Rachel Grant wasn’t answering her phone. It was past 5 P.M. by the time Valerie arrived at the marina to discover the boat was still out. But the late afternoon was blue-skied, warm and soft, with a salt breeze coming off the bay, so she bought herself a bottled water and sat down on a bench to wait.
She’d been sitting only five minutes when her phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number.
“Valerie Hart.”
“Hey, Detective. It’s Dan Kruger.”
Instant irritation.
“Yes?” she said.
“How’s the investigation going?”
She didn’t answer straightaway. For no reason other than that she could imagine exactly the sort of conversation Kruger had in mind: bullshit cat-and-mouse, a reiteration of the original threat.
“Incomplete,” she said.
“Did you find Sophia?”
“Not yet.”
“But you’re still looking?”
“Yes.”
Pause. She could feel him winding up to something elaborately understated.
“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear,” he said. “When we spoke a few—”
“Dan,” she interrupted, with facetious gentleness. “Do you have anything you’d like to add to your earlier remarks? Anything new, I mean? As opposed to some slicker version of the original attempt at intimidation? Because if you don’t, I really feel like I can save us both some time.”
“Really? And how is that?”
“Well,” she said, “it goes like this: Fuck off.”
She hung up. Reckless, yes, but irresistible. Every now and then the world of men used to the luxurious exercise of power concentrated itself into a single intolerable individual. When that happened, something essential in her reacted. Let Kruger do what he had to do. She’d deal with it. And if it got her kicked off the case, fine. She’d have her dignity. To say nothing of the pleasure she had at this moment, the image of him staring at his phone in disbelief.
Why, in any case, was Kruger making such a fuss? She hadn’t, until now, mistrusted the idea that he wanted to keep Adam’s name out of the dirt. But maybe there was more to it? Did he know Sophia? Was he involved with her? It seemed ludicrous. Every time this woman’s name came up in the investigation it added to the list of guys she might have been fucking. She was either sexually voracious or possessed of some strategy that depended on calculated promiscuity. If she (and Jenner) had been blackmailing Adam Grant, could that somehow have compromised Kruger? Valerie let her mind wander into grander theories: that Sophia specialized in high-profilers, that she’d uncovered malpractice or corruption at Willard & Gould, that there was more at stake than a lawyer’s reputation. Was there some fuckup—or cover-up—in the original prosecution of the Lucifer murders?
Reluctantly, she conceded that she was going to have to start looking—carefully—into Dan Kruger. Without him knowing. Great.
Twenty minutes later Rachel appeared, pulling into the dock at the helm of a nifty cabin cruiser, a forty-footer in gleaming white with a pale green trim. Not, as Hester had said, a big boat, but big enough, Valerie estimated, to have set Adam Grant back upwards of $300,000. Rachel was wearing a red baseball cap and aviator shades. Elspeth sat in the stern in a white T-shirt and yellow life vest, staring back out at the water. The breeze lifted a single lock of her long dark hair, dropped it again. She looked as if she were gazing into an alternative dimension only she could see.
Valerie watched them tie up, gather up their backpacks, disembark. They didn’t exchange a word. She went to the end of the gangway. Rachel saw her, started slightly. Took off her sunglasses as she approached.
“What is it?” she asked Valerie. Then quickly to Elspeth: “Go wait in the car, honey.” She went into her purse and brought out the car keys. “Here. Go on.”
Elspeth didn’t move. She was staring at Valerie. The dark puppet eyes and full lips had a terrible look of blocked life. It occurred to Valerie that she’d never once heard the girl speak.
“Elspeth,” Rachel said. “Wait in the car, please.”
Elspeth still didn’t move. For an awkward moment the three of them stood there, Rachel holding out the keys, Elspeth apparently oblivious to everything except Valerie.
“Actually,” Rachel said, going back into her purse and pulling out a twenty-dollar bill, “here. Go get yourself something from the stand. Wait for me on the bench.” There was a hot dog and ice cream concession over to their left. “Come on, sweetheart, the detective is waiting to speak to me.”
