The Face of Death (31 page)

“Cracked some of my ribs when you kicked them, Langstrom.”

She didn’t sound angry.

“Sorry,” Sarah ventured, though she knew she didn’t really sound that sorry.

“You did what you had to.”

Another long silence ensued.

“Why’d you pack your bag?”

“I’m going to a foster home tomorrow.”

Another silence.

“Well…good luck, Langstrom. No hard feelings.”

“Thanks.”

Sarah was shocked when a few tears spilled from her eyes. This offering from her enemy had affected her in a way she couldn’t understand. But she knew who to be grateful to.

“Thanks, Mommy,” she whispered to herself.

She wiped away the tears.

Assets and liabilities. Tears were a liability.

36

“
HI, MS. WATSON; WELCOME, SARAH. COME IN, PLEASE.”

The woman’s name was Desiree Smith, and Sarah wanted to like her on sight. Desiree was in her early thirties and she had the look of a friendly soul—happy eyes, smiling lips, an open book. She was short and dirty-blonde. Her frame was thick without being heavy, and she was pretty without being beautiful. Desiree had an uncomplicated worldview, a genuine and simple warmth.

Sarah examined her surroundings once they were inside the house. It was clean and unostentatious, filled with a happy clutter but not messy.

Desiree brought them into the living room.

“Please sit down,” she said, indicating the couch. “Can I get you anything, Ms. Watson? Sarah? Water? Coffee?”

“No thank you, Desiree,” Ms. Watson said.

Sarah shook her head. She knew better than to ask for something if Witch Watson hadn’t.

“I got everything done based on the legal requirements you went over with me, Ms. Watson. Sarah has her own room, with a brand-new bed. I stocked the fridge with some basics. I have the emergency numbers listed next to the phone—oh—and I got the paperwork needed to enroll her in school.”

Ms. Watson smiled and nodded in approval.

Go on, pretend to care, Sarah thought. So long as you leave when you’re done.

“Good, Desiree, that’s very good.” Ms. Watson reached into her battered leather carryall and pulled out a folder, handing it over to Desiree. “Her immunization records are there, as well as her school records. You’ll need to get her enrolled immediately.”

“I will. First thing Monday.”

“Excellent. Where’s Ned, by the way?”

Desiree looked worried. Sarah noticed that the woman had started to wring her hands, but had forced herself to stop.

“He got called last minute to do a long-haul. It was a lot of money—we couldn’t turn it down. He really wanted to be here. That’s not a problem, is it?”

Ms. Watson shook her head, waved her hand. “No, no. I’ve met him before, and you’ve both passed your background checks.”

Desiree’s relief was obvious. “That’s good.” She looked at Sarah. “Ned’s my husband, honey. He’s a truck driver. He really wanted to be here to meet you, but he’ll be back next Wednesday.”

Sarah smiled at the nervous woman. “That’s okay.”

Don’t worry. Witch Watson just wants to get in, leave me, and get out.

“Any last questions for me, Desiree?”

“No, Ms. Watson. I don’t think so.”

The social worker nodded, and stood up. “Then I’ll be going. I’ll check in on you in a month.” She turned to Sarah. “Be good, Sarah. Do what Mrs. Smith tells you.”

“Yes, Ms. Watson,” Sarah replied, demure again.

Go away, Witch, she thought.

Sarah waited on the couch while Desiree led Karen to the door and said her good-byes. The door closed, and Desiree came back over and flopped down on the couch.

“Whew! I’m glad that’s over with! I was so nervous.”

Sarah gave her a curious look.

“Why?”

“We’ve never taken in a child before, Sarah, and we really wanted to. Ms. Watson bringing you over and taking a look around was the last hurdle.”

“Why is it so important to you?”

“Well, honey, sometimes Ned is gone a lot. He’s here a lot too, but sometimes on a long-haul he’ll be gone for two weeks. I do some work from home as a travel agent, but it gets lonely. We both like children, and it just seemed to make sense, you know?”

Sarah nodded. She pointed toward one of the photographs on the wall. “Is that Ned?”

Desiree smiled. “That’s him. You’ll like him, Sarah, I promise. He’s a beautiful man. He doesn’t have a mean bone in his body.”

So you say.

