The Summerland (3 page)

He finally approached the passenger side of the vehicle, snapping on a latex glove as he did so. He knew this was a job for the crime lab, but they were all busy up on the mountain collecting evidence and hopefully giving him something concrete to go on.

Muttering under his breath, he popped the latch to the glove compartment and pulled out the registration paperwork. Registered to Arden Jones of Torrance, a suburb of Los Angeles. Aviator’s Ray-Bans and eleven black government ballpoint pens. Assorted paperwork, including a copy of the Los Angeles Air Force Base biweekly, the AstroNews, with a by-line by Captain Arden Jones. His left eyebrow climbed an inch. An Air Force officer carrying that much cash disappears in the middle of Nowhere, California. He wasn’t buying it. Puffing his cheeks out in a withheld breath, he contemplated the registration and shiny car sitting before him, then walked to his truck.

* * * *

Technology never failed to amaze him. Within thirty minutes of contacting the local cellular company he’d tracked down the owner of the flip phone, even pinpointing her address. Samantha Henning of Hollywood, he thought, you have some serious explaining to do.

Chapter Three

To say that Arden Jones was pissed would have been an understatement. It was telegraphed to the whole world, from the people she dealt with in the office to the poor, unsuspecting dupes on the phone. It was drawn in every line of her lean body, from the ash blonde hair she’d ruthlessly hauled into a French twist to the ‘go to hell’ heels on her long legs. It was bad enough that she’d been transferred to this hellhole of a base in Los Angeles, of all places, but yesterday when she’d opened her door, her brand-new car was gone. She’d saved her money the whole two years she was overseas so she could buy the damn thing in cash, and poof, it was gone. More than anything, she’d bought it as a symbol that her life was starting anew, as an older, wiser woman rather than the naïve girl she had been. So here she was. And Torrance was supposed to be such a good little city. Shit.

She scowled out the window across from her cubicle, looking glumly at the demarcation line separating the clear blue sky and the smog, wondering why the planes taking off from LAX didn’t get stuck in it and wishing she were back in the Azores. At least there had been no smog, no pollution, and best of all, no crime. She’d been spoiled on that little Portuguese island and every day she was here made her wish for the ‘boredom’ that she’d felt while stationed there.

Breathing a deep sigh, she pushed up her glasses and focused her hazel eyes on the article she was proofing and the handful of archive slides accompanying it. It was a pain in the butt to be the Air Force liaison to the stars, and coordinating the escorts for this charity event was no exception. She just knew she’d end up being one of them, dressing up in the monkey suit the military called ‘mess dress.’ Lord, all she ever did was
make
a mess when she wore the damn thing. And, to make it even worse, she was always taller than the Hollywood type she was escorting and it just looked plain dumb on camera. With a frown creasing her forehead and pulling her well-sculpted brows together, she attacked the article with a ferocity that no newsprint deserved. The third and fourth rings of the telephone in the lobby got her attention, and she snagged the line before the caller could hang up.

“
Good Afternoon, Los Angeles Air Force Base Public Affairs, Captain Jones speaking. May I help you?” God, she winced, I should be a receptionist, I sound so disgustingly perky.

“
Captain Arden Jones?” queried the deep, masculine voice on the other end of the line.

“
This is Captain Jones.” She cradled the telephone between her shoulder and ear, then squinted at the slide she held between thumb and forefinger. Shifting back in her chair, she held it up to the light streaming through the grimy window and grimaced. It was crap, utter crap. “What can I do for you?” she muttered, her ‘legendary’ patience already beginning to wear thin.

“
Captain Jones, my name is Bill Ashton and I’m the Sheriff for Mariposa County, up in Northern California. I understand from Torrance PD that your car’s been stolen. Could you give me a brief description please?” The voice at the other end was crisp, professional, and hummed along her nerve endings like a low-voltage shock. Held in its thrall and startled by her gut-deep reaction to a simple voice, it took her a second to realize exactly what he had asked. Then it hit her and blanked everything else out.

