Mike Atwater was seated next to Blake Reynolds. The two men had been working around the clock, preparing indictments, subpoenaing evidence, interviewing witnesses. Grant Cummings would be tried on two separate counts of rape, as well as aggravated assault for the attack on Rachel in the orange grove. They had squandered valuable time on Townsend. The complaints for wiretapping and illegal entry had already been typed. Nick Miller would be charged with conspiracy in the attempted rape. Fred Ramone, once he was apprehended, would be charged with attempted murder in the shooting of Grant Cummings, along with the theft of the missing drug money. They were also considering filing charges against Ratso for using excessive force during the Majestic Theater incident.
“This is where we stand as of today,” Bill Ringwald said, projecting his voice so the men at the end of the table could hear. “We have two women willing to testify that Grant Cummings raped them. This is in addition to the offense committed against Rachel Simmons. Not the attempted rape,” he continued, “as we’ve decided to set that case aside. In light of the more serious crime Cummings committed in the orange grove, there appears to be no reason to pursue the earlier offense.”
“The men involved in this have all been terminated,” Chief Bates said, directing his statement to Ringwald. A distinguished man in his early fifties. Bates had silver hair and bushy white eyebrows. While recovering from surgery he had lost close to twenty pounds, and his once round face was now gaunt. “I’ve called a press conference for this afternoon to let the public know where we stand.”
“Have you dealt with Carol Hitchcock yet?” Atwater said, tapping his fingernails on the table. “The lab confirmed it was her voice on the recording.”
The chief sighed, then removed a handkerchief to blow his nose. Of all the women on the force, he had considered Carol Hitchcock one of the most competent. “Are you going to file against her?”
“Yes,” Atwater said. “Probably illegal entry on the breaking and entering, along with filing a false police report. She’ll also be charged with conspiracy to commit rape as to Rachel Simmons.”
“What are you filing on Miller?” Captain Madison asked.
A plainclothes officer opened the door and motioned for Lenny Schneider. The investigator stood and rushed out of the room.
“The AG may pick him up in their case,” Atwater answered. “Soliciting a false report on the Hillmont matter.” He glanced over at a grim-faced attorney from the AG’s office.
“It’s a little premature at this point,” Stan Ramirez said. “We’re not going to jump in this with both feet, Atwater. We need to go slowly, build our case, then make our determination as to what violations we want to pursue. It’s the overall picture that counts.”
Bill Ringwald cleared his throat to get the other men’s attention. “I want an all-points bulletin issued for Fred Ramone. Make certain it goes on the national system. Notify security at LAX, along with the bus and train terminals.”
“We’re not a bunch of ignorant hicks,” Chief Bates said, annoyed that the district attorney thought he had to tell him how to do his job. “We notified every law enforcement agency in the country as soon as the warrant was issued.”
“Tomorrow morning,” Ringwald continued, “we intend to withdraw the charges against Rachel Simmons. If you don’t want the department to be sued. Bates, I suggest you give the woman her job back.”
“You can’t threaten me with a lawsuit,” Chief Bates said, standing up behind his chair. “This woman plunged my department into chaos. Why would I consider reinstating her? Until Fred Ramone is proven to be the shooter, Rachel Simmons will remain on suspension.”
Chief Bates dropped back in his chair. The room was rife with tension, so still he could hear his watch ticking on his wrist. The City Council had already notified him that they would be taking a vote on his status as chief of police. Larry Hillmont served on the City Council. Bates knew the man would push for his resignation. A number of large developers were also up in arms, concerned about selling homes in a city plagued by police corruption.
Lenny Schneider walked back into the room, bent over and whispered something to the chief. “Excuse us for a few moments,” Bates said, stepping to the back of the room.
“There’s no doubt now that Ratso’s our man,” Schneider told him quietly. “I just got off the phone with Lindsey Townsend. As a condolence gift, he gave her fifty grand in a suitcase. I guess we found our missing drug money.”