She pointed to a photo she’d noticed earlier of Ned and Desiree with a baby. “Who’s that?”

Desiree’s smile changed. It became a sad smile that spoke of a hurt that was ever-present but no longer crippling. Some event had colored her soul without breaking her.

“That was our daughter, Diana. She died five years ago, when she was just a year old.”

“How did she die?”

“She was born with a bad heart.”

Sarah studied the photograph, thinking.

Can you trust this one? She seems nice. She seems really nice. But maybe it’s a trick.

Sarah was only eight, but her experience at the Parkers’, followed by two years in the group home, had taught her an important lesson: Trust no one. She liked to think of herself as hard, cold, a prisoner with a sneer on her face.

The truth was that she was only eight, and what she really wanted was for the warmth in this woman to be real. She wanted it with a deep-down desperation that made her heart tremble.

“Do you miss her?” Sarah asked.

Desiree nodded. “Every day. Every minute.”

Sarah watched the woman’s eyes as she said these things, looking for lies. All she saw was a river of sorrow, tempered by acceptance of the possibility of hope.

“My parents died,” she blurted out without meaning to.

The river of sorrow turned into compassion. “I know, honey. And I know about what happened at the Parkers’ too.” Desiree looked down, seemed to be searching for the words she wanted. “I want you to know something, Sarah. It’ll seem sometimes to you like I don’t understand the bad things that can happen in this world. Even with everything I’ve experienced, like losing Diana, I’m an optimist. I try to find the good side of things. But that doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. I know evil exists. I know you’ve seen too much of it. I guess what I’m saying is that I’ve got your back.”

Hope welled up in Sarah’s heart. It was crushed by a wave of cynicism.

“Prove it,” she said.

Desiree’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, well…” She nodded. “Fair enough.” She smiled. “How about this? I know that Karen Watson isn’t a very nice person.”

It was Sarah’s turn to be surprised. “You do?”

“Yep. She puts on an act, but I was watching. I saw the way she looked at you. She doesn’t really care about you, does she?”

Sarah scowled. “She doesn’t care about anyone but herself. You know what I call her?”

“What?”

“Witch Watson.”

Desiree’s mouth twitched and then she laughed. “Witch Watson. I like that.”

Sarah smiled back. She couldn’t help herself.

“So,” Desiree said. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Sarah replied.

Maybe, she thought.

“Good. Now that that’s settled, I want to introduce you to someone. I kept him in the backyard while Ms.—sorry—
Witch
Watson was here, but now I want you to meet him. I think you’ll like him.”

Sarah was puzzled. Was Desiree crazy after all? It sounded like she was talking about keeping someone in the backyard.

“Uh, okay.”

“His name’s Pumpkin. Don’t be afraid of him—he’s friendly.”

Desiree walked over to the sliding glass door that led into the backyard and opened it up. She whistled.

“Come on, Pumpkin. You can come inside now.”

There was a ferocious-sounding “woof.”

A dog!

Happiness shot through Sarah’s soul like an arrow.

Pumpkin appeared at the door, and Sarah understood the reason for the name immediately. The dog’s head was huge. Crazy-huge—like a pumpkin.

He was a coffee-colored pit bull, and he looked both ridiculous and terrifying, with his jowls flopping and his tongue lolling and his oversized skull. He raced up to Desiree, looked up at her and spoke: “Woof!”

Desiree smiled and leaned over to pet the pit bull. “Hey, Pumpkin. We have a visitor. A girl. She’s going to be staying with us, and her name’s Sarah.”

The dog cocked its head, aware that its owner was talking to him, but unable to understand any of it.

Sarah got up off the couch. Pumpkin turned at the sound.

“Woof!”

The dog came bounding over. Sarah would have been terrified if not for the fact that Pumpkin was wagging his tail in the universal sign of dog happiness. He bumped into her with his massive head and proceeded to lick her offered hand, coating it with slobber.

Sarah grinned. “Yuck!” She petted the pit bull, who sat back on his haunches and grinned. “You sure are a goofy-looking dog, Pumpkin.”

