The Sanctuary

7

WEDNESDAY

KEITH HAMMOND, THE sheriff’s deputy who’d taken down Bruce Randell, wasn’t eager to be found. I might have just given up and gone to the authorities to find him if not for my own aversion to the law. Danny had done a good job steering me clear, and when my dedication finally paid off two days later, I was relieved to learn that Keith was no longer professionally tied to the law.

He lived in a condo on Acacia Avenue in Huntington Beach, a twenty-five-minute drive from my home in Long Beach without traffic. The neighborhood, only ten blocks from the ocean, was populated by free-spirited types who would rather head to the beach than to work. The condo was nice enough—white with green bushes along the base of the building and a bright green canopy leading up from the sidewalk. Several large palm trees in the back rose over the roof. But it wasn’t the neighborhood I cared about, it was the man who lived inside 1245 Acacia Street #3. I was now pinning my hopes on him. All of them.

I sat in my Corolla down and across the street, gently picking at my lower lip as I obsessed over how best to meet him. When to make my move. What to say. How to determine if I could trust him. Whether he would be willing to help. If he still had the mustache from his days in the Los Angeles County sheriff’s department, as pictured.

He didn’t have a Facebook profile, which was fine, because neither did I. He hadn’t made any news for a few years. Good enough—I hadn’t either, at least not for three years, and then only as an unidentified subject in a rather nasty slaying.

What he did have was a two-year history working as an attorney, and five years in the sheriff’s department before that. Best as I could fit the rather disconnected pieces together, Keith had joined the sheriff’s department right out of law school, served for five years, entered private practice, and then dropped off the scene altogether a year or two ago.

The Los Angeles Times had at least a dozen stories that included the name Keith Hammond in their archives, five of them about the bust and the high-profile trial of a meth cook and distributor, one Bruce Randell.

Bruce: the viper doing time in Basal who hated priests and was now going to kill Danny. Over my dead body. Likely both.

Keith spoke of his reason for leaving the sheriff’s department in an article about Martinez Boutros, the only client from his two years of law practice that I was able to identify. Boutros was a twenty-six-year-old Mexican immigrant who’d been charged with murder in a drug case. He was wrongfully accused, Hammond claimed, and then he was acquitted. And the Times came looking to find out why Keith had switched sides from drug buster to busting out druggies.

In a short statement Keith claimed he’d left the sheriff’s department to find true justice. When pressed about how the department lacked true justice, he sidestepped the question.

Conclusion: Keith left because of corruption in the system. Maybe not, but honestly, that’s what I hoped for. Then he took up practicing the law to defend the innocent. And then…well, then he’d quit on the system altogether.

That’s what I pieced together. That and the fact that he’d gone through a bitter divorce eight years earlier, about the time he quit the sheriff. He’d been twenty-seven years old at the time and was now thirty-five, same age as Danny.

I had my attorney, albeit one who no longer practiced law. I had my defender of the weak, righter of wrongs, and, most important, I had someone with a common enemy: Bruce Randell.

But that was only in my mind. In reality, I didn’t have him at all. He lived in the condo across the street, and for all I knew he’d moved there to get away from people like me.

The sun was long gone, and I was about to give up in frustration when a black Ford Ranger approached the condo, turned up the driveway, and pulled into the garage on the first floor. I could hardly mistake the face of the man through the windshield. The man who would help me save Danny had come home.

How he could help, I didn’t know. But that wasn’t all I didn’t know. Short of storming Basal with an Uzi—and believe me, I’d thought about it—I didn’t know how to get to Danny. I didn’t know who I could trust, who I could get to listen, who I could hire. I needed someone to help me think. To be with me, because alone I was lost.

The instant the garage door closed, I opened my car door, stepped out into the gray dusk, and headed across the street. I climbed the three steps to the condo’s landing, pushed the doorbell, and stepped back. Hoping to make a good impression, I’d washed my hair twice, blown it half-dry and combed it out so that it laid naturally. The Miss Me jeans I wore were boot cut, better than the skinny jeans I used to wear. My top was a brown BKE with dolman sleeves. I knew these things because I bought all of my clothes from either the Buckle at the Irvine Spectrum Center or from the online store, and I stick to what makes me comfortable without looking shabby. Jane had introduced me to the Buckle two years earlier, and I hadn’t found the need to switch.

I rarely wore a bra around the apartment, but out was a different matter. I’d chosen one of two padded bras that I owned. There’s no way to make B breasts look like double-D breasts, and even if there was, I wasn’t interested. Still, I was on a mission and I figured a little help wouldn’t hurt.

The door opened and Keith Hammond stood in the condo’s entry light. His short hair was blond and tossed but still somehow neat, his face was clean shaven but he still looked rough, his jeans were marked but not torn, his shirt was a blue button-front with short sleeves, but it wasn’t buttoned. How he’d gotten so casual so quickly was a bit of a mystery, but my first impression of him was hopeful.

He looked like the kind of man who wasn’t confined by the system.

“Sorry, honey, whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying,” he said.

“You’re Keith Hammond?” I replied.

“That would be me.”

