Nine

35

Manhattan Beach, California

Wednesday, May 21, 9:00 P.M.

“You’ve got everything?” John asked Chase, for at least the third time.

“Yes, sir,” Chase said.

“You could stay here tonight, if you’d rather. Alex won’t mind taking you back tomorrow. He’s going to have to be up there a lot this week, I imagine.”

“He’s right,” Alex said. “Want to stay?”

Chase hesitated, then shook his head. “They’re coming back early tomorrow. If I’m not home, my dad will be mad, and he’ll put me on restriction or tell me I can’t come here anymore.”

John sighed. “Probably right. But if you need us, you give a call, okay? I’ll come up there and talk to your dad about all of this as soon as I can drive again. Couple of weeks at most. Will you be able to hang tight until then?”

“I’ll be fine,” Chase said, and smiled, but Alex didn’t think it was a particularly convincing smile.

As he drove toward Sepulveda, he answered Chase’s questions about his day. He told him about the task force meeting-discussing the cases with the other investigators, assigning people to take on new areas of investigation, preparing for the press conference. He told him about the wallet and the milagros.

“Wow. So that was just like a gift from someone?”

“Sort of. In an investigation like this, you are always a little suspicious of gifts.”

His cell phone rang. “Brandon,” he answered.

“Alex? Dan Hogan.”

“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

“We’ve got another one. Another two, actually, but only one of them has a number on him. How far are you from Del Aire?”

“You said Del Aire, not Bel Air, right?”

“Right. Near LAX.”

“Just a few minutes away, but I’ve got my nephew with me. I’m taking him home to Malibu. Then I was going to try to follow up on Whitfield.”

“I need you to stop by the scene as soon as you can. It’s indoors this time. Is the nephew old enough to wait in the car for a little while?”

“He’s fifteen.” He glanced over and saw Chase’s look of intent interest. “Yes, I suppose he could wait, but this doesn’t sound like a ‘little while’ kind of scene.”

“Maybe you can work something out with Ciara-”

“You’ve called her already?”

“No, is there a problem?”

He realized how close he had just come to causing her trouble. He said, “No, I just got back from giving her a lift to Long Beach, that’s all. Too bad we didn’t get the call half an hour ago.”

He wondered how difficult it would be for her to make arrangements for Laney’s care. She must have had to do this a thousand times already, of course, but still-

“Alex, you there?”

“Yes, Dan. Sorry-tell me where I’m headed.”

He wrote down the address on a pad on the dashboard.

“The place belonged to an air freight company that went out of business,” Hogan said, “so everyone thought it was an empty warehouse. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding it. The damned press got wind of it through a radio call-we’ve already reprimanded the deputy-so we’ve had to set up a bigger than usual perimeter to keep the media the hell away. Once we knew that it was one of the ten, we cordoned off the area. But be prepared.”

“Any idea who the victims are?”

“The one with the number on him is Seymour Merton-the sniper who’s been killing doctors.”

“The anti-abortion fanatic?”

“Right. No idea about the other one. There are things worth noting about the scene, but I’m not going to discuss them with you over the phone. I’ll be down there myself soon.”

“You’ve contacted Hamilton from the FBI?”

“He’s my next call after Ciara,” Hogan assured him.

“Okay. See you in a few.”

He hung up. He calculated the distances. He needed to get to the scene in Del Aire as soon as possible, to see it before all the world had tramped through the place. He definitely had to get there before the FBI showed up, or they might use it as an excuse to take control of the scene-Captain Nelson would never forgive him. If the press was already there, Hamilton could have already learned of it, too. No time to go back home. “Chase, I’m sorry-I’ve got to stop by a crime scene. I can’t take you in with me. Do you mind waiting in the car?”

“Oh man! No, I don’t mind.”

Alex laughed. “Trust me, Chase, this will not be exciting for you.”

“I promise I won’t cause any trouble.”

Alex saw one of John’s old friends among the deputies who were keeping the press and onlookers from getting too close. Alex parked the Taurus near where he was standing guard. He brought Chase over to introduce them to each other. “Chase is going to wait in the car for me, but if he should need me for any reason, can I ask you to make sure the message gets relayed to me?”

“No,” the deputy growled. “I’ll personally go in there and I’ll personally drag you out.” He turned to the boy and smiled. “Your uncle John never shuts up about you-but probably only because we told him he’d have to stop bragging about Alex here.”

Chase grinned and dutifully returned to the car.

