“Sneaky. How did High Roller pay for the boxes?”
“Cash up front for a full year rental plus weekly shipping charges. The Carson City drop’s behind a dildo display at a dirty-book and sex-toy shop. My friend said the floor was sticky. The owner never sees the clients pick up, because boxes are intentionally tucked away so mail can be retrieved any time of the day or night anonymously.”
Mackay laughed. “Get mailed and nailed in one stop. More dead ends.”
“Es verdad, lo sciento. We have no idea if it’s just a simple mom-and-pop cash cow, an organized offshore scam, or the underground arm of a major Nevada casino.”
“Much less whether they hired a professional hit man and if so, how to track him down.”
Escalante shook her head and raised an eyebrow. “NCIC computers turned up nothing on R-O-L or Roulette-On-Line, neither did the Sec-State corporate database. We haven’t contacted other states yet.”
“FBI and Interpol?”
“No recently reported contract hits. And no known mechanics whose whereabouts they can’t account for.”
“That’s a profession with a lot of turnover,” Mackay speculated. “There are hundreds of paid hitters they don’t know about. How about IFCC?”
“No similar complaints.”
“Did you check the e-mail address on R-O-L’s web site?”
“The web site’s been rolled up. I got the address off the letter they sent Scalisi, but the e-mail account’s closed, too.”
“I had to give a credit card number to my ISP to open an account.”
“Me too,” Escalante agreed, “but there are dozens of free ISPs that don’t keep records and most pay ISPs wouldn’t cooperate with cops if we found them. They’re like on-line casinos, lots of them are run out of garages, spare bedrooms or anyplace big enough to house the server. They come and go faster than an eighteen-year-old sailor on shore leave.”
Mackay shot Escalante a look but didn’t comment on the unusual off-color remark. “The credit card they paid monthly fees with would probably be in H.I. Roller’s name anyway—same address, same dead end.”
“That’s how we saw it.”
Mackay slurped her coffee and made a face. “Cold coffee would gag a maggot. Just what I don’t need, I’m already queasy in the morning.” She didn’t mention that her barely swelling tummy and breasts forced her to wear what she considered her loosest, dowdiest wool suit.
She set the cup on the corner of her desk. “You seized Benedetti and Duvoir’s computers?”
“We searched the hard drives the night you left for Manzanillo,” Escalante told her.
“That was New Year’s Eve.”
“We worked on the computers, then ate dinner at James’ house.”
“Did you get anywhere?” Mackay asked, then quickly explained, “I meant with the computers.”
The corners of Escalante’s mouth tugged upward. “En ninguna parte—con ordenadores.”
“I don’t speak Spanish well enough to know what you just said.”
“It’s just as well. If anyone was gambling on-line using those computers, they removed the casino software.”
“Can’t erased files be recovered?”
“Sometimes. I dragged the County’s computer guru, Ellie Nottingham, down here on New Year’s Day. She was ticked off and hungover.”
“She shouldn’t’ve drunk so much on New Year’s Eve.”
“Exactamente. She found CyberScrub on both computers.”
“Found what?”
“CyberScrub,” Escalante repeated. “It’s a first-rate, over-the-counter security software program that scrambles and removes web-browser tracks, and eliminates all traces of old e-mails and other deleted files.”
“Sounds suspicious.”
“That was my first reaction, but Nottingham said it’s a common security measure. Most organizations, including the County, use similar programs to foil hackers or other unauthorized users who might try to retrieve sensitive data after it’s been trashed.”
Mackay asked if a computer-forensics lab might be able to recover them.
“No,” Escalante told her. “CyberScrub exceeds U.S. Defense Department standards for permanent removal of digital data—the church’s computers are dead ends.”
“What isn’t—besides your relationship with Lieutenant Miller.”
“It’s not a relationship yet.”
“Yet?”
“Ms. Mackay!”
“Call me Kathryn, and—” The phone buzzed and she punched the speaker button.
