I held up the Girl Scout salute. ‘‘I’ll keep three feet between us at all times.’’
‘‘Watch his hands. If you see his hands twitch toward his pockets—’’
‘‘Drop and roll.’’ I kissed him on the cheek.
He kissed me on the lips. ‘‘Be careful.’’
‘‘I’m always careful.’’
‘‘Oh, brother.’’
He gave me a hard squeeze and let go. Connor moved away and walked the perimeter, past the Automotive Museum to the Air & Space Museum, finally choosing a vantage point on the north side of the Hall of Champions. Then he blended. I could barely tell he was there, and I knew where to look. My cell phone rang.
‘‘Ready?’’ Connor asked.
‘‘I’m good.’’ I placed the earpiece in and threaded the cord down the front of my shirt, sliding the phone into my pocket. I was nervous. I hoped he couldn’t tell.
‘‘We can still call this off. Let the cops do their thing.’’
‘‘I can’t. Connor, I’ve got to go. If he sees me talking on the phone, he’ll blow me off.’’
‘‘I couldn’t get that lucky.’’ He sighed. ‘‘Sorry. Okay, here we go.’’
‘‘Yes, Captain.’’
‘‘Smart-ass.’’
‘‘I love you, too.’’ Snarky. That’s what I was. Nerves. I had to work on my cucumber.
‘‘I know.’’
I laughed. ‘‘Well, you’re not short on ego. Be talking to you.’’
‘‘Definitely.’’
I could feel him watching me. It wasn’t unpleasant. He was a good person. Overprotective, maybe. Pushy, definitely. But for a guy I’d married after less than a week, I’d done pretty well. I could have ended up with a psycho. Or worse, a mama’s boy. I jumped. She was licking my hand.
‘‘Hey, Pav.’’ I held my fingers out to her. ‘‘How’re you doing?’’
She sniffed, then licked again. Not at all skittish. That had to be a good sign.
‘‘You okay after the other night? All that noise? All that glass?’’ I scratched behind her ears. She closed her eyes and leaned into the caress.
‘‘So, how are you involved in this whole thing? I know you’re connected somehow. You’ve been showing up in lots of suspicious locations. Can’t be a coincidence. You a PI? A canine journalist? Pavarotti the Paparazzi?’’ She sat on her haunches and put both paws on my leg. ‘‘Not talking, huh? Don’t blame you. Never talk without your lawyer present.’’
‘‘Move around. Don’t make yourself a target,’’ Connor said into my ear.
‘‘I’ve got to wander.’’ I patted her. ‘‘Want to come? My husband is the jealous type, but how could anyone not love you?’’ I walked back and forth, making little circuits of the plaza. Pavarotti followed at my heels, reaching out occasionally to lick my hand. Tourists came and went, their cameras swinging from neck straps. An older man began to sweep the bricks in front of the Air & Space Museum, removing the debris of the day.
I glanced at my watch: nine fourteen. Our man was late. I stroked the dog’s head.
A man came down the walk from my right, past the Starlight Bowl and straight at me, dressed like the homeless: dirty jeans, blackened sneakers, ripped T-shirt. Jacket even in the heat. His hair might be blond when clean, and he sported a couple of days’ worth of facial hair. The dog left my side and jogged over to him. They met midway and Pavarotti turned. They came back toward me together. The man’s head swept from right to left. The dog looked straight ahead.
‘‘Why are you doing this?’’ he shouted a good twenty feet away from me. His high-pitched voice screeched. He was hanging on by a thread.
‘‘Charles Smiths?’’
Doe took two steps closer. I tried not to look afraid. Not to react. Not to do anything that might set him off. The dog nuzzled his leg and John Doe relaxed.
‘‘Why are you stealing me?’’ He was plaintive.
‘‘Stealing you? I don’t understand.’’
‘‘You’re trying to replace me. To make me crazy. Why?’’ He lurched toward me and I backed up. Pavarotti barked. Doe hesitated, looking down at the dog for a second. I used the opportunity to slide a little farther away.
I smiled, holding my hands up.
‘‘She’s a nice dog. Gentle. Is she yours?’’
‘‘Why are you stealing me?’’
‘‘I’m not. I swear.’’
