The security cameras would have captured it all, but although installed, the ones in the lab were never set up. The director, Gina, thought they had been live, but only the ones outside had been activated. Her assistant, Dennis, felt bad about that. He’d been meaning to, but things were busy, etc., etc. . . .
Excuses are like assholes, buddy. We all have one, and they all stink.
Being a nice guy, he hadn’t said that out loud, but he wanted to. He wished he’d given his own son more advice like that—talked more honestly to him, told him like it was—but his wife always made him back off, said he was too hard on the boy. Well, if he had been allowed to speak in his own house to his own son, maybe . . .
With great effort, Detective Andrews pulled his mind back to the closet he called his office. It was always dark in here. Some genius on the council decided every city office should turn off half their lights to save on electricity. Better for the environment, too, they said.
Grabbing his suit coat from the back of his chair, in two long strides, he was at the door. Pausing, he reached over and flipped both light switches firmly up before exiting.
Luckily, Jasper’s police station was a small one. Forensics was just down the hall. One small office, two desks. Tight fit. Esturban and the new guy shared. Esturban was supposed to be training him, but it was more like the other way around.
“What a surprise,” Ken said, looking up from his Double-Double with extra cheese, not looking surprised at all.
Baby faced, with straight sandy hair and brown eyes, forty-two-year-old new-hire Ken Willet could handle most any forensic task, but was particularly gifted with fingerprints. The chief normally wouldn’t have the funds to get someone as skilled or experienced as Ken, but thanks to a confluence of personal and professional events in the man’s life, he had moved as far away from Saginaw, Michigan, as possible. Claimed to hate the snow. No one asked, and he didn’t tell. Anderson was just glad he was here. He’d helped clear a couple of tough cases already.
Good man. And he worked Sundays. Apparently, neither one of them had a personal life. Esturban, a mostly happily married father of three, did not work weekends if he could help it.
Looking up from a desk covered with stacks of papers, file folders, Post-it notes, and unidentified former food items, Ken wiped some ketchup off the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t I see your ugly mug in here just a few minutes ago?”
“A few hours ago.”
Arms folded, Detective Anderson leaned against the row of filing cabinets lining the opposite wall. No way he was going to enter the room. Not without a hazmat suit.
“Got anything for me?” he asked.
Ken swallowed the last of his In-N-Out burger, balled up the wrapper, and made a basket in the trashcan by the door. The can was half-full already, and the surrounding floor was clear. Impressive.
“Two points!”
“And to think the Lakers let you go . . . ,” Anderson observed.
Unfazed by the detective’s remark, Ken found one last fry that had escaped and popped it into his mouth before wiping his fingers on his pants and refreshing his computer screen with a tap.
“How do you find anything in that mess?” Anderson couldn’t help but ask.
“Ahh . . . just be glad I can, Detective, just be glad I can,” Ken said, rapidly scrolling through the screen in front of him. He turned it toward the door and motioned Andrews over to take a look.
“Here he is,” Ken said, looking up at Andrews. “Your guy is Gary, Gary Schofield, California attorney at law. Address, phone—all there. Do you want me to forward it to you?”
“Yeah,” Andrews said, taking out his notebook, jotting down the information manually. He didn’t trust computers.
“Why didn’t his name come up the first time?” he asked.
“Jeesh . . . ! Show a little gratitude,” Ken said, but continued. “The first run only catches bad guys—it searches the criminal databases. I had to go back and run it through the state systems. Everybody who works for the state, is licensed by the state, has to be fingerprinted. Teachers, day-care workers, prison guards, attorneys . . . hmm . . . I see a theme here . . .” Ken reached behind him, catching a couple pieces of paper being spit out by the printer. “Here you go,” he said, popping the pages into a surprisingly clean manila file folder he retrieved from the morass on his desk, handing it to him.
Ignoring him, Andrews took the folder and tapped the edge on the door frame by way of acknowledgment. “Got it,” he said, turning to lope back to his office.
Finally, he had something to work on. He was halfway down the hall before Ken’s voice reached him.
“You’re welcome!”
What does he want, flowers?
39
Sunday, July 26, 2015
After a seven-hour flight seated next to a woman on her way to Machu Picchu “to finally do something for myself, take care of me for a change . . . ,” the Guadalajara terminal looked like heaven. Gary couldn’t wait to get off that plane.
Even though he hadn’t done more than nod and grunt in response to the recently divorced fiftysomething’s self-help ramblings, it hadn’t stopped her from telling him how her new therapist had helped her “totally let go” and forgive that bastard, her ex-husband, whose faults she then proceeded to list. In detail.
As the captain came on the air, asking everyone to buckle their seat belts and prepare for landing, she began sharing numerous quotes from the Dalai Lama. Had he read his book, The Art of Happiness?
Gary hadn’t.
He hadn’t checked any luggage, either, so when the flight attendant finally released them, he followed the rest of the sheeple off the plane, grateful she couldn’t corner him in baggage claim.
Happiness was more than Gary hoped for. But he did want to live.
