by Lee Goldberg
Mark shook his head. "I'm only looking for Nick Stryker's killer."
"Fine. You do that," Yankton said, "and you'll find the man who should be sitting here instead of me."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Limousines were lined up in front of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, waiting for the attendees of the National Lupus Foundation's Woman of the Year dinner, a black-tie benefit honoring a sufferer of the autoimmune disorder for her courage and fund-raising efforts. It was a must-attend event on the Beverly Hills charity circuit. Tom Jones was flown in from Las Vegas to sing and catch the panties the women in the audience threw onstage. At this event, however, he was more likely to be catching girdles and diapers.
A cluster of men in tuxedos and women in evening gowns stood under the hotel's front awning, lustily dragging on their cigarettes during the narrow window of opportunity between the appetizer and the main course.
One the men was drawing so hard, in fact, that passing motorists were in danger of being sucked into his pockmarked face. Steve Sloan managed to avoid the deadly vortex by approaching Weldon Fike from behind.
Steve was frustrated, waiting for the authorization to make arrests and for all the search warrants he'd requested to come through. So he'd decided to confront the one suspect in Stryker's murder who wasn't facing arrest on another crime. Weldon Fike. The vicious serial rapist who walked out of prison a free man in exchange for his testimony in the federal case. The man Stryker had blackmailed to keep his new identity secret from his victims.
When Steve spoke up, Fike was busy admiring the surgically upgraded cleavage of a Botox-browed society matron through the fog of his smoky exhalations.
"She's a little old for you, Weldon. I heard you like your prey at least twenty years younger," Steve said. "Unless, of course, they happen to be worth a hundred million"
Fike flicked his cigarette into the street and turned to face Steve.
"Naughty, naughty. Littering is a crime, Weldon," Steve said. "You violated your parole."
"You've clearly mistaken me for someone else." Fike adjusted a pair of cuff links to draw Steve's attention to his ten-thousand-dollar Patek Philippe timepiece. "I'm Kingsfleld Turlington."
Steve whistled. "Sounds rich. Did you come up with that moniker yourself, Weldon, or did somebody in the witness protection program choose it for you."
Fike grabbed Steve by the forearm and led him out of earshot of the others. Ordinarily, Steve would have instantly pinned Fike's arm behind his back and slammed him face- first into the nearest hard object, but he didn't want to make a scene.
"Who the hell are you?" Fike hissed.
"The guy who is going to break your left hand if you don't let go of me, Weldon." Steve smiled pleasantly.
Fike let go of him, his eyes drifting to the badge clipped to Steve's belt. "It's Mr. Turlington to you and all your friends. You got a problem with that, talk to the attorney general."
"What kind of first name is Kingsfield anyway? I bet you picked it just so women would have to call you King, especially in bed, where I'm sure you need all the help you can get. Does hearing her call you King make you feel like a man, Weldon, or do you still dream of raping and torturing teenage girls?"
"That never happened. That man doesn't exist, understand?" Fike stepped close, way too close, and looked into Steve's eyes. Most people would probably have been intimidated. Steve might have been, too, if he hadn't been carrying a loaded gun. "You aren't supposed to even look at me."
"I wish I didn't have to," Steve said. "It's hard for me to keep my dinner down."
"We had a deal." Fike didn't break his gaze. He didn't even blink.
"Which deal are we talking about?" Steve asked casually. "The one with the feds? Or the one with Nick Stryker?"
That made Fike blink He stepped back.
"Stryker." Fike seemed to gag on the name. "I thought that was finished."
"Might have been, if you'd dug a deeper grave," Steve said. "I once convicted a guy on just a nose hair. Imagine that. A nose hair. Never pick your nose, Weldon, especially when you're committing a felony."
"What are you talking about?"
"Murder, Weldon," Steve said. "I think killing a guy voids whatever deal you had with the government."
Fike smiled. "Stryker is dead?"
"You killed him so you could keep more of your allowance."
