Behind them, Deck’s cell phone buzzed, rattling against the hard tabletop. He hardly seemed to notice.
“Should you—”
He buried her question against his mouth. Apparently it could wait.
A loud crash from the garage joined the cell phone’s insistent nagging.
“What the hell?” Deck breathed against her cheek. He pressed his brow to hers.
She followed behind him as he flung open the door that led from the house to the garage. Everything appeared exactly as they’d left it. Olivia’s boxing gloves rested on the cement. The bag swayed slightly. The overhead door stood partially open, her Buick parked outside, and the starry night beyond.
Like one of those tricky what’s wrong with this picture puzzles, it took them both a moment to spot it.
“Weird.” Deck examined the box that had tumbled open. He righted it, hurriedly stacking the spilled contents back inside.
Olivia shivered in the warm garage, gripped by a sudden feeling that crawled like a spider up her spine. Someone was watching. “Is anything missing?”
“No. It must’ve just fallen over.”
He ignored her skeptical frown and answered his persistent cell phone which had started its buzzing again.
“Will Decker, Homicide.” A few moments later, he hung up and gave her a solemn look.
“What is it?”
“They arrested Jonah Montgomery trying to cross the Canadian border. He was armed with his service weapon. The US marshals are transporting him back to Fog Harbor.”
Nineteen
Will’s heartbeat drummed like the hooves of a racehorse as he walked Olivia to her car. He wanted to kiss her again but thought better of it, certain she’d read him like a book. Already, she’d looked at him strangely when he’d insisted the box had fallen over.
But Will couldn’t have her thinking he regretted any of it, so he drew her to his chest, resting his chin on her head. “For the record, I was never not interested.”
As soon as Olivia’s taillights disappeared down Pine Grove Road, he rushed back to the garage. Cy had followed them out of the house and made his way over to the box. The cat inspected it with his nose before rubbing his head against the corner.
Will approached the box with caution, imagining a dark winged creature springing from inside like a demented jack-in-the-box toy. When he reached it, he gave it a little kick, startling Cy. Though he felt silly, the nervous churning in his gut was undeniable.
He knelt beside it and examined the items again, more closely this time. The things he hadn’t wanted Olivia to see belonged to their shared past. To Drake Devere, the serial killer who’d wreaked havoc on Fog Harbor months ago and then vanished, taking a sizeable portion of Will’s pride with him. Drake’s book, Hawk’s Revenge, sat atop the pile. On the cover, a bird’s talons, dripping red. He’d sent it to Will, the printed dedication inside it meant for him.
For Will
What you did to me will be done to you ten times over.
A small noise came from behind him. Will snapped the book shut, his breath quickening, and spun to look over his shoulder at the half-open garage door, certain he’d see Drake himself casting a long, black shadow.
Only Cy sat there, licking his paw. The tag of the new collar Will had purchased for him jangled as he moved his head.
It would take most of the night—at least nine hours—before the marshals reached Fog Harbor, and Will knew he would lie awake for all of it.
Twenty
On Monday morning, Olivia left Emily sleeping at home and headed to work at Crescent Bay State Prison two hours ahead of schedule. She couldn’t sleep anyway. No point tossing and turning, replaying that kiss and what had come after. The box overturned in the garage, Drake Devere’s book tumbling out like a sign from the universe. A tarot card.
It didn’t help that Javier Mendez—the man Leah had branded chupacabra-level bad—had been assigned to her 9 a.m. Monday slot, the date looming like the man himself. Larger than life. Later, she would drive to the police station for Thomas’s second interview with Dr. Lucy. A part of her felt excited at the prospect of Thomas’s revelations, but she also dreaded seeing him again. His innocent little face stirred up her own traumas like a stick dredging a mud puddle.
After Olivia had retrieved the push-button alarm from the Mental Health Unit desk, she retreated to her office to sift through the rest of the Bastidas file. Will had emailed it to her late last night, the time stamp 3:45 a.m. So they’d both be running on fumes, then.
