Killing Secrets

by Dianne Emley

  Unaware that she was still holding her iPad, she turned and put her feet on the ground, moving the attentive dog out of the way. She careened off a car as she stumbled to the walk-through door, which she opened, and then went out onto the driveway.

  When Emily had left her seat, Woofster had jumped into the car, waiting for their ride. He soon realized that wasn’t happening. He bolted from the car to follow her. The walk-through door hadn’t completely shut behind her and the dog clawed at it, trying to open it.

  Emily staggered down the driveway, gulping the cool night air. She said to Woofster, whom she heard whining inside the garage, “Hang on, pup—” leaving the sentence dangling when she saw a man in black clothing with a ski mask pulled over his face running toward her from the shadows beside the house.

  She didn’t have time to scream before he was upon her, his gloved hands reaching for her. She impulsively swung the iPad she held and smacked it against the side of his head, knocking it from her hand. It stunned him only briefly, but it gave her a moment to scream and lurch away. He soon recovered and knocked her down hard onto her back on the cobblestone driveway. His fingers tightened around her neck. She clawed at his hands and then went for his face, reaching for his eyes, which were exposed through the mask. He leaned away from her grappling hands. She couldn’t touch him, while he easily maintained his grip around her neck. She kicked and struggled, but he was too big and strong for her. Darkness again closed in.

  Suddenly, Emily could again breathe. It took her a moment to realize that Woofster had gotten free and had seized the guy’s ankle between his jaws. The guy kicked at the dog with his free leg, trying to get him off. Woofster endured his blows and held fast.

  Scooting on her butt and then rolling onto her hands and knees, Emily blindly clambered away while screaming and yelling without a clue as to what was coming out of her mouth.

  Lights went on inside the house and a window was flung open. Kaitlyn appeared at the screen, yelling, “Leave her alone! We have a gun.”

  Her assailant broke away from the dog and started running for the iron fence that surrounded the property. Woofster soon caught up and snagged his foot when he vaulted for the crossbar near the top of iron fence and tried to pull himself over.

  Wes ran from the house, waving a gun. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

  Emily screamed, “Dad, no! You’ll hit Woofster.”

  The guy heaved himself over the fence. The dog hung on to the man’s foot as long as he possibly could before letting go, then threw himself at the iron bars, barking and snarling. Emily got to her feet and went to comfort the enraged dog.

  Reaching a gate, Wes opened it, bolted out, and ran after the guy, both of them rounding a corner and disappearing into the darkness.

  Emily held on tightly to Woofster’s collar so he couldn’t run out the gate. She cried out when she heard gunshots.

  Kaitlyn reached her just as patrol cars from the neighborhood’s private security company screeched to a stop in front of the house. Local police cruisers were right behind them. Kaitlyn directed them toward where the men had run. Two cars took off while officers in another car questioned Kaitlyn about what had happened.

  Emily was on her knees on the grass, her arms around the dog. She didn’t care about her own injuries and was more concerned about the traumatized dog. “Are you okay, puppy? Are you okay?” He licked her face and appeared to be just fine.

  Before long, a patrol car returned. Wes got out and said, “He got away. I don’t think I hit him.”

  Emily had doubted that he would have and was grateful that no one else had been hurt. Her dad was a terrible shot.

  Chapter 50

  Nan had tried to set aside her uneasy feeling that something bad had happened to Emily, but she couldn’t. She called Wes on her burner phone and reached him at the hospital ER with Emily. The girl was fine, just bruised and shaken up. The police were taking photos of her injuries now. They’d already taken her statement. Emily couldn’t identify her assailant. It had been too dark and chaotic for her to definitively say it was Nacy Dena but a BOLO had been put out for him.

  Neighbors, who had been awakened during the commotion, had offered to stay with the two Vining boys while Kaitlyn took Woofster to a 24-hour emergency clinic. The vet had reported that the dog hadn’t suffered any serious injuries.

  Wes told Nan, “Em would have been safe if she’d just stayed inside.”