Exiting the terminal was a shock. Walking into the hot, wet air was like pushing through a thick blanket. The cancer treatment center would have air conditioning. He hoped. From the pictures online, the grounds were immaculate and the whole facility gleamed modern and clean. He just had to get there.
He got the first cab in line and directed him to Oasis de Milagro. The driver seemed familiar with this address. A lot of Americans must come down here for treatments not approved in the States.
Gary leaned back into the seat and closed his eyes against the pain. It was almost unbearable now, but he made it. He was here. Now all he had to do was give Oasis de Milagro the initial payment and get this treatment started. There was nothing left for him to do but place himself in the hands of these cutting-edge doctors. If anyone could beat this cancer, Gary hoped it was them. Each doctor on staff came with long lists of diplomas from places like Johns Hopkins and the Mayo Clinic. Each had done excellent research and won awards in their fields. He would be in good hands.
Right now, though, all he wanted was drugs. He’d held off on the pain meds in order to think clearly enough to get here. The nurse he spoke to on the phone just before leaving promised they would relieve his pain and symptoms within twenty-four hours of arrival.
Once he was thinking clearly, he would call Felix and hit him and Bill up for the cash he needed for the second half of his treatment. The Oasis de Milagro was a miracle all right—a miracle anyone could afford it. He needed that money.
Why did that French woman have to be so stubborn? But it would be OK. He had Bill and Felix still. Plan B. One of them would buy the rights, he was sure of it. His driver threaded the car confidently through incomprehensible traffic, so Gary allowed himself to learn back against the seat and rest his eyes.
Twenty minutes later, Gary was awakened by the sudden cessation of the taxi’s rumbling, spitting engine. He reached for his briefcase and momentarily panicked before finding it on the floor at his feet. Must have slipped during the ride. Letting out a small sigh of relief, he clutched the handle firmly in one hand
and got out of the cab.
He hadn’t converted his money yet, but the driver seemed happy to accept dollars, so he thrust what he hoped was close to the correct amount at him through the open window and looked around to find the front entrance. There must be some mistake. He turned back to the driver.
“Oasis de Milagro?” he asked.
“Si, Oasis de Milagro!” the driver called back as he pulled away from the curb, pointing to a small metal sign a few feet away.
Gary stared at the two-story cinderblock building squatting in front of him. Traffic continued to whizz behind him along the very busy street. A row of small windows, all but one of them closed, topped a single door propped open with a rock.
Frantically searching for any signs of similarity between this prison block and the luxurious resort-style facility he saw on the clinic’s website, Gary turned left to walk around the building. Maybe it looked better from the other side. A spindly row of anemic palm trees was all that was left of the full tropical landscaping in the site’s pictures, but unfortunately, it did look like the right place, just the wrong decade—or maybe century. Whatever Oasis de Milagro used to be, it wasn’t anymore.
He couldn’t just turn around and go back to the States. The French woman and the boy were both dead. The girl had escaped. She never saw his face, but he couldn’t risk the police being smarter than they were on TV shows and identifying him through some new CSI technology. No, going home wasn’t an option.
He was exhausted. The pain was so much worse than before, and he could barely see out of his right eye. For now, he had no other choice but to walk in. He needed a place to regroup. He hoped the doctors at least were as advertised, even if the facility was woefully not.
Hunching his shoulders, tightening his grip on his briefcase, he strode toward the entrance. He refused to walk through any door held open with a rock.
40
Monday, July 27, 2015
Felix disconnected the call, then slammed the file drawer shut with his foot.
That son of a bitch.
He’d been working at home when Gary called. Attorneys were supposed to fix problems like this, not create them.
“You OK, hon?” his wife called from the kitchen.
“Everything’s fine,” he said, getting up to close the door.
She knew better than to bother him in here. She didn’t need to hear any of this. He kept his business and his home life strictly separated.
A minute later, his cell vibrated. He looked at the screen. If it was Gary again, he could leave a message. He wasn’t in the mood to talk. Not until he calmed down.
Bill.
That didn’t take long. Felix closed his eyes. Gary must have called him next. He didn’t want to pick up. He needed time to think. But if he didn’t answer, Bill would keep calling. He was probably in panic mode. Reluctantly, Felix tapped the answer icon and put in his Bluetooth earpiece.
“Bill,” he said.
As predicted, Bill was freaking out. “Did you know about this?”
“Of course not. It’s Gary’s job to find any wrinkles like this and smooth them over. Unfortunately, he’s a little too good at his job and only smoothed things over for himself,” Felix said.
Once he talked Bill away from the ledge, he could get off the phone and think this through. There was always a solution. He just needed to think. And if Bill would ever shut up, he could.
“I’m going to have to tell Labovitch,” Bill said. “I can’t believe how screwed up this is!”
“Look,” Felix added, “it’s going to be fine. Hold off for a few days.”
Bill’s next few words were dripping in sarcasm. “I can’t ‘hold off for a few days,’ Felix! My company—on my recommendation—is filing for permits this week. Labovitch trusts me. When he finds out that not only is the land now occupied by a center for cute little sea otters, it’s in the middle of an unresolved title dispute, and that big pool of oil under it belongs to someone else . . . let’s just say that will not go well for me.”
