Nine

19

San Luis Rey, California

Tuesday, May 20, 3:33 P.M.

The old man liked clocks.

A few moments ago, on the half hour, a chorus of competing chimes sounded throughout the house. Over the last two hours, hearing them perform their various renditions every fifteen minutes, Alex had come to think of them as a genteel version of the horn that sounds for a rodeo bull rider-a signal that Shay Wilder had managed to hang on to life for another little patch of time. That Shay Wilder was dying, there could be no mistake.

Ciara Morton and Alex’s uncle, John O’Brien, sat outside, talking quietly on the back porch after strolling through the small orchard outside Wilder’s home. Early on, they had managed to get away from the bells and ticking and the thick haze of cigarette smoke.

Ciara had been hesitant to bring John along, until it became clear that Wilder wouldn’t bother opening his door to them if his old friend didn’t accompany them. She had tried to beg Wilder’s help after he had refused requests from both their lieutenant and Captain Nelson. Alex figured she was hoping to show them both up. She prepared to approach Wilder by doing some homework-learned all she could about him by asking around.

But Wilder still demurred. “I’m retired,” he told her. “I really have no desire to see what the latest sadistic son of a bitch has been up to, thanks all the same.”

She had persisted.

“Detective Morton, within days-if not hours-you’ll have the country’s top profilers working on these cases. Perhaps Sheriff Dwyer will make life difficult for the FBI for a brief period of time, but we both know that they’ll be involved soon.”

“Some think you’re better than anyone who’s working out of Quantico right now.”

He laughed, then broke into a fit of coughing. “There are even other retirees who are more talented.”

So she had played what she thought was her ace-she had told Wilder that she was partnered with his old friend’s nephew. Wilder laughed again and said he would do this as a favor to John O’Brien’s nephew only if Alex would bring his uncle along.

“Can you believe it?” Ciara had complained to Alex.

“You should have anticipated that when you mentioned John.”

“Shit. I give up. You’re the one with all the connections around here. Without nepotism, the old boy network, or a penis, I guess I’m out of the running-I sure as hell won’t get anywhere in this damned department.”

Alex ignored almost all of this, a variation on an old theme, and later decided only a lack of sleep had made him say, “You think I’m here because John had some influence on my being hired or promoted?”

He saw the flash of anger, her impulse to make the accusation openly. But she regained control of herself and said, “Don’t you think you had certain advantages, growing up with a deputy in the house?”

He thought for a moment and said quietly, “I suppose so. But not in the way you seem to be suggesting.”

She backpedaled. “Look, I don’t think you got any promotion you didn’t earn. If I implied that-I’m sorry, I guess I did imply that, didn’t I? I did. And that was wrong. You work hard, you solve cases-way above the bureau average. All I meant was, you know how to play the game, because you grew up with John.”

“He has helped me to be realistic about department politics,” Alex said. “Which is what I think you mean by ‘the game.’ And, Ciara, for that reason alone, you don’t know how many times I’ve wished to God your uncle, aunt, mother, sister, granddaddy-you name it-had been with the Sheriff’s. As it is, you never seem clear about who your enemies are.”

He had seen her flinch somewhere in that recital and figured she was given this same sort of speech by the guys who called her B.B. Queen. Let it go, he said to himself, and tried to go back to concentrating on a list he had made of climbing gear suppliers. Just let it go.

Typically, she wouldn’t. “It’s my greatest weakness, isn’t it? ‘Does not play well with others.’”

He didn’t answer.

“I know you aren’t the enemy, Alex.”

He looked up at her. “No one else in the department, either, Ciara.”

“Okay, okay. I let one old man get the better of me. I’m sorry.”

“He’s not just one old man. If Shay Wilder told me he wanted to meet the Queen for tea before he’d look at the autopsy reports, I’d put him on a flight to London. As it is, he just wants us to bring an old friend of his along for the ride. It’s easy. John will love the chance to get out of the house.”

He was right-no persuasion was needed to get John to come along.

John knew the way to Wilder’s home, in the hills just inland from Oceanside, near one of the biggest of the old Spanish missions. He greeted his old friend by saying, “Damn, Shay. Guess you didn’t get the comb I sent you last Christmas.”

Wilder, whose dull gray hair rose from his head in disordered tufts, wheezed and coughed a laugh. “Buy me a mirror next time,” he said, then curtly ordered them to come inside. Alex managed to hide his shock at the change in the old man’s appearance. He had not see Wilder in about five years, although he knew John visited him often.

