“Richard?”
He turned, startled to find Wendy hurrying after him.
“Wendy?”
“Forgive me, Richard. I followed you. I was worried.”
“I just met with Frank Johnson. Have you had lunch?”
Wendy stepped close to Richard and spoke in a whisper. “I’ve found something that could prove you’re innocent. I think Andrew is setting you up. What if Sandy discovered what he was up to? I think he killed her, Richard. And he wants you to take the blame.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“After what he did to you this morning?” Wendy rolled her eyes in irritation. “Okay, fine. You can try to figure this out on your own. Sorry to bother you.” She turned on her heels and walked away. Richard went after her.
“Wait. I’m sorry. I overreacted.”
“You need to stop reacting at all. You shouldn’t have run out of the office, Richard. That wasn’t like you.”
“Agreed. Now tell me what you’ve got.”
“I searched Andrew’s desk and found a list of what I think are passwords, you know, long numbers with the occasional letter. The money that is missing from Rincon Sinclair was transferred to an account in the Caymans, right? If one of these passwords can access that account, we can prove that Andrew is setting you up.”
“This changes everything. I need to give this information to my attorney. Right now. Would you mind giving me that list? Or come with me, if you’d like.” Richard reached for his phone, but it wasn’t in his pocket. Had he left it in his car?
“Of course. But it’s on my boat.”
“In Sausalito?”
She gave Richard an exasperated look. “Surely you didn’t think I’d keep evidence proving Andrew is a murderer at the office, did you?”
“Okay. Let’s go to your boat. I’m ready for this to be over,” Richard said.
“Me too,” Wendy said.
Chapter 28
Friday, October 24
Inspired by Lauren’s pep talk, Olivia plowed through the rest of the Janelle Maycott murder evidence before turning her attention to the relevant documents regarding Sandy Watson. The only evidence she found connecting the two women was the photo of Richard and Janelle, a double-edged sword in that the picture could cast Olivia in the role of the jealous wife, who had murdered two of her husband’s lovers. Sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, she had read through everything twice, but nothing had caught her eye.
Throwing her pen down in frustration, Olivia stood and stretched. As she worked the stiffness out of her knees, her eyes strayed to a picture of herself taken after her first trial. The photo sat in a silver frame on her bookcase, and she hadn’t given it a thought in years. Someone had snapped a photo of her walking out of the courtroom, briefcase in one hand, waving at whoever took the picture. She was radiant from her victory, high on adrenaline after a grueling courtroom battle.
Olivia’s recent troubles had caused her to forget who she was and what she was made of. This picture of her, fighting strong and victorious, served as a stark reminder of who and what she was. A litigator. A fighter. A wave of determination flooded Olivia. Her freedom was on the line. She was innocent. Who better to find proof of that than herself? Who else would be more motivated for the task? She picked up one of the second round of boxes received from Janelle Maycott’s mother. In one fell swoop, she dumped all the photos – there were hundreds – in a pile on the floor.
Two hours later, Olivia had finished sorting. She hadn’t found anything yet, but she was still determined to keep going when Brian Vickery came home, carrying a bag of groceries and a bottle of wine.
“I thought maybe I could cook for you tonight,” he said. “Are you sure it’s okay if I stay? I don’t want to put you in an awkward position. And I can get a hotel—”
Olivia set her cup in the sink and helped Brian put the groceries away. “I prefer it, actually. I appreciate the company. You’re the only one who doesn’t look at me with pity. Did you get things sorted with your insurance?”
“Yes. The claims adjuster seems reasonable.”
Olivia shook her head. “I’m so sorry for all of this.”
“It’s not your fault.” Brian washed his hands before he put cloves of garlic on a small cutting board. Using the flat end of the blade, he crushed the garlic before he mixed it with a bit of olive oil. “It’s 4:30. Start grilling around six o’clock?”
“Perfect.”
“I need to work on my insurance claim. Do you mind if I log on to your Wi-Fi?”
