After the party, Aubrey sat with Cash on his front porch. Ellie was in her room, supposedly taking a nap. But Aubrey bet she was on her phone with her friends in Boston, gabbing about her day.
At least one Dalton was feeling chatty.
It wasn’t that Cash was morose, but to Aubrey, he seemed quieter than usual. He’d been attentive and friendly to everyone at Brett and Jill’s but had barely said anything on the ride home. Either something—or someone—at the party had upset him, or the anticipation of having to testify in the Whiting case on Monday was weighing heavy on him. She was guessing it was the case, because every time she’d broached the subject with him, he instantly became withdrawn. How could she blame him? It had been an unimaginable series of crimes. Who wouldn’t be reticent to talk about it?
In total, four women had been murdered while jogging in the Presidio, a national park near the Golden Gate Bridge. Charles Whiting had sexually assaulted the victims, mutilated them, and tied their dead bodies to a tree.
Cash had been the one to get Whiting’s confession. She’d read snippets of the killer’s statement in the newspaper, but according to Cash, it was four hours long and most of it too gruesome for print. The prosecution was planning to play it for the jury while Cash was on the stand.
“Are you nervous about next week?” She took his hand and gave it a squeeze.
Cash huffed out a breath. “Not nervous…just not looking forward to it.”
“Is that why you’re being so quiet?”
“I didn’t realize I was being quiet,” he said, stretching out his long denim-encased legs and clasping his hands behind his head. “What do you want to talk about?” He turned his lawn chair so it faced her. “Want to talk about your interview? You can practice on me if you want.”
He’d just deftly changed the subject. If she hadn’t seen him do it in the past, she would’ve missed it. But she was on to his tricks now.
“I’ve got it covered,” she said. “You want to practice your testimony?”
“Vegas, huh?” He leaned his chair back. “It’s even hotter there than here in summer.”
She poked him in the arm. “We both know what you’re doing.”
“Yeah, what am I doing?”
“You’re trying to distract me from talking about the trial. And it’s not working. What is it that happened in the case that got you fired?”
He righted his chair and stared off into the creek. The water level had dropped, as it usually did in August, but the creek was still running hard. With the rain and snow in winter, the level would rise again.
As the time stretched on, she assumed that once again he was evading the question.
“How closely did you follow the case?” he finally asked.
“A little bit. It was hard to ignore.” The murders had been on every newscast and on the front page of every newspaper. “I know that four women were murdered while jogging in the park and that the FBI arrested someone early on, but he turned out to be the wrong person.”
“I told them he was the wrong person,” Cash said, his voice laced with anger. “But at the time, my supervisors didn’t see it that way.”
“And that’s why you got fired?” It seemed rather extreme to Aubrey, especially because Cash had ultimately been right.
“It wasn’t as cut-and-dried as that, but it was at the root of the reason. First, they took me off the case. Ultimately, what did me in was that I told the special agent in charge that he had blood on his hands.” Cash’s mouth ticked up in a wry smile. “I also threw a chair at the wall. Not my finest moment.”
“Because they wouldn’t listen to you when you said they had the wrong person?”
“Partly.” He shook his head. “But it all came to a head when they held a press conference announcing they had the killer in custody.” Cash let out a rusty laugh. “The dirtbag they had in jail didn’t have enough brain cells to tie his own shoes, let alone carry out three murders without leaving a trace of evidence. There were so many indicators that he wasn’t our guy, so many telltale signs. But the killings were getting a lot of international attention because one of the victims was an exchange student from Brazil, and the brass desperately wanted to close the case and look like heroes. So instead of handling it the responsible way by sticking to protocol, the boss stood on the steps of the federal building and told the world we had the culprit behind bars. Our unsub hadn’t even been indicted yet, but suddenly it was safe to go jogging again in the Presidio.” Cash clenched his fists.
“Casey Farmington,” she said softly, almost afraid to voice where she thought Cash’s story was leading.
“She might still be alive today.” He rubbed his hand down his face. “And what did I do? Not a goddamn thing.”
“What do you mean?” Aubrey was confused. “You told them they had the wrong man and you were taken off the case. What more could you have done?”
Cash moved in his chair and it squeaked. “This porch could sure use some real deck furniture instead of these crap folding beach chairs,” he said and let out a tight, unconvincing laugh, clearly trying to recover some composure before giving up and blurting out, “I should’ve gone to the press and told them the truth, that we probably had the wrong guy. And that women should stay the hell away from the Presidio until we had the right guy. Instead, I followed the damn rules.”
