The Witness Series Bundle

by Rebecca Forster

  She had thrown herself at him and tried to subdue him, but she was weary. Heat and thirst and hunger had taken their toll and she hadn't been able to change their situation. Yet, even now, Josie remained energized by the confrontation and by the fact that her hands, while still bound, were no longer tied to the stake.

  Erika had slept through it all and continued to sleep as Josie worked to free her, too. Finally, she slid that rope off the stake, rolled Erika Gardener onto her side, adjusted her arms, and arranged her in a position that seemed as if it would be comfortable. She smoothed the woman's hair away from her face, touched her cheek, and, as the light dawned, Josie picked up Erika's water bottle and did what she had to do.

  Finally exhausted, Josie settled down with her back to Erika and drifted off to sleep. When she woke the oblong spot of light was in her eyes and Erika was stirring.

  "Morning," Josie said.

  "I have to pee," Erika mumbled as she rolled over.

  "Bathroom's at the end of the hall," Josie said as she smiled and held up her still-bound wrists.

  Erika's eyes widened then lowered so that she was looking at her own hands. That's when Erika Gardener began to laugh and so did Josie Bates.

  Downtown Los Angeles, Parole Office

  Liz Driscoll had been a shitty little kid. She was the only child of an insecure, single mom who slept in her make-up just in case the house caught on fire and she had to run into the waiting arms of some burly, handsome firefighter. Her mother fantasized that she would meet the man of her dreams in the middle of a disaster. Liz thought that didn't sound like much fun, and as she grew up Liz knew that fantasy was downright weird. She didn't dislike her mother; Liz simply didn't feel comfortable with her. That was all good because her mother never felt comfortable with the swaggering tomboy she had birthed either.

  There seemed to be nothing in Liz's mother's background that would account for her Perils of Pauline attitude, and there was nothing in Liz's life that accounted for her mannerisms. To her mother's credit, she recognized that fact early on. There were no attempts to dress her up in girl clothes as a child, no lamenting when Liz didn't agonize over boys in high school, and no fight when Liz struck out on her own. Her mother now lived in Chicago and they saw each other twice a year. Neither of them felt a need for more contact, and it finally occurred to them that they were more alike than they were different. They did better knowing they had each other's back than actually having it.

  So it was not out of character for Liz Driscoll to be stepping a wee bit over the line without giving too much thought to what her captain would say to her field trip. She wasn't really disobeying orders; she was kind of interpreting them a little more broadly than might have been intended. Hagarty had agreed to have Josie Bates' car checked for evidence, and he had been clear that he wouldn't pay for anything else. But Liz's time wasn't exactly an out-of-pocket expense. She was on the payroll no matter what she was doing or where she was doing it.

  If she got called on the carpet, she would plead ignorance and promise never, ever to overstep again. Not wanting to have to play that game if at all possible, Liz added another layer to her strategy by signing out indicating her intent to check parole on one of the guys they had questioned about an assault in Hermosa Beach. His parole officer was downtown in the same office as Cuwin Martin.

  Grateful the Harbor Freeway was not her routine commute, Liz swung off the freeway, navigated the one-way streets downtown, and parked in the red zone confident LAPD would offer a little professional courtesy. She clipped around security with a flash of her badge and found Cuwin Martin's office but no Cuwin Martin. No one seemed to know where he was. Liz wandered down the hall toward the vending machines, searched for a buck and considered her choices. Damn government buildings had gone granola. The machine was filled with rotting apples and brown bananas. She would have killed for one of those buttermilk donut things that looked like a log. She put her dollar in, got a quarter and cup of bad coffee back, and put her shoulder up against the wall. She was lost in thought, calculating how long before someone from the Hermosa PD might notice she had been out a good long while, when she heard a laugh that took her back to her academy days. She followed the sound further down the hall, poked her head through one of the doors and said:

  "Margie?"

  The woman turned her head, saw Liz and said into the phone: "I'll call you back."

  Liz offered the big woman behind the ugly desk a smile but had to fight to keep it from freezing on her face. The woman looked like three Margies.

