Bad Memory Page 25

  He understood why the call hadn’t thrown up any red flags for Hunt and Adams when they’d gone through the phone records more than two decades earlier. A cop phoning another cop. Why would it? But they didn’t know Charlie the way Pryce had known him. Didn’t know he’d never kept in touch with the man who had replaced him as sheriff, hadn’t spoken to him in years. Pryce also knew the cases he and Charlie had been working at the time, and none of them had any connection to Hundred Acres.

  So if the call hadn’t been social or work related, what was the reason for Holten reaching out to someone from his past?

  Eventually, after a lot of thinking, Pryce had decided the direct approach would be best. He would hit redial and ask why Holten had placed a call to the Hundred Acres Sheriff’s Department the night he was murdered.

  This time, the sheriff himself had picked up.

  Pryce had met Pat McDonagh at Holten’s funeral, just as he had Ed Crozier. Unlike with Crozier, Pryce hadn’t kept in touch with McDonagh. There was something about the guy he didn’t like, something he couldn’t put his finger on.

  Yesterday, when he’d spoken to McDonagh, Pryce had come right out and asked about Holten’s phone call to the sheriff’s department, like he’d planned. McDonagh had gone silent, as though thinking; then he’d said he hadn’t spoken to Holten in the days before his death. Claimed he hadn’t heard from his old boss in years, well before the shooting had happened. Maybe Charlie had wanted to shoot the breeze awhile with Sandy on the front desk? Or one of the other deputies who’d been on duty that night? But definitely not McDonagh, who said he would’ve remembered the conversation for sure.

  McDonagh had asked if Holten’s case had been reopened, and Pryce told him it had never closed. Then he had thanked the sheriff for his time and hung up.

  Now, Pryce stared at the telephone number, circled on the sheet of paper on the desk in front of him. Tried to figure out what was niggling at him. Then he realized what it was. Two things.

  One: The duration of the call made by Holten was two minutes and eight seconds. Not long enough for a proper stroll down memory lane with a former coworker. But long enough to arrange a meet at a bunch of deserted warehouses at Echo Park.

  Two: Why had McDonagh answered the phone, instead of the receptionist, when Pryce had phoned a second time? Maybe the front desk had been unattended when McDonagh had passed by, and he’d decided to pick up. Or maybe front desk calls rang through to the squad room if they weren’t answered by Sandy.

  Or maybe Holten hadn’t phoned the Hundred Acres Sheriff’s Department main number at all.

  Pryce shook the mouse to wake up his computer and opened a Google search page. He typed “Hundred Acres Sheriff’s Department” and hit “Enter.” On the right side of the screen appeared a listing with photos, a map, an address, and a contact telephone number—which he assumed was the main number. Pryce compared it to the one on Charlie Holten’s phone records. The last four digits were different, suggesting he had called another extension within the station, rather than the front desk. Pryce lifted his phone and tapped in the number from the computer screen. Waited for the call to connect, listened as the same female voice as yesterday answered with the same greeting.

  “Hello, my name is Detective Pryce from the LAPD. I’m working on a case that’s connected to Hundred Acres, and Sheriff McDonagh asked me to share some information with him later. Can I check I have the correct direct line for the sheriff?”

  Pryce read out the number circled on the call records. The number Holten had called the night he was shot.

  “That’s the one,” the woman said cheerfully. “Although Sheriff McDonagh won’t be back on duty until tomorrow. Thursdays are his day off.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind. Many thanks for your help.” A thought occurred to Pryce. “Is it Sandy I’m speaking to?”

  “Yes, it is.” She sounded surprised. “How did you know?”

  “I believe you worked with my former partner, Charlie Holten? He mentioned you a couple of times.”

  “That’s right,” Sandy said. “Sheriff Holten was a lovely man, a very dedicated sheriff.”

  “Did you keep in touch after Charlie left Hundred Acres?”

  “We swapped Christmas cards and the occasional email.”

  “Did Charlie ever call you at work for a catch-up?”