“Where is Ramone now?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Schneider said, his brows furrowed. “As soon as I spoke to Lindsey, I rolled every unit we had to the area. We’re shorthanded today because of the funeral, though, and I had to yank officers off other calls. By the time we got there, Ramone was long gone.”
“Even if Ramone took the money,” the chief pointed out, “we have no proof that he shot Cummings outside of the prints found inside the adjacent locker.”
Lenny Schneider frowned, more concerned with damage control than the fact that they had let a potentially dangerous man slip through their fingers. “Whoever conducted the background investigation on this man was either drunk or out of their mind,” he said in disgust. “Almost all of Ramone’s documents are forgeries. Some of them aren’t even good forgeries. The birth certificate looks like it was designed on a computer and printed on a laser printer. Didn’t the idiot who checked it realize they didn’t have laser printers twenty-odd years ago? To be honest, I think we might have hired an illegal immigrant. I have no idea who Fred Ramone really is. The way Lindsey Townsend described him just now, it sounds like we handed a gun to a psychopath. This is our shooter, Chief.”
“Do you think Cummings could have been involved in the theft of the drug money?”
“I have no idea,” Schneider said, shaking his head.
The chief felt his chest tightening. Now the department would be accused of improperly screening applicants. If he didn’t get out from under this stress, he was going to drop dead of a heart attack. He turned and walked back to the table.
Some of the men were conversing in one comer of the room. When the chief sat down, they returned to their seats. “I’ve given greater thought to your earlier request,” he told Ringwald. “It seems the best thing for me to do at this point is to reinstate Mrs. Simmons’s status as a police officer. Then maybe we can pull our people together, and try to get back to work.”
“When will you reinstate her?” Atwater asked, triumph flashing in his eyes.
“As soon as possible.”
Mike Atwater leapt out of his chair, racing out of the room to get Rachel. “They want to speak to you,” he said, taking her hand and leading her into the conference room.
Rachel stood at the front of the room. Atwater stood next to her, a smile playing at the comers of his mouth.
“Mrs. Simmons,” Chief Bates said slowly, “I’m reinstating you. When you leave this room, stop by the supply office. They’ll reassign you some new equipment. You can come back to work tomorrow if you’d like. If not, make arrangements with Captain Madison.”
Rachel’s mouth fell open. For a moment, she thought she was hallucinating. “You’re joking.”
“Nope,” the chief said. He fiddled with his hands in his lap, then stood and smiled. “Welcome back.”
Captain Madison walked over and pumped Rachel’s hand. “I’m putting you up for a commendation for the way you handled the situation on Maple Avenue,” he said. “After looking over the reports you submitted over the past two years, I think you have an excellent opportunity for advancement. How would you like to work in Internal Affairs?”
“Good match,” Atwater said.
Captain Madison scowled. “I didn’t mean right away,” he said. “I meant somewhere down the line, Atwater. Officer Simmons needs to perfect her patrol skills before we can promote her.”
Rachel’s body felt light enough to float to the ceiling. Bill Ringwald walked over and shook her hand. “Good work, Simmons. You�
�ve made some changes in this town. It was about time we cleaned up our police department.”
Rachel’s mind was churning. Had the world suddenly righted itself? She looked up at Atwater. “Is this real?”
“Absolutely,” he said, smiling again.
“But what about my court case?”
“We’re withdrawing the charges, Rachel,” he said, quickly embracing her. “It’s over.”
For approximately fifteen minutes, Rachel stood at the front of the room as if in a receiving line, as each man stopped on his way out to say a few words and shake her hand. The chief darted out of the room, then returned a few moments later with a photographer from the local paper. “If you don’t mind,” he said almost timidly, “the paper would like to take some pictures of us together.”
“It’s okay,” Rachel said, smoothing her hair down.
The photographer said something to the chief. “It might be better if you were wearing your uniform,” Bates told her. “Perhaps the supply office has an extra one you can borrow.”
