Nine

30

Sheriff’s Department Headquarters

Monterey Park, California

Wednesday, May 21, 4:05 P.M.

“Describe him again,” Alex said.

The deputy shifted his weight. He thought it was awfully crowded in this little office, with Brandon, Morton, that guy from the FBI, and even Captain Nelson, for God’s sake. He wondered if he was about to lose his job for trying to be helpful. It wasn’t as if he had accused Brandon of carrying one of those damned reporter’s purses. Maybe he ought to make that clear. “I didn’t think you’d carry a bag like that…” he began.

“Describe him again, please,” Alex said, with no apparent loss of patience.

The deputy sighed. “White male, about six three, mid-twenties, dark hair, gray eyes. Built about like you. Maybe a little bigger in the shoulders.”

“Thanks.”

“Anything else?”

“You didn’t actually see him touch the phone?”

“No, sir, I didn’t.”

“Thanks, that’s all.”

Alex waited until he had left, and started to put on a pair of latex gloves.

“Brandon,” the captain said, “maybe we ought to have the lab take a look at it.”

“Or the bomb squad,” Hamilton said.

Alex paused and looked over at him. “It went through security, right?”

“To end up on that side of the checkpoint, it must have,” Ciara said. She had been in a good mood all day, Alex thought, and immediately looked at Hamilton. They were getting along, which, for Ciara, might as well have been the sign of a mad crush on the guy. If there was some budding relationship in progress, though, they were hiding it-or at least weren’t putting on a soap opera episode in front of the captain. He wondered if Hamilton was playing her to get information from the department.

“The new lab’s not that far away,” Nelson said with some emphasis.

“Think it’s a love letter from an admirer?” Hamilton asked.

That struck a little too close to his thoughts, so Alex set aside an almost unbearable amount of curiosity and agreed they should take it over to Scientific Services.

Alex filled out evidence forms, wishing it was the captain’s task, a punishment for suggesting the safer course of action. He halted, pen over paper, and wondered what was making him so irritable. He had managed to get more sleep last night on the couch than he had on any other night since they found Adrianos.

He looked over at Ciara, tête-à-tête with Hamilton.

As the envelope was being irradiated to destroy any biotoxins, Alex grew nostalgic for a time when a man could simply open his mail.

The lab ran a quick check for latent prints on the exterior of the package. There was one set-which they assumed to be the deputy’s-that would be checked. No others were revealed. The lab tech cut open the bottom end of the envelope, preserving the sealed end so that it too could be checked later for fingerprints. He tilted the envelope over a large sheet of paper that would catch any fibers or other trace evidence.

The first thing that fell out was an eye. Next came a leg, an arm, a horse, and a sheep. All were tiny, made of brass on silver.

“What the hell?” Hamilton said.

“Milagros,” Alex said, and wondered what message they were meant to convey. Working in an area with a large Hispanic population, he had seen them many times but was puzzled by this particular combination of them.

“Okay. What are milagros?” Hamilton asked.

He explained what they were while, wearing gloves, he began to look through the wallet that had tumbled out after them.

“My God,” Captain Nelson said as Alex carefully removed a license. “Eric Grady.”

There were four other licenses as well, and credit cards to match. Alex studied them for a moment, then said, “This one, I think. He looks the most like the employee photo from Crimesolvers USA.”

“‘Frederick Whitfield IV,’” Ciara said. “Well, la-dee-da.”

“Let’s run checks on all of them,” the captain said.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “But look at the address for the Fourth, here. He comes from Malibu. Where Eric Grady’s remains were found.”

Alex continued to look through the wallet and found a slip of paper with a phone number written on it. “What do you know-an Albuquerque phone number. Maybe your office could follow up on this one, Hamilton.”

When there was no response, Alex looked up at the FBI agent, who seemed lost in thought.

Ciara noticed it, too. “David?”

So it was David now. Well, Alex thought, so what? They had gone out to dinner together. She could call him David.

