At least Archer had something to do. Well, she would do something, too. Whatever she did had to be something important, but Hannah didn’t know what that something was yet. The beach was almost deserted. People were off to dinner or to the bars, and it would do no good to sit in the sand and count and tap her concern away. Max would need attention; there was no way around that.
Ten minutes later she was opening the door to the house and letting Max out into the yard. Real night was coming. There was homework to be done, but before she could do anything the phone began to ring. Hannah ran for it and grabbed the receiver.
“Josie! Hello!” Hannah cried.
CHAPTER ELEVEN:
An Outbuilding in the California Mountains
Josie’s eyes were dry and gritty, yet the cheek pressed into the ground was wet. It was if she had been crying in her sleep. There was only one time in her life that she had wept but that was long ago. Still, something had made her cheek wet. When she figured it out, crying seemed to be an appropriate response: the water bottle was tipped over and drained dry. The water had run from a crack in the plastic, over the hard packed ground and under her cheek. There was barely a swallow left. It didn’t matter. She was truly awake, and now she was remembering things.
Archer. Hannah. Max. She knew who they were, but she couldn’t remember the last time she had seen them. It was as if her life was a movie and part of it had been left on the cutting room floor. Cursing the rope, Josie pulled on it in frustration and managed to inch up, angling her body so that her arms were bent. She could look over her shoulder now, and what she saw made her sick.
She was butt-to-butt with a woman whose legs were bare and shapely, scratched and bloody. At first it appeared that she was naked. Josie strained further only to fall back when she pinched a nerve in her neck. She shook it off and tried again. This time she caught a glimpse of black lace panties and a skirt bunched around the woman’s waist. Those panties weren’t torn, and Josie’s pants were still buttoned at the waist. Rape was out of the equation for the time being.
Looking up, Josie saw that dark was coming, but that was all right because she had seen enough to know where she was: a storage building. These bunkers had to be fifty years old if they were a day, used by crews cutting roads up and down California from San Bernardino to Malibu and beyond. No one used them any longer. They weren’t usually found on beaches or in deserts, but in the foothills and mountains. Figuring this out was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. Her lashes fluttered. She shook her head again. Stay awake. Stay alert. She needed to catalogue all the information she could.
One: Through the hole in the wall, Josie believed she had seen the light of a full day pass. While that was not a certainty, it was something to work with.
Two: the light indicated it was probably close to five in the afternoon. Twilight came around six. There was a possibility that someone might stumble upon this hut, but only if it was near a populated area. Given the planning that had gone into this situation, she doubted they were near civilization. Since school had begun, there wouldn’t be vacationers.
Three: This was neither beach quiet nor beach hot, the stillness was extreme and the air silkier. This was not the desert. It wasn’t dry enough. She breathed deep and decided this was mountain air. But where was she? San Jacinto Mountains above Palm Springs? San Bernardino Mountains? Both were within two hours of Hermosa, and an easy ride on a weekend when there was little traffic. But, if she and the woman behind her were taken on a weekday, it would be tough to transport them too far, keep them unconscious and do it at separate times. Add more time to get them here, tie them up, and get away. That was a huge time investment. In the San Bernardino Mountains it would be hard to go through all that without some notice since year-round folk lived in the area.
There were other places, though, like the Santa Monica Mountains and stretches of nothing off the Grapevine. It was amazing how many wide-open spaces there were in a state full-to-the-brim with people. To figure out where she was, there was only one thing to do: get out of that building.
Archer’s Apartment, Hermosa Beach
The message on Archer’s answering machine wasn’t what he was hoping for. A client who was paying him to check out an employee he suspected of embezzlement wanted to know if any headway had been made. Not in the last twenty-four hours since you hired me, Archer thought as he erased it. There were only bills in the mailbox. He tossed them on the bookshelf. He called Liz, told her where he had found the piece of paper, read her the list of names and told her about the Hernandez connection. He informed her that The Blue Fin Grill had no cameras and spent a few moments ragging on idiots who didn’t monitor their premises. Liz listened, but it was after five and there wasn’t much she could do. She promised to make some inquiries, but they would only be made at her discretion. She wanted him to understand that. No amount of pleading was going to make it anything more. Oh, and she wanted a copy of that paper with the names on it just in case. She’d run the names on the list and see what popped up. You never knew what she might run across. But, damn it, Archer; she had a whole lot to do as it was. He better get that through his head.