“It’s your gynecologist, Doctor Burton,” Mackay’s secretary announced. “She said it’s urgent.”
Mackay placed a hand over the mouthpiece and turned to the inspector. “I need to take this.”
“Should I leave?”
“Not necessary.”
Mackay switched off the phone’s speaker and picked up the handset. “Good morning, Diedre.”
“The lab called with your husband’s blood test results. He’s RH-positive.”
“That’s not necessarily a problem, right?”
“In your case it is. Your blood screen came back O-negative, with a significant RH-antibody presence.”
“How significant?”
“Enough to escalate very quickly into a life-threatening condition for the baby. I want you to see an RH-disease specialist right away.”
“Of course, if you think it’s important.”
“It’s not important, it’s critical. The doctor I want to refer you to is at the Cleveland Clinic in Ohio. Is that a problem?”
“Nothing I can’t work out.”
“Good. His name is Satish Singh. I spoke with him this morning. He agreed to consult with me as I monitor your pregnancy, but only if he can examine you immediately and call the shots.”
There was a short silence on the line, then Burton said, “Kathryn, Singh’s a bit eccentric, but in my opinion he’s the best high-risk pregnancy OB-GYN in the United States. After he examines you and evaluates your amniocentesis, we’ll work together to deliver a healthy baby. How soon can you get away?”
“I’ll try to make airline reservations on tonight’s red-eye out of San Francisco, then call Cleveland Clinic to firm up an appointment time. Thank you, Diedre.”
Mackay dragged in a breath, blew it out loudly, then set the handset into the cradle as gingerly as if it were a priceless five-hundred-year-old porcelain Ming vase.
“I have to fly to Ohio for prenatal testing. Let’s wrap up this briefing.”
“There’s nothing that can’t wait until you get back. I’ll bring Chief Fields up-to-date and keep him posted.”
“I’d better book a flight before it gets any later and there are no empty seats.”
Escalante stood, then bent over the desk and put her hand on Mackay’s arm. “Kathryn, as I said before, whenever you need another woman to talk to—”
“Thank you, Donna, that means a lot to me.”
Chapter 31
MONDAY, JANUARY 6, 8:45 A.M.
JUDGE REGINALD KEEFE’S CHAMBERS
“I’M DUE IN COURT at nine o’clock.” Judge Reginald Keefe tugged impatiently on the sleeves of his judicial robe and indicated a chair. “You might as well sit.”
Keefe’s utilitarian office lacked style, warmth, character, and substance, which, in Sheriff Granz’ opinion, matched the man behind the desk perfectly.
Granz perched on the edge of the uncomfortable straight-backed chair and leaned his briefcase against the legs. “You’ll find what I have to say worth your time.”
“Doubtful. Make it fast.”
“I know Governor Graham sent your name down along with Woods’ for possible appointment to the Appellate Court.”
“So?”
Granz fingered a bandage inside his left elbow and sat back. “Graham’s a conservative, ex-prosecutor Republican.”
“He’s goddamn card-carrying John Bircher.”
“So is Woods. And you’re a left-wing De
mocrat bleeding-heart liberal from the civil bar.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“Graham will.”
“If you plan to insult me, get out of my chambers.”
“I was stating facts. If you were insulted I apologize.”
Keefe looked at Granz through suspicion-squinted eyes. “Apology accepted. Go on.”
“Your name came down because Graham’s making a run for President. He needs to consider a token liberal to prove he’s open-minded and convince voters that’s the kind of president he’ll be if they elect him.”
“He’ll appoint me if he wants a judge who’s tough on crime.”
“Compared to you, John Gotti and the Gambino Family were tough on crime. When Graham finishes paying lip service to the knee-jerk liberal far left, he’ll appoint Woods unless someone runs interference for you.”
“You forget it was Woods who tossed out Mackay’s subpoena and got that priest killed—what was his name again?”
“Duvoir. I didn’t forget.”
“I ordered the Bishop to testify.”
