Chasing Darkness (11 page)

She
knocked on the door and he waved her in without looking up. “What’s up?” she
asked, taking a seat in a chair in front of his desk.

Without
answering, he got up and closed the door. The gesture made Sam’s stomach
tighten. She’d never seen Corona do that before. If something was
supersensitive, they left the office to discuss it. Everything else was open
door.

He
was a tall, broad, Hispanic man with dark, graying hair and an almost white
mustache. When she’d met him, the mustache was salt and pepper. She preferred
the way it looked now. But the gentle, calm façade was a sharp contrast to the
fiery temper that lurked just under the surface. Corona was known for his
hearty laugh and his thunderous roar. She’d never been on the receiving end of
the latter.

“Is
something wrong?” she asked.

Corona
met her gaze. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

She
frowned. “Meaning?”

“Is
there something going on?”

Sam
stared at him, waiting for the punch line. It didn’t come. “No, I’m fine. Why?”

“You’ve
been acting strangely. The missing file that you swore someone had stolen from
your office. I see it turned up this morning.”

She
gritted her teeth. She was positive that file hadn’t been there yesterday.
Whoever had taken her file had added the picture of her as some sort of
warning. It seemed like the only answer, but how could she tell Corona that?
Who would buy that story?

“It’s
not normal for you, Sam. And if something’s going on, I want to know about it.”

She
shook her head. “It’s nothing. A few strange things have happened over the past
few days.”

“Like
what?”

She
met his gaze. Did the photograph count as an incident? Did the note? Were they
related? She hated to think it.

“What’s
happened?”

“A
picture in the missing file. A photograph of me with blood drawn on it.”

Corona
let out a low laugh that was more like a growl. “Some stupid prank to rattle
your nerves, no doubt.”

Sam
looked at him and frowned, surprised he would treat more vandalism so lightly.
Maybe it was nothing, but what if it was something?

“Looks
like it worked.”

“It
isn’t funny.”

Corona
frowned and nodded. “I agree. It’s not. But I’m pretty sure that it’s just one
of the guys testing your balls, Chase. You know how they are.” He looked at her
and added, “I think your best bet is to chalk it up to immaturity.”

Maybe
she was overreacting. Still, it felt like a threat to her. She straightened her
back and smoothed her skirt, itching for him to tell her to get lost.

“Okay.”

Sam
stood.

Corona
pointed to the seat. “Sit down. There’s more.”

Sam
sank into the seat. “Something else?”

He
nodded. “This one isn’t so easy.”

A
million possibilities ran through her mind—someone was dead, or someone sent
something disparaging about her to him.

He
slapped his hands against the surface of his desk and scowled. His brown eyes
narrowed, his mustache pinched against his nose. “I got a call from Jeremy
Tomasco.”

“Tomasco?
About me?”

Corona
lifted his shoulders in a huge shrug and then raised his hands. “That’s what I
said. I get calls from the district attorney about Williams all the time, but
you?” He pointed. “Chase, you’re my star. What the fuck is going on?” He
pounded the table for emphasis, and Sam felt herself jump.

“What
did he say?”

“Said
there’ve been complaints about you.”

Sam
felt her face go red. “What sort of complaints?”

He
raised a fist. “Shit that made me mad—missing records. I told him he had to be
wrong. You’re the most organized agent I’ve got. What the hell was he talking
about? The missing file, I know, but there was more—” Corona shook his head and
his gaze burned into hers. “He said you didn’t have a tape ready for him?”

Tomasco
was Josh Steiner’s boss. Josh had obviously complained about her not having the
tapes when they met. And that she’d been late to their meeting. She had already
taken care of getting Josh what he needed. “I—”

Corona
wiped his hand across the air and Sam silenced. “Is something going on?
Something I should know about? A medical problem or something? Are you taking
some new medication?”

She
shook her head. “No. I’m fine.”

“I
know Jeremy’s a pain in the ass. I’m sure he’s overreacting. When he called, I
was sure it had to do with Williams, but when he said
you
—” Corona
stared at her without continuing.

