“Mr. Tyson…Lou. Can I call you Lou?” She gave him a sweet smile, like she was really, really sorry to bother him and would go away as soon as humanly possible.
Tyson smiled, thinking to himself this was confirmation the pretty little thing in front of him was mostly a police department errand girl. “Of course, call me Lou, Detective,” as he patted her knee. Not sexually, maybe just a little condescendingly. He wanted to help.
Rigas looked down, letting him know she was reacting as a woman, not a cop. “Please, I’m Joann.” Crevins would laugh milk out his nose if he saw this.
Lou leaned back, totally comfortable now that he was in control. Rigas looked up. “I’m just trying to tie up a few loose ends. Mr. Mills seemed to be a pretty regular guy. The death of his wife must have really upset him.”
Lou looked genuinely sad, but there was a hint of something else. “Yes, Bernard was a good man. Dedicated. And very talented. He didn’t speak of his wife often, but I’m sure he was committed to her and very broken up by the tragedy. That must have been why he felt he couldn’t go on.”
Rigas tried to express naïve enthusiasm. “What exactly did Mr. Mills do here?”
Smiling, Lou shook his head. “Well, we develop very complex, very confidential software at Calypso. Mills was extremely good at getting teams to look beyond what they thought they were capable of, beyond what they may have thought was even possible. His groups did amazing work.”
That wasn’t really an answer. Rigas knew it but Lou didn’t know she knew it. She shook her head. “Wow, that sounds very complicated. What exactly does your product do?”
Lou put his fingers to his lips. “Very hush-hush. Can’t talk about it, or I’d have to…well, that’s not something I’d say to an officer of the law, but you know what I mean.”
Rigas tried to blush, unsuccessfully. She gave a laugh that bordered on a giggle instead. “Do you know if he was having any personal problems? Or anything at work that might have been bothering him? I’m just trying to get a better idea of what his state of mind was.”
Lou put on a helpful expression. “He did seem pretty agitated for a while, just before his wife was…well, died. But it’s hard to remember exactly the timing – it really must have hit him hard.”
Rigas was comfortable that Lou thought her the pretty little policewoman now. Angie Dickinson reincarnated. “Mr. Hanratty doesn’t seem to have liked Mr. Mills very much, I thought.”
Still being Mr. Helpful, Lou frowned. “Well, Hanratty is an excellent mother hen and doesn’t like anything threatening the golden eggs. Bernard’s behavior…” He stopped, catching himself. Rigas knew that whatever he said now was recovery for having let something slip. “Now that I think about it, Mills had been having some, well, attitude problems and Hanratty had a couple of chats with him around the time all this happened.”
Rigas knew this was backtracking. She had gotten what she wanted. Mills had done something to worry Hanratty, something he had told Lou Tyson about. Hanratty was all about security, so that’s where Mills had created a problem. This was a good start. She had something to play off Hanratty now.
“Mr. Tyson – Lou – thanks so much for taking time away from your important schedule.” Standing, she put out her hand. Tyson, a little surprised, jumped up and took her hand for a long, warm shake. For a minute she thought he was going to pat her on the head. He touched a button on his computer and a few seconds later the door opened. Hanratty waited in the hallway as Rigas thanked Lou again.
“It was my pleasure, Joann. Please let me know if I can be of any further help.”
Rigas, pretending to look down out of shyness, caught the raised eyebrow Tyson gave Hanratty. She and Hanratty took a different route from before back to the reception area. Her regular exterior was fully back in place. She’d need a shower later to wash off the coy act. When they got through the reception area and were standing at the outside door, Rigas turned to Hanratty.
“I know about Mills. Was he really a security threat?”
Hanratty looked at her for a moment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Rigas played her hunch. “Your boss likes to hear himself talk. Mills’ behavior was worrying you. You were going to do something about it if he hadn’t eaten a gun.” She waited for Hanratty to draw the conclusion that she knew more than she really did. He shook his head. “I was handling any security problems internally. I’m sure they were unrelated to his suicide.” That was it. He wasn’t going to give up any more, but this confirmed her suspicion that Mills was doing something related to the company.
