12th of Never (Womens Murder Club 12) (29 page)

The light on my phone console blinked. I picked up the receiver, tapped the button, and said my name and rank into the mouthpiece.

The man on the other end of the line said he was Sergeant Cosmo Rinker of the White Pine County, Nevada, sheriff ‘s department.

He said, “Sergeant, we’ve got two DBs out here, and you might be looking for them.”

“How’s that?” I said.

“Well,” Rinker said, “what happened was, this UFO group saw a bright light on the horizon a couple of weeks ago, thought it was a close encounter of the little green kind. But when they got to it, turns out to be a vehicle completely consumed by fire.”

I wondered what an incinerated vehicle had to do with us. But the sergeant had hooked me, and the man liked to tell the story his way.

“After the highway patrol called us, we got to see what was inside this burned-up Escalade. It was the cremains of two bodies in the rear cargo area, both of them female.”

We were missing two female bodies, which was an inexcusable tragedy, an embarrassment to San Francisco law enforcement, and a very bad blow to a very good friend of mine.

“I’m listening, Sergeant. Please go on.”

“Sure, sure; I’m getting there. One of the females had a bullet that went into her head and out the other side. The other female also had a gunshot to the head, but the bullet was fragmented and forensically worthless. But our lab did get a hit on the dental work of that first female and that’s why I called you.”

“What’s the victim’s name?”

“She’s this Faye Farmer you’re looking for, got stolen from your ME’s office. We can’t ID the other victim.”

Rinker was still talking as I typed an instant message to Richie. FAYE FARMER FOUND. I sent it to his computer. He typed back !!!!!?????

I said, “Sergeant Rinker, where are the two bodies now?”

“They’re at the ME’s office in Las Vegas. But I think you should come see us here in Ely pretty soon. I think maybe we’ve got a lead on the doer.”

“Put the coffee on, Sergeant. We’ll be right there,” I said.

IT TOOK FOUR hours for Conklin, Claire, and me to get to McCarran Airport in Las Vegas. Then it was a four-hour drive in a rental car to a speck of a place fifty miles north of nowhere on a small track of road leading out into the desert.

The White Pine County sheriff ‘s barracks were sided in white aluminum, with a line of small windows facing the road and a sign on the front reading
PUBLIC SAFETY BUILDING
.

We parked, stepped out into the blazing sun, and shielded our eyes with our hands so that we could view the distant blue hills at the farthest edge of the scrub and the endless open sky above us.

Moments later we went through the glass doors, identified ourselves to the desk officer, then waited in the dark reception room until a lanky man in a tan uniform opened an interior door.

“Good to see you all,” he said. “Come on back.”

Rinker’s office was lit with an overhead fluorescent fixture. File cabinets flanked his door, and his hat hung from a rack of antlers directly behind his chair. There was a framed picture of the Three Stooges in police uniforms and a dozen plaques on the walls.

We took seats around Rinker’s desk, and after introductions were made, the sergeant opened a file on his computer and turned the monitor around.

“Can everyone see?”

We looked at photos of the torched Escalade from all sides, including a close-up of what looked like a red Frisbee in the backseat. That red disk had once been a plastic five-gallon gas container, and was likely the fire’s point of origin.

Next Rinker showed us images of the interior of the cargo section at the back of the burned car. Along with the jack and the remains of the spare tire were two corpses, charred to the point of being what firefighters call crispy critters.

Rinker said, “Our ME removed the bodies. Usually, when you take the bodies out, there will be carpet or something under them—clothes, maybe—that didn’t burn. But this fire burned long and hot. All we got was ash and a few pieces of metal you can see in this picture here.

“Now, these are the reports from the ME.”

He handed the records to Claire, who skimmed the forms, knowing just what she was looking for.

“‘Jane Doe 91, cause of death, bullet to the head,’” she said. “‘Manner of death, homicide.’ May I see that photo of the artifacts again?”

Rinker pulled it up and Claire scrutinized the scorched litter until she saw what she was looking for.

“That buckle looks like it came from a gun belt. I’m just speculating, but until proven otherwise, I’m thinking this Jane Doe is Tracey Pendleton, still missing, still unaccounted for.”

Claire put down the ME’s autopsy report on Jane Doe 91 and picked up the second report.

She read, “‘Faye Farmer, cause of death, gunshot to the head.’ Uh-oh. Here’s something interesting.”

Claire looked over at me. “Faye Farmer was pregnant.”

I WAS VERY damned pleased that we would have the victims’ bodies returned to San Francisco. That took away some of the stink from the abduction of Faye Farmer’s corpse and the mysterious disappearance of the ME’s nighttime security guard.

But it wasn’t enough.

All of us, Claire included, were responsible for getting justice for Faye Farmer and Tracey Pendleton, and that meant finding their killer and gathering enough evidence to charge him with homicide.

Clearly, we were severely handicapped.

Whatever forensic evidence had once been on the bodies of Pendleton and Farmer had since gone up in a thousand degrees of gasoline-fueled flames. Faye Farmer’s unborn child might lead to a motive—but it would be weeks before we’d know if there was viable DNA from the fetus’s remains.

Conklin said, “Sergeant Rinker, what’s this about a lead to the shooter?”

