Dillon started to leave, then turned and said in a low voice, “You should have your license pulled. Giving your patients essentially the right to counsel each other. You’ve created a forum for anger to fester, not diminish.”
“You’re wrong, Dr. Kincaid.”
“No, I’m not.”
FIFTEEN
CONNOR PARKED outside Emily’s private college preparatory high school in La Jolla. It was after two and the kids were still in class.
Emily had given him a list of her friends, surprisingly short for an attractive, smart girl like Em. The school wasn’t large—maybe a thousand students in all four grades—but it was meticulously maintained and looked like a small version of an Ivy League university. A place rich parents sent their kids.
There were a handful of girls on the list, but the one Emily said she was closest to was Wendy Roper, whom she’d known since early childhood. Connor had a description of the girl and her car, and waited until classes let out at three. Ten minutes later he spotted Wendy, a dark-haired beauty, tall and lanky, and dressed impeccably. He followed her to the parking lot to verify her identity and as she was about to get into a sporty red compact, Connor called out. “Wendy?”
She turned, neither scared nor worried. “Yeah? Who wants to know?”
“Connor Kincaid. I’m a friend of Emily.”
Wendy’s round face relaxed. “Em’s talked about you.”
“Do you have a few minutes?”
She glanced at her watch. “Sure. Is Em okay?”
“She’s going to be fine.” He looked around, saw too many people walking around, curious about him. He pointed to a grassy slope with trees on the far side of the parking lot. “Let’s go someplace private to talk.”
They walked in silence, sat on a short stone wall near the grove.
“People are saying she tried to kill herself,” Wendy said. “I tried calling the house, but her mother refused to talk to me. What a bitch.” Wendy looked at the ground. “Em would never kill herself. She didn’t try, did she?”
“It was an accident,” Connor said. “She did drink too much, though. Had to have her stomach pumped.”
“Ugh. I told her she had to stop.”
“Do you know why she drinks?”
Wendy didn’t say anything, and Connor sensed Wendy knew more than anyone about Emily.
“Wendy? Emily told me to talk to you, that you were her closest friend. She needs your help. Tell me the truth.”
“I know about Victor, if that’s what you mean.” Wendy didn’t look at him, her hands squeezed together so tightly that her knuckles were white.
“Yeah, that’s what I mean.”
“She didn’t tell me until a few months ago. I came over one afternoon and she was drunk. It all came out then. I told her she had to stop drinking and tell her mother what was happening, but she said her mother wouldn’t care, that she would blame her for it like she blamed her for everything bad that happened in her life. Besides, Crystal’s never around.”
“Did you know whether Emily ever talked to anyone else about what Victor did to her, other than you?”
“No, and every time I brought it up she refused to talk about it. She was scared, I think. That she’d lose her inheritance if she said anything.”
“She was worried about money?”
“You make it sound bad. If you had five million dollars sitting in a trust fund and only a year to go, would you make waves? All she wanted to do was get the money and get the hell out of there. The other stuff, like the vandalism, she did when she was plastered. I really tried to help Em with that, but she needs real help, not me.”
“Did Emily talk to you about Wishlist?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s an online therapy group. Anger management.”
“Oh, she talked about how stupid her therapy was all the time. The guy her mother sent her to creeped her out. But it was only once a week, and she said she had him wrapped around her finger.”
“But she didn’t talk about an online group.”
“Not that I remember.”
“Did she ever talk to you about wanting to kill Victor?”
Wendy stared at him, eyes narrowed. “Whose side are you on? I thought you wanted to help Emily.”
“I do. That’s why I need to know everything.”
“She’d never hurt anyone.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“The jerk made her suck his dick! Don’t you think that’s gross enough?”
“Wendy, please. The police are going to be talking to you and if you lie, they’ll put you on the stand as a hostile witness.”
Realization hit Wendy and she paled. “Do-do the police really think she killed him?”
“I don’t know what they think, but I used to be a cop and looking at the evidence right now, chances are she’s on the top of the suspect list.”
“She would never.”
“Did she talk to you about it?”
Wendy said nothing for a long minute. “It’s not what you think. You know how people talk. They say ‘I’ll kill him’ just as a part of conversation. Not because they really mean it. Sure, Emily hated him, she wanted to hurt him, but she didn’t mean it.”
“Did she talk about this with anyone else?”
“Absolutely not. I had to pull everything out of her. She never talks about it, even now. It’s just one of those things we both know and talk around.”
Wendy took Connor’s hand. “Please, please help her. Crystal won’t. She just wants Emily’s money.”
“Crystal’s worth more than five million dollars.”
Wendy laughed. “Emily’s trust is worth a lot more than that. She gets five million when she turns eighteen. And a million dollars every year for the rest of her life. Last I heard, her trust was worth over fifty million bucks and growing.”
Connor walked Wendy back to her car and wondered if somehow this was all about money.
“Sorry I’m late.”
Grace Simpson slid into the seat across from Julia at Crab Catcher, a restaurant up the coast in La Jolla, far, far away from the courthouse.
“Thanks for coming out here.”
“I only have thirty minutes, so what’s up?”
