“I remember. Who was it?” she asked.
“Bobby Wing. He convinced the desk officer that he was called back in to train staff on spike-strip deployment. He got to chatting up the officer, and she never checked the name he wrote on the log. We found a video that shows him leaving about the time the spike strip was checked out.”
Paula’s knees buckled slightly.
“Any questions, Ms. Clarke? Or can we get on with our business?” Barnes asked.
A bustle of activity from the front of the house drew attention from the group. A DA’s office staffer planted a podium on Paula’s front lawn. A news crew van raised a mast satellite antenna for a live broadcast.
“I think your public awaits,” John said, waving the flight manifest.
“You planned to perp walk me across my own yard, didn’t you?” Paula said.
Clarke bit her lower lip.
Paula stepped away and went to the podium, where the harried DA’s staffer was setting up a microphone cable.
“Get your shit off my lawn.”
The man looked to his boss, and Clarke nodded. She didn’t say anything else to the lieutenant before hurrying back up the drive.
The reporter chased the DA to her car and failed to get so much as a sneeze in response to a barrage of questions. When Clarke’s car pulled away, the reporter stood, microphone in hand, with no one to interview for the live broadcast. She walked to the podium and Paula. “What the hell happened? I have a live shot in five.”
“Lieutenant?” Paula waved her hand and got his attention.
Five minutes later, a news camera focused on Lieutenant Barnes and the van full of drugs behind him.
“A diligent investigation by Sacramento Police Detectives John Penley and Paula Newberry resulted in the seizure of an estimated one-and-a-half million dollars of illicit drugs tied to the murders of three witnesses and the attempted murder of another witness. Two suspects are in custody. Mark Wallace is being held without bail on three counts of murder, conspiracy, and attempted murder of a peace officer. Charles Sherman is also being held without bail for conspiracy to commit murder and attempted murder of a peace officer. Additionally, Detectives Newberry and Penley have developed sufficient evidence relating to the murder of another individual in prison by Mr. Sherman.”
After the broadcast, the news people left, the crime scene techs finished up, and finally, John and Paula were alone in the front yard.
“How did someone like Sherman manage to manipulate the entire system?” Paula said.
“That’s what psychopaths do. Sherman was a manipulator when he was a cop. He never stopped being one.”
“He almost got away with it. He almost took me down in the process.” She looked at her home and all the work that lay ahead if she was going to restore it again. “Maybe he did.”
SIXTY-SEVEN
The smell of fresh paint felt like a rebirth of sorts. Paula stood back and surveyed her work, a smudge of color on her cheek. Three months of rehab and the place was almost back to normal. It would take far longer for Paula to recover. In the eyes of some of the cops she worked with, she’d gotten what she deserved when she crossed that line where you didn’t rat on others cops, you kept your mouth shut and did your own job.
As much as she told herself that she did her job, and that’s all that it was, there was a nagging little itch in the back of her mind that kept trying to convince her that she was responsible for Sherman. She’d created Sherman and his obsession. If she hadn’t been assigned to that IA case, would those ex-SSPNET cops still be alive? She stood in the wake of death, destruction, and broken lives—and carried that burden. Another coat of paint may have covered the smoke-stained walls in her home, but the smudge she felt on her soul was darker.
Newsprint taped to the resanded wood floor protected the finish from paint splatter. One headline stood out from the clutter of tape, paint, and rollers: “DA Linda Clarke Withdraws From Reelection Bid: Rumors of Corruption and Pending Grand Jury Indictment.” The article featured side-by-side photos of Clarke and Sherman.
A knock sounded on her front door, and she glanced at the brass face of a grandfather clock in the living room. Cleaning the smoke damage from that piece alone had cost a grand. She smiled and laid a paintbrush on the tray and went to the door.
John held a bag of hot bagels, and Melissa balanced a tray of coffee cups.
“God those smell good,” Paula said and grabbed the bag from his hands.
“I heard you were cleared by the departmental shrink for return to duty,” John said.
“That was a waste of time.” Paula’s eyes flickered away from his.
“There’s no shame in it. Hell, Paula, you were shot, and everything that Sherman put you through—”
“I know what they’re saying. I couldn’t handle the job. Or I was weak. I’m damaged goods. I don’t care. That’s the only thing I’ve taken to heart in the whole mess: people are gonna say what they’re gonna say and there’s nothing I can do about it. It doesn’t matter what they think. Justice matters. Cops like Stark—they’re gonna go on being knuckle draggers, no matter what.”
John chuckled.
“What?”
“Stark.”
“What about him?”
“Stark was the one who found the property logs and video that proved Bobby Wing got that spike strip. Stark cleared your ass.”
“Stark did that? Why?”
“Does it matter?”
“Hell yes, it matters.”
“Turns out he went through the recordings to prove it was you who took the spike strip from the property room.”
