by JF Freedman
This is uncharacteristic for her, Luke thought, because normally this woman was a rock. Something was really troubling her. “Who was it?” he asked, his ballpoint poised over the yellow pad.
“My grandson, and a friend of his,” she said with a nervous catch in her throat. “They showed up the morning of the day the police say the girl disappeared. They had been on the road for a couple of weeks and they stopped by to see me before they went back to college. In Tucson,” she added with precision. “Steven—my grandson—is a senior at the University of Arizona. So is his friend. Tyler. Tyler Woodruff.”
Luke hummed silently to himself. This was a wrinkle that needed to be ironed smooth.
“The boys couldn’t have known anything,” Juanita continued, as if pleading a case that as yet didn’t have any accusation attached to it, “because they weren’t at the ranch during the day, except when I was there. They didn’t return until later that night, and the police said the girl must have been abducted in the daytime.”
Luke tilted back in his chair. He wanted to help her, but her personal feelings, particularly for a blood relative, weren’t going to satisfy the sheriff and D.A. He needed facts. “Where were they, and how do you know?”
“In Santa Barbara,” she answered. “They gave me a rundown of what they’d done, the next morning. They hooked up with some friends. I don’t know what they did, exactly. Whatever college kids do, I assume. They got back late that night, I made them breakfast the next morning, and they took off. I haven’t spoken to Steven since then,” she concluded.
“Did they tell you who they were with? Any names you recall?”
She shook her head. “No. Just friends.”
“Have you spoken to your grandson about this murder?” he asked her. “Does he know about it?”
Juanita shook her head. “No, I have not spoken to him.” She raised a finger as she reconsidered. “I did mention in an e-mail I sent to my daughter-in-law—Steven’s mother—that a body had been found on the ranch, but I didn’t get into any particulars. Just that a body had been found on the property, of a local girl who had been shot. But no,” she concluded, coming back to his question, “I haven’t said anything to Steven about it.”
“But he probably knows, if you told his mother.”
“I suppose,” Juanita agreed.
“And he hasn’t communicated anything back to you about it. That he knows anything about it.”
“No,” she said. “He hasn’t.” She thought for a moment. “She may not have told him. Steven doesn’t live at home, he shares an apartment with Tyler. I don’t know how often he talks to his parents, but I doubt it’s on a daily basis.”
Luke put his pad and pen aside. “There’s two separate areas to be considered here,” he said. “One is legal, the other’s ethical.”
She looked at him intently.
“The detectives didn’t specifically ask you if your grandson or some other particular person was there, did they?”
Her eyes squinted as she attempted to recall exactly what was asked and answered. “No. They did ask who had access to opening that gate, I think. Maybe they didn’t. I’m not sure.”
“But you didn’t deliberately mislead them, or lie, cover up, whatever.”
“Absolutely not,” she answered forcefully.
“Legally, I don’t see that you have a problem,” he told her. “The question we should ask ourselves is, what’s the ethical position? I say this because of who you are in the community, your reputation, which is sterling, and also because a girl was killed, and a good citizen wants to help the police find out who did it. Does that make sense?”
“Of course.”
“You personally didn’t see anybody who could have been involved, right?” he asked.
“No. I didn’t.”
“But you don’t know if your grandson and his friend did. They never mentioned anything.”
“No,” she answered again.
“So maybe they did.”
Her face twitched with alarm. “And they concealed it? I can’t imagine…”
“No, no, no,” he said quickly, not wanting to frighten her any more than she already was. “But they might have seen or heard something which meant nothing to them but would have value to the sheriff’s investigators. Details that are meaningless if you’re not looking for them.”
Her face softened in relief. “I understand.”
“Here’s the deal, Steven: you and your pal Tyler are going to have to come here and talk to the police.”
