by Jan Burke
“Hmm,” Cookie said. “I suppose that rules out an accomplice.”
“As I said,” Cassidy continued, “spatter patterns and other evidence back that up. Those boys were just damned lucky that someone called the department about the suspected robbery. If not, who knows how long they would have been down there?”
“Those boys,” Bear said. “I mean, it isn’t too hard to understand that you might not be quite right after something like that, is it? Sitting down there for hours and hours….”
“Let’s not get morbid,” Cookie said. “I’m sure Bea didn’t want us to come over here just to make her think about such gruesome things.”
“I’m all right, Cookie,” she said. “You know I’m tougher than that.”
“Yes, well, I’m not so tough myself,” Cookie said. “I’m older than the rest of you. If you’ll forgive me, I’ve got to be going.”
Everyone stood, and the good-nights began. Cecilia left right after Cookie. Gus and Bear had driven over together and left soon after her. We waved good-bye from the front porch.
Bea and Rachel and Pete went back into the house, leaving me on the porch with Cassidy.
“I guess we both know who it is, now,” I said.
28
CASSIDY RAISED A brow. “Oh?”
“It’s Cookie, isn’t it?” I said.
“Now, what makes you think so?” he asked, although nothing in his voice indicated he disagreed.
“Bret Neukirk’s version of events that night may or may not be completely accurate, but there are certain parts of the story that he’s unlikely to have invented or misremembered.”
“Such as?”
“Such as what time of day they were traveling to Lake Isabella. He said they left the house at three in the morning and were pulled over by a patrol car. The Bakersfield department wasn’t so big or poorly managed that you could just drive a cruiser off the lot without anyone noticing. So they were probably pulled over by a car that was already in use.”
“Okay, I’ll buy that. We’ll assume it wasn’t a stolen cruiser.”
“Gus worked days,” I said. “He would have finished his shift by four in the afternoon. Bear would have been off by about two-thirty in the morning. Only Cookie would have been in a patrol car after three in the morning.”
“Yes, but if Bret had the time wrong by an hour or two, it could have been Bradshaw.”
“Maybe,” I said, “but he would have been pushing it — he would have been at the very end of the shift, planning to take two men hostage. But Nathan Cook had plenty of time.”
“Powell was there to help him — might not have figured on needing much time. It’s clear the boys were an unexpected complication,” Cassidy said. “I’m not arguing against your notion about Cook, though. He mentioned he had worked that shift.”
“Which is another thing that bothered me about him. This happened a dozen years ago. His memory is almost too good.”
“A dozen years ago for everybody,” Cassidy said.
“Sure. Every one of them seems to remember something about that day. There are reasons for them to remember it — Frank was important to them, for starters. Second, the Ryan-Neukirk case was so disturbing. And they have a memorable date to tie it to — because the bodies were discovered on a holiday. Boys and their fathers on Father’s Day.”
“Okay, so it made an impression that could last a dozen years.”
“Right. Gus can remember working that day,” I went on, “because like most people, he remembers where he was when he received shocking news. He first heard about the murders when he reported for work.”
“And Bradshaw?”
“Bear was a little less sure — when we first talked to him, he thought he was working, but that was because he remembered hearing Frank’s voice on the call. For him, the first memory of that day is an auditory one. It’s not surprising that he connected a call on a scanner with being at work. But even though he was mixed up about where he was, he clearly recalled the part of the memory that made the strongest impression.”
“But you think Cook ‘remembers’ too much?”
“Exactly. He said he was off that Saturday night and Sunday morning. He said he got a call from Bea on Sunday morning. Maybe, maybe not — we may never know. If he had stopped there, no red flags would have gone up. But then he tells us that he remembers coming into work on Friday night and working until about eight on Saturday. Why? Why should he remember that?”
“You think he was lying?”
“No, Mr. Neurolinguistics. I think he was telling the truth about working that graveyard shift. He worked it all those years ago, and remembered it. Do you remember which nights you worked and which ones you had off ten or twelve years ago? No. You remember the nights when something extraordinary happened. So does Cook. That was a night he probably won’t ever forget. He pulled Julian Neukirk’s car over, and set hell in motion. Yeah, I think it was a busy night for him — knocking people unconscious, taping up children’s hands, going treasure hunting. Saturday night was busy for him, too, since that’s probably when he gave Powell a shove.”
“I think he was doing his treasure hunting that night, too,” Cassidy said. “You said you thought that slope was visible from the campground during the day, right?”
“Yes. The campground is on the same side of the canyon, but upriver.”
“This was Father’s Day weekend,” he said. “Mid-June. By the time Cook ended his ten-hour graveyard shift, turned in a car, and drove up to the place where X marked the spot, it would have been midmorning.”
“You’re right. There would have been plenty of sunlight at the turnout by the time he arrived. And he probably took time to change clothes — I don’t picture Nat Cook being the kind of guy who would wear his uniform to do that kind of work.”
“No,” Cassidy agreed, “even if he was willing to get it dirty, he wouldn’t want to attract that kind of attention. So with all those delays — Cook might have been able to take a look at the turnout by Saturday afternoon, but probably couldn’t have done any digging until Saturday night, after traffic settled down. That was just too many hours for Powell.”