Aubrey reached for him, but he got to his feet and wandered over to the porch rail.
“Cash, you can’t be serious. How could you have stopped a mad man from killing someone if you didn’t even know who he was?”
“I knew who he wasn’t! And yet I let the special agent in charge tell everyone that we’d nabbed him.” He rested his elbows on the railing and took a couple of deep breaths, as if he was trying to hold on to his rage. “Casey Farmington saw that press conference on the news and felt safe to go running again. Safe to use the trails in the park.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“Because her father told us,” Cash said, pulling the lawn chair away from the cabin wall and sinking back into it. “He’d warned her about being careful and she’d responded by saying, ‘Daddy, they have the killer behind bars.’ Those are the words that haunt me every night before I fall asleep.”
It was a lot of responsibility to heap on himself, and now Aubrey understood why he’d been so miserable in the days before Ellie came to live with him. But Cash wasn’t being fair to himself. The turn of tragic events had been out of his control. The idea that he could have gone to the press and prevented Casey’s murder was beyond ridiculous. If that was the case, lone wolves would have changed the course of history. Not to mention that Cash would’ve come off as a rogue agent, a crackpot, and the press more than likely would’ve taken his boss’s word over his.
People believed what they wanted to believe, especially if the truth was ugly. And having a serial killer still on the loose was about as ugly as it got.
“Cash, you can’t take responsibility. You didn’t kill Casey Farmington, Charles Whiting did. There’s nothing that would’ve changed that. And if you had gone to the press, they likely wouldn’t have taken you seriously. You’d been taken off the case, to some extent discredited, right? Why would anyone believe you over the top person at the agency?”
She wanted to wrap her arms around him and make the unwarranted guilt he felt go away. Cash Dalton was a good man. There was no doubt in her mind that he’d done everything he could.
“How come it was you who did the interrogation if you were taken off the case?” Aubrey didn’t know anything about the workings of the FBI or criminal investigations except what she saw on TV. Yet it seemed odd that he would’ve been involved at that level if he’d been marginalized.
He let out another cynical laugh. “That happened by accident. Someone called the tip line and said Whiting had bragged at a bar that he knew who the killer was. We get about a hundred of those a day, mostly nutjobs or well-meaning people who lead us on dead ends. One of the supervisory agents thought it would be hilarious to get me out of bed at the break of dawn on a Sunday to hunt down Whiting. Payback for my so-called ‘independent streak.’ Turned out the joke was on them because when I found Whiting, something about his demeanor told me it was a good lead. The more I talked to him, the more he divulged. First, it was ‘I know a guy who fits the description of the person witnesses describe as being in the park at the time of the murders.’ Then it was ‘The guy’s a good friend of mine,’ which eventually became ‘he told me he did it.’ Serial killers love to taunt law enforcement, and that’s exactly what Whiting was doing. He thought he was smarter than everyone else and could toy with us.
“I offered to give him a ride to the other side of town, and by the time we got there, my gut told me he was our guy. After feeding his ego, I got him to come in for a formal interview to talk about his ‘friend.’ Twenty-four hours later, I had the full confession. It was strictly luck, being at the right place at the right time.”
Aubrey slipped her hand into his. “Luck had nothing to do with it. You knew when the FBI had it wrong and you knew instinctively that Whiting was somehow involved. Ultimately, you convinced him to spill his guts. You’re the unsung hero in this whole thing, Cash. To hold yourself personally accountable for the FBI’s screw-up is nuts.”
“Tell that to Casey Farmington and her family,” he said, unwilling to forgive himself. Carrying around the blame was too much, even for someone with his resilience. “Can we talk about something else now?”
“Like what?” There wasn’t a lot more to say. Soon, their summer fling would be over and she’d be moving away. If it wasn’t Vegas, it would be somewhere else. Somewhere where she could make a living.
And while it made sense in her head, the rest of her hadn’t caught up yet. This thing with Cash…was good. The kind of good that, if nurtured, could’ve turned into forever. But Cash hadn’t said anything that made her think they had a future. In fact, to borrow a cliché, the silence on his end had been deafening.
He glanced at the door, probably wondering what Ellie was up to.
“Do you need to check on her?” Aubrey asked.
“Yeah, I really should. Never a good idea to leave a twelve-year-old to her own devices too long.”
“Gotcha. I should get home and start packing.” Being the organizational freak she was, she’d already packed. But she hoped the reminder that she was leaving on Monday for a job interview might spark a meaningful conversation about the two of them.
“Vegas, huh?” He’d already said that. Vegas, huh?