Inside the building, Alex wondered if they were about to see a change in approach from the killers. One of the members of the Most Wanted list, all right, and with a number three written on his chest-but tied up in a specially constructed cell, shot to death, and not left hanging upside down. He almost questioned whether it was the same group, until he saw the other victim.

“Ricky Calaban,” he said. “One of Adrianos’s bodyguards.”

Kit sat in the rented Jeep Cherokee, waiting until he saw the signs of boredom on the faces of the sheriff’s deputies who were keeping watch on the perimeter of the crime scene. That might not be for a while yet. He watched members of the press attempt to get more information out of the lieutenant who had made a brief statement some minutes ago, but none succeeded.

Kit had been here almost before any of them. He heard the call go out on a scanner-supplied to him by Moriarty. He had been listening nonstop, hoping for a little piece of luck, and he got it.

Getting out of the house hadn’t gone as smoothly. Spooky caught up with him just after he had talked to Meghan. Meghan had been a few steps behind him, and only Moriarty’s quick intervention had prevented Spooky from launching herself at Meghan.

“What did you do to make Kit cry?” she had shouted. Kit couldn’t convince her that Meghan was not to blame, but at least she hadn’t been violent. He made her promise not to start any fires, or hurt Meghan (she nearly wouldn’t give him that one), or rob anyone who was in the house. He remembered to add, “Or on the grounds.”

Meghan had long since retreated to her room. He stood outside her door, not knowing if he should talk to her again or just leave. He had eventually gone into the study and used the phone there to call her on the intercom line-almost every room in the house had a speakerphone that was also part of the intercom system.

Apparently, he startled her, but she said, “Kit? Where are you?”

“I’m down the hall, in the study,” he answered. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“And this is how you do that?”

He didn’t answer.

She opened her door, came down to the study, said, “I’m fine, Kit,” turned around, walked back down the hallway, and closed her door again.

Moriarty, damn him, not only had watched but found amusement in all of this.

By the time Kit left, much later than he had wanted to, it was nearly dark. His plan was to observe Alex Brandon, maybe follow him to the next crime scene. Kit was still unconvinced that Brandon was trustworthy. He had to see that for himself. Too much was at stake. Gabe’s life, for starters.

As he drove down Pacific Coast Highway toward Manhattan Beach, he again felt that sensation of being followed. It was strong enough to make him hesitate to go near Brandon’s house. Moriarty had stressed how important it was not to let anyone else learn Brandon’s address-an unnecessary warning to give Kit, who was fully aware of the perils of drawing anyone else into the net Everett was casting. Kit believed that Everett could get Brandon’s address if he wanted it badly enough, but Kit wasn’t going to be the one to lead him to the detective’s home if he could help it.

Kit would do all he could to keep Brandon safe, even if the detective chose not to be of help. He had even given Brandon some milagros to help ward off danger. A man could never do too much to improve his luck.

So even though he had yet to see whomever it was that shadowed him, even though he was not entirely free of the suspicion that his imagination was getting the best of him, he made a decision when he reached LAX. He parked the Suburban near Terminal Four. He called Moriarty on his cell phone, so that by the time he took a van to the Hertz rental center, EL Enterprises had made arrangements for its representative, Mr. Ed Thomas, to pick up a Jeep there. He showed them his Ed Thomas driver’s license, and was on his way back to where the Suburban was parked. He loaded his equipment into the Jeep and drove away from the airport.

He turned on the scanner and heard a deputy call in a report of a 187-a homicide. Two victims. The deputy was shaken and asked the dispatcher to contact the task force. Within minutes, Kit found his way to the crime scene, but the Lennox Sheriff’s Station had already gone into action to close off the area.

He was already at its edges, though, and watching with binoculars when Alex Brandon arrived with a teenaged boy. That puzzled Kit. The boy’s eyes were the same bright blue as Brandon’s, and there was a resemblance, but he knew that Brandon had no children. He watched as the boy went back to the Taurus and stayed there-occasionally leaning out of the open car window to watch what was going on. The deputy they had spoken to when they first arrived took time to stroll over and talk to him whenever things slowed down a little.

Kit flipped through Moriarty’s notes and saw a reference to a nephew-one that Alex Brandon had supposedly never met, since he had nothing to do with his brother and ex-wife.

He looked up to see Diana Ontora, the reporter from Channel Three, hurrying alongside a young man in an Armani suit. The man in the suit was trying to make his way to the deputy checking the credentials of detectives, evidence technicians, coroner’s office personnel, and all the other people who had a legitimate reason to be on the other side of the yellow tape. He ignored the reporter and left her shouting questions while he signed in. The man seemed familiar to Kit, but he couldn’t recall where he had seen him. The questions indicated the man was an FBI agent.