  “Not that I recall,” Sandy said. “I was friendly with his wife, Maggie, but my relationship with Sheriff Holten was more professional. I was sad when I heard what happened to him, though. Did the LAPD ever find out who shot him?”

  “No. But we’re working on it.”

  Pryce placed the receiver back in the cradle.

  Holten had called the Hundred Acres sheriff’s direct line. A number that had belonged to himself for a number of years. He hadn’t been looking for a catch-up with Sandy or one of the deputies or anyone else. His intention had been to speak to the sheriff.

  Pat McDonagh.

  Pryce tapped his pen on the desk. Then he picked up the receiver again. A couple calls later, he had a list of every vehicle ever registered to Pat McDonagh. The sheriff’s current civilian ride was a silver Dodge Ram, less than a year old. Nice, Pryce thought. He found the entry for the summer of 1997. A 1976 Chevrolet C30. Dark-gold metallic with frost-white side panels. The model had been known as “Big Doolie” on account of its dual rear wheels.

  Pryce thought back to the visit with DaMarcus Jones, what the former gangbanger told him about the truck his boys had witnessed at the Echo Park warehouses.

  A dark-colored dually covered in mud. Definitely not a sleek city ride like those favored by the crews at the time.

  Pain flared behind Pryce’s eyeballs, and he closed his eyes and rubbed them gently. After more than twenty years, he finally knew who had put a bullet between his partner’s eyes.

  What he still didn’t know was why.

  42

  HOLTEN

  1997

  Holten lifted the pint bottle of Jim Beam Black to his lips and sucked down a generous swallow of bourbon.

  He didn’t even wince at the burn. He’d had his first drink of the night placed on the bar in front of him twenty minutes after his shift had ended. A bid to cure the hangover he’d endured all day following last night’s binge, as well as an attempt to numb real life.

  It was now almost midnight. The hangover was gone, but he couldn’t escape the reality of his situation, no matter how much liquor he threw down his throat.

  Holten shouldn’t have been behind the wheel in his state, was well aware that a DUI could cost him his badge. He laughed bitterly to himself in the darkness of the still car. What did it matter now? His career would soon be over anyway.

  He took another pull from the bottle, scratched the rough stubble on his chin, and stared out of the window while he waited. Deserted warehouses lay in the shadows, just beyond the reach of the nearest streetlamp, a darker shade of black against the starless night sky. The abandoned buildings were just like Holten—empty, soulless, no use to anyone. On previous meets at this location, adrenaline would have been flowing through his veins, excitement bubbling at the knowledge a snitch could be about to give him a nugget of information that could crack open a case. Not tonight. This time, Holten already knew how the story would end.

  He had made a mistake. Lives had been ruined. Now he had to put things right, regardless of the consequences. Holten was willing to take the hit for what he’d done, but he wasn’t prepared to take the fall on his own. He was blinded suddenly by bright headlights and raised a hand to shield his bloodshot eyes. He heard, rather than saw, McDonagh’s rust-bucket truck pull up beside his own car.

  Holten got out, a small parcel wrapped in an evidence bag clutched tightly in his hand. He walked around behind the Chevy’s big flatbed and pulled himself up into the truck’s cab on the passenger side.

  “Jesus, Charlie,” McDonagh said. “You look and smell like an old tramp.” He sniffed the air. “Have you been drinkin
g?”

  Holten shrugged and said nothing.

  “You know, I should take your car keys off you right now.”

  “We both know that’s not going to happen, Pat. If I wind up with a DUI or dead in a ditch tonight, you wouldn’t give a damn. You don’t care about what’s right or wrong. All you care about is yourself.”

  “What’s going on, Charlie? If you dragged me out here, in the middle of nowhere at this time of night, just to hurl abuse at me, I’m outa here.”

  “We screwed up.” Holten pushed a finger into McDonagh’s shoulder. “You screwed up, and I stood back and let it happen. Now we have to pay for what we did.”

  “You’re drunk. Go home and sleep it off, and we can talk some other time. Okay?”

  McDonagh moved to put the gear into drive, signaling the conversation was over. Holten handed over the evidence bag.