“Yep.” She waited, and when he didn’t say anything else, turned to go, telling herself that it was for the best. He had too many demons to fight, and she was done battling her own.
* * * *
Two days later, Cash sat on a bench outside a federal courtroom, compulsively checking his phone for a text or an email. By now, Aubrey was in Las Vegas, probably just about to start her interview. He should’ve been consumed with the case, about testifying, but all morning he’d been distracted by the prospect of Aubrey moving away and starting a new life.
Sully came out of the courtroom and sat next to him in the hallway. Cash wasn’t allowed to sit in on the trial until after he testified. Those were the rules unless he was the lead investigator on the case, which he no longer was.
“The lawyers are in chambers,” Sully told Cash. “I think they’re working out a deal.”
It wasn’t unusual to pick a jury and then have a defendant realize he liked his chances better with a plea bargain. The prosecution was seeking the death penalty but might settle for life in prison without the possibility of parole to save the victims’ loved ones from having to go through a lengthy trial.
“How do the families feel about it? Are they okay with a deal?” Cash asked.
“Diego Vasquez is a strict Catholic; he’d be good with a life sentence. The Farmingtons are flat-out anti-capital-punishment. The other two families”—Sully shrugged—”I don’t know.”
“It would save all of them from having to listen to the confession tape.”
“Yup. It would be good for everyone all the way around.” Sully nudged his head at Cash, his meaning clear. Cash wouldn’t have to testify and detail just how badly the case got screwed up.
Cash checked his watch. “They’ll be breaking for lunch soon. You think the judge will let the jury go for the day?”
“It’ll depend on if and how fast they can hammer out an agreement. Why have the jury come back tomorrow only to excuse them from the case?” Sully said, and Cash nodded.
“I’ll be back before lunch with a status report.” Sully rose and returned to the courtroom, careful to quietly close the door behind him.
Cash bobbed his head at two deputy US marshals he recognized as they passed in the hallway. The Phillip Burton Federal Building was huge, taking up an entire city block. The FBI’s San Francisco field office was on the thirteenth floor, and for many years, he’d roamed the building as if it were home. Even now, the smell, a combination of old wood, cleaning solution, and human sweat, was as familiar as his own aftershave.
He mulled the possible plea bargain and measured his reaction. If anyone deserved to be executed for his crimes, it was Charles Whiting. But Cash wasn’t averse to taking death off the table. The important thing was that Whiting would be locked away forever and could never hurt anyone again. And if it would give the victims’ families closure without them having to sit through the torturous details…well, he was all for that.
The part he was conflicted over was not having to testify. On one hand, he had no appetite for finger-pointing. On the other, divulging the agency’s missteps might be cathartic. Although the press had already told part of the story, few outside the Bureau knew the full extent of just how far south the investigation had gone. As far as Cash knew, reporters weren’t wise to the fact that he’d been thrown off the case for sparring with his superiors over the direction they’d taken.
Cash wished he could talk to Aubrey about the plea bargain, get her thoughts.
And then was surprised by the path his mind had veered on to. When the hell had that happened? He’d always been a lone wolf, and suddenly he was bending the ear of his beautiful neighbor. Spilling his guts about the case that kept him awake at night. Asking for advice on his daughter. Telling her about Marie and voicing his regrets about not knowing Ellie.
He checked his phone again. Early this morning, he and Aubrey had exchanged texts, wishing each other luck. He’d driven to the city the night before and stayed at his parents’ house. Aubrey had been running errands most of Sunday, so they’d never gotten to talk before he’d left for San Francisco. Now, the texts felt pro forma and impersonal.
Cash started to send her a message, but Sully exited the courtroom and came toward him, and he put his phone away.
“They’ve got a deal. LWOP, not death,” he said. “The judge is excusing the jury now. The Farmingtons asked if they could talk to you.”
Cash tensed but nodded. He’d dreaded this moment, but it was time to cowboy up and tell them how damned sorry he was. How he wished he could turn back time and do right by their daughter.
“As soon as the jury’s gone, the judge said you could use his chambers. I’ll come get you when it’s time.”
“All right,” Cash said, girding himself for the Farmingtons’ anger and pain. He’d only had Ellie a month and he already felt her blood flowing through his veins. If anyone ever physically harmed her or stood by while someone else did, there was no telling what he’d do.
Sully slipped back into the courtroom, leaving Cash alone with his thoughts. Again, he was tempted to call Aubrey but didn’t know how much time he had to talk or whether he’d be interrupting her. Instead, he paced the hallway, waiting for Sully to wave him into the courtroom. About ten minutes later, one of the deputy marshals escorted him into the judge’s chambers.
