Final Answers (13 page)

“No, that’s primer,” he says matter-of-factly. Then he turns it over and shows me the other side, the side that had stuck to the Mercedes. “That’s the color.”

My eyes widen at the sight of it.

It’s blue. Metallic blue.
The
blue.

Now I know.

I have no proof, but I know I haven’t been irrational or paranoid. They were trying to kill me in Vegas. Nancy didn’t have an accident. Things
do
add up. Statistics don’t lie.

“With a little luck,” Daniels continues, slipping the paint sample into a plastic bag, “we might be able to identify the other driver. In the meantime, we’ll file a report with the coroner’s office. I’m sure the official cause of your wife’s death’ll be changed to vehicular manslaughter.”

“She was murdered,” I say angrily.

“We understand how you feel, Mr. Morgan, but it’s a good idea to keep an open mind in these matters,” Molina advises. “Just because the other driver left the scene isn’t proof he or she was at fault. It’s possible, and I emphasize possible, that your wife was responsible.
She may have been under the influence, or passing another vehicle illegally, or—”

“No. No, you don’t understand,” I interrupt sharply. “I meant she was killed on purpose.”

The look that flicks between them leaves no doubt I’ve finally made my point.

“You mean homicide?” Daniels asks.

“I mean premeditated murder.”

That really throws them. They take a moment to regroup, unsure what to make of me.

“Mr. Morgan,” Molina begins somewhat skeptically, “are you saying you have reason to believe someone wanted to hurt your wife?”

“No.
Me.
They thought it was me.”

Another look darts between them.

“Want to run that by us again?”

“Sure. They made a mistake. My wife’s car was in the shop. She was driving mine. The windows are tinted. It was night. It was raining. She has short hair. They were watching the house, saw the Mercedes leave, assumed I was behind the wheel. Bastards!” I pause, coping with growing rage as the pieces fall into place. “They knew the rain would make it look like an accident. Did the same thing in Vegas a couple of weeks ago.”

“Vegas?” Daniels wonders, mystified.

“Yes, this wasn’t the first time they tried.”

“Who tried?”

“I don’t know, but I can tell you they wanted it to look like an accident. In Vegas it was supposed to look like I was partying and OD’d.”

“You mean hookers, nose candy?”

“Exactly. I wasn’t sure until now. You can check with the Las Vegas Police. A Sergeant . . .” I pause and fish the business card from my wallet “. . . Figueroa.”

They glance at it, then after a short whispered exchange, return to the Mercedes and more carefully examine the circular pattern left on the door by the other vehicle’s tire.

“I’d say the wheel was spinning that way,” Daniels observes in a tone that suggests this detail is significant.

“Yes, both cars were definitely moving in the same direction,” Molina concludes. “He might have something.”

“Why?” I ask, making no effort to conceal my impatience. “Why is that important?”

Daniels stands, folds his arms, and leans against the car. “Well, on a winding, two-lane road, cars going in the same direction are much less prone to accidents than those coming toward each other.”

“Which supports my contention.”

“Partially. It’s still possible the other driver was trying to pass your wife unsafely and cut her off to avoid an oncoming vehicle.”

“That’d make a lot more sense if it happened during the day. At night, no headlights coming, you know it’s safe to pass.”

“Maybe, but it’s still not conclusive.”

“I’m telling you her car was forced off the road on purpose.”

“It’s possible.”

“It happened. Believe me.”

“Well, we’ve just covered an awful lot of ground, Mr. Morgan. If you don’t mind, I’d like to suggest we go back to the office where you’ll be more comfortable and go through it a step at a time.”

Fifteen or twenty minutes later, we’re sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups in an interview room at the sheriff’s substation. Windowless, bright fluorescent lighting, gray metal table and chairs—it looks like the rooms where they question suspects on television cop shows.

“For openers,” Daniels says, pacing the perimeter of the small space as he talks, “why
do
you think someone wants to kill you?”

