The Chief grunted. ‘We’ve got no problem with media interest. Brook Connor represents the perfect story. She’s a minor celebrity; she’s good-looking; and so’s the stepdaughter. They’ll love the fact that she’s a life-coach who’s made all her money telling other people how to improve their lives and now looks like she’s screwed up hers. Even I like that angle. And, of course, there’s the fact that she’s come to the attention of the law before, over the deaths of her parents. So there’s going to be a lot of heat. Do we have any idea of motive?’
Giant and Jenna had discussed this earlier and agreed that they couldn’t let on to anyone about the affair that Logan Harris had been having with Maria Reyes, least of all the Chief, who would probably fire Giant in a minute if he thought he was deliberately – and illegally – following the spouses of people they weren’t even officially chasing.
‘No,’ he said, in answer to the chief’s question. ‘We haven’t got any idea of motive yet.’
‘Well, do some digging. There’s a reason why Brook Connor put a knife into her husband, and we need to find it.’
Giant and Jenna made the requisite affirmative noises and were about to leave the office when there was a knock on the door and Sergeant Joe Padilla thrust his head around it.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, Chief,’ he said, ‘but I thought you guys would want to know that we’ve just had a call from Ralph Byfield. He’s the manager at the National Bank over in Carmel. He said Brook Connor came in to see him two days ago and insisted on withdrawing a quarter of a million dollars in cash.’
The Chief raised his eyebrows.
‘And he gave it to her?’
Padilla nodded. ‘Said he figured he didn’t have much choice. It was her money. He tried to persuade her otherwise, but she was insistent.’
‘Great,’ said the Chief miserably. ‘Now we’ve got to involve the FBI and the US Marshals Service.’
Ordinarily Giant would have been hugely disappointed by this new development, because it meant losing control of what could have been the biggest case of his career, but he couldn’t help feeling a sense of relief. Because whatever had happened between Brook Connor and her husband, it hadn’t been caused by his decision to blackmail Logan Harris.
Or so he hoped.
24
Brook Connor had her first shock of the day when she switched on the TV in her room. It was 9.45 a.m. and she’d slept badly, but for a much longer time than she’d been anticipating.
On the TV a young, blonde reporter was standing outside a police station talking to the camera, while at the top of the screen was a professional photo of Brook, taken from her website. It was a good shot and she was smiling and not looking at all like a criminal.
However, as the reporter continued talking about how the local police had confirmed that she was wanted for questioning in connection with the murder of her husband and the disappearance of Paige – described as ‘her stepdaughter’ – as well as the stepdaughter’s nanny, it became very clear that it didn’t matter what she looked like, because the reporter’s tone suggested that Brook was very much the suspect in both crimes, and the wicked stepmom always makes a good suspect.
There were a lot of other reporters and camera crew in the background and an air of excitement in the blonde reporter’s tone. This was obviously going to be a big story.
A photo of a grinning Paige, blown up from the one in their living room, suddenly filled the screen, and Brook felt her stomach lurch. She hadn’t seen Paige now for a whole three days, and the thought that she was waking up somewhere out there alone, probably scared and definitely needing her mom, was becoming increasingly hard to bear. It was why she couldn’t give herself up, whatever the cost of remaining on the run. In truth, she realized with a sinking feeling that there wasn’t even any obvious evidence there’d ever even been any kidnappers. She had no doubt that they’d got rid of any incriminating evidence and were now long gone, leaving behind just a dead body, two missing people and an obvious suspect.
‘Police are also trying to trace the family nanny, Rosa Fernandez,’ continued the reporter on the TV, ‘who hasn’t been seen since two p.m. on Wednesday afternoon, when she collected Paige from kindergarten, and they are appealing for anyone who might have seen either of them since.’