The waitress came over before Julia could answer. They both ordered the Crab Catcher’s excellent salads, then Julia said, “What do you know about Jason Ridge’s death?”
Grace went through her mental catalog, then her eyes widened. “The football player from San Diego?”
“You covered it for the paper, which I thought odd considering you usually work the crime beat.”
“How did he come to your attention?”
“You talk first,” Julia said, “then I’ll share what I know. Off the record.”
“That’s not fair,” she pouted, but continued. “Basically, I took a look at it because that was when steroid abuse was all over the news, Jose Canseco had his tell-all book, the Bonds thing was coming down. Now the big guys can get steroids, but where do kids get them? Are they street drugs? Do their parents get them on the sly? Doctors? I thought it might be a great investigative report.”
“But you didn’t have any other follow-ups.”
“I spent weeks on that case, talking to everyone about Jason Ridge, talking to the cops about steroids on the streets, even talked to a drug dealer down in the Gaslight district who dealt in steroids. Nothing on Ridge. Not one person even hinted that they suspected he was using. The detective in charge of the case, Ollie Grant, said the best he could figure is Ridge bought them on the black market and unintentionally overdosed, but overdosing on steroids is virtually impossible. Still, there was a lot of pressure on him. I did learn that he was seeing a psychiatrist, though his parents clammed up about it. Said it was growing pains.”
“Off the record, right?” Julia asked, raising her eyebrow.
“Yes.” Grace pouted.
“Ridge got a Deferred Entry of Judgment after a
rape trial in juvenile court. Part of the DEJ was a mandatory anger management class and community service.”
“DEJ?”
“A slap on the wrist. The judge telling him essentially to not do it again and it’ll all go away when he’s eighteen.” Julia squinched her face up in anger. “It happens more often than you think.”
“Sounds like it might made a good story,” Grace said, making notes.
“Yes, it would, and I would be happy to comment on the record.”
“You would?”
“Yes… but not now. I have something more pressing. Bowen was Ridge’s psychiatrist. Ridge is dead. Bowen was Billy Thompson’s psychiatrist after Billy trashed his teacher’s car and the teacher is shot to death. Bowen is Emily’s psychiatrist and her stepfather ends up dead.”
“Suspicious, but it’s not enough. Bowen is a renowned child shrink. He’s on retainer by the court. And Jason Ridge died of a heart attack attributed to steroid use.”
“According to the article you wrote, he tested clean several times over the course of the year.”
Grace nodded. “They have a fail-safe system. The team doctor watches them pee into the cup. No switching urine or bringing in your own.”
“And the team doctor was clean?”
“I couldn’t find anything on him. He was genuinely distraught about Jason’s death.” Grace paused while the waitress brought their salads. “You wouldn’t be telling me this unless there was something important that I missed.”
“I don’t think you missed anything. The juvenile records are sealed and you wouldn’t have been able to access the DEJ.”
“But you did.”
Julia didn’t answer the implied question. “I need everything you have from that investigation. Jason’s friends, family, doctors, everything you can get me.”
“You leaving the DA’s office to become a reporter?”
“Grace, you have no reason to trust me, but I need your help. Can I have your notes?”
Julia wondered if she sounded as desperate as she felt. Grace pulled out her laptop and turned it on.
“Do you have a pen?”
Julia dug a pen and notepad out of her purse. “Shoot.”
Grace typed rapidly, pulling up a spreadsheet. “I have every contact for every article I write. You’re lucky I’m a packrat, because this is old news.”
“Thank you.”
Grace gave her a list of contacts, all Jason’s friends, and the contact information for his ex-girlfriend whom Grace quoted in the paper. “I have a note next to her name. More. She knew more than she told me. I’m a reporter, I can sense when someone’s holding back. Usually people love talking to me—except cops, attorneys, and politicians. You’d think you all had something to hide.” Grace laughed good-naturedly and shut down her computer. “But kids, the average person, they all want their name in the paper. Michelle O’Dell gave me a bone, but when I pushed she clammed up. I don’t know if it was because she was scared or if it was really nothing. But you might want to track her down.”
“Know where I can find her?”
“Sorry, once I gave up on the case I didn’t follow up with any of the people involved. But it shouldn’t be too difficult. Oh, one thing I remember: she didn’t go to Jason’s school. Either she had already graduated or went to another school. I don’t have those notes anymore, sorry.” She glanced at her watch, shoveled salad into her mouth. “So, what do I get?”
“An exclusive.”
“Start talking.”
“Not now, when I figure out what’s going on.”
“I can get an exclusive from Andrew Stanton. He loves me because I made him look good when he was running against that scumbag Descario.”
“Anyone looks good next to Descario.”
Grace laughed. “So an exclusive isn’t going to hold much water with me. What more can you give?”
Julia sighed. “What about an interview?”
“You? An interview?” She smiled. “I’ve been dying to interview you for years.”
“I know.” She wasn’t happy about it, but the information Grace had was valuable. “If you have anything else on this case, call me.”