“And he didn’t give us jack—he’s still in jail. How does that make you look?”
“Nevertheless, it was a good order.”
“I agree, but one pro-law-enforcement order in fifteen years doesn’t line you up to the right of center. Graham will appoint the man his appointment secretary, Ronald DeWitt, says works best politically, and since the World Trade Center and Pentagon, that means someone backed by law enforcement.”
Keefe glanced at the clock. “What’s all this got to do with you?”
“I can get you appointed.”
“How?”
“The Governor’s—”
Granz’ jaw started working like he was chewing a hunk of jerky, spit bubbled at the corners of his mouth, his eyes glazed over, and the veins in his neck bulged as if they might split the skin.
Keefe leaned forward. “Granz?”
Drool puddled on Granz’ chin. His arms quivered.
“Sheriff!” Keefe’s voice rose in alarm.
Granz suddenly blinked several times, licked his lips, and wiped his chin on his sleeve. “What?”
“You scared the shit out of me, Granz. What happened?”
“Nothing.”
Granz yanked a paper cup from the dispenser on the side of the water cooler by Keefe’s desk and held it under the blue spigot. “Mind if I have a drink of water?”
“Help yourself.”
He pulled a bottle from his briefcase and washed down a handful of pills. “Thanks.”
“No problem. You sure you’re okay?”
“Just a sudden stress headache.”
Keefe steepled his fingers. “Where were we?”
Granz pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Unless somebody does some heavy lifting on your behalf, you’ve got less chance than a popcorn fart in a hurricane.”
“Is that an offer?”
“That’s right. You’ve got to have law enforcement’s support.”
“You’re only one cop.”
“I’m top cop.”
“The police chiefs will never support me.”
“I can neutralize their opposition.”
“It’d still take some serious juice.”
“Twenty-five years ago, Ron DeWitt and I were young Sheriff’s deputies together. Partners, in fact. DeWitt was good-looking and smart—a rising star with a future, a foxy wife, and a house behind a white picket fence.”
“I’m listening.”
“He went home one day and learned his wife, Rose, had hauled ass with a butch dyke from San Francisco. Rosie didn’t leave anything behind except her wedding ring, a get lost note, and a stack of credit card bills bigger than the equity in his house.”
“Why would I care about this?”
Granz continued as if Keefe hadn’t interrupted. “DeWitt loved Rose more than anything in the world. For two years he turned into a belligerent, out-of-control, falling-down drunk. I covered for him, saved his ass more times than I can remember. When he climbed out of the bottle, he no longer wanted to be a cop, and enrolled in Santa Clara Law School.”
“Go on.”
“That was almost twenty years ago. I’ve got a lot of bad memories from those days. DeWitt wants to ride Graham’s coattails all the way to the White House. He owes me big, and I’m willing to call in the markers.”
“Why would you do that for me?”
“I want something in return.”
Keefe furrowed his brows, but his eyes widened with interest. “Try to bribe me, I’ll toss you in your own jail and flush the key.”
Keefe paused, but when Granz didn’t respond, he asked, “What’s the quid pro quo?”
“Nothing illegal, just a little help cutting through some bureaucratic red tape.”
“What kind of red tape?”
“Jam an adoption through for me as fast as possible and I’ll write your letter of recommendation, drive it to Sacramento, chat with DeWitt about the good old days, and hand-deliver my letter supporting your appointment to the appellate court.”
Keefe leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Adoptions take time.”
“Bull. Social worker interview, background check, verification of birth parents’ status. All unnecessary bureaucratic crap in this case.”
“Who’s the kid?”
“Emma Mackay.”
“Let me think.” Keefe tugged on an earlobe and pretended he needed to be convinced.
“This is a one-time offer, Keefe. Take too long, I walk out and deliver a different letter to the Governor’s office. Catch my drift?”
The Judge ignored the not-so-subtle threat. “I remember when Emma Mackay’s father was killed in that Los Angeles courtroom shooting a few years back. A terrible tragedy. Young girls need fathers.”
