“I didn’t kill anyone,” Harding said.
Eve noted that he didn’t say anything about the rape.
“Convince me,” Burnside said.
Kelsey Corso held a halting hand up to Harding and shook her head at Burnside. “That’s not how this works, Rebecca. He’s innocent until proven guilty. The burden of convincing is on you. Dave Harding is an exemplary sheriff’s deputy with multiple commendations and an untarnished record of community service. His meritorious career and his fine character will speak for him against these absurd charges. He doesn’t have to say a word.”
“You’re right,” Burnside said. “Come to think of it, I’d much rather have Frankel talk, since he’s a deputy already in prison for raping two women. That will demonstrate to the jury the proven character of the exemplary men that meritorious Dave likes to have at his orgies.”
Harding went pale. “What are you offering me?”
“How old are you, thirtysomething?” Burnside said. “According to the actuarial tables, you’ve got about another fifty years to live. I’m offering you the chance to spend the last ten or fifteen of them outside of prison.”
“That’s a joke,” Corso said. “You’re right, ladies, we’re done here.”
Eve and Burnside walked out and conferred in the hall.
“What do you think?” Eve asked.
“One of them will crack,” Burnside said. “I really don’t care who it is.”
“What if Towler and Harding both point at Frankel?”
Burnside shrugged. “Then we’ll see who he points to.”
“And if he points to one or both of them?”
“Then it gets fun,” Burnside said. “Each one of ’em will offer us incriminating details about the others to convince us that he’s the one telling the truth. Before you know it, the truth will be evident and they’ll have tried the case for us.”
“I hope you’re right,” Eve said.
“I know you want to do more, and I’m not discouraging you, but the hard work is done. You can concentrate on your other cases. Speaking of which, I got you the warrant for Celeste Crawford’s cell phone and credit card records. You should have DNA results in a day or so.”
“Thanks,” Eve said. “Are you actually familiar with the actuarial tables on life expectancy?”
“Of course not, but it sure added dramatic heft to my offer, didn’t it?”
Eve and Duncan spent the next few hours at their cubicles, writing up their reports and filling out all the paperwork that went along with the arrests. While they were busy doing that, local and national media began arriving at Lost Hills station in droves, filling the parking lot and lining both sides of Agoura Road in advance of the scheduled 6:00 p.m. press conference.
Lansing arrived at four thirty and Eve, Duncan, and Burnside briefed him in Moffett’s office.
“Excellent work,” he said. “I’d like you three, and the captain, to join me and the Mortons on stage at the press conference.”
The “stage” was the front steps. Eve thought it was odd to characterize Lost Hills station as any kind of stage. Perhaps they should have concerts and plays on the steps as well. She was surprised that the Mortons were willing to be used as props, but it wasn’t her decision.
“I’d rather go home and watch it on TV,” Duncan said to Lansing. “I’m retiring in a few weeks and would prefer to slip away unnoticed, the same way I came in.”
“You deserve recognition for what you’ve done.”
“No, I really don’t. It was just another case, like the hundreds of others I’ve worked in this job over the last few decades,” Duncan said. “Besides, it was really Eve who ran with this while I sat on my ass, counting the days until I leave.”
“I know that’s not true,” Lansing said. “But if you don’t want to be at the press conference, Donuts, I won’t force you.”
Eve thought about her image in the department as a ruthlessly ambitious and publicity-hungry rookie. Grabbing the spotlight again would only reinforce the negative perceptions about her without giving her any benefits. And she didn’t like the idea of being party to the exploitation of the Mortons’ grief or gratitude, especially after the way Sabrina had been treated by the officers at Lost Hills.
“I’d like to sit it out, too,” Eve said. “I’ve had enough publicity as it is. My presence will be a distraction.”
Moffett and Burnside regarded her incredulously and Lansing waved off her suggestion as if she were making a bad joke.
“On the contrary,” Lansing said. “The media will expect the lead detective to be there and, frankly, the public loves you. They will feel better about Lost Hills, and the department, knowing you were on the case. I want you there.”
So that was that, she thought. She was a prop, just like the Mortons.
Ten minutes before the press conference, Eve slipped into the women’s bathroom to mat down any wild hair with water and to make sure she didn’t have some huge stain on her wrinkled blouse.
Rebecca Burnside was at one of the two sinks, putting on makeup. Eve went to the other sink and gave herself a quick appraisal. She looked tired, and her blouse could probably use a good pressing, but her hair was fine, there were no stains, there was no giant zit pulsing on her chin. Good to go.
“See you out at the circus,” Eve said and started to leave.
“Wait,” Burnside said. “You’re not going out there like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like we’re shooting an episode of The Walking Dead. Come here.”
Eve stepped over to her and Burnside began applying makeup to her face.
“This really isn’t necessary,” Eve said.
“Oh yes it is. You need to learn that concealer is your best friend.”
“I have a hard time buying something called ‘concealer.’ I feel like I am doing something inherently dishonest and living a lie.”
Burnside shook her head and smiled. “You are so incredibly fucked up.” Eve burst into laughter, making Burnside laugh, too. “Stop! I can’t do this if you’re laughing.”
