“Almost,” he said. “But there’s two c’s, no s.”
“Darn. I told you.”
She smiled at him. He took something out of the briefcase, closed it and put it down on the floor. He got up and walked across to the couch. He handed her a plastic document envelope. Inside it was one of the anonymous letters that had been sent to Howard Elias.
“Take a look,” he said. “You spelled it wrong there, too.”
She stared at the letter for a long time and then took a deep breath. She spoke without looking up at Bosch.
“I guess I should have used my little dictionary. But I was in a hurry when I wrote this.”
Bosch felt a lifting inside. He knew then that there would be no fight, no difficulty. The woman had been waiting for this moment. Maybe she knew it was coming. Maybe that was why she had said she felt better than she had in a long, long time.
“I understand,” Bosch said. “Would you like to talk to me about this, Mrs. Kincaid? About everything?”
“Yes,” she said, “I would.”
• • •
Bosch put a fresh battery into the tape recorder, then turned it on and put it down on the coffee table, the microphone pointed up so that it would capture his voice as well as Kate Kincaid’s.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
He then identified himself and said who she was, noted the date, time and location of the interview. He read off a constitutional rights advisement from a printed form he had taken from his briefcase.
“Do you understand these rights as I have just read them?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Do you wish to talk with me, Mrs. Kincaid, or do you wish to contact an attorney?”
“No.”
“No what?”
“No attorney. An attorney can’t help me. I want to talk.”
This gave Bosch pause. He was thinking about how best to keep hair off the cake.
“Well, I can’t give you legal advice. But when you say, ‘An attorney can’t help me,’ I’m not sure that that is going to constitute a waiver. You see what I mean? Because it is always possible that an attorney could — ”
“Detective Bosch, I don’t want an attorney. I fully understand my rights and I don’t want an attorney.”
“Okay, then I need you to sign this paper at the bottom and then sign again where it says that you do not request an attorney.”
He put the rights form down on the coffee table and watched her sign it. He then took it back and made sure she had signed her own name. He then signed it himself as the witness and put it in one of the slots of the accordion file in the briefcase. He sat back down in the chair and looked at her. He thought for a moment about talking to her about a spousal waiver but decided that could wait. He’d let the district attorney’s office handle that — when and if the time came.
“Then I guess this is it,” he said. “You want to start, Mrs. Kincaid, or do you want me to ask you questions?”
He was using her name frequently on purpose — in case the tape was ever played before a jury there would be no misunderstanding of whom the voices belonged to.
“My husband killed my daughter. I guess that’s what you want to know first. That’s why you are here.”
Bosch froze for a moment and then slowly nodded.
“How do you know this?”
“For a long time it was a suspicion . . . then it became my belief based on things I had heard. Eventually, he actually told me. I finally confronted him and he admitted it.”
“What exactly did he tell you?”
“He said that it was an accident — but you don’t strangle people by accident. He said she threatened him, said that she was going to tell her friends what he . . . what he and his friends did to her. He said he was trying to stop her, to talk her out of doing it. He said things got out of hand.”
“This occurred where?”
“Right here. In the house.”
“When?”
She gave the date of her daughter’s reported abduction. She seemed to understand that Bosch had to ask some questions that had obvious answers. He was building a record.
“Your husband had sexually abused Stacey?”
“Yes.”
“He admitted this to you?”
“Yes.”
She started to cry then and opened her purse for a tissue. Bosch let her alone for a minute. He wondered if she was crying because of grief or guilt or out of relief that the story was finally being told. He thought it was probably a combination of all three.
“Over how long a period was she abused?” he finally asked.
Kate Kincaid dropped the tissue to her lap.
“I don’t know. We were married five years before . . . before she died. I don’t know when it started.”
“When did you become aware of it?”
“I would rather not answer that question, if you don’t mind.”
Bosch studied her. Her eyes were downcast. The question was at the foundation of her guilt.
“It’s important, Mrs. Kincaid.”
“She came to me once.” She got a fresh tissue from her purse for a fresh torrent of tears. “About a year before . . . She said that he was doing things she didn’t think were right . . . At first, I didn’t believe her. But I asked him about it anyway. He denied it, of course. And I believed him. I thought it was an adjustment problem. You know, to a stepfather. I thought maybe this was her way of acting out or something.”
“And later?”
She didn’t say anything. She looked down at her hands. She pulled her purse onto her lap and held it tightly.
“Mrs. Kincaid?”
