And maybe she would help him get back to prison. He could convince her to send him back.
Gerry made his way into the main room and opened the refrigerator. There was almost nothing left to eat. He found a Pop-Tart and sat down on the floor, out of view of the window, to eat it. Leaning back against the far wall, he put on his headphones and closed his eyes. But even with his headphones on, he could hear them outside. There was no peace.
Three days ago, he’d passed through this same room and a bullet missed his head by inches. He’d called the cops. Citizens were supposed to report these things. They came, of course. But he knew they didn’t care. No one cared. Sure, he’d had problems. And urges. But he wasn’t doing anything wrong now. He was just trying to live.
The police had come and told him that they’d arrested the man who’d fired the shot. He knew that guy would be out of jail in no time. And the police hadn’t been able to do anything about the picketers.
“They got rights, too,” the redneck officer had told him. The look in his eyes said he might just as well have fired the shot. Gerry knew that with Megan’s law, people had the right to know who lived in their neighborhood and to picket if they didn’t like it.
At least Gerry had learned to stay clear of the windows. They wanted to lynch him. He could still hear them in his head.
Get out of our town, sicko.
Stay away from our children, pervert.
You should be dead. You don’t deserve to live. Die. Die.
He thought about Sam Chase again. She’d never told him that he deserved to die. She’d sent him to prison and he’d been safe there. He felt sad, but he took another bite of the Pop-Tart and thought about getting back to prison. Soon now. He’d be back there soon.
Chapter Eight
Sam inched her way toward the driveway at the Department of Justice building, cursing the tourist buses that had already begun to circle the block at Fisherman’s Wharf. She imagined some tour company charging fifty bucks a head to come and tour a four-block area by bus. Each bus seemed to do it a hundred times a day.
The tourists out on the street this morning wore oversized San Francisco sweatshirts in bright colors—kelly green, scarlet, royal blue. Designs of the Golden Gate Bridge and cable cars decorated the space between the San and the Francisco. There was a gold mine in the sweatshirt-making business. Tourists came from the humid summers in the East and South and believed that it would be equally warm in California. Wrong.
When she finally reached the driveway, Sam pulled her government Caprice in and pressed the white call button.
“Yes.”
“Chase here.”
The heavy grilled gate rose, and Sam drove down a short ramp into the lot. The forest green of her Caprice and the absence of roof lights created the impression that it was a civilian car. But it still had all the bells and whistles—police sirens she could control with her feet, a radio hidden in the center armrest. And the trunk was full of gear—her Kevlar vest and raid gear, and rape, first aid, and evidence-collection kits.
Some of the gear had remained unused in the eight years she’d been at D.O.J. But there’d been more than one time when she was glad to have one of the things loaded into her trunk.
In technical terms, she was a special agent for the State of California Department of Justice, Division of Law Enforcement, Bureau of Investigation. The running joke was that the D.O.J had the longest names in law enforcement. Unlike Nick, whose position was with the county, Sam was employed by the state.
In many ways, the job was a lot like that of an FBI agent, except that Sam worked for California only. There were divisions within the department and she focused on the Child Abuse Unit, which maintained a central file on child abuse investigations completed by other agencies, like police, sheriff, and welfare offices. Nick liked to joke that the D.O.J. were the paper-pushers and the real action was in the sheriff’s department, but Sam participated in her share of raids and made arrests. Nick was right, though. It was slower in some ways. Maybe not slower, but more manageable. On the nights when Sam did have a stakeout or a raid, she got coverage for Derek and Rob, but for the most part, she was there for them, which was where she needed to be.
She pushed eject on the tape she’d been playing and stretched her neck. She’d been listening to John Irving’sCider House Rules and had arrived in San Francisco in the mind of a child at St. Clouds orphanage rather than a special agent for the Department of Justice. Her mind was filled with Dr. Wilbur Larch and Homer Wells as she got out of her car, holstered her Glock, and retrieved her bag from the trunk.
She went up the cement stairs and entered the main building, then took the elevator to the third floor. Using her key card, she passed through the secured door and headed for her office. It was quiet this morning. She was in early, determined not to let the missing case file get to her. She had locked her office last night, something she’d never bothered with in the past.
Her key stuck slightly, but it turned and the door clicked open. She bent down and examined the keyhole, noting the small scratch marks around the lock. Were those new?
Pushing the door open, she flipped the light switch and studied the room carefully before going in. Dread pooled in her gut like motor oil, and she longed to turn around, get in her car, and go home. Forcing herself to enter the room, she closed the door and dropped her bag by her desk. Nothing looked out of order. Maybe the marks were old.
She settled in at her desk and picked up the stack of message slips from yesterday.
Aaron came in to drop the day’s mail in her in box. “I see you found that file,” he said.
Sam looked up at him as he pulled the missing Hofstadt file from among the papers in her in box. She took it from his hand. It hadn’t been there yesterday. She was sure she had checked her entire desk.
“Should I send an E-mail letting people know you’ve got it?”
Sam nodded. “Thanks,” she murmured.
