Slow Kill

Chapter 13

R amona Pino often chuckled at television cop shows that were riddled with cliches and misconceptions about police work, dreamed up by writers who, for the most part, obviously didn’t know jack shit about the job. She especially got a kick out of a show that featured a shrink who hung around a police station giving instant psychological insights into suspects and a bombshell babe prosecutor who ran around tidying up flawed police investigations.

She didn’t know any shrinks or prosecutors who did things like that. In the real world, cops did most of the theorizing about suspects and virtually all of the hard grunt work necessary to bring a case to trial.

But this Friday morning, Ramona’s job was bringing her an unexpected bonus that had a bit of California glamor to it. She was being sent to work with the San Luis Obispo County Sheriff’s Department to wrap up the Spalding homicide case. Her airplane ticket and a per diem check were in her purse. She sat in Chief Kerney’s office with all of her case materials crammed into a soft canvas flight bag at her feet.

“When do you leave?” Kerney asked.

“This afternoon,” Ramona said. “Sergeant Lowrey has offered to put me up.”

“I think the two of you will hit it off.”

“We already have, Chief. She’s meeting me at the Santa Barbara airport.”

Kerney scribbled phone numbers of where he could be reached in Virginia on the back of a business card and gave it to Ramona. “I’ll be at Quantico for the next two weeks, and I want you to do something for me while you’re in California.”

Ramona put the card in her purse. “I’ll be glad to keep you informed, Chief.”

“It’s not just that,” Kerney said with a smile. “Although I’d appreciate updates. I want you to take a very close look at Spalding’s will and his corporate and personal financial records.”

“According to the San Luis Obispo Sheriff’s Department, they found nothing in Spalding’s will that strengthens our case,” Ramona said.

“This is for a completely different matter,” Kerney said. “Clifford Spalding had a son by his first wife, a boy named George, who ostensibly died while serving in Vietnam. I believe he faked his death, is still alive, and that his father knew the truth and covered it up for over thirty years.”

“Why?” Ramona asked.

“I don’t know,” Kerney said as he slid a manila folder across the desk to Ramona. “But it could have something to do with money.”

Ramona opened the folder, which contained a copy of Kerney’s case notes. “I’m not an accountant, Chief. Wouldn’t it be better to use auditors for this kind of assignment?”

Kerney nodded. “It would, if I wanted a full-scale financial investigation. All I’d like you to do is find out if Spalding or his company had any financial dealings with four people: Debbie Calderwood, who was George Spalding’s teenage girlfriend; Dick Chase, a Santa Barbara police captain; Ed Ramsey, the former police chief; and Jude Forester, a young detective in the department.”

“Cops on the pad?” Ramona asked.

“Possibly. I think you’ll understand my reasoning after you’ve read the file.”

“So much for sneaking in a day at the beach in sunny California,” Ramona said with a smile.

Kerney laughed. “Is your bathing suit packed?”

Ramona grinned, nodded, and got to her feet. “That was wishful thinking on my part, I guess.”

“Go swimming, Sergeant,” Kerney said. “That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.” Ramona turned on her heel and left the office.

Kerney lowered his gaze to the desktop, where there were letters to be signed, memos to be read, agendas of meetings to attend, and messages to be returned before he could leave for Virginia.

Kerney put his book aside as the plane taxied for takeoff at the Albuquerque airport. The afternoon summer sky was an unusually low gray blanket of formless clouds that dissolved at the base of the foothills, allowing sunlight to pour down on the mountains east of the city.

Once the plane was airborne, he tried to return to his book, a biography of Benjamin Franklin, but his thoughts were already in Arlington with Sara and Patrick. He had a vivid memory of the Cape Cod-style house where his wife and son would be waiting, and the events that put them there.

He remembered the long cross-country drive in Sara’s SUV with Patrick tucked safely in his infant seat, their arrival in Arlington, and the scramble to find housing within a reasonable distance of the Pentagon.

Sara had thought an apartment would be best, so they toured an area of Arlington known as Crystal City, with high-rise apartments, condominiums, hotels, and malls with trendy stores strung out along a busy thoroughfare.