“And later there were things. Little things. She never wanted me to go out and leave her with him — but she’d never tell me why. Looking back, it is obvious why. It wasn’t so obvious then. One time he was taking a long time in her room saying good night. I went to see what was wrong and the door was locked.”
“Did you knock on the door?”
She sat frozen for a long moment before shaking her head no.
“Is that a no?”
Bosch had to ask it for the tape.
“Yes, no. I did not knock.”
Bosch decided to press on. He knew that mothers of incest and molestation victims often didn’t see the obvious or take the obvious steps to save their daughters from jeopardy. Now Kate Kincaid lived in a personal hell in which her decision to give up her husband — and herself — to public ridicule and criminal prosecution would always seem like too little too late. She had been right. A lawyer couldn’t help her now. No one could.
“Mrs. Kincaid, when did you become suspicious of your husband’s involvement in your daughter’s death?”
“During Michael Harris’s trial. You see I believed he did it — Harris. I mean, I just didn’t believe that the police would plant fingerprints. Even the prosecutor assured me that it was unlikely that it could be done. So I believed in the case. I wanted to believe. But then during the trial one of the detectives, I think it was Frank Sheehan, was testifying and he said they arrested Michael Harris at the place where he worked.”
“The car wash.”
“Right. He gave the address and the name of the place. And it hit me then. I remembered going to that same car wash with Stacey. I remembered her books were in the car. I told my husband and said we should tell Jim Camp. He was the prosecutor. But Sam talked me out of it. He said the police were sure and he was sure that Michael Harris was the killer. He said if I raised the question the defense would find out and use the information to twist the case. Like with the O.J. case, the truth meant nothing. We’d lose the case. He reminded me that Stacey was found right near Harris’s apartment . . . He said he probably saw her with me at the car wash that day and started to stalk us — stalk her. He convinced me . . . and I let it go. I still wasn’t sure it wasn’t Harris. I did what my husband told me.”
“And Harris got off.”
/>
“Yes.”
Bosch paused for a moment, believing the break was needed before the next question.
“What changed, Mrs. Kincaid?” he finally asked. “What made you send those notes to Howard Elias?”
“My suspicions were never far away. Then one day, a few months ago, I overheard part of a conversation my husband was having with his . . . his friend.”
She said the last word as if it was the worst thing you could ever say about anybody.
“Richter?”
“Yes. They thought I wasn’t home and I wasn’t supposed to be. I was supposed to be at lunch with my girlfriends at the club. Mountaingate. Only I stopped going to lunches with my girlfriends after Stacey . . . well, you know, lunches and that sort of thing didn’t interest me anymore. So I would tell my husband I was going to lunch but instead I’d go visit Stacey. At the cemetery . . .”
“Okay. I understand.”
“No, I don’t think you could understand, Detective Bosch.”
Bosch nodded.
“I’m sorry. You’re probably right. Go on, Mrs. Kincaid.”
“It was raining on that particular day. Just like today, hard and sad. So I only visited with her for a few minutes. I got back to the house early. I guess they didn’t hear me come in because of the rain. But I heard them. They were in his office talking . . . I’d had my suspicions so I went to the door. I didn’t make a sound. I stood outside the door and listened.”
Bosch leaned forward. This was the payoff. He’d know in a moment how legitimate she was. He doubted two men involved in the killing of a twelve-year-old girl would sit around reminiscing about it. If Kate Kincaid said that was the case, then Bosch would have to think she was lying.
“What did they say?”
“They weren’t talking in sentences. Do you understand? They were just making short comments. I could tell they were talking about girls. Different girls — it was disgusting what they said. I had no idea how organized this all was. I had deluded myself into thinking that if something had happened with Stacey it was a weakness on his part, something he struggled with. I was wrong. These men were organized predators.”
“So you were at the door listening . . . ,” Bosch said by way of getting her back on track.
“They weren’t talking to each other. It was like they were commenting. I could tell by how they spoke that they were looking at something. And I could hear the computer — the keyboard and other sounds. Later I would be able to use the computer and find what it was they were looking at. It was young girls, ten, eleven . . .”
“Okay, we’ll get back to the computer in a couple of minutes. But let’s go back to what you heard. How did this . . . these comments lead you to conclude or know something about Stacey?”
“Because they mentioned her. I heard Richter say, ‘There she is.’ And then my husband said her name. The way he said it . . . almost with a longing — it wasn’t the way a father or a stepfather would have said it. And then they were quiet. I could tell, they were looking at her. I knew.”
Bosch thought about what he had seen on Rider’s computer screen the night before. It was hard for him to imagine Kincaid and Richter sitting in an office together watching the same scenes — and with decidedly different responses to them.
