“So even if we get lucky and find his DNA in the house, it’s worthless,” Burnside said. “His lawyer will simply argue it was left during those previous visits.”
There was a knock on the door. Before Eve could get up to answer it, the door swung open and Captain Moffett came in, followed by Sheriff Richard Lansing.
The sheriff glanced at their faces.
“I was expecting a celebration,” he said. “So why does it look like I just walked in on a funeral?”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Moffett and Lansing were both in uniform, as if they were actually prepared to hit the streets for patrol duty, something neither one of them had done in years. Eve, Duncan, and Burnside immediately stood up when they saw the sheriff.
Lansing was in his late fifties, square-jawed, square-shouldered, and socially square, the son of a preacher and currently a man besieged, facing a beating scandal at the county jail that seemed to be getting worse every day. Now that he was here, Eve understood who tipped off the media and why, and it made her uncomfortable. He wanted to announce a big arrest to take some of the pressure off himself, even if it was far too soon to do so.
“Please sit down, everyone. The captain informed me of the arrest in the Topanga Massacre,” Lansing said, closing the door behind him. Eve wasn’t aware the case now had a title, and a lurid one at that. “Where do we stand with Coyle?”
“On thin ice,” Burnside said.
Eve felt her face flush with anger. Burnside’s blunt assessment riled her but, at the same time, she could see the truth behind it. Eve knew with complete certainty Coyle was the killer even if there wasn’t yet enough evidence to prove it in a courtroom.
“How do you figure that?” Lansing said, taking a seat at the other end of the table. “From what I’ve heard from the captain, we’ve got a shitload of evidence.”
Moffett sat to one side of the sheriff and looked down the long table at Burnside at the far end.
“Shitload is the right word,” Burnside said. “It’s entirely circumstantial and there are big holes in the narrative. We can prove he was in the house, but not on the day of the murder. A good lawyer will tear us apart with that. The only case I could make in court today is for burglary.”
“Then it’s fortunate we aren’t in court today, isn’t it?” Lansing said. “I believe you are mistaken, Counselor. We have a strong case that’s only going to get stronger as more evidence is gathered and analyzed. We have momentum on our side.”
“I agree,” Captain Moffett said.
Of course he did, Eve thought. Both men badly needed a win, something positive to tell the media that would redirect the spotlight away from their scandals and failures. Burnside pissed Eve off, but she admired the ADA for her integrity. Burnside wasn’t afraid to stand up to the sheriff.
“Look what the task force has accomplished already,” Lansing said. “It’s phenomenal. The important thing now is finding the bodies. Everything else will fall into place after that.” Lansing shifted his gaze to Eve. “You took a butcher off the streets in record time. I’m damn impressed.”
“It was a team effort, sir,” Eve said.
“Bullshit. You made the key discoveries that led us to Coyle. Own it. You have the right stuff, Ronin. The public saw it in that YouTube video and so did I. That’s why I granted your transfer to RHD, and not to capitalize on your publicity, as some people thought.” Lansing glanced sharply at Moffett, then back to Eve. “I’m having a press conference out front in ten minutes. I want you, Burnside, and the captain there with me.”
Eve wasn’t surprised about the immediate press conference, but she was struck by his blatant hypocrisy. He’d just denied that he was motivated by publicity when he promoted her and then, in the next breath with a straight face, he’d said he wanted her at a press conference. It was duplicity born out of his desperate political need, now and then, to capitalize on the good news and distract the public from the scandals in the department.
But there were dozens of reasons why Eve thought it was a bad idea for the department and the case if they stepped in front of the cameras now. For one thing, Burnside was right. Come Monday, the judge could see that all they had was a burglary case and let Coyle walk out on bail—then they’d all be humiliated.
“I think it’s too soon to be holding a press conference,” she said. “We shouldn’t go public until we have more evidence.”
Moffett and Burnside stared at her in shock. Duncan simply grimaced. Some color rose in Lansing’s cheeks. He glared at her.
“Are you telling me you have doubts about your case?”
“I’m certain that he’s the killer,” Eve said.
“Then I expect to see you express that certainty to those reporters.” Lansing got to his feet. “Don’t put on any makeup. It’s important that they see how hard working and tired you are.”
Mom will love that, Eve thought. Lansing walked out and Moffett joined him.
Eve looked at Burnside. “You know I’m right.”
“I already expressed my opinion and he rejected it,” Burnside said.
Duncan nodded in agreement and looked at Eve. “You should have taken the hint.”
“I couldn’t just stand by and say nothing,” Eve said.
“Yes,” Duncan said. “We noticed.”
Burnside stuffed her legal pad into her briefcase and stood up. “The fact is that we have a suspect in custody. The public will be glad to hear it. That’s a win. This press conference will make you a star again.”
“I don’t want the spotlight.”
“But we do.” Burnside smiled at her and walked out.
Eve revised her opinion of Burnside’s integrity. The integrity was there, but it had limitations. It was trumped by her ambition. Burnside was willing to gamble that enjoying the glory today wouldn’t lead to shame next week. It was a raw political calculation and Burnside was probably making a smart bet. If Lansing, Moffett, and Eve went down, Burnside could still come out relatively unscathed, saying she was given a bad case.