“What can I say? You’re right. I’m a complete mess.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you that wouldn’t be cured by occasionally using some concealer and surgically removing that stick up your ass.” Burnside took a step back to look at her work. “Much better.”
Eve turned to the mirror, afraid of what she was going to see. She looked like herself, only now she appeared awake and refreshed. Her mom was right about the magical powers of concealer. “Wow. It’s like I’ve had a good nap.”
Burnside regarded her own reflection. She was more glammed up than Eve, but not so much that she crossed the line from professional to pinup. She unbuttoned her blouse another button so she showed just a hint of cleavage, and nodded in approval. “Okay, let’s go.”
Eve lingered at the mirror for a moment. She opened one more button on her blouse, nodded at herself, and walked away, but changed her mind and buttoned it back up before she’d reached the door.
Albert and Claire Morton were in the lobby with Sheriff Lansing and Captain Moffett, waiting to go outside to the podium and face the mob of reporters and camera operators. When Claire spotted Eve, she immediately came over and gave her a hug.
“I knew you were different than the other detective,” Claire said. “Thank you for giving us peace.”
Eve doubted they’d ever have peace. But at least now they didn’t have the uncertainty. “I’m sorry it took six years.”
Claire released her and Albert stepped forward. He offered Eve his hand and she shook it. She saw his gratitude but she also sensed the anger still simmering beneath the surface. There would be no peace for him.
Lansing stepped up to them. “Let’s get this over with.”
He said it like it was something he dreaded, but Eve could see a spark of excitement in his eyes. What was there to look forward to? It was a terrible day for the LASD.
But as they stepped outs
ide, she realized why he was excited, and why it was so important that she and the Mortons were there, too.
He was going to reveal horrible atrocities committed by three deputies that went uninvestigated and unpunished for years. But that shameful tragedy, that failure of the department to do its job, wouldn’t be the story. Instead, it would be the story of the Deathfist—the young heroine who beat up an abusive movie star, solved a triple murder, and rescued a child from an inferno—delivering justice and receiving the teary-eyed appreciation of the victim’s parents.
Eve was afraid she might vomit.
Lansing stepped up to the podium and delivered the bad news with the requisite solemnity, anger, and sorrow, but then built up to the discovery of the bones, and Eve’s relentless dedication to see that justice was done, with the full support of her captain, the district attorney, and himself every step of the way . . .
“. . . even when the trail of blood led to this front door,” he said, tipping his head to the entrance to the Lost Hills station behind him. “Since becoming sheriff, I’ve dedicated myself to restoring the integrity of the badge and the trust of the community. No person is above the law, especially those who are entrusted to enforce it. Today’s arrests send that message and underscore our enduring commitment to let nothing stand in the way of finding the truth and delivering justice.”
He took a dramatic pause to let that sink in. “Now I’ll take a few questions.”
“I’ve got one,” Albert Morton shouted, startling Lansing, who turned to look behind him, where the Mortons stood with Eve, Burnside, and Moffett. “Why did it take six years for my daughter’s rape and disappearance to be investigated? Why did it take the discovery of her bones before you did a thing?”
“I wish I could answer that,” Lansing said.
“Don’t you think you should wait until you can before you start congratulating yourself?”
Albert wasn’t playing his part. He wasn’t praising the department. Lansing wasn’t prepared for that.
“I can assure you we share your anger and that there will be a thorough review of the department’s past handling of this case. But today your daughter can rest in peace, knowing the men responsible for her rape and murder will pay for their crimes, thanks to Eve Ronin.”
Lansing grabbed Eve by the arm and practically yanked her to the podium, desperate to change the subject and regain control of the narrative, to underscore today’s success, not yesterday’s failures.
Eve stared at the microphones and the cameras and wasn’t sure what she could say that she could live with. Only one thing came to mind, but it wouldn’t make her any friends at work.
She turned to Albert Morton. “You’re absolutely right, Mr. Morton. This department failed Sabrina, it failed you, and it failed everyone in this county. There is no excuse. We are deeply and profoundly ashamed.”
Eve faced the cameras. “What I did was my job. That’s not something that should be celebrated at all—because it’s the bare minimum, it’s what I am expected to do every day to earn my salary and the right to wear the badge. Going forward, we need to do more than that or we don’t deserve your forgiveness or your respect.”
She stepped away from the podium. Lansing nodded, as if he agreed with her sentiment, but as he approached the podium, he turned his back briefly to the cameras and let her see the rage in his eyes. It was only a flash, lasting perhaps a split second, only for her to see, and disappeared in the instant it took for him to face the media again.
“Any other questions?”
There were many, but Eve didn’t stay to hear them.
She went into the station, walked through the building to the back parking lot, got on her bike, and rode away while everyone’s attention was on interrogating the sheriff.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Her mother called while she was still on her bike. Eve surprised herself by answering the call.
“I just saw you on TV. You looked terrific,” Jen said. “I’m glad you learned a few things from your big-girl makeover.”
