According to a city council source who wished to remain anonymous, Vance left behind his difficult past when he met his wife. After they started a family together, his career blossomed, and he was eventually appointed vice president of Human Resources. As previously reported by the Post, Vance overcame a troubled childhood and a litany of minor arrests on his way to success.
Will turned to his partner, who wore the same skeptical expression as the rest of them. Minimal faith in humanity was a perpetual job hazard. “Sounds like Councilman Vance is a real man of the people.”
“Yeah, so was Charles Manson.”
Chief Flack craned her head out of her office, silencing their laughter with the subtlety of an axe. “Detectives, if you’re not too busy amusing yourselves, there’s a telephone call for you. Apparently, Councilman Vance has been trying to reach you regarding your yet-unsolved murder investigation.”
Will didn’t let his confusion slow him down. Jogging back to his desk, he told Chief Flack to put the call through and clicked the speakerphone.
“Hello, Mr. Vance. Detectives Decker and Benson here. We were actually just talking about you, wondering why it is you preferred that we speak to you through an attorney.”
Reid released an exasperated breath. “That’s my fault. There was a misunderstanding with my assistant, Ms. Hutchins. It wasn’t until my wife told me you’d spoken with her and might be trying to reach me that I realized the error. Needless to say, Ms. Hutchins has been moved to another role in the company. And if you were speaking of me, I hope it wasn’t all bad.”
“You’ll talk to us then?” Will readied his pen above a blank page in his notepad.
“I’m happy to help in any way I can. The loss of a young person is always a tragedy. And then, to hear about the death of her friend yesterday evening. It’s just unfathomable.”
“So, you heard about the shooting up at the cabin? Drea Marsh? Heather Hoffman?”
“Indeed. I heard the story on the radio on the way home from my city council meeting. Of course, they hadn’t released the victims’ names yet, but I saw the story this morning on Good Morning, San Francisco.”
As Will jotted Reid’s alibi for follow-up, JB had already found the city council home page, confirming last night’s meeting.
“Does the name Brenda Samson ring any bells?” Will asked.
“If you’d asked me that a week ago, I would’ve come up empty. But it’s difficult not to be reminded with Good Morning, San Francisco playing clips of that disgraceful film. I’m sure my wife told you it wasn’t one of her finer moments. Mine either. We had stars in our eyes back then.”
“What can you tell me about Brenda?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. As best I can recall, Max Grimaldi—I call him Grimmy—asked me to ride with him to Fog Harbor for the movie shoot. When he picked me up, Brenda was already in the car. She looked a little worse for wear, but I didn’t ask any questions. We shot the film in one day. At that time in my life, I just wanted to be a famous director. Victoria was much more sensible. She realized we’d have to give it all up once we started a family.”
“So, Victoria drove to Fog Harbor separately?”
“That’s right. Grimmy wanted it that way. The women kept apart. He thought it would help them get into character. It seems silly now, of course.” Reid’s half-hearted chuckle clunked down the phone line.
“Donald Eggerton told us you’d helped Grimaldi recruit Brenda for the film. That you knew she was a prostitute.”
“Totally false. But I’m not surprised Donald would say such a thing. He was always jealous of my relationship with Grimmy, and his morals were questionable even then. Now I hear he’s in the sex toy business. A real shame.”
JB shrugged, smirked.
“Have you had any contact with Brenda since then?” Will asked.
“None. A while after the film wrapped, Grimmy told me she’d disappeared, after she’d made some nasty allegations against him. I was relieved for his sake.”
“What about Shelby Mayfield? Did you know her?”
Will tapped his pen against the desk, counting the long seconds waiting for an answer.
“I’ve racked my brain over this one. Because the photograph on the news looked so familiar to me. I think I must have met her at Grimmy’s house. He had a housekeeper with a teenage daughter. I don’t recall that we ever had a conversation. Looking back, I wish we had. Maybe I could’ve helped her in some way. She must’ve been going through a hard time, being pregnant and all. I can’t imagine becoming a father at age sixteen.”
