See No Evil (10 page)

“Why did you hire Connor Kincaid?”

She knew it was bound to come up. “I need to protect Emily’s interests,” she said cautiously.

“You did. You retained Iris Jones.”

Since Stanton didn’t ask a question, Julia didn’t answer.

“Julia,” he said, his voice soft, “I know this is hard on you, especially in your position, but you need to know I’m also looking out for Emily. You don’t need to—”

She put up her hand. “Don’t. I appreciate your help, but you can’t possibly be on Emily’s side. If the roles were reversed I would have the interests of
this office
to protect. Just like you.”

Stanton remained silent for several moments, then said, “You’re on the fast track, Julia. You know it as well as I do. You can have a judgeship inside of five years, or anything else you want. Don’t blow it by playing cop. Don’t blow it by trusting Connor. You know better than anyone what a loose cannon he is.”

“Andrew, if you think that I care about my career more than my niece, then you’ll never understand any decision I make.”

“I only meant—”

“Connor may be a loose cannon, but he’s also committed to the truth. I can keep him reined in.” She didn’t wholly believe it, but she would damn well try.

Stanton raised an eyebrow, his face stern. She felt like she was a hostile witness. “Oh? You think you can control Connor Kincaid? Then why was he interviewing a witness? Spending time at the police station?”

“He’s looking out for Emily.”

“He’s interfering with a police investigation.”

“No, he’s not.” Julia stood her ground. “Emily needs an advocate, and not just a defense attorney telling her to keep her mouth shut. She needs someone working overtime to prove her innocence.”

“The police—”

“Are damn good. Will Hooper and Jim Gage are the best. But the evidence is what it is. I know in my heart that Emily didn’t murder Judge Montgomery. But my heart means nothing when faced with the damning circumstances.”

Stanton stood. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I do.”

“Then you’ll take this the way that it’s intended. You’re hereby on administrative leave.”

“What? I have a trial in eleven days, I have six depositions next week and a discovery hearing in a first degree—”

“You follow your heart, Julia, and you’ll pay the price. Hand everything off to Hannah Peterson—”

“No, let me—”

“Or you can resign.”

For the first time Julia had an inkling of what Connor Kincaid had felt five years ago when she had given him almost the same ultimatum. Except hers had not really been an ultimatum. It was testify or go to prison. What choice was that?

“Let me pass everything to Frisco Lorenz. He’s better with rape victims.”

Stanton agreed. “All right. I’m sorry, Julia.”

She didn’t believe it for a minute.

Revenge, justice, payback all led to one thing: control.

It was the lack of control—Emily’s inability to stay away from her lecherous stepfather, Billy Thompson’s inability to prove he hadn’t stolen the tests—that created the need for justice.

A woman is raped, she has no control. All the power is in her rapist. She gains control when she fights back. But the system doesn’t always work. Sometimes bad guys go free. Sometimes they’re never found.

Sometimes no one knows a crime has even been committed.

Vengeance was such a powerful motive because no one questioned it. Righting wrongs was human nature. What human being feels sympathy for a child molester who is raped in prison? Who hasn’t had the fantasy of killing a serial killer or assassinating an evil despot in a foreign land? Thousands of years ago, human beings lived and died by their instincts and a crude sense of right and wrong. There were no courts, no men to stand in the way and talk about
feelings
or
rights
or
abuse.
Because life had been lived on the ancient principle of an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

He would never be discovered, but even if he were, he would be the hero in the eyes of everyone who had lost control of their lives. For the abused, the defeated, the downtrodden—he would be their knight in shining armor, a martyr, a vigilante. Thousands would march in the streets demanding his release. Anarchy would ensue, and it would be his lone voice that controlled the masses. The powers would beg him to speak, to bring order to the disorder.

He sank into his chair, eyes closed, sipped his evening Chivas and relished the future.

But he abandoned his fantasy. He wouldn’t be caught, the police would never learn of his role in this game of vengeance. Playing out other people’s vendettas, like in Patricia Highsmith’s classic novel
Strangers on a Train,
gave him the distance necessary to watch, assess, and move forward.

Like chess, he had to think several steps ahead. If his opponent moved one way, discerning his purpose wasn’t always obvious. A wise man looked at every possible move and chose the one that would give him the greatest future gain, even if it meant sacrificing a piece. It was his vision that made him a genius. He saw the game board as one unit, all possible solutions clearly laid out. If his opponent did
X,
he already had his response at the ready. If his opponent did
Y,
he had another plan prepared.

