Escalante pointed and whispered, “Tape it.”
Miller depressed the Record button. “Who’s this?”
“You’re wasting time. My message is for Granz and Mackay.”
“They stepped out.”
Miller flipped a thumb toward the door.
Escalante and Fields jumped up and ran out the door.
The line was silent for a second.
“Tell Mackay and Granz if they don’t stop me, there’ll be more—a lot more.”
The line clicked and the phone went dead.
Chapter 47
MACKAY WAS STANDING outside the men’s room door, arms crossed over her chest, tapping her right foot.
“Get the Sheriff and come back to the conference room, quick!” Fields shouted.
Granz slammed the door open. “What’s the damn commotion about?”
She hooked her arm through his and tugged him toward the conference room. “C’mon, we’ve got to get back.”
“Jesus Christ, can’t Miller handle things for five minutes while I take a leak?”
“Take it easy, Dave. Jazzbo’s one of the good guys—he’s on our side. Don’t be so hard on him.”
“You’re right—sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me.”
When they got back to the conference room, Miller was staring at the phone and listening to the dial tone. “Damn!” Granz punched the Speaker button. “I walk away for one minute—”
Miller switched on the phone’s speaker, then pressed the Play button. “Let’s see if the recorder got it.”
The county’s central phone system controller hissed, clicked, hummed, rewound the tape, paused, and played back the message.
Mackay immediately recognized the machine-changed voice. She told them about the call she and Emma had taken at home on Christmas Eve. “I told Dave,” she said.
“First I heard about it,” Miller commented, watching Escalante for a reaction.
He didn’t get one. “Me too,” she confirmed.
“The caller didn’t mention a killing,” Granz said. “I figured it meant nothing.”
“Benedetti got shot that night, boss.” Miller was shaking his head. “You shoulda told us about the call.”
“I know.” Granz cleared his throat and gave his detective a feeble smile. “I’m sorry.”
“Forget it, prob’ly wouldn’t’ve mattered,” Miller lied, his face flushing. The tension was broken by the chirp of his cell phone.
“Miller,” he answered.
He listened and said “uh-huh” several times. “Okay, send everyone home, roust Menendez, and get it to the lab. Tell her we need results yesterday.”
He listened, stroked his beard, and said into the phone, “I know Menendez isn’t on call, Charlie. Tell her Escalante threatened to renege on her promise if she doesn’t come down personally. She’ll know what you mean.”
He folded the StarTac. “Shooter cleared a spot, propped his rifle up against a rainwater scupper on the old Pacific Seafood Cannery roof. Yamamoto found an empty Advil bottle. He bagged it and is taking it to DOJ.”
Granz slid his chair back from the table and crossed one leg over the other. “That’s something. Maybe Menendez can lift a usable print off it.”
“Prob’ly not—Yamamoto says the pill bottle had a powder residue on it like they put on the inside of disposable gloves.”
“Figures. We better figure out how to catch the son of a bitch—he’s a mad dog.” Granz leaned back in his chair. “To do that, we’ve got to think outside the box. Any ideas?”
“We’re attacking from the wrong end,” Escalante suggested. “We can’t catch him after a murder, so let’s catch him before.”
“How?” Mackay asked.
“Figure out how he picks a target, then get there before he does.”
“He’s after priests,” Miller observed, “but there are dozens in Santa Rita County. Why’d he zero in on these five?”
“I think I’ve figured it out,” Escalante answered.
Granz uncrossed his legs. “I’m listening.”
“Their pictures were in the newspaper just before they were murdered.”
“I didn’t see ’em in the paper,” Miller told her, then added, “but I usually just skim the front section of the Centennial to see what kinda bad press they’re givin’ us that day.”
“Me too, but I logged in to the archives of all the local papers, including the weekly tabloids. Thompson’s fund-raising raffle appeared just once, and only in the City Post and—”
“Nobody but left-wing radicals read their crap,” Miller interrupted.
