Page 6

Chula Vista, San Diego, California

Sunday, January 8, 7:00 p.m.

Ace Diamond, a.k.a. Calvin Livingstone, was drunk off his ass.

He staggered back into his living room after opening his front door to Kit and Connor, and Kit had to clear her throat to keep from coughing at the smell of booze oozing from the man’s pores.

“Maybe we should come back,” Connor muttered. “This place reeks.”

“Maybe he’ll be more talkative,” Kit muttered back.

“I can hear you,” Ace said, grunting as he walked into a wall. “I’m drunk, not deaf.”

“Why are you drunk, Mr.Livingstone?” Kit asked, venturing farther into the apartment that wasn’t as trashy as she’d thought it would be. In fact, other than the empty bourbon bottle on the coffee table—and the six-pack of empty beer cans stacked in a pyramid beside it—the place was downright tidy.

Ace glared at her blearily. “Don’t call me Livingstone. Name’s Diamond. Ace Diamond.”

“Okay, Mr.Diamond. Why are you drunk?”

He huffed. “Same reason you’re here. Shelley. I saw it on the news.”

Kit made a sympathetic noise. “We’re sorry for your loss.”

“Fuck off,” he said with another grunt, managing to make it to the sofa, where he collapsed. “I don’t know who killed her. I only know that I didn’t.”

Kit walked around the sofa so that she stared down at Ace. “She tried to get you to leave town with her.”

Ace’s head came up. “How do you know that?”

“We were able to access her cloud account,” Kit said truthfully.

“How?” Then Ace blew out a breath that Kit could smell from where she stood. So much booze. “Julie,” he muttered.

“Would you have told us?”

“Probably not. Shelley shouldn’t have taken the money from that guy. I told her it was fishy.” He opened one eye. “You didn’t find any cash on her, did you?”

“Why do you want to know?” Connor asked from across the room. He was wandering around, seeing what Ace had left out in plain sight.

“Don’t touch my stuff,” Ace slurred. “I know my rights.”

“Just staying upwind from your booze-a-thon,” Connor said. “Why do you want to know about the cash? Did you have plans for it?”

“No! It’s because I figure you didn’t find any. That the bastard who killed her didn’t plan to pay her at all. She died for nothing.” The final words rushed out of his mouth on a ragged sob.

“What was she using?” Kit asked gently, playing good cop to Connor’s bad cop.

“H.”

Kit wanted to sigh. Heroin was a hard habit to break. “Julie said you were her supplier.”

Ace opened his mouth, then closed it. A moment of silence passed while Kit waited him out. “I never sold to her. I gave it to her at first, but I stopped because I could see she was hooked. That’s why she started stealing from her mom and her aunt, even before we both went into rehab. I tried to get her to stop.”

“I saw that in your texts. You told her that money from the trailer wouldn’t last her for a month.”

Ace sighed. “It’s the truth. She lived with her mom. She had no idea how much it costs to live on your own. Everyone thought I was a bad influence on her. They think I got Shell hooked, but it was the other way around. Shell got me hooked so that I’d score for her. I have a job. I make decent money, so she got me to buy it for her. When I stopped, she got mad. Said she’d find someone else to buy for her. She said she’d dump me if I didn’t start buying for her again.”

“Did that make you angry?” Kit asked, keeping her tone mild.

“Of course it did. But not so much that I’d ever hurt her. Look, I know that I look mean. I got tats. I swing a cleaver for a living, but I’m not…like that. I didn’t hurt her. I’d never have hurt her.” He swallowed hard. “Who killed her?”

“We’re hoping you can help us find out,” Kit said.

“What do you want to know?”

“Did she tell you who she was meeting Tuesday night?”

“No. She just said it was a customer who asked if he could get a discount if he paid her in cash. She was going to take the four Gs and run. She was fed up with her mom’s rules, her aunt’s rules. She wanted out.” He sat up abruptly and groaned, holding his head. “Wait. Wait a minute.”

Kit took a step back just in case the alcohol he’d consumed made a reappearance.

“Not gonna puke,” he muttered. “Fuck, my head hurts.”

“You drank a lot of booze,” Kit said, hoping she sounded both sympathetic and judgmental at the same time. “You’re lucky you’re not kneeling in front of the toilet right now.”

