A Day in a Life

Chapter One

Elijah

T ELL ME A story, Sydni. Tell me your story. What happened on the final day of your life? I need to know.

I stare at the rushing water beneath me. The beautiful California river may not be deep—I could stand in it—but the swift current makes it somewhat dangerous.

The bridge is probably around ten feet above the river. Why would a young lady choose this bridge to take her own life? If you want to drive your car off a bridge, there are much better spots than this one. The odds of surviving were astronomically in her favor. Serious injury, yes, but death unlikely. Doesn’t make any sense.

But then, if someone is about to attempt suicide, they’re not thinking clearly. They’re distraught. Can’t expect logic in a moment of anguish.

I lock eyes with Sydni Greer, holding the photo between my thumb and forefinger. She was a stunner, no doubt about it. Brunette hair with natural streaks of blond, deep brown eyes that make me do a double take, and a soft smile. A classic beauty. Truth be told, I’m having a hard time tearing my eyes away from hers. They hold an air of mystery, like she’s hiding many secrets within their depths. Or maybe I’m just a sucker for a brown-eyed girl. Everything inside me is dying for just one conversation, just one minute with her to learn the truth.

But I’d want more, and I know it.

After working hundreds of cases, I’ve never felt so drawn to a picture, to a woman—to a person I’m investigating.

Ridiculous. I shake my head and pocket the photo. As a rule, I don’t get involved with the people whose lives come under my scrutiny. It’s unprofessional.

I’ve been over the police report several times, searching for some type of clue that would lead me to believe Sydni Greer is still alive. I’m coming up empty.

Everything I’ve read so far has pointed toward suicide, albeit the logic is a tad presumptuous. Still, I can see how an investigator might’ve felt suicide was the only logical conclusion.

Until now.

It’s been seven years since the incident. A local church group recently adopted this area to keep it trash free and as manicured as a natural outdoor area can be. While hard at work, they found a decaying backpack hidden in a dense bush on the shoreline. Being honest people, they turned it in to the police. A backpack belonging to none other than Sydni Greer.

A woman trying to end her life doesn’t hide a backpack in the bushes for later use. The discovery implies a different scenario than what has been believed all these years.

That’s why I’m here.

A blue sedan arrives, parking directly behind my car. It’s Ryan. He agreed to meet me here this morning.

“Elijah Garrett, good to see you, man.” Ryan holds out his hand for a steel-gripped shake, then steps closer, patting me on the back roughly a few times with a friendly laugh. “You’re looking well. Marni says hello and come by for dinner any time. The door’s always open for you.”

Marni is Ryan’s wife, a sweet lady who thinks I’ll die if she doesn’t feed me. One of the nicest ladies I know, though. “I’ll do that. Tell her thanks for me.”

Ryan motions toward my dark hair that I’ve let grow out and my small beard. “What’s all this? It’s not regulation, I know that much.”

“This is called freedom, Ry,” I tease while he chuckles. “Thanks for meeting me so early.”

“You know I’m always up at the butt crack of dawn. As for you, you’re dressed like you just walked out of a magazine. Can’t wait to tell the guys.”

He’s messing with me. Jeans with loafers, a button-up shirt, and a blazer hardly qualify as magazine worthy. “Just doin’ my job. You wear your uniform, and I’ll wear mine.”

“Yeah, whatever, Lothario.”

I’d earned the awful nickname by being good at charming suspects of the female variety. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, and as usual, I don’t give him the satisfaction of a response.

Life down at the station had consisted of lots of razzing, yet we always had each other’s backs. I miss the camaraderie I shared with my fellow officers.

Too bad my ex-wife didn’t see me the way my colleagues did. If I am a Lothario, where are the women? Certainly not falling at my feet. Certainly not knocking down my door. Go figure.

I’ve had good times and bad times with my former partner in the San Jose Police Department. Ryan and I both made detective around the same time. He’s short, balding, on the stout side, and sunburns after five minutes in direct sunlight. He reminds me of George Costanza on Seinfeld. But the man can run like no other, earning him the nickname The Blue Streak from the guys. The good-natured label is appropriate, given that he owns a blue car and a blue house—and I swear he only owns blue shirts for casual days.

By comparison, I’m six feet tall with a slim frame. Full head of jet-black hair, olive skin, and dark brown eyes, thanks to my Italian heritage. We couldn’t be more different in looks. Visually, I doubt we made a formidable pair. But that’s exactly why suspects trusted us, contributing to our success. Ever since, Ryan’s been one of my best friends and a provider of the inside scoop on cases that stump me.