For the first time, it occurred to Brook that Rosa might have been involved. Not willingly. She couldn’t imagine that. Rosa was a genuinely kind person with a big heart, who adored Paige in a way that could not have been faked over so long a period. But what if Tony Reyes had blackmailed her? Or threatened her family back in Mexico. She tried to recall if Rosa had been acting strangely in the run-up to the abduction, but as far as Brook could remember, she’d been her usual friendly self. She’d made pancakes for Brook and Paige on the morning before the kidnap. They’d had a competition to see who could flip their pancake the highest and still have it land back in the pan. Rosa had won easily. Everyone had laughed. Life had been normal.
But maybe Rosa was a better actress than Brook had given her credit for? And maybe she’d been too scared not to get involved?
She switched off the TV and went into the bathroom, staring at herself in the dirt-stained mirror. She looked exhausted and washed out. There were dark semicircles beneath her eyes and, in the morning light, the haircut she’d given herself looked exactly what it was – the work of an amateur. She looked very different from her picture on the news, but the swelling along her jawline made her stand out, and she imagined people in the street giving her a second, closer look as they passed, furrowing their brows because somehow she looked familiar, then realizing it was her: Brook Connor – the wicked stepmom; the wanted killer. And then the police surrounding her, taking her down, face pushed into the dirt and cuffing her hands behind her back, like so many other suspects she’d seen being arrested on TV reality shows.
Brook took a deep breath. In ordinary circumstances she would have given up, but the thing was, it already felt like she’d lost everything. Her success; her marriage; her beautiful daughter … They felt like a mirage, something from another, long-ago life. And ironically enough, it was this sense of total loss that gave her the confidence to carry on now.
She went back into the bedroom and pulled her laptop from the overnight bag. There was an information sheet attached to the back of the door containing the Wi-Fi code. Brook wasn’t sure whether the cops were able to track her laptop or not, but figured she didn’t have much choice but to use it, so she booted it up and then searched for everything she could online about Tony Reyes – this monster who made whole families disappear and whose cronies could be holding Paige right now.
There was almost nothing. Just one article about a financial advisor and his wife from Salinas who’d gone missing six months earlier, something she vaguely remembered Chris Cervantes mentioning when he’d been talking to her the previous morning. The advisor had been under investigation by the FBI on suspicion of laundering money on behalf of unnamed organized-crime figures. He had links to a construction company and a nationwide chain of fast-food outlets, both of which were co-owned by Tony Reyes, who was described simply as a Mexican-American businessman. Nothing else was said about Reyes in the article, but it wasn’t hard to work out that he was the organized-crime figure in question.
She looked up further articles on the missing couple, John and Judy Matthews. There were a handful, all alluding to Mr Matthews’s possible links to organized crime, but they’d fizzled out, and the last one had been written a little over a month earlier in The Salinas Californian, stating that police still had no leads on their disappearance, but were not closing the case.
It amazed Brook that a man like Tony Reyes could act with such impunity in a civilized country like the United States. Whoever had written the original article about the disappearance of the Matthews obviously knew to tread very carefully around this particular Mexican-American businessman.
Next, Brook turned her attention to his wife, Maria Reye
s, only to find that there was nothing about her, either. She wasn’t on Facebook, Instagram or any of the other social-media sites – or if she was, she was extremely well hidden. Brook was disappointed, but not surprised. Maria was the wife of an alleged high-level gangster, so it stood to reason she’d keep a low profile.
With a sigh, she put down the laptop and picked up the file Cervantes had given her containing the evidence he’d gleaned on Logan’s affair, including the photos. She needed to see what Maria Reyes looked like.
