“I’m right? I know I’m damn well right.”
“The key was with me all day, Chief. And Graham was just as shocked as anybody. Heather must’ve found her own way in. She’s pretty resourceful.”
Eyes wide, JB turned away like he couldn’t bear to watch.
“Resourceful, huh? Maybe I ought to give her your job.”
Feeling outmatched, Will retreated to his desk.
When the chief disappeared into her office, JB tsk, tsked. “I tried to warn you, man. That woman is not to be taken lightly.”
“I just said ‘hey’.”
“Would you say ‘hey’ to a velociraptor? No, you wouldn’t. You’d keep walking. No talk. No eye contact. And a pissed off woman? Hell, I’d take my chances with the raptor.”
“Get in here, you two.” Chief Flack’s voice echoed in the quiet stationhouse, compelling them to walk the plank. With a smirk turning up her lip, she watched them until they’d both crossed the threshold and taken their seats. Prepared themselves for the worst. “Detectives, welcome to Jurassic Park.”
Neither Will nor JB said a word, while the chief eyed them without blinking. Her gaze faintly predatory.
“Do you know how long I’ve had this job?”
Will looked at JB, and JB looked back, both hoping the other would answer.
“Ten long years. I’ve sacrificed friendships. I’ve lost touch with family. Hell, I’ve been single for the entire twenty-first century. I worked too damn hard to have the two of you yahoos tarnish my reputation. Because I guarantee you there are plenty of men in this town—in this department—waiting for the first female chief to muck it up.”
JB opened his mouth.
“I’m not done yet, Benson. This is a tough case. Believe me, I get it. We’re pinning our hopes on decades-old evidence and faded memories. At the end of this, we may or may not get our guy. And as much as that would irk me, I can live with it. All I’m asking… Don’t embarrass me. Don’t embarrass this department. And for God’s sake don’t get out-policed by a reporter.”
She pointed to the door, and they stood, ready to slink back to their cubicles thoroughly browbeaten.
“And gentlemen, a piece of advice. Next time, don’t poke the raptor.”
After clearing the police barricade on Wolver Hollow Road, Will pulled into his driveway. Hungry, cranky, and dead tired, he still managed a half-smile when he spotted Cy waiting for him by the front door. That damn cat had worn down his defenses with the kind of scrappy determination you’d expect from a one-eyed feline.
“Come on.” He opened the door, conceding. Just for tonight. But Cy took his sweet time. “I’m not going to beg you.”
After a few ambivalent flicks of his tail, Cy strolled inside like he owned the place.
Will crashed onto the sofa. He’d catch a few hours’ sleep and head to the hospital in the morning to check on their only living witness. According to Chief Flack, Heather Hoffman had undergone surgery to remove a .45 caliber bullet from her upper back. Minimal tissue damage, but the bullet had fractured her scapula. Psychological distance, my ass.
Will resisted the pull of his eyelids, the heavy tug of sleep. He conjured Olivia here with him, arguing back with her smart mouth. He wished she’d do something else with it.
As Cy settled at his feet, Will forced himself to stay awake. He had one thing left to do. Listen to the voicemails he’d been neglecting all day.
“This is Doctor Paretta calling for Detective Decker. I was able to compare those dental records with the teeth of the decedent, and it is a conclusive match. If you have any questions—”
Will skipped to the next message. He tried not to think of tomorrow when he’d have to pay Trish a visit and tell her what she already knew. When he’d have to face the fact that he hadn’t kept his promise.
“Hello. This is Diana Hutchins, assistant to City Councilman Reid Vance. Mr. Vance requested that I return your call on his behalf. He has no comment at this time and requests any future communications be directed to his family attorney, Gerald Waverly, of Waverly and McKenzie in San Francisco. Thank you and have a pleasant day.”
Well, screw you too, Reid Vance.
Script: Good Morning, San Francisco
Cue Pamela
Good morning, San Francisco. It’s 5 a.m. on Wednesday, March eleventh. My name is Pamela Evans, and I’m filling in for Heather today.
