Kathryn Dance Ebook Boxed Set : Roadside Crosses, Sleeping Doll, Cold Moon (9781451674217)

by Deaver, Jeffery

  Dance tensed and stepped back slightly, to give her time to get to her pepper spray or cuffs. If he came at her again she was prepared to defend herself, though she could imagine what the media would do with the story of the daughter of a suspected mercy killer Macing the brother of the euthanized victim.

  But Julio simply stared at her with a curious look—not of anger or hate, but almost amusement at the coincidence of running into her. He whispered, “Your mother . . . how could she?”

  The words sounded rehearsed, as if he’d been waiting for the chance to recite them.

  Dance began to speak, but Julio clearly expected no response. He walked slowly out of the door that led to the back exit.

  And that was it.

  No harsh words, no threats, no violence.

  How could she?

  Her heart pounding furiously from the bewildering confrontation, she recalled that her mother had said Julio had been here earlier. Dance wondered why he was back now.

  With a last glance at the police tape, Dance left the ICU and walked to the office of the head of security.

  “Oh, Agent Dance,” Henry Bascomb said, blinking.

  She smiled a greeting. “They’ve got the room taped off?”

  “You were back there?” he asked.

  Dance immediately noted the stress in the man’s posture and voice. He was thinking quickly and he was uneasy. What was that about? Dance wondered.

  “Sealed off?” she repeated.

  “Yeah, that’s right, ma’am.”

  Ma’am? Dance nearly laughed at the formal word. She, O’Neil, Bascomb and some of his former deputy buddies had shared beer and quesadillas down on Fisherman’s Wharf a few months ago. She decided to get to the nut of it: “I’ve only got a minute or two, Henry. It’s about my mother’s case.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  Dance was thinking: I don’t know any better than you do, Henry. She said, “Not great.”

  “Give her my best.”

  “I’ll do that. Now, I’d like to see the employee and front desk logs of who was at the hospital when Juan died.”

  “Sure.” Only he didn’t mean sure at all. He meant what he said next: “But the thing is, I can’t.”

  “Why’s that, Henry?”

  “I’ve been told I can’t let you see anything. No paperwork. We’re not even supposed to be talking to you.”

  “Whose orders?”

  “The board,” Bascomb said tentatively.

  “And?” Dance continued, prodding.

  “Well, it was Mr. Harper, that prosecutor. He talked to the board. And the chief of staff.”

  “But that’s discoverable information. The defense attorney has a right to it.”

  “Oh, I know that. But he said that’s how you’ll have to get it.”

  “I don’t want to take it. Just look through it, Henry.”

  There was absolutely nothing illegal about her looking through the material, and it wouldn’t ultimately affect the case because what was contained in the logs and sign-in sheets would come out eventually.

  Bascomb’s face revealed how torn he was. “I understand. But I can’t. Not unless there’s a subpoena.”

  Harper had spoken to the security chief for one purpose only: to bully Dance and her family.

  “I’m sorry,” he said sheepishly.

  “No, that’s okay, Henry. Did he give you a reason?”

  “No.” He said this too quickly, and Dance could easily see eye aversion that differed from what she knew of the man’s baseline behavior.

  “What did he say, Henry?”

  A pause.

  She leaned toward him.

  The guard looked down. “He said . . . he said he didn’t trust you. And he didn’t like you.”

  Dance stoked her smile as best she could. “Well, that’s the good news, I suppose. He’s the last person in the world I’d want a thumbs-up from.”

  THE TIME WAS now 5:00 p.m.

  From the hospital lot, Dance called the office and learned there’d been no significant developments in the hunt for Travis Brigham. The Highway Patrol and sheriff’s office were running a manhunt, focusing on the traditional locales and sources for information about runaways and juvenile fugitives: his school and classmates and the shopping malls. That his transportation was limited to a bike was helpful, in theory, but hadn’t led to any sightings.

