“Mom.” Emily’s voice turned quiet. “You had to.”
“I know.”
“He would have killed you. And Grand.”
“I know.” But I didn’t. I didn’t know much of anything anymore.
The phone clicked in my ear. I stiffened. “Emily?”
“Oh, great,” Emily mumbled. “Work’s calling me on the other line. Gotta go, Mom. I’ll call you soon, promise. Love you.”
The line went dead.
SPECIAL HOUSE SELECT COMMITTEE INVESTIGATION INTO FREENOW TERRORIST ACTIVITY OF FEBRUARY 25, 2013
SEPTEMBER 16, 2013
TRANSCRIPT
Representative ELKIN MORSE (Chairman, Homeland Security Committee): Sergeant, I think we need to back up here. Because I still do not understand parts of your testimony. You are claiming that on that fateful day of February 25, even as you and your department maintained possession of the video, instead of focusing on it, you saw fit to spend the day pursuing fifty-five-year-old Hannah Shire and her eighty-two-year-old mother. Who was struggling with dementia, I might add.
Sergeant CHARLES WADE (Sheriff’s Department Coastside): Hindsight is twenty-twenty, Chairman Morse. As I’ve been telling you all day, at the time it seemed the best course of action.
MORSE: As I understand it, you were also trying to track Hannah Shire by her cell phone?
WADE: We weren’t tracking it at that time. I had put in a request to do so. But gaining permission to track her, and setting up the plan with the cell phone provider, took time. Not until later in the day did an attempt to track become possible.
MORSE: All right. We will return to that. Regarding Deputy Harcroft, did you have any knowledge of what he was doing on the day of February 25?
WADE: Certainly. He was assisting me in the investigation of the two homicides—Morton Leringer and Nathan Eddington. Plus we were assisting the San Carlos police regarding the homicide of Deputy Williams.
MORSE: As a sergeant in the Moss Beach sheriff’s substation, did you oversee all the deputies beneath you in rank?
WADE: There are four sergeants at our substation. On that day I was intensely focused on the cases at hand. Deputy Harcroft was assisting in those cases, as were other deputies. I oversaw those deputies, but I wasn’t aware moment to moment what every deputy in the substation was doing.
MORSE: Yes, quite. That was the problem, Sergeant Wade.
Regarding Mrs. Shire, you told your superior that you and Harcroft now viewed her as a strong person of interest in the murders of Morton Leringer, Nathan Eddington, and Deputy Williams. Correct?
WADE: I did.
MORSE: And this was your stated reason for releasing her picture and information about her to the media?
WADE: It wasn’t just a “stated” reason. It
was
the reason.
MORSE: And meanwhile, again, you did nothing with the video.
WADE: That’s not true. On the morning of the 25th, I turned the flash drive over to a tech in our department and asked him to view it. I’d also planned to show it to our lieutenant. But by then Deputy Williams had been killed, and Mrs. Shire and her mother had fled the scene. That situation required my immediate attention. The imminent importance of the flash drive was not apparent at the time.
MORSE: It would have been “apparent,” Sergeant Wade, if you’d looked more carefully at the video.
WADE: Chairman Morse, you are failing to understand. I had three homicide victims on my hands that day. And Hannah Shire had fled. My thinking was, if she was innocent, why would she flee? If someone had tried to harm her, why wouldn’t she call me? She had my number. And Harcroft’s.
MORSE: So you maintain to this day that your actions at the time were justified?
WADE: I do.
MORSE: And that you had no hidden agenda in failing to pursue further knowledge about the video.
WADE: As I told you, I turned the video over to a technician.
MORSE: How could you not put a priority on that video, Sergeant? Three men had already died because of it.
WADE: I could not be certain of that at the time! I couldn’t even be certain of Mrs. Shire’s claim that Leringer gave her the video. Or that two men posing as FBI agents had threatened her in her home. If she was responsible for Leringer’s death, and for Eddington’s and Williams’s death, everything she told us could be a lie. In fact, remember, when she first talked to Deputy Harcroft she did lie. She admitted as much to us.
MORSE: And so you ignored the video.
WADE: I
did not
ignore it. I placed my priority on finding the woman who had given it to me, perhaps as a way to cover up for killing three people.