‘‘You’re trying to make me crazy. I’m not crazy.’’ He screamed it in his paranoid nuthouse voice. Nothing was more dangerous than a lunatic.
‘‘I don’t think you’re crazy. Pavarotti doesn’t think you’re crazy, either.’’
‘‘Who?’’
‘‘The dog. I named her Pavarotti.’’
‘‘You want my dog.’’ He reached down and gripped the dog’s ruff.
‘‘No. No. I promise you I’m not trying to take your dog. I just kept seeing her. I didn’t know her name. I gave her one, just temporarily, until I found out what her real name was. She needed a name. I couldn’t just call her ‘dog.’ That wouldn’t be right.’’
He stared.
‘‘Please. I’m not trying to make you crazy. I just want to talk.’’
‘‘Liar. It’s you. You’re the one.’’ He pointed at me, his free arm waving.
‘‘Charles.’’
‘‘You know me.’’ His voice quieted, his arm sagging to his side. He patted the dog’s head. ‘‘You know her.’’
‘‘Um, yes.’’
‘‘Why won’t you tell them?’’ A tear rolled down his cheek.
‘‘Tell who?’’
‘‘Them.’’ His voice rose an octave.
‘‘I’ll tell them.’’ I had no idea what he was talking about. He seemed confused. Scared. Okay, crazy. But not dangerous. He hadn’t moved any closer. He made no attempt to touch me. And the dog. The dog told her own tale. She wasn’t scared. She wasn’t trying to get away.
‘‘You will?’’ he asked.
‘‘Yes. I will.’’
‘‘My name is Charles.’’
I nodded. ‘‘Your name is Charles.’’
‘‘And you’ll tell them?’’
‘‘I’ll tell them.’’
‘‘Promise?’’
‘‘I promise.’’
He reached out, but I didn’t get out of the way in time. He touched my hair, petting me with one hand and the dog with the other.
‘‘Pavarotti,’’ he said.
I nodded, holding my breath.
‘‘Thank you,’’ he whispered.
‘‘You’re welcome.’’
He took one step to the left and bolted away, the dog on his heels.
Watching him go, I tried to get my breathing under control. I didn’t think my heart could take too many close calls like that. Someone touched my arm and I jumped, swallowing a scream.
‘‘Please don’t do that.’’
‘‘Sorry.’’
‘‘God, Connor, did you hear him?’’
‘‘He’s off beam, Sara.’’
‘‘He’s scared. Did you see his face?’’ I was shaking and sweating.
‘‘Hey, it’s okay.’’ He put his arms around me just as his pager vibrated.
Pulling back far enough to look at him, I grinned. ‘‘Is that a pager in your pocket or are you happy to see me?’’
‘‘A bit of both.’’
Chapter Twenty
Pablo Esteban lived with his daughter and grandson in a small house north of San Diego. When we arrived, his daughter showed us to a tiny kitchen and went to get her father. Esteban shuffled in a few minutes later and waited while his daughter fixed iced tea for us. She chattered on but he never said a word, the brown eyes sharp in his wrinkled face. I knew men with that look. Connor was a man with that look. Blue, too. Probably a company man, and plenty careful to boot. I wondered why he had agreed to talk to us.
‘‘We were hoping you could tell us something about the Smith
s murders. You said on the phone that you worked the case,’’ I began.
‘‘Yes, missus, I did. Long time ago, that.’’ Esteban rubbed his mustache. ‘‘Why you want to know ’bout that one? What’s so important that brings a little thing like you to my house all these years later?’’
‘‘I’m an investigator. I’m looking for a man calling himself Charles Smiths.’’
The old man nodded. ‘‘The boy.’’
‘‘Not a boy anymore. He’s over forty now,’’ I said.
‘‘Suppose he would be. Why are you looking for him?’’ Esteban sipped at his iced tea, but his eyes never left my face.
‘‘It’s sort of a long story. Do you ever listen to KPXY? It’s a local radio station.’’
He shook his head. ‘‘With my grandson in the house, there’s not much quiet time for listening to the radio. He’s a handful.’’ The man smiled, shaking his head without any sign of regret. ‘‘You got kids?’’
