Thread of Innocence

She didn’t say anything.

“I didn’t think so,” I said. “So don’t tell me what I’m not. Because right now, I’m more of a cop than you are.”

I turned and left her in the driveway, slamming the front door behind me.

THIRTY FIVE

The doorbell was ringing before I was out of the shower.

I heard it the first time and ignored it, letting the hot water sting my neck and back, trying to roll the tension that had gathered in both places. The ringing stopped and I took longer than normal working the shampoo into my scalp, again trying to rid myself of the anxiety and anger that Blundell’s visit seemed to have brought me. I was rinsing it out when I heard the bell again. I shut off the water, toweled off, pulled on a T-shirt and jeans and stalked to the door as the bell chimed again. I was irritated and ready to take the head off whatever solicitor was wearing out my doorbell.

Except it wasn’t a solicitor.

A tan-ski

“Mr. Tyler?” he asked.

“Yeah?”

“My name’s Robert Simmons,” he said, a thin smile on his face that came off as neither friendly nor unfriendly. “John Anchor sent me.”

Anchor. Fast as always.

I offered my hand and we shook.

“I know I showed up without a phone call and I apologize,” Simmons said. “But I’ve been told you were advised that setting up this meeting could happen quickly. And it has.”

Anchor. Mind-blowingly fast.

“Okay,” I said.

“My colleague, Jason Be

I wondered if Codaselli made all of his guys go to charm school.

“No, it’s fine,” I said. “Let me grab a couple things and we can go.”

Simmons nodded. “Excellent. And, just so there are no misunderstandings, Jason and I will be accompanying you and we are properly equipped. There’s no need for you to bring anything other than your necessary personal belongings.”

Translation: don’t bring a gun.

“Got it,” I said. “Give me one minute.”

Simmons nodded.

I left the door open and jogged to the bedroom. I pulled on a zip up Adidas jacket, socks and ru

He introduced me to Be

We took the bridge over the bay back toward downtown and I was surprised that we headed north on five rather than south. We cut through downtown and past the airport on the highway and then got off the freeway again five minutes later at Moore and turned toward Old Town.

Old Town was an area in San Diego that had undergone multiple incarnations and refused to die. When I was a kid, it had been a place full of Mexican restaurants and small vendors selling handcrafted wares, meant to resemble a small downtown village in Mexico. But the city and vendors had butted heads over the years and the city brought in more development, much to the chagrin of those that wanted to keep the traditional vibe that the area had always exuded. Merchants and restaurants vacated, only to be replaced by chain storefronts and a more commercialized feel. Developers had tried to retain some of the original feeling by convincing several of the restaurants to stay, but Old Town felt more like a shiny new tourist attraction that had been constructed in a historic neighborhood.

Be

Simmons twisted in his seat to look at me in the back. “You’ll be meeting with a man named Mario Valdez. Are you familiar with him?”

“No.”

“Within his organization, his position is probably most similar to that of a vice president,” Simmons explained. “Perhaps the number two most senior member of his organization, number three at worst. He agreed to this as a favor to Mr. Codaselli. I have no idea what to expect, except that we should treat him with the kind of respect a man of his stature is accustomed to.”

“So don’t go in and start demanding things or grab him by the neck,” I said. “I got it.”

Simmons nodded and pushed open his door.

I followed him and Be

A minute later, a young man in his twenties emerged from a door near the kitchen, wearing a dark suit and a yellow dress shirt. He strode to the podium, introduced himself to Simmons, turned on his heel and Simmons motioned for Be

The room looked like a private banquet room, with a long table covered in a red tablecloth and surrounded by about a dozen chairs. Eleven of them were empty.

Mario Valdez sat at the head of the table. He looked about my age, with thi

He looked up as we entered, pulled the cloth napkin from his lap, wiped at his mouth and stood.

He smiled at Simmons and extended his hand. “I’m Mario. You must be Mr. Simmons.”

Simmons nodded and they shook hands. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice. Mr. Codaselli appreciates any help you can offer us.”

Valdez nodded. “Of course. Peter is a friend. If we can help, we will.”

Simmons introduced Be

Valdez studied me carefully for a moment, the smile still on his face, but his eyes scrutinizing who he was meeting with. “Mr. Tyler. A pleasure.”

We shook hands and Valdez looked at Simmons. “I trust we are good here?”

Simmons nodded. “We are, yes sir.”

Valdez looked past me to the man who’d brought us to the room. “Alonzo. Please see that Mr. Simmons and Mr. Be

“Yes, sir,” Alonzo said. “Gentlemen?”

Simmons and Be