  “Things happen.” Nan saw no point in reminding him that she had been right. “Thank God that Em’s fine and the dog’s fine. And now the bad guy has dog bites on his legs. That’ll go a long way in making a case against him. Emily needs to talk to Sergeant Early. This attack changed everything. Tell Early that you’re bringing Em to talk to her but she needs to meet you someplace other than the station or anywhere in Pasadena.”

  “I’ll call her right now. After that, we’ll hit the road for Santa Barbara. Either Kaitlyn or I will stay there with Em until it’s safe for her to come home.”

  “Thanks, Wes, but listen. Em has a photo on her cell phone that Ashton sent her. It’s of a Montblanc pen that he said he picked up at the murder scene in the Arroyo.”

  “He picked up evidence? That jackass.”

  “I know. We’re past that now. Emily needs to show that photo to Sergeant Early. Tell Early that I forwarded it to Jim Kissick to have it enhanced. She and Jim are the only ones at the PPD who know about the pen. Ask her to please sit on the information until I can do what I need to do. It’s good information, but it’s not enough. There’s another piece that’s missing.”

  “I’ll do it. How long will it take you?”

  “A day or two.”

  While Nan waited until Emily was free to speak to her, she thought about the panic attack Wes said had precipitated Em’s going outside for air. Nan wondered if she’d damaged her daughter in this way too, by passing down the debilitating panic attacks she’d suffered for some time after she’d been stabbed. When Emily got on the phone, Nan praised her for her courage and Em assured her mom that she was fine.

  “Emily, your dad’s going to take you to talk with Sergeant Early. Tell her what you know about the pen that Ashton found near Mrs. Keller’s and Jared’s bodies and about his dealings with Nacy Dena. There’s no point in protecting Ashton now.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  “Hopefully they’ll pick up Nacy Dena so at least he’ll be off the streets.”

  Emily loudly exhaled. “That’ll be a relief. What about you? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Do you think that Nacy Dena killed Mrs. Keller and Jared and Ashton? Why would he do that? Maybe he was working for somebody else. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “It’s possible. I have some theories, but any scenario means nothing unless I have proof. All the evidence is circumstantial and it’s not enough. You hit the nail on the head. I need the killer’s motive.” Lying in the back of the Bronco, propped up on her elbow, Nan shook her head. “I can come home, Em. I’ll find another way to box that jerk in.”

  After a pause, Emily said, “Mom, don’t come home. I’m fine. I want you to get this guy. I want him to go away forever. Get him for Mrs. Keller and Jared and for Ashton, and for you and me. And Woofster too.”

  Nan smiled. “Thank you, sweetheart. I’ll do my best.” The initial relief from being given her daughter’s blessing to chase the bad guy was quickly replaced by a sense of foreboding. If she was wrong about her hunch, this might be her final act of going rogue, the one that caused her to be fired. She could live with that. Emily’s college fund was in good shape, and Wes and Kaitlyn would make sure that the girl was provided for. Nan would find some sort of work, doing whatever disgraced cops did.

  It could go worse for her than that. She could be hurt or killed. If she had to put herself at risk to draw out the bad guy and make him careless, so be it. A cop murderer would be tracked down and brought to justice. Nobody came after her daughter and got away with it
.

  “Mom, please get some sleep.”

  “I will. Tell Sergeant Early that I’ll let her know when the quake happens.”

  “Okay. What does that mean?”

  “She’ll know.”

  Chapter 51

  In Pasadena, in the early morning, PPD officers Lisa Brewer and Reggie Kling were patrolling the access roads in Hahamongna Watershed Park. They pulled up behind a black Honda Civic that was low to the ground on big tires with fancy rims. It was stopped in the middle of the road and the engine was running.

  Brewer, who was driving, reported their location and circumstances to dispatch and asked to have the Civic’s license plate run. The information came back that the car was registered to Ignacio Medina, who was wanted for questioning in Ashton McCarthy’s murder and an assault on Emily Vining. Brewer requested backup.

