Damn, I forgot the kennel key.
Mike comes back with the key.
Evan comes back with the key.
Something wrong, still, but what?
She asked herself why Evan O'Brien would kill Whittaker, and pin the murder on Mike? No matter how she turned the question, it didn't make sense. What profit was in it for him? What had Mike McNally ever done to Evan O'Brien?
It was five-thirty when her phone rang again.
"Merci, it's Zamorra. I'm still at the hospital, but I got the CAL-ID run from San Diego a couple of hours ago. I had to do some follow-up to make even half-sense of it. Ready?"
"Shoot, Paul."
"The prints in Whittaker's kitchen belong to Jim O'Brien. I had them run the cards again—same answer. "She said nothing.
"I talked to the San Bernardino Medical Examiner. O'Brien's suicide wasn't mysterious. The identification was easy and unquestioned. A routine case. He killed himself. But last week he was in Aubrey Whitaker's apartment."
Her thoughts were racing, but she slowed them down, tried to them one at a time.
"Give me the case number on the suicide," she said quietly. " And the name of the first officer on scene."
• •
It took her half an hour to track down Deputy Sean Carver of the Bernardino Sheriff Department. His voice was young and a little slurred as he explained that he'd just gotten up for work.
He clearly remembered the Jim O'Brien scene. He'd met Jim a couple of times at Sheriff Department functions, and O'Brien struck him a boozy old-timer just waiting out the days.
"He called us before he pulled the trigger," said Carver. "So I pretty much knew what I'd find. It was bad. They're all bad, I guess."
"No doubt in your mind it was suicide?"
"None. The coroner confirmed it. O'Brien had gunshot residue on his hand, prints all over the gun. Been drinking, too. Lots."
Mercy thought for a moment. "Nothing at all out of the ordinary? Nothing?"
Silence. Then a sigh.
"All right," he said.
"Okay," she agreed—to what she didn't know.
"One thing. It's been bothering me for five years."
"Unbother yourself with it."
"We got there just before the Coroner's Investigation Team and Fire and Rescue people. O'Brien was dead—no doubt of that. We didn’t disturb the scene or the body, except to see if he was still alive. Then I walked the house. Just a house. A house that wasn't used much. But in one of the bedrooms there was an envelope leaning up against the pillow. It was my first year on patrol. I was young. I didn't know if envelope was related to the suicide or not. So I left it where it was. Didn't touch it. Went by the book. I told my partner about it, and he looked at it and said to tell the Watch Commander. I told the Watch Commander about it, I told the coroner's guys about it, I told the Homicide guys about it."
"You did right."
"Not quite. Because between the time I saw it and the M.E. did the medical autopsy three days later, the letter had damned disappeared. It either got tossed or lost or somebody took it or . . . who knows? When the Homicide hotshots got on scene they butted me out—I'd done my part. But I've always been ashamed of what I didn't do. I should have taken that damned envelope, waved it in the dicks' faces and made them read it. Maybe it didn't mean a thing. But maybe it did. It would have meant something to the person it was written to, that's for sure. Either way, I won't make that mistake again."
"Did you try to track it down?"
"Yeah. Taylor, one of the sergeants, got it as far as his desk. He never saw it again. Nobody did, that I could find. But I was the new kid—you know. If anybody had screwed up somehow, they weren't going to tell me about it."
Merci went with the obvious: "Anything written on it?"
"Yeah. 'To My Son.' That meant something to Taylor, too."
Merci's nerves rippled. "How so?"
"He talked to O'Brien's son two mornings after the suicide. At his desk. Taylor said he'd left the guy there alone while he got them coffees. For about one minute. He thought that was when the envelope got up and walked away."
"He'd made copies of it, though."
"He never opened it. Taylor wasn't sure what our authority was, just like I wasn't sure. The DA hadn't given him an answer yet. O'Brien was one of ours, so Taylor wanted to do right by him. If you find a note in the vicinity of the suicide, it's one thing. If you find a sealed letter marked for someone else in another part of the house, it's something else. A suicide scene is a crime scene. And you know how the search-and-seizure laws are always changing."