Aaron left the room and Sam exhaled, exhausted. She opened the file and was skimming through the contents when she saw the picture. Letting out a gasp, she froze. The shot was only of her face and shoulders. A snapshot, not a posed photo. A small red circle had been painted in the center of her forehead with a tiny drip that spread down her cheek like blood from a bullet wound.
She felt the same prickle of fear that she had felt as a child when she heard that certain tone in her father’s voice. “Samantha Jean,” he used to call out to her. Clenching her fists hard, Sam fought it off. Samantha Jean was dead.
She started to reach for the photo and stopped herself. Whoever he was, he wasn’t going to get away with it. She’d have someone’s goddamn job for this. She’d get the prints on it and the note from yesterday and find out who was screwing with her.
She dreaded the idea of asking Nick. It was personal, and it felt like a weakness. And she didn’t like the idea of sharing it with anyone, especially not Nick.
It was a dumb thought. Nick was the closest thing she had to a friend. If she was smart, she would make something of that. No, if she was unafraid, she would make something of it. But she wasn’t. She was terrified. And she had no idea even where to begin with her fear.
She pushed it aside and looked down at the picture again. Nick would do it for her. She trusted him. And she knew he would keep her confidence. In fact, he was the only one she would trust to check the prints and keep it quiet.
She pulled a tissue from the box on her desk, the box that saw use only when someone else was in her office. Sam neither cried nor got sick. Ever.
She hated photos. It was another of the things she was glad to leave behind in Mississippi. As a child, formal family photos were snapped four times a year: Easter, the Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. Her mother would scrub them all down, shove the girls into pink dresses and her brother, Jimmy, into khakis and a tie, and get all dolled up herself. “Smile for the camera!” The quarterly photo was supposed to be a testament to the happy family
life.
The picture in her hand seemed to stare back at her. The collared shirt she was wearing was new, but it wasn’t one she wore to work. He had taken pictures of her at home, with her family. “Damn you.”
Using the tissue, she took the picture out of the file, slid it into a manila folder, and dropped it into her bag, wondering if they would pick up any prints. She had dusting powder in the back of her car, and she was tempted to go downstairs and dust it now.
Her phone rang. Closing her bag, she reached over the desk and answered it.
“It’s Corona. You got a minute?”
Why did Corona want to see her? “Sure, but—”
“Come on down.”
Before she could respond, he hung up. Grabbing a clean notebook and a pen, she told Aaron where she was going and headed to the director’s office.
She knocked on the door and he waved her in without looking up. “What’s up?” she asked, taking a seat in a chair in front of his desk.
Without answering, he got up and closed the door. The gesture made Sam’s stomach tighten. She’d never seen Corona do that before. If something was supersensitive, they left the office to discuss it. Everything else was open door.
He was a tall, broad, Hispanic man with dark, graying hair and an almost white mustache. When she’d met him, the mustache was salt and pepper. She preferred the way it looked now. But the gentle, calm façade was a sharp contrast to the fiery temper that lurked just under the surface. Corona was known for his hearty laugh and his thunderous roar. She’d never been on the receiving end of the latter.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
Corona met her gaze. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
She frowned. “Meaning?”
“Is there something going on?”
Sam stared at him, waiting for the punch line. It didn’t come. “No, I’m fine. Why?”
“You’ve been acting strangely. The missing file that you swore someone had stolen from your office. I see it turned up this morning.”
She gritted her teeth. She was positive that file hadn’t been there yesterday. Whoever had taken her file had added the picture of her as some sort of warning. It seemed like the only answer, but how could she tell Corona that? Who would buy that story?
“It’s not normal for you, Sam. And if something’s going on, I want to know about it.”
She shook her head. “It’s nothing. A few strange things have happened over the past few days.”
“Like what?”
She met his gaze. Did the photograph count as an incident? Did the note? Were they related? She hated to think it.
“What’s happened?”
“A picture in the missing file. A photograph of me with blood drawn on it.”
Corona let out a low laugh that was more like a growl. “Some stupid prank to rattle your nerves, no doubt.”
Sam looked at him and frowned, surprised he would treat more vandalism so lightly. Maybe it was nothing, but what if it was something?
“Looks like it worked.”
“It isn’t funny.”
Corona frowned and nodded. “I agree. It’s not. But I’m pretty sure that it’s just one of the guys testing your balls, Chase. You know how they are.” He looked at her and added, “I think your best bet is to chalk it up to immaturity.”
Maybe she was overreacting. Still, it felt like a threat to her. She straightened her back and smoothed her skirt, itching for him to tell her to get lost.
“Okay.”
Sam stood.
Corona pointed to the seat. “Sit down. There’s more.”
Sam sank into the seat. “Something else?”
He nodded. “This one isn’t so easy.”
A million possibilities ran through her mind—someone was dead, or someone sent something disparaging about her to him.
He slapped his hands against the surface of his desk and scowled. His brown eyes narrowed, his mustache pinched against his nose. “I got a call from Jeremy Tomasco.”
“Tomasco? About me?”