Roll intro music
As you may have heard, our esteemed colleague, Heather Hoffman, was the victim of a shooting yesterday evening in Fog Harbor, where she was reporting on the murder of Shelby Mayfield. Local resident, Drea Marsh, was also shot and succumbed to her injuries after being rushed to the hospital.
Cue Drea Marsh photo
At the time of the shooting, Heather was interviewing Ms. Marsh about the Mayfield case. I spoke with Heather this morning by telephone, and she wanted me to tell all her loyal viewers she is recovering and plans to resume reporting on the case as soon as the doctors allow it. In the meantime, in a Good Morning, San Francisco exclusive, we have shocking footage from Heather’s last interview.
Roll Marsh video
Just after Heather posed that fateful question, a gunman opened fire, fatally wounding Ms. Marsh. What happened at the cabin in Fog Harbor? Is this sudden act of violence related to the death of Shelby Mayfield? Stay tuned to Good Morning, San Francisco for the latest updates in the case.
When we return, stylist Heidi Zee will show us the latest looks gracing the runways this spring, and help us plan the perfect outfits for those spring soirées and backyard barbecues.
Cut to commercial
Fifty-Five
A sharp knocking jolted Olivia awake.
Disoriented, she reached for her cell on the nightstand, knocking over the half-empty glass she’d placed there during the night. It cracked against the hardwood, the water seeping into the rug.
Olivia frowned at the phone, disbelieving. But the ray of light through the slit in the curtains confirmed it was past eight in the morning; she should’ve been at work by now. She should’ve been leading the 8 a.m. all-staff MHU meeting.
The knocking came again. Three solid raps, skirting the line between polite and insistent, leaving her no choice but to push off the covers and haul herself out of bed. She pondered her bare feet, her messy hair, Deck’s police academy sweatshirt. But by the time she’d reached the front door and peered out through the peephole, the man had raised his hand again, knuckles poised. His partner stared blankly ahead, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.
She flung open the door, annoyed by her own irresponsibility. By their impatience. By their mere presence. And afraid, too. Of these men dressed in black suits like pall bearers. Harbingers of bad news.
“Olivia Rockwell?”
She nodded, her stomach twisting at the way her name sounded on his lips. Hollow and disapproving, as if he’d caught her cheating on a math test. Still, when he extended his hand, she took it, matching his strong grip.
“Agent Martello, San Francisco Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is my partner, Agent Bixby. My condolences for the loss of your father.”
When he flashed his white teeth and his gold badge, her head started spinning. Surely, Agent Nash hadn’t sent them here. Her email had gone out less than twelve hours ago. She hadn’t even mentioned her father.
“What’s this about?” she asked.
“May we come in?”
Olivia opened the door and watched as they breached the threshold. She listened to the synchronized swish of their trousers, their dress shoes thwacking against the linoleum.
Martello sat at her kitchen table before she’d invited him. Bixby lingered, removing his sunglasses and regarding her with stern eyes before he leaned against the wall. She felt relieved when Martello spoke first.
“We understand you collected your father’s property from Valley View State Prison, including a sketchbook. Do you still have that in your possession?”
“The
sketchbook? Uh…” Olivia willed her brain to focus, but it had been a long time since she’d shared a table with the suits of the FBI. Since Agent Jason Nash had audited her Criminal Psychology class at Stanford and introduced her to the special agent in charge. Since they’d asked for her help on a few cold cases and deemed her profiling skills worthy of commendation. “Yes. I have it. Why?”
“We’ll need to take it with us. The prison should never have released it to you.”
She balked at the idea. Em would be furious. But not only that. They had so little left of their father. To give any more felt like being robbed. “I’m sorry. Am I missing something here? What would the FBI want with my father’s sketchbook?”
Bixby cleared his throat. The first sound he’d made, small but intimidating. “It’s classified.”