  Inside the cruiser, Kling flipped on the right spotlight and panned it over the Civic. “Those tinted windows are too dark. It’s just reflecting the beam back at us.”

  Over the loudspeaker, Brewer said, “Everybody inside the car, roll down your windows.” Nothing happened. “I want all four windows down, now.”

  There was no detectable movement in the Civic, just the sound of the engine running.

  The officers exited their vehicle, holding their guns in front of them. With her free hand, Brewer pulled a flashlight from her equipment belt. “The bright setting on this will cut through that tint.”

  A patrol car rolled up and Kling conferred with the arriving officers on his two-way, while at the same time gesturing for them to go around the Civic and block the road in front of it. Once the other cruiser was in position, two male officers exited from it with their guns drawn and took cover behind their vehicle.

  “Ignacio Medina,” Kling announced as he approached the Civic, aiming the gun in his right hand at the driver’s window and staying a few yards away. “Roll down the windows and then keep your hands on top of the steering wheel where we can see them.” When there was no response, still holding his gun in front, he moved in to rap the knuckles of his left hand against the window.

  Brewer went to the passenger side, shining the beam of her high-powered flashlight into the darkened windows. “There’s someone in the driver’s seat. That’s the only occupant I can see.” Holding her breath, she stepped closer to the passenger window with the flashlight.

  One of the officers in the other car yelled, “What’s going on?”

  Brewer shone the flashlight through the tinted windows and said loudly. “Dude. Guy’s flopped over on the steering wheel. I think he’s dead.”

  Two more PPD cruisers pulled up. The officers got out of their cars and conferred with one another on their two-ways.

  Kling tried the driver’s door with his left hand, still aiming his gun with his right. The door was unlocked. He flung it open and grabbed his gun with both hands, ready to fire, as he slightly crouched and looked over the driver strapped into the seat by his seat belt. “He’s dead. Definitely.”

  The backup officers moved in, still keeping their weapons out.

  The driver was the car’s sole occupant. His head was hanging forward against the steering wheel, showing a big NLK tattoo, signifying the Northside Latin Kings, on the back of his shaved head. Blood and brain matter from the exit wound on his left temple had splattered onto the steering wheel and against the inside of the window. On the right side of his face, blood had run from the entrance wound in his right temple, soaking into his plaid shirt and the white crewneck T-shirt beneath it.

  “Ignacio Medina?” Kling reached across the corpse and turned off the car’s ignition.

  “Fits the description.” Brewer holstered her gun and opened the unlocked passenger door. “Suicide?” She shone her flashlight over the driver and around and under the front seats. “Don’t find a gun that he used to shoot himself.”

  Standing closer to the body, Brewer raised the hem of the corpse’s loose shirt and saw a handgun shoved into the waistband of his jeans. “Nope. This was a murder and I think he was taken by surprise.”

  Chapter 52

  Nan took her daughter’s advice and went to sleep. Sometime later, she was awakened by the sound of knocking on the Bronco’s driver-side window. Her hand immediately went to her Glock beneath her pillow. Bright sunshine streamed through the car’s windshield.

  “Yes?” she groggily said.

  A man’s voice said, “No freeloaders here.”

  The sunshine dimmed and Nan peeked between the front seats to see a craggy-faced man with white hair and a white handlebar moustache peering inside through the windshield, blocking the sun.

  Nan released the gun and pushed herself up onto her elbows, trying to conceal herself behind the front seats. “I’m not freeloading. The office was closed when I got here.”

  “Office is open now.” The man left.

  Nan changed from her pajama bottoms and into jeans, keeping on the T-shirt she’d slept in, and stuffed her hair under the wig. Putting on the big sunglasses, she stiffly climbed from the Bronco, and did a few stretches. She grabbed cash and left her wallet in the car.

  There was a coffeemaker with a full carafe of coffee in the office. The aroma alone perked her up. She first went to settle her bill before she poured herself any, handing over cash and enduring a chilly reception from the moustached man. He scrutinized her sunglasses and wig while pushing a registration form in front of her, saying, “We’ve gotta know who’s staying on our property.”

