by Karen Rose
“You’re all tight.”
He groaned again, for a much different reason. “I said that to you last night.”
“Douchebag,” she said fondly. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to get a toehold in Sunnyside’s security network. I still don’t have access to their cameras and alarms.”
“I thought you did,” she said, confused. “You saw the personnel records and patient records.”
He folded his arms on his desk, letting his head fall forward. “They’re on a different network, not connected to the rest. I got into the personnel and patient databases because one of the night nurses clicked on a link in a phishing e-mail. I honestly was shocked that it worked.”
She worked her thumbs into the base of his neck, the way she knew that he liked. “Where did you get the e-mail address for the night nurse?”
“Guessed, mostly. Did an info-at with a bunch of different extensions.”
“But the security network has been harder to breach.”
“Yeah. I’ve sent e-mails to a few others on the list, like the facility accountant and network administrator. All the e-mails have links that will let me in, but nobody’s opened them yet. Today’s a damn holiday.”
She gentled her touch, pressing a kiss to his neck. “Always wanted to do that when I was massaging you.”
“Any time you want.”
“The massage or the kiss?” she asked, amused.
“Either. Both. Just don’t stop.”
She leaned forward to kiss his cheek before returning to his back. “How did you know they were doing background checks on me if you couldn’t see the security network?”
“I’m not going to be able to get anything past you, am I?”
“No, and answer the question.”
“I embedded Trojans in the résumés you and the two FBI agents uploaded with your applications. When the HR manager clicked on your résumés, I got access to her computer. That’s where I got the e-mail addresses for the accountant and network admin.”
“I did not like the HR manager,” Liza muttered. “She was smug, but I guess that’s the least of their sins. You’ll be able to get them for all the others, right?”
“I hope so. The problem is that the warrants only covered information on Pastor and/or DJ. Nothing else I see online or hear through your comm device is usable.”
“What if I see stuff? You know, as a legitimately hired employee? Can I report any illegal activity that I see?”
He looked over his shoulder, his grin sharp. “Take lots of notes.”
“Good. Are we going to Walnut Creek this morning?”
She was dressed, he noted. She’d even put on makeup, which she did not need. “Yes. I’ve been trying to reach Croft for the last hour, but—” His phone began to buzz with an incoming call from Croft. “Speak of the devil.”
Liza stopped her massage, retreating to a chair in the corner. “I won’t eavesdrop.”
Her years in the army had taught her about classified information, and, other than the night when she’d listened in on his conversation with Raeburn, she’d always been hyper-respectful.
“Good morning,” he said to Croft when he answered, keeping her off speaker.
“I saw your calls, but I was in the middle of a crime scene.”
All of the stress that Liza had worked out returned in a blast. “What now?” he asked wearily.
Liza frowned but said nothing.
“I’m at Anthony Ward’s compound in Granite Bay. We’ve got a dead Fed and three more bodies. All male, ranging in age from nineteen to forty-five. Angelina Ward and her children are gone. Their suitcases are gone and there’s no sign of foul play inside the main house. The maid discovered the bodies this morning when she arrived for work.”
“Who of ours?” Tom asked heavily.
“Wainright.”
“Goddammit. He was a nice guy.” The man had gone out of his way to be kind when Tom had first arrived in Sacramento in January. “When was he killed?”
“Sometime between three a.m. and six a.m. He’d made his last check-in at three. The maid arrived at six. His replacement was due at seven.”
“I can be there in thirty minutes.” He just needed to shower and change. Walnut Creek would need to wait for now.
“No, that’s not necessary. Raeburn wants you to continue getting security ready for Liza’s first day tomorrow. Plus, you’re technically off the clock at the moment.”
“We both know the second one means nothing.”
“Raeburn said that, but Molina insisted you be given the time. She’s worried about burnout.”
“Yeah, I got a lecture.”
“You mean the ‘marathon, not a sprint’ lecture? Because she gave me that one, too.”
“That’s the one. What else do you have from the scene?”
