See No Evil (19 page)

She didn’t know what he wanted. Sometimes he didn’t even know.

“Can you be sure no one saw you at the party?”

She didn’t say anything for a long minute. “Julia Chandler was there.”

“Dammit! Julia Chandler! What were you thinking? You should never have gone—”

“She doesn’t know who I am. I chatted with her very briefly, barely a word. Don’t ruin this night. This was the best night of my life. Garrett Bowen is dead. An eye for an eye. I watched him die and enjoyed every minute of it. I had to be there. You don’t understand. Sometimes I think you’re just like him—”

“No. Stop.” He squeezed his temples. “Okay, I’ll take care of it.”

“There’s no need. Julia Chandler doesn’t know…”

“But you can’t know that. She’s connected and smart. She’s looking into Wishlist. If she makes the connection to Jason Ridge, then she might—”

“Don’t say his name.” Her voice was almost a growl.

“I’m sorry.” She had become a liability, he realized.

Maybe he’d always known it would have to end up like this.

He might have to dispatch his team one more time, to tie up loose ends.

But first, Julia Chandler.

He called Cami. “I need another job done. Call Robbie. If he balks, kill him.”

TWENTY

C
ONNOR COULDN’T GET
her out of his head. Worse, in his thoughts, Julia was naked, laying on his bed doing things to him that left him needing a cold shower when he woke that morning at the crack of dawn.

When he got out of the shower, his cell phone was ringing. Seven in the morning? He glanced at caller ID and saw a number he didn’t recognize.

“Kincaid.”

“Hey, Kincaid. Billy Thompson.”

“Billy, what’s up?”

“I, um, am heading to the gym to play a little ball. I thought you might want to meet me. I haven’t seen you there much lately.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve been busy with this case.”

“I have some information.”

Connor glanced at the clock. He had time. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

Julia tried Michelle O’Dell again when she woke up early Sunday morning. Again, the answering machine picked up. This time, Julia left a message.

“Michelle, my name is Julia Chandler and I’m a deputy district attorney investigating a steroid-related death. I’d like to talk to you about Jason Ridge. Even if you think you have nothing to add to your statement, please call me.” Julia thanked her and left her cell phone number.

She hung up, frustrated. She showered, then went downstairs to review her notes. She drew out a timeline.

Jason Ridge is given a Deferred Entry of Judgment in a rape case.

Was Michelle O’Dell the victim? If it was Michelle, her mother probably wouldn’t have been so consolatory toward Jason.

Paul Judson is murdered.

Billy Thompson, a short-term member of Wishlist, had been investigated for the murder, cleared. He had posted an incriminating e-mail to the Wishlist loop. But he was innocent.

Jason Ridge dies.

Julia didn’t know much about steroid use, but she had to imagine it was dangerous. But could someone overdose on steroids like other hard drugs? She didn’t know and made a note to ask Dillon. The autopsy report said heart attack due to excessive steroid use. But what did that mean? Jason Ridge’s psychiatrist was Garrett Bowen.

Bowen’s name popped up everywhere. Everything connected to him.

Did Jason’s death have anything to do with Bowen? Or Wishlist? What if Jason was part of the group?

What if Jason’s
rape victim
was part of the group?

Stephanie Ridge.

After last night, Julia knew James Ridge wouldn’t say a derogatory word about his dead son. In his eyes, the kid had been perfect. But maybe Stephanie Ridge could contribute some realistic insight into her son’s death. And if it would help Emily, Julia would use every emotion at her disposal—guilt, remorse, anger if she had to—to find out the truth.

And where did Victor Montgomery fit in? The only connection, again, was through Bowen and the Wishlist—through Emily.

Julia went through the files, wondering if there was another connection. Something she’d missed. After all, she had over a thousand pages all over her kitchen table, most of them copies.

The judge who gave Jason Ridge the DEJ was Vernon Small.

Judge Small was dead. Julia hadn’t attended his funeral, nor had she particularly liked him. He was too easy on the bad guys, too hard on the good guys.

And now he was dead.