While she was in jail, Carrie had picked up her cleaning. “I have my uniform in the car,” she told them. “If you’ll give me a few minutes, I’ll run out and get it.”
“I’ll send someone to the supply room for your badge and gun,” Chief Bates told her.
Rachel was out of breath when she entered the ladies room a few doors down from the conference room. She ripped open the plastic and crushed the uniform to her chest. It might be nothing but black fabric, but to Rachel, it was her cloak of honor. She removed her clothing and slipped it on, then stared at her image in the mirror. She had reclaimed her integrity. Tears streamed down her face. “I did it, Joe,” she said, raising her eyes to the ceiling. “I finally accomplished something on my own.”
Once she had washed the tears away with tap water, she thrust her shoulders back and stepped out of the bathroom.
“Stand over there. Officer Simmons,” the photographer said, indicating a spot by the window. “The light’s perfect.”
She stepped up beside the chief. Sunlight danced around her head, changing her hair from red to gold. Bates leaned over and attached her shield to the front of her shirt. “You’re one determined lady,” he whispered, handing her back her service revolver. “I’d appreciate it if you would report any future problems to me, though, before you go running to the media.”
Rachel closed her eyes, wanting to seal the moment in her memory. When she opened them, she looked into the camera lens and smiled.
c h a p t e r
THIRTY-SIX
Mike Atwater had brought a case of champagne. Carrie had made chicken and barbecued ribs on the backyard grill. Tracy had blown up dozens of balloons and tied them to the overhang on the porch. Lucy and her husband were present, along with the couple’s four children. “You’re not really going to go back to the police department?” Lucy asked, seated in a plastic chair on the patio.
“Of course I am.” Rachel said. “Don’t worry, Lucy, I’m not going to ask you to watch the kids. I’m going to work days now. Captain Madison told me it wasn’t a problem.”
“Who’s going to watch Joe for you?”
“I’m going to put him in day care,” Rachel told her. “Carrie is going to live with us and split some of the expenses. Since she already borrowed the money to put up my bail, we’re going to use it to put a down payment on a larger house.”
“What about that?” Lucy said, tilting her head.
Carrie and Mike Atwater were standing side by side on the opposite side of the yard, chatting and laughing.
“Oh,” Rachel said. “I know what you mean. I don’t mind, Lucy. Mike and I are just friends.”
“I wasn’t referring only to Mike,” her friend told her. “Isn’t Carrie a little overbearing now and then? Are you certain you can live together?”
Rachel laughed. “Carrie’s a pistol, all right, but I adore her. Everything will work out just fine.” She watched as her older sister grinned at something Atwater had said. “It’s funny, but I really don’t mind not having a man in my life. I have my career, my family. I had a lot of time to think when I was in jail. I could never love another man the way I loved Joe. If I married someone else, it wouldn’t be fair to him. You can’t give a person just a piece of yourself. Good relationships require total commitment.”
“That’s because you won’t let go,” Lucy said, popping a potato chip in her mouth. “Everyone needs a companion, Rachel. You’re a young woman. You can’t go through the rest of your life alone. Why do you think I took Glen back?”
Rachel didn’t agree. “If you really love someone,” she said, “you love them forever. I’m married to Joe as much now as I was when he was alive. Just because he isn’t physically present doesn’t mean he isn’t still around somewhere. I feel like he’s been with me through this whole ordeal.”
A chilly breeze developed, and the balloons began swaying back and forth over Rachel’s head. One came loose, and she watched as it floated out into the yard, then vanished into the night sky.
Excusing herself, Rachel went inside the house. Since her release from jail, personal freedom had taken on new meaning. Being able to eat when she wanted, sleep when she wanted, go where she wanted—so many things she had taken for granted. Before her incarceration, she had often seen her life as drudgery. Now she realized there were simple pleasures all around her, something to be gained from each moment, each day, each experience. She had her children, her friends, her career. She vowed to fill the new house with happiness and laughter.
