by Alex Barclay
‘As in Judge Hammond Hammond? Hey, why don’t you throw a few congressmen’s offices into the mix, maybe the DA?’
‘It’s the file of his wife’s homicide in 1983,’ said Ren.
‘And then what do I do?’
‘I’m trying to think of the best thing to do…’ Ren paused. ‘Use your digital camera.’
‘I don’t have one.’
‘Use mine, then.’
‘And how will you be watching my back while this is going on?’
‘I’ll be in my car in the complex. I’ve already been in Janine Hooks’ office, so it is not beyond the beyond the bounds of possibility that I could be there again. Anyway, the JeffCo pathologist is there too. I have a few options.’
‘And…?’
‘And I can make a big show of arresting you if anyone stumbles across you. Which they won’t, because you are so good.’
Billy rolled his eyes. ‘What about the security guard?’
‘There’s no one at the back door,’ said Ren. ‘It’s punch-code access. And I have the number.’
‘Cameras?’
‘May have been tampered with,’ said Ren. She handed Billy the map she had drawn.
‘What is it with you and Douglas Hammond?’ he said, studying the map. ‘Why does it matter?’
‘Because,’ said Ren.
‘You child,’ said Billy. ‘You will tell me at some stage.’
‘I will. I promise.’
Billy stood up. ‘OK, let’s do it,’ he said.
‘Now?’
Billy nodded. ‘Billy Waites: Photo-copying While-U-Wait.’
34
Ren sat alone at Annie’s kitchen table with print-outs of the photos Billy had taken of Trudie Hammond’s file. Having pushed away her guilt at lying to Janine Hooks and at roping Billy into her mess, she was struggling to bury the fear of getting caught. She needed a sharp mind to put together the pieces of something she was not even quite sure of. It was like the ingredients of a cake laid out on a table without the recipe – you had to start baking it, but you had no real idea what cake you were making. A lot of it came down to guesswork, and the end result could be a disaster. With a cold-case file, you were dealing with out-of-date technology and the inexperience and limited resources of an older police force. Re-investigating it could make you the person who turns up decades later at a forgotten mine and strikes gold. Or the person who shows up and confirms that there was nothing new to be uncovered.
In Trudie Hammond’s case, there was a twenty-seven-year gap and a file that was disappointingly slim. Ren ran through the details, starting with a series of shots of the blood-soaked crime scene.
Trudie Hammond, housewife and mother of one was found dead by her husband at 11 a.m. on August 16, 1983. He had left for work at 8 a.m., returned unexpectedly to pick up a work file and found his wife lying dead on the living-room floor. She had been struck several times on the head with a glass vase and had crashed through a glass coffee table.
The couple’s two-year-old daughter had been asleep in her crib and was awakened by a female police officer and brought to a family member’s home. There were no signs of sexual assault. Mrs Hammond had had sex that morning with her husband before he left for work.
In evidence: one nightgown, fragments of broken glass from the vase, one piece of carpet.
All twenty houses on the street had been canvassed. The only name Ren recognized was Lucinda Kerr, who had been home sick from work, but was sleeping and had not seen or heard a thing. Her husband, Peter Everett, had been out jogging and had also not seen or heard anything suspicious. He had returned to find police cars on the street. Most of the residents discovered the tragedy when they came home at the end of the working day.
Ren studied the photos. Trudie Hammond was dressed in a white nightgown with a halo of blonde hair spread out above her head. It was the same nightgown that she had been wearing when her husband had left her that morning. She was heavily made up, but tears had clearly washed her mascara down her cheeks. Her bright pink lipstick was gone, leaving behind a faint stain.
Why did she have full makeup on when she was killed if she had not showered since her husband left? Would a woman shower, apply makeup and put on the nightgown from the previous night? Little things, maybe, but odd.
And how had little Mia Hammond slept through all this? An intruder entering the house. Shattering glass. Her mother’s crying and probable screaming. Her father’s car pulling up. His arrival into the house.
