The fading twin lost coa.., p.1
The Fading Twin (Lost Coast Mystery Book 1), page 1
The Fading Twin
by
I.O. Adler
Lost Coast Mystery Book One
Copyright © 2024 I.O. Adler
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or recording, or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.
Published by Lucas Ross Publishing.
Author website: ioadler.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.
Part One—Home
1
The kid behind Trip kept kicking the back of his seat.
Bad enough a jackknifed big rig on State Route 99 south of Modesto added two hours to the bus trip between Corcoran to Sacramento. Trip’s legs were numb from the thick foam cushion.
Kick.
The Greyhound bus’s AC hadn’t kept up with the blistering sun beating on the metal roof. Sweat dribbled down his back.
Kick. A laugh followed, and not one word from the young father seated next to the child. But Trip wasn’t going to say anything. Had put up with worse over the past five years.
The bus jerked to a stop as pedestrians cut across the four-lane boulevard against the light, ducking the endless waves of cars racing down K Street.
None of them were his sister Rose.
He brushed his light brown hair away from his dark eyes. Put the paperback he had given up on reading into his duffel and straightened his shirt in anticipation of the reunion.
A flurry of kicks until finally the father said something and it stopped.
The surrounding passengers shifted in their seats, some grabbing their luggage into their laps. The bus engine groaned and the vehicle shuddered as it made its last turn into the terminal. Half the riders were up and queued for release, including the father with his little boy.
Trip remained seated. Glanced at the faces of his fellow passengers.
Guess the serial killer.
A game he and Rose would play when they had to take the long trip to visit their father down in Alhambra. Not the father. Maybe the kid, Trip thought with a silent laugh. Was it the grumpy young guy in the suit with the frown marks creasing his face? The thin man in the windbreaker? The two wearing black tank tops and jeans that showed off their drab, patterned boxers? Or the older lady next to him with the hat and a Pekingese yapper in the soft pet carrying case?
When the driver opened the door, the stuffy inside air vented out, replaced by a dry, hot wind.
His heart raced at the thought of getting out. But patience had served him well. Let the others push. Stay calm, don’t make eye contact longer than needed, and for God’s sake, apologize if you step on anyone’s toes.
The lady with the dog struggled to her feet, unsuccessfully juggling the carrying case, a cane, and an overstuffed shoulder purse large enough to hold a dozen more pups. The animal had been silent and nervous throughout the drive, but now it yipped. Trip rose and helped steady her.
She nodded her thanks.
“May I hand you your bag?” When he repeated the request in Spanish, she accepted his help, scooping up her belongings before hobbling for the bus exit.
The tattoos on his left wrist were showing.
He had kept the sleeves of his shirt rolled down since stepping onto the bus, but his old clothes fit loose, and now his ink was revealed for anyone paying attention. Not that big of a deal. More people had tattoos than he remembered.
No one knew who he was. No one cared. So why was heart going a mile a minute?
His eyes darted from face to face as he stepped down from the bus. In one hand, he held his blue duffel. With his other, he shielded his eyes from the afternoon sun. Two cops stood at the corner of the platform. One stared in his direction.
Trip stiffened. But even as a half-dozen scenarios filled his mind on why the police were there for him, the two officers crossed to the next platform and vanished.
He breathed easier and looked for Rose.
His sister hadn’t been to see him in over two months. Hadn’t picked up when he called, and calling was expensive. He had spent the last of his phone card credits phoning her daily over the past week. Left messages. Told her where he’d be and at what time.
Phone trouble? Possibly. She could have replaced her device during that time. Perhaps her work had her on extra shifts and she hadn’t been able to tell him? More likely. And after the traffic delay, he was running late.
Had she been waiting and left? Or was she watching from the shady spots across the street?
A note from Rose was tucked in a pocket. A bland letter he had received five weeks ago, as if she were an entirely different person. Her last communication with him.
Dear Trip,
Enclosed are more books. One’s the next Narnia novel. Find your magic closet. Still looking for mine.
Hope you’re managing as you always do. You’ll be doing better and better soon. We survive.
As Maya Angelou said, “We encounter many defeats, but are not defeated.”
I’ll take care of mother.
RW
The last line before her initials? Strange. All of it was weird. Rose didn’t write letters. Hated to set her feelings in stone, as it robbed them of genuine emotion, nuance, and gesture. Said putting thoughts down on paper or an email was like painting the hieroglyphs of a heart attack, whatever that meant.
And she said he’d be doing better, as if she knew something had been about to change with his legal case.
A man in his mid-forties appeared near the back of the bus. He was staring. “You look needy.”
Sturdy build, with a weathered face and a knobby nose that looked like it had been broken several times. He wore a rumpled tan blazer, butternut chinos, and a rimmed hat on top of a mush of graying brown hair. He kept his hands loose and his expression pleasant.
Trip glanced about, but his fellow passengers who had stepped off were gone, leaving only the bus driver shutting the baggage compartment.
The man’s gaze remained locked. “You’re Trip, right?”