Coincidence? She didn’t remember how he’d died. He was old, that she knew. She’d assumed it was natural causes.

What if it wasn’t?

Connor hightailed it to the downtown gym. Though early on a Sunday morning, there was already a sprinkling of kids lifting weights or playing B-ball on the blacktop.

“Hey, Kincaid, we need another man. Two on two?”

Looking around for Billy, he didn’t see him. He glanced at his watch, realized he was ten minutes early.

“For a few minutes.” Connor tossed his duffel bag under the bench.

Jesus was a tall, skinny, fast-on-his-feet Cuban American kid who played hard. Mitch and Travis were long and lean six-foot-five-inch brothers who’d been in a gang until Connor busted them for possession with intent to sell and a concealed weapons charge only months before he quit the force. They’d been twelve and thirteen. They’d managed to turn their life around for the most part, but had dropped out of high school. Both worked full-time in blue-collar jobs with little future. But they were clean and spent all their free time at the youth center helping Connor keep the younger kids out of gangs.

Every so often they saved one. Jesus was one such kid. He’d landed a scholarship to Berkeley.

They played hard for thirty minutes before Connor realized Billy hadn’t showed. He called time and slapped the kids on the back. “You doing okay?” he asked.

“We’re hanging,” Jesus said.

“Keep it clean, bro.” Connor wiped down and looked around for Billy.

Ten minutes later, when Connor was ready to just leave, Billy entered the basketball courts.

“Hey, you’re late.”

“I don’t want to get fucked.”

“I wouldn’t fuck you, buddy.”

“I remembered what you said. You know, the pay it forward crap.”

Connor had tried to instill in the kids he met through the youth center that they always needed to do the right thing, even when they didn’t get a direct benefit from it. Most kids, particularly those in the gang culture, couldn’t see beyond their own wants and needs.

“And?”

“Well, I remembered something that might be important.”

“I’m all ears.”

Billy, to his credit, didn’t hesitate. “Some fine young woman came up to me a while back.”

“Does this gorgeous babe have a name?”

“She didn’t tell me. She was a white chick, blond, hot. I thought she might have a thing for black guys, so I listened.” Billy grinned.

“Yeah, you’re all hung,” Connor joked. “Nearly as well as Cubans.”

“Shit, you wish.” Billy laughed. “So Blondie comes up to me, all sexy and hot, and says she wants to talk to me about justice.”

Connor’s instincts hummed. The e-mail subject line in Emily’s post on Wishlist had justice in it.

“When was this?” he asked Billy.

“A week or so before Judson was shot.”

“What did you say?”

“I told her I’d listen. It was at the shop, after hours. She locked the door, got down on her knees, and gave me a blow job.”

“In your dreams.”

“I swear it, man.” Billy held up his hand. “Got right down on her knees. Then she tells me she has a job for me to do. A test.”

“What kind of test?”

“That’s what I asked.”

“And?”

“She said I had to trust her. That she knew all about what had happened at the school, how I lost my scholarship. That there were other people like me who couldn’t fight back.”

“What did you say?”

“I told her I wasn’t interested. Water under the bridge or some such shit. It creeped me out that she knew all about Judson when she didn’t even go to that school, you know? I mean, it wasn’t like in the papers or nothing.”

“Yeah, sounds suspicious to me.”

Billy seemed relieved that Connor didn’t think he was a dope.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. I didn’t really think about it until after you left, and I didn’t know if it was important. But…you don’t think it has anything to do with Judson’s murder, do you?”

“I don’t know, buddy.”

“I’d feel really bad if something I did or didn’t do got him killed, even if he was an asshole. I didn’t want him dead.”

Detective Will Hooper stared at Garrett Bowen’s body hanging from the elaborate chandelier in Bowen’s pricey mansion in the gated community of Rancho Santa Fe.

He almost couldn’t believe it. It seemed too easy, too convenient.

For the past three days he’d been poring over Wishlist e-mails and came up with the theory that Bowen had used mentally unbalanced kids in his care to play vigilante. Will Hooper didn’t think any teenager could plan and implement Victor Montgomery’s murder. And while Judson’s murder had the
feeling
of immaturity, the irony and vanishing act of the perpetrators gave Will the distinct impression someone was pulling the strings.