A hysterical laugh bubbled up inside her but she swallowed it down. “Classified? I don’t understand.”
“You worked on some cold cases for the agency in San Francisco, correct?” It wasn’t a question. “So you’re familiar with the nature of our work. I wish we could tell you more, but…”
“You can’t tell me anything?” Olivia sighed. She should’ve known better than to start asking questions. Shrinks and cops never met a question they couldn’t dodge, and FBI agents were no different.
“Do you have the sketchbook?” Martello asked again. He tried to soften it with a smile but his voice had grown more dogged. Same as his knock.
“I told you I do. Just give me a minute.”
Fuming, Olivia made her way back to Emily’s bedroom and retrieved the sketchbook from the dresser drawer. Though Olivia insisted she could take it with her back to San Francisco, Em had refused. You need it more than I do, she’d said. A truth that had made Olivia’s chest ache.
Now, she cursed herself for not forcing Emily to take it, for not scouring the pages herself, looking for clues in the shaded drawings. She’d thought she had all the time in the world to study her father’s pencil strokes. That was her problem. She’d always thought she had time.
Olivia flipped through the book, baffled. But if the suits wanted it, there had to be a reason.
She turned to the last sketch of the Double Rock and gingerly ripped the page from the binding, careful not to leave any trace. She couldn’t give them all she had left of her father. She had to save something, however insignificant, for herself. She slipped the drawing beneath Emily’s pillow and returned to the kitchen.
Martello held out an expectant hand.
“Will I get it back?”
“Of course.” Helpless, she relented, looking on, as he tucked it beneath his arm. “When we’re done with it.”
Fifty-Six
Overnight, dread had settled into Will’s bones, turning everything a shabby gray. The pair of tired eyes that met him in the mirror. The slice of dry toast he’d shoveled in, heading out the door. Even the cloudless March sky that had backdropped the drive downtown to Fog Harbor General Hospital.
That morning, Will had planned to make the trek to Pistol River. To deliver the news to Shelby’s mother, Trish, face to face. To tell her the dental records were a match. But Graham had called him before he’d hit the freeway, and he’d had no choice but to turn his truck around. Heather was awake and ready to talk.
Outside the ICU, Will took a breath and tried to hide his excitement. The surest way to blow a murder case was to start counting your chickens. Besides, Graham looked so haggard Will actually felt bad for the guy.
“I could’ve interviewed her myself. She trusts me more than either of you.”
But not that bad, it turned out. Will sighed and went in ahead, JB muttering in frustration behind him. The beeps and whirs and soft groans of the ICU twisted Will’s stomach, reminding him just how close they’d been to having two new victims.
“Make it brief. She needs her rest.” A nurse directed them behind a hanging curtain where Heather lay with her head propped on a pillow. A large bandage had been secured to her back with medical wrap and a sling, another covered the graze on her arm. An IV snaked its way upward toward the metal stand.
Heather straightened up, smoothed her hair, and offered an ironic smile. Will narrowed his eyes at her. Was she wearing lipstick?
“Go ahead and say it.” Not even a croak in her throat. But at least he could still make out the scratches on her face.
“Say what?” Will asked.
“That you told me so. I shouldn’t have been sneaking around in there. I was careless, reckless. I crossed the line.”
“All true. But you didn’t deserve to be shot.”
“Hmph.” JB obviously disagreed. “How’d you get into the cabin anyway?”
“I won’t give away all my secrets, Detective Benson. Just because they’re pumping me with enough pain meds to sedate a horse, don’t think you can take advantage.”
Will frowned at her, wondering if being hit by a metal projectile had taught her anything.
“Alright. You got me.” Wincing, she gingerly raised one hand in surrender. Will marveled at the small chip in the red polish on her thumbnail. “I left the bedroom window open the night before. Graham wasn’t involved, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Will withdrew a small notepad from his front pocket. “What we’re wondering is what the hell happened yesterday. Did you run from us at Drea’s house earlier in the afternoon?”