“Of course. You can use Richard’s desk. The Wi-Fi password is on a slip of paper in the top drawer. I’m going to finish sorting through this box of pictures and then I’ll make us a salad.”
Brian followed Olivia into the living room, where the pictures lay scattered about on the floor. “Finding anything?”
“Not yet,” Olivia said. “But I’ve got these to sort through, plus those boxes in the corner.”
“I’ll leave you to it.” He paused for a moment. “Thank you again, Olivia, for letting me stay here.”
“It’s the least I can do. If it weren’t for me, you’d still have a house.”
Back in the living room, Olivia sat on the floor and continued to go through Janelle Maycott’s life in pictures, taking comfort in Brian’s presence. He was so different from Richard, seemingly so gentle and passive, yet so physically strong when Richard tried to threaten him. Although she hadn’t known Brian Vickery long, Olivia trusted him. With Richard, she had to worry about keeping up appearances, living up to what Richard deemed our standards. There was no stepping away from Richard’s self-manufactured rat race.
Olivia remembered one time long ago when Richard had caught her on a Saturday afternoon gardening without makeup. He’d been mortified. “What if someone drops in?” Olivia had brushed off his concern and had continued to garden makeup-free in her grubby jeans. She realized now how telling that little drama had been. If she had seen that behavior in a client, she would have recognized it immediately.
God, I’ve been so blind.
She was thinking about steak and salad and – she was surprised to find – Brian Vickery as she started putting the photos she had looked at back in the box. One photo caught her eye. Actually, she had looked at it before, but hadn’t noticed something about the picture that struck her now. Were her eyes playing tricks? She carried it into the kitchen, where the light was better.
Brian came upstairs at 5:30. He was just headed into the kitchen, when Olivia stood up, lithe and supple as a schoolgirl, and waved a photo in the air.
“What have you found?”
Olivia shook her head. “I’m such an idiot.”
“What is it?” Brian asked again.
“Let’s go in the kitchen where the light is better.”
Brian followed her, pushing away the guilty pleasure he felt when their arms touched as she set a picture down on the island. She pointed to one of the faces. “Do you recognize anyone in this picture?”
Brian studied the photo of Richard, Janelle Maycott, and another woman who looked familiar but whom he couldn’t place.
“Picture this woman fourteen years older with dyed blond hair.”
“It’s Wendy Betters.” Brian recognized the woman immediately. The photo depicted Richard in the middle of two young women, his arm around both of them. Janelle Maycott was dressed in a business suit and despite her serious expression, she still managed to look fresh and beautiful and full of life, while Richard posed for the camera. Brian’s eyes lingered on Wendy Betters’s image. He set the photograph on the table, and covered the images of Janelle and Richard with his hands, leaving Wendy in stark relief. She was the only person in the picture who wasn’t looking at the camera. Her body was pressed up against Richard Sinclair’s. Her head was tilted back, and although Brian could only see her face in profile, there was no mistaking the adoration in her eyes.
“My God,” he said.
“
She’s in love with him,” Olivia said. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it. God, what a fool I’ve been. When I had computer trouble last year, Wendy fixed it for me. I gave her my password. She told me to change it afterward, but I didn’t. I trusted her. I’ve always trusted her. Implicitly.”
Brian took a screen shot of the photo and texted it to Stephen Vine with a brief explanation. Stephen called back almost immediately. Brian put the call on speaker and explained the situation.
“I was just about to call you both,” Stephen replied. “It seems that Richard has stolen funds from Rincon Sinclair and seems to have gone missing. The cops are looking for him. This could bode very well for you, Olivia.”
“Richard stole money?” She had a hard time believing that her husband would steal, but reminded herself that a few weeks ago she would never have believed Richard capable of cheating on her either.
“Brian, when we meet we can decide to whom I should take this photo. I have a feeling Jonas will just dismiss it. Let’s meet at my office first thing in the morning, okay? We should move on this.”
“Sure,” Brian said. “What time?”
“Is seven o’clock too early? This could be the break we are looking for.”