Hamilton blushed.

Well, God damn, Alex thought, suddenly feeling protective of his partner. If this guy had anything less than the best intentions…and a guy with the best intentions would wait until these cases were solved.

“Sorry,” Hamilton said. “I was kind of distracted by these little charms. Milagros, right? Do you think the person who sent the wallet is Hispanic?”

“I don’t know,” Alex said. “But if Frederick Whitfield IV turns out to be our man, then our tipster definitely brought me luck.”

He called the phone number and got a woman’s answering machine. The outgoing message didn’t mention a name, just repeated the number. Not wanting to tip off any member of this group of killers, Alex didn’t leave a message. Hamilton was going to follow through with the FBI office in Albuquerque to learn the woman’s identity.

The Malibu Station tried the residence listed on Whitfield’s license, but a caretaker said that Mr. Whitfield had been living in France for more than two years.

Hamilton got in touch with his office, to see what could be done to contact Whitfield in France. Ciara checked Whitfield’s vehicle registrations and learned that Mr. Whitfield IV had unpaid parking tickets dated as recently as three weeks ago. Alex looked at the driver’s licenses again but still felt sure that Whitfield was the one.

The sheriff’s department put out a bulletin saying Whitfield was wanted for questioning and sent information about him to the Albuquerque police and all FBI field offices. He had no adult arrest record, though, and the captain had started to question the possibility of crimes of this nature being committed by someone who didn’t have anything worse than a parking ticket on his record.

“We’ve got a lot to learn about him yet,” Alex said.

Alex drove Ciara and Hamilton back to the homicide bureau-they had car-pooled together to the press conference. The rush hour traffic was bumper to bumper, but for once Ciara was not providing running commentary on all the other drivers’ lack of intelligence. Instead, she talked excitedly about the recent breaks in the case and the prospect of using DNA from the New Mexico samples and the blood from the rope to prove that Whitfield was involved.

Alex stayed quiet, observing that her conversation and questions were directed entirely at Hamilton, and that apparently she hadn’t noticed that Hamilton was mostly returning noncommittal answers and seemed subdued.

“And so what about France?” she said. “A guy that wealthy probably takes the Concorde all the time.”

“That doesn’t seem likely,” Hamilton replied.

“Okay, so he has his own jet. I’m just saying that travel between here and France would not be a problem for this guy.”

When they reached the homicide bureau parking lot, Hamilton pointed out his car-a black Jaguar XJ8.

“Nice ride,” Alex said as he pulled up next to it. “That’s a rental?”

“Yes, Hertz at LAX,” Hamilton said and held up a key with a rental tag on it.

“My tax dollars at work, or did you trade in frequent flyer miles for the upgrade?” Alex asked, but Hamilton got out of the car without replying.

Alex glanced around to see where Ciara had parked. He had just realized that he didn’t see Ciara’s car, when Hamilton opened Ciara’s door. She started to get out, too.

“Ciara, wait,” Alex said, “I need to talk to you for a few minutes-if you don’t mind?”

Hamilton stood there, eyes narrowed.

“Sorry, Hamilton,” Alex said. “It’s about an earlier case. I promise it doesn’t have anything to do with this one.”

“Sure,” Hamilton said.

“I might take a trip up to Malibu later on,” Alex said. “Want to come along?”

Hamilton shook his head. “I think jet lag has finally hit me. I’m going to turn in early and try to make a more clearheaded start tomorrow.”

“Sure.”

“Ciara,” Hamilton said, “you need a ride home?”

“I’ll give her a lift,” Alex said. “You get some sleep and we’ll see you in the morning.”

He hesitated.

Ciara glanced at Alex, then said, “Alex is right. See you tomorrow.”

As Hamilton drove off, Alex realized that he had never been to Ciara’s house. Over the last year, within a week or two of being partnered with anyone else, he had known exactly where his partner lived, and usually they had gone out for a beer together, or had spent some other time together after work. That hadn’t happened with Ciara.

