“You knew me back then. I told him he’d be the sorry one; I’d put his butt in jail. Later, I pieced together what Louis had rambled about. He said that Buck came to him and told him he needed to go to the police and tell the truth about the Triple Seven. I rolled it over and over, wondering what it could mean. Buck was dead as far as I knew. I planned on asking Louis, but two nights later he was dead in a hit-and-run.”
“Did Kent have something to do with that?”
“I don’t know. But I planned on going to the Puffs with what I’d heard and see if they could make sense of it. Tell them maybe they should look Kent’s way.”
Woody whistled. “That would have been a whole new avenue of investigation.”
“Don’t I know it. Twenty-five years ago a little pressure on two-bit Kent would have broken the case wide-open.” He cursed and held his head in his hands. For a brief minute Woody feared he would begin sobbing.
But Asa shuddered and looked up. “Then I got something in the mail. You know what went on at those parties before you straightened up.”
Woody nodded. He knew all too well. Besides the drinking, there were women and a lot of juvenile high jinks. More than one officer had been fired during the course of his career because of something directly related to an after-shift party at a cop bar.
“Someone took pictures of me with a woman.” He inhaled deeply. “At least I thought she was a woman. Turned out she was underage. With the picture of us was a copy of her high school ID. The note said that if I said or did anything related to the Triple Seven, the pictures would go straight to the girl’s parents and to IA.”
Woody felt like he was going to be sick. He’d stopped partying with Asa after the fire. Buck and Patricia were people he liked and respected, and seeing them burnt up like that made him throw everything up. Ever since that night, he couldn’t stand the smell of alcohol or even think about taking a drink. Staying sober for twenty-seven years hadn’t helped him save three marriages, but it had kept him from the type of trouble Asa just described.
“So you stayed quiet.”
“I did. Did what I’d heard even make sense? Buck was dead, memorialized, and everyone moved on. I wanted my career, my name. You know I even managed to sober up for a time.”
Woody nodded. “You started in again after Miriam died. But it got worse after you began working with Abby.”
Asa gave a mirthless chuckle. “Yeah, it did. That girl brought back so many memories. Maybe I should have retired as soon as she came back. Life is made up of maybes, isn’t it? She is such a good cop, better than I ever was. When I saw how smart she was, I thought she deserved to know the truth. But what truth? After all this time, I just don’t know what it is anymore.”
Now Asa did cry, not a sob, but tears running down his face. For something to do, Woody poured him some more coffee.
“There’s no evidence now,” Woody said, half to himself. “Even if you’d recorded what Louis said, there’s no evidence to convict anyone of anything.”
DON’T DO ANYTHING to jeopardize our future.
Abby could hear Ethan’s words in her head when she filed for vacation time. With all the turmoil in her heart right now, she could hear him telling her to pray. Abby didn’t want to pray. She wanted to break down doors and get the truth.
The first door she wanted to kick was the one to Trevor Taylor. Even though she was on vacation, she hadn’t canceled her appointment to talk to him. But halfway to LA, Ira Green called and said she wasn’t getting anywhere near his client. Abby had no choice but to head home with her tail between her legs.
First thing through the door, she hugged Bandit. He began to lick her face, and it was then she realized she was crying. Collapsing in her big chair with the little dog, Abby let the tears fall until her ribs hurt. As a child in foster care, she used to kick dirt clods and imagine she was smashing her parents’ killers to dust. They were faceless dirt clods then. Now the faces were in front of her . . . or were they?
When she was done crying, she picked herself up and grabbed her investigation book. The only other avenue she had to work with was Kelsey Cox. If Kent were the killer, and he and Cox were a couple back then, she would know. Especially if Kent had been shot. And a question nagged—if they were engaged, why didn’t they get married? Why break up after the fire?
She opened her book on the kitchen table and began reviewing what she had memorized. She’d never read the name Kelsey Cox anywhere.
Abby went through the scribe list of all the officers who checked on scene for the Triple Seven fire. Cox was in patrol back then and it had been a big fire, but she was not listed as having been on scene for any reason. Next Abby moved to the fire at her house. Her parents’ home was just off Second Street near an elementary school and not far from the restaurant. There was Cox. She was an eastside day patrol unit and one of the first responders.
Did that mean anything at all? she wondered in exasperation. If Kent set the fire, was Cox there to cover up for him? Hide evidence?
“Arggh.” Abby closed her eyes and patted both sides of her head, wanting to scream in frustration. She could hear Asa’s voice: “Straws, you’re grasping at straws”—something he’d said a few times during her training when she tried to make things fit that didn’t.
Her phone rang again and she recognized Luke’s number. She almost didn’t answer because she wanted—too much—to hear his voice, talk this out with him. He would understand her frustration. Finally, before it went to voice mail, she answered.
“Abby, where are you?”
“Home. I took two weeks’ vacation time.”
“Are you okay?”
The genuine concern in his voice gave her pause. Was she?
“I am.”
“Something tells me you’re not taking a vacation.”
“I don’t need a lecture.”
