One Murder More, page 17
But she couldn’t give up just because people refused to listen.
Maybe the information would lead to a motive and then to the real murderer. So Maren dropped what she expected to be a bombshell: that it was likely Tamara Barnes had a daughter who’d been left behind.
“There must be hundreds of red-haired, freckled little girls,” Lana said upon hearing Maren’s latest theory. “There’s no reason to believe this one is Tamara Barnes’s child.”
Maren was thankful Lana didn’t have Noel’s scientific training or she might have had to hear statistics on the worldwide incidence of redheads and something about mutated genes all over again. She spoke evenly, trying not to let her frustration show. “It’s not only that she looks like Tamara. But she does. Exactly like her.”
“I understand there’s a resemblance,” Lana said.
“This child was adopted at birth.”
Maren had learned that much from Noel without having to disclose her suspicions about Tamara being Bethany’s birth mother.
“On the back of Tamara’s locket are inscribed the initials BC. This child’s name is Bethany Castro. I bet a test will show the lock of hair inside the locket belongs to Bethany, not to Tamara.” Maren paused. “When I met Bethany last night, she was wearing a zip-front sweater with a hand-embroidered kitten in a basket on the pocket. It’s the same one in a photo album with pictures of Bethany Castro since birth. It was in Sean’s possession and—”
“What? When did Sean give it to you?”
Maren felt cold. She took a deep breath. “It was with the necklace. He left it in my house.”
“You withheld evidence?” Lana’s voice was steely, no trace of southern belle anymore.
“No. I mean, yes, I kept it. I didn’t see any way it could be relevant to the crime. I thought the photos were of Tamara as a child, and I assumed Sean had it from when they were dating, that it had nothing to do with her death. I thought—”
“Yes, well whatever you thought, your actions were wrong. Thankfully, it’s only been a few days since you found the album, during which time you were attacked and your brother was seriously injured—there are reasons you would not have been thinking clearly. As long as we turn it over now, I don’t believe DA Sharpton will prosecute you for obstruction of justice.”
Not thinking clearly? Maren bristled. That wasn’t what had happened.
She started to object, but Lana wasn’t finished.
“In the future, you are not to assume or interpret anything that remotely relates to suspects or victims in this case. You are to share that information with me and only me, and you are to do so immediately, is that understood?”
Maren agreed. But she also asked that she be able to explain personally to Sean why the police had the necklace and the photo album, and in turn, that he be given a chance to answer the questions that this new evidence raised.
She was grateful when Lana Decateau said that would not be a problem.
They met that afternoon in the parking lot next to the jail. Lana wore a dark-gray fitted pantsuit with a turquoise silk shirt. The simplicity of her outfit did nothing to mute her glamour. Remembering her last visit to the facility, Maren wondered if Lana had selected her clothing to match the gray-on-gray color scheme inside. But they were shown to a different interview room this time, one with hideous, salmon-gone-bad-colored walls—gray would have been a relief.
Sean appeared thinner, more angular and muscular than when Maren last saw him. He had deep circles under his eyes made more pronounced by the shadow of his bangs, which lacking the styling gel he had at home fell heavily across his forehead. Maren reflected that ironically his new look—harder, disheveled, and wanton—might make him more attractive to many women than the clean-cut Sean of old.
Lana had been able to get Sean a mental health evaluation. The technician’s notes, shared with Lana as required by law, stated that although Sean showed signs of depression, it was more likely he had an antisocial personality disorder. Maren was certain that opinion was biased by the fact that Sean had been charged with a brutal homicide and imprisoned as a result.
“Sean, we’re here because Maren found the things you left in her home, the necklace and the photo book.” Lana’s normally soft southern tones were clear and assertive.
Sean registered no surprise. His eyes were on Lana, but they seemed vacant, disinterested. His cuffed wrists lay heavily in his lap.
“The prosecution has the option to seek the death penalty, as your possession of the necklace adds robbery to the charges and murder for profit as a special circumstance. I need you to help me understand what happened.”