Elspeth turned to her mother, slowly, as if the movement were tearing her from an invisible membrane. She took the twenty and moved away like a sleepwalker. Valerie watched Rachel watching her. Every atom of the woman was charged with anxiety. Elspeth ignored the concession. Instead drifted to one of the benches with her hands hanging loose by her sides, the money clutched. She didn’t sit down. Seagulls walked back and forth in front of her on the decking as if in compressed collective outrage at her intrusion.
“What’s happened?” Rachel said, turning back to Valerie.
“We found Dwight Jenner.”
Rachel didn’t answer. The only indication that the news had gone in was that her fingers tightened their grip on her purse.
“You found him?”
“Dead. His body was discovered in Nevada nine days ago. We got confirmation of his identity this morning.”
Rachel looked away, out over the glittering water. The disappointment Valerie had imagined wasn’t immediately apparent. For a few moments neither of them spoke. Then Rachel said: “I don’t understand. How can he…” She shook her head, eyes closed. Here, perhaps, was the disappointment. It had taken time to filter through.
“He was murdered,” Valerie said. “And I’m afraid it looks connected to Adam’s death.”
“What? How?”
“Back in 2001, Adam worked a prosecution case against a murder suspect, Grayson Webb. Both murders of which Webb was accused carried a distinctive MO—I mean, a distinctive signature, marks left on the victims’ bodies. But while Webb was in custody, a third victim, also with the distinctive marks, was found, more or less establishing Webb’s innocence. The charges were dismissed, and four years ago Grayson Webb died of cancer.” Valerie took the folded sheet of paper from her pocket and opened it. She showed the “Lucifer” sigil to Rachel. “This is the mark found on all three bodies,” she said. “The same mark we found on the body of Dwight Jenner.”
Rachel stared at the “Lucifer” sigil. Struggling with incomprehension.
“Does it mean anything to you?” Valerie asked her.
“No. Nothing. What is it?”
“It doesn’t matter. But it’s too much of a coincidence that it’s shown up again on the body of Adam’s killer. Adam ever discuss the case with you?”
“I don’t … Adam didn’t talk about his work. I don’t know what any of this is.”
Rachel glanced over to make sure Elspeth was still there. She was. She didn’t appear to have moved an inch. Valerie resisted the urge to ask how the kid was doing. And further resisted asking to speak to her.
“Did you find anything out about the woman?” Rachel asked. Her tone changed for this, for Sophia, for her husband’s lover. “Is she involved in this, too?”
“We don’t have anything on her,” Valerie said. “The fact is, we don’t know who she is.”
“It’s not enough,” Rachel said. The familiar bitter smile. “It’s not enough that he’s dead. I wanted … I wanted…”
“I know,” Valerie said. Then amended: “I can imagine.” Redundant to trot out the line about Jenner dead being better than Jenner lingering indefinitely on death row. Reasonable, yes, but Rachel wasn’t interested in reason.
“And now that’s it, I suppose,” Rachel said sadly. “Line drawn under. Case closed. Someone’s life—gone.” She turned her head away again to look out into the bay. “You must be pleased.” Delivered with a mix of sarcasm and disinterested understanding.
“I wish we’d gotten to Jenner before someone else did,” Valerie said. She left other things unsaid. That they still didn’t know why Jenner killed Adam. That Sophia remained a mystery. That there was no explanation for Adam’s phone calls to his killer. That the unanswered questions still vastly outnumbered the answered ones. That as far as Valerie was concerned the murder of Adam Grant was just one bloody corner of a much bigger—and bloodier—picture.
“It was my fault,” Elspeth said.
Both women started. Rachel spun around. They hadn’t heard the girl approach. She stood there still holding the twenty-dollar bill. Still, apparently, seeing the other dimension.
“Elspeth, for God’s “sake,” Rachel said. “I told you to wait.” She put her arm around her daughter, shook her slightly. “Jesus Christ.” Rachel turned to Valerie. “I need to get her home,” she said. “This is— We can’t. It’s enough. It’s enough.”
Without another word she turned and hurried Elspeth away.
Valerie watched them go, Rachel clutching Elspeth as if afraid the girl might bolt.
It’s my fault.
You don’t look done, Sadie had said earlier that day. At the time, with the Lucifer killing fresh to the equation, Valerie had admitted to herself a wretched burgeoning interest in the serial case it reopened.
But she’d been wrong.
Never mind the serial case.
She wasn’t done with this one yet.