Chapter Twelve
‘‘How was the run?’’ I asked as Connor walked into the kitchen. I’d made coffee, and Connor helped himself to a mug. He was shirtless. Glistening with sweat. His running shorts clinging to one of his better assets. I enjoyed the view.
‘‘Good. You should have come.’’
‘‘Only nut jobs run at five a.m., Connor. Everybody knows that.’’ I shuddered and burrowed deeper into my cup.
He laughed.
‘‘Not only that, but this happy-morning-person thing has to stop before somebody gets hurt. And by somebody I mean you.’’ Of course, I hadn’t complained when he’d spent a half hour nudging me from sleep before the run.
‘‘Sorry, ma’am. It won’t happen again.’’ He sat down at the table across from me and glanced at the files I’d spread across the tablecloth. ‘‘What’s this?’’
‘‘Background. Now that we know Jack is connected to Charles Smiths directly, and to John Doe by one degree of separation, I thought I should go back through everything in case something new jumped out.’’
He glanced at his watch. ‘‘Jumping before seven. You are on the hunt.’’
‘‘There’s a lot to get through. First, the cops formally identified Henry DeVries.’’
‘‘How’d you get that?’’
‘‘Joe, the associate attorney who sits in the cube next to mine. He got it from the police report.’’
‘‘Why would they give him that?’’
‘‘Phone calls from scary law firms tend to yield results. He used his senior-partner baritone. He’s been practicing in case the real senior partner ever falls down an open elevator shaft.’’
‘‘Any chance of that?’’
I held up my hands. ‘‘I’m hoping you’ll alibi me.’’
‘‘No problem.’’
‘‘I’m still looking for John Doe.’’
‘‘Find anything?’’ He helped himself to a piece of toast from my plate.
‘‘First, there’s this.’’ I handed him a file. ‘‘It’s the transcript from DeVries’s interview with John. I stole it when we went to the station.’’
‘‘We?’’
Uh-oh. ‘‘Me. I meant me.’’
He let it go. ‘‘What’s your idea?’’ He sipped. Grimaced. Got up and dumped his coffee before pouring a glass of juice.
‘‘Bad?’’
‘‘Don’t worry about it. You’re smart and sexy and fearless. With those other talents, capable of making drinkable coffee would be too much to ask.’’
‘‘Smart aleck.’’
He winked, resuming his seat at the table.
‘‘DeVries was a conspiracy theorist, right?’’ I began. ‘‘The Oliver Stone of radio. But look at this.’’ I pointed.
‘‘Question: ‘When did the government take over your life?’ Answer: ‘When my parents were murdered.’ Okay, that makes sense. His parents were a big deal and their murder was all over the papers. Lots of ways John knows about it. But then DeVries asks, ‘Do you think the government had your parents killed?’ Answer: ‘Yes.’ DeVries says, ‘Of course,’ and moves on to the next question, but John keeps talking. He says, ‘Yes. They had the red-eye.’ ’’
‘‘So. He’s unbalanced. He probably sees the government as some sort of monster.’’
‘‘That’s probably what DeVries thought. He blew by it because he knew the guy was crazy but didn’t want to confuse his listeners with logic.’’
‘‘I’m not following.’’
‘‘How come impostor John’s description matches that of the only other eyewitness to the murder of the real parents?’’
He sat up a little straighter. I handed him a piece of paper and watched him read. It was a statement taken from Maria Gonzales on June 12, 1981. Her occupation was listed as maid. The report was taken after La Jolla police had responded to an anonymous 911 call in which the caller claimed to have heard shots. At the scene, the dead bodies of Martin and Andrea Smiths were found in their home. The only official witness described a strange red glow just prior to seeing Mrs. Smiths fall to the floor. Maria claimed to have heard no shots.
‘‘Where’d you get this?’’
‘‘Seattle PD’s own Sergeant Wesley.’’
‘‘You’re kidding.’’
‘‘No. Apparently he’s forgiven me for my’’—I made air quotes—‘‘ ‘exuberance’ during my missing-cat case last June. He was friendly in a snarly sort of way. He called in a favor and somebody in La Jolla faxed it over. They wouldn’t send it to Joe. I guess fear of litigation doesn’t last longer than the statute of limitations. They wouldn’t send him anything from archives.’’