Eve met Duncan’s eye. “I’m fucked.”
“Not if you can prove Coyle did it,” Duncan said. “How hard could that be?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The front steps of the Lost Hills station had become a stage. Lansing stood at a wooden podium with a Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department seal on the front and faced the lights of a dozen TV cameras and two dozen print and broadcast reporters. Captain Moffett, ADA Burnside, and Eve stood in the background. Eve wondered where the podium came from, if it was kept in a closet somewhere in the station or if Lansing carried it around in his Ford Expedition.
“Based on the evidence recovered at the crime scene and the tireless work of our detectives, under the supervision of Captain Moffett, we’re now certain that Tanya Kenworth and her two children, Caitlin and Troy, were brutally murdered in their Topanga Canyon home on Wednesday,” Lansing said. “This is the tragic, heartbreaking outcome that we all feared.”
He paused, letting the horrible news sink in, but Eve saw it as a cheap ploy to jack up the drama of the moment. She also had the heart-sinking realization that in their rush to the cameras, nobody had bothered to call Cleve first before they told the world his kids were slaughtered. It was one more cruel, insensitive oversight she’d have to add to her list of regrets in this case.
When the sheriff spoke again, there was anger and determination on his face, and his right hand was balled into a fist.
“But justice will prevail. I can promise you that.” Lansing hammered his fist on the podium. “Because we have a suspect in custody. His name is Lionel Coyle, a man that Assistant District Attorney Burnside will be prosecuting to the fullest extent of the law.”
That revelation caused an instant commotion among the press. The reporters all started to fire off questions at once, but Kate Darrow’s voice rose above the others.
“What is the suspect’s relation to the family?”
“He’s a plumber
who did some work at the house,” Lansing said.
His response prompted a flurry of other questions, only a few of which Eve was able to hear.
“Why did he kill them?”
“Was the boyfriend or the ex-husband involved?”
“Was he a member of a cult?”
“How were they killed?”
“Have you recovered the murder weapon?”
Lansing held up his hands in a halting gesture to silence the questions and continue with his statement.
“The quick capture of the monster responsible for this heinous crime is due, in large measure, to the exceptional investigative work of Eve Ronin, the youngest Robbery-Homicide detective in the history of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department.”
He turned and waved her up to the podium. Eve stepped forward, mentally visualizing the notes she’d made on her legal pad, and faced the sheriff before addressing the press.
“Thank you, sir, but I’m just one of many detectives working on this case and don’t deserve the credit.” Eve now turned in the general direction of the cameras, the glare of the lights making it impossible to see the faces of the reporters or the lenses. “We are all deeply saddened and horrified by this senseless crime. Our hearts go out to the family and loved ones of Tanya, Caitlin, and Troy Kenworth. We won’t stop until their bodies are recovered and laid properly to rest.”
“You said ‘senseless,’” Kate Darrow said. “Does that mean you have no motive for this crime?”
Before Eve could answer, Lansing quickly stepped up to the podium and gently, but firmly, shouldered her aside.
“We’ll be giving you photos of Mr. Coyle and his Toyota Corolla to share with your audience. We are very interested in his movements on Wednesday and Thursday of last week. If you saw him, please call our tip line. You can leave your information anonymously. That’s all for tonight. We won’t be taking any further questions at this time.”
Lansing led Eve, Moffett, and Burnside back into the station as reporters fired off a barrage of questions at their backs.
“I don’t want any of you talking to the press,” Lansing said to the three of them in the lobby. “From now on, any contact with the media will go through our media affairs office.”
That was an order for Eve and Moffett, but Burnside answered to a different authority, the district attorney, who might want to hold a press conference of his own but probably wouldn’t rush until he saw how Monday’s arraignment played out.
Eve was headed for the squad room but Lansing called after her.
“Ronin,” Lansing said. “Could I have a word?”
He drew her aside to a corner of the lobby, by a wall of framed eight-by-tens of the sheriff, the captain, and various command personnel. They reminded Eve of the signed headshots from celebrities on the walls of dry cleaners, restaurants, car repair shops, and other businesses throughout Los Angeles.
She knew what this little talk was going to be about and decided to take the initiative. “I’m sorry, sir. I should never have said ‘senseless.’ I should have chosen my words more carefully.”
He waved away her concern. “You did good. The camera loves you.”
“My mother would disagree with you, but thanks.” Eve started to turn away. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Hold on. You’ve caught the killer, that was the hard part. The pressure is off,” Lansing said.
“We still need to gather a lot more evidence to secure a murder conviction,” Eve said.
“You’ll get it, but now every move you make is going to be under the media spotlight. Delegate the rest of the work tonight to the detectives who are outside of that glare. I want you to go home and get some rest.”
“Thank you, but the arraignment is on Monday and I want—”
He interrupted her. “You aren’t hearing me. If you look tired and haggard tomorrow, after you’ve already caught the killer, the press is going to wonder why you are working so Goddamn hard. They will think our case is weak. But if you look bright, refreshed, and relaxed the next time they see you, that projects confidence, and that’s what they will feel about the case, too.” Lansing tipped his head to the press outside, many of them still on camera, using the station as a backdrop for their reporting on the story.
