That night, Cait left her Glock and Maglite on the nightstand in easy reach. Although comforted knowing the bedroom door was locked, she stared at the shadows slinking over the bedroom walls as if they were bearing down on her.
She’d had every intention of telling Detective Rook about the knife and what the initials, HD, on the blade could mean, but when he received the phone call, he’d left in a hurry and took the knife and halberd with him.
She slept fitfully. Her mind wandered into forbidden territory—forbidden because she refused to dwell on her shooting someone to defend a fellow police officer. She’d gone through three sessions of therapy at her department’s request. The therapist convinced her that she’d been doing her job, even if it meant someone had to die. Not long after the episode, she was promoted from a cop who patrolled the streets to a crime analyst, and the incident was thrust into the far reaches of her mind.
Cait woke in the morning with a head full of cotton from lack of sleep but immediately phoned Detective Shep Church. She’d met Shep ten years earlier in her rookie year as a cop in Columbus, Ohio. He’d been with the Columbus Police Department for a dozen years, starting as a young cadet. While her formal education was at Dennison University in Ohio, Shep’s came from the school of hard knocks. She couldn’t have had a better mentor. She rolled over, found her cell next to her gun, and called him.
“Good morning, Cait,” Shep answered.
She sat up on the side of the bed and then got to her feet. “Do you have time to talk?” She crossed the bedroom and stood in her pajamas looking out the bay window at the sun-streaked vineyard below.
“For you, yes.” Shep worked in the investigative subdivision and conducted in-depth investigations of crimes that, due to their nature or complexity, could not be investigated by uniformed officers.
She turned away from the window and sat on the edge of her wicker chaise. “Remember that bank robbery two years ago, the one that went terribly wrong?”
“Of course. You were a mess for a few days after shooting the bastard.”
Restless, Cait rose and stood in the shaft of sunlight. “Hank Dillon.”
“That’s right. He’s dead, Cait. How does he concern you now?”
“He is dead, isn’t he?”
“Yes. What’s going on?”
“The security alarm went off during the night a couple of times. A technician from ADT came to check on it but found nothing wrong with the system. But he did find scuff marks and a gouge on the windowsills.”
Cait heard him draw in a deep breath before asking, “Someone tried to break in? Any evidence left other than the damage to the windowsills?”
Protecting evidence was always Shep’s priority at any crime scene. Heaven help anyone who destroyed it. “A halberd and a knife.”
“A halberd? Where would someone get a medieval weapon?”
“I don’t know, unless it was stored in one of the theaters. When the alarm went off, the guy must have dropped it and ran.”
“What about the knife?”
“It’s military. The initials HD are engraved on the blade.” She waited for his reaction.
After a moment, he said, “I know what you’re thinking, Cait. Hank Dillon is dead. There have to be a zillion people with those initials.”
“I know, but would you mind pulling his file?”
“Cait—”
“It’s a military knife! The blade is serrated and folds into the handle, exactly like the one found on Dillon after the bank robbery.”
“Calm down. Even if it is the same knife, how would Dillon have gotten access to a military knife, and how did it find its way to California?”
“I have no idea. Hank was adopted. Maybe his adoptive brother brought it back from some war zone he was working in and gave it to him as a souvenir.”
“I’ll pull his file and have someone check the property room for the knife. But, Cait, you went to Dillon’s funeral.”
“Yes. I stood outside in the rain. Let me know what you find out.”
Cait was in and out of the shower in three minutes and then called Detective Rook. As she sat at the desk towel-drying her wet, black hair, memories of the bank robbery forced their way to the front of her mind. If someone was looking to avenge her shooting Hank Dillon, why wait two years? She hoped Rook had an answer because she sure didn’t. “Okay if I come by?” she asked when he answered. “I won’t take much of your time.”
“Sure. Sorry I had to run off like I did yesterday. I was going to call you later.”
“I’ll see you soon.”
“Cait, if it’s about the knife or the halberd, I don’t know anything yet. It’s too early.”
“I didn’t expect you to.” She hung up and dropped her phone into her bargain-priced Vera Wang handbag, slipped into her sandals, grabbed her keys and went downstairs.
Marcus was in the office leaning over the keyboard and staring at the screen. He looked up when Cait walked in. “Going somewhere?”
“Yes, to see Detective Rook. Ilia and Fumié should be here when I get back. She’s helping him with his new photo book, but maybe they won’t mind doing a walk-through with me at the theaters to make sure they’re clean and supplied with necessities before the actors get here Thursday to rehearse.”
Marcus leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Ilia’s a terrific photographer.” He sat up straight in his chair. “Do you think he’d include my horse in one of his photo shoots?”
Marcus kept his horse at the Bening Ranch in Livermore. Cait knew how much his horse meant to him. “Ask him. He’ll be spending a lot of time at the ranch researching his next book.”
His cheeks pinkened as he looked back at the screen, as if he were embarrassed to ask for a personal favor. “I’ll think about it.”