“Nah. Drank the beer first. Got a buzz. Beer on whiskey, mighty risky.” He laughed, but it was more like a sob. “Whiskey on beer, never fear.”

“Are you going to tell me something?”

Ace half snarled. “Gimme a minute. Brain’s not…braining.” He took a few deep breaths, then gasped softly. “Right. There’s a camera. At her aunt’s body shop.”

That had been spray-painted over, just like the camera at Munro’s house. “Not usable footage.”

“Not the one that nerd Bran installed. The one I installed.”

Kit hoped she hid her surprise. “Why did you install a camera at Jennifer’s Body Shop?”

“Shell said that Bran had come on to her. That he groped her the day after she got out of rehab, when she went back to work. I was so fucking pissed at that nerdy piece of shit. But Shell lied a lot. I wanted to be sure before I punched his lights out.”

“You installed a camera to check on Bran?”

“And Shell. I wanted to be sure she was okay. Bran never touched her, not that I saw. But Shell never knew about that camera.”

“Where is the camera?”

“In the parking lot.”

Yes. “You got the feed for those cameras?”

“On my laptop. It’s in the bedroom.” He lurched to his feet, weaving dangerously. “Fuck.”

“Do you need me to walk you back there?”

“No. I know my rights. You need a warrant for that.”

“We’ll wait here,” Kit promised. “Just don’t fall and knock yourself unconscious. I need that feed.”

Ace seemed to think that was hilarious. He laughed like a loon. “I might like you, except you’re a damn cop.”

“My heart is broken,” she said sarcastically.

He just laughed some more.

Kit turned to Connor when Ace had closed his bedroom door. “Well?”

“He’s either getting his laptop or a gun,” Connor said dryly.

“His background check didn’t turn up any registered guns,” Kit said, moving her hand to her own service weapon—just in case.

“I can fucking hear you!” Ace shouted. “Still not deaf! Don’t own a damn gun!” He reappeared, his laptop in his hand.

He plopped on the sofa again, squinting at the laptop screen. “Fuck, I’m wasted.”

“You really are,” Kit agreed. Gingerly, she sat next to him on the sofa.

Connor approached, his eyes never leaving Ace’s hands. He still didn’t trust the young man. Which was fine. Kit didn’t completely trust him, either.

But if he had truly captured Shelley’s killer on video, unaware? That was almost too good to be true.

San Diego PD, San Diego, California

Sunday, January 8, 8:15 p.m.

“Well, shit,” Navarro said when Kit and Connor had finished playing the recording taken by Ace’s cameras. They’d all gone to Sergeant Ryland’s lab, where he had computers that he could safely use with an external drive of questionable origin.

The external hard drive belonged to Ace Diamond. He’d refused to give up his laptop, telling them to get a warrant.

Navarro pinched the bridge of his nose with a tired sigh. “Shelley Porter never had a chance. Rewind it and play it again.”

Kit complied. The video was grainy and the audio wasn’t amazing, but it was good enough to see—and hear—what had happened.

A Ford F-250 truck pulled into the parking lot of Jennifer’s Body Shop at seven thirty on Tuesday night. It idled for a minute, the driver in the very edge of the frame. He wore a hoodie, obscuring his face.

“We put out a BOLO on the license plates of the truck,” Connor said. “They were stolen last week. We’ll get security footage from the cops who took the report from the owner of the plates, but I’m betting we see a guy in a hoodie again.”

Said guy in the hoodie disappeared from the video frame for a moment, like he was reaching for something, then got out of the truck. He now wore the Halloween hockey mask he’d worn when he’d entered Munro’s home.

“He’s consistent,” Navarro commented.

Because he’d also taken a can of spray paint and thoroughly covered the camera pointing toward the garage’s extra-large door. It wasn’t quite big enough for a semi-truck trailer, but big enough for the trailer that had driven in and out of Munro’s neighborhood.

Shelley had opened the garage’s bay door, taken one look at the man, and opened her mouth to scream. But he was ready for her, a gun glinting in the overhead lights.

He shoved the gun into her side. “Give me the keys to the garage,” he said, his voice muffled behind the mask.

Shelley dropped a set of keys into the man’s hand. “Don’t hurt me. Just take the trailer and go.”

“You know too much. Sorry.”

He didn’t sound sorry at all.

