Colleen hardly slept, despite being exhausted, following the confrontation with Steve Davis and Frank Madrid. She got up in darkness, pulled on jeans and sweatshirt, while rain pelted the office windows. She stood before the windows, drinking black coffee, watching dark clouds unfurl over the lights of the Bay Bridge, a picture smeared by water running down the glass. She prayed her intervention with Steve would serve as a permanent deterrent. But she also understood how deep anger could run and what Steve was going through. She had been in a similar spot once in her life, when she learned the truth about her husband. And she had paid dearly for it.
After coffee, she called her answering service. There was a message from last night. To Colleen’s surprise an acquaintance of Moran’s had left a brief note on Lesley Johns—Margaret Copeland’s old roommate—or whatever she was—whose name was on the lease of the Frederick Street house where Margaret was crashing at the time of her murder.
They had managed to track down Lesley Johns.
Just a name, phone number, and an address in Lake Tahoe. The address itself was in Nevada, Lake Tahoe being split across two states.
Colleen checked the time again. She was itching to call. But it was too early.
At her desk she worked on her notes until daylight began to toss gray shadows across the clouds. Officially morning.
She called.
The phone rang several times, echoing long-distance. Finally, someone answered.
“Who is this?” a woman said, full of sleep. Not happy with being woken up.
“Sorry if I woke you. My name is Colleen Hayes, and I’m hoping to speak to Lesley Johns.”
There was a pause while the line crackled. Then, whoever was on the other end hung up.
Off to a good start.
Colleen pulled on her poncho, grabbed her flashlight, length of pipe, and did an early patrol of the plant, wondering what time Lesley Johns went to work, if she did go to work, and how she might miss her if she did go to work, or whatever she did. She didn’t know anything about the woman, just that she wanted to speak to her, wrap up any loose threads on Margaret. She knew almost nothing about her, really.
Twenty minutes later, back in the office, Colleen called again.
“How did you get this number?” the woman said.
“Through an acquaintance. Am I speaking to Lesley Johns?”
“What acquaintance?”
Colleen didn’t want to mention the police and possibly scare the woman off. She explained she was working for the Copelands and was clearing up loose items on their daughter Margaret and had one or two questions. “I’m not looking to cause any problems, just—”
The phone clicked off.
Son of a bitch!
Colleen called Directory Assistance and said she was verifying an address for Lesley Johns and gave the operator the phone number.
“That is an unlisted number,” the operator said.
Colleen called Moran, got past Daphne, who snapped a quick “just a moment!” before she stormed off to find Moran. Thankfully, he was up.
“Checking up on my gardening, Hayes? I haven’t started yet. I’m still having breakfast.”
“Ha. No, just trying to fathom why Lesley Johns keeps hanging up on me.”
“No idea. I’m surprised anything came of that request, to be honest. She must have a record if we found her.”
“Can you tell me who found out?”
“A friend with access to FBI CCH. I’d rather not say who.”
“CCH?”
“Computerized Criminal History. These systems are being used more and more with the advent of computers.”
“Any idea what Lesley Johns might have done?”
“You know more about her than I do at this point.”
“Maybe she changed her name and doesn’t want anything to do with Lesley Johns anymore.” That would explain why she’d hung up on her.
“That would be my guess.”
Or maybe she didn’t want to have anything to do with Margaret Copeland anymore. She had told her she was helping the Copelands. Too bad. Had Colleen known, she might have tried a different, more devious ploy. “Any idea whether the address itself is good?”
“You’re not thinking of going up there, are you, Hayes?”
“Why not? I don’t have any gardening to keep me occupied.”
“The Copeland case is closed, as far as you’re concerned.”
“Aren’t you dying to know what Lesley Johns might know about Margaret Copeland?”
“Of course. But didn’t Detective Owens tell you to desist?”
“I figure if anything comes of this, I can always hand it over.”
“So you’re doing Owens a favor?” Moran snorted. “Not knowing all the details of a case and living with it is part of the life we lead, Hayes. Get used to it.”
We. Moran said we. She was flattered he considered her a bona fide investigator, like him. That actually made her feel more encouraged.
“Enjoy your gardening,” she said.