She called Zamorra, told him that Evan O'Brien was harboring a suicide letter and a videotape that might well prove Jim O'Brien killed Patti Bailey. And who knew, maybe it would also shed some light on how a dead man's fingerprints got into number 23 Wave Street.
"I'm going to bushwhack him outside his apartment in about half hour," she said. "Get the goods."
"And if he won't turn them over?"
"I'll pinch his head and make him."
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
O'Brien lived in a small apartment complex not far from headquarters, an uneasy neighborhood with graffiti on the walls and beer cans in the gutters. Merci had dropped him off here after SUDS sessions a couple of times. She remembered the number on his parking space because it was the age her mother had been when she died. She parked behind Evan's convertible coupe and shut off the engine.
Half an hour later he came around the corner into the parking area. His hair was still wet from the shower, he had a muffler loosely wrapped around his neck, a steaming mug in one hand and an old briefcase in the other. The duster again. She rolled down her window, watching two faint clouds of breath vanish in front of his nose.
He saw her, smiled and came over. "This my limo?"
"Kind of."
"Sorry, Sarge. I don't have that old birthday video after all. I looked all over here. It must still be out at the old house."
"What about his suicide letter, Evan?"
His eyes widened and his mouth parted, but it took him a beat to get the words out.
"What?"
"The letter he wrote. Is that out at the old house, too?"
He looked hard at her, his face half puzzlement and half suspicion.
"Yeah, I think so ... but—"
"Well, good, then. Get in. Put your briefcase in the trunk." pulled the trunk release lever.
"Am I being abducted?"
"You might say so."
"Really?"
"Get in, Evan, it's cold out there. The door's open."
She saw the trunk door rise, heard the briefcase hit, watched door slam shut. Then O'Brien came back around and climbed in, balancing the coffee. He looked at her, eyebrows up, his green eyes clear and penetrating and a little confused. He shut the door. "What gives, Merci?"
"Let's go get the tape and the letter."
"Right now?"
"Right now."
"You explain it to Gilliam then. I'm supposed to—"
"I will. What's the address?"
"Fourteen Rancho Verde. It's off Waterman, halfway up the mount Sergeant Rayborn, maybe you should tell me what in hell we're doinj
She put the car into drive, eased out of the parking area.
"We're hoping to find out why your father's prints turned up in Aubrey Whittaker's apartment."
"That's not possible."
"Tell CAL-ID that."
"Dad's fingerprints?"
"So they say. We ran them twice to make sure."
O'Brien was quiet for a moment as they headed down the boulevard toward the freeway. She noted that the sport jacket under duster was gray.
"All it can be is a mistake," he said. "He's dead. And they've twenty-something million fingerprints to keep track of now."
She knew he was looking at her, but she didn't look back. He said nothing as she headed for the freeway.
"I've got to see the suicide note and run a voice comparison w
ith video. Evan, I think I can crack the Bailey case with them."
"That letter's not much of a read, Merci."
"I'm sorry, but I think it's worth it."
She called Zamorra, told him she was with Evan, gave him Jim O'Brien's address.
"I can't meet you there. I'll have to call in backup if you want it."
Merci felt the steady thumping of her heart, and the warning that came with each beat. She knew something was wrong, and it made her alert and afraid.
She kept her voice as casual as she could. "That'd be fine."
"I'll do it right now. I can't leave here, Merci. I—"
"I know. How is she, Paul?"
"No change."
"Hang in there, partner."
"You, too."
Merci turned on the interior light, lowered the radio squelch, looked at Evan and Evan's coat. He was staring straight out the window, coffee cup at his lips. The traffic was already bunching up on the fifty-five, a column of white headlights behind her and red taillights ahead.
"Evan, is that the same sport coat you were wearing last night at Mike's?"
Gray. No green or purple accents. No accents at all, that she could see.
"Yeah, why?"
"I like it."
"Me, too. It was one of Dad's. So was this briefcase."