“The wife left her cell phone behind, along with all of her electronics. All in a neat pile on the spotless kitchen counter.”
“She was afraid her husband was tracking her,” Tom murmured. Liza’s frown deepened, but she remained silent.
“I think so,” Croft said. “Especially with the way she was glancing up at the camera when we talked to her on Friday. The maid said that the garage contained three vehicles when she left last night—a Jag, a pickup, and a white panel van. The van and the Jag were gone. We’re looking for the Jag. We found the panel van a short distance away, empty. Next to it were tire treads that matched those left by the car Belmont stole on Saturday night.”
“We still don’t have an ID on the female victim?”
“Not yet. Her face wasn’t . . . appropriate to share with the media.”
“I remember,” Tom said grimly. He’d see that woman’s face in his mind for a long time.
“Yeah.” Croft sighed. “The garage was lined with cabinets, and guess what they held?”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“Enough weapons to keep ballistics busy matching them to past crime scenes. Looks like there was also a box missing from the dynamite cabinet. The cabinets were all unlocked. There are a few safes too, but they weren’t opened, and we haven’t blown them yet. Bomb squad is afraid of what they’ll find.”
“Fuck.” Possession of dynamite gave DJ an even greater range. “And Kowalski?”
“In the wind. He may have taken his wife and kids away, but I don’t think so. Not with the way her devices were all stacked so neatly. It felt like a fuck-you.”
Tom agreed. “I planned to make a small day trip today. I can cancel if I need to.”
“Where?” Croft asked, drawing the word out to several syllables.
“I got a lead on Pastor’s wife. I think she’s living in Walnut Creek, married to an architect named Hugh Kitson. That’s why I kept trying to reach you this morning. I thought you might join me. I want to know who set up Pastor’s bank accounts thirty years ago. We can follow any handoffs over the years to discover whoever’s helping him manage his money now.”
“Huh.” Croft was silent for a beat. “That makes sense. Where did you get the lead?”
“From Jeff Bunker, the journalism student who brought us Cameron Cook.”
“You’re an interesting partner, Hunter, I gotta say. I’ll let Raeburn know where you are. He can call you if he wants you back here. Have you busted into Sunnyside’s network yet?”
“No,” he grunted. “Not for lack of trying. I’m just going to have to wait for one of those e-mails to play out. What about the three bodies found at the scene? Have you ID’d them?”
“No, but we think they were Kowalski’s security. Keep me updated and I’ll do the same.”
Croft ended the call and he met Liza’s gaze. “Nobody you know or need to know,” he said.
“Okay.”
He was surprised. “Okay?”
&
nbsp; “If you thought I needed to know to keep me safe, you’d tell me.”
He smiled at her and the words were suddenly there, needing to break free. “You know I love you, right?”
She sucked in a breath, her eyes growing bright with unshed tears. But she smiled back. “I think I figured that out. But it’s awfully nice to hear.”
He pushed away from his desk and knelt before her. “I love you, Liza Barkley.”
She cupped his face in her hands. “I’ve been waiting to hear that for seven years.”
He turned to kiss her palm. “And?”
She smiled down at him, her dimple popping. “Thank you?”
He poked her lightly in the ribs. “Say it.”
She rested her forehead on his. “I love you, Tom Hunter. I always have.”
He drew a breath. “You’re right. It’s awfully nice to hear.”
They stayed there for a long moment, happy in their bubble. Then Tom sighed. “I need to get dressed, which is the exact opposite of what I want to do. But Raeburn could call me in, so if we’re going to get to Walnut Creek, we’d better go now.”
She sighed. “I’ll walk Pebbles and put your coffee in a travel mug. Meet me downstairs.”
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
MONDAY, MAY 29, 9:28 A.M.
DJ shifted in the driver’s seat of the Civic. He’d been sitting in this same position outside Daisy Dawson’s radio station since eight. Her car wasn’t in the lot, but she was on the air.
