Kathryn Dance Ebook Boxed Set : Roadside Crosses, Sleeping Doll, Cold Moon (9781451674217)

by Deaver, Jeffery

“Did you find anything that suggests Travis is here?”

  “Travis?” he asked slowly. “No. Why, Kathryn?”

  “Just seems that this’d be a pretty good place to hide a kidnap victim.”

  “Well, I searched pretty carefully,” the young deputy told her. “Didn’t see a thing.”

  “Still,” she said. “I want to be sure.”

  And called TJ back to arrange for a search party.

  IN THE END they did learn what the anonymous caller had seen.

  The discovery was made not by Dance or Reinhold, but by Rey Carraneo, who’d come here along with a half dozen other officers from the CHP, the MCSO and the CBI.

  The “something” was a roadside cross. It had been planted on Pine Grove, not Harrison Road, about a hundred feet from the intersection.

  But the memorial had nothing to do with Greg Schaeffer or Travis Brigham or the blog entries.

  Dance sighed angrily.

  This cross was fancier than the others, carefully made, and the flowers below it were daisies and tulips, not roses.

  Another difference was that this one had a name on it. Two, in fact.

  Juan Millar, R.I.P.

  Murdered by Edith Dance

  Left by somebody from Life First—the anonymous caller, of course.

  Angrily, she plucked it from the ground and flung it into the compound.

  With nothing to search, and no evidence to examine, no witnesses to interview, Kathryn Dance trudged back to her car and returned home, wondering just how fitful her sleep would be.

  If indeed she could sleep at all.

  FRIDAY

  Chapter 40

  AT 8:20 A.M., Dance steered the Ford Crown Vic into the parking lot of the Monterey County Courthouse.

  She was eagerly anticipating the crime scene reports on Schaeffer and any other information TJ and the MCSO had found about where the killer was keeping Travis. But in fact her thoughts were largely elsewhere: she was wondering about the curious call she’d received early that morning—from Robert Harper, asking if she would stop by his office.

  Apparently at his desk by 7:00, the special prosecutor had sounded uncharacteristically pleasant and Dance decided it was possible that he’d heard from Sheedy about the Julio Millar situation. Her thoughts actually extended to a dismissal of her mother’s case, and lodging charges against Juan’s brother. She had a feeling that Harper wanted to discuss some type of a face-saving arrangement. Maybe he’d drop the charges against Edie completely, and immediately, if Dance agreed not to go public with any criticism of his prosecution of the case.

  She parked in the back of the courthouse, looking over the construction work around the parking lot; it had been here that the woman partner of the cult leader Daniel Pell had engineered the man’s escape by starting the fire that had caused Juan Millar’s terrible burns.

  She nodded hello to several people she knew from the court and from the sheriff’s office. Speaking to a guard, she learned where Robert Harper’s office was. The second floor, near the law library.

  A few minutes later she arrived—and was surprised to find the quarters quite austere. There was no secretary’s anteroom; the special prosecutor’s door opened directly onto the corridor across from a men’s room. Harper was alone, sitting at a large desk, the room bare of decoration. There were two computers, rows of law books and dozens of neat stacks of papers on both a gray metal desk and a round table near the single window. The blinds were down, though he would have a striking view of lettuce fields and the mountains east.

  Harper was in a pressed white shirt and narrow red tie. His slacks were dark and his suit jacket hung neatly on a hanger on a coatrack in the corner of the office.

  “Agent Dance. Thanks for coming in.” He subtly inverted the sheet of paper he’d been reading, and closed the lid of his attaché case. Inside, she’d caught a glimpse of an old law book.

  Or maybe a Bible.

  He rose briefly and shook her hand, again keeping his distance.

  As she sat, his closely set eyes examined the table beside her to see if there was anything that she ought not to observe. He seemed satisfied that all secrets were safe. He took in, very briefly, her navy blue suit—tailored jacket and pleated skirt—and white blouse. She’d worn her interrogation clothes today. Her glasses were the black ones.

  Predator specs.

  She’d be happy to reach an accommodation if it got her mother off, but she wasn’t going to be intimidated.

