Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
CHAPTER 92
CHAPTER 93
CHAPTER 94
CHAPTER 95
CHAPTER 96
CHAPTER 97
CHAPTER 98
CHAPTER 99
CHAPTER 100
CHAPTER 101
CHAPTER 102
CHAPTER 103
CHAPTER 104
CHAPTER 105
CHAPTER 106
CHAPTER 107
CHAPTER 108
CHAPTER 109
CHAPTER 110
CHAPTER 111
CHAPTER 112
CHAPTER 113
CHAPTER 114
CHAPTER 115
CHAPTER 116
CHAPTER 117
CHAPTER 118
CHAPTER 119
Dedication
Copyright
OTHER BOOKS BY WILLIAM CASEY MORETON
CHAPTER 1
Deep inside the massive walls of San Quentin State Prison, Gaston Dunbar was seated on the narrow bed inside his tiny cell. The sounds of slamming doors echoed down the long tier. His eyes were closed, his breathing perfectly steady. He sat in the yoga lotus position. His long blond hair was fixed in a ponytail that trailed down the back of his neck to his shoulders. The hair was clean but had lost most of its healthy shine due to the poor diet the prison provided, and the deep tan had faded after these three long years locked away in a box under the glare of fluorescent light.
The monsters housed in the cells around him howled and hissed and cursed, their voices booming off miles of painted walls and iron bars. Profanities ricocheted from cell to cell. The monsters loved activity of any kind because the monotony of their daily existence drilled holes through the fabric of their psyches, draining sanity one painful drip at a time. Freedom was forgotten. Hope was gone. Hell was waiting.
In three days the State of California would strap him to a table and stick a needle in his arm in the name of Justice, and then clear cell his for the next man in line. He was confident that all the paperwork was already in order. They would be making certain that the intravenous tubes were free of defect and that the chemicals were all up to code. The warden probably didn’t sleep well in the days leading up to the big day. It was stressful, this business of killing.
Only three short days. Sure, he could have continued with his appeals for decades and clogged the court system with every conceivable legal petition and motion. But that would have simply made them rich while he grew old in his concrete cage, slowly losing his mind. There had to be a better way, he thought. He was locked far away from sunshine and fresh air, and flowers and sex. He had no intention of waiting thirty years for some lawyer somewhere to free him on a technicality.
In three days they would kill him. He was a brilliant man whose only mistake had been a single bloody thumbprint on a boat. And they had caught him. But he had a plan that he was convinced they would never see coming. Now it was time to find out.
CHAPTER 2
Special Agent David Kline of the FBI was seated at the desk in his office at 11000 Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles when his phone rang.
“Are you sitting down?” The voice belonged to Gaston Dunbar’s attorney, Leonard Monroe.
“No, I’m on my way to a meeting,” Kline lied. “So, whatever it is you have to say, make it quick.”
“I’ve spent the morning at San Quentin.”
“How is Dunbar? Is he ready to die?”
“Actually, my client is ready to talk,” Monroe said. “He’s prepared to reveal the location of the bodies.”
“I’m listening.”
“He can see the end is near. Soon it will be too late. He’s willing to mark it on a map, or do whatever you need.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes, though there is one stipulation. He wants to make a public confession. He wants two minutes of live, uninterrupted television airtime.”
“Forget it.”
“It’s a remarkably small price to pay for the recovery of Sydney and Robin.”
“Tell him to give us the bodies, Monroe.”
“This is the best I can offer.”
“What you are asking is impossible.”
“We pull the offer in twenty-four hours. Please consider the family. Give them the opportunity to give Sydney and Robin a proper burial. It’s an easy decision, Special Agent Kline.”
Kline closed his eyes and remained silent for a moment before replying, “This will have to go through the governor.”
“I’d suggest you get him on the phone immediately. You have twenty-four hours.” Then Monroe dropped off the line.
CHAPTER 3
The parking lot outside San Quentin was turning into a circus. Special Agent Kline frowned at the sight of the media presence amassing inside the gates of the prison. He had a good aerial perspective from the front seat of the FBI helicopter that had brought him up the coast from the field office in L.A. He was frowning because he was about to inject himself into the chaos below.
“Crazy stuff,” Special Agent Jason Sperry said over his radio headset. Sperry was seated behind him in the chopper. He was looking out through the glass at the scene unfolding beneath them.
The chopper circled above the prison complex before gingerly touching down on the helipad, dust and gr
it swirling.
Kline was of average height, with short brown hair beginning to recede. Sperry was fifteen years Kline’s junior and possessed a more natural charm and quick wit.
