“The Ultimate Survivor show.”
“That’s it. The show he was featured on.”
“Yeah, the one that’s on the History Channel.”
“Have you watched it yet?”
“Yeah, I watched it the other day. It was kind of hokey. You know how they have to catch people up with the story after the commercials, just in case somebody new is watching?”
“Repetitive, I know,” Tess said. “When did the show air?”
“I’ll have to go look at my notes. Call you back.”
Ten minutes later, he did.
“It was last season.”
“What month?”
“November. Why?”
“I’ve got a theory, but that’s all it is.”
“Care to share?”
“I will after I look into it some more. Right now it’s just a wild hare.”
“Hey. Shoot it, skin it, put it in the pot with some mole and let’s have a feast.”
Tess saw Steve Barkman again, his head through the coffee table. The man who had blazed the trail for her.
He’d been investigating Michael DeKoven.
She had three men here: George Hanley, Alec Sheppard, and the patriarch of the DeKoven family, Quentin DeKoven.
Quentin DeKoven survived a plane crash in 1999.
Quentin DeKoven died in another plane crash in 2005.
Alec Sheppard’s parachute failed in Florida a year and a half ago.
Alec Sheppard’s parachute failed in Houston in March 2013.
George Hanley was shot in Phoenix in 1991.
George Hanley was shot to death in Credo in April 2013.
Only Alec Sheppard survived, and that was because he had help.
In all of these cases, there was one common denominator.
Michael DeKoven.
CHAPTER 23
Jaimie Wolfe’s place was buttoned up. There were no little girls on big horses prancing around the ring. Jaimie’s Dodge Ram was gone. The only vehicle on the property was the old ranch truck.
Tess heard a vehicle slow down on the road and turn in, rumbling over the cattle guard but hidden by a copse of trees near the entrance. Tess watched as the truck appeared, shadows from the trees scrolling over the hood.
A Ford—not Jaimie’s Dodge Ram—a recent-model Ford F-350. If it wasn’t covered up past the wheel-wells in mud, the truck would be white—typical for working trucks in Arizona.
White deflected the heat.
The driver was thick-bodied but not fat and looked to be in his early fifties. He wore jeans, boots, and a snap-button long-sleeved shirt. Pink face, sun-peeled nose, aviator sunglasses, straw Stetson.
Rancher.
“Hey,” the man called out, slamming the door of his truck and walking toward her. “You a friend of Jaimie’s?”
Tess introduced herself and asked who he was. He hitched his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans, framing his rodeo belt buckle, and breathed in the spring air. Taking stock of the place with a country smile. “Names’s Barnes,” he said, “Dave Barnes.” He shook her hand with his big mitt. He wore a Super Bowl–type ring that would have dwarfed another man’s hand. “Jaimie asked me to look after her livestock while she was gone.”
“Gone? Do you know where?”
He screwed up his face. “Didn’t say. Just took off—I gather she was in a hurry and she wanted me to feed the livestock. So you’re with Santa Cruz County?” He added, spotting the shield on her belt. “Nobody broke in here, did they?”
“Not that I know of.”
He strolled over to Jaimie’s porch. “Jaimie’s a little slack on security. I told her that. She leaves her key right here.” He lifted a plant in a pot on the porch and picked up a set of keys in the saucer underneath. Opened the door to wagging tails and slavering tongues. “Hey there!” he said as the dogs funneled out of the house.
Adele was among them.
“You want to come in?”
“No, thanks,” Tess said. She would need a warrant if she did—and who knew what might happen down the road. She didn’t want to hurt a potential criminal case because of the “fruit of the poisoned tree.” But she did peer around him at the inside. It looked the same as it did the last time she was here.
“Jaimie has business with the law?” the man asked.
“I wanted to talk to her. Are you a member of SABEL by any chance?”