Felix knew Bill’s main concern was padding his escape fund so he could leave his wife and sail away with that airhead he’d been seeing.
Bill continued, “When they find out someone else owns the mineral rights . . . and that someone is an attorney who knows what they’re worth, I’ll be lucky if all I lose is my job. Labovitch isn’t stupid. As long as everything is going smoothly, he’s happy to pretend I am just a lucky guesser, but the minute there’s a problem, he’ll happily throw me under the bus. Just for spite.”
Felix listened. Bill’s unspoken threat was loud and clear. If he went down, he’d take Felix down with him. Using thumper trucks in residential areas on land that didn’t belong to you was illegal nine ways to Sunday. If Bill fell apart, Felix knew he would have no compunction about dragging him down with him. And if Bill spilled his guts, Scott would find out and he’d lose both deals.
Bill’s harangue was winding down. “I held up my part of the bargain, now you need to hold up yours. This guy is your screwup, your attorney, not mine. Fix this, Felix!”
How dare Bill threaten him. He’d taken all the risks. He’d hired the thumper trucks and the men to do the unauthorized surveys on private land. Bill had made a bundle on those unofficial reports. What was he complaining about?
Bill’s voice rose in anxiety. “You’ve got to fix this!”
Spineless jellyfish.
Felix could just picture the little weasel, sweating bullets in his big office overlooking the bay. He wanted to hang up on the little twit, but he couldn’t let him spiral out of control. He sighed. “Already on it, Bill. Nothing for you to worry about.” Felix leaned back in his chair, almost believing his own words. “I’ve got it handled.”
“Well,” said Bill, slightly mollified, “you’d better.”
I really hate this guy.
“Call you tomorrow,” Felix said.
With that, they hung up. Felix grabbed his keys and told Celia he was going in to the office for a while.
He did his best thinking in the car.
By the time he pulled into his parking spot, Felix had a huge smile on his face. He had the perfect solution to this problem . . . and Gary wasn’t going to like it.
For that matter, neither would Bill.
Gary thought he was safe in Guadalajara, but Felix had cousins in Guadalajara. Cousins who wouldn’t mind if there was one less gringo in the world. He knew one who might even do the job for free.
41
Monday, July 27, 2015
Diaz found a space near the elevators in short-term parking. If all went well, they’d be back tonight. Andrews was halfway across the lot before his partner clicked the lock shut. They had thirty minutes to spare.
All they had were the fingerprints, and the McKenna girl’s description of her attacker, which fit the approximate height and weight on the attorney’s driver’s license. Not a lot to go on, but somehow, his lieutenant had managed to push a search warrant through.
They needn’t have rushed.
Due to overbooking by the airlines, they cooled their heels at the terminal. They finally caught a Southwest flight into Oakland at 3:00 p.m. The only rental car selection left was a Chrysler Sebring convertible.
“Sweet!” his partner said.
Andrews was not thrilled. It probably only got two miles to the gallon. In his opinion, driving was for getting from point A to point B. Period.
They were on the road just in time for rush-hour traffic. Diaz insisted on driving with the top down.
By the time they pulled into the driveway of 2198 Hamilton Way, Andrews’s mood had not improved. His butt was sore, his back was sore, and the last thing he had to eat was a bagel at the airport. He also didn’t have a hat, so he’d spent the last twenty-six miles having his neatly combed hair blasted into an infinite number of punk-rock ha
irdos. It was coated in road grime. Attempting to finger comb it out of his eyes was not entirely successful.
“Perfect,” he mumbled.
Diaz ignored him.
Andrews slammed the car door shut a little harder than necessary. The heat was stark and oppressive. The Inland Empire had nothing on Oakland. Must be ninety in the shade.
He straightened his tie. This was probably a wild-goose chase, but it was the only lead they had. Playing devil’s advocate in his mind, Andrews knew the guy could have been at that center for any reason—maybe he loved sea otters and wanted to make a donation.
Might as well get this over with. Even with the delays, they were still well within the 6:00 a.m. to 10:00 p.m. allowable time frame for the warrant.
When knocking on the door yielded no response, they let themselves in. The fingerprints and description gave them enough to arrest, if not hold, Schofield, should they find him on the premises, but after committing murder, Andrews didn’t expect him to stick around and answer questions.
All they could hope for was to find something to point them in the right direction, anything indicating where he’d gone or why an attorney from Northern California would want to kill a kid and attempt to kill an old woman.
The judge gave them unusually wide search parameters for the residence, including the garage. The car was look but don’t touch, if it happened to be there, which it wasn’t. That’s the first thing they’d checked when they got inside. People kept all kinds of things in their cars. And presumably, he drove himself in his own car to the center. They were still checking ride shares, but no taxis had picked up or dropped off anyone at that location.
Andrews ducked back inside the house started pulling on plastic booties and gloves. Probably not necessary, but still. They didn’t know what they had yet. No dead body, but you never knew. They hadn’t checked the freezer yet.
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