“I thought you knew everything there was to know about police departments,” Rachel said, tilting her head. “Isn’t that what you told me this morning? I’ll I never be safe now. Last night they abandoned me, forced me to deal with a madman alone. If I hadn’t got my hands on that knife, I’d be dead right now. How can I go back on the street?” She stopped and ran her fingers through her hair. “Besides, Grant will make bail. They’ll never keep him in custody.”
“You’re probably right,” Atwater said, stroking the side of his nose. “But I doubt if the department will take him back as long as he’s facing a felony conviction.”
“What about the sexual battery?” she asked. “You’re charging Grant with attempted rape, but the sexual battery charge I saw on the complaint is only a misdemeanor. You’re going to let him plead to the lesser offense, aren’t you? I’m about to destroy my life, and Grant is going to skate.”
Atwater stared at her. She wasn’t simply a fresh-faced woman anymore, sexy and appealing. She had become every prosecutor’s nemesis. Rachel Simmons was now a victim. “It’s common procedure to plead both counts,” he told her. “If the jury finds the evidence insufficient on the attempted rape, they can still deliver a conviction on the sexual battery.” He stopped and looked her squarely in the eye. “We have no intention of entering into a plea agreement with this man, Rachel. We’re only trying to assure ourselves of a conviction on one of the counts. Any conviction is better than none, don’t you think?”
“But why are you giving the jury a choice?” Rachel argued. “You know they’ll go for the lesser offense. They always do.”
“Look,” he said, “I had to push Bill Ringwald into accepting this case on any level. You’ve admitted you were drinking when this happened. All we have is your statement. There’s no physical evidence. From what you’ve told me, none of the officers on the beach will support your story. That means no corroborating witnesses. I’m going to do everything in my power to put Cummings behind bars, Rachel, but there are no guarantees here.”
It wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but at least he was being straight with her. “When will they arrest him?”
“I’ll send a marshal to his house first thing in the morning,” Atwater told her. “Ringwald doesn’t want him served on the job. We’re going to have a media frenzy when this goes down. My suggestion is for you to keep your mouth shut, no matter how much the reporters pester you for a statement. Since we’re still investigating the allegations you made about Grant and the Majestic Theater incident, there’s no reason to expose you to the media just yet.” The attorney knew that timing was crucial. The media wanted exclusive interviews, inside information, inflammatory details. If Rachel went to press prematurely, she would seem too accessible, and the story would be old news before he was ready to go public with his own press conference.
“Fine,” she said.
“Try to get some rest,” Atwater said, clasping her hand.
Rachel leaned over and pecked him on the cheek. “Call me when Grant is in custody,” she said. Once the attorney had stepped through the doorway, she slid the deadbolts into place, then headed to the back of the house to go to bed.
Sergeant Miller had the radio operator call Fred Ramone in the field and advise him to report to his office. “Have a seat,” he said when Ratso walked in. He pointed to the chair in front of his desk.
“What’s wrong?” Ratso said with an anxious look. He was so nervous, he accidentally knocked the metal chair over. Picking it back up, he slowly lowered himself into the seat.
“I just saw the medical report on the kid you arrested in front of the Majestic Theater,” Miller said, taking a toothpick out of a box on his desk. “He suffered a brain hemorrhage. He’s in intensive care. His parents are demanding a full investigation.”
“I didn’t hurt that boy,” Ratso lied, his face blanching. “I swear. Sergeant. He must have got hit on the head with a bottle. Bottles were flying all over the place.”
“That’s not what Rachel Simmons says,” the sergeant answered. “She claims she saw you smashing the boy’s head against the sidewalk. If she tells the same story to her new pal at the DA’s office, you’re going to be in one heap of trouble. The injured kid’s parents are loaded. His father is president of Stanford Insurance.”
Ratso’s fear simmered into rage. “Rachel’s lying. You know that. Sergeant. Grant told you she was lying. She’s angry about what happened on the beach.”