“SABEL? Nah. That’s a little too environmentalist for me.” He scratched his neck. “You think that they’re doin’ any good? Seems like a hopeless cause to me. There’s just too damn much of that g.d. grass.”
“Did you ever meet a friend of hers named George Hanley?”
He thought about it. “Nope, don’t believe I had the pleasure. Who’s George Hanley?”
“He also belonged to SABEL. Did you hear about the man killed down Credo?”
“Old guy got himself shot up?”
“That’s the one.”
He looked down and kicked at a clod of dirt. “A real shame. Heard it was illegals or cartels—damn, it’s getting so bad. Shooting people up and cutting heads off and burning folks…I sure do hope he rests in peace.”
“How would you describe Jaimie Wolfe?”
“Let’s see…one hot babe.” He grinned. “Not that she’d notice me. Good on a horse. Like a horse whisperer, you heard of them? She’s always been nice to me.”
“Would you mind giving me your contact information, just in case I can think of anything else to ask?”
He said, “This Hanley guy who died in Credo, you think Jaimie had anything to do with that?”
“Doubtful,” Tess lied. “I’m just talking to anyone who knew him.”
“Tell you what. Give me your card, and if I hear somethin’, I’ll give you a call.”
She did so, scrawling her home phone number as well.
Tess drove up by the road and parked. She’d turned on her laptop, and looked for tire treads that matched what she’d seen—just in case Jaimie had been to Barkman’s house. Then she started up the Tahoe and put it in gear, turning east on 82. A glance in her rearview mirror showed the white Ford belonging to Jaimie’s friend driving off the ranch and turning in the opposite direction.
Her mobile rang. It was Cheryl Tedesco.
“One of our techs found something interesting at Barkman’s place,” she said. “You remember that printer he had with all those slots for micro cards?”
Tess listened while Cheryl explained that Steve Barkman had hidden a micro SD card in plain sight.
“I remember a tech mentioning something about it at the scene. What exactly is a micro SD card?”
“A storage device. It’s tiny, but apparently, it packs a lot of gigabytes on it—actually terabytes. My tech tells me that one terabyte holds one thousand gigabytes.”
Tess would be impressed if she knew precisely what a gigabyte was. “Computer memory.”
“Uh-huh. He told me, no wonder they didn’t find anything on his laptop except a bunch of bookmarked web pages, Facebook, and other crap. He must have kept it all on the card.”
“Where did your tech find it?”
“First, you gotta understand how close it came to being thrown out. It was in that jar of pens and pencils on his bookcase. But fortunately, our guys are scrupulous in looking for and bagging evidence. You know how big a micro SD is?”
“Small?” Tess guessed.
“Try a little black rectangle you can put on the tip of your finger.”
“You think there will be a lot of info on Michael DeKoven?”
“That’s the hope.”
“How far along are you?”
“Well, it’s on the tip of my finger right now. I’ll keep you posted.”
CHAPTER 24
Michael, Jaimie, and Brayden said little on the flight over. Michael rented a Town Car at LAX and drove down to Laguna Beach.
No one talked.
Michael sat still, staring at the traffic but not seeing it. Stunned.<
br />
Chad.
His brother.
His little brother.
Chad was kind of a nonentity. He’d never progressed in any way—not in school, not in a career, not even in his social life. He was an overgrown, carefree child. Their mother used to call him an innocent.
Not that he was dumb. He wasn’t. Maybe all the pot he smoked and the beer and the fast food he consumed contributed to his…haziness, but he’d carved out his own little life in the Laguna beach house and he wasn’t a bother to anybody. They could just forget about him and go on with their lives.
Michael felt guilty. He should have paid more attention. They just left him out there on his own, thinking he was fine. Happy. But he must have run across some bad people. As head of the family, Michael felt responsible.
They checked into the Retreat at Laguna, then drove to the Laguna Police Department on Loma. It took Michael a while to find a parking space and they were late. They waited in the outside office until a detective came to meet with them. He was tall and Hispanic, with a pitted face and bad breath. His name was Pete Morales. He took them back to his office.