“I don’t know you.”
“No, but you know my boss Diana Ramierez. She asked me to come pick you up. Bus take a detour on your way here?”
Trip knew Diana. The attorney who had gotten him out of prison. And his girlfriend a lifetime ago.
“How did she know where I’d be?”
The man gave him an are-you-serious look. “It’s what we do. I’m Sebastian. I’ve got a minivan with AC and I’ll take you to your transitional housing. We can get out of the heat and talk on the way.”
With a last look around the terminal, Trip realized Rose wasn’t coming for him.
“You look like a cop,” Trip said.
“And you look like a convicted felon.”
“Court vacated the charges.”
“Doesn’t mean they didn’t find you guilty in the first place. This banter has been fun. You can thank Diana later for your freedom. Or not. I don’t care. I work for her firm. Any other pressing questions? Because I’m melting out here.”
“Why didn’t she tell me about you?”
“Getting timely messages through in your prison is a pain in the ass. I’m offering you a ride to your place. Surface bus will take you over an hour. I can get you there in ten minutes. Are you coming or not?”
Trip unfolded his release paperwork. Yellow sheets with a dozen initials and his signature. Stapled to the top was a card with an address. His new home, at least until he got his feet under him.
“Okay, let’s go. But I have a detour I want to make.”
“WHAT’S HERE?” SEBASTIAN asked.
They had driven across town in Sebastian’s metallic-blue Chevy Astro minivan to an apartment in the Sierra Oaks neighborhood. The vehicle was packed with what looked like plastic suitcases. A water bottle and empty Jamba Juice cup occupied the cup holders.
“I asked you a question, Trip. What’s here?”
“This will take a couple of minutes.”
“For what? Girlfriend? A booty call? I’m not a taxi service. Hey!”
Trip ignored him as he got out of the van. His guts sank as he walked towards an open door at the end of a block of townhouses. Rose’s was number twelve. The windows were bare and the interior lined with drop cloths. Paint fumes clung to the air.
Just inside, a middle-aged man with slicked back caramel locks was slapping white primer on a kitchen wall. He had earbuds in. White spatters marked his denim pants and t-shirt.
“Excuse me,” Trip said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Oh, that’s all right. What can I do for you?”
“You the manager?”
“My wife is. Ring the bell at unit one. There’s a QR code at the sign out front if you’re looking to get on the waiting list for a townhouse.”
“I’m not here to rent. This place was my sister’s. I was looking for her.”
“Can’t say where she is, but she left a month ago.”
The news struck Trip like a blow. “Just left? Not hospitalized or got into a car accident?”
The guy shrugged. “She looked fine, but who knows?”
&nbs
“Can’t say. Didn’t know her well. Paid her rent on time and left the place pretty clean, at least for what I’m used to.”
“She didn’t leave a forwarding address?”
The man eyed him. “She didn’t. And even if she did, I couldn’t share it.”
Gone. She was gone.
His heart sank. Rose hadn’t told him she was going anywhere. Just the vague note about caring for mother. They shared everything, and now Rose was keeping secrets, leaving him feeling truly alone for the first time in his life.
2
“If I wanted to work gigs as a driver, I’d sign on with Lyft and be earning tips doing airport runs,” Sebastian said. “Instead, I’m hauling you around town.”
Trip wiped a film of dust from the minivan’s door. “Don’t you need a nice car for that?”
“Don’t...don’t ever make fun of the van. It’s paid its way three times over and has never let me down.” As if punctuating his point, Sebastian knocked on the plastic dashboard. “So what’s here? I told you I had limited time, and this isn’t where you’re staying.”
“This is my old apartment. The manager is holding some of my stuff.”
“And how long will this take?”
“A few minutes. If you have to go, then fine. Whatever.”
“Don’t think I won’t ditch you,” Sebastian called as Trip slammed the van door.
The rail-thin kid at the manager’s apartment couldn’t have been older than eight. He peered out the curtain from the living room before throwing open the door. Music blared from the TV.
“I’m Trip. I called your dad yesterday about picking up some stuff I had left in apartment seven. Is he around?”
The kid shook his head.
“Okay. Any idea where I can find him or when he’ll be back?”
Another headshake.
“All right. I’ll look around for him. And maybe you shouldn’t be answering the door to strangers, okay bud?”
Trip made a circuit around the building before walking past his former apartment. Plants outside and rainbow and happy face stickers in the window. Smells from someone overcooking cabbage, burning Eggo toaster waffles, or both. But there was no one around working, and Trip didn’t want to start knocking on random doors.
He was on his way back out to see if Sebastian had abandoned him when he found a plastic milk crate beneath the mailboxes. A paper sign hung on the crate with his name on it. It was stuffed with clothes, a few books, and a plaque from the Sacramento County Amateur Boxing Association.
Nothing valuable enough to steal. But bless the manager’s heart for having somehow saved anything of his after five years. He hadn’t bothered asking Rose to pick it up. Hadn’t thought past his sentence to imagine getting back to a life outside.