  "Lizzie! You mite. I can't believe you came all the way down here to see me."

  Liz relaxed and her smile broadened as she walked into the office. Margie pushed her chair away from the desk, and then used the desk for leverage to get up.

  "Don't get up!" Liz insisted, sure that if Margie actually made it to her feet she wouldn't be able to stay on them. The woman had been gorgeous when she was a secretary at the academy back when Liz was a recruit.

  "Oh, you sweetie, you have no idea how much I appreciate that. Okay, then come on over here and give me a hug. How long's it been?"

  Liz did as directed, putting her coffee on the desk just before Margie's giant arms enveloped her. Her ham-hands patted Liz's narrow back. When Margie released her, Liz felt as if she had been shot out of an air gun; their parting was accompanied by a thwump as suction was broken. Margie held tight though as she took Liz in head to toe.

  "Look at you. You haven't changed a bit." Margie shook her head as she assessed her old friend. "Well, maybe a few wrinkles around the eyes, but, hey, this profession doesn't leave us unscathed, does it? You're not in uniform? Last I heard you were patrol over in Linwood."

  "Long time ago. I'm a detective in Hermosa Beach now."

  "Nice." Margie gave her a little shake. "Couldn't happen to a better person."

  "Yep, a lot of changes over the years." Liz's lips tipped, her shoulder rose in a shrug causing Margie to let loose with a laugh that was even bigger than the one she had before.

  "If that isn't the nicest way of saying 'what happened to you?'" Margie let her go and waved a massive arm at a green vinyl chair. "Sit. Sit. I'll tell you the whole sordid story. It will take all of three seconds. Gary left me. I ate a couple of Twinkies – like a box – and decided the hell with it. I liked Twinkies more than Gary, anyway. I don't really give a shit if I don't have a man in my life after what I went through with him, so what the heck? The new and happy me."

  "I always liked that about you Margie. Once you decide to do something, you go all out," Liz laughed.

  "Yep, always did. Remember that time we hit the bar in…"

  Liz rolled her eyes, "I don't want to remember, and I swear if you ever tell anyone about it I'll pull rank."

  "Oooh, I'm terrified," Margie's eyes almost disappeared into cheeks that rose and fell with her good humor.

  "Yeah, I get that a lot. No respect," Liz cracked. "So, you're good then?"

  "Still have a job. Got a drawer full of snacks at the office, a car that I can drive and so far the doctor says my heart can take a few extra pounds. So what brings you down to my neck of the woods?"

  "I wanted to see Cuwin Martin. You know him?"

  "Yeah. He gives government employees a bad name. What's your beef with him?"

  "No beef." Liz took a seat and picked up her coffee. "I've got a situation in Hermosa that is linked to a woman in the Hollywood Hills and everything seems to be linked to one of Cuwin Martin's clients. Name's Xavier Hernandez. Ever heard of him?"

  "Honey, if I could remember everyone who went through the system I'd be a goddess. Heck, half the time I don't even remember my own clients." She crossed her arms over her substantial belly and gave Liz her full attention. "Who are you working with at the LAPD?"

  "That's the thing. I don't even know if there's an open investigation on the woman in the Hollywood Hills."

  "And your victim in Hermosa?"

 
"Not sure she's a victim yet," Liz shrugged.

  "So you've gone rogue. Oh, Lizzie."

  Liz considered her coffee then raised her eyes to Margie. "Look, there are too many weird things going on for this to boil down to a couple of women taking a powder for the fun of it. I can make a case for what appears to be a threat in three jurisdictions. Written communication was left in all three cars and had the same information. Two of those receiving those notes are missing; the third has reason to be concerned. I don't have the resources to conduct a full blown investigation even if it was just a local problem, but one of the missing women is – "

  "A friend?" Margie interrupted.

  "A citizen of some repute and the significant other of a man I know who has good instincts. It's an attorney named Josie Bates. Ever heard of her?"

  "Oh yeah, honey, I would say she's a person of some repute," Margie snorted. "I remember her from the McCreary thing. I always assumed she lived Westside. She seemed like a Westsider."

