But on her way back to Lost Hills, she wondered if her momentary attraction to Mitch was a clue to another possible motive behind Lisa recommending him to her as her therapist.
Was Lisa trying to set them up?
Duncan was at his cubicle when she came in, making notes on his legal pad, though it looked more like random doodling to the untrained eye.
“Did you get a text from Nan?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Pull up a chair,” he said. She did. “I’ve done a complete rundown on Debbie Crawford. She’s a widow. A missing person report was filed on her two years ago by her daughter Celeste, who is twenty-three. Debbie lived up on Latigo, a mile or two south of Hueso Canyon. I checked and her house is one of the lucky ones that survived the fire. Our deputies have been out there a lot over the years, responding to her complaints about her neighbor, Nick Egan.”
He was the TV star of one hit drama series after another, starting when he was a kid. He has to be in his fifties now, Eve thought.
“Let me guess,” Eve said. “Stan Garvey’s name is on every report and Egan has never been cited for anything.”
“That’s not a guess,” Duncan said. “You can see the star-fucker’s cubicle from here and the five pictures of Garvey with his arm around Egan’s shoulder. They’re besties.”
He was right, she could.
“So all Sabrina Morton and Debbie Crawford appear to have in common is that they both lived near Hueso Canyon and their bodies ended up in the same ravine, sixty yards and four years apart,” she said. “A tragic coincidence?”
“Looks that way to me,” he said.
“Unless it turns out that Crawford was raped, too.”
“We don’t know that Sabrina Morton’s rape and her murder are connected,” Duncan said.
“We need to talk about her rape kit.”
Duncan shushed her, even though the only other detective around was on the phone. “Not here. Let’s get some breakfast.”
Eve and Duncan went to their usual breakfast stop, the Manhattan Donuts & Bagels in the sprawling shopping center at the intersection of Calabasas Road and Mulholland Drive, across the street from the entrance to Old Town Calabasas and the eastern flank of the Motion Picture and Television Country House and Hospital campus. They were in the city of Woodland Hills now, in the LAPD’s jurisdiction, so perhaps on some level Duncan felt more comfortable talking here about possible LASD corruption. Or perhaps, Eve thought, he just really wanted a donut.
On the way there, she told Duncan what she’d learned yesterday afternoon from the Lost Hills’ duty rosters and visitor logs—the names of the deputies who were off duty when Sabrina was raped, and Sabrina’s visit to the station two days before her disappearance that Nakamura didn’t write up in his report.
They got a table in the far corner, by the front window, where one of the missing person posters of Kendra Leigh had been taped. Duncan didn’t speak until he had his first bite of apple fritter, followed by his first sip of coffee, and then it was in a near whisper, not that any of the customers could hear him. Most of them were retirees from the Motion Picture home, wore hearing aids, and were yelling at each other to be heard.
“You think three deputies raped a woman and killed her and that a Lost Hills detective helped them cover it up.”
“Yes.” Eve picked at her glazed old-fashioned. She liked to slowly eat the edges first and then devour the middle.
“You have zero evidence,” he said.
“But it all fits.”
“Only if you can prove it . . . and how the hell do you intend to do that?”
“I’ll start by getting DNA samples from the deputies who were on patrol when Sabrina went missing.”
“Even if you can pull that off,” Duncan said, “their DNA is useless without the rape kit and it’s lost.”
“I’m not ready to give up on it yet,” she said, popping the tab on her Diet Coke and taking a sip. “I’ll go down to Monterey Park and sort through every rape kit there is until I find it.”
Duncan sighed, shook his head, and took another bite of his fritter before speaking again. “I’ll do it.”
“You’re 115 days from retirement. You don’t have to get involved in this.”
“That’s exactly why I have to. Nobody can intimidate or hurt me. My career is already over,” he said and pointed a sticky finger at her. “Yours isn’t, though you’re trying hard to change that.”
“Is this how you want to go out? Branded as a traitor to the department?”
Duncan waved off her concern. “It won’t come to that. If you’re right about this conspiracy, that rape kit was tossed in a dumpster six years ago.”
“Then I’ll find another way to nail them,” she said and finished her donut.
“It’s not an issue,” Duncan said. “Let’s swap cases. While I’m looking for the rape kit, you get to work figuring out what happened to Debbie Crawford.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Eve said and then sensed someone approaching behind her.
“Well, hello, Hardnose,” a man said. “This is a nice surprise.”
She cringed at the sound of the man’s familiar voice even before he appeared beside her and she could see his face.
“No, it’s not, Vince,” she said. “Someone called and told you I was here.”
Eve glared at the clerk behind the counter, who went wide eyed with guilt and immediately found something to do in the kitchen. Duncan saw it, too.
“That’s it,” Duncan said. “We’re taking our business to Winchell’s from now on.”
The man who came up to their table was well into his seventies, with a full head of white hair and a matching bushy mustache that somehow softened his craggy face. He wore a paisley red silk ascot in his open-necked white Oxford shirt and a dark-navy-blue blazer. Smiling broadly, he offered his hand to Duncan.
“I’m Vince Nyby, Eve’s father.”
