‘‘What things?’’
‘‘He found something— Oh, Madre de Dios, I’m so stupid.’’ Mercedes took her handbag from next to her chair and started to dig through it. She pulled out a crumpled envelope. ‘‘I forgot. I told him I’d mail it but I forgot.’’
I patted her back as Connor took the envelope. ‘‘It’s okay.’’
She nodded. ‘‘I’m sorry.’’
‘‘So are we.’’
A woman raced into the waiting room and swallowed Mercedes up in a hug. They exchanged rapid-fire Spanish and tears. Connor and I slipped from the room. He walked to the end of the hall and opened the envelope. He pulled a spiral notebook out. He flipped through the pages, then handed it to me.
I read. ‘‘Nothing. There’s nothing here. They interviewed the maid. She’d written a statment and signed it. They interviewed Charles. There was a draft statement, in block letters, unsighed. A picture of the scene. The red eyes. More notes. Time, date, description of the scene. Nothing we didn’t already know.’’
‘‘Read it again.’’
I did. Then I read it a third time. I looked up.
‘‘Green.’’
‘‘Roger that.’’
‘‘His eyes were green.’’ I ran my finger down the page. ‘‘Charles Martin Smiths. Adolescent male. Fifteen years. Five foot, seven inches. One hundred eight pounds. Blond and green.’’
Connor pulled out his BlackBerry and scrolled. He put Charles Smiths’s picture on the screen and held it up.
‘‘So?’’
He peered closer. ‘‘This is why we need to confirm with the pictures Blue took the night of the banquet. You didn’t get a close look. I did. His eyes are blue.’’
‘‘Charles Smiths isn’t Charles Smiths,’’ I said.
Chapter Thirty-seven
‘‘I’ve got good news and bad news,’’ Blue said, striding toward us.
‘‘John Doe is the real Charles Smiths.’’ I hit him with it. ‘‘We need a copy of the pictures you took the night of the party. Are they at the condo? We should go there. Can we enhance them? Make them really clear?’’
‘‘Slow down,’’ Connor said. ‘‘We’ll confirm. Right now, we’ve got other fish to fry. Let’s take this outside.’’ He pointed to the exit sign.
We walked out into the bright sunshine. Pavarotti was sitting next to a picnic table. I put on my sunglasses and joined her, Connor and Blue following close behind.
‘‘Doe is Smiths?’’ Blue asked, patting the dog’s head.
‘‘Yeah. Charles Smiths—or the guy pretending to be him, anyway—his eyes are wrong. The wrong color.’’
‘‘Which makes my bad-news coincidence easier to grasp,’’ Blue said. ‘‘I found the maid.’’
That got my attention. Finally, a break. It was about time.
‘‘That’s great.’’ I jumped up from the bench, needing somewhere to put my nervous energy. ‘‘It’s better than the picture. She worked for the Smithses for three years. She knows John. I mean Charles. I’m never going to get used to calling him that. She’ll be able to confirm. . . .’’
Blue didn’t say a word.
Connor stood up and moved over to me. He put his hand on my back, bracing me. Blue’s face gave nothing away. A rough tongue bathed my hand. He’d said bad news. Bad must be terrible.
‘‘What?’’ I didn’t think I could take any more terrible today. I looked over at Blue.
‘‘She’s dead,’’ Blue said.
‘‘What?’’ Connor led me to the table. I dropped onto the wooden bench. It felt like it was raining anvils. Pouring. Connor put an arm around me.
‘‘How?’’ I whispered.
‘‘When?’’ Connor asked.
‘‘Gunshot. Shotgun, actually.’’
That was horrible. The poor woman. Her family. Like Henry DeVries. Or that hadn’t been a shotgun really. A different kind of gun. Machine gun. Shotguns, they were more like hunting guns. That wasn’t a good image. Now I was thinking about some poor woman being hunted and killed.
‘‘When?’’ Connor repeated.
‘‘Thursday night, more or less. My buddy at the medical examiner’s office didn’t think the time had been confirmed yet.’’
‘‘That’s the day after Henry DeVries was killed,’’ I said. Somehow when Blue said dead, I’d assumed it was years ago. It was twenty-seven years since the Smithses were killed. The night after DeVries died was no coincidence.
‘‘What are the cops calling it?’’
