See No Evil (14 page)

“You’ll be the first to know.”

Julia passed the La Jolla Library on her way home. Jason Ridge was nagging at her. One Bowen client dead, one cleared of murder, and one suspected of murder.

Coincidence? She didn’t believe it. She made a U-turn and pulled into the library parking lot. She couldn’t help but remember that only six weeks ago, a young volunteer of the library was found dead right here.

She shivered, not knowing if it was remembering the brutal murder of Becca Harrison, or thinking about how Garrett Bowen creeped her out. Something about that guy was disconcerting. She’d met him several times in court, in particular when he was assigned to Emily’s case. On the surface he was attractive, professional, and intelligent.

But Emily didn’t trust or like him, and that held a lot of weight with Julia. Comparing Bowen to Dillon Kincaid, there was no comparison. She’d prefer working with Dillon any day of the week.

She walked in and found an available computer terminal to search the newspaper archives for Jason Ridge. She found several articles about his death as well as many about previous games he’d played in, going back to his freshman year. She printed every article she found.

The first article about his death on the field had a byline by someone she didn’t recognize, but the second article’s byline she
did
recognize: Grace Simpson.

Why was a crime reporter covering the drug-related death of a high school football star?

She read the article carefully.

Mystery Surrounds Football Star Death
By Grace Simpson

Saturday night’s game between the La Jolla Rockets and the San Diego Sprints was interrupted in the third quarter when star Sprints quarterback, senior Jason Ridge, collapsed on the field. He was pronounced dead at the scene after a vigorous attempt to save his life by the league’s doctor, David Mortimer.

A subsequent autopsy on Monday indicated the cause of death to be heart failure due to steroid use.

All varsity football players in public and private schools who play in public leagues are required to be tested at least once a season for steroid use, and can be randomly tested throughout the year. The school released Ridge’s records showing he’d been tested two months before his death and was clean. In his high school career, he’d been tested a total of six times and all were marked “pass” with no traces of steroids or illegal drugs in his system.

The pressure senior Ridge was under this season was more intense than last year, however, according to his grandmother Evelyn Squires of Carlsbad. “Scouts are at every game watching him. It bothered him, the pressure.”

Ridge’s father, James, denied his son used steroids. “Jason loved football and he was naturally a star athlete. He’d never take drugs or steroids. There’s got to be some mistake.”

There was no mistake, according to the coroner’s office spokeswoman Anita Ferrar. “The report is conclusive. Six to twelve hours before his death, Jason ingested four times the safe limit of an anabolic steroid popular among bodybuilders.”

Dr. Mortimer said he’d never heard of an athlete overdosing on steroids. “Steroids cause death usually from repeated use,” he explained. “I’ve known Jason for four years and he’s the last person I’d expect to take steroids.”

Steroid use has been under scrutiny nationwide and colleges are cracking down on players who use. “One strike, you’re out,” UCSD football coach Brian Kyak said. “We don’t control the testing anymore, it comes from the league. They don’t play favorites.”

Jason’s friends were shocked, but one high school junior who asked to remain anonymous said, “Jason was under a lot of pressure this year, especially after all the rumors about him and his girlfriend.”

Jason’s ex-girlfriend, Michelle O’Dell, refused to discuss their past relationship, saying only, “Jason had issues. He was getting help.”

When asked, his father declined to comment about any issues O’Dell may have been referring to.

The police are looking into how Jason obtained the steroids. The selling of steroids without a medical license is illegal in California.

A memorial service will be held this afternoon at 4 p.m. at Good Shepherd Church in San Diego. A private burial service will follow. The Sprints head coach retired Jason Ridge’s jersey, Number 10, in a somber school assembly Monday.

Grace Simpson, crime reporter. She knew more about the story, otherwise she wouldn’t have been assigned to it. Maybe she thought she could get someone to talk about the “issues” Michelle O’Dell had mentioned. Was Michelle the girl Jason had been accused of raping? Or perhaps she knew what had happened.

Julia wondered if journalist Grace had been trying to get more information about the underground market for steroids.

Only one person knew for sure. Julia hesitated before picking up her cell phone.

“Grace Simpson. Talk to me.”

“Grace, it’s Julia Chandler.”

A long pause. “You’re just about the last person I expected to call me. Do you have a comment about Victor Montgomery’s murder? Or maybe why you were put on administrative leave?”

How did everyone know about her leave? “No. I want to talk off the record about something other than Victor’s murder. I’ll buy you lunch.”

“It’s well past lunchtime. You’re going to have to give me more. The judge’s murder is my number one priority right now and I can’t waste my time.”

