Aloa waited.
“Yes, yes, here it is: Incised wound to the neck with an apparent transection of the trachea and both internal jugulars,” he said. “A cutting wound, estimated to be nineteen centimeters in length. The direction of the pathway appeared left to right and slightly upward. I would say Mr. Rodriguez bled out rather quickly.”
“And how did you determine this, sir?” Aloa asked.
“A report from an eyewitness, confirmed with a photo. The body was not recovered,” the physician said.
“Where did the photo come from?” Aloa asked.
“I received it from the insurance company as part of an annuity claim, but beyond that, I do not know.” He chuckled, a quiet heh-heh. “I only ask questions of the dead, not the living.”
“And you sent your report to the company?”
“I did.”
“Is it public?”
“I’m afraid it is not.”
Things are never easy, Aloa thought.
“But this I can tell you: The manner of this young man’s death was not suicide. The poor boy was murdered. Thus, the annuity was put in force.”
Aloa chewed the end of her pen.
“Does the wound give you any clues about the killer?”
“Ah yes. A wound can tell many secrets,” said the doctor. “From what I saw, I concluded the killer was right-handed and that he stood above our unfortunate young man. The victim was either seated or kneeling. This would indicate a ritualized killing, which was confirmed by the witness’s declaration.”
“A death that was also a statement to the world,” Aloa said.
“Or to someone.”
The medical examiner paused. An invitation, Aloa thought. “What kind of statement?”
“I would say a threat.”
Aloa knew this was the delicate part, the dance between a source and an interviewer where the source wanted to provide some information but needed to be asked in such a way that the revelation wouldn’t violate their moral or professional code.
“Was the threat obvious?”
“I would say not.”
“Would it indicate the killer?”
“Perhaps.”
“Did it have to do with the style of the killing?”
“Not that.”
“The body position?”
“No.”
Such a fragile game of twenty questions, Aloa thought. “Some mark on the body, then?” she asked.
“The mark was not on the corpse.” The medical examiner’s words were chosen carefully.
Aloa paused.
“Something was in the photo, then?”
“You have said it, not I.”
Aloa’s mind ran through the possibilities. “Something scratched in the dirt? A note pinned to his clothes?”
The medical examiner was quiet.
“A document left behind? A talisman?”
Finally, he continued, “Do you know, Ms. Snow, that I once wanted to be a cryptologist?”
“An interesting field,” Aloa agreed warily.
“One symbol can convey a variety of meanings, yes?”
“True.”
“Take the Chi-Rho.”
“Sorry, I don’t know what that is.”
“It is a P with the letter X across the vertical axis. It is most often referred to as a Christian symbol that evokes the crucifixion of Christ. It was also used by Greek scribes to denote something important.”
“Yes?”
“As I was saying, it would be interesting to find the Chi-Rho appearing as a ghost image on a photo of someone’s violent end, would it not?”
“Extremely interesting,” Aloa said. She could feel her pulse ratchet up a notch.
“Especially if there was some attempt at scrubbing the symbol and yet, it was spotted as a faint apparition when examined through an exemplary computer program. In death, details are important.”
“Just like in life,” Aloa said.
“An insurance company is only interested in numbers, actuarial tables, but people like myself—and perhaps you—wonder about the significance, the meaning, of symbols and words, do they not?”
“I do.”
Another long pause.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Snow, but if I do not leave for my walk now, I will be late for my afternoon nap, which will put off my evening sherry and thus dinner. Perhaps you will let me know what you find?”
“I will,” Aloa promised and clicked off the phone.
Aloa knew of killers who left forensic boasts in order to taunt investigators. In some cases, the signatures—a specific wound on a body, words scrawled in blood, the position of a corpse—led police to the murderer. In other cases, like the Zodiac killer, whose identity still stymied detectives in San Francisco, the calling cards remained a vicious taunt.
