Revenge of Innocents (3 page)

She and Carolyn used to talk about people who caved in under pressure. They’d been certain it would never happen to them. They were rocks, machines. So what if they dealt with violence on a daily basis? They could handle it. They were seasoned officers. There wasn’t anything they hadn’t seen before.

Carolyn would find out the truth any day now—that Veronica’s recommendations weren’t appropriate because she didn’t know half the facts of the case. She regularly fabricated the defendant and victim interviews. If you were going to make things up, she’d decided, it was better to err on the side of leniency. If a judge didn’t think the sentence she proposed was severe enough, all he had to do was ignore it. Judges were esteemed members of the community, with a salary far above that of a probation officer. She was tired of doing their job for them.

Drew was a technician at Boeing, but even with both of their incomes, they couldn’t make ends meet. The price of raising four children in today’s world was insane, and the cost of living was still rising at an alarming rate.

In addition to everything else, Veronica had become Jude’s chauffeur. Her daughter would disappear for days, and then place a frantic call for her mother to come and get her. The Ford Taurus they had bought for her sat in the driveway. She’d forbidden her to drive it until she began contributing to the insurance. Jude was supposed to graduate the year before, but she’d flunked several of her classes. She was a smart girl, so things didn’t add up. Why did she stagger around with a blank look on her face? Why had she abruptly ended her relationship with Haley Snodgrass, a girl she’d been close to for most of her life?

Veronica’s red-rimmed eyes scanned the buildings. She steered the car into a parking lot, getting out and hiking up the stairs to the second floor. As she was trying to focus on the arrows that showed where room 246 was located, she heard the sound of footsteps behind her. She managed to open her purse and pull out her gun, but before she could turn around, someone reached around her waist and wrenched it out of her hand.

Tuesday, October 12—5:30
P
.
M
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T
he Ventura government center was similar to a small city. The courts, the district attorney’s and public defender’s offices, as well as the records division, were all housed on the right side of a large open space. A bubbling fountain stood in the center, surrounded by concrete benches and blooming flowers. To the left was the probation department, the sheriff’s department, and the women’s and men’s jails. The general public assumed the two structures weren’t connected, yet an underground tunnel was used to transport inmates back and forth.

Carolyn headed to her new red Infiniti M35 in the parking lot. The wildfires had been contained, but her car was covered with ash. The car was a wedding gift from her fiancé, Marcus Wright. Two weeks ago, the house she had raised her children in had sold and she’d no choice but to move into Marcus’s home in Santa Rosa. She’d wanted to wait until after they were married. She was old-fashioned when it came to certain things. And why have a formal wedding if you were already living with the person?

Carolyn’s old house would fit into Marcus’s living room. Her son, John, was in his first year at MIT. Rebecca, her sixteen-year-old, adored Marcus and was elated they were getting married. Everything was finally coming together, and Carolyn couldn’t be happier.

A forty-year-old wearing a wedding dress seemed absurd, but Marcus had insisted. Both of their first marriages had ended in failure, so he wanted to make it a special occasion. She had intended to exercise and lose five pounds. Any mention of the word
diet,
though, and she became ravenously hungry. With all the hassle of moving and planning the reception, she’d gained seven pounds. Yesterday, she’d gone to the tailor and had the seams let out on her dress. She wasn’t heavy, just curvaceous. She didn’t need to look like a waif.

Her cell phone rang and she fumbled around in her purse to retrieve it. “It’s Hank,” a gruff male voice said. “Where are you? Are you on the road?”

Hank Sawyer was a lieutenant in Ventura homicide, as well as a long-term friend. The tone of his voice was alarming. “What’s going on?”

“Are you driving?”

“No,” Carolyn said. “What difference does it make if I’m driving or not? I can listen and drive.”

“I have some bad news,” he said. “I don’t want you to be behind the wheel when I tell you.”

“I’m in the parking lot. Tell me, for Christ’s sake.”

“Veronica Campbell is dead.”

Carolyn dropped her briefcase on the pavement. “God, no!” she exclaimed. “What happened? A traffic accident…”

“Charley Young thinks she was shot sometime this morning. The maid at the Motor Inn on East Thompson found her around three o’clock.”

“I’m on my way.” She swept up her briefcase and jogged toward her car.

“There’s nothing for you to do here. Charley just gave the okay for us to transport the body. I’m sorry, Carolyn. I know how close you two were.”

“It’s a mistake,” she said, panting. “It’s someone who looks like her. You don’t know Veronica that well, Hank. I’ll come—”

The detective cut her off. “We have her badge, as well as the county vehicle she was driving. I thought you’d want to be the one to tell her husband. Can you handle it?”