“You’re all heart, Keefe.”
“Since she’s over twelve, I need her consent.”
“I spoke to her about it last night.”
“What did she say?”
“‘Of course, Dave, it was inevitable. Do I get a raise in my allowance?’”
Keefe’s face cracked into a smile that looked more like a triumphant smirk. “I could get it done in a week if you deliver all the necessary papers immediately.”
“I’ll have them on your desk before you go home this afternoon.”
“Tomorrow morning’s fine. Meanwhile, run rap sheets on yourself and Mackay. Shouldn’t take more than a few hours. By the way, there’s a two-hundred-dollar adoption fee.”
“Jesus Christ!” Granz reached inside his coat.
“Put your checkbook away, I wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea. I’ll waive the fee. Have you filed a petition with the court clerk?”
“It’s filled out, in my briefcase.”
“Give it to me, I’ll file for you then intercept it, so it doesn’t fall into a bureaucratic black hole at Social Services.”
“We’ve got a deal?”
“Call it a mutual favor.”
Granz slid the petition across the desk. “Whatever.”
“One thing—send me several sheets of Sheriff’s letterhead stationery. I’ll draft the letter to the Governor personally, for your signature.”
“Knock yourself out, I don’t give a damn what it says. Next Monday morning, we’ll exchange signatures—yours on the adoption order, mine on your letter.”
Keefe grinned. “Was there anything else on your mind?”
Granz stood. “Nope. If you need me for anything in the next hour or so, I’ll be in my wife’s office.”
“Don’t worry about a thing, Dave, I’ve got it under control.” Keefe stuck out his hand. “It’s nice to swap favors with a friend.”
Granz ignored Keefe’s extended hand. “Don’t push it, Reggie. I’d sooner have a rabid skunk for a friend.”
Chapter 32
MONDAY, JANUARY 6, 10:00 A.M.
DA MACKAY’S OFFICE
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GRANZ HANDED HIS WIFE a cup of coffee and plopped into a chair.
“I must look like a charity case,” Mackay said.
“Maybe it’s my outfit.”
“Whadaya mean?”
“Escalante brought coffee when she briefed me this morning, too. But pregnant women shouldn’t drink regular coffee, so please make it decaf next time, okay?”
“I’ll try to remember.” He grabbed her cup. “I’ll drink yours, too. What’d she have to report?”
“Nothing breaking. Why don’t you check with Miller later?”
“Will do.”
“Diedre Burton called a few minutes ago. You’re blood test came back RH-positive.”
“That’s what we expected, right?”
“Yes, but my prenatal blood test shows a significant level of RH antibodies.”
He clamped his fingers around the cups in his lap, then jerked them away. “Damn, that’s hot! Is everything okay?”
“We don’t know yet. She referred me to a specialist. I already set up an appointment.”
“Tell me when and where so I can go with you.”
“Tomorrow morning at Cleveland Clinic.”
“Isn’t there someone closer than Ohio?”
“Diedre says he’s the best.”
“Then I’ll make flight reservations for us.”
“Already did—I fly Continental out of SFO an hour before midnight.”
“Just you?”
“It’s only a couple of days, three at the most. I’d rather you stay with Emma.”
He thought about it. “If you’re sure you don’t need me there, I’ll take Em shopping for a new dress.”
“Why?”
A lopsided smile creased his boyish face. “Keefe’s going to sign the adoption order next Monday.”
“Impossible.”
“That’s what he said at first, but I convinced him otherwise.”
“You talked to Keefe? I didn’t even know you’d filed the petition.”
“I filled it out this morning while I waited for the blood draw. Keefe will complete it, and file for us after you stop by his clerk’s desk and sign it.”
“What about the Social Services report, background checks, all that other paperwork?”
“He’s got authority to short-circuit most of it, and I promised to run our raps for him, and drop off a complete package tomorrow.”
Until Judgment Day Page 12