Elvis Bastidas had never denied his guilt. He’d freely confessed to detectives his involvement in the shooting death of Tim McKenzie, a long-time member of the Oaktown Boys. As a member of the rival Los Diabolitos street gang, Bastidas alleged McKenzie had called him out at a party and brandished a gun at him. In fear for his life, he’d had no choice but to fire three shots at the nineteen-year-old victim. The last one, a kill shot to the head. No wonder Peter Fox hadn’t wanted Bastidas to testify. In Olivia’s opinion, a twenty-five-year plea deal for manslaughter had been a lucky break.
Olivia paged through the rest of the file, taking notes to share with Deck. At exactly nine o’clock, she watched through her door’s small window as Sergeant Shanice Weber left the officer’s station and approached the front door of the MHU for the daily unlock.
The men filed in, clad in their denim-blue jumpsuits, and took their positions on the metal benches in the lobby. Javier did not walk among them. Rather, he trailed behind, his colossal frame towering like one of the ancient redwoods that bordered the prison. His graying black hair hung in a thick braid down his back. A mustache of the same color framed his upper lip. A snake tattoo coiled around his neck. The head of the creature—fangs exposed—appeared just beneath his right ear.
“Mr. Mendez?” Securing her alarm to her waistband, Olivia steeled herself. Men like him could sense weakness. “Are you ready?”
He sauntered toward the door without speaking or breaking eye contact. Olivia mirrored him, while her heart cowered like a mouse inside her chest. She reminded herself why she’d wanted this job—chief psychologist at Crescent Bay—in the first place. To understand these kinds of men. To understand her father. Now, more than ever, she needed Javier to help her do both.
After her father’s supposed suicide, she’d learned he’d been informing for the FBI. That he’d been close to IDing “the General”, the enigma responsible for the drugs and cell phones that made their way through the prison gates every day. Though her father’s digging had gotten him killed, she had no intention of stopping until she’d unmasked the General and figured out exactly who’d robbed her dad of his second chance and why.
Having just arrived at the office across the hall, Leah waved to her. She looked worried. The last female therapist who’d worked with Javier at the maximum security Desert Canyon State Prison had ended up on the floor of her office with a telephone cord wrapped around her neck.
“Come in. Have a seat.”
For forty-five minutes, Olivia listened to Javier ramble non-stop, recounting the gory details of his recently filed lawsuit against the state prison system. They’d wrongfully branded him a shot caller for Los Diabolitos. They’d wrongfully housed him in Administrative Segregation. They’d wrongfully fed him an unhealthy diet that led to his Type 2 diabetes. For years, he’d denied the crime that put him behind bars—the brutal rape and murder of his estranged wife.
“Is there anything you do take responsibility for?”
Avoiding her question, Javier’s dark eyes looked her up and down, then scanned the room until they landed on her desk, homing in on the empty space next to her computer where her telephone usually sat. She’d unplugged it from the wall and tucked the whole apparatus inside the desk drawer. “Don’t you think it’s unwise for a female psychologist to meet one-on-one with an inmate without a functioning telephone?”
“That depends on the inmate.”
His smile oozed. “Touché.”
When the
timer on her desk dinged, alerting Olivia that their fifty-minute session was over, she felt a wave of relief. She had no idea how she’d ever get Javier to talk about anything other than himself. But if she couldn’t get the truth about her father from the Oaktown Boys, she hoped rival gang member Javier would be willing to spill their secrets. Olivia knew he’d keep showing up to his appointments. Inmates who participated in mental health treatment received favorable placements. And Javier wasn’t about to exchange his ticket to Crescent Bay for a ride down south to Corcoran. Which meant she’d have time to devise a strategy.
Javier stood up, dwarfing her, and pointed to her computer screen, which she regretfully realized had been partially visible to him. “Elvis Bastidas, huh? If you see that lucky SOB, tell him venganza dulce.”
Javier left the office without a word, parting the crowd of inmates in the lobby like Moses in the Red Sea. Olivia let out a long, shaky breath. Working in the prison, she’d picked up enough Spanish to translate his words. Sweet revenge. What the hell did that mean? Did Javier Mendez know what happened to Peter Fox?