“I promise if anything comes of this, you’ll be the first to know. And it could be really big. Please.”

Julia could almost hear Grace weighing the pros and cons. “All right,” Grace finally agreed. “When and where?”

Julia named a restaurant in La Jolla, far from where any of her colleagues might spot her talking to a reporter.

Julia hung up, far from certain she’d made the right decision, but her instincts told her there was something about Jason Ridge’s death that seemed peculiar, perhaps related to the other two murders. She hoped Grace had information to share.

And she hoped it didn’t cost her.

Dillon feared he’d missed Garrett Bowen at the country club, but saw him above an empty plate, drinking a cocktail at a table overlooking the golf course.

“Dr. Bowen.” Dillon sat across from him.

“Dr. Kincaid. This must be important to track me down on a Friday afternoon. May I call you Dillon? ‘Doctor’ seems too formal among colleagues.”

Dillon nodded. “It’s about Wishlist, Doctor.” Keep it formal. He watched Bowen’s expression. Except for a tightening around his mouth, his expression didn’t change. If Dillon hadn’t been watching carefully, he’d have missed it.

“Yes?”

“Have you heard of the group?”

“Of course.”

“How?”

“I created it.”

Though Dillon knew he shouldn’t be surprised, since all the evidence pointed to Dr. Bowen’s involvement in the online community, he was nevertheless shocked at the frank admission. “Why?” he asked.

Bowen cocked his head, looking at Dillon as if he’d asked a ridiculous question. “It’s therapeutic, of course.”

“How so?”

Bowen laid his hands on the table. His right index finger lightly tapped on the linen cloth. “Anger management is a difficult discipline, as I’m sure you well know,” he began. “Especially with teenagers. Especially today. Young people mistrust their elders. They’d believe the word of a fellow teen—however ill informed—over the word of an experienced adult.”

“That’s nothing new,” Dillon said.

“True, but with the additional pressures of a complex, sensory-rich society with every fantasy, every wish, able to be fulfilled, keeping young adults focused on their own health and safety—as opposed to the take-what-you-want-when-you-want-it attitude prevalent today—is an almost impossible task for parents. Add to that dilemma the situation of rich kids with distant parents, physically or emotionally, and you have a recipe for disaster. In my practice, I deal almost exclusively with teenagers who have problems with their parents and their teachers—in essence, those in authority over them. I realized this when I started taking cases from the court with youth who vandalized property, acted out against people in a rage, anything that stemmed from anger. And these weren’t the underprivileged, but kids with means and education.”

Bowen was on a roll. “Take the issue of cutting. You know what that is, correct?”

“Of course. When people, usually young teens, mutilate their bodies in order to feel pain.”

Bowen shook his head. “Partly, but you’re focusing on the
pain
when in fact it’s the
feeling
and the
control
that they hold on to. That the feeling comes from pain is incidental. Cutting is about being in control. Some kids turn to drugs or drinking to dull the feelings—to give up control and responsibility. If under the influence, they become detached from themselves. Cutting is the exact opposite. In fact, in my practice, cutters often have a disdain for drug users. Cutters would rather die than give up their bodies and minds to drugs and alcohol. Cutting heightens their feelings, gives them control over their own destiny. Drugs take away control.”

“I understand, but what does cutting have to do with Wishlist?”

“Cutting is anger management. They can’t release their feelings, or they don’t know how to release them, so they turn inward. It’s empowering. Just like yelling at your parents or vandalizing the school. They get a brief high. But each time, they need to go deeper, hurt longer. If they can’t control it, they’ll self-destruct.” Bowen sipped his drink as the waiter cleared his dishes.

“So you started Wishlist for people who cut themselves?” Dillon said.

“Originally, several years ago I put together a small online group of cutters. I felt they would benefit from talking to each other. And I was right. The results one-on-one were far better after the anonymous group therapy. So I expanded Wishlist to include all teens with anger management or emotional control issues, which is really the same thing. A teen who lashes out in anger has the same basic problems as a teen who turns to promiscuity to solve problems. They don’t feel as if they are in control of their destiny.”

“There are a thousand underlying reasons for self-destructive teenagers. You can’t put them all in the same category.”

“I understand that, Dr. Kincaid,” Bowen said, irritated that he’d been contradicted. “But together they see that others have problems
like theirs
and they can try different methods to control their spontaneous destructive behavior and to develop sound coping mechanisms.”

“Kids counseling kids.” Dillon couldn’t hide the disdain in his voice.

“I supervise the list,” Bowen insisted. “I use the information in my practice and work with other teens experiencing the same problems. It’s the same principle as group therapy.”