A photo stuck up from the middle of a hardback copy of The Stand. It was him and Rose when they were in their twenties. They were seated on a bench in front of a miniature golf course. Going there had been their mother’s idea, as if either he or Rose had been still interested in the place as they had been when they were kids. Rose wore a tank top, cut-offs, and an authentic smile. Trip had on a dirty Everlast t-shirt and a forced grin.
Trip slid the photo into his back pocket and shoved the box into the footwell of the minivan. Jazz played on the radio. Sebastian had his seat partially reclined and his hat pushed down on his brow.
Trip climbed in. “You’re still here.”
“Diana’d have my hide if I lost you. Don’t push your luck.” He started the engine. “No more detours. You’re getting dropped off.” The minivan made a U-turn and they sped down the road. “What’s all that junk?”
“Some stuff from my old place.”
“Huh. You got an award in there. You used to box? Scrawny guy like you?”
“That was a long time ago.”
“I’ll bet.”
The house on Fawn Drive had no curbside parking. Cars, trucks, and vans occupied every available space beneath the mulberry trees lining the street.
Sebastian pulled across the driveway. “This is you.”
Trip studied the house before collecting his stuff.
“One more thing.” Sebastian handed him a smartphone. “Diana wanted you to have this. It’s paid for. She’ll call you later, so don’t get drunk or stoned or do anything until after you’ve spoken with her.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good. Because you’ll lose your housing. Obey the rules here and get on your feet. I don’t know why, but Diana’s decided to be your guardian angel.”
“Has she done this for anyone else?”
Sebastian laughed. “We’re not the Salvation Army. She’ll want something in return. Don’t screw up. Now get out of my van.”
A lanky man sat on the porch smoking a cigarette. He gave Trip the eye as he dabbed ashes into a white coffee mug. His checkered shirt was buttoned halfway down and his brown corduroys only went to his shins. Blue flip-flops were on his feet.
Trip tucked his clothes over the boxing plaque as he mounted the steps. “Are you the person I talk to about my room? I’ve got my paperwork here.”
“Yeah. I’m Jerry. I already got a picture of you sent by the agency. Room’s fixed up, clean, and ready for you.”
Jerry’s joints popped as he struggled to rise from the plastic lounge chair. Trip offered a hand and Jerry grabbed it, his grip firm. The metal screen door squeaked as Jerry opened it and they went inside.
Polished floors, big furniture, and the smell of pine cleaner greeted Trip. A giant TV in the living room played a golf tournament. Three men sat listlessly on sofas around a low coffee table, their eyes glued to the action. Their expressions didn’t change when a commercial for a restless leg syndrome drug played on the screen.
Jerry led him to the kitchen where a white dry erase board held a numbered list of scribbled words written in black marker.
Bathrooms—Ken
Garbage, Floors—Ernesto
Weeding, Sweeping—Ivan
“You do your own cooking and clean up after yourself. Same with laundry. Sometimes we share meals. You’ll figure out the rest later.”
Jerry had Trip sign some papers before leading him upstairs. The high-gloss maple-finish flooring was everywhere, with nary a rug in sight. The sound of the TV echoed as the announcers gave a play-by-play of an applause-worthy chip shot.
“This is you.”
A cozy bedroom held a small desk, a chest of drawers, and a twin mattress made up with a pillow, comforter, and powder-blue sheets. The freshly painted yellow walls stood plain.
“It’s quiet time after nine pm,” Jerry said. “No visitors. No booze. No sex. If you smoke, you do it outside. TV gets shut off at eleven. If you have appointments to make, paperwork, or need help with anything, Martin comes in every morning Monday through Friday until noon. There’s a house landline downstairs in the dining room. Don’t abuse it. No calls over fifteen minutes. I recommend you get your own cell phone. Wi-Fi info is posted on the fridge.”
“All clear. Do I get a key?”
“Front door is unlocked between eight and eight. Ring the bell if you need to get in after that. You show up after eleven, and that’s the start of your last week with us. No appeals, no exceptions.”
Trip set his box down on the desk.
“And I’m guessing since you got placed with us, you’re from around here,” Jerry continued. “So you know there’s water rationing. Keep your showers under five minutes. There’s a bathroom downstairs too. That’s the grand tour. Any questions?”
Trip had none. Jerry walked with surprising agility downstairs as Trip unpacked his few belongings into the top drawer of his dresser.
A giant cottonwood tree stood outside. Beyond it, a dog walker with seven animals on as many leashes strolled briskly past. There were kids on bikes. Sparrows on the neighbor’s roof and a squirrel running along a fence.
While he could still hear the announcer praising a dramatic putt from the TV, along with a mower buzzing from a neighbor’s backyard, the Fawn Drive house was quiet. Gone were the incessant voices. Shouts from cell to cell at all hours, and often louder at night. No echoes of clanging doors. No rattles of plumbing or gurgles of flushing toilets. No boot steps of COs with their jingling keys.
