by Jance, J. A.
“What kind of tattoo?”
“It’s a series of mostly crossed-out letters—initials,” Crystal told him. “According to his mother, it’s Gilchrist’s kill list.”
“Okay,” Owens said. “We’re on it, and since my partner just pulled up beside me, we’d best get with the program.”
He and Danielle did a quick strategy session in the parking lot before approaching the entrance. Agent Harper was designated to do most of the talking, with the proviso of keeping knowledge about the reason for their visit limited to the fewest number of people possible. Which wasn’t easy.
Danielle offered her badge and credentials to the clerk at the front desk and then asked to see the warden.
“Purpose of your visit,” the clerk demanded.
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”
The female clerk, a surly old bat who was at least twice as old as Danielle, was not the least bit amused. “It’s Sunday, so the warden isn’t in. If you want to speak to Assistant Warden Masterson, I’ll need to know the purpose of your visit.”
Danielle didn’t back down. “This is confidential police business, so either let us in or put me in touch with your supervisor.”
The threat of involving a supervisor worked. Moments later Harper and Owens were issued visitor passes, told to stow their weapons, and then escorted through a grim corridor into the office of the assistant warden. Obviously he had been warned in advance, because he was more than ready for them.
“This is highly irregular,” he told them. “You have no business barging in here like this without providing any reason for your visit.”
“Here’s the reason,” Danielle said, dropping the warrants on his desk. “We’re here to execute these.”
Bob Owens had been trained to observe changes in facial features. As Assistant Warden Masterson read through the verbiage of the warrants, the CBI agent observed the involuntary tightening of the man’s jawline and the deepening furrows in his forehead. What Masterson was seeing on the pages was causing some concern, and that bothered Agent Owens. Folsom was a big place. A phone call from inside the prison could disappear evidence as easily as one from outside.
“We’re hoping you’ll accompany us as we execute the warrants,” Agent Owens said, speaking for the first time.
“Why would I do that?” Masterson wanted to know.
“I know the prison has been under attack by both the feds and by outside activists due to suspicions about prison personnel violating inmates’ human rights. I’d like to have you along with us to avoid any allegations of impropriety on our part or on yours.”
Masterson gave Owens a long look. Sitting there in his brightly colored Hawaiian shirt and his chartreuse shorts, the CBI agent might have seemed harmless enough, but Masterson’s stiff silence testified to his growing anxiety. Owens understood what was going on. He had just dropped the words “outside investigations” into the conversation, and that was usually enough to make the blood of any self-respecting middle manager run cold. It worked this time, too.
“Very well,” Masterson agreed finally, pushing away from his desk and rising to his feet. “Let’s get this done. Where do you want to start?”
“Thank you for your assistance,” a beaming Danielle said brightly. “If you don’t mind, I believe we should probably start with Mr. Ochoa’s cell.”
Luis was upset when he was shown the search warrant and ordered to vacate his cell. He stood fuming in the corridor, stationed between a cellblock guard and the assistant warden while Agents Owens and Harper conducted their search. When Ochoa realized Danielle was conducting a systematic search of each CMU in the cell, he became even more agitated. At last one of the blocks gave way under Danielle’s probing fingers, and the inmate was forced to look on in helpless fury while the CBI agents removed each of his treasures from the cubbyhole and entered them into inventory and evidence bags—a cell phone, a small iPad, a charger, a vicious-looking knife, tattoo equipment, several bottles of ink, and a number of clear plastic bags, some laden with pills and others containing supplies of white powder. In addition there was a supply of cash that amounted to almost twelve hundred bucks.
At last the search ended and Ochoa was returned to his cell. As the two agents and Assistant Warden Masterson headed toward Edward Gilchrist’s cell, Bob Owens pulled out his phone and dialed the most recent number. “Where are you?” he asked when Crystal Manning answered.
“Interview room. Why?”
“I wanted to let you know we have Ochoa’s phone in our possession.”