Shelley’s chin came up. “My mom knows I was meeting you. If I don’t come home, she’ll call the cops.”

“That is a dilemma,” the man said, his sarcasm thick. “I guess Mama has to go, too.”

The man grabbed the piece of duct tape he’d stuck to the leg of his dark pants. Not jeans, but slacks. He pressed the tape to Shelley’s mouth, then dragged the young woman to his truck, where he made quick work of restraining her wrists and ankles with zip ties.

He tossed her into the back seat of his truck, then stepped back, looking both ways to ensure he hadn’t been seen. One of his hoodie sleeves had ridden up as he’d dispatched Shelley, and he tugged at the cuff of his long-sleeved shirt before pulling the sleeve of his hoodie past the cuff.

All of this was captured by Ace’s camera but hidden from street view by the Ford truck. Shelley’s muffled cries could be heard, but she couldn’t be seen.

She wouldn’t be seen again until Kit, Connor, and Sam discovered her body five days later.

The man closed the garage door with the trailer still inside, then drove away at seven thirty-five p.m., only to return forty-five minutes later.

“Time of Shelley and her mother’s death was sometime between seven thirty-five and eight twenty,” Connor murmured.

The man used the keys he’d taken from Shelley to open the garage door. He hooked the finished trailer to the hitch of his truck and drove it out of the garage before closing the garage door. And then he drove away.

“We requested street cam footage around Jennifer’s Body Shop,” Detective Marshall said. “It was one of the first things we did when we checked out the scene. We hoped he’d stop somewhere and get out so that we could get another look at his face, but he simply disappeared. It’s like he knew where the cams were and took back roads, because we lost him. Didn’t pick him up again until he drove into Munro’s community early Wednesday morning.”

“He has a working knowledge of the city,” Navarro murmured. “And of its street cams.”

Kit had thought of that. It was definitely something they could use to narrow their search.

“We can ask the public to come forward if anyone saw the trailer,” Detective Ashton said, “but we’d be showing our hand.”

“I want to know where he stayed Tuesday night,” Navarro said. “That might be where he took Munro to do all the things he did. All the torture.”

“And,” Kit said, “if there was more than one person involved in the little stab fest, we might be able to identify them if we know where they went to do their little Orient Express . But Ashton’s right. We’ll show our hand. Your call, boss.”

“We’ve already planned a press conference for tomorrow at ten a.m.,” Navarro said. “We could make the announcement then. Are we sure that David Norton didn’t have anything to do with this?”

Kit shook her head. “We aren’t sure of anything except that Munro, Shelley, and her mother are dead, all were killed the same exact way, and that we have this hockey-mask guy on video twice—here and at Munro’s.”

“How did the boyfriend react to seeing this recording?” Navarro asked.

“He threw up,” Connor said. “Barely made it to the toilet. It was not pleasant. I preferred the stink of stale booze to puke.”

“I think he cared for her,” Kit said. “I believed his story.”

Navarro sighed. “What next?”

“We try to find out where the trailer spent Tuesday night,” Kit said. “And we start investigating all our suspects. I think we start with William Weaver, the guy whose reputation Munro destroyed during the last election. Accused Weaver of pedophilia, which led to him losing his marriage, his family, his job, and his home. Of everyone on the list, he’s got the most personal reason for revenge.”

“And Ronald Tasker, the guy who’s serving time now for chopping up his wife,” Connor added.

Navarro nodded. “Tasker’s the guy Munro wanted Sam to evaluate as being mentally unfit for trial.”

“That’s him,” Connor said. “He couldn’t have been the killer because he’s behind bars, but he could have paid someone to do it.”

“We’ll visit William Weaver tonight,” Kit said. “Then go to the prison tomorrow for Tasker. I also want to revisit Wilhelmina, see if her story’s changed at all.”

“It won’t,” Connor said confidently. “She had it down pat before we even got there. True or false, she’ll stick with it.”

Kit shrugged. “You’re probably right. I’m kind of hoping to provoke Rafferty into spilling some tea. He seems to have a trigger temper.”

“Can I be bad cop again?” Connor asked, looking so eager that Kit laughed.

“Knock yourself out,” she said. “But I can be bad cop even when I’m being sweet.”

Connor exaggerated a shudder. “You make grown men fear you.”

“Damn straight.”