The agent didn’t enter the building immediately, because Alex Brandon and Ciara Morton walked out, and he met them and spoke with them for a few minutes before going inside. As Kit watched through the binoculars, Detectives Morton and Brandon walked toward Brandon’s car. It seemed to Kit that the two detectives were on better terms now than they had been earlier in the day, at the press conference.

The teenager stepped out of the car again. Watching them together, Kit felt sure that this must be Brandon’s nephew. Chase Brandon.

Ontora was next warned away from Brandon’s Taurus by the deputy. Kit had to admire her tenacity.

All attention suddenly focused on some activity near the door of the building, and the television camera lights glared bright. Flashes strobed. The coroner’s assistants were bringing out the bodies. Both bodies were encased in dark bags. They were placed in the coroner’s van, which drove away within minutes after its doors were closed.

The television crews began leaving. The lieutenant made a final statement, and most of the reporters left, too. Close to the building, crime scene tape and wooden barriers were still in place, but beyond them, there was not the same number of patrol cars or officers on foot-most of the deputies were being released to other duties. Even the FBI man left. Ontora made another try, but again came up with nothing. Ciara Morton left next-he noticed Ontora didn’t even bother approaching her.

Kit got out of the Jeep and stretched his legs. The long hours of driving over the past few days had left his muscles stiff, and he decided to walk a little. He drank from a bottle of water and opened a package of beef jerky. He stayed in the shadows. If anyone else asked, he had credentials to show he was Ed Thomas, reporter for the Mountain Chronicle.

He found a short, darkened alley and stepped just inside its entrance. Its shadows hid him as he leaned against one of its walls. Perhaps some new story was breaking, because Ontora quickly ordered her crew back to the news van and drove off.

Something scraped against the pavement of the alley, and Kit flattened himself against the wall. It occurred to him that he might be invading some homeless person’s territory-or the territory of someone violent. He didn’t feel fear so much as annoyance. He had skills now that he had not had at fourteen and felt capable of defending himself. Besides, he wasn’t far from a dozen or more members of the sheriff’s department. But he’d prefer to avoid making any kind of scene.

His clothing was dark, so he might not be noticed. He listened carefully, and now he recognized the sound. He stared into the darkness, and gradually he made out the form of a large dog creeping slowly toward him.

As it moved into the light, he felt his heart stop.

A skinny yellow Labrador retriever.

Not Molly, he told himself, but he already knew that. The dog had a different face, was closer in looks to a true Lab than his beloved mutt, was younger, not much more than a pup. Again he felt the unyielding grip of grief, felt it take hold of him as it did with any thought of her, and for a moment he could not breathe or think or move.

Was this some omen? he wondered. Labradors were one of the most popular breeds in the country, but why, out of a thousand breeds of dogs, was this dog so similar to the one he had buried only a few days ago?

He stepped forward, and the dog flattened itself against the ground. Kit slowly lowered himself so that he was squatting over his heels. The dog crept closer, looking up at him uncertainly. Its tail was tucked between its legs. He saw it look nervously toward the street, and was surprised to see Chase Brandon standing nearby.

“Is that your dog?” Chase asked in a soft voice.

“No,” Kit said.

Chase moved a little closer, slowly approaching until he was only a few feet away from Kit. He kneeled down and sat back on his heels. “It’s okay, fella,” he said to the dog, half singing to it. “We won’t hurt you.”

The dog’s tail uncurled and gave a small wag.

To Kit, Chase said, “I think he wants your beef jerky. Or maybe your water.”

Kit saw his earnest look of concern for the dog and smiled. He extended both the water and the opened package of jerky to him. “Here, you try. I think he already trusts you more than he does me.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Kit saw the dog’s eyes follow the package with longing. Chase held out a stick of jerky, and the dog took it quickly but gently. A few moments later, the dog was eagerly lapping water from Chase’s hand.

All the while, Chase spoke to it, told him he was a good dog, asked him where he had been and why no one was feeding such a handsome fellow.

Kit looked at the dog’s dirty coat, the scrape on his hindquarters, the tendency of one ear not to lie quite as flat as it should, behaving more like a wing than an ear. The alley itself smelled better. “He is handsome, isn’t he?”

“He needs more to eat,” Chase said, and looked up at Kit.

“Sorry, I’m out of beef jerky.”

Chase went back to talking to the dog. “You’ve got rust on you,” he said, stroking the coat gently. “Is that who you are-Rusty?”

