by Meg O'Brien
I wondered why I was left with questions lingering in my mind.
At 2:25 the next morning, I was in front of the El Segundo police department in the back of Dan’s SUV. With us were flashlights, a box cutter, an evidence box and my notebook computer.
“I don’t know about you,” I said, “but I hate being all scrunched over like this. My back is killing me.”
“That’ll be the least of your troubles,” Dan said, “if anybody discovers I sneaked this evidence box out for you. I could lose my badge. And so could the cop who looked the other way. Damn good thing he owed me a favor.”
“Stop making me nervous,” I said. “I work better when I’m calm.”
“I don’t give a duck’s ass if you’re calm. Just work fast. I’ve got to get this box back within the hour.”
I cut through the tape carefully with the box cutter, so that the cut wouldn’t show when I finished, and put my own tape over it. On the top of the box were pens, pencils and other desktop items in Baggies, which I didn’t touch. Meanwhile, Dan watched every move I made, so that if he was asked one day, he could say I hadn’t taken a thing. I lifted out the top Baggies carefully, and dug down through others filled with foam coffee cups and paper plates. There were some lined yellow pads and paper clips, carbon paper and postage stamps. The sort of thing people keep on or in a desk.
But the manuscript I’d seen on Craig’s desk wasn’t there.
“What do you think happened to it?” I asked Dan.
“They could have somebody reading through it to see if there are any clues in it. Same thing you wanted to do.”
I sat back on my heels. “Not anymore. I’m looking for the real manuscript now.”
“The real one?”
“I remembered the other night why the manuscript on Craig’s desk looked so familiar, like it had been done before. That’s because it was done before—years ago, by another author. The manuscript on Craig’s desk, at least the first few pages of it, was something he’d typed, word for word, from another book.”
“How do you know?”
“I wasn’t sure until I found the other book on the Net. I put a few choice words in the search line, and the book I remembered popped up within minutes. Then I went to the library and looked at an actual copy. Wanna know what I found?”
“More than banana cream pie,” he said.
“You like banana cream pie?”
“I’m crazy for it. But go on.”
“I found that the manuscript on Craig’s desk was an exact duplicate of Timing’s Everything. That’s a book written by a member of the paparazzi who was well-known in the forties. He thought he could write an exposé of the stars based on his knowledge of them as a photographer. Unfortunately, he didn’t write very well, and the book came out and sunk without a plop. Today, there’s hardly anyone who even remembers it.”
“And you’re saying Craig Dinsmore plagiarized it? Why would he do that with a book that didn’t even sell well?”
“I don’t think he plagiarized it, at least not to sell it. I know this may sound crazy, but I think that book was a decoy. Something for people to look at if they ever broke into his motel room, so they wouldn’t know what he was really writing. Why else would he spend so much time and energy retyping an old book and leaving it out on his desk like that?”
Dan whistled. “He retyped the whole book?”
“I didn’t have time to read the whole thing, but the first few chapters, yes. The rest might have been blank pages.”
As I was telling him this, I was still digging down through pads of notepaper to the bottom of the box.
And there it was: not a paper manuscript, but a CD. The handwritten label had the name of an album on it—”Come Away With Me.” The vocal artist was Norah Jones, one of my favorites, but that wasn’t why I suddenly felt so excited. As far as I could remember, Craig was a devotee of classical music. He was, in fact, a snob about anything new and popular. So unless I was mistaken, this music label was yet another decoy, and Craig had probably copied his real book onto this CD—rather than keep a hard copy of it around for anyone to see.
I reached for my notebook computer and put the CD in, then hit some keys till it came up on the screen.
“I was right,” I said, restraining myself from shouting it out. “It’s his real book. And look at this. Craig was writing an exposé of pharmaceutical companies and their illegal and unethical practices.” I fell silent, scanning through a list of names.
“My God. He’s written that Courtland Pharmaceuticals was one of them. Not just one, but the main one, it seems.”
“Courtland? You mean the family business your friend Lindy married into?”
I eased my legs out of their cramped position. “The very same.”
He was silent a few moments. Then he said, “You know what this means, don’t you?”
“That there’s a connection between Roger Van Court and Craig. And the connection could be murder.”
“Makes sense,” he agreed. “Either he or someone he sent here threatened Dinsmore if he didn’t turn the manuscript over. But how could he know that Craig Dinsmore was writing a book like this about Courtland?”
“I’m not sure, but Craig talked a lot about his work,” I said. “He hung out in bars, even after he stopped drinking. He and Patrick had the same fault, in fact, if you want to call it that. They both liked to talk to people about their characters and plots.”
“So you think Roger Van Court, or someone who knows him, overheard Craig talking about his book in a bar? Isn’t that a bit of a coincidence?”
“It is, yes. I just threw out the idea as a possibility. Maybe he found out some other way.”
“Look, I’ve got to get this box back to the evidence room,” Dan said. “Are you finished with it?”
“I am. Just let me copy this CD and put it back.”
I copied it onto my hard drive, put it back in the box and taped the box up. Just as I put the roll of tape down, though, a car pulled up behind us. Its headlights shone through the back window of the SUV.
