“At UCLA, in the Botanical Garden. Same electronically altered voice. This time he said, ‘I’m pleased to see you’ve accepted my invitation, Detective Kane. Let’s play.’ I got a *57 trace on that one. The call originated from a burner phone in Orange County.”
“So where does that leave us?” asked Ingram.
“His calls suggest several investigative approaches,” I reasoned. “For one, how did he get my cellphone number? We should look into that. For another, I contacted Verizon and had a trap-and-trace placed on my phone. I also downloaded a recording app. If he calls again and I get a sample of his voice, maybe we can figure out what kind of device he’s using, then reverse the process and hear his actual voice. Along those lines, maybe we could develop a database of voice-altering software purchasers and compare it to, say, the dog-collar list. Or to a catalogue of Taser purchasers, if we go in that direction.”
I noticed Shepherd writing in a notebook. “Anything else?” he asked, glancing up.
“It might be helpful to have our current forensic team investigate any future Magpie killings, along with reviewing all past cases to date.”
At the mention of future murders, an uneasy silence settled over the room.
After a long moment, Ingram glanced at his watch. “Okay, let’s call it for tonight,” he sighed, signaling an end to the meeting. “Thank you all for coming in.”
As people began filing out, I stopped at Ingram’s desk. “Chief, could I have a word?” I asked quietly. “I have some concerns.”
Ingram looked up. “I thought you might, and I appreciate your not bringing them up during the meeting. Let’s step outside. Mind if I smoke?”
I shook my head.
Ingram opened a desk drawer and withdrew a cigar from an engraved wooden box. “Cuban Partagás,” he informed me, clipping an end of the cigar with a silver cutter. “I have a friend who gets them wholesale.”
Exiting a sliding-glass door, I followed Ingram out to a triangular terrace overlooking West First Street, with City Hall looming in the background. Not for the first time, I was struck by the proximity of police headquarters to Los Angeles’s seat of political power, concluding that the juxtaposition of the two buildings was more than mere coincidence.
“We were out here once before, you and I,” Ingram observed, lighting his cigar.
Although I had never smoked, I found myself enjoying the dark, earthy aroma of Ingram’s Partagás. “Yes, sir. The Infidel investigation,” I said, moving to the railing and gazing out over the lights of the city.
“At that time, I asked you to be a team player,” Ingram went on, taking a deep puff on his cigar. “Despite what happened on the Infidel case, I’m asking you again.
“Why me? By all rights, this investigation should go to HSS.”
“Several reasons. For one, I want someone on the investigation who can think outside the box. Despite stomping on a lot of toes, fostering an atmosphere of insubordination, and pissing off almost everyone in the process, you’re that someone.”
“Thanks, Chief—I think,” I said with a grin. “You said several reasons. What else?”
“We’ll talk about that later. For now, I realize you have reservations about taking this case. It’s the risk posed to your family by another high-profile investigation, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Considering what has happened in the past, that’s a reasonable concern,” Ingram conceded. “Nevertheless, in light of the cellphone calls you mentioned receiving, it must have occurred to you that you’ve drawn the attention of a dangerous killer. As a result, your family may already be in danger.
“Yes, sir,” I repeated, a hollow sensation expanding in the pit of my stomach.
Ingram was right, which presented a dilemma: I could withdraw from the investigation, put in for early retirement, and hope for the best; or I could work the case and depend on LAPD to protect my family, should that become necessary. Unfortunately, police protection for my family hadn’t worked out well in the past.
Bottom line, neither option looked appealing.
“I know that you think we dropped the ball when guarding you and your family during the Infidel investigation.” Ingram continued. “I assure you, that won’t happen again.”
Dropped the ball? I thought to myself. Painting a bulls-eye on my back would have described it better. “How about keeping my name out of the media this time?” I suggested.
“Of course, at least as much as possible. Look, Dan, you were made to do this kind of work. So do it. As I said earlier, you will have as much autonomy as possible, and I’ll have your back. Are you in?”
