Until Judgment Day (11 page)

G
RANZ WAS ASLEEP
when Mackay returned. She sat on the sofa beside him and stroked his head.

His eyes fluttered open and he flashed one of the lopsided smiles she'd fallen in love with years before. “What time is it?”

She checked her watch. “Four-thirty.”

“I've been asleep two hours?”

“You needed it.”

“Did Keefe sign warrants to grab the computers?”

“Yeah, but I had to listen to his new tough-on-crime speech. Fields and one of your detectives are serving them as we speak.”

“What took you so long?”

“I needed to discuss something with Escalante, then I stopped at my office and called a travel agent. How would you like to wake up New Year's Day in a tropical paradise, eat some great food, lie on the beach every day, and make love every night?”

“Sounds great. I could use a few days off.”

“I'll say.”

He sat up and swung his legs over onto the floor. “But we've gotta go to DOJ tomorrow.”

“I asked Miller and Escalante to handle it. By the way, have you noticed they've got a thing going?”

“Yeah. Makes the Odd Couple seem like Ozzie and Harriet by comparison.”

“For sure.” She dug in her handbag and handed him a Pacific Harbor Travel envelope. “Wendy arranged it—we leave tomorrow.”

“Where and for how long?”

“Five nights in Manzanillo, Mexico, at the Las Hadas Beach Resort. It's where the movie
10
was filmed. Remember that?”

“No man could forget Bo Derek in a bikini.”

She smiled at his attempt at levity, but told him seriously, “I'm worried about you, Dave. Really worried.”

“No need.” He sat up. “A few days alone with you is exactly what I need. I feel better already.”

T
UESDAY
, D
ECEMBER
31, 1:00
P.M.
S
ANTA
R
ITA

“
Y
OU PLAYED GREAT LAST NIGHT
. Dinner was good, too. ¡Muchas gracias!” Escalante told Miller.

“De nada, Chiquita.” He piloted his VW Passat south on Highway One through light New Year's Eve traffic.

“Please don't call me Chiquita.”

“What
should
I call you?”

“‘Inspector' when we're around others.”

“What if we're alone?”

“Me llama Doña Luisa.”

“I thought it was Donna.”

“My mother Anglicized it when our family immigrated to the U.S.”

“Doña then, if you call me James.”

“Me gusta. Diego Es un nombre fuerto.”

She touched a bandage on his arm with a slim brown finger. “¿Qué es?”

“Nicoderm patch—I quit smoking.”

“¡Excelente! ¿Por que?”

“Why!” He sneaked a peek at her out of the corner of his eye. “Because beautiful women don't go for guys who smell like ashtrays.”

“Es verdad.”

They rode in self-conscious silence to 46A Research Drive, where the unblinking eyes of fence-top cameras stood silent watch over the DOJ complex that cops called Building 46A.

The lab commanded a breathtaking view to the west, where the collapsing winter sun stretched horizontal orange and purple bands across the afternoon horizon.

They punched an intercom button at the top of a five-step concrete landing. A uniformed Barney Fife look-alike checked their IDs, logged them in, and buzzed Criminalist Roselba Menendez' workstation.

Menendez was a little pudgy with brown skin, white teeth, and a Spanish accent. She wore white Reeboks, blue jeans, and a black Hollister Harley-Davidson T-shirt with a stylized iron horse spitting out smoke in puffy letters that read,
RIDE ME HARD, I CAN TAKE IT.

“Nice to see you again, Lieutenant,” she told Miller, then acknowledged Escalante. “Inspector.”

“Have you scientific whiz kids tied those church murders together for us good guys yet?” Miller asked her.

“We just analyze the evidence,” she retorted. “It's you good guys' job to figure out what it means.”

“I was hopin' you'd solved 'em by now.”

“If I did, what would they pay you for?” She led them through a vast, open-floor-plan office jammed with desks, filing cabinets, and computers, past a swinging half-gate into a hallway lined with doors, a few of which stood ajar exposing an array of mysterious scientific equipment.

She stopped at a sign that read
FIREARMS AND BALLISTICS,
punched her ID code into a keypad, swung the door open, escorted them inside, and stopped at a metal workbench with swiveling stools. “Let's review the evidence chronologically,” Menendez suggested. “First, the shooter got in and out of Reverend Thompson's rectory clean as a whistle—the Woods Lamp picked up no transfers, and the vacuum bags didn't contain any forensically significant trace evidence.”

She picked up a highly magnified black-and-white photograph of a bullet, with a plastic evidence bag containing the bullet stapled to the corner.

“This is the slug Doctor Nelson removed from Thompson's head at autopsy. Rifling twist, lands and grooves confirm it was fired from a .25-caliber Beretta automatic.”