There were ten photos in all. Four of them were shots of Logan and Maria inside the family Toyota 4Runner, taken from the front. Logan was in the driving seat, an attractive older woman in her late forties beside him in the passenger seat. In two of the photos they were kissing passionately, and Logan was squeezing her breast through the material of her top. In another, they were giggling together, their faces almost touching; and in the fourth, he was holding her close to him in a warm grip, while they looked into each other’s eyes. This last one hurt the most. It was the intimacy of their body language, the obvious warmth of their feelings towards one another. You couldn’t fake that. Brook’s marriage might have been over long before Cervantes had captured Logan and Maria like this, but even so, she couldn’t help remembering that Logan had looked at her like that once, and she at him. Brook could only imagine what a violent man like Tony Reyes would think if he ever saw the photos, and the kind of revenge he would want to take. After all, it wasn’t as if either Logan or Maria had been particularly careful. Cervantes had found them easily enough. As well as the shots in the stationwagon, he’d photographed them talking to each other next to a sky-blue Porsche 911 convertible that Cervantes had said belonged to Maria.
Tony Reyes had far greater resources than Cervantes, so there was a very good chance that he had, indeed, found out about the affair, which meant that Maria might not be around any more, either.
Brook shook her head angrily, wondering how Logan could have been so stupid as to get involved with a gangster’s wife. She wouldn’t simply be able to leave her husband – not if she knew anything about his business. And it wasn’t as if she was some alluring young beauty queen, either. She was an attractive woman, yes, but a good ten years older than Brook.
The prick. The fucking selfish prick! He’d put his whole family in jeopardy over a middle-aged woman.
But at least she now had a lead, because she was certain that if Maria Reyes was still alive, she could help her. Whether or not she wanted to.
25
Lou McPherson had killed twice. The first time had been three years ago. The second three days ago.
The killing of Brook Connor’s nanny had been a joint effort. One person holding her down; the other – him – holding the bag over her head and keeping a hand over her mouth at the same time, so she didn’t make a noise and wake the kid. They’d done the deed in the back yard next to the family swimming pool, and although the nanny had put up a pretty good fight, she’d soon lapsed into unconsciousness. The whole thing had been tense and exhilarating, and the fear of being caught had given McPherson a real adrenalin-kick.
Afterwards he’d been left with the task of slicing off the nanny’s little finger, then dragging her body out to the car. He wasn’t trusted with the kid. For this particular job he was just the muscle, and he didn’t like it. He might have been a career criminal and one who’d never held down a good job (or indeed any job) in his life, but he was no fool.
And that was why he was so concerned now. Because he was no longer needed, and he knew too much. McPherson was thirty years old and was used to being the top dog in whatever group he chose to hang out with. But he wasn’t the top dog here. He was working for someone else, someone who’d blackmailed him into taking part, who had stuff on him – bad stuff – that would put him in jail for a long, long time. Otherwise there was no way he’d have got involved. Sure, he’d been paid well for the work. One hundred and twenty-five in cash, which was more money than he’d ever seen in his life, and definitely enough to make the killing of a middle-aged Mexican nanny worthwhile.
Even the killing of the old man – the husband – wasn’t such a problem, because it had been made to look like Connor herself had done it. The problem was the little kid. McPherson didn’t feel anything for little kids – they were an irrelevance to him – but he was aware that, for whatever reason, plenty of people did, and they got very angry when anyone committed crimes against them. It meant there’d be huge pressure for the cops to solve the case.
That was why McPherson had had a backup plan. One that he’d come up with on his own, and which would double his money. One twenty-five was nice, but two-fifty was a lot better. With that kind of cash, he could disappear without a trace. Because the thing was, he knew exactly where they were keeping the little girl. They thought he hadn’t got a clue about any of it, but that was where they’d been careless. He’d put two and two together. And now that he knew the location, he could sell that information back to Brook Connor. All he had to do was call her, convince her to part with more money and, when he’d got it, he’d tell her where the kid was. Simple, right?
Except that it wasn’t, because suddenly Brook Connor was on the news and the cops were saying she was a fugitive. There’d been a fire at her house and they’d found the body of her old man in the trunk of the car, and now she was wanted for his murder. McPherson knew straight away who’d set that fire and had got the cops interested in Connor. He cursed himself for delaying things. He should have known that was going to happen and should have shaken down Connor for the extra money right away. Now it was too late.
