Under a broken sky, p.1
Under a Broken Sky, page 1
UNDER A BROKEN SKY
A THRILLER
KRIS CALVIN
For Lori
Tuesday, February 2
FOLSOM LAKE IN early February is icy cold. Cold enough to cause a man who suddenly finds himself immersed over his head to gasp heartily from the shock of it, drawing the bracing river water that feeds the lake from above deep into his lungs.
But the solitary figure responsible for Johnny Hill’s death thought it unlikely Johnny had felt the cold as he choked on the water’s involuntary flow. Surely if he had, he would have fought back with flailing arms and thrashing legs against nature taking its course. They say it takes a grown man breathing water forty seconds to drown.
Ten minutes later, anyone who happened to see the figure sitting cross-legged on a rocky outcrop gazing at the shore might have assumed he was meditating, inwardly focused despite the majesty of the red-orange sun cresting the horizon on this first day in weeks without rain. Except the man who killed Johnny Hill was not practicing mindfulness. He was thinking how nice it would be to ride Johnny’s bike back to Sacramento through the cottonwood, valley oak, and willow trees that bordered the American River. He’d be able to hear the bird songs and raucous calls of warblers and scrub jay. A horned owl might swoop overhead.
Yes, it would be nice. But it wouldn’t be smart, and the man knew the value of smart choices. So he left Johnny’s bike in the campsite propped against the side of an abandoned tent, where along with the empty whiskey and pill bottles it would tell a story that would sadden but not surprise those who heard it.
The man had never killed before. As he climbed down from the rocks, he prodded his conscience.
He found no guilt there.
Perhaps a touch of melancholy, which he did not mind.
FIVE WEEKS LATER WEDNESDAY, MARCH 10
CHAPTER
1
New City Hall
ALIBI MORNING SUN turned his back on the good book and comfortable armchair that called to him from the living room of his modest ninth-floor apartment in the Bridge District of West Sacramento and made his way downtown.
It wasn’t light out yet, but he hadn’t been able to sleep. He reasoned that if he was one of the first to arrive at work, he might clear his in-box before the distractions of the day began.
He was still getting used to his new office. It was the third he’d been assigned in as many years.
When first promoted from homicide detective to head of major crimes in the investigative division of the Sacramento Police Department, he’d worked out of an overheated room previously occupied by his predecessor in the joint sprawling police and fire headquarters. Funds had come through for a massive renovation of that site, and Alibi and key members of his team had been temporarily moved to the top floor of a downtown steel-and-glass skyscraper the state had picked up for a song when a hedge fund had gone bust.
Though luxurious, Alibi had never been comfortable there—it had seemed an odd place from which to coordinate the pursuit of those suspected of significant criminal activity.
So he’d been happy last month when he’d been moved again, this time to the fourth floor of the modern building known to locals as New City Hall. Built in the early 2000s, it was only a few dozen yards from the pre–World War I historic city headquarters with its century-old clock tower, a downtown landmark. The two structures together accommodated the principal functions of government for Sacramento’s five hundred thousand residents.
Alibi found lots to like about his new office. In addition to ample space for a good-sized desk and a couch long enough to accommodate his six-foot frame when he stretched out for forty winks, there was room for a small conference table and a rolling whiteboard, his preferred tool for thinking through a complex case alone or with colleagues. He’d learned that if he created a visual record of key points and posted it in his line of sight, it helped ideas and threads to percolate in his subconscious, even when he wasn’t actively considering them. Best of all, his west-facing window overlooked Cesar Chavez Park, a tree-lined public square. In the late 1800s, it had hosted circuses complete with elephants and now frequently held lively concerts and the farmers’ market, creating a fiesta-like atmosphere. Its vibrancy made Alibi feel connected to the city and the people he served.
Some in his position wouldn’t like being located so near to the mayor, whose chambers were on the next floor up. But Alibi found the Honorable Melissa Ruiz to be reasonable, at least in terms of the demands she put on his time. She didn’t use proximity as an excuse to pop in for frequent updates but instead relied on Breno Silva, a bright young communications specialist whose responsibilities had recently been expanded to include serving as liaison between Alibi and the mayor’s office on issues of public safety.
Breno and Alibi got along well. They were both international football fans, and despite Breno supporting the men’s Brazilian team and Alibi the Italians, they’d found common ground cheering for Team USA in women’s soccer. They also empathized with each other regarding the frequency with which they had to explain the origin of their names.
At fifteen, Alibi had overheard his aunt telling his uncle that the timing of his birth had cleared his father of a murder rap. Upon holding his newborn son for the first time, his father had reportedly exclaimed, “Oh, my beautiful alibi.” The rest, as they say, was history. As far as his surname, Alibi had been unable to find any other relatives who went by Morning Sun. He’d concluded that the type of criminal activity that had led to the murder charge had caused his father to invent a false moniker. How better to avoid identification and culpability, pre-Internet, than through a difficult-to-track pseudonym?
Breno had only one unusual name to contend with, and even that wouldn’t have been the case had he lived in Brazil, where its Portuguese origin and meaning—“king”—were well known. But in the United States in the year Breno was born, only 10 in 1 million babies shared his name.
