“And later?”
She didn’t say anything. She looked down at her hands. She pulled her purse onto her lap and held it tightly.
“Mrs. Kincaid?”
“And later there were things. Little things. She never wanted me to go out and leave her with him—but she’d never tell me why. Looking back, it is obvious why. It wasn’t so obvious then. One time he was taking a long time in her room saying good night. I went to see what was wrong and the door was locked.”
“Did you knock on the door?”
She sat frozen for a long moment before shaking her head no.
“Is that a no?”
Bosch had to ask it for the tape.
“Yes, no. I did not knock.”
Bosch decided to press on. He knew that mothers of incest and molestation victims often didn’t see the obvious or take the obvious steps to save their daughters from jeopardy. Now Kate Kincaid lived in a personal hell in which her decision to give up her husband—and herself—to public ridicule and criminal prosecution would always seem like too little too late. She had been right. A lawyer couldn’t help her now. No one could.
“Mrs. Kincaid, when did you become suspicious of your husband’s involvement in your daughter’s death?”
“During Michael Harris’s trial. You see, I believed he did it—Harris. I mean, I just didn’t believe that the police would plant fingerprints. Even the prosecutor assured me that it was unlikely that it could be done. So I believed in the case. I wanted to believe. But then during the trial one of the detectives, I think it was Frank Sheehan, was testifying and he said they arrested Michael Harris at the place where he worked.”
“The car wash.”
“Right. He gave the address and the name of the place. And it hit me then. I remembered going to that same car wash with Stacey. I remembered her books were in the car. I told my husband and said we should tell Jim Camp. He was the prosecutor. But Sam talked me out of it. He said the police were sure and he was sure that Michael Harris was the killer. He said if I raised the question the defense would find out and use the information to twist the case. Like with the O.J. case, the truth meant nothing. We’d lose the case. He reminded me that Stacey was found right near Harris’s apartment . . . He said he probably saw her with me at the car wash that day and started to stalk us—stalk her. He convinced me . . . and I let it go. I still wasn’t sure it wasn’t Harris. I did what my husband told me.”
“And Harris got off.”
“Yes.”
Bosch paused for a moment, believing the break was needed before the next question.
“What changed, Mrs. Kincaid?” he finally asked. “What made you send those notes to Howard Elias?”
“My suspicions were never far away. Then one day, a few months ago, I overheard part of a conversation my husband was having with his . . . his friend.”
She said the last word as if it was the worst thing you could ever say about anybody.
“Richter?”
“Yes. They thought I wasn’t home and I wasn’t supposed to be. I was supposed to be at lunch with my girlfriends at the club. Mountaingate. Only I stopped going to lunches with my girlfriends after Stacey . . . well, you know, lunches and that sort of thing didn’t interest me anymore. So I would tell my husband I was going to lunch but instead I’d go visit Stacey. At the cemetery . . .”
“Okay. I understand.”
“No, I don’t think you could understand, Detective Bosch.”
Bosch nodded.
“I’m sorry. You’re probably right. Go on, Mrs. Kincaid.”
“It was raining on that particular day. Just like today, hard and sad. So I only visited with her for a few minutes. I got back to the house early. I guess they didn’t hear me come in because of the rain. But I heard them. They were in his office talking . . . I’d had my suspicions so I went to the door. I didn’t make a sound. I stood outside the door and listened.”
Bosch leaned forward. This was the payoff. He’d know in a moment how legitimate she was. He doubted two men involved in the killing of a twelve-year-old girl would sit around reminiscing about it. If Kate Kincaid said that was the case, then Bosch would have to think she was lying.
“What did they say?”
“They weren’t talking in sentences. Do you understand? They were just making short comments. I could tell they were talking about girls. Different girls—it was disgusting what they said. I had no idea how organized this all was. I had deluded myself into thinking that if something had happened with Stacey it was a weakness on his part, something he struggled with. I was wrong. These men were organized predators.”
“So you were at the door listening . . . ,” Bosch said by way of getting her back on track.
“They weren’t talking to each other. It was like they were commenting. I could tell by how they spoke that they were looking at something. And I could hear the computer—the keyboard and other sounds. Later I would be able to use the computer and find what it was they were looking at. It was young girls, ten, eleven . . .”
“Okay, we’ll get back to the computer in a couple of minutes. But let’s go back to what you heard. How did this . . . these comments lead you to conclude or know something about Stacey?”
“Because they mentioned her. I heard Richter say, ‘There she is.’ And then my husband said her name. The way he said it . . . almost with a longing—it wasn’t the way a father or a stepfather would have said it. And then they were quiet. I could tell, they were looking at her. I knew.”
Bosch thought about what he had seen on Rider’s computer screen the night before. It was hard for him to imagine Kincaid and Richter sitting in an office together watching the same scenes—and with decidedly different responses to them.
“And then Richter asked my husband if he’d heard from Detective Sheehan. My husband said, ‘About what?’ and Richter said for the payoff for putting Harris’s prints on Stacey’s book. My husband laughed. He said there was no payoff. He then told Richter what I had told him during the trial, about my having been to that car wash. When he was done telling it, they both laughed and my husband said, and I remember this so clearly, he said, ‘I’ve been lucky like that all my life . . .’ And that’s when I knew. He did it. That they did it.”