“Right,” I said. “Powell got restless, and by the time Cook showed up at the warehouse, Powell had killed the men and left. And my guess is that Cook knew Powell well enough to figure out where he was headed. Cook might have been concerned about the boys, but he would have been out-and-out terrified that Powell would be caught, covered with blood, and raving about his good buddy Nathan Cook.”
“Yes, he’d take care of Powell before making a call to the dispatcher — otherwise, Bakersfield PD might find Powell first. That would explain why there wasn’t a call until Sunday morning.” He thought for a moment, then nodded. “It’s all possible.”
“There were other things that bothered me,” I said.
He smiled. “Namely?”
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing. Just wondering if old ‘smart Cookie’ had any idea of what he was up against.”
“When Gus said that about him — called him ‘smart Cookie’ — did you get the impression it was meant as a dig?”
“Yes, and I think Cookie saw it as one. I’m pretty sure Bradshaw did, too. I’m hoping Gus and your friend the Bear stay out of this now.”
“Hmm. Why do I have the feeling you’re already planning something in connection with Cookie?”
“Surveillance only, at this point.”
“He was followed from here?”
“Yes. Now what were the other things that bothered you?”
“He asked Cecilia if she had found any signs of an accomplice. Why would he mention the area where they found Powell’s body, instead of the warehouse?”
“Probably a slip, but he could always claim that he already knew they hadn’t found signs of an accomplice at the warehouse, and was just confirming information from a scene outside Bakersfield’s jurisdiction.”
“Yeah, right,” I said.
Cassidy smiled.
“It won’t work for him to claim that — tonight he tried to pretend he was hearing the warehouse information for the first time.”
“Anything else?” Cassidy asked.
I hesitated. “The other stuff isn’t so….”
“Isn’t so what?”
“Objective, I guess.”
“Try it out on me anyway. Half of what I have to work with most of the time is impressions. They’re important.”
“Okay, I tried to get an impression of this cop from Bret Neukirk’s fax. He seemed to be an uptight kind of person, rigid. He’s also careful, able to hide things. Gus is a man of action, but he isn’t very careful. Bear — can you picture Bear hiding anything? And he’s just too easygoing. Cook — he’s more cautious. In those stories you got them to tell, Cook was the one who could make long-term plans.”
“I don’t know that I got them to tell—”
“No time for false modesty, Cassidy.”
“What other impressions?”
“The man in Bret’s fax goes ballistic over foul language,” I said. “Did you see Cook’s reaction tonight?”
“You’re probably glad you didn’t say anything to set him off first.”
“Hilarious. Does any of this make sense to you, Cassidy?”
“Absolutely. I think you’re right, by the way.”
“You do? Great!” I started pacing. “I know this isn’t the kind of thing you could take to court. Not that we have anything even remotely resembling admissible evidence at this point, but—”
“Irene,” he said quietly, “I’m afraid I may have misled you.”
I looked up at him.
“I am very rarely interested in the same thing a district attorney is interested in,” he said. “It’s part of why I like my job. I’m almost always trying to help somebody stay alive. I have never had any real hope of seeing this rogue cop convicted for his part in the murders.”
“What?” I said. “I don’t believe this! What have we been trying to do all this time?”
“You want to hear my goals? I want to keep Frank alive. I want him to be located and freed — ideally, unharmed. I want Samuel Ryan and Bret Neukirk and any other members of Hocus to surrender — ideally, peacefully. If they won’t surrender, then I’ve failed, and this becomes a job for the tactical folks on the CIT. The people you know as the SWAT team.”
“But—”
“If I do my job right,” he went on, “and everything goes well, people are alive at the end of the day. That’s it. The DA isn’t saying, ‘Yes, we’ve got enough evidence to go to trial.’ The trial is over. Court is adjourned, one way or the other.”
“Forgive me if I’m missing something,” I gritted out, “but it seems to me that bringing Nathan Cook to justice is going to go a long way toward freeing my husband!”
“Not really.”
I stood there gaping at him for a second before my anger kicked in. “Damn it, Cassidy, what the hell has this been? Busywork? Some project to keep Frank Harriman’s nosy reporter wife out of the way?”
“Now, Irene—”
“Don’t ‘Now, Irene’ me! What have I been running my ass all over Bakersfield for? What would you have done if Tuesday came along and we had no idea who that cop was?”
“I would have lied,” he said.
“Shit.”
“You would prefer that I tell them, ‘Sorry, fellas, Irene can’t figure it out, you win — so feel free to go ahead and kill Frank’?”
I felt a rage so pure, I went deaf, dumb, and blind. I knew my hand hurt before I had calmed down enough to realize what I had done. It was a good, hard slap. My palm and fingers had a thousand needles in them. I was breathing hard, panting, as if I had gone ten rounds with him.
He was rubbing his face with his left hand, but he hadn’t lifted either hand to defend himself. He could have, I realized. He had proven hours ago that he could anticipate my reactions.
“You knew that was coming,” I said, the rage nearly gone, despair ready to step in.