I hesitated, again considering the possibility of simply walking away. “Can I think about it?”
Ingram’s sunny demeanor abruptly clouded over. “I’ll need an answer by tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
After leaving Ingram on the terrace to finish his Partagás, I encountered SAC Gibbs and Taylor in the hallway. From the tension in the air, it looked like Gibbs had just finished a categorical chewing-out of Taylor, who for her part was attempting to look chastised and nearly succeeding.
Both glanced up as I approached, and I heard Taylor mumble, “It won’t happen again, sir.”
Apparently satisfied, Gibbs turned on his heel and started toward the elevators.
Joining Taylor, I watched as Gibbs stepped into an empty elevator cab. When the door had closed behind him, I said, “That probably wasn’t such a hot idea sticking up for me in the meeting, Taylor. But . . . thanks.”
“Someone had to say something.”
“Maybe, but you probably didn’t do your career much good.”
“Probably not,” Taylor agreed. Then, brightening, “So—we’re working together again. Part-time, anyway.”
“Maybe. I haven’t decided yet about taking the case. Lot of things involved.”
“Considering what happened last time, I don’t blame you. When will you know?”
“Ingram wants a decision by tomorrow morning.”
“Keep me in the loop, okay?”
“You’ll be the first to know,” I promised. “Or at least the second,” I added. Then, changing the subject, “Nate and I were completely blown away watching you at the kayak championship. I had no idea.”
“Thanks,” Taylor replied, a flush rising to her cheeks.
“And I appreciate your arranging for Nate to take that clinic,” I went on. “He’s totally excited about learning to paddle.”
“Nate’s a great kid. I really like him.”
“Me, too.”
“Speaking of which, I’d be happy to pick up him at LAX when he gets back.”
“Not necessary, Taylor. I can manage, assuming my Suburban ever shows up.”
“I just talked with the agent who’s driving it down. You’ll have it later tonight. And I would love to pick up Nate, really. I want to talk with him about his clinic.”
I shrugged. “Okay. I’m sure he would like to see you again, too.”
Taylor grinned. “Assuming he hasn’t drowned by then.”
“Yeah, assuming that,” I laughed.
We rode the elevator to the lobby without speaking. Standing beside Taylor in the confined cab, I was acutely conscious of her presence. Deciding she was undoubtedly the best thing about the chief’s meeting that night, I stepped out with her to the ground floor. To my surprise, I found Captain Snead there waiting.
“May I have a word with you, Detective Kane?” he asked, glancing at Taylor. “In private?”
“I’ll talk with you tomorrow,” said Taylor, starting for the door. “Good night, Captain Snead.”
Seeming preoccupied, Snead nodded. “Good night.”
I watched as Taylor strode confidently across the lobby, wondering what Captain Snead wanted to discuss.
For years Snead had made no secret of his animosity toward me, with his hatred dating back to patrol days. One year out of training, when Snead and I were both brand-ne
w P-II patrol officers, Snead had been booking a wino who was so far gone that he decided to relieve himself right there in the station. Unfortunately, he wound up pissing on Snead’s leg. Snead started using his baton on the rummy, at which point I had intervened. Furious, Snead had made the mistake of throwing a punch at me. I wouldn’t call what happened next a fight, as I only hit him once. Snead was unconscious after that, and for the next six weeks he had to drink milkshakes through a straw. Since then we’d had numerous confrontations—mostly involving Snead’s determined efforts to get me booted off the force.
Now, although curious regarding Snead’s presence, I said nothing, letting the silence between us grow.
Snead shifted from foot to foot. Finally he spoke. “I owe you an apology.”
“I don’t think I heard you correctly,” I replied, unable to hide my surprise.
“I never offered my condolences to you and your family when Catheryn was killed. Despite the bad blood between us, I was wrong not to do so. I’m sorry for your loss, Kane. I truly am. And I regret not saying something sooner.”
“I . . . well, thanks,” I said, completely caught off guard.