Heather scowled. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a reporter, not a criminal. We have a code of ethics too, you know.”
“Of course,” JB muttered. “Your methods are beyond reproach.”
“I think what Detective Benson means is we would very much appreciate you telling us what you remember about last night, since you are the best lead we have right now.”
That prompted another scornful grunt from JB’s throat but at least he quieted down.
“We were just getting to the juicy part of the interview. The part where Drea—God, I can’t believe she’s dead—talks about taking Shelby to the clinic. Seeing her with that man. I remember a flicker of movement at the window. For a second, I thought it might be you. I was already thinking how I’d probably have to spend the night in jail for trespassing. But then the gunfire started. I saw Drea go down and I hit the floor. I didn’t even realize I’d been grazed until I saw the blood dripping.”
“Then what?” Will asked, jotting a few notes.
“Then, I did what any self-respecting journalist would do. I ran after the asshole.”
“Did you get a look at the shooter?” As he’d suspected, Heather had left the blood trail he’d seen in the cabin.
Heather shook her head. “I lost him in the trees. I thought he’d gotten away, but he must’ve ducked behind a tree trunk. I heard the snap of a twig behind me and then the shot to the back. I went down hard and passed out for a minute. The next thing I remember was waking up in the hospital.”
As much as Will hated to admit it, she knew the case almost as well as he did. Even if she’d come by her information in the least ethical way possible. “So, what’s your theory?”
“Someone wanted to silence Drea. Maybe even me. When Drea got to the house, she told me she thought someone had been following her. I figured she was paranoid, but—”
The nurse poked her head around the curtain. “Hurry it up in here. Doctor’s orders.”
Will nodded and asked the only question that really mattered. “Did Drea tell you anything else that wasn’t on the tape? Anything about the man Shelby met outside the clinic?”
A sly grin tugged at the corners of Heather’s mouth. “If I tell you, I want an exclusive when you catch the perp.”
JB groaned. “You are relentless, woman.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Done,” Will told her, knowing he’d probably regret it. But right now, a piece of his soul seemed a small price to pay for justice.
Heather grimaced a little as she sat up and adjusted her pillow. She leaned forward, dramatic, a
s if she still had a mic in her hand. “Drea told me she’d never seen him before but Shelby went right up to him. Like she knew him.”
Trish stood in the grass in front of the trailer waiting for Will, wearing the same tattered housedress and world-weary expression. “You didn’t have to make the long trip, Detective. You could’ve just told me on the phone.”
Will skirted around three of her cats sprawled in a patch of sunlight and shook her hand. He gave it a gentle pat before taking a seat on an upside-down metal washtub. “It gave me a chance to ditch my partner, so I’m not complaining.”
He’d sent JB to pick up lunch. His from the Hickory Pit, and JB’s from Saucy Salads, the new health food café downtown. They’d made plans to meet up at Knotted Pines in an hour to follow up on their interview with Donald Eggerton. Hopefully, Grimaldi would shed some light about why he hadn’t mentioned Reid Vance helping him find Brenda.
“It’s her, then?”
Will nodded. “The dentist says it’s definitive, so…”
The news settled onto her face, darkening it gray as ash. He imagined her heart the same color.
“Have you heard about Drea Marsh?”
“Don’t have a TV. It only ever brought me bad news. But I picked it up on the radio this morning. Damn shame. Even if I didn’t like the girl. No parent should have to go through this. Do you think it’s connected to Shelby?”
“It’s possible. Drea was at the cabin filming an interview about the case for a show called Good Morning, San Francisco.”
“Sounds like her. Trying to capitalize on a bad situation. Her and Simpkins were made for each other.”
Will produced a folder from beneath his arm and passed it to Trish. “Do you recognize any of these people?”
Trish made her way to a leaf-covered lawn chair, where she sat, flipping through the movie stills Will had captured on his phone. Victoria Ratcliffe, Brenda Samson, Donald Eggerton. “Don’t think so. Is this from a movie set?”
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