And until now, he believed the puppeteer was Garrett Bowen.

Jim Gage called from upstairs. “There’s a note.”

“What does it say?”

Gage held up the clear plastic evidence bag and read the note inside. “‘I didn’t mean for it to go this far.’”

“That’s
it
?”

“That’s it.”

Will didn’t like it. Something was off, but just what he couldn’t say. Had his call to Bowen the day before to set up a “friendly” meeting—letting it intentionally slip that he was interviewing Emily—set Bowen off? Will thought he had been playing the situation perfectly, but now?

What a mess.

He hesitated before calling Dillon Kincaid. He hated that Dillon was on the side of the defense on this case. A half dozen times Will had picked up the phone to ask his opinion about something, but then had to stop himself.

But he also knew Dillon had a heated conversation with Bowen the day before yesterday, and that he and the counselor had been at Bowen’s fund-raiser the night before. That made them witnesses, and dammit, he was going to depose them and find out
exactly
what they’d been up to since Judge Montgomery’s murder.

Will punched speed dial to reach Dillon’s cell. “Dr. Kincaid.”

“Dillon, it’s Will Hooper.”

“What can I help you with?”

“Bowen’s dead.”

Silence.

“You there?”

“Yes,” Dillon said. “Garrett Bowen is
dead
?”

“Hung from his chandelier. Sometime last night after the party. We need to talk.”

“I’ll be at the hospital at noon, as we settled yesterday.”

“I need to know what you know.”

“How did Bowen die?”

“I told you. He hung himself.”

“No, you said he was hanging from his chandelier. Suicide…or murder?”

“He left a note.”

“Is Gage there?”

“Yep.”

“I find it hard to believe a man like Bowen would kill himself.”

Will said, “I was looking at him, Dil, and he knew it.”

“Looking at him for what? Killing Judge Montgomery?”

“No, instigating it. And that teacher, Paul Judson. I know you have the e-mails, so don’t play stupid.”

“I’m not, Will.”

“You’ve been running your own investigation with Connor and the counselor, and it may have led to Bowen whacking himself. I need to know what you know.”

“After you talk to Emily, we’ll talk.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“It means I’ll tell you everything I can without jeopardizing Emily’s defense. You do think Emily was involved in Montgomery’s death, correct?”

Will stared at Bowen’s body. “I don’t see any other way it could have happened, but at this point, I don’t know what the hell to believe.”

“See you at noon.” Dillon hung up.

Gage called from upstairs. “Will, I got something.”

Will headed upstairs. “Better be good. I need a break right now.”

“I don’t know about
good,
but it’s damn interesting.” Gage pointed to the railing. “See those scrapes?”

“Barely.”

“They’re faint, probably caused by the buttons on Bowen’s shirt as he leaned over the railing.”

“Okay. So he puts a noose around his head and climbs over the railing.” Will looked up at the chandelier. “How the hell did he get the rope secured?”

“That’s easy. The chandelier is on a chain. It can be lowered mechanically through a panel by the front door, for cleaning.”

“So he lowers the chandelier, attaches the rope, hauls it back up. Why not just put the noose around his neck and let the chain pull him off the ground?”

“The motor might not be designed to pull the additional weight. But that’s not the interesting thing.”

“Then what is?”

“There are no fingerprints on this railing.”

“None?”

“Wiped clean. And I mean
clean.
Smell that?”

Will took a whiff. “Bleach?”

“Someone wiped down this entire banister.”

“Maybe the cleaners came in after the party last night.”

Gage pointed to the ceiling. “It cracked under the weight of Bowen’s body. When we analyze the breakage, I think we’ll see he came off the ledge here, like these marks indicate.”

“Why didn’t he fight back? I didn’t see any marks on his hands.”

“Maybe he was incapacitated. We’ll be able to tell in the autopsy.”

“This case just gets weirder and weirder.”

“And another thing.”

“What?”

“The paper the note was written on? I can’t find any more of it in the house.”