“Yes,” he said, still rubbing his cheek, “but I’ll admit I misjudged your speed and strength. And most women wind up a little — you know — raise their hand up by their shoulder.”
“I shouldn’t have hit you,” I said.
“Was that an apology?”
“Not exactly, was it?”
“No.” He laughed. “I’ll start. I’m sorry I provoked you.” He rubbed his face again. “Real sorry.”
I was shaking. I didn’t give a damn.
The anger was subsiding, going out like a tide. I didn’t like the sense of despair it was leaving behind. My lower lip quivered, and that was enough to scare me, so I thought of Cassidy letting me spend my morning listening to Cecilia honk her fucking horn, just to make that tide come in again.
But once you’ve hit high tide, the waves never reach the same point on the beach.
“Tell me you won’t say that again,” I said.
“That I’m sorry?”
“No, Cassidy,” I said, feeling an almost pleasant return to being irritated with him.
“Oh, you mean don’t ever suggest that Frank might be killed?”
“Don’t say it,” I said quietly. “I know what might happen. I know.”
“Do you?” he asked, sounding weary. “I was convinced a moment ago that you thought we were almost home free. That if we gave up Nathan Cook to them, they would send Frank out, and that would be that.”
I almost denied it but couldn’t.
“You’re right. I just wanted to believe — Never mind, it was foolish.”
“No,” he said, “just human. And I really do apologize for making you so angry. I would have picked another way to get the point across, but midnight is getting closer, Hocus plans a call, and this seemed like it might be a fast and sure method to get you to change gears. Anyway, I didn’t want you to say anything to them about Mr. Cook just yet.”
“Couldn’t you just ask me not to?”
“Because you’re noted for doing as you’re told?”
I had no answer for that.
“I thought so,” he said.
Frank’s alive, I told myself. Hold on to that. Hold on. If he can put up with whatever they’re doing to him, you can deal with one lousy Texan.
But it was a mistake, thinking of what might be happening to him. I swallowed past a lump in my throat. “Yeah, well,” I said, “sorry about slapping you.”
“Irene.”
“What?” I said, not looking at him.
“What you’ve been doing — that hasn’t just been busywork.”
I sighed. “Don’t lie to me, Cassidy. I might look like I need a lie, but I don’t.”
“I’m not lying. If you think about it, I’ve told you the truth. You don’t always want to hear it.”
I didn’t reply.
“Not that I blame you,” he added.
“Thanks for that, anyway.”
“Listen to me now. It’s always better for us to know as much as we can about the takers. Knowing who, in all likelihood, took them that night — that gives us something to bargain with.”
“You just told me you could have bargained with a lie.”
“Better if we can bargain with the truth. Much better.”
Somehow I just couldn’t work up any enthusiasm over that. I felt as if I’d spent precious hours hunting for a lost key, only to come back home and find out all the locks had been changed.
He put a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s go in.”
“I’m tired, Cassidy.”
“I know you are,” he said. “I know you are.”
I looked up at him. He looked sad. I was going to apologize again for slapping him, but his cell phone rang.
Everything began to change with that call.
29
“SO WE’RE ALL SET?”
It was Samuel’s voice. He tried to listen, to pay attention. It was better than thinking about the restrain
ts, about being back in the bed. Better than thinking about the curtain being around the bed again, cutting off his view.
Bret had drugged him again, given him something mild in a drink that made him less upset about being placed in the restraints again. But now, awake, he had nothing to take the edge off. Better to be alert, he told himself.
He was marveling at how easily he had awakened this time. He did not feel nearly so groggy. And the dizziness was not so severe. Had Bret cut down the dosage?
“Of course we are, Samuel.” A woman’s voice. “Don’t you trust me to do anything right?”
The stranger’s voice startled him. He felt a deep sense of shame that yet another person would see him like this, then set aside those feelings. Pay attention, he told himself again.
“No, Faye, as a matter of fact, I don’t.” Samuel. “Especially not after you broke that bottle of after-shave.”
“I wasn’t the one who broke it!”
“You were the one who didn’t pack it right,” Samuel said.
“It doesn’t matter. Thanks for making the arrangements, Faye.” Bret’s voice, placating.
“The only one who has made any kind of mistake so far is you, Sammy boy,” Faye said.
“Don’t call me that,” Samuel said. Couldn’t she hear his anger? Frank wondered.
“Did he tell you?” Faye went on. “He screwed up the fax yesterday.”
There was a silence.
“Bret doesn’t care,” Samuel said. “You think you can divide us, but you can’t.”
“This isn’t about division. Bret’s not interested in me. But he’s interested in knowing how you really sent that fax. I can see it in his face.”
“No,” Bret said. “Samuel doesn’t have to tell me anything he doesn’t want to.”
Another hesitation. “She’s trying to make a big deal out of nothing!” Sam’s voice, exasperated. “I couldn’t get the computer to work with the pay phone at the airport. So I used the hard copy you gave me and sent it on an actual fax machine. Big deal.”
“Sorry you had problems,” Bret said. “Must have been frustrating.”
“It was,” Samuel said. Frank could hear him gloating, heard his belief that Faye hadn’t caused the trouble she’d intended.