“
Oh crap, how bad is it?” she moaned, her overactive imagination already painting the worst picture possible. “Sorry, sorry, it’s a candy apple red Miata, California plates, number 4E59436. Mariposa, you said. Where’s that?” She searched her memory, knowing the name was stored somewhere.

“
Mariposa is right outside of Yosemite, ma’am. Did you have any personal effects in the vehicle?” He asked hopefully, but without much conviction, toying with the arm strap of the exercise bag. He was afraid he could see where this was leading.

“
No, just the stuff in the glove box. What kind of personal effects?” Arden rubbed her temples, ineffectually brushing back the strands of hair that had fallen out of her twist, then drummed her fingers impatiently on the desktop, the clicking of her unpainted nails rapping a staccato rhythm. “And what shape is my car in? How trashed is it?”

“
Um, your car is fine, but there are some circumstances surrounding it. Do you have the time to make a brief statement about its theft? Just for our records here.”

Arden grumbled inwardly for a moment, then acquiesced. As she finished telling him exactly the same thing she’d told the Torrance cops she blurted out, “So, who took my car? Did you catch them?”

There was silence on the other end of the line as the Sheriff debated dropping the name of their suspect. What the hell, he decided, it couldn’t hurt. “We haven’t caught the person, but we think we may have a name in connection. A sports bag and cell phone registered to this person were in your car. Do you know a Samantha Henning?” He heard the quick intake of her breath and knew he had something. “You know her, don’t you?”

The quality of her voice, when it did come back on the line, was so flat, so cold, so devoid of emotion that for an instant he thought it was computer-generated. “She’s my sister. Henning was my maiden name. Look, I’ve got a few things to tie up before I can get there. What’s the closest airport?”

“
Hold on there for just a second…” he began before he was cut off.

“
You don’t know my sister. Something is wrong, very wrong. What ‘circumstances’ were you talking about, and how do they tie in to Samantha?”

“
I’m not at liberty to disclose that, it’s part of an ongoing investigation.” He answered stiffly, his own annoyance at her interruption beginning to show.

“
I don’t know that you can offer us any assistance in this matter Captain Jones, except to give us background, and we can do that over the phone.” He was moving fast, trying to cut her off before she got a full head of steam. It was already bad enough with the press, the last thing he needed was relatives underfoot, especially a pushy military officer used to getting her own way. And a public relations officer at that! “I can keep you updated on any developments as they occur.” Apparently he hadn’t moved fast enough.

“
Sheriff, I’ll be there by close of business tomorrow. I’ll expect to speak with you then. What is the closest airport?” She used her best ‘officer’ voice, hoping against hope that the Sheriff respected the authority her rank carried.

* * * *

His day didn’t get any better after that. At nine o’clock he called a conference for the city fathers rather than saying the same thing ten different times over the telephone. He also had much more control with all of them sitting right in front of him. To a man, or woman, they were worried about how the news of five dead bodies would effect tourism. Visitors to Yosemite were the lifeblood of Mariposa proper and the county as a whole. If tourists stopped coming, the town was in a world of hurt. It was no surprise that each of the Supervisors tried to distance themselves from the district where the murders occurred. Then the representative from the Yosemite area reluctantly voiced a concern that hadn’t even entered the Sheriff’s overtaxed mind.

Yosemite National Park was federal land, and the murdered women had been found right on the border of the park. Since it was unclear where the murders had actually been committed, it was a damned good bet that the FBI was already on their way. To top it all off, the media had begun camping out in front of both the courthouse and the Sheriff’s Department, waiting for a statement. Ashton hadn’t seen that many TV trucks since the other Yosemite murders a few years ago. They had been committed by a deranged handyman with a grudge the size of Texas against women. He hadn’t been on the force then, thank God. The press had ripped apart the Sheriff’s Department and the FBI when another murder had been committed after the suspect had been initially questioned. This was going to be an even bigger circus, he could guarantee it. He sent the Supervisors on their way with a promise to update them if anything new surfaced and to hold a brief press conference in several hours.

