Jonathan Kellerman - Capital Crimes

Barnes felt someone looking over his shoulder. Max Flint, the CSU computer guy. “You got into her e-mail. I’m impressed.”

“I had a cheat sheet.” Barnes gave Flint the list of passwords.

“Should I be looking for anything specific?”

Barnes checked his notes. “Dig up whatever you can find regarding the victim and Representatives Alisa Lawrence, Mark Decody, Artis Handel and Eileen Ferunzio…” He spelled Eileen’s last name. “She was doing political battle with all of them and I heard some of it was intense. Plus, there’s a guy, Harry Modell, executive director of Families Under God. See if he wrote anything threatening to her. Finally, give me anything that might’ve been sent by the White Tower Radicals. Looks like they were behind the egging and possibly a threatening note.”

“Lots of enemies,” Flint said.

“She was a politician.”

When the woman stepped outside of the silver Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham, both Barnes and Amanda took note of how dignified she looked. Head held high, shoulders back, thin as paper in a black suit, white silk blouse, seamed stockings and orthopedic pumps straining to be fashionable. Atop her gray coif was a black pillbox hat fronted by a small veil. A uniformed chauffeur held her arm and propelled her forward. Taking her other arm was a rawboned, stoop-shouldered man of medium height and weight. His tightly waved hair was equal parts sand and salt but his handlebar mustache was completely white.

The Donnie Newell that Barnes remembered was a skinny blond kid, skateboarding up and down the basketball courts, getting in everyone’s way. Neighborhood boys used to call him “Surfer Joe,” a ludicrous moniker because Sacramento was hot and dry and hours from the ocean. In a snapshot of time, Donnie had turned middle-aged.

So what did that say about Barnes?

He glanced at Amanda. The woman was married to a gazillionaire and was pushing forty but she was beautiful, bright, funny and could’ve passed for a grad student. If you scratched the designer duds.

Born under a lucky star. He harbored a pang of envy then his eyes went back to Lucille Grayson’s withdrawn face, staring out at nothing with vacant eyes.

Both kids gone. Hell on earth, what a jerk he was for being petty.

On the other side of the crime-scene tape, the captain was still answering press questions. Good; it kept the focus away from Lucille.

Amanda saw him studying the old woman. “As you remember her?”

“She looks older but not that much older. I think women of that generation dressed dowdier- or maybe I should say age appropriate. Man, I’d like to have a nickel for every fifty-plus woman I see walking around in a miniskirt.” Barnes raised his eyebrows. “Not that I’m complaining.”

Amanda tolerated the borderline-letch dialogue. Everyone had to deal with sorrow in their own way.

The two detectives began walking toward Lucille, but before they could formally introduce themselves, Ruben Morantz emerged from the crowd and intercepted, offering the frail woman his hand and a round of sympathy.

Maybe some of it was heartfelt, Barnes allowed. The mayor of Berkeley had known Davida Grayson for years and had worked with her on various committees. Though they had had their conflicts, they had also shared victories. Morantz was slight and mild-looking with a narrow torso and sloping shoulders. Innocuous on first impression, but the restless brown eyes, dazzling white smile, and perpetual tan were pure politician.

Hizzoner wore a long black coat over a white shirt, gold tie and tan slacks. Pointy toes of lizard-skin cowboy boots poked under the break of his pants. While he and Lucille chatted, Barnes managed to grab Donnie Newell’s attention. Donnie excused himself and walked over.

“Lookin’ good, Willie. I think the climate agrees with you.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself.”

“A little thicker in the gut. A little grayer in the head.”

“That’s how it goes.” Barnes made introductions and then looked back at the old woman. “Poor Lucille. I don’t know how she’s standing on two feet.”

“She’s tough but how much can even a tough woman take, losing two children?”

The mayor led Lucille away from the crowd, and back to the limo, which the two of them entered.

Amanda regarded Newell. “How well do you know Mrs. Grayson?”

“Davida used to have me look in on her once in a while.” Newell smiled at Amanda. “Guess I should bring you up to speed. Davida and I were an item in high school. She came out her senior year, but I suspected something wasn’t right long before. She liked to…well, experiment is the best way I can say it. I didn’t care. I had more fun with that girl. She was a pistol, she and her best friend, Jane Meyerhoff- can’t tell you her latest married name. Don’t reckon if I ever knew it, she’s had so many. I heard the last one ended really messy.” Newell turned to Barnes. “Janey lives here now, doesn’t she?”

Barnes nodded. He knew all about Janey because he’d picked her up at a bar and they’d dated a few times. Janey wasn’t so much a pistol as a machine gun. “Bring the file, Donnie?”

Newell held up a manila envelope. “Been looking into the Nutterly brothers. Far as I can tell, these two boys are a step below Neanderthal, but that doesn’t mean they’re not dangerous. Stupid and mean is a dangerous combination, right? Still, I don’t think they’d act without receiving orders from someone else.”

“And who might the order-giver be?” Barnes asked.

“The head of the White Tower Radicals is a guy named Marshall Bledsoe who lives in Idaho.”

“I know Bledsoe,” Barnes said. “When I was in Sacramento he was rumored to be the main architect of the synagogue bombings. That’s twenty years ago. He was a madman then, I don’t see him getting sane magically. But from bombs to eggs?”

“Unless that was a ruse,” Newell said.

Barnes ran with the idea. “Davida’s thinking that whoever’s after her is gunning for her in the capital. Then they get her in the safety of her own office.”

“Along those lines, the threatening letter was sent to her in Sacramento.”

“What threatening letter?” Amanda asked and Barnes realized he’d forgotten to tell her.

Newell opened up the envelope and showed them a copy. Magazine letters of all shapes and colors cut and pasted to form an ominous message.

IMMORALITY LEADS TO DEATH!

It seemed like a silly prank, the kind of thing Amanda might have laughed off as some nutcase gone awry with a scissors and stack of People magazines. “Any idea of the authorship?”

“No prints or fibers or saliva. It was dropped off in a taped envelope with no return address. No stamp or cancellation marks, either. Someone dropped it in her mail slot in Sacramento. That narrows it down to about a million people. I wanted to pursue it, but Davida nixed questioning her colleagues. She was trying to woo a couple of detractors, hoping to sway them to see the light and didn’t want the police turning them hostile. So we dropped it.” Newell grimaced. “In light of what happened, big mistake.”

Barnes asked, “Were you thinking the White Tower was behind it?”

“At that point I didn’t because they hadn’t bothered her yet.”

“Bledsoe’s still in Idaho?”

Newell nodded. “It would be nice if he stepped over the border. He’s got some outstanding traffic warrants here in California.”

Something was tickling Barnes’s brain as he watched as Hizzoner and Lucille Grayson emerge from the back of the limo. The old woman remained erect and dry-eyed. Soon the shock would lift and grief would engulf her. He needed to talk to her while she could still talk.