With fifteen hundred students to worry about, Tish Manning seldom wasted time wondering if she should act when one was particularly bothersome. She wasted none now as she picked up the phone.
“Gracie? I hate to bother you, but I need a favor.” Tish listened to the admonition that Gracie, one of four school counselors, was not bothered by the interruption and would be happy to do a favor for the principal anytime. Anytime at all. When Gracie’s assurances had run their course, Tish said, “Pull Hannah Sheraton’s file? Yes. Soon as you can.”
Christian Broadcast Complex, Orange County
Archer was at the church before the doors opened. Technically, he wasn’t really at a church. Rather, he was at the digs of Reverend Isaiah Wilson. The preacher’s show was broadcast from the Christian Broadcast Complex in Orange County. Archer had seen the place in a long shot during a newscast when a whistleblower outed Three Crosses, a televangelist network run by a guy who liked white polyester suits and his wife who sported big wigs, fake eyelashes and crocodile tears. He and Josie had watched the report. Archer couldn’t understand how people could fall for that crap; Josie understood the need to clutch at straws – even ones as short as those offered by Three Crosses. The performances were as mesmerizing, curious and compelling as was the downfall of the preacher and his wife.
Archer had never seen Isaiah Wilson’s shtick, but as he parked the Hummer and checked the clock he held out no hope that Wilson was any different than the Three Crosses folk. While he waited for the place to open, he dialed Liz who filled him in on the progress with the Jeep. Archer was relieved that Liz wasn’t just on board, now she was ready to row. Getting out of the car, he locked it despite the fact that he had parked on hallowed ground. There were a few cars in the lot including a buttercup yellow Rolls Royce. The license plate read IBELEV.
“I just bet you do,” Archer muttered as he passed it on his way toward the studios.
The outside of the complex was impressive, sort of a mix of Persian palace and Malibu mansion. It was all white save for the giant gold cross on the ornate turret at one end and little gold crosses running the perimeter of a deck on the other. Archer could make out umbrellas on the deck and they were topped with finials in the shape of baby gold crosses. Behind the main building was a huge, white inflatable revival tent. The parking lot was large enough to accommodate any and all who flocked to the Word. A wrought iron fence held up a golden gate, and that led to a golden path, and that led to a golden door. The gate and the door were still emblazoned with the three crosses logo.
The gardens through which Archer passed were beautifully tended: flowers and trailing plants and topiary shaped to look like saints and lambs and more crosses. Despite the fact that two freeways intersected close by, that a major shopping center wasn’t more than spitting distance, and there was a very, very busy street running just behind, the place was silent and peaceful and comforting. Archer shook his head. He didn’t want to be peaceful or comforted. He wanted some answers.
He pulled on the huge gold plate handle on the door. It swung open on well-oiled hinge, and Archer stepped into the rarified air of Three Crosses studio. The garden had been serene, but inside was downright heavenly. Directly in front of him was a mini sweep of a grand staircase that led to a golden throne. The throne was bathed in a silvery light that danced, not with dust motes, but something that looked like glitter. Archer raised his eyes, trying to figure out where the light source was, but he couldn’t identify it. Beneath his feet was white marble shot with pink veins. His ears filled with celestial music. He smelled apple pie baking.
His soft-soled shoes made no sound, and he didn’t call for anyone. He wasn’t a believer, a sinner or a mendicant. He was on a mission, and from what he could tell today Isaiah Wilson would be filming. All Archer had to do was find him before he started.
“Can I help you?”
Archer turned smoothly and found himself face to face with a lovely girl/woman. Her eyes sparkled and her skin was polished to a luster. Her hair was caught up in two barrettes in front and hung down to her rear end in back. At least Archer imagined it hung to her rear end, but it was hard to tell where that would be since she was encased in a sack of a floral dress. A plain white Peter Pan collar circled her neck, and turned up white cuffs finished off the long sleeves. The sleeves were puffed at the shoulder, but there were no seams, no decorative stitching, and no tailoring that gave a hint of the body underneath. The fabric fell to mid-calf and her legs were covered in white stockings. Her feet were nestled in the most sensible shoes Archer had ever seen. His first thought was of the Amish; his second was that the Amish were more fashion forward.