In life, chess was three-dimensional. You had more than one opponent, and what one opponent did affected what every other opponent did. Seeing all the players’ moves was crucial, and like God, he was the only one in this game who knew every player. He knew why they made their choices, what motivated them, how to defeat them.

He was the chess master.

He reached for his cell phone and dialed Cami. Time to give her a bone and make her perform.

Time for the next move.

ELEVEN

C
ONNOR GRABBED
two beer bottles from Dillon’s refrigerator, slammed them down on his kitchen table, and turned the chair around so he could sit in it backward.

“Some things never change,” Dillon mumbled as he twisted the top off his beer and swallowed.

Connor was trying to bribe Dillon with pizza and beer, though he knew his brother really couldn’t be bought for any amount of food or money. Dillon was as straight as they came, and Connor admired him greatly for his ethics, even when they ran counter to his own interests. This time, however, they were on the same side.

Based on the evidence they had, Dillon was working up a profile of the killers. He was determined to prove Emily wasn’t involved, perhaps using the information Connor had gleaned from Billy Thompson.

“I wish I had access to the crime lab on this one,” Dillon said. “I’d like a copy of Victor Montgomery’s autopsy report.”

“I’ll get it for you tomorrow.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m not going to break into the coroner’s office,” Connor said. “I’ll get it legitimately.” More or less, he thought.

“We don’t want Emily’s defense to be compromised.”

“It won’t be. It’s all information Jones will get in discovery anyway. You know as well as I do that the prosecution will hold on to everything until the last possible minute. Most of the time, I’m glad. But when Emily’s being dragged into a murder investigation? Nope, we need every in we can get.”

Dillon stared at a blank legal pad, pen in hand, a faraway expression on his face. He was entering his “killer mindset,” trying to go deep into the thoughts of someone capable of such a vicious crime.

At first, Connor just enjoyed his beer. Every few minutes, Dillon would write several sentences, draw arrows and lines, and then pause. After thirty minutes, Connor grew antsy. He hated sitting still. He wanted—needed—to be out
doing
something. He’d seen Emily earlier that evening, but she’d been sleeping.

If he could just see Will’s notes on the case, he might have another direction to go. Right now, he had to wait until morning to check out Emily’s school and talk to her friends. But he was no longer a cop. And it’s not like he could go down to the precinct and beg for his job back. Like that would happen. He didn’t take orders very well. And he didn’t like traitors.

Neither did his former colleagues. It’s just that they viewed
him
as the traitor, not his dead ex-partner.
Don’t upset the apple cart. Crutcher is gone, we’ll just forget all this happened.

But how could he forget when Crutcher had left two dead girls behind and others in the department willingly looked the other way?

No, Connor couldn’t go back. If only he’d done things differently…but when you catch your mentor, the man who trained you to be a cop, taking bribes to turn the other cheek in the importation of sex slaves from Mexico, what do you do? Confront him and get a hole in the back of your head for the effort? Or go to the boss?

He’d done the latter, and he ended up without a badge.

But he was still breathing—that was some consolation.

“There had to be three people, one of whom was a female,” Dillon said, finally breaking the silence.

Connor started to peel off his beer label, leaving pieces of wet paper on Dillon’s table. “Makes sense. That’s what Julia said Hooper told her last night.”

“Three people,” Dillon mumbled to himself. “You need one person—a female—to sexually excite the victim—”

Connor interrupted. “But he wouldn’t have dropped his pants for just any woman who walked into his office. And a woman with a couple of guys? Do you think Judge Montgomery would get off with an audience?”

“Some do.”

Connor rolled his eyes. “Okay, we have a female, on her knees, giving the judge a blow job. Maybe or maybe not two males watching.”

“But they’d have to be nearby. And if they were watching, it could mean the judge was participating in some fun and games.”

“After raping a kid, I suppose anything is possible.” Connor ripped the rest of the label off in one pull.

“If they weren’t watching, maybe he was having an affair and his mistress wanted him dead,” conjectured Dillon.

“Why?”

“You’re thinking too much like a cop, bro.”

“I am a cop,” Connor said, before correcting himself. “Was a cop.”