Pleased, Archer hung up. Liz was hooked and he needed to keep his wits about him. The day wasn’t over and there was a lot to do. He took a quick shower and pulled on fresh clothes. He knew forty-eight hours without sleep was his limit, so he had to work fast. He ate the leftovers from Burt’s straight from the Styrofoam box as he sat in front of his computer and searched the names on the list.
Erika Gardener. No Facebook. No Twitter. She obviously had no love for social media, which was weird for a writer. He typed in a few choice words and got her DMV records. The woman had happy feet. She had moved every two years since the Hernandez trial. San Francisco, Santa Barbara, Paris – Paris? – Venice Beach and Hollywood Hills. There was nothing after the Hollywood Hills address. Maybe she got married and dropped out of the rat race. Maybe she was raising a pack of kids. He’d drill down later on her specifically. If she wrote anything of interest on the Hernandez trial it would come up when he gathered information on the case itself.
Isaiah Wilson was another matter. There was so much information on that guy Archer was worried his computer would implode. None of it was particularly current, but if Josie’s disappearance were linked to the anniversary of his daughter’s death, his press would skyrocket. Archer hit up Amazon and saw Isaiah Wilson’s five books held decent sales rank so the franchise was still respectable. The reverend’s website was slick. His pictures were posed and retouched; his image was polished and potent: dark suit, hair waving back from a high forehead, piercing eyes, sunken cheeks, pointed chin. Add it up and you got the perfect image of a man who had suffered and survived. Books could be bought through his website which also offered listings for his television appearances and, of course, PayPal for donations. Nothing offensive, everything seemed above board making the clown avatar seem strange.
Archer went back ten years. Wilson looked exactly the same but shabbier. He was about to navigate away when a picture caught his eye. The photo showed Reverend Wilson on the steps of the courthouse talking to a young man. Whether he was counseling him, praying with him or fighting with him was unclear. In the picture they were surrounded by people, press and parishioners who held signs imploring God for justice. Archer checked out the caption: Reverend Isaiah Wilson and Paul Rothskill.
Archer printed the picture and set it aside. He clicked out of that screen and returned to Google. Instead of typing in another search, Archer finished off his food. Fish, he decided, should be reheated. He tossed the Styrofoam box toward the trash, dialed Hannah and got an invitation to leave a message.
“It’s me,” he said. “The car is in good shape. It doesn’t look like anything bad happened. The cops towed it. They still aren’t going to investigate, but I have some leads I’m running down.” He was about to hang up when he reconsidered. “When you get this, stay put ‘till I get back to you.”
His next call was to Josie and Faye’s secretary, Angie. He needed to get back inside the office and asked if she would wait for him. She was headed home, but would leave the back door open if he promised to lock up after he retrieved the files he wanted. Archer wished Angie good night and she wished him good luck. All that done, he turned back to the computer for one last search. There was one more picture he wanted to see. He typed:
Janey Wilson.
An Outbuilding in the California Mountains
“I’m an attorney. I live in Hermosa Beach. Hannah Sheraton lives with me. She goes to Mira Costa high school. My boyfriend is named Archer. He’s an investigator. A photographer. He was a cop before he retired. Do you know him? What do you do? Do we know each other? Who are you? Talk to me. Please. Just say something.”
Josie Bates’ House, Hermosa Beach
Hannah opened the door and there stood Billy Zuni.
“Tacos.” He held up a white paper sack, the bottom of which was soaked with reddish tinged grease.
“You went to Miguel’s?”
“Naw. Sean was going home with his doggie bag and told me I could have them.”
