See No Evil

by Allison Brennan

  She nodded, still pouting.

  “Then we have nothing to worry about. Come here. Closer.”

  She walked into his open arms and he kissed her. He didn’t want Faye to leave, but the bitch wanted everyone to split up for now. It was smart, but about this he didn’t want to be smart. “One last time.”

  “What do you mean, last time?” Her voice cracked.

  “We need to take a break until the police stop looking at Garrett’s patients. I don’t want you to end up in prison. I don’t want any of you to get hurt.”

  “But—”

  “Shhh.” He kissed her again. Even though he had places all over the world where he could hide, he couldn’t leave town now. Too many questions would come up. “Later, wherever I go, I’ll take you with me, but for now we have to be apart. It won’t be forever.”

  “Promise?”

  He kissed her. “I promise. Come to bed.” He handed her his favorite knife. “You’re the only one I trust. You know that, right?”

  Her confidence returned and he finally relaxed. “I know.” She took the knife, stared at it. “Are you sure? Have you recovered?”

  He nodded. “In your hands, I’m always sure.”

  When Faye left, he called the stupid bitch who was going to blow everything.

  “How dare you show your face!”

  “I had to see for myself.”

  “We agreed you’d be miles away. With an alibi.”

  She laughed humorlessly. “I have an alibi, darling. I’m no fool.”

  “We’re so close.”

  “We’re done.”

  “No, we’re not. You’re playing a dangerous game. You went to the party. What if someone recognized you?”

  “I didn’t get into any of the media photos. No one recognized me. I’ve changed a lot.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” he grumbled. He’d planned this for too long. Now he realized that he should never have brought her into the plan in the first place. What had seemed like a brilliant idea two years ago now was crumbling around him.

  Maybe he should have let her kill Bowen back then and go to prison. Garrett Bowen would be dead either way.

  But his game was perfect. It was the players who were flawed. Not him, not his idea.

  “You worry too much,” she was saying. “Payback is sweet. Now you can sit back and have everything you wanted.”

  She didn’t know what he wanted. Sometimes he didn’t even know.

  “Can you be sure no one saw you at the party?”

  She didn’t say anything for a long minute. “Julia Chandler was there.”

  “Dammit! Julia Chandler! What were you thinking? You should never have gone—”

  “She doesn’t know who I am. I chatted with her very briefly, barely a word. Don’t ruin this night. This was the best night of my life. Garrett Bowen is dead. An eye for an eye. I watched him die and enjoyed every minute of it. I had to be there. You don’t understand. Sometimes I think you’re just like him—”

  “No. Stop.” He squeezed his temples. “Okay, I’ll take care of it.”

  “There’s no need. Julia Chandler doesn’t know…”

  “But you can’t know that. She’s connected and smart. She’s looking into Wishlist. If she makes the connection to Jason Ridge, then she might—”

  “Don’t say his name.” Her voice was almost a growl.

  “I’m sorry.” She had become a liability, he realized.

  Maybe he’d always known it would have to end up like this.

  He might have to dispatch his team one more time, to tie up loose ends.

  But first, Julia Chandler.

  He called Cami. “I need another job done. Call Robbie. If he balks, kill him.”

  TWENTY

  CONNOR COULDN’T GET her out of his head. Worse, in his thoughts, Julia was naked, laying on his bed doing things to him that left him needing a cold shower when he woke that morning at the crack of dawn.

  When he got out of the shower, his cell phone was ringing. Seven in the morning? He glanced at caller ID and saw a number he didn’t recognize.

  “Kincaid.”

  “Hey, Kincaid. Billy Thompson.”

  “Billy, what’s up?”

  “I, um, am heading to the gym to play a little ball. I thought you might want to meet me. I haven’t seen you there much lately.”

  “I’m sorry, I’ve been busy with this case.”

  “I have some information.”