"Think whatever you want." Fike was suddenly a lot more relaxed than he'd been only moments ago. "I didn't do it, but I'm glad somebody did. He had it coming."
"King?" A sequined woman in her early fifties seemed to glide towards them on some invisible cushion of air. Steve assumed she was the future Queen Turlington.
"Who's your friend?" she asked, crinkling her nose above her artificial smile.
"A gentleman hitting me up for a smoke," Fike said, doing his best Thurston Howell impersonation. He reached into his pocket and handed Steve the pack. "Keep it, friend."
"It's a filthy habit," Queen said.
"He has worse," Steve said.
She eyed Steve warily, then looked back at Fike. "Is something wrong, King sweetie?"
"Not anymore, my love." Fike looped his arm through hers, turned his back to Steve, and led his fiancée away.
Steve watched them go. Whatever invisible force had propelled her now carried them both back to the ballroom. Science didn't have a name for it, but Steve did.
Money.
Mark firmly believed that the Internet was one of the greatest threats to individual privacy ever invented. It was also a godsend to detectives.
As soon as he got into his room at the St. Francis Hotel, he unpacked his laptop and went straight for the high-speed Internet connection, turning his back to the sweeping view of the San Francisco skyline that he was paying a substantial premium to enjoy.
He ordered room service and started his work by visiting an online national reverse directory, where he input the numbers on Nick Stryker's phone bills and matched them with names and addresses.
Armed with that information, Mark began the laborious task of running each name and address through databases he subscribed to that, for a small monthly fee, accessed the department of motor vehicles, court records, business entity filings, property tax records, even information input by customers when they registered their electronic products and software with the manufacturers.
Mark never registered anything because he knew it was the equivalent of volunteering to have his privacy invaded, his identity stolen, and his mailbox inundated with sales pitches.
Thankfully, though, most of the people Nick Stryker had contacted didn't feel the same way. By midnight Mark had a list of everyone Stryker had talked to over the last month, and where they lived or worked. In many cases he also learned their ages, their occupations, their marital statuses, their legal histories, their military records, the makes and models of the cars they owned, the Web sites they liked to visit, and the electronics they'd purchased.
He complemented those research results with a basic Google search on each person, to see what Web sites, blog postings, newspaper articles, and Usenet discussions came up.
By two a.m., Mark was able to construct a time line of all the people Stryker had called each day. His last call was made three days before his disappearance, to a number in Kingman, Arizona.
Only four names on the list meant anything to Mark. One was Pamela Swann, Stryker's attorney. The others were Cale's ex-wife, Betsy, their daughter, Serena, and Yankton's ex-wife, Vivian.
Betsy and Serena lived in Capitola, a beach community in the Monterey Bay area, about a hundred miles south of San Francisco. If Mark took the long way back to Los Angeles, down the Pacific Coast Highway, he could stop in Capitola on his way and talk with them.
By the time he was done, he could barely keep his eyes open. He was totally exhausted from his long day, the long drive, and the long hours in front of the tiny laptop. It was only as he fell into bed that he remembered that he'd for gotten to call his son and t
ell him about his meeting with Yankton.
There was nothing exciting to report anyway. He'd learned that Yankton, through his lawyer, had hired Stryker to prove be was innocent. The fact that Yankton was Stryker's last client didn't change anything, at least not yet. And it certainly wouldn't be a shock to Steve that Swann had lied to them. Steve assumed all lawyers were liars. If Mark had proved she was honest, that would have been worth a call.
Mark drifted off to sleep wondering how he could have raised such a cynical son.
The international headquarters of the super-secret, unnamed interagency task force of law enforcement agents was a windowless conference room in the district attorney's office that had previously been used to store old computers and busted copiers.
Steve thought it would have been much cooler if the headquarters had been a sleek underground base that was accessible only through a false wall in a dry cleaner's store front, but the government's budget for law enforcement just wasn't what it used to be.
