The second piece that has always troubled him is the tissue of circumstances around Allison’s initial stop-and-search. It’s obvious by now that pulling him over on suspicion of drunk driving was contrived, as was the opened bottle of whiskey inside the car (how convenient), which prompted the search. Then the key chain buried inside his glove compartment under a pile of junk. And the condoms at his house, which his girlfriend asserts he doesn’t use.
The arresting officer’s testimony has too many what-ifs. Luke needs to explore it deeper. Without that dubious arrest, search, and seizure, the entire case would be dormant. Joe Allison would be in Los Angeles, climbing towards anchorman stardom; Luke and Riva would be up north, marking time with their lives; and the mystery of who killed Emma Lancaster would still be unsolved.
In a strange, seemingly inexplicable but fundamental way, he’s glad this happened, even including the shooting that could have been fatal regardless of his perception of the incident. Something had to happen to break him out of the doldrums his life had been in. His demons had been running his life.
Now, one by one, he’s shedding them.
Doug Lancaster owns one rifle, a Remington 700 .308, that matches the caliber of the weapon used for the assault on Luke Garrison. Sheriff Williams accompanies it to the state testing facility in Soledad, two hundred miles upstate.
“Not the same weapon,” the head of the lab informs him, after the rifle is fired and they compare the bullets with the ones found at Hollister Ranch.
“You’re sure.”
“Positive.”
“Thanks.” A tremendous feeling of relief. If the shells had matched, the egg on their faces would have made an omelet the size of Rhode Island.
He calls down to Ray Logan, who’s been hanging around his office, waiting for the results. Logan, while also relieved, still has doubts. “Lancaster could be holding out on us. He could’ve ditched the real rifle.”
“He didn’t do it, Ray,” the sheriff says. He’s holding on to his weakness for Lancaster. Or maybe what he represents. He isn’t sure anymore.
“You have a vested interest in this,” Logan reminds him. “We all do. But we can’t go into this with blinders on. Lancaster’s having no alibi for either night is giving me a case of the hives. I’m nervous as hell, I don’t mind telling you.”
“So am I,” the sheriff agrees. “But put it in perspective, Ray,” he counsels. Logan’s still a relative tenderfoot. He, on the other hand, has been around the block a thousand times. “You know Doug Lancaster. He’s a good guy at heart. Do you honestly think this man could have murdered his own daughter and then hidden her body like it was done? I can’t buy that, regardless of whatever stupid things he’s done. You don’t know how you’d react to something like that. It could drive you crazy.”
“Yeah,” Logan concedes. He is relieved about the rifle tests.
“You know, the security up at the ranch is lax,” the sheriff reminds his D.A. counterpart. “Anyone can get in and out of there. We can’t assume that whoever shot at Luke is a parcel holder. It could be any asshole with a grudge. This could be something from Luke’s past, an old-time wound that isn’t healed. Luke Garrison put a lot of people in jail,” he reminds Luke’s successor. “There are scores of men out there who would like to see him dead.”
“Maybe.” Logan is not as sanguine as the sheriff. “But none of them ever tried to kill Luke until now.”
“Luke’s been missing in action for three years,” Williams reminds him. “Now he’s back, and he’s high profile.”
“I have a problem with the timing,” Logan says doggedly. “Too coincidental.”
“You might call Luke and give him the news,” Williams says.
“I’d rather you do it. He and I are adversaries, in case you’ve forgotten.”
The sheriff laughs to himself. “No, Ray. I haven’t forgotten.”
He hangs up. Chickenshit bastard, he thinks. We hand you an airtight case and you punch holes in it. Luke Garrison never would have done it that way. Luke Garrison would have run this one right into the end zone.
He misses Luke. But Luke has to go down.
Luke takes the news about the rifle testing with equanimity. If Doug was the shooter, he wouldn’t have turned the weapon over to be used as evidence against him. “Did you take tire castings from up on the bluff?” he asks the sheriff.
