom. Middleton was still in there.
But he decided against it. It was too risky and he’d just had one narrow escape. He didn’t need another.