I CALLED MIKE Richert. He answered on the third ring.
“Mr. Richert, Rick Cahill. Could the name of the cop you talked to about what you saw on East Beach have been Kessler?” I held my breath. Wasn’t easy when I was fighting not to hyperventilate.
“That sounds familiar.” A burst of energy in his voice. “I think that might be it!”
I hung up without explanation.
Jim Grimes’ house was still sealed off by yellow police tape when I pulled up. I needed Grimes now more than ever but he couldn’t help me. My gut, my instincts, the acid taste in my mouth all told me that Kessler and Siems killed Colleen and Krista and Grimes. But I’d been wrong, almost tragically, before. I needed someone who could get inside SBPD. Or someone who was already there.
Colleen and Krista deserved justice. Even if it wasn’t mine alone.
I walked up to the yellow crime scene tape stretched across Grimes’ front yard. One of the patrolmen who’d been first on the scene stood sentry. He was young, buzz cut showing below his hat. Watchful, arms crossed behind his back in a military parade rest posture. His name tag read Ochoa.
“I need to speak with Detective Mitchell,” I said.
“Detective Mitchell is investigating a crime scene and can’t be disturbed right now.”
“You know who I am. I discovered the body. Tell him it’s urgent.”
“Detective Mitchell is not to be disturbed while he’s investigating a crime scene.”
“Tell him I have information about the victim.” I did. Tangentially.
The patrolman glared at me, then shook his head. “Wait here.”
Officer Ochoa took a few steps away from me, turned his back, and spoke into his shoulder radio. I couldn’t hear what he said. He shook his head and walked back to me.
“Detective Mitchell is busy right now, but he would like you to wait for him.”
“How long?”
“He didn’t say.”
“I’ll be in my car.” The one with the unregistered, filed-off serial number, handgun in the trunk.
Ochoa nodded.
I sat in my car and waited and let my mind run. For too long and too far. My stomach turned in on itself. Not from the certainty a half hour ago that I was standing in a room with Colleen’s killers. From uncertainty. What if I was wrong again? Could I ever trust my instincts again?
Kessler and Siems. What possible reason could they have had to kill Colleen? They only met a couple times. My swearing-in ceremony and a big banquet dinner a couple months before she died. They’d probably said hello and shook hands twice.
I don’t think she ever even met Kessler. I barely knew him when we were on the force together. I was working the streets while he was driving Chief Siems around on them.
Ten minutes. No Mitchell.
I Googled Santa Barbara Police Chief Lou Siems. Not surprisingly there was a Wikipedia page for him. He’d been police chief for twenty years. In today’s celebrity-starved world, that would get you a page. I searched for anything that could give hint to his capacity for murder. Nothing.
All positive including the nickname Police Chief of the People.
His daughter Megan was mentioned and had a link to her own page. She was an actress known for her roles on a couple soap operas and made-for-TV movies. She was also a graduate of UCSB. I remembered her being an undergraduate when Colleen was studying for her master’s in education. Chief Siems had put up flyers around the headquarters about her starring role in some play at UCSB around the time Colleen died. The joke by the rank and file was that Kessler was jealous because Siems never put up a flyer about him.
A half hour later, Mitchell strode up to my car, glowering. I got out of the car to greet him. He didn’t smile.
“What’s this about, Cahill?” He put his hands on his hips. “You know I’m busy with a crime scene.”
“Right. Crime scene. You don’t think Grimes committed suicide?”
“Officer Ochoa told me that you told him you have information about Grimes.” Mitchell punctuated each word with a finger jab at the air between us. “Is that a lie?”
“No. The same people who killed Krista killed Grimes. And my wife.”
“Get the fuck away from my crime scene or I’ll have you arrested for interfering with a police investigation.” More air stabbing.
“Grimes called me the night before last and left a message that the last phone call Krista received was from a payphone just down the street from Paddy’s Pub.”
“What? I don’t remember a call from a payphone on Detective Landingham’s phone records.”
“It’s there. I have a copy of it.”
“I don’t have time for this, Cahill.” Mitchell yelled over his shoulder. “Officer Ochoa, please escort Mr. Cahill from my crime scene. If he refuses to comply, arrest him.”
Looky-loos milling behind the police tape looked over at me.
If Mitchell was serious and Officer Ochoa arrested me, the booking sergeant would discover my fake ID, and I’d be looking at a fine and a max of a year in jail under a misdemeanor and up to three years in jail for a felony conviction, plus suspension of my driver’s license for up to three years. I don’t know what would constitute a felony use of a fake ID, but using one to rent a car might put me on the path there. If Mitchell wondered why I’d chosen to use a fake ID to rent a car and drive to Santa Barbara, he might start digging deeper. Get a search warrant for the rental car and find the unlicensed gun with altered serial numbers.
Still, I had to get Mitchell to see what I saw. Or thought I saw. I’d already played the great avenger on my own and almost killed an innocent man because of it. I needed help now. From the police force least likely to give it to me. But if I didn’t risk jail now, how much longer would Colleen’s killers be allowed to walk free?
“I know I’ve given you plenty of reasons to hate me.” I caught Ochoa out of the corner of my eye hustling toward us across the street. “But I also know you care about the truth. Did you see Grimes Friday night?”
“Sir, please exit this area.” Officer Ochoa’s expression, not as polite as his words.
“Two more minutes of your time, Detective,” I said.
“Give us a minute, Officer,” Mitchell said to Ochoa.
Ochoa walked back across the street.
“I did.”
“Did he look like a man who was about to kill himself?”
“People kill themselves all the time for all sorts of reasons and ninety-nine percent of the time, their loved ones are surprised.”
“Did you talk to him?” I asked.
“No. Is that all you have, Cahill?”
“Did he talk to Chief Siems?”
“Time to go.”
“Did he? Was Captain Kessler there?”
“What are you getting at, Cahill?”
“Grimes said he had to check something after he discovered Krista’s last call came from the payphone on State Street. He probably asked Siems if he saw someone leave the bar around ten forty-five p.m. the night Krista died and return a few minutes later.”
“Why?” Mitchell looked skeptical but at least he was asking questions. “What’s the significance of that?”
“The call to Krista from the pay phone was at 10:49 p.m. The last call she ever made or received. Three hours later she’s run over on State Street a couple blocks from Paddy’s and three blocks from the pay phone.”
“So, you think whoever ran her over called from the pay phone and lured her down to State Street to do the deed?” Mitchell sniffed and shook his head. “On this flimsy evidence?”
“Yep. A cell call would be traced to the nearest tower in the area. Unfortunately, Grimes asked exactly the wrong person about the phone.”
“Wait a second.” Mitchell waved his hands in front of himself. “You think the chief killed Grimes? You are out of your fucking mind!”
“Chief Siems or Captain Kessler or both.”
“Officer Ochoa!” He nodded at me. Ochoa jogged back across the street.
“Find out if Kessler drove Siems to UCSB to watch his daughter in a play the night Colleen Cahill was murdered.” I opened my car door. “The Chief of Police is on call 24/7. The department has to know where he is at all times. There must be a log from that night. Find out where Siems and Kessler were that night. And check the last phone call Krista received on the Sunday night before she died. If I’m right, you’ll close three murder cases.”
I got into my car, rented with a fake ID, with the gun I’d committed armed robbery to obtain in the trunk, and drove away.