Hannah nodded. Been there, done that when her mother forgot to come home or even to leave food in the fridge. Hannah had been grateful to anyone willing to give her anything. She opened the door wider. Billy walked in. No matter what time of day she saw him, no matter where, he smelled like the beach. The scent was a funny mix of sunscreen (which he didn’t use) and dope (which he did) and water and sand and beach sweat which was totally different than exercise sweat or nervous sweat.
Max didn’t get up but blinked his big dark eyes in gratitude when Billy reached down to gives his ears a little pet. The dog stretched and showed his belly.
“This dog sure likes me,” Billy laughed.
“He likes anyone who pets him.” Hannah took his greasy bag and headed into the kitchen, counting her steps silently along the way.
“He likes me especially. I can tell,” Billy called after her as he scratched Max, and put his face close so the dog didn’t have to reach too far to give him a kiss. He gave Max one more pat and stood up. “Heard from Josie?”
“No.”
“Archer?”
“He called while I was on the phone with you. He left a message and said he found Josie’s car. There’s nothing weird about it. He’s running down a few things. He didn’t tell me what.” Hannah took out the tacos. They were cold, and the grease that had looked reddish on the bag had taken on an orange glow as it congealed on the meat. “Are you really going to eat these?”
“Sure, but I’ll share if you want.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Hannah reached for a plate, put the two tacos on it and gave it to Billy as he sat down. She opened the fridge and filled her own plate with cold chicken before making a spinach salad and taking a seat on a chair opposite Billy. He shook the bangs out of his eyes and looked at her. Annoyed she looked back.
“What?”
“Well, maybe you say grace or something. I’ve never had dinner at Josie’s house before.”
“No, we don’t say grace,” Hannah answered, but she said it nicely because there was some comfort in Billy thinking about praying. “You can go ahead and eat.”
“Did you say grace with your mom?” he asked.
Hannah snorted. The only thing Linda Rayburn ever prayed for was more money and less responsibility.
“My mom doesn’t either,” Billy said matter-of-factly. “I don’t even know if we’re a religion. Sometimes, I go down to the services at the beach on Sunday.”
“Do you know anything about your mom?” Hannah drawled.
Billy picked up his taco and bit into it. The taco didn’t crunch, so it must have been in the bag a long time.
“Not much. I know she was way too young when she had me ‘cause that’s what she always says. I was way too young,” Billy mimicked and Hannah couldn’t help but laugh.
“My mom used to say that, too.”
They ate in silence for a while: Billy thoughtfully chewing his limp, cold tacos, Hannah picking at her salad.
“Did you talk to anyone on the beach?” Hannah asked.
“Sure did, but nobody’s seen her. And Burt doesn’t have everybody coming into his place, like Archer thinks. It feels like we’re pissing in the ocean, know what I mean?” Billy shook his bangs back again. “Like, who’s ever going to know you did it when there’s so much water around you anyway?”
Hannah poked at her chicken like she wanted to kill it all over again. She put a piece in her mouth and rested her head on one upturned hand. She was looking at her food while Billy was looking at her. The end-of-day light was coming through the kitchen window and Hannah’s hair was sparkling like it had been polished. Billy thought he’d never seen more beautiful hair. Hannah, on the other hand, thought Billy was right. Pissing in the ocean was kind of useless. It was the same as being a grain of sand on the beach. It just didn’t get noticed and neither would a question here or there. She raised her eyes, the light pierced her irises, turning the green a cat-like golden. She looked freaky-beautiful. She looked even more freaky-beautiful when an idea started to take form.
“You want to help me with something?”
Billy’s grin was dazzling. Hannah grinned back, and for the next few hours they were pretty close to being friends.
CHAPTER TWELVE:
An Outbuilding in the California Mountains
Josie put the balls of her feet on the cement wall and pushed back. Her legs weren’t as strong as they usually were, but they were serviceable. She pumped and pushed herself up, lifted her rear, wiggled her shoulders. Like a pill bug, she managed to move a few inches until she was cupped around the stake, easing the rope’s tension. Josie laughed. It was a small sound meant just for her, but the other woman responded.