Ren felt a surge of frustration at not being able to walk through the rooms of the Hammond house, of not being able to question the non-witnesses, at not being able to talk to Douglas Hammond or any of the detectives on the case or…There was one name she recognized, signed at the bottom of the autopsy report under the pathologist’s name: Dr Barry Tolman.
Ren liked Barry Tolman. He had a nice manner, was efficient and easy to deal with. Could she trust him to give her details on the case without blabbing to Janine Hooks?
Hmm.
Ren closed the file, shoved it under the sofa and went to bed.
Few wise decisions can be made at four a.m.
At eight the following morning Ren was standing in front of the kitchen cabinet reaching for a box of peppermint tea, wishing there would come a day when four hours’ sleep would not leave her feeling nauseous. As she reached for the kettle, the house phone startled her. One day, four hours’ sleep would not make her jumpy.
Few people had Annie’s home number. Or would expect Ren to ever be home, no matter what was going on in her life.
‘Hello?’ she said.
‘Did you know Beau had been doing drugs?’ Her mother’s voice was painfully shrill – the voice that heralded a conversation riddled with ridiculous statements.
Ren looked at her watch again. ‘What? It’s eight a.m., Mom. Jesus.’
‘Jesus doesn’t care what time it is,’ said her mom. Ridiculous statement #1.
‘Hello?’ said Ren. ‘It’s early, you know I have to go to work in a little while. So, tell me, calmly, what is going on.’
‘Don’t tell me to be calm,’ she said. ‘Would you be calm if the whole world said your son was a drug user?’ Statement #2.
The whole world. Ren took a deep breath. ‘Why did you call me? To take out your anger at the police? Or for…what exactly?’
‘I want to know if you knew that Beau was doing drugs.’
‘I want to know what makes you think that he was.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Ren, drop the lawyer/therapist act.’ Statement #3. ‘Was Beau doing drugs?’
‘No,’ said Ren. ‘And if he was, would it matter now? And would it matter if I knew or “the whole world” knew?’
‘Well, according to Daryl Stroud, when his detectives spoke with Beau’s friends, they said that he had been doing drugs. The detectives asked them had they been to his room, did they know of this hole he had in the bed—’
‘Does it matter? Seriously?’
‘Of course it matters,’ said her mother. ‘He suffered from depression. He was not supposed to be doing drugs. Drugs would make everything worse for someone like Beau. And how did your father and I not notice? I can’t believe he was doing drugs under our noses and none of us noticed.’
‘Mom…can we believe whoever said this?’ And can anybody let Beau rest in peace?
‘It changes everything,’ said her mother.
‘What do you mean?’
‘There was something we could have done. If I had noticed, I could have put a stop to it. God knows how they were affecting his brain. He could still be here today if I had been paying more attention. I’m his mother.’
‘Mom, you and Dad could not have paid more attention to us if you tried – short of following us all around every day.’
‘Obviously, that wasn’t enough.’
No – it was too much. ‘Whatever you’d like to think about this revelation, it doesn’t change a—’
‘Of
course it does, Ren. I have spent how many years being told by people “There was nothing you could do”, and finally I had started to believe it. I allowed myself to be convinced that I had done everything I could for Beau. But now it’s obvious that was not the case. I failed my son.’
‘I know you’re not going to hear this right now,’ said Ren, ‘but I’ll say it anyway. You did not fail Beau. Please do not look for an excuse to go back and punish yourself again. You did everything. After that, it was Beau alone with his mind. And his mind was shooting out faulty messages. And at that moment in time, he listened to them. He had no control over that. So you definitely couldn’t have.’
‘How can you be so calm about all this?’
‘Years of therapy is how,’ said Ren. ‘Maybe you should give it a shot.’
‘I don’t need therapy.’ Statement #4.
‘Everyone needs therapy, if you ask me.’
‘It wouldn’t do any good at my age…’
I give up. ‘Well, if you think it will make you feel any worse than the way you do right now, you’re absolutely right not to go.’
Silence.