TWENTY-ONE

C
ONNOR WAS ON
his way to the hospital when Dillon called him. “Bowen’s dead. Possible suicide.”

“Possible?”

“He left a note, but I’m not buying it. Will is meeting us at the hospital at noon. Will’s theory is that Bowen led some sort of vigilante killing team. I think we need to tell Will about the Jason Ridge connection.”

Connor frowned, made an illegal U-turn, and headed toward Julia’s house. “I think I’ll go pick up the counselor.”

“You don’t think she’s in danger?”

“I don’t know, but she’s been asking a lot of questions about Jason Ridge and pulled a bunch of files at the courthouse. She was all over the party last night. If Bowen
was
involved like Will thinks, that means the killers he created are free to do whatever the hell they want. If Bowen
wasn’t
involved, someone is trying to make it seem like he is, and they wouldn’t want Julia digging any further.”

“You’re right. Pick her up and we’ll all meet at the hospital.”

Connor sped through the streets toward Julia’s, trying to reach her by phone.

No answer. Maybe she’d already left, but then he’d pass her eventually. Her classy Volvo would be easy to spot on the quiet Sunday-morning roads.

Julia loved her house and its ocean view soothed her soul. The road in front of her house had the opposite effect. It was the road Matt died on. She’d almost sold her house after his death, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. This house was more than just a place to sleep, it was a symbol of her independence from her family and the Chandler name. It was her refuge. Matt had told her he saw her happiness etched in the fine woodwork she had herself lovingly restored.

So she kept the house and drove down the winding stretch like an old woman, slow and cautious. There were five other driveways off the road before it merged with a street leading to Highway 1.

Passing Mrs. Hutchinson’s driveway, in her rearview mirror Julia saw a large black pickup truck pull out behind her. For a split second she thought it was Connor, then remembered his truck was dark blue, not black.

Mrs. Hutchinson’s son must have gotten a new vehicle. He came by to check on her several times a week. Julia was about to wave in the rearview mirror, but the truck was now tailgating. She frowned, pressed the gas pedal down a hair more. Her heart suddenly started beating faster as she neared the spot where she’d gone off the cliff and slammed into the tree six years ago, killing Matt.

The truck was inches from her bumper. Julia didn’t recognize the driver and couldn’t make out details other than he had dark hair.

Hands clutching the wheel, Julia sped up. The truck bumped her hard. She swerved, compensated, and then he hit her again, even harder. Her head hit the steering wheel, her seat belt locked into place.

She could only think about survival as her tormenter sped from behind and pulled his truck parallel to her Volvo.

She braked as fast as she dared, hoping to let him pass, but he turned his truck into her car, though not enough to force her into the gully on the right. Had she not been braking, the impact could have forced her out of control and the drop on the left was precarious.

She’d gone off that rocky precipice before.

She was still half a mile from the main road, where traffic was steady. On this cliffside stretch, cars were rare. Her quiet, small neighborhood used to make Julia feel safe.

Her heart pounded as the truck sped up, then turned and stopped. She swerved right to avoid hitting him and her right tire dropped hard into the gully, fishtailing her car. The sudden impact caused her air bags to explode.

She was a sitting duck here in the car. She coughed, could barely breathe. The chemicals from the airbag burned her throat and lungs.

She reached into her purse and fumbled for her gun, mentally thanking Connor for listing all the places she was vulnerable outside her house. This morning she’d packed her gun in her purse as a precaution. She’d never thought she’d need it.

She released the seat belt and opened the car door. The fresh air began to clear her lungs. She squatted behind the door. Her assailant was out of his car, about to walk around the front and toward her. What was in his hand? A gun?
A knife?

Before she could get a better look at the guy, he ran back to the truck, jumped in, and floored it. Down the road.

Julia watched the black truck sideswipe a dark blue truck heading up the hill.
Connor!
He swerved and began to turn to go after the black truck.

A part of her wanted him to come comfort her. Julia was shaking, her gun—the gun she’d only fired on the range once a month—tight in her grip. She wanted Connor to hold her, tell her she was safe.