But what did the symbol on the photo of Ethan’s body mean? For that to be answered, she needed context. She needed origin and history. That was the job of both a cryptographer and a journalist: to decipher.
She got up and walked twice through the house in an effort to order her thoughts, but she couldn’t yet see a path through the questions that seemed to be piling up around her.
CHAPTER 20
He watched her run past him on the sidewalk, her arms pumping and her back straight. Good form. He’d give her that, at least.
She was tall with dark hair that was shorter than what he’d seen in the photos online. But her eyes had the same kind of intensity. Like they could burn a hole right through you if you were caught in their gaze long enough.
He turned and watched her back as she weaved around an old lady with a Chihuahua, her movements smooth and precise. What the hell had she been doing snooping around that mechanic’s shop?
He’d read her history once the cuckoo, Calvin, had given up her name and thought there wasn’t a newspaper or magazine that would hire a reporter like her. Not with her baggage. Not with her mistake. Which made her a guard dog without a bite, a bitch without a bark. He shouldn’t even worry about her. Yet he did. The people who were paying him expected him to do exactly that.
His clients were powerful people, people who swam in the shadows but whose every move could cause ripples in markets and governments and, yes, even in wars. Screwing up with them wouldn’t net you a letter in your personnel file. Instead, you’d wind up with a toe tag in the morgue.
It was what you had to accept if you wanted to play the big game, which he did.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and watched the reporter turn the corner and disappear. He thought it was best not to make any sudden moves but, rather, to listen in on her calls—you could tap almost anyone’s phone without even having to touch it these days—and figure out what she knew and why she’d turned up at Calvin’s place.
And if she got close?
He turned and headed back toward his car. Well then, she wouldn’t be running for her health. She’d be running for her life.
CHAPTER 21
Aloa had just let herself into the house with a bag of groceries—yogurt, fresh fruit, a baguette, some sliced Bayonne ham, and two bottles of Pellegrino—when her phone rang.
She set her purchases on the floor and fished her cell phone from her pocket. “Aloa Snow,” she said.
“How are you today, Ms. Snow?” said a woman’s efficient voice.
“Who is this?” Aloa asked. Had the government already discovered Michael’s intrusion? Was it the CIA? The State Department?
“This is Hannah Ramundi calling on behalf of Mr. Tremblay at RedHawk Nutritionals.”
“Oh. Yes.” Aloa let out a breath and moved toward her notebook on her desk.
“Mr. Tremblay would like a word. Would you hold?”
“I guess,” Aloa said. She hated this corporate ritual: your work interrupted by someone who then forced you to wait while they finished their tasks, which, it was insinuated, were infinitely more important than your own.
Finally, “Ms. Snow, this is Hank Tremblay.
I hope I’m not disturbing you.” The voice betrayed a hint of his Canadian birthplace and had a slightly hoarse quality to it.
“No, it’s fine.”
“Good. Good.”
He sounded distracted, or maybe he was simply a man who didn’t do small talk. “Hayley’s mother called me yesterday,” he said. “She said you were looking into Hayley’s suicide.”
“That’s true, Mr. Tremblay.”
“Please, call me Hank.”
“That’s true, Hank.”
“And you’re a writer for Novo? Collins’s bunch?”
Aloa reminded herself of the adage about catching more flies with honey and tried to put a more personable tone into her voice. “I’m doing research for them at the moment.”
“Splitting hairs,” Tremblay said. “The fact is they must have some suspicion that Hayley’s death was more than suicide, otherwise they wouldn’t be looking into this. Correct?”
“At this point, I’d just say there are a few questions. I’m tying up loose ends.”
“I’d like to discuss those loose ends with you,” Tremblay said.
“I’d rather not.”
“Playing your cards close to the vest. I get that, I do. But Hayley was like family to me. Her and Ethan.”
“I’m sorry, but this is the way I work.”
“As you may know, I’m not a fan of reporters. Always putting their noses where they don’t belong.”