“And you decided to help Howard Elias.”
“Yes.”
“Why him? Why didn’t you go to the police?”
“Because I knew they’d never charge him. The Kincaids are a powerful family. They believe they are above the law and they are. My husband’s father put money into the pockets of every politician in this town. Democrat, Republican, it didn’t matter. They all owed him. And besides, that didn’t matter. I called Jim Camp and asked him what would happen if they ever found somebody else besides Harris that they thought took Stacey. He told me they’d never be able to try him because of the first case. All the defense would have to do was point to the first trial and say that last year they thought it was somebody else. That was enough for reasonable doubt right there. So they’d never go ahead with a case.”
Bosch nodded. He knew she was right. Going to trial against Harris put hair on the cake forever after.
“This might be a good point to take a break for a couple minutes,” he said. “I need to make a phone call.”
Bosch turned the tape recorder off. He got his cell phone out of his briefcase and told Kate Kincaid that he was going to check out the other side of the house while he made his call.
As he walked through the formal dining room and then into the kitchen Bosch called Lindell’s cell phone. The FBI agent answered immediately. Bosch spoke quietly, hoping his voice wouldn’t carry into the living room.
“This is Bosch. It’s a go. We’ve got a cooperating witness.”
“On tape?”
“On tape. She says her husband killed her daughter.”
“What about Elias?”
“Haven’t gotten there yet. I just wanted to get you people going.”
&
nbsp; “I’ll put out the word.”
“Anybody been seen yet?”
“Not yet. It looks like the husband is still at home.”
“What about Richter? He’s involved. She’s giving me stuff on him.”
“We’re not sure where he is. If he’s at his home, he hasn’t come out yet. But we’ll find him.”
“Happy hunting.”
After disconnecting he stood in the kitchen doorway and looked at Kate Kincaid. Her back was to him and she seemed to be staring at the spot where he had been sitting across from her. She didn’t move.
“Okay,” Bosch said, as he came back into the room. “Can I get you something? A glass of water?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
He turned the tape recorder on and once again identified himself and the subject of the interview. He gave the exact time and date as well.
“You have been advised of your rights, correct, Mrs. Kincaid?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Would you like to continue the interview?”
“Yes.”
“You mentioned earlier that you decided to help Howard Elias. Why is that?”
“He was suing on behalf of Michael Harris. I wanted Michael Harris completely exonerated. And I wanted my husband and his friends exposed. I knew the authorities probably wouldn’t do it. But I knew Howard Elias was not part of that establishment. He wouldn’t be controlled by money and power. Only the truth.”
“Did you ever speak with Mr. Elias directly?”
“No. I thought my husband might be watching me. After that day when I heard them, when I knew it was him, it was impossible for me not to be completely repulsed by him. I think he realized I had come to a conclusion. I think he had Richter watch me. Richter or people working for him.”
Bosch realized that Richter could be nearby, having followed her to the house. Lindell had said the security man’s whereabouts were currently unknown. He looked at the front door and realized he had left it unlocked.
“So you sent Elias notes.”
“Yes, anonymous. I guess I wanted him to expose these people but leave me out of it . . . I know it was selfish. I was a horrible mother. I guess I had this fantasy that the bad men would be shown to the world without it happening to the bad woman.”
Bosch saw a lot of pain in her eyes as she said it. He waited for the tears to start again but it didn’t happen.
“I just have a few more questions at this point,” he said. “How did you know the web page address and about how to get to the secret site?”
“You mean Charlotte’s Web? My husband is not a smart man, Detective Bosch. He is rich, and that always gives the appearance of intellect. He wrote the directions down so he wouldn’t have to memorize them and he hid them in his desk. I found them. I know how to use a computer. I went to that awful place . . . I saw Stacey there.”
Again no tears. Bosch was puzzled. Kate Kincaid had dropped her voice into a monotone. She was reciting the story, it seemed, out of duty. But whatever impact it personally had on her was done with and compartmentalized, put away from the surface.
“Do you believe that to be your husband on the images with Stacey?”
“No. I don’t know who that was.”
“How can you be sure?”
“My husband has a birthmark. A discoloration on his back. I said he wasn’t smart, but he was at least smart enough not to appear on that web site.”
Bosch thought about this. Though he did not doubt Kate Kincaid’s story, he also knew that hard evidence backing it up would be needed to prosecute Kincaid. For the same reason she felt she could not bring her story to the authorities, Bosch needed to be able to go into the district attorney’s office with Sam Kincaid solidly locked down by the evidence. Right now all he had was a wife saying evil things about her husband. The fact that Kincaid apparently was not the man in the web site images with his stepdaughter was a major loss of corroborative evidence. He thought about the searches. Teams were descending on Kincaid’s home and office at that moment. It was Bosch’s hope that they would find evidence that would prove his wife’s story.