Consider me stumped.

“How’s the leg?” Ryan asks, his hands on his hips, his stance wide, a position he’s used to maintaining to command respect.

“Reminds me it’s there every day.” Pain. That means pain. Being shot in the leg has a way of ruining your life.

“There’s still a desk job with your name on it down at the station. Just say the word.”

I shrug. “Not ready to be put out to pasture.” A desk job sounds like a death sentence to me. The label Unfit for Duty definitely was. Biggest blow of my life. I fought back against fate and found a different form of happiness as a PI. Take that, Life.

Ryan bumps me with his shoulder. “If you weren’t hobbling around all the time, maybe your leg would stop reminding you it’s there.”

Exercise is the only thing that keeps me walking. I’m not willing to give it up in exchange for painless, sedentary days. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“New cane?”

“Nah, same one. Used to it.”

“How’s the PI business?” Ryan asks. “Tell me the truth, are you making the big bucks?”

I’m not complaining. At all. Always heard rumors about the fat paychecks on the outside. They weren’t wrong.

I miss the force, but a desk job’s not for me. I like fresh air and sunshine and freedom. The world is my office.

My leg often disagrees with my life choices. “Not too shabby. Mostly insurance fraud cases. If the company doesn’t have to pay up, they’re happy campers.” And I’m rewarded accordingly. “Family calls me Magnum. All the time. Think they’re real funny too.”

“Who?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. I’m told it was a popular PI television series from the eighties. Guess they remade the show in later years. My mom was a fan. I’d never heard of it until my family decided it was my new nickname.”

Ryan laughs loudly, thumping me on the back again. “Do you answer?”

My thoughts drift back to the family barbeque yesterday. My dad hollered, “Hey Magnum, want a burger or a hot dog ?” Dang if I didn’t answer him, “One of each.”

“Nope,” I lie.

“Don’t let them get to you. So what can I do you for? I looked into it. This case was labeled suicide, open and shut. Emotionally upset woman drove off a bridge. Her family confirmed she was distraught. Current took her away. Never found the body.”

“Always raises suspicion.” And curiosity. Mine’s piqued.

“She was presumed dead. The woman’s father couldn’t accept it, saying his daughter would never resort to suicide. Reported her as a missing person.”

I don’t have a daughter, but I have a sister I’d do anything for. “Don’t blame him. I’d want to keep looking if I were in his shoes too.”

“Yeah. I would as well.” Ryan has three daughters. He gets it.

“It’s been seven years.” The fast-running water beneath me gurgles and sloshes as it skips along as though it’s late and needs to be somewhere fast. Did Sydni think she could easily walk out of the water? Did she misjudge the force of the current? I hang on to the railing, the morning dew moistening my hands. “She’s about to be declared legally dead, and a death certificate will be issued to the husband. He’s already filed with the insurance company. He’s chomping at the bit, waiting for pennies to start raining from heaven.”

“The husband didn’t do his research. You going to tell him?” Ryan runs his hands over his bald head, smoothing down the tufts still holding strong on the sides.

“Nope. Too late now, anyway. It’ll just upset him.” While seven years is generally the amount of time a loved one has to wait before declaring someone legally dead, under California law it’s five years. Even then, depending on the circumstances, a court can be petitioned. In this case, the husband could’ve easily petitioned the court. It was obvious Sydni was in an accident, meaning death was probable. I’m unsure why the husband didn’t pursue this route.

I will find out, though.

“Oh, boy,” Ryan says. “Let the pandemonium begin.”

“It’s about to hit the fan. The insurance company was ready to pay from the beginning. No exemption clauses. The husband gets the whole enchilada whether it was suicide or not.” I rub my scruffy chin, thoughts spinning.

“Do they suspect she might be alive? Think this was staged to claim the life insurance? That’s a long wait for a small payout.” Ryan leans on the bridge railing, his gaze as mesmerized by the water as mine.

“Eight hundred grand. Nothing small about it. People have done crazier things for less.”

Ryan whistles. “No kidding? I’ve got two hundred grand on my wife. Seems like chump change in comparison.”

I agree. Eight hundred grand does seem excessive. “I’m told this bridge only had a curb-sized concrete border to keep drivers from going off the edge back in the day.”

“Yep.” Ryan rocks back on his heels. “It’s just a small rural bridge. Doesn’t see a lot of traffic. After this case bombarded the news, a railing was added. The bridge has been known as Greer Bridge ever since.”