“Good,” Crystal said. “I’ll be right out.”
The remark puzzled Owens for a moment. Then, less than a minute later, the cell phone stowed in one of the glassine evidence bags began to vibrate. Owens held the bag up to the light so he could see the caller-ID screen. Once he saw the number, he grinned at his partner.
“No need to answer,” he told the others. “Crystal Manning must have left her phone in the interview room as bait. Praise be to God, not only did Gloria Reece take it, the interview room will have it all on tape.”
Edward Gilchrist was almost as outraged by the search warrant as Luis Ochoa had been. “What’s this all about?” he wanted to know. “What’s going on?”
“We have reason to believe that you and your friend Mr. Ochoa are involved in a criminal conspiracy,” Danielle told him sweetly. “We’re here looking for evidence.”
“You’re not going to find it,” Gilchrist fumed.
But it turned out they did find something. Stored behind the loose CMU under Edward Gilchrist’s washbasin, Danielle Harper located a whole pack of cigarettes, along with seven hundred dollars in cash, and some envelopes filled with a white powder that would most likely turn out to be either cocaine or heroin. They were about to walk away when Owens remembered the tattoo.
“I’ll need to photograph the tattoo on your left arm,” he said.
“Why?”
“According to your mother, I believe it’s what’s known as a kill list.”
For the first time, Edward Gilchrist’s confidence faltered. “My mother told you that?” he demanded.
“She did,” Owens replied. “Since the three of you tried to kill her, she’s a little pissed at the moment.”
“Wait,” Gilchrist said. “Someone tried to have my mother killed? Who?”
“Apparently you and your partners in crime,” Owens told him.
Gilchrist seemed genuinely surprised by that statement. His surprise seemed so real that Bob was forced to conclude that although Gilchrist had no doubt been involved with the other deaths, it seemed likely that he’d had nothing to do with the attack on his mother.
“That’s something a judge and jury will have to determine,” Owens said, “a judge and jury and a court of law.”
The CBI agents left Folsom State Prison with the satisfaction of knowing that both Luis Ochoa and Edward Gilchrist had been moved into the hole, with each of them placed in solitary confinement. Owens and Harper then enlisted the help of the Folsom Police Department in executing the two remaining warrants, starting with the one for Gloria Reece’s place on Rugosa Drive. When they surveyed the contents of Gloria’s faux wine cellar, they finally began to see how big Luis Ochoa’s operation really was. It took hours to collect, inventory, and load the contents from the cellar. Just in terms of packets of cash, they were looking at more than $2 million.
It was almost midnight when they arrived at Arbor Crest. A sleepy-eyed receptionist took them to Hannah Gilchrist’s unit and let them inside. At Crystal’s suggestion they started with the garage fridge, coming away with more than two hundred thousand in cash and Hannah’s promised ledger.
“What else?” Danielle asked when they finally finished in the garage.
They went through the rest of the house but found nothing. It was only as they were about to leave that Agent Owens went over to the urn. “We need to take this,” he said.
“Why?”
“It�
�s Leo Aurelio’s cremains,” he said.
“The guy she paid to have killed?” Danielle asked.
Bob Owens nodded.
“But why would she have them?”
“I’m pretty sure she wanted gloating rights,” he answered. “In the world of serial killers I believe the urn and Aurelio’s ashes count as trophies.”
62
Van Nuys, California, June 2017
When Hannah finally awakened, it was hours later and there were two people in the room with her—Crystal Manning and Ali Reynolds, both of whom seemed to be dozing in visitors’ chairs. It was odd—surreal, almost—to be in the presence of someone who was undeniably her own granddaughter and someone else whom she’d sworn to murder. Ali Reynolds, the woman who’d stayed with her and comforted her in the wreckage—who’d done her best to stanch the flow of blood—was someone who might have been Eddie’s next victim—Hannah’s next victim.