‘I’ve got to get back to work,’ said Ren. ‘Take care. Hi to Dad. And Beau didn’t do drugs.’
35
Ren called Dr Barry Tolman from the Jeep on the drive to work.
‘Hey, Barry,’ she said. ‘It’s Ren Bryce from Safe Streets.’
‘Hi, Ren,’ said Tolman. ‘How are you doing?’
‘I’m good, thank you. I’m just calling to see if I could talk to you about a case you worked on.’
Tolman paused. ‘Sure…what case?’
‘It was a homicide. Trudie Hammond, 1983,’ said Ren.
Tolman was slow to answer. ‘I’m sorry, Ren,’ he said, ‘I can talk to you about any other case – just not that one.’
What? ‘Oh,’ said Ren. ‘OK…can I ask why?’
‘You can, but I’m under strict orders not to say a word.’
‘By whom?’
Tolman sighed. ‘Janine Hooks.’
‘What?’ said Ren.
‘Yes,’ said Tolman. ‘I’d love to help. But for some reason, known only to Janine, I can’t. If it’s any consolation, I was an assistant on that case, so who knows how helpful I could be to you.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’d be helpful if your hands hadn’t been tied,’ said Ren.
‘You know I’d always be happy to help you,’ said Tolman. ‘I have no idea what’s going on with Janine.’
Ren paused. ‘Are you guys friends?’
‘Janine’s a nice person,’ said Tolman. ‘But we’re not friends. She’s a little intense. Like, goes around with this permanent look of concentration on her face. We pass each other in the hallway every now and then, but that’s it.’
‘How is she work-wise?’
‘Does not miss a trick,’ said Tolman. ‘On a mission. I wouldn’t want to mess with Janine Hooks.’
It may be a little late for that.
The only sounds in the Safe Streets office when Ren arrived were tapping keyboards and papers being shuffled. Ren sat quietly at her desk, wondering what to do about Janine Hooks. What did she know? Was this all a huge coincidence? Should I call her?
Whatever had happened, Janine Hooks was calling the shots and Ren wasn’t about to do anything else until she had more information.
Ren stared at the Fifty Most Wanted list, the place where her attention should have been, instead of on the strange tangle – if there was one – of Helen Wheeler and Douglas and Trudie Hammond. Domenica Val Pando’s face stared back at her from the noticeboard.
What are you to me? Ren felt a strange stabbing in her chest as the answer hit her. The most screwed-up relationship I’ve ever had. Domenica is like the boyfriend I was cheating on who was cheating on me at the same time and we both found out about it. No man had ever gotten under her skin the way Domenica Val Pando had. The thought turned her stomach.
‘Holy shit,’ said Ren, jumping up. ‘Domenica is not the crocodile. She’s the plover bird.’
The tapping of keyboards stopped. The guys all looked at her.
‘There is someone bigger than Domenica out there,’ said Ren. ‘She’s not the big boss any more. She can’t be. Think about it. She lost power – and face – when the FBI got right inside her world. She screwed up big time, people who worked for her were killed. Back then, she had no idea how the FBI ended up storming her compound. She was raped by two men in front of her child, she was beaten down emotionally, physically and where it hurt her the most – financially.
‘After that, there was no way Domenica could pass herself off as this shrewd “business” woman. She wouldn’t be as respected or trusted as much. There’s been a massive power shift. And like any relationship with a power shift, it either falls apart or it takes time to get back on track. Domenica realized she could never be the big boss again after that whole mess, but she could still be very useful to the right kind of people, providing many different kinds of services. But…only if she could put her trust in something and someone more powerful, which, let’s face it, along the border, means something or someone that could be potentially lethal to her – those jaws could snap down on her any time. But what can Domenica do right now, except take the risk?’
The guys nodded.
‘All we need to find out now,’ said Ren, ‘is who is the crocodile?’
‘I guess we have two choices with Domenica,’ said Colin. ‘We find Gavino and work our way up to Domenica, or we find this possible new boss of hers and work our way down.’