Aloa said nothing. Journalism was one of the few professions where people felt free to insult you as soon as they learned what you did.
“But I, too, wondered why Hayley would kill herself,” he went on. “She was training hard, focusing on her movie. And yet, sometimes we extinguish our own light for fear of being awash in abundance,” Hank Tremblay said.
Aloa wondered what self-help book he had been reading. “Do you think Hayley killed herself?”
“As her friend and a believer in goodness, I want to think Hayley went into the desert and simply got lost, but with the note, I think suicide is hard to deny.”
“Murder is another possibility,” Aloa said. She wanted to test the waters with him.
A pause. “The two men with guns?”
“Alibied by a reliable witness.”
“Are you saying there was someone else, then?”
“I’m looking into every possibility.”
The squeak of a chair, a pulse of breath. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I like your spunk, Aloa.”
Of the things Aloa had been called—and there were many—the words “spunky” and “cute” were at the top of her list of hated adjectives men used to undermine a woman’s power.
“You know what, Aloa? I think I’d like to hire you. We could work out an arrangement.”
“I’ve already been hired by Novo.”
“Name your price. I’ll double whatever they’re paying.”
“I’m fine with my paycheck.”
“How about I pick your brain, then? I’d like some answers.”
Aloa was not about to let her brain be picked, but she had questions for him too. She wondered about his agenda. This didn’t feel like an innocent call.
“Come out to the ranch,” he went on. “I think you’ll find it interesting. Plus you’d be the first reporter to set foot in RedHawk’s headquarters. Three o’clock today works for me. I’ll have my assistant set it up,” he said, and before Aloa could object, the efficient Hannah was back on the line.
As Hannah laid out instructions, Aloa wondered if he’d skipped the chapter in whatever self-help book he had on the dangers of arrogance.
Aloa glanced at her scribbled directions as she steered the rental car past horse ranches and hills of oak and golden grasses. According to the ever-efficient Hannah, RedHawk’s headquarters were in the Nicasio Valley, not too far from George Lucas’s Skywalker Ranch.
“The gate code is 3247,” she had said. “Proceed north for one-quarter mile. Park in one of the designated guest spots to the east side of the main building. Someone will meet you there. Mr. Tremblay does not like to be kept waiting.”
From Aloa’s recent experience with Tremblay and with other corporate types, that meant it would be she who would be twiddling her thumbs.
RedHawk’s headquarters looked like a sprawling ranch house set against a backdrop of rolling hills. The structure was two stories with gabled windows and a wide veranda with pots of colorful flowers. Wicker chairs cushioned with red and yellow pillows dotted the porch, and an Australian shepherd sat at attention at the top of the front steps. For a moment, Aloa wondered if the canine was real or simply another prop to make the place look authentic. She pulled her car into the designated area and was greeted by a handsome blond man in khaki shorts and a polo shirt.
“This way, please,” he said as he escorted her toward an outbuilding that resembled a stable.
As Aloa walked, she caught a glimpse of a blue pool with swimming lanes and what looked like an adult-size jungle gym behind the main house. Two blonde women in purple-and-pink Lycra were doing pull-ups from its jutting metal bars. Aloa wondered if part of everyone’s job description was to look beautiful.
The competent Hannah, petite and dark-haired in a pantsuit and heels, was waiting in front of the stablelike structure. “Thanks, Justin,” she said to Aloa’s escort. Then to Aloa, “Mr. Tremblay thought you might like to join him for his afternoon ride.”
Aloa felt a pinprick of dread. She did not like horses nor could she understand how you were supposed to control twelve hundred pounds of animal with a pair of thin leather straps. To her way of thinking, it was the horse taking you for a ride and not the other way around.
“I’m not a rider,” Aloa began, but Hannah was already through the barn doors and Aloa had no choice but to follow.
