Buried Evidence (45 page)

Hope picked up her service revolver and trained it at Curazon, her arms aching from the struggle. “Don’t move,” Hope shouted, her finger resting on the trigger. “Right now I’d just love to shoot you.”

A beam of light came from behind her. Hope didn’t take her eyes of her prisoner, believing it was only another streak of lightning.

“Who in the hell are you?” Jameson said, his flashlight pointed at her face.

Hope jerked her head around. “LAPD homicide,” she said, thinking he was a neighbor who had heard her cries for help. “Call the Santa Barbara police and have them send someone out here right away. This man is under arrest for homicide and assault on a police officer.”

“Well, if this don’t beat all,” Keith O’Malley said, shoving Jameson aside, then removing his handcuffs. As he walked toward Hope, he reassured her by holding his shield out in front of him. “Ventura P.D. homicide,” he told her. “What’s your name, officer?”

“Detective—” Hope lowered her arms, too weak to finish her sentence. Her blouse was ripped, both her shoes were gone, her hair was dangling into her face in wet clumps, and the pain in her leg was so severe, she was certain she was going to collapse at any moment. Once O’Malley had Curazon in handcuffs and had rolled him over onto his stomach, she remembered her father and found a renewed sense of strength. “Detective Esperanza Cortez Carruthers,” she told him proudly.

“That’s a mouthful,” he answered. “I’m Detective O’Malley.
I think we spoke on the phone a few times.” He reached over and nudged Curazon with his foot. “And who is this sack of shit?”

“Marco Curazon,” she said, sitting down on the porch step. “His fingerprints match those found in the garage at John Forrester’s residence. He’s also the man who raped Shana and Lily Forrester six years ago.”

“Where’s Lily?” Jameson asked, reaching for the soggy arrest warrant in his pocket.

O’Malley looked at Carruthers and shook his head. “You’re not only a prick, Fred, you don’t have the reasoning abilities of a fly. If Lily Forrester had been here tonight, she’d be dead.”

T
he courtroom was packed, every seat taken. Reporters and other spectators had been allowed to stand along the back wall, as long as they didn’t cause a disruption. Lily was seated at the counsel table with Richard, waiting for the municipal court judge to render her ruling at the preliminary hearing.

In a felony case, the prelim could best be described as a minitrial, where both sides were allowed to present evidence and call witnesses if they felt it was to their advantage. There was no jury, however, and the burden of proof was far less than it would be during the actual trial. All the state needed to establish in the lower court was that a crime had been committed, and that there was sufficient evidence to hold the defendant, Lillian Forrester, to answer in superior court.

Lily was dressed in a navy blue suit, her hair secured in a knot at the base of her neck. She was wearing her reading glasses and only a touch of lipstick. Her face was pale and drawn, but when Richard glanced over at her, he felt she had never looked more beautiful. He touched her hand under the table, then whispered in her ear, “It’s going to be over any minute now. Stay strong.”

Shana was seated in the row behind the counsel table, as was Richard’s son, Greg. She reached forward and placed a hand on her mother’s shoulder. Lily gave her a weak smile, then turned her eyes back to the front of the courtroom. What happened today was insignificant, her mother had told her before they’d left the house that morning to drive to the courthouse. They no longer had to live in fear. Marco Curazon would either receive the death penalty, or he would spend the remainder of his life in prison without the possibility of parole. The D.A.’s office in Los Angeles had assured Shana and Lily that they had more than enough evidence
to make the charges against Curazon stick. He would never taste freedom again.

On the left side of the room, Fred Jameson and Keith O’Malley were conferring with Frank Pearlman. At forty-two, the prosecutor was a short, wiry man with bushy hair, a beard, and small dark eyes. He had a look of disgust on his face when he finished speaking to the two detectives. They had promised him evidence and then failed to deliver. With the knowledge he possessed about the victim in the case, Bobby Hernandez, his feelings about the outcome of the case were ambiguous.

“I still don’t know what happened to the evidence,” Jameson mumbled under his breath. “How could the central system have erased a whole day’s worth of tapes? Nothing like this has ever happened before. It’s insane.”

“It’s a little late to discuss it now, don’t you think?” O’Malley told him.