A prison administrator greeted them on the ground. Protestors had gathered in anticipation of the coming execution, pleading for the condemned to be spared, asking the state to exercise the same spirit of forgiveness that God himself surely would. They hoisted homemade signs on sticks, shouting and praying, often in the same breath.
Already there had been half a dozen books published on the subjects of Gaston Dunbar and the murders, along with hours of network programming dedicated to the topic. There had been marriage proposals from desperate, lonely women across the country with nothing better to do with their empty lives than to correspond with a Death Row inmate. Movie rights had even sold to one of the major studios. So there was little question in Kline’s mind that this little stunt was nothing more than one final attempt by Dunbar to keep his face in the spotlight and his name on the front page. Granting him two minutes on TV would not even have been an option if they had already found the bodies.
Inside the building, a queue was slowly advancing through a security checkpoint staffed by armed guards donning Kevlar body armor. Both FBI agents flashed their badges and passed through. The administrator escorted them around a maze of humanity and opened a door to a small room. They crushed in, standing shoulder to shoulder amid the buzz of excited conversation. The room reeked of stale coffee and floor wax. The first familiar face Kline saw was that of the lieutenant governor, a very sober woman named Schaehart. She wore a conservative pantsuit and a frown.
“The governor has made himself very clear about his feelings on this,” she said. “He’s not thrilled. His reelection campaign has stalled. He can’t afford the kind of negative press this could generate. Technically, this isn’t even the governor’s problem, but some of his advisors believe strongly this could be an opportunity to see a solid boost in his poll numbers. We could ride a wave of goodwill all the way into November. He wants those bodies in the morgue by sunup tomorrow. We want you to make that happen, Special Agent Kline.”
Schaehart’s assistant was a tiny woman with short hair and a pale face who could have passed for a sixteen-year-old boy. She had thin, pursed lips and hadn’t blinked for a minute and a half. She stood at her boss’s hip and glared up at Kline.
Kline said, “I’m not in the business of negotiating with convicted murderers. And I’m not interested in your boss’s self-serving political schemes. I want to see those bodies recovered as much as the next guy, but not like this. This smells rotten.”
Schaehart made an exaggerated display of folding her arms defiantly over her chest. “The fact is this governor inherited a terrible economy,” she said. “Gas prices rise every day and illegal immigration is out of control. What he needs most right at this moment is the chance to deliver some good news to the people of this state. For better or worse, Sydney and Robin Dunbar have become the most famous murder victims of the past half-century. And in this Hollywood culture of ours, the public demands a happy ending. They want to see that mother and daughter brought home, even if they are dead.”
“Two bodies zipped inside plastic bags? That’s your definition of a happy ending?”
She shrugged. “It will have to do. We’re down to the wire. We’ve got to move while Dunbar still has a pulse.”
There was commotion at the door. Kline turned to see a man in an expensive suit and a leather attaché case stride into the room. This was Leonard Monroe.
Kline stiffened, chest tightening. “Excuse me a moment,” he said.
Schaehart nodded.
Monroe was tall and deeply tanned, with bright eyes and the whitest, brightest smile money could buy. His fingernails were manicured to absolute perfection and he sported a carefully sculptured pompadour of dark hair.
Monroe extended a hand. “Good afternoon, Special Agent Kline.”
“No more games, Monroe,” Kline said, squaring his shoulders to the lawyer.
The smile was still big and bright. “I couldn’t agree more.”
Kline glared at him. “Tell Dunbar to produce Sydney and Robin. Then if he still wants to make his little speech, I’ll give him his own HBO special.”
“I’ve had a couple of long heart-to-heart conversations with my client, and I believe he wants to do this in honor of his wife and daughter.”
Kline tasted bile rising at the back of his throat. Both this guy and his client were trash. Kline swallowed his rage and disgust.
Sperry hovered at Monroe’s shoulder. “You’re a real piece of work,” he said.
Monroe wasn’t interested in Special Agent Sperry.
Kline did a slow burn. His gut was telling him they’d made a deal with the devil.
CHAPTER 4
Dunbar sat motionless.
A shrill buzzer sounded at one end of the tier, and a door jolted open. The warden and the guards were coming. The shouts and shrieks of inmates intensified as the procession of uniformed guards neared Dunbar’s cell.
The warden was a short, barrel-chested man, with a bald scalp that gleamed with a fine sheen of perspiration. The procession halted at Dunbar’s cell and the warden glared at him through a narrow vertical Plexiglas window set into the thick metal door. The guards collected in a knot of green uniforms behind their boss.