“Your last note to Howard Elias,” he said. “You warned him. You said your husband knew. Did you mean your husband knew that Elias had found the secret web site?”
“At the time, yes.”
“Why?”
“Because of the way he was acting—on edge, suspicious of me. He asked me if I had been on his computer. It made me think that they must have known someone was poking around. I sent the message, but now I’m not so sure.”
“Why is that? Howard Elias is dead.”
“I’m not sure he did that. He would have told me.”
“What?”
Bosch was thoroughly confused by her logic.
“He would have told me. He told me about Stacey, why wouldn’t he tell me about Elias as well? And the fact that you know about the web site. If they thought Elias knew, wouldn’t they have closed it down or hidden it somewhere else?”
“Not if they were just going to kill the intruder instead.”
She shook her head. She didn’t see it the way Bosch obviously did.
“I still think he would’ve told me.”
Still confused, Bosch said, “Wait a minute. Are you talking about the confrontation you mentioned at the start of this interview?”
Bosch’s pager went off and he reached down and silenced it without taking his eyes off Kate Kincaid.
“Yes.”
“Well, when was this confrontation?”
“Last night.”
“Last night?”
Bosch was shocked. He had jumped to the conclusion that the confrontation she had mentioned had been weeks or even months earlier.
“Yes. After you left. I knew by the questions you asked that you had probably found my notes to Howard Elias. I knew you would find Charlotte’s Web. It was a matter of time.”
Bosch looked down at his pager. The number belonged to Lindell’s cell phone. The emergency code 911 was printed on the little screen after it. He looked back up at Kate Kincaid.
“So I finally summoned the courage I didn’t have for all those months and years. I confronted him. And he told me. And he laughed at me. He asked me why I cared now since I didn’t care while Stacey was alive.”
Now Bosch’s cell phone began to ring inside his briefcase. Kate Kincaid slowly stood up.
“I’ll let you take that in private.”
As he reached to his briefcase, he watched her pick her purse up and walk across the room in the direction of the hallway to her dead daughter’s bedroom. Bosch fumbled with the briefcase’s release but eventually got it open and got to the phone. It was Lindell.
“I’m at the house,” the FBI agent said, his voice tight with adrenaline and excitement. “Kincaid and Richter are here. It’s not very pretty.”
“Tell me.”
“They’re dead. And it doesn’t look like it was an easy ride for them. They were kneecapped, both of them shot in the balls . . . You still with the wife?”
Bosch looked in the direction of the hallway.
“Yes.”
Just as he said it he heard a single popping sound from down the hallway. He knew what it was.
“Better bring her over here,” Lindell said.
“Right.”
Bosch closed the phone and placed it back in the briefcase, his eyes still on the hallway.
“Mrs. Kincaid?”
There was no answer. All he heard was the rain.
32
By the time Bosch cleared the scene in Brentwood and got up the hill to The Summit it was almost two o’clock. Driving through the rain on the way he could think only of Kate Kincaid’s face. He had gotten to Stacey’s room less than ten seconds after hearing the shot, but she was already gone. She had used a twenty-two and placed the muzzle in her mouth, firing the bullet up into her brain. Death was instant. The kick of the gun had knocked it out of her mouth and onto the floo
r. There was no exit wound, often the case with a twenty-two. She simply appeared as though she was sleeping. She had wrapped herself in the pink blanket that had been used by her daughter. Kate Kincaid looked as though she was serene in death. No mortician would be able to improve on that.
There were several cars and vans parked in front of the Kincaid residence. Bosch had to park so far away that his raincoat was soaked through by the time he got to the door. Lindell was there waiting for him.
“Well, this certainly’s turned all to shit,” the FBI agent said by way of greeting.
“Yeah.”
“Should we have seen it coming?”
“I don’t know. You never can tell what people are going to do.”
“How’d you leave it over there?”
“The coroner and SID are still there. A couple RHD bulls—they’re handling it.”
Lindell nodded.
“I saw what I needed to see. Show me what you have here.”
They went into the house and Lindell led the way to the huge living room where Bosch had sat with the Kincaids the afternoon before. He saw the bodies. Sam Kincaid was in the same spot on the couch where Bosch had last seen him. D.C. Richter was on the floor below the window that looked out across the Valley. There was no jetliner view now. It was just gray. Richter’s body was in a pool of blood. Kincaid’s blood had seeped into the material covering the couch. There were several technicians working in the room and lights were set up. Bosch saw that numbered plastic markers had been put in place where .22-caliber shells had been located on the floor and other furniture.
“You have the twenty-two over in Brentwood, right?”
“Yeah, that’s what she used.”
“You didn’t think about searching her before you started talking, huh?”
Bosch looked at the FBI agent and shook his head slightly in annoyance.
“Are you kidding me? It was a voluntary Q-and-A, man. Maybe you’ve never done one over there at the bureau, but rule number one is you don’t make the subject feel like a suspect before you even start. I didn’t search and it would have been a mistake if —”
“I know, I know. Sorry I asked. It’s just that . . .”
Harry Bosch Novels, The: Volume 2 Page 110