Harper was in a pressed white shirt and narrow red tie. His slacks were dark and his suit jacket hung neatly on a hanger on a coatrack in the corner of the office.
“Agent Dance. Thanks for coming in.” He subtly inverted the sheet of paper he’d been reading, and closed the lid of his attaché case. Inside, she’d caught a glimpse of an old law book.
Or maybe a Bible.
He rose briefly and shook her hand, again keeping his distance.
As she sat, his closely set eyes examined the table beside her to see if there was anything that she ought not to observe. He seemed satisfied that all secrets were safe. He took in, very briefly, her navy blue suit—tailored jacket and pleated skirt—and white blouse. She’d worn her interrogation clothes today. Her glasses were the black ones.
Predator specs.
She’d be happy to reach an accommodation if it got her mother off, but she wasn’t going to be intimidated.
“You’ve spoken to Julio Millar?” she asked.
“Who?”
“Juan’s brother.”
“Oh. Well, I have, a while ago. Why are you asking?”
Dance felt her heart begin pounding faster. She noted a stress reaction—her leg moved slightly. Harper, on the other hand, was motionless. “I think Juan begged his brother to kill him. Julio faked a name on the hospital sign-in sheet, and did what his brother wanted. I thought that’s what you wanted to talk to me about.”
“Oh,” Harper said, nodding. “George Sheedy called about that. Just a bit ago. I guess he didn’t get a chance to call you and tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
With a hand tipped in perfectly filed nails, Harper lifted a folder from the corner of his desk and opened it up. “On the night his brother died, Julio Millar was in the hospital. But I confirmed that he was meeting with two members of the MBH security staff in connection with a suit against the California Bureau of Investigation for negligence in sending his brother to guard a patient that you knew, or should have known, was too dangerous for a man of Juan’s experience to handle. He was also considering suing you personally on a discrimination charge for singling out a minority officer for a dangerous assignment. And for exacerbating his brother’s condition by interrogating him. At the exact time of Juan’s death, Julio was in the presence of those guards. He put a fake name in the check-in log because he was afraid you’d find out about the suit and try to intimidate him and his family.”
Dance’s heart clenched to hear these words, delivered so evenly. Her breathing was rapid. Harper was as calm as if he were reading from a book of poetry.
“Julio Millar has been cleared, Agent Dance.” The smallest of frowns. “He was one of my first suspects. Do you think I wouldn’t have considered him?”
She fell silent and sat back. In an instant, all hope had been destroyed.
Then, to Harper, the matter was concluded. “No, why I asked you here . . .” He found another document. “Will you stipulate that this is an email you wrote? The addresses match, but there are no names on it. I can trace it back to you but it’ll take some time. As a courtesy, could you tell me if it’s yours?”
She glanced at the sheet. It was a photocopy of an email she’d written to her husband when he was away on a business trip at an FBI seminar in Los Angeles several years ago.
How’s everything going down there? You get to Chinatown, like you were thinking?
Wes got a perfect on the English test. He wore the gold star on his forehead until it fell off and had to buy some more. Mags decided to donate all her Hello Kitty stuff to charity—yes, all of it (yea!!!!)
Sad news from Mom. Willy, their cat, finally had to be put down. Kidney failure. Mom wouldn’t hear of the vet doing it. She did it herself, an injection. She seemed happier afterward. She hates suffering, would rather lose an animal than see it suffer. She told me how hard it was to see Uncle Joe at the end, with the cancer. Nobody should have to go through that, she said. A shame there was no assisted suicide law.
Well, on a happier note: Got the website back online and Martine and I uploaded a dozen songs from that Native American group down in Ynez. Go online if you can. They’re great!
Oh and went shopping at Victoria’s Secret. Think you’ll like what I got. I’ll do some modeling!! Come home soon!
Her face burned—in shock and rage. “Where did you get this?” she snapped.
“A computer at your mother’s house. Under a warrant.”