“I’m not a lecturer. Just wanted to ask you a question. Do you mind if I stop by?”
Drumming her fingers for a second before she answered, she said okay and wondered if she really should have.
It broke his heart that Abby met him at the door looking for all the world like she was defeated. There was no fire in her eyes. Luke bent down to pick Bandit up when the little guy rushed over to say hello.
“Thanks for letting me come over. Bill told me you were upset.”
“I’ll admit I’m frustrated.” She flung herself onto the couch, grabbing a pillow and hugging it to her chest. “I wanted to break down doors, scream, kick, but that won’t get me anywhere. I’ve tried to connect Cox to some shadow conspiracy, and that’s not happening, so how about I leak Sanders’s unsubstantiated ravings to Walter Gunther?”
“That would be unethical.”
“Yes, it would be.” She looked at him, anger and pain in her eyes. “But if my parents were killed to protect Rollins, to ignite his political career, who is unethical?”
Luke sighed. He understood her frustration too well. “You believe Sanders, then?”
“Maybe I wouldn’t if Cox hadn’t been so quick to make sure I wouldn’t be able to investigate anything. And even quicker to give the case to the very man who might be covering things up.”
“She thinks you’re too close; that’s legitimate.”
“Is it? She’s close to this as well. She dated Gavin Kent years ago.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Woody.”
“I guess that explains some things and raises more questions.”
“Yeah, it does. I wonder if they’re still close.”
“If they are, isn’t Cox behaving a little unethically?”
“Carney had a bit of gossip about that.”
“Is gossip ever reliable?”
“This might be. Cox is up for a job with Rollins when he runs for senate.”
Luke whistled. He wanted to say something, anything, that might brighten Abby’s outlook. “Listen, I had a thought on my way over. Sometimes when old cases come up, make news,
don’t people call in tips, even kooks?”
“Uh-huh.” She frowned. “I’ve been so busy, I haven’t heard if any have come in on the Triple Seven.”
“Maybe if you give an extensive cable interview, on your own time, you might generate some tips.”
“And do what? Give them to the CHP to be buried?”
“You don’t know that will happen. If people are talking about a topic, politicians usually have to be aboveboard with said topic.”
He could tell she was considering it.
“My friends at Good Morning Long Beach would like to do an interview. It’s local, it’s low-key, and you’re on your own time.”
“A private citizen?” She looked skeptical. “I don’t think I want to be that provocative.”
Luke raised an eyebrow and cocked his head, trying to think of something else.
Her phone rang with her homicide ringtone.
“It’s Bill,” Abby said, brows furrowed. “I wonder what’s up.”
She answered, and Luke watched as her features hardened. When she ended the call, she looked at Luke.
“George Sanders hung himself in county lockup.”
“No way.”
“So much for not being provocative. Call up your friends at Good Morning Long Beach. I’ll give them an interview.”
DON’T DO ANYTHING to jeopardize our future.
While she stood in the studio watching the college kids set up for the talk show, Abby fidgeted nervously and prayed. Lord, please, you know my heart in this. I just want the truth. She prayed for the right words, and for forgiveness, though technically she was not doing anything out of policy—unless she released confidential or unsubstantiated information.
Abby and Luke sat down on the black-and-gold couch across from the grad student who hosted the show, Jay Casey.
The crew who ran the show did their best to put her at ease, but nervousness rippled through her like waves on the beach. Next to her, Luke was the picture of calm, and she hoped that would help her when the questions started.
“Good morning, Long Beach! I’m Jay Casey and today we have two special guests, both local heroes: one you know—Luke Murphy, our favorite private investigator—and the other hero is also someone who knows great personal tragedy.
“Thank you for being with us today, Luke and Detective Abigail Hart.”
“My pleasure.” She and Luke spoke at the same time, but then Casey directed his questions to Abby.
The interview started and Abby’s butterflies disappeared. First Jay asked her about her background, and she shared the story of the Triple Seven and her own odyssey.
“I can’t imagine having your parents murdered and never finding out why or by whom. So where does the investigation stand now?”
Abby swallowed. “Well, I’m not sure. Governor Rollins has decided the California Highway Patrol will do a better job at the investigation. The LBPD doesn’t have it anymore.”
“So you’re saying that Governor Rollins has taken the investigation away from the LBPD?”
“Yes. While I have great respect for the highway patrol, the Triple Seven investigation is not their jurisdiction.”
“Do you think the governor is hiding something?”
“I don’t know what to think. All I know is that for the first time in twenty-seven years we had some new information—information I can’t comment on—and the governor snatches the investigation away. Maybe you can ask him, Jay. Maybe he’ll come on GMLB and tell everyone why he did that.”
“Wow, that’s quite a story,” Jay said. “It almost sounds as though the governor is trying to cover something up, doesn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Abby said, “at least this early. Who knows? Maybe the CHP will solve the case once and for all.”
“I wouldn’t be as charitable as Detective Hart,” Luke chimed in. “To me this definitely looks like a cover-up.”
“Heavy charges to make. Maybe after twenty-seven years it just can’t be solved.”