Before Luke called Steven McCoy in Tucson to tell him that he and Tyler Woodruff were going to have to return to Santa Barbara to be interviewed by sheriff’s detectives about Maria Estrada’s murder, he and Juanita McCoy had a brief meeting with Alex Gordon, the county D.A., who had once worked under him. After listening to Juanita’s summation, Alex called Cindy Rebeck and Louis Watson and put them on the speaker box, so everybody could be part of the discussion.
The boys had to be interviewed—that was a given. They were potential material witnesses to the dumping of a murder victim. The question was where the detectives would interview them, Tucson or Santa Barbara. After a brief discussion, Alex and the cops, with Luke’s concurrence, decided to bring the boys to Santa Barbara, rather than flying the detectives to Arizona. If something of value came out of their discussion, particularly regarding physical evidence, the boys would already be on the scene. The detectives would avoid having to make an extra trip, and they’d cut down on expenses.
Steven knew about the body being found on the ranch. His mother had called and told him, after she heard the grisly news from Juanita. He hadn’t thought much about it one way or the other, except how it would affect his grandmother.
“But I don’t know anything,” he protested to Luke over the phone. “If I did, I would have called somebody back there. I’m just starting classes,” he continued, “I’m up to my ass in work. Do I really have to come?” he asked. “Can’t we do it over the telephone?”
“No, this can’t be handled long-distance,” Luke answered. “They have to question the two of you in person, Steven, if for no other reason than to cover their butts,” he said candidly. “They can’t risk some reporter finding out that you and Tyler were camped out on the property the same time the girl disappeared and they never talked to you about it, particularly if they haven’t solved this case by then. Very bad publicity, which they do not want. They have thin skins, they bruise easily.”
“So why can’t they come out here and talk to us? Isn’t that how it’s usually done?”
“Sometimes,” Luke agreed, “but this time they want you here, in case something sparks.”
“But I already told you. We didn’t see anything. It’s going to be a waste of time,” Steven complained.
“So be it,” Luke answered. “It’ll be less than twenty-four hours out of your life, that’s not a big deal. You’re doing it for your grandmother, okay? She’s upset about all this, and I want to put the whole shebang behind us. So suck it up.”
The caller on the other end of the line wouldn’t identify herself. “I don’t want to get involved,” she said to the police dispatch operator. She had something to tell them about the girl who got murdered, Maria Estrada. “The day she disappeared? I saw her at Paseo Nuevo.”
“What time was that?” the operator asked.
“Early afternoon.”
“Did you see anyone with her?”
“Yeah, I did.”
The operator grabbed a notepad and pen. “Did you recognize this person with Maria?”
“No, I don’t know who it was,” came the soft reply.
“Was it a man or a woman?”
“A guy.”
“Could you tell how old he was, approximately?”
“I don’t know,” came the uncertain reply. “Her age, a little older?”
“What was his ethnicity? Asian, African-American, Latino, Anglo,” the dispatcher rattled off.
; “White.”
“Tall, short, thin, heavy?”
“Pretty tall,” the girl said. “Over six feet. On the thin side, but built good. His hair was like dirty-blond, you know? Kind of light brown.”
The dispatcher began punching in the number to Detective Rebeck’s cell phone. “Did he have any unusual features? Tattoos, visible scars?”
The voice on the other end paused. “I didn’t see any scars or tattoos.”
“Can you be more specific where you saw this fellow and Maria Estrada?” came the next question. “A restaurant, a store?”
“They were coming out of Elaine’s,” the caller said.
The jewelry store in the mall where kids got their ears pierced, the operator recalled. “Okay. Could you see where they went after that?”
Rebeck’s line was busy. The dispatcher disconnected and started dialing Watson’s.
“What is that sound?” the caller asked.
She had heard Watson’s number being punched in. “Nothing, it’s…”
“Are you trying to trace my call?” The voice on the other end sounded frightened.
Quickly: “No. That was just a time-code. So did you see…”
The line went dead.