“I rescued him from a bar eight years ago,” Desiree said. She smiled. “It was in my younger days, and I wasn’t always that smart. I noticed a group of bikers over by a pool table laughing and making noise, and when I went over to see what they were doing, there was Pumpkin. He was just a puppy, but they had him up on the pool table, and they were shooting pool balls at him. He was scared, and whining.”

“How mean!”

“Yeah, I thought so too. I yelled at them all, and I might have tried to start a fight—which would have been really stupid on my part—but my girlfriend grabbed my arm and dragged me away. I was still very upset about it, so I kept drinking and—I don’t remember how it happened—when I woke up the next morning Pumpkin was lying next to me in my bed.”

Sarah continued to pet the dog, bemused by this strange woman and her tale of drunken dog-rescuing. Something hitched in her chest. She was mortified to find that tears were running down her face.

“What’s the matter, Sarah?”

Desiree was empathetic. She didn’t move closer or try to hug Sarah.

Sarah wiped her face with a small, angry hand.

“Just…we had dogs, and my mom would have liked the story about Pumpkin, and—” She sat back down on the couch, miserable. “Sorry. I’m not a crybaby.”

Pumpkin put his head in her lap and looked up at her, as if to say:
I’m sorry you feel bad, but can you keep doing the petting thing?

“There’s nothing wrong with crying when you’re sad, Sarah.”

Sarah looked up at Desiree. “What if you’re always sad? You’d never stop crying.”

She thought for a moment that she’d said something wrong because of the pain that twisted Desiree’s face. Then, understanding:

She’s feeling that way for me.

No matter how precocious, no matter how hardened, an eight-year-old only has so much complexity to draw on. Sarah’s interior walls had developed cracks, which had become fissures, and while the dam had not burst, the tears wouldn’t stop. She put her hands to her face and cried.

Desiree sat down next to her on the couch but was careful not to do anything else. Sarah was grateful. She wasn’t ready for that yet, to surrender herself to the arms of an adult again. It was nice to have Desiree there, though. Pumpkin displayed his own empathy; he’d stopped demanding to be petted and was licking Sarah’s knee.

Desiree didn’t speak until Sarah was done crying.

“So,” she said, “you met Pumpkin. Do you want to see your room?”

Sarah nodded and managed a smile. “Yes, please. I’m tired.”

You know one of the things I’ve realized? I’ve realized that a dog really is man’s (or woman’s) best friend.

As long as you feed them and love them, dogs love you back. They won’t steal from you or beat you or betray you. They’re honest. What you see on the surface is what you get underneath.

Not like people.

“We’re here,” Alan says, pulling me away from my reading.

I fold the pages in half and replace them in my purse with great reluctance.

Sarah’s experiences had awakened in her a taste for violence. But she was still guilty of hope.

Was that how it had been for him? A slow erosion of the soul? At what point did the taste become a hunger?

Did any part of him still hope?

37

TERRY GIBBS, THE LAWYER, HAS AN OFFICE IN MOORPARK. I AM
familiar with Moorpark by accident; Callie’s daughter and grandson live here.

The secret of Callie’s daughter had haunted her for years. A killer had discovered this, and had attempted to exploit this knowledge to his advantage. The result? Callie and I, breaking the sound barrier, pounding on her daughter’s door with our guns drawn, expecting the worst.

Marilyn was fine, the killer is dead, and Callie now has a relationship instead of a regret. This satisfies both my sense of justice and my sense of irony, a self-satisfaction that’s probably as ugly as it is gratifying. I feel the killer’s death deserves my gloating more than my guilt.

Moorpark is an up-and-comer, located in Ventura County, west of Los Angeles. In many ways it’s California of old; if you drive down the 118 freeway to get there, you pass through miles of unpopulated hills and mini-mountains. Sometimes there are even cows.

Moorpark used to be a rural town. Now it is a growing suburban hub, middle to upper-middle class, with some of the fastest-appreciating homes in Southern California.

“Give it twenty years and it’ll be an urban-sprawl shit hole,” Alan comments, gazing out the window, providing a cynical future-echo to my thoughts.

“Maybe not,” I offer. “Simi Valley, the town next door, is still very nice.”

Alan shrugs, not believing a word of it. We turn off the 118 freeway onto Los Angeles Avenue.

“Up here on the right,” Alan says. “In the business park.”