“The press isn’t following me around all the time.”
“Today everybody has a camera. You, of all people, should know that. Perception is reality, so it’s up to us to create the perception,” Lansing said. There was a contradiction in that last statement but she wasn’t entirely sure it was unintentional. “I think you’re going to have a bright future in this department.”
Not if this case falls apart, she thought.
“Go home,” Lansing said. “That’s an order.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Eve got a deputy to give her a ride back to her condo. She ran inside, grabbed the keys to her Subaru Outback, and drove to Barnes & Noble at the Commons in Calabasas, where she bought a large map of the San Fernando Valley. From there, she went to the Office Depot on Topanga to buy a box of colored pushpins and then went two blocks south to Yang Chow, a Chinese restaurant across from the Topanga Mall, and bought fried rice, Slippery Shrimp, and chow mein to go. She took her purchases home, devoured her dinner, and got to work.
Back when she was a detective in burglary, she got a lot of results using geographic profiling. The basic idea behind it is that people commit crimes close to where they live, work, and play because it’s easier to find prey, and make a quick escape, in areas they know well.
She knew that geographic profiling worked best as a technique to pinpoint the home or workplace of criminals committing serial crimes. She’d nailed several serial burglars by marking the location of each burglary on a map, drawing a radius of three miles around each scene, and focusing her attention on where the circles overlapped. It inevitably led her to where the crook lived or worked or to where he’d strike next.
Now she figured it would work in reverse, helping her determine where Coyle had most likely dumped the bodies. Eve only had three confirmed locations where Coyle committed crimes, but she knew he used his service calls as scouting trips for burglaries. So she decided to treat each service call as a possible crime scene and plot them all on a map of the San Fernando Valley. There was a crucial flaw in her approach—since Coyle was assigned his calls, he didn’t choose them. But she decided to see if a pattern emerged that might suggest there were some areas he spent more time in than others and would feel more comfortable going back to for his burglaries . . . or to dump bags of body parts.
It would be easier for the Crime Analysis Unit to pinpoint the hot zones for her, utilizing a profiling algorithm specifically designed for geographic profiling, but she liked the tactile effort of doing it herself and she believed that might give her a better intuitive understanding of Coyle’s movements. Besides, what else did she have to do tonight?
So Eve put the map of the valley up on her living room wall and marked the locations of the Mr. Plunger office, Coyle’s home, Tanya’s home, Vickie Denhoff’s house, and Esther Sondel’s house on it with a Sharpie.
She then used colored pushpins to start marking the location of every service call Coyle had made. There were hundreds, but she hoped a cluster or pattern would emerge before she had nine hundred pins in the map.
A few hours later, she had several hundred pins on the map, and was beginning to see the densest number of calls were in Calabasas, Topanga, and Malibu, when her iPhone rang. She found the phone under the Mr. Plunger printouts and glanced at the screen. It was her mom calling. Her first instinct was to dismiss the call but for reasons she would never understand, she answered it.
“Hey, Mom. Let me guess. You saw the press conference.”
“It was your best performance yet.”
“It wasn’t a performance,” Eve said.
“You came across as a confident, capable detective.”
“I like to think that’s bec
ause I am,” Eve said.
“You were racked with self-doubt and insecurity.”
“No, I wasn’t,” Eve said, plucking cold chow mein noodles from the still-open container and eating them. “What makes you say that?”
“When Kate Darrow nailed you with that ‘senseless’ question, you looked away. When you’re sure of yourself, you like to stare people down. Trust me, I’ve seen that stare enough to know.”
Eve was embarrassed that she had such an obvious tell and wondered if that was what Coyle had spotted in the interrogation room.
“It was the glare of TV lights,” Eve said. “They were hurting my eyes.”
“You don’t lie enough to be good at it, honey. You’ve got problems with your case but don’t worry, it’s not going to hurt the chances of you becoming a TV movie.”
“That’s not something I care about.”
“You will if you get fired. It will be found money.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Eve said.
“You could learn a few things from Rebecca Burnside about wardrobe and makeup. Why can’t you dress like her?”
“Because I work on the street and she works in a courtroom, which is a lot like being on stage. The audience she plays to is the judge and jury. Doing a press conference is just an extension of that performance. She’s facing potential jurors. I’ve got to dress for what I do. I can’t chase bad guys in high heels.”
“I’m impressed,” Jen said. “You pretend that you aren’t playing to an audience but you are. Now I get it. You’ve chosen to dress the way you do, and to ignore your hair and makeup, because you’re creating a distinct character.”
“I’m not creating anything. It’s who I am, Mom.”
“You mean you’re consistently staying in character. Very sharp. I’m not sure I agree with your creative choices, but I admire what you’re doing. You’re more like me than you think.”
“You’re reading me all wrong,” Eve said, but without much of a fight behind it. Her mother had made a very convincing argument. What if she was right? It was too disturbing to contemplate.
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