Man Overboard Read online

  From Odin’s point of view, nothing could have been better.

  8

  Paul Abernathy limped into the Dive Bar—so named because the original owner had been a scuba diver. He hobbled through the room and heaved himself up onto a stool that didn’t have his name on it, but might as well have. It was where he sat, hour after hour, night after night. After putting in a full eight hours sweeping hallways, scrubbing toilets, and scraping up bubble gum at Evans Elementary just up the street, the six-and-a-half-block walk from the school to the bar was as much as Paul could manage with his one bum leg and other bad knee. It was a stopping-off place that gave him a chance to stock up on liquid courage for the three and a half blocks that remained between the bar and his crappy furnished apartment at the corner of Erwin and Kester in Van Nuys, California.

  Howie, the barman, didn’t bother asking what was wanted. He simply slid Paul’s usual, a glass of Budweiser and a shot of Jose Cuervo, in front of him. “Bad day at the office?” he asked.

  It was a joke between them. Howie knew exactly what Paul did for a living. Other people in the bar didn’t, and it was none of their business, either.

  “You could say that,” Paul replied, reaching for the shot glass.

  His phone rang. Pulling it out of his pocket, Paul knew without looking that his mother was calling. “Hey, Mom,” he said, accepting the call. “How’s it going?”

  “Just checking on you, sweetie,” LuAnn Abernathy said. “Hope you had a wonderful day.”

  LuAnn was unfailingly devoted to her son, and cheerful to a fault. With some difficulty, Paul managed to keep from grinding his teeth. The nightly calls from his mother bugged him, but not enough that he didn’t answer. After all, his mother had given him the phone and kept him on her family plan. Otherwise he’d probably be phoneless. And without LuAnn’s help, he’d most likely be homeless and jobless as well. She was the one who had ponied up the first and last month’s rent on his apartment. She had also helped him find the janitorial job, once he was clean and sober enough to pass the drug test. Sober from drugs, that is. Fortunately, when it came to drugs, nobody tested for tequila.

  “It was unbelievable,” he said.

  “Unbelievable” was one of those handy words that could be taken two ways—either bad or good, depending. In this case, it was unbelievable that some little kid in one of the kindergarten classrooms had managed to puke all over the floor rather than into the toilet, but that unfortunate reality had no impact whatsoever on LuAnn’s determinedly positive mind-set.

  “Okay, then, hon,” she said. “Glad to hear it. I can tell you’re watching something on TV, so I won’t keep you. I’m off to bed. Just wanted to hear the sound of your voice and tell you good night.”

  What she took to be the sound of a television show playing in his living room was really the wall-mounted screen over the bar. Paul didn’t disabuse her of the notion that he was safely home and tucked into his apartment. He didn’t want her to worry.

  “Good night, Mom,” he said. “Sleep well.”

  Paul put the phone down on the bar beside him and took a long pull on his beer. He was fifty-six years old, and his eighty-three-year-old mother was the only person in the world who hadn’t given up on him completely. He’d had a promising life once. Fresh out of college with an accounting degree, he’d passed his CPA exams the first time around and landed his dream job. Shortly after graduation, he’d married Cindy, his high school sweetheart. Within ten years, they’d been living the American dream: a house in the burbs, two kids, a sports car and a minivan, soccer, T-ball, and skiing vacations in Park City, Utah—the whole nine yards.

  It was a fall on one of those fabulous family skiing trips that changed everything and sent Paul’s life spinning out of control. He had broken his leg on the slopes badly enough that the ski patrol had been forced to call in a helicopter to haul him to Salt Lake, where he underwent the first of the several surgeries necessary to repair a spiral fracture. He ended up being off work for three months. By the time his short-term disability ended, the leg was as healed as it would ever be, but Paul was not. He came away from the ordeal with a permanent limp and a serious addiction to opiates—a very expensive addiction to opiates.

  Paul understood now that it didn’t matter if you were addicted to prescription drugs, or heroin, or meth—once you were there, you were there. The drugs were paramount. Buying them, having them, and knowing where to get that next fix became the whole focus of your existence, while everything else faded away to nothing. Within three years of the skiing accident he’d lost everything he cared about—his wife, his kids, and his home, to say nothing of his job. Embezzlement will do that to you every time.

  “Mind if I have a seat?” Paul looked up from staring into his nearly empty beer glass to see that a guy had climbed up onto the barstool next to him. The guy was an Anglo, probably midthirties, with thinning blondish hair and dressed in casual slacks and a Hawaiian shirt, which made him overdressed and out of place among the Dive Bar’s customary low brow clientele.

  “Sure, help yourself,” Paul muttered, signaling to Howie that he was ready for his next round.

  Paul’s preferred seating arrangement each evening was to position himself at the far end of the bar right next to the wall. Having the wall at his side made for a 50 percent reduction in the necessity to engage in casual conversation with any of the bar’s other patrons.

  “Hey,” the new arrival said, producing his cell phone and putting it down on the counter next to Paul’s. “What do you know! We have the exact same phone.”

  Big deal, Paul wanted to say. They sell them by the millions. But he didn’t say that. These days, if you said the wrong thing to the wrong guy out in public, you never knew when he might pull out a handgun and plug you full of hollow-point bullets.