Twenty minutes later, she was on the Bay Bridge, foot down, gunning the Torino toward Lake Tahoe in the rain. The case might be over as far as Kieran Skinner was concerned, but there were things that didn’t make sense. Had there been other incidents? Had Kieran Skinner’s soft incarceration by his father in a mental facility put a halt to his behavior?
By the time she reached Donner Pass, large flakes of snow were falling. The Sierras had turned white and Highway 80, already slushy, became slippery as she pulled off on Highway 89 toward Lake Tahoe. Without chains or snow tires she dropped her speed to well below the limit. Even so, she was driving along the north shore of the lake before noon.
She saw another world, one with a huge scenic lake as a backdrop, despite the gray clouds, rimmed by picturesque snowcapped mountains. The houses along the shore were the kind of houses that belonged to people who had made it: large picture windows, decks looking out onto views of the lake, all surrounded by tall pines.
She had spent most of the drive wondering what kind of woman Lesley Johns was and how life had treated her for the past eleven years. Had she left her hippie life behind and turned the page? She must have done well to be living up here. That perspective changed when Colleen turned off onto a side road past the Cal Neva Casino nestled among the trees flanking the lake.
She found the road Lesley Johns lived on up behind the main road, well away from the lake. Up here the houses were smaller, faded, with old cars and clutter in the front yards. Then older cabins prevailed, built before Lake Tahoe became a destination for prosperous Bay Area skiers, with beater cars and plenty of junk piled up. Trees were thicker, overgrown, and the roads potholed and unplowed. The odd trailer began to appear, interspersed with the cabins.
At the address she’d been given, Colleen found a small sagging wood shingle cabin with a tarp covering a section of roof and what was left of a gas grill on the porch. A rusted-out beige Buick sedan in front of the house collecting snow gave her hope that someone was home. A telltale wisp of smoke curling up from a chimney added to that optimism.
Colleen shut off the engine, got out. The cold bit at her fingertips as she shut the car door. She was out of her element. Her cowboy boots crunched snow as she headed up to a collapsing porch where a newspaper lay in a plastic bag on a rubber welcome mat.
She cocked her head, heard the murmur of a television set, but nothing more.
She stood back, rang the bell, waited.
A moment later, the door opened.
Colleen looked down to see a boy with bright blue eyes and a thatch of blond hair, three or so, dressed in pajamas even though it was midday. He looked up at her warily, holding onto the doorknob.
“Hi there,” Colleen said. “Is your mother home?”
He nodded, a serious look on his face, and stood back, holding the door. A wave of heat floated out.
Colleen peered into the dark, chaotic house. Mismatched, thrift store furniture. A damp smell assailed her nose. The back of a reclining chair blocked her view. A glass about one-third full of watery orange liquid sat on the blue carpet floor beside it, next to a pair of black high heels, one on its side. Colleen suspected the boy’s mother was asleep in the chair.
“Can you go get your mother, please?” Colleen asked.
He pointed to the chair.
“I know, sweetheart, but can you just go get her?”
He did, approaching the chair guardedly. “Mom?”
“What?” she grunted, obviously waking up. She was the same woman Colleen had spoken to on the phone, with that roughness to her voice.
“Door,” he said, pointing at Colleen now.
“Huh?” She climbed out of the chair with a creak and Colleen got her first glimpse of a woman about thirty, fair skinned and freckled, and blond, her hair fortified by a drugstore and piled high in an updo that was coming loose. She wore a cocktail waitress uniform from one of the casinos, a black thing that was little more than a leotard with hardened cups to accentuate cleavage and show plenty of skin. The vestiges of last night’s mascara smeared her eyes. Black nylons encased her solid legs, the kind that would still turn heads despite the fact that she was a good twenty pounds overweight. The Cal Neva name tag over her heart read “HI, I’m DENICE, from PHOENIX.” She still had her looks, but they weren’t going to last another ten years if she didn’t drop the weight. Eleven years ago, she was no doubt a stunner.
She squinted at Colleen standing in the open doorway.
“Colleen—Colleen Hayes. We talked on the phone, earlier this morning. Sorry I woke you up.” Colleen realized the woman had probably come in from a night shift. “Again.”
“I thought I made it pretty clear I didn’t want to talk.”
“I know and I’m sorry. But it’s that important.”