Many of the apartment and condo rentals had magnificent views that looked across the river and took in the Washington Monument, the long grassy mall, and the Capitol in the distance. Kerney had liked none of them; they were boxy and the rents were totally preposterous.

One evening they left their hotel room with Patrick snug and happy in his carriage and took a walk through a nearby residential neighborhood.

“I don’t know why you’re so dead-set against an apartment,” Sara said as they walked the quiet, hilly streets of older homes with green grass lawns and big trees that towered over them. “Besides, you won’t be spending much time there.”

“Marble countertops, stainless steel appliances, plush carpeting, cedar closets, and city views aside,” Kerney said, “I just wouldn’t be happy back in Santa Fe thinking of you and Patrick living in some high-rise box.”

“Oh, I see,” she said teasingly, “this is all about you. Unfortunately, my basic housing allowance won’t cover anything but a rental.”

“How many real houses have you lived in since you graduated from West Point?” Kerney asked.

“Except for the brief times I’m in Santa Fe, not one,” Sara said as she bent down to give Patrick a quick look, who gurgled in response at the sight of her.

They sauntered around a corner and climbed a small rise where the homes and lots were larger, except for one vacant house at the bottom of the far side of the hill. It was a small brick house with a shingled pitched roof containing a row of second-story gabled windows. The front door, accented with pilasters, was reached by three steps. First-floor casement windows were lined up neatly on either side of the entrance. A FOR SALE sign in the front yard advertised “Immediate Possession.”

“That looks nice,” Kerney said.

Sara gave it a wistful glance. “It’s probably way out of the range of what I can afford.”

“If it’s sound, not overpriced, and meets with your approval, I think we should buy it.”

Sara looked at the house with heightened interest and then back at Kerney.

“We can afford it, you know,” Kerney said over his shoulder as he went to inspect the backyard. It had a thick carpet of grass, several large shade trees, and one long, raised flowerbed. “It’s fenced. Perfect for Patrick.”

“I’ll only be assigned to the Pentagon for three years at the most,” Sara said, not yet willing to get enthusiastic. “What if the house needs repair or renovation? That could be expensive.”

“Think of it as an investment,” Kerney said when he returned. “We’ll put a chunk of money down, pay the mortgage out of my inheritance income, and you can use your military housing allowance to gussie up the place if need be.”

Sara’s eyes danced. “Are you serious?”

“It would make me happy. Patrick would have a backyard to play in, you’d have a place with some peace and quiet, and I wouldn’t feel trapped inside a glass and steel high-rise when I come to visit.”

Sara laughed.

“What?”

“So it is really all about you,” she said.

Kerney grinned. “Only partially.”

The next day, they toured the house with the Realtor, who told them it had just come on the market and would sell quickly. They found it charming, in good condition, and because of its small size reasonably priced for the neighborhood. A similar property in the south capital district of Santa Fe would cost about the same.

Kerney made an offer to the owners through the Realtor, who saw no reason for it to be refused. He gave the man an earnest money check, and together with Sara signed a binder requiring the owners to accept their offer by 5 P.M.

Outside of the house, Sara stood with Patrick on her hip, cradled at her side in a protective arm. She smiled up at Kerney. “Amazing.”

Her time in New Mexico had deepened the small line of freckles across her nose, lightened her strawberry blond hair, and given her a bit of a high-desert tan. Her green eyes never looked more lovely.

“What’s amazing?” Kerney asked.

Sara laughed. “You are. I’m a very lucky woman.”

Kerney pulled her close and kissed her. “No, I’m the lucky one,” he said seriously.

Nothing pleased Jefferson Warren more than representing clients who were tough-minded, clear-headed, and readily understood that the application of law was institutionalized warfare between citizens and the state, bound by legal rules, court opinions, precedent, and statutes.

Warren liked fighters, and Claudia Spalding was scrappy, focused, and unruffled. He’d had such clients before upon occasion, but never one like Claudia, who seemed to possess an icy inner core coated by a refined but readily apparent sexuality. She aroused him in a strange, exciting way.

