The Bequest

by kindle@netgalley. com

  The phone rang. Hotchkiss lifted a finger in a “hold that thought”

  gesture as he answered. “Yeah.” He paused, listening, then, “Did he have

  an appointment?” Listening again, then he hung up and turned back

  around. All color had drained from his face.

  “Mike Capalletti is not here, and no one has heard from him. He’s

  not answering at home, and he’s not picking up on his cell. He always

  answers his cell.”

  “We’ll need his address,” Nichols said.

  “Gentlemen, just what in the hell is going on here?”

  “Mr. Hotchkiss, I wish I knew,” Nichols said, as his partner put his

  cell phone to his ear.

  “Swafford? Stillman here. I think you need to get over to Mike

  Capalletti’s address. Sooner rather than later.”

  “Mr. Hotchkiss?” the receptionist said as she stuck her head into the conference room. “I have building security on the line. They’re sending up a disk with coverage from the front of the building.”

  Hotchkiss grunted then went to a console in the corner. He punched a button and a large, whiteboard screen at the head of the conference table slowly rose into the ceiling, revealing a massive flat screen television behind it.

  “Wish I had one of those,” Stillman said. “We’re in the movie business,” Hotchkiss said. “All our conference rooms are equipped with them. And we have a screening room upstairs.”

  “Nice.”

  Another button or two pushed and the blinds lowered over the outside windows, darkening the room. A few minutes later a bluejacketed security guard appeared in the lobby with a small envelope. Stillman and Nichols watched as the receptionist took the envelope, removed a disk, and held it up for Hotchkiss to see. He nodded, then she walked away from them toward the hallway.

  “Where’s she going?” Nichols asked.

  “The media room is next door. She’ll—”

  Before he could finish his sentence, the screen flickered to life. A black and white image of the front sidewalk outside the building filled the screen. Nothing unusual, just the comings and goings of office workers to and from the front door, with pedestrians passing by on the sidewalk. The time was stamped in the lower right hand of the screen.

  Hotchkiss picked up a remote control. “Want me to fast forward?”

  “Let’s see the impact for starters. After that, we can go back and study the earlier footage.” Nichols looked at his notepad. “Start about four p.m.”

  Hotchkiss sped up the scene then suddenly hit the pause button. “There’s Bob. Grey hair, dark suit.”

  Sure enough, Bob Keene was just exiting the building.

  “That’s the wrong time,” Stillman said. “It’s more than twenty minutes too early.”

  “Let it run,” Nichols said.

  Hotchkiss hit play; Bob turned and walked away from the building.

  “Now fast forward,” Nichols said.

  Hotchkiss complied. Less than fifteen elapsed minutes later, Bob returned to the building, cell phone held to his ear.

  “Any idea where he might have gone?” Stillman asked.

  “Not a clue.”

  They watched for a while longer then Hotchkiss hit the pause button again. “There’s Bob coming out again.”

  “Okay, timing’s right this time,” Nichols said. “Run it forward in real time and then we’ll go back and look at it in slow motion.”

  Hotchkiss nodded then hit “play.” Keene moved forward mechanically a few steps, then stopped and turned his head to the right. Slowly, again mechanically, almost robotically. Then eyes front again.

  “He doesn’t look right,” Hotchkiss said. “I thought so before, when he came back to the building, but since he was on the phone, probably preoccupied, I thought that explained it.”

  “What do you mean?” Nichols asked.

  “Bob played a lot of tennis. I know he walked a little funny, with his bowed legs and all, but he still moved like an athlete. Smooth, you know?”

  But that didn’t match the description of the man they were watching on the screen.

  “Run it back to what we saw while ago,” Stillman said. Hotchkiss complied, and they saw what he was talking about. Keene did, in fact, move smoothly when he left the building the first time, but walked much more stiffly upon his return, almost as if his legs had straightened. Talking on the phone probably didn’t explain it. The two detectives exchanged a glance, the same unspoken question on both their lips: Had Bob Keene just met with his hypnotist?