The once bright blue eyes were now watery and surrounded by reddened lids. His prominent brow ridge seemed to have sharpened, or perhaps the too thin face made it seem so. Only the dark, untamed hedges of the brows themselves seemed the same.

Wilder wanted to deal with business before pleasure, so he brought them all to his study, a dark room lined with books and file cabinets-all of it, like the rest of the house, reeking of cigarette smoke.

He was gaunt, his skin wrinkled and yellowish gray, stained between the two fingers of his right hand which were seldom without a cigarette between them. He used the hand in the way a chain-smoker will, moving it palm down over papers, the thumb and last two fingers working together as an especially adroit claw.

Alex felt a sudden and unaccountably painful flare of anger, then knew it for what it was-the banked fire of his grief for J.D., stirred to life by a smoker’s gesture. Alex’s old partner had moved his hand in just the same way. Useless to berate the dead for not having lived the way you wanted them to, or as long as you wanted them to, he thought, and rolled his shoulders, trying to relax.

Wilder looked up sharply at him, reading his thoughts-or so it seemed to Alex. But the old man said nothing. He went back to studying the files.

“What we’re hoping you’ll tell us…” Ciara began.

“If I’m going to tell you anything,” Wilder said, “I need quiet. As for your hopes, they are no concern of mine.”

“Polite as always,” John said.

Shay Wilder grunted a response that sounded far from polite and went on reading.

After a few minutes, Ciara stood up and began pacing, arms crossed over her chest. Wilder looked over at John.

“I need to stretch a little,” John said. “And besides, I don’t think there’s room enough in here for all of us and Shay’s ego, too.”

Alex looked at Wilder to see if he was offended. He was smiling.

“If I make Shay promise not to yap any conclusions to Alex while we’re gone,” John said to Ciara, “would you mind leaving this stink hole to sit outside with me for a little while?”

She hesitated, then agreed. Alex wondered if she was trying to play well with others.

Wilder said nothing to him, asked no questions during those two hours, except once, when, not feeling he was being of much use, Alex stood to go outside. Wilder, without looking up from the papers, said, “Don’t disappoint me. Sit down.”

So Alex sat silently, listening to the ticking at each swing of the pendulum of the mantel clock, the dry-leaf rustle of a page being turned by the old man’s fingers, the snap of the wheel on the flint of his silver cigarette lighter, the clink of the lighter’s lid as he closed it. The wheezing breath, the hacking cough that sounded as if Wilder’s lungs were being turned inside out and shaken.

“Less than six months, they tell me,” he said once, as if Alex had asked aloud the question that came to mind each time he heard the cough. “Unless I let them start carving. I told them they could test the sharpness of their knives on someone else.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. What in the course of nature could frighten me, after years of looking at this sort of thing?”

They were the only comments he made for a long time. At one point, he sat back and closed his eyes. Alex waited, wondering if he had fallen asleep.

Without opening his eyes, Shay asked, “Tell me-who called in about the first body?”

“At first, we were told it was a neighbor, but later we learned it was a call from a pay phone, so we’re not sure now.”

“Near the location?”

“Yes. The caller said he was reporting a neighbor but didn’t want to be identified as the complainer-excuse me, sir, but I have an obligation to bring Ciara back in if we’re going to start discussing the cases.”

He opened his eyes. “Interesting that you put it that way. You may see to your obligation in a moment. And you may certainly tell her anything I say now, if you choose to.”

Alex didn’t reply.

Wilder smiled. “I appreciate your patience. Now, tell me about rock climbing.”

Alex hesitated. “Some people would say that it’s just you and the rock, and you find out what you’ve got. But that’s not all there is to it. As much as I love rock climbing, I’m not sure I can give you an easy answer.”

“Because you love it, you mean. Let me be more specific, then. How did you feel when you realized that a climbing rope had been used to string up Adrianos?”

“The way the Pope might feel if he saw someone spit on a crucifix.”

“Yes, I think the killers knew that you would feel that way.”

“No, that can’t be right. They had no idea I’d be given the case. In fact, I wasn’t the first detective there.”

“But you were called to the scene as soon as the identity of the victim was known. And there was certainly a great deal of publicity about the fact that you and your partner were after Adrianos when your witness and his family were killed, correct?”

“We weren’t the only ones after him.”

“Rock climbing FBI agents showed up, too?”

“What are you saying?”

“You already know what I’m saying. Now, call your partner in, and your uncle. I’m tired.”

Alex stood, but before he reached the door, Wilder said, “What’s your partner’s problem, do you think?”

“Old men,” Alex said, and walked out, hearing Wilder laugh and cough behind him.