“I’m not really sure,” I reply, concerned the answer will sound totally preposterous. “I mean, it might have to do with something that happened twenty-four years ago in Vietnam.”

They both nod, digesting the reply.

“Does that mean you were involved in something there?” Daniels finally wonders. “Something that might shed some light on a motive or suspect?”

“No. Whatever it was, I stumbled onto it recently. I’d say it started about a couple of months ago in Washington, D.C.”

Molina sits at the table with a small spiral-bound pad and lists the events as I enumerate them:

Finds name on memorial.

Driven to identify the soldier.

Time/place data from the FVVM.

NPCR St. Louis. Jack Collins.

National League of Families. D.C.

Kate Ackerman. MIA wife. Laos.

Data to Col. Webster. CIL. Fort Shatter. Hawaii.

Blue sedan. Late model Buick/Olds.

Driver. Sunglasses, thirty-something, dark hair.

Meeting. L.A. Captain Sullivan. CIL.

Casualty report from Army morgue.

Las Vegas. Foster. Assaulted.

Denver. Bartlett. Drug connection.

Accident. Wife killed.

A long silence follows. They both seem to be in a state of suspended animation. I’m not sure if they’re overwhelmed or skeptical.

“Well, Mr. Morgan,” Molina finally says philosophically, “I guess you’re living proof that no good deed goes unpunished.”

“I’d rather I wasn’t.”

“Let’s go back over a few things,” Daniels says. “What makes you so sure it was the same car?”

“The color. It was an exact match to that paint sample you took.”

“But you didn’t get a look at the license.”

“No.”

“One other thing I’m not clear on. The guy in Denver said this pilot was busted by the DEA?”

“No, the pilot was wanted. He was on the run.”

“You don’t have his name?”

“No.”

They exchange frowns.

“What do you think’s going on here, Mr. Morgan?” Daniels prods.

“I’m not sure. Off the top of my head, the only thing I can think of is I rubbed up against someone in the drug trade.”

“Could be,” Daniels says, waggling his hand.

“Everything has something to do with drugs these days,” Molina chimes in wearily. He makes a few more notes, then steps aside to confer with his partner.

“One other thing, Mr. Morgan,” Daniels says when they’ve finished. “You said you thought they wanted to make it look like an accident.”

“Yes. I figure they don’t want the police to be wondering why somebody would want to kill me.”

“Well, they blew it, didn’t they?”

“I’d say so.”

“If you’re right about all this, it might be a good idea to keep a low profile while we do our investigation.”

“You mean, because it’d be to our advantage if they think I’m dead?”

“No, that’s TV,” Daniels replies, his upper lip curling with disdain. “The media’s going to cover this. Not page one, most likely a little blurb buried in the Metro section. An obit at the least. Take my word for it, Mr. Morgan. We have no choice but to assume they’ll know.”

“Yes, I guess you’re right.”

He forces a smile and nods. “Point is, whoever wants you dead has just lost their incentive to make it look like an accident.”

The low-key delivery doesn’t blunt the chilling message: They might just as well walk up to me on the street, put a gun to my head, and blow me away in cold blood, now.

I
’ve unintentionally touched a nerve, a nerve so sensitive that someone was willing to commit murder to keep it from being further exposed. I’ve never been very susceptible to guilt, but I’m making up for it. I’m obsessed with the idea that if I’d listened to Nancy, she’d still be alive. I thought coping with her death had pushed my emotions to the limit, but, it’s tearing me to pieces to know that she died in my place—that she was murdered! And for what? An obscure twenty-year-old drug scam? It’s so meaningless and so totally disproportionate to her worth. I can’t help thinking it’s more than that. It just has to be. God knows, if I’m honest with myself, I want it to be.