  Bob continued to the curb, where he stopped. Rigid, as if standing at attention on a military parade ground. He was barely in the video picture, which was designed to take in the front of the building and its immediate environs, but not the street. Mercifully, when Bob stepped off the curb, he disappeared from the screen before being slammed into by the delivery truck. A pedestrian opened her mouth, as if to scream, then others rushed over. The image soon filled with bystanders.

  “Okay,” Stillman said, “run it back and then go forward real slow.”

  Hotchkiss again complied and the men watched the final minutes of Bob Keene’s life in slow motion. As Bob swiveled his head to the right, Stillman said, “Freeze it there.”

  The images stopped moving, Bob’s head turned.

  “What’s he looking at?” Stillman asked.

  Nobody answered.

  “Any way to widen the image?”

  Hotchkiss pressed a button on the remote, and the area on the screen broadened, but revealed nothing new, other than to take in a bit more of the front of the building, away from the entrance. At the far edge of the screen, a portion of a column was visible, but nothing more.

  “Okay, go forward.”

  The images jumped into motion again. The men watched closely until Bob Keene stepped off the curb and disappeared from sight.

  “There!” Stillman said. “Back it up again. Slow.”

  Hotchkiss reran the footage until Stillman stopped him. “Now forward, slower.”

  Another button push and the images moved forward at a glacier’s pace.

  “What are you looking for?” Hotchkiss asked.

  “Watch that column,” Stillman said. “Where Keene was looking when he turned his head.”

  Seconds seemed like minutes as Bob Keene mechanically swung his head around, eyes front, and moved forward. The men kept their eyes glued to the column as Bob walked toward the curb. Hotchkiss saw it first.

  “There’s a shadow.”

  Sure enough, darkness fell on the sidewalk, as if someone standing behind or beside the column had stepped out, allowing the sun to hit his or her frame and create a silhouette.

  “Good eye,” Stillman said. “Keep watching.”

  Bob kept moving toward the curb, but now no one was watching him. All eyes were on the shadow by the column. As Bob drew nearer to the curb, it wavered, almost a wiggle. Just as Bob stepped off the curb, a figure came into view, briefly silhouetted, then turned abruptly and disappeared from the frame.

  “Who is that?” Hotchkiss asked.

  “Can you zoom in?” Stillman asked.

  “Sure.” Hotchkiss backed the image up then moved it forward again. He zoomed, which cut out the column.

  “No, no, no,” Stillman said. “Any way to zoom on that column?”

  “Not on this,” Hotchkiss said. He stopped the picture just as Bob turned his head. “You’ll probably need some kind of software program to do that. All this can do is zoom in on the main picture.”

  “Can you widen the picture?” Nichols asked.

  “A little bit.” Hotchkiss pushed a button, and the scope of the picture’s image opened up, taking in more of the column. The outline of a person’s body at the column’s edge was vaguely visible.

  “Can’t see the face,” Hotchkiss said.

  “Okay, forward,” Stillman said.

  Hotchkiss advanced the picture, but Bob Keene
was again just a footnote. All attention was riveted to the column. The shadow appeared again, but this time the outline of the person’s body was more distinct, although the face was still hidden in shadow. Then the person spun and walked away as Bob stepped off the curb.

  Hotchkiss froze the picture then looked at the detectives.

  “Who the hell is she?”

  CHAPTER 41

  Detective Swafford pulled to a stop in front of a two-story stucco house on Bedford Drive in Beverly Hills, not far from the Los

  Angeles Country Club. A hedge of hibiscus framed the yard like a fence, blood red blossoms polka-dotting rich green leaves. A chain link gate was closed across the sidewalk to the front porch that split the hedge into halves. An elderly Hispanic man clipped stray tentacles that threatened to mar the perfect face of the hedge. A second, younger man, a leaf blower strapped to his back, came along behind him, blasting the trimmings into the street.