“She’s sworn out a complaint against Grant for attempted rape,” Miller told him, spitting the toothpick out of his mouth. “For all I know, we’re all going to be charged as co-conspirators. You better see if that 7-Eleven you used to work at has any openings, Ratso. You might be back in the job market.”
“I didn’t work at a 7-Eleven,” Ratso said, glowering at him. “I worked at a mini-mart with a car wash. I was the manager. I supervised a number of employees.”
“Yeah, well,” the sergeant smirked, fiddling with one of the drawers to his desk, “I guess you can get your executive position back then, because this gig is about to expire.”
“What’s going to happen to Grant? He knows I didn’t hurt that boy. He’ll stand up for me.”
“If Rachel doesn’t recant her story to the DA, Grant might be working with you at the car wash.”
Ratso went to the men’s room and locked himself in a stall. His heart was racing. His stomach was tumbling over and over like a beach ball. If they investigated him for beating the boy, they might uncover the truth. No one knew about his past except Grant Cummings. Grant had protected him, looked out for him, given him status with the other men. Even though he despised him, Ratso knew this was the way the world worked. They had reached an agreement over a year ago when Grant had stumbled across some private papers in his apartment. If Grant was on the verge of being fired, would the men ignore him again and treat him like an outsider? If Grant’s word was no longer any good, who would defend him against the charges of brutality Rachel was alleging?
Dropping his pants, he squatted on the toilet, letting his bowels explode into the bowl. Grant Cummings was a despicable man. Ratso had allowed him to control him through threats and intimidation, accepting his abuse because he felt he had no alternative. Even though the men treated him like he was an idiot, he was a proud man with a refined mind. He stood and walked to the sink, washing his hands like a surgeon.
Staring at his watery brown eyes in the mirror, Ratso slowly formulated a plan. In this land of plenty, people didn’t understand about survival. His country was twice the size of California but had almost four times as many people. Although human life was grossly abundant, resources were limited.
Ratso didn’t mind hurting people as long as it served a higher cause. When he had beaten the young boy in the parking lot of the Majestic Theater, he had also lifted his wallet. He had pocketed several hundred dollars to send to his sisters in Peshawar.
Without his support, Ratso’s sisters would die. Two were already dead. One was missing. His three remaining sisters were living in seclusion. They were older, and without a father to arrange their marriages, their lives had no value. As a child he had weaved carpets, chained to his loom in a filthy hovel. He had traveled to this country in the belly of a tanker. He had worked hard and studied diligently, learning the language and customs so he could blend in without notice. Even though he had drifted away from the teachings of Islam, he would pray to Allah for strength to complete his mission and preserve his livelihood.
Heading to the locker room, Ratso made sure no one was around, then unlocked the padlock and removed a large object wrapped in newspapers and tied with a string. As he was carrying the package out of the back door to the police station, he ran into Ted Harriman.
“What you got there, bro?” Harriman said. “The sergeant assigned me a unit that must be in the garage. I can’t find it in the parking lot.”
“Evidence,” Ratso said. “I’m taking it to the crime lab.”
/> “Do you know what’s going on with Rachel? She wasn’t at the watch meeting tonight. Is she sick?”
“I don’t know,” Ratso said, brushing past him and continuing on to his police car.
c h a p t e r
TWENTY
Once Mike Atwater had left, Rachel undressed and went to bed. After tossing and turning for over an hour, she decided to give up. Before she had gone to Lucy’s for dinner, she had napped for several hours on the living room sofa. She knew she needed more sleep, but she couldn’t relax. The murder victim’s partially decapitated body kept appearing in her mind, as well as the deranged look in the madman’s eyes.
The Santa Ana winds had pushed the temperature into the mid-eighties, and even after eleven o’clock, the bedroom was stifling. She dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, then went out the front door. Bending over, she slipped her keys in the side of one of her running shoes.
As she took off down the street at a fast clip, her muscles were cold, stiff. She knew she should stretch, but she never did. The moment she laced up her shoes, she was ready to fly. Even though she called it jogging, she had never really been a jogger. She was a sprinter. She wanted to go fast, see the sidewalk flying up to meet her, feel the wind in her face.