• • •
The house stood alone on the hillside, at the end of a long asphalt drive pocked by potholes filled with weeds. It was high desert here, still below the trees. A stiff wind came down off the mountain and Merci could feel it push hard against the Chevrolet like it wanted to fight. The last street sign she saw said Willow View and she wondered if Evan had fed her a fake address for Zamorra.
"What happened to Rancho Verde?"
"You're on it."
"One house on the whole street?"
"Yes, ma'am. It's a bunch of switchbacks, then you're in the driveway."
The house came into view as she came over the top of a steep rise. It was a low-slung mission-style home, with a clay roof and black wrought iron over the windows. Some of the tiles had slid onto the driveway, some of the windowpanes were replaced by plywood. A bougainvilles that had once covered the porte cochere was long dead but still clinging to the stucco stanchion. The white walls were stained brown where the rain had gathered and run down. The courtyard was filled with tumbleweeds quivering up against the garage doors like they were trying to get in. The fountain was blackened concrete filled with rainwater.
"Park anywhere you want," he said. "The sand's gonna blast your car no matter where you put it."
She pulled up under the carport and parked. She looked at Evan, He was facing away from her, toward the front door, which she saw peeled and sun-blasted.
He turned to her with a glum expression. "I hate this place. It puts me in a bad mood."
"Thanks for having me over."
"If I remember right, it didn't really happen that way."
"Thanks anyway."
"Yeah, well, enjoy the smell of suicide. And forget whatever think you know about my dad's prints at Whittaker's. Check the bloodstains in the living room if my word isn't good enough. Poe was right. You can't wash blood out no matter how hard you try."
She followed him to the door, waited while he worked a key in lock. The tumbleweeds shivered against the garage doors. She heard hard click of the dead bolt sliding into place. When she stepped in she felt the crunch of sand between her duty boots and the stone floor.
"It's cold in here. Summer, it's a thousand degrees."
"Hard on the house paint."
"Hard on human skin."
Evan shut the door and ran the dead bolt in. Then he turned looked at her. "You can see whatever you want to see in here. Just make it kind of chop-chop. I don't get anything out of being here, except sad.”
"Let me see the suicide note."
"This way."
They walked down the entryway: kitchen on the left, counters covered with dust; dining room on the right, furniture covered with sheets. Straight ahead was a big living room with a fireplace to the left and sliding glass doors opening up to a backyard with a swimming pool. The floor was some kind of stone—slate, Merci guessed—with thick rows of grout connecting them. More sheets over the furniture. She could make out the shapes of two sofas, a couple of chairs. A big leather chair facing the fireplace was still uncovered.
Evan led her over, looked down at the floor. "You can see where the blood stained the rock," he said. "He was sitting in that chair when he did it. I left it there. The chair, I mean. I left the whole place the way it was. Could never figure out if cleaning it would be an insult to his memory or not, so I just left it."
"That's a tough call."
"You're stuck with what happened either way."
She noted the dark stains on the chair, some high up on the back, some on the seat.
"Head shot," said O'Brien. "The gun landed over there."
He pointed at the fireplace. Merci looked into the blackened pit, heard the wind shriek, watched a cloud of sand rise from behind the pool outside. She could feel the cold air coming down through the chimney. She went to the window and looked out. The pool was empty and bleached almost white. She could see big lines in the cavity where the gunite had cracked.
Evan walked across the room, still looking at the chair, like he was just seeing it for the first time. He stopped in the far corner, in front of a large TV. There were bookshelves filled with paperbacks and an entertainment cabinet with rows of videos, a stereo amp, speakers. He opened a drawer and looked in. She saw dust rise.
For a moment he stood there, neither moving nor speaking. Then he reached in and brought out a white envelope. He stared at it. Then he came to her slowly, his shoes squeaking on the pavers, and handed her the letter. No eye contact.
"The letter. Taylor told me it was on my bed. I helped myself to it when I saw it on his desk, on the theory that it was addressed to me and not to some ham-faced slob named Taylor."
She opened it and pulled out the folded sheets: white typing paper, black ink, handwritten. The bright sunlight coming through the s glass door made it easy to read.
"Go ahead, Merci. Read it and weep."