  “Looks that way,” he said.

  Howie returned to their end of the bar. “Ready for a refill?” he asked.

  Once Paul nodded, Howie looked to the newcomer. “What’ll you have?”

  “Since we’ve got the same phones, I believe I’ll have what he’s having.” The guy turned to Paul. “Name’s George, by the way, George Bailey,” he added as an introduction, holding out his hand and offering it to Paul. “You from around here?”

  “George Bailey, no shit?” Paul asked as they shook. “Like in It’s a Wonderful Life?”

  “As in George Bailey without the angel—the not so wonderful part,” George answered. “Wife kicked me out. I’m in the process of moving into the Seawinds Apartments just up the street. The only thing the harpy let me take from the house were my clothes, a futon, and one of the small flat-screen TVs. So far I don’t even have a cable box.”

  Paul walked past the Seawinds every day on his way to work. The building was only a few blocks away from his place but it was definitely more upscale than other nearby buildings. Residents there had the dual advantages of both secure underground parking and an outdoor pool. Paul’s apartment complex, the Royal Regency—a double misnomer if ever there was one—reminded Paul of that old Roger Miller song: no phone, no pool, no pets (and no off-street parking, either). Of course, if you didn’t own a car, not having a designated parking place wasn’t that big a deal.

  “You live around here?” George asked.

  “A couple of blocks away as the crow flies,” Paul answered with a shrug.

  If this guy lived in the neighborhood, there was no point in pissing him off. On the other hand, Paul didn’t want to be trapped into carrying on small talk with some kind of Chatty Cathy. While George babbled on, Paul focused on his drinks and nodded in a noncommittal fashion every so often while only half listening. As far as Paul could tell, it was the same old wronged-husband baloney. George had given his wife everything she ever wanted, and now she had thrown him out of the house for no good reason and had hired a pit-bull lawyer to “suck him dry.” Etc. Etc. Etc.


  Paul himself had sung a few verses of that old song years ago, except it hadn’t been true, not even when he’d been whining about it. The truth was, Cindy hadn’t run him off. The cops had knocked on the door while the whole family had been eating dinner. They had placed him under arrest and hauled him off to jail on the embezzlement charge—without benefit of either a futon or a flat-screen TV.

  Cindy had gotten a divorce while he’d been locked up. He had wondered sometimes how she’d managed to keep the mortgage paid and hold body and soul together while he was in the slammer. At some point, Kent, her second husband, must have come riding to her rescue. No one ever told Paul for sure, but he suspected Kent was the only reason the house hadn’t gone back to the bank.

  As far as second husbands went, Paul had to admit that Kent Sterling wasn’t half bad. He had done a commendable job of finishing raising Katy and Jonathan. With good reason, Kent had been the man who had walked Katy down the aisle when she married two years ago. Paul had been in court-ordered rehab at the time. He probably could have gotten a furlough to attend his daughter’s wedding, but he hadn’t been invited. He’d seen the photos, though, because his mother had sent them to him and because LuAnn was the kind of grandmother who had stayed in touch with Cindy and the kids no matter what.

  And who had been there to pick up the pieces for Paul when he got out of rehab that last time? His mother again—good old LuAnn. Despite everything Paul had done to disappoint her, no matter how many times he had let her down, she had stuck with him like glue. She’d always been there to clean up other people’s messes, starting with that blood-spattered master bedroom after his father’s ugly suicide. LuAnn had picked Paul up after his latest release from rehab. His embezzlement conviction meant he could never go back to work in accounting, so LuAnn had helped him obtain the janitorial position and had used some of her limited Social Security funds to help him have a place to live. This time, no matter what, Paul was determined that he would live up to her faith in him.

  He had actual health insurance now. His GP had told him that his supposedly good leg needed knee replacement surgery, which would be covered by the policy. The problem was, Paul understood that the surgery was only the tip of the iceberg. The real trap was in the pain meds that would be prescribed afterward. Paul knew himself too well to think he could resist that temptation. Yes, he could scrape by on booze—and give himself enough of a buzz each night that he could sleep—but faced with his drug of choice? He’d be a goner for sure. He’d sworn that the last time he’d suffered his way through all the agonizing withdrawal symptoms that he’d never do it again—not to himself, and even more so, not to his mother.

  Paul usually made that second beer last until it was time to head out for home. When he came back from a brief pit stop, however, he discovered that a third shot and beer were sitting in front of his customary stool.

  “Where’d those come from?” he asked.

  “George bought a round for you,” Howie explained. “Said to tell you thanks for listening and see you next time.”

  “All right, then,” Paul said. “Bottoms up.”

  The booze hit him a lot harder than he would have expected. When he left the bar a little later, Paul made it less than a block down Kester before he started having trouble walking straight. At first he thought it was just that third shot of tequila talking, but then the familiar rush hit him. He knew what it was and realized that if he didn’t get help . . .