After Javier had left the MHU, Leah poked her head into Olivia’s office. “Shall I get the sage?”
“He’s not that bad.”
The raise of Leah’s eyebrows indicated her clear disagreement.
“Okay. He is that bad.” Olivia grinned. “But at least he’s long-winded. And narcissistic.”
“Antisocial, narcissistic, and long-winded. The holy trinity of therapy clients.” Leah smirked, making the sign of the cross. Then she narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing Olivia’s face. “And yet, you seem happy. Glowing, even.”
“That’s the glow of sleep deprivation.”
“Right. Sure, it is.”
Carrie Stanley, the psychologist who’d been gunning for the chief psychologist job since before Olivia arrived in Fog Harbor, stopped outside the office door looking smug. “How did it go with Javier Mendez? He can be a handful even for an experienced clinician.”
“Excellent.” Olivia didn’t miss a beat. “I think we made some real breakthroughs.”
Twenty-One
Will sat on JB’s sofa, exhausted, with Princess’s head resting on his thigh. Tammy had left for her job at the crime lab five minutes ago, leaving them to review the result of JB’s deep-dive investigation into Peter Fox’s cell phone. But Will’s thoughts drifted elsewhere.
“She likes you.” JB sounded surprised.
“You think? She didn’t even text me when she got home.”
“Wait—what? Are we still talking about Princess?”
Will blinked a few times, wondering if he’d fallen asleep. Princess gazed up at him adoringly. “Uh, can we stay focused here? We’ve got a case to solve.”
“You have a case to solve. Until the doc gives me the go-ahead, the only thing I have to do is put my feet up and binge-watch The Golden Girls. That Blanche really gets my blood pumping.”
“I thought you said we were in this together. We’re partners, remember?”
“Yeah. Partners. That’s only if you solve it, City Boy.”
JB dismissed Will’s aggrieved expression, producing his laptop and a sheaf of paper from the end table. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. I taught you everything I know.”
“And if I don’t solve the case?”
“Then we’ll let Graham take the blame. If he’s not in jail, that is.”
“Did you find something?”
JB scrolled through the records on the laptop, displaying the content of Peter’s text messages, starting in May. “No. That’s the point. It’s what I didn’t find.”
“You lost me.”
“Every Saturday afternoon at four o’clock, Peter received a text message from La Cumbre Country Club notifying him of Sunday’s available tee times. Look. May 2, 9, 16, 23, 30. Same for June. But on July Fourth, the only messages he received are the two from his wife. Nothing else.”
“Maybe the text didn’t go out because of the holiday. Can you call the club?”
“Exactly what I thought. But Frederick at the pro shop assured me the text went out as usual to all their regular golfers. Peter played his last round this past Sunday.”
Will studied the messages, thinking of Peter and all the last times he’d had without knowing. “What do you make of it?”
“Jeez, City Boy, do I have to do all the heavy lifting? We need to get the records from the cell phone company. I think some of Peter’s messages may have been deleted.”
Will nodded. “In the meantime, I’ve got something else to keep you busy. Check your email.”
After a few clicks, JB gaped at the screen. The exact reaction Will had had when he’d received the same email from Marcia Russell, with a link to a file hosting service. “What the hell is all this?”
“That’s what twenty-six years of client files looks like, partner. Our guy could be in there. A needle in a haystack. Since you’re basically on desk duty, you know what that means.”
JB raised his middle finger.
“You’re it.”
Will had reviewed the same paragraphs in Chet’s autopsy report for a full hour now, waiting for the marshals to arrive with Jonah Montgomery. Like black magic, the words conjured images he couldn’t unsee. A dark contrast to the photos on Hannah’s Facebook page, where eleven-year-old Lily had played Clara the last two Christmases in the Santa Barbara Youth Ballet’s production of The Nutcracker.