  The younger man stopped the blower as Swafford exited his car and watched him with the kind of wary eye typically triggered by cop-detector radar that some people naturally maintained. People who have reason to be wary.

  “Is Mr. Capalletti home?” Swafford asked.

  The elderly man stopped his trimming to observe the conversation. His radar hadn’t gone off at all, but his curiosity had.

  “His car is in the garage, but I haven’t seen him,” the leaf blower said

  with remarkably precise diction.

  Swafford immediately felt guilty for his assumption that, if you had a

  leaf blower strapped to your back, you must be an illegal.

  “Is that normal?”

  “He’s generally already gone to work when we show up, so yes, it’s

  unusual for his car to be here in the middle of the day.”

  Swafford nodded, swung open the gate, and walked to the front porch. He pressed the door bell and, satisfied that he heard the sound of a ring inside the house, pulled out his cell phone. He rang the bell again

  while he waited for Stillman to pick up on the other end of his call. “So what have you got?” Stillman said.

  “What? No hello? See, that’s the problem with caller I.D. No one

  says hello anymore.”

  “Hello,” Stillman said. “So what have you got?”

  Still no answer at the door. Swafford tried the handle, but found it

  locked, so he stepped off the porch and walked around the house, looking

  in windows.

  “I’ve got workers here who say Capalletti’s car is in the garage, but

  they haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since they’ve been here. He’s not

  answering the door, and I’m not seeing any movement inside. They say

  it’s unusual for his car to be here in the middle of the day.”

  “Do you see a phone in any of the windows?”

  Swafford cupped one side of his face with his free hand and pressed

  close to a window on the side of the house. The room was dark, the

  narrow gap in mini-blinds barely wide enough to permit sunlight inside.

  Still, it was enough that Swafford could make out a table and chairs, a

  counter and, beyond the counter, cupboards and a stove.

  He squinted and surveyed the walls in the room. “Yeah, got one on

  the wall in the kitchen,” he said.

  “Okay, hang on a sec.”

  After a few beats, the phone on the wall began to ring.

  And ring. And ring. And ring.

  “It’s ringing,” Swafford said.

  “No one’s picking up. And we’ve been trying his cell for the past

  fifteen minutes with no luck.”

  “It got a GPS in it?”

  “If it does, he’s turned it off or disabled it. We can’t pick up a

  location.”

  “Call the cell again and let it ring.”

  “It goes to voicemail after about ten seconds or so.”

  “Then keep calling it,” Swafford said. “I’m going to move around the

  house and see if I can hear it.”

  “Why don’t you just pick the lock or kick the door in and go inside?” “This is Beverly Hills. We do things different here. I can’t go busting

  inside unless I think a crime is in process or someone’s in danger—” “Yeah, yeah, yeah. The irony is that, even though you’re in a movie

  city, you’d never make it as a movie cop. In the movies they just—” “I know; I’ve seen ‘em. This would be the part where I say, ‘Do you

  hear that? Sounds like a cry for help.’ Then I kick the door in.” “All right, put your ears on,” Stillman said. “We’re gonna start

  calling.”

  Swafford hung up and put the phone in his coat pocket. He leaned

  close to the kitchen window, waited, then moved on to the next window

  upon hearing nothing. He had just made it around the back corner of the

  house when he heard faint strands of music coming from above his head.

  He looked up and saw a patio extending from the rear of the house. At the

  far end, a stairway led down and spilled onto a flagstone sitting area, with

  outdoor furniture centered around an exterior fireplace. As if anyone

  needed an outdoor fireplace in southern California. Still, the wealthy had a

  need to spend their dollars in ways that might seem impractical to working

  stiffs, like police detectives.

  Swafford pulled out his phone and punched re-dial. “Keep calling that

  number,” he said when Stillman answered. “I think we’re on to something.

  I’ll keep this line open.”

  “Will do.”

  Swafford held the phone at his side as he took the stairs two at a time.