‘The boss could be the better route,’ said Ren. ‘I would say he is an angry man now that she’s turned high profile again with our list.’
‘Well,’ said Cliff. ‘Her next high-profile moment will be her arrest.’
‘You bet,’ said Robbie.
‘I’m going to get on to Nogales and see what I can find out about some of the big players,’ said Ren. ‘And while I’m at it, I’ll find out the latest on Erubiel Diaz.’
An hour later, Ren got off the phone and called everyone in for a briefing.
‘OK,’ she said, ‘the authorities in Nogales still have Erubiel Diaz down as collateral damage in the Puente cartel’s bloodbath. The interesting part is that the original arrest of the Puente second-in-command that set the whole thing off happened because of a tip-off, believed to have come from a man known as “El Coyote Panzón”.’
‘El Coyote Panzón,’ said Colin. ‘The fat coyote?’
Ren nodded. ‘I’m presuming the coyote in question is one of the guys who helps people cross the border.’
‘That’s what they’re called – coyotes?’ said Robbie.
‘Yup,’ said Ren. ‘But…it’s a little weird. If I were trying to get across the border as fast as my illegal legs could carry me, I wouldn’t be putting my hand up for the fat coyote’s team.’
‘Is El Coyote Panzón with one of the cartels? Is he a boss?’ said Cliff.
‘No one knows,’ said Ren. ‘All we know is that he has seriously pissed the Puente cartel off. And somehow Erubiel Diaz was part of the mix.’
‘Could Domenica Val Pando be the coyote?’ said Robbie.
Ren laughed. ‘Domenica would be far too vain to allow herself to be called fat anything.’
‘Is there anything more on this coyote?’ said Colin.
‘I’ve put the word out with Border Control,’ said Ren. ‘If there is any more information, they’ll be the ones to find it.’
Everyone went back to their desks and continued to work in silence. It was as if they were all suffering the after-effects of a bad night. There was no small talk, no group lunch. When Ren came back into the office at two, Colin looked up from his computer.
‘Did you hear about this?’ he said. He quoted the headline. ‘Trudie Hammond Murder Inquiry Re-opened’.’
What? ‘Where did you hear that?’
‘The Post.’ Colin scanned down the screen.
‘Wh
at are they saying?’
‘A lot of nothing.’
‘But there’s no mention that Hammond’s death was homicide,’ said Ren.
‘No.’
‘It won’t take a genius to work out that someone is suspicious. After all these years, around the same time as the husband dies in an “accident”, his wife’s murder inquiry is being looked at again?’ Shit. Shit. Shit. ‘But, why now?’ Ren’s heart was pounding. ‘And who’s quoted? Where did this come from?’
She got her answer about who the suspicious party was with the ping of her Inbox. As if by magic. It was an email from Janine Hooks: Subject: Ha/Ho.
This is not good.
Ren opened the email:
‘H-A…goes before H-O…’
Regards,
Janine Hooks
Oh, Billy, you didn’t.
36
Billy arrived at Annie’s that evening wondering what it was that could be so urgent – again. Ren slumped down on the sofa. ‘Billy…’
‘What happened?’ he said, sitting beside her.
‘Oh, Billy,’ said Ren. ‘You put the file back in the wrong place.’
‘What?’
‘You put the Hammond file behind the “H-O” file.’
He put his head in his hands. Then he looked back up. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I got an email from Janine Hooks. She’s reopening the case.’
‘Is that not a good thing?’
‘No,’ said Ren. ‘Not on any level.’
‘Shit. I’m…so sorry. That is not the kind of mistake I make. Are you screwed?’
‘I don’t know. But what a fucking mess. There’s no telling what she’s going to do.’
‘Will she talk to Gary Dettling?’ said Billy.
‘She better not,’ said Ren.
‘Thank you for not blaming me,’ said Billy, taking her hand.
Oh, I am. I am blaming you. But it was an accident. So I can’t say it out loud. Or maybe I will. Don’t do it. I can’t help it…