“Yes, SOP. A standard truck tire, probably Goodyear, the kind used on a light truck or SUV. There’s plenty of them out there. But we’re working it. We’re not taking this lightly, Luke. I mean that,” Williams says.
“Good. I’m getting tired of seeing your boys every time I step out my door.”
“They’re there for your protection.”
“I’m glad of that,” Luke says. “But they remind me there’s someone still out there who’s trying to kill me. I wish whoever it is wasn’t out there.”
“We’re doing our best. Something will turn up.” A pause. “In the meantime, don’t do anything rash. We want you alive. I still think of you as a friend, Luke, even if we’re on opposite sides now.” He hangs up.
A friend. What a crock. The man’s scared I’m making headway, Luke thinks, that I’ll upset his little red applecart. Luke has Joe Allison’s life at stake, and his own as well, given he was shot at, but Williams has his career. Whether Luke Garrison wins or loses, his life will go on pretty much as it has for the last three years. If anything, it’ll be better. He’s back in the world, he’s focused on his work, he’s more at peace with himself than he has been for a long time. And he has a good woman at his side, which he’s finally recognized and can deal with.
It seems stupid and, yes, callous, but the worst that can happen to him is that he loses the case. If he does, it’ll be because Joe Allison is guilty. He’s convinced of that. If Allison is innocent—if nothing freakishly dramatic, that he doesn’t know about, comes up at trial to prove Allison’s guilt—he, Luke Garrison, will get Allison off. He’s that confident in his ability.
Williams and Logan, on the other hand, will lose their credibility. They will almost certainly lose their careers, which for both men define them. They will lose face, they will lose self.
He’s already gone through that, and come out the other side. So in that fundamental regard, he has nothing to lose. Win or lose this particular case, his life has nowhere to go but up.
FOUR
FERDINAND DE LA GUERRA and Luke Garrison. Two men. One of a certain age, one who sometimes feels he’s aging too fast. Sitting in the living room of the old gentleman’s house. It’s a several decades-old Spanish colonial situated on a quiet, narrow lane in Mission Canyon, in the flats. It’s a wonderful house, full of history, beautifully furnished with Mission-style furniture, the walls covered with early twentieth-century landscape paintings of the central coast, portraits of old land-grant ancestors stiffly posed, South American tapestries, ancient swords, guns, Spanish conquistador helmets. On some of the dark, burnished tables, there are small pieces of authentic pre-Columbian art: Aztec, Mayan. And one painting more contemporary, the centerpiece of the room, hung over the large stone fireplace: a Diego Rivera, a gift from the artist, personally, to the owner’s father.
The house and its owner fit each other like kid leather gloves, Luke thinks. Aging but still elegant.
“You’re going to be in trial in a few weeks. How do you feel?” The judge looks over at Luke as he poses the question. He pours two snifters of forty-year-old Spanish brandy. The aromas are overwhelming in the glasses, redolent of crushed flowers, wild berries, old succulent grapes. And beautiful women on dark candlelit nights when this house was overflowing with desire.
“Better,” Luke says confidently. “Our odds are on the rise.” He leans back in his chair, holding the liquid in his mouth, the flavors drifting into his head, heavenly fire.
“What about you?” The tone is anxious, trying not to be. “Aside from the case.”
“I’ve got baby-sitters watching
the dark corners, so I feel safe—safe enough. Whoever it was isn’t going to come after me again, I don’t think. Unless he’s desperate or crazy, in which case—” Luke throws up his hands. “It’s constricting, seeing a deputy over my shoulder every time I step out my front door.” He points towards the door. “It’s annoying as hell, especially to Riva. It reminds her of what happened.”
De La Guerra smiles. “She’s like me. She wishes you weren’t on the case anymore.”
Luke nods. “Like I said, if I let whoever did this run me off, he wins and I lose. And so does the law, which I care about, it’s still my life.”
“What about your life? How would you feel about losing that?”