“I’m here to see Isaiah Wilson.”
“Oh, I didn’t know he had an appointment.” Her eyes widened as if she was ready to confess to a sin she didn’t know she had committed.
“I didn’t call ahead,” Archer informed her. “I wanted to catch him before he started filming.”
“The reverend is in contemplation before the show. Perhaps, I could give him a message.”
The girl in the floral dress smiled beautifully and made a mistake. She leaned toward the hallway behind her, taking one step as if to block Archer even as she spoke of Isaiah. Archer smiled back and patted at the pockets in his windbreaker.
“That would be great. I don’t have a pen or paper. Do you think you could find me something to write with?”
“Oh, certainly.”
She brightened. Service was her middle name. She turned and left in a flurry of long hair and flowered cotton. Archer seized the moment and went down the hall.
CHAPTER TWENTY:
An Outbuilding in the California Mountains
Josie sat in the corner of the hut, her eyes trained on the missing brick high up in the wall. She had been awake since dawn, not that she had slept that much anyway. The adrenaline rush when she realized someone was inside the hut had been impossible to shake. Her joy at believing they were saved turned to revulsion when she realized she was grappling with their jailer.
She had thrown herself at him and tried to subdue him, but she was weary. Heat and thirst and hunger had taken their toll and she hadn’t been able to change their situation. Yet, even now, Josie remained energized by the confrontation and by the fact that her hands, while still bound, were no longer tied to the stake.
Erika had slept through it all and continued to sleep as Josie worked to free her, too. Finally, she slid that rope off the stake, rolled Erika Gardener onto her side, adjusted her arms, and arranged her in a position that seemed as if it would be comfortable. She smoothed the woman’s hair away from her face, touched her cheek, and, as the light dawned, Josie picked up Erika’s water bottle and did what she had to do.
Finally exhausted, Josie settled down with her back to Erika and drifted off to sleep. When she woke the oblong spot of light was in her eyes and Erika was stirring.
“Morning,” Josie said.
“I have to pee,” Erika mumbled as she rolled over.
“Bathroom’s at the end of the hall,” Josie said as she smiled and held up her still-bound wrists.
Erika’s eyes widened then lowered so that she was looking at her own hands. That’s when Erika Gardener began to laugh and so did Josie Bates.
Downtown Los Angeles, Parole Office
Liz Driscoll had been a shitty little kid. She was the only child of an insecure, single mom who slept in her make-up just in case the house caught on fire and she had to run into the waiting arms of some burly, handsome firefighter. Her mother fantasized that she would meet the man of her dreams in the middle of a disaster. Liz thought that didn’t sound like much fun, and as she grew up Liz knew that fantasy was downright weird. She didn’t dislike her mother; Liz simply didn’t feel comfortable with her. That was all good because her mother never felt comfortable with the swaggering tomboy she had birthed either.
There seemed to be nothing in Liz’s mother’s background that would account for her Perils of Paul
ine attitude, and there was nothing in Liz’s life that accounted for her mannerisms. To her mother’s credit, she recognized that fact early on. There were no attempts to dress her up in girl clothes as a child, no lamenting when Liz didn’t agonize over boys in high school, and no fight when Liz struck out on her own. Her mother now lived in Chicago and they saw each other twice a year. Neither of them felt a need for more contact, and it finally occurred to them that they were more alike than they were different. They did better knowing they had each other’s back than actually having it.
So it was not out of character for Liz Driscoll to be stepping a wee bit over the line without giving too much thought to what her captain would say to her field trip. She wasn’t really disobeying orders; she was kind of interpreting them a little more broadly than might have been intended. Hagarty had agreed to have Josie Bates’ car checked for evidence, and he had been clear that he wouldn’t pay for anything else. But Liz’s time wasn’t exactly an out-of-pocket expense. She was on the payroll no matter what she was doing or where she was doing it.