Menendez indicated several spots on the picture, surrounded by circles of black ink. “Microscopic manufacturing imperfections gouged these marks into the bullet as it transited the barrel. All gun barrels have unique flaws. I can match this slug to the weapon it was fired from if you can find it.”

“Not much help,” Miller complained. “Most cops I know, including me, carry Beretta .25s off-duty.”

“That's what I carry,” Escalante confirmed. “So do half the criminals on the street. They're cheap and easy to conceal.”

Menendez picked up a pistol. “This is the Colt Python from Holy Cross.” She made a logbook entry to maintain the chain of custody and loaded a cartridge.

“Let's test-fire it.”

She stuck the barrel into a rubber sleeve that opened into a tank of water and fired a bullet. Then she laid the pistol aside and fished the slug from the tank. Finally she mounted the slug on a glass slide alongside the bullet from the gymnasium floor.

Sliding them side by side under an optical comparison microscope as she peered into the twin lenses, she twisted the scope's knurled knobs to align the bullets and adjust the focus.

“They match,” she declared, looking up and squinting to recapture her distance vision. “You've got the weapon that killed Benedetti but I already examined it—no fingerprints and the serial numbers have been obliterated.”

“Raise 'em with acid,” Miller suggested.

“I tried, but whoever did it removed too much metal.”

“Send it to the FBI.” Miller tempered his advice: “No offense intended.”

“None taken, but if I can't raise them, they can't be raised. The weapon's untraceable. There
is
some good news.”

“We could use it,” Escalante commented.

Menendez motioned for them to follow her to a metal rolling cart where a high-tech slide projector was hooked up to a laptop computer through a USB cable.

She flipped on the projector's power switch. Its fan whirred, its lamp flared, and a blurry shoe print, with a twelve-inch ruler laid beside it on the hardwood floor, slowly sharpened into focus on the pull-down wall screen.

“Yamamoto's a pit bull,” she said with unabashed admiration. “He photographed every wet shoe print at the Benedetti crime scene with his camera perfectly perpendicular to the gym floor, at exactly the same height.”

She scrolled through a series of slides, each of a shoe print with the same twelve-inch ruler alongside to establish size and perspective.

“None of 'em are good enough to ID,” Miller said.

“No one print is, that's true. Yamamoto suggested I piece them together, using legible slices from each print. When my software constructed the entire right-shoe print using his technique, I got this.”

Menendez punched a computer key. From a single blurry print, the computer program started sliding out indistinguishable sections and replacing them with legible slices from the same locations on other prints. The program sent an “operation completed” message and the screen displayed a perfect right-shoe print.

“I ran the composite through the Idaho State Police shoe outsole tread pattern database. Bingo. Nike Airliners, size ten.”

“Pretty impressive for a techie lab rat,” Miller told her. “But there must be thousands of Nike Airliners in Santa Rita.”

“Not exactly like this one. As shoes wear, rocks, metal, glass, and other surface imperfections erode the tread and change the original design with random cuts, scratches, nicks, and dings—we call them ‘individual identifying characteristics.'

“A person's gait also impacts the pattern,” she went on. “By the time a shoe's got a few miles on it, the tread pattern's unique. If you find me the shoe soon enough, I'll positively ID it.”

“That's a start,” Miller said. “Now, all us good guys gotta do is find the one guy in the entire world, wherever he is, who owns that Beretta
and
those Nikes before he wears 'em much more, borrow 'em for comparison, and our job's wrapped up. No big deal.”

“Maybe if the ‘good guys' turned the investigation over to the ‘good gals' you'd get better results.”

“Why didn't I think of that?”

She handed each of them a closeup shot of the disassembled dead-bolt lock off the gym's side door, which highlighted a number of tiny scratches and gouges.

“Sheriff Granz had good instincts. These are fresh tool marks on the pins and tumblers,” Menendez explained. “This lock was picked recently by someone who knew what he was doing, probably using a professional pick gun.”

“Any two-bit burglar can buy one on the Internet usin' a hot credit card,” Miller told her, then asked, “If you had the tool, could you ID it?”

“I doubt it, they normally don't leave distinctive tool marks. Pick gun needles and tension tools are interchangeable and disposable.”

“Anything helpful come out of the Duvoir crime scene?”

“CSI recovered three slugs—two embedded in the pavement beneath Duvoir's knees. They were badly deformed, although the rifling and lands and grooves are identical to the third—it passed through his chest and lodged in a wooden post, and was in good condition. A high-velocity M-118 full metal jacket fired from a Remington .308 rifle.”

“Most police TAC and sniper units use Remington 700s and metal-jacketed ammo. You think our perp's a cop or ex-cop?”