Still Sean didn’t react. He looked past the two women and stared at the wall.
Maren opened the topic gently. “I know Tamara has a daughter.”
Sean leapt up so suddenly from his chair that it fell backward and hit the floor with a thud. He spun in a circle, then crashed both cuffed fists down on the metal table. “You’re crazy!” he bellowed.
A guard was in the room within seconds, followed by another. It was difficult for the two to restrain Sean as he thrashed in all directions, but they finally managed by getting on either side, each grabbing one arm tightly so he was pinned between them. A third guard ushered Maren and Lana out.
CHAPTER 25
Not what Maren had expected. Although she had to ask herself what was the range of reactions Sean might have had to hearing she knew Tamara had a child. Or hearing Tamara had a child, period. Maybe even that was news to Sean. Maybe it was Sean’s child. Or that other guy’s child, the one Tamara was said to have dated after Sean, who Sean had beat up.
Maren wondered whether it would have helped if she had asked those questions of herself first, before blurting out to Sean what she knew.
Or what she thought she knew.
She decided her new mantra would be “I might be wrong, I might be wrong.” Like the Little Engine That Could from the childhood story saying “I think I can, I think I can.” Only she would say it backward—sort of. Maybe it would help her get to the truth if she could remain open to the possibility that some of her hunches might be dead ends.
Maren tried to think all this through as she rushed to drop off papers on the cell phone bill at Senator Rickman’s capitol office, arriving just as Hannah Smart, Rickman’s receptionist, was leaving. It occurred then to Maren that maybe Hannah could fill in some gaps about Sean’s history, since the young woman worked with Sean and, more than that, seemed about as keyed into capitol gossip as anyone around. So Maren asked if Hannah wanted to sit down over a drink at the end of a long day and get to know each other a bit better.
Hannah responded that she had a lot of work that evening—no time to go out—but agreed to go downstairs on-site to the cafeteria for something quick.
“Does he seem okay? I mean, it has to be so hard.” Hannah’s high-pitched voice carried in the senate basement cafeteria—the large, hollow space had brick walls and a high, beamed ceiling. “How does he look?”
The salad bar, grill, and refrigerated drink case in the cafeteria were modern—stainless steel and glass. But the seating area was populated by what looked like multiple cast-off dining-room sets. Mismatched wooden chairs with curved backs huddled around scratched, worn tables. If there was fraud and abuse in California’s government, the misappropriated funds weren’t being spent on a luxurious furniture budget.
The two women had their pick of seats. It was a little after six and the cafeteria was nearly empty. Most staff were already at one of the many capitol happy hours, decompressing.
They chose a table near the wall. Hannah sipped a bottled water, then began rearranging the items on her fruit plate by color. “Sean couldn’t have done it.” Red grapes and strawberries on one side, cantaloupe and orange slices on the other. “You don’t think so, do you?”
Maren generally felt young people didn’t get the respect they deserved. In another era teens and twenty-somethings full of energy and drive would be the rulers, while she and her peers would be dead at forty from illness or childbirth. But Hannah, with soft features that were almost a blur, gave off nothing to suggest she might be capable of building a civilization or sustaining one.
“Of course not,” Maren said. “I’m certain Sean will be exonerated.” She took a bite of her chocolate-chip muffin, then kept her tone casual. “I heard there was a fight a few years ago, a young man Tamara dated after Sean?”
“Oh, it was awful!” Hannah said, although she appeared to relish the memory. “Sean and Tamara had been talking at least six months.”
Maren had learned from Jenna that “talking” was a modern-day euphemism for “seeing one another.” Meaning the two people were romantically involved.
“It was sad when Tamara dropped Sean. They were so cute together,” Hannah said, tightening the band on her thin ponytail. “There was this other guy. He worked in the capitol gardens, on the landscaping crew. He definitely had that bad-boy thing going. Shaggy dark hair, buff, always in a blue work shirt rolled up to show tattoos, jeans, heavy boots.” Hannah’s eyes got a little dreamy as she recalled the man’s description.