“See you then,” Brian said. After Brian hung up, he found Olivia standing in the living room, gazing out the window, like a bird in a gilded cage. Brian moved towards her.
“What’s wrong?” Something made Brian stand close to her, too close.
“I have to call my daughter and tell her that her father has stolen money and run away.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand as she turned to face him.
“This isn’t your fault. Your daughter will see that.”
Olivia shook her head. “She’ll blame me.”
Brian wasn’t thinking about Maureen when he opened his arms, and Olivia stepped into them as though it were the most natural thing in the world. His arms engulfed her, pulling her close to him as though he could protect her from all the things that bound them together: murder, arson, her husband’s betrayal. They had both suffered, were suffering. This pain bonded them. When she tilted her face up to his, he kissed her.
Chapter 29
Saturday, October 25. Late morning.
The clock was ticking for Inspector Bailey. Evidence from both murders and half-drunk cups of coffee lay strewn around her office. Unable to sit any longer, she gathered the coffee cups and tossed them in the garbage. For a moment, she thought about getting even more caffeine, but her better judgment prevailed. Any more coffee and she’d start shaking in her boots. She’d reread the Maycott file. Again. No joy there. Her stomach growled and she was just about to go for food when her phone rang.
“It’s Wells from Tech.”
“I didn’t know you worked on Saturdays,” Sharon said.
“We’re backlogged, and I’m getting overtime. I have your fingerprint reports from the Sinclair house.” Sharon had worked with Welford Bexley for years, and knew that although he was definitely happy working on the evidence analysis side of police work, there were times when he wished he could be out in the field. Over a beer one night, Sharon had teased him, suggesting he watched too much Law and Order.
Dared she hope? “Is there a match?”
“Since your case is chock full of lawyers, I ran a comparison to the Cal Bar live scan. Did you know the State Bar just required all lawyers run a live scan? Which means their fingerprints are taken electronically and fed into all statewide databases?”
Sharon knew that attorneys often got DUIs and didn’t report the arrest to the bar association, as they were required to, and had wondered over the years if the bar association would ever do something about it. She recalled reading somewhere that the live scan was designed to remedy this situation.
“The handprint – which was surprisingly clean, I might add – belongs to a Wendy Betters.”
Sharon made a quick gasp.
“Surprised at that? Good news?”
Wendy Betters? Sharon stopped for a moment, replaying the facts of the case in her head, letting everything fall into place, relishing that feeling of knowing. She’d been such a fool. Wendy Betters. Of course. Why hadn’t she seen it? Wendy Betters was the jealous lover.
“Sharon?” Wells asked.
“I’m here. Wells, you just blew my case wide open. I owe you a beer. Hell, I’ll buy you dinner. Thanks for rushing it through.”
“No problem. And I’ll take you up on that dinner. You can tell me all about the case.”
Rummaging through the folders on her desk, Sharon found the background information Ellie had gathered on Wendy thus far. Ellie walked into the office just as Sharon muttered, “I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner. It’s Wendy Betters. Her fingerprint is on the outside of the house.”
“We have a problem,” Ellie said. “Richard Sinclair’s gone missing.”
“When?”
“Yesterday. Around 2:00 p.m. The team keeping eyes on him followed him to an office on California Street. They were in a car, and when he took off on foot, they lost him.”
“And we’re just hearing about it now?” Sharon shook off her anger. “Never mind. Just get him found, please. Upgrade the BOLO to an APB. When you’ve done that, I want you to drop everything and reach out to the police department in the town where Wendy grew up. If she’s killed two people, there’s a slight chance she’ll have been in trouble with the police as a delinquent. Or at least they might know her and give us something. Meanwhile, I need to update the captain. And, Ellie, have uniforms bring Ms. Betters in for questioning. We can let her sit while we get our ducks in a row.” The last thing Sharon wanted was for Wendy Betters to go on the run. “I’ll bet she planted the evidence at Olivia’s. I wouldn’t be surprised if she stole the money from the Rincon Sinclair slush fund. Everyone trusted her,” Sharon said.