If she got called on the carpet, she would plead ignorance and promise never, ever to overstep again. Not wanting to have to play that game if at all possible, Liz added another layer to her strategy by signing out indicating her intent to check parole on one of the guys they had questioned about an assault in Hermosa Beach. His parole officer was downtown in the same office as Cuwin Martin.
Grateful the Harbor Freeway was not her routine commute, Liz swung off the freeway, navigated the one-way streets downtown, and parked in the red zone confident LAPD would offer a little professional courtesy. She clipped around security with a flash of her badge and found Cuwin Martin’s office but no Cuwin Martin. No one seemed to know where he was. Liz wandered down the hall toward the vending machines, searched for a buck and considered her choices. Damn government buildings had gone granola. The machine was filled with rotting apples and brown bananas. She would have killed for one of those buttermilk donut things that looked like a log. She put her dollar in, got a quarter and cup of bad coffee back, and put her shoulder up against the wall. She was lost in thought, calculating how long before someone from the Hermosa PD might notice she had been out a good long while, when she heard a laugh that took her back to her academy days. She followed the sound further down the hall, poked her head through one of the doors and said:
“Margie?”
The woman turned her head, saw Liz and said into the phone: “I’ll call you back.”
Liz offered the big woman behind the ugly desk a smile but had to fight to keep it from freezing on her face. The woman looked like three Margies.
“Lizzie! You mite. I can’t believe you came all the way down here to see me.”
Liz relaxed and her smile broadened as she walked into the office. Margie pushed her chair away from the desk, and then used the desk for leverage to get up.
“Don’t get up!” Liz insisted, sure that if Margie actually made it to her feet she wouldn’t be able to stay on them. The woman had been gorgeous when she was a secretary at the academy back when Liz was a recruit.
“Oh, you sweetie, you have no idea how much I appreciate that. Okay, then come on over here and give me a hug. How long’s it been?”
Liz did as directed, putting her coffee on the desk just before Margie’s giant arms enveloped her. Her ham-hands patted Liz’s narrow back. When Margie released her, Liz felt as if she had been shot out of an air gun; their parting was accompanied by a thwump as suction was broken. Margie held tight though as she took Liz in head to toe.
“Look at you. You haven’t changed a bit.” Margie shook her head as she assessed her old friend. “Well, maybe a few wrinkles around the eyes, but, hey, this profession doesn’t leave us unscathed, does it? You’re not in uniform? Last I heard you were patrol over in Linwood.”
“Long time ago. I’m a detective in Hermosa Beach now.”
“Nice.” Margie gave her a little shake. “Couldn’t happen to a better person.”
“Yep, a lot of changes over the years.” Liz’s lips tipped, her shoulder rose in a shrug causing Margie to let loose with a laugh that was even bigger than the one she had before.
“If that isn’t the nicest way of saying ‘what happened to you?’” Margie let her go and waved a massive arm at a green vinyl chair. “Sit. Sit. I’ll tell you the whole sordid story. It will take all of three seconds. Gary left me. I ate a couple of Twinkies – like a box – and decided the hell with it. I liked Twinkies more than Gary, anyway. I don’t really give a shit if I don’t have a man in my life after what I went through with him, so what the heck? The new and happy me.”
“I always liked that about you Margie. Once you decide to do something, you go all out,” Liz laughed.
“Yep, always did. Remember that time we hit the bar in…”
Liz rolled her eyes, “I don’t want to remember, and I swear if you ever tell anyone about it I’ll pull rank.”
“Oooh, I’m terrified,” Margie’s eyes almost disappeared into cheeks that rose and fell with her good humor.
“Yeah, I get that a lot. No respect,” Liz cracked. “So, you’re good then?”
“Still have a job. Got a drawer full of snacks at the office, a car that I can drive and so far the doctor says my heart can take a few extra pounds. So what brings you down to my neck of the woods?”