  "She does seem like that," Liz agreed, even though saying so felt like speaking ill of the dead. "But nope, she's been in Hermosa a good long time now. This Cuwin guy left his number at her office. Then Archer – he's Bates' significant other and a PI – he had reason to pay a visit to the woman in the Hollywood Hills."

  "What's her name?"

  Liz dug in her jacket pocket and withdrew a note pad. "Erika Gardener."

  Margie swiveled, typed the name and waited.

  "She requested a RO a few years ago."

  "Against who?" Liz asked.

  "It was sealed."

  "Odd, but okay," Liz mused.

  "Yep." Margie typed again. "Did your guys report her missing?"

  "I don't know, why?" Liz scooted forward a little.

  "Missing persons opened a file," Margie said with a little smile.

  "Wow, didn't know anyone would take it seriously this early," Liz whistled.

  "What else you got?" Margie asked.

  "Cuwin Martin sent Erika Gardner a form letter advising of Xavier Hernandez's release. We don't know when Bates or the other woman went missing, but we think under thirty-six hours."

  "So Hernandez is your best guess at a hub, is he?"

  "Until something tells me different." Liz raised a finger and pointed at the computer. "Got anything in that magic machine to help me out?"

  Margie wiggled her fingers as if she were casting a spell, raised her eyebrows and said, "Let's see what we can come up with."

  She couldn't sit back, she couldn't move forward, but Margie's typing was fast and accurate. She stopped for a minute. Her fingers hovered. A screen scrolled. She typed some more. Another window opened. Liz planted her elbows on the desk and put her chin in one upturned palm. Her other hand still held her coffee cup, but all her attention was on the screen.

  "Got him, sweetie." Margie's whisper feathered into a soft whistle. "I remember this one. Those poor little girls. The preacher's daughter and her friend. If he's got your lawyer, I'd let him have her."

  "Not an option," Liz laughed. "The verdict was enough to give me pause, but now I want to know why he's out. Ten years is just plain weird."

  "Well, he should have fried." Margie sighed, as if to say the system was more than broken. "Just sayin'."

  Liz allowed herself a little empathetic twitch, but shit happened as they said. She just wanted to know what shit was happening now. Still, patience was part of the process and she let Margie have her moment. She was back on track the next second without expounding on the failings of the justice system.

  "I'll give you the high points." Margie hit print while she was talking. "Hernandez was kept out of the general population for a couple years 'cause there were any number of inmates ready to take him out given the victims: white supremacists, born-agains, neo-Nazis. Anyway, he settles in to CSP in Lancaster. Reads. Likes self-help books and porn. Since nobody was feeding him porn, he pretty much stuck with things like The 48 Laws of Power. But that's everybody's favorite inside."

  "Never heard of it," Liz muttered.

  Margie whipped the paper out of the printer, turned her chair and propped her hands on her stomach.

  "You don't know what you're missing. Proverbs and myths and stuff. A con can interpret most of it as permission to screw everybody or beat the shit out of them."

  "Hernandez?" Liz eased Margie back.

  "Oh, yeah. Funny thing, nobody seemed to care about him."

  "Wonder why?"

  "I could research it if you want," Margie offered.

  "Naw. Time's awastin'."

  "Okay, then," she said and went back to her report. "Overcrowding put him back in the general population. Oh, here it is. This is why nobody cared about your man. Carl Potter showed up."

  "Who?"

  "Carl Potter. He's the one who took that little boy from his bed, dismembered him. Put him in a tree and propped up the body parts on different branches. I think that was the same time that kid, Stephen Winter, was incarcerated. He opened up with an AK47 at a grammar school in Riverside. Killed five little ones and two teachers. He was tried as an adult. They were busy over there."

  "Anyway, your guy is on his own and there were no problems for the next five years. So, at that time he was already in for eight. About then, two Mexican mafia go off on a woman guard." Margie dropped the papers and looked at Liz. "I'd like to know whose smart idea it was that little itty-bitty women could be prison guards." She rolled her eyes and leaned forward. "That's just between you and me, of course. You're itty-bitty, but most women aren't you."