Dance recalled. “It was my old computer. I gave it to her.”
“It was in her possession. Within the scope of the warrant.”
“You can’t introduce that.” She waved at the email printout.
“Why not?” He frowned.
“It’s irrelevant.” Her mind jumped around. “And it’s a privileged communication between husband and wife.”
“Of course it’s relevant. It goes to your mother’s state of mind in committing mercy killing. And as for the privilege: Since neither you nor your husband are subjects of the prosecution, any communications should be fully admissible. In any case, the judge will decide.” He seemed surprised she hadn’t realized this. “Is it yours?”
“You’ll have to depose me before I respond to anything you ask.”
“All right.” He seemed only faintly disappointed at her failure to cooperate. “Now, I should tell you that I consider it a conflict of interest for you to be involved in this investigation, and using Special Agent Consuela Ramirez to do legwork for you doesn’t vitiate that conflict.”
How had he found that out?
“This case emphatically does not fall within the jurisdiction of the CBI and if you continue to pursue it, I’ll lodge an ethics complaint against you with the attorney general’s office.”
“She’s my mother.”
“I’m sure you’re emotional about the situation. But it’s an active investigation and soon to be an active prosecution. Any interference from you is unacceptable.”
Shaking with rage, Dance rose and started for the door.
Harper seemed to have an afterthought. “One thing, Agent Dance. Before I move to admit that email of yours into evidence, I want you to know that I’ll redact the information about buying that lingerie, or whatever it was, at Victoria’s Secret. That I do consider irrelevant.”
Then the prosecutor slid toward him the document he’d been reviewing when she arrived, turned it over and began reading once again.
IN HER OFFICE Kathryn Dance was staring at the entwined tree trunks outside her window, still angry with Harper. She was thinking again about what would happen if she was forced to testify against her mother. If she didn’t, she’d be held in contempt. A crime. It could mean jail and the end of her career as a law enforcer.
She was drawn from this thought by TJ’s appearance
He looked exhausted. He explained he’d spent much of the night working with Crime Scene to examine Greg Schaeffer’s room at the Cyprus Grove Inn, his car and Chilton’s house. He had the MCSO report.
“Excellent, TJ.” She regarded his bleary, red eyes. “You get any sleep?”
“What’s that again, boss? ‘Sleep’?”
“Ha.”
He handed her the crime scene report. “And I finally got more four-one-one on our friend.”
“Which one?”
“Hamilton Royce.”
Didn’t matter now, she supposed, with the case closed, and apologies—such as they were—delivered. But she was curious. “Go on.”
“His latest assignment was for the Nuclear Facilities Planning Committee. Until he got here he’d been billing the nukers sixty hours a week. And by the way, he’s expensive. I think I need a raise, boss. Am I a six-figure kind of agent?”
Dance smiled. She was glad that his humor seemed to be returning. “You’re worth seven figures in my book, TJ.”
“I love you too, boss.”
The implication of the information then struck her. She riffled through copies of The Chilton
Report.
“That son of a bitch.”
“What’s that?”
“Royce was trying to get the blog shut down—for his client’s sake. Look.” She tapped the printout.
Power to the People
Posted by Chilton.
Rep. Brandon Klevinger . . . Ever heard of his name? Probably not.
And the state representative looking after some fine folks in Northern California would rather keep a low profile.
No such luck.
Representative Klevinger is the head of the state’s Nuclear Facilities Planning Committee, which means the bomb—oops, excuse me, the buck—stops with him on the issue of those little gadgets called reactors.
And you want to know something interesting about them?
No—go away, Greenies. Go whine elsewhere! I have no problem with nuclear energy; we need it to achieve energy independence (from certain interests overseas whom I’ve written about at great length). But what I do object to is this: Nuclear power loses its advantage if the price for the plants and the energy expended in the construction outweigh the advantages.