“I wanted to see Cuwin Martin. You know him?”
“Yeah. He gives government employees a bad name. What’s your beef with him?”
“No beef.” Liz took a seat and picked up her coffee. “I’ve got a situation in Hermosa that is linked to a woman in the Hollywood Hills and everything seems to be linked to one of Cuwin Martin’s clients. Name’s Xavier Hernandez. Ever heard of him?”
“Honey, if I could remember everyone who went through the system I’d be a goddess. Heck, half the time I don’t even remember my own clients.” She crossed her arms over her substantial belly and gave Liz her full attention. “Who are you working with at the LAPD?”
“That’s the thing. I don’t even know if there’s an open investigation on the woman in the Hollywood Hills.”
“And your victim in Hermosa?”
“Not sure she’s a victim yet,” Liz shrugged.
“So you’ve gone rogue. Oh, Lizzie.”
Liz considered her coffee then raised her eyes to Margie. “Look, there are too many weird things going on for this to boil down to a couple of women taking a powder for the fun of it. I can make a case for what appears to be a threat in three jurisdictions. Written communication was left in all three cars and had the same information. Two of those receiving those notes are missing; the third has reason to be concerned. I don’t have the resources to conduct a full blown investigation even if it was just a local problem, but one of the missing women is – “
“A friend?” Margie interrupted.
“A citizen of some repute and the significant other of a man I know who has good instincts. It’s an attorney named Josie Bates. Ever heard of her?”
“Oh yeah, honey, I would say she’s a person of some repute,” Margie snorted. “I remember her from the McCreary thing. I always assumed she lived Westside. She seemed like a Westsider.”
“She does seem like that,” Liz agreed, even though saying so felt like speaking ill of the dead. “But nope, she’s been in Hermosa a good long time now. This Cuwin guy left his number at her office. Then Archer – he’s Bates’ significant other and a PI – he had reason to pay a visit to the woman in the Hollywood Hills.”
“What’s her name?”
Liz dug in her jacket pocket and withdrew a note pad. “Erika Gardener.”
Margie swiveled, typed the name and waited.
“She requested a RO a few years ago.”
“Against who?” Liz asked.
“It was sealed.”
“Odd, but okay,” Liz mused.
“Yep.” Margie typed again. “Did your guys report her missing?”
&
nbsp; “I don’t know, why?” Liz scooted forward a little.
“Missing persons opened a file,” Margie said with a little smile.
“Wow, didn’t know anyone would take it seriously this early,” Liz whistled.
“What else you got?” Margie asked.
“Cuwin Martin sent Erika Gardner a form letter advising of Xavier Hernandez’s release. We don’t know when Bates or the other woman went missing, but we think under thirty-six hours.”
“So Hernandez is your best guess at a hub, is he?”
“Until something tells me different.” Liz raised a finger and pointed at the computer. “Got anything in that magic machine to help me out?”
Margie wiggled her fingers as if she were casting a spell, raised her eyebrows and said, “Let’s see what we can come up with.”
She couldn’t sit back, she couldn’t move forward, but Margie’s typing was fast and accurate. She stopped for a minute. Her fingers hovered. A screen scrolled. She typed some more. Another window opened. Liz planted her elbows on the desk and put her chin in one upturned palm. Her other hand still held her coffee cup, but all her attention was on the screen.
“Got him, sweetie.” Margie’s whisper feathered into a soft whistle. “I remember this one. Those poor little girls. The preacher’s daughter and her friend. If he’s got your lawyer, I’d let him have her.”
“Not an option,” Liz laughed. “The verdict was enough to give me pause, but now I want to know why he’s out. Ten years is just plain weird.”
“Well, he should have fried.” Margie sighed, as if to say the system was more than broken. “Just sayin’.”
Liz allowed herself a little empathetic twitch, but shit happened as they said. She just wanted to know what shit was happening now. Still, patience was part of the process and she let Margie have her moment. She was back on track the next second without expounding on the failings of the justice system.
Expert Witness Page 12