“Any idea how she ended up dead inside a movie prop at Grimaldi’s cabin?”
Another breath, this one lamenting. “It’s awful, isn’t it? And do you know the worst part?”
Will mirrored JB, leaning toward the phone on his desk as if they could discern the truth better that way.
“I remember that barrel. Grimmy and I went back there with the movers to clean out the place after his film studio went bankrupt. We tried to load the thing up. As I recall, Grimmy thought it might have some resale value. But we couldn’t budge it. It was filled with sand.”
“How do you know there was sand inside the barrel?”
“Oh. Grimmy told me, I suppose. I’d have had no reason to doubt him.”
“What’s your relationship with him now?” Will asked, wondering if his faith in Max Grimaldi had wavered.
“Grimmy? He’s like family. Our daughter, Jacqueline, looked up to him as a grandfather-type figure. His own daughter lives out of state, so we try to take care of him. A while back we paid to have him moved to Knotted Pines Retirement in Brookings. That’s one of our real estate holdings.”
JB rolled his eyes and tossed his notes aside. “Let’s get right down to brass tacks, Mr. Vance. Do you think Gramps is capable of murder?”
Reid’s laugh cut the tension, but neither Will nor JB cracked a smile.
“I trust Grimmy with my life. But I’m also smart enough to know you wouldn’t be asking if you didn’t think he might be. Besides, don’t they say that anyone is capable of anything under the right circumstances?”
Sixty-One
Olivia piloted the station wagon down the dirt road toward Rocky’s Salvage Yard. The last time she’d come to the Oaktown Boys’ hideout she’d been knee-deep in the Seaside Strangler case. And when she’d spotted Termite there, she’d been terrified. Of him, of the past. All of it. But she wasn’t afraid anymore. Deep down, Termite hadn’t changed since that day twenty-seven years ago at the Double Rock. Sure, he’d gotten taller, collected a few tattoos. Grown an unruly beard. He’d learned to ride a motorbike and shoot a gun and pretend to be a badass like his father. All of that was just window dressing on scrawny, pimple-faced wannabe Xavier Colvin.
Her half-brother. She still shuddered to think it.
Olivia parked outside the chain-link fence in front of the metal carport at the main entrance. She cracked the door and listened for signs of life beyond the chirping crickets and chattering swallows, but all she could hear was the whine of the rusted WELCOME sign as it swung in the breeze.
She’d been prepared for a fight, hoping for it even. To walk right up to Termite and poke her finger in his chest until he told her what he knew. But now, standing like a tree among the dandelion weeds, she realized she’d been stupid to show up here. The place seemed deserted. But on the telephone, Miss Pearl had assured her Termite had been holed up at the junkyard since the funeral.
The padlock on the gate had been opened, and Olivia slipped in through the seam, careful not to rattle the chains hanging useless against the fence.
As she tromped through the grass, a dragonfly buzzed her ear, zipping beneath the ramshackle carport and settling upon the corner of a detached pick-up bed. She followed its path inside and tried the door to the shop, wincing as a set of small bells announced her entry.
The clock on the wall had given up ticking, and a thin layer of dust coated everything in sight. Cash registe
r included. Behind the counter, she nearly stumbled over a black knapsack and a helmet that she assumed must belong to Termite. As if he’d been packed and ready to go. She wondered where he’d parked his bike. Where he’d gone to. If he was watching her right now.
When she heard the sound of distant voices—angry voices—a chill passed through her, and she thought of running. Instead, she searched the room for a weapon, chastising herself for not stopping off at home and retrieving the revolver from her nightstand. But there’d been no time.
In the far corner, behind a hat rack, a tire iron caught her eye. Olivia hoisted it and slunk out the back into the junkyard, where the rust buckets were lined in rows three deep. Termite’s Harley sat parked in the dirt, both tires slashed, next to three other bikes that remained untouched. Out past the fence, the redwoods stood watch, disinterested observers of the drama that unfolded beneath them.