  “You’ve spoken to Julio Millar?” she asked.

  “Who?”

  “Juan’s brother.”

  “Oh. Well, I have, a while ago. Why are you asking?”

  Dance felt her heart begin pounding faster. She noted a stress reaction—her leg moved slightly. Harper, on the other hand, was motionless. “I think Juan begged his brother to kill him. Julio faked a name on the hospital sign-in sheet, and did what his brother wanted. I thought that’s what you wanted to talk to me about.”

  “Oh,” Harper said, nodding. “George Sheedy called about that. Just a bit ago. I guess he didn’t get a chance to call you and tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  With a hand tipped in perfectly filed nails, Harper lifted a folder from the corner of his desk and opened it up. “On the night his brother died, Julio Millar was in the hospital. But I confirmed that he was meeting with two members of the MBH security staff in connection with a suit against the California Bureau of Investigation for negligence in sending his brother to guard a patient that you knew, or should have known, was too dangerous for a man of Juan’s experience to handle. He was also considering suing you personally on a discrimination charge for singling out a minority officer for a dangerous assignment. And for exacerbating his brother’s condition by interrogating him. At the exact time of Juan’s death, Julio was in the presence of those guards. He put a fake name in the check-in log because he was afraid you’d find out about the suit and try to intimidate him and his family.”

  Dance’s heart clenched to hear these words, delivered so evenly. Her breathing was rapid. Harper was as calm as if he were reading from a book of poetry.

  “Julio Millar has been cleared, Agent Dance.” The smallest of frowns. “He was one of my first suspects. Do you think I wouldn’t have considered him?”

  She fell silent and sat back. In an instant, all hope had been destroyed.

  Then, to Harper, the matter was concluded. “No, why I asked you here . . .” He found another document. “Will you stipulate that this is an email you wrote? The addresses match, but there are no names on it. I can trace it back to you but it’ll take some time. As a courtesy, could you tell me if it’s yours?”

  She glanced at the sheet. It was a photocopy of an email she’d written to her husband when he was away on a business trip at an FBI seminar in Los Angeles several years ago.

  How’s everything going down there? You get to Chinatown, like you were thinking?

  Wes got a perfect on the English test. He wore the gold star on his forehead until it fell off and had to buy some more. Mags decided to donate all her Hello Kitty stuff to charity—yes, all of it (yea!!!!)

  Sad news from Mom. Willy, their cat, finally had to be put down. Kidney failure. Mom wouldn’t hear of the vet doing it. She did it herself, an injection. She seemed happier afterward. She hates suffering, would rather lose an animal than see it suffer. She told me how hard it was to see Uncle Joe at the end, with the cancer. Nobody should have to go through that, she said. A shame there was no assisted suicide law.

  Well, on a happier note: Got the website back online and Martine and I uploaded a dozen songs from that Native American group down in Ynez. Go online if you can. They’re great!

  Oh and went shopping at Victoria’s Secret. Think you’ll like what I got. I’ll do some modeling!! Come home soon!

  Her face burned—in shock and rage. “Where did you get this?” she snapped.

  “A computer at your mother’s house. Under a warr
ant.”

  Dance recalled. “It was my old computer. I gave it to her.”

  “It was in her possession. Within the scope of the warrant.”

  “You can’t introduce that.” She waved at the email printout.

  “Why not?” He frowned.

  “It’s irrelevant.” Her mind jumped around. “And it’s a privileged communication between husband and wife.”

  “Of course it’s relevant. It goes to your mother’s state of mind in committing mercy killing. And as for the privilege: Since neither you nor your husband are subjects of the prosecution, any communications should be fully admissible. In any case, the judge will decide.” He seemed surprised she hadn’t realized this. “Is it yours?”

  “You’ll have to depose me before I respond to anything you ask.”

  “All right.” He seemed only faintly disappointed at her failure to cooperate. “Now, I should tell you that I consider it a conflict of interest for you to be involved in this investigation, and using Special Agent Consuela Ramirez to do legwork for you doesn’t vitiate that conflict.”