When Alibi was offered a promotion to management, he’d underestimated the hours of administrative tasks that would come with it. As he sat down at his computer to engage with the jumble of windows and threads and pings that lay in wait there, he wondered, not for the first time, whether the career move had been wise.
Three years ago, about to turn forty, he’d thought taking on new challenges was a good idea. Plus there’d been the promise of a significantly higher paycheck. Now, still single, still living in his comfortable one-bedroom apartment, and still happily driving his old Chevy pickup when off duty, Alibi was having trouble figuring out what to spend the added money on. Maybe he should take a trip somewhere exotic or relaxing.
After skimming several emails with limited retention of what he’d read, he longed for an infusion of caffeine. He decided he’d walk to Second Chance Café as soon as it opened and pick up a large, fresh-brewed, dark-roast coffee to go. In addition to increasing his productivity, he might run into Emma there—the popular spot was under a mile from her office, and it had happened before.
How long had it been since he’d seen her, a month?
Then he remembered Breno and Kate’s party. He was sure Emma would attend. He checked his calendar and confirmed the invitation was for tonight.
We’re ENGAGED!
Open House: March 10th Wednesday 5–8pm
Drop by for tapas and drinks. Help us celebrate!
Kate and Breno
Alibi hadn’t closed his office door—he hadn’t thought anyone would be around this early. Sensing someone there, he glanced up to find Breno standing in the open doorway.
Breno Silva was a fit, dark-haired, handsome young man with strong features. At work he wore conservatively cut suits with a plain dress shirt, collar open, unless he was called to speak to the press, at which point he added one of the many silk ties he kept in his top desk drawer. He had a habit of frequently pushing his gold-rimmed glasses firmly up onto the bridge of his nose.
From the look on Breno’s face, Alibi gathered he wasn’t there to discuss the latest striker the Brazil national football team had acquired or his engagement party this evening. He must be bringing a message from the mayor.
No surprise that the Honorable Melissa Ruiz was in already. The woman worked as hard from her executive chambers as any union pipelayer hell-bent on getting every possible hour of overtime that Alibi had ever met.
Born to Brazilian parents and raised in Brooklyn, Breno spoke fluent Portuguese and English, both with a New York accent. Despite the cultural stereotypes of New Yorkers as fast talkers and Brazilians as outgoing, he had a cautious and quiet manner. Alibi assumed he was thinking now about how best to frame what he’d come to say.
When Breno finally did speak, it was carefully and in a measured tone. “The mayor asked if you might be free to see her this morning. She’ll call down when she’s available.”
So much for a trip to Second Chance.
Still, Melissa Ruiz was rarely without a cup of coffee in her hand. She’d almost certainly offer him one.
“Of course,” Alibi told Breno. “Can you tell me what this is about?”
Breno hesitated. “There is now some question as to whether Johnny Hill’s drowning at Folsom Lake last month was an accident.”
CHAPTER
2
Clad Corp Ideal Storage
ACROSS TOWN, THE hulking silhouette of the self-storage facility was impossible for Emma and Luke to miss, despite the moonless sky and the absence of streetlights on the frontage road. With the convertible top down, a rich, earthy scent an
“Should I turn around?” Luke asked, having slowed the car to a near crawl.
“No,” Emma said. “That might be a way in.”
She pointed to an unmarked gravel drive ahead on the right, barely visible, flanked on either side by dense stands of eucalyptus trees. Luke made the turn, and in a matter of minutes they emerged onto paved asphalt. He pulled to a stop behind the building. The back door was shrouded in darkness, the security lights above it either broken or not turned on. A sign declaring PROPERTY OF CLAD CORP was obscured by illegible graffiti in a looping script of bright-red paint, fresh against the faded gray stucco of the exterior wall.
“Let’s drive to the front,” Emma said.
They rounded the structure, and across the empty lot a dimly lit public entrance to the several blocks-long, five-stories tall building came into view. Luke smoothly braked and parked opposite a wide ramp leading up to double glass doors. At sixteen, he was a surprisingly good driver, and one of only two people Emma permitted to take the wheel of her white-bodied, black-topped 1967 Mustang convertible.
When he hopped out to retrieve his bike from the back seat, Emma could see his breath, a wisp of white in the predawn air.
She called after him, “We can put the top up and lock the car.”
“It’s okay, I’ve got it,” Luke said.
Little of the Irish accent of his early childhood remained. With ease, he lifted the older-model Schwinn with its peeling green paint onto the ground.
It had been two weeks since Emma had promised Kate—her best friend and Luke’s mother—that she’d pick up the folding tables from storage before Kate and Breno’s engagement party that night. Yet time had passed, as it always seemed to, without Emma making anything other than her current investigation at the Hayden Commission a priority.
Fortunately, Luke had agreed to help. When they were done, he’d ride his bike along the riverside path, busy with joggers and dog walkers even at this early hour, to get to his before-school jazz band practice on time.
Emma pressed the white, plastic key card Kate had given her against a metal panel next to the exterior doors. They unlocked with a click. Once inside, she commandeered a flatbed cart while Luke secured the Schwinn to the railing at the top of an open stairwell.