“Do you know his name?”
“Bobby. No, Billy. His last name was Italian. Caselli, I think.”
Billy Caselli. Maren repeated it to herself to look up later.
Hannah finished her water, but her fruit was untouched. She eyed Maren’s muffin.
“Would you like a bite?” Maren asked, breaking off a piece.
Hannah accepted the offering but didn’t eat it, placing it instead on her fruit plate. It didn’t work with either color scheme, so she set it in the middle. “Sean called in sick and word got around that he had punched that guy. Someone had seen Billy in the rose garden pruning, with a black eye. But my girlfriend Jill knew Sean’s roommate Sarah, and Sarah said Sean was the worse off of the two. He had bruised ribs, his arm was in a sling, and his face was swollen. He didn’t come back to the office for ten days.”
“How long were Billy and Tamara together?”
Hannah moved the muffin piece over with the grapes and strawberries, then back to the middle of the plate. She seemed to have only a designer’s visual and spatial relationship with her food. “That was the weird part.” Hannah’s small eyes widened. “First Billy disappeared. Then Tamara and Sean started talking again. Well, it seemed like it. She was up in our office a lot.”
“What do you mean disappeared?”
“Disappeared—you know, not there anymore.”
Maren nodded, although she had been hoping for more detail, not the textbook definition of the word.
“About a month later, maybe less, Sean and Tamara both went into Senator Rickman’s office. They closed the door, and no one came in or out for over an hour.” She lifted the muffin piece—it almost made it to her mouth—then put it back down. “When Tamara came out, I could tell she’d been crying. Sean looked angry. I’d never seen him like that.”
Maren’s phone buzzed. Caller ID showed it was Alec Joben. Virtual bells rang in Maren’s head—so he’s not done with me—although she couldn’t tell whether her brain was trying to signal alarm or celebration. She hit Ignore and tucked it back in her satchel.
“My gosh, it’s late,” Hannah said, checking her own phone. “I’ve got to catch the bus.”
“When was the meeting with Sean and Tamara in the senator’s office?”
“What? In the spring. We had policy hearings. Maybe March?”
Maren wished she had her car so she could offer Hannah a ride and continue talking. “Did you ever find out what their conversation that day was about?”
They carried their dishes to the drop-off station, Hannah’s still full.
“A few weeks later Tamara left to do a six-month internship up in Flax, something at the church up there. Probably Sean was upset Tamara was moving. But it had to have been a great career opportunity for Tamara to leave her position with Governor Caries. It all happened so fast.”
DOS ARBOLES, AN UNIMPRESSIVE small town of strip malls and inexpensive housing fifteen miles north of Sacramento, was home to a newly built indoor shooting range. “Shoot the Lights Out!” was freshly painted in red script above the doors on the front of the large warehouse-style building.
When Alec had suggested that instead of a drink, they meet at the range so he could give her a few pointers on how to handle a gun, her unspoken response was that he’d made a one-way trip to crazy town. In fact, if anyone had asked her on New Year’s Eve what she absolutely was not going to do in the coming year, shooting a gun would have been high on that list.
Maren had never held a gun, had no interest in guns, and her gut told her she was safer without one. Beyond that, her employer, Ecobabe, had carried bills to restrict and regulate gun ownership in California, arguing they were a public health threat to children and teens based on both intentional and accidental injury and death statistics. Even before the federal government considered reinstating a national ban on assault weapons in the wake of several tragic, high-profile mass shootings, Ecobabe had joined other nonprofit advocates in persuading California to pass the strictest gun statutes in the country.
Maren didn’t want to admit to herself that a chance to be alone with Alec might outweigh all that. Her contact with him had been so limited, truly in the angst-without-benefits category, that she’d decided it was time to figure it out.
To put up or shut up. Or maybe to put out or shut up.