“Exactly,” Escalante agreed. “That’s why none of us saw it. Benedetti’s Afghanistan trip with his basketball players was announced in the Centennial’s Teen Beat Section; Duvoir’s guest rose-care column was in the pull-out gardening section of the Española paper—a throwaway for most people. I’ll bet you don’t even scan either of them.”
“Never.”
Granz glanced at Miller and Escalante, then looked at Mackay. “I rarely read anything from South County—how about you?”
“No.” Mackay shook her head. “I don’t look at Teen Beat, either. From now on maybe I should make time to scan every newspaper.”
“That makes two of us,” Escalante said, then continued. “Ryan’s picture was published on the front page of the Centennial with his hot rod the morning after the Mid-Winter Fifties Jubilee wrapped up. That’s probably the only one we all saw.”
Everyone fell silent, thinking. Finally, Granz asked, “How about Garcia?”
“He’s the exception,” Escalante admitted. “I haven’t made the connection to him yet.”
“Television,” Mackay said. “Thursday night, channel seven news covered Davidson’s release from county jail. While Garcia was waiting outside the jail to give him a ride home, a reporter hassled Garcia into a sound bite.”
“What’d he say?”
“He refused to talk about the Bishop, all he told the reporter was he would be late getting to Community Hospital. He offers communion there every weekday at five P.M.”
Granz thought it over. “Father Garcia’s live on TV one night, dead the next afternoon.”
“Killed unlocking his car at about the time he’d be leaving for the hospital,” Mackay added. “Where’s the Coroner’s inventory?”
Escalante slid a paper across the table.
Mackay read it quickly, passed it to Granz, and said, “He was carrying communion wafers.”
“I say we set up a sting,” Miller proposed.
“Lay one out,” Granz directed.
“Simple—you and the DA make up a phony story and plant it with the media—make sure it’s got a picture of our decoy standing out in front of the church.”
“What church?”
“The church where we’re gonna take the sumbitch down.”
“A church he hasn’t hit before,” Escalante added, “and one he sees an easy way into and out of—the closer to the freeway, the better.”
Granz nodded thoughtfully. “Might work.”
“I know the one,” Mackay told them. “But we can’t risk an innocent bystander getting hurt. I’ll contact Bishop Davidson, ask him to evacuate the church on the q.t. for a day. If we’re right, and the pattern holds, that’s all it’ll take.”
“I agree,” Granz told her. “Park a few cars in the parking lot, make it look as normal as possible.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Miller volunteered. “Get ’em from the impound yard.”
“One thing,” Granz added. “The decoy stays inside at all times or he’ll get wasted from a distance with a rifle. The shooter’s got to get close to the undercover officer or it won’t work. Next question—who’s the decoy?”
Fields looked around and made eye contact with the other four. “Me.”
“Why you?” Granz asked.
“Less likely to be recognized—I’ve been off the street for the past few years a
s Chief of Inspectors.”
Granz contemplated. “Our shooter’s smart, efficient, and vicious. You get sloppy, you get dead.”
Fields unconsciously ran a finger over his tucked-in coat sleeve. “I looked death in the face once and didn’t like it—I won’t get sloppy.”
Granz looked around the table. “This is our best chance. Everyone go along?”
No one dissented.
“We need today and Sunday to set up everything.”
“That works,” Escalante agreed. “Masses are scheduled throughout Saturdays and Sundays, but Monday’s a quiet day.”
“Soon as everything’s in place, I’ll hole up inside the church,” Fields confirmed.
“Good, let’s get to work. Fields?”
“Yeah?”
“Remember—the nut we’re looking for wasted five men—don’t be number six. No one’s going to second-guess you, so when he shows up, take him out.”
“Count on it.”
Granz stood. “I promised Emma I’d buy her a new dress for Monday morning.”
“Special occasion?” Miller asked.
“You might say that.”
Chapter 48
MONDAY, JANUARY 13, 8:00 A.M.