* * * *

In the two hours before the press conference, the crime lab reported in with a disquieting detail—a liberal amount of green silk fibers had been found at the Jane Doe Five crime scene. The lab techs also reported what seemed to be unusual care in the placement of the bodies, indicating that they hadn’t been dumped, but precisely placed instead. He charged the investigators with finding anything and everything about the site before they reported again tomorrow morning.

Chapter Four

The Sheriff’s return to the office that afternoon was nothing short of a skirmish through enemy lines. The reporters followed him from the staging area, shouting questions over each other, totally oblivious to the fact he was ignoring them. He closed the outer door to the Department with a relief that was palpable. Walking straight to his office door, he unlocked it with the only key in the department. It was this security measure alone that had allowed him to leave the bag in the safe in his office while he soothed the savage media beast. He trusted his men with his life, but not necessarily with the amount of cash he was pretty sure was stashed in that bag. On any other day his first priority would have been getting a handle on the mystery behind the money, Samantha Henning, and Captain Arden Jones. Not so today.

Pulling the shades, he ignored the fact that each and every person in the squad room was looking directly at him. Then he locked the door again and removed the duffel bag from its safe haven.

He unzipped the top and let out a slow hiss as the contents of the bag stared up at him. His first impression had been correct. The bag was packed to the gills with cash in twenty-dollar denominations. At first glance most of the bills appeared to be well used, which was not comforting since it made them that much harder to trace. He tore his reverent gaze from the money to the door as Gail knocked discreetly.

“
Sheriff, sorry to interrupt you, but Frank Drebin from the FBI is here to see you.”

Gail could hear the barely veiled laughter in his voice as he asked, “Did you say Frank Drebin?”

“
Yes Sheriff, she did. Now please open the door.” The voice on the other side of the smoked glass door was most definitely not Gail’s. He zipped the bag back up and turned to unlock and open the door. The man standing on the other side of the stoop was clearly not Leslie Nielsen. He was a huge black man in a neatly pressed G-man suit, with a totally inappropriate turquoise tie peeking out of the somber blue Brooks Brothers ensemble. He held up an enormous hand. “Before we get started, I’ve heard every
Naked Gun
joke ever told. If you and I are going to get along, get them out of your system right here and now, then we can get to work on whoever is killing young ladies in your county.”

Bill stood aside and motioned the man into the inner reaches of the Sheriff’s Department. He looked at Gail and said, “Hold my calls, all of them.” At her nod he closed the door and locked it. He pushed away from the door and nodded at the seat opposite the disaster area that was his desk. “Please, have a seat. We may be yokels up here, but we do have manners. I wondered when you’d show up. So, when will you be taking over the investigation?”

Drebin, to give him his due, showed no expression. “They sent me up to
assist
you in solving these crimes.” He glanced around the room, taking in the meticulously organized bedlam, then looked at the Sheriff, measuring him against the reports that had been read to him over his car phone and the idle talk he’d heard since arriving in town late this morning. He certainly did look the good old boy, but something about the sharpness of his eyes and the strength of his mouth told Drebin that Bill Ashton could go the distance, and then some.

It was his eyes that drew you first, Drebin decided, their color was unusual, kind of rumpled denim blue that looked as if they could go from warm, fuzzy laziness to iceberg pure in a heartbeat. To a man with Drebin’s training and inherent gift at reading people, those eyes spoke volumes about Ashton’s character and the hellish circumstances he’d found himself in.

He wondered why a man who’d graduated magna cum laude from San Jose State with a Bachelor’s Degree in Behavioral Science and a Masters in Criminal Justice Administration would want to be a cop, of all things. Just passing that damn course made him the best of the best. He could have been working side-by-side with Drebin at the FBI with that kind of education. He knew Ashton had pulled a few years with LAPD and even served some time in Homicide. Why in the world he would want to come back to this little pisser of a town was beyond him.