“Uh huh. Not related at all. Bullshit. C’mon Hanratty – what was Mills up to? Stealing paperclips? Not ironing the crease in his khakis?”
Hanratty gave her a tight smile. “Please let me know if I can be of any help, Detective. And good luck with the case.”
Rigas had just been baiting him, knowing it would go nowhere, but she felt the need to balance against the demure detective act she’d put on with Tyson. Now she was done. . She left without another word.
Walking back to her car in the quiet neighborhood, Rigas considered what she thought she had learned. So Calypso made some kind of super-secret spy satellite software, or some shit like that. Rigas didn’t really need to know or care. What mattered was Mills had suddenly started acting differently, Hanratty believed he was stealing something important, and Mills killed himself after his wife was murdered along with a girl in Pasadena who had canceled checks from Mills. Time to check out the girl’s apartment.
* * *
An hour later, another piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. Rigas sat in her car outside Gwen Pelletier’s apartment building. Three neighbors and the landlord had confirmed it: Gwen was Mills’ little something on the side. For the three months prior to her death, Mills visited at least twice a week, sometimes during the day. He also paid the rent, though not directly. The manager had seen this kind of thing before – Pelletier paid the rent check about an hour after a visit from Mills.
Rigas strummed the dashboard, wishing for a cigarette. She settled for a couple pieces of gum. She thought about what she knew as she chewed. Distracted, she slipped off a shoe and began massaging her foot. As she kneaded harder and harder, her chewing slowed. She had a picture now. Mills’ wife is murdered. A few days later, his girlfriend is killed. Just before all this happens, he starts acting agitated at work and tries to steal some super secret technical bullshit from a place built like Fort Knox. Somebody was extorting him. Whether he killed himself because he couldn’t take the loss of his wife, or his girlfriend, or his job didn’t matter. What mattered was he had been squeezed, hard. Having your wife and girlfriend killed is pretty heavy persuasion.
She stopped chewing the gum and her hands stopped massaging at the same time. Josh Barnes knew something, he knew the man he had killed. She was sure of it now. If it was the same man, the one who nearly decapitated Agnes Mills with a wire and had almost done the same with Barnes, then the answer was easy. The same person or people who had extorted Mills were doing the same thing to Barnes. And the fact Barnes didn’t tell her about it – she remembered his lie and the resolute look on his face – meant the dead guy wasn’t working alone.
“Now that’s some fucking detective work,” she muttered. Shoes back on, hand turning the ignition, eyes straight ahead. She was ready for a serious no-bullshit chat with Barnes. This wasn’t just about a breaking and entering or even an old murder case. Something bigger was going on and Rigas was going to be in the middle of it.
Chapter Twenty-one
Zuma Beach was part of the Malibu coastline, north of where Pepperdine University sat across from the Pacific Ocean on Highway 1, the Pacific Coast Highway. Zuma was popular with surfers and families, immigrants and SoCal natives. Sewage spilling into the water under the tourist-heavy pier at Santa Monica ten miles south didn’t make it to Zuma and the daily report in the Los Angeles Times listing beaches to avoid because of high bacter
ial count rarely included its name. It was also one of the largest continuous public beaches in Southern California. Drive over the mountains on Kanan Dume after a twelve-mile up-and-down ride cut out of the rock and head north a couple of miles, then take a series of right turns and end up in line behind hundreds of other cars waiting to pay seven dollars to park. This single entry point for parking usually looked like the entrance to Disneyland on a busy holiday weekend; SUVs packed with kids and coolers, everyone antsy to get in and start having fun. On a Saturday evening after 5:00 p.m., though, what traffic there was headed in the other direction to exit the parking lots. The toll-takers were gone for the evening and Josh didn’t need to pull his wallet out as he passed by.