“I also regret not having said something to you earlier when you lost your son, Thomas. That had to be a terrible time for you.”
“It was.”
“The job has cost you a lot.”
“Is that what this is about?” I said. “Because if it is, you don’t have to worry about my taking your HSS investigation. I just had a talk with the chief, and I’m going to inform him tomorrow that I won’t be working the case. And if that means putting in for early retirement, so be it.”
Snead looked upset. “That’s not it,” he said. “I got a call from the killer yesterday, too.”
“What did he say?”
“Same thing he said to you. ‘Let’s play.’”
“You need to get a trap-and-trace on your line,” I advised. “Get a recording app on your phone, too. If you receive another—”
Snead raised a hand. “Already done.”
“Then what . . .?”
Snead hesitated. “My daughter, Ella, disappeared on Friday night,” he said. “From a UCLA parking structure.”
I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck. “The same night the killer dumped a body in the Botanical Garden.”
Snead nodded. “Campus police found Ella’s backpack and car keys on the pavement beside her vehicle. No one has seen or heard from her since.”
“I’m sorry, Bill. Maybe there’s another explanation?”
Snead shook his head. “She was supposed to meet friends for dinner. When she didn’t show up, they called everywhere. She’s gone. And I think he has her.”
“That’s why Ingram didn’t want HSS taking lead on the investigation,” I said, things starting to fall in place. “I’m surprised he’s allowing you to be involved at all.”
“I insisted.”
“I understand, but—”
“I’m on the investigation, Kane. End of discussion.”
“Okay.”
“We haven’t disclosed my daughter’s kidnapping to the press yet. When we do, the media will go ballistic.”
“Roger that. You and me, our past disagreements reported in the media, your daughter being kidnapped. This isn’t a coincidence.”
“Departmental rivals—one whose child is abducted, the other who has to find her before it’s too late. That’s why that twisted bastard called you, right? And it’s why he called me. It’s some kind of sick game he wants us to play.”
“Probably.” I felt a chill, realizing that the killer could have just as easily abducted Allison.
Snead regarded me intently. “I have no right to ask anything of you, but I need a favor. I want you to take the case.”
“That’s the last thing I’d have expected to hear from you.”
“You and I are on opposite sides of the fence on almost everything,” Snead agreed. “Except for this. I don’t approve of your methods, but you do get results. I can’t overlook any resource that might save Ella.”
I glanced away. “Bill, I’m sorry, but—”
“Please, Kane. I’m begging you. It’s my daughter.”
I hesitated. If I investigated what would certainly become a high-profile case, I might be putting those I loved at risk, as I had in the past. Nevertheless, my family could already be in danger, as Ingram had pointed out.
In any case, time was running out for Ella Snead. And given the circumstance, Allison could be next.
I hesitated a moment more, then came a decision. Though uncertain where it would lead, I turned to Snead. “Will you be seeing Chief Ingram in the morning?”
“I will, but—”
“Give him a message for me.”
“What?”
“Tell him I’m in.”
10
Storm Surf
Following a restless night’s sleep, I arose the next morning before dawn.
Still thinking about the UCLA murder, I wondered once again whether I had made a mistake by agreeing to Ingram’s strongly worded request. Of one thing I was certain: I wanted to find whoever had killed Sandy Stafford of Seattle and hung her in the Botanical Garden like a side of beef.
And when I did, I hoped he resisted.
Moving quietly so as not to wake the rest of the household, I pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of swimming trunks, grabbed my swim fins and surfing wetsuit, and headed for the beach. With a yawn, Callie roused herself from her corner bed and followed me out—as usual ready for whatever activity I had planned, regardless of the hour.
As I had expected, yesterday’s four- to five-foot southern swell had continued to build overnight. In the dim light, I could make out a ghostly progression of gigantic waves lining up offshore, with monstrous ten- to twelve-foot gray-green breakers slamming the sand and vibrating the deck beneath my feet. Prudently electing to skip my customary morning swim, I instead exercised on the deck for the next forty minutes, completing a regimen of push-ups, sit-ups, bar chins, and dips. By the time I paused to face the dawn, a sheen of sweat covered my arms and chest, and my breath was coming hard.