“You were a great cop, Connor.”

“Hmm.”

Dillon looked as if he was going to say something else, but then his brother changed the subject. “It takes a certain type of person to set up a man to be murdered. And a certain type of person to commit a particularly violent, premeditated crime.”

“It’s payback. Santos.”

Dillon thought about that for a long minute. “Emily denied anyone threatened her.”

“Maybe Santos’s men didn’t even realize she was home. Or maybe Montgomery was dead before Emily came in.”

Dillon pulled out a sheet of paper. “Julia said that Will told her the preliminary time of death was three-thirty to nine-thirty. The autopsy report would be more specific.”

“Emily could still have arrived after he was dead. Patrick said Montgomery had an unsent e-mail on his computer that he began writing at three-forty.”

“True, but it still puts the TOD about the same time she arrived home. Picture this: Emily comes home with friends. They walk in and Montgomery calls out for her like he always does. She goes in, gives him what he wants. Her friends quietly get into position and she severs his organ. They hold him down while she puts the penis in his mouth.”

Connor could picture the scenario all too well. “But she’d have a lot more blood on her, certainly more than a few drops on her hands and feet. Emily’s explanation also rings true.”

“I agree, but it could have happened either way. She had the motivation. And she bathed that night. She could have bathed after the murder.”

“You met Emily,” said Connor. “Do you really think she’s capable of a mutilation murder?”

“A lot of people are capable of terrible murders without showing any outward signs of depravity.”

“Dammit, Dillon, you’re not helping.”

“You’re the investigator, Connor. Look at the scene logically. You can’t come in with a faulty assumption that Emily is innocent.”

“She’s not guilty either. The man brutalized her. Raped and humiliated her—”

“And the prosecutor will probably offer a decent plea because of that.”

“
If
she did it. What about this Wishlist group?”

“It throws a completely new dynamic into the mix. Premeditation. Group dynamics. I’m going to talk to Emily again tomorrow, ask her about the message and what, if anything, she did about it.”

“We need to find out whether the police have tracked down the group, the organizer, any other messages that may have been associated with a solved, or unsolved, murder. The Judson homicide is still open,” Connor said. “I think it’s not a coincidence that Billy wrote that Judson needed his eyes checked, and a couple months later the guy is killed by two bullets in the head. And then Emily’s message.”

“Patrick already went out on a limb by giving you access to those messages.” Dillon looked at the two messages Connor had taken. “These are relatively anonymous. Did any of the other messages you saw have identifying names?”

“Not that I could see, but I was speed reading.”

Dillon shook his head. “Doesn’t mean anything, really. If it’s a small group of people, they could all go to the same school. Were Emily and Billy at the same school?”

“No. Emily goes to a private school in La Jolla; Billy went to a public school in the heart of the city.”

“No connection there.”

“Bowen.”

“Excuse me?”

“Billy said that he’d been required to take anger management classes from Bowen after he was arrested for vandalism.”

Connor’s mind started connecting dots. “What if,” he continued slowly, “Bowen had group therapy sessions? Isn’t that something that’s done?”

“Yes.”

“So they meet in person in this group therapy, and then start this online group where they push the envelope. Someone in the group knew about Emily’s wish, and knew who she was and who she was talking about even if her identity wasn’t revealed online.”

“Are you suggesting a vigilante?”

Connor nodded as his theory took shape. “Exactly. It fits in with the case of Paul Judson, who was murdered and had his eyes shot out when another Wishlist member, who we know was Billy, said Judson needed his eyesight examined. The only connection between Billy and Emily is Dr. Garrett Bowen.”

A knock at the door interrupted what Dillon was about to say. He got up to answer, and came back in with Julia Chandler.

Connor tensed. Every time he saw her, he became angry and conflicted. With himself, with her. Five years was a long time to hold a grudge, but it was his career—his
life
—she had destroyed.

“Hi, Connor.” She nodded stiffly.

She was tired, dark circles beginning to emerge under her eyes. Julia’s makeup had worn off during the day, making her skin translucent, pale. She was still a beautiful woman, particularly now that she’d dumped her too-conservative Ms. Deputy DA suit and put on a long flowing skirt and simple peasant blouse. Connor had never seen her out of her professional attire. He liked it.