“Strictly biological,” she said, feeling herself begin to tremble with rage. She was determined not to show it.
Duncan shook Vince’s hand. “I’m Duncan Pavone, her partner.”
“I’m a television director,” Vince said. “Did you know I live right across the street at the Motion Picture home?”
“No, I didn’t,” Duncan said.
“Eve has a bagel or donut with you here three or four times a week but she’s never invited me to join her for breakfast.”
“Or talked to you in ten years,” Eve said, fighting to keep her voice even. “Maybe you should have taken the hint, Vince.”
He smiled at her, then gave Duncan a sideways glance. “Now you know why I call her Hardnose.”
“I already figured that out for myself,” Duncan said. “I’ve got some calls to make. Excuse me.”
Duncan picked up his coffee, stood, and walked away.
Vince eased himself into the empty seat. “You look good, Eve. You have my cheekbones. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“How could they? Nobody knows that you’re my father.”
“I’ve told everyone. I’m proud of you.”
“Let’s get to the point, Vince.” She leaned toward him, her arms on the table. “You want to use me. I’m not interested in a TV series or movie about me, and if I was, I certainly wouldn’t involve you.”
“That’s stupid and self-destructive, Hardnose.”
“Call me that again and I’ll shoot you.” Eve hated his white hair, his lined face, and his fucking ascot. Who was he kidding with that thing?
“I know this business, I’ve succeeded in it, and I’m good at it. You know that. A TV series or movie is going to get made, with or without you. You know that, too. You need someone who will protect your character and your story.”
“You sound like Linwood Taggert.”
Vince grinned, amused. “Who do you think was my agent when I was at my peak?”
“And then he dropped you when your career fell off a cliff.”
He raised an eyebr
ow. “I didn’t know that you followed my career.”
“I don’t. It was a lucky guess.” Eve leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms under her chest, hoping it would contain her rage and hide the trembling. “You’re ancient history, Vince. A has-been lining up for four p.m. dinner at the retirement home. You’re not employable as a director anymore.”
He leaned back, too. “That’s ageism and it’s beneath you. Clint Eastwood is still directing and he’s in his nineties.”
“You’re not Clint Eastwood. Show me your Oscar.” Eve saw him wince, and it pleased her to know that she’d hurt him. “What do I need you for? And don’t give me that shit about watching my back.”
“A baby writer I worked with on Hollywood & the Vine is now a red-hot showrunner with an output deal at Netflix,” he said. “She wants to do this. With her on board, you go straight to series, no pilot. That’s what I bring.”
“And what do you get out of the deal?”
“I’ll direct the first episode,” he said.
“Forget it,” Eve said and stood up.
“Why?” he asked.
The question stung deep, and the trembling rage she’d been trying to hold back burst free. She leaned over him.
“Why? Because you seduced my mother into bed with empty promises of big acting jobs, got her pregnant, and walked away without paying a dime of child support, leaving her to struggle as a single parent, just like you did to seven or eight or God knows how many other women. That’s why.”
“When you were a kid, I was there for every birthday with a nice gift for you and a nice check for your mother.”
And nothing afterward. Eve saw him only when her mother brought her to court as a prop to try to get more child support out of the judge. Seeing him only revived the old anger and pain, making it feel fresh again, even though she was an adult now.
“The best gift would have been if you didn’t show up at all. You didn’t want me in your life then, and that’s the way it’s going to stay now.”
By the time Eve was done talking, she was right in his face, nearly nose to nose. But Vince didn’t pull back or even flinch. She saw herself in the expression of stubborn determination on his face, and it was jarring. She’d never thought of herself as even remotely like him.
“Your mom called me after your wildfire rescue video went viral,” Vince said. “She is the one who brought me into this. If she’s not bitter, why are you?”
“Because she didn’t grow up without a father, you fucking idiot.”
Eve turned her back on him and stormed out to the car. Duncan was in the passenger seat. She got in, started the car, and backed out, peeling rubber, the tires squealing like an injured animal.
“Eve,” Duncan said gently. “Maybe I should drive.”
“Why?” she said, jamming the car into drive and speeding off. “My wrist is fine.”
“You’re crying,” he said.
Eve was shocked to realize that he was right. She wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. “It’s my allergies.”
“Now that you mention it, mine are acting up, too,” Duncan said. “We’re spending too much time out in the hills with all that pollen.”
“That must be it,” she said, except the hills were burned as black as the final fade-out in one of Vince’s TV shows.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Debbie Crawford’s house was a rambling two-story Craftsman with flower boxes under the windows and a wide wraparound porch stuffed with wicker furniture and decorated with wind chimes, bird feeders, and strings of Christmas lights. Small, arched wooden bridges crossed the man-made, plant-lined creek that weaved through the two-acre property filled with trees, birdhouses, and birdbaths. A vintage Airstream trailer sat gleaming in the middle of a vibrant flower garden. Ceramic rabbits, deer, squirrels, and other animal statuary nestled amid the vegetable and herb gardens and sipped water from the creek.
Eve parked her Explorer between a 1970s-era Volvo wagon, its paint oxidized, and a new Prius in the gravel driveway. She got out and couldn’t help noticing Nick Egan’s massive, fifteen-thousand-square-foot mansion next door. It was like an aircraft carrier parked next to a dinghy, blocking the sun and casting a shadow over the house.