The dog, it seemed, had fallen in love as well. Revived by what Kit guessed to be the best meal it had enjoyed in days, undoubtedly hoping for more, it was showering kisses on its benefactor.

“He doesn’t have a collar or a tag,” Chase said.

“No,” Kit said. “I don’t think anyone has cared much about him for some time.”

“I know how you feel,” Chase said in a low voice to the dog.

“Chase!” a man’s voice called frantically. They looked up to see Alex Brandon standing near his car, obviously searching for his nephew.

“Sounds to me as if someone cares after all,” Kit said. “You’d better let him know where you are. See you around.”

“Wait! What about Rusty?”

“Fight for him,” Kit recommended, “or forget you met him.”

He hurried away from Chase and the dog, back to the Jeep. If the boy left the dog here, he would do what he could for it.

“I’m here, Uncle Alex!” Chase called.

Alex all but ran to where he was. “Jesus Christ, you scared the hell out of me!”

“I needed to take a leak. I told the…”

“Whose dog is that?”

There was an uneasy silence, then Chase said, “His name is Rusty. He likes me.”

Alex was just ready to leave the scene, when Lieutenant Hogan came in to tell him that Frederick Whitfield IV had been found dead in a Maserati off Mulholland Highway-Whitfield and another young male, Morgan Addison, apparently had a suicide pact. “You realize what this means?” Hogan had said. “If we can tie these two to the crime scenes, we’ve seen the end of this business. And not a moment too soon, if you ask me. I know it’s late, but you’d better head out there.”

Unlike Hogan, Alex hadn’t felt excited. If Frederick Whitfield IV had committed suicide, all the answers died with him.

What brought you to this? Why would you-a rich, good-looking young man with the resources to do almost anything-turn into a killer, and then kill yourself? How is it that your family never noticed what you were up to?

The answers to a hundred questions would be nothing but guesswork from now on. It was a damned waste all the way around.

So he had gone outside in a foul mood, not-as Hogan suspected-because he now had to drive another forty or fifty miles to a new crime scene, but because this was not the way he wanted this one to end. And he wondered if Frederick Whitfield III would give a damn, over in France or wherever the hell he was, when he learned that his son had shot himself.

He talked Hogan out of calling Ciara back, saying that he’d call her himself if needed, but this way one of them would get some sleep. He agreed that Hamilton should be notified as soon as possible. He was debating whether to take Chase home to Malibu or back to his own house, when he saw that Chase was no longer in the car.

He felt panic, anger, and guilt for leaving Chase alone so long. And let his temper get the best of him. Chase was looking up at him now with a mixture of defiance and uncertainty. He was petting one of the most pathetic examples of a Labrador Alex had ever seen. The dog’s fur reeked of smells Alex didn’t really want to identify. Chase had to be starved for company if he’d befriended this thing.

The thought suddenly reminded Alex of another rich kid whose parents had left him behind. “I can see that he likes you,” Alex said. “And I’m sorry-I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’ve just had a rough night, that’s all. And it’s not over, so we need to get going.”

“We’re going to another case?”

“Let me restate that. I need to go to another crime scene. You need to decide if you’d rather go back to my house or Malibu tonight.”

“What about Rusty?”

Alex opened his mouth to say, “Leave him,” but shut it without uttering a word. The dog was watching him, too, now. He’d have to be diplomatic if he was going to talk Chase out of this. He’d start with the blame going elsewhere. “Will your folks let you keep a dog?”

Chase shook his head. Still, Alex noted, there was hope in his eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to crush it. “You want me to keep your dog at my house, is that it?”

Chase looked down at the dog, who briefly wagged his tail, then seemed to pick up on his new friend’s mood. In a voice Alex could barely hear, Chase said, “It doesn’t sound fair to you after all, I guess.”

I’ve lost my mind, Alex thought, but said, “Just promise me that the minute we get home, you’ll bathe the dog. Then you’ll bathe yourself and put your clothes in the wash…”

How much of this Chase heard, he wasn’t sure, because he was shouting with glee and the dog was barking. Chase jumped up and hugged Alex before Alex guessed what he was going to do. “You’re welcome, but now you’re going to pay my dry cleaning bill, too. And probably for a car wash. God almighty, that dog stinks. You sure that damn thing is alive? Jesus, he must have rolled in garbage…”

But Chase was hugging the dog now and waving to someone. Alex turned to see a man driving off in a Jeep.

“Who was that?” he asked.

“Some reporter. Rusty liked him.” He paused, then added, “He gave me his water and beef jerky, so that I could give them to Rusty.”

“I’ll have to thank him someday,” Alex said under his breath.