She desperately wanted to confide in Benton. The longer the evening wore on, the more she craved bringing everything out into the open. Whoever her intruder was, the lack of official scrutiny had to be encouraging them. The bullseye on her back would be negated the moment her investigation was revealed to the general public. Issuing threats and staging break-ins was not so easy under the watchful eye of the media and a formal inquiry. In respect of attracting unanticipated danger, working below the radar was doing her no favours.
By the time she turned in for the night, Sydney had retreated from that position. There were plenty of reasons why it was better for Benton to remain in the shadows. Firstly, he had the same personal right as Hank to avoid enraging the community of Moon Falls. More so, perhaps, in that he also had a wife and children to consider. Secondly, she thought he would be more effective operating in the background than going head-to-head with fellow law-enforcement officers, local politicians, and business leaders. Benton was a scrapper, but he was also a low-hanging fruit.
Then there was the thin but substantial pellet of suspicion that remained lodged in her stomach. Benton’s about face on the Muller issue had been swift, and he seemed to be fully invested, albeit sceptical. But investment was easily faked, and there was no denying the lingering doubts she had about his change of heart. Sydney’s trust in him, which she once took for granted, had all but evaporated, and the thought of that made her feel queasy.
Sleep did not come easily to her. Every time her eyes became heavy she jerked herself awake, fearing another unwelcome trespasser who on this occasion might have something more malicious in mind. Twice she got up to check the locks on each door and window. Fatigue eventually caught up with her, dragging her eyelids down like steel shutters over two panes of glass. Despite an increasing anxiety, she slipped away and did not wake again until 7.30am on Monday morning.
After apprehensively checking the bathroom mirror, the first decision of the day was a relatively easy one. She was here in the Falls to close down her father’s business, and that was a job she had neglected more than she cared to admit. When she was ready, dressed in slacks and a cotton shirt, together with her favoured boots, Sydney drove to the office in the centre of town and settled herself in to carry out a number of tasks in need of completing before she hung the CLOSED sign upon the door.
The routine was simple enough as far as it went, although it was a mundane task; as routines so often are. Sydney didn’t mind. In fact, she welcomed a dose of tedium in her life at that particular moment. Monotony offered a place in which to bury her head, embracing the ordinary as a way of switching off the imaginative part of the brain. Mindlessly passing time carrying out the necessary aspects of winding down her father’s business was a healthy distraction from Kevin Muller and the egregious error she had made regarding Gerry Kasper.
Sydney’s head thanked her for the break as the ache which had tormented her during the night, and continuing into the morning, began to diminish.
Her father’s case logging system was about as basic in both structure and content as it was possible to be. He had distributed folders between their respective years, with the clients’ initials denoting their specific cases. Inside those she found relevant files such as reports, notes, interviews, evidence, correspondence, expenses and invoices. The task Sydney had set herself that day was to explore them all, save copies to both her external hard drive and the cloud, and then to remove the original contents from the company network.
When she reached the folder for the current year, Sydney came across her first anomaly. In amongst the client folders was one named Misc. Surprised by this additional item, she opened it up to discover a single file document called MFHS. Dropping back out of the host folder, she checked to see if there was a corresponding one with the same name. Of the seven folders beginning with the letter M, none of them were followed by the initials FHS. Even so, the string of letters looked familiar to her, although Sydney was unable to readily place them. Intrigued, she returned to the file and double-clicked with the mouse to open it.
The Microsoft Word programme installed on the computer flashed up on the monitor, but instead of the file presenting itself, a box requesting a password popped up in the centre of the screen. Sydney’s curiosity intensified, because this was the first file to react with an additional security prompt.
Knowing the way her father’s mind worked, he would not deviate from the obvious – to him, at least. Sydney entered the same password required to access the company server, and was astounded when it failed to work. Still she stuck with something her father was unlikely to ever forget. On her second attempt she used the digits representing her birthdate, limited to six characters. Next she tried the full eight. When that attempt was also unsuccessful, she made one final stab at it by prefixing the birthdate with the nickname her father often used when speaking to her.
The addition of Syddles did the trick.
Delighted with herself, Sydney raised the first truly genuine smile of the day. The memory of hearing that silly name was a warm one. The title of the document, however, prompted a loud gasp of shock.
MOON FALLS HIGH SCHOOL.
Of course. That was why the initials looked so familiar to her. It was so obvious, yet her mind had not previously glanced down this particular pathway. But if seeing the title took her by surprise, what she read next caused her to stiffen, the hairs on the back of her neck springing erect.
From everything I have read, the outcome of the high school shooting makes little sense. Kevin Muller is the most unlikely of gunmen capable of such a devastating massacre. As for those who were killed – and those who survived, come to that – are they not just a bit too random to be truly random?
Teachers shot in the leg. Only in the leg. Some students shot once, others multiple times. Why did he need to visit 3 classrooms when there were enough targets and potential victims in the first two? Why linger and take the additional risk when he didn’t have to?