“How did you get this address?”
“It came with the phone number. Through an acquaintance.”
The woman marched up, stood with her hands on her hips. “You can just leave.” She raised her eyebrows. “I’m not in the mood.”
“I don’t blame you. Actually, a contact in the police department found you but I’m not looking to cause any trouble. I’m a private investigator. I just have a few questions.”
She shook her head.
“What if I said there’s reward money for any new info on Margaret Copeland?”
The woman pursed her lips, thought about it. “How much?”
Colleen pulled her wad of cash out of her pocket. She needed to buy gas and get back to SF, and she needed a little cash to hold her. She put that aside. “Four hundred.” That was two weeks’ money. Probably a lot more up here. It was all she had left. She split it into two, held out one bundle. “Half now. The rest when you tell me what you know.”
The woman eyed the money. “What if what I have to say is worth more?”
Colleen shrugged. “You tell me how much you want, I go back to my client, and ask. It might not happen. And this is coming out of my own pocket, which makes it just between you and me. If you want more, you need to understand that you also risk losing your privacy.” Colleen raised her eyebrows. She didn’t want to play hardball but it came with the job. “Nothing you tell me now comes back to you. You don’t testify in court—nothing. When we’re done, I forget all about you.”
The woman seemed to consider her options. “Deal.” She stepped forward, took the cash, counted it, folded it.
“All your heat is escaping,” Colleen said.
The woman huffed, brushed past Colleen, slammed the door. It dragged on the rug when she did that. She stood back, money in hand, resumed her stance.
“Mom?” the boy said softly. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Andrew. Go get into my bed. I’ll be in later.”
He came over, looked up at her, unsure.
She looked down at him. “Nothing’s wrong, honey. I just need to talk to this lady. Go get in bed. I’ll be in in a little while. We’ll tell a story.”
“Okay,” he said quietly, turned, padded off into the only hallway. A door shut.
The woman focused on Colleen with a grimace. “You’ve got twenty minutes. I pulled a double shift last night and I’ve got another one coming up in less than eight hours.”
“I won’t keep you any longer than I have to.”
“Make coffee,” the woman said, nodding brusquely at the kitchenette. “I’m going to check in on my son and get out of this clown outfit.”
Colleen hadn’t slept all night and had just driven two hundred miles. Coffee sounded great. She fixed a pot while the woman went to the bedroom. There were no signs of a male presence in the small house, no photos, no shoes by the door, no beers in the fridge. Colleen felt for the woman, and the boy. She was obviously a single mom, getting by.
A few minutes later, the two women were sitting on stools at the Formica counter, the woman in a fluffy bathrobe and slippers. The scent of faded perfume enveloped her.
They drank black coffee.
“As I said on the phone this morning,” Colleen said, “I’m helping the Copelands wrap up any loose threads on their daughter Margaret. If you are who I think you are, you knew Margaret, for a short time anyway—back in the Haight. She was murdered during the Summer of Love. Her last residence was 413 Frederick—a place leased to Lesley Johns.” Colleen raised her eyebrows, looking for a flicker of recognition in the woman’s brown eyes. She found it. “But you know all this. You’re Lesley Johns—aren’t you?”
The woman drank coffee. “Not anymore.”
“Who you are now is your business. But Margaret’s father is dying. He never got over losing Margaret. Neither did her sister. How could they? Margaret was brutally murdered. She was trying to go home. Ironic, isn’t it? If she hadn’t gotten into the killer’s car that night, she might have made it.”
The woman blinked away that thought. Her eyes turned glassy. “Poor Margaret.”
“Her killer was arrested a couple days ago, for trying to do the very same thing he did to Margaret to a fourteen-year-old girl. Thankfully, he didn’t get away with killing her. But he may get away with killing Margaret. He’s got a powerful father. If you know anything, you can’t let that happen. Margaret deserves justice. And her killer deserves to be locked up for good, so he can never kill again. He’s sick. Beyond sick.”
Lesley’s face fell. “They found him?”
Colleen nodded. “A couple of days ago. In Golden Gate Park.”
“The same place,” she said, shaking her head.
Colleen returned a single nod. “The same place.”
Lesley took a deep breath. “After Margaret … after Margaret was murdered, I got scared.”