When they came back in, Wilder began by saying, “I want more time,” then seemed to find this a good joke, so that they had to wait for him to stop coughing. When he was able to speak again, he said, “I suppose, Detective Morton, you will want my rough guesses now, because you lack your partner’s patience. All right, I’ll give them to you. You must let me know if the gentlemen with the FBI agree.

“These killers are probably highly intelligent males-plural, because I agree there is probably more than one, but I’m not sure there are only two-you could easily be looking at a close-knit group. Ages-I’ll need more time. Some factors say older, some younger.”

“Twenties? Thirties?” Ciara asked.

He ignored her. “They are intelligent, but they probably didn’t do well in school. They would have exhibited behavior problems. They have difficulty with authority.

“They feel superior to law enforcement and are proving it. ‘Above the law’ is more than a phrase-they are not only not subject to it, they can do better without it. They have had problems in the past with the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department-they may have been rejected from the academy, or something of that nature. A little more difficult to know about the FBI, but the same thing may hold true there. Or, it may simply be that they consider the Most Wanted list to be the ultimate way to prove their point-these are the criminals most wanted by all the law enforcement agencies in the U.S., and they are smarter and better at catching them than the FBI is.”

“So far, Shay,” John said, “they seem to be making a good case for that.”

“Yes,” Wilder said slowly. “Curious, isn’t it? It argues tremendous long-range planning-such as putting someone into the staff of that television program as a mole of sorts, finding a victim for the theft of the license, and so on. And I would guess that to drug and transport two individuals to Catalina, to buy pharmaceutical blood-thinning agents-if that’s indeed what they used-to get someone inside Adrianos’s organization to betray him-all of that took some money, don’t you think?”

“The kind of money Christopher Logan has now?” Ciara asked.

Wilder’s brows pulled together as he frowned at her. “Have you located him?”

“Not yet. His lawyers say he’s not currently available to talk to us.”

Wilder was silent for a moment, then said, “I interviewed him, you know. Years ago. After he killed Naughton.”

“And?”

“He was remarkable. Extraordinarily intelligent. IQ off the charts.”

“And used it to kill someone.”

Wilder shrugged. “I think he found a way out of a horribly abusive situation, and it’s just a damned shame he didn’t get a chance to do so earlier than he did.”

“Agreed,” Ciara said, “but he has the capacity for violence-he went way overboard when it came to killing Naughton. I read the reports on that. He went berserk, bashed the hell out of his stepfather’s skull with that shovel.”

“Overkill is not at all unusual in that type of situation,” Wilder said. “Teenagers or children who kill an adult abuser will often not believe their abuser can be killed. Think how much power the abuser has had over them-and yes, pent-up rage is part of it, too. But that doesn’t necessarily argue continued violence.”

“How could a kid like that not end up twisted?”

Wilder gave her a look of impatience. “You don’t believe that Naughton had a contagious disease, do you?”

“No, but-”

“And since Kit Logan was Naughton’s stepchild, you obviously aren’t arguing that he inherited some physical impairment from his stepfather-some brain dysfunction that would predispose him to violence.”

“No-I meant-”

“You meant that during his tender adolescent years, Kit Logan was both physically abused by Naughton and continually exposed to his stepfather’s obsessions, and that he can’t now be a normal man.”

“Something like that,” she said flatly.

“You may be right-it would be remarkable indeed if he survived that childhood without being damaged to some degree. But I don’t think that’s what’s going on here-too much in these crime scenes doesn’t fit.”

Ciara frowned. “What do you mean?”

“One always has to ask-why this victim?”

“If the killers are trying to look like heroes,” Alex said slowly, “the mimicking of Naughton doesn’t fit.”

“Exactly. There is a desire to be seen as heroes, or they wouldn’t be killing those on the FBI’s list-the victims would be different if you were truly trying to emulate Naughton. And Naughton was no hero to Kit Logan. I spoke to him often enough to feel confident that there was nothing about Naughton he wanted to emulate.”

“But isn’t it true that his history of abuse could have led to a sense of rage?” Ciara said.

“If he felt some sort of displaced rage, I would think Kit Logan would have chosen a target who reminded him of Naughton-a way of killing Naughton again and again. Or worst case, his mother, who failed to protect him. That would be more typical.”

“But didn’t he get to be a hero when he killed Naughton?” John asked.

“His grandmother made sure he stayed out of the spotlight,” Wilder said. “But I have to say, John, you make a good point. Maybe he felt as if he was a hero, even if he didn’t get attention for it.”