These are familiar feelings—deeply rooted and disturbing ones. I’d spent seven months in Vietnam watching decent men turn into violent animals and watching them die, and years trying to figure out why. I still don’t have the answers. In retrospect, the day I turned the corner and began putting my life back together was the day I stopped searching for them. Now, I’m searching again. I’m not sure where to begin, but this time it’s for Nancy, and I know I won’t stop until I find it.

I’m crossing the parking lot outside the sheriff’s substation deep in thought when a car passes within inches of me and serves as a chilling reminder that I was the target, and still am. I get into the Range Rover, lock the doors, and head for home, rolling slowly up to traffic lights, leaving room to maneuver around other vehicles,
making every effort not to stop. My eyes are constantly darting from the road to the mirror and back.

As I turn into our street, I notice a car behind me. It looks familiar—probably one of the neighbors—but I’m not taking any chances. I continue past the house, going several blocks out of my way until the car angles into another street, then I circle back and turn into our driveway. I slow down to get a look at the keypad for the alarm system next to the front door. The red and amber status lights are on steady, not flashing, which would indicate it had been set off or tampered with. I use the remote on the Rover’s visor to deactivate the alarm and open the garage; then, continuing directly inside, I close the door and activate the alarm as the car stops rolling.

The house is cool, still, and quiet. I’m entering the kitchen from the garage when I catch something moving out of the corner of my eye. It’s a shadow, a man’s shadow creeping across one of the angled walls on the level above me. I freeze in terror, my heart in my mouth, before I realize it’s my shadow. Every mirror and reflective surface becomes a pulse-pounding encounter. I’m back on patrol, moving through my own home as if it were a hut in a hostile village. All my senses are heightened and operating at combat level as I settle into a tense crouch, going from one wall of windows to the next, shutting the vertical louvers, cursing the acres of glass that I love so much.

I feel trapped.

The house is too big, too open, too isolated, and due to the rocky terrain and walls that surround it, a vehicle blocking the driveway would make it impossible for me to escape, to drive out to either road, even with the Range Rover. It’s a big, powerful vehicle and makes me feel secure, but it’s very conspicuous and easy to follow in traffic; furthermore, it doesn’t have a phone, which means I can’t call for help if pursued or attacked.

I’m not sure what I’m going to do. I drift into the den and unthinkingly turn on the television, it’s background noise, a presence. I’m scanning for something innocuous like the sports channel when I hit CNN. I’m captured by a report on the repatriation of the remains of MIAs from Laos. It marks the end of a twenty-year stalemate between our governments over the issue. I remember Kate Ackerman mentioning it.

I call the real estate office. I’m not sure why, maybe I’m hoping some of her gutsy courage’ll rub off on me.

“I’m sorry, she’s not here,” a woman answers. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“No, I’m just a friend. Will you tell her Cal Morgan called?”

“Sure. It may be a while before she gets back to you. She’s taken some time off.”

“Well, whenever,” I say, wondering if it has to do with the repatriations. I hang up thoughtfully. I may not have reached Kate Ackerman, but the distraction has paid off. I know exactly what I’m going to do, now. Somehow, answers always seem to surface when I’m not consciously trying to find them.

I cross to my desk and open the locked file drawer. Dammit. The box I’m looking for isn’t in there. I rummage through all the other drawers, then search the storage wall in the garage with the same result. I’m racking my brain trying to remember where I put it and vaguely recall it might be at the office. I call my secretary, which I was about to do anyway.

“Grace, Mr. Morgan. Hanging in there. Thanks. Just listen carefully, okay? Go into my office, open the safe, and come back on the line.”

She puts me on hold. I’m treated to several minutes of rap music and make a mental note to change the station when I get there. “Okay, what do you need?” she finally asks.

“Is there a manila envelope on the bottom shelf?”

I hear the rustling of documents, the crackle of paper. “Yes, it’s unmarked, kind of heavy, feels like some boxes inside.”