Menendez contemplated, chewing the inside of her cheek. “It's not impossible. The same rifle and ammunition in military configuration are used by Army and Marine Corps snipers. European military forces, too, but they call the rifle the NATO 7.62 millimeter. Add the civilian hunting version, and millions of those rifles are out there. Half the ex-military Rambo sharpshooters probably have one in their closets at home.”

“God bless the Second Amendment,” Miller said.

“Anything else?” Escalante asked.

“I'm afraid that's it,” Menendez said.

“Then we ain't got diddly squat.” Miller reached for his shirt pocket, then glanced sheepishly at Escalante and touched the Nicoderm patch. “I forgot I quit the Humps.”

“The what?”

“The Humps—Camels.”

On the way back to Miller's car, Escalante said, “Sheriff Granz was right.”

“'Bout what?”

“He said the shooter's too smart to leave a calling card.”

“Looks like. Speaking of—where'd Granz and Mackay go?”

“Manzanillo, on Mexico's Pacific coast—the Las Hadas Beach Resort.”

“We oughta go there someday,” he said, staring at her.

She smiled and her face flushed. “Are you leering at me, Lieutenant?”

“Moi?” he said innocently, touching his chest with a forefinger. “So, should we consider it?”

She flushed again. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Las Hadas—what's that mean?”

“The fairies. And no wisecracks.”

“Hey, I'm a serious guy! What do you suppose they're doing right now?”

She looked at her wristwatch. “Probably taking an evening walk on the beach. At Las Hadas, it's almost seven o'clock.”

T
UESDAY
, D
ECEMBER
31
M
ANZANILLO
, C
OLIMA
, M
EXICO

D
AVE WAS SLEEPING
in the clothes he'd worn on the plane. He had slid the lounge chair under an umbrella on the deck outside their room, but was now directly in the evening sun, which had started dropping toward the horizon to their west.

Kathryn sat on the edge of his chair and said softly, “It's almost seven o'clock.” She looked cool and relaxed with fresh makeup and her curly hair still wet from the shower. She wore a crisp black sleeveless blouse, white shorts, and leather sandals she'd bought at the hotel's Tabaqueria y Boutique Souvenir.

“No!” he shouted, his arms and legs thrashing like he was battling the darkest forces of evil.

She nudged him. “Babe?”

“Huh?” His eyes fluttered open.

“Wake up, I think you were having a bad dream.”

“I was.” He sat up, rested his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands.

“What about?”

He blew air out of his puckered lips, looked up, and shook his head side to side. “Someone tried to kill me.”

“You got overheated in the sun. Next time I go shopping, lie on the bed to take a nap.”

“I didn't plan to fall asleep. Sorry.”

“Don't apologize, it's okay. Why don't you take a cool shower, then let's walk on the beach before dinner.”

“Sounds good.” He sat up, stretched and yawned. “Great view, huh?”

Embodying the lifelong dream of Bolivian Tin King Antenov Patiño, Las Hadas Resort's cobblestone paths twisted and turned past a white-on-white fantasy world of gargoyled turrets, cupolas, minarets, villas, plazas, and archways that clawed their way up the eastern tip of Península Santiago like Moorish apparitions.

Halfway up the hillside, Kathryn and Dave's terra-cotta tiled deck looked out at Bahia de Manzanillo, over the tops of cascading red bougainvillaea and spindly, top-heavy coconut palms with stooped, twisted trunks.

Across the bay, along Playa San Pedrito, container ships waited to be offloaded, while gray Mexican Navy patrol boats with angry-looking deck guns nosed into their berths at Zona Naval.

Beyond Manzanillo Centro, a column of smoke wafted from the power plant, stratified, then hung over Playa El Viejo waiting for a breeze to blow it up and over the hills into the jungles of Colima State.

Kathryn heard the shower start, then the bathroom door opened and Dave stepped out, dripping wet and naked.

“Did you bring Excedrin?” he asked.

She moved close and ran her hand suggestively down his stomach. “Want to shower together?”

“You already took one.”

“A woman can never be too clean.”

“I've got a splitting headache.” He took a step back. “Musta got too much sun while I slept.”

“We haven't eaten since we left San Francisco this morning, either.”

“Maybe that's it.”

“The Excedrin's in my bag by the sink.”

Kathryn sat at the table and surveyed their bright, airy, spacious suite. White drapes, white bedding, white marble floors, and white rattan furniture complemented glossy white masonry walls. Except for the screen, even the television was white. She hummed a few bars of “Auld Lang Syne.”

After Dave finished showering and changed into shorts, T-shirt, and sandals, they strolled along Calleja de Maria Christina, through the palm-shaded Plaza de Doña Albina, and down the fragrant, hibiscus-lined stairway onto the smooth golden sand of Playa Las Hadas. It was still warm from the afternoon sun, and a few die-hard tourists lingered under their white-roofed beach tents.