“Long Beach, right?” he asked.

She smiled. “Right city. Are you going to take a wild stab at one of the dozen or so exits?”

He felt his face redden.

“Atlantic Avenue,” she said.

They hadn’t gone far before she said, “It’s none of your business.”

“Hamilton?”

“Right.”

“If you’re thinking of having a relationship with him-”

“I’m not,” she said quickly. “I enjoy talking to him, that’s all.”

Alex was silent. He found himself comparing Hamilton’s age to hers. Not fair of him, he knew, but couldn’t help wondering what all Ciara and Hamilton had in common. And why, apparently, she felt more relaxed around an FBI agent than him.

“Alex-really. Don’t do this.”

“What?”

“Go all protective on me.”

“Can’t help it. Is that so bad?”

She didn’t answer.

“Maybe I’m jealous,” he said.

“Jealous!”

“Sure, why not? I don’t mean-not in that way. Just makes me realize that a guy who blew into town yesterday has better rapport with my partner than I do.”

She bit her lower lip. “That’s my fault.”

“No. John made me realize the same thing when we were down at Shay Wilder’s place. My uncle probably knows more about you than I do.”

“We haven’t been working together all that long.”

“More than a damned day. That’s all it took either one of them to get you to come out from behind the barricades.”

“The barricades…that bad?”

He shrugged.

“Look, it was easier to let my guard down with them. They’re not really in-house. They didn’t meet me knowing that everyone else in the bureau hated my guts.”

“That’s not true.”

“I came to you as a problem child. No use denying it.”

“Maybe you weren’t the problem. Hey, listen-let’s not talk shop. That’s what always happens.”

She smiled. “Oh, so you were bullshitting poor Agent Hamilton?”

“You know I was. He does, too. Cut it out. Tell me-I don’t know-tell me about your sister.”

She was quiet for so long, he almost wondered if he had accidentally stumbled on to some taboo subject.

“Laney’s the reason I’m a cop.”

He waited.

“Her attackers were never brought to justice, so I figured the only way I could deal with my anger over that was to catch people like them. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky one day and just happen to round them up, too.”

“You have a description of them?”

He saw her struggle for a moment before saying, “My sister is one of those victims who was never able to describe her assailants. You know how much patience some cops have with victims like that.”

He did know. It wasn’t hard to get so caught up in trying to catch the bad guys that you focused only on what could help you do the job, even if it meant turning away from the victim’s misery if it wasn’t going to provide a lead. Especially when you’d had a steady diet of misery for a few years. John had talked to him about it, warned him. “Some days you are going to be tired and frustrated and fresh out of sympathy,” he had said. “If you ever want to make a cop hater out of somebody, go ahead and show it.”

“So,” Alex said now, “does your sister approve of your career?”

“Maybe you should meet her,” she said.

“Sure, I’d like that.”

“We’ll see if you do. We’ll pick her up on the way to my place, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

“You have much in the trunk?”

Surprised, he said, “No.”

“Good. We’ll need the room for her wheelchair.”

“Okay,” he said mildly.

She smiled. “Alex Brandon will present a lecture this evening on how to remain calm while your hair is on fire…”

“Ciara-”

“…and you are simultaneously being pursued by a swarm of bees. Killer bees.”

He smiled. “Well, what good would it do you to panic in that situation?”

That made her laugh.

They pulled up in front of a small house with a wheelchair ramp built over its front porch steps. “She’s sometimes afraid of men she doesn’t know,” Ciara warned.

The woman Ciara paid to care for Laney when Ciara had to work late-which was often, Alex figured-opened the door to their knock and protested that she had just picked Laney up from the Clooney Center. The nearby Betty Clooney Center, Alex knew, specialized in helping those with head injuries and their families.

It prepared him, a little, for meeting Laney. She was watching television, or was facing it, anyway. Unlike her sister, she was a redhead. Alex thought that if she could have stood, they would have been about the same height. But Laney was thin to the point of gauntness. Like Ciara, she had big brown eyes.