“Great. That’s the one. Make sure it’s sealed, then give it to a driver and have him bring it to my home. Now write this down. I’ll meet the car at the bottom of the driveway at exactly four-fifteen. That’s more than enough time to get here. I don’t want him to arrive early and wait, and I don’t want him to come up the drive to the front door. I want him to stop down by the mailbox, keep the engine running, and open the trunk. And I want the envelope waiting on the backseat when I get in the car.”

I change into jeans and a pullover, then fetch a couple of suitcases from the garage. I pack the larger one with business clothes, the other with casual, along with several bottles of wine and a quart of vodka.

At exactly 4:13
P.M.
, I walk briskly down the long drive, carrying
the suitcases and my attaché. I’m about twenty feet from the road when I hear a vehicle approaching. A black Lincoln Town Car comes into view and stops. The trunk lid yawns open. I toss in the suitcases and close it; then hurry around to the rear door and get in, my eyes darting to the envelope that’s perfectly centered on the seat.

“Let’s move. We’re going to the office. Don’t take the usual route, and the less we stop the better.”

The driver reacts to my cadence and urgent tone and takes off like a drag-racing teenager.

I open the envelope and remove the two boxes. One contains bullets, the other a .25-caliber Beretta pistol—semiautomatic, nine-shot clip, lightweight, and compact, fitting neatly in palm, pocket, or purse.

I bought it for Nancy about eight years ago. She was working at Manual Arts High School in South Central L.A. at the time. The pink art-deco building is located in a crime-ridden, drug-infested ghetto where each day dedicated teachers put their lives on the line just by showing up for class. As it turned out, permits to carry handguns in Los Angeles are issued only by the Chief of Police, and rarely so. Nancy wanted nothing to do with a gun, let alone an illegal one, and refused to carry it until a colleague was abducted, beaten, and raped by two students who were waiting in the backseat of her car. About three years later, Nancy unexpectedly came by the office, made a wisecrack about turning in her badge and gun, and announced she’d been transferred to nearby Palisades High. She was relieved to get out of the ghetto, but she never got over the feeling that she abandoned those kids. The Beretta’s been in my office safe ever since.

As the Lincoln negotiates the twisting road, I remove the pistol from the box and extract the clip from the handgrip. It’s empty, as I thought, as is the chamber. A release lever, located just above the trigger, allows the barrel of this elegantly designed weapon to hinge forward for cleaning and oiling, which just takes minutes.

When finished I load only eight rounds into the clip, putting the ninth in the chamber. This means I won’t have to jack in a round before cocking the hammer and firing the first shot, after which the weapon will fire with each pull of the trigger. This is the first time in twenty-four years I’ve held a weapon with the intention of
using it. I engage the safety and slip the pistol into the pocket of my jeans.

We’re still ten minutes from the office when I call a private security service on the cellular phone and arrange to have an armed guard stationed twenty-four hours a day in the reception area.

Am I paranoid? Hell, no. I’ve been here before. This is for real. People out there are trying to kill me. I spend an uneventful, if uneasy, first night at the office. It has several entrances to fire stairs and freight elevators, and I don’t feel as trapped or isolated here. For the rest of the week, I make good use of the sofa bed and shower that I had installed for all-nighters. I eat, sleep, and work, keeping the pistol within reach. I call out for most of my meals, venture out for a few, but never to the same restaurant. My secretary says I’m turning into Yasser Arafat. So far I’ve had his luck.

For weeks now, one of the senior associates has been running the business. I’d been grooming him to take on more of the work load, so I’d have more free time. I hadn’t planned on spending it as a widower hunted by an anonymous assassin. We’re in my office going over the status of several projects when my secretary informs me that Sergeant Daniels and Detective Molina are in the reception area.

The uniformed guard shows them in.

Daniels takes stock of him and seems to approve but doesn’t say anything. I’m probably wrong, but it looks like they’re both wearing exactly the same clothes they had on last week, right down to the ties and Daniels’ hairpiece.