“I haven’t washed my face since Saturday.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass. Congratulations on the arrests and the powerful monologue. The demand for the series is going to be even hotter now.”
Answering the call, Eve realized, was a big mistake. “I didn’t arrest those deputies to bolster my chances in Hollywood. I was doing my job. Didn’t you hear what I said at the podium?”
“A tear would have really sold it.”
“Sold what?”
“What you were saying. One tear, rolling down your cheek, to show that the emotion is real. I can teach you how to cry on cue.”
“Then the emotion wouldn’t be real, would it?”
“It’s television, dear. Nobody expects it to be real, just convincing.”
Eve was about to tell her mom that her life is real, that her cases are real, that not everything on TV is scripted and performed, but then she thought about that press conference and realized she was wrong.
One of the reasons that Eve feared a TV series about herself was that she’d be held to a fictional standard in her real life. But wasn’t that happening to her now anyway? Wasn’t Lansing trying to rewrite the past, and the present, into a story he liked better than the reality? Wasn’t she just playing a part? Wasn’t that why she was angry?
Or was she angry at herself because she was the one who suggested it to him at the DoubleTree?
You can present the story any way you want as long as the guilty are punished for what they did.
That was what she’d said. This was her fault as much as his.
“Are you still there?” Jen asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ve already become a television character.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Jen said.
“I have to go, Mom. I’m hitting a dead zone. Bye.”
Eve ended the call, slipped the phone into her coat pocket, and headed north on Las Virgenes, across the freeway overpass, to her condo. She got off the bike at the curb, wheeled it up to her front door, unlocked it, and went inside.
The moment she stepped into the foyer, the air felt wrong. It was disturbed when it should have been still, like getting into the pool after someone has jumped in, the ripples on the surface of the water lapping against your ankles. Instinct made her let go of the bike with her right hand and start to reach for her gun.
A male voice said: “Don’t move or I’ll shoot.”
Eve froze. Brad Pruitt stepped out of her kitchen, aiming his Glock at her in a two-handed grip. He was in his street clothes, a T-shirt and jeans. He must have picked her lock, not that it would have been too difficult, she thought. It wasn’t a bank vault.
“Let go of the bike, put your hands on your head, and kick the door closed.”
“This is a bad idea, Brad.”
“Do it!”
Eve calmly did as she was told. Pruitt stayed where he was. “Killing me won’t change anything. Towler and Harding have been arrested, Frankel has been charged. The truth is out there. It can’t be silenced now.”
“You saw to that.”
“Yes I did. I told you that I would. But you still have a chance to do the right thing. Drop the gun and we’ll forget this happened.”
Brad smirked. “You won’t let anything be forgotten.”
“Not rape. Not murder. But nobody has to know about this. I know you’re upset. I know you’re scared. Put down the gun and let’s talk. Tell me how you found out about Sabrina and who you told about it afterwards.” She started to lower her hands from her head.
“Freeze . . . unless you want three slugs in your chest, a perfect center spread. I’m a great shot.”
She put her hands back where they were. “So what are we doing here, Brad? Are you going to shoot me or what? Taking me out isn’t going to make anything better for you, only worse. Same for your family. Your wife and son will have to
live with the choices you make right now.”
“That’s your fault. I had nothing to do with that woman’s rape or murder. You know that. But you dragged me and my family into this anyway.”
“You pulled Sabrina over. You warned her off. You made yourself part of the crime. Now you can make it right for yourself and your family . . . but not by breaking into my house and pointing a gun at me. The way to redeem yourself, and spare your family a lot of pain and shame, is by helping me put those deputies behind bars.”
Pruitt shook his head. “You’re wrong. There’s only one way to redeem myself after what you’ve done to me. You brought this to my doorstep. I’m bringing it to yours.” He put the gun under his chin, aiming it at a slight right angle so he’d blow off the back of his head and not his face.
“No, don’t do it!” Eve yelled.
“This is on you.”
He pulled the trigger.
The gunshot wasn’t as loud as she thought it would be. The sound was muffled by his head. The back of his skull exploded, splattering her kitchen cabinets and counters with brain, bone, blood, and hair. His body dropped to the floor like a puppet with cut strings.
Her first, instinctive reaction, in the instant that he pulled the trigger, was to flinch and turn away. So she didn’t see the back of his head blow off. She saw the aftermath, turning back and opening her eyes as his body fell, and his brain was dripping down her cabinets. It was horrifying and grotesque, the smell of blood and gunpowder, urine and shit, hanging in the air.
She’d never seen anybody die, violently or naturally, in front of her. She’d only seen the aftermath. But Eve didn’t scream and she didn’t avert her gaze. She stood there, absolutely still.
She knew that she was in shock. But she also knew that her home had just become a crime scene and that she was a homicide detective. Those two facts gave her an emotional and psychological crutch, a set of procedures and duties to perform, a way to avoid dwelling on what just happened and take action instead. And action meant snapping out of her frozen state . . . now.
It was as if someone had snapped their fingers beside her head. Or maybe she actually did it. She wasn’t sure.
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