She
didn’t respond. There was nothing to say. She had no excuse, no good reason.
And the truth sounded the most far-fetched. Someone had stolen a file and then
returned it and left her a strange note? This wasn’t the fifth grade, and
Corona wasn’t the school principal, there to hold her hand and make sure no one
stole her milk money. Sam would handle this on her own.

Corona
stood and leaned across the desk, staring down at her. “Relationships aren’t
your strength, Chase. I like you, but I’ll be the first to admit it—you scare
some people, maybe most people. But lately, something’s different. You seem
less in control. Not the agent I depend on. If there’s something going on, I suggest
you find some way to take care of it or someone to talk to.”

He
didn’t offer his own ears and she was thankful. She wasn’t the type to spill
her guts, and he knew it. She couldn’t believe this mess had gone this far, but
it stopped here.

Sitting
back down, he asked, “Does it have anything to do with the Walters case?”

Sam
shook her head. “No,” she said, her voice cracking. She coughed and repeated.
“No.”

“The
D.A. wants a quick resolution to it. The idea that we executed an innocent man
is not sitting well with the D.A.’s office.”

“I
know. We made an arrest yesterday, but I don’t think he’s our man.” She’d read
the report this morning that said the print on Sandi Walters did not belong to
James Lugino. Now they had to figure out who the hell it did belong to.

“Then
find him. And keep me updated on what you’ve got. I want a daily report—leave
it on my voice mail. Now get out of here, you hear.” He gave her a half smile
that was supposed to be encouraging.

Sam
left Corona’s office feeling strangely out of sorts. She didn’t like his
reaction to the picture. He wasn’t one to take trespasses of the system
lightly, but the idea that he thought she was doing faulty work was more than
she was willing to accept. Whoever had taken her file and put the picture in it
had been determined to shake her up. And as Corona so diplomatically put it, it
appeared to be working.

Not
anymore.

Back
in her office, she picked up her phone and dialed the main number of the Contra
Costa Sheriff’s Department from memory. When the officer at the desk answered,
she asked for Jack Tunney, the clerk who had been researching the crime scene
team.

“Officer
Tunney’s out,” the woman at the desk responded.

Sam
frowned. “This is Special Agent Sam Chase. He was working a case with me.
Where’s he out?”

“Wife
had a baby last night. Three weeks early—a little boy. Jack junior. Kid was
big, too—over seven pounds,” the woman continued. “It’s good thing she didn’t
carry it to term. Would’ve been an eleven-pounder easy. Both my boys were over
ten and it’s no fun, I tell you.”

“Thank
you,” Sam said, although she wished she hadn’t gotten quite so much detail.
“Can you direct me to whoever is handling Officer Tunney’s caseload?”

“That’d
be Kirkwood. Hang on.”

“Kirkwood,”
Sam repeated to herself out loud, shaking her head.

When
Kirkwood answered, Sam explained why she was calling.

“I’ve
got that right here,” Kirkwood said. “Was going to call you, but Jack forgot to
leave your number.”

“That’s
fine. Tell me what you’ve got.”

“Haber
and Nakahara are still with the department here. No complaints about them.
Nakahara was working that night, but Haber was off.”

Sam
made notes.

“Of
course, Detective Sergeant Lewis is a captain now,” Kirkwood continued. “Wyatt
is with S.F.P.D. and Jack made a note that he put a call into their captain
about that night. I haven’t heard back. Monterra is up in Sacto at D.O.J.
headquarters. Is that where you are, too?”

“No,
I’m in San Francisco. Could you follow up on Wyatt today?”

“Sure
will.” Kirkwood paused, and she could hear the rustling of paper. “I also got
the list of crime scene folks you faxed yesterday. None of those names are
familiar, so I’m going to have to do some work on finding them.”

“What
about Cole, Bradley, and Sansome?” Sam asked.

“Bradley
works private security now—a company called Westley. Jack has written that he
works in the Bank of America building in San Francisco.” He paused. “Also, he
was in L.A. from Friday until Monday morning.”

“What
about the others?”

Kirkwood
was silent.

“Hello?”

“Yeah,
I don’t know about them. I’ll have to call Jack and ask.”