“All rise,” the bailiff said. “Division Eleven of the Municipal Court of Ventura County is now in session, Judge Francine Parks presiding.”

Judge Parks took her seat on the bench. She was an attractive woman in her late forties, with brown hair trimmed just below her ears, an olive complexion, and lovely eyes. She peered out over the courtroom, then moved the microphone closer to her mouth. “In the state versus Lillian Forrester, case number
A
4873468,” she said, “the court finds there is insufficient evidence to hold this defendant to answer in superior court.” She paused and linked eyes with Lily, then tapped her gavel lightly. “This court is hereby adjourned.”

Richard and Lily were already on their feet. Shana and her mother embraced each other, tears streaming down both their cheeks. Greg shook his father’s hand. “Good job,” he said, smiling broadly.

Lily threw her arms around Richard. “You were right,” she said. “I did have a great attorney.”

Now that the court was no longer in session, reporters rushed over and snapped Lily’s picture. Seeing the crush of people in the aisle, the two bailiffs came around from the side and escorted
Lily, Shana, Richard, and Greg Fowler out of the courtroom, where another group of individuals had assembled. “This is a madhouse,” Lily said, clinging to Richard’s arm. When the bailiffs finally cleared a path for them to the front steps of the courthouse, she suddenly stopped, unable to believe her eyes.

Bruce Cunningham was standing in the parking lot. If he hadn’t been such a large man with such distinctive features, Lily wouldn’t have recognized him. For a moment she thought she was hallucinating from stress. They had tried to reach him several times in Omaha, but the company he worked for had consistently told them he was too busy to take their phone calls. Lily had been convinced that the detective had been avoiding her, so she had asked Richard to stop calling him.

Lily pointed toward the parking lot. “That’s Bruce Cunningham.”

“Where?” Richard asked, following her line of vision.

Cunningham’s gruff face spread in a smile; then he raised his hand and waved. Lily broke away from Richard, Shana, and Greg, shoving aside the throngs of people to get to him. By the time she reached the area of the parking lot where he had been standing, the detective was gone. Lily found herself standing in a vacant parking spot. She lifted her face to the warmth of the sun. A few moments later she was surrounded by a circle of love as Shana, Richard, and Greg walked up beside her.

Thursday, February 8, 2001, 7:45
A.M
.

E
li connors gazed up at the morning sky, watching as a flock of seagulls soared over his head. At forty-eight, he was a quiet, introspective man. With the exception of those who paid for his services, he didn’t have much use for people.

The
Nightwatch
was anchored a short distance offshore, midway between the California cities of Ventura and Santa Barbara. Clasping a steaming mug of hot coffee in one hand, Eli took a sip, then lowered his head to the telescope mounted on the bow of the seventy-two-foot fishing vessel. The ship thrashed about in the choppy water, the waves pounding against the hull. A strong easterly wind had developed during the night, the primary reason the fog had lifted. The telescope was bobbing up and down, yet Eli had no trouble maintaining his balance. He stood six-foot-six and weighed three hundred pounds. Dressed in a white cotton T-shirt and drawstring flannel shorts, his feet encased in size seventeen deck shoes, his ebony skin glistened in the morning sunlight. The cold air didn’t bother him. Eli had always been oblivious to temperature. Weather, however, was something he couldn’t afford to ignore. For the past seven years, the sea had been his home.

Seacliff Point, the enclave where his subject resided, presented extensive surveillance problems as the houses were nestled among mature trees. With the Celestron Nexstar 8, an automated positioning telescope with pinpoint computer control and high-speed
photo capability, he could track and record the movements of just about anything. He could not, however, track something the telescope could not see.

Eli’s adrenaline surged as he caught a glimpse of the woman. She was frantically darting from one house to the other. A young girl he recognized as her daughter was standing next to a white Lexus, shouting and flailing her arms around. As he attempted to zoom in on the woman’s face, she disappeared behind a large tree. “Damn,” he said, knocking over his coffee mug as he spun the telescope around and started snapping pictures of the girl.