  At the top, the music was louder and clearer.

  “Rolling Stones?” he asked into his phone.

  He heard muffled voices in the background and then Stillman said,

  “That’s his normal ringtone.”

  Swafford crossed the second-story patio to a sliding glass door. Heavy

  drapes had been drawn, blotting out any view of the interior, but the door

  was open just slightly, enough to allow the music to be heard. Swafford

  grabbed the door handle and slid it open. Slowly. Silently.

  The musical strains played louder.

  Swafford pulled his gun from his holster and used the barrel to push

  the drapes aside. He stepped across the threshold then paused

  momentarily to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimness. He found himself

  in a small alcove, a sitting area of sorts, with a floor lamp and love seat

  across from a three-shelf bookcase.

  He stepped out of the alcove into the full bedroom area. The room

  was dark as night, only faint outlines of furniture visible. The drapes were

  thick, obviously designed for day-sleeping. He stepped back to the alcove

  and pulled the drapes open all the way. Light streamed inside, made its

  way across a hardwood floor, to a Persian rug that outlined a king-sized

  bed, in which—

  Mike Capalletti lay still as death, a bullet hole between his eyes. “Time to kick the doors down,” Swafford said.

  PART THREE:

  THE HILL COUNTRY

  CHAPTER 42

  Clad in a long-sleeve denim work shirt, jeans, and heavy work boots, Chad Palmer slipped safety goggles over his head and adjusted them around his eyes. He fitted plastic ear muffs over his sweat-stained Texas Rangers baseball cap, tugged up his work gloves, then flipped the chainsaw switch to on. Kneeling on one knee, he grasped the starter cord and gave it a sharp yank. On cue, the saw went from zero to sixty almost instantaneously, the sound just a faint buzz thanks to the ear muffs.

  He lifted the saw and scanned his target: a copse of cedar trees clogging an a
ncient stand of giant Post Oaks at the far edge of a meadow that separated the entry road to his ranch house from a thick stand of woods that covered the east thousand acres of the ranch. In the semi-arid Texas Hill Country, water was scant, and conventional wisdom had it that one adult cedar tree consumed up to thirty-five gallons of the precious liquid per day. Better to eliminate trash trees that were as plentiful as cockroaches in order to protect the more desirable oaks and, in some areas of his 4,760 acre ranch, rare maples.

  That’s right; maples. Although most commonly associated with northern climes, such as New England, these trees also called the Texas Hill Country home. In fact, not thirty minutes away, as Chad often liked to point out, one of Texas’s most popular parks, Lost Maples State Natural Area, fostered a stand of maples on its 2,200 acres that annually drew nearly 200,000 visitors from across the country.

  Chad bent, turned the chainsaw sideways and placed the bar nearly flush with the dirt. Because a felled cedar won’t re-grow, the goal was to sever it right at ground level so as not to leave any stump. He squeezed the trigger, the chain whirred, and he pressed against the trunk. The teeth bit instantly, spewing chips of wood and unleashing the aroma of fresh-cut cedar. He loved the smell, which for him ranked right up there with burning wood in a fireplace and charcoal-grilled steaks.

  When the saw cleared the trunk, he pulled it clear, pressed the sole of his boot against the tree, and pushed. As it started its fall, he stepped back and applied his saw to the next, larger, tree in line. Just as he pulled the trigger, he caught a glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision on the dirt road that led to his ranch house. A vehicle was approaching, plumes of dust trailing behind.

  Chad pressed harder, forcing the chain deeper into the cedar, now halfway through the eight-inch diameter. He tried to keep his focus on the saw, despite the approaching vehicle. He wasn’t expecting anyone, but country veterinarians often had unexpected visitors, which was why he typically left his front gate open during the day. It was just one of the hazards, if you could call it that, of the job in rural ranch and farm areas, especially when you were a large-animal vet. Cows and horses didn’t keep track of time or days; when they needed a vet, they needed a vet now.