“I wouldn’t like it,” Luke admits. “But I don’t plan on that happening. Neither does our esteemed sheriff. He’s tired of being embarrassed.”
The judge shifts to the practical. “Has there been any progress? Do they have any leads?”
Luke shakes his head. “Not a one.”
“You’re still thinking it was Doug Lancaster.”
Outside, an owl hoots in the darkness. Luke walks over to a floor-to-ceiling window. He looks out into the night, trying to see where the owl is perched, high up in a tall pine that sits at the edge of the property. “The owl a regular?” he asks. “What kind is it, you know?”
“It comes and goes,” De La Guerra replies from his comfortable leather chair. “A great horned,” he says to the second part of Luke’s question. “They’re pretty common around here.” He sips from his drink. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Owls are good hunters,” Luke says ruminatively. “Sit there dead still for hours, then they swoop down silent with that great wingspan and take their prey before the poor rabbit or mouse knows what hit him. Reminds me of some situations I’ve seen lately.” He turns back into the room. “It’s what I think, yes. Who else is a better candidate?” He picks up the decanter holding the brandy. “May I?”
“Go ahead.” The old man warms his glass in his hands. “No one, but that doesn’t mean it’s him. It seems far-fetched to me that he would go after you personally.”
“You mean he’d bring in a hired gun?” He pours a small amount of the fiery potion. A little goes a long way with this stuff. He hasn’t been drinking much lately. He wants to be sure his wits are about him, not dulled and slowed by alcohol.
“That’s a more likely scenario, don’t you think?”
“I guess so. Yeah,” he says, thinking more about that. “Doug wouldn’t directly get his hands dirty.” He smells the brandy nose as it drifts out of the snifter. “Which is more scary, really. It could be anyone walking around, someone I wouldn’t have a clue as to who he is. He could be watching me right now, and I wouldn’t know it.”
His old mentor nods ponderously. “Yes. That’s my point.”
Luke sits down again, heavily. “Shit.”
“You need to think this through, Luke. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
Luke looks out into the darkness again. “I’ve got to be really careful,” he agrees. He looks over at De La Guerra. “Don’t talk like this around Riva, all right? She’s freaked out enough as it is.”
“She has to be thinking about it,” the judge tells Luke. “You have to realize she’s protecting you by keeping quiet about her fears.”
Luke sits back. “She’s really been good for me,” he says. He’s never commented on her before like that, not to someone else.
“She loves you.”
Luke nods. “I’m lucky.”
“You don’t appreciate how lucky you are.”
“I’m beginning to.” He glances at his watch. “I’d better be moseying. Thanks for the good stuff.” He sips the dregs from his glass.
“Thank you for the company,” De La Guerra says. “This old house needs company. I’m not much good company for it anymore.”
Luke feels a pang. “I’ll come around more.”
“And bring your lady. I promise I won’t mention what we’ve been talking about.”
“I will. Don’t bother getting up, I’ll let myself out.” He walks to the front door. “Thanks for the advice.”
De La Guerra smiles as he shakes his head. “I can’t give advice anymore,” he says. “I haven’t figured my own life out yet, let alone anyone else’s.” He pauses. “Be careful. That’s all I ask.”
The assault on Luke has achieved a certain notoriety. The tabloid television shows—Hard Copy, Inside Edition, Geraldo—ran stories on it within a week of when it happened, and some have followed up.
Lying in bed with Riva, Luke watches himself being interviewed by a vacuous woman. The interview is a week old, a syndicated program. He and the interviewer are standing outside the courthouse, where he had gone to file a subpoena for some documents. “How do you feel about someone trying to kill you?” she asks him, teeth flashing through a frozen smile.
“Like anyone else would,” he says, looking in the vague direction of the camera over her shoulder. “Angry. Worried.”
“What a genius,” Riva comments, watching with him.