“I would have been scared, too.”
“We all were. I ditched the Frederick Street flat a few days later—after the cops came door to door, asking questions about Margaret. We had dope all over the place, and I didn’t need to be busted for drugs and whatever they might have come up with on Margaret. My old man would have killed me. I left home that summer to get away from him and his fists. Who knows what the cops would have pinned on me? I owed four months’ rent anyway. It was only a matter of time before I split. The party was over in the Haight anyhow. Margaret just made it official.”
“Those were crazy times.”
“No kidding,” she said.
“Is that why you changed your name?”
“Let’s just say I had a misspent youth—one I’m still paying for. After Margaret and leaving Frederick, I needed to hide from my old man. I knew the landlord or the cops would contact him, and he’d come looking for me. Then I met the wrong guy and got into the kind of trouble I had to get away from for good. He’s in prison, but someday he’ll be out.” She frowned.
“Got it.” Colleen nodded. “What do you remember about Margaret?”
Lesley took a sip of coffee. “I didn’t know Margaret for long, but we had a few heart-to-hearts—while everybody else was stoned out. She wasn’t really a stoner. Neither was I. Not really. We connected.”
“Did she say why she wanted to go home?”
“She had a little sister she was worried about.”
“Alex,” Colleen said. “She’s in her twenties now. She was fifteen at the time.”
“Yes,” Lesley said. “Alex.” She raised her eyebrows. “But she also had someone else.”
That got Colleen’s interest. She drank coffee, staying casual. “Boyfriend?”
“Little more than a boyfriend.” She brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “A married boyfriend. Older. He told Margaret he was going to leave his wife for her.”
“That’s original.”
“Margaret believed it. But when his wife found out about the two of them, she went and committed suicide.”
Colleen startled. “When?”
“Right before Margaret … you know … was murdered.” She drank out of her cup. “After that, he backed out. Told Margaret they had to cool things down, so he could take care of his son. It wouldn’t look right, he said, to get married to someone else, especially someone so young, right after his wife committed suicide. He was a local politician. District supervisor or something. He was pretty active in the Haight, set up an outreach program for runaway kids.” She gave a wry smile. “Turns out he was using it to fill his little black book, too. I know. I went to him for help. He put his hand on my thigh and said he could definitely help me out. So much for that. But Margaret was so smitten she volunteered to help with the program. Whatever it was, he didn’t need the publicity after his wife died. I figured he was shining Margaret on, but I wasn’t about to burst her bubble.”
Colleen’s nerve endings tingled. She put her cup down on the counter, sat up. “Remember the guy’s name?”
Lesley shook her head.
“It wasn’t Patrick Skinner by any chance, was it?”
Leslie looked up, and her mouth fell open. “You know, now that you say his name, it was. Pat. Supervisor Skinner. Good-looking older guy, loads of confidence. Built like an ex-football player. Head full of red hair, just starting to go gray at the temples. Stylish dresser. Looked the part. Especially with his do-gooder routine. A real square but one the girls noticed. Margaret sure did.”
A hundred sirens went off between Colleen’s ears. “Any idea how his wife committed suicide?”
“Dosed herself with chloroform and pulled a dry-cleaning bag over her head. Jesus.” Lesley shook. “I hope it was peaceful for her, at least.”
A jolt of realization shook Colleen. She recalled the lack of photos of Mrs. Skinner during her visit to the Skinner residence. No mention of a wife. No female in the house, apart from the maid. “Do you recall Margaret ever saying anything about his son?”
Lesley grimaced. “Margaret didn’t even know he had a son until his wife offed herself. Seems Pat was keeping it a secret from her. Some teenage screw-up. Margaret was pretty upset about it. He said the kid had problems, was maladjusted. Margaret shed a few tears when she found out about that. Me, I learned my lesson about married men the summer before. Margaret, though, she learned the hard way.”
That was the understatement of the century. “Did you ever learn the son’s name?”
Lesley shook her head again. “I wonder if he even existed.”
Wouldn’t it have been nice if he hadn’t? Colleen picked up her coffee, sipped. But now, Kieran’s motivation, as twisted as it was, fell into place. His mother had killed herself over his father’s affair with Margaret, and Kieran paid him back—in spades. By killing Margaret in the very same way his mother had committed suicide. Twisted the knife.