“And law enforcement failed to protect him, too,” Alex said.

“Yes. In fact, Kit did say to me that for a time, he hoped the police would catch Naughton and that he would be rescued. By the time he killed Naughton, he had stopped believing it was going to happen.” Wilder began coughing again. “As I said, I need more time. But frankly, I still think it would be foolish to focus on Kit Logan. Look for this other young man, the one who posed as Eric Grady.”

As they were going toward the front door, Alex felt Wilder take hold of his arm. “Let me lean on you a little,” Wilder said. Alex slowed his pace.

“You miss J.D.,” Wilder said.

“Yes.”

“So do I. It will get easier, Alex.”

“I know.”

When Ciara and John were some distance ahead of them, he said, “Do you climb these cliff faces alone or with a climbing partner?”

“I have a partner-a teacher, really. He introduced me to climbing. He’s a much better climber than I am.”

“You aren’t bothered by the difference in your skill level?”

“No, we’re friends, and it’s more a matter of attitude, I guess. It’s cooperative, not competitive, between us. Besides, even if I learned everything I could, because of my work schedule, I couldn’t get in as much time with him as his other partner can.”

Wilder held up one of Alex’s bruised hands. “You’ve climbed recently?”

“Last weekend.”

“Good, so you got a climb in before all of this happened. I have a feeling it may be a while before you get time to do so again.”

“You’re probably right.”

“You should ask among your other friends who climb-try to discover if anyone has been asking about you lately.”

“I appreciate the concern,” Alex said.

“But you don’t believe me. Do you think that a killer careful enough to take three FBI fugitives in hand-careful enough to vacuum an attic-left pieces of a rappelling rope at each scene by chance? Or that it’s a fluke that he is bringing his trophies to the sheriff’s department?”

“I wondered about that. Not in Lakewood, of course. But Catalina Island…”

“Yes. Too much trouble to leave a body there unless one has a message to deliver with it. When are you going to get the message, Alex?”

“Are you so certain it’s addressed to me and not the sheriff?”

Wilder sighed and shook his head. “Where’s your climbing partner now?”

“Majorca. He and his wife left on Sunday night.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Wilder said.

“Why?”

“Perhaps he will be safer there.”

“Safer?”

But Wilder only said, “Your uncle is already at the car. Ask him to come back to say good-bye. I find I’m quite worn out.”

On the way back to the homicide bureau, Ciara wrinkled her nose and said, “You’ll have to take that suit to the dry cleaner, Smoky.”

“And take a long shower, too. But I’m glad you talked him into meeting with us.”

“Thank John for that,” she said.

But John, uncharacteristically, was sitting quietly in the backseat, staring out the window, not involving himself in their conversation.

“Knee bothering you?” Alex asked him.

“What?”

Alex repeated the question.

“Oh, no. Not the knee.”

Alex’s cell phone rang. He answered and heard Lieutenant Hogan say, “I’ve got some interesting news for you. We just got a call from the FBI.”

“They’re claiming jurisdiction?”

“No, although they keep threatening it,” Hogan said. “But they were admitting something that I’m sure they hated to tell us.”

“What?”

“The press conference got national coverage, right?”

“That’s what I’ve heard. They tell me our phones have been ringing off the hooks.”

“They have been,” Hogan said sourly. “Mostly people telling us we should be hiring these killers to work for the department. And the FBI has been getting those, too. But they’ve also heard from a few people who saw our Catalina duo. Not together, but in the places where they lived-when they were still alive.”

“People who knew Valerie Perry and Harold Denihan?”

“Not both. But who knew one or the other. It seems Perry has been in California for the last month or so. Up north, in Placer County. Denihan has been in El Monte. So guess what that means?”

“No easy way to claim federal jurisdiction.”

“Right,” Hogan said. “To the best of our knowledge, the people who are killing these criminals haven’t broken any federal laws so far. These are L.A. County homicides and only L.A. County homicides, as far as we’re concerned. The FBI might have pending investigations involving the victims, but these homicide cases are ours. Apparently the director of the FBI has been calling Sheriff Dwyer all afternoon. The Feds hate how this looks for them.”

“I’m sure they do. But I’m not so sure it looks all that great for us.”

“That depends on you and your team, doesn’t it? Any luck with Wilder?”

“He needs some time. We’re on the way back now. He didn’t have much to tell us yet. I can fill you in tomorrow morning.”

“Okay. See you then.”

“One other thing, Lieutenant. The Los Angeles Times knows more than it should-one of their reporters has been leaving messages for me asking me to verify that anticoagulants were used on the victims.”

