Will had to agree with JB’s assessment of their lodging, because even a bear would’ve passed on the rock-hard bed, pancake-flat pillows, and walls so thin he could hear his partner snoring. Since he hadn’t slept a wink, Will had plenty of time to mull over the events of the past week and stare at his phone, thinking of texting Olivia. Thinking, but not doing. Maybe JB was right. Chickenshit.
“You fellas are early.” Closing the door of his sedan, Guthrie waved at them. “Running a halfway house, I’m not used to early birds.”
“Well, we’re hoping to catch ourselves a mighty big worm,” JB said. “We’ve got three unsolved murders and a lot of loose ends.”
Guthrie shook his head, suddenly morose. He opened the door, and they followed him inside the house. “The guys are having a hard time with it. Chuck had his enemies, being a sex offender and all, but most of the residents here didn’t have a problem with him. Lifers are pretty mellow. Been there, done that. Bought the blue jumpsuit.”
“How about you?” Will asked, remembering how Winters had been convinced Guthrie detested him and his perverted kind. “Did you like him?”
Guthrie didn’t answer, distracted by the handful of men gathered in the living room lobby, all of them waiting patiently with the Narcotics Anonymous Big Books in their hands or on their laps. Guthrie greeted each of the men by name. “We’ve got a daily NA meeting at eight fifteen,” he explained, as he led them to his office.
Guthrie sat with a sigh, gesturing to the chairs across from his own. Where men came to be sized up or dressed down for violating curfew or breaking house rules. Really, the place wasn’t much different than a prison, with Guthrie as the warden of the day shift. “Chuck always figured I didn’t like him. Probably ’cause I told him I had a niece who was raped. He thought I had it in for him. But to be honest, the guy was clean as a whistle. Seemed like he was trying to get it right this time.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Monday afternoon. He was at the two o’clock NA meeting.”
“And he told you he had a job interview?”
“‘Told’ would be an understatement. He was proud as a peacock. With his history, he’d had a pretty rough go of it. Most employers see a sex offense on your record, they’d just as soon hire a third grader. He said that he’d gotten a call from a construction company doing revitalization work down at the pier. He had an appointment there with some lady at six o’clock that evening.”
“A lady?” JB gave Will a pointed look. “Did he say anything else? A name, maybe?”
Guthrie squinted past them, as if the name itself was written in tiny print on the wall. If only he could see it. “Well, he did say she was highfalutin. He asked to borrow a button-down shirt.”
“Any idea what made him say that?” Will asked.
Guthrie piped out a laugh, so loud and sudden it startled Will like a shot of cold water. “She told him to show up with his curriculum vitae. He told me he had to look it up online ’cause he didn’t know what the hell that meant.”
Sixty-Nine
Olivia watched the sun rise from outside the FBI headquarters on Golden Gate Avenue in San Francisco. When the clock on her dash read seven thirty, she gathered her thoughts. At seven forty-five, she eagle-eyed the front doors, preparing for her mission. Predictably, by seven fifty, a familiar lanky frame approached on the sidewalk. His shoulders, back. His walk, determined. Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, a pair of dangerous blue eyes.
Agent Nash—Jason—never showed up late a day in his life. Once upon a time, she’d liked that about him. Liked it enough to share his bed, to call herself his girlfriend for six months. To meet his stuck-up mother for brunch in Marin. Until a disagreement on their last case had blown it all to bits. Seeing him now reminded her why she couldn’t take the same chance with Deck. Her heart still bore the scars, the pieces of shrapnel lodged in deep.
Before she opened the door of the station wagon, Olivia straightened her hair in the mirror. Thankfully, she looked better than she felt. Which was somewhere south of hell.
“Jason!”
Puzzled, he stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Olivia?”
“I need to speak to you. Do you have a minute?”
“Nice to see you too.”