“I'm hungry.” Dave chewed unconsciously.

“I can see that,” Kathryn told him.

She grabbed his hand and led him to the water's edge, pulled off her sandals, and let the water lap up around her ankles. He did the same.

“Let's walk to the Marina, then back to Los Delfines Restaurant for dinner,” she suggested.

Supported by fat wooden pilings that also held up the palm-frond roof, Los Delfines' open-air walls stuck out over a shallow lagoon. Only a few tables were taken when they got there.

The maitre d' held Kathryn's chair, bowed at the waist, seated Dave, then flipped open a pair of linen napkins and placed them on their laps with a flourish.

“Bienvenido a Los Delfines, señor y señora,” he greeted them. “¿Cómo estás?”

“Muy bien, gracias,” Kathryn answered.

“Excelente. Me llamo Ramon.”

“¿Por qué el restaurante no ocupado, Ramon?”

“Cena con baile fiestas para Año Nuevo en Restaurante El Terral y Legazpi Restaurante-Discoteca, señora.”

“What was that about?” Dave asked when Ramon left them to study their menus.

“He said the restaurant's not busy because they're having New Year's dinner-dance parties at the other restaurants.”

Their corner table looked over a bamboo railing into the lagoon, whose green water was illuminated by submerged piling-mounted lamps. Every few minutes, a school of terrified fish leaped to the surface and frantically skimmed across the water, seeking safety in the man-made rock jetty, pursued by lightning-quick two-foot sharks.

The unlucky fish were caught and consumed in a savage frenzy of roily red foam. Whenever the carnage slowed, diners walked to the rail and dropped table scraps into the water, provoking the sharks, encouraging a repeat of the gruesome ritual.

They tried a bottle of nice Mexican wine, rolls with orange butter, red snapper Vera Cruz, and spicy grilled mahimahi.

Over a dessert of coconut flan, Kathryn asked, “How's your headache?”

“A little better.”

“You shouldn't have so many headaches. I'm worried about you.”

“I don't have that many. It was a long flight without food, then I was dumb enough to fall asleep in the sun. I'll be fine.”

“That's what you said in the hospital, after the accident.”

“I was right.”

“I'm not so sure. You promised to have an MRI.”

“I said after the holidays—if I didn't feel better. But I do. And the holidays aren't over yet.”

He placed his hand on hers and squeezed.

After dessert they walked back and forth along the short beach between the mouth of the small-craft harbor and the jetty, past Legazpi Discoteca, where they heard the New Year's revelers gearing up for a midnight climax.

“We could watch the new year come in at a party, if you want,” Dave told her.

“I'd rather watch from our room.”

By the time Kathryn came out of the bathroom, Dave had stripped and was lying on the bed, reading John Grisham's
A Painted House
.

“Great book,” he said. “Best he's written.”

She took off her blouse and shorts and hung them in the closet. He tossed the book to the floor and watched. She turned around wearing only a pair of bikini panties. The cold air conditioning had made her nipples taut.

“Would you put on your new nightgown?” he asked.

“How do you know I bought a new gown?”

“Em told me.”

She dug through her suitcase and pulled out a Nordstrom bag.

“Is the front low-cut?” He asked.

“Yes, see-through, too, but you said you had a headache.”

He glanced down. “What I have isn't a headache.”

“So I see.” She felt herself grow moist. “Give me five minutes to brush my teeth and wash my face.”

The lights were off when Kathryn climbed into bed, but the glow of the crescent moon bounced off the water and shone through the filmy drapes. Dave lay facing the wall. She snuggled up and slipped her hand around his waist. “I have something to tell you,” she whispered.

When he didn't respond she propped herself up on an elbow. His face was relaxed, his eyes closed, and he breathed deep and rhythmically, like only a person in deep sleep can.

Kathryn sighed, then switched on the bedside lamp and picked up the telephone.

“Hi, Mom,” Emma finally answered.

“It was nice of Ashley's family to ask you to stay with them for a few days,” Kathryn said. Hearing music in the background, she asked, “What are you doing?”

“Having a New Year's party. Me 'n' Ash get to stay up for a couple more hours, until midnight.”

“Well, I just wanted you to know we love you and miss you, and to say Happy New Year. Have a good time.”

“Thanks, Mom. I've gotta go now.”

“Okay, honey. Good night.” Kathryn held the receiver to her ear for several seconds, then tugged the covers up around her chest, fluffed up a couple of pillows, leaned back and opened a book, but couldn't concentrate on it. Just before midnight she heard the crowd at El Terral count down the final ten seconds of the year.