My street dead-ended a quarter mile beyond my cottage, and vehicles rarely passed after dark. When I heard a car pull to a stop nearby, my ears pricked up. My elderly neighbors seldom ever returned home late. No headlights had played on the ceiling—someone had turned them off well before the car passed my cottage.
I was instantly wide awake and grabbed my Sig Sauer, plus a spare clip. Trees restricted the view from the loft's gable end window. But in the amber glare of the streetlights, I could make out a dark-colored SUV, idling at the roadside. I half crawled to the stairs and descended to the living room as silently as possible. At night, a couple of squad cars were supposed to be patrolling the city streets. Most of the time, they parked at the Seven Eleven on the other side of town. But I felt more than prepared to deal with the possible threat and wasn't about to call for help.
My cottage and the Victorian main house sat in the middle of a huge lawn punctuated by shrubs and towering cedars. Somehow, the McKenzies managed to keep the grass green and mowed throughout the summer, even in drought years. A quarter moon had risen in a sky of scudding clouds. Standing in the center of the darkened living room gave me a decent view through the windows on all four sides of my home.
The minutes ticked by and I saw nothing.
I was about to give up and return to bed when movement near one of the shrubs caught my eye. A shadow darted from a rhododendron bush and took cover behind a tree.
Pulling on my running shoes, I slipped out of the front door and into the shadows on the porch. The night air was crisp and thick with the fragrance of honeysuckle and lavender. I waited a minute for my eyes to fully adjust to the blackness, listening intently. The only sound I could hear was the rhythmic thwok-thwok of sprinklers on a neighbor's lawn.
There were no trees or shrubs between my house and the McKenzie's. Nothing for the intruder to hide behind. Would he break cover or try to circle around and approach from another direction?
I squinted into the gloom.
The answer came when a skulking figure dressed in black dodged along a hedgerow in a crouch and disappeared behind the old summerhouse. Something in his hand glinted in the moonlight as he ran. Could it be a can? A bottle? Was he planning to torch my house? I guessed he intended to approach the back of my cottage under cover of a line of tall manzanita bushes.
I crept toward his position sweeping the blackness with my pistol. The summerhouse's rustic wooden structure was open on the side facing a small lake. A waterlogged rowing boat was tied to a jetty that extended twenty feet into the inky black water. The McKenzies told me they used the area for parties when they were younger but hadn't in a long while. Beyond the lake was a field of dense brush—mostly blackberry bushes—with no way to traverse it without getting ripped to shreds. It left the intruder with only one route to approach my cottage.
Was the prowler's mission to cause trouble and frighten me, or did he intend to kill me? Either way, he would be disappointed. I aimed to block the man's advance and apprehend him when he tried to retreat to the dark SUV idling two hundred feet away on the street.
I reached the back of the summerhouse, but the prowler was nowhere. I followed the smell of gasoline to an overturned bottle with a rag stuffed into the spout. Light it with a match, and you have a simple but effective firebomb. I shivered, partly from the cold of the night air, but mostly from the realization of what might have happened. My would-be attackers were nothing if not persistent.
At the sound of rapid footfalls, I wheeled around. The man must have seen me, dropped the Molotov Cocktail, and was racing for the safety of the SUV. He raised his weapon, trying to get a bead on me as he ran. The slug thudded into a tree six feet from my position. I returned fire, but the chance of us hitting one another as we raced through the blackness was remote. The gunfire brought the lights on at the main house and started a cacophony of barking dogs. I was faster and gaining on the prowler. But his lead gave me no chance of catching him before he reached the getaway car.
My shouts for him to stop were of little use. Short of shooting the fleeing man in the back, there was nothing I could do to prevent him from escaping. Once he was through the passenger door, his accomplice gunned the engine, and the SUV lurched off into the night, with a squeal of tires. I stared after it, bent over, with my hands on my knees. My lungs were burning, hungry for air. Mud covered the tailgate, making it impossible to read the license plate. It could have been a black Explorer, but I was left with no means of Identifying the vehicle or its occupants.
