Cody McFadyen - The Face of Death

"Unfortunately, I'm still bound by attorney-client privilege."

"What else can you tell us without violating that?" Alan asks.

"The trust is a fund, designed to keep up the family home, and to provide Sarah Langstrom with means. It's to be released to her control on her eighteenth birthday."

"How much?" I ask.

"I can't give you an exact amount. I can say that it will let her live comfortably for many years."

"Do you report to your client?"

"Actually, no. I assume there's some form of oversight in place--a way for the client to keep an eye on me, to make sure I'm not emptying out the cookie jar. But I haven't had contact with the client since the formation of the trust."

"Isn't that unusual?" Alan asks.

Gibbs nods. "Very."

"I noticed that the exterior of the home is well kept up. Why not inside? It's a dust farm," I say.

"One of the conditions of the trust. No one was to enter the home without Sarah's permission."

"Strange."

He shrugs. "I've dealt with stranger." He stops speaking for a moment. A pained, almost delicate look comes across his face. "Agent Barrett, I want you to know, I'd never have knowingly participated in anything that would bring harm to a child. Never. I lost a sister when I was younger. My little sister. The kind big brothers are supposed to protect. You understand?" He looks miserable. "Children are sacred."

I recognize the guilt I see rising in his eyes. It's the kind of guilt that comes with feeling responsible for something you couldn't have done anything about anyway. The kind that appears when fate is at fault but you're the one left holding the bag.

"I understand, Mr. Gibbs."

We'd spent an hour fencing with the lawyer, trying to extract more information from him without any luck. We're back in the car, and I'm trying to decide on my next move.

"I got the idea that he wanted to tell us more," Alan says.

"Me too. I agree with your original assessment. I don't think he's trying to be a jerk. His hands are tied."

"Subpoena time," Alan says.

"Yes. Let's head back to the office and get in-house counsel on it."

My phone rings.

"An update on other fronts," Callie says.

"Go ahead."

"As it turns out, the files on the Vargas case--both ours and the ones at the LAPD--are missing."

My heart sinks.

"Oh, come on. Are you kidding?"

"I wish I was. The best guess is lost over time, although I suppose we could theorize that they'd been stolen, all things considered."

"Whichever one it was, we don't have the files." I rub my forehead.

"Fine. I know you're working on processing the Langstrom home--

but do me a favor. Call AD Jones and see if he can give you a list of names of the agents and officers who worked the case."

"Will do."

I hang up.

"Bad news?" Alan asks.

"You could say that." I relate the substance of the call to him.

"Which do you think? Lost or stolen?"

"My vote is on stolen. He's been planning for years, and he's been manipulating things to allow discovery at his pace. That makes this too much of a coincidence."

"Probably right. Where to now?"

I'm prepared to answer when my phone rings again.

"Barrett," I answer.

"Hey, Smoky. It's Barry. Are you still in Moorpark?"

"We're just leaving."

"That's good. I did some checking into the detectives originally assigned to the Langstrom case. Get this: One's dead. He ate his gun five years ago. Not particularly probative, to be honest--the guy had been on the ragged edge for years, apparently--but what is interesting is that his partner retired two years later. Just quit, four years short of his thirty."

"That is interesting."

"Yeah. It gets better. I got ahold of this guy. His name's Nicholson. Dave Nicholson. I told him what was up and get this: He wants to see you. Now."

Excitement thrills through me. "Where does he live?" I ask.

"That's why I asked if you were still in Moorpark. He's close. He retired to Simi Valley, just up the road."

38

DAVID NICHOLSON, BARRY HAD FILLED ME IN, HAD BEEN A GOODcop. He came from a family of cops, starting on the East Coast in New York with his grandfather, migrating westward in the sixties with his father. His dad had been killed in the line of duty when David was twelve.

Nicholson had made detective in record time, apparently deserved. He was known to have a sharp mind and a meticulous nature. He was given to flashes of insight and was a feared interrogator. He sounds like Alan's long-lost white brother.

None of which reconciles with the loose ends left in the Langstrom case. This fact, and the fact that he wants to see me-- now --

fills me with hope.

"This is the place," Alan says as we pull up to the curb. The home is on the outer edges of Simi Valley, on the LA side, where many of the older homes lie. Not a house on the block has more than one story. They're all ranch-home layouts, built in the unimaginative style of so many homes of the sixties. The yard is well kept up, with a plain concrete path leading to the front door. I see a curtain in a window to the right of the door move aside and catch a glimpse of a face, peering out.

"He knows we're here," I say to Alan.

We get out and walk toward the house. Before we get there, the door opens and a man comes out, standing on the concrete block that forms the porch. He's barefoot, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He's a tall, big man, about six foot three. He has broad shoulders and a big chest. His hair is dark and thick, he has a square-jawed, handsome face, and he seems younger than his fifty-five years. His eyes, however, lack vitality. They are dark and empty, full of echoes and open spaces.

"Mr. Nicholson?" I ask.

"That's me. Can I see some ID?"

Alan and I pull out our respective badges. He inspects them and inspects us in turn. His gaze lingers on my scars, but not overlong.

"Come in," he says.

The interior of the home is a throwback to the late sixties/early seventies. There's wood-paneling on the walls, a flagstone fireplace. The one nod to the present is the dark hardwood flooring that runs through the home.

We follow him into the living room. He indicates a plush-looking blue couch and we sit.

"Get you anything?" he asks.

"No, sir."

He turns away from us and stares out the sliding glass doors that lead into his backyard. It's a small yard, longer than it is wide, more dirt than grass. A wooden fence encloses it. I don't see any trees at all. Moments pass. Nicholson continues to stare, frozen in place.

"Sir?"

He starts.

"Sorry." He comes over and seats himself in an armchair that's been placed kitty-corner to the couch. The chair is an ugly green, but it looks comfortable and weathered and well-used. Faithful furniture, quietly loved. It faces a twenty-inch television. A foldable dinner-tray stands next to it.

I can imagine Dave Nicholson sitting here at night, watching television, a microwave meal placed on the dinner-tray in front of him. Normal enough, but for some reason, in this place, it's a sad picture. An undercurrent of waiting and depression layers everything. It's as though the furniture should all be draped with sheets, and the house should have a wind blowing through it.

"So listen," he says, before I can ask him any questions. "I'm going to tell you something I'm supposed to tell you, and then I'm going to tell you something I'm not supposed to tell you. Then I'm going to do what I was supposed to do."

"Sir--"

He waves me off. "Here's what I'm supposed to tell you: 'It's the man behind the symbol, not the symbol, that's important.' Got that?"

His voice is monotonous and matches the hollowness in his eyes.

"Yes, but--"

"Here's the next thing. I threw things off on the Langstrom investigation, steered the conclusions. He told me that the evidence would point to a murder-suicide, as long as I didn't look too hard. All I had to do was accept what was on the surface. So I did." He sighs. He seems ashamed. "He needed the Langstrom girl--Sarah--to be left alone. Said he had plans for her. I shouldn't have done it, I know that, but you have to understand--I did it because he has my daughter."