Eve was passing Pea Soup’s distinctive shingled Danish windmill at about 9:45 a.m. when Duncan called. She answered that one.
“Are you sitting down?” he asked.
“It’s hard to drive a car standing up.”
“It’s a figure of speech to prepare you for big news. Are you ready for it?”
“Yes.”
“Celeste Crawford wasn’t in school at Berkeley when her mother disappeared. According to her cell phone records, she was in Santa Monica.”
“Nobody ever checked her story?”
“Why would they? As far as they knew, no crime had been committed—there was no reason to look at anybody for alibis.”
“Maybe if somebody had, we might have discovered there was a crime a lot sooner.”
“Celeste arrived in Santa Monica a day before her mom was killed. I’ve got the credit card charges for gas on her drive down the I-5 and for meals when she got here.”
“Where was she staying?”
“My guess is with a guy. She made two calls on her way down to a number registered to Michael Morgan of Agoura. He was in her high school graduating class and was a student at Santa Monica College at the time.”
“So are you going to talk with her?”
“I thought I’d wait until we got the DNA results on those garden tools. That’ll give us a little more leverage. In the meantime, I’ll start checking out the ladies who came to see Debbie Crawford that morning.”
“You have a very suspicious mind.”
“That’s why I chose to be a cop and not a dentist.”
“Well, that’s one mystery solved.”
“What mystery is that?”
“Why you chose not to go into dentistry. It’s been driving me crazy since the day we met.”
“Have fun in Soledad,” he said and hung up.
She didn’t think that was possible in a town best known for its two prisons.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“You could’ve brought me an In-N-Out burger or something,” Jimmy Frankel said, sitting across from Eve at a metal table in a windowless interview room in Soledad State Prison. “It’s lunchtime, after all.”
Frankel was bald, with bulging eyeballs, a fat nose, and piss-yellow teeth in swollen gums. It made Eve wonder if he’d taken a vow not to brush or floss his teeth until he was released.
“I’m not Grubhub,” Eve said.
“What is Grubhub?”
“Gee, you have been in here a long time, Jimmy. The world has changed a lot while you’ve been inside, not that it makes any difference to you. We could all be out there traveling by transporter beam, having sex with holograms, and living under the sea, but your life won’t change. You’ll still be here in solitary, exiled from the human race, waiting to die.”
Frankel, as an ex-cop, was kept isolated from the rest of the prison population for his own safety. But now that Eve had met him, she thought perhaps he was actually kept in solitary so nobody could get killed by his breath.
“I’ll get out of here in a few years,” he said. “I didn’t kill anybody.”
“You’re just a rapist, is that what you’re saying?”
“I’m not saying anything until I know what’s in it for me.”
Eve shrugged. “Depends on what I hear. I’m just a detective. I’m not able to make deals. But the DA told me that lesser charges and reduced time are on the table, depending on whether I think that your information is good and that you’re telling the truth.”
He licked his lips, as if preparing to speak, but Eve held up a halting hand before he could start talking. “I’m going to inform you of your rights.”
“I’m already in prison.”
“Not for the rape and murder of Sabrina Morton,” Eve said and recited his rights. “I want to underscore that anything you say will be used against you.”
“Unless we have a deal.”
“That depends entirely on what you tell me.”
“So I’m taking a big risk talking to you without any guarantees.”
“You’re already in prison, Jimmy, and I can guarantee that if you say nothing, you’ll probably be in here for the rest of your life. How much worse can it get? Unless, of course, you were the one who killed Sabrina. Then getting a promise of life in here, instead of the needle, for your truthful testimony against Towler and Harding would be a win for you.”
He licked his lips again, not a good sign, and launched into his tale.
“There were two girls, not one, that we were partying with that night.”
Eve tried her best to mask her surprise at Frankel’s admission. A second victim wasn’t disclosed in Lansing’s press conference so, unless Frankel had some source in the sheriff’s department who was feeding him information, this was an encouraging sign of honesty from the outset.
Frankel continued, “They saw us surf, we got talking, and we brought them back to Dave’s van, he called it the Love Boat, that was parked right at the sand. He had a mattress and a cooler in there. So we smoked some weed, had a few shots, everybody was feeling good. But then snap, the girls passed out and Chucky started laughing, said he was tired of them talking and giggling and that it was time to get the real party started.”
Harding’s van was something else that Eve didn’t know about. If they were lucky, he still had it. “You’re saying Towler put roofies in their drinks?”
“Chucky didn’t come right out and announce it, but yeah, it was him. So he started banging one of ’em and I got busy with the other. Dave was sitting it out, looking kind of queasy, so Chucky, while he’s still banging his girl, starts asking him if he was into men or women. What kind of man wouldn’t want some of this action? So Dave says, ‘Get out of my way,’ and takes over with her. At first, he couldn’t get it up, but he eventually got into it and did both girls.”
“And afterwards?”
“We had some more drinks and went home.”
“You just left two unconscious women behind on the beach.”
“They were rode hard and put up wet, as Chucky liked to say. Sure, they were out cold, but this wasn’t their first rodeo, I can tell you that. They got what they wanted.”