  Rey Carraneo had learned little from Travis’s rambling notes and drawings, but was still sifting through them for leads to the boy’s whereabouts. TJ was trying to track down the source of the mask, and calling the potential victims from the blog. Since Dance had learned from Caitlin that Travis liked the shore, she gave him the added task of contacting the parks department and alerting them that the boy might be hiding out somewhere in the thousands of square acres of state land in the area.

  “Okay, boss,” he said wearily, revealing not fatigue but the same hopelessness that she felt.

  She then spoke to Jon Boling.

  “I got the boy’s computer. That deputy dropped it off, Reinhold. He sure knows his stuff when it comes to computers.”

  “He shows initiative. He’ll go places. You having any luck?”

  “No. Travis is smart. He’s not relying on your basic password protection alone. He’s got some proprietary encryption programs that have locked his drive. We may not be able to crack it, but I’ve called an associate at school. If anybody can get inside, they can.”

  Hmm, Dance thought, how gender-neutral: “associate” and “they.” Dance translated the words as “young, gorgeous female grad student, probably blond and voluptuous.”

  Boling added in techspeak that a brute force attack was under way via an uplink to a supercomputer at UC–Santa Cruz. “The system might crack the code within the next hour—”

  “Really?” she asked brightly.

  “Or, I was going to say, within the next two or three hundred years. It depends.”

  Dance thanked him and told him to head home for the evening. He sounded disappointed and, after explaining that he had no plans for that night, said he’d continue to search for the names of posters who might be at risk.

  She then collected the children from Martine’s and they all drove to the inn where her parents were hiding out.

  As she drove, she was recalling the incidents surrounding young Juan Millar’s death, but in truth she hadn’t focused on them much at the time. The manhunt had demanded all her attention: Daniel Pell—the cult leader, killer and vicious manipulator—and his partner, a woman equally dangerous, had remained on the Peninsula after his escape, to stalk and murder new victims. Dance and O’Neil had worked nonstop pursuing them, and Juan Millar’s death had not occupied her thoughts, other than to engender a piercing remorse for the part, though small, she’d played in it.

  If she’d guessed that her mother might have become entwined in the case, she would have been much more attentive.

  Ten minutes later Dance parked the car in the gravel lot of the inn. Maggie offered, “Wow,” bouncing on the seat as she examined the place.

  “Yeah, neat.” Though Wes was more subdued.

  The quaint cottage—part of the luxurious Carmel Inn—was one of a dozen stand-alone cabins separate from the main building.

  “There’s a pool!” Maggie cried. “I want to go swimming.”

  “Sorry, I forgot your suits.” Dance nearly suggested Edie and Stuart could take them shopping for swimwear, but then recalled that her mother shouldn’t be out in public—not with Reverend Fisk and his birds of prey on the loose. “I’ll bring them by tomorrow. And, hey, Wes, there’s a tennis court. You can practice with Grandpa.”

  “Okay.”

  They climbed out, Dance collecting their suitcases, which she’d packed earlier. The children would be staying here tonight with their grandparents.

  They walked along the path bordered with vines and low, green chick-and-hen succulents.

  “Which one’s theirs?” Maggie asked, bou
ncing along the trail.

  Dance pointed it out and the girl launched herself forward fast. She hit the buzzer and a moment later, just as Dance and Wes arrived, the door opened and Edie smiled at her grandchildren and let them inside.

  “Grandma,” Maggie called. “This is cool!”

  “It’s very nice. Come on in.”

  Edie gave a smile to Dance, who tried to read it. But the expression was as informative as a blank page.

  Stuart hugged the children.

  Wes asked, “You okay, Grandma?”

  “I’m absolutely fine. How’re Martine and Steve?”

  “Okay,” the boy said.

  “The twins and I built a mountain out of pillows,” Maggie said. “With caves.”

  “You’ll have to tell me all about it.”

  Dance saw they had a visitor. Distinguished defense attorney George Sheedy rose and stepped forward, shaking Dance’s hand and saying hello in his basso profundo voice. A briefcase was open on the coffee table in the sitting area of the suite, and yellow pads and printouts sat in cluttered stacks. The lawyer said hello to the children. He was courteous, but from his posture and expression Dance could tell immediately that the conversation she’d interrupted was a hard one. Wes regarded Sheedy suspiciously.