Navarro just shook his head. “I have a raging headache, so I’m going home. Call me if you need me.”

“Will do,” Kit assured him. “We started at seven this morning with Sam, so we’ll clock out after we speak to William Weaver.”

Navarro lifted a brow. “Night shift sergeant said you were here at four a.m.”

“I couldn’t sleep. My brain was racing, so I came in. But I’ll go home and sleep soon.” She’d go to Mom and Pop’s. It was Sunday and she’d missed family dinner, but her mother would have made her a plate.

She wondered what Sam was doing for dinner. He shouldn’t be alone tonight, not after discovering three bodies in less than two days. Then she remembered he’d gone to see Georgia and Eloise. An evening at the retirement center always seemed to lift his spirits.

And that she was worried about how he was doing after such an emotional day? She’d freak out tonight when everyone else was asleep.

Kearny Mesa, San Diego, California

Sunday, January 8, 9:30 p.m.

William Weaver refused to let them into his apartment, a tiny little place in a not-so-great part of town. Considering he’d once owned a home in La Jolla and had been a respected professor, his social status had plummeted significantly.

Of all the people on the suspect list, Weaver had the biggest reason to want Munro dead. At least that they knew of so far.

“We can talk here,” he said, leading them to a small picnic area outside his apartment building.

Though it wasn’t a cold night, it was chillier than Kit liked. But at least Weaver hadn’t completely shut the door in their faces.

“I’ve been expecting you,” he said as they sat at a picnic table.

“Why?” Connor asked.

Weaver snorted. “Right. I’ve got to be at the top of your suspect list, considering I said in front of cameras that Munro would be sorry for what he’d done to me.”

He’d given a press conference when he’d been formally cleared by the police of all child molestation charges three years ago, but not many reporters had shown up. The press conference hadn’t been televised at all, and any print or online articles had been nearly impossible to find if one hadn’t been expressly searching for them.

Which no one really had been. It was a sad fact of life that the media would splash a scandal on page one of the news and get it trending on social media, but a retraction was generally buried behind the obituaries.

“It might not have been your wisest move,” Kit said.

Weaver shrugged. “I have literally nothing to lose at this point, Detective. My wife believed the lies. She took my children away. We have joint custody now, but I can see the doubt in my kids’ eyes when it’s my weekend. They come into my apartment, go straight to the room they have to share because a one-bedroom is all I can afford now, and I don’t see them until their mother picks them up. When they do look at me, I see fear in their eyes and it guts me. Every single time. My wife has apologized for doubting me, but the damage has been done. I could never trust her to believe in me again.” He exhaled wearily. “I’m suing the university for wrongful termination, but that’s going to drag through the courts for years. No one will hire me in my chosen field. You know how I earn a living now, Detectives? Night shift at a convenience store. There is literally nowhere I can go, no job I can apply for, where the stink of Munro’s false accusation doesn’t follow me. Yes, I was cleared. But no one really believes it. Not enough to hire me.”

“I’m sorry,” Kit murmured. Because she was. She remembered the accusation and had wished the man to perdition for hurting children. Until she’d learned the charges had been dropped against him.

She’d questioned the move by the prosecutor’s office at the time. It was far easier to believe the worst about someone than to believe they’d been purposely vilified.

Weaver sighed. “Thank you. Look, I’m glad the man’s dead. I’m not going to lie about that. I hope he suffered. A lot. But I didn’t kill him. I’ve led a boring life since my world fell apart. I go to work, come home, watch any old movies I can find for free on a laptop I bought used because the police destroyed the one they confiscated from me when they arrested me.”

Kit winced. She’d read that in his file, too. The department owed this man some form of restitution, but she doubted he’d ever get it.

“Where were you on Tuesday evening, sir?” she asked. “Between seven and nine?”

A sad smile ghosted over his lips, leaving his eyes haunted. “One of my sons plays the violin and had a recital Tuesday night from seven to nine. The theme was New Year’s Possibilities.” His laugh was bitter. “I sat in the back. Left at eight forty-five. My son never knew I was there. But I couldn’t miss it. I take whatever scraps I can get.”

Bitter was nowhere close to what this man was feeling.

Kit couldn’t say that she blamed him. “Did anyone see you there?”