Hannah waited quietly until a few minutes later, when one of them stirred. “Do I have a new hip?” she asked.
They had intubated her during the procedure, and her voice was scratchy and hoarse.
Crystal was the one who answered. “Yes, you do.”
“It doesn’t hurt at all.”
“You’re on drugs right now,” Crystal said. “The hurt will be later.”
“What about Eddie and the others?”
“We served our search warrants and found what we needed,” Crystal answered. “As long as you testify against them, they’re all three going down. That won’t make much difference for Luis Ochoa and your son, but it will for Gloria Reece.”
“Good,” Hannah said. “I hope I live long enough to do just that.”
“So do I,” Crystal said.
“Is there a guard stationed outside my door?”
“Yes,” Crystal answered, “two of them, in fact. When we searched Gloria’s vehicle, the GPS led us to a very bad guy named Tank Rowland who has long been suspected of criminal behavior. We served warrants on several of his places of business and discovered two vehicles—a box truck and a motorcycle—that are suspected of having been used in the attack on you. Now that we know what we’re looking for, we’ll be able to find all three vehicles involved—those two and the Suburban as well—on traffic cameras near the scene. Tank is currently in custody, but he’s a very dangerous man with plenty of equally dangerous friends. That’s why I’ve called for two guards. Once you leave the hospital . . .”
“I’ll be in jail, won’t I?” Hannah asked.
Crystal nodded. “Considering the severity of the charges, you most likely won’t be allowed to make bail.”
“That’s fine, then,” Hannah said, “because I’ll be under guard there as well.”
With that, Hannah turned her attention to Ali Reynolds. “Thank you for staying with me in the car yesterday. It was yesterday, wasn’t it? I believe I’ve lost track of time.”
“You’re welcome,” Ali said with a nod, “and, yes, it was yesterday.”
“I seem to remember that you had blood all over you—my blood.”
“Yes,” Ali said again, “from the cut on your head. I was finally able to go back to the hotel and change clothes.”
“Did you know you were supposed to be our next victim?” Hannah asked.
“I do now.”
“I’m glad you’re the one who got away.”
“That makes two of us.”
Hannah glanced up at the clock on the wall. It said five minutes to six. “Do you suppose one of you could figure out how to order some breakfast? I’m starved.”
It was more of a command than a request, and Hannah smiled as Ali went looking for a nurse to order breakfast. There was no telling how long it would last, but, for now at least, the old Hannah Gilchrist was not only back, she was in charge, and that meant that things were exactly as they were supposed to be.
63
Cottonwood, Arizona, June 2017
It was noontime on Tuesday. The whole crew was gathered in the break room at High Noon Enterprises, celebrating Ali’s return from California with a generous round of pizza.
“So Frigg really did save the day,” Stu marveled.
“In every way possible,” Ali replied. “Her ability to penetrate those security-camera systems both at the scene of the crash and later at the hospital was critical. Without that there’s a good chance Gloria could have gotten to Hannah Gilchrist and finished her off. As it is, she’s alive if not exactly well, but she’s still willing and able to testify against the others.”
“So maybe I shouldn’t disable Fido after all.”
“Who’s Fido?” Ali asked.
“It’s Frigg’s new work-around program.”
“A work-around for what?” Ali asked.
“A work-around for me,” Stu said despairingly. “I told her that she’d been using one of her illegal pet programs, so when she created a new one, she named it Fido.”
“Frigg’s the one who made that revised threat-level assessment,” Ali said, “and without that, Hannah Gilchrist would be dead and maybe I would be, too. So all in favor of keeping Frigg and Fido, raise your right hand.”
In the end it was unanimous. Frigg stayed on, and so did Fido.
64
Sedona, Arizona, June 2017
It was almost a month later, a perfect day toward the end of June, when Ali Reynolds held her garden party in honor of both current and past recipients of Amelia Dougherty Askins scholarships. The party was held in the English garden that Leland Brooks had designed, which was in full glorious bloom for the event.