“You’re way out of line, Termite. And you need to step back in or…”
Olivia crouched behind a stack of crushed cars, watching while the man with a ponytail stepped up to Termite, chest to chest. Two muscled men backed him up, their fists clenched. In one of their hands, a knife glinted, the blade reflecting the sun.
“Or what? You gonna put me back in line, Chance? Fuck you.” Termite gave him a push, and Chance pushed back. They were evenly matched, both lean and wiry. “I don’t take orders from you. I’m in charge around here, and you best not forget it.”
“The General ain’t happy with how you handled the Mad Dog situation. You let that snitch go too long.” The General. Two words that always sent a chill through Olivia.
“He was my goddamned father. What the hell do you want from me?”
“Loyalty, man. Loyalty to the General and to Oaktown. You’re only loyal to yourself.”
“So that’s how it is? The General don’t bleed for Oaktown. You punks let an outsider tell you what to do?”
Chance laughed joylessly, an awful soul-scraping sound. “This ain’t about the General. It’s our decision. You know what happens next. And it’s best if you don’t fight it.” He motioned for the knife, gripping it with reverence. “Hold him down, boys.”
Olivia felt like she might be sick. The metal tool in her hand, slick with her own sweat. When Chance moved the tip of the knife toward Termite’s bicep, just above his Oaktown tattoo, she realized. A snip-out, they called it. She’d never seen it before but she’d heard about it. She’d always thought it was a myth, a legend. Something the older kids at the Double Rock talked about in hushed voices the way other kids told ghost stories. Once you get that tattoo, you have to do something really bad to get a snip-out.
While Olivia grappled with what to do, Termite struggled too, fighting against the men. But like a fly caught in a web, his effort only made it worse. They had him pinned to the dirt in seconds, his writhing body kicking up dust around them.
“Hold him still, goddamnit.”
One of the men raised his fist and pummeled Termite in the face. His head snapped back, and he went still for a moment, dazed by the impact.
Chance brought the knife down, drawing blood. From her hiding place, Olivia saw the bright red against Termite’s freckled skin. His howl of anguish confirmed it. He struggled harder, but they had him now. The two men, bearing all their weight on either side of him.
She’d thought she could watch this. After all, he’d had a hand in their father’s death, hadn’t he? Didn’t he deserve to suffer? But hearing his animal scream was too much to bear.
Olivia skirted to the other side of the stack. With a clear path to Chance, she charged forward, raised the tire iron like a baseball bat and swung, making contact with Chance’s ribs. A hideous thwack left him slumped on the ground and rendered the other two speechless and distracted.
As Olivia went for the knife, securing it in her hand, Termite’s terrified eyes met hers. He pushed himself up and managed to land a solid punch to the jaw of the man on his left. Then, he reached into his boot and pulled a small gun from a concealed holster.
“Get down, Axel.” He waved the gun as he backed away. “You too, Don.”
Their muscled hands up, both men lowered themselves to the dirt, which had been spotted with the blood dripping from Termite’s arm. He kept the gun’s eye trained on all three of them while backpedaling to his bike.
“Shit.” Termite kicked the back tire, toppling the whole bike onto its side. Then, and only then, did he address Olivia. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Olivia tossed the tire iron into the grass, her hands shaking. Reluctantly, she returned the knife to Termite, who stuck it in an empty sheath on his belt. A snip-out with his own knife; the ultimate humiliation. “I’ll give you a ride somewhere, but you have to tell me everything you know about Dad. Deal?”
Don struggled to his feet, his nose already swelling from Termite’s punch, and staggered forward.
Termite fired a shot at the first motorcycle, flattening its back tire. Then another, piercing the middle bike’s gas tank. And a third, rendering the last of the bikes inoperable.
Next to Don, Chance groaned and rolled onto his side, reaching beneath his jacket for his waistband. For the butt end of his own gun.
Termite fired one last shot that buzzed the air by Chance’s hand. Then he risked a glance at his bloody bicep—“Deal”—before he took off running for the shop and beyond it, to Olivia’s station wagon.