  Connor glanced at the clock. He had time. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

  Julia tried Michelle O’Dell again when she woke up early Sunday morning. Again, the answering machine picked up. This time, Julia left a message.

  “Michelle, my name is Julia Chandler and I’m a deputy district attorney investigating a steroid-related death. I’d like to talk to you about Jason Ridge. Even if you think you have nothing to add to your statement, please call me.” Julia thanked her and left her cell phone number.

  She hung up, frustrated. She showered, then went downstairs to review her notes. She drew out a timeline.

  Jason Ridge is given a Deferred Entry of Judgment in a rape case.

  Was Michelle O’Dell the victim? If it was Michelle, her mother probably wouldn’t have been so consolatory toward Jason.

  Paul Judson is murdered.

  Billy Thompson, a short-term member of Wishlist, had been investigated for the murder, cleared. He had posted an incriminating e-mail to the Wishlist loop. But he was innocent.

  Jason Ridge dies.

  Julia didn’t know much about steroid use, but she had to imagine it was dangerous. But could someone overdose on steroids like other hard drugs? She didn’t know and made a note to ask Dillon. The autopsy report said heart attack due to excessive steroid use. But what did that mean? Jason Ridge’s psychiatrist was Garrett Bowen.

  Bowen’s name popped up everywhere. Everything connected to him.

  Did Jason’s death have anything to do with Bowen? Or Wishlist? What if Jason was part of the group?

  What if Jason’s rape victim was part of the group?

  Stephanie Ridge.

  After last night, Julia knew James Ridge wouldn’t say a derogatory word about his dead son. In his eyes, the kid had been perfect. But maybe Stephanie Ridge could contribute some realistic insight into her son’s death. And if it would help Emily, Julia would use every emotion at her disposal—guilt, remorse, anger if she had to—to find out the truth.

  And where did Victor Montgomery fit in? The only connection, again, was through Bowen and the Wishlist—through Emily.

  Julia went through the files, wondering if there was another connection. Something she’d missed. After all, she had over a thousand pages all over her kitchen table, most of them copies.

  The judge who gave Jason Ridge the DEJ was Vernon Small.

  Judge Small was dead. Julia hadn’t attended his funeral, nor had she particularly liked him. He was too easy on the bad guys, too hard on the good guys.

  And now he was dead.

  Coincidence? She didn’t remember how he’d died. He was old, that she knew. She’d assumed it was natural causes.

  What if it wasn’t?

  Connor hightailed it to the downtown gym. Though early on a Sunday morning, there was already a sprinkling of kids lifting weights or playing B-ball on the blacktop.

  “Hey, Kincaid, we need another man. Two on two?”

  Looking around for Billy, he didn’t see him. He glanced at his watch, realized he was ten minutes early.

  “For a few minutes.” Connor tossed his duffel bag under the bench.

  Jesus was a tall, skinny, fast-on-his-feet Cuban American kid who played hard. Mitch and Travis were long and lean six-foot-five-inch brothers who’d been in a gang until Connor busted them for possession with intent to sell and a concealed weapons charge only months before he quit the force. They’d been twelve and thirteen. They’d managed to turn their life around for the most part, but had dropped out of high
school. Both worked full-time in blue-collar jobs with little future. But they were clean and spent all their free time at the youth center helping Connor keep the younger kids out of gangs.

  Every so often they saved one. Jesus was one such kid. He’d landed a scholarship to Berkeley.

  They played hard for thirty minutes before Connor realized Billy hadn’t showed. He called time and slapped the kids on the back. “You doing okay?” he asked.

  “We’re hanging,” Jesus said.

  “Keep it clean, bro.” Connor wiped down and looked around for Billy.

  Ten minutes later, when Connor was ready to just leave, Billy entered the basketball courts.

  “Hey, you’re late.”

  “I don’t want to get fucked.”

  “I wouldn’t fuck you, buddy.”

  “I remembered what you said. You know, the pay it forward crap.”