“I’ve got some crap-quality videotape. What other kind is there, right?”

As the sergeant punched keys on his computer, he told us that Ely was a small town, not much in it but a café, a few Western-style brick storefronts, something called the Frosty Stand, and a gas station called the Stagecoach that held down the intersection of the highway and the strip mall.

“The Stagecoach Gaseteria is your typical gas and food mart—three pumps and sandwiches to go. But here’s the thing,” Rinker said. “It’s one of only a few gas stations around here for about a hundred miles.

“Here we are.”

Rinker clicked his mouse to play the footage.

The so-called crap-quality video was grainy. Still, there was no mistaking the black Escalade when it pulled off the highway and parked at the pump.

Rinker said, “See, I can just make out two numbers on the plate, but they’re Ohio plates. Stolen off a car about three months ago.”

We watched the driver get out of the Escalade, take his wallet out of his back pocket, and go into the gas station, presumably to pay. The angle of the camera showed us the back of his head.

I was pretty sure I knew who he was from that partial view, but it wasn’t what you’d call a positive ID.

Conklin asked, “Is there footage from inside the store?”

Rinker said, “Would have been, but the camera was broke. So this is it. Now look, here he comes out of the store. And now he lifts his hand, waves to this guy parked out on the street.”

There was a hulking guy standing next to a silver Audi that had pulled up on the roadside, just barely within the camera’s range.

“That’s Cal Sandler,” I said. “Plays for the Niners with this man right here.”

I stuck out my finger and stabbed the ghostly image of Jeff Kennedy, who was now filling up a red five-gallon gas container. I could make out Kennedy’s face this time.

I thought anyone could.

Kennedy put the gas container in the backseat of the Escalade, got behind the wheel, and pulled out. His friend driving the Audi moved out right behind him.

Claire said, “Sons of bitches killing those women. A murder of an innocent person done to cover up the murder of an innocent person. Makes me sick.”

“Three homicides,” I said. “Baby makes three.”

IT WAS SUNDAY evening and I was alone in the bathtub with my thoughts.

I had just come back from a meeting with attorney George Fenn and his superstar client, the former football hero Jeff Kennedy.

Neither of them looked as self-assured in our little interview room as they had at Fenn & Tarbox’s extraordinary conference room only a few weeks ago.

Today, Fenn blustered.

Kennedy denied shooting anyone, claimed that the man in the gas station video wasn’t him, and that he was going to sue the city for defamation of character.

It was a nice try, but no sale. We had Kennedy with the gas container, the Escalade, and we had a solid witness who wanted to keep himself off death row—Cal Sandler, Jeff Kennedy’s best friend and accomplice.

It was a bad day for pro football.

But it was a good day to be a cop.

I was running more hot water into the tub when Joe brought Julie and Martha into the bathroom. It was a tight fit. Joe sat on the lid of the toilet seat and bounced our little girl on his knee. He asked me if I wanted reheated lasagna or if I wanted to go out to eat.

“Easy one,” I said. “Please nuke the pasta.”

Martha lowered her snout into the tub and lapped at the bathwater until, laughing, Joe pulled her away.

I wanted to savor these last few hours of the weekend, just soak them up. When the phone rang, I didn’t answer it.

Whoever was calling could darn well wait until morning. But Joe looked at the caller ID, picked up, and said, “Hey, Richie.”

I said, “Tell him I’ll call him back.”

“He said he’ll wait,” Joe told me.

I stepped out of my luxurious bath, threw on a robe, and took the phone from Joe.

“I’m off duty, Richie.”

“You want to hear this.”

There was something in his voice that told me not to blow him off. He sounded bone-tired, or in shock, or simply at the end of his rope. Whatever the reason for his call, it was damned important to my partner.

“Then you’d better tell me,” I said.

He said, “It’s … it’s …”

His voice cracked, as though he were going to cry.

“Rich. What’s wrong?”

“It’s Morales,” he said. “She got herself out of the hospital. She escaped.”

Our gratitude to these top professionals who were so generous with their time and expertise during the writing of this book: Dr. Humphrey Germaniuk, Medical Examiner and Coroner, Trumbull County, Ohio; Captain Richard Conklin of the Stamford, Connecticut, police department; attorney Philip R. Hoffman of New York City, New York; and Robert A. Wilson, MD.

We also wish to thank Andrea Spooner for sharing the experience of a lifetime.

As always, we are grateful to our excellent researchers, Ingrid Taylar and Lynn Colomello, and to Mary Jordan, who keeps it all together.

I’m proud to support the National Literacy Trust, an independent charity that changes lives through literacy.

Did you know that millions of people in the UK struggle to read and write? This means children are less likely to succeed at school and less likely to develop into confident and happy teenagers. Literacy difficulties will limit their opportunities throughout adult life.

The National Literacy Trust passionately believes that everyone has a right to the reading, writing, speaking and listening skills they need to fulfil their own and, ultimately, the nation’s potential.

My own son didn’t use to enjoy reading, which was why I started writing children’s books – reading for pleasure is an essential way to encourage children to pick up a book. The National Literacy Trust is dedicated to delivering exciting initiatives to encourage people to read and to help raise literacy levels. To find out more about the great work that they do, visit their website at
www.literacytrust.org.uk
.

James Patterson