I’ve learned that Rep. Klevinger just happens to have been on a couple of posh golfing trips to Hawaii and Mexico with his newfound “friend,” Stephen Ralston. Well, guess what, boys and girls? Ralston happens to have put in bids for a proposed nuclear facility north of Mendocino.
Mendocino . . . Lovely place. And very pricey to build in. Not to mention that it seems the cost of delivering the power to where it’s needed will be huge. (Another developer has proposed a far cheaper and more efficient location about fifty miles south of Sacramento.) But a source has snuck me the Nuclear Committee’s preliminary report and it reveals that Ralston’s probably going to get the go-ahead to build in Mendocino.
Has Klevinger done anything illegal or wrong?
I’m not saying yes or no. I just ask the question.
“He was lying all along,” TJ said.
“Sure was.”
Still, she couldn’t concentrate on Royce’s duplicity just now. There was, after all, no need to blackmail him at this point, considering he was headed home in a day or two.
“Good work.”
“Just dotting my j’s.”
As he left she hunched over the MCSO report. She was a little surprised that David Reinhold, the eager kid—the one she’d played cat-and-mouse with last night—hadn’t brought it in person.
From: Dep. Peter Bennington, MCSO Crime Scene Unit.
To: Kathryn Dance, Special Agent, California Bureau of Investigation—Western Division.
Re: June 28 homicide at house of James Chilton, 2939 Pacific Heights Court, Carmel, California.
Kathryn, here’s the inventory.
Greg Schaeffer’s body
One Cross brand wallet, containing Calif. driver’s license, credit cards, AAA membership card, all in name of Gregory Samuel Schaeffer
$329.52 cash
Two keys to Ford Taurus, California registration ZHG128
One motel key to Room 146, Cyprus Grove Inn
One key to BMW 530, California registration DHY783, registered to Gregory S. Schaeffer, 20943 Hopkins Drive, Glendale, CA
One claim ticket for car at LAX long-term parking, dated June 10
Miscellaneous restaurant and store receipts
One cell phone. Only calls to local phone numbers: James Chilton, restaurants
Trace on shoes, consistent with sandy dirt found at prior scenes of roadside crosses
Fingernail trace inconclusive
Room 146, Cypress Grove Inn, registered in name of Greg Schaeffer
Miscellaneous clothing and toiletries
One 1-liter bottle, Diet Coke
Two bottles Robert Mondavi Central Coast Chardonnay wine
Leftover Chinese food, three orders
Miscellaneous groceries
One Toshiba laptop computer and power pack (transferred to California Bureau of Investigation; see chain-of-custody record)
One Hewlett-Packard DeskJet printer
One box of 25-count Winchester .38 Special ammunition, containing 13 rounds
Miscellaneous office supplies
Printouts of The Chilton Report from March of this year to present
Approximately 500 pages of documents relating to the Internet, blogs, RSS feeds
Items in Gregory Schaeffer’s possession found at James Chilton’s house
One Sony digital camcorder
One SteadyShot camera tripod
Three USB cables
One roll, Home Depot brand duct tape
One Smith & Wesson revolver, loaded with 6 rounds of .38 Special ammunition
One Baggie containing 6 extra rounds of ammunition
Hertz Ford Taurus, California registration ZHG128, parked 1/2 block away from James Chilton’s house
One bottle orange-flavored Vitamin Water, half full
One rental agreement, Hertz, naming Gregory Schaeffer as lessee
One McDonald’s Big Mac wrapper
One map of Monterey County, provided by Hertz, no marked locations (infrared analysis negative)
Five empty coffee cups, 7-Eleven. Only Schaeffer’s fingerprints
Dance read the list twice. She couldn’t be upset at the job Crime Scene had done. It was perfectly acceptable. Yet it offered no clues whatsoever as to where Travis Brigham was being held. Or where his body was buried.
Her eyes slipped out the window, and settled on the thick, barky knot, the point where two independent trees became one, then continued their separate journey toward the sky.