“Will do. And I’ll call you about that interview after this thing with your niece is resolved.” She stood up, then sat back down and asked, “One question. Off the record. Why is Connor Kincaid working for you?”
Julia would never cease to be amazed at how fast news traveled, even in a large city like San Diego. “He’s the best. He knows Emily and can help prove she didn’t kill Victor.”
“That’s not my question. Why would he agree to it after you forced him to testify five years ago?”
Julia didn’t exactly know why. She didn’t want to think about it, or about her role in Connor’s resignation. “Connor found Emily when she ran away three years ago. He cares about what happens to her.”
“Hmmm. I don’t know if I buy that, but if you believe it, I guess I can give it a pass.” She jumped up again and waved her fingers at Julia. “Are you going to the art fund-raiser tomorrow night?”
“What fund-raiser?”
“The Chandler Foundation is a co-sponsor of some big art charity event.”
“You know me well enough to know I’m not involved in the Foundation.”
“Everyone who’s anyone will be there, and since Jason Ridge’s parents are big muckety-mucks in the arts community, you might want to check it out.” She winked.
“Thanks for the heads-up.”
“Ciao.” Grace waved her fingers and sauntered off.
Julia picked up her cell phone and called her personal secretary. Sarah Wallace had an office down the hall from the Foundation and handled Julia’s other life—the life of being a Chandler. Most of her job was sending regrets and managing the trust correspondence for Emily. Julia had no desire to be involved in Chandler business, especially since she had given up involvement in the Foundation for one day a week with Emily.
She asked Sarah to fax her at home with all the information about the art charity event. She didn’t know if she would go, but she thought the information about Jason Ridge’s death—and Bowen’s involvement in his DEJ—was odd. There was definitely more to the story than what Grace had written, and Julia needed to find out what. It might have nothing to do with Emily, or everything to do with Emily. Jason’s death was the third she could connect to Garrett Bowen, directly or indirectly, and that was two coincidences too many.
She paid the bill and stared out the window as she finished her iced tea. One thing Grace said bugged her: Why was Connor helping her? Why did she go to him when she had no one else to turn to?
The kiss.
No, she wasn’t so shallow to think that he would even want to kiss her again after what happened. But she’d never forget the way she felt when he kissed her that night long ago, the night before she told him that if he didn’t testify against a crooked cop, she’d put him on trial for manslaughter.
She’d been working late in her office. Working? No, she was torn. Stuck. Unable to figure out what to do about the entire screwed-up case. The two illegal immigrant minor females, still Jane Does, found in the chapel annexed to the San Diego Mission de Alcalá had started a task force that included the FBI, Border Patrol, and SDPD. But in the end, they couldn’t stop the smuggling of sex slaves across the border. The girls wanted to come, they wanted a chance at freedom, and if they had to give their bodies, some felt it was a fair trade.
There was nothing fair about being sexually abused and used and then beaten to death when they started looking like the whores they were treated as. The men who bought the girls wanted them young and beautiful, not old and used. And if they tried to escape… she’d read the reports, seen the pictures of naked girls shot in the back and left for carrion in the desert east of the city.
But ultimately, after months of investigation, the only crime they’d been able to stop was the one within their own ranks, two cops taking bribes and turning their ba
ck on the sex slave trade.
The district attorney at the time, Bryce Descario, had come to Julia an hour before. “Have you talked to Kincaid?”
“Not yet.” She’d dreaded it. Connor had made it perfectly clear he wanted nothing to do with the Internal Affairs investigation. But without his collaboration, the FBI said they couldn’t proceed and take over the case, that it was an internal San Diego PD issue, not a federal issue. She disagreed, but she was one attorney in a sea of federal bureaucrats and special agents. She was definitely out of her comfort zone.
“I don’t have to remind you how politically sensitive this situation is. I want it gone. The election is less than two years away, this needs to be old news. Kincaid will agree or you will file charges on the Suarez death.”
“But—”
“I thought we were clear on this. The chief of police has agreed.”
Only because you can’t fire him, she thought with disgust. She hated politics. Hated this district attorney. Hated the mayor and regretted voting for him. What about the truth? Didn’t anyone care about the truth anymore?
“We’re clear.”
“Good. Kincaid didn’t do himself any favors. He set himself up for this. Now he has to sit at the table or leave the house. Do I make myself clear, Ms. Chandler?”
“Yes, sir.”
Descario left and Julia reminded herself that Connor Kincaid had dug his own grave. Had he not gone after Suarez himself—without a warrant, without backup—he wouldn’t have been under investigation. He shot an unarmed man. Suspected human trafficker, but armed only with a knife.
She’d read the report and statistics that a good knife thrower could have hit Connor with a clean throw, but politically—God, how she hated politics—politically, a knife was no match for a gun and they were twenty-five feet apart, clearly in the gray area.
Tomorrow. She’d tell him tomorrow. His entire problem would go away if he agreed to testify. If not, he’d have to take his chances with the charges. And probably lose his job in the process.
She packed up her papers. It was nearly midnight and she had an eight a.m. court appearance. Not that she would sleep well tonight, but at least she could soak in the bath and maybe work out some of the tension in her muscles.
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