“Then why did you have to knock them out?”
“We didn’t. That was Chucky being impatient. Women fantasize about nights like that.”
“Being gang-raped?”
“Having multiple men. I never did anything with a woman that she didn’t want.”
It was taking all of Eve’s willpower not to punch Frankel’s rotten teeth out. “If this was a fantasy come true for Sabrina, why was she killed?”
“She reported that she was raped, that’s why.”
“How did you find out about that?”
Frankel looked up at the ceiling, as if browsing back through the pages of time, but what Eve saw was him thinking about what lie to tell. “She came into the station and Dave saw her talking to a detective. It scared the crap out of him.”
Eve thought it was interesting that he didn’t say anything about Sabrina showing around drawings of the tattoos at the beach. “What made you think she knew you were deputies?”
“We didn’t know if she did or not, but she came to Lost Hills, where we all worked. That was too damn close for comfort. She didn’t see any of us that time, but what if she did later?” Frankel said, starting to fidget, another tell. “But the next day, Chucky told us that we didn’t have to worry, he’d handled it.”
“Meaning that Towler killed her.”
“That was the implication. He didn’t come right out and say it.”
“How did he kill her?”
“I don’t know and I didn’t ask. She disappeared and that was the end of the rape investigation. We put it behind us and got on with our lives.”
“Why didn’t Towler kill the other woman, too?”
“Because she didn’t file charges,” Frankel said, showing a flash of anger. “We didn’t know who the girl was and we never would have known who Sa
brina Morton was if she hadn’t cried rape. She got herself killed.”
Eve had Frankel go through his story again and the basic details didn’t change in the retelling. She believed what he said about the rape, but not the murder. He was too vague on the events surrounding the killing and displayed too many nonverbal signs of deception when he talked about it. She told him that she’d check out his story and the DA would get back to him if they were interested in cutting a deal for his testimony.
On her way out of town, she stopped at Carl’s Jr. and ordered a charbroiled chicken salad, which arrived with wilted brown lettuce, even though Soledad was in the heart of the Salinas Valley, the so-called salad bowl of the world. The chicken had the consistency and color of Styrofoam.
She threw the salad in the trash and went across the street to McDonald’s, ordered a dependable, if unhealthy, Big Mac, fries, and a Diet Coke and hit the road for Los Angeles, eating as she drove.
Burnside called as she ate her last french fry. “I’ve got Duncan on the line with us, too. I’ve got some good news for you.”
“I have some for you, too, but you beat me to the call.”
“The crime lab found Sabrina Morton’s rape kit and they’re processing the DNA now,” Burnside said. “We all know it’s going to match. Between the kit and Josie’s clothing, we’ve established beyond any doubt that the rapes occurred.”
“We have even more corroboration,” Eve said. “In return for a reduced sentence on these new rape charges, Frankel is willing to testify that Towler drugged Sabrina and Josie and, once they were unconscious, the three men had sex with them. He’ll also testify that Towler killed Sabrina because she filed a rape charge.”
Eve repeated Frankel’s story in detail. When she was done, Duncan was the first to speak.
“Well, that’s it, case closed.”
“Congratulations,” Burnside added. “You two did remarkable work.”
“Not so fast,” Eve said. “I believe Frankel’s story about how the rape went down, but I think he’s lying about Towler killing Sabrina. He was vague on how Towler knew that Sabrina reported the rape and didn’t say anything about Sabrina going around Malibu, showing people the tattoo drawing.”
Duncan said, “Pruitt could have told Towler about it.”
“But Pruitt is dead,” Eve said. “He can’t tell us who he told.”
“I’m not worried,” Burnside said. “I can convince a jury that it’s likely that Pruitt told Towler.”
“What if Frankel killed Sabrina and is trying to pin it on Towler?”
“No problem,” Burnside said. “I can just as easily convince a jury that Pruitt told Frankel about Sabrina.”
“So we’re back where we started,” Eve said. “Any of them could have killed her.”
“Or they all did,” Duncan said. “I’d like to track down Dave Harding’s van. That would go a long way towards corroborating Frankel’s story.”
“Go for it,” Burnside said. “I’ll look at the evidence, listen to their stories, and decide who is the most credible and go from there. But I’m feeling very confident. Our case is strong. We’ll get convictions on the rapes and the murder.”
With that, Burnside said she had to go and hung up, but Duncan stayed on the line.
“You’ve missed some excitement around here,” he said.
“That’s okay, I’ve had enough excitement for one week.”
“A weed abatement crew was clearing brush between the Backbone Trail and Piuma Road in Calabasas and discovered another skeleton.” Eve was very familiar with the area. She often rode her bike up the steep winding road to the Malibu Canyon Overlook to see the spectacular view of the mountains. “Crockett and Tubbs caught the case. But they’re getting off easy. The remains aren’t in a burn zone and the bones aren’t scattered all over the place.”
“Are they bringing Daniel in?”
“I have no idea if Indiana Jones is out there, but it already looks good that the remains are Kendra Leigh, the old lady who went missing a month ago.”