But if not Kevin Muller, then who?
How?
Most important of all… Why?
Sydney read the words three times in all. Her heart lost its anchor and rose up into her throat. Clearly not a case further investigated by her father’s agency, he had nonetheless taken more than a passing interest in the events of that August morning. Sydney had a clear recollection of discussing it with him a day or so afterwards, the two lamenting the fact that something so outrageous had occurred in what they had long considered to be their home town.
The document on screen was evidence enough to suggest he was unconvinced by the story as it unwound in the media. Local tongues were bound to have wagged, and it would have been the talk of the Falls for many weeks afterwards. Something had caused her father to dispute the official findings, and her best guess was that he had read between the lines of the newspaper interviews. As she had.
There was no mention of him having spoken to the Sonora PD, or Benton Lowe for that matter. Benton had not mentioned any such conversation, either, and she was certain he would have. If her father had harboured suspicions, he had seemingly kept them to himself. Though surprised he had not raised his concerns with her during any of their subsequent weekly telephone conversations, at the same time it was not a complete shock to Sydney. A logical, thoughtful man, if he intended bringing it to her attention he would have done so armed with more facts and perhaps even some evidence of whatever he believed to be the truth.
But there was one person whom her father might have spoken to.
Sydney dialled Hank Stevensen’s number. He answered with his usual greeting.
‘Hey, Hank. What you up to today?’
‘Chasing down a bail skipper.’
‘Oh? Not dangerous, I hope.’
‘Not at all. White-collar criminal, meek as they come. And if you’re wondering what I’m doing working for somebody else, I still gotta eat, Syd. I’m not taking local work, out of respect for your daddy. This job is out of Manteca.’
‘It’s none of my business, Hank. Do what you have to do. You and my father weren’t exclusive, anyway.’
‘True enough, although he was always my priority. You have anything for me as you wind things down you let me know. I told you I was here for you, and I am. You call, I’ll drop anything and everything. I’ll stay close and in touch, but I won’t interfere unless you invite me in. That nonsense with the PD finished, I hope?’
‘I hope so, too.’ Sydney debated with herself about telling Hank the tale of her uninvited visitors, but she decided not to worry him. He was the type to camp out on her front lawn to prevent it happening again, and she still had no real idea what lay behind the intrusions.
‘So, what can I do for you, Syd?’
‘I’m not at all sure, Hank. Tell me something, did my father ever talk to you about what happened up at the high school?’
‘No, can’t say that he did. No more than a passing mention, at least.’
‘If you don’t mind my asking, what cases did he have you working on between the shootings and the day he died?’
‘Not a lot, Syd. As you know, he was backing off, looking to unload the business within the next year or so. He pretty much ticked over and no more for the last few months. I worked a handful of traces for him, and he had me run over to Oakland one time to carry out an interview. That was it, though. So, what’s this about? You ask me if he mentioned the shootings, then what work I did for him since. Was he investigating something big I didn’t know about?’
‘I can’t be sure about that.’ She told him about the document, read its contents to him.
After a reflective pause, Hank said, ‘Sounds to me like he was having thoughts along the lines you and Dexter Muller are working on. Where are you on that, Syd? My offer is still open, you have to know that.’
‘I do, and I’m grateful for it, Hank. But it’s still my preference not to involve you in any of it. Not unless or until I do need to.’
‘Okay. But we can still talk about it, yeah? So tell me what you do have.’
Opening with her improving relationship with Benton, Sydney recounted the run-in with Alanis Foley. Hank became quiet when she mentioned her and Benton looking at the security feeds and then skimming through the autopsy records.
‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.
‘That you’re making progress. You got something there with those statistics you ran by me. I agree with you and Ben. Your father too, apparently. The way those shots were fired may appear to be random, but not when looked at closely. What did Ben have to say about that?’
‘He admitted they were wrong in being so dismissive. Sheriff’s office, PD and FBI. They had their man. They gunned him down and then unmasked him. No reason to go digging after that.’
‘Except maybe there was.’
‘Yeah. Except maybe there was.’
‘There something else you’re not telling me, Syd?’
‘What d’you mean, Hank?’
‘Only that Sonora PD made a move on you when they only had an inkling of what you were doing. Now they know you’re digging into it so hard that even your own Bureau has told you to stand down, yet nobody else has come at you to warn you off. I find that hard to swallow, if I’m being honest.’
Sydney took a deep breath as they fell into a short silence. Hank was her friend. If she was trusting Benton on this, and also relying on a stranger like Duncan Baxter, then Hank deserved better from her.
‘Okay,’ she relented. ‘But you have to promise me you will remain out of it. You won’t go see anybody about it. You won’t talk to anybody about it. And you won’t station yourself outside my front door, either.’
‘I’m already not liking the sound of this, Sydney.’
‘I mean it, Hank. Swear on a stack of Bibles or I won’t tell you.’
He swore and said he was crossing his heart at the same time, though she wondered if he had his fingers crossed as well. For a man like Hank Stevensen, that was probably all it took for a promise not to count for much.