"Who is there? Show yourself." Mr. McKenzie was standing on the porch of his Victorian, backlit by the light from the hallway. A shotgun held at his waist was pointing my way.
"It's Megan Riley. We had an intruder. He's gone now," I shouted at the top of my lungs, knowing he had difficulty hearing.
"I'm calling the police," McKenzie replied.
I managed to dissuade him from that course of action, telling him it wasn't procedure for me to fire my weapon in the darkness. It could get me into more trouble. He thanked me for keeping him and his wife safe and returned to bed. I didn't let on that I had attracted the armed man onto his property.
I retrieved the bottle of gas with a rubber glove—we might get lucky with prints, but I was doubtful.
CHAPTER 45
ON TUESDAY, EIGHT DAYS after Beth and Ashley's murders and the first full day of my suspension, I'd risen at 5.30 a.m. Half a banana helped to get my blood sugar flowing. Before setting off on my run, I left a quick voicemail for chief tech Chris Andrews, telling him where to pick up the bottle of gas, left behind by the prowler.
Running pre-dawn on the Springhill Trail often rewarded me with breathtaking skies as the sun rose over the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The intruder from the previous night now seemed less of a threat. Still, I'd been skittish enough to take a completely different route around the local San Juan Reservoir and to carry my Sig Sauer.
I'd called Angie Bennett on the way home from borrowing the Jeep from Mark Davies. Angie said she was an early riser and to come to her house around 8 a.m. After a long steaming hot shower and three cups of freshly brewed coffee, I was feeling no pain as I drove there. Even though I didn't have to show up at the station, my to-do list was long.
Right on time, I pulled to a stop in front of the gate at the entrance to Angie's driveway and rolled down the Jeep's window. Watched by a security camera high on a pine tree some distance ahead, I announced my presence into a microphone next to a keypad. The barrier swung open, and I drove down the bumpy driveway, parking in front of Angie's two-story farm-style house. Ivy covered many of the tall pines and cedars encircling the property. The ground floor curtains were drawn, and iron bars fortified the windows. A common sight in major cities, but unusual in Stockbridge. More cameras watched me from under a second-floor balcony as I pressed the button beside a stout oak door.
Angie Bennett was a fair skinned, ample woman of about fifty, with ash-blond hair and haunted eyes. She led me into a well-appointed kitchen. The windows here overlooked the rear garden, and the bars were more widely spaced, but they still ruined the view. Angie Bennett had built a cage around herself.
She noticed me looking. "You'll have to excuse the security, but I've had nothing but threats since Jack died. They come in the regular mail, in text messages, and phone calls. If I change my number, they seem to find out. I can't use social media without someone reminding me they know where I live. I used to report them, but it didn't go anywhere. I'm afraid Jack's killer may still be out there, and if I make too much of a fuss, he'll come after me."
"Thank you for seeing me. I was investigating another case when I came across some . . . ah, inconsistencies in the police report of Jack's death."
"Anyone who can help get justice for Jack is more than welcome. It's been quiet since the inquest, and now you're the third person asking about him in the last couple of weeks."
"Who else has been here?"
"Two reporters, but I'll keep their names to myse
lf for now."
Beth? I wondered. "As I said on the phone, I'm currently suspended pending an investigation into an officer-involved shooting. It's standard practice even when it's justified, as it was in my case. But I fear someone in the force may use it to try to silence me. I've been warned off looking into Jack's death, even when it appears connected to my current investigation."
"Everyone who tries to find out what happened to Jack gets similar treatment."
"What can you tell me about the days leading up to his death."
"As I told the reporter yesterday, a couple of weeks before he died, Jack suddenly got very guarded. Said he'd discovered something which wasn't his fault, but which would reflect badly on him if it came out. He didn't want to tell me what it was, for my protection. I've always wondered if Jack was killed to silence him."