  After Edie dispensed treats to the children, they headed outside to a playground.

  “Stay with your sister,” Dance commanded.

  “Okay. Come on,” the boy said to Maggie and, juggling juice boxes and cookies, they left. Dance glanced out the window and noted that she could see the playground from here. The pool was behind a locked gate. With children, you could never be too vigilant.

  Edie and Stuart returned to the couch. Three cups of coffee rested, largely untouched, on a low driftwood table. Her mother would have instinctively prepared them the moment Sheedy arrived.

  The lawyer asked about the case and the hunt for Travis Brigham.

  Dance gave sketchy answers—which, in fact, were the best she could offer.

  “And that girl, Kelley Morgan?”

  “Still unconscious, it seems.”

  Stuart shook his head.

  The subject of the Roadside Cross attacks was tucked away and Sheedy glanced at Edie and Stuart, eyebrow raised. Dance’s father said, “You can tell her. Go ahead. Everything.”

  Sheedy explained, “We’re tipping to what Harper’s game plan seems to be. He’s very conservative, he’s very religious and he’s on record as opposing the Death with Dignity Act.”

  The proposal cropped up every so often in California; it was a statute, like Oregon’s, that would allow physicians to assist people who wished to end their lives. Like abortion, it was a controversial topic and the pros and cons were highly polarized. Presently in California if somebody helped a person commit suicide, that assistance was considered a felony.

  “So he wants to make an example of Edie. The case isn’t about assisted suicide—your mother tells me that Juan was too badly injured to administer the drugs to himself. But Harper wants to send a message that the state will seek tough penalties against anybody who helps with a suicide. His meaning: Don’t support the law because DAs will be looking real closely at each case. One step out of line and doctors or anybody helping someone die will get prosecuted. Hard.”

  The distinguished voice continued grimly, speaking to Dance, “That means he’s not interested in plea bargains. He wants to go to trial and run a big, splashy, public relations–driven contest. Now, in this instance, because somebody killed Juan, that makes it murder.”

  “First degree,” Dance said. She knew the penal code the way some people knew the Joy of Cooking.

  Sheedy nodded. “Because it’s premeditated and Millar was a law enforcement officer.”

  “But not special circumstances,” Dance said, looking at her mother’s pale face. Special circumstances would allow for the death penalty. But for that punishment to apply, Millar would have had to’ve been on duty at the time he was killed.

  But Sheedy said, scoffing, “Believe it or not, he’s considering that.”

  “How? How can he possibly be?” Dance asked heatedly.

  “Because Millar was never officially signed out of his tour.”

  “He’s playing a technicality like that?” Dance snapped in disgust.

  “Is Harper mad?” Stuart muttered.

  “No, he’s driven and he’s self-righteous. Which is scarier than being mad. He’ll get better publicity with a capital case. And that’s what he wants. Don’t worry, there is no way you’d be convicted of special circumstance murder,” he said, turning toward Edie. “But I think he’s going to start there.”

  Still, Murder One was harrowing enough. That could mean twenty-five years in prison for Edie.

  The lawyer continued, “Now, for our defense, justification doesn’t apply, or mistake or self-defense. Ending the man’s pain and suffering would be relevant at sentencing. But if the jury believed you intended to end his life, however merciful your motive, they would have to find you guilty of first-degree murder.”

  “The defense, then,” Dance said, “is on the facts.”

  “Exactly. First, we attack the autopsy and the cause of death. The coroner’s conclusion was that Millar died because the morphine drip was open too far and that an antihistamine had been added to the solution. That led to respiratory, and then cardiac, failure. We’ll get experts to say that this was wrong. He died of natural causes as a result of the fire. The drugs were irrelevant.

  “Second, we assert that Edie didn’t do it at all. Somebody else administered the drugs either intentionally to kill him, or by mistake. We want to try to find people who might’ve been around—somebody who might’ve seen the killer. Or somebody who might be the killer. What about it, Edie? Was anybody near ICU around the time Juan died?”