December 18 Dear Son,
I'm done, I'm over, and I'm sorry to do this to you. I trust the coroner will get here well before you do, make it all presentable. I'll call them before I do it, make sure they've got heads-up.
I want to get a few things straight, son. There was a time a long time ago, when I killed a woman I thought was going to blackmail some people I knew. She was a prostitute, and I'd introduced them. I was keen on her myself because she was a real party girl, and your mother and I never got along, much that way. The guys I'd hooked her up with—Bill Owew and a politician named Ralph Meeks—they were assholes. They'd asked me to play the right-wing nut, infiltrate the Birch chapters, hang with the fascist Volunteer Police Department types, and report back to them on what was happening. The Birchers were Beck Rainer, Big Pat McNally and those guys. But it was funny. Because the right-wing nuts, the Birch guys, the Volunteer Police Department types they were my types, too. I liked them and we got along. I subscribed to their ideas. Except with regards to loose women—I couldn't quite keep my hands off them. Always the professionals, though, I didn't mess around with anybody's wife. Anyway, Rainer and McNally and the right-wingers wanted me to keep an eye on Bill Owen and Ralph Meeks—it was their idea to get Patti Bailey, the prostitute, connected up with them. The tapes were their idea, too, although Patti was a bit of a conniver on her own.
So I was in the middle, spying on both sides, but I never gave Owen and Meeks anything really good. Corrupt old shits. They'd arranged to get Jesse Acuna beaten half to death, just to get his hundred acres. Tried to use me for that, but I refused. They bragged about it to Bailey, the arrogant fools. When Bailey threatened them with the tapes, they did just exactly what we thought they'd do: They sent one of their flunkies to tell me to shut her up and get the
evidence. The flunky was Chuck Brighton—a real smoothie, a real kiss-ass. My so-called right-wing friends also thought that it was a good idea to shut her up. Surprised me. I said I wasn't going to kill a woman just to keep a couple of old pols safe In office. I said, are you guys crazy? And they said, it's for the good of the department, Jim. We've got to stick together. We can't have a hooker bringing down the sheriff and the head of the Board of Supervisors, even if we don't agree with them on everything. They said, don't worry, we'll collect all the evidence from the crime scene, we'll clean it up and no one will know—we just got to shut her up. I said I'm still not going to kill a girl just for that. Then they said, kill the hooker or we'll tell your wife what you've been doing with her the last few months—then you'll really wish Patti Bailey was dead. They meant it. I knew they'd do it. Some friends. They were guys I'd die for—and this is what they did for me. So I shut her up. It ruined me, son. It was evil and it was selfish and I spent twenty-seven years killing myself over and over for it. That's why today's such a great day—I'm finally doing it for real. Anyway, my great friends, they didn't destroy the crime-scene evidence to save my sorry ass. They kept the evidence and the tapes, turned it all over to damned Brighton. Brighton turned on his bosses then, used the tapes to get rid of Owen, make his own way to sheriff. I'm sure he got Owen to back him in the next election as part of not turning the tapes over to the newspapers and TV. McNally got a great promotion, tagging along on Brighton's coattails. So, it wasn't for the good of the department—it was to get Owen and Meeks out. Everybody got something out of it but me. Me? I was betrayed and guilty and wanted to die. I couldn't do anything because Brighton and Big Pat had the crime-scene stuff—they could use it against me any time they wanted. So I split for San Bernardino as soon as I could. Said good-bye to all those treacherous Orange County bastards. Best thing I ever did. Too late, though. Way too late to do any good.
I needed to get that off my chest. I feel better. Still not good enough to go on living this miserable life. I'm on to the next thing. You? You take care. Know I loved you. I was a rotten man and a rotten father, but nobody can accuse me of not loving my only son. I hope you get what you want out of life. Stay straight, be clean, and don't let your friends do to you what mine did to me. Look out for yourself, because nobody can do it for you. Don't mess with girls. Pick out a good one and stick with her. It's all the same in the end, so you may as well make someone a little happy if you can. I love you, Evan. Do not shed one tear for me. I'm happy now. I'm in the better place, wherever that is. I'll send you a postcard when I get a chance.
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