Roadside Crosses: A Kathryn Dance Novel (25 page)

After Edie dispensed treats to the children, they headed outside to a playground.

“Stay with your sister,” Dance commanded.

“Okay. Come on,” the boy said to Maggie and, juggling juice boxes and cookies, they left. Dance glanced out the window and noted that she could see the playground from here. The pool was behind a locked gate. With children, you could never be too vigilant.

Edie and Stuart returned to the couch. Three cups of coffee rested, largely untouched, on a low driftwood table. Her mother would have instinctively prepared them the moment Sheedy arrived.

The lawyer asked about the case and the hunt for Travis Brigham.

Dance gave sketchy answers—which, in fact, were the best she could offer.

“And that girl, Kelley Morgan?”

“Still unconscious, it seems.”

Stuart shook his head.

The subject of the Roadside Cross attacks was tucked away and Sheedy glanced at Edie and Stuart, eyebrow raised. Dance’s father said, “You can tell her. Go ahead. Everything.”

Sheedy explained, “We’re tipping to what Harper’s
game plan seems to be. He’s very conservative, he’s very religious and he’s on record as opposing the Death with Dignity Act.”

The proposal cropped up every so often in California; it was a statute, like Oregon’s, that would allow physicians to assist people who wished to end their lives. Like abortion, it was a controversial topic and the pros and cons were highly polarized. Presently in California if somebody helped a person commit suicide, that assistance was considered a felony.

“So he wants to make an example of Edie. The case isn’t about assisted suicide—your mother tells me that Juan was too badly injured to administer the drugs to himself. But Harper wants to send a message that the state will seek tough penalties against anybody who helps with a suicide. His meaning: Don’t support the law because DAs will be looking real closely at each case. One step out of line and doctors or anybody helping someone die will get prosecuted. Hard.”

The distinguished voice continued grimly, speaking to Dance, “That means he’s not interested in plea bargains. He wants to go to trial and run a big, splashy, public relations–driven contest. Now, in this instance, because somebody killed Juan, that makes it murder.”

“First degree,” Dance said. She knew the penal code the way some people knew the
Joy of Cooking.

Sheedy nodded. “Because it’s premeditated and Millar was a law enforcement officer.”

“But not special circumstances,” Dance said, looking at her mother’s pale face. Special circumstances would allow for the death penalty. But for that punishment to apply, Millar would have had to’ve been on duty at the time he was killed.

But Sheedy said, scoffing, “Believe it or not, he’s considering that.”

“How? How can he possibly be?” Dance asked heatedly.

“Because Millar was never officially signed out of his tour.”

“He’s playing a technicality like that?” Dance snapped in disgust.

“Is Harper mad?” Stuart muttered.

“No, he’s driven and he’s self-righteous. Which is scarier than being mad. He’ll get better publicity with a capital case. And that’s what he wants. Don’t worry, there is no way you’d be convicted of special circumstance murder,” he said, turning toward Edie. “But I think he’s going to start there.”

Still, Murder One was harrowing enough. That could mean twenty-five years in prison for Edie.

The lawyer continued, “Now, for our defense, justification doesn’t apply, or mistake or self-defense. Ending the man’s pain and suffering would be relevant at sentencing. But if the jury believed you intended to end his life, however merciful your motive, they would have to find you guilty of first-degree murder.”

“The defense, then,” Dance said, “is on the facts.”

“Exactly. First, we attack the autopsy and the cause of death. The coroner’s conclusion was that Millar died because the morphine drip was open too far and that an antihistamine had been added to the solution. That led to respiratory, and then cardiac, failure. We’ll get experts to say that this was wrong. He died of natural causes as a result of the fire. The drugs were irrelevant.

“Second, we assert that Edie didn’t do it at all. Somebody else administered the drugs either intentionally to kill him, or by mistake. We want to try to find people who might’ve been around—somebody who might’ve seen the killer. Or somebody who might
be
the killer. What about it, Edie? Was anybody near ICU around the time Juan died?”

The woman replied, “There were some nurses down on that wing. But that was all. His family was gone. And there were no visitors.”