SANTA RITA COUNTY COURTHOUSE
“HOW DO I LOOK?” Emma turned around slowly twice, arms out, so Dave and Kathryn could admire her new dress.
“Beautiful, sweetie,” Kathryn told her.
“What do you think, Dave?”
“You’re a fox.”
For the first time in weeks, Monday morning broke bright, warm, and clear, the cloudless sky a deep sapphire blue. They waited outside Judge Reginald Keefe’s chambers where, through the Court Building windows, they watched the sun heat up the lawn, sending a layer of steam into the air like smoke from countless tiny grass fires.
Kathryn checked the morning newspaper, folded it, and stuck it her handbag. A shoulders-up photo of James Fields in a black suit coat, clerical shirt with Roman collar, glasses and a mustache accompanied a Living Section story introducing the new priest at Holy Ascension Catholic Church.
“Exactly what we wanted,” she told her husband. “Let’s hope he takes the bait.”
“He’ll take it,” he assured her.
Emma sniffed one of the pink buds in her bouquet. “Mmm, the roses smell great. Thanks, Dave.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Where’s the camera?”
He pointed at his briefcase. “With a new roll of film.”
“Mine’s in my handbag,” Kathryn told them.
At eight-thirty, Keefe’s clerk came out and summoned them into chambers. Judge Keefe was wearing suit trousers and white shirt with bright red braces and matching tie. He introduced himself to Emma, said good morning to Kathryn, and turned to Dave with a smile.
“Morning, Sheriff.” He pointed at a manila folder on his desk. “The adoption order is ready. Have you signed that final document I sent to your office?”
“Yes.”
Dave pulled a single-page letter from his briefcase and handed it to Keefe, who checked the letterhead and Sheriff David Granz’ signature, then read the letter carefully.
“This is my copy?” Keefe asked.
“That’s right.”
He put it in his desk and locked the drawer. “When will you deliver the original to the party we discussed in Sacramento?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Excellent. Let’s get started. You look very pretty, Emma. Did you bring a camera?”
“My mom and Dave did.”
Keefe slipped into his judicial robe, buttoned it, and straightened his tie. “Then why don’t we take a couple of pictures.”
Dave and Emma posed with Keefe, then with Kathryn, then Emma posed with her mother, holding her roses. When Keefe’s clerk had shot a dozen photos, Keefe opened the manila folder and pulled out a Superior Court adoption order.
He leaned over his desk and twisted the top off a maroon Mont Blanc pen. “You have consented to the adoption, Emma. Once I sign this order, neither of you can change your minds.”
She put her hand in Dave’s. “We won’t change our minds.”
“All right, then.”
Keefe signed the order and handed it to his clerk. “Record this and have certified originals sent to Ms. Mackay’s and Sheriff Granz’ offices.”
Keefe shook Kathryn’s and Emma’s hands, then held his hand out to Dave. “Congratulations.”
Dave ignored it. “Thank you, Judge.”
“Thank you, Sheriff.”
“That’s it?” Emma asked when they were back in the hallway.
“Yep,” Dave told her. “Sorta anticlimactic, huh?”
“I guess—whatever that means. Are we gonna celebrate?”
“I made seven o’clock reservations at The Shadowbrook,” Kathryn told them.
“I meant something like ditching school and going to the boardwalk.”
“Fat chance.” Dave grabbed her hand. “C’mon, I’ll drive you to school.”
“Aww, Dave!”
When they pulled up to her school, Dave leaned over and kissed his daughter on the cheek. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, Dave.”
“Think you might ever feel comfortable calling me Dad?”
“Sure, but I’m used to calling you Dave.”
“I know. It’ll take time.”
He was driving past Holy Ascension Church when his cell phone chirped. “Granz.”
“How does it feel to be a father?”
“Hi, Kate. Terrific.”
“I have to work a little late,” Kathryn told him. “I’ll meet you at home so we can all go to the restaurant together.”