  “Of course you do.” Nan filled out the form, giving her name as Carrie Buchanan, who was the mother of a childhood friend, and an address on a real street in Portland, Oregon, where a different friend lived, plus reversing the numbers and letters on the Bronco’s license plate. When the man asked for ID, Nan said she’d bring it back later, but could she have the key for the restroom and showers, please?

  He gave her the key. She felt his eyes on her back as she took a Styrofoam cup and poured coffee into it. She left the office and didn’t look back.

  Sitting in the Bronco’s driver’s seat, she took a few moments to enjoy the coffee and try to more fully wake up. She gathered a change of clothes, the towel, washcloth, and bar of soap she’d brought and went to the wooden cabin that enclosed the restrooms and showers. In the women’s side, there were two toilet stalls, two sinks, and one shower. While Nan was holding out the yellow plastic shower curtain and looking at a ribbon of dark mold along the bottom, a woman with long silver hair bound into a ponytail with a beaded clasp, aging-hippie style, came out of one of the restroom stalls.

  The woman laughed. “It’s not filthy here, but it sure ain’t spotless either. Roscoe has had trouble keeping the place up since his wife passed on a year ago.”

  Nan was glad she’d put on rubber flip-flops, which she’d wear in the shower so she didn’t have to touch the floor with her bare feet. “Has Roscoe always been cranky?”

  The woman again laughed. “Yes, he has, but he’s gotten worse. I’m Donna, by the way.”

  “Hi. I’m Carrie.” Nan didn’t move to shake the woman’s hand. She didn’t want to engage in chitchat. She wanted to take her shower and get the hell out of there.

  Donna went to the sink, pushed up the sleeves of her denim shirt, and began washing her hands. “Staying for a while or passing through?”

  “Passing through. Heading to Santa Rosa to visit my sister.” Nan kept moving. She held up her towel to cover herself as she took off her clothes. She wasn’t modest but thought that the woman might be. She hung up her clothes on one of the two hooks on the wall outside the shower and short-circuited her conversation with Donna. “I’ve gotta hit the road. Safe travels to you.”

  Donna spoke to Nan’s reflection in the mirror over the sink. “And to you. Have a beautiful day.”

  Going into the stall and closing the shower curtain, Nan took off the wig, hid it under the towel, and hung them both up on the second hook. Taking a hair band from around her wrist, she pulled
up her own hair to keep it out of the water, not wanting to take the time to wash it. Apart from being eager to reach her destination, she was anxious to get out of that RV park as soon as she could. She had sought a friendly family place that didn’t have rigid rules, but now she would have preferred having to deal with rules over the weird vibe she’d gotten from Roscoe—Mr. Handlebar Moustache—and overly friendly strangers.

  She moved to the side of the stall as she turned on the water and was pleasantly surprised when it flowed hot right away. The water pressure was great. She stepped under the spray and closed her eyes as it ran over her face and the front of her body. She grabbed her bar of soap, took off the wrapper, and began soaping herself up. She got a jolt of superhot water and decided that Donna had turned off the sink spigots. Nan thought that Donna must have been washing her hands with scalding hot water, like her grandmother did. She readjusted the shower’s water temperature.

  As she turned to wash the soap off her back, she saw light cut across the ceiling when Donna opened the door to leave, saying a few words to someone on her way out. The door must not have closed completely as the ceiling still showed a small sliver of light. The only other light sources were a couple of small windows and a weak bulb in a ceiling fixture.

  She continued showering, working the soap into a dense lather and massaging her skin with a washcloth as if she could scrub away the events of the past few days. Still hearing voices outside the front door, she turned down the shower spray a little and peeked around the curtain to hear Roscoe talking to someone and he seemed to be describing her.

  “Very tall. Slender. She had long blond hair, but I think it was a wig and she didn’t take off her sunglasses when she came into the office.”

  A man said, “Did you ask her where she’d come from or where she was going?”

  “No,” Roscoe said. “She would have just lied to me. I have a feeling that she’s up to no good and I’ve been right about people like that before.”