“They found her purse and ID?”
“No, but she liked to hike the Backbone Trail, her clothes match what she was last seen wearing, and she lived nearby, down in Monte Nido.” It was a heavily wooded, idyllic neighborhood below Piuma Road, a valley within the valley, that at one time so closely resembled a jungle that it was used as a location for the Tarzan movies and as Sherwood Forest in The Adventures of Robin Hood. “They’ve also got all her teeth and a hip implant. Those lucky bastards Crockett and Tubbs never have to work hard. They’ll probably clear this case in a day without leaving their desks.”
“That’s the dream,” Eve said.
“Do I detect a hint of sarcasm?”
“Not from me. You’re talking to a woman who is going to end up spending ten hours on the road before this day is done.”
“You don’t have to do that. It’s in our union rules. The department will pay for a night in a hotel.”
“I’ve already got a hotel room waiting for me in Calabasas.”
“Just don’t fall asleep at the wheel.”
“I’ll stop in San Luis Obispo for coffee on the way down and invite Josie Wallace to join me.”
“Good idea,” Duncan said. “Give me a call when you get home tonight, just so I know you made it safely.”
“Will do, Dad.”
Eve was joking, but she was actually touched that he cared.
Josie met Eve at a Starbucks around the corner from her office and hugged her as she came in.
“What was that for?” Eve asked as they sat in side-by-side armchairs.
“I saw the news. You’ve been through hell for us. Now we’re both scarred by those bastards.”
Eve didn’t think there was any comparison between the horrors that Josie had endured and her experience with Pruitt.
Confronting an unstable man with a gun and trying to talk him down was part of Eve’s job. If she couldn’t handle that, even when it went bad, she shouldn’t wear a badge.
“I appreciate your concern, Josie, but I’m not scarred.”
Josie reached out and squeezed Eve’s hand. “Today it’s just a wound. It takes a long time before you realize it’s become a scar.”
Eve got back on the road an hour or so later, wishing she’d just stopped for coffee and a donut in San Luis Obispo without meeting with Josie. All the talk of Pruitt’s suicide, and Josie’s well-intentioned interest in how Eve was feeling, made her dread returning the calls from her family, but she knew she had to do it eventually.
Just not tonight.
The stretch from Rincon Point, just south of Carpinteria, down through Ventura, was Eve’s favorite part of the drive, because the southbound freeway ran right along the shore, and there were no beach houses or other buildings blocking the view of the crashing surf, just a simple guardrail, a sloped embankment of boulders, and, depending on the tide, a tiny sliver of sand. On stormy days, cars were splashed by waves crashing against the rocks. But the rest of the time, it meant the air was always full of sea mist, so she kept her windows rolled down to breathe it in.
It was dark, and she was about ten miles north of Ventura, feeling nice and relaxed, when she noticed two cars in front of her, weaving across the four empty lanes of traffic.
At first, she thought it was two highway patrol cars, running a traffic break, because they were both black-and-white Crown Vics with steel ram bars on their front grilles. But as she got closer, she realized that they were actually used patrol cars—the kind with two hundred thousand miles on the odometer that departments stripped of insignias, repainted, and sold to the public for a grand or two—and that they didn’t have license plates.
No plates?
She glanced in her rearview mirror and recognized the grille of another Crown Vic closing in fast, its huge V-8 roaring, its ram bars like bared fangs, and she felt a jolt of pure terror.
They want to kill me.
She was certain that in the next instant
, the car behind her was either going to ram her little Kia Forte . . . or clip her behind a rear wheel to send her spinning out of control. Escape was impossible—she was boxed between the two weaving cars in front of her, the concrete median to her left, the guard rail to her right, and the monster roaring up behind her.
There’s no way out of this. I’m going to crash.
That horrifying fact left her with only one option.
Brace yourself.
Or was that a mistake? She knew drunk drivers often survived gruesome crashes relatively unscathed because they didn’t tense up, grab the wheel tight, slam on the brakes, and brace themselves for impact.
Drunks survive because they are loose and relaxed.
So in the split second remaining before violent impact, she did something counterintuitive that forced her to fight all her instincts and reflexes.
Eve lifted her foot off the gas, let go of the steering wheel, and closed her eyes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
It was a perfect PIT maneuver, the pursuit intervention technique seen a thousand times by Los Angelenos watching the nightly police chase on the news: the Crown Vic clipped her behind the left rear wheel and her car went spinning.
Eve felt like she was on a Tilt-a-Whirl, her favorite ride at the Ventura County Fair when she was a kid. She’d laugh uncontrollably as she spun around and around. She wasn’t laughing this time. Her seat belt grabbed her tight, pinning her to the seat.
While the Kia was still spinning, the Crown Vic rammed it, and suddenly the car wasn’t spinning anymore.
It was rolling.
Airbags exploded, windows shattered, sheet metal crunched. She took a hard punch in her chest, felt something snap inside her body, and a rain of pebbled glass hit her as the car rolled once, seemed to take flight, then landed hard upside down, the sunroof shattering, the top caving in.
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