But the rational part wanted him to go after the jerk who ran her off the road.

She stood and waved at Connor to go after the truck. He paused, then completed the three-point turn and followed her attacker.

Her act of bravery was over. She walked away from the car, wiping her face to rid her skin of the stinging powder from the air bag. She found a spot ten feet behind the car where she could sit on a large, relatively flat rock in the gully. She sat, leaned against the crumbling, uncomfortable cliff, and closed her eyes.

Connor didn’t feel comfortable leaving Julia alone and unprotected, but he had to trust she was okay when she waved for him to give chase. Unfortunately, he lost sight of the black truck once he hit Highway 1. Connor looked both ways and couldn’t tell which way he’d gone.

Shit.

He dialed 911 and called in the description of the truck, sans license. Lot of good that did—black Ford 150s were a dime a dozen, and unless he got pulled over for driving without plates Connor didn’t hold out much hope they’d get him today. Maybe the evidence at the accident scene would turn up something valuable.

As he talked to dispatch, he turned around, tires squealing, and hightailed it back to where he’d left Julia.

If anyone touched her, he would…what was he thinking? She wasn’t his to protect. Still, he couldn’t forget his gut feeling when he feared she’d been hurt.

He relayed their location and hung up after the dispatcher said a patrol was less than five minutes away.

Julia was leaning against the cliff behind her car, gun in hand. When she saw Connor’s truck pull up, she visibly relaxed.

He rushed to her. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, but tears streamed down her face. “You didn’t get him?”

“No. There were no plates on his car either.”

“I noticed.”

“I called nine-one-one,” Connor said. “With any luck, someone will spot him. What happened?”

“I passed Mrs. Hutchinson’s driveway and he drove out behind me. I thought he was her son, but he followed closely, then rammed my car twice. He forced me off the road, got out—”

Julia looked up at Connor, her green eyes bright with tears, a bruise already forming on her forehead. “I grabbed my gun. I didn’t know what else to do.”

He gathered her into his arms. She held on to his neck tightly, her body shaking with fear, relief, and sobs. They sat in the gully. She buried her face in his neck, her breath hot in his ear, her tears wet on his face.

Connor remembered their kiss all those years ago. He’d kissed a lot of women, but he’d never forgotten kissing Julia Chandler. He couldn’t forget her lips, her taste, her scent. Now, Connor wrapped his hands at the base of her head, her hair soft and silky entwined in his rough fingers. Pulling her head away from the nook in his neck, he gazed at her beautiful face.

Connor pulled her lips to his and kissed her hard, hating himself for wanting her, hating himself for being unable to hate her. He should, but she was too damn gorgeous. She made his head spin.

Dear Lord, she tasted like heaven.

Julia gasped when Connor kissed her, then her lips parted and she responded with an unexpected need for him. The light kiss the other day had whetted her appetite for more, had made years of guilt and anger wash away. She’d never been able to forget how good it felt to be held by Connor Kincaid, but even that exquisite memory was faulty. Being in his arms now, having his piercing eyes focus solely on her, was even better than she’d remembered.

“Oh God, Julia,” he murmured as his hot kisses moved from her swollen lips to her neck. She quivered beneath his hands. With one hand she grabbed his collar-length hair, her other clasped in his. He kissed her neck and she arched back, wanting him to continue down, to give the same attention to her body as he had to her lips.

When his hand squeezed her breast through the thin material of her filmy sundress she gasped, and then his lips found hers again and she felt the hardness in his lap.

There were sirens in the back of her mind. She sat up, looked over the edge of the gully just as Connor took her hand and pulled her up. A police car came into view and she brushed the dirt and gravel from her dress.

Connor looked her in the eye. “We’re not finished.”

She just nodded and swallowed.

He handed her her gun, which she’d put down when Connor kissed her, then helped her from the gully. The police car stopped and an officer stepped out. San Diego primarily had one-man patrols, and Julia heard another siren in the distance.

“Shit.” Connor raked a hand through his hair.

“What?” she asked.

He didn’t answer. The officer approached. “Kincaid.”

“Davies.”