‘‘No.’’ I shifted a little. Kids. I wondered if Connor wanted them. Did he think about taking our daughter to dance class, or cheering our son at a baseball game? Too fast. We were barely married.
‘‘Plenty of time for that. Wife and me, we didn’t have Mercedes until we’d been married more’n ten years. Got to know each other pretty good in them years, too. Knew enough to know we’d make it through the rocky patches.’’
His rough spots probably hadn’t included gunfire and bitchy ex-girlfriends. At the rate Connor and I were testing our relationship, I doubted we’d have to wait ten years before knowing if we’d make it. I was already convinced.
‘‘So tell me about this radio program,’’ Esteban prompted.
‘‘It was hosted by a man named DeVries. He did an interview with someone calling himself Charles Smiths two weeks ago.’’
‘‘Calling himself? What does that mean?’’
‘‘He’s an impostor. The real Charles Smiths is in Seattle. ’’ At least, that was the story we were telling for now. ‘‘That’s why I’m here. I’m trying to find the man passing himself off as Charles Smiths.’’
‘‘Man can call himself anything he wants, I suppose. Who’s he hurting?’’
‘‘There’s money involved,’’ Connor offered.
The old man turned to him and nodded. ‘‘They had plenty, even before. I was starting to think maybe she doesn’t let you get a word in. My wife was the same.’’ He smiled at me. ‘‘Not that that was a bad thing. She was smart. Like this one.’’
‘‘Thank you.’’
‘‘Been a long time since a woman wanted to hear this old man ramble. But you’re not here to listen to me go on and on. You’re here on business.’’
I smiled at him. ‘‘I am, but—’’
‘‘No buts about it. A woman with a mission. Now, where was I? Right. Charles Smiths. Parents’ names were Martin and Angela . . . Amelia . . . no, Andrea. That’s it. Martin and Andrea. Let’s see. Call came in about nine at night, I guess.’’ He rubbed at his mustache. ‘‘Used to work the night shift in those days. Paid a little better.’’
‘‘We’ve seen the police report,’’ I broke in. ‘‘We’re interested in the witness.’’
The old man looked toward the ceiling. ‘‘A maid. Marta? Maria. Maria Gonzales. Strange girl. Upset but not . . . you know . . . not crying, not screaming. Wasn’t like you’d hear about a murder every day, not like now. Composed, I guess I’d call her.’’
He had an amazing memory. ‘‘She gave a statement?’’
‘‘To my partner, Jesse Fontura. Good man, good partner. Got cancer bad a couple a’ years ago and died last winter.’’
I pulled the copy of the report out of my pocket and handed it to the old man. He smoothed it across his knee and looked down at it without a trace of a squint.
‘‘I’m interested in anything you might know about this.’’ I reached over and pointed to the maid’s reference to a red dot on Mrs. Smiths’s white shirt. I glanced at Connor.
Slow, he mouthed.
‘‘Jess, he wrote everything down. Always did. Said he couldn’t know what was important and what wasn’t till he had some time to think about things.’’
‘‘Did you follow up on it?’’ I pressed.
The old man blinked. Slow, Sara. Don’t do anything to put this guy off.
‘‘Nothing really to follow up on,’’ Esteban said. ‘‘There was blood all over that room. Figured some got on her blouse.’’
‘‘There’s nothing that put the kills in sequence,’’ Connor jumped in.
Esteban shrugged. ‘‘Forensics wasn’t the big deal then that it is now. I watch all them programs. Amazing what you can find out just from a hair or a little skin cell. Things were different then. It didn’t seem particularly important, and then, of course, Jess and me was pulled, so we didn’t go no further with it.’’
‘‘Pulled? You mean someone else worked the case?’’ I got back in the driver’s seat. I was perched on the edge of my chair, playing with my empty glass. Connor was definitely up to something, except I couldn’t see it. Sequence? What sequence? And why would it matter? I hated being the last one to a party.
‘‘Suits took over. Like your man was saying, money. Talked then and it talks now.’’
‘‘The only police report we’ve seen is yours,’’ I told him.
‘‘Wrote it that night. Talked to the maid, waited for the coroner, wrote the report. Next night we go in and there’s a note from my lieutenant. We’re off the case.’’