  Connor had tried to instill in the kids he met through the youth center that they always needed to do the right thing, even when they didn’t get a direct benefit from it. Most kids, particularly those in the gang culture, couldn’t see beyond their own wants and needs.

  “And?”

  “Well, I remembered something that might be important.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  Billy, to his credit, didn’t hesitate. “Some fine young woman came up to me a while back.”

  “Does this gorgeous babe have a name?”

  “She didn’t tell me. She was a white chick, blond, hot. I thought she might have a thing for black guys, so I listened.” Billy grinned.

  “Yeah, you’re all hung,” Connor joked. “Nearly as well as Cubans.”

  “Shit, you wish.” Billy laughed. “So Blondie comes up to me, all sexy and hot, and says she wants to talk to me about justice.”

  Connor’s instincts hummed. The e-mail subject line in Emily’s post on Wishlist had justice in it.

  “When was this?” he asked Billy.

  “A week or so before Judson was shot.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told her I’d listen. It was at the shop, after hours. She locked the door, got down on her knees, and gave me a blow job.”

  “In your dreams.”

  “I swear it, man.” Billy held up his hand. “Got right down on her knees. Then she tells me she has a job for me to do. A test.”

  “What kind of test?”

  “That’s what I asked.”

  “And?”

  “She said I had to trust her. That she knew all about what had happened at the school, how I lost my scholarship. That there were other people like me who couldn’t fight back.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told her I wasn’t interested. Water under the bridge or some such shit. It creeped me out that she knew all about Judson when she didn’t even go to that school, you know? I mean, it wasn’t like in the papers or nothing.”

  “Yeah, sounds suspicious to me.”

  Billy seemed relieved that Connor didn’t think he was a dope.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. I didn’t really think about it until after you left, and I didn’t know if it was important. But… you don’t think it has anything to do with Judson’s murder, do you?”

  “I don’t know, buddy.”

  “I’d feel really bad if something I did or didn’t do got him killed, even if he was an asshole. I didn’t want him dead.”

  Detective Will Hooper stared at Garrett Bowen’s body hanging from the elaborate chandelier in Bowen’s pricey mansion in the gated community of Rancho Santa Fe.

  He almost couldn’t believe it. It seemed too easy, too convenient.

  For the past three days he’d been poring over Wishlist e-mails and came up with the theory that Bowen had used mentally unbalanced kids in his care to play vigilante. Will Hooper didn’t think any teenager could plan and implement Victor Montgomery’s murder. And while Judson’s murder had the feeling of immaturity, the irony and vanishing act of the perpetrators gave Will the distinct impression someone was pulling the strings.

  And until now, he believed the puppeteer was Garrett Bowen.

  Jim Gage called from upstairs. “There’s a note.”

  “What does it say?”

  Gage held up the clear plastic evidence bag and read the note inside. “‘I didn’t mean for it to go this far.’”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Will didn’t like it. Something was off, but just what he couldn’t say. Had his call to Bowen the day before to set up a “friendly” meeting—letting it intentionally slip that he was interviewing Emily—set Bowen off? Will thought he had been playing the situation perfectly, but now?

  What a mess.

  He hesitated before calling Dillon Kincaid. He hated that Dillon was on the side of the defense on this case. A half dozen times Will had picked up the phone to ask his opinion about something, but then had to stop himself.

  But he also knew Dillon had a heated conversation with Bowen the day before yesterday, and that he and the counselor had been at Bowen’s fund-raiser the night before. That made them witnesses, and dammit, he was going to depose them and find out exactly what they’d been up to since Judge Montgomery’s murder.

  Will punched speed dial to reach Dillon’s cell. “Dr. Kincaid.”

  “Dillon, it’s Will Hooper.”

  “What can I help you with?”

  “Bowen’s dead.”

  Silence.

  “You there?”

  “Yes,” Dillon said. “Garrett Bowen is dead?”