As always, Warren’s first questions had been the most important ones. Had she made any statements to the police? Confessed to the crime? Talked about her case to inmates, jail staff, prosecutors-anybody?

“Of course not,” Spalding answered, as though the questions were absurd. “I’ve only spoken to the attorney who represented me at the arraignment.”

Warren waited for more; in fact, he expected it. Some clients rushed to proclaim their innocence, while others, stung by the reality of jail, feverishly questioned him about what could be done to gain their freedom. Some clients even wanted to confess to him, and were shocked when he stopped them quickly and told them he was a lawyer, not a priest.

Claudia Spalding fit none of those profiles. She sat with her back straight, clear-eyed and poised, her slender, elegant hands folded on the table, and looked at him comfortably during the long silence.

“You have no questions for me?” Warren finally asked, amazed at her composure.

“Do you have a plan?” she asked, without a hint of dismay.

“I believe so,” Warren said, pushing aside the thought of what she might be like in bed. “Let me tell you what we can do in the short term.”

It took only a few minutes for Warren to lay out his strategy and explain the rationale behind it. Claudia asked several questions about the points of law he’d raised, then she stood and offered Warren her hand. Her palm was cool to the touch, her nails perfectly manicured, and her grip sure and firm.

“I’ll expect to hear from you directly,” she said with a brief, fleeting smile.

“Of course,” Warren replied, waiting for an out-pouring of relief. None came.

He watched as the guard took her away. Something about the woman was dark, unfathomable, and fascinating, like the ancient maps that marked uncharted waters with the warning HERE BE MONSTERS.

The image of Claudia Spalding, cool and aloof in her jail jumpsuit, stayed with Jefferson Warren as he climbed the courthouse steps in San Luis Obispo on a Friday afternoon and walked through the stylized pediment entrance into the dark hallway.

Outside the judge’s chambers, the DA, a pompous man with a wide, horseshoe bald spot that covered most of his freckled skull, intercepted him at the door.

“You’re wasting my time if you’re planning to ask the judge to reconsider granting bail,” he said smugly.

Warren smiled down at the portly DA, smoothed his silk tie against his cream-colored shirt, buttoned his jacket, and opened the door. “I’m sure you know the judge’s mind far better than I ever will.”

They found the presiding judge, Truett Frye, in his chambers watching the early evening news on a small portable color television. Frye clicked off the televison and stood, unwinding his lanky six-five frame as the two men approached his desk.

“This better be worth my time, Mr. Warren,” he said. “I should have been home an hour ago.”

“It’s really quite simple, your honor,” Warren said. “The alleged murder of Clifford Spalding did not occur within your jurisdiction.”

“He died here,” the DA interjected.

“Granted,” Warren replied. “But the legal definition of homicide requires a willful, deliberate, and premeditated act. According to the arrest affidavit and supporting documents, no such act occurred within San Luis Obispo County in the state of California.”

The DA snorted in disbelief. “For a two-month period, Clifford Spalding took medication that was prepared and deliberately given to him by his wife and her lover expressly to cause his death. It doesn’t matter where it all started; they were killing him slowly, here, in New Mexico, and wherever else he might have been during that time.”

Frye looked at Warren. “Your rebuttal, counselor?”

“There is nothing in the statute that speaks to how long it takes a victim to die, or where he dies, Your Honor. Suppose a man is shot but survives long enough to drive himself to a hospital across the county line, or even into a neighboring state. In what jurisdiction should the killer be held accountable for the act?”

“Where the act took place,” Frye said, swinging his attention to the DA.

“Think of the altered medication Clifford Spalding was given as a poison, Judge,” the DA said. “He took it every day, as prescribed by his doctor, which means he was poisoned in California.”

“Can you prove that?” Warren asked.

“The autopsy blood work confirms it,” the DA said.

Warren shook his head. “It only confirms that Spalding ingested the substance, not where he took it. Therefore, arguably, the murder occurred in New Mexico, where my client allegedly acted with specific intent to cause the death of her husband, time and place notwithstanding.”