Oh, Travis, Kathryn Dance thought.
Unable to resist the thought that she’d let him down.
Unable, finally, to resist the tears.
Chapter 41
TRAVIS BRIGHAM WOKE up, peed in the bucket beside the bed and washed his hands with bottled water. He adjusted the chain connecting the shackle around his ankle to a heavy bolt in the wall.
Thought once again of that stupid movie, Saw, where two men had been chained to a wall, just like this, and could escape only by sawing their legs off.
He drank some Vitamin Water, ate some granola bars and returned to his mental investigation. Trying to piece together what had happened to him, why he’d ended up here.
And who was the man who’d done this terrible thing?
He recalled the other day, those police or agents at the house. His father being a dick, his mother being all weepy-eyed and weak. Travis had grabbed his uniform and his bike and headed for his sucky job. He’d wheeled the bike a short way into the woods behind his house and then just lost it. He’d dropped his bike and sat down beside the huge oak tree and started crying his head off.
Hopeless! Everybody hated him.
Then, wiping his nose as he sat beneath the oak, a favorite spot—it reminded him of a place in Aetheria—he’d heard footsteps behind him, moving fast.
Before he could turn toward the sound, his vision went all yellow and every muscle in his body contracted at once, from neck to toe. His breath went away and he passed out. And then he woke up here in the basement, with a headache that wouldn’t stop. Somebody’d hit him with a Taser, he knew. He’d seen how they work on YouTube.
The Big Fear turned out to be a false alarm. Feeling carefully—down his pants, behind—he realized nobody’d done anything to him—not that way. Though it made him all the more uneasy. Rape would’ve made some sense. But this . . . just being kidnapped, held here like in some kind of Stephen King story? What the hell was going on?
Travis now sat up on the cheap folding bed that shook every time he moved. He looked around his prison once more, the filthy basement. The place stank of mold and oil. He surveyed the food and drink left for him: mostly chips and packaged crackers and Oscar Mayer snack boxes—ham or turkey. Red Bull and Vitamin Water and Coke to drink.
A nightmare. Everything about his life this month was an unbearable nightmare.
Starting with the graduation party at that hou
se in the hills off Highway 1. He’d only gone because some of the girls said Caitlin was hoping he’d be there. No, she really, really is! So he’d hitched all the way down the highway, past Garrapata State Park.
Then he walked inside, and to his horror he’d seen only the kewl people, none of the slackers or gamers. The Miley Cyrus crowd.
And worse, Caitlin looked at him like she didn’t even recognize him. The girls who’d told him to come were giggling, along with their jock boyfriends. And everybody else was staring at him, wondering what the hell a geek like Travis Brigham was doing there.
It was all a setup, just to make fun of him.
Pure fucking hell.
But he wouldn’t turn around and run. No way. He’d hung around, looked over the million CDs the family had, flipped through some channels, ate kick-ass food. Finally, sad and embarrassed, he’d decided, it was time to head back, wondering if he’d get a ride that time of night, near midnight. He’d seen Caitlin, wasted on tequila, pissed about Mike D’Angelo and Bri leaving together. She was fumbling for her keys and muttering about following the two of them and . . . well, she didn’t know what.
Travis had thought: Be a hero. Take the keys, get her home safe. She won’t care you’re not a jock. She won’t care if your face is all red and bumpy.
She’ll know who you are on the inside . . . she’ll love you.
But Caitlin had jumped into the driver’s seat, her friends in the back. Being all, “Girlfriend, girlfriend . . .” Travis hadn’t let it go. He’d climbed right into the car beside her and tried to talk her out of driving.
Hero . . .
But Caitlin had sped off, plummeting down the driveway and onto Highway 1, ignoring his pleas to let him drive.
“Like, please, Caitlin, pull over!”
But she hadn’t even heard him.
Roadside Crosses: A Kathryn Dance Novel Page 37