McPherson turned away from the TV in disgust, no longer wanting to be reminded of his folly. He picked up his gun from the kitchen table and shoved it in the waistband of his shorts, then went down to the basement. He went everywhere with the gun at the moment, paranoid about someone coming here to take him out. He even slept with it on the pillow next to him. He didn’t think they wanted to kill him. They thought he was their patsy, someone who could do them no harm. Even so, he knew better than to take any chances.
His instructions had been to sit tight in the house until he was told otherwise, but he was beginning to think now might be the time to split with the money and take his chances. The problem was, it would have to be a permanent move. If he defied his instructions, he’d be a fugitive as well. And one twenty-five wasn’t going to last long when you were on the run.
The thought of food took his mind off his current predicament. He was a lean, well-built man without a hint of fat, and yet he ate like a horse. He was lucky like that. It was about the only thing he was lucky with. Everything else in his life was shit.
Right now he was so hungry he could eat a horse, but decided to go with some nice prime cow instead. He opened the chest freezer in the basement and took a sixteen-ounce rib steak from the corner basket. The nanny’s head was on top of a pile of limbs and body parts, which took up most of the rest of the space inside. Her face – frozen solid – stared up at him, the eyes only half-open, looking like someone who’d just woken up, which was pretty ironic. The chopped-up nanny was the reason he wasn’t supposed to leave. His job was to dump the parts upstate somewhere, but he had to wait for a call telling him when it was to be done, and that call hadn’t come yet.
McPherson closed the lid and climbed back up the steps. He listened constantly for suspicious sounds, in case someone had broken in while he’d been down there. But, as usual, the house was silent except for the noise of the TV in the kitchen. They were still running a report on Brook Connor, as if it was the only story in the world that day.
He shoved the steak into the microwave, put it on defrost and decided it was time to change channels and find something slightly less depressing to watch.
And then the reporter said something that stopped him in his tracks. He kept listening, thought about what he was hearing, and that was when he realized there might be a way out of this for him after all.
/> It just required a little bit more planning.
He smiled. He was good at that.
26
The first thing Brook did that morning when she left the motel was to drive to a deli in the nearby coastal town of Marina and buy provisions: sandwiches, fruit, a couple of blueberry muffins and plenty of bottled water. She’d been nervous as hell going out in public. All it needed was one person to recognize her – only one – and everything would turn to shit, just like that.
There were about a dozen people eating at the tables and a couple more lining up at the cash register. Brook was wearing a beanie hat, which she kept on, but removed her sunglasses, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. She joined the line, ignoring her rapidly beating heart, and when it came to her turn, she looked the kid right in the eye and ordered her produce. He didn’t bat an eyelid. Neither did anyone else. But she didn’t finally relax until she was back in the car and driving again.
Brook had found the address of Tony and Maria Reyes easily enough and had fed it into Google Maps back in the motel. She’d seen that they lived up in the hills above the town of Carmel Valley, at the end of a dead-end road about a quarter of a mile long. The satellite image showed a huge house surrounded by fields backing onto the base of a high, rocky ridge. On the map there was a back road that ran up a hill a few hundred yards to the east of the property, and which looked like it afforded a good view of it.
Brook made a second stop at a photography shop in Monterey to buy a decent pair of binoculars. There were two assistants. One a chatty middle-aged man, the other a bored-looking teenage girl. Brook waited until the man was busy with a customer, then approached the girl and paid a hundred and twenty dollars for a pair displayed in a glass counter. The middle-aged man smiled at her as she counted out the cash, and then she saw something change in his expression. It was very subtle, but Brook thought he might have recognized her. She smiled back, knowing that putting up a confident front gets you out of most situations, thanked the girl who’d served her and then left as casually as was possible when you’re coming close to having an anxiety attack.
We Can See You Page 13