We exit the street into a large collection of four-to five-story office buildings, as new as the rest of Moorpark with glass that gleams in the sunshine.

“Pull up over there.” Alan points.

As we park the car, my cell phone rings.

“Is that Smoky Barrett?” a perky female voice asks.

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“This is Kirby. Kirby Mitchell.”

“Sorry—do I know you?”

“Tommy must not have told you my name. Silly guy. You asked for a referral from him? For personal protection? That’s me.”

I realize that the cheerful voice belongs to my “loyal and lethal” bodyguard and possible ex-assassin.

“Oh, right. Sorry,” I fumble. “Tommy didn’t give me your name.”

Kirby chuckles. It’s a chuckle that matches the rest of her voice: light, a little melodic. The sound of someone without a care in the world, someone who’d been happy to wake up that morning, who hadn’t needed any coffee when she woke up, who probably went on a five-mile jog straight out of bed, smiling the whole way.

I’m considering not liking her, but that’s the problem with cheerful people. You feel obligated to give them a chance. I’m also intrigued. The idea of a Pollyanna-assassin appeals to the perverse side of my nature.

“Well,” she says, a juggernaut of good cheer, “no harm done. Tommy’s great, but he’s a guy, and guys forget the details sometimes, it’s a man thing, I think. Tommy’s better than most, and a hunk to boot, so let’s forgive him, okay?”

“Sure,” I reply, bemused.

“So, when and where would you like to meet?”

I glance at my watch, thinking. “Can you meet me in the reception of the FBI building at five-thirty?”

“FBI building, huh? Coolness. I guess I’d better leave all my guns in the car.” A melodious laugh, somehow amusing and disturbing at the same time, given the context. “I’ll see you at five-thirty, then. Bye!”

“Bye,” I murmur. She hangs up.

“Who was that?” Alan asks.

I stare at him for a moment. Shrug. “Possible bodyguard for Sarah. I think she’s going to be a hoot.”

Coolness.

Terry Gibbs ushers us into his office with a smile. It’s a small office, with his desk in the front, and file cabinets along a far wall. Everything has a used but sturdy look to it.

I take stock of the lawyer as he motions for us to sit down in the two padded chairs facing his desk.

Gibbs is an interesting mix of a person. It’s as though he couldn’t decide who he wanted to be. He’s a tall man. He’s bald, but he has a moustache and a beard. He has the broad shoulders and athletic moves of a fit man, but he smells of cigarettes. He wears glasses with thick lenses, which highlight intense, almost beautiful blue eyes. He’s wearing a suit without a tie, and the suit looks expensive and tailored, a mismatch with the office furniture.

“I can see what you’re thinking in your eyes, Agent Barrett,” he says, smiling. He has a nice voice, smooth and flowing, not too deep or too high. The perfect voice for a lawyer. “You’re trying to match up the thousand-dollar suit and the crappy office.”

“Maybe,” I admit.

He smiles. “I’m a one-man band. I don’t make the big bucks, but I do okay. It forces compromise: flashy office or flashy suit? I decided on the flashy suit. A client can forgive a messy office. They’ll never forgive a lawyer in a cheap suit.”

“Kind of like us,” Alan says. “You can show them the badge, but all they really want to know is if you got the gun.”

Gibbs nods, appreciative. “Exactly.” He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk, hands clasped, serious. “I want you to know, Agent Barrett, I’m not being intentionally uncooperative on the Langstrom trust. I’m bound, ethically and legally, by the rules of the bar.”

I nod. “I understand, Mr. Gibbs. I assume that you have no problem with us getting a subpoena?”

“None whatsoever so long as it legally sets aside my obligations to comply with the rules of privilege.”

“What can you tell us?”

He leans back in the chair, looking off at a space over our heads, thinking.

“The client approached me approximately ten years ago, wanting to set up a trust to benefit Sarah Langstrom.”

“Man or woman?” I ask.

“I’m sorry. I can’t say.”

I frown. “Why?”

“Confidentiality. The client demanded absolute confidentiality in every way. Everything is in my name for that reason. I have power of attorney, I administer the trust, and my retainer is paid from the trust.”

“Did you consider that someone wanting that much confidentiality might not be up to anything good?” Alan asks.