“Are you satisfied with the job the police are doing in trying to solve your case?” asks the interviewer. It was obvious to him, all during the interview, that she was trying to make eye contact with him. He evaded her overtures.
Luke chose his next words carefully. He has the sheriff on the run, psychologically speaking. He doesn’t want to upset that balance. “They’re trying hard,” he says to the camera. “A hit-and-run shooting, that’s a tough crime to solve.”
“Which you should know, since you were the district attorney here,” she throws in.
“I used to be,” he answers.
The only story about him that’s been negative was done by Lancaster’s station. The new station manager, Tim Talbot, read an editorial a couple of weeks ago on the six o’clock news. Referring to the shooting, he described Luke as “an out-of-county lawyer who specializes in defending drug dealers,” and “a man with an obvious aversion and hostility to authority.” There was scant reference to Luke’s being the former county district attorney. Talbot questioned out loud what Luke was doing on private property, as if by being there he was committing a criminal act of his own.
On the screen, the woman interviewer throws Luke a curve: an intelligent question. “What happens if the police catch the person who tried to kill you, either before or during Joe Allison’s trial? Won’t that have a big effect on it?”
He’s been asking himself that very question ever since he started thinking clearly after the shooting. He hasn’t come up with an answer, because he’s been avoiding it. Now he has to. “It would depend on who the person was,” he answers.
Riva, in bed, sits up, looks over at him.
“If it was someone connected to Joe Allison’s case, as opposed to …” She stumbles momentarily over her script.
“Someone not connected?” he finishes for her.
“Yes, that’s what I meant,” she says, recovering quickly. She’s smiling gamely, but it’s obvious to her that he won’t be taking her out for drinks later this afternoon.
On the television set he shrugs. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” He smiles back, an unencouraging smile.
That’s the end of that interview. He flicks the set off with the remote.
“What did you really want to say?” Riva asks him, referring to the last set of questions.
“Were my evasive tactics that obvious?”
“Yep, to me. I know you.”
“You know the answer to that.” He turns to her, leaning on his elbow. In the moonlight he can see the outline of her breasts through her thin nightgown. They’re gorgeous; in this light they seem larger, fuller. He wants to nuzzle them. “If it’s someone connected, like Doug, all hell breaks loose. We’d have a mistrial. If not, it won’t amount to much.”
She slides her body closer to his. “When are they going to catch him?” she asks.
&nbs
p; He looks at her. “Maybe never.”
“Do you really think that?” Her face is frightened.
He nods. “If whoever it was doesn’t try to do it again, the police may never find out. There are no solid clues, no witnesses, no one’s come forth with a tip. That’s the way these things are usually solved, somebody ratting out somebody else. That hasn’t happened yet.” He strokes her slender back. “If that’s the case, it’s fine. It means no more harm will come. I’m hoping that’s the case,” he says. “I’m not looking for revenge. I’ll be content if it fades away.”
“But don’t you want to know who did it?” she persists, “I want to know who tried to take you away from me.”
He draws her to him. “No one’s going to take me away from you.”
She snuggles closer. “Is that a promise?”
Outside, a sheriff’s deputy in a car is watching over them. In here, he has to protect her from her fear that some madman might take him away.
“Yes,” he says, feeling the night closing in on them. “That’s a promise.”
A week and a half to go. Luke mock-trials with some men and women from the public defender’s office that he’s asked to help him. It’s an awkward session; they were used to being on opposite sides from each other, when he not only kicked their asses with regularity but enjoyed it. And they are miffed that he was chosen because Allison and certain powers-that-be in the community wanted a high-profile lawyer. So their participation is less than wholehearted.
Still, it goes okay—not terrific, but not a catastrophe, either. He works at what he thinks will be the most important issues, for his side and his opponents. The way he conducts his case will be largely reactive: how witnesses for the prosecution spin their stories, what new or unexpected information comes up, how he can use it to his advantage. Judge De La Guerra observes, occasionally making a note.
The Disappearance Page 27