Josh remembered taking a date to Zuma last Memorial day. Going to the beach on the first major holiday of the good weather, the official start of summer, was insane. But the woman he was seeing loved the beach, thought it would be romantic, and Josh was in the honeymoon phase. Anything she wanted was fine with him. He remembered waiting half an hour in line to pay for parking and entering a massively overflowing lot with dozens of cars cruising for an open spot. He groaned but his companion – a native Malibu beauty – told him to keep driving past this first lot on the narrow road paralleling the highway. There was a second lot a little ways down. It, too, was teeming. Keep going, she said. Turned out there was a third lot, with only about a dozen cars hunting for the rare open parking spot. She looked at him and mouthed the words “keep going” as they passed thousands of bodies laying on the beach, throwing Frisbees, or splashing in the surf. Josh drove past a fourth lot. By the time they reached the ninth section of the parking area, he had the luxury of picking a spot closest to the sand and away from any rust-bucket beaters whose owners clearly wouldn’t care if they dinged his Beemer when they opened their creaky door. They’d outlasted the couples and families and surfers who either didn’t know or didn’t have the patience to keep going. Josh counted a total of thirty-two people on this stretch of beach. On Memorial Day. It was a perfect date.
This time he was heading to the very last parking lot. It was close to sunset and by the time he passed the third lot there were barely any cars. By the eighth lot there were no cars at all and only a handful of surfers on the beach. When Josh reached the final parking lot, it was deserted. A squat, cinderblock building marked the end of Zuma beach. It was the last of a dozen public restrooms/shower houses along the beach. One surfer was rinsing sand off his board at the outside shower and as Josh parked the surfer finished and headed up to the highway. You could park on the PCH and skip paying the seven dollars, hopping over a small wooden railing and crossing the parking lot to the beach, but risked getting a ticket if you exceeded the two-hour limit or violated the strict rules about keeping two wheels on the grass and two on the shoulder. The cops made millions every summer ticketing tourists who didn’t know the subtleties. The surfer tossed his board into the back of a faded yellow convertible VW Thing. Josh had never seen one outside California, but they were the cool ride for the very poor in LA. Behind the surfer’s car was a black-on-black Lexus SC400. Beautiful car. Nothing else – no other car in the lot and no other car parked on the road within two hundred yards. The Lexus must have been Helen’s. Josh noted the license plate, but did not need to write it down. MNYGAL. Subtle.
Out on the beach a couple walked slowly, the breeze pushing the woman’s hair away from her face. She held hands with her partner, occasionally leaning her head against his shoulder. It looked like a commercial for Viagra. They were heading past the public part of the beach. There are only three kinds of beach in southern California: public, where anyone could walk; protected, which was part of the many acres of preserved land in California and was too rough and tumble for regular beachgoers; and private. The communities and homeowners along the coast owned the private beaches. This couple looked pretty comfortable crossing the line from public to private beach. They were probably residents of the community just north of Zuma. Helen’s instructions said to park near the restroom and walk onto the sand directly across, waiting for her at the shoreline. Josh didn’t know what to expect. She wanted the design, so she wasn’t just going to shoot him from the roof of the restroom. He was pretty sure she, or one of her other partners, would meet him. Josh was hoping he had enough leverage to survive the meeting. If she wanted the design badly enough, he would be okay tonight. After that, it was only going to get worse.
