I crawled out of bed early after our late-night surfing expedition, nursed my small hangover with a glass of orange juice, and headed out in the early morning traffic.
I took I-5 up to the eastern edge of La Jolla and then went east on Highway 52, a concrete artery that bisected San Diego County through the narrow, brush-lined canyons of University City and Clairemont Mesa. The highway had been nothing more than a dirt valley when I was growing up, but as people moved farther and farther to the east in order to still call San Diego home, the 52 became the newest freeway to connect the outer reaches of the county to the coast.
The medical examiner’s office was out in the wasteland of business parks known as Kearney Mesa. A triangular area surrounded by three different freeways, the region had slowly transformed itself over a period of about ten years from dusty vacant lots to low-slung white and gray buildings that housed every conceivable type of industry and business. It was nearly the geographical heart of San Diego, but seemed devoid of life or character.
The ME’s building was off Ruffin Road, and I parked in the lot out front. The office smelled like lemon, and I wrinkled my nose as the glass doors swung closed behind me. The area was small and compact-a chest-high counter, two desks, couple of filing cabinets, a radio on top of a television and VCR in the corner. A hallway disappeared off the back of the windowless room.
I rang the metal bell on the desk and fifteen seconds later James Minton emerged from the back hall and made a face like I’d forgotten to put pants on.
“Fuck you want, Braddock?” he asked, his voice a mixture of gravel and whine.
“Good to see you, too, James.”
The face remained. “No it ain’t. What the fuck you want?” He held up his pudgy hand before I could respond. “Know what? Don’t care what you want. Go away.”
I laughed. “I’ve missed you.”
His hand shrank to a middle finger.
Minton was medium height, with a gut that was anything but medium. He had on a white coat over a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt that barely contained his girth. A thin dark mustache snaked over his upper lip. The dark hair on his head was thinning, a fact he tried to cover up by buzzing it short. Dark gray eyes stared me down.
“I’m serious,” he said. “I don’t have time for you. Go away.”
“Can’t.”
“Door’s right behind you. Turn around and put one foot in front of the other. You’ll get it.”
I looked over the counter at him. “Why so bitter?”
He folded his arms across his chest, reminding me of a fat, angry Buddha. “Last time I saw you, I found you in the back, having moved a body and copying some records. Then that big asshole that follows you around picked me up and pinned me in the corner of the room until you were done.” He pointed a finger at me. “You fucked the whole thing up.”
“You didn’t answer the bell and I was trying to do my job.”
He waved a hand in the air, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead. “Whatever, Braddock. You pissed me off and I don’t like to be pissed off.”
I smiled. “Me either. But I’m not leaving.”
Minton stared at me for a moment, then rolled his eyes. “Two minutes.”
I nodded. “You get a DB last night?”
He pulled a clipboard off the wall behind him, looked at it for a moment, then nodded. “Yep.”
“Kate Crier?”
Minton looked again, then back at me. “Yep.”
“Cause of death?”
“Still to be determined.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “One minute left.”
“Looked like strangulation from what I saw,” I said.
His left eye twitched. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
He gave a small shrug. “Couple other things I need to look at.”
“Like?”
Minton thought about it for a moment, then looked at the clock again. “Like your two minutes are up.”
“That wasn’t two minutes,” I protested.
“Was in my world.”
I didn’t want to push it because if I was going to learn anything about Kate’s death, I would need his help. I pulled a card from my wallet and placed it on the counter. “I’d appreciate a call when you know more.”
“Well, hell,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “I’ll get right on that, Mr. Private Dick. Emphasis on Dick. Just for you.”
I smiled. “Got two tickets behind the plate for Friday’s game. Dodgers are in town.” I opened the door to the hallway. Minton was the biggest baseball fan I knew. Great seats were his weakness. “Yours, if I get a call by the end of the day.”
He muttered something under his breath.
I turned around. “What?”
His mouth curled into a disgusted frown, most likely due to the fact that I knew he would never turn down great seats.
“I said,” Minton replied, spinning on his heel and heading toward the back hall, “fuck off.”