“Can I come in?”

“Umm, why?”

See, that’s what I would have said. He wasn’t only outside the system, he was cautious. That was good.

“Because I have some information you might find interesting, that’s why. And I’m not selling it.”

“And who are you?”

“My name is Renee Gilmore.”

“Information, huh? And what makes you think I need any information, Renee Gilmore?”

“Because you and I have the same enemy.”

His brow arched. “Is that so? And who might that be?”

“Bruce Randell,” I said.

Up to that point Keith had worn the face of a man who is mildly amused. But when I gave him the name, the light went out of his eyes.

“I wouldn’t say that Mr. Randell is my enemy,” he said. “Our paths crossed once, but that was a long time ago.”

“Do you know where he is today?”

“Chino, last I heard.”

“He’s in Basal.”

“Basal?”

“Basal Institute of Corrections.”

“The experimental prison.”

“The inmates call it Basal.”

“And why should that concern me?”

“Because Danny’s there too.”

“And who’s Danny?”

“My husband,” I said. “Well, not technically. Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“Can I come in?”

“You do realize I don’t practice law anymore.”

“I’m not looking for a lawyer.”

“How did you hear about me?”

“I tracked you down. Can I come in?”

He studied me for a moment, then stepped aside. “Be my guest. But I can assure you there’s nothing I can do for you. Unless you’re looking for a drink and dinner. That I think I could manage.”

I ignored the compliment and looked around his condo. Stairs to my right descended to what I assumed was the garage and maybe a room or two. The brown carpet was lint free. Beyond the living room, a tiled breakfast bar divided the rest of the living space from a spotless kitchen, although I couldn’t see the sink from where I stood—sinks always speak the truth. By all appearances Keith looked to be a clean man who was comfortable enough in his own shell to leave his shirt unbuttoned when answering the door.

But I wasn’t here to judge his cleanliness. I wanted his help.

He stepped past me, doing up one button in a respectable show of modesty. “Look, Renee…I know you think there’s a connection between us, but I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” He put a hand on the stair rail and crossed one leg over the other. “You’ve obviously done your research and know that I helped put Bruce Randell behind bars, but like I said, that was a long time ago. I really don’t care what he’s doing, as long as he stays where he was put.”

“He’s trying to kill Danny,” I said.

“Your not-really-husband husband.”

“That’s right. And I can’t get into Basal to warn him.”

“What makes you think I can? Assuming I wanted to. Prisons are run by wardens who all share at least one goal: preventing violence. You should be talking to the warden, not to a washed-up cop-turned-attorney who walked away from it all. I dabble in stocks for a living now, did you know that too?”

“That’s why I need your help.”

“Why? Because I trade stocks?”

“Because you’re washed up. Like me.”

He glanced at my name-brand jeans. “You don’t look washed up to me.”

“That’s because you don’t know me,” I said, and then I pushed the point, thinking I had to use what I could for Danny’s sake. “Would you like to?”

The light sparked in his eyes, or maybe it was only my imagination. “Boy, you’re full of surprises, aren’t you? Thank you, but no, I’m not really looking for a romantic relationship with a woman right now.”

“Did I say romantic? I just assumed by your history that you are a kind person interested in doing the right thing. Like helping a woman who has nowhere left to turn.”

“Then you don’t understand my history. I had my chance to help people and I turned my back on it. All of it. I wish I could help you, but I’m not the person you’re looking for.”

It wasn’t going well, but, considering my options, I wasn’t about to let him off the hook that easily. He was like me, you see. He just wanted to be left alone to live his life in peace.

I stepped past him, walked into his living room, and sat down on a stuffed tan chair, keeping my eyes on the window. I didn’t intend to appear distraught, I just wasn’t interested in his dismissal.

He hesitated, then followed me and eased into the couch opposite me without a word. We sat like that for a few moments, silent, an odd stalemate of sorts. And he didn’t seem inclined to break it.

So I did.

“I received a call on Monday from a stranger who told me he was going to kill Danny. He was just transferred to Basal and there’s no way for me to make contact. That same afternoon a woman named Constance came to my apartment and told me that an inmate named Bruce Randell was a threat to Danny.”

“None of this really matters to me—”

“I got a finger in a shoe box,” I said.

“A finger?”

“Or something that looked like a finger. It was a warning.”

“From who?”

“Who do you think? Randell.”

He eyed me. I’d finally gotten his attention.

“Either way, none of this is really my concern,” he said.

“How can you say that?” I snapped. “You haven’t even heard what I have to say. You may be all cozy, sitting here trading stocks and drinking beer with your poker pals, but there’re people out there in the system who’ll die if you don’t help them. Me included.”

“You’re assuming I can help. And for the record, there’s no way to fix the system. It’s broken. Trying to fix it will only break you.”

“I’m already broken!”

He peered at me, unmoved, either a broken man himself or someone who didn’t care about anyone but himself. I had to hope it was the first.

“Do you still have your law license?” I asked.

“I haven’t practiced in over a year.”

“But you have it, right?”

“Yes.”