“Yes, a few. One of the other parents saw me. Gave me a dirty look. Picked up his toddler and moved to another seat.” He hesitated. “My ex-wife saw me, too. I’d hope that she’d tell the truth and confirm my alibi, but I don’t know if she will.”

“We’ll ask her anyway,” Kit said. “What about the music teacher?”

Weaver shrugged. “Her husband saw me. Wouldn’t meet my eyes, but he knew I was there. When the last kid started to play, he leaned over my shoulder and asked if I’d leave. So that I didn’t make a scene.”

“Did you?” Connor asked.

“Of course. This was my son’s evening. Not mine.” He looked away, but not before Kit saw a tear streak down his cheek. “Nothing of his will ever be mine to share again.” He cleared his throat, still looking away. “Did Munro suffer?”

Kit hesitated, then decided to tell the truth. “Yes.”

“Good,” he said on a hiss. “He’s in hell now, I’m sure.”

That’s probably true.

Weaver’s recital alibi covered the time of the murder of Shelley and her mother, but not the time of Munro’s abduction.

“What about Wednesday, all day?” she asked. “Where were you then?”

“Wednesday I pulled a double because the day shift cashier got the flu. I was there from three o’clock on Wednesday afternoon until seven Thursday morning.”

Both of his alibis would be easily confirmed. That took care of the time that Munro had been accosted in his home and he and his car removed in the landscaping trailer. Kit had to admit to being relieved on Weaver’s behalf.

“Do you have any idea of who else we should be looking at, sir?”

“I think you need to follow the money,” Weaver said. “Everyone knew that Brooks Munro was a kept man. But Wilhelmina had him on a short leash. He got an allowance—enough for living expenses and the occasional splurge, but nothing close to what he’d have needed for his lifestyle. He drove a Ferrari, for God’s sake. Everyone assumed Wil bought it for him.”

Kit studied him. “But you don’t assume that?”

“No.”

“Where do you think the money came from?” Connor pressed.

Weaver was quiet for a long moment. “I heard that he was taking bribes from developers,” he said, still not looking at them. “But I’m sure you’ve heard those rumors, too.”

Kit nodded. “We have. But you know something definitive.” The man’s body language screamed that he had details that he desperately wanted to pass on but for some reason was not doing so. When he remained silent, she asked, “How did you know he received an allowance?”

Weaver swallowed. “During the election I was suspicious of him. I…” He closed his eyes. “I hired a PI to gather whatever dirt he could find.”

Kit wasn’t too surprised. Politics was a nasty business. She was more surprised that Weaver hadn’t used whatever he’d found to fight back when Munro circulated the accusations of child molestation. “What dirt did he find?”

“That he received an allowance of five grand a month. He paid for the Ferrari in cash. Stacks of it. One of his household staff allegedly said that he kept piles of cash in his safe. That’s how he paid them— allegedly —so there was no paper trail.”

“You keep saying ‘allegedly,’?” Connor noted.

“Because we didn’t have proof,” Weaver snapped. “If I’d had actual proof, I would have used it. And I did try, before you ask. I told the cops all of this, that I was being smeared, but Munro had friends in high places. I was ignored. My attorney advised me to stop publicly arguing and let him handle the case, so I did. Because by then, I was seriously afraid I’d go to prison. My marriage had already fallen apart and I’d been fired. All my savings either went to my wife in the divorce or to the attorney who did actually manage to keep me out of jail. I couldn’t pay the PI at that point so he walked away.” He exhaled. “I’m trying to move on.”

“Which will be easier with Munro dead,” Kit said.

“Yes.”

It was said with simple certainty.

“How do you think Munro was supplementing his council income?” Connor asked. “Taking bribes from developers had to have been lucrative on some level, but was it enough to buy a Ferrari with cash?”

“I don’t know, and that’s the honest truth. But I do know he paid a lot of his bills with cash or money orders. I’d be surprised if you find much of a credit card trail.”

“Did your PI manage to trace the source of this cash Munro was using?” Kit asked.

“I don’t know. But by the time we got that far, I’d missed a few payments and he said he was deleting everything he’d gathered.” Weaver scowled. “Do I think he really did that? No. But I was too busy defending myself by that point. I told my attorney that I’d hired a PI and he tried to get the information the man had gathered, but he was unsuccessful as well. And you can’t talk to the PI. He’s dead. Was shot while on a stakeout six months ago. I was finally ready to approach him again. I had a little money saved, enough to hopefully buy what he’d gathered, but before we could meet, he was killed. You should have the report in your department files.”