  “What is it?”

  “Take a look inside. But put these on first.”

  Holten took a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and passed them to McDonagh, who frowned but snapped them on.

  “You’re not gloved up,” he noted.

  Holten said, “My prints are already on the envelope and its contents from when I opened the package. It was mailed to me at Hollywood Division. It’s been in the evidence bag since.”

  McDonagh unsealed the evidence bag and removed the package. He tilted the padded envelope upside down, and a clear ziplock freezer bag dropped onto his lap. Inside was a gold watch, a diamond-and-emerald bracelet, and a neatly folded stack of dollar bills. All spattered with dried blood. McDonagh recoiled as though a snake had landed on his lap instead.

  “What the fuck?” He stared at Holten, his eyes wide and his jaw slack. “How the hell did you get hold of this stuff?”

  Holten said, “Read the letter.”

  McDonagh reached inside the envelope and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. He unfolded it and began to read. In his hand was Bruce Lucchese’s suicide note and full confession to the murders of Megan Meeks and Lucas James.

  The handwritten letter recounted Bruce’s affair with Patty Meeks, how he’d found out he had a daughter upon his return to Hundred Acres, the devastating discovery that Megan Meeks was dating his son. Lucchese went on to claim his intention had been to buy Megan’s silence, but an altercation at Devil’s Drop had gotten out of hand, and two teenagers had ended up dead. He had then fixed the murder scene to look like a robbery gone bad, unaware that another life was about to be destroyed—that of Rue Hunter. Ten years after the murders, Bruce Lucchese could no longer live with the lies and the guilt. Prison wasn’t an option, he wrote, so he was delivering his own punishment and trusting Holten to put things right. The letter was signed and dated. Fourth of July 1997.

  “This . . . can’t be real. It’s not possible.”

  “It is,” Holten said. “Lucchese killed himself on Friday. Blew his brains out with a shotgun in his garage. This package was waiting for me in my work mailbox on Monday.”

  McDonagh turned in his seat and faced Holten.

  “You’ve had this letter and the personal effects of two murder victims since Monday? Two whole days? Why the hell haven’t you gotten rid of them already?”

  “Get rid of them?” Holten was stunned. “You read the letter, right? A girl has been in prison—on death row—for ten years for a crime she didn’t commit. A case we brought against her. She’s twenty-eight years old now. If she gets out now, Rue Hunter could still have a shot at a normal life. Get married, have kids. I don’t have any option, Pat. I have to take Bruce Lucchese’s confession to the county’s top brass and tell them what he did. What we did.”

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?” McDonagh snapped. “How much booze have you had tonight exactly? We did nothing wrong.”

  “We withheld key information, we covered up a key witness at the murder scene, we didn’t question why Tom Lucchese was at Devil’s Drop or carry out anything close to a proper investigation. If we had done our jobs properly, maybe Bruce Lucchese would be rotting in a jail cell right now instead of an innocent girl.”

  “Okay, I get that we need to do the right thing by the girl, but why do we have to take the fall too? We go to the top brass with the confession and stolen goods, like you said, but no one needs to know about our meeting with Bruce and Tom Lucchese.” McDonagh was talking fast, his words thick with panic and desperation. “Bruce is dead. The Hunter girl gets released from prison with a nice compensation payoff, and we get to carry on with our lives. Everybody wins.”

  Holten shook his head. “I’m done lying. Just like Bruce Lucchese was in the end. I’m sorry, Pat, but it’s time the truth came out.”

  “It’ll finish both of our careers,” McDonagh said quietly. “I have a wife and a kid to support. Please, think about them before doing anything stupid.”

  “Ten years ago, I told you when the shit hit the fan, it’d all be on you. Well, the shit has well and truly hit the fan. I’m sorry, but we both have to take what’s coming to us. It’s the only way to put things right.”

  Holten reached out a hand for the package. McDonagh returned the freezer bag holding the jewelry and cash to the envelope, along with the letter, and resealed everything inside the evidence bag. He handed the bundle over without a word. Didn’t look at Holten as he got out of the truck.