  The woman replied, “There were some nurses down on that wing. But that was all. His family was gone. And there were no visitors.”

  “Well, I’ll keep looking into it.” Sheedy’s face was growing grave. “Now, we come to the big problem. The medication that was added to the IV was diphenhydramine.”

  “The antihistamine,” Edie said.

  “In the police raid on your house, they recovered a bottle of a brand-name version of diphenhydramine. The bottle was empty.”

  “What?” Stuart gasped.

  “It was found in the garage, hidden under some rags.”

  “Impossible.”

  “And a syringe with a small bit of dried morphine on it. The same brand of morphine that was in Juan Millar’s IV drip.”

  Edie muttered, “I didn’t put it there. Of course I didn’t.”

  “We know that, Mom.”

  The lawyer added, “Apparently no fingerprints or significant trace.”

  Dance said, “The perp planted it.”

  “Which is what we’ll try to prove. Either he or she intended to kill Millar, or did it by mistake. In either case, they hid the bottle and syringe in your garage to shift the blame.”

  Edie was frowning. She looked at her daughter. “Remember earlier in the month, just after Juan died, I told you I heard a noise outside. It was coming from the garage. I’ll bet somebody was there.”

  “That’s right,” Dance agreed, though she couldn’t actually recall it—the manhunt for Daniel Pell had occupied all her thoughts then.

  “Of course . . .” Dance fell silent.

  “What?”

  “Well, one thing we’ll have to work around. I’d stationed a deputy outside their house—for security. Harper will want to know why he didn’t see anything.”

  “Or,” Edie said, “we should find out if he did see the intruder.”

  “Right,” Dance said quickly. She gave Sheedy the name of the deputy.

  “I’ll check that out too.” He added, “The only other thing we have is a report that the patient told you, ‘Kill me.’ And you told several people that. There are witnesses.”

  “Right,” Edie said, soundi
ng defensive, her eyes slipping to Dance.

  The agent suddenly had a terrible thought: Would she be called to testify against her mother? She felt physically ill at this idea. She said, “But she wouldn’t tell anybody that if she were really intent on killing somebody.”

  “True. But remember, Harper is going for splash. Not for logic. A quote like that . . . well, let’s hope Harper doesn’t find out about it.” He rose. “When I hear from the experts and get details of the autopsy report, I’ll let you know. Are there any questions?”

  Edie’s face revealed that, yes, she had about a thousand. But she merely shook her head.

  “It’s not hopeless, Edie. The evidence in the garage is troublesome but we’ll do the best we can with that.” Sheedy gathered up his papers, organized them and put them into his briefcase. He shook everyone’s hand and gave reassuring smiles to them all. Stuart saw him to the door, the floor creaking under his solid weight.

  Dance too rose. She said to her mother, “Are you sure the kids won’t be too much? I can take them back to Martine’s.”

  “No, no. I’ve been looking forward to seeing them.” She pulled on a sweater. “In fact, I think I’ll go outside and visit.”

  Dance briefly embraced her, feeling stiffness in her mother’s shoulders. For an awkward moment the women held each other’s eyes. Then Edie stepped outside.

  Dance hugged her father too. “Why don’t you come over for dinner tomorrow?” she asked him.

  “We’ll see.”

  “Really. It’d be good. For Mom. For you, everybody.”

  “I’ll talk to her about it.”

  Dance headed back to the office where she spent the next few hours coordinating stakeouts of the possible victims’ houses and of the Brighams’ residence, deploying the manpower as best she could. And running the frustratingly hopeless search for the boy, who was proving to be as invisible as the electrons making up the vicious messages that had sent him on his deadly quest.

  COMFORT.

  Pulling up to her house in Pacific Grove at 11:00 p.m., Dance felt a tiny shiver of relief. After this long, long day she was so glad to be home.

  The classic Victorian was dark green with gray banisters, shutters and trim—it was in the northwestern part of Pacific Grove; if the time of year, the wind and your attitude about leaning over a shaky railing coincided, you could see the ocean.