“What?”
John nodded. “Anyway, even though he went out looking for you, he saw Bobby Wing get the spike strip. He found the video and turned it over to the lieutenant. If he wanted to screw you, he could have tossed it or just kept his mouth shut.”
She stewed on John’s last comment for a moment. “Dammit.”
“What?”
“I owe Stark. You know how he’s gonna ride me—forever?”
“Well, you can start making nice on Monday. Stark’s been assigned to IT. Who knew the guy was computer savvy?”
“Lieutenant Barnes told me the chief’s office said I could pick my next assignment,” Paula said.
“And?”
“I told him I wanted my old job back—with you.”
“I’d hoped that’s what you’d say. Speaking of which, Ronland is back to work at the car wash. He even got Bullet a job there. Things are finally getting better for them.”
“After what those two went through, they deserve more,” Paula said.
“The lieutenant is pushing the city to use the settlement money they wanted to give Sherman to work out some kind of housing program for people like Bullet and his friends at the river. They won’t have to go back to that old life.”
“I just want my old life back—like it was before Sherman turned it inside out.”
“Don’t we all?”
She glanced at Melissa, who was placing the coffee cups on a table across the room. She noticed a downcast expression on her partner’s face. “What’s up with you two?”
“Melissa—we’ve hit a rough patch is all. We’re trying—”
“This can’t be from the stuff with Kari,” Paula said.
“It’s that and her guilt over Tommy’s health, but mostly she’s having trouble forgiving herself.”
“She’ll get over it.”
“We’ll see. She’s good for a day or two, then the guilt creeps back in. She’s talking about needing some space to figure things out.”
“I’m sorry, John.”
“She’ll come around—”
“Paula? Who’s that?” a voice echoed from the freshly painted hallway.
Paula’s cheeks flushed when Brian Wilson appeared from the hall, his face streaked with paint.
“Well, hello there, Brian,” John said.
The CHP sergeant returned a subtle
hand wave.
“Old life, huh?” John asked.
“Something like that,” she blushed.
“Thing is, after what you went through, life will never be the same. There’s no going back. You can only move forward. The direction you take is up to you.”
Paula handed John a paintbrush.
“All I know is that I’m not gonna waste any more of my life thinking about the past—or Sherman.”
SIXTY-EIGHT
The darkness of a prison cell is where madness is born. Shadows fill corners and inhabit broken minds in these places. Charles Sherman sat on the edge of his bunk in the dark, and his mind cycled fast in spite of the medication prescribed to dull his senses.
He wasn’t supposed to have anything in this cell. Suicide watch, they called it. Sherman wore a paper jumpsuit and rubber shower shoes. There were no sheets in the cell that he could shred and try to hang himself with again. A bare, plastic-sheathed mattress, made from materials that prevented burning and were impossible to tear, sat on the concrete bed frame.
His forehead bore a fresh set of sutures from temple to temple, one side to the other, from banging his head on the concrete cell wall. The broken man sat and rocked forward and touched the wall opposite his bed. He traced an outline of a picture that only he could see—the image of the woman who would haunt him for the rest of his life.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I hope you enjoyed Bury the Past, the latest Detective Penley novel, one that reminds us of the old premise that you might be through with the past, but the past isn’t through with you. In my past, I worked with some of the most dedicated criminal justice professionals who made sure the public remained safe above all else. Most of us got to go home in one piece after our shifts. I’m forever grateful to the hardworking men and women in California’s prisons and parole units who go unsung and unnoticed.
I continue to be very fortunate to surround myself with supportive, encouraging people who aren’t afraid to tell me the unvarnished truth—even if it hurts.
I remain eternally grateful to my agent, Elizabeth K. Kracht of Kimberley Cameron & Associates Literary Agency, for her unwavering belief in me and our Detective Penley series. Without her, Bury the Past would have never seen the light of day. She is every author’s dream agent, and I’m so lucky to have her by my side.
Thank you to Karen Crain-Hedger for her reviews and early edits of the book that eventually became Bury the Past.
The team at Crooked Lane Books—including Matt Martz, Jenny Chen, and Sarah Poppe—are incredible. Their unwavering support for the book carried me through the process of writing this story, and they pushed me just enough to make sure you read the best book possible. Detectives John Penley and Paula Newberry have found the perfect home at Crooked Lane.
A big thank you to my kids, Jessica Windham and Michael L’Etoile, who continue to tolerate their father’s behavior. Keep those “geospastic” forces going. I’m proud of everything you’ve accomplished, and I love you more than you could ever know.
Thank you to my wife and partner-in-crime, Ann-Marie, for supporting my crazy dreams, for reading endless drafts of the manuscript, and for giving me the freedom to go out and create a fictional series. She keeps me grounded when I need it and kicks me in the ass on a regular basis. Thanks you for being my S.F.F.H. I love you.
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