It made sick, ugly sense.
It would also ruin Pat Skinner’s political career—unless he buried it.
She wondered what that meant about Robyn Stiles. Was there a link there, too? If so, how? She was fourteen, out of Patrick Skinner’s range. She hoped so, anyway. It unnerved her.
Colleen set her cup of coffee down. She would have to verify all the details, but she sensed most of them would fit. Lesley Johns’ words had the ring of truth.
“This has been a huge help,” she said, getting out the remaining two hundred dollars, placing the wad on the counter. “A huge help.”
* * *
The rain had let up by the time Colleen got back to San Francisco early evening. Four hundred miles of driving that day, much of it in snow, the rest at high speed, after a sleepless night, had drained her. But she wanted to get to the public library on Van Ness before they closed.
The librarian frowned at her when she entered the reference section and started going through microfiche files so late. In the reference section she verified the key points Lesley Johns had made. Lesley had been telling the truth, but Colleen had already sensed that. She was just making sure.
In the lobby, she called SFPD. Detective Owens.
“Glad I caught you,” she said.
“I’m just on my way home.” It was after eight p.m.
“This is important.”
Owens took a breath. “Important, how?”
“The Margaret Copeland case.”
“Which you’re supposed to be staying out of.”
“And you said you were going to keep me updated in exchange for the evidence I gave you.”
“I will,” he said, “when there’s a significant development. But that’s the weakest case. We’ve got Kieran on Robyn Styles. But Margaret Copeland …” She heard Owens sigh. “It’s an eleven-year-old cold case.”
“And Robyn Styles might get him three years, of which he’ll serve one.”
There was another pause. Colleen heard chatter in the background, someone saying goodnight.
“You got it,” Owens said. “Take what you can get.”
“It’s not enough. Not after what he did.”
“I agree. I’m doing what I can. But I need a motive. It could have been anyone, at this point. Why the hell did he do it? Kill Margaret Copeland?”
“Beyond the fact that he’s insane?” she said. “I might have something—but you didn’t hear it from me. This is strictly a rumor. For you to act upon. And not mention my name.”
“Now you’ve got my attention.”
“In 1967, Patrick Skinner was supervisor for District 6—the Haight-Ashbury.”
“Okay.”
“After the neighborhood was overrun with 50,000 kids from all over the U.S., he started YouthReach, a program for runaways, to help them access services and counseling, get back home.”
“Sounds like he was being proactive. No wonder he’s done so well for himself.”
“In this case he did pretty well with Margaret Copeland.”
There was a pause. “Say what?”
“She volunteered with YouthReach. They became close. Care to guess how close?”
“How old was Margaret at the time?”
“Eighteen. Old enough. But that didn’t stop Lily Skinner, Skinner’s wife, from committing suicide. With chloroform and a plastic bag over her head.”
There was a long pause while the line crackled.
“The same way Margaret died.”
“Kieran was paying his father back. Big-time. And still is, most likely.”
“Explain that.”
“Felicia Styles.”
“Robyn’s mother.”
“She works for the California State Assembly. She’s new. Guess whose staff she’s on.”
“Assemblyman Patrick Skinner’s.”
“Bingo.”
“And they are … an item?”
“She’s divorced. From her college yearbook photo, she’s no blushing flower. She was on the track team. Which means Kieran might have thought twice about taking her down. She would be a handful.”
“But her younger daughter …”
“Would be a lot easier target. And would do just as much damage. More, possibly.”
“But Lily Skinner killed herself over a decade ago.”
“That probably doesn’t matter to Kieran—not if he still blames his father for his mother’s suicide.”
Now there was a long pause.
“It’s definitely worth looking at,” Detective Owens said. “Thanks.”
“Just keep my name out of it, please.”
“Will do.”
Lesley Johns didn’t need to be involved. Colleen knew she’d be going back on her promise to let Jonathan Marsh, Lesley’s old landlord, know her whereabouts but Lesley had earned her privacy. Her new life.
Back at H&M for a long hot shower, followed by an illicit glass of white wine, Colleen sat back in her desk chair, wrapped in her bathrobe, the space heater humming away.
She would sleep tonight.
She hoped Lesley would, too, when she got off work.