‘‘Not the elimination of a witness, that’s for sure. Interesting all the same, though. Your buddy Montoya? He was assigned.’’
‘‘That makes sense,’’ I said. ‘‘DeVries and the maid are both connected to the elusive Charles Smiths. Assigning the same detective is the obvious answer.’’
‘‘Sure.’’ Connor didn’t sound convinced. ‘‘If you knew that DeVries and the maid were the only two people who could identify John Doe as the real Charles Smiths. If you don’t know that, the link is pretty damn weak and the assignment is a reach.’’
‘‘Roger that,’’ Blue conceded.
‘‘Any way you could find out if Montoya was assigned on rotation or if he fired out of sequence?’’ Connor asked Blue.
‘‘On it. It’s not straight duty, Rock. It’s a liaison. Montoya and the federales.’’
‘‘Why?’’ I interrupted.
‘‘Maria washed ashore a few miles north of Ensenada. Somebody sent a bulletin looking for her. When they ID’d her, locals were notified.’’
I looked at Connor. I felt sick. ‘‘That had to be Montoya.’’
Blue shrugged. ‘‘Don’t know what their thinkin’ is yet, but there’s somethin’ else.’’
‘‘What?’’ Connor asked.
‘‘Montoya is connected. Talk is he’ll jump to the hall.’’
Great. A political wannabe. A hundred agendas behind every operation, most of them making no logical sense.
‘‘Wait a minute. You think Montoya is up to something? That someone made sure he was assigned both cases so he could cover something up for them?’’
‘‘Could just be lookin’ to make his bones, Sara,’’ Blue suggested. ‘‘Famous family might attract the wrong sort of publicity, even if it hasn’t got anything to do with them. You know.’’ Blue pointed at Connor. ‘‘I’m sure your family’s been there a time or ten.’’
‘‘Yeah.’’
‘‘Your family? Why? Oh,’’ I said. ‘‘Of course. For a second I forgot about the silver spoon.’’
‘‘His tag ain’t Rockefeller for nothin’.’’
‘‘Rockefeller. Right. Rock as in Rockefeller.’’ I looked at Connor and shook my head, rolling my eyes. Pavarotti rested her head on my lap. ‘‘Here I was thinking you called him Rock because of his conversational style. It’s about how much information he shares.’’
There was the damn money again. I don’t know why I was still letting it bother me. It wasn’t like he’d kept a prison record secret. He hadn’t actually kept anything from me. I hadn’t asked. Next husband.
‘‘Or dumb as a . . .’’ Blue said, rising from the bench. He clapped Connor on the shoulder and left.
Connor switched sides so he was facing me across the picnic table. ‘‘You never asked.’’
‘‘You’re right. I never asked. My fault entirely.’’ I looked up and stared at him. ‘‘Why now?’’
‘‘Why what now?’’
‘‘Maria. Why kill her now? Because the real Charles Smiths turned up? So what? That didn’t have anything to do with her. She hasn’t seen him for years. Even if she could identify him, it’s hardly a slam dunk. It would be her word against this impostor, and he has cash to burn. Makes for a lot of corroboration.’’
‘‘It’s not the ID,’’ Connor said quietly.
‘‘Then what is it? You’re not trying coincidence again?’’
‘‘Maria Gonzales could only know one thing that could g
et her killed now.’’
I couldn’t see his eyes through his sunglasses, but I could feel his gaze burning into me. ‘‘Charles Smiths— the real Charles Smiths—killed his parents. And he started talking about it.’’
That broken man. A broken boy. His parents lying in their own blood. ‘‘Are you saying Pablo Esteban covered it up?’’
Connor shook his head. ‘‘He might have missed it. We know the kid was already being treated by Gretchen.’’
‘‘Pharmaceuticals for teens,’’ I spat. She’d told me herself. I didn’t know much about drugs, but I’d read enough to know they could make you crazy, even if you weren’t already. He’d asked us for help. We’d helped him, all right. We’d helped find out he was a murderer.
‘‘Are you going to call the bank?’’ Connor asked.
‘‘Why? They don’t want John. They never did. The bank won’t care if he killed his parents. They want the new, improved Charles Smiths. It’s all about the money. It’s like the art forger who was asked to authenticate a painting he forged. The bank spotted the missing quarter million and went to the identity thief to assure themselves the accounts were legitimate. He’s probably the one who paid it back. Maybe even helped himself to another account to do it. God, the banquet guy could have been in place for a really long time. Who knows?’’