“Will you at least hear me out? It’s not every day a helpless woman comes knocking on your door asking you for help. Don’t be so cold.”

Keith leaned back and looked out the window. “That’s fair.” Eyes back on me. “So tell me.”

His insincere attitude toward my distress was infuriating. I almost stood up right then and left. But I didn’t have anywhere to go or anyone else to turn to. So I told him what I thought he needed to know. Nothing Danny would have disapproved of, mind you. Nothing about my past, only about Danny’s conviction and the events that had led up to my receiving the shoe box.

He listened to all of it, asking only a few questions, like an attorney making inquiries of a client he was considering taking on.

“And so you came here and waited for me,” he said after I’d finished.

“Yes.”

Keith nodded thoughtfully. “And that’s all?”

“Pretty much. Yes.”

“I’m really not coldhearted, you know.”

“I didn’t say you were. I only asked you not to be.”

“Any other time in my life and I might be all over this. But for reasons I’m not at liberty to share right now, none of which have anything to do with your predicament, I just can’t represent or assist you. Still, maybe I can give you some advice.”

It was a letdown, but not enough to dash my hopes. For the first time he was showing real interest in my predicament, as he called it.

“What kind of advice?” I asked.

“Your coming here, for starters. I don’t mean to alarm you, but the woman was right. People like Bruce routinely reach beyond the walls of their cells and destroy people on the outside. I’d advise against walking up to complete strangers and telling them the kind of things you’ve told me.”

“You’re underestimating me,” I said. “The only reason I came to you was because I had nowhere else to turn.”

“Just because someone’s a warden or a cop doesn’t mean they’re not working with people like Randell. Trust me, I’ve seen it from the inside.”

“Which is precisely why I’m here. You’re not on the inside anymore.”

“Just be careful. Also, I wouldn’t assume that Randell was the person who called you.”

“The timing doesn’t line up, right?” I said. “I know, but it’s still technically possible. Who else would call me?”

“Someone on the outside. It could even be unrelated to Randell’s beef with Danny. You said Danny confessed to killing two people. For all you know there were more. And he probably had run-ins with others he didn’t kill. Could be one of them. Was there any press on his arrest?”

“No.” His reference to Danny’s past sent a chill through my arms. Not only because he’d guessed the truth so quickly, but because his conclusion was one that had haunted me for the past two days. A ghost from our past had found us and wanted us dead.

“You can’t assume there were others,” I said.

“No, but it’s a possibility, and it makes more sense than Randell calling you. Actually, I think you could be as much the target as Danny.”

None of this was news to me, but again, hearing Keith say it made the threat sound more real. Why else would the caller have contacted me?

Keith’s reading of the situation didn’t fill me with fear as much as it focused my anger. I had been backed into a corner before, and Danny taught me to come out swinging. Or maybe I’d taught that to myself. Either way, whoever was coming after us wasn’t just going to pick us off like little varmints. They were playing the same kind of game Danny himself might have played before he’d taken the high road.

“And your point is?” I asked.

“Be careful.”

“I’m the most careful person in the world.”

“Good. You said Danny could take care of himself. So let him. Nothing from the outside’s going to help him. You could try an attorney, but even if one can get a message inside, warning Danny won’t help him as much as you might think. Prisons are a world unto themselves, understood only by those who live in them. Warning someone to watch his back in a prison is like telling a driver out here to watch out for other cars on the road. Unless he’s an idiot, Danny knows of the threat already.”

“You sure?”

He leaned back and shrugged. “Either way, there’s nothing you can do about it. If Randell really wants him dead, one of them will end up dead. That’s the kind of man he is.”

My gut felt like a sauna for bed bugs. Billions of them.

“So what do you suggest I do? Lock my doors and bar my windows and hope for the best?”

“No. I suggest you start trying to figure out who in either your past or Danny’s past might have a reason to come after you. You can’t stop Randell. He’s in a closed system. Forget him. Find out if someone else made that phone call. Find out who sent that shoe box.”

“Then help me do that,” I said, knowing that there was far more to the past than I could ever tell Keith.

It didn’t matter. He shook his head. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I wish I could but I just can’t.”

“You still have connections in the legal system, right? You know cops. You know the criminal world…”

“I also have a history that takes me out. I wish I could be more help.”

He was looking at me kindly enough, and if I wasn’t mistaken, his eyes betrayed interest in me as a woman, but he wasn’t going to bend. He’d made his point as plainly as he could. I’d probably said way too much.

“You can, you just don’t want to,” I said, standing up. “Where’s your cell phone?”

“My phone?”

“I’m going to give you my number. If you decide to help me out you’ll know where to find me. Or you could just call and breathe heavy.”

He studied me for a moment and smiled, then dug his phone out of his back pocket. “Give me your phone number.”

I did and he keyed it in. But I knew it was wasted time.

“Got it?”

“Got it,” he said.

“Can I have yours?”

“I’d rather not.”

“Of course not.”

But I hardly cared anymore. Someone was coming after me and there wasn’t a soul in the world who could stop them, including Keith Hammond. I was on my own.

It was time to go home and dig out the nine-millimeter.