Elmhurst Road was a dead-end street, but it opened into the abandoned orange grove. Rachel loved running there. The dirt cushioned her stride, and the spaces between the orange trees made a perfect jogging path.
The moon was out, yet Rachel failed to see the police car parked at the edge of the grove with its lights off. She was deep in her thoughts, trying to think of solutions, wondering where she might apply for a job. Carrie could float her for a few months if they cut off her salary, but she knew her sister couldn’t carry her indefinitely. Susan had married a carpenter and moved to Oregon. They led a comfortable life, but their income was modest and they had four young children to support.
Rachel hadn’t phoned in sick. While Atwater was taking her statement. Sergeant Miller had called on the answering machine, demanding that she report to the station. Atwater instructed her not to return his call, telling her that he would contact Captain Madison himself and tell him that she was ill. Because the DA might ultimately charge Miller as a co-conspirator in the attempted rape, he preferred that Rachel didn’t speak to him outside of an attorney’s presence.
The moonlight was casting eerie shadows over the orange grove. Rachel was certain something had moved behind her. Was it a dog?
When she turned around. Grant Cummings jumped out from the row of orange trees. He seized her by the throat and forced her to the ground. “Don’t move,” he muttered, staring down at her. “If you move so much as a muscle, I swear I’ll kill you.”
“What are you doing?” she said, trying to remain calm. Grant was on duty, dressed in his uniform. He couldn’t torment her for long. The dispatcher would start looking for him. “It isn’t going to change anything. Grant. I’ve already given the DA a formal statement.”
“You’ll take it back,” he said, “tell them you made it up.”
“I can’t do that,” she told him. “They recorded it. You’re wasting your time, Grant. You’re only making things worse.”
“I’m not going to let you ruin my life,” he snarled, the muscles in his jaw locked. “Don’t you know why I pulled that kid in front of me? Black Talons. Are you such an idiot you’ve never heard of them? If the Trueman kid had Black Talon ammo loaded in that shooter, it would have pierced my vest and killed me. Why do you think they call them cop killers?”
“Why would a kid like that have Black Talons?” Rachel said. “He was just a teenager. Grant. His parents are shattered. How would you feel if it were your son? You know Timothy Hillmont didn’t deserve to die.”
“And I do?” he said, kicking dirt at her. “If Hillmont hadn’t decided to get in a rumble out there, he wouldn’t have been shot. Why should I lose everything I’ve worked for just because some high school punks wanted to mix it up over a football game?”
Rachel eyed his gun belt, wondering if she could disarm him. But she knew Grant had lightning-fast reflexes. If she went for his gun, he would shoot her in a second. “Why don’t we discuss this like two rational adults?” she said, propping herself up with her arms. “We can go to my house. I’ll make a pot of coffee. We’ll talk this thing through, see if we can come up with some solutions.”
“No,” Grant shouted, his body trembling with rage. “You have to learn who’s in charge. That’s the problem with fucking women like you. You’ve forgotten the basics. The man wears the pants. The man gets the respect. Didn’t you have a daddy? Didn’t he teach you about respect?”
A trickle of saliva ran down the comer of his mouth. His face was contorted, his skin purple and blotchy.
Until that moment, Rachel had never considered that Grant might physically harm her. She knew now that she had been mistaken. The rage she saw was beyond anger, something he must have bottled up inside him for years. “I respect you. Grant,” she lied, knowing she must outwit him. “Let me up and we’ll talk. Maybe I can withdraw the charges like you said. I didn’t understand about the Black Talon ammo. I mean, I knew about them, but I forgot.”
“You’re trying to trick me,” he yelled. Seeing Rachel trying to push herself to her feet, he threw himself on top of her, his impact so heavy that it crushed the breath out of her. They rolled in the dirt. Grant grabbed a corner of her T-shirt, causing it to rip. He clawed at her chest, tearing her bra apart.
“Stop,” she screamed, as his rough hands squeezed her breasts. “What are you doing?”
“You need to be taught a lesson,” Grant snarled, his hand darting inside the elastic waistband of her jogging shorts.