The package DJ had addressed to her had been delivered, thanks to a college kid who looked so squeaky clean that nobody would have suspected him of wrongdoing. He’d seen the kid riding by on his bike and asked if he’d make a private delivery.
It’s a peace offering for my girlfriend, DJ had explained earnestly. I fucked up and hurt her feelings and she’s not taking my calls. I got her a stuffed animal and chocolate. Think it’ll work?
In reality, the stuffed animal and chocolate had come from Smythe’s house. The explosives were in the stuffed animal, a very rudimentary bomb, detonated with a common alarm clock.
He’d built two bombs, in fact. The first was a minute away from detonating inside the radio station, having been delivered by the random kid to whom he’d paid twenty bucks. It would be worth every penny.
It wouldn’t be a big explosion. The box he’d taken from Kowalski’s garage had been filled with a variety of stick sizes. DJ had chosen a quarter stick for Daisy Dawson’s package, the size used in cherry bombs and fireworks.
He wanted the station evacuated so that he could finish what he’d started on Friday morning. Hopefully Gideon was in there, too. He’d kill them both and then he’d wait for Mercy to surface, either at their funeral or at the Sokolovs’ house.
He’d driven by on his way out this morning, sticking to the street a block over. He’d spied no fewer than six guys patrolling, and that was just a two-second glimpse through the houses on the other side of the street. He wasn’t getting close to the Sokolov house anytime soon.
So he’d arranged for their package to be delivered the following day by a private courier service. He’d drop it off as soon as he was finished here. Their package contained a significantly larger load. Four full sticks. If it didn’t kill everyone in the Sokolov house, it would damage them severely. Hospitalize them at the very least.
Either way—whether at the hospital or at a funeral—he’d get close enough to Mercy to eliminate her. He needed to do it soon. Pastor was getting well enough to watch the news. He wanted Mercy’s murder to have cleared the news cycle by then.
If it hadn’t been for that bitch blocking his shot at the eye doctor last week, he’d have finished her off already. He’d put her on the list, too, just because.
DJ checked the time. “Three, two—” The explosion was audible from where he sat, the windows in his car rattling for a second before settling down. Perfect.
Except . . . He frowned. People were coming out the front doors of the building, but the two radio personalities kept talking as if nothing had happened.
Could the booth be that soundproofed? He hadn’t expected that.
“—come out this weekend,” the male show host was saying. “What do you think, Poppy? Will we have good weather for the festival? Poppy?”
“I’m sorry, Jake,” Daisy Dawson replied, her tone having changed to one of concern. “I wasn’t listening. There’s been a small explosion at KZAU.”
“What?” Jake exclaimed. “How? Why?”
“Nobody knows yet. They’ve evacuated the building,” Daisy said. “If you’re not sleeping in on this holiday morning and are out and about, you should avoid the area around the station.”
“Come out,” DJ growled. “Now.”
Sirens were already blaring and the station employees were standing on the curb, wringing their hands. Smoke had started billowing already.
“We’re broadcasting remotely,” Daisy said, “so we’re safe. Please, we’re asking you to stay away from KZAU so that first responders can take care of our people and put out the fire.”
DJ stared at his car radio in shock. “Remotely?” he whispered. Then his temper exploded. “Motherfucking sons of bitches.” This had all been for nothing.
His attack on Gideon last week had done this. You’re a goddamn fool, Belmont. He’d shot at Gideon and now Daisy was being guarded, her location kept secret.
Hands shaking with rage, he backed out of his parking space and drove past the fire truck speeding toward the station. Getting the second package to the Sokolovs was even more important now, but he’d have to be smarter. They’d be on their guard.
He had to think of another way to get the second package into the Sokolov home. “Fuck.”
WALNUT CREEK, CALIFORNIA
MONDAY, MAY 29, 9:30 A.M.
The Kitson home was nice. Not as big as the Sokolovs’ house, but fancier. “What if she slams the door in our faces?” Liza asked, nervous now that they were here. She’d driven while he’d continued to monitor the Sunnyside communications he could see.