“Can you help me?” she asked in a gravelly whisper.
Josie closed her eyes against the tears that welled when she heard those words. Regrouping, she opened them again and the tears were gone.
“Not yet, but I will.”
The Law Offices of Faye Baxter & Josie Bates, Hermosa Beach
It was almost seven and Archer sat on the floor of Josie’s office in a pool of light cast from the desk lamp, surrounded by boxes. He hadn’t been surprised to find that the second set of boxes he had seen earlier when he was there with Hannah were from the Hernandez trial. Someone had intended the list found in Josie’s car to point in Hernandez’s direction; Young confirmed the connection. But for Josie to have pulled these boxes out of storage meant someone had to have given her a heads up that the Hernandez matter was hot again.
Now Archer was an audience of one, and the curtain had risen on a show he didn’t buy a ticket for. It was up to him to figure out what it was all about and the program was extensive. Luckily, Josie made it a little easier by being a meticulous record keeper.
There were twelve boxes in all. Each was neatly labeled: motions, filing, transcripts, media, appeal, etc. Archer started at the end. He opened the box labeled ‘appeal’. Josie had not been the attorney of record, but she had been involved. Again, no surprise; appellate lawyers were a breed unto themselves. He flipped through the paperwork to the ruling. The appeal was denied. The conviction stood at second-degree murder.
Sentence: fifteen years to life with another twenty tacked on for various and sundry additional charges. Hernandez was remanded to state prison.
Archer re-filed the information and went to the first box.
Arrest Report:
Name: Xavier Hernandez.
Age: Twenty-six
Height: 5 feet 9 inches.
Hair: Black
Eyes: Brown
Weight: 191 lbs.
Glasses: No
Contacts: No
Scars: None
Injuries: Scratches to the right side of neck, bruise on the inside of the right thigh, puncture wounds on the palms of both hands
.
Fingerprint card: That was funny to look at. These days LAPD took prints and filed this stuff digitally.
There was an inventory of the personal items confiscated during booking: keys, driver’s license, three dollars and fifty-three cents in cash, a piece of gum, a heart-shaped necklace and a scrunchy.
The necklace, Archer knew, belonged to Janey Wilson. He had seen it on an Internet photo.
Booking photos:
Xavier Hernandez’s mug shot showed a nice looking guy with long, thick, straight hair. His lips were narrow and expressive in repose. Not quite a smirk or a smile, they tipped up naturally as if he was thinking about something pleasant. His cheekbones were high and his gaze straightforward. There was something exotic and a little delicate about him. He looked like one of those Italian models that were so popular these days, but he was Hispanic and it showed in the tone of his skin and the color of his eyes. Archer looked further. Xavier’s neck was big and short and held his head atop powerful shoulders and a broad chest. It was as if Xavier’s face had been sculpted by the aristocracy of Spain, and his body by the Indians of Mexico.
There was a photo of the puncture wounds on his hands. They looked as if he had hit gravel hard. They were more pockmarked than wounded. There was dark stuff under the nails on his right hand.
The picture of his neck showed deep, obvious scratch marks. The picture of his thigh showed a large bruise at the groin. Another picture showed worn jeans, shoes worn down at heel, a suit jacket, a t-shirt, mismatched socks, stretched out tighty-whitey underwear. The shoes were especially dusty. There were dark stains on the right side of his jacket and on the pants.
The Police Report:
Suspect was observed speeding and weaving down the desert highway in a red Toyota, Camry at 3:24 p.m. Suspect crossed the centerline of the two-lane highway twice. Officer in pursuit at speeds in excess of eighty miles an hour. Officer immediately activated lights and siren and believed the suspect was both aware of pursuit and was fleeing from such. Suspect also was observed leaning toward the passenger side of the vehicle while simultaneously attempting to steer the vehicle. Officer called in license plate and was advised that there were outstanding warrants for traffic violations on registered owner Agatha M. Hernandez.
Expert Witness Page 7