Julia felt the tension as the two men stared at each other. She took a step forward, extended her hand to Officer Davies. “Deputy District Attorney Julia Chandler. A man driving a black truck ran me off the road. I think he was waiting for me to leave because he came out of Mrs. Hutchinson’s driveway—she’s the first house after mine at the top.”

“I know who
you
are,” Davies said. His face was blank and his dark sunglasses hid his eyes. His voice dripped contempt.

She shifted, uncomfortable. She’d lost some friends in the police department when she prosecuted Crutcher. Why couldn’t they see that even though he was a cop he was no better than any other criminal she prosecuted?

But Davies’s bitterness wasn’t actually aimed at her. He stared at Connor, hand on the butt of his gun. Completely unnecessary, and it irritated Julia.

“Please drop the gun, Ms. Chandler,” Davies said.

She turned the gun around and handed it to Davies butt-first. He took it, checked the ammunition. “I have a permit to carry, Officer. When the man ran me off the road, he stopped and got out. I didn’t know what he had planned, so I took the gun from my purse.”

“Do you have a description of him?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t get a very good look. Dark hair. Six foot one or two. Not fat or skinny. Average.”

“Would you be able to pick him out in a lineup?”

“I doubt it.”

“Has anyone threatened you lately?”

“I often get threatened in court, but I generally don’t take it seriously. Usually it’s by someone on their way to prison,” she added drily.

“What’s your interest, Kincaid?”

“None of your business, Davies.”

A half-smile turned up Davies’s lips. “Chandler have you on retainer?”

Though the words were innocuous, the tone was combative. Julia had been around enough testosterone in the District Attorney’s Office to sense these two men disliked each other. Davies was baiting Connor.

Connor said nothing. The tension grew.

Another car pulled up behind Davies. Connor looked over as the cop got out. “This just gets better and better,” he said.

“You got a problem?” Davies barked.

“No problem,” Connor said. “Ms. Chandler gave you her statement. Write up the report so we can get out of each other’s face.”

The second cop approached. Julia recognized him, and now she grew as tense as Connor. Rich Rayo had testified for the defense in her case against Wayne Crutcher and his cohorts. And she realized that’s what this was all about—her prosecution of a cop for bribery and accessory to murder, and Connor testifying for her.

Rayo walked up and stood inches from Connor. “Turn around.”

“No.”

“I’ll haul you in so fast your head will be spinning.”

Julia stepped between them and put her hand on Rayo’s chest. “You can’t do that.”

“Watch me, little lady.”

“Excuse me. I’m an officer of the court and I will not have you inappropriately using your authority.”

“Stay out of it, Julia,” Connor said, his voice low and tinged with anger.

“Listen to your boyfriend,” Rayo said. “You fucked with us once, Miz Chandler. We don’t forget.”

Julia didn’t listen to Connor’s warning. Her indignation peaked. “Officer Rayo, I did not
fuck
with you or any other good cop. I don’t have to wave my credentials at you. I prosecuted a cop who watched two little girls die. Watched their pimps beat them to death. They were
thirteen
!”

Stepping forward, Connor put a hand on her arm. She shook it off. She was angry and upset. Everything that had happened this week—from Victor’s murder to learning he’d raped Emily to the DEJ for Jason Ridge—made Julia’s fight for the underdog that much more important.

She punched her finger in Rayo’s chest. “Get over it. You have nothing to be proud about, standing up for men who victimized children.”

Rayo growled. “Touch me again and I’ll arrest you for assault.”

She was about to jab him again in the chest just for spite when Connor grabbed her wrist and pulled her back.

“Davies has the information about the truck that ran Ms. Chandler off the road. File the damn report. We’re going.”

“But—” Julia tried to dig in her feet. She was sick and tired of the bullshit coming from these cops about a righteous conviction. Connor firmly led her to his truck.

“Get in.”

“But—”

“Would you just do what I say this time without argument?”

Weariness clouded Connor’s face and without another word Julia climbed into the truck. The adrenaline from this morning’s attack, the kiss, the confrontation with the police, began to wear off. She slumped against the seat.