I just had time to throw a blanket over the box before Lieutenant Davies climbed out and began to walk toward us.
Dan put an arm around my shoulders and pulled me down so we were lying close together. Quickly, he arranged the rest of the cover over us.
Davies reached the SUV and pointed a flashlight through the tailgate window. He motioned for us to open the tailgate. Dan sat up, reached over and pushed it open.
“What the hell are you two doing out here?” Davies demanded.
“I…uh, came down to check out some files,” Dan said, sounding somewhat embarrassed to be caught with a woman like this. “That domestic-murder case we’ve been working on together—Leon Green, remember?”
“I remember Leon Green. What I don’t remember is anything on that case that’s important enough for you to come down here in the middle of the night, Detective.” He motioned to me. “What about her?”
“Mary Beth? We were having dinner earlier, and she came along afterward…you know, for the ride.”
I wasn’t sure Davies was buying it.
“I guess I should recommend you to the LAPD for a promotion, Rucker,” he said. “Your devotion to duty is impressive. Must have been a long dinner, though.” He looked at his watch.
“I was showing Mary Beth the city lights from Palos Verdes,” Dan said.
“And you gave up a nice romantic night like that to come here and look through Leon Green’s files? My, my.”
“Right. We have to get going now, though. It’s getting late.”
“It certainly looks that way. Were you going to sleep here tonight?”
My eyes followed his to the blanket.
“No, just taking a rest,” Dan said. “Before we hit the road to Malibu. I didn’t want to fall asleep at the wheel.”
“Now that you mention it,” Davies said, “you really should have some caffeine before you go. Come inside. I’ll put on a pot.”
“Uh, thanks,” Dan said. “But I’m really not that tired, and we can have coffee at Mary Beth’s house—”
“Absolutely not,” Davies said, interrupting. “I insist. It’s a matter of public safety, after all.”
He stood there at the open tailgate, waiting, and when we hesitated, he waved us out with a hand. “Come on.”
I looked at Dan and he looked at me. I planted a kiss on his cheek. “Sounds good to me, honey,” I said. “I’d love a nice strong cup of coffee right now.”
We sat in Lieutenant Davies’s office, with a big, redheaded cop standing just inside the door, arms folded. I figured he was Davies’s muscle, in case we decided to run.
Not that the thought had entered my mind. It might have entered Dan’s, though. I’d never seen him so jittery. All Davies had to do was go down to the basement, look in the evidence room and discover that Craig’s effects were gone. He’d search Dan’s car and find the box. Dan and I would both land in jail, and Dan would lose his badge.
I wished now that I hadn’t gotten him into this. But I wondered if Davies would see reason if I told him what we’d found. Craig’s tell-all book about Courtland Pharmaceuticals would point a finger directly at Roger Van Court, and Davies could be the one to solve a murder that had occurred in his own backyard. It could be a real plum in his promotional pie. Which might get Dan off the spot.
Or not. Especially if Roger had covered his ass in some way since Craig had written the book.
We drank the coffee Lieutenant Davies set before us, like two good children drinking their milk. For his part, Davies seemed as if he didn’t suspect a thing. He rambled on and on about the Leon Green case, and Dan responded tiredly.
Then it got tricky.
Looking at me, Davies said, “I know you’ve been anxious to see Craig Dinsmore’s effects. This might be as good a time as any.”
Oh, God.
“I have wanted to see them,” I said quickly, “but please don’t go to any trouble tonight. It’s late, and I really need to get home—”
“Nonsense. Kevin?” He looked at the cop standing by the door. “Go down and get the box of evidence from Craig Dinsmore’s motel, will you?”
“Yes, sir,” the cop said, turning smartly on his heel.
Dan sat there, silent and unmoving. Which couldn’t be said for me. I had to force myself not to squirm, and beads of sweat broke out on my face. What was the punishment for lifting a box of evidence from a police station?
Lieutenant Davies sat back in his chair, his fingers linked over his stomach, and looked at me, then Dan. Clearly, he knew he had us, and he couldn’t wait to lower the boom.
The silence in the room grew heavy, almost unbearable.
“I guess you’ve already been through Craig’s effects,” I blurted out. “For clues, I mean. Did you find anything?”
“As a matter of fact, no,” he said. “Maybe you’ll have more luck.”
“Not me,” I said, laughing slightly. “I’m not good at that sort of thing. I just wanted to read some of his manuscript, see if it’s salable.”
“Well, you should be able to do that…right about now.” Davies smiled as we heard Kevin coming down the hall.
But the other cop entered holding the box from Dan’s SUV, and that wiped the smile from Davies’s face.
I didn’t dare look at Dan. Kevin was his friend, it seemed. The one who’d owed him a favor and let him take the box out.
He had just saved Dan’s neck, mine, and his own.
We didn’t talk much in the car on the way home. But once in my house, Dan rubbed his face and heaved a sigh of relief.
“That was much too close,” he said. “If Kevin hadn’t thought fast and gone out to my car, I’d hate to think what might have happened.”
“He’s a good friend,” I said.
“And a smart one. He was on the LAPD long before Davies’s time at the El Segundo PD. We worked a lot of cases together.”