She hadn’t expected him to be so cold. Like he had the right. He’d been the agent in charge of the FBI cold case investigations unit. The one who’d recruited her to help with the unsolved murder and dismemberment of ten-year-old Jenny Whitaker. The one who’d ordered the police to arrest the wrong guy. Who’d ended her and the cops up on the wrong side of a lawsuit. “Is this about your email, because—”
“No. Well, partly. I have some questions about my dad first.”
He checked his watch, kept walking toward the entrance. “Your dad? I thought that topic was off limits.”
“Can we grab a coffee?”
“It’s five till eight. I don’t want to be late.” Still, he paused before the glass double doors. Behind them, armed guards and a metal detector awaited.
“I drove all night to talk to you.”
He studied her face, looked right into her eyes. The way he’d size up a suspect. “Are you out of your mind?”
She shrugged and offered a hopeful smile. “Maybe.”
Seventy
“Are you sure this is the place?” JB asked, frowning at the abandoned warehouse. Alongside it, the remnants of Pier 28 stretched out toward the ocean. “There’s no construction here.”
Will consulted his phone, comparing the crime scene photos he’d downloaded from Amy’s computer. The dilapidated boardwalk, the rebar, the empty oil drums. It all matched up. “This is it.”
They took cautious steps down the pier, careful to avoid the rotted planks. To sidestep the holes that went straight through to the water below.
JB kicked a broken board out of his path. It skittered down the planks and came to rest in the refuse near the warehouse’s outer wall. “Revitalization? This place needs goddamned CPR. Better yet, an electric shock to the heart.”
“You think the interview with the woman was bogus?”
“Sure looks like a set-up. That, or our perp was already on his tail and saw a good opportunity.”
When they’d reached the end of the pier, Will pointed to the spot on the rocks where Winters’ body had been discovered. “The warehouse obscures the view from the road. The killer could’ve dumped him here unseen, thinking he’d float out to sea.”
“So, killed inside, then? No reports of anybody hearing a gunshot.”
Will scanned the area, looking for signs of life. A homeless woman, her white hair wrapped in a scarf, pushed an overflowing shopping cart up the adjacent Pier 27. Otherwise, the only eyes belonged to the gulls soaring overhead, the sea lions popping up above the water for a peek. “Probably. But the place isn’t exactly crawling with witnesses.”
The wind picked up off the ocean, swirling around Will’s feet. He thought of Winters, waiting here patiently, not knowing those minutes were his last. How excited Guthrie had said he’d been. How you never knew when the solid ground would drop out beneath you, ending you up on a metal table in the morgue.
“Hot damn.” JB studied the screen of his flip phone. “I just got a message from your ex-fiancée.”
“Why’d she text you?”
“’Cause she likes me better, City Boy. Face facts. But that’s not the point. Ballistics came back. We were right. Drea Marsh and Chuck Winters were killed with the same gun.”
Will nodded, distracted by the sign he’d spotted partially obscured behind a soggy cardboard box. When he revealed it in its entirety, he held it up to JB.
NOTICE: CHEMICAL STORAGE AREA.
Seventy-One
“I wish I could help you.” Jason hid behind his latte, taking a long sip. The din of the morning crowd droned on around them in the corner coffee shop, buzzing in Olivia’s tired brain. “But what did you expect?”
“A little h
onesty. I’m not some bum off the street.”
“Even if I did know that your dad was an informant—which I don’t, for the record—do you really think I’d tell you? That’s straight-up unauthorized disclosure and grounds for dismissal.”
“You owe me.”
Jason sighed. And Olivia knew why. They were about to do it again. The argument they’d had no fewer than ten times before the final big one that had sent her packing. But it felt inevitable. She had to say it.
“I covered for you on the Whitaker case. I kept your name out of the papers. But we both know—”
Jason’s eyes darted to the door. A block from the federal building, the place was crawling with agents. “Keep your voice down.”
Not a single octave lower, Olivia continued. “We both know you’re the one who ordered the cops to show up at that man’s house. To harass him. You let everyone else take the fall for your mistake.”
