I fired the phone at the passenger door. I took the La Jolla Village Drive exit and headed toward the Torrey Pines gliderport to find Randall Tower.

60

The gliderport lurked just south of the long fairways of the Torrey Pines Golf Course, a giant clearing amidst the thick trees and ultra-modern buildings of the biotech corridor along Torrey Pines Road. It was a magnificent takeoff spot for the crazies who were into hang gliding, a flat clifftop that abruptly disappeared and sent them shooting out over Black’s Beach, three hundred feet above the Pacific.

I turned down the paved road that ended in a cul-de-sac. Access to the dirt road and parking area was chained off, a sign proclaiming the port closed after eight at night. A blue Ford Taurus was parked next to the sign.

I parked the Blazer behind the Taurus and got out. I blinked several times, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. I shivered into the cool wind that whipped up and off the cliff face, listening to the ocean roar in the distance.

I walked around the empty lot and down the narrow dirt road. I squinted into the night and barely made out a faint light up ahead where I knew the steep path down to Black’s began. As I got closer, I heard whistling.

Randall was seated on the dirt landing at the top of the stairs, beneath the signs proclaiming the danger of the cliffs and the unstable path, his back to the ocean. A dim, single bulb light barely illuminated the signs, a whistling Randall, about eight empty beer bottles, and one ominous-looking syringe. His light blue oxford was untucked, the left sleeve rolled up above the elbow, and his khakis were wrinkled and dirty at the knees. He didn’t seem to notice that just three feet to his left, the earth disappeared.

He was holding a bottle of Grey Goose in his hand, and he lifted it toward me as a greeting. “Hey, Mister Super Private Detective is here. Woohoo.”

“Yeah, I’m here,” I said, my jaw aching from the clench I’d placed it in since talking to him on the phone.

He made an exaggerated act of looking at his watch. “Well, it’s about time.” He wiggled the vodka bottle in the air. “Can I offer you a drink?”

I kicked the bottle out of his hand, and it went flying down the steep path, shattering somewhere down below. I grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him off the ground and to his feet.

“I don’t want a drink, asshole,” I said, jerking him closer so he could see my face. “And I don’t want to share a needle, either. I want to know what you did to Kate.”

His head lolled to one side, no fear on his face, just drunken, strung-out comfort in his glazed-over eyes. “Come on, man. Noah. Buddy.” He smiled, his eyes half open. “Let’s have one last beer together.”

I spun him away from the stairs and threw him to the ground, his body hitting the dirt in front of the stairs like a bag of rocks.

He looked up at me, surprised, then pointed a finger at me. “You are so strong, man.”

The anger erupted inside my chest, and I jumped on him, driving my fist straight down on his nose. It collapsed like a stepped-on snail, and he screamed, his voice echoing out over the water into the dark.

“Listen to me,” I said, lowering my face next to his, my anger giving my voice an edge I didn’t know it had. “I know you killed Charlotte Truman, and you’re gonna tell me what you did to Kate. Or you are going over the side of this cliff and then I’m gonna come down and break everything that’s not already broken.”

“Charlotte,” he slurred. “I didn’t want to.”

“I wanna know about Kate.”

“You don’t understand,” he mumbled.

The blood from his nose looked purple in the dark. His eyes crossed as he tried to get a look at the damage in the middle of his face. He touched it with his hand, winced, and then clumsily tried to shove me off of him. I moved to the side, but kept a hand in the middle of his chest.

“Make me understand, Randall.”

He knocked my hand away and rolled over awkwardly, and I stood up with him.

He turned around to face me, staggering a bit to his left. The blood leaked down his face onto his shirt. He tried to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, but managed only to smear it onto his cheek.

“She made me do it,” he said, sounding as if his mouth was full of gravel.

The anger surged again in my chest. “What?”

He looked at the blood on the back of his hand, then at me. “She made me do it, you dumbass.”

I grabbed him again, spun him around, and pushed him back toward the top of the stairs and the edge of the cliff. He tried to push me away, but I didn’t let go. He twisted around, trying to look behind him as I marched him toward the edge.

“Don’t!” he said, his eyes moving wildly. “It’s not my fault!”

I stopped about a foot short from where the edge gave way to a long, nasty tumble, the ocean groaning at the bottom. “All of this is your fault. All of it. You let Kate go down for your mistake.” I jerked him toward me so we were chest to chest, my fists full of his shirt, pushed up under his chin. “And now you’re telling me Kate made you do all of it? It was her fault?”

He blinked several times, and the fear that had shaped his face was gone. He looked at me for a moment, his hands dropping to his sides, giving up.

“You still don’t get it,” he said, almost laughing.

Anger streaked through my body, and I shook him hard, our foreheads banging together. “You’re right! I don’t!” I jerked on the oxford again and the buttons that ran down the middle popped loose and I stumbled a couple of steps back, a piece of the cotton fabric clutched in my right hand.

We stood there for a moment, both of us breathing heavily, the wind whistling around us. I looked at him, blood running from his nose onto his now exposed chest.

There was something so familiar about him.

Then I looked at the piece of shirt in my hand.

And that’s when I finally figured it out.

“Don’t move,” a voice whispered in my ear, the cold barrel of a gun pressing into the back of my neck. “Don’t turn around until I tell you to.”

The voice should have startled me, but it didn’t. I knew, staring at Randall, what I had been missing all along. I had been lulled into looking in the other direction, not looking right where I should have been all along. As I stood there, the voice whispering in my ear, my gun pulled from my waistband, I couldn’t believe that I had missed it.

And now, as the ocean roared down below us, I figured I was probably going to miss the rest of my life.