Gibbs gives Alan a sharp look. “Of course I did. I made some inquiries. At the other end of those inquiries I found a child orphaned by a murder-suicide. If Sarah Langstrom’s parents had been killed by an unknown intruder, I would have refused to take on the client. As it was, with the mother ruled the murderer, I couldn’t think of a reason to refuse.”

“We’re looking into the possibility that it wasn’t a murder-suicide,” I say, watching his reaction. “It may have been staged to appear that way.”

Gibbs closes his eyes for a moment and rubs his forehead. He seems distressed. “That’s terrible, if true.” He sighs and opens his eyes. “Unfortunately, I’m still bound by attorney-client privilege.”

“What else can you tell us without violating that?” Alan asks.

“The trust is a fund, designed to keep up the family home, and to provide Sarah Langstrom with means. It’s to be released to her control on her eighteenth birthday.”

“How much?” I ask.

“I can’t give you an exact amount. I can say that it will let her live comfortably for many years.”

“Do you report to your client?”

“Actually, no. I assume there’s some form of oversight in place—a way for the client to keep an eye on me, to make sure I’m not emptying out the cookie jar. But I haven’t had contact with the client since the formation of the trust.”

“Isn’t that unusual?” Alan asks.

Gibbs nods. “Very.”

“I noticed that the exterior of the home is well kept up. Why not inside? It’s a dust farm,” I say.

“One of the conditions of the trust. No one was to enter the home without Sarah’s permission.”

“Strange.”

He shrugs. “I’ve dealt with stranger.” He stops speaking for a moment. A pained, almost delicate look comes across his face. “Agent Barrett, I want you to know, I’d never have knowingly participated in anything that would bring harm to a child. Never. I lost a sister when I was younger. My little sister. The kind big brothers are supposed to protect. You understand?” He looks miserable. “Children are sacred.”

I recognize the guilt I see rising in his eyes. It’s the kind of guilt that comes with feeling responsible for something you couldn’t have done anything about anyway. The kind that appears when fate is at fault but you’re the one left holding the bag.

“I understand, Mr. Gibbs.”

We’d spent an hour fencing with the lawyer, trying to extract more information from him without any luck. We’re back in the car, and I’m trying to decide on my next move.

“I got the idea that he wanted to tell us more,” Alan says.

“Me too. I agree with your original assessment. I don’t think he’s trying to be a jerk. His hands are tied.”

“Subpoena time,” Alan says.

“Yes. Let’s head back to the office and get in-house counsel on it.”

My phone rings.

“An update on other fronts,” Callie says.

“Go ahead.”

“As it turns out, the files on the Vargas case—both ours and the ones at the LAPD—are missing.”

My heart sinks.

“Oh, come on. Are you kidding?”

“I wish I was. The best guess is lost over time, although I suppose we could theorize that they’d been stolen, all things considered.”

“Whichever one it was, we don’t have the files.” I rub my forehead. “Fine. I know you’re working on processing the Langstrom home—but do me a favor. Call AD Jones and see if he can give you a list of names of the agents and officers who worked the case.”

“Will do.”

I hang up.

“Bad news?” Alan asks.

“You could say that.” I relate the substance of the call to him.

“Which do you think? Lost or stolen?”

“My vote is on stolen. He’s been planning for years, and he’s been manipulating things to allow discovery at his pace. That makes this too much of a coincidence.”

“Probably right. Where to now?”

I’m prepared to answer when my phone rings again.

“Barrett,” I answer.

“Hey, Smoky. It’s Barry. Are you still in Moorpark?”

“We’re just leaving.”

“That’s good. I did some checking into the detectives originally assigned to the Langstrom case. Get this: One’s dead. He ate his gun five years ago. Not particularly probative, to be honest—the guy had been on the ragged edge for years, apparently—but what is interesting is that his partner retired two years later. Just quit, four years short of his thirty.”

“That is interesting.”

“Yeah. It gets better. I got ahold of this guy. His name’s Nicholson. Dave Nicholson. I told him what was up and get this: He wants to see you. Now.”

Excitement thrills through me. “Where does he live?” I ask.

“That’s why I asked if you were still in Moorpark. He’s close. He retired to Simi Valley, just up the road.”