At the sound of Ciara’s voice, she turned her head and gave a lopsided smile. She made a sound that was something between a shout and a squeal.

“Hello, Sis,” Ciara said. “Ready to go home?”

This was met by a low sound. She was staring at Alex now.

“Hello, Laney,” Alex said. “I’m Alex. I work with Ciara.”

Her brows drew together, and her face twisted, then relaxed. The squealing sound again, if a little less enthusiastic.

“Well,” Ciara said, “so you won’t mind if he drives us home?”

Another lopsided smile.

Ciara thanked the caregiver and managed all the effort of getting Laney into the car, while Alex stowed the wheelchair. Ciara had seen him consider helping to lift Laney into the backseat and said, “Let’s not press our luck.”

Throughout the short drive to Ciara’s home, Alex held a conversation of sorts with Laney, an exchange of signals of interest in each other, if not something comprehended on both sides. He spoke to her as if she could understand every word he said. She apparently did the same.

Between directions to her house and managing the trip inside, Ciara explained that Laney had some motor skills left-she could grasp objects, for example. She could also chew and swallow, which made life for the two of them easier than it was for some of the other head injury patients and their families. But Laney’s speech, ability to walk, and anything involving fine-motor skills were lost. Ciara did not exclude Laney from the conversation while explaining all of this. “Laney, you obviously catch a word or two now and then, or read people’s voices and body language, right?”

Laney made a soft sound they took for agreement.

The house was a small single-story Craftsman, probably built in the 1930s. There was a white picket fence around what had been a front lawn, but was now completely covered in concrete. A long, gently sloping ramp led up to the deep front porch.

The interior of the house was neat and clean, with what little furniture there was moved to the walls, where it would not block the way of the wheelchair.

Ciara took a framed photograph from a shelf-a picture, she said, of Laney with their mother-taken when Laney was about twelve. The young girl in the photo was at a stage of life when her prettiness was already maturing into beauty, and he supposed that the changes her injuries brought to her appearance must have been all the more difficult for her family to bear because of that beauty. But having met Laney now, becoming acquainted with her now, he found himself unable to think of the image in the photo as the same person. Ciara might as well have shown him a picture of one of Laney’s ancestors.

“Around the time Laney was able to leave the hospital,” Ciara was saying, “my mom was already widowed and living with me, so Laney moved back in with us-right, Laney? Then my mom died about two years ago, just about the time I started working in Homicide. That was a rough time for both of us, but we had our routines set by then, so it wasn’t as hard as it might have been.”

Laney reached for the photo, and Ciara gave it to her. She held on to it without really looking at it. After a moment, she seemed to lose interest in it, and Ciara gently took it back and returned it to the shelf. “My brother and I look more like my dad,” Ciara said, “except I’ve got Mom’s hair and eyes, too.”

They ordered pizza-an apparent favorite of Laney’s.

“I’d better hit the road if I’m going to get up to Malibu this evening,” Alex said quietly, when he noticed that Laney was nodding off. “And I have that lecture to give about fire and bees.”

Ciara smiled. “Thanks for the ride. I know it was out of your way.”

“That stuff about the shortest distance between two points being a straight line? Really overrated.” Tired as he was, he meant it.

He decided to stop at home before heading up to Malibu. As he drove, he thought about Ciara and wondered how she managed to cope with all the pressures of the job and the pressures of being the primary caregiver for her sister. And still managed to be a damned good detective into the bargain.

Had any of her previous partners known about Laney? He doubted it. Word would have spread, most likely. The first time someone had called her B.B. Queen, someone else would have said to cut her some slack, and mentioned that she cared for a sister with severe disabilities.

And God, how she would have hated that.

“You can slit your throat with your tongue,” John had once told him. Hell if he’d be the one to talk about Ciara’s home life to anyone in the homicide bureau.