  How had he found that out?

  “This case emphatically does not fall within the jurisdiction of the CBI and if you continue to pursue it, I’ll lodge an ethics complaint against you with the attorney general’s office.”

  “She’s my mother.”

  “I’m sure you’re emotional about the situation. But it’s an active investigation and soon to be an active prosecution. Any interference from you is unacceptable.”

  Shaking with rage, Dance rose and started for the door.

  Harper seemed to have an afterthought. “One thing, Agent Dance. Before I move to admit that email of yours into evidence, I want you to know that I’ll redact the information about buying that lingerie, or whatever it was, at Victoria’s Secret. That I do consider irrelevant.”

  Then the prosecutor slid toward him the document he’d been reviewing when she arrived, turned it over and began reading once again.

  IN HER OFFICE Kathryn Dance was staring at the entwined tree trunks outside her window, still angry with Harper. She was thinking again about what would happen if she was forced to testify against her mother. If she didn’t, she’d be held in contempt. A crime. It could mean jail and the end of her career as a law enforcer.

  She was drawn from this thought by TJ’s appearance

  He looked exhausted. He explained he’d spent much of the night working with Crime Scene to examine Greg Schaeffer’s room at the Cyprus Grove Inn, his car and Chilton’s house. He had the MCSO report.

  “Excellent, TJ.” She regarded his bleary, red eyes. “You get any sleep?”

  “What’s that again, boss? ‘Sleep’?”

  “Ha.”

  He handed her the crime scene report. “And I finally got more four-one-one on our friend.”

  “Which one?”

  “Hamilton Royce.”

  Didn’t matter now, she supposed, with the case closed, and apologies—such as they were—delivered. But she was curious. “Go on.”

  “His latest assignment was for the Nuclear Facilities Planning Committee. Until he got here he’d been billing the nukers sixty hours a week. And by the way, he’s expensive. I think I need a raise, boss. Am I a six-figure kind of agent?”

  Dance smiled. She was glad that his humor seemed to be returning. “You’re worth seven figures in my book, TJ.”

  “I love you too, boss.”

  The implication of the information then struck her. She riffled through copies of The Chilton Report.

  “That son of a bitch.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Royce was trying to get the blog shut down—for his client’s sake. Look.” She tapped the printout.

  Power to the People

  Posted by Chilton.

  Rep. Brandon Klevinger . . . Ever heard of his name? Probably not.

  And the state representative looking after some fine folks in Northern California would rather keep a low profile.

  No such luck.

  Representative Klevinger is the head of the state’s Nuclear Facilities Planning Committee, which means the bomb—oops, excuse me, the buck—stops with him on the issue of those little gadgets called reactors.

  And you want to know something interesting about them?

  No—go away, Greenies. Go whine elsewhere! I have no problem with nuclear energy; we need it to achieve energy independence (from certain interests overseas whom I’ve written about at great length). But what I do object to is this: Nuclear power loses its advantage if the price for the plants and the energy expended in the construction outweigh the advantages.

  I’ve learned that Rep. Klevinger just happens to have been on a couple of posh golfing trips to Hawaii and Mexico with his newfound “friend,” Stephen Ralston. Well, guess what, boys and girls? Ralston happens to have put in bids for a proposed nuclear facility north of Mendocino.

  Mendocino . . . Lovely place. And very pricey to build in. Not to mention that it seems the cost of delivering the power to where it’s needed will be huge. (Another developer has proposed a far cheaper and more efficient location about fifty miles south of Sacramento.) But a source has snuck me the Nuclear Committee’s preliminary report and it reveals that Ralston’s probably going to get the go-ahead to build in Mendocino.

  Has Klevinger done anything illegal or wrong?

  I’m not saying yes or no. I just ask the question.

  “He was lying all along,” TJ said.

  “Sure was.”

  Still, she couldn’t concentrate on Royce’s duplicity just now. There was, after all, no need to blackmail him at this point, considering he was headed home in a day or two.

  “Good work.”

  “Just dotting my j’s.”