“I can’t…do anything right now.” Carolyn leaned against the Infiniti, then slid to the ground on her knees. People were walking past her and staring. She covered her face with her free hand, then grabbed on to the door handle and pulled herself up, unlocking the door and ducking inside. “Tell me she didn’t suffer, Hank.”

“For what it’s worth, she probably never knew what hit her.” He stopped to bark orders to one of the officers at the scene. “Do you know what she was doing at a motel?”

“She mentioned trying to track down a probationer she thought was in violation. His name is…God, I can’t think…Bramson, Phillip Bramson. He has a prison sentence hanging over his head. I’ll go back to the office.”

“Give me whatever you can remember,” Hank told her. “Bramson is in the system, right?”

Carolyn pressed her fingers against her eyelids. This was the worst thing that had ever happened to her. Images from the past darted through her mind. Giggling when she’d told Veronica about her first kiss, their high school graduations, their weddings, the births of their children, all the years they’d worked together. It was the same as losing a sister. Worse, she decided. Most siblings didn’t see each other every day.

“We’re losing time.”

“I know.” She had to detach somehow, do whatever had to be done. “Bramson is a white male, mid-thirties, tall, slender. I think he has dark hair but I’m not certain. I’ve never seen him in person, only his mug shot.”

“What’s the underlying offense?”

The more she talked, the easier it was to remain in denial. It was work, she told herself, just work. Right now, that’s the only way she could handle the situation. The words tumbled out. “The sheriff’s office arrested Bramson with a large quantity of crystal meth. The DA originally charged him with possession for sale, but they pled it down to simple possession. The judge imposed a year in prison, then suspended it and placed him on three years of supervised probation. Veronica suspected he was using again.”

“Do you know what kind of car he was driving?”

“No,” Carolyn said. “Everything’s in Veronica’s file. I’ll go back to the office and get it. You can’t let this bastard get away, Hank.”

“Someone tipped off the media. If you don’t get to her husband and family fast, they’re going to hear about it on the six o’clock news. Oh, and we need the husband to identify her body. It’ll be at the morgue within the hour. I’ll broadcast what you gave me and whatever else I can pull up on the system regarding Phillip Bramson. Call someone in your agency and have them go through his file, then get the info to me ASAP. The most important thing is a vehicle description.”

“Wait,” Carolyn said. “Who rented the motel room?”

“A black male in his twenties,” Hank said. “The owner of the credit card is white. We’ve already contacted him. He claims the card was stolen.”

“But Bramson is white.”

“Maybe the black guy was a drug buddy,” Hank said, impatient. “We’ve barely scratched the surface, Carolyn. Let us do our jobs here. I’ll need to talk to Veronica’s husband sometime later tonight.”

She disconnected and called Brad Preston. After she filled him on what had occurred, she cranked the engine on the Infiniti and sped out of the parking lot. “I assigned this case to Veronica, Brad. My investigators shouldn’t be supervising people. They’re not used to it. They might not take the necessary precautions.”

“Get a hold of yourself, Carolyn,” Brad told her. “You won’t do anyone any good if you fall apart. I’ll grab Bramson’s file and relay the information to Hank and the PD, then meet you at Veronica’s house. She still lives on Tremont, right?”

“We’ll need someone to watch the kids,” Carolyn said, her thoughts racing. “How can I tell them their mother’s dead?”

“That’s not your responsibility. Veronica’s husband will tell them when he feels the time is right. Doesn’t she have a teenage daughter?”

“Jude,” she said, trying to navigate through rush-hour traffic. “I don’t even know if she’s still living at home. They’ve had all kinds of problems with her. Veronica was going to throw her out if she didn’t get her act together.”

“I need you,” Brad said, talking to someone in the office. “Linda Cartwright is here. I’ll bring her with me.”

“It could be someone other than Bramson. I—I can’t remember what cases I assigned her.”

“I’ll print out a list from your computer,” Brad said. “We’ll be there as fast as we can. Whatever you do, don’t talk to the press.”

“Hurry,” she said, hitting the wrong button to end the call and speed-dialing her brother, Neil’s number. She flipped the phone closed and tossed it back into her purse. She hadn’t called Marcus yet. She didn’t have time to talk to Neil.

Fifteen minutes later, she pulled up in front of a modest stucco house. The exterior needed painting, and most of the flowers had died from lack of water. A bicycle was lying on its side near the sidewalk. When she reached the front door, she could hear the TV blasting inside. It sounded like cartoons or some other type of children’s program. Thank God, she thought, it wasn’t the news. She swallowed hard and rang the doorbell.