“Do you think she burned down Brian Vickery’s house?” Ellie asked.
Sharon thought of Wendy’s petite stature and the description of a juvenile delinquent. “I’d say that’s a distinct possibility. Maybe she thought there was evidence there that she didn’t want to get out.” Leaving Ellie to her task, Sharon hurried to Captain Wasniki’s office.
“He’s got people in there. It’s going to be a while,” Megan said.
“Sorry, Megan. I need to talk to him now.” She barged into the office, startling Captain Wasniki and the two men. “I’m sorry, sir. But I need to speak to you. Now.”
The men stood and shook hands. Once Sharon and Captain Wasniki were alone, Sharon said, “Richard Sinclair is missing. We’re looking for him, but that’s not why I barged in here. Wendy Betters did it. She killed Janelle Maycott and Sandy Watson. I know it.”
“Wendy Betters the attorney?” Captain Wasniki, usually so supportive of Sharon’s gut feelings, didn’t bother to hide his skepticism.
“The one and only.”
“Do you have any evidence to support this theory?”
“I’m sure she’s in love with Richard Sinclair. Why else would she stay at his law firm all these years? She was law review at Cal, graduated at the top of her class, and turned down a handful of more lucrative and prestigious jobs to keep working at Rincon Sinclair. She makes good money there, but she could have gone far, had a brilliant career. Why? Because she wanted to be near Richard Sinclair. She loves him. And I didn’t see it.”
“Evidence, Inspector.”
Sharon gave Wasniki a smug smile as she handed him the fingerprint report. “Wendy Betters’s handprint is on the wall outside Olivia’s house.”
“But she was friends with the Sinclairs. Didn’t I read in one of the reports that they treated Wendy like family? You need to be prepared for her to explain away her handprint. There could be a legitimate reason why her handprint is on the outside of the house.”
“Maybe.” Sharon stood. “There’ll be other evidence. Now I know where to look, who to focus on, I’ll find it.”
“Do you think she and Richard Si
nclair were working together?”
“Don’t think so, but maybe.”
“Find out. Keep me posted,” Captain Wasniki called to Sharon.
Ellie was at her desk, the phone cradled on her shoulder as she furiously wrote notes. When she saw Sharon, she waved, an excited look on her face. “Thanks, so much, Sergeant. Do you think Mr. Buford would mind speaking to my boss directly? Sharon Bailey. Can you tell him she’ll be calling? Okay, great. I’ll tell her to call in ten minutes. Appreciate it.” Ellie hung up the phone. “You’d better sit down for this.”
The desk next to Ellie’s was empty. Sharon scooted its chair near Ellie and sat down.
“Wendy Betters grew up near Seattle. Her father was a welder, but his passion was sailing. Apparently Wendy learned to sail at a very early age. Her dad died of a heart attack when Wendy was fifteen years old. When Wendy turned eighteen, her mother died. The guy I spoke to said the cop who investigated the mom’s death swore up and down Wendy murdered her mother.” Ellie wrote down a name and phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to Sharon. “His name is Willis Buford. Apparently he loves to talk about this case. It’s the one he couldn’t solve.”
“Good work, Ellie. Follow up on the APB, please.” Sharon pushed the chair back to the desk next to her. “I’ll just go call Mr. Buford.”
“Boss,” Ellie said before she hurried out the door in a flash.
Sharon refilled her coffee before she shut her office door. Sitting at her desk for a moment, she collected her thoughts and cleared her mind before she dialed the number on the message slip.
“Buford here.” Willis Buford had the gruff voice of a street-worn cop. Sharon had images of him sitting in a small house, eating his dinner from a TV tray, not quite sure what to do with himself in retirement.
“Hello. This is Sharon Bailey from the San Francisco Police—”
“Been expecting your call,” he said. She heard the rustling of papers and a muffled groan. “Got the file in front of me. Not that I need it. Know what’s in it front and back.”
The Betrayal Page 19