Corona lifted his shoulders in a huge shrug and then raised his hands. “That’s what I said. I get calls from the district attorney about Williams all the time, but you?” He pointed. “Chase, you’re my star. What the fuck is going on?” He pounded the table for emphasis, and Sam felt herself jump.
“What did he say?”
“Said there’ve been complaints about you.”
Sam felt her face go red. “What sort of complaints?”
He raised a fist. “Shit that made me mad—missing records. I told him he had to be wrong. You’re the most organized agent I’ve got. What the hell was he talking about? The missing file, I know, but there was more—” Corona shook his head and his gaze burned into hers. “He said you didn’t have a tape ready for him?”
Tomasco was Josh Steiner’s boss. Josh had obviously complained about her not having the tapes when they met. And that she’d been late to their meeting. She had already taken care of getting Josh what he needed. “I—”
Corona wiped his hand across the air and Sam silenced. “Is something going on? Something I should know about? A medical problem or something? Are you taking some new medication?”
She shook her head. “No. I’m fine.”
“I know Jeremy’s a pain in the ass. I’m sure he’s overreacting. When he called, I was sure it had to do with Williams, but when he saidyou —” Corona stared at her without continuing.
She didn’t respond. There was nothing to say. She had no excuse, no good reason. And the truth sounded the most far-fetched. Someone had stolen a file and then returned it and left her a strange note? This wasn’t the fifth grade, and Corona wasn’t the school principal, there to hold her hand and make sure no one stole her milk money. Sam would handle this on her own.
Corona stood and leaned across the desk, staring down at her. “Relationships aren’t your strength, Chase. I like you, but I’ll be the first to admit it—you scare some people, maybe most people. But lately, something’s different. You seem less in control. Not the agent I depend on. If there’s something going on, I suggest you find some way to take care of it or someone to talk to.”
He didn’t offer his own ears and she was thankful. She wasn’t the type to spill her guts, and he knew it. She couldn’t believe this mess had gone this far, but it stopped here.
Sitting back down, he asked, “Does it have anything to do with the Walters case?”
Sam shook her head. “No,” she said, her voice cracking. She coughed and repeated. “No.”
“The D.A. wants a quick resolution to it. The idea that we executed an innocent man is not sitting well with the D.A.’s office.”
“I know. We made an arrest yesterday, but I don’t think he’s our man.” She’d read the report this morning that said the print on Sandi Walters did not belong to James Lugino. Now they had to figure out who the hell it did belong to.
“Then find him. And keep me updated on what you’ve got. I want a daily report—leave it on my voice mail. Now get out of here, you hear.” He gave her a half smile that was supposed to be encouraging.
Sam left Corona’s office feeling strangely out of sorts. She didn’t like his reaction to the picture. He wasn’t one to take trespasses of the system lightly, but the idea that he thought she was doing faulty work was more than she was willing to accept. Whoever had taken her file and put the picture in it had been determined to shake her up. And as Corona so diplomatically put it, it appeared to be working.
Not anymore.
Back in her office, she picked up her phone and dialed the main number of the Contra Costa Sheriff’s Department from memory. When the officer at the desk answered, she asked for Jack Tunney, the clerk who had been researching the crime scene team.
“Officer Tunney’s out,” the woman at the desk responded.
Sam frowned. “This is Special Agent Sam Chase. He was working a case with me. Where’s he out?”
“Wife ha
d a baby last night. Three weeks early—a little boy. Jack junior. Kid was big, too—over seven pounds,” the woman continued. “It’s good thing she didn’t carry it to term. Would’ve been an eleven-pounder easy. Both my boys were over ten and it’s no fun, I tell you.”
“Thank you,” Sam said, although she wished she hadn’t gotten quite so much detail. “Can you direct me to whoever is handling Officer Tunney’s caseload?”
“That’d be Kirkwood. Hang on.”
“Kirkwood,” Sam repeated to herself out loud, shaking her head.
When Kirkwood answered, Sam explained why she was calling.
“I’ve got that right here,” Kirkwood said. “Was going to call you, but Jack forgot to leave your number.”
“That’s fine. Tell me what you’ve got.”
“Haber and Nakahara are still with the department here. No complaints about them. Nakahara was working that night, but Haber was off.”
Sam made notes.
“Of course, Detective Sergeant Lewis is a captain now,” Kirkwood continued. “Wyatt is with S.F.P.D. and Jack made a note that he put a call into their captain about that night. I haven’t heard back. Monterra is up in Sacto at D.O.J. headquarters. Is that where you are, too?”
“No, I’m in San Francisco. Could you follow up on Wyatt today?”
“Sure will.” Kirkwood paused, and she could hear the rustling of paper. “I also got the list of crime scene folks you faxed yesterday. None of those names are familiar, so I’m going to have to do some work on finding them.”
“What about Cole, Bradley, and Sansome?” Sam asked.
“Bradley works private security now—a company called Westley. Jack has written that he works in the Bank of America building in San Francisco.” He paused. “Also, he was in L.A. from Friday until Monday morning.”
(2002) Chasing Darkness Page 8