A tall, attractive man with prematurely gray hair and pale blue eyes answered the door. Drew Campbell was barefoot, wearing jeans and a green cotton T-shirt with some type of stain on the front. “Carolyn,” he said. “Haven’t seen your face in a month of Sundays. Veronica isn’t home, but come in.” He stepped aside and gestured toward the living room. Toys were scattered everywhere, along with juice cups and half-empty bowls of cereal. Stacy, their eight-year-old, was sprawled out on the sofa watching TV. She was tall for her age and reed thin. Her blond hair was tied back in a ponytail.

“Excuse the mess,” Drew said. “We live in a perpetual state of chaos. You look like a wreck, Carolyn. Getting ready for the big day, I presume. I was planning to call Marcus and tell him I wouldn’t be able to make his bachelor party. Nice of him to invite me, though. Seems like you’re getting yourself a swell fellow there.”

Michael, the couple’s four-year-old, raced into the room screaming, “Petey took my truck and won’t give it back.”

“Gotta share, kiddo,” Drew said, hoisting him up in his arms. “You know who this lady is, don’t you? This is your godmother, Carolyn. She came to see you. Why don’t you give her a hug?”

“No,” he said, pouting. “I want my red truck.”

When Carolyn gazed at the child’s round face and wide-set eyes, she saw a miniature version of Veronica. “Is Jude here?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” Drew said. “I just picked the kids up from the babysitter. I think we found a live-in, but she hasn’t started yet. What’s going on? Jude’s not in trouble again, I hope.”

“No, no,” Carolyn said. “Why don’t we sit down? Something’s happened. I thought Jude could look after…” She waved her hand in front of her. “Never mind…it doesn’t matter.”

“Turn the TV off,” Drew said to his daughter. “You’re not supposed to watch TV until you finish your homework.” When the girl ignored him, he barked, “Now, Stacy.”

Once Stacy had left, Carolyn started to ask him to send Michael to the other room as well, but decided he needed something in his arms when she told him. He took a seat beside her on the sofa. “Veronica was shot, Drew.”

Michael saw a toy on the cushion behind him, and tried to climb out of his father’s arms to reach it. Stacy passed through the living room on the way to the kitchen, a spiral notebook in her hand. Carolyn’s eyes darted around the room. Her head was spinning. There were too many things going on at the same time, and far too much clutter.

“I’m sorry,” Drew said, taking a drink out of one of the children’s juice cups.

Carolyn gave him a strange look.

He laughed. “With this many kids, your own needs fall by the wayside. If I get thirsty, I’ll drink just about anything. Not milk, though. Milk spoils. What were you saying about Veronica? She must have stopped off at the grocery store, or decided to work late. She’s generally home by now.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “I don’t know why I’m telling you. I keep forgetting that you’re her boss.”

“Veronica’s been murdered,” Carolyn said. “Someone…shot her.”

It was as if a tunnel had opened up between them. The noise of the television and the children’s voices disappeared. Drew sat the boy down on the floor, staring at Carolyn with a bewildered look on his face. For a long time, neither of them spoke. “I don’t know that many of the details yet,” she continued, rubbing her sweaty palms on her slacks. “The police found her in a room at the Motor Inn on Thompson.” He started to say something, then stopped, his mouth hanging open. She didn’t know what else to do, so she kept talking. It was better to fill the air with words than silence. “She mentioned checking on a probationer when I talked to her this morning. I’m so sorry, Drew. You know how much I loved her.”

He stood and walked toward the back of the house, leaving Michael in the living room. Carolyn followed him, finding him in the master bedroom on the bed. She went over and stood beside him. “Please say something, Drew,” she said, watching a tear roll down his cheek. “There are things…things that have to be done. The children…plans…relatives…a funeral home.” She was bombarding the poor man. She looked around, almost as if she was searching for an escape hatch she could jump through. She wasn’t good at this type of thing. “I’ll give you some time alone.”

“Please,” he said, covering his face with his arm.

Carolyn left, pulling the door closed behind her. Michael stared up at her, sensing that something was wrong. “I want my daddy,” he said, reaching for the door handle. “I’m hungry.”

“Come on, sweetheart,” she said, taking his hand and leading him down the hallway. “We need to find Peter and Jude, okay? I promise I’ll get you some food, just not right this minute.”

“Mac and cheese,” he said. “And Pop Tarts.”

“Sure,” Carolyn said, hoping Brad would get there before she lost it. Peter, the seven-year-old, was pushing toy trucks and cars over a rubber mat that had been made to resemble a city. Since he seemed to be preoccupied, she continued on to Jude’s room, cracking the door and peering inside. It didn’t appear as if the girl was home. Clothes were scattered everywhere, the beds were unmade, and the computer on the desk was turned off. Stacy shared the room with her older sister. Carolyn wondered why they hadn’t converted their garage the way she had to give the older girl some privacy. Where in God’s name would they put a live-in nanny?