“Well, I’ll keep looking into it.” Sheedy’s face was growing grave. “Now, we come to the big problem. The medication that was added to the IV was diphenhydramine.”

“The antihistamine,” Edie said.

“In the police raid on your house, they recovered a bottle of a brand-name version of diphenhydramine. The bottle was empty.”

“What?” Stuart gasped.

“It was found in the garage, hidden under some rags.”

“Impossible.”

“And a syringe with a small bit of dried morphine on it. The same brand of morphine that was in Juan Millar’s IV drip.”

Edie muttered, “I didn’t put it there. Of course I didn’t.”

“We know that, Mom.”

The lawyer added, “Apparently no fingerprints or significant trace.”

Dance said, “The perp planted it.”

“Which is what we’ll try to prove. Either he or she intended to kill Millar, or did it by mistake. In either
case, they hid the bottle and syringe in your garage to shift the blame.”

Edie was frowning. She looked at her daughter. “Remember earlier in the month, just after Juan died, I told you I heard a noise outside. It was coming from the garage. I’ll bet somebody was there.”

“That’s right,” Dance agreed, though she couldn’t actually recall it—the manhunt for Daniel Pell had occupied all her thoughts then.

“Of course . . .” Dance fell silent.

“What?”

“Well, one thing we’ll have to work around. I’d stationed a deputy outside their house—for security. Harper will want to know why he didn’t see anything.”

“Or,” Edie said, “we should find out if he
did
see the intruder.”

“Right,” Dance said quickly. She gave Sheedy the name of the deputy.

“I’ll check that out too.” He added, “The only other thing we have is a report that the patient told you, ‘Kill me.’ And you told several people that. There are witnesses.”

“Right,” Edie said, sounding defensive, her eyes slipping to Dance.

The agent suddenly had a terrible thought: Would she be called to testify against her mother? She felt physically ill at this idea. She said, “But she wouldn’t tell anybody that if she were really intent on killing somebody.”

“True. But remember, Harper is going for splash. Not for logic. A quote like that . . . well, let’s hope Harper doesn’t find out about it.” He rose. “When I hear from the experts and get details of the autopsy
report, I’ll let you know. Are there any questions?”

Edie’s face revealed that, yes, she had about a thousand. But she merely shook her head.

“It’s not hopeless, Edie. The evidence in the garage is troublesome but we’ll do the best we can with that.” Sheedy gathered up his papers, organized them and put them into his briefcase. He shook everyone’s hand and gave reassuring smiles to them all. Stuart saw him to the door, the floor creaking under his solid weight.

Dance too rose. She said to her mother, “Are you sure the kids won’t be too much? I can take them back to Martine’s.”

“No, no. I’ve been looking forward to seeing them.” She pulled on a sweater. “In fact, I think I’ll go outside and visit.”

Dance briefly embraced her, feeling stiffness in her mother’s shoulders. For an awkward moment the women held each other’s eyes. Then Edie stepped outside.

Dance hugged her father too. “Why don’t you come over for dinner tomorrow?” she asked him.

“We’ll see.”

“Really. It’d be good. For Mom. For you, everybody.”

“I’ll talk to her about it.”

Dance headed back to the office where she spent the next few hours coordinating stakeouts of the possible victims’ houses and of the Brighams’ residence, deploying the manpower as best she could. And running the frustratingly hopeless search for the boy, who was proving to be as invisible as the electrons making up the vicious messages that had sent him on his deadly quest.

COMFORT
.

Pulling up to her house in Pacific Grove at 11:00 p.m., Dance felt a tiny shiver of relief. After this long, long day she was so glad to be home.

The classic Victorian was dark green with gray banisters, shutters and trim—it was in the northwestern part of Pacific Grove; if the time of year, the wind and your attitude about leaning over a shaky railing coincided, you could see the ocean.

Walking into the small entryway, she flicked the light on and locked the door behind her. The dogs charged up to greet her. Dylan, a black-and-tan German shepherd, and Patsy, a dainty flat-coat retriever. They were named respectively for the greatest folk-rock songwriter and for the greatest country-western vocalist in the past hundred years.