‘‘Who took it over?’’
Esteban shrugged. ‘‘Wasn’t exactly taken over.’’
‘‘What do you mean?’’
‘‘He means the case wasn’t meant to go anywhere,’’ Connor offered. ‘‘Not every mission is meant to succeed. It might make sense. Someone higher up could have information that changes the parameters. Intel that they can’t or won’t share.’’
‘‘Office politics.’’ The old man nodded. ‘‘Happens.’’
‘‘Do you know where we can find the maid?’’ I asked.
‘‘No. Figure she was an illegal. She was probably gone the next day, back to Mexico. Illegals don’t like police.’’
‘‘Why did she stay until you got there?’’ That didn’t really make any sense to me. If she was an illegal, I just couldn’t see her hanging around waiting for the police.
Esteban nodded his approval. A question he would ask. His face creased in a smile. ‘‘Always wondered that myself. Most wets, something goes wrong they’re already making tracks for the border.’’
‘‘Any guesses?’’
‘‘I guess somebody made it worth her while to stay. Like I said, money talks.’’
‘‘Was Maria the only witness?’’ Casually, not making any eye contact, I tried to probe for information about John Doe or Charles Smiths or whoever was really there that night. I glanced sideways at Connor. His face showed nothing. I should not play poker with him.
‘‘What do you mean?’’
‘‘There’s only one witness statement, Detective,’’ I began.
‘‘I was just a uniform, Mrs. McNamara.’’
‘‘Sara, please.’’
‘‘Sara.’’ The old man smiled at me. He was enjoying this. Maybe his life had slowed down, but he had stories to tell. Good old days to recall. No wonder he’d invited us over.
‘‘Is it possible someone else was at the scene that night?’’ Connor asked.
Esteban sat back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. He knew something. I could feel it. He was just deciding whether or not he’d share.
‘‘It wasn’t about what happened after,’’ Esteban said.
‘‘I’m sorry,’’ I said. ‘‘I don’t follow.’’
‘‘Pullin’ us off the case, that was higher up. Connections. ’’ Esteban nodded at Connor. ‘‘You know what I’m talking about.’’
‘‘Yes, I do.’’
‘‘Jess and me, we didn’t do what
we did ’cause we was worried about any of that. It weren’t ‘’bout that. I just want you to understand.’’
‘‘We do,’’ I assured him. ‘‘You did what you did because you thought it was the right thing.’’
I leaned forward, resting my arms on the table. Tell me. Trust me. ‘‘What did you do?’’
‘‘We kept the boy out of it.’’
I nodded. No cop would do it now. The risks were too great. The press could find out. The victim’s family could sue. The kid could have been the killer. Any one of a million professional, personal, and financial depth charges that would keep even the most moral man away from putting himself at risk for a stranger. In those days, a traumatized teenager still merited kid gloves and paternal protection.
‘‘Charles Smiths?’’ I guessed.
‘‘Yeah,’’ Esteban conceded.
‘‘He saw his parents murdered,’’ I answered my own question.
‘‘Yes, ma’am, he did.’’
I looked at Connor. I was trying not to jump to conclusions.John Doe’s interview had matched the maid’s statement. The details, the description of the murders were too similar. It might still be that Charles Smiths told John. It would explain why Doe would choose Smiths, and how he knew enough about him to steal his identity. Doe could have gotten the information from the missing Maria. He might have had access to the police report and memorized it. Or some third party confidant of either Smiths or Maria could have been the leak. Or it could still be coincidence. Man, it didn’t feel like a coincidence.
‘‘Did you take a statement?’’ I asked.
‘‘We talked to him. Didn’t write nothing down.’’
‘‘Not even your partner?’’
Esteban thought about that one. His brown eyes went hazy as he scrolled back.
‘‘Maybe.’’
‘‘If he did write something down, where would it be? In the file?’’
The old man shook his head. ‘‘They pulled the case too quick for that. Jess never put his notes in until the end.’’
I clasped my hands together to keep them from shaking. Please, let the mysterious Jess be a pack rat. ‘‘Did he throw his notes away afterward?’’ There was no way Fontura had done that. A compulsive record keeper kept notes. Always.
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