“We have a confession from Spalding’s lover,” the DA said, “that fully implicates her.”

“And proves my point,” Warren noted.

Frye gave the DA a cold stare. “Who signed the warrant and affidavit?”

The DA named the judge.

He held out his hand. “Let me see them.”

The DA passed the documents to Frye, who put on his glasses, paged through them, and then looked at Warren.

“I see your point, Mr. Warren,” he said, “but I don’t see what good it will do your client. The DA can drop his charges and continue to hold Mrs. Spalding in custody on the New Mexico warrant.”

“There is no New Mexico arrest warrant, Your Honor,” Warren said.

“Is that so?” Frye asked the DA.

“I’ll get one,” the DA answered nervously.

Warren smiled. “Until such time, Your Honor, I respectfully request that Mrs. Spalding be released from jail.”

Frye glared at him. “So ordered.”

“Thank you. Would you call the jail now?”

Frye slammed his hand down on the telephone. “You’d better make damn sure your client stays put, Mr. Warren.”

“She gave me assurances to that effect, Your Honor. She’ll be at her home in Montecito. I’ll take her there myself.”

While Frye made the call, the DA used his cell phone to rally the sheriff’s troops.

With a signed release order in hand, Warren left the courthouse, called the jail, and told them he would be picking up Mrs. Spalding in a matter of minutes. Two deputies in unmarked police cars were waiting when he arrived. Warren figured a surveillance team was probably on the way to Montecito to make sure she stayed put while other detectives scrambled to get an arrest warrant from New Mexico.

He went inside and got Claudia, who didn’t say a word until they were in his car.

“Well done,” she said as she buckled her seat belt.

“I don’t think you’ll be free for very long,” Warren said as he pulled onto the highway, the two unmarked police cars close behind. He explained the situation. “Perhaps no more than a matter of hours.”

“I understand,” Claudia said softly.

Warren glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. The hem of her black dress rode up an inch above her knees, showing sleek, smooth calves. Her hips were nicely rounded, her neck long and flawless.

She turned her head and smiled warmly at him. “Could you hurry a bit, please?”

Claudia Spalding’s allure was subtle yet powerful, and Warren found himself obediently hurrying along.

At the gate to the estate, the two unmarked police cars pulled to the curb as he turned into the driveway and entered the code Claudia provided on the keypad. He drove up the lane not knowing what to expect. But he’d represented many celebrity clients, was familiar with their extravagant lifestyles, and figured the estate had to be top of the line. When the mansion came into view it matched anything he’d seen in Beverly Hills.

He parked and looked at Claudia Spalding. “There’s a slight chance the judge will reconsider granting bail if you’re here when the police show up with a new warrant. I’ll certainly make a strong argument for it.”

“That’s something to look forward to,” Claudia said.

“Would you like me to stay with you until they arrive?”

Claudia shook her head, her hand on the door latch. “No, Mr. Warren, that won’t be necessary.”

“It would be in your best interest to have me stick around,” he said, fully aware his motives were mixed.

Claudia flashed him a knowing smile and stepped out of the car. “Yes, I’m sure it would. Good night, Mr. Warren.”

He watched her walk to the house, her posture perfect, body moving in a lithesome rhythm, as though she didn’t have a care in the world.

Lieutenant Dante Macy found it no easy matter to have a warrant for Claudia Spalding’s arrest issued by a Santa Fe district court judge. Since it was after normal working hours on a Friday, he first had to go through a Santa Fe PD dispatcher, who put him in touch with the highest ranking officer on duty, a patrol captain, who in turn referred him to the lieutenant in charge of special investigations.

Macy called the lieutenant at home, who contacted an off-duty detective named Matt Chacon. Detective Chacon got on the stick in a hurry and talked to the ADA on duty. He reported back promptly to Macy that the original arrest affidavit prepared by Sergeant Pino had been turned down by the DA and would have to be reworked and re-submitted.