“I have a five o’clock meeting. How ’bout you take Emma and I’ll meet you there.”
“No problem, see you later.”
He punched the End button and dropped his cell phone onto the console. “Yeah—later.”
Chapter 49
MONDAY, JANUARY 13, 6:05 P.M.
SANTA RITA
THE OLDESTNORTHMONTEREY Diocese parish, Holy Ascension sat on a knoll overlooking the ocean in one direction and a freeway in the other. Dormant flower gardens flanked the parking lot that connected a frontage road to the small, meticulous, historic chapel built entirely from rough-hewn coastal redwood.
Inside, at the back of an elevated altar platform that resembled a theater stage, a door opened into an add-on rectory. Besides the chapel’s main entry, the only exterior door led from a rear corner of the platform to a detached shed that stored garden tools and trash cans.
Fields got there before dawn on Monday, parked the police-impound Ford near the chapel’s front steps, unlocked one of the double doors, crossed himself, and shut the door behind him. He had on the same black cassock, clerical shirt, glue-on mustache, and fake horn-rimmed glasses he’d worn for the photo in that morning’s newspaper.
He switched his cell phone to vibrate and hooked it inside his belt, under the cassock, beside his pistol holster. After checking the exterior door’s lock, he switched off the chapel’s interior lights and settled in.
Twelve uneventful hours later the cell phone buzzed against his hip.
“Yeah, Fields.”
Although alone, he spoke in a hushed voice that the hardwood floors, raw plank walls, and varnished oak pews amplified and bounced back and forth like a Ping-Pong ball in an echo chamber.
“How’s it going?” Granz asked.
“No problems, except all I found to read during the day was an old National Geographic.”
“What, you don’t read the Bible?”
“National Geographic has better pictures.”
“Funny,” Granz said. “The building secure?”
Fields sat at a hinged drop-down wooden table built into the wall beside the open rectory door, in the glow of a video monitor that cast shadows across his face.
“Lights are off except a couple of lamps in the rectory to make it look like the prie
st’s at home. The shooter’ll have to walk in the front door and down the aisle in the chapel to reach the rectory. The key is for me to spot him before he gets inside.”
“How do you know he won’t come directly into the rectory?”
“Can’t—windows are too high, and there’s no door from the rectory to outside. It was built before building codes required two exit routes.”
“Is the front floodlight bright enough for Yamamoto’s surveillance camera to pick up any movement in the parking lot and approach to the main door?”
He glanced at the glowing green and white still-life of the parking lot. “Yeah, the feed’s bright and clear as a bell. I saw a deer in the monitor a few minutes ago, damn near had a heart attack.”
“Good—keep a close eye on it.”
“It’s the only edge I’ve got—I’m watching that screen like Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show was playing in full color.”
“The element of surprise’ll work for you if you sit tight and make the shooter come to you when he shows.”
“If he shows.” Fields looked around nervously, then grinned in self-conscious embarrassment.
“Not if, Jim—when.”
“What makes you so certain?”
Granz hesitated. “Instinct.”
“My instincts say the same thing.”
Fields tugged at the collar of his clerical shirt. “Tell Kate next time I dress up like a priest, to get me a bigger outfit if I’ve got to wear it over body armor.”
“There won’t be a next time, he’ll come after dark.”
Granz glanced to the west, where the sun’s flaming orange corona was melting into the deep blue liquid horizon. “Sunset was half an hour ago.”
“I’m ready.” Fields hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.
“You better be. If he spots you first, you’re dead.”
“I’m inspired by your optimism.”
Granz ignored the sarcastic anxiety. “Make absolutely sure the only way the shooter can get in’s through the front door. Go check the exterior door lock one last time, get your ass in a shadow, and stay alert.”
Fields disconnected, walked to the platform’s back corner, twisted the dead bolt, rattled the door, strode back to his chair, pulled it close to the table, and stared into the monitor.
Until Judgment Day Page 18