“Except there’s no professional supervision.”

“It’s anonymous.”

“You’ve gone online. You’ve read the messages.” It wasn’t a question.

Bowen acknowledged the fact. “Just to observe or to provide prompts.”

“Like how they would kill those who hurt them.”

He shook his head. “You don’t understand. It’s about getting rid of the anger in a safe and anonymous environment in order to move on and heal.”

Dillon said, “So when Emily Montgomery wrote that she wanted to kill Judge Montgomery by making him choke on his penis, that’s healing?”

“I didn’t know the message came from Emily. It was anonymous.”

“But you saw the message.”

He hesitated. “Yes. But—”

“Why didn’t you go to the police?”

“It’s therapy. And there was no threat. It was a fantasy, nothing more.”

“It’s a secure server that you need a password to join and is monitored by a licensed psychiatrist who should know better than to put a group of mentally imbalanced young people into a group to talk about murder.”

“That’s not the purpose, Kincaid. You’re only looking at one message out of thousands.”

“And where would those messages be kept?”

“Nowhere.”

“You don’t retain them?”

Again, he hesitated. “Not for the long term.”

“Any other messages you remember that you might want to make the police aware of? Any other threats?”

Bowen stood. Dillon had crossed the line. “I wasn’t aware that I was the subject of a police investigation.”

“I’m trying to help Emily.”

“Hmm.” Bowen looked down his nose, trying to use his height over the sitting Dillon to intimidate.

Dillon stood.

“What do you know about Paul Judson?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

But Bowen wasn’t looking him in the eye. Dillon knew he was lying.

Bowen went on the offensive. “Perhaps you’re the one on the wrong side here. Have you thought that perhaps Emily acted out her own fantasies? She is a violent, emotionally distraught girl who has never recovered from her father’s sudden death. She has a verbally abusive mother, and her stepfather was attempting to fill a role that emotionally she couldn’t handle. You can’t overlook her potential involvement.”

“And do you believe Emily was involved in Paul Judson’s murder as well?”

Bowen looked at him blankly, but Dillon didn’t forget his original reaction.

“Do you have a list of everyone you invited into the group?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t give it to you without a court order, Dr. Kincaid.”

Dillon started to leave, then turned and said in a low voice, “You should have your license pulled. Giving your patients essentially the right to counsel each other. You’ve created a forum for anger to fester, not diminish.”

“You’re wrong, Dr. Kincaid.”

“No, I’m not.”

FIFTEEN

C
ONNOR PARKED
outside Emily’s private college preparatory high school in La Jolla. It was after two and the kids were still in class.

Emily had given him a list of her friends, surprisingly short for an attractive, smart girl like Em. The school wasn’t large—maybe a thousand students in all four grades—but it was meticulously maintained and looked like a small version of an Ivy League university. A place rich parents sent their kids.

There were a handful of girls on the list, but the one Emily said she was closest to was Wendy Roper, whom she’d known since early childhood. Connor had a description of the girl and her car, and waited until classes let out at three. Ten minutes later he spotted Wendy, a dark-haired beauty, tall and lanky, and dressed impeccably. He followed her to the parking lot to verify her identity and as she was about to get into a sporty red compact, Connor called out. “Wendy?”

She turned, neither scared nor worried. “Yeah? Who wants to know?”

“Connor Kincaid. I’m a friend of Emily.”

Wendy’s round face relaxed. “Em’s talked about you.”

“Do you have a few minutes?”

She glanced at her watch. “Sure. Is Em okay?”

“She’s going to be fine.” He looked around, saw too many people walking around, curious about him. He pointed to a grassy slope with trees on the far side of the parking lot. “Let’s go someplace private to talk.”

They walked in silence, sat on a short stone wall near the grove.

“People are saying she tried to kill herself,” Wendy said. “I tried calling the house, but her mother refused to talk to me. What a bitch.” Wendy looked at the ground. “Em would never kill herself. She didn’t try, did she?”

“It was an accident,” Connor said. “She did drink too much, though. Had to have her stomach pumped.”

“Ugh. I told her she had to stop.”

“Do you know why she drinks?”

Wendy didn’t say anything, and Connor sensed Wendy knew more than anyone about Emily.

“Wendy? Emily told me to talk to you, that you were her closest friend. She needs your help. Tell me the truth.”

“I know about Victor, if that’s what you mean.” Wendy didn’t look at him, her hands squeezed together so tightly that her knuckles were white.

“Yeah, that’s what I mean.”

