Six Seconds

42

Blue Rose Creek, California

The hydraulic flaps of Graham’s jet groaned as Southern California’s suburbs streamed below as far as he could see.

The landing gear grumbled down and locked for a smooth landing.

As the plane rolled to the terminal, Graham resumed questioning his decision to fly here. He now had a Cali fornia link to Blue Rose Creek, which was the final entry in the notebook he’d found in Tarver’s tent in the Rockies. Something was emerging. But what? He could be dead wrong about all of it.

What if Blue Rose Creek was nothing but useless data from an oddball reporter who chased wacky con spiracies and probably died accidentally with his family in the mountains?

What if it was nothing more than that?

What if it wasn’t?

Where’s Tarver’s laptop? Who was that stranger with him?

Don’t hurt my daddy.

There had to be something to this. Graham rubbed his eyes and the back of his neck as he waited at the luggage carousel. After grabbing his bag he climbed into the car rental shuttle. If he was going to clear this case, he needed to talk to the Conlins.

As the shuttle wheeled from LAX, he checked his cell phone for messages.

Before leaving Washington, he’d made a number of calls. The first was to his boss in Calgary, where he left a brief message about a good lead that could break the case. “I have to leave Washington. I’ll keep you posted.”

Then he called the cell phone of Secret Service Agent Walker and left a message. Graham hoped to clarify matters and seek any help on the California lead. Walker hadn’t responded.

Graham had also called ahead to the county sheriff’s office and gave a youthful-sounding deputy named Tillman his regimental number and a summary of his business, including the Conlins’ address, which Till man checked.

“Oh, you should talk to Detective Vic Thompson.”

“Why? Is there an investigation?”

“I don’t know all the details. A custody thing, or something, Vic’s out right now. I’ll put you through to his voice mail.”

“Wait, could I get a complaint history on the address?”

“Sure, I’ll get back to you, Corporal Graham.”

That was some five hours ago and not a word from Thompson or Tillman.

After getting into his rented car, Graham called again and left messages with Thompson and Tillman. Noth

Six Seconds 271 ing. Screw it. Graham decided to proceed. He’d come this far and didn’t have time to wait around. He con sulted his map, selected the best freeway to Blue Rose Creek and navigated through L.A.’s traffic.

Sure, he was going way out on a limb.

He hadn’t heard back from his boss in Alberta; maybe his vague message had bought him some time. Graham had not requested permission to follow infor mation to California. Why give them the chance to say no? Besides, he didn’t recall any travel restrictions being placed on him. A weak defense but he needed to see this case through and the clock was ticking on him.

About an hour later he came to the exit for Blue Rose Creek and made his way through the serpentine streets of the Conlins’ neighborhood. It appeared to be a middle-class suburb of well-kept homes with trim lawns and palm trees.

Graham hadn’t called ahead.

He didn’t want to give the Conlins advance notice that he was coming. He found that he got a better read off people when he surprised them.

The Conlins lived at 10428 Suncanyon Rise in a stucco bungalow set back from the street. It had two palms, neat shrubs and a red tile roof. A small Ford was parked in the carport. Next to it, a vacant parking pad, large enough to accommodate an RV. Nice-looking place, Graham thought. He drove by, down the street and well out of sight before he parked and got out of his car.

In the distance he heard children’s laughter and the splash of a pool as he walked to the house. Breezes carried birdsong and something sweet-smelling as he approached the front door and rang the bell. The house was silent.

A pair of swallows blurred by.

Graham glanced at the newspaper sticking out of the mailbox, at the snippet of headline about the pope’s U.S. visit, which was underway.

Neglected paper and no sound coming from the house.

Not good.

A sign that no one was home.

He knocked hard on the door.

Nothing.

Graham stepped to the side of the door, shaded his eyes from the glare and peered through the window but saw nothing.

Clank.

What the-? Metal against metal. Came from the side of the house. Graham set off to investigate, walking along the paved driveway and under the carport, spot ting the iron gate to the back. It was unfastened and clanging against the latch.

The house was emitting a soft low hum.

What was that?

Beyond the gateway Graham saw a small backyard and the walk to the rear door.

“Hello!”

Nothing. No dog. Nothing.

He called again, giving it a long moment before going to the back door. He rang the bell and called out again.

“Hello!”

Nothing.

Again, he pressed his face to a window, cupped his hands near his eyes and looked into the house.

He saw the hardwood floor of the kitchen, had a partial view of chairs, a table, a dishwasher, countertop. Something was droning. Farther along he saw a hall way, a living room, then he glimpsed a hand.

A hand?

On the floor. Attached to an arm that reached into the hallway.

Someone was on the floor. Someone unconscious.

“Hello!”

Should he kick the door? He had limited jurisdiction. He reached for his cell phone, pressed the Conlins’ number, banging on the glass while it rang. He could hear it ringing in the house and hung up when a recorded message answered.

Graham went to the door and knocked hard, then tried the handle.

It opened.

Odd.

Graham considered his next move, then stepped inside.

“Hello!”

Bracing for a possible intruder, he made his way to the person on the floor, scanning hidden areas, wishing he had his gun.

It was clear.

A woman in her early thirties was on the floor. Un conscious.

Graham knelt down and checked for a pulse. Noth ing. He had trouble hearing over the deep hum. It was the television. He pressed his ear to her chest again. This time he was certain.

She was breathing.

A prescription bottle was on the floor next to her. Empty.

Graham grabbed her phone, called 911.