“Did you see Davies’s face when Kevin walked in with that box? I wanted to laugh, but I didn’t dare.”
He smiled. “Good thing. Davies was sure he knew exactly what we were doing here tonight, but he never dreamed Kevin would go out to my car for the box.”
“I wonder why he didn’t just go through the SUV when we were out there.”
“Because he didn’t have sufficient cause to search,” Dan said. “A cop can’t just go around looking in people’s vehicles. Not unless he’s pretty certain there’s something incriminating in it. With me being a cop and knowing that, Davies didn’t want to take the chance he was wrong.”
“Well, thank God for that. Would you like anything?” I asked, going into the kitchen. “Coffee? Wine?”
He followed me in. “Not really. What about you?”
“No.”
He looked at his watch. “It’s almost five. Neither one of us is going to get much sleep now.”
“True.”
“We should go through that manuscript together.”
I shook my head. “I have a better idea. I speed-read, and I do better at it when I’m not so tired. Why don’t I make you a copy to take with you. We can compare notes later in the morning.”
“Sounds okay to me. But you know, Craig’s murder isn’t in my jurisdiction. If I find anything on this CD to nail his murderer, I’ll have to tell Davies about it.”
“I know. But talk to me first, will you? There’s more involved here than Craig’s murder, and whether Roger killed him. I’d like to make sure Lindy is safe first.”
“Watch your back there,” he warned. “For all you know, her husband may have sent her down here on a treasure hunt for this manuscript. That may have been her main reason for showing up at your door with a sob story.”
I hadn’t told him about Lindy’s troubles with Roger yet, or about Jade. And I hated to think he might be right about her coming down here to look for Craig’s book.
“Or, maybe she’s completely innocent,” I theorized, “and Roger—”
“Is not,” he said. “If this book is a tell-all about Courtland, as you seem to think it is, then Roger Van Court certainly wouldn’t want it published. It could be argued he’d do anything to prevent that, including murder.” He shook his head. “Still, the book is just circumstantial evidence, unless we can prove Roger knew about it.”
“Which is exactly what I’m hoping for—a name. Someone Craig might have talked to about this book. Someone who worked at Courtland, or for Roger, and might have told him what Roger was doing.”
“Mary Beth, don’t take this the wrong way. But I only stuck my neck out with Davies tonight because I’m trying to solve a murder.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that I can only hold off on telling Davies about it for so long. And not just Davies, but my captain. This could still be tied into the other two murders, you know. And they are in my jurisdiction.”
“You mean they’re tied in because of the murder weapon.”
“That, and other things.”
“What other things?” I asked.
He took his ball cap off and rubbed a hand over his head. I smiled at the way his hair stuck up in tufts, no matter what he did. “That’s not important now.”
“All right, if you’re not going to tell me, how about this? When you tell your captain about this new theory, how are you going to explain how you got the CD out of the evidence locker in El Segundo?”
“I’ll figure out something.” But he didn’t look happy.
“So hold off telling anyone for a little while, okay? Just give me a chance to talk to Lindy. There’s no love lost between her and Roger, and she could turn out to be a prime witness for the prosecution.”
Dan folded his arms. “All right. I’ll give you a little time. I just don’t know why I ever got hooked up with you. You are the most stubborn, most irritating—”
“Partner in crime?” I finished for him.
He sighed. “If you let me down—”
“You’ll do what?” I said, smiling.
“Never mind. You want to sit up and talk for a while? Have some breakfast?”
“No. I’m really revved up. That was pretty exciting tonight.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah.”
He nodded. “I can relate to that. You want to go for a drive?”
“No.”
“A walk on the beach?”
“No.”
“I give up. What would you like to do with all that energy?”
“Let’s have sex,” I said.
The sex turned out to be more comforting than carousing in nature. In fact, we were so exhausted we barely made it through before we fell asleep. Dan left around nine, and I struggled to keep my eyes open long enough to make coffee. I put yesterday’s grounds in a drawer, and burned the egg I forgot to watch. Burned the toast, too, and finally gave up and drank a bottle of orange juice instead.
Finally I opened my notebook computer and the manuscript I’d copied from Craig’s CD. Everything that Lindy had told me about was in there: the sales of defective drugs to the Middle East, and the testing on homeless people, most of whom had died after being injected with the first version of Roger’s experimental drug.
According to what Craig’s informant had told him, it was just as Lindy had said. No one ever learned about the deaths of the homeless. Roger had them cremated secretly, at his own expense and at an unethical crematorium. The families of these men, women and two children would never know what had happened to them. In Roger’s files they were listed only as numbers.
I felt sick, but forced myself to read on. According to Craig’s notes, Courtland Pharmaceuticals had kept two sets of books for years, and in one they had fudged their income for tax purposes. The other set of books was of their true assets, which had grown to immense proportions in the past few years.
Roger had given Lindy the impression that the business was failing, and that Courtland desperately needed the money from the Middle Eastern buyers. But if Craig’s information was right, it sounded more like Roger and his father had developed a grand case of greed.
Craig had even written that Roger Van Court had used “family members” as experimental guinea pig for his drugs—and that the results had not been good.