  “Hung from his chandelier. Sometime last night after the party. We need to talk.”

  “I’ll be at the hospital at noon, as we settled yesterday.”

  “I need to know what you know.”

  “How did Bowen die?”

  “I told you. He hung himself.”

  “No, you said he was hanging from his chandelier. Suicide… or murder?”

  “He left a note.”

  “Is Gage there?”

  “Yep.”

  “I find it hard to believe a man like Bowen would kill himself.”

  Will said, “I was looking at him, Dil, and he knew it.”

  “Looking at him for what? Killing Judge Montgomery?”

  “No, instigating it. And that teacher, Paul Judson. I know you have the e-mails, so don’t play stupid.”

  “I’m not, Will.”

  “You’ve been running your own investigation with Connor and the counselor, and it may have led to Bowen whacking himself. I need to know what you know.”

  “After you talk to Emily, we’ll talk.”

  “What exactly does that mean?”

  “It means I’ll tell you everything I can without jeopardizing Emily’s defense. You do think Emily was involved in Montgomery’s death, correct?”

  Will stared at Bowen’s body. “I don’t see any other way it could have happened, but at this point, I don’t know what the hell to believe.”

  “See you at noon.” Dillon hung up.

  Gage called from upstairs. “Will, I got something.”

  Will headed upstairs. “Better be good. I need a break right now.”

  “I don’t know about good, but it’s damn interesting.” Gage pointed to the railing. “See those scrapes?”

  “Barely.”

  “They’re faint, probably caused by the buttons on Bowen’s shirt as he leaned over the railing.”

  “Okay. So he puts a noose around his head and climbs over the railing.” Will looked up at the chandelier. “How the hell did he get the rope secured?”

  “That’s easy. The chandelier is on a chain. It can be lowered mechanically through a panel by the front door, for cleaning.”

  “So he lowers the chandelier, attaches the rope, hauls it back up. Why not just put the noose around his neck and let the chain pull him off the ground?”

  “The motor might not be designed to pull the additional weight. But that’s not
the interesting thing.”

  “Then what is?”

  “There are no fingerprints on this railing.”

  “None?”

  “Wiped clean. And I mean clean. Smell that?”

  Will took a whiff. “Bleach?”

  “Someone wiped down this entire banister.”

  “Maybe the cleaners came in after the party last night.”

  Gage pointed to the ceiling. “It cracked under the weight of Bowen’s body. When we analyze the breakage, I think we’ll see he came off the ledge here, like these marks indicate.”

  “Why didn’t he fight back? I didn’t see any marks on his hands.”

  “Maybe he was incapacitated. We’ll be able to tell in the autopsy.”

  “This case just gets weirder and weirder.”

  “And another thing.”

  “What?”

  “The paper the note was written on? I can’t find any more of it in the house.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  CONNOR WAS ON his way to the hospital when Dillon called him. “Bowen’s dead. Possible suicide.”

  “Possible?”

  “He left a note, but I’m not buying it. Will is meeting us at the hospital at noon. Will’s theory is that Bowen led some sort of vigilante killing team. I think we need to tell Will about the Jason Ridge connection.”

  Connor frowned, made an illegal U-turn, and headed toward Julia’s house. “I think I’ll go pick up the counselor.”

  “You don’t think she’s in danger?”

  “I don’t know, but she’s been asking a lot of questions about Jason Ridge and pulled a bunch of files at the courthouse. She was all over the party last night. If Bowen was involved like Will thinks, that means the killers he created are free to do whatever the hell they want. If Bowen wasn’t involved, someone is trying to make it seem like he is, and they wouldn’t want Julia digging any further.”

  “You’re right. Pick her up and we’ll all meet at the hospital.”

  Connor sped through the streets toward Julia’s, trying to reach her by phone.

  No answer. Maybe she’d already left, but then he’d pass her eventually. Her classy Volvo would be easy to spot on the quiet Sunday-morning roads.