‘‘As usual, you’re two steps ahead of safe. Wesley and at least one person at the La Jolla Police Department know you’re asking questions.’’
‘‘I played desk jockey. How is that unsafe?’’
‘‘What’s the case status?’’
‘‘Still unsolved. The cop who took the report, Officer Esteban, is retired. I’m going to wait until a reasonable hour, then call him and see if he’ll talk to me.’’
‘‘Us,’’ he said.
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Talk to us.’’
‘‘Don’t you have to work?’’
‘‘Try to make it afternoon. I’ll work it out.’’
‘‘Okay,’’ I said. ‘‘You’re looking kind of grim, Con. What’s the deal?’’
He looked at me. ‘‘You’re starting to read me pretty well.’’
‘‘Thanks, although you don’t seem that happy about it.’’
He hesitated. Preparing to tell a protect-the-little-woman lie, no doubt.
‘‘I don’t like your job.’’
‘‘I do.’’
We exchanged Mexican-standoff stares. He sighed. ‘‘I know.’’
I sat down and shuffled papers. I pulled the interview transcript with Henry DeVries from the middle of the stack and placed it on top. ‘‘DeVries asked about the murder of his parents when John Doe did the interview. Now that we know Charles Smiths really was a little out there psychologically, it also supports why my boss was so adamant about my not going to talk to Smiths. Nothing loses clients faster then bringing up bad memories. Some random guy talking about the murder of his parents would qualify. When DeVries asked, John said, ‘They brought the flag.’ ’’
I picked up another folder. Dug through the pages until I got to the autopsy report. Attached to it was a color photo of the crime scene. Smiths senior was wearing a navy blue suit. His wife’s dress was nearly a match. Both bodies were splayed against a white tile floor, with crimson pools near their heads.
‘‘It’s a couple of dead people,’’ Connor said.
‘‘It’s red, white, and blue. Maybe he did add the red light after the fact, but if he did, how do you explain the flag?’’
‘‘It’s still a stretch.’’ He downplayed the connection.
‘‘So, it’s a stretch. The question is, how did John know about both the glow and the colors in the hall?’’
‘‘He doesn’t, and he guessed. He didn’t mean anything by the flag thing. Maybe there was a leak and John did his homework.’’
‘‘Why?’’
‘‘Why what?’’
‘‘Why go to all that trouble? Come on, Connor.
You’re going to rip off somebody’s identiy. You track down their Social Security number and start applying for credit cards, car loans, whatever. You get as much as you can as fast as you can. Why would anyone take the time to learn every little detail about their victim?’’
He leaned back in his chair. I let him think while I refilled my coffee. There wasn’t an explanation.
‘‘It could be just what you said the first day, Sara. John Doe wanted to steal more than money. He wanted the whole life. So he found out every detail.’’
‘‘Or . . .’’ I prompted, returning to my chair.
‘‘Or he already knew the details. Maybe
he knows one of the witnesses.’’
‘‘Or maybe John Doe knows Charles Smiths. He’s the one who’d know all the details, not just the murders. If we can find Smiths, I think we can find John Doe.’’
Connor leaned back and steepled his fingers. ‘‘Did you meet Smiths?’’
‘‘Blackout, remember? I never saw him, but I know from talking to neighbors that Charles Smiths is living in a house outside Seattle. He gets grocery deliveries and the cable guy installed a new TV two weeks ago. The same day as the interview. That and ke keeps a really low profile.’’
‘‘Roger that.’’
My brain was running overtime. I shouldn’t. Only a manipulative, evil bitch would even consider it. Although in my own defense, my motives were pure. Okay, not Ivory soap, but not cheap jewelry either. Maybe I wouldn’t go to hell. Well, straight there, anyway.
‘‘What?’’ Connor asked.
He’d know I was the source of all evil. He’d never agree. He was Mr. Direct. No shading, no creative interpretation of facts and events. His approach didn’t play to my strengths.
‘‘What?’’ he repeated.
‘‘Do you believe the ends justify the means?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Didn’t think you did.’’ I sighed.