“She didn’t tell me until a few months ago. I came over one afternoon and she was drunk. It all came out then. I told her she had to stop drinking and tell her mother what was happening, but she said her mother wouldn’t care, that she would blame her for it like she blamed her for everything bad that happened in her life. Besides, Crystal’s never around.”

“Did you know whether Emily ever talked to anyone else about what Victor did to her, other than you?”

“No, and every time I brought it up she refused to talk about it. She was scared, I think. That she’d lose her inheritance if she said anything.”

“She was worried about money?”

“You make it sound bad. If you had five million dollars sitting in a trust fund and only a year to go, would you make waves? All she wanted to do was get the money and get the hell out of there. The other stuff, like the vandalism, she did when she was plastered. I really tried to help Em with that, but she needs real help, not me.”

“Did Emily talk to you about Wishlist?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s an online therapy group. Anger management.”

“Oh, she talked about how stupid her therapy was all the time. The guy her mother sent her to creeped her out. But it was only once a week, and she said she had him wrapped around her finger.”

“But she didn’t talk about an online group.”

“Not that I remember.”

“Did she ever talk to you about wanting to kill Victor?”

Wendy stared at him, eyes narrowed. “Whose side are you on? I thought you wanted to help Emily.”

“I do. That’s why I need to know everything.”

“She’d never hurt anyone.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“The jerk made her suck his dick! Don’t you think that’s gross enough?”

“Wendy, please. The police are going to be talking to you and if you lie, they’ll put you on the stand as a hostile witness.”

Realization hit Wendy and she paled. “Do-do the police really think she killed him?”

“I don’t know what they think, but I used to be a cop and looking at the evidence right now, chances are she’s on the top of the suspect list.”

“She would never.”

“Did she talk to you about it?”

Wendy said nothing for a long minute. “It’s not what you think. You know how people talk. They say ‘I’ll kill him’ just as a part of conversation. Not because they really mean it. Sure, Emily hated him, she wanted to hurt him, but she didn’t mean it.”

“Did she talk about this with anyone else?”

“Absolutely not. I had to pull everything out of her. She never talks about it, even now. It’s just one of those things we both know and talk around.”

Wendy took Connor’s hand. “Please, please help her. Crystal won’t. She just wants Emily’s money.”

“Crystal’s worth more than five million dollars.”

Wendy laughed. “Emily’s trust is worth a lot more than that. She gets five million when she turns eighteen. And a million dollars every year for the rest of her life. Last I heard, her trust was worth over fifty million bucks and growing.”

Connor walked Wendy back to her car and wondered if somehow this was all about money.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Grace Simpson slid into the seat across from Julia at Crab Catcher, a restaurant up the coast in La Jolla, far, far away from the courthouse.

“Thanks for coming out here.”

“I only have thirty minutes, so what’s up?”

The waitress came over before Julia could answer. They both ordered the Crab Catcher’s excellent salads, then Julia said, “What do you know about Jason Ridge’s death?”

Grace went through her mental catalog, then her eyes widened. “The football player from San Diego?”

“You covered it for the paper, which I thought odd considering you usually work the crime beat.”

“How did he come to your attention?”

“You talk first,” Julia said, “then I’ll share what I know.
Off
the record.”

“That’s not fair,” she pouted, but continued. “Basically, I took a look at it because that was when steroid abuse was all over the news, Jose Canseco had his tell-all book, the Bonds thing was coming down. Now the big guys can get steroids, but where do kids get them? Are they street drugs? Do their parents get them on the sly? Doctors? I thought it might be a great investigative report.”

“But you didn’t have any other follow-ups.”

“I spent
weeks
on that case, talking to everyone about Jason Ridge, talking to the cops about steroids on the streets, even talked to a drug dealer down in the Gaslight district who dealt in steroids. Nothing on Ridge. Not one person even
hinted
that they suspected he was using. The detective in charge of the case, Ollie Grant, said the best he could figure is Ridge bought them on the black market and unintentionally overdosed, but overdosing on steroids is virtually impossible. Still, there was a lot of pressure on him. I did learn that he was seeing a psychiatrist, though his parents clammed up about it. Said it was growing pains.”

“Off the record, right?” Julia asked, raising her eyebrow.

“Yes.” Grace pouted.

“Ridge got a Deferred Entry of Judgment after a rape trial in juvenile court. Part of the DEJ was a mandatory anger management class and community service.”

“DEJ?”

“A slap on the wrist. The judge telling him essentially to not do it again and it’ll all go away when he’s eighteen.” Julia squinched her face up in anger. “It happens more often than you think.”

“Sounds like it might made a good story,” Grace said, making notes.

“Yes, it would, and I would be happy to comment on the record.”