The stable was lined with handsome stalls. Overhead fans circulated the air above a herringbone brick floor. A grizzled older man in jeans and a cowboy hat was saddling a spotted Appaloosa while a pale guy in a faded Hawaiian shirt, mismatched plaid Bermuda shorts, and cowboy boots brushed a regal-looking chestnut. The only two normal-looking people in the place, Aloa thought.
“Aloa Snow to see you, Mr. Tremblay,” Hannah said.
The man in the Hawaiian shirt turned. His nose was slightly hooked, and his wavy dishwater-blond hair hung almost to shoulder length. “Aloa,” he said, and came toward her, his arms outstretched.
Aloa saw what was coming and thrust out her right hand while sidestepping left, a maneuver that had saved her from more than a few unwanted embraces.
Tremblay stopped. “Not a hugger, Ms. Snow?” He cocked his head and wiggled his fingers in invitation. “Come on. I’m told my hugs have a wonderful energy, very healing.”
“No, thank you,” Aloa said firmly.
Up close, Aloa could see the provenance of Tremblay’s shirt: vintage silk. His boots were ostrich skin and clearly handmade. He was not what Aloa had expected and yet, it was the appearance of a rare bird that called out for attention, her father said. Was Hank Tremblay’s imperfect appearance a deliberate act to throw off people who tried to pigeonhole him? Or was it simply that he was arrogant enough to not care what others thought?
Tremblay dropped his arms. “Well,” he said, and Aloa assumed he wasn’t used to being rebuffed. “Did you have any trouble finding us?” he asked.
“Hannah’s directions were excellent,” Aloa said.
“I don’t know what I’d do without her.” Tremblay laid his palm on his assistant’s head and gave it a stroke. If Aloa was right, Hannah didn’t appreciate being petted like a dog.
Tremblay looked at Aloa and frowned. “I was going to take you for a ride around the property, but you look exhausted. Traffic must have been terrible.”
“I just have a lot going on,” Aloa said.
“I know what will fix that. Follow me,” he said, and set off down the stable’s wide corridor. “Hannah, switch
my four o’clock to three thirty and tell my four thirty to meet me in the stable at three forty-five. Garrett won’t mind a little cowboy conferencing.” He leaned toward Aloa, who matched his long stride. “Off the record?”
Aloa opened her mouth to say she didn’t do off-the-record, but apparently Hank Tremblay believed all a source had to do was say the magic words and the information would be private. “Garrett is leading the team on an endurance product we’re developing. A complete food source that, when mixed with water, will not only sustain an adult indefinitely but may actually ward off heart disease and cancer. We’re still fine-tuning the formula but, if all goes well, we hope to launch in eighteen months, then go international eight months after that. It will be huge. T.J. and Ethan were part of our product development.”
Aloa opened her mouth to let Tremblay know off-the-record needed agreement from two sides, but he was already rushing on. “Just think of what that will mean for the average American with diabetes, cancer, and obesity. We also see a use for it for populations in Third World countries, or for those in natural disasters or wars. Easily transported nutrition that will not only sustain but will make its consumers healthier than before. The world is changing, Aloa. Drought, floods, famine, rising sea level, war, refugees. We’re on the cusp of a troubled time. We at RedHawk are quite proud of what we’re doing.”
Aloa added mania as another possibility for Tremblay’s behaviors. “Can we talk about Hayley, Hank?”
“Oh yes, sorry. Sometimes my passion carries me away. My father used to say, ‘Hank, I don’t know where you came from,’” he said, lifting his hand to the jungle-gym women who waved back enthusiastically. In contrast to the colorful Lycra and the neat Hannah, Tremblay looked like the weird uncle who showed up for free meals and a shower.
“Ah, here we are,” Tremblay said, and flung open the door to an extravagant farmhouse kitchen of marble, tile, and gleaming white cabinets.
“Would you like something, Hannah? Immunity? Protein?” he asked, going over to a bank of blenders.
“A protein shake, please, Mr. Tremblay,” Hannah answered, typing alternately on her phone and her tablet.
See Her Run Page 11