Carrie had her belongings strewn all over the house. Rachel stopped, seeing several photo albums on the dining room table. Her sister had always been good at preserving pictures. Picking up one of the albums, she carried it to the living room and settled into a recliner.
As Rachel flipped through the pages, memories flooded her mind. The photos were like a road map of her life. All of them gathered around the Christmas tree in their pajamas. Her mother mugging for the camera. Susan was so skinny in some of the pictures, she looked like a spider monkey. Rachel pulled the book closer to her face. She had never realized she had that many freckles.
At the bottom of one page, she saw a spot of white. As her eyes focused on the image, her body stiffened. She was seated in a chair in their living room, a box of yellow marshmallow bunnies in her lap. She was wearing the white dress she had dreamed about inside the jail. She studied the date on the photo. It was Easter Sunday and she had been three years old that year.
Next to her in the chair was the china doll with the pink satin dress, the same doll she had seen in the hands of Nathan Richardson seven years later.
Rachel’s guests had gone home. It was late, and Tracy and Joe were in bed. Rachel sat at the kitchen table, her head buried in her hands. “Why didn’t you show me this picture? You had to know about the doll. You were old enough to hear us talking about the doll the kidnapper had.”
“I knew about a doll,” Carrie said tensely. “How would I know it was the same doll Richardson had? Dolls aren’t unique, Rachel. There could be all kinds of those dolls floating around out there. They probably manufactured hundreds of them.”
“It’s the same doll,” she insisted. “Mother couldn’t afford to buy me a doll this expensive. This is a collector’s doll, Carrie. See the china face, the dress?”
“Look,” Carrie snapped, “I don’t know, okay? Let it go, Rachel. We’re supposed to be celebrating. I don’t know why you wanted to look through those old pictures anyway. I only brought them to show Tracy what we looked like when we were children.”
Rachel opened the album and removed the photo from the page to study it more closely. She had not been seated in a chair, as she originally had thought. Her mind had simply created that image out of fragments from the kidnapping. When the picture in her hands had been taken, she had been seated on the sofa in the living room of their house in San Diego. She could see a few strands of her mother’s hair in one comer of the pic
ture, a portion of her dress, her long red fingernails. Suddenly she saw something else she had failed to see before. Her mother was holding someone’s hand. She saw the dark hairs on the forearm, then spotted the outline of the tattoo. “Good Lord, Carrie,” she said, her heart pounding in her chest, “it’s the same tattoo Richardson had on his hand. It’s a heart with an arrow through it. He was in our house. He was sitting on the sofa with me when this picture was taken.”
Carrie rushed over and stood behind her. “You’re crazy,” she said. “Why would Nathan Richardson be in our house? You were only three years old in this picture. Besides, he was a doctor at one time. Most doctors don’t have tattoos.”
“He got his medical training in the service,” Rachel said, recalling the things Sergeant Dean had told her. “I remember now,” she continued, her eyes expanding. “He was Mother’s friend. He took us to lunch that day after church. He bought us all Easter baskets and marshmallow bunnies.”
“No,” Carrie said, “that couldn’t be. Mother would have told us if she had known Richardson before the kidnapping. You were only three when that picture was taken. How could you possibly remember that day?”
Rachel remembered everything now. Richardson had looked different when she had seen him in the market. After spending seven years in prison, he’d been pallid and thin, only a shadow of the robust man he had once been.
“He took the doll back,” she said. “The doll was a bribe, Carrie. When he came to see Mother, he would give me the doll to play with so I would leave them alone. He always took it with him when he left. He said I couldn’t keep it because it belonged to someone else.”
“If you knew this man,” Carrie countered, “then why don’t I remember him?”
“Because he came to see Mother when you were in school,” Rachel explained. “If I was three when this picture was taken, Carrie, then you were nine.”
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