‘‘Somebody knows.’’ Connor was grim.
I covered my mouth with my hand. ‘‘Jack,’’ I whispered. ‘‘He’d have to know.’’
Pavarotti barked.
Chapter Thirty-eight
We were driving back toward the city when the car phone buzzed. I jumped, giving Connor a sheepish grin. Hard-boiled I wasn’t. I pushed the speaker button.
‘‘Yeah?’’
‘‘You’re a go,’’ a voice said.
‘‘Who is this?’’ I asked.
‘‘Trojan, ma’am.’’
‘‘Another as-yet-unmet Musketeer. I’m Sara.’’
‘‘Yes, ma’am.’’
‘‘I didn’t spot you.’’
‘‘That’s good to hear, ma’am.’’
‘‘Stop flirting,’’ Connor said. ‘‘Where’s our bogie?’’
‘‘On foot headed west on Pike. We confirmed Doe is living there. Spotted him in and out. No canine on site.’’
They’d spotted John. I breathed a sigh of relief. We hadn’t seen him since the explosion. Maybe he killed his parents. Well, probably, but I couldn’t help worrying about him. Just a little. He needed help. Definitely needed a better psychiatrist. But even knowing what I did now, I didn’t want him hurt. The man had a dog to take care of.
‘‘Charles,’’ I said. ‘‘His name isn’t John Doe. It’s Charles Martin Smiths. And the dog is Pavarotti.’’
‘‘Yes, ma’am.’’
‘‘And our dead zone?’’ Connor asked.
A lovely euphemism for Jack.
‘‘Still tracking. We’ve got his office, his apartment, his house all covered.’’
‘‘His boat?’’
‘‘Checking marinas. It’ll take a bit, but we’ll get him, sir.’’
‘‘Roger that.’’
Connor clicked off. We drove for a couple more minutes. When Connor pulled to the curb, I was reaching for the car door before the engine was turned off. I waited for him to tell me to stay in the car. He surprised me.
‘‘C’mon,’’ he whispered. ‘‘I don’t want him coming back and catching us.’’
I followed Connor across the street to the front door of the little apartment building. It wasn’t the the big house in the nice neighborhood, but it wasn’t the worst either. And this one had the added bonus of actually being paid for by the real Charles Smiths. I’d bet my last dollar that the house Blue and I searched was part of Mr. Guest-of-Honor’s-Special-Friend’s bank fraud investment portfolio.
The owner of this building still took a little pride in it. The grass was cut and the shutters freshly painted a bright blue. Charles Smiths, aka John Doe lived here. I thought it would be worse. More depressing. More squat than home. Wrong again.
I hovered as Connor picked the lock on the glass door, then the one on the apartment door. I was definitely going to get him to show me how to do that. Connor pushed me to one side of the door, entered the hall, then went into the apartment and closed the door. He was back in a minute, holding open the door for me.
There was enough of the late-evening sun coming in the big front windows to see the room. Sleeping bag, shadeless lamp, crate of clothes, and stack of books and magazines in the living room. Bowl, spoon, and glass in the kitchen sink. Ketchup and half a loaf of bread in the refrigerator. Toothbrush and razor on the ledge above the bathroom sink. One towel, damp, hung over the rod. Basics only. Dog bowls. No separate bed. They probably shared. Still, it had a roof and required rent. I stood in the middle of the nearly empty living/dining room with my hands on my hips, thinking.
‘‘Would you live like this?’’ I asked.
‘‘It keeps the rain off.’’
‘‘He’s got more than a quarter of a million dollars, but he’s sleeping in a sleeping bag’’—I toed the cloth— ‘‘reading’’—I knelt next to the small stack of paperbacks—‘‘half-priced books, and living on ketchup sandwiches. I mean, would you live like this if you had that much money? Jesus, who am I talking to? You’ve probably got tons more than him, and you live in that swanky place on the water.’’
‘‘We live there, and you never asked about the money.’’
‘‘Would it kill you to volunteer information once in a while?’’
‘‘Probably. I’m a guy.’’