I glance at the sign labeling the bridge as Greer Bridge. I don’t appreciate that someone had to die here to have the bridge named after them. Feels wrong. I also recognize it was meant with the best of intentions. “Can you tell me what was in the backpack?”

“Def a go-bag. Change of clothes, a pouch of cash—around five grand—granola bars, bottled water, her driver’s license, and a passport. They confirmed Sydni took five grand from her bank account several hours before the accident. Never figured out why. Got her on video. She’s wearing dark glasses. Hard to judge her state of mind.”

“Why would a woman take out a large sum of cash right before a suicide attempt?” I ask, the question rhetorical. My fingers tap on the railing, revealing my eagerness to start digging. “The discovery of Sydni Greer’s backpack is screaming at everyone. It’s saying, ‘There’s more to the story than meets the eye.’ We’re missing something. I think it deserves another look.” The insurance company thinks so too.

“S’pose it does. This river runs for about twenty miles before it empties into a reservoir. After that, it eventually hits San Francisco Bay. Thing is, there’s lots of places for a body to get trapped, long before it hits the reservoir. A thorough search was conducted. No sign of her.” Ryan takes a deep breath. “Like I said, we’re in a rural area. Traffic is minimal. Mostly residents. They figured the car was in the water for roughly six hours before someone called it in. A lot can happen in that amount of time.”

“Odds are the crash didn’t kill her.” No one noticed Sydni Greer was missing for at least six hours after tragedy struck. There’s something very sad about that. Does her death mimic her life? “More likely, she was swept down river. Probably washed up on the shoreline at some point. From there, my guess is wild animals found her. That explains the missing body.”

Ryan sighs. “Or she’s somewhere in San Francisco Bay. But the backpack…”

“Implies she planned to survive the crash and run away,” I finish for him. “That means this wasn’t a suicide. It was made to look like one. Maybe so we’d stop searching for her while she made her escape.”

“But it went wrong. If she’d lived, why didn’t she come for the backpack?” Ryan asks, helping me think through the details.

“Too many police on the scene? She couldn’t risk being noticed? I don’t know.”

“Here’s the thing,” Ryan says. “I did some digging. The investigator in charge of her case was due to retire in two days. Between that and her family members—especially her husband—claiming she was distraught, practically beside herself, suicide was a quick and easy conclusion to wrap up the case.”

“Seriously? That explains the incompetence surrounding her case. There are too many inconsistencies. Which begs the question, is Sydni Greer still alive?”

“And the insurance company decided you’re the man for the job, huh?” Ryan glances at his watch.

“They did. And I’m on it.”

“My guess is the husband won’t see a dime until you’re done investigating. Amiright?” Ryan shifts from foot to foot, anxious to get on with his day.

“You know it. By the way, the police report is vague about Sydni’s actions that day, especially considering suicide was determined to be the cause of the crash.”

Ryan hooks a thumb in his beltloop. “Noticed that. Have to say, the plain facts were enough to make me sympathize with the poor woman. Her world was collapsing.”

“Heart-tugging, for sure. S’pose that was enough to rule it a suicide. Just seems lacking in actual details. I know what happened to her. I know it was heartbreaking. But I don’t know what else she did that day. I can guess, though.” Seems like that’s what everyone had done. “But I don’t deal in guesswork. I’m interviewing the husband in an hour.”

I’m going to reconstruct her last hours in order to determine her state of mind. Not surface stuff. I want the low-down, nitty-gritty version of events. The details of what would lead an emotionally stable woman to drastic measures. Although Ryan’s right. The plain facts appear sufficient for a suicide conclusion. Why is my gut screaming they got it wrong? Why can’t I let this go? Take the easy way out?

Sydni Greer, if you’re still alive, I will find you. She’d be twenty-eight now, if she’s alive. A beautiful, thriving woman. At thirty-five, am I too old for her?

I don’t know where that thought came from.

“Let me know whatcha find out.” Ryan mock slugs me on the shoulder before heading for his car. “Don’t be a stranger. Got to get going. Great to see you, Eli. Take good care of yourself, buddy.”

“Thanks, Ry,” I holler.

“You bet.” He waves, his back to me.

The desire to pull out Sydni’s picture and stare at it for hours on end overwhelms me. There’s something about her. I lose myself in her eyes and then feel like an idiot for, well, losing myself in her eyes.

Talk to me , Sydni Greer .

What happened that day?