He was in his seat in the conference room at nine a.m. He was the first and only member of the crack force in attendance at that early hour. At 9:01, Assistant District Attorney Owen Penmore stuck his head in and pointed at Steve, singling him out from everyone else who wasn't in the room.
"You. Burnside's office. Now," Penmore declared and withdrew his head.
Steve glanced at the empty chairs of his absent colleagues. "Don't get started without me."
He followed Penmore down a long row of cubicles to Burnside's corner office. Burnside was behind his desk, glaring in advance at the open doorway so Steve would get the full force of his fury the instant he walked in.
"What the hell were you thinking?" Burnside said.
"I was thinking that I should have picked up a Cinnabon on my way to the office," Steve said. "I know they're bad for you, but I like them anyway."
"Last night," Burnside said.
"Oh," Steve said. "When exactly? Because I was thoughtful all night."
A vein pulsed in Burnside's forehead. Either Burnside is putting a lot of effort into his glare, Steve thought, or he's about to have a stroke.
"Don't forget who you're talking to, Detective. Or I will take your badge and give it to my wife for her charm bracelet."
From what Steve had heard in the locker room, Burnside's wife had a lot of badges on it already and they weren't gifts from her husband. He could have said that, but decided he was better off saying nothing.
"The Justice Department called my house before the sun was up," Burnside said. "They were irate. They told me that you stalked, harassed, and threatened to expose a high-level resource in the witness-protection program."
"Weldon Fike is a convicted serial rapist who victimizes teenage girls."
"I don't care if he assassinated John F. Kennedy," Burnside said. "He's been exonerated and is under the protection of the federal government."
"So-was the second shooter in Dealey Plaza," Steve said. "Or so legend has it."
"You could have blown Fike's cover and jeopardized his future testimony," Burnside said. "And for what, exactly, Detective?"
'The King was being blackmailed by Nick Stryker, who threatened to tell his victims where he was hiding," Steve said. "He also stood to lose his hundred-million-dollar fiancée. He's also got a proven propensity for violence. I think those are all good reasons for Weldon to have murdered Stryker."
"Weldon Fike is the pivotal figure in the prosecution of a prison gang that's responsible for arranging the killings of two dozen people," Penmore said, his voice quivering with rage. "All of the victims were witnesses scheduled to appear in trials in which their eyewitness testimony would have led to convictions. You would jeopardize that case for the sake of a blackmailer?"
"My job is to investigate homicides, not judge the victims," Steve said.
"Your job is to investigate the evidence in Stryker's files and arrest anyone engaged in criminal activity," Burnside said. "There is no murder investigation. Am I clear, Detective?"
"Transparent," Steve said.
"Good, because if you pull anything like this again, your new profession will require a drive-thru window and a paper hat." Burnside picked up several folded blue documents from his desk and held them out to Steve. "Judge Lancaster issued these warrants this morning. They're good for Detective Harley Brule's home, office, car, and the warehouse full of stolen goods he's got in Chatsworth. Shut him down and arrest every member of the Major Crime Unit."
Steve took the warrants. "Will do. Should I alert the media so we have some footage for your next campaign ad?"
"Don't push your luck, Detective," Burnside said. "You don't have many friends left."
"I wasn't aware I had any," Steve said.
"You're getting my point," Burnside said. "You need the power and the publicity that comes from a string of successful, high-profile convictions much more than I do."
"I don't play politics," Steve said.
"Of course you do," Penmore snickered. "You just do it badly."
Steve turned to go, but before he was out the door, Burnside called to him.
"Are you still thinking about that hot cinnamon roll?" Burnside said.
"Yeah," Steve said.
"Get one for me, too, will you?"
CHAPTER NINE
Mark was awakened by two sharp knocks at his door, but the fog in his head didn't clear right away. His mind was still running through an onion field, searching for something he couldn't name. A crow swooped down and cawed, "Maid service."