Her hair was down, the waves of dark blond falling halfway down her back, held away from her face by a haphazardly placed clip.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t relax and…I knew you’d be working on Emily’s case.” She looked at Connor with an expression that said:
But I didn’t know he was going to be here.

“Your insight into Emily may be helpful,” Dillon said. “She trusts you more than anyone. Sit down.”

Julia impatiently wiped a stray tear and sat in the chair between the two men. “So what have you come up with? Anything?”

Dillon nodded. “There was one ringleader. One person who made the decisions, who came up with the plan.”

“Why do you think that?” Julia asked

“It’s the psychology of group killers.” Dillon rose from his seat, retrieved two beers for Connor and Julia, and poured himself orange juice. “When you have a killing pair, there is almost always a submissive. Someone who takes orders, does what they are told. Doesn’t matter if the submissive is male or female—though in the overwhelming majority of killing pairs, the dominant partner is male.”

Dillon poured Julia’s beer into a chilled mug. “But when you get into group killings—and I think all the evidence points to three participants in the judge’s murder—you have another influence. Some might call it ‘mob mentality’ or peer pressure. When two or more people get together to commit a crime, they’re more prone to doing things they’d never consider doing on their own.”

“Wasn’t there a case out in Florida or Georgia about four teenage boys who killed a teacher at their school?”

Dillon nodded. “I read about that case. One of the kids was older, nineteen I believe, no longer a student. Two of the kids came from solid homes. There was no apparent motive. They went to the house of a music teacher and shot him dead.”

“But wouldn’t people like that already be predisposed to murder?” Julia asked.

Dillon tilted his head. “Perhaps. Or their leader could be so charismatic or threatening—or both—that they think they’re doing the right thing. Consider cults. Most are relatively harmless, but Jim Jones convinced hundreds of people to kill themselves, most of whom probably would never have considered such an act without his influence.”

“That would play into the Judson murder,” Connor said.

“Judson?” Julia interjected, confused.

Connor explained what he learned from Billy Thompson about Wishlist and the e-mail from Emily.

“And you didn’t tell me?” she asked, angry. “Isn’t that what I’m paying you for? To keep me in the loop?”

“You’re paying me to clear Emily. If you want more than that, go get it from your pal the DA.”

“I would if I could,” she snapped. “But I’m on administrative leave.”

Both Connor and Dillon looked up, surprised. “What happened?” Dillon asked.

“I don’t know. He didn’t like that I hired Connor, and I don’t think he liked that Iris brought you in before they could retain you.” She gave him a wry smile. “We all like working with you on our big cases.”

Dillon grinned. “Thanks. But Stanton’s actions make sense, even without Connor or me working for the defense. The press are all over this case. He wants to separate his office from any impropriety.”

“I had to turn over all my cases to another prosecutor.”

Julia looked so forlorn that Connor found himself touching her arm. “I’m sorry.”

She looked up at him, startled. Her lips parted and Connor stared, recalling the one incredible kiss they’d shared five years earlier. Would she taste just as delicious now as then?

He removed his hand.
Don’t go there, Kincaid.

“There are two theories that fit the evidence as we know it,” Dillon said, thankfully interrupting what could have been an awkward moment. “First, that Emily planned the murder and had someone help her.”

“No—” Julia interrupted but Dillon put his hand up.

“The second is that the killers are vigilantes.”

“Vigilantes?” Julia asked, her brow furrowed.

“Possibly, though I’d go a step further.” Dillon sat down and looked from Connor to Julia. “I think they’re young. Teenagers or college age.”

“They’re damn smart criminals for teens,” Connor said.

Dillon agreed. “These crimes are connected. In some way both victims had hurt a young person. A fellow teenager. The connection is the online group Emily and Billy were part of. Just like Emily’s case, Billy Thompson is connected to Judson’s murder, even though he didn’t pull the trigger.”

“Why can’t we just subpoena the host company and find out who’s involved?” Julia asked.

“We can’t, but I’m sure the District Attorney’s Office will,” Dillon said. “I’m going to talk to Emily about the group and hopefully she’ll give us information that we need, because we’re not going to get it from the police department.”

“I don’t even know what kind of case they’re building against Emily,” Julia said. “But they still have a guard on her door, and it’s not for protection. Iris is trying to get information, but it’ll probably be easier for me. I have friends inside.”