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Authors: T. Jefferson Parker
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for a moment near the swimming pool and watched Al Madden and Ryan Dawes.
The two DA men were kneeling, Al on the walkway and Dawes over where Zamorra had found the casing. Dawes checked one of the crime scene drawings on the clipboard beside him, dropped his end of the tape and spread both arms to point out where the brass had been found. Madden nodded. Then Dawes hooked his right hand toward his head, pointed a finger and jerked his head.
"Did Wildcraft shoot himself, Paul?"
"I still don't know."
"Well, does he fit the damned profile, or whatever you call it?"
"Not so far. But the evidence fits him. You know that. Merci, if we have to take down a guilty deputy, nobody's going to crucify you for that."
"And what if he isn't? Then that's two in a row. I hurt a good man and lost half my department on the first."
"Talk to the sheriff."
"About what?"
"Giving it to Wheeler and Teague. Let somebody else take it."
Merci understood that she wanted Wildcraft's innocence for herself as much as anything else. As a way to show the people who hated her that she was a good cop, one of them. One of us. If she was proved wrong about him as she'd been wrong with Mike, she'd resign. Probably wouldn't have to, she thought: reassignment to traffic would be swift.
"No," she said.
"I knew you wouldn't."
"What would you do?"
"Find out more about Wildcraft. Nobody does this without a reason. Usually, more than one."
She said nothing as she watched Jaws run his hand through his hair, then absently scratch his head. Cute little puke, she thought.
"Merci, I got some of their banking records, canceled checks and credit card statements. The last two months of last year, and the first two months of this year, the Wildcrafts spent about a hundred and twenty thousand dollars on fun stuff—the new Porsche in the garage, new furniture and carpet, a remodel on two of the bathrooms. Trips to Grand Cayman, Tahiti, Costa Rica. That's beside the fact that they live in a million-plus house in a million-plus neighborhood. Wildcraft was making fifty grand a year and his wife made eight."
Hard to get more obvious than that. She shook her head and said nothing.
Zamorra shrugged and glanced outside. "I've got us lined up with her parents for five o'clock."
"What about his?"
"They came in last night from Northern California. The father said they'd be at the hospital all day tomorrow. He said they'd be here until we put the guy who did this in a coffin."
"That will be a wonderful day."
Rayborn had no guilt over her beliefs on crime and punishment. You do the crime, you do the time. So far as murderers lying in wait well, off with their heads.
She once had the idea that there should be a countywide tax fund for victims of the worst crimes. Their survivors would get lots of money. Even at only five dollars per capita, you'd come up with fifteen million a year for the fund. She would implement it when she was elected sheriff, sometime around the age of fifty-eight. But she'd thought of all the people who'd kill each other just for that money and shook her head. Human nature, she thought. Don't get it.
And she'd never be sheriff of Orange County anyway. That had been a dream. Before Mike McNally and a man she'd killed, before the grand jury testimony she gave. Now she was awake.
CHAPTER SEVEN
T hat afternoon Archie woke again for a few seconds, heard the sounds, saw the faces. So bright here, so loud.
He understood that he was Archie Wildcraft, Deputy 2, Orange County Sheriff's Department. That he was married to Gwen. That they lived in a nice home in the hills. These facts struck him as weightless and breakable.
Then dark water.
An hour later he woke again, to see his father and mother looking down at him. He felt tears burning down his face. His father held his hand and told him that Gwen had been shot that night, too, didn't make it. Archie knew this was what he had lost that would never come back. This was the huge thing that he was missing. Gwen. His
The two DA men were kneeling, Al on the walkway and Dawes over where Zamorra had found the casing. Dawes checked one of the crime scene drawings on the clipboard beside him, dropped his end of the tape and spread both arms to point out where the brass had been found. Madden nodded. Then Dawes hooked his right hand toward his head, pointed a finger and jerked his head.
"Did Wildcraft shoot himself, Paul?"
"I still don't know."
"Well, does he fit the damned profile, or whatever you call it?"
"Not so far. But the evidence fits him. You know that. Merci, if we have to take down a guilty deputy, nobody's going to crucify you for that."
"And what if he isn't? Then that's two in a row. I hurt a good man and lost half my department on the first."
"Talk to the sheriff."
"About what?"
"Giving it to Wheeler and Teague. Let somebody else take it."
Merci understood that she wanted Wildcraft's innocence for herself as much as anything else. As a way to show the people who hated her that she was a good cop, one of them. One of us. If she was proved wrong about him as she'd been wrong with Mike, she'd resign. Probably wouldn't have to, she thought: reassignment to traffic would be swift.
"No," she said.
"I knew you wouldn't."
"What would you do?"
"Find out more about Wildcraft. Nobody does this without a reason. Usually, more than one."
She said nothing as she watched Jaws run his hand through his hair, then absently scratch his head. Cute little puke, she thought.
"Merci, I got some of their banking records, canceled checks and credit card statements. The last two months of last year, and the first two months of this year, the Wildcrafts spent about a hundred and twenty thousand dollars on fun stuff—the new Porsche in the garage, new furniture and carpet, a remodel on two of the bathrooms. Trips to Grand Cayman, Tahiti, Costa Rica. That's beside the fact that they live in a million-plus house in a million-plus neighborhood. Wildcraft was making fifty grand a year and his wife made eight."
Hard to get more obvious than that. She shook her head and said nothing.
Zamorra shrugged and glanced outside. "I've got us lined up with her parents for five o'clock."
"What about his?"
"They came in last night from Northern California. The father said they'd be at the hospital all day tomorrow. He said they'd be here until we put the guy who did this in a coffin."
"That will be a wonderful day."
Rayborn had no guilt over her beliefs on crime and punishment. You do the crime, you do the time. So far as murderers lying in wait well, off with their heads.
She once had the idea that there should be a countywide tax fund for victims of the worst crimes. Their survivors would get lots of money. Even at only five dollars per capita, you'd come up with fifteen million a year for the fund. She would implement it when she was elected sheriff, sometime around the age of fifty-eight. But she'd thought of all the people who'd kill each other just for that money and shook her head. Human nature, she thought. Don't get it.
And she'd never be sheriff of Orange County anyway. That had been a dream. Before Mike McNally and a man she'd killed, before the grand jury testimony she gave. Now she was awake.
CHAPTER SEVEN
T hat afternoon Archie woke again for a few seconds, heard the sounds, saw the faces. So bright here, so loud.
He understood that he was Archie Wildcraft, Deputy 2, Orange County Sheriff's Department. That he was married to Gwen. That they lived in a nice home in the hills. These facts struck him as weightless and breakable.
Then dark water.
An hour later he woke again, to see his father and mother looking down at him. He felt tears burning down his face. His father held his hand and told him that Gwen had been shot that night, too, didn't make it. Archie knew this was what he had lost that would never come back. This was the huge thing that he was missing. Gwen. His
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