  Back in his own car, Holten dropped the package onto the passenger seat and picked up the bottle of bourbon. He drank long and hard. The meet with McDonagh had killed his earlier buzz, that was for sure. He started the car and headed for home. It was late, and all he wanted was to feel Maggie’s arms around him, for his wife to tell him everything would be okay.

  As he approached a stoplight, Holten saw McDonagh’s old Chevy in his rearview. The truck pulled up alongside Holten’s car on the empty street. It was almost midnight, but there was still a heavy heat in the air, and Holten had both front windows rolled down. He heard McDonagh say something and turned to face the man he had once worked alongside, who had replaced him as sheriff.

  He found himself staring at the barrel of a gun.

  “I’m sorry, Charlie,” McDonagh said. “But my family comes first.”

  There was a deafening bang and a flash of light.

  Then there was nothing.

  43

  JESSICA

  Jessica scrolled through the camera’s preview mode and saw an image-by-image account of Tom Lucchese’s handover to Pat McDonagh.

  After the exchange had taken place, both men left the rest area in their respective vehicles before, presumably, heading in opposite directions once back on the freeway. Jessica waited fifteen minutes before following the route McDonagh would’ve taken to Hundred Acres. The remaining two hours of the journey gave her plenty of time to think.

  There was no protection racket. The sheriff was blackmailing Lucchese—that much was clear. But how? What did he have that was so valuable as to merit the Vegas businessman handing over a substantial chunk of his takings each month? Whatever it was, it was something Lucchese didn’t want in the public domain at any cost. Information likely stored somewhere secure by McDonagh. Such as in the personal safe in his study at home.

  After crossing back into the city limits, Jessica rolled past the McDonagh residence. The best house on the best street in Hundred Acres. Partly paid for by Tom Lucchese’s secret rest area payments. Ditto Dylan’s diner. She wondered if her ex knew the breakfasts and burgers being served up to his customers each day were the result of dirty cash.

  It was almost midnight. McDonagh’s Dodge Ram was parked next to his cruiser. The windows of Dylan’s studio apartment above the garage were dark, as were the upstairs windows of the house. Downstairs, a light glowed softly behind the curtains in the front room. Dylan’s mom was an early sleeper and an early riser. His dad was the opposite. Jessica knew Pat would be in the den watching a late-night movie or playing online poker in his study.

  She needed him out of the house fast.

  At
the end of the street, Jessica automatically turned in the direction of home, thinking about what to do next. As she passed a playground, she spotted three teenagers by the swings smoking cigarettes. They were about sixteen or seventeen years old. She stopped the truck, rolled down the window, and beckoned them over.

  One of the kids said, “Hey, lady, you lost?”

  Lady. Way to make her feel ancient. Jessica wasn’t much more than a decade older than they were.

  “No, I’m not lost. I need a favor.”

  “Hold up a minute,” said one of the other kids. “Ain’t you that lady PI who got Michelle Foster fired? The one who cut off our booze supply.”

  “Your liver will thank me for it one day,” she said. “You’re too young for alcohol anyway.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” said the kid who had spoken first. “We don’t do favors for snitches.”

  They turned to walk away.

  Jessica said, “Not even when there’s cash in it for you?”

  They stopped walking. The first kid, who seemed to be the leader of the group, said, “How much?”

  “Twenty bucks.”

  “Each?”

  “No, not each, you greedy little shit.”

  “Not interested.”

  They began walking away again.

  “Okay, okay. Twenty bucks each.”

  “What do you want us to do?” the group’s leader asked.

  “First of all, this stays strictly between us. Agreed?” Three nods. Jessica went on. “I need one of you to make an anonymous call to the sheriff’s department. Tell the deputy on duty there’s some kind of emergency. Something serious enough for him to call the sheriff at home for backup.”

  The mouthy kid frowned. “What do we say happened?”

  Jessica sighed. “Use your imagination. Say you witnessed a home intrusion or a serious assault. I don’t care. Just make it bad enough that McDonagh has to leave his house and get involved.”

  “Why can’t you do it yourself?”