And they were in it now, Jason’s face darkening. “You said he fit the profile. And I never told them to beat the guy up, to tase him. To break his ribs. None of that.”
“I said he was a possible suspect. And the guy, as you call him, had a heart attack. He almost died. Do you remember that?”
“Do you really think I don’t?”
Olivia had all but forgotten why she’d come here. Anger burned clear through her reasons, razing her logic to ash and accusation. But beneath it all, one undeniable truth. He’d used her. “Well, it certainly didn’t seem like you cared too much. It was just a speedbump on your way to middle management, Mr. Supervisory Special Agent. ”
“If that’s really what you think, why’d you show up here? Why’d you send me that email?”
Olivia stood up, flustered. “I don’t know. Obviously, I made a mistake thinking you could help me with anything. Thinking you’d want to. You know, my dad died and you haven’t even offered your condolences.”
She tossed a few dollars in his direction, regretting that she’d let him pay for her coffee. Still steaming, she pushed her way through the crowded entrance and out into the street. She’d made it halfway to her car when he caught up to her, spinning her around by her arm.
“What?” she asked.
“I thought you’d want to know what Photo Ops thought about that picture you sent me of the blurry shoulder patch.”
Seventy-Two
“Let’s park a few blocks down.” Will directed JB to an open spot on Lake Street in the upscale Sea Cliff neighborhood, where the trees were symmetrically planted alongside manicured sidewalks and the cheapest real estate went for a cool four mil.
“You sure about this, partner? Everything we’ve got is circumstantial.”
Will couldn’t argue with that. But the fact that Ratcliffe Chemicals had previously owned the warehouse at Pier 28—a fact he’d uncovered with a quick search on the Internet—seemed like the kind of circumstance that made a homicide detective’s mouth water. Especially coupled with Ratcliffe’s ownership of Knotted Pines and the speculation Reid Vance had helped to bring Brenda to the movie set against her will. “I’m sure. We start with Victoria. Press her a little. Hopefully, get her talking. Who knows what information she might give up?”
“Classic. The pimple approach then. Should we let Inspector Bishop know?” JB grinned like he already knew the answer.
“Have you told Tammy about the Twinkies or the cigarettes?”
“Hell no.”
“Exactly. Amy will just put the kibosh on it. Besides, this is our case.”
“Now you’re talking.”
JB trailed behind Will, admiring the houses as they passed. The Vance-Ratcliffe property—a pale yellow Mediterranean-style villa—had been built right into the cliffside, with a front row seat to San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. “I’m tellin’ ya. I’m in the wrong line of work. I couldn’t afford a dog house in this neighborhood.”
Will laughed nervously as he stared into the doorbell camera and pressed the small white button. The bell’s summoning ring pricked the hairs on the back of his neck.
A woman opened the door, a thirty-something brunette clad in a color-coordinated tank top and leggings that Will guessed had never seen a drop of sweat. Behind her mask of heavy makeup, she seemed familiar somehow. “May I help you?”
“Detective Will Decker, Fog Harbor PD. Is Ms. Vance home?”
“You must mean my mother, Victoria. She’s due back from yoga any minute now.” The woman smiled, revealing a white picket fence of teeth, and extended her manicured hand. “I’m Jacqueline. Mom and Dad and I meet here for lunch every Thursday.”
“So, your father is home?”
She gestured behind her to a grand and winding staircase. “He’s in his office meeting with someone from the Veterans Memorial Commission. They might be a while.”
“May we come in?”
“I assume this is about that poor innocent girl in the barrel?”
Will nodded but Jacqueline had already turned, leaving the door open behind her. She beckoned them inside.
Just before he breached the threshold, Will checked his phone. A few missed calls and one new voice message, left forty-five minutes ago.
Returning it to his pocket, he reluctantly followed JB into the foyer. Olivia would have to wait.