I sighed and rolled my eyes. I didn’t know how to feel. All that money. Endless opportunity and this was what he had. This was subsistence only. I guess money hadn’t even been enough for a down payment on the good life for John Doe.
‘‘Well, stop being such a guy, then. Let’s argue about that later.’’
‘‘Works for me,’’ he said.
‘‘I’m sure it does.’’
Connor gestured toward the room. ‘‘What does this tell us?’’
I eyed him suspiciously. He wanted me to free-associate our next, probably wrong conclusion? ‘‘He’s neat.’’
‘‘So? So am I.’’
‘‘But you’re military. They probably drill neatness into you. John Doe makes me look like a slob.’’ Everything was shipshape.
‘‘Institutional living, maybe. If he’s been in and out of hospitals, he would have learned to control his quarters.’’
‘‘Maybe.’’ I went into the kitchen and started opening cabinets. ‘‘But if he grew up with servants and stuff, wouldn’t he naturally leave things out? And he wouldn’t have a pet.’’
Connor checked the knives in the silverware drawer. He touched a blade and pulled back a bloody thumb. Honed or new? ‘‘He might have had to make his own bed, servants or not.’’
‘‘Did you?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Oh, my God. You had servants?’’
‘‘I thought we were going to argue about that later?’’
‘‘I forgot. I was suddenly picturing you with one of those cushy nanny types.’’
He leaned over and kissed me. ‘‘We could get you a uniform.’’
I pushed him away. ‘‘Pervert. Do you ever think about anything but sex?’’
‘‘Not with you in the room.’’
‘‘There’s nothing in here.’’ I closed the cabinet.
Back in the living room I flipped through the books. Connor took the clothes out of a crate and flipped it, using it as a chair.
‘‘Don’t do that,’’ I said.
‘‘I’m just going to check the pockets.’’
‘‘It’s creeping me out. It’s too, well, personal. It feels like a violation.’’
‘‘We already broke in.’’
There were limits, for Pete’s sake. ‘‘I know, but let’s not.’’
‘‘S
ara, we’ve got to find out more about this guy than what kind of toothbrush he uses.’’
I sank back onto my butt. It felt wrong. He had to see that.
‘‘We’re not out to hurt him, Sara. We just need to know what’s going on.’’
‘‘I know.’’ I sighed, flipping pages, setting the book down, and picking up another.
‘‘John Doe really got to you.’’
‘‘He was so scared, Connor.’’
Connor lifted a shirt, checked the pockets, and refolded it.
‘‘How much do you think the rent on this place is?’’ I asked, leafing through another volume.
‘‘Eight, nine hundred maybe.’’
I watched Connor from the corner of my eye. He wasn’t saying anything, judging anything. That was good. ‘‘So why not get a better place? Or furniture?’’
‘‘He’s keeping a low profile. The best way not to get caught is not to draw attention. He picks a nondescript place like this, no one asks questions. And the money lasts longer,’’ Connor guessed.
‘‘If he’s keeping a low profile, why do an interview? What’s the upside?’’
‘‘Maybe he couldn’t resist. Like a pyromaniac watching a blaze.’’
Connor pulled a card from the pocket of a T-shirt. Glancing at it, he read. Then he handed it over. My business card. In the corner, a hole and a twist tie.
‘‘Now we know how John found you,’’ Connor said.
I glanced at a magazine cover, then tossed it on the pile. A piece of paper fluttered. Picking up the magazine, I turned pages until I found it. It was a loose Xerox copy. The ink was blurred, but I could read the police report. It was a copy of the report Pablo Esteban had given us. The Smiths murder report. I handed it to Connor without a word.
‘‘And that’s how John Doe knew about the Smithses murders,’’ I muttered, not meeting his eyes. ‘‘I was so sure . . .
‘‘It doesn’t explain how John knew all about Charles Smiths’s medical history, babe. So he kept a copy of the police report about his parents’ murders. That’s grim, but understandable.’’ He still knows more than a stranger would. And his mental state, well, it would take a lot to make that up. It’s not like Charles Smiths was mainstream crazy.
I stared at the article. The one bookmarked by the police report. Scanning, I felt my heart drop. ‘‘ ‘Capgras syndrome,’ ’’ I read aloud, ‘‘ ‘a case study by Gretchen Dreznik.’ ’’
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