  As he left she hunched over the MCSO report. She was a little surprised that David Reinhold, the eager kid—the one she’d played cat-and-mouse with last night—hadn’t brought it in person.

  From: Dep. Peter Bennington, MCSO Crime Scene Unit.

  To: Kathryn Dance, Special Agent, California Bureau of Investigation—Western Division.

  Re: June 28 homicide at house of James Chilton, 2939 Pacific Heights Court, Carmel, California.

  Kathryn, here’s the inventory.

  Greg Schaeffer’s body

  One Cross brand wallet, containing Calif. driver’s license, credit cards, AAA membership card, all in name of Gregory Samuel Schaeffer

  $329.52 cash

  Two keys to Ford Taurus, California registration ZHG128

  One motel key to Room 146, Cyprus Grove Inn

  One key to BMW 530, California registration DHY783, registered to Gregory S. Schaeffer, 20943 Hopkins Drive, Glendale, CA

  One claim ticket for car at LAX long-term parking, dated June 10

  Miscellaneous restaurant and store receipts

  One cell phone. Only calls to local phone numbers: James Chilton, restaurants

  Trace on shoes, consistent with sandy dirt found at prior scenes of roadside crosses

  Fingernail trace inconclusive

  Room 146, Cypress Grove Inn, registered in name of Greg Schaeffer

  Miscellaneous clothing and toiletries

  One 1-liter bottle, Diet Coke

  Two bottles Robert Mondavi Central Coast Chardonnay wine

  Leftover Chinese food, three orders

  Miscellaneous groceries

  One Toshiba laptop computer and power pack (transferred to California Bureau of Investigation; see chain-of-custody record)

  One Hewlett-Packard DeskJet printer

  One box of 25-count Winchester .38 Special ammunition, containing 13 rounds

  Miscellaneous office supplies

  Printouts of The Chilton Report from March of this year to present

  Approximately 500 pages of documents relating to the Internet, blogs, RSS feeds

  Items in Gregory Schaeffer’s possession found at James Chilton’s house

  One Sony digital camcorder


  One SteadyShot camera tripod

  Three USB cables

  One roll, Home Depot brand duct tape

  One Smith & Wesson revolver, loaded with 6 rounds of .38 Special ammunition

  One Baggie containing 6 extra rounds of ammunition

  Hertz Ford Taurus, California registration ZHG128, parked 1/2 block away from James Chilton’s house

  One bottle orange-flavored Vitamin Water, half full

  One rental agreement, Hertz, naming Gregory Schaeffer as lessee

  One McDonald’s Big Mac wrapper

  One map of Monterey County, provided by Hertz, no marked locations (infrared analysis negative)

  Five empty coffee cups, 7-Eleven. Only Schaeffer’s fingerprints

  Dance read the list twice. She couldn’t be upset at the job Crime Scene had done. It was perfectly acceptable. Yet it offered no clues whatsoever as to where Travis Brigham was being held. Or where his body was buried.

  Her eyes slipped out the window, and settled on the thick, barky knot, the point where two independent trees became one, then continued their separate journey toward the sky.

  Oh, Travis, Kathryn Dance thought.

  Unable to resist the thought that she’d let him down.

  Unable, finally, to resist the tears.

  Chapter 41

  TRAVIS BRIGHAM WOKE up, peed in the bucket beside the bed and washed his hands with bottled water. He adjusted the chain connecting the shackle around his ankle to a heavy bolt in the wall.

  Thought once again of that stupid movie, Saw, where two men had been chained to a wall, just like this, and could escape only by sawing their legs off.

  He drank some Vitamin Water, ate some granola bars and returned to his mental investigation. Trying to piece together what had happened to him, why he’d ended up here.

  And who was the man who’d done this terrible thing?

  He recalled the other day, those police or agents at the house. His father being a dick, his mother being all weepy-eyed and weak. Travis had grabbed his uniform and his bike and headed for his sucky job. He’d wheeled the bike a short way into the woods behind his house and then just lost it. He’d dropped his bike and sat down beside the huge oak tree and started crying his head off.