Desiree sits on the edge of the sofa, holding an ice pack to the back of her head. A female paramedic shines a penlight into her eyes, asking her to look up and down, left and right.
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Not counting your thumb?”
“How many?”
“Three.”
Senogles is watching from the balcony. “You should have checked the balcony door first,” he says, masterfully stating the obvious.
Desiree doesn’t answer. Her tongue is swollen. She must have bitten it when she was bludgeoned.
“Why didn’t you call it in straightaway?” asks Senogles.
“I wasn’t sure.”
He looks around her apartment, running his fingers along the titles in her bookshelf. Philip Roth. Annie Proulx. Toni Morrison. Alice Walker.
“It was probably some crack addict.”
“Crack addicts don’t normally pick the lock,” says Desiree, fighting another wave of nausea.
“And you said nothing was taken.”
“Except for the file.”
“Of photographs and statements that shouldn’t have been here.” Senogles is now studying her cookbooks. “You do realize that I’m in charge of this investigation? You take orders from me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Desiree knows the dressing-down is coming and that self-preservation requires that she remain silent and suck it up. At the same time she’s trying to understand why somebody would take the file. Who knew that she had copies of crime-scene photographs and statements? Her name was in the register at the records office. She visited Herman Willford. She asked Ryan Valdez about the dashboard cameras.
Senogles is still talking, but Desiree holds up her hand. “Can we take this up again later? Right now I need to throw up.”
Finally the paramedics and forensic technicians leave and Senogles tells Desiree not to come into the office in the morning.
“Am I suspended?”
“You’re on sick leave.”
“I feel fine.”
“Then you’re suspended from active duty until further notice. And don’t bother calling Warner. He approved my decision.”
After showering, she sits on the edge of the mattress, her thoughts creaking in the darkness. Padding barefoot through the apartment, she gets another ice pack from the fridge. Her cell phone shows two missed messages. She calls her voicemail and hears Jenkins in Washington:
“That vehicle you wanted me to trace—the 1985 Pontiac 6000. It was first sold in Ohio in 1985 and had three former owners. The last one was a guy called Frank Robredo in San Diego, California. He buys up used cars and turns them around. Says he sold the Pontiac to a guy who paid him nine hundred bucks in January 2004. He signed the pink slip and provided a bill of sale and filed the release of liability form within five days, but the transfer was never completed because the purchaser didn’t visit a DMV office to file the transfer application or pay the fees. He didn’t remember the guy’s name, but he does recall talking to a Dreyfus County deputy who told him the buyer had used a fake name. I contacted California DMV to see if they still have the original paperwork. I’ll let you know how it’s going.”
The message ends and another begins. Jenkins again:
“California DMV came back to me about the Pontiac 6000. The digital version of the paperwork is missing, but they’re searching for the hard copies. Here’s the really weird thing—somebody else has been asking for the same thing. It was six months ago. The request came from a prison librarian at Three Rivers FCI.”
Desiree looks at the time. It’s too late to call the prison. The message continues:
“I also chased up those names you gave me. Timothy Lewis died in a light plane crash seven years ago. I can’t find anything on Nick Fenway owning a bar in Florida but I’ll keep trying.”
The message ends. Desiree gazes out the window at the quiet street. Audie Palmer had access to the library computer, but why would he be interested in the Pontiac? This entire case is riddled with discordant notes like a child plinking the keys of a piano, making noise instead of music.
Sitting at her desk, Desiree unpacks her satchel and takes out her iPad. She runs through her old emails. One of them has an attachment—Palmer’s prison file, along with the names of people who visited him over the past decade.
She scans the list, which runs to barely half a page. Audie’s sister visited him a dozen times. There are eight other names. One of them is Frank Senogles, who must have interviewed Audie when he was in charge of the cold case. He visited the prison three times: twice in 2006 and, strangely, only a month ago. By then he had handed the file to Desiree. Why talk to Audie when it was no longer his cold case?
She looks at the other visitors on the list. One of them, Urban Covic, used a California driver’s license as identification. Desiree types his name into a search engine and comes up with a businessman from San Diego. Covic is quoted in several articles about a golf course development called Sweetwater Lake that drew protests from a local environmental group who claimed it would threaten a local wetland. The group’s headquarters was firebombed and there were allegations of illegal donations to city councillors.
Desiree logs into the FBI database, typing in her username and password. She carries a fob on her keychain, which generates a random number, providing an extra layer of security. Having gained access, she searches for Urban Covic and finds an immediate match. Covic has four aliases and according to intelligence reports, he once worked for the Panaro crime family in Las Vegas but broke with the family in the midnineties when Benny Panaro and his two sons were convicted of racketeering.
Since then Covic had made a fortune running nightclubs and skin joints in San Diego before branching out into construction, property development, and farming.
Why would Urban Covic be visiting Audie Palmer in prison?
The file contains a list of addresses and known associates for Covic, including telephone numbers. Desiree looks at her watch. It’s approaching midnight. Still 10 p.m. in California. She calls. A man answers, grunting rather than greeting.
“Is this Urban Covic?”
“Who wants to know?”
“I’m Special Agent Desiree Furness of the FBI.”
There is a heartbeat of silence.
“How did you get this number?”
“We have it on file.”
Another pause.
“What can I do for you, Special Agent?”
“Ten years ago you visited a federal prison in Texas. Do you remember?”
“No.”
“You went to see a prisoner by the name of Audie Palmer.”
“So?”
“How do you know Palmer?”
“He once worked for me.”
“In what capacity?”
“He was my gofer. If I wanted something he’d go fetch it for me.”
“How long did he work for you?”
“I can’t remember.”
Covic sounds bored with the conversation.
“So he wasn’t particularly valuable as an employee?”
“No.”
“But still you traveled halfway across the country to visit him in prison.”
Silence greets the comment. Covic sighs. “If you’re about to accuse me of something, Special Agent, I suggest you piss or get off the pot.”
“Audie Palmer was convicted of hijacking a truck and stealing seven million dollars.”
“Nothing to do with me.”
“So you visited Audie Palmer as a friend?”
“A friend!” Covic laughs.
“What’s so funny?”
“He stole from me.”
“What did he steal?”
“Something I cherished very dearly—along with eight thousand dollars.”
“Did you report the robbery?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I decided to handle it myself, but as it turned out, I didn’t have to bother.”
“Why not?”
“Audie Palmer fucked up all by himself.”
“So why did you visit him?”
“To gloat.”