Macy knew Pino was on her way to California, bringing with her all the case materials. “Do you have the information you need to do it?”

“We have copies of everything,” Chacon replied.

“How long will it take you?”

“I’ll use what the sergeant wrote, add in the Dean confession, and that should do it.”

“How long?” Macy repeated.

“An hour to do the paperwork,” Chacon replied. “I’ll hand-carry it to the ADA, who has the judge who signed the warrant for Dean standing by.”

“My sheriff, who’s not a happy camper, is hovering over my shoulder on this, Detective. When will I get a faxed copy?”

“Give it two or three hours, Lieutenant,” Chacon said, “barring any unforeseen delays.”

“Like what?” Macy asked.

“The district attorney wants to sign off on it. I think he’s talking to your DA as we speak.”

“Are there any political issues regarding Claudia Spalding I should know about?” Macy asked.

Chacon chuckled. “I don’t think Claudia Spalding has any political clout at all in Santa Fe. From what I know about her, she didn’t come here to engage in civic affairs, if you get my meaning.”

In spite of himself, Macy laughed. “Okay. Thanks for pushing it along, Detective.”

“No problem. I’ll have it to you as fast as I can.”

Macy called Bill Price, who had a team of officers on stakeout at the Spalding mansion. “Is everything quiet?”

“No problem, LT. She hasn’t moved, and no one’s been to visit since the lawyer dropped her off.”

“We should have a warrant from New Mexico in two or three hours. I’ll let you know as soon as it comes through.”

“Ten-four,” Price said.

Because Ramona’s tickets had been booked a day before her departure, she wasn’t able to fly directly to San Luis Obispo and had to lay over at the Phoenix airport and catch the last flight to Santa Barbara.

For a time, she sat in the busy concourse oblivious to the people around her and read through the chief’s case notes on George Spalding.

Kerney had put everything in chronological sequence, and his narrative style was crisp, clear, thoroughly detailed, and filled with solid observations. The notes read like a compelling mystery, and by the time Ramona finished she was caught up in the case, eager to know where George Spalding was and why he’d faked his own death.

Ramona wasn’t surprised by Kerney’s investigative skills. She’d watched him work several major crimes, and knew he’d spent most of his career in the major felony crime unit as he rose through the ranks.

Because of his background in investigations, Kerney paid a bit more attention to the unit than most chiefs normally would. But he didn’t shirk his larger responsibilities, and Ramona hadn’t heard any complaints of favoritism from members of the other divisions.

She put the case notes away and did some people watching. Businessmen and -women in rumpled suits traveling home for the weekend wandered back and forth pulling their wheeled carry-on bags and talking on cell phones. Weary parents chased after hyperactive children. Electric carts with flashing red warning lights passed by carrying senior citizens, frail and disabled people, and young mothers holding infants. Teenage girls in tight jeans showing bare midriffs clattered along. There were middle-aged men in baggy shorts and T-shirts, and an abundance of overweight people.

Her flight left on time and the small turbojet flew west into the sun, with Phoenix and its suburbs below spreading out for miles across the desert floor. Not yet immune to the fun of flying, Ramona passed the time looking out the window. When the plane banked and turned on its final approach to Santa Barbara the ocean came into view, shimmering like an enormous undulating sheet, each wave tufted in white as it broke against the shore.

The Santa Barbara airport was much like the one in Santa Fe, which also served only commuter jets and private aircraft. Portable stairs were rolled up to the plane to unload the passengers, and the terminal, a quaint, tidy California mission-style building, was just a few steps away. Inside, the passenger area was empty, and a small cluster of people waited behind the security barrier, manned by a bored-looking guard sitting on a stool next to the baggage screening machine.

A pretty woman, perhaps two inches taller than Ramona, with short, dark hair and a dimple in her cheek, stepped forward and waved in her direction.

“Ramona?” the woman asked with an easy smile.

“You must be Ellie.” Impulsively, she stepped forward and gave Lowrey a hug.

“Welcome to California,” Ellie said. “Let’s get your bags and hit the road.”