A corner of his mouth turned up. ‘‘Tell me.’’
I hesitated. ‘‘What if . . . for the sake of argument . . . I’m just sort of brainstorming here. . . .’’
‘‘Sara.’’
‘‘If I were going to review the facts of this case, I’d say that John Doe knows Charles Smiths, and Jack knows Smiths, and Jack is defrauding Smiths. John Doe is talking to Henry DeVries, who is now dead.’’
Connor coughed back a laugh. ‘‘You think Jack killed Henry DeVries?’’
‘‘ ‘Think’ ’’—I twirled my hair—‘‘is a little strong. I’m really looking for something closer to ‘sell.’ As in sell the idea of Jack maybe, possibly, perhaps being involved in the shooting.’’
‘‘Sell? To who?’’
‘‘I don’t know. Maybe Detective Montoya would be interested.’’
‘‘He won’t.’’
‘‘But he’d sort of have to ask some questions to eliminate the possibility, don’t you think? The kind of questions you’d ask a suspect’s wife.’’ I sipped cold coffee. It was bitter on my tongue.
‘‘You want the police talking to Siobhan?’’
‘‘She’s not stupid.’’
‘‘Except when it comes to men.’’
I couldn’t argue with that. ‘‘If your sister thought her husband was doing anything she thought would damage your family, she’d change the locks.’’
‘‘Damage us how?’’
‘‘You said it, Connor. Intestinal fortitude, not Jack’s forte. If he were going to kill someone he’d have to hire the gun. Where would an upper-crust shrink find a professional killer?’’
Connor’s cup hit the table hard.
‘‘In the military. Or ex-military. But since Jack never served a day, he’d go to someone who had. Like someone in his own family. My family.’’
‘‘Take a breath, Connor. We’re making it up, remember. Anyway, Montoya isn’t the only stop on this bus.’’
‘‘Who?’’
‘‘Charles Smiths. It’s three degrees of Kevin Bacon, but Jack, our would-be assassin, is connected to him, too. If Smiths were in danger, he’d want to know. Even my boss would want me to say something. Dead clients, particularly millionaires, are bad for the firm’s bottom line.’’
‘‘O-kay.’’
‘‘Since I’d be talking to Charles Smiths anyway, it would be foolish to miss the opportunity to see if I could find out a little more about the billing problem. And by a little more, I mean the kind of thing that holds up in a court of law. Since I’ll already be there.’’
‘‘Efficient.’’
‘‘And with any luck, productive. By the time Siobhan has a chance for second thoughts, perception would be reality and Jack would be bye-bye.’’
As plans went, this one was good. Machiavellian, with a touch of Mother Teresa. Montoya would get to spend a few days chasing his tail. Connor would get to play protective big brother. Siobhan would be rid of Jack, and I would be running my case without interference.
Connor was watching me. More like trying to drill into my brain.
‘‘Do you do this often?’’
‘‘Plot the overthrow of the world?’’ I guessed.
‘‘Yeah.’’
‘‘Well, I’m not a virgin.’’ I stared at him. He could make a fortune as a poker player. ‘‘We don’t have to, if it’s freaking you out. I know it’s not your style.’’
‘‘Don’t sweat it.’’
‘‘You’re not repulsed by how bent I am?’’
‘‘I’m stuck on you not being a virgin.’’
Chapter Thirteen
‘‘Harrison Nilford Jr.,aka Henry deVries,’’ a disem-bodied baritone said. The beautiful running partner Blue. Connor and Blue were at the office. Connor assured me that I was getting the information at the same time he was. I wasn’t sure I believed it.
‘‘Bio?’’ I asked.
‘‘Think Limbaugh, then turn right. Lots of stories about the establishment. Likes to blow hard about society types not living average. Comes from money. Figures. Harvard dropout. Premed. A couple years under the radar, then a bunch of arrests for hard living and bad judgment. No convictions.’’
‘‘You get anything on the license plate?’’ Connor asked.
‘‘Hoping for stupid criminal tricks, Rock? No such luck. The plate was a fake.’’
‘‘Rock?’’ I asked.