She decided to go for his gun in the holster, terrified he was going to rape her. She managed to touch the metal, but Grant wrenched her hand away, removing the gun and tossing it into the row of orange trees. Pulling back his fist, he slugged her with tremendous force, connecting with her chin and jerking her head back.
Rachel lost consciousness. She awoke to blinding pain. Grant was beating her with his fists, pummeling the soft tissue in her abdomen and breasts, slamming into the narrow bones in her rib cage.
“I’ll teach you,” he shouted, sweat dripping off his forehead onto her face. “You hear me? Respect.”
The pain was sickening. “Please, please,” she whimpered pathetically, “I’ll take back my statement. I’ll do anything you tell me to do.”
“You’re damn right you will,” he barked. “If I ever see you talking to that prick Atwater again, I’ll come back and beat you to a bloody pulp. Do you understand, bitch?”
“Yes,” she moaned. “Whatever you say. Grant.”
His large hands encircled her neck. He laughed insanely. Wind was whipping through the groves, howling and whistling. Rachel could smell rotting oranges, the rich scent of the soil. He was high on power, feasting on her fear as he squeezed the breath out of her. When he removed his hands from her throat, Rachel thought it was over. Grant stood, though, kicking her onto her back.
“Get on your knees,” he said, unzipping his pants and pulling out his penis. “Suck it.”
Tears streamed down her face. The tip of his boots had savagely battered her side. She twisted her body, trying to relieve the pain, certain her ribs were broken. He yanked her to her knees. “Please, Grant,” she begged, kneeling in front of him, “don’t make me do this. I’ll take back my statement. I swear. I’ll do anything you ask of me.”
“Suck it,” he said, grabbing her head and forcing her face to his groin. “If you bite me, I’ll snap your neck like a twig.”
Rachel tried to do what he said. She was so repulsed, though, that she leaned over and vomited. The contents of her stomach spewed out onto Grant’s pants and shoes.
“Look what you’ve done to my uniform,” Grant shouted, jumping back. “You haven’t learned your lesson yet, have you? You still haven’t learned about respect.”
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p; She picked her torn T-shirt off the ground and tried to wipe the vomit from his pants leg. Grant kicked her in the abdomen, knocking her back to the ground. “I’m going to stink now, whore.”
Mucus dripped from her nose. Her insides felt as if they had been ruptured. Bile rose in her throat. Grant seized her by the hair and dragged her through the dirt. He was going for his gun. She had to stop him. If she didn’t, she would soon be a corpse among the rotting oranges.
Rachel locked her hands around Grant’s at the root of her hair, and pried back his fingers to break his grip. Scrambling to her feet, she spun around and kicked him in the shins, knocking him off balance. She took off at a dead run, but pain made her slow. Grant caught her from behind. They tumbled to the ground. He pummeled her with his fists again. Rachel struck back but her blows only enraged him.
As he brutally beat her, she clenched her eyes shut, trying to retreat inside her mind, praying Grant would come to his senses before he killed her.
Finally his rage was spent. Rolling off her, he stared up at the moon, his breath ragged. Rachel was lying still beside him, unable to move.
“You’ll be watched,” he told her, still panting. “If I hear you’ve been talking to anyone outside of your kids, you can expect another visit from me. I’ll be listening to every phone call you make. You will not call that prick Atwater. You will not report what happened out here, nor will you seek medical treatment. Tomorrow, you will go to Nick Miller and withdraw the ridiculous story you told about me. Miller will then take care of our little problem with the DA’s office.” He turned his head to Rachel. “Look at me when I speak to you, bitch.”
Rachel turned her eyes to him.
“If I have to come back,” Grant said, standing and dusting off his uniform, “I won’t be looking for you. I’ll be looking for that pretty little daughter of yours. You might not be able to suck for shit, but young girls are fast learners.” Once he had zipped his pants, he walked into the row of orange trees to retrieve his gun, then returned to stand over her again. “You better get on home now,” he said, placing the gun in his holster. “Several women have been attacked in these orange groves. If I were you, I’d find another place to jog.”
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