“A leak? Already?”

“The Times will have worked harder to have sources in the department than most, but I’d hate to start seeing every detail of the investigation in the morning paper.”

Hogan wholeheartedly agreed and promised to look into the matter.

Alex no sooner disconnected than the phone rang again.

“Brandon,” he answered, fully expecting it to be Hogan again.

“Uncle Alex?”

He still wasn’t used to being called “uncle,” but oddly, he found himself pleased that the boy was making an effort to stay in touch. “Hello, Chase. What’s up?”

“Where are you?”

“Driving back from northern San Diego County. Where are you?”

“At your house.”

“My house?”

“Is he okay?” John asked from the backseat, suddenly sitting forward. Alex realized he hadn’t been paying attention to anything he said until he heard Chase’s name.

“Yeah,” Chase said, “I got worried, because Uncle John wasn’t answering, and, you know-I thought maybe something had happened to him.”

“He’s right here. You want to talk to him?”

“Sure-but, I wanted to ask, do you think I could stay here tonight?” He added quickly, “I could sleep on the couch, or the floor-whatever.”

“I don’t think your parents would like that much.”

“They’re out of town. My mom flew to New York. That’s where my dad is now.”

“They still probably wouldn’t like it.”

“Okay. I understand.”

Plain and simple. No anger, no whipped pup, no guilt trip. Any of those, Alex later told himself, he could have resisted. “Listen, Chase-what if they call home, and you aren’t there?”

“I never answer their phone. But if they call my phone, to check up on me, you mean? Call forwarding. I’ll get the call on my cell phone.”

“You have a separate line-never mind, I should have guessed.”

“So that wouldn’t be a problem,” Chase said.

He could hear the hope. “I’ll tell you what. Talk to your uncle John and ask him what he thinks. Up to him.”

He handed the phone back.

“Chase?” John said. “We’d love to have you stay over… Sure, I’m sure. He’s just like that sometimes. You’ll get used to him… You warm enough?”

Ciara said, “I didn’t know you have a nephew, Alex.”

“My brother’s son.”

“Well, that would fit, since he’s your only sibling.”

He glanced at her and saw her blush, and knew she was belatedly remembering department gossip. “What about you? I know one of your sisters lives with you. Any nieces or nephews by other members of the family?”

“Yes,” she said. “Two nephews-my brother’s children. But I don’t see them very often. They live in Texas.” After a moment, she added, “My sister Laney can’t have children, and I’m past trying to hit the snooze alarm on my biological clock.”

“Ever thought of adopting?”

“Sure. But this job is a little tough on family life. Maybe if I screw this up and get busted back to uniform, I’ll find some big old deputy, marry him, and start taking in strays.”

“Hell, go back to uniform now,” John said, having ended his call in time to shamelessly eavesdrop. “Being in Detectives can’t be worth all that. It’s not making you happy.”

“John, we’ve talked all afternoon, so I’ll assume you aren’t saying that because I’m a woman, or because you think I can’t find true happiness without doing housework or finding a man.”

“No, nothing to do with that. And from all Alex tells me, you’re a fine detective, better than most. And he tells me you worked your ass off and put up with all kinds of attitude to get to where you are.”

She smiled. “Alex said all that?”

“John, damn it-” Alex said.

Ciara laughed. “Don’t get mad at him. As for the job, I don’t think I could leave it in the middle of all of this excitement-could you, John?”

“No,” he admitted. “But it will be the FBI’s inside a week, mark my words.”

“You think so?”

“Right now Sheriff Dwyer is trying to claim that there’s no proof that the victims were brought to his jurisdiction under duress. All the FBI has to do is figure out where they were before they came to L.A. County, show that there was a struggle, and the sheriff will have to cooperate.”

“Don’t get your hopes up on that count,” Alex said. He told them about his conversation with Hogan.

“Okay,” John said, “but that just delays the inevitable. The public won’t understand the lack of cooperation. They’ll think the FBI ought to look into murders of people on the FBI list, period. One opinion poll ought to do it. I hear the Times is conducting one, so you may be working with federal agents soon.”

“An opinion poll, huh? That or another body, I suppose,” Alex said.

“That seems more likely,” Ciara said. “After all, there are ten possible victims, and we’ve only found three-and unless the FBI stops adding people to its fugitives list, our vigilantes will have three new targets to go after as soon as replacements are named to those three spots on the list.”

Their pagers went off simultaneously.

“Sorry,” she said to Alex. “I jinxed us, didn’t I?”