Seaside Secrets. Dana Mentink
The sound exploded through the crowded street. Angela Gallagher screamed, jerking so violently she stepped wrong off the curb and sprawled onto the asphalt. Her purse flew out of her grip. On hands and knees, she struggled for breath, pulse thundering as her senses tried to right themselves.
The worker who had dropped the empty pallet went about his unloading, oblivious to the panic he’d caused in one out-of-control woman. “Get up,” she told herself furiously.
A hand grasped her elbow, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and a wide face. He wore khakis and a plaid shirt. His eyes were flat, probing. “Are you all right?”
She swallowed a surge of panic. Not every stranger is dangerous. You’re not in a war zone anymore. A deep breath in and out. “Yes, thank you.” She forced a smile. “I wasn’t watching my step.”
His hand lingered on her arm. “You look lost. Visiting?”
Why did he want to know? It’s called polite small talk. Paranoia. She could not get rid of it, no matter how hard she poured herself into Bible study or prayer.
“Meeting someone here at the wharf,” she said.
He stooped to help as she retrieved the spilled items from her purse. “Bad time for that. During Beach Fest the whole town is nuts. Where were you supposed to meet?”
“Oh, somewhere around here. I’ll find him. Thanks for your concern.” She gave him another smile and edged away, toward the vendors.
“I could help, if you’d like.”
“No. No, thanks.”
He studied her face. A moment too long? “Enjoy your stay, Miss Gallagher,” he said softly, turning away into the crowd.
Goose bumps prickled her skin. One more look, soft and sly, and he was gone.
For a moment, she felt frozen, paralyzed. Her name. How had he known? Her brain slowly began to reboot. Her wallet. He’d picked it up for her. It had probably fallen open and he’d read her driver’s license. What is the matter with you? she asked herself. He was a regular guy, offering help, and this was not wartime, not here.
A bead of sweat trickled down Angela’s back, at odds with the chill ocean air. The press of the crowd overwhelmed her senses. She had not imagined when she’d made the eight-hour drive from Coronado to Monterey that she would land in the middle of some sort of festival. Would she have come if she had known? No, her gut said. Yes, her heart corrected.
People walked along Fisherman’s Wharf, stopping at the craft booths and trailing down to the rocky shore to watch the kayakers and the whale-watching boats chugging through the choppy waters of California’s central coast. The January cold pressed in; she gathered her jacket around her. Where was he? He was supposed to meet her under the balloon arch a half hour ago. Blowing on her fingers, she scanned the wharf again. Though she’d never clapped eyes on Tank Guzman, she knew exactly what he would look like. His identical twin, Julio, had died in her arms from sniper bullets meant for her. Again Julio’s gentle face rose up in her mind, the sweet hopes he’d shared about a life with his girlfriend upon his return from Afghanistan, the easy banter that was a salve to the tension of the war.
“Chaplain,” he’d told her with an irrepressible grin, “you’ve got the hardest job in the navy. All I gotta do is keep you alive, but you have to tend to all the wandering souls in this unit.”
Yet Julio Guzman, a chaplain’s assistant and her bodyguard, had been the one to die. He sacrificed his life for hers, a navy chaplain serving in a combat zone without so much as a handgun in her possession. She tried to bring herself back to the present.
Vendors clustered under white tents in the street, offering samples and calling to potential customers.
Noise, colors, smells and sounds assaulted her. As if by some inner compass, she found herself moving away from the crowd down toward the crashing surf, forcing herself to hold her gait to a stroll instead of an outright sprint. The beach offered some respite. There were people exploring the sand and the tide pools nestled in the clefts of rock. Children squealed, peering at the little hermit crabs and tiny fish inhabiting the crevices. She remembered doing the same with her father, but instead of the tingle of nostalgia, she felt nothing but cold. Sucking in deep breaths of sea-scented air, she moved away from the people, seeking the solace of a nearly empty stretch of beach.
One more look back. The man with the khaki pants had not appeared on the warped stairs that led down to the beach. You see? Paranoia, Angie. It’s what her three sisters would have said back before they’d lost their private investigator father to a murderer. Now they were less innocent, more cynical, having decided to keep their father’s private investigation office going. And she, struggling and desperate to reclaim her life, had signed on as a woefully underqualified part-time investigator.
So why hadn’t she told them about the case she was working on now? Finding Tank Guzman, Julio’s errant brother.
Because it’s not a case. She lifted her face in the direction of the surf. It’s personal.
For the first time, she noticed a woman with a long black braid standing near her almost at the edge of the water. Angela was about to retreat, to find another solitary section of sand, when she heard the woman say, “No way, Tank.”
Angela stiffened. Her imagination again? Had she heard right?
“Listen, I mean it,” she said into her cell phone. “It’s a bad idea. It’s too dangerous. I told you to call it off, but I know you’re going to go through with it anyway and get us both killed.”
She really had said Tank. Angela stood frozen, blinking in surprise.
“My tire,” she was saying. “No, it wasn’t an accident.” She looked around. “He might be watching us right now. Get out of here and go home. I’m going to do the same. Please, I’m begging you.” Another long pause. “I’m sorry, Tank. I can’t help. Please just let it go.” She clicked off the phone.
Angela felt as if her body were acting under the orders of someone else. “Excuse me,” she said.
The woman whirled so fast her foot slipped, and she went down on her knee.
“I’m sorry,” Angela started, reaching out a hand to her. “I heard you say Tank.”
“Back off,” the woman said.
“I need to find Tank. Where is he?”
“I said, stay away.” She pulled something from her jacket pocket.
Angela gaze went to the knife in the woman’s hand.
The weapon was small, barely bigger than the woman’s shaking palm. Angela was frozen to the spot. “I’m trying to find a man named Tank Guzman.”
The woman’s eyes widened to black pools. “Why?”
The wind whipped Angela’s chin-length bob of brown hair around her face, stinging her eyes. “I know... I knew his brother. We arranged a meeting. Here. But he didn’t show.”
“His brother.” Something shimmered in her expression as she said the words. “So you’re the person from Pacific Coast Investigations?”
Angela tried not to show her surprise. “Yes. I overheard your call. You don’t want Tank to meet with me. Why?”
In an instant, the woman was edging away. “Never mind. Listen to me. Tank was wrong to contact you. There’s nothing going on here. It was a mistake.”
Terror reflected in the woman’s eyes.
Angela hoped she could force out a calm tone. “I can see you’re scared. I’m a navy chaplain. Maybe I can help.”
The woman started. “A navy chaplain?