‘‘It was too much to hope for, I guess,’’ Connor said. ‘‘What else did you get?’’
‘‘Radio shock jock for the last eighteen months or so. Lots of conspiracy theories and antigovernment crap. Publicly, he was tight with a militia group based out of some farm near Chiapas, Mexico. Ethnic cleansing of indigenous people. You know the drill.’’
‘‘And privately?’’
‘‘It’s just gut, but I wondered if maybe he was on the feebs payroll and tired of slumming. My contact went tango quincy as soon as I dropped his name.’’
‘‘Tango quincy?’’ I asked.
‘‘Too quiet,’’ Blue said.
‘‘That’s something. It might even lead away from Jack. An informant for the government would have plenty of enemies of his own,’’ I said, leaning on the porch railing and gazing at the bay. The view was so perfect.
‘‘Could,’’ Blue conceded. ‘‘Not just the feds, either. DeVries was pitching a book. I couldn’t get details. DeVries was paranoid, but he’d sold it as an exposé of the political secrets of San Diego society. Deep, dark local history. Maybe one of the Junior League’s gone red.’’
‘‘Doubt it.’’ Connor threw cold water on the theory.
‘‘Why not?’’ I asked. ‘‘It’s motive.’’
‘‘Where would one of them get the gun?’’
‘‘They ain’t that hard to acquire, man.’’
‘‘True. But an M-sixty is a sloppy weapon. Where would the crew team learn to put two in center mass?’’
‘‘That’s hard?’’
‘‘It’s not something anyone could do,’’ Connor said. ‘‘Anything else?’’
‘‘The cop, Montoya, he’ll be looking to talk with your lady.’’
Dread slid into my stomach. ‘‘Why?’’
‘‘DeVries’s quarters were tossed, and the satellite station where the meet was supposed to happen . . . well, last night somebody decided to redecorate with a Molotov. It went up like the Fourth of July.’’
‘‘Shit,’’ Connor muttered.
‘‘Roger that. Now that they’ve confirmed DeVries, they’ll want to talk to his last appointment again.’’
‘‘That woman can find trouble without half trying.’’
Blue laughed. ‘
‘Can’t they all?’’
‘‘You know I’m still on the phone, right?’’
‘‘Who’s cover?’’ Blue asked.
‘‘What’s cover?’’ I asked.
‘‘Okay, Sara, now, don’t blow a gasket—’’ Connor began.
‘‘Cover is something that will make me blow a gasket?’’
‘‘Oops. My bad. Looking forward to meeting you in person, Sara.’’
‘‘I owe you, buddy,’’ Connor muttered.
I heard a door close. I waited a moment, but when it seemed clear that Connor wasn’t going to elaborate, I prompted him. ‘‘What are you up to?’’
‘‘Nothing.’’
‘‘Liar. Cover? Explosive potential. You might as well tell me. I’m going to figure it out anyway, and then I’ll definitely go ballistic on you.’’
‘‘Ballistic. Nice word.’’
‘‘Good vocabulary. Bad end result,’’ I assured him.
‘‘Just because I can’t reach you right this moment doesn’t mean you won’t pay when you get home.’’
‘‘I only did it because I’m concerned about you.’’
‘‘Building a rationalization before you even confess? That’s a bad sign.’’
He sighed. ‘‘Cover means coverage.’’
‘‘You’re having me watched?’’ The nerve. I leaned over the railing, scanning the street. It could be anyone. No. He’d pick a man. Another military type. Maybe someone from his squad. From this height, I couldn’t guess. ‘‘What does he look like?’’
‘‘Look like?’’
‘‘I want to see if I can spot him.’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘You’re mad? You’re kidding me. You invade my privacy and you’re mad?’’ He was nervy.
‘‘Sara, get in the damn house.’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Yes. Now.’’
‘‘Look, Connor—’’
‘‘You look, Sara. Didn’t you hear anything I said this morning? This isn’t some civilian. Whoever took out DeVries was a pro. If he thinks you know something, he could be targeting you right now. This whole thing is getting dangerous. Get in the house. Away from the windows.’’
Despite my best intentions, he was making his point. I went back inside and closed the sliding glass door.
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