  He reached for his phone, hoping to dial 911, but it wasn’t there. Paul’s last thought, before he drifted into a fentanyl-induced coma, was that he must have left the phone lying on the counter, but that was not the case. The phone had exited the bar just before Paul did, picked up discreetly by a gloved hand and slipped into George Bailey’s pants pocket. From the far side of Kester, Odin used his own phone to film the entire sequence as Paul Abernathy staggered and fell. Odin came in for a close-up and then waited long enough to be sure the dose Frigg had recommended had done its work. When Abernathy quit breathing, Odin checked the “In Case of Emergency” names in Abernathy’s contacts list. He used Abernathy’s still-warm fingers to type in and send “Mom” a one-word text message: SORRY.

  Walking back to the car Odin had left parked blocks away, there was a real spring in his step. Long before the body was discovered by a passerby, Owen Hansen himself was on his way home to Santa Barbara.

  Odin and Frigg had successfully claimed their first victim, and they could be reasonably certain that no one would ever be the wiser. After all, Paul Abernathy, a child of suicide and a not entirely recovered drug user, had taken his own life by mixing booze and fentanyl.

  What a surprise!

  9

  When Ali drove home to Sedona later that evening, she tried to leave the Stuart Ramey/Roger McGeary crisis back in the office in Cottonwood rather than bringing it along with her to Manzanita Hills Road. Unfortunately, she found a different crisis unfolding at the house.

  Early September was late summer in central Arizona. Sedona’s 4,300-foot elevation meant that, although the temperatures were far more moderate than down around Phoenix, it was still plenty hot. That morning, as Ali was getting ready to leave, Leland Brooks, her longtime majordomo, had asked what she would like to see on the menu for dinner.

  “What about some gazpacho?” she had asked. “On a day like this, I think a nice chilled soup will be just what the doctor ordered. And with B. out of town, don’t bother setting up in the dining room. I’ll eat in the kitchen with you, if that’s all right.”

  “Certainly,” he had said. “It will be my pleasure.”

  With that in mind, Ali pulled into the garage thinking that there would be no cooking aromas seeping in from the kitchen. She was wrong about that, of course. The moment she opened the door of the Cayenne, she caught the scent of grease on a hot griddle.

  When she opened the door, Bella, their rescued long-haired ­miniature dachshund, came racing pell-mell for her, with her tiny claws scrabbling on the tile floor. Meanwhile Leland was stationed in front of the stove with a spatula poised in his hand, studying the steaming contents on top of a griddle.

  “Grilled cheese sandwiches, I presume?” Ali asked, picking up the excited pooch and hugging her briefly before setting the dog back down on the floor.

  Leland nodded. “Your favorite,” he replied, “complete with a layer of sliced jalapeños.”

  “This morning I thought we agreed that we’re having soup for dinner,” she objected.

  “Gazpacho is fine, but only up to a point,” Leland said as he expertly flipped one of the sandwiches. “A bit of protein is required to turn it into a meal.”

  “And you never do anything by half measures, do you,” Ali said with a laugh.

  “I do my best,” Leland answered with a smile.

  “Okay. If you’ll give me a minute, I’ll slip into something a little more comfortable,” Ali told him.

  “Go right ahead,” Leland said. “I’ll have the wine poured by the time you get back.”

  When Ali reappeared in the kitchen in a tank top, a pair of jeans, and flip-flops, Bella was happily crunching her kibble in the corner by the fridge. As for the humans? Both food and wine were on the table.

  Picking up the chilled bottle, Ali saw that tonight they would be drinking a Grand Cru Riesling from J. J. Prüm winery along Germany’s Moselle River. When Paul Grayson, Ali’s late and unlamented second husband, had gone to what she hoped was his just reward, she had inherited the contents of the man’s very extensive wine cellar. After years of dipping into it on a regular basis, the collection was somewhat depleted, but so far there had been little need to supplement it with purchases from a local wine retailer.

  Leland Brooks, an aging Korean War vet who had immigrated to the States from Great Britain, had come into Ali’s life right along with the house in which she lived. He had worked as the butler for the home’s ori
ginal owners, the Ashcrofts, and had stayed on once Ali showed up and embarked on the extensive job of rehabbing the place. Over the years, he had become as indispensable as he was elderly. Although he preferred to remain in the background, he had a knack for anticipating Ali’s every need. He no longer did the actual house or yard work, but he oversaw those who did. He still handled all the shopping, however, and he absolutely refused to relinquish control of the kitchen. That was his bailiwick, and assistance in that quarter was neither required nor welcomed.

  Ali was accustomed to Leland’s easy good humor, but tonight that was missing. Frown lines marred his forehead, and he sighed as he took his seat. Sensing something out of the ordinary, Ali was concerned.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  He shrugged noncommittally and didn’t answer.

  “Out with it,” Ali ordered. “What’s up?”

  Leland took a deep breath. “You remember my friend Thomas?”

  Ali nodded. Leland’s relationship with Thomas Blackfield—something more complicated than mere friendship—dated from when they’d been young men together in the UK back before Leland joined the Royal Marines and went off to fight in the Korean War. Separated for years by family tragedies compounded by misunderstandings, they had rekindled their youthful friendship only in the past couple of years. Thomas had come to the States to visit, and had actually been in attendance at Ali and B.’s Las Vegas wedding before returning to the UK.