Sins of the Fathers (32 page)
With a chuckle, Greene slid into the chair opposite Colby. He had an apple, a sandwich, and milk. A regular American.
“How goes the war?” Greene took a bite of his triangular half-sandwich.
“Keeping the world safe for democracy?”
“Or the streets at least.”
“Fine.”
“A lot of publicity on the DiCinni matter.”
“What can I say?”
“Star-making publicity.”
Leon wondered what he meant by that.
“I’m not looking to be a star,” Colby said.
“Nothing wrong if it happens,” Greene said. “You still running for DA?”
“This place is a lousy venue for secrets.”
Greene smiled. “No worries. The case itself is taking most of the attention. Especially after what happened to Lindy.”
Colby said nothing.
“I care very much for her,” Judge Greene said.
“I know.”
“She has some concerns about what’s going on under the surface of this case. That videotape, for instance. What’s going on there?”
“Judge, if you don’t mind my asking, what’s your interest in all this?”
“Besides Lindy? How about the truth?”
The word hit Colby like a fist. “Then we’re in the same ballpark.”
“Then you won’t mind if I take an interest in the case, on a personal basis.”
“Lots of people have an interest, don’t they?”
The smile faded from Greene’s face. “You want some free advice? Get a deal. Even if it’s less than you want. Get this case done. Because I don’t want to see any disrepute fall on the administration of justice.”
“And you think that’s what I’m doing?”
“Just some free advice.” Greene stood up, having consumed one bite of his lunch. “I’ll be seeing you, Mr. Colby.”
Leon Colby’s appetite left with the judge.
He was just about to head back to the office when his cell phone bleeped. Larry Lopez.
“You’re gonna have to wait on that video,” Lopez said.
“Why’s that?”
“I’m here at McIntyre’s apartment. His stuff is gone. Computers, cameras, all that.”
Colby let out a breath. “And where’s McIntyre?”
“Oh, he’s right here, Leon.”
“What’s he got to say?”
“Not much. See, he’s got two bullet holes in the back of his head.”
7.
The scene Leon Colby encountered at Sean McIntyre’s apartment was, in many ways, typical. A forensics team was busily doing its thing, taking photographs, gathering trace evidence. A team from Robbery Homicide Division oversaw the operation.
But in another more troubling way, this scene was not typical at all. Not for Leon at least. A citizen who had provided evidence turned up dead in what looked like a professional hit.
What
was
going on?
“Could’ve been anybody,” Larry Lopez said. He had his arms folded over his wrinkled brown coat, looking down at McIntyre’s body. A medical examiner with rubber gloves and a swab was leaning over the reporter’s head.
“Not anybody,” Colby said. “It looks professional.”
“Remember, this guy liked to run with the criminal element, get their stories, sometimes exploit ’em. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was some guy who wanted money for his video. McIntyre tells him to blow, and there you are.”
“They have any idea when this happened? What time?”
“Too early to say yet. But this is how I found him. Me and the manager.”
“He was with you?”
“Had to let me in. I made him. Showed him my shield.”
Colby shook his head. “Nice illegal move.”
Lopez raised a hand in protest. “I wasn’t out to get evidence. I was out to talk to the guy.”
“And maybe look around while you—”
“Yo, don’t bust my bones, Leon. I’m on your side.”
“Maybe I want my guys to follow the law from time to time.”
“What’s with you?”
Colby said, “Just stay here and get me a preliminary report. I want to know what time this happened and what was taken. Anybody who knew McIntyre, what was in here?”
“Yeah,” Lopez said, smirking. “Lindy Field.”
8.
The box Kim Fambry gave Lindy, at first glance, seemed to be a whole lot of nothing.
Lindy went through it at her kitchenette table. The box contained some marked-up history text, a few printed articles from the Internet on subjects like Lewis and Clark and the Treaty of Versailles. There were a couple of CDs—Cat Stevens’s
Greatest Hits
, Huey Lewis & the News,
Piano Rags
by Scott Joplin. Joel Dorai might have had eclectic musical taste, but that wasn’t going to solve any puzzles.
There was a baseball glove with a ball in it, the sort of thing a kid would have in his closet. A paperweight with a quote attributed to Winston Churchill:
Never never never quit.
Some old
Newsweek
and
Time
magazines. And notebooks, with odd things scribbled in them. Blank verse. Attempts at poetry. Doodles.
What did it all add up to? And what was so important about his school materials that the police seized them? And the contents of this box, that Dorai would have asked someone to hide them?
She looked at Cardozo, sunning himself at the window. “Do you have any idea what’s going on?”