Sam
told him to call her later in the day with a status on the other people.
Frustrated, she sank her head into her hands, remembering how she used to love
solving cases. It was like a life-size jigsaw puzzle, and once you got it all
together the killer was right there in the center. It wasn’t always that way,
though. In fact, most of the time she was scrounging for the smallest piece to
try to fit in the puzzle, but at least she’d had the contacts back then to get
things done.

She
couldn’t have gone back to homicide. The middle-of-the-night calls were bad,
but mostly it was the death that had started to wear on her. In homicide, it
was all death. At least in her job now, once in a while there was life.
Although lately it seemed that was becoming less and less true.

As
she thought about the current case again, it seemed she didn’t even have enough
pieces to get started, and she itched to find another link.

The
fact that there was pressure from every direction on this one didn’t make it
any easier. Corona wanted answers, the D.A., the undersheriff—all of them
waiting for her to hand them the killer. Every one of them depending on her.

Her
thoughts shifted to Derek and Rob. She remembered when they were little boys
and she had understood them. Now she dreaded dealing with Rob’s outrageous
behavior and Derek’s isolation. And tonight she was having dinner with
Nick—just the two of them.

If
she still drank, Sam imagined she’d have a drink right now. As it was, the back
of her throat felt dry and scratchy, itching for the cold, dry taste of beer.
She hadn’t had a drink since the day the boys came to her. And she still missed
it every single day.

She
longed to push the feeling away, but it couldn’t be banished. Instead, she
leaned back and imagined the bitter taste of beer until it was almost painful
to swallow the emptiness in her throat.

Whitney
Allen smoothed her pink ruffled dress and then leaned down to straighten her
white socks. The dress had been almost brand-new when her mother bought it for
her. “For twenty dollars, this isn’t a school dress, you hear? It’s for church
and maybe a party, and that’s it.” But Whitney hardly ever went to parties
where she could wear the dress, and wearing it made her feel like a princess.
Whitney swore she’d be extra careful in it today. She was just going down the
street to see Molly. Molly’s mom had died, so Whitney wanted to look nice.

She
puckered her face like her mom did when she was putting on lipstick, and then
smiled into the mirror. “Perfect,” she whispered, just like her mother always
did.

Tiptoeing
to the door, she took a deep breath and then opened it a crack and peeked out
into the hall. Since her stepbrother left to visit his mother, the house had
been like the library at school. Every time she said anything, her mother or
stepfather said, “Shh.” She didn’t miss Randy. He was a twit. But it meant
there was no one to order around, and Whitney was bored.

Her
mother and stepfather were still in their room, and Whitney knew she needed to
be quiet. Her stepfather worked at night and slept all day, so Whitney could
never make noise in the house. Only Randy got to make noise. “He’s a boy,” her
mother would say. “Plus, Randy doesn’t know he’s making noise.” Randy was deaf.
Whitney thought if he couldn’t hear, he should be quieter, but Randy was the
loudest kid she knew.

Whitney
hurried down the hall and tore down the stairs, making as much noise as
possible before skittering out the front door. The street was quiet, but
Whitney knew there’d be someone around somewhere. Halfway down the block a car
thundered past her, music blaring. Whitney covered her ears and cringed. She
hated those loud cars. She reached down and pulled up the sock on her right
foot. It had managed to fall around her ankle again. She wiped at the scuffed
patent leather shoes that had belonged to someone else and wished that for once
she could have something brand-new. Someday she would. She was going to marry
someone very successful so she could have all brand-new dresses. Her mother
said it didn’t matter that their clothes were used. “It’s how you wear them
that matters,” her mother would say.

Molly
was sitting on her doorstep and without hesitating Whitney approached. “What
are you doing?”

Molly
squinted into the sun and shrugged. “Nothing.”

Whitney
twirled around. “Do you like my dress?”

Molly
nodded without really looking at it.

Whitney
smiled. Of course she liked it. It was beautiful. “May I sit down?” she asked,
curtsying.

She
shrugged again. “Sure.”

Whitney
frowned at the girl’s response. It wasn’t very polite. “Do you want me to
stay?”