She would have to see how things developed, and possibly check with the ethics commission about this whole lobbyist-dating-legislator thing.
She also had to acknowledge that the attack at the Saniplaz facility had left her open to considering options for self-defense. Anyway, trying out a weapon at a recreational target range, she reasoned, was a far cry from owning a gun or keeping one in her home.
Two women in business suits emerged from a nearby Camry. Maren was glad she’d gone home and quickly changed into jeans and a t-shirt before making the drive. She heard the low, even hum of Alec’s blue Ranger before she saw the truck round the turn on the frontage road. After parking, he stepped down from the large cab easily, although Maren recalled from the day they pulled Liza Booth-Henry’s children out of the water that the distance from the raised truck seat to the ground was considerable, requiring her to jump.
The senator was dressed in his daily Sacramento attire—a dark suit, white shirt, and red tie. He retrieved a small khaki duffle from behind the front seat, clean but worn, like it might have seen combat. She wondered if that was where he kept his Glock and bowie knife. He set the bag down to take off his jacket and expertly loosen and pull off his tie, folding both neatly on the front seat of the truck before locking up.
“Glad to see you found it ok,” he said.
Maren had no natural sense of direction and considered GPS one of the great inventions of the modern era. “I used my phone.” She felt the familiar warmth that flushed her cheeks whenever she was near him.
“Ready?” Alec asked, smiling.
When she said nothing he turned toward the building, waiting for her to take the first step. She reminded herself that this didn’t have to be difficult. Maybe it could even be fun if she could get out of her own way.
The door opened into a bland entry space painted white and peppered with signs. A poster proclaiming “First-time Shooters Welcome” featured an image of a woman similar in age and appearance to Maren—evidently, she was one of the new range’s target demographics. The one next to that heralded the venue as “Family Friendly” with an image of a smiling couple and their teenage son and daughter, each holding a gun against a background of orange-and-gold foliage. There were also schedules of classes in gun safety and self-defense, each boasting a curriculum approved by the National Rifle Association.
Alec gestured toward the men’s room down a short hall to the left. “I’m going to change. Why don’t you have them start setting you up with a rental.”
Inside a second set of doors was a seating area with a green-and-brown plaid sofa, several large chairs, and a coffee table. It was similar to what might be found in a modest hotel lobby, except for the Gun Digest and Garden and Gun reading options, and the faint smell of gunpowder that persisted despite a heavy-duty ventilation system, made evident by a loud whirring sound and measurable indoor breeze. Maren knew from her environmental studies that breathing lead residue over time could be deadly, so she assumed the cooling system was a legal requirement. Only one of many rules with which a place like this would need to comply before opening.
Counters and racks crowded with guns, ammunition, and shooting paraphernalia lined both side walls. But Maren’s attention was locked straight ahead, where behind a large, bulletproof glass pane were twelve shooting bays separated by numbered metal partitions. Each bay appeared able to hold two or at most three shooters. She could see individual targets set at varying distances between fifteen to thirty feet from where the shooter would stand. Only a few were occupied. Either the range was too new to have built up much clientele, or more likely 4:00 p.m. on a weekday wasn’t their rush hour.
A fit young man wearing a red polo shirt with Shoot the Lights Out embroidered above the pocket came out from behind the counter. He had neatly combed, short brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses, and looked like he would be more at home working in a library than a gun store. An older man wearing the same style shirt with the name Hank embroidered over his pocket stood near the register jotting numbers on a notepad. There was a strong resemblance between the two and Maren wondered if it was a family business.
“I’m Kirk,” the younger employee said in a professional manner. “Welcome to Shoot the Lights Out. What can I help you with?”
Maren remembered her assignment, even though she felt strange saying it. “I’d like to rent a handgun.”
Kirk frowned, not the reaction she expected. “I’m sorry.” He gestured to one of the many signs on the wall. The range seemed to communicate primarily in writing, undoubtedly another legal requirement.