He didn’t talk long. They would have to go identify the body at the hospital morgue, and there was very little he could tell them.
“It looks like he was going surfing. His neighbor says he usually goes out between four and five-thirty in the morning. He was found just below the steps down to the beach by a couple of surfers—” he read their names. “They must have found him shortly after he was killed.”
Michael absorbed this. “Do you have any leads? Who do you think would do something like this?” Aware of Brayden sitting beside him, her hand on his arm, stroking over and over, as if she were in a trance.
Jaimie asked, “How was he killed?”
“He was choked.”
“Strangled?” asked Brayden.
Morales shifted in his seat. Michael noticed his pants were polyester. You’d think cops in Laguna Beach would dress better. “Yes.”
Brayden continued to paw at Michael’s arm. “Why would someone do that?”
“There could be a few reasons. An argument, maybe. Or a robbery, although no one took his board.”
Michael reflected that while Chad had few needs or even wants, he spent his money on surfboards. “So it wasn’t robbery then?”
“It doesn’t look that way, but I can’t be sure. We’re looking at everything.”
Michael disengaged his arm from Brayden’s grooming efforts and held the detective’s gaze. “So …what? You think it was for the hell of it?”
“We’re trying to find out who did this and why, but there aren’t any obvious pointers to anyone. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.” He shifted in his seat again. “Did Chad have any enemies?”
“Enemies?” Michael thought Chad was the least offensive person he knew. Easygoing, friendly, willing to go along to get along. “No. At least none that we would know about.”
“We have interviewed the two young men who found him. They said the same thing.”
Cheryl Tedesco called just as Tess was pulling into her driveway.
“There’s some great stuff on the micro card. I can’t send you anything official. This is FYI only. With your memory, you’ll probably be able to say this back to me verbatim.”
When Tess got off the phone a half hour later, she thought: Steve Barkman was a damn good investigator.
Tess saw in her mind George Hanley’s calendar—the three-day trip to LA written there. She’d found the ticket he’d paid for but never got a chance to use—the round-trip ticket to John Wayne Airport in Orange County.
Now she clicked on the link Cheryl had sent her. An AP article came up, no more than a few paragraphs—about a man whose remains were found near a mountain bike trail in Orange County.
The story was two years old.
Peter Farley was a systems analyst for a tech company in Orange County, an avid mountain biker who tackled the trails into Asteroid Canyon on the weekends. Asteroid was a canyon running through a relatively remote section of the Cleveland National Forest.
Farley had parked his vehicle in the wildcat parking lot at the entrance to the canyon. When he did not return to work after the weekend, a search ensued. His bike was found at the base of a short but steep hiking trail leading to a waterfall. Farley was found near the pool at the waterfall’s base, partially eaten and dragged into a hollow under the oak trees, buried under leaves and underbrush, his bloodstained wallet still in the pocket of his shorts.
The wounds appeared to come from a mountain lion. Hunters searched for the lion, but never found any sign of one. Not surprising, since a rainstorm had come through between Farley’s disappearance and the day he was found.
And then the kicker.
“In a cruel twist of fate, Mr. Farley was attacked previously at his home in Los Angeles by a pack of javelinas while walking his small dog.”
He’d saved the dog but was seriously injured in the attack when one of the javelinas bit into his femoral artery.
Tess thought of that day at Credo. Steve Barkman leaning into her space, too close. An obnoxious character with a creepy smile.
Still.
What Steve Barkman lacked in appropriate behavior, he made up for in brain cells. He had figured out what happened to Peter Farley. And he had linked it to George Hanley’s killer.
CHAPTER 25
Walking back to the car from the police department, Michael was silent. They each dealt with Chad’s death in their own way. Jaimie looked mad at the world. Her silence was icy. Brayden’s tearstained face was crumpled up and every once in a while she hiccuped.