“You know the drill,” the warden said to Dunbar.
Dunbar exhaled a deep breath, unfolded his legs, and stood at his bed. He approached the door and turned his back to them, slowly thrusting both his hands through an open slot in the door. A guard snapped handcuffs onto his wrists. Then the door was unlocked and opened.
“This is a waste of my time,” the warden growled. “I don’t approve of this stunt, and I fought to keep it from happening, but I got overruled. Lucky you.”
Dunbar stared at him without blinking.
The warden’s scalp reddened. He gestured at the guards. “Let’s get this over with.”
CHAPTER 5
A long folding table had been erected at the front of a crowded room where the media had set up their lights and cameras and microphones. They would bring Dunbar in through a door behind the table. He’d make his brief statement and would then be immediately ushered out into a corridor, where he had agreed to reveal the location of the bodies to Kline, the warden, and the lieutenant governor. Then he’d be returned to his cell. Four minutes total, in and out.
Kline and Sperry slipped in and stood against the wall at the back of the room, watching and waiting, scoping out the controlled anxiety and excitement of the chaos. The heat of the overcrowded space was stifling.
The warden materialized, shouldering through a huddle of guards. Kline spotted his bald head among the green uniforms. The warden drifted over to where the lieutenant governor was speaking to a very humorless-looking female prison official. Kline drifted a few paces toward the table at the front of the room, hypnotized by the sight of the microphones and television lights. He stared at the empty chair, and for a moment the hum of humanity faded and the lights seemed to dim. There was no doubt in his mind they were making a huge mistake.
The head of the prison’s PR office quieted everyone down. The volume in the room fell to a nearly complete hush. She announced that there would be no questions permitted. Then she stuck her head out the door near a corner behind the folding table, said something imperceptible to someone standing out of sight and closed the door and took up position along the wall, standing clear of the television cameras.
The spectators scrambled into place, attentive and anxious, heads ducking and bobbing.
A minute passed. The room was as silent as a crypt.
Then the door opened and a guard wearing Kevlar, with a Glock on his hip, entered, stepped aside, and held the door.
Gaston Dunbar appeared in the doorway. He shuffled into the room in handcuffs; head hung low, eyes downcast, followed by several more ominous-looking guard
s. The guards crowded in behind him and then seated him in the metal chair at the table.
No one outside the prison walls had seen him for a long time, and the onlookers stood in awed silence, gawking wide-eyed, totally captivated at the murderer seated before them.
Dunbar sat for a moment, soaking up the lights and the attention. He composed himself, looking out across the featureless room filled with eager spectators. He spotted Special Agent Kline, remembering him well. He saw the warden, as well as a few prominent reporters who had begged for interviews over the years. His lawyer, Monroe, was nearby and clearly enjoying the spectacle they had created together. Dunbar glanced at the jumble of microphones, nodded as if to himself, and then faced the attentive glass eyes of the television cameras.
This was his moment. The culmination of years of planning and mental choreography. These people had gathered to hang on his every word, to transmit his voice to millions of homes, to be seen and heard by tens of millions of viewers. By nightfall nearly every soul in North America, and millions more around the globe, would have been exposed to the power and gravity of his message. He had not come to apologize for a crime. He had come to open the floodgates.
“My name is Gaston Dunbar, and in exactly seventy-two hours I will be executed by the State of California. During my lifetime I’ve amassed a personal fortune of over five hundred million dollars, and now I intend to give my money away. A woman named Lindsay Hammond lives in Brentwood in Los Angeles. My final wish in this life is to see her waiting for me in hell when they throw the switch. And so I’m here to extend an invitation to the entire criminal world: find her, kill her, remove her head, and the money is yours. All five hundred million dollars. But she must die before I’m executed or all the money goes away. My attorney is Leonard Monroe. Payment will be made through him. Don’t hesitate. The clock is ticking. Go now. Kill her.”
CHAPTER 6
When he was finished, he casually pushed away from the table and stood at the chair.
There was at first only stunned silence, and then a collective gasp rippled through the room like a wave.
Kline felt the muscles of his neck and back twist into knots. A spasm rippled through his stomach. They’d been set up. They had played right into Dunbar’s hands. There would be no confession. Not today, not ever. Dunbar had never intended to apologize for anything. His only intention was to go on live TV and put a bounty on Lindsay Hammond’s head. Kline might have expected him to say any of a thousand different things, the ranting of a condemned and desperate man, the propaganda of a psychopath maybe, but not this. This was beyond anything he could have imagined.
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