Cindy Rebeck showed Maria’s picture to two salesclerks at Elaine’s Jewelry Store. Both young women recognized her immediately.
“She’s in here all the time,” the anorexic-looking one with purple-dyed hair told Rebeck. She laughed. “She’s a total earring whore.”
“What’s her problem now?” the other, a sweet-faced redhead, asked. “She get caught shoplifting? I always keep my eye on her, for sure.”
“She was murdered,” Rebeck answered tersely. “Don’t you ever watch the news or read a paper?”
Both women’s mouths formed O’s of shock. “That chick that was found at that ranch?” spike-hair exclaimed. “That was her?”
“Yes,” Rebeck said grimly. “Do either of you remember her being in here about a week or so ago, during the afternoon?”
“I do,” the redhead volunteered. “I worked that day. She came in the middle of the afternoon, about three o’clock.”
Rebeck took out her notepad and ballpoint. “Was she with a man?”
“She sure was,” the salesgirl answered brightly. “He bought her a pair of earrings. Sapphire studs. I mean, not real sapphires, sapphire-colored, the stones.” She grinned. “This wasn’t Kobe Bryant-level buying.”
Stay calm, girl, Rebeck told herself. This could be the break they desperately needed. “Do you recall how the man paid?” she asked carefully. “Did he use a credit card?” Dear God, she thought, could it be this simple?
The girl immediately shook her head. “Cash. I remember, ’cause I had to break a hundred. We don’t get many hundred-dollar bills in here. It’s like he did it to impress her, you know?”
It had been a shot. “Was she impressed?” Rebeck asked flatly.
“I guess. I was,” the girl said with a laugh.
“Can you describe him? Height, weight, hair color, eyes? Anything you can remember.”
“Early twenties, I’d guess? A UCSB type, you know?” She paused, recalling a quick transaction that had occurred over a week ago. “Tall, on the thin side, but built nice. Dirty-blond hair. Your basic surfer dude is how I’d describe him.”
The salesgirl’s description matched the anonymous caller’s, which meant the odds were better than decent that this unidentified John Doe was Maria’s killer. Rebeck scribbled the information down. “Is there anything else you remember about them?” Hopefully: “Did they talk about where they were going?”
The salesgirl shook her head again. “Not a word. She put the earrings on, gave him a big fat smooch, and they went their merry way.”
9
LUKE PICKED STEVEN AND Tyler up at the Santa Barbara airport and drove them to the sheriff’s compound. Juanita would come for them when the questioning was over and drive them to the ranch, where they’d spend the night before going back to Tucson the following morning.
“Is there anything we should look out for?” Tyler asked. He was nervous. His only encounters with the police had been for speeding, making too much noise at parties, the usual college high jinks. Steven, on the other hand, seemed loose and relaxed.
Luke shook his head. “Just tell the truth and you’ll be fine,” he counseled them as he dropped them off at the front door.
Cindy Rebeck had to brace herself against the corner of her desk when Steven, followed by Tyler, ambled into the cramped cubicle she shared with Louis Watson. My God, she thought with an involuntary shiver, he’s a virtual match to the description, from his dark-blond hair to the soles of his Tevas, of the unknown man who had been the last person seen with Maria Estrada while she was still alive; although he was more handsome than she had expected. She could see girls going for this boy in a heartbeat. Girls like Maria Estrada. She glanced over at Watson, who nodded back: he had noticed the similarities, too.
There are a thousand boys at UCSB who fit this description, she reminded herself. Still, the coincidence was unnerving.
“We’re going to do this in the conference room,” Rebeck said, after they introduced themselves. “Roomier in there.” The conference room was set up for audio-and videotaping. The cops wouldn’t tell the boys they were being taped—it wasn’t legally required. The department’s position, like that of most police departments, was that they would adhere to the letter of the law, but not beyond it.
“Can we get something to drink?” Steven asked. He had downed a bottle of water on the drive in from the airport, but he still had dry-mouth from the airplane.