“You would?”

“Yes…but not now. I have something more pressing. Bowen was Ridge’s psychiatrist. Ridge is dead. Bowen was Billy Thompson’s psychiatrist after Billy trashed his teacher’s car and the teacher is shot to death. Bowen is Emily’s psychiatrist and her stepfather ends up dead.”

“Suspicious, but it’s not enough. Bowen is a renowned child shrink. He’s on retainer by the court. And Jason Ridge died of a heart attack attributed to steroid use.”

“According to the article you wrote, he tested clean several times over the course of the year.”

Grace nodded. “They have a fail-safe system. The team doctor watches them pee into the cup. No switching urine or bringing in your own.”

“And the team doctor was clean?”

“I couldn’t find anything on him. He was genuinely distraught about Jason’s death.” Grace paused while the waitress brought their salads. “You wouldn’t be telling me this unless there was something important that I missed.”

“I don’t think you missed anything. The juvenile records are sealed and you wouldn’t have been able to access the DEJ.”

“But you did.”

Julia didn’t answer the implied question. “I need everything you have from that investigation. Jason’s friends, family, doctors, everything you can get me.”

“You leaving the DA’s office to become a reporter?”

“Grace, you have no reason to trust me, but I need your help. Can I have your notes?”

Julia wondered if she sounded as desperate as she felt. Grace pulled out her laptop and turned it on.

“Do you have a pen?”

Julia dug a pen and notepad out of her purse. “Shoot.”

Grace typed rapidly, pulling up a spreadsheet. “I have every contact for every article I write. You’re lucky I’m a packrat, because this is old news.”

“Thank you.”

Grace gave her a list of contacts, all Jason’s friends, and the contact information for his ex-girlfriend whom Grace quoted in the paper. “I have a note next to her name.
More.
She knew more than she told me. I’m a reporter, I can sense when someone’s holding back. Usually people love talking to me—except cops, attorneys, and politicians. You’d think you all had something to hide.” Grace laughed good-naturedly and shut down her computer. “But kids, the average person, they all want their name in the paper. Michelle O’Dell gave me a bone, but when I pushed she clammed up. I don’t know if it was because she was scared or if it was really nothing. But you might want to track her down.”

“Know where I can find her?”

“Sorry, once I gave up on the case I didn’t follow up with any of the people involved. But it shouldn’t be too difficult. Oh, one thing I remember: she didn’t go to Jason’s school. Either she had already graduated or went to another school. I don’t have those notes anymore, sorry.” She glanced at her watch, shoveled salad into her mouth. “So, what do I get?”

“An exclusive.”

“Start talking.”

“Not now, when I figure out what’s going on.”

“I can get an exclusive from Andrew Stanton. He loves me because I made him look good when he was running against that scumbag Descario.”

“Anyone looks good next to Descario.”

Grace laughed. “So an exclusive isn’t going to hold much water with me. What more can you give?”

Julia sighed. “What about an interview?”

“You? An interview?” She smiled. “I’ve been dying to interview you for years.”

“I know.” She wasn’t happy about it, but the information Grace had was valuable. “If you have anything else on this case, call me.”

“Will do. And I’ll call you about that interview after this thing with your niece is resolved.” She stood up, then sat back down and asked, “One question. Off the record. Why is Connor Kincaid working for you?”

Julia would never cease to be amazed at how fast news traveled, even in a large city like San Diego. “He’s the best. He knows Emily and can help prove she didn’t kill Victor.”

“That’s not my question. Why would he agree to it after you forced him to testify five years ago?”

Julia didn’t exactly know why. She didn’t want to think about it, or about her role in Connor’s resignation. “Connor found Emily when she ran away three years ago. He cares about what happens to her.”

“Hmmm. I don’t know if I buy that, but if you believe it, I guess I can give it a pass.” She jumped up again and waved her fingers at Julia. “Are you going to the art fund-raiser tomorrow night?”

“What fund-raiser?”

“The Chandler Foundation is a co-sponsor of some big art charity event.”

“You know me well enough to know I’m not involved in the Foundation.”

“Everyone who’s anyone will be there, and since Jason Ridge’s parents are big muckety-mucks in the arts community, you might want to check it out.” She winked.

“Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Ciao.” Grace waved her fingers and sauntered off.

Julia picked up her cell phone and called her personal secretary. Sarah Wallace had an office down the hall from the Foundation and handled Julia’s other life—the life of being a Chandler. Most of her job was sending regrets and managing the trust correspondence for Emily. Julia had no desire to be involved in Chandler business, especially since she had given up involvement in the Foundation for one day a week with Emily.