“Nice place.” JB examined a statue stanchioned in the entryway. He extended his hand toward the smooth marble, stopping short when Will frowned at him. He shrugged, touched it anyway. “It’s like a museum.”
Jacqueline laughed. “I always say I won the parent lottery. I mean, who gets adopted into this?”
“I didn’t realize you were adopted,” Will said.
She nodded, leading them into the expansive living room. Elegant, but a little cold for Will’s tastes. Two dove-white sofas bordered the stone fireplace. The walls hung with original art. At the center of it all, a massive art deco chandelier, the glass twinkling in the sunlight, casting rainbows around the window. As Jacqueline found a seat in a leather armchair, JB glanced around, dumbfounded, before he took a seat next to Will.
“It’s kind of a crazy story.”
JB raised his eyebrows, charming her already. “Well, my partner knows I love crazy stories. Let’s hear it.”
“My mother had ovarian cancer as a teenager. It’s a pretty rare diagnosis for someone of that age. She knew she’d never be able to have a baby. And they’d been turned down by quite a few adoption agencies. You’d never know it now, but Dad was a small-time rebel in his youth. He had a few arrests, enough to get them crossed off the list. Don’t tell him I told you that. He’d kill me.”
JB pretended to zip his lips.
“Anyway, they were big into the pro-life movement back then, and my birth mom met them at a rally outside a clinic. She decided not to go through with the abortion, and the rest is history.”
“Wow. That is some story. It’s like a movie. Huh, Decker?”
“Have you been in contact with your birth mom?”
Jacqueline looked away, the muscles in her neck tensing. “No. She wanted it that way. She told my parents it would be too hard. But one time when my mom got a little drunk, she told me that I looked like her.”
Will watched Jacqueline’s green eyes fill. His heart tightened into a fist when it came to him why she’d looked familiar.
Seventy-Three
Olivia felt the weight of the gun in her hand. As she studied its scratched barrel, its well-worn grip, she pretended to be impressed. The way she suspected Avery Dell of the Veterans Memorial Commission would be, if such a person existed. Really, though, she felt a little disappointed it wasn’t a .45 caliber.
“Smith and Wesson Model 10 Revolver. I have the field belt and the holster too.” Reid Vance grinned at her from behind his ornate desk. A gold-plated lion rested at its edge, weighting a sheaf of papers with its giant paw.
“Amazing. The Commission will be so pleased. These are relics.” Olivia sized up her customer and played to his wants. His head swell
ed, his eyes brightening. “You said your father was Navy, correct?”
Olivia already knew the answer. After she’d spotted his name on the list Agent Nash had forwarded to her from the Department of Defense, she’d confirmed it herself on the Internet. In Bernard Vance’s June 2001 obituary.
A proud member of the United States Navy, Bernard served during World War II between 1943 and 1945 and was a decorated pilot. For thirty-seven years, Bernard owned and operated Bernie’s Auto Garage in Hayward, California. He was preceded in death by his wife, Amelia. He leaves behind a son, Reid, a daughter-in-law, Victoria, and his precious granddaughter, Jacqueline.
“That’s right. He was awarded the Silver Star.”
“A true hero.” Olivia gave a pointed glance around the room. “Do you have any of his clothing? Perhaps a jacket or helmet? We want the exhibit to be as authentic as possible. Since you are a city councilman, we would be thrilled to have you say a few words.”
While Reid beamed, Olivia studied him, the way she studied her patients at Crescent Bay. He didn’t look like a murderer. But then, most of them didn’t. His sportscoat couldn’t hide the potbelly that spilled over his khaki pants. His hands fiddled nervously with the fancy pen on his desk. In Olivia’s mind, she pictured them thirty-five years ago. Not the sun-spotted hands of an old man, but the strong hands of a killer, gripping tight to the andiron before he’d hammered it against Shelby’s skull.
Reid jumped up from his desk, suddenly spry. “That would be an honor. Give me a moment. Let me see what I can dig up in the closet.”
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