"I read the report, but parts of it are missing, including your statement. I gather you found the body."
"I went over to the office he shared with Joey and found him sitting in his chair, slumped over his desk. No one else was there. He didn't kill himself, Detective Riley." Tears welled in Angie's eyes.
"Please call me Megan. Lieutenant Townsend's summary in the report says you told him Jack was depressed."
"I never said anything of the sort to them, because it wasn't true. On the morning he died, Jack bought tickets to see the latest Spiderman movie for himself and Emily, our daughter. Who does that and then kills themselves?"
"Do you remember seeing the gun he was shot with, laying on the floor?"
"I only saw Jack. The sight of him covered in blood made me run out screaming and want to throw up."
"Was your husband ambidextrous, because the gun he supposedly used was lying on the floor to his left?"
"He had arthritis in his left hand. He could barely pick anything up with it."
"The autopsy report says Jack likely was not shot from close range. It may have taken two or more attempts to hit him."
"I read that in the recent newspaper article, but I didn't know whether to believe it."
"You should keep what I'm telling you to yourself for now, especially if you speak to reporters again. My visit today is unofficial," I cautioned her.
"There's no one to tell—I barely have any friends. I used to be a teacher. Now, I'm often too afraid to go out of the house, let alone hold down a job. It was a Godsend when Jack's life insurance came through. He had the policy for years, but it took a lot of haggling to get them to pay up. The doctors say I have post-traumatic shock, but they don't seem able to do anything about it. The medications they prescribed made me more tired and sluggish, so I threw them down the toilet."
"Can you tell me if you've seen this before?" I handed Angie the list from Beth's locker in an evidence bag.
"Why, yes. The reporter who was killed recently showed it to me. What's her name?"
"Beth Gervais?"
"Yes. Nice woman. What happened to her was tragic. You said it might be connected to Jack's death?"
"Quite possibly. What else did Beth say? It's important as it may have a bearing on her death."
"She said it was a list of children who'd died, and that Jack had a copy. I told her I'd never seen it before. Why would Jack have a list of children, I asked her. He wasn't weird or creepy, you know. She thought it wasn't anything untoward like that."
"I don't believe it was either." So, Beth knew Jack had a copy of the list. She must have seen the police report, which she could only have gotten from Matt. Now Kayla Ellis seems also to have it. And Townsend thinks the cases aren't related.
Two young women entered the room. Emily Bennett was Matt's girlfriend when I interviewed him at his apartment. I recognized Sophia from a photograph that Prentiss had as the girl sleeping with Whitehead at the time of the home invasion.
Right away, Emily gave me a look, which I took to be asking me not to mention I'd seen her sitting semi-naked and stoned on Matt's bed.
I greeted the girls without letting on.
Angie told them I was looking into the death of Emily's father, Jack, but I cautioned them to keep it to themselves for now.
"I overheard you two talking," Emily exclaimed. "Matt hacked quite a few people. If he found anything juicy, he gave it to Beth."
"Do you have the names of the people he hacked," I asked.
"He was always bragging about the number of computers he'd broken into, but he never told me who they belonged to."
"Patrick told me someone hacked the hospital recently and stole patient records. Maybe it was Matt's doing," Sophia interjected.
"Patrick Whitehead? Were you at his house the evening of the home invasion?" I asked as innocently as I could.
Sophia blushed and looked to Angie. "Maybe I was."
And Whitehead's in his 40's, I thought. I made a mental note to ask him about the hospital hack.
"Mom, Matt knew about the operation you had, from your patient notes," Emily said.
"Good grief," Angie muttered.
"Hello, Megan. We need to talk." The voice came from behind me. I turned and saw Kayla Ellis standing in the doorway to the kitchen.
"How about right now, if Angie will excuse me." I wanted to seize the opportunity to find out what she knew.