It was the jarring sound of the door catching against the chain that finally cleared his head. He'd forgotten to hang the DO NOT DISTURB sign on his doorknob last night.
"I'm here," he called groggily from his bed in the dark room. "Come back later."
Mark heard a muffled apology and rested his head again on the sleep-warmed pillow. The heavy shades blocked out the sun completely. The room was black, illuminated only by the light from the corridor that seeped under the door and the red glow of the numbers on the clock radio on the nightstand.
It was ten thirty in the morning.
So much for an early start, he thought.
It was noon by the time he'd showered and shaved, gone down to the business center, and printed out all the notes he'd made on his laptop the night before. He also e-mailed the notes to himself for good measure.
By twelve thirty, he was on the Pacific Coast Highway heading south to Capitola. It was the perfect day to be skimming along the jagged edge of California, all blue skies, tall pines, cotton-ball clouds, and frothy surf.
Mark stopped for a quick lunch in Half Moon Bay at a ramshackle hamburger stand in a pumpkin patch across the highway from the craggy shore. The cheeseburger was soggy and oversalted, but the pumpkin pie was so good it took all of his willpower not to order a second slice. He was becoming a pie addict.
It was nearly two p.m. by the time he drove down the hill and under a towering wooden railroad trestle into Capitola, a seaside village nestled between two cliffs where the Soquel River met the sea.
Capitola had a unique mix of architecture, setting, and lifestyle that managed to simultaneously evoke a Mediterranean resort, gold rush San Francisco, and sixties California at the height of the hippie movement. Somehow, those sharp contrasts melded together seamlessly to create a place of unusual charm and beauty.
Betsy Cale lived in Venetian Court, a tightly packed hamlet of twenties-era villas embraced by the beach in front, the cliffs behind, a fishing pier on one side, and the mouth of the river on the other.
The beachfront villas looked like brightly colored birthday cakes, frosted with swirls of stucco painted pink, orange, blue, yellow, and turquoise under red terra-cotta tile roofs.
Betsy and her daughter lived in the first row of villas on a concrete promenade that doubled as a breakwater in the winter months, when the beach was often consumed by the churning sea.
On this particular day, the sand was as smooth as sugar, dotted by a f
ew sunbathers, two old men flying kites on either side of the gentle river that cut through the center of the beach, and several giggling children running back and forth through the ankle-deep water.
Mark found Betsy sitting at an easel outside the open door of her villa, facing the bay and delicately dabbing paint on a canvas. She wore a large straw hat, a paint-spattered denim work shirt and loose-fitting shorts. Her skin was evenly sun-bronzed, right down to the toes of her bare feet. She was in her forties, but could easily have passed for a much younger woman. It was only as Mark got closer that he could see the crow's-feet at the corners of her sea green eyes.
He'd assumed she was painting the beach scene playing out in front of her, but as he looked over her shoulder, he could see that her gaze was directed farther south, to a distant pier leading to a shipwreck in the bay.
"I don't see how anyone with a paintbrush could resist capturing a dramatic seascape like that," Mark said.
"They haven't, Betsy said with a friendly smile. "Around here, painting the Cement Ship is a cliché."
Mark squinted into the distance, trying to bring the wreckage into focus through the sea mist. "That ship is made of cement?"
"The Palo Alto is our version of the Spruce Goose," she said. "She was one of two concrete tankers constructed in San Francisco during World War One. The war was over by the time they were finished. The Palo Alto made only one short voyage before she was towed down here seventy-five years ago and beached to become a dance hall. A fierce storm broke the hull apart a few years later, and that's where she's been resting ever since, becoming home to seagulls, pelicans, crabs, mussels, and fish."
"And the inspiration to generations of talented artists like yourself," Mark said.
"I wouldn't call myself talented yet. Fumbling is more like it. There's something about that wreck that captivates me. I could look at it for hours." She sighed wearily and frowned at her painting. "But whatever it is about her that enthralls me, I haven't been able to capture it yet"