Termite’s blood darkened the rag Olivia had found in the glove box. He winced as he pressed it against his wound. “Are you sure you want to know everything? Because there’s no going back.”
The smell of his blood nauseated her. Somehow, it had gotten on her shirt, smearing it bright red. Though she wasn’t sure at all, she nodded. “Everything. Starting with what happened that day at the Double Rock. Did you kill Tina Solomon?”
“You want me tellin’ my own tales? Hell, naw. That wasn’t part of the deal. I ain’t sayin’ shit about that day.”
Olivia braked hard, right there in the middle of the road, sending Termite into the dash. “Get out, then. You can get a ride with your friend, Chance. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to see you.” She paused for a beat. “I’m surprised you didn’t shoot him. Or the other two.”
“Like I don’t already have a target on my back. Besides, me getting away is better than shooting them. It was a three on one. That’s straight up humiliation.”
“Three on two,” she reminded him. “And start talking.”
“Alright, alright. I’ll tell you this and this only. Our dad didn’t kill Tina. Next question.”
Reluctantly, Olivia raised her foot from the brake, and the car began to roll forward. “Why is he dead?”
The silence between them stretched out as long and empty as the highway in front of them.
“Mad Dog was an informant.”
“I already know about SFPD.”
“Not for those assholes. That was back in the old days. When they were done with him, they hung him out to dry. They just let him rot in prison, knowing he was innocent.”
“For who then?” Olivia barely breathed the words. Not knowing if she could handle the answer.
Termite paused, and she wondered if she’d have to make him get out of the car after all. “For the FBI.”
“Where the hell are you taking me?” Termite asked.
Olivia parked the Buick at the edge of the Shells-by-the-Sea lot and dialed Leah’s number. While she listened to the phone’s plaintive ringing, she surveyed the damage. The nasty wound to Termite’s arm, his busted lip. The blood on the passenger seat. The unshakeable feeling she hadn’t known her father at all.
“I can’t afford this place.”
“It’s my friend’s B&B.”
“B and what?”
Olivia shot Termite a look as Leah answered.
“Hey, Liv. What’s—”
“Can you do stitches?”
“Like sewing, you mean?”
“Sewing…” Oli
via watched Termite’s eyes widen and let herself enjoy the discomfort on his face. “Sort of.”
Sixty-Two
Will drove home in a daze, his thoughts jumping like live wires. From Vance to Winters to Grimaldi and back again with no resolution in sight. He’d been convinced of Winters’ guilt before he disappeared. But now, with Grimaldi hiding the fact that he’d known Shelby’s mother and sucking down gummy fish—the same sort of candy wrapper Drea had spotted outside her house—he wasn’t so sure. And Councilman Vance hadn’t exactly helped plead Grimaldi’s case.
Then, there were the things he couldn’t let himself think about. Like Ben working for Blevins. And Olivia avoiding him all afternoon. He’d cut himself off after three unanswered calls, trying to preserve the last shred of his dignity. But then he’d texted anyway. Pathetic.
When his phone buzzed on the passenger seat, he considered pulling over right there in the ditch or stretching his seatbelt in a desperate reach. But with his luck, he’d careen off the road, hit somebody’s mailbox, get arrested by a cowboy cop like Graham Bauer, and spend the night in jail. So, he white-knuckled it all the way home.
Can you meet me at the beach in front of Shells-by-the-Sea?
Olivia’s friend, Leah, owned that little B&B on the outskirts of town, overlooking Shell Beach. Will had been there once, a month ago, investigating a domestic assault.
When?
Now.
He ran inside his house, topping off Cy’s food and water and contemplating a quick change before deciding against it. She’d said now—and only that—which left him worrying and still wearing his slacks and button-down.
Coming, he texted back, before he headed the way he’d come, more on edge than ever. This is why you don’t get involved. You keep it simple. You keep it professional. Friendly. Just like she wanted.
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