A couple younger than Cash’s parents sat on a love seat with their hands folded in their laps. Though he’d never met the Farmingtons in person, only on the phone, he recognized them instantly from the pictures he’d seen in the newspaper. They got to their feet the moment he entered the room. Cash went to shake their hands, but Mrs. Farmington enfolded him in her arms.
“I hope it’s okay for me to hug you,” she said, her voice trembling.
Cash was caught off guard and for a beat didn’t say anything, letting his arms dangle at his sides as he stood stiffly at attention.
“Betsy, let the man breathe,” Mr. Farmington said and rubbed his eyes.
Cash rebounded and politely hugged Mrs. Farmington back. “It’s all right,” he told Mr. Farmington but felt like the worst kind of phony. If he’d only spoken up, Casey might be alive today.
“Thank you,” Mr. Farmington said. “Thank you for everything you did.”
“You mind if we sit down?” Cash planned to tell them the truth and needed out of this clinch to do it.
Mrs. Farmington was reluctant to let go, clinging to him for a few seconds longer, before breaking the embrace. Mr. Farmington took her arm and they returned to their places on the sofa. Cash sat in the chair facing them.
The judge’s chambers were large and reminded Cash of a drawing room you’d find in an old home in Pacific Heights. Masculine, with dark wainscoting, rows of bookcases, an antique mahogany desk, and a seating area that felt more like a living room than an office.
“We didn’t want to put you on the spot, Special Agent Dalton. We just wanted to extend our appreciation for all you’ve done…the confession…putting Charles Whiting away for life.”
The title didn’t escape Cash. Special Agent Dalton had been his identity for more than a decade. “I’m no longer with the Bureau. Please, just call me Cash.” He cleared his throat, struggling with how to explain. “The fact is, I wish I’d done more. A lot more. I might’ve been able to save Casey’s life.” He paused, hoping to let the gravity of that statement sink in.
Mr. Farmington held up his hand. “We’re aware of the facts, Special…Cash. Casey was everything to us, and I made it my life’s mission to ferret out the truth. We know you disagreed with your superiors on the original suspect. We know the mishandling of the case may have contributed to Casey’s death and spent much of the grieving process fuming at law enforcement. But with time comes clarity. Casey loved running those trails and was a fearless young woman. Obstinate too. We raised her that way and were proud of the person she had become.” Mr. Farmington faltered with emotion, then pulled himself together.
“What I’m trying to say is that we’ll never know for sure whether Casey would’ve heeded the warning to stay out of the park. The only thing we know for sure is that Charles Whiting was a monster who took the lives of four innocent women, including our precious daughter. If it wasn’t for you, the mystery of who killed her might not have been resolved. If it wasn’t for you, that son of a bitch might still be walking the streets, free to kill again.”
Mr. Farmington broke down, sobbing into his hands. His wife pulled him close, and they cried in each other’s arms. Their love for their daughter and for each other was so palpable, it was powerful. It should’ve been heartachingly sad, but it coursed through Cash like a river of hope. All he could think about was Ellie and the love a father had for his daughter. And Aubrey, a light so bright it illuminated a path through the dark these last few weeks.
“You’re our hero,” Mrs. Farmington said through tears. “Thank you for giving us closure. For giving Casey justice.”
* * * *
Cash canceled dinner plans with his folks, hoping if he left the courthouse now he could avoid most of the traffic on I-80 and be at Dry Creek Ranch before nightfall. He drove with the music on, feeling lighter than he had in months. Not completely absolved, but the heavy weight that had been pressing on his chest for months had been lifted. He could breathe. And maybe, just maybe, the nightmares would go away.
At a stop sign, he checked his phone. Nothing from Aubrey, but what did he expect? She thought he was in court and was probably consumed with the possibility of a new job, not with him. He made his way across the city onto the Bay Bridge and rolled down his window, enjoying the cool coastal breeze. When he got to Fairfield, he considered stopping for lunch. All he’d had for breakfast were two slices of toast and a cup of coffee and he was starved. But he decided to push on to beat rush hour in Sacramento.
He was thirty minutes away from the capitol when his phone rang. Disappointment stabbed him when his caller ID showed it was Jace, not Aubrey.
“What up?”
“Where are you?” Jace asked, sounding anxious.
“I’m on my way back, Whiting took a deal and the judge sent the jury home. You catch a break in the Beals case?”
There was silence, and for a minute, Cash thought he’d lost the call. “Jace?”
“Ellie’s gone.”