“Sorry for the intrusion, Mr. Morgan,” Molina says as my colleague gathers his paperwork and follows after the guard. “A few things we want to go over with you. It shouldn’t take long.”

“I’m going to be real disappointed if it takes any longer than for you to say, ‘We caught this guy.’ ”

“Sorry. No such luck,” Daniels says.

I shrug resignedly. “Get you anything? Coffee, a soft drink?”

They both shake their heads no.

Molina sits and slips his notepad from a pocket.

Daniels glances around like a tourist and crosses to the windows. “We checked wrecking yards and body shops for the car you described, came up empty,” he explains on the move. “In the meantime, the lab was analyzing the paint. They came up with an ‘89 Buick Regal or Park Avenue. So we put that on the wire. Yesterday
we got a call from the highway patrol out in Barstow. They found a metallic-blue Park Avenue abandoned in the desert. The damage on the passenger side is consistent with the accident.”

“You know who owns it?”

“Hertz. The car was last rented at San Francisco International Airport three weeks ago.”

“By who?”

“Man’s name is Thomas Sullivan,” Molina replies.

I’m stunned. A gasp sticks in my throat.

“I recall you mentioning a Captain Sullivan came to see you,” Molina continues, calmly flipping the pages of his notebook, either unaware of, or unmoved by, the impact of the bomb he’s just dropped.

I can feel my gut tightening in an effort to contain the rage that’s building to an explosive level. Fucking bastard.

“Here it is,” Molina announces, finding the page he wants. “You said, he’s with the Central Identification Lab in Hawaii. I don’t have a first name down here. Was it Thomas?”

“I don’t know,” I reply through clenched teeth. “He was
Captain
to me.”

“Well the guy who rented this car was
Thomas,”
Daniels says crossing behind me. “As Detective Molina said, there was no military rank given.”

“You know if he was Asian?”

“Asian?” Molina replies incredulously, turning the pages of the notepad again. “We called the rental agent. He said he handles dozens of customers a day. To the best of his recollection, the customer might’ve been in his late thirties or early forties, was wearing sunglasses and casual civilian clothes.”

“I gave you the driver’s description. It sounds just like him to me.”

“It sounds like a lot of men in California,” Daniels says with an apologetic shrug.

“The Captain included,” I add sharply.

“The point is, Mr. Morgan, that contrary to popular belief, eyewitness descriptions are generally the least reliable form of identification.”

I scoop up the phone and buzz my secretary. “Grace, check your notes. See if you have Captain Sullivan’s first name. You’re sure?
Thanks.” I hang up and let out a long breath. “No. She doesn’t. Believe me, it’s him. He killed my wife.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Daniels counters. “In case you’re wondering why we’re not jumping all over this, Thomas Sullivan’s got an alibi.”

“You’ve questioned him?”

“No. But according to Hertz, he reported the car stolen the day before the accident. He said he parked it in a hotel garage downtown, didn’t use it for several days. Went to get it and it was gone.”

“Bullshit. He was just covering his ass.”

“Very possible,” Molina concedes. “He could also have been telling the truth. The Captain was from Hawaii, right?”

I nod impatiently, smoldering.

“The guy who rented the car had a California DL.”

“California?”

“Yes, a San Francisco address.”

“Well? I told you the Captain said he does a lot of business there.”

“We ran it through the DMV. It checked out. For what it’s worth, he has no criminal record either.”

“Come on,” I plead, my voice raising a couple of octaves in indignation. “What are you saying? That someone stole the car, took it for a joy ride, and by sheer coincidence, accidentally killed my wife?’

“We’ve seen stranger ones. The bottom line is we’re not sure the guy who rented the car was driving it at the time of the accident, or that he’s the Sullivan who came to see you.”

I hear myself groan in disgust.

“And either way,” Molina continues, “renting the car doesn’t make him guilty of anything.”

“It makes him a suspect, doesn’t it?”