Cardozo said nothing. He blinked when Lindy’s phone bleeped. She almost let it go to voice mail, but something told her to pick up.
It was Leon Colby.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Not a pleasure call, Lindy.”
The tone in his voice made her sit up. “What is it?”
“I have some bad news, and I wanted you to get it before the news does.”
“Darren?”
“No. Sean McIntyre. He was murdered.”
A hammer hit Lindy in the chest.
“In his apartment. Shot.”
The surreal words pushed her to the wakeful edge of a nightmare. She wanted to cry out and make the words go away.
“I know you were close to him,” Colby said.
She fought to say, “Why?”
“We don’t know. We know he liked to get close to the crime element for his stories. He may have had a long list of enemies.”
A hole opened inside her and she felt she might fall into it. Sean. Dead. She saw his face then, in her mind, smiling winsomely. She heard his voice. Her throat began to swell with grief.
“I’m sorry, Lindy.”
She shook her head slowly.
“I have to ask you one question, just routine.”
She waited, fighting back tears.
“You can account for your whereabouts last night, right?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“It’s ridiculous, I know, but—”
Indignation overcame her sorrow. “No, it makes perfect sense! I broke into Sean’s apartment with one arm and killed him.”
“Like I said, it’s just a question that someone might ask—”
“It’s a stupid question.”
“I know. I wanted to give you a heads up on it, that’s all. Good night.”
“Wait a minute, Leon.” She paused and took a moment to compose herself. “Thanks for calling. I appreciate it, I really do.”
“No problem.”
“Now I want to ask you a question. How come you never told me about the police searching Joel Dorai’s room at Coolidge High School?”
After a pause, Colby said, “First I’ve heard about it.”
“What’s going on with your office and the police?”
“They have their job to do. If they found anything relevant, they’d hand it over.”
“Would they?”
“You’ve seen too many suspense movies, Lindy. But I’ll make this deal with you. As soon as anything relevant comes across my desk, I’ll get it to Everett. He’s insisting on a speedy trial, and I’m happy to accommodate that.”
“Are you still refusing to consider an insanity deal?”
“Yes.”
“Darren needs treatment.”
“Take care, Lindy. Again, I’m sorry.”
And he was gone. Her trailer was suddenly very quiet. Box Canyon, normally alive with the whisper of night air,was still. As still as the lifeless place in her, where the broken memories of loved ones lay.
Then, quite unexpectedly, she was saying something out loud, and realized with a detached wonderment that it was a prayer for Sean McIntyre.
1.
“Nearly three months after the Capistrano Park killings, the trial is set to begin, and our panel of experts will be joining us later. First, though, we’re going to hear from the mother of one of the victims, Mona Romney.”
An eerie sort of calmness enveloped Mona. She had felt the calluses developing on her soul as the trial date approached. The calluses were tough and fibrous and protected her well.
Even being on TV with Hank Dunaway, who had a national talk show on cable, didn’t faze her now.
“This can’t be easy for you,” Dunaway said. The avuncular man, a veteran of local L.A. news,was noted for his ability to relate to victims of crimes.
“It’s just something I have to go through, as do the other parents,” Mona said. She thought of Brad then, his face flashing before her mind even though she had not seen him since she had the divorce papers served. “But we do it because we’re not willing to let injustice prevail.”
“I should mention that you are a member of a group called Victims of Injustice and Crime, is that correct?”
“It’s a support group that advocates for justice in the criminal courts. We’ve seen too many criminals get away with things because of technicalities in the law. We want to stop that.”
“Your son, Matthew, was eleven years old?”
“Yes.”
“Can you describe your feelings on that day, the day he was killed?”
“Hank, words can’t begin to describe it. It was the worst thing I’ve ever gone through, or will ever go through. I just . . .” She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s perfectly understandable. I’m sure everybody in our audience understands. Maybe you could tell us how you got through it. Did you rely on people, a religious faith? What was it that helped you deal with a trauma like this?”
Mona did not hesitate. “It’s just an inner strength you have to have, or you fold. I just knew that if I wasn’t able to go on I would be shaming the memory of my son. And I determined I was not going to do that.”
“How has this inner strength changed you?”
“I just know that I have to fight for justice.”
Hank Dunaway leaned on the desk, chin in hand, the way a concerned neighbor would talk over a kitchen table. “What’s your feeling about the way the case has been handled thus far?”
“In what way?”
“By the press, the public, the lawyers. I mean, it’s all over the place.”
She was on national television. She should have been nervous. But something strong and sure and relentless had replaced the nerves with intoxicating confidence. Matthew’s spirit and memory had brought her to this moment. She would not let him down.