They took the freight elevator to the fourth floor, where they emerged into a long, windowless hallway lined with wide metal doors painted an industrial green. The occasional clunk and whir of something mechanical echoed in the empty space. Perhaps it was a heater—though if that was the case, it seemed to Emma the thermostat was set for working conditions in a morgue.
Emma had memorized the simple combination to open the padlock that secured Kate’s storage space. The two tables they’d come for leaned against the back wall, easy enough to get to since a center aisle had been left clear between furniture and stacks of boxes neatly lined up on either side. Emma would have expected nothing less from Kate, who she was pretty sure rivaled multimillionaire “tidying expert” Marie Kondo in her organizational skills.
Standing at opposite ends, Emma and Luke had hoisted up the first table when there was the unmistakable whoosh of an elevator door opening, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps headed in their direction. Luke stiffened. Emma felt her heartbeat steadily climb. While it was almost certainly someone else getting a predawn start on a household task, as though by agreement they silently lowered the table to the ground.
After the perilous circumstances they’d found themselves in last summer, on the outside chance a storage-facility-stalking, ax-wielding madman was approaching, neither Emma nor Luke wanted to be caught flat-footed, trapped among furniture and boxes with their backs against the wall. Still, Emma was surprised when Luke lifted a heavy brass lamp from the top of a file cabinet and, gripping its stem like a baseball bat, stood poised to swing, his eyes on the open door.
Not going to happen, Emma thought. Luke might be a head taller and quite a bit stronger than she was now, but last she’d checked, she was still the adult in the room. She moved in front of him, blocking his way, and stepped out into the hall.
The source of the footsteps was a pair of work boots worn by a man in khaki pants and a matching shirt, DANIEL embroidered above IDEAL STORAGE on the front pocket. His face was lined with age, his hair thinning and gray, but he appeared straight-backed and strong as he effortlessly pushed a cart larger than the one Emma and Luke had.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice rich and low. “Can I help you with anything?”
Emma thanked him and said they could manage, then turned back into the unit.
As Luke replaced the lamp on top of the cabinet, his eyes met hers sheepishly, as though he was embarrassed. He needn’t have worried. Emma understood all too well his impulse to seize the initiative rather than hope someone else would save the day. Having lost both parents when she was eleven, she’d stopped trusting others to ensure the safety of her world long ago.
The tables secured, Luke guided the cart from behind and Emma steadied the load from in front. They moved quickly up the hall until they reached a unit with an open door. Inside, boxes without lids teetered on top of one another while a scratched platform bed served as a graveyard for a mass of ancient-looking computer equipment—cords frayed, wires exposed—along with dozens of black garbage bags stuffed nearly to bursting, contents unknown. The Ideal Storage employee who had greeted them earlier stood, hands on hips, facing the chaos.
Emma imagined it must get lonely working in here, hour after hour, with no one to talk to. “Any chance there are gold coins or a rolled-up Renoir in one of those bags?” she asked him.
The man smiled. “I doubt it, but we’ll know soon enough. This unit is being cleared for nonpayment so we can rent it again.”
Emma was surprised when Luke spoke up.
“Do you have to go through it all now?” he asked.
Luke used to be curious about everything, but he’d become much quieter over recent months. Emma was glad to see that this, of all things—the internal functioning of a storage facility—seemed to have sparked his interest.
“No. I take it down to the basement,” the employee said. “It’ll sit there until management decides what’s worth selling, which usually isn’t much. The rest gets recycled or goes to the dump.”
“Wow, that will take a lot of trips,” Luke said.
“Keeps me young,” the man said, lifting two of the bags in each hand and hoisting them onto his cart as he winked at Luke, clearly realizing how that must sound coming from “an old man” to a teen.
When Emma and Luke reached the main floor and exited the facility, Emma shivered, despite the turtleneck sweater and jeans she wore. Early March clung stubbornly to an unusually harsh Northern California winter. But the sky had lightened to a deep gray, the sun would soon rise, and by noon it would be pleasant enough.
They positioned the tables securely in the back seat of the open Mustang so they wouldn’t shift around when Emma drove them to Kate’s. That accomplished, Luke slung one leg over his bike.
He paused before taking off. “See you at two?”
That can’t be right, Emma thought. Kate’s engagement party isn’t until hours after that.
“My community service requirement. Interning at the commission? It starts today,” Luke said.
“Of course,” Emma said, annoyed with herself for not remembering. She knew it was important to him, and it was important to her too.
With affection, she watched as Luke pedaled at full speed out of the lot toward the river until he was out of sight.
She had just opened the door to her Mustang to get in when the silence of the morning was shattered by a horrendous boom, and the glass on the heavy front doors to the Ideal Storage building rattled loudly.
CHAPTER
3
HAVING LIVED IN California all her life, Emma Lawson’s first thought was Earthquake! But the worn asphalt surface of the parking lot was steady, and the sound seemed to have come from inside. For a split second, she considered whether it might be a bomb, then decided that was absurd—an isolated, uninhabited storage facility made no sense as a terrorist target. Perhaps a gas line to the heater had ruptured, or there’d been a massive short in the electrical system.