As my breathing slowed and my blood-thickened muscles began to relax, I turned to regard our house, checking to see whether anyone else had risen. To my disappointment, the windows all remained dark. Nevertheless, I smiled as I inspected the glass and timber structure that had replaced our former home. Although lacking the ramshackle appeal of our previous dwelling, it more than made up for any lack of rustic charm with new foundation piers, larger windows and bedrooms, upgraded plumbing and wiring, expanded decks, and a new seawall that would stand for decades.
Upon rebuilding after the fire, Catheryn had insisted we replace a number of palms that had been consumed in the blaze, as well as replanting several beds of beach cane, flowering bougainvillea, and aloe. All had flourished, their presence once more seeming to root our home to the sand upon which it sat.
As I stood enjoying the first weak rays of the sun, I noticed a group of terns scuttling along the water’s edge, racing to avoid the upsurge as they pecked out their morning breakfast. Above, I could hear the press of traffic on Pacific Coast Highway beginning to build. Later, driving would slow, with bumper-to-bumper traffic more often the norm than not, but for the moment the morning belonged to the birds, and Callie, and me.
“How ’bout it, girl?” I said, leaning down to stroke Callie’s sleek head. “Ready for a swim?” With a feeling of regret, I noticed the first signs of gray beginning to show on her muzzle.
Callie looked up, her intelligent golden eyes clearly conveying the words, “Are you nuts?”
“C’mon, girl,” I coaxed, pulling on my surfing wetsuit and grabbing my swim fins. “At least let’s go take a look.”
I still had time before I had to leave for work, and I was reconsidering my decision to skip my morning swim. I liked to finish whatever I started, in this case my workout. Having spent years on the beach, I was a str
ong swimmer and an experienced bodysurfer. Nevertheless, I had categorically forbidden my children to enter big surf alone, ever. Going out in the massive waves would be violating my own rule.
Reluctantly, Callie followed me across the seawall to a sandy berm near the water’s edge. There she stopped and sat. Refusing to proceed further, she watched me with sad, wistful eyes.
“It’s okay, girl,” I said. “Just kidding about the swim. That surf is way too big for you. Maybe for me, too.”
As the sun began lighting a sliver of eastern sky, I stood at the water’s edge, swim fins at my side. Enveloped in roar and mist, I stared out at the angry Pacific, awed by its power. I remained there for several minutes, studying the waves. At one point I thought I noticed a pause in the sets. Given hope, I moved down the sand to an outflowing riptide and donned my fins. Taking a deep breath, I dived in.
I am still unsure why I did it. Maybe I was trying to forget the pressures and uncertainties of the new investigation, replacing the dangers involved in working a high-profile case with more immediate ones that I knew how to handle—or at least I hoped I did. Whatever the case, I was committed. Caught in the rip, and there would be no turning back.
The outflowing current carried me quickly to a smaller inside break. Lifting my head, I saw an eight-foot wall of foam boiling toward me. After a hurried gulp of air, I scratched for the bottom, submerging an instant before the hissing foam enveloped me. Realizing the worst was yet to come, I emerged on the backside and continued swimming, beginning to think I had made a mistake. The waves were a lot bigger than they had looked from shore.
And I still had to get past the outside break.
Pausing to tread water, I checked the oncoming waves. Getting past the break of a five-foot set was one thing; making it out through twelve-foot surf was another. My stomach sank as a saw a fourteen-footer approaching, an angry plume of spray flying from its crest.
I had to reach deeper water.
Lowering my head, I kicked for all I was worth, my arms and legs driving me toward the advancing surge. In shallow water, being caught inside a breaking wave that large could mean a broken shoulder, a snapped neck, or being knocked unconscious—all of which could prove fatal.
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