  "Appreciate that Margie." Liz acknowledged the compliment with a little sniff and a lip tip.

  "They beat her with her own stick. She should have been dead, but came away with a broken jaw, shattered cheek, dislocated shoulder, internal injuries and counted herself lucky."

  "So what skin did Hernandez have in that game?" Liz drank her coffee and wondered why vending drinks never stayed hot long enough.

  "He was washing down the floors when it started. Instead of stepping back, your guy steps in and dispatches one of the Hispanics. According to witnesses, he went nuts and not a peep out of him all those years. But the other one turns on him and almost kills him. By the time order is restored, Hernandez has sustained traumatic brain injury…"

  Margie scanned her documents, mumbling to herself as she looked for relevant information.

  "Oh. Okay," she said, "I've got it. Hernandez has saved the guard's life, put his own in jeopardy, has a clean record and he can't go back into general population looking like he's working for the man. Then the California Supreme Court decides to order the release of forty-five thousand felons because overcrowding is cruel and unusual punishment. "

  "Don't remind me," Liz groaned.

  "It is what it is," Margie shrugged. "Anyway, given the state he's in, his P.D. jumps on this and argues for parole. The judge is looking down the road, wanting to do her part to comply with the Supreme Court ruling. Viola! Hernandez is released. No danger to the community, a shining example of a rehabilitated, cold blooded killer - that according to the judge."

  "Who was the judge?" Liz asked.

  "Katherine Stella."

  "Bleeding heart," Liz drawled.

  "Brown appointee," Margie responded.

  "Brown's first term, no less. The woman's as old as the hills," Liz sneered.

  "Neither here nor there, honey." Margie dismissed her commentary.

  "You're right. Okay. Do you have an address on him?"

  "Sorry, Cuwin would have it." Margie confirmed. "You'll want to talk to him anyway. He'll have met the guy. Seems to me, someone who went through what Hernandez did might not be all there, and it would take some doing to kidnap two women."

  "Can I have that?" Liz reached for the printout, but friendship only went so far.

  "Better you get it from Cuwin, and better you didn't tell him we've been digging around. He's a touchy sort."

 
"Okay," Liz stood up. "I appreciate the info. Gives me something to think about."

  Liz rounded the desk, gave Margie a hug, promised not to be a stranger, and went back down the hall to find Cuwin Martin. She wasn't going to drive down again if she could help it. Before she left, Liz had one more question.

  "Margie, does it say if he had any visitors while he was in prison?"

  "A few."

  Margie held the printout. Liz took down the names: Hernandez's mother, a woman named Cory Cartwright and Reverend Isaiah Wilson.

  CHAPTER 21

  Christian Broadcast Complex, Orange County

  Isaiah Wilson was kneeling on the marble floor, head bowed, hands clasped when Archer found him. Archer paused in the doorway of the small, unadorned, and darkened room before easing himself in. He stood against the wall and observed the man.

  Wilson wore a dark, well-cut suit brightened by the starched white of his collar and cuffs and the sparkle of gold links in the French cuffs. His hair was a tad long, luxurious and swept back as Archer had seen in his pictures. His shoes were wing tips and, because he was kneeling, Archer saw that the soles and heels were new. Archer didn't feel an aura of spirituality the way he did when he walked into a Catholic church. There was nothing like a cathedral to make a guy feel humble but not insignificant. In this bare room Archer felt only the bare room. No icons - not even a cross - hung on the walls. Isaiah Wilson was so lost in his prayer that it seemed he wouldn't have noticed any of it anyway. But he did notice one thing; he noticed Archer.

  "If you'd like to pray with me, you are welcome." He raised his head but did not face Archer immediately. Finally, he swiveled to reveal his profile, counted another beat and added, "If not, perhaps you could respect my prayer and wait in the lobby."

  "I don't think this can wait," Archer said, "even for God."

  ***

  Archer walked with The Reverend Isaiah Wilson down the hall, through the ornate lobby and into a studio. Wilson nodded to a cameraman, simultaneously raising a hand to someone Archer couldn't see. The studio could have held three hundred people easy, but Archer knew there would be no audience.