Josh locked the car and stepped off the asphalt onto the sand. It felt funny trudging across fifty feet of beach in regular clothes. Still no one in sight. He got to the line where the surf fizzled out against the sand and waited. No matter what else was on your mind, it was impossible not to look out at the ocean, particularly at sunset. It was getting cool and it had been a clear day, so the remaining light sparkled on the water. Fewer than 100 feet off shore, a fin broke the surface and then quickly disappeared. Josh kept watching, and the fin reappeared. This time it didn’t just break the surface; almost the entire body of the dolphin arced over the water. Three other fins did the same thing a little further out. Fifty feet ahead of the first one, another four sleek figures emerged. Three more a little closer in. Maybe they were feeding, maybe just playing. But watching them pass by leisurely, close enough that a surfer or good swimmer could easily make their way out and touch the cool, slick skin as they passed, calmed Josh. He turned around just as Helen emerged from behind the gray structure where the surfer had been cleaning up. She looked directly at Josh, never wavering as she crossed the dozen yards of sand. Most people took on an awkward gait when walking across sand. Helen didn’t. Josh couldn’t suppress the thought he had slept with this woman, that she was beautiful, and that he had felt so attracted to someone who was threatening to destroy his life. Humiliation mixed with his fear. She held her shoes in her left hand and the light wind whipped her loose-fitting white silk pants. Her bare arms were golden tan and as she got closer he could see the gentle lines of muscle in the shoulders. If she had a gun or other weapon, it was hidden somewhere she couldn’t easily reach. She walked right up to Josh, not stopping a polite few feet away. He almost stepped back until he realized this was part of the game she played; she planted a gentle kiss on his cheek and stepped back. She was a predator and this was part of toying with her prey. Helen knew the memory of the couple hours they’d spent being intimate would be to her advantage.
“Josh, how lovely to see you this evening.”
Her casual demeanor didn’t take him by surprise any more. Josh was beginning to get her rhythm. The stark beauty of her face, the slim, tight sensuality of her body were not lessened – they created an even greater contrast with the evil he knew she was capable of. This was the woman who had ordered the death of his sister. The muscles of Josh’s neck tightened, but his face showed nothing.
“Dear, please tell me how Crawford met his untimely death. I can’t wait to hear the details.” Her taunt froze on her lips as her eyes moved to Josh’s neck. The angry laceration glowed in the dimming light. Helen reached out to touch it. He didn’t flinch. Helen’s eyes returned to his and her smile lessened.
“You are a very lucky man, Josh. Very lucky.”
Josh wanted to lash out and smash her like he had Crawford. His plan to stay calm was disappearing. “Why’d you send him? I told you I had it, I was sending it first thing in the morning. You didn’t have to…there was no reason…” His voice was rising. He unclenched his fists as he realized they had tightened and were digging his nails into his palms. “You didn’t have to do that. I said I would do what you wanted.”
“I gave you a deadline. You missed it. I always do what I promise. Now, sweetie, give me the Ventrica design so we can avoid any future unpleasantness.”
They looked at one another, not saying anything. She was less sure of how Josh would respond than she had seemed on their previous visit. Part of him knew that could be an advantage, but it was hard to keep a clear head. He couldn’t stop playing a scene in his he
ad where she casually gave Crawford the order to kill Allison
“How do I know you’ll leave me and my sister alone if I give it to you?”
Her smile was back. “I think I’ve shown I’m true to my word.” Irony. “Now give me the design and you can go back to your perfect little life. I’ll tell my boss you cooperated and it will be over. We’ll just forget about the dust-up with Crawford.”
Josh hesitated, not feeling so confident in his plan now that he was standing alone on the beach with the person who he knew was capable of anything. So without looking down Helen pulled a small but ugly gun from one of the shoes she carried in her left hand. Not pointing it at Josh, just holding it to her side. He knew she would shoot him without hesitation if she thought it would get her the design. He also knew she would shoot Allison or anyone else. Her or someone else sent by whomever she worked for. The idea that she had an employer rattled around in the back of Josh’s mind, a concept that felt too overwhelming to examine right now. Looking in her eyes he shivered.
A couple deep breathes. His neck relaxed, just a little. No one in sight, no partner running along the beach. Just Helen and her gun. “I killed Crawford in self-defense. I didn’t tell the police anything, just that there was a burglar and we struggled. I don’t know him; I don’t know anything about you. I can’t do anything to cause you harm. I just want it to be over.”
She shifted her weight in the sand, the gun visible only to Josh had there been any other observer. “The design, Josh. And it’s over.”
He raised his hands to his sides. “It’s not on me.”
“Where is it?” There was an edge in her voice and it scared him.
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