The body of the deceased child was partially burned with charring of the bone underneath. The pugilistic position of the body and degree of burning suggested approximately ten minutes exposure to fire.
Fourteen-year-old Dylan, sweaty and grinning in his football uniform, his arm flung around the shoulders of a teammate. Hannah had written: Another victory for the Stingrays! Two touchdown passes for this star QB!
A small entrance wound is located on the center forehead of the adolescent male. The projectile entered the front of the skull and passed through the cerebrum.
Will tensed when Chief Flack joined him at his desk. “I’ve got Montgomery in room one for you. Don’t screw it up.”
Graham pumped his fist in the air from across the partition. “Finally!”
“Remember the rules. No talking to the suspects.”
“Hey, that wasn’t a rule.”
“It is now.” Will gestured to the break room. Sure, he’d already had three cups, but no one was counting. “Get me a fresh coffee. I’ll meet you inside.”
As Graham disappeared from view, Chief Flack grabbed his arm. “Before you go in there, there’s something you should know…”
Jonah Montgomery looked light-years from the Facebook photo Olivia had shown him. His eyes were now sunken like blackened pits and his arms and face scratched by brambles. According to the Canadian Border Services, he’d run from them when spotted and had been found hiding in a thicket. Clearly, the thicket had won.
Before Will could open his manila folder and launch into it, Graham materialized at the doorway, out of breath and holding two steaming cups of coffee.
“This one’s for you.” Graham placed the cup on the table in front of Jonah, passing the other to Will as an afterthought.
“C’mon, dude. I’m a cop. I know the whole routine. That buddy-buddy shit isn’t going to fly with me.”
When Graham shrank back, Will fought the urge to high-five his suspect. A first time for everything, apparently.
“Alright, Mr. Montgomery, you’re a straight shooter. I can work with that.” Will lowered himself into the chair closest to Jonah, pushing Graham’s seat into the corner. Then, he placed the family photo he’d enlarged and printed from Peter’s website smack dab between them. “Right now, you’re the main suspect in the quadruple murders of the Fox family. Do you want to talk to me?”
Graham cleared his throat. “To us, you mean.”
Will gave him a pointed look, and he slunk into the chair, quiet as a mouse.
“Look, I’m sure you’ve seen the motel s
ecurity footage by now.” Jonah waited for Will’s confirmation but he remained tight-lipped. “You’re not going to like what I have to say. You probably won’t believe me.”
Will opened his notepad to a fresh page. Seeing the clean white surface, ready to be filled with answers, always quickened his heartbeat.
“Try me.”
“First off, I didn’t kill anyone. I took an oath to uphold the law, not to break it. Plus, I’d never hurt a kid. Especially not those two. Dylan and Lily were great. The only thing I’m guilty of is being suckered into the middle of that train wreck of a marriage.”
“Suckered in how? Were you having an affair with Hannah Fox?”
Jonah sat back in the chair, looking even more uncomfortable than Will had expected. He pushed the photo away from him. Then he reached for it, turning it face down. “Try again.”
“With Peter?” Will sipped his scalding-hot coffee too fast. He hadn’t seen that coming. “Starting when?”
“A couple of weeks after the charity auction for the children’s hospital. Hannah always recruited the rookie officers for the dates. I guess you could say I caught Peter’s eye. He came by the Lazy Dog. It’s a bar downtown where all the cops hang out. I always had a thing for older men.”
“Did Hannah know?”
“That Peter prefers dudes? What do you think? He told me she looked the other way. That they stayed together for the kids, lived separate lives. The whole clichéd speech. Then, when we started to get serious, he promised me he’d leave her. Like a fool I believed him.”
Jonah took a deep breath, as if a heavy weight rested on his chest. “A friend of Hannah’s came to the house one day looking for her. She walked in on us. Of course, she told Hannah. It turned out his wife had no clue about any of it. Peter made us both look like fools.”
“How did Hannah react? Was she upset?”
One Child Alive: An absolutely gripping crime thriller packed with nail-biting suspense (Rockwell and Decker Book 3) Page 8