As they waited at the covered baggage stall next to the terminal, Ellie’s cell phone rang.

“Is Sergeant Pino with you?” Lieutenant Macy asked.

“Yes, she just arrived,” Ellie said.

“Good. I need you both here now,” Macy said. “Claudia Spalding is out of jail.”

“What happened?”

“The judge threw out the arrest on a technicality and released her. She’s home, but I’ve got people there making sure she stays put.”

“Do you want us at Montecito?” Ellie asked.

“No, the sheriff and the DA want you and Pino here to vet the new arrest affidavit before it’s served. They want everything in perfect order.”

“Does it need vetting?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Are they just covering their butts?”

“I didn’t say that either,” Macy replied.

“We’re on our way.”

“Problems?” Ramona asked as she picked up her luggage.

Ellie smiled. “We’ve been called into work. I’ll tell you about it on the drive.”

“Another Friday evening shot to hell,” Ramona said cheerfully as she followed Ellie to her unit.

Much more than three hours passed while Detective Bill Price waited in his unit with all the windows down so that no outside sound would go unnoticed. Every ten minutes he checked in with his team by radio. All the entrances were covered, two detectives were constantly circling the estate perimeter in units looking for any sign of movement, and an officer was on station at the bottom of the hill ready to stop, ID, and question the destination of any drivers entering the street.

Price checked the time as he unwrapped a stick of gum and folded it into his mouth. The night breeze whispered through the trees, soft and soothing, and a full moon flung tangled webs of shadows from the branches across the roadway.

The distant sound of rotors made Price stiffen, listen intently, and look up at the empty sky through the windshield.

He got out and did a three-sixty scan. Tall trees blocked his line of sight in every direction.

The sound grew closer and a helicopter broke into view, traveling fast, descending quickly, veering toward the estate.

Price decided he couldn’t wait for Macy’s call. He reached into the car and grabbed the microphone. “Go, go, go,” he yelled. “Stop that chopper.”

Car engines roared to life, entrance gates opened, and police cars barreled onto the grounds from three directions, converging on the house. Price swerved around the lead car and braked hard by the front door just in time to see the chopper rise above the rooftop, displaying only the tail boom and rear fins as it flew away.

His cell phone rang. He took a deep breath to swallow his frustration and answered.

“You’re good to go,” Macy said.

Price watched the flashing anticollision beacon on the upper fin of the chopper recede in the sky. “It’s too late. A helicopter just picked her up.”

“Dammit,” Macy said. “You’re sure of that?”

“It just left, Lieutenant. We’re at the house now, but we haven’t searched it yet.”

“Do it,” Macy snapped. “I’ll notify all the area airports and local police departments.”

Price thought about LAX and Burbank, which weren’t that far by air, Santa Barbara just minutes away, and all the other, smaller fields Spalding could land at before any cops could get there in time. It seemed hopeless.

“Ten-four,” he said.

“Did you ID the chopper?” Macy asked.

“Negative, I couldn’t read the markings.”

“Dammit,” Macy said, this time with more feeling. “Seal that place off and search every inch of it. I’ll take care of the warrant affidavit. I want to know exactly what Spalding took with her.”

“Roger that.” Price put the cell phone away, gathered his team, and began the search.

The only person they found on the premises was Glenn Davitt, the estate manager, waiting for them in his quarters. He cheerfully admitted that he’d seen Claudia fly away.

“Did she say where she was going?” Price asked.

“No,” Davitt replied, “just that her arrest had all been a big mistake.”

“Were you with her when she arranged for the helicopter?”

Davitt shook his head. “I didn’t even know about it until it landed.”

“But you saw her leave.”

“Yeah.”

“What air charter company did she use?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“What was she carrying?”

“Two bags and a briefcase.”

“Did you see her pack?”

“No.”

“Where’s the housekeeper?” Price asked.

“She gave herself the night off.”

“But you stayed here. Why?”

“Look, I didn’t help Claudia, if that’s what you mean. And even if I had, like I said, she told me everything was cool and you guys had fucked up.”