WE SAT IN THE BASEMENT APARTMENT on either side of an occasional table. Kayla said she wanted to make a statement, so I set my phone between us and turned it on to record. She had a purple bruise on her jaw, and I could see scratches on her inner forearm. From the scuffle with her attacker, I guessed.
"You should know I'm suspended, so this statement is unofficial," I said.
"I trust you more than anyone else in the police force."
"Despite what you wrote in your column recently about my incompetence?"
"It sells newspapers and online subscriptions. Look, I'm hiding down here because I fear for my life. The same people who killed Ashley, Beth, and Matt are after me now."
Fighting back the tears Kayla told me about seeing Brickman at the Bluebird Café, and how he followed her to the Spotted Owl on the day, Matt was kidnapped. She told me Sophia had recognized the voice of the person who had tied her up. As Kayla related how she'd seen Kent Brickman give Matt a lethal injection, the tears streamed down her face. She placed a plastic bag with a syringe inside on the table.
"He followed me into the hospital basement," she continued. "I was terrified and had to hide." Despite Kayla's attacks on me in The Examiner, it was difficult not to have sympathy for her.
"Why was Brickman trying to wake Matt?"
"I overheard Sophia tell you Matt had hacked the hospital. It sounded like Brickman wanted Matt to tell him what he'd done with the stolen files. "
"You'll need to make a formal statement before we can arrest him. Sophia should too, for us to proceed with charges relating to the home invasion. They recovered the attacker's DNA. It didn't match any we had on file. With your statements, we can arrest Brickman, and get a sample from him. He won't get away with whatever else he's involved in."
"I can do that, but I don't want anyone to know where I am. Someone else may have killed Ashley and Beth, so I may still not be safe after you arrest him."
"Let me see if I can get Detective Prentiss to meet you somewhere. I'll try to be there too. Have you seen this before?" I placed a copy of the list of names and dates on the table for her to see.
"Matt got it from hacking into somewhere. I think Beth could have been using it to write an article about children who died of cancer."
"There's more at stake than a human-interest story. Jack Bennett's police report shows he had a copy when he died. But you already know that. Beth also had a copy and was investigating it. Something about it was important enough to get three people killed."
"You're right, I've seen Bennett's police report, but that's not where I remember finding the list. I'm sure Matt got a copy from somewhere else. I looked at Beth's files on The Examiner's server, but there were no recent ones, so I only know what she told me s
he was working on."
"If Matt hacked the list from another computer, then it is even more significant. Do you know of anything else Matt passed along to Beth which could have got her killed?"
"No, I don't. It could be the list, or we may not have found it yet."
"There's no 'we' in further investigations. You need to promise to leave that to us from now on," I said. I got the feeling Kayla wasn't coming completely clean about what she knew.
How did she know the names on the list were childhood cancer victims?
Before I left the house, I got Sophia to send me the photo she snapped of Brickman at the supermarket. Despite my suspension, it felt like I was making progress. Some parts of the conspiracy were becoming more evident, but others were still very murky. Apart from the new information about Brickman, all I had were wild-assed guesses, but I sensed they were leading me in the right direction.
Two people had killed Beth, and most likely Ashley. If Brickman was one of them, who was the other? I needed to talk to Prentiss about detaining him, and to Whitehead about the hack at the hospital.
BEFORE I DID ANYTHING else, it was time to visit my mother's nursing home. We were going to try again to have her sign papers giving me power of attorney over her financial and medical matters. Everyone was hoping that mid-morning would be a better time for her.
Fifteen minutes after saying my goodbyes to Angie and Kayla, I followed the sweeping driveway at Belleview Nursing Home to the thirty-minute lot. I felt lighter as I climbed the stairs to my mother's floor. Even the disinfectant odor wasn't bothering me this time.
Karen Fisher, as elegant as ever, met me at the nurse's station, looking happier than when I last saw her. She shushed me when I began to apologize for being ten minutes late, saying:
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