BY THE FOLLOWING afternoon, the Santa Ana winds had faded into a warm, summer calm. But San Diego was still reeling from the shock of Fabian Kendall’s assassination in front of thousands of people. Clinging to life, his aides had carried him up Broadway to a hotel opposite the courthouse. Horribly burnt, the man expired less than an hour later, at around the same time Cradoc Bradshaw and company were docking at Ballast Point.
The marshal sat in Joe Coyne’s office, slumped in a wooden chair, his face showing the strain of the previous evening. He’d been home for a couple of hours, caught a few winks, and changed into clean clothes before heading back to the jailhouse. But the physical and mental fatigue he felt was going to take much longer to sort out.
Wyatt sat next to him, equally dazed by the events of the past twenty-four hours. Both of them waited in silence as Coyne read through the marshal’s detailed account of events at the Santa Fe Depot, Ballast Point, and the old Point Loma lighthouse. Cradoc had been at his desk since the crack of dawn, scribbling everything down, every detail he could remember about the killing and its aftermath, knowing the more time that passed, the vaguer his recollections would be. The sheriff scratched at his bald spot and grunted whenever he came to an interesting passage.
Coyne finally looked up. “You found the horse?”
“Yep. Wondering down Broadway this morning,” the marshal answered.
“And it’s definitely the one that Nemesis rode away on?”
“Blood all over the animal and saddle. Gotta assume it’s the same steed. Not like we get blood-covered horses trotting into town every day.”
“But no body yet—dead or alive?”
Cradoc let out a deep sigh. “Not that any of my men can locate. We’ve been searching Point Loma and Dutch Flats since daybreak and no sign of anyone, least of all our phantom killer.”
“I think he got clean away,” Wyatt interjected. “Probably had a second, maybe even a third horse, stashed at a remote location. He changed mounts and lickety-split he’s gone.”
“Is that even possible?” asked Coyne.
Cradoc shrugged. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last six months, it’s that anything is possible in this town, in this day and age.”
The sheriff hocked a wad of chew into the spittoon beside his desk, dug into his tobacco pouch for another clump. He tucked it carefully between his upper molars and inside cheek before resuming his inquiry. “What about Nick?”
“What about him?” Cradoc asked.
“Isn’t there something we can charge him with … obstruction of justice … aiding and abetting a crime?”
“I looked into that months ago,” the marshal explained. “Had a long talk with the district attorney. There’s not a lot of precedent, at least not when it comes to charging or convicting journalists who fraternize with criminals. It really is a gray area of the law. And I suppose an argument could be made that Nick was merely exercising his First Amendment rights.”
“We wouldn’t be going after him for what he’s written in the paper,” Coyne pointed out. “That’s not the issue. It’s his failure to inform us beforehand that he was going to meet the killer at a specific time and place.”
“Even so, I can see them trying to make that case. Especially Bennett, who I would imagine is quite well versed in this sort of thing. And to make those charges stick, we would need to gather far more evidence of Nick’s collusion with the killer than we currently have in hand.”
“How about accessory before the fact?” asked Wyatt.
“Once again, we need indisputable proof that Nick had prior knowledge of the attack on Kendall. Unless more evidence comes to light, it appears that Nemesis struck before his rendezvous with Nick rather than afterward. So technically speaking, Nick did not have prior knowledge. The bottom line is that we would need something more substantial—and legally sound—to make a case.”
“There must be something!” barked Coyne. “Do we really care if the charges are trumped up or not? The objective isn’t putting Pinder behind bars, it’s forcing him to reveal the killer’s identity. He sure as shit must know by now. For God’s sake, he met the bastard. Spoke with him in person. How can he not know?”
“I’m not even sure he ever even saw him. Said he had to conduct the interview in the dark. And even if he did see him,” Cradoc declared, “he still might not know his name. And even then, Nick wouldn’t give up the killer’s name in a million years. Protecting his sources and all that journalistic First Amendment stuff. He tried to bring the man in, but if he couldn’t do it in print—”
“Besides,” Wyatt interrupted, “we gotta look at the larger picture.”
Coyne groaned and turned to Wyatt. “And what might that be, Mr. Earp?”
“That Nick Pinder is an even bigger hero today than he was twenty-four hours ago. Championed by the masses. Admired by the great unwashed. The man who finally brought down Nemesis. Doesn’t matter if we never find the body. It’s what the hoi polloi wanna believe.”
Coyne sneered at the very thought. “Do you agree with this hokum?” he asked the marshal.
Choosing his words carefully, Cradoc said, “As much as I think Nick deserves some sort of punishment for what he’s done, I don’t think you’d find a jury anywhere in California that would convict him of anything at this point in time.”
“So he goes Scot free?”
Cradoc took another deep breath. “As long as the killing is over—and Nemesis never reappears—I don’t see that we have any other choice.”