MORSE: I’m just shaking my head, Sergeant, hearing your testimony. Seems to me you’ve used the last seven months to conjure up an explanation for your actions on that day.
WADE: On the contrary, Mr. Chairman, my testimony is true.
MORSE: Let me tell you what is true, Sergeant Wade. On that day of February 25, when our nation faced one of its greatest potential traumas of all time, you
ignored
a vital piece of information. And while you and your department ignored this information, a twenty-seven-year-old
marketing video producer
deciphered the hidden message on that video and took it upon herself to do something about it.
WADE: Hindsight again, Chairman Morse. I. Couldn’t. Have. Known.
MORSE: Neither could Emily Shire have known. But unlike you—and your entire department—
she
paid attention to the video.
Do you have a response to that, Sergeant?
WADE: No other response than what I’ve already told you again and again.
MORSE: And so, I assume, you refuse to take responsibility for the highly unfortunate events—and that’s putting it mildly—that occurred during the remainder of that day?
Monday, February 25, 2013
Emily made a face at the incoming call on her cell. The laptop bag was getting heavy, hanging off her shoulder. And why wouldn’t work stop bugging her? She
had
to get going.
She ignored the call. Started to unlock her car.
At the last minute she relented and punched the icon to answer. “Hi.” If she sounded impatient, she didn’t care.
“Sorry to bother you. It’s Ronnie.” The receptionist at the front desk. “We just had an FBI agent here asking for you. Just wanted to warn you before he gets to you.”
Emily froze. “What?”
“He said he wanted to talk to you right away. Wouldn’t say about what.”
Emily’s head jerked up, her gaze fixed on the building’s back entrance. “Did he have a badge?”
“Yeah. And he had a picture of you. Showed it to me to make sure you were the right person.”
A picture of her? For one crazy second Emily hoped the man was for real. Maybe the San Mateo Sheriff’s Department had called them about the video. But how—? “What did he look like?”
“Young guy with a buzz cut. Sounds like my cousins from Texas.”
All air sucked out of Emily’s lungs.
She dropped her laptop bag onto the hood of the car. Scrabbled around inside for her keys. “What’d you tell him?”
“That you just left. And if he didn’t see your car, you’re already on the way home.”
“He knows what kind of car I’m driving?”
“Well, yeah, I told him what to look for.”
No.
Emily snatched up the computer bag and backed away from the Kia, shooting wild looks right and left. “Front parking lot or back?”
“Front, I guess. Oh, you’re in the back?”
Emily’s heart kicked at her ribs. “Ronnie. Tell me you didn’t give him my home address.”
Silence.
“Ronnie!”
“I . . . I did. Sorry. I mean, he’s the FBI—”
Emily threw the cell in her bag and ran.
S
it down, dear.” Aunt Margie indicated the plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast at the table. Mom was already eating and looking very happy about it.
I couldn’t sit. My body couldn’t relax. And my pulse wouldn’t stop spinning. “Oh. It looks lovely. Can I . . . can we eat in front of the television?” I picked up my plate and fork. “I need to see the news.”
Aunt Margie glanced at Mom, then gave me a meaningful look. “Why don’t you go ahead in there?” She pointed to her small living room. “I’ll stay here with Carol.”
“Thanks.” She was right. I was so overwrought I hadn’t thought how the news might upset Mom. I swiveled and headed for the TV, around the corner.
I put my food on the coffee table and yanked up the remote. “Where’s CNN?” I called.
“Channel 20. There’s a guide sitting on the TV.”
With trembling fingers I poked in the numbers. Nothing about the case on CNN. Or FOX. I surfed local channels, muttering, “Come on, come on.” I had to know . . . something. My daughter was out there. I just needed some piece of knowledge to make me think she’d be all right.
I returned to CNN—and spotted the front yard of
my house
, surrounded by yellow crime scene tape.
My legs sank me onto the couch.
“. . . the home of Hannah Shire in San Carlos, California . . .”
I watched, nerves fraying, as the female reporter intoned about blood drops of an unidentified person leading out my back door. “Police are concerned for the safety of Hannah Shire’s mother, who lives with her. Carol Shire is eighty-two and suffering from dementia . . .”
My mother? The police wanted people to think I’d hurt my
mother
?