Celeste Crawford stepped off the porch to greet Eve, who had called earlier to say her mother’s body had been found but that they didn’t know anything about the circumstances of her death.
“You have a lovely home,” Eve said. The air was alive with the sound of wind chimes and birdsong. It was one of the few places around for the birds to go that hadn’t been ravaged by the wildfire. It was a miracle that the hilltop had survived. “It’s so peaceful.”
It was true and Eve felt the last embers of her anger beginning to cool from the unwelcome encounter with her estranged father.
“Thank you,” Celeste replied. Her long red hair was tied in a ponytail and her face was flecked with freckles. She wore a tank top, shorts, and flip-flops. “My father built it with his own hands.”
“Was he in the construction business?”
“No, he was an engineer at Rocketdyne,” she said, referring to the massive plant in Canoga Park that had manufactured rocket engines for sixty years and had once employed thousands of people before shuttering. Now it was gone, a forty-six-acre patch of weedy, toxic soil next to the Westfield Topanga Mall. “He bought this land for next to nothing in the 1970s and lived in that Airstream trailer until the house was finished, which was the same day he met Mom.”
“That’s romantic,” Eve said, understanding now why the trailer was surrounded by flowers and kept in such fine shape. It was like a headstone. Maybe, she thought, it actually is.
“Dad liked to say he built the house for her, he just didn’t know that when he started,” Celeste said, leading her around to the back of the house. “They were completely devoted to each other, even though they were so different. He was ten years older than her, very straight, very grounded, all about engineering and science. She was loose and carefree, all about nature, poetry, music, pot, and nudity.”
Eve wasn’t going to ask for specifics. “I’m guessing your mom was responsible for the landscaping.”
“Oh yes, that’s all her. She never stopped tinkering with it, especially after my dad died ten years ago of Rocketdyne cancer. Now I’m beginning to put my own touches on the place, starting with decent Wi-Fi.”
“How long have you been living here?”
“Since I graduated from UC Berkeley last year,” Celeste said. “It’s going to sound silly, but I guess I’ve been waiting for Mom to come home.” They climbed up to the back porch, where a table had been set with a pitcher of iced tea and two glasses. “Would you like some iced tea? It’s our own blend from my mom’s leaves.”
“You’re in the tea business?” Eve asked, taking a seat. She had a spectacular view of the blackened hills and canyons that stretched to Santa Monica Bay.
“She was, in a small way,” Celeste said as she poured them each a tall glass. “She’d sell the tea, along with her homemade soap, candles, incense, that kind of thing, to make a few extra dollars on top of what she got from Dad’s pension.”
Now that she had a sense of who Debbie Crawford was, it felt to Eve like the right time to ask the painful questions. “What can you tell me about the day she disappeared?”
“That morning, a few of Mom’s friends came by to do yoga with her and she wasn’t around, even though her Volvo was here. They waited a half hour or so, then started to worry. They looked all over for her, inside and out, thinking she might have fallen or something. Then they called me in Berkeley to see if I knew where she might be. I didn’t, so I called Lost Hills and reported her missing.”
Eve sipped her tea. It tasted like drinking wet grass, not that she’d had any personal experience doing that. “Did she take her keys, wallet, or cell phone with her?”
“No, but that wasn’t unusual,” Celeste said. “She never locked the door and she hated cell ph
ones. Reception here is terrible anyway.”
“Do you have any idea what she might have been doing down by Hueso Canyon?”
“The Backbone Trail is down that way. She liked to hike, and after her knee replacement, she was determined to get back in shape as fast as possible,” Celeste said. “She pushed herself too hard. Maybe her knee gave out and she fell off the cliff. Or somebody pushed her.”
That got Eve’s attention. “Why would you say that?”
“She was overdoing her physical therapy. Even her surgeon told her to slow down.”
“No, I mean the part about being pushed,” Eve said. “Did she have any enemies?”
“Just one.” Celeste looked at her neighbor’s massive house.
“Nick Egan,” Eve said.
“One of the things that makes this hilltop so special is the peace and solitude. That was shattered the day he started constructing that monstrosity, a monument to building code violations and government corruption.”
“Did your mom file a lot of complaints with the city during construction?”
“Oh yeah, almost every day, but it made no difference. The starstruck inspectors ignored the code violations or granted him waivers because he was ‘Nick Egan.’ Things got even worse once he moved in. Loud music, constant partying,” she said. “I have to admit, I loved it at first, a teenager being invited to hang out with stars by the pool. It caused some big fights between me and Mom . . . until I realized that he was just using me as leverage to stop her from calling the cops on him all the time. Not that they ever did anything. They were as starstruck as the building inspectors, especially one detective.”
Eve knew who that was. “Do you really think Egan might have killed her?”
“It was the first thing I thought of when she disappeared. I know it sounds silly, but Mom was relentless. For her, it was war and she was determined to make his life hell. She was driving him crazy mad. He’d scream profanities at her from his window and piss into our yard from his balcony.”
“Did she report that to the police?”
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