“I don’t believe that for a second,” Abby said. “Good luck for bad people can’t last forever. I look forward to a perp walk with my parents’ killers center stage.”
ABBY MET HER FRIEND Jessica in the parking lot of River’s End early Thursday morning. They were both on their bikes, and the plan was to ride from River’s End to Newport Beach and back and then have breakfast. Abby wanted to be out of the house for the fallout from the interview. Cable news channels had picked it up in the afternoon, and people were asking Rollins for a statement about the case all day Wednesday. She hadn’t seen an official response from the governor but was sure one would eventually come.
For Abby the early morning ride was therapeutic as well as being escapist. She’d been so busy lately her workouts had suffered; she needed a hard ride.
“You should do interviews more often,” Jessica said as they started their ride down Ocean Avenue toward PCH.
“I don’t think so.”
“Why? It was great. You got the Triple Seven investigation going again, I’m sure of it.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t have permission to give an interview. I may be in trouble.”
“I think Rollins should be in trouble for taking the investigation away.”
Abby grunted in agreement as they finished their warm-up and began to ride harder.
When they reached Newport Beach, they stopped for a water break and she checked her phone. There was a message from DC Cox.
She returned the call and braced herself for the sky to fall on her head.
“Detective Hart, I realize you are on vacation, but in light of your recent off-duty activity, your presence is required at the station.”
The formal niceness of the DC’s tone took Abby by surprise. “When? I’m not at home right now. I’m out on my bike.”
“Can you be here by 2 p.m.?”
Abby checked the time. “Yes. I’ll be there.”
She told Jessica as the two decided to head back to Long Beach.
“Are you in trouble?” Jessica asked.
“I have no idea.”
Cox was nowhere to be seen when Abby arrived at the DC’s office. Her secretary directed Abby to a conference room. She walked into the room, and there, at the head of the large, oval table, sat Governor Lowell Rollins.
Her breath caught in her throat, and for a second she felt as if she’d forgotten how to breathe. She expected a dressing-down, a letter of reprimand, at the least, or suspension at the most. But she didn’t expect this.
“Hello, Abby.”
She swallowed. “Governor.” She noticed that it was just the two of them. Neither Cox nor Kent was anywhere to be seen. She hadn’t even noticed an entourage on her way up from the lobby.
“Please, have a seat. I came here to see you and hopefully to clear up a few things.”
Abby didn’t immediately comply.
“Please. Abby, your parents were my best friends in the world, and I realize I owe them—I owe you—some answers.”
She took a chair two down from Rollins and wiped sweaty palms off on her jeans. “Why did you take the Triple Seven investigation away?”
He leaned forward. “I’ll get to that. First, I wanted to give you some background. I’ve read the statement Sanders gave and I think that you owe me a chance to respond to his ravings.”
His gray eyes bored into Abby and she waited for him to continue.
“Your parents and I grew up together. In fact, your father and his brother, Simon, were guests at my house for dinner more times than I can count. I was best man at your parents’ wedding. Do you know where the name Triple Seven came from?”
“You were all born in July.”
He nodded. “Yes, your mother’s birthday was 7/5, mine is 7/6, and your dad’s was 7/7. We felt we were lucky sevens and that the number would be lucky for business.” He sat back, and a faraway look came over him. “It was, too, for a time—very lucky. The restaurant did phenomenally well. Your mother had n
o plans to buy me out, and no, your dad was not a crazed drug addict.” He smiled and Abby looked away.
“I want you to forgive me. I lost so much that day, and it hurt me so much, I forgot how much you lost. I confess I forgot you all these years and I’m sorry. I owed it to your parents to make certain you were well taken care of, not shoved away like you were.”
“I’m fine. My aunt did her best, and I have no animosity over how I was raised. The only animosity I feel is toward the people who killed my parents. I want them brought to justice. Sanders had the idea that Kent and your brother killed my parents.”
Rollins huffed and shook his head. “For what purpose? What motive? My brother was . . . well, today they say developmentally disabled. True, he could be easily coerced, but he had a job as a busboy at the restaurant and was proud of it. He loved your parents as much as I did. Why would he hurt them? As for Gavin, at the time of the fire he was engaged and planning his wedding. What reason would he have to murder anyone?”
“Why would Sanders make up the story he told?”
A sad smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as Rollins said, “Jealousy? I don’t know. He was underwater financially at the junkyard. George had a gambling problem. And from what I understand, you arrested him on a strong murder charge. Perhaps the man he killed held some markers; maybe Sanders owed him money. He certainly wasn’t holding a box of evidence relating to the Triple Seven.”
And I can’t ask him now, Abby thought. “It’s a strange coincidence that Crunchers burned to the ground after Sanders told me where he had proof hidden.”
“Not so strange. I asked for an early copy of the arson investigator’s report. Seems the fire was accidental—bad wiring in the office is what the investigator found. George was never meticulous about things.”
Abby fought hard to keep her expression neutral. She’d forgotten to check on the cause of the fire at Crunchers, she’d been so preoccupied.
Drawing Fire Page 26