“We’ll get a subpoena to get her to tell us about Pastor’s banker.” Tom took her hand, giving it a squeeze as they walked to the door. “Let me talk for now,” he murmured before he knocked.
The door was opened by the woman who’d worn the evening gown in the photo. Marcia Travis—a.k.a. Marcia Hampton, a.k.a. Margo Kitson née Holly—smiled at them politely. “This neighborhood has an ordinance against soliciting.” She started to close the door.
“I’m Special Agent Tom Hunter, FBI.” He showed her his badge and the woman’s face froze. “This is my associate, Miss Barkley. We’d like to talk to you.”
After her initial shock, Marcia’s eyes flickered with fear, then shame. “I . . .” She looked at her very expensive shoes. When she looked up, she was resigned. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Liza hadn’t been expecting that, but Tom was relaxed. “May we come in, ma’am?”
Marcia drew a breath and stepped back so that they could enter. “Please. Can I offer you something to drink? Coffee or tea?”
“No, ma’am,” Tom said. “Can we sit and talk?”
“Of course.” Marcia clasped her hands together as she led them into a sitting room.
Liza sat on a small sofa next to Tom while Marcia took the closest wingback chair.
“How did you find me?” she asked.
“Through a reporter who rejected your offer of reparations.”
“Mr. Hickman,” Marcia murmured. “I hope he’s well.”
Not responding to that, Tom studied her for so long that the woman began to shift uncomfortably. “How would you prefer to be addressed, ma’am? We have a number of names.”
“Margo Kitson is who I’ve been for fourteen years. Or who I aspire to be. Call me Margo.”
“All right, Margo.
” Tom looked around the room, his gaze pointedly pausing on the framed photographs lining the mantel over the fireplace. “Your daughter?”
“Yes. Tracy.” Margo rose, retrieving a family photograph and handing it to Tom.
Margo and her husband Hugh stood with a younger blond woman. Bernice, Liza thought. Bo was missing from the family portrait, having killed himself.
A boy and a girl, both about eight years old, stood in front of Margo and Hugh. Two older children stood in front of Bernice and another man. They looked to be middle-school-aged.
Tom pointed to the children. “Your grandchildren?”
“The two oldest. They’re Tracy’s children. Chris is twelve and Robin is eleven.”
“When you say Tracy, you mean Bernice,” Tom said and she winced.
“Yes, but she no longer answers to that name. The younger children are mine, with Hugh.”
Wow, Liza thought, busily doing the math. Margo had been thirty-three when she’d escaped L.A. and gone to Eden, thirty-eight when she’d escaped Eden and gone to Benicia. If those kids were eight years old, then Margo had conceived at age fifty-four.
Margo chuckled dryly. “I can see you figuring numbers in your head, Miss Barkley.”
“I’m sorry,” Liza said honestly. “I’m going to be a nurse. I can’t help but think of how unusual your pregnancy must have been.”
Margo lifted a slender shoulder. “Hugh loves my daughter and Tracy’s babies were his grandchildren from day one. He did want babies of his own, though. So we tried.” She shuddered. “Lots of fertility drugs. But it was worth it. It made him so happy.”
Tom set the photo on the end table. “You said you were expecting us. Why?”
“Not you, per se. But I saw a news special a month ago, the one about the serial killer in Sacramento?”
“You saw the locket,” Tom murmured. “The Eden locket.”
Liza knew the news special Margo was talking about. She’d seen it as well. It was an account of the serial killer who’d murdered so many women. The reporter had briefly interviewed Daisy, who’d found the locket when she’d fought and escaped the killer.
Margo nodded. “The locket was only featured for a few seconds, but my heart nearly stopped. I’ve . . .” She blew out a breath. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell my husband. I wanted to go to law enforcement and tell them what I knew, but I couldn’t blindside Hugh that way. Especially if I was held accountable for my part in Ben’s scheme.”