Price didn’t believe one word of it. Pissed beyond belief, Price told Davitt he would be held as a material witness.

“What does that mean?” Davitt asked.

“You’re going to jail, and you’ll stay there until you’re called to appear at Spalding’s trial.”

“When will that be?”

Price smiled wickedly. “Who knows? Months, maybe. It depends on how long it takes to find her. What air charter company did she use?”

“Valley Air, out of Burbank.”

“There, that wasn’t so hard,” Price said as he dialed Lieutenant Macy’s number.

“Do I still have to go to jail?” Davitt asked.

“Maybe not.”

The full moon Kerney left behind in Santa Fe was hidden by a bleak night sky and a light wind that carried a mist of rain across the river into Arlington. A warm glow came through the windows of the house, and the exterior light was on in anticipation of his arrival.

He paid the cabbie and carried his bags inside just as Sara stepped out of the kitchen. He could feel the grin on his face spread the moment he saw her. Barefoot, dressed in shorts and a halter top that showed the flat muscles of her stomach, her long, slender legs, and the rise of her breasts, she hurried to him and he held her tight, smelling her scent.

After a long look at Patrick, sound asleep in his crib, they sat in the kitchen, Sara sipping wine and Kerney a glass of iced tea. They talked idly, comfortably, about small matters.

Kerney told her of his faulty attempt to build the rock retaining wall at the ranch, and described in detail the horses he’d bought. Sara told him Patrick was about to start teething, and that she was planning to have the old-fashioned radiators enclosed to protect him from accidental burns.

Later, with the bedsheets tangled at their feet, pillows pushed aside onto the floor, damp legs intertwined, Sara talked more about their son. How he was starting to say words, how he would sit quietly and stare at the pages in his picture books.

“He’s already reading and talking,” Kerney said. “What a genius. Do the three of us have the weekend together?”

Sara reached for the pillows, brought them up to the bed, and yawned sleepily. “We do.”

She ran her foot along Kerney’s leg and snuggled close. In the darkness, he listened until her breathing slowed into the quiet rhythm of sleep.

A cooperative Glenn Davitt supplied Price with phone numbers where Cora, the housekeeper, and Sheila, the personal assistant, could be reached. After making contact with them by phone, Price sent detectives to fetch them. Once they arrived, he had them show him the secret places where the Spaldings kept their important papers, cash, and valuables.

Cora took him to the hidden safes in the walk-in closets off the master bedroom. In the library, Sheila opened a sliding wall panel that concealed another safe.

All of them were locked, and since Price and his team didn’t know diddly about safecracking, he called in an expert, which meant waiting for the guy to show.

Once they were opened, Price found the closet jewelry safes had been cleaned out. Inside the library wall safe were insurance policies, prior year tax returns, real estate documents, car titles, personal property inventories, and current year quarterly investment statements.

One of the insurance polices carried a three-million-dollar jewelry endorsement. Appended to it was a list of the items with an appraised replacement value for each. A thick envelope contained photographs of the jewelry and watches. He called Lieutenant Macy.

“From what the housekeeper could tell me, Spalding packed casual traveling clothes. I don’t know how much money she has with her, or if she took her passport, but she cleaned out three million dollars in jewelry that can be pawned or sold for cash. I’ve got photographs of the jewelry we can circulate.”

“There’s a BOLO and fugitive warrant out on her,” Macy said. “Customs, the Mexican authorities, and Interpol have been alerted. Valley Air dropped her off at Burbank, where a car was waiting. We don’t know yet who picked her up or where they went.”

“I’m going to shut it down here, Lieutenant.”

“Leave a detective behind until I can get the Santa Barbara PD to put a close watch on the place.”

“Affirmative.”

Price gave the word to his team, walked outside, and studied the deep marks in the grass left by the helicopter landing skids. A daring escape from justice in a helicopter was something right out of a novel. Who would have thunk it?

Over the years he’d listened to a lot of tales by other cops about their biggest cases, the tough ones, the bizarre ones, the headline grabbers. Price figured he was smack in the middle of a doozie that topped them all.