“Sure. What do you want?” Watson asked.
“Coke?”
“Two?” Watson looked at Tyler, who nodded.
They sat at a long, bare metal table, the boys on one side, the detectives facing them. The detectives had positioned the boys so they would be clearly seen by the hidden video camera.
After IDing themselves, the boys, the time, date, and place, Rebeck said, “What we need for you to do is recapitulate your entire day, in as much detail as possible, from when you arrived at Mrs. McCoy’s ranch until you left the following morning. You with me?”
The boys nodded in agreement.
“You got there what time?” she began.
“Around noon,” Tyler answered.
“A little before,” Steven corrected him. “Closer to eleven.”
Watson looked from Steven to Tyler. “Which was it?” he asked.
“Yeah, that sounds right,” Tyler agreed, deferring to Steven. “Eleven.”
Watson wrote the time down on his notepad. “At eleven o’clock in the morning”—he was being as specific as possible for the tape-recording—“you drove onto the property. Where were you earlier that day?”
“Cambria,” Steven answered. “We camped out at Moonstone Beach. We got up early in the morning and drove straight down.”
That could be easily verified, Watson thought as he made another notation. “You called your grandmother to let her know you were on your way?” he asked Steven. “Your cell phone, pay phone?”
“Neither,” Steven answered. “I didn’t know she’d be there, at the old house. It’s not like she goes over there every day, she doesn’t live there. It was a fluke she was there when we showed up.
“So the gate was open,” Rebeck said, more to herself than to the boys. So much for the ranch’s so-called tight security. She started to write the information in her notepad.
Tyler spoke up. “No, it was closed.”
Her hand froze in midair. “Closed? Do you mean locked?”
“Yes,” Steven confirmed.
The detectives, now confused, looked at each other, then at the boys again. “How did you get in, if it was locked?” Rebeck asked Steven.
“I know the combination,” he told her matter-of-factly. “I’ve been going there all my life.”
Rebeck took a moment to calm herself. This was
a fuckup on her and Watson’s part, she thought in self-anger. They should have anticipated that. It cast a new and potentially unsettling light on their investigation.
Pull it together, she admonished herself. “You drove in, and then what?” she continued.
Overlapping each other with mild, inconsequential corrections, the boys recounted their brief, happy encounter with Juanita, the discussion about sleeping at the old house, their plans to have breakfast with Juanita the next morning. “Then we drove into Santa Barbara,” Steven concluded.
“And you locked the gate behind you when you left?” Watson asked.
“Yes,” Tyler answered.
“No,” Steven said simultaneously.
Rebeck sat back. This was getting worse; or maybe, much better. “Which was it?” she asked them. “Locked or open?”
“It was open,” Tyler said sheepishly, glancing over at Steven, who was scowling.
“You’re sure?” Rebeck asked him, openly skeptical.
He nodded. He looked over at Steven again, then away. “At the time, I thought we had locked it, because Mrs. McCoy had been real concerned about telling us to, so that was stuck in my mind. But when we came back at night after dinner, it was unlocked, and bozo here reminded me he’d forgotten to lock it up behind us, and not to tell his grandmother how he’d screwed up, so she wouldn’t get upset with him. So yes, we left it open,” he petered out.
Yet another unexpected turn, Rebeck thought to herself. Some routine questioning this was turning out to be. If the gate had been left unlocked, anyone could have gotten onto the property.
“You drove into town,” Watson said, keeping the flow going. “Straight into Santa Barbara, no stops along the way?”
“That’s right,” Steven said. Tyler nodded in agreement.
“Where did you go?”
“We stopped for lunch at a Mexican place near the high school, then we drove over to the mall on State Street,” Steven told him. “Paseo Nuevo, it’s called?”
If Rebeck’s pen had been a pencil, it would have snapped in two. “Paseo Nuevo?” she said, echoing Steven.