Michael was the man of the family. The leader. But he didn’t know what to do. He thought about the enemies he’d made. The cops were sniffing around. He wasn’t worried about that—he was too smart for them. But maybe he’d crossed the line with someone. Could they have gone after Chad for revenge, since Michael himself was too strong? He went over every expedition they’d made, every kill.
His only mistake was Alec Sheppard.
Later, Michael lay on the bed in his room at the resort, staring at the ceiling fan. The women were in the kitchen—he could hear them talking in low voices, occasional sobs from Brayden.
He was stunned. He felt as if he’d gone into shock. His extremities were cold. He rarely experienced fear, but he felt it now, deep in his chest. A tingling feeling. He was a clear thinker, a logical thinker, and so he identified the tingling in his chest and the cold in his extremities and the way his legs shook as a sixth sense for danger from outside.
Something evil.
Stalking them.
Chad was the baby of the family. Chad was the kid. A sweet, shy boy who never really grew up, whose whole life revolved around his quiver of surfboards and the water in Laguna Beach. There was no reason for anyone to kill him. Maybe it was random, but the detective didn’t leave that impression. He’d said Chad was strangled, but Michael could read between the lines. He could often tell when a person wasn’t telling the whole truth. He guessed there was more to the “strangling” than the detective had let on.
He’d also said: Did Chad have any enemies?
Maybe Chaddy did. But it was doubtful. Michael knew that he himself had an enemy—Alec Sheppard. Those two women cops were no real threat. He wasn’t worried about them. But Sheppard came all the way from Houston. He’d hired Barkman to spy on him.
Barkman’s house would be locked up tight behind the crime scene tape, but maybe…
His chest tightened again. The beginning of a heart attack? No, that was stupid. Panic attack, maybe. His heart was great. He was an athlete. He needed to go home, get away, go for a bike ride. Clear out the cobwebs. Try to get rid of the sight of Chad lying on the slab with a sheet over his head.
He needed Martin.
The next morning Tess showed Danny what she had. She gave him her theory about Michael DeKoven.
It sounded ridiculous even when she laid it ou
t for him.
Danny was distracted. His wife was finally going into the hospital the next day so they could induce labor. But the bottom line was he thought it wasn’t going to fly with Bonny.
“But I’m going on leave, so don’t ask me.”
Tess knew Bonny well. He’d brought her with him from Bajada County because he trusted her. He relied on her. Some of it was due to the fact that in Albuquerque she had been in homicide for four years and had dealt with some of the ugliest crimes imaginable. Some of it was due to her superautobiographical memory, which Bonny considered a big edge. Their secret weapon. But most of all, he liked her. He liked her and he trusted her judgment.
Tess realized she’d have to lay it out for Bonny in the right way. The first thing she had to do was print up the information on Hanley’s trip to the OC. If she could make that link to Bonny…
Tess printed up what she needed and went down the hallway to the undersheriff’s office. She nodded to Luke Grayson, one of the deputies, who was just going in.
Bonny looked up and saw Tess. “I have to talk to Luke,” he said. “Can you wait a minute?”
Tess nodded. She leaned against the wall in the hallway. Aware that her heart was beating hard.
Electricity seemed to branch out through her veins.
I’m right about this.
Still, it would be a hard sell.
She had what she had.
She hoped it would be enough.
CHAPTER 26
Bonny looked down at the pages Tess had printed up and back up at her. He looked skeptical. “You’re saying you think Hanley was going out to LA as part of his, uh, ‘investigation?’”
“Orange County. He did go out there. He and Barkman were on the same trail.”
He clasped his hands over his stomach. “It sounds far-fetched to me.”
Tess said, “Look at his itinerary. He planned to fly into John Wayne Airport. He had a reservation at the Starbrite Motel in Sylvan.”
The old mining town was at the edge of the Santa Anas, not five miles from the entrance to Asteroid Canyon.
The Survivors Club Page 12