Dance reviewed emails but there were no new developments in the case. In the kitchen, spacious but equipped with appliances from a different decade, she poured a glass of wine and foraged for some leftovers, settling on half a turkey sandwich that hadn’t been resident in the fridge for too long.

She fed the dogs and then let them out into the back. But as she was about to return to her computer she jumped at the raucous fuss they made, barking and charging down the stairs. They did this sometimes when a squirrel or cat had had the poor judgment to come for a visit. But that was rare at this time of night. Dance set the wineglass down and, tapping the butt of her Glock, walked out onto the deck.

She gasped.

A cross lay on the ground about forty feet away from the house.

No!

Drawing the gun, she grabbed a flashlight, called the dogs to her and swept the beam into the backyard. It was a narrow space, but extended for fifty feet behind the house and was filled with monkey flowers, scrub oak and maple trees, asters, lupine, potato vines, clover and renegade grass. The only flora that did well here thrived on sandy soil and shade.

She saw no one, though there were places where an intruder could remain hidden from the deck.

Dance hurried down the stairs into the dimness and looked around at the dozen of unsettling shadows cast by branches rocking in the wind.

Pausing, then moving slowly, her eyes on the paths and the dogs, which tracked around the yard, edgy, wary.

Their tense gait and Dylan’s raised hackles were unsettling.

She approached the corner of the yard slowly. Looking for movement, listening for footsteps. When she heard and saw no signs of an intruder, she shined the flashlight onto the ground.

It
seemed
to be a cross, but up close Dance couldn’t tell if it had been left intentionally or been created by falling branches. It wasn’t bound with wire and there were no flowers. But the back gate was a few feet away, which, though locked, could easily have been vaulted by a seventeen-year-old boy.

Travis Brigham, she recalled, knew her name. And could easily find where she lived.

She walked in a slow circle around the cross. Were
those footsteps beside it in the trampled grass? She couldn’t tell.

The uncertainty was almost more troubling than if the cross had been left as a threat.

Dance returned to the house, stuffing her weapon in the holster.

She locked up and stepped into the living room, filled with furniture as mismatched as that in Travis Brigham’s house, but nicer and homier, no leather or chrome. Mostly overstuffed, upholstered in rusts and earth colors. All purchased during shopping trips with her late husband. Dropping onto the sofa, Dance noticed a missed call. She flipped eagerly to the log. It was from Jon Boling, not her mother.

Boling was reporting that the “associate” had had no luck as yet with cracking the pass code. The supercomputer would be running all night, and he’d let Dance know the progress in the morning. Or, if she wanted, she could call back. He’d be up late.

Dance debated about calling—felt an urge to—but then decided to keep the line free in case her mother called. She then phoned the MCSO, got the senior deputy on duty and requested a Crime Scene run to collect the cross. She told him where it was located. He said he’d get somebody there in the morning.

She then showered; despite the steamy water, she kept shivering, as an unfortunately persistent image lodged in her thoughts: the mask from Kelley Morgan’s house, the black eyes, the sewn-shut mouth.

When she climbed into bed, her Glock was three feet away, on the bedside table, unholstered and
loaded with a full clip and one “in the bedroom”—the chamber.

She closed her eyes but, as exhausted as she was, she couldn’t sleep.

And it wasn’t the pursuit of Travis Brigham that was keeping her awake, nor the scare earlier. Not even the image of that damn mask.

No, the source of her keen restlessness was a simple comment that kept looping over and over in her mind.

Her mother’s response to Sheedy’s question about witnesses in the ICU the night that Juan Millar was killed.

There were some nurses down on that wing. But that was all. His family was gone. And there were no visitors.

Dance couldn’t recall for certain, but she was almost positive that when she’d mentioned the deputy’s death to her mother just after it happened, Edie had acted surprised by the news; she’d told her daughter that she’d been so busy on her own wing that she hadn’t gone down to the ICU that night.

If Edie hadn’t been in intensive care that night, as she’d claimed, then how could she be so certain it was deserted?