Cait left and went around to the garage where her new nocturne-blue metallic Saab sport sedan was parked. When she inherited the estate, she also inherited Tasha’s older Jaguar. Marcus loved the Jag and had meticulously maintained it for Tasha. Since it wasn’t Cait’s style, she gave it to him.
She opened the car door, slid into the buttery leather seat, turned the key, and inhaled the newness of the car. At five-eight, she loved the car’s extra headroom and how it accommodated her long legs. She backed out of the garage and drove down the steep driveway, careful not to brush the chardonnay and cabernet vines and the rose bushes.
The Livermore police station stood between the library and city hall, a short drive from the Bening Estate. Detective Rook was waiting for her in the lobby when she walked in, and he led her to a private interview room.
Rook shut the door and motioned toward a chair at the table. “Have a seat.” He pulled out another chair and sat down across from her. “I still don’t know anything about the weapons.”
Cait pulled her chair up close to the table. “Are they still here?”
“Yes, in the property room.”
She drew a deep breath. “I’m positive that knife is the same one found on a bank robber in Columbus a couple of years ago. I’m waiting for a call back from a detective friend of mine. He’ll let me know if the knife is still in their property room.”
Rook raised his eyebrow as he leaned his arms on the table. “Did that robbery have anything to do with you?”
“You could say that. I shot the perpetrator.”
“This happened two years ago?”
“Yes, when I was a cop.”
“What makes you think it’s the same knife?”
She drummed her short nails on the table, anxious to get this over with. “Because of the initials on the blade, HD. Hank Dillon.”
Rook reached inside his jacket and removed a small pad and pen. “Hank Dillon was the bank robber?”
“Yes. He was outside the bank holding a gun to the neck of an officer. I was close enough to see his finger move on the trigger. I made a split-second call and shot to kill. The knife was found in his pocket.”
Rook frowned. “This was the first time you killed someone?”
She nodded. “First and last. I became a crime analyst soon after the incident.”
“Did the shooting have anything to do with your changing jobs?”
She thought about the question and how best to answer it. “No. My transfer was already in the works. I was married at the time. My husband didn’t like me working the streets.”
“I see.”
I doubt it. It was selfishness on Roger’s part. She inched closer to Rook in her seat. “What are the chances of that knife turning up here in Livermore? If the knife isn’t in their property room, then I’m in real trouble.”
Rook frowned as he wrote on his pad. “If this guy is dead, who else could be after you?”
She thought for a moment before answering. She’d learned the hard way that it was best to cast a wide net in order not to overlook any potential suspects. “I don’t know. A single parent raised him. When he was twelve, he was adopted—the family was white, he was black. He had a record and had been in and out of trouble a lot. Hank’s mother considered him a bad influence on his younger brother. Dillon was twenty-four at the time of the robbery.”
They were silent while Rook wrote. He looked up. “What do you know about the family who adopted him?”
“Very little. We were told his adoptive brother was a journalist working in Afghanistan, but returned to the States to attend Dillon’s funeral.” She hesitated. “I heard the adoptive brother accused me of discrimination—killing Dillon because he was black—and he intended to look into the matter the next time he was in the States.”
“Have you heard from him or anyone else in the family?”
“No. Unless one of them tried to break into my house.”
“Sloppy work, leaving two pieces of evidence behind. You said there’s a younger brother? What’s his name? How old would he be now?”
Cait thought back, trying to remember what she’d known about him. “I don’t know his name, but I think he was eight and Hank twelve at the time of the adoption. I asked Shep to pull Dillon’s file. When he calls, I’ll ask him for the brother’s name and to confirm their ages.”
“You think it could be the younger brother?”
“Who else could it be?”
“Hard to say. I’ll check with your neighbors, see if anyone’s had a break-in. I may want to talk with your detective friend sometime.”
Cait reached in her handbag for her cell phone, pulled up Shep’s number, and recited it to Rook as he wrote it down. “He’d be happy to talk with you.”
Rook pushed his chair back and stood. “I don’t need to tell you to watch your back.”
Cait rose. “I may be out of my former line of work, but I’m not out of the habit of protecting myself.”
Rook smiled, and a slight blush touched his cheeks.
“I am concerned about this weekend. With two plays going on simultaneously, people will be all over the place, even in the house because that’s where the gift shop is. Actors’ Equity will be breathing down my neck if there’s trouble.”
Rook opened the door for her. “I’ll see to security. I know it won’t be easy, but take precautions and tell your friends to do the same.” He walked her to the front doors. When she was outside, he called to her. “Cait, you can’t avoid or forget some things in life, but you learn to move on.”
She understood. Rook was referring to her shooting the bank robber. She thought she had moved on—until now. She raised her hand in acknowledgment and walked to her car. She set her phone in the tray between the seats in case Shep called, then turned the ignition key and drove out of the parking lot.
Moving on is easier than forgetting.