“His name?” Connor asked, poised to write it down.

“Jacob Crocker.”

They’d definitely be looking into him. “Who knew you were ready to meet with him?” Kit asked.

Weaver’s smile was wry, like he’d already thought of the possibility that Crocker had been killed because of their planned meeting. “My lawyer and Crocker. I trust my lawyer. I don’t know if Crocker told anyone.”

“How did you choose him?” Kit asked.

“Found him online. His rates were reasonable. I didn’t tell anyone else. Once my life started to unravel, I would have used anything I could find against Munro. I didn’t care how the information had been obtained. But by then it was too late.”

“If Munro used money orders, there will be a paper trail,” Kit said thoughtfully.

“He didn’t buy them himself. His assistant did.”

Kit tilted her head. “The same one he has now? Veronica Fitzgerald?”

“Yes. She’s been with him for at least fifteen years. Long before he was married to Wilhelmina.”

That was consistent with what Wilhelmina had shared. They hadn’t talked to Veronica yet, having spent so much time tracking the landscaping trailer. They’d stop by city hall first thing in the morning, before they drove out to the prison to see Ronald Tasker.

“What do you think of Miss Fitzgerald?” Connor asked.

“She’s fierce. Guarded Munro’s privacy zealously.”

“Anything between them?” Connor asked.

“I don’t think so. She’s got to be sixty.”

“Munro’s wife is sixty-one,” Kit commented.

Weaver blinked. “I guess she is. Maybe he likes them older.”

“Mr.Weaver, do you have anything more to tell us?” she asked.

“No, Detective. That’s all.”

She gave Weaver one of her business cards and Connor did the same. “Call us if you think of anything, no matter how small,” she said.

She and Connor thanked him for his time and didn’t speak another word until they’d buckled their seat belts in the department car.

“We need to talk to Munro’s admin ASAP,” Kit said. “Especially if they were seeing each other outside of work.”

“I don’t know anything,” Connor said as he drove away from the parking lot, “but I called my mom again before we left for Weaver’s, and she said that Munro brought Veronica with him to a few country club events.”

“Should we put your mom on the payroll?” Kit asked dryly.

“She would absolutely love that,” Connor said fondly. “She’s already told me that I can ask her for any information I need when it comes to ‘that horrid man.’?” He pitched his voice high in a poor imitation of his mother.

Kit had met the woman a few times and she was lovely, her voice melodious. A different kind of mom than Betsy McKittrick for sure. Susan Robinson had a cook and a maid, and Kit didn’t think she’d ever gotten on her hands and knees to scrub a floor. But she clearly loved her family and would do anything for them. In that sense—the most important sense—she and Betsy were the same.

“We might need to pick her brain. That Munro brought his admin to country club functions is interesting. Munro’s only been on the city council for seven years. Both Weaver and Wilhelmina said that Munro and Veronica Fitzgerald had worked together for fifteen years.”

Back then, Munro had been in real estate development. Made some money, but nothing like he gained when he married Wilhelmina.

“I don’t know. I’m sure we can verify that, though.”

“Tomorrow,” Kit decided. “My brain is tired.”

“Thank God,” Connor yawned. “How are you not falling asleep?”

“I will when I get home. That I guarantee.”

“Where are you going?” Connor asked. “To the boat or McKittrick House?”

“McKittrick House. Snickerdoodle is there, probably being spoiled rotten by Rita, Emma, and Tiffany.” Emma and Tiffany were the teenage girls her parents had begun fostering just before Thanksgiving. The girls hadn’t trusted any of them right away. But Sam and her parents had quickly won them over. They were good kids, all of them. Kit was relieved they were all safe.

“Last week the three of them made dinner,” she went on. “Gave Mom ‘the night off.’ The kitchen was a disaster, but they cleaned it up without complaining. Mom felt like a queen.”

It made Kit feel guilty that she’d never offered to cook dinner for the family. Then again, she loved them too much to poison them with her awful cooking.

“She should,” Connor said softly. “Harlan and Betsy change lives. Look, if you want to close your eyes, I’ll wake you up when we get to your car.”

She must have looked as tired as she felt. “Maybe I will. Just for a minute.”