“And then Richter asked my husband if he’d heard from Detective Sheehan. My husband said, ‘About what?’ and Richter said for the payoff for putting Harris’s prints on Stacey’s book. My husband laughed. He said there was no payoff. He then told Richter what I had told him during the trial, about my having been to that car wash. When he was done telling it, they both laughed and my husband said, and I remember this so clearly, he said, ‘I’ve been lucky like that all my life . . .’ And that’s when I knew. He did it. That they did it.”
“And you decided to help Howard Elias.”
“Yes.”
“Why him? Why didn’t you go to the police?”
“Because I knew they’d never charge him. The Kincaids are a powerful family. They believe they are above the law and they are. My husband’s father put money into the pockets of every politician in this town. Democrat, Republican, it didn’t matter. They all owed him. And besides, that didn’t matter. I called Jim Camp and asked him what would happen if they ever found somebody else besides Harris that they thought took Stacey. He told me they’d never be able to try him because of the first case. All the defense would have to do was point to the first trial and say that last year they thought it was somebody else. That was enough for reasonable doubt right there. So they’d never go ahead with a case.”
Bosch nodded. He knew she was right. Going to trial against Harris put hair on the cake forever after.
“This might be a good point to take a break for a couple minutes,” he said. “I need to make a phone call.”
Bosch turned the tape recorder off. He got his cell phone out of his briefcase and told Kate Kincaid that he was going to check out the other side of the house while he made his call.
As he walked through the formal dining room and then into the kitchen Bosch called Lindell’s cell phone. The FBI agent answered immediately. Bosch spoke quietly, hoping his voice wouldn’t carry into the living room.
“This is Bosch. It’s a go. We’ve got a cooperating witness.”
“On tape?”
“On tape. She says her husband killed her daughter.”
“What about Elias?”
“Haven’t gotten there yet. I just wanted to get you people going.”
“I’ll put out the word.”
“Anybody been seen yet?”
“Not yet. It looks like the husband is still at home.” “What about Richter? He’s involved. She’s giving me stuff on him.”
“We’re not sure where he is. If he’s at his home, he hasn’t come out yet. But we’ll find him.”
“Happy hunting.”
After disconnecting he stood in the kitchen doorway and looked at Kate Kincaid. Her back was to him and she seemed to be staring at the spot where he had been sitting across from her. She didn’t move.
“Okay,” Bosch said, as he came back into the room. “Can I get you something? A glass of water?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
He turned the tape recorder on and once again identified himself and the subject of the interview. He gave the exact time and date as well.
“You have been advised of your rights, correct, Mrs. Kincaid?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Would you like to continue the interview?”
“Yes.”
“You mentioned earlier that you decided to help Howard Elias. Why is that?”
“He was suing on behalf of Michael Harris. I wanted Michael Harris completely exonerated. And I wanted my husband and his friends exposed. I knew the authorities probably wouldn’t do it. But I knew Howard Elias was not part of that establishment. He wouldn’t be controlled by money and power. Only the truth.”
“Did you ever speak with Mr. Elias directly?”
“No. I thought my husband might be watching me. After that day when I heard them, when I knew it was him, it was impossible for me not to be completely repulsed by him. I think he realized I had come to a conclusion. I think he had Richter watch me. Richter or people working for him.”
Bosch realized that Richter could be nearby, having followed her to the house. Lindell had said the security man’s whereabouts were currently unknown. He looked at the front door and realized he had left it unlocked.
“So you sent Elias notes.”
“Yes, anonymous. I guess I wanted him to expose these people but leave me out of it . . . I know it was selfish. I was a horrible mother. I guess I had this fantasy that the bad men would be shown to the world without it happening to the bad woman.”
Bosch saw a lot of pain in her eyes as she said it. He waited for the tears to start again but it didn’t happen.
“I just have a few more questions at this point,” he said. “How did
you know the web page address and about how to get to the secret site?”
“You mean Charlotte’s Web? My husband is not a smart man, Detective Bosch. He is rich, and that always gives the appearance of intellect. He wrote the directions down so he wouldn’t have to memorize them and he hid them in his desk. I found them. I know how to use a computer. I went to that awful place . . . I saw Stacey there.”
Again no tears. Bosch was puzzled. Kate Kincaid had dropped her voice into a monotone. She was reciting the story, it seemed, out of duty. But whatever impact it personally had on her was done with and compartmentalized, put away from the surface.
Angels Flight (1998) Page 34