Taking care not to make things sound worse than they were, she told him about the two break-ins. That she was aware of. Sydney held the cell away from her ear while Hank cussed and vented his anger at whoever would stoop to threatening her in such a cowardly manner.
‘Come on,’ he said to her. ‘That’s taking matters too far. You can’t let them get away with it, Syd.’
‘Whether I do or don’t depends on who they are, Hank. Fact is, I don’t know who broke in here. I don’t see it being Sonora PD, do you? Not even Peavey. I know there are some major players in town who won’t like the thought of me interfering, but there’s also the parents to consider. I rattled the cage Mitchell Copping lives in, and the way I hear it, his father wouldn’t think twice about breaking into my house or making a threat against me. I don’t have the first clue which way to look, Hank.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
Sydney stared out into the darkness of her back garden. A faint light from above tinted the tips of the trees away in the distance, like an early morning frost. It was the kind of view her father had enjoyed sharing with her, and the memory raked a claw across her insides. She swallowed back her grief and regained her focus.
‘I’m going to carry on and ignore the warning. I can’t fight an unseen enemy. My best tactic is to hit them where it hurts, and I do that by finding out the truth.’
‘On your own?’ Hank protested.
‘I’m not on my own. Duncan Baxter can help provide further insight into the school, its staff and students. Then there’s Dexter Muller himself. Not to forget Benton. He may not be fully onside with what I’m doing, but he’s come around. He sees there’s something there, even if he doesn’t necessarily want it to be true.’
Sydney made no mention of her continuing fears over Benton’s role.
‘Goddamnit, Syd. You’re making me feel like a eunuch.’
‘I’m sorry, Hank. I don’t mean to make you feel that way. The truth is, I don’t want to involve you in something that may make living in this town impossible for you afterwards. Remember, you want to buy my daddy’s place, right?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Hey, don’t you sulk, Hank Stevensen. You’re a bigger man than that. But as a sign of my respect for you, I will tell you one more thing. Something I realised the moment I read that document my father hid away amongst those folders.’
‘And what was that?’
‘I have to wonder if anyone else knew about it. About the thoughts that had crossed his mind. Because if they did, then that would go some way to explaining why he and his SUV ended up down that embankment.’
Hank was quiet for a few seconds. ‘That’s one hell of a notion,’ he said eventually. ‘And not one I care to dwell on, if I’m being honest.’
‘No, me neither. But I have to consider it some. Along with everything else I’ve got zipping through my frazzled brain.’
When the call was over, Sydney began feeling even more isolated than before. There was no obvious explanation, only that sharing a problem had not halved it on this occasion. Although she had a feeling that her disquiet had nothing to do with Muller, nor even her father’s death. Rather, it was something Hank had said to her. He spoke about her father looking to close the company down within a couple of years, talking as if she knew all about it. It hurt that she hadn’t, only guessing that was the case by virtue of the type and volume of business the agency was taking on.
Sydney wondered why her father had kept it from her. But then, in reflecting upon the miscellaneous note he had made about the high school shooting, he had more than one secret he had been unwilling to share with his daughter.
Thirty-Five
Chase Ebben sat rubbing his fingers together, divesting them of sugar. He then washed down the sweet mush in his mouth with a huge swig of piping-hot frothy coffee, laughingly described as a latte by the so-called barista behind the counter. He admired the relatively clean pla
te on the table, and debated whether to buy himself another doughnut.
The family-run coffee shop stood directly opposite the building that housed the PI business. He had followed her here from her father’s home, having sat outside the bungalow since before daybreak. After watching her walk from the car lot into the foyer, he found a convenient parking space on the next block and spent the following twenty minutes sitting in his truck. He wasn’t a fan of using mirrors to keep an eye on people and places, and turning in his seat the whole while was conspicuous, so he got out and spent a few minutes window shopping along the street before deciding to grab a drink and a bite to eat.
It was not the best of times, he conceded. Surveilling Merlot had so far been educational, yet equally it had led to a great deal of frustration because there was still so much they didn’t know about her conversations and movements over the past five days. Baxter was also proving to be more of a loose cannon than Ebben was comfortable with, and he hoped Jubb and Jennings came through with something substantive to convince the retiree that he was on the wrong side of this particular argument. Even so, the Sonia and Gerry Kasper connection was a situation the political fixer decided to exploit if at all possible.
After Merlot had driven up to Twain Harte to meet with the Kasper woman for Sunday lunch, Ebben dwelt on their ensuing conversation, wishing he had been able to listen in. His mind toyed with the idea of leading Merlot off in the wrong direction, and the notion of somehow making sure Gerry Kasper became a firm target for her righteous anger appealed to him. Manufacturing some compelling evidence of Kasper’s involvement in old man Merlot’s death was not beyond his capabilities, and he could ensure the daughter took the bait. If she then found herself hooked on vengeance, any assistance she was offering Dexter Muller would surely lose all momentum.
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