The party was catered by Raphael Fuentes, the first-ever male Askins recipient. He’d been given a full-ride scholarship to the Cordon Bleu branch in Scottsdale. For the party he had produced a full-bore Cornish cream tea that Leland would have loved. As the young people chatted together, talking hopes and dreams as only the very young can do, Ali gravitated toward her other two honored guests—Sister Anselm and her new copilot, Sister Cecelia. Sister Anselm had been invited because she’d always adored Leland’s formal teas, and Sister Cecelia came along because these days she was Sister Anselm’s constant companion. Ali was relieved to see that despite Sister Anselm’s initial misgivings, a genuine affection had already sprung up between the two nuns.
Ali was about to sit down to visit when her phone rang. Seeing Crystal Manning’s name in the caller-ID screen, she excused herself and moved away from the party.
“Hannah’s gone,” Crystal said, when Ali answered.
“When?”
“Yesterday afternoon,” Crystal said.
“What got her?” Ali asked.
“It was the cancer, of course,” Crystal replied. “According to the ME, it was the tumor on her pancreas that took her out. It’s got to be one of the shortest life sentences ever. She went to court and pled guilty only a week ago Friday, so her sentence lasted exactly a week and one day. The Munseys were there for the plea deal, of course—Evan, his dad, and his stepmother. So was Kaitlyn Todd Holmes’s husband. Her father was too ill with lung cancer to travel. Hannah addressed each of those people individually, asking their forgiveness. And I think she really meant it. The woman may have been a killer at heart, but she was also one classy lady.”
Ali was used to listening to people, and she caught the undertone in Crystal’s voice. “One way or the other, Hannah Gilchrist was also your grandmother,” Ali observed, “so how are you doing?”
“Not well,” Crystal admitted with a slight catch in her voice. “For some strange reason, this whole thing has hit me really hard. She gave me a picture of her mother, Isobel, one that was taken years ago when her mother was having tea with Mamie Eisenhower. The thing that’s really spooky is that except for the color of my hair I look exactly like Isobel Anderson.
“Hannah’s biggest worry at the end was that she wouldn’t be around to testify against the other three. I told her that her confession would most likely be considered a deathbed confession and as such w
ould carry a good deal of weight in a court of law. That, combined with all the other evidence we gathered, should do the job.”
“It sounds like you grew close to her in the last few weeks.”
“I did,” Crystal admitted, “because she didn’t have anyone else. I helped her get her will rewritten and her final arrangements in order. She left everything to the guy who was driving the limo that day—a guy named Marco Gregory and his wife, Bettina. I’ve met them both. They’re nice people who had apparently worked for Hannah for years before she moved to Folsom. They’ll be coming into at least a million dollars that they never expected to have. And so will Rory Munsey.”
“She left something to him, too?”
“She did. A million dollars to be held in trust until he’s twenty-one. She said that he’s the great-grandson she never had, and she wanted him to have it.”
There was a break in the conversation and a slight hiccup in Crystal’s voice before she continued. “She left something to me, too—her grandmother’s cameo brooch—my great-great-grandmother’s brooch. I never expected to feel this way, but you’re right, Ali. Hannah Gilchrist was the grandmother I never had, and now I’m sorry she’s gone.”
“And I’m sorry for your loss,” Ali said.
“Thank you for understanding,” Crystal murmured. “I’m not sure anyone else will get it.”
Ali returned to the party, but some of the brightness had gone out of the day. It was only later, after everyone else had left, that she shared the whole story with Sister Anselm and with Sister Cecelia, too.
“That’s what happens sometimes,” Sister Anselm told Ali afterward as the two sisters were loading up to return to the convent in Jerome. “Where Edward Gilchrist sowed hatred and deceit, God sowed love, and Hannah and Crystal found it. We’ll pray for them both tonight when we get home.”