Had it not been for corrupt politicians, Eli Connors would be a high-ranking agent within the CIA. But that was the past, and the past couldn’t be changed. To some degree, he relished the fact that he was no longer with the agency. Before he’d joined the CIA, he’d been a captain in the navy. He’d grown tired of taking orders, having people look over his shoulder, dealing with the inherent problems of government bureaucracies. His only regret was not bailing out sooner. In the private sector, Eli’s skills were highly marketable.

With one hand resting on the telescope, he used his free hand to depress a button on what had once housed a refrigerated storage container, the type commercial fishermen used to store their bait and catch. Just as the storage container was not what it appeared to be, the
Nightwatch
was not really a fishing vessel. On the main deck, the boat was outfitted as a commercial ship, allowing movement from port to port without drawing unwanted attention. Below was enough sophisticated equipment to run a small country.

Even though he wasn’t certain what was unfolding, Eli prepared to take action. In his line of work, there was no margin for error.

The electronic mechanism moved the fake cover on the storage container to one side. A metallic cranking sound was emitted as the Mk 45, a lightweight .54 caliber automatic weapon, rose and locked into place.

M
any individuals played an important role in this novel becoming reality: my agent, Peter Miller, at PMA Literary and Film Management; Delin Cormeny, also with PMA; my new editor at Hyperion, Maureen O’Brien; my special angel and friend, Michaela Hamilton; Dr. Christopher Geiler for his medical expertise; my heavenly muses, too numerous to mention by name. You know who you are and how extremely grateful I am for all you have beamed my way.

I owe a special debt of gratitude to my mother, Ethel LaVerne Taylor, a woman so enchanting and mystical that she saw my books in a store window before I even published my first novel in 1993; to my sisters and brothers: Sharon, Linda, and Bill; and to my various children and their spouses: Forrest Blake and Jeannie; Chessly and James Nesci; Hoyt and Barbara Skyrme, Nancy Beth and Amy Rosenberg; my heroic adopted daughter, Janelle Garcia, please know I cherish each and every one of you.

To my precious grandchildren: Rachel, Jimmy, and the adorable little girl born almost on the same exact day I finished the novel: Remy Camille Skyrme.

Nancy Taylor Rosenberg
has worked for the Dallas Police Department, the Ventura Police, and served as a deputy probation officer in Ventura County, where she was assigned to court services. She has written six
New York Times
bestsellers. She lives in southern California.

For more information, please visit http://www.nancytrosenberg.com/

Mitigating Circumstances

Interest of Justice

First Offense

Trial by Fire

California Angel

Abuse of Power

J
oanne Kuhlman is a razor-sharp Assistant District Attorney, the kind of prosecutor who shows no mercy to the guilty and gets her conviction. That changes when she finds herself in the unfamiliar position of feeling sympathy for a defendant—a young man accused of armed robbery and trafficking in an ingenious new weapon more dangerous than any Joanne or the police have encountered. And when Joanne feels herself becoming attracted to the defendant’s handsome defense attorney, she knows she is placing her career in grave jeopardy.

Teaming up with her legal opponent, defense lawyer Arnold Dreiser, Joanne begins assembling a jigsaw of vicious betrayal and innocence lost. Bestselling novelist Nancy Taylor Rosenberg is back with a vengeance in this nail-biting new thriller that keeps the surprises coming until the last page. Shocking and suspenseful, with a heroine readers will love, and a plot readers won’t be able to put down,
Conflict of Interest
is Nancy Taylor Rosenberg at her page-turning best.

Thursday, February 8, 2001, 9:29
A.M
.

F
or two years Joanne Kuhlman had gone to bed each night not knowing whether her children were dead or alive. That morning, Leah, her fifteen-year-old daughter, had made her so angry that Joanne had felt like shipping her back to her father. Even if she’d been serious, the man was currently in jail and would more than likely be sentenced to prison.

Exiting her white Lexus, Joanne jogged toward the main entrance to the Ventura County courthouse. She wondered how many people in her office knew about the situation with her ex-husband. Worrying about gossip, she told herself, should be the least of her concerns. Her prayers had been answered—Leah and Mike had been located and returned. The fact that Doug’s first trial would be held in Los Angeles was another reason she should be grateful. At least the divorce was final now. The papers had come through the previous month. Joanne had filed over a year ago, yet with Doug’s whereabouts unknown, the proceedings could not be finalized.