A picture of Mom filled the screen. Someone had taken it at the night club where she used to go. She wore her purple hat. Her eyes were closed, one hand to her chest, and the other arm held wide in her form of dancing. Without context the photo made her look absolutely mindless. Rage flashed through me. I gripped the cushions of the couch.
Dorothy, Mom’s caregiver, appeared on the screen next. She was standing on the sidewalk in front of our house, looking shell-shocked. “I just came to take care of Carol.” She gazed at the yellow crime scene tape. “Now . . . this.”
“Do you think Hannah Shire had anything to do with the murder of Morton Leringer?” a reporter asked.
“No. Absolutely not.” Dorothy shook her head. “I just want her and Carol to be okay. They’re nice people.”
The screen switched to another reporter interviewing Sergeant Wade and Deputy Harcroft. “Sergeant, are you convinced Hannah Shire is responsible for the deaths of Morton Leringer and Nathan Eddington? As well as Deputy Williams, who was conducting surveillance on her house?”
Wade shook his head. “All I can tell you is we have three homicide victims on our hands. And Hannah Shire and her mother are missing. I don’t know the complete truth of what has happened. I do know that we need to talk to Mrs. Shire as soon as possible.”
“Deputy Harcroft, in case she’s watching what would you like to say to her right now?”
Harcroft looked into the camera. “Mrs. Shire, we need you to come forward. We just need to talk to you. Wherever you are, please report to the nearest police station.”
Right, they just wanted to “talk” to me. What about the flash drive and the video? The real story? No one was even mentioning it, including these two.
The scene morphed to an interview with a coiffured blonde woman—maybe midforties?—identified as Cheryl Stein, Morton Leringer’s daughter. Good thing Mom wasn’t watching. It would remind her of her quest to find Leringer’s daughter.
“We are devastated.” Cheryl lifted tear-filled eyes to the camera. “Whoever is responsible for my father’s murder will never know how much has been taken from us. How much has been taken from the world. Just two years ago we lost our mother to a stroke. Now this.” She swallowed hard. “One thing I can assure you,” her voice stiffened, “his entire family will use every resource we have to bring whoever’s responsible for his and Nathan Eddington’s deaths to justice—male or female. And we still not stop—
I
will not stop—until that’s done.”
Male or female.
My body went cold. She thought I’d killed her father and his employee. She really believed that. No telling what Sergeant Wade had filled her ears with.
The camera moved from Cheryl Stein to a younger woman standing next to her. The reporter identified the second woman as Ashley Eddington, wife of Nathan. Ashley’s face looked hard and sun-browned, dark straight hair hanging past her shoulders. She clutched the hand of a little girl, about five. “I want answers too.” She looked into the camera, her eyes red-rimmed and defiant. “And I think that woman everyone’s looking for—Hannah Shire—has them.”
Her voice held such hatred. My heart folded in on itself.
“Like Cheryl said, we won’t stop until justice is done. If anyone out there has seen Hannah Shire, please, please call the police.” Sudden tears spilled onto her cheeks. “I’ve lost a husband. My daughter has lost her father.” Her face twisted. “That woman doesn’t deserve to live.”
Oh, dear God, help me.
The camera panned down to Ashley Eddington’s little girl. Her expression looked lost, her large eyes sad. She clutched a brown stuffed dog to her chest, his neck encircled with a red-and-white-checkered scarf. Across the back of the scarf I noticed black stitched lettering in all capitals. My gaze bounced away, then tore back to those letters.
What
did they say?
Heat flushed my veins. I leaned forward, eyes lasering the TV. The camera pulled in for a closer picture of the girl. I gasped.
The letters spelled RAWLY.
E
mily sprinted toward the back of the parking lot as fast as she could in heels. At the end was a knee-high wall she could climb over. Beyond it lay the parking area for the building facing the opposite side of the block. If she could just get there, maybe hide in the building . . .
Her laptop bag bounced against her hip. She threw a hand over the thing to steady it.
Behind her she heard a car coming down the drive on the side of her work building.
Emily swerved to duck behind a car. She turned too close, hit the bumper, and went down hard. The laptop bag flew off her shoulder. She skidded against the pavement and ripped her pants at the right knee. The skin peeled away. She gasped in pain and gripped her knee. That hurt worse. She pulled her hand away. Her palm was bloody.