hundreds. A very wealthy family-bought land grants on the cheap, made a go with cattle and crops, sent sons into the assembly and Congress and watched the land value go out of sight after World War II. Puma was working at the time, that dreary August when he lost his son and most of his wife. He quit his job. He sold his house in Tustin and moved onto family land-a couple of thousand acres down in the south part of the county. The land is hilly and dry, but it overlooks the coast. It backs up against Pendleton Marine Base. It's got a lake. It's got oak savanna, coastal scrub, two hundred acres of orange trees. There was only one road into it, and Puma kept it that way. He built an eight-foot fence around it and wired it full of voltage. There's a guard house where the road comes into his property. He could have afforded electricity, gas and water, but he installed generators, propane and wells instead. He rebuilt the old mission-era house, which ran him almost a half a million dollars. When it was ready, he moved in with his paralyzed wife and his daughter. He began a business that is now thriving. And since then, no one sees him. He's there, of course-I don't mean he's disappeared-but he rarely leaves the place. Oh yes, it has a name. Liberty Ridge.'
Liberty, thought John. He liked the sound of the word, though it wasn't a word you heard much anymore. And he knew the land that Weinstein was talking about. It was gorgeous land, tough land, filled with wildlife, nourished by the lake, with a commanding view from its peak. As a kid, John had hiked it, camped it, scavenged it for fossils and rocks and reptiles a hundred times.
John looked around the room, at the bare walls, the blank television monitor, the pale green carpet. For a moment, Puma's paralyzed wife and Liberty Ridge were just blips on the screen of his awareness. But then they grew in size, and he remembered why his stomach had tightened and his heart was now beating so loudly inside his rib cage. Puma was behind Rebecca.
Rebecca.
'Now,' said Weinstein, 'we need to. look forward, to the van used in the… assassination. Rather, to the repair shop from which the van was lifted. Sharon? You're on.'
With this, Sharon Dumars rose and began pacing. At first she went back and forth in front of the screen, then extended her run to include the entire perimeter of the room. She looked for all the world, thought John, like a female version of Joshua.
'The shop is owned by someone whose name you don't need to know,' she began. John detected the relish of power in her voice, the pride of one who commands. 'This man has a brother-in-law. Brother-in-law works for Puma. Coincidence? Maybe or maybe not. Let's say it is. Puma, we learn, is a competent amateur engraver. He actually earned money during college working for a trophy company, even though his family was rich. Coincidence that the bullet casings left behind for us were engraved? Let's say that's a coincidence, too. Then, there's this-Puma loves to hunt big game, and big game hunters use big rifles, sometimes a. 30/ 06 caliber because it's powerful and accurate. Puma-and the men he hunts with-have taken and made four hundred and eighty yard shots. We know this because he's listed in the Boone amp;c Crockett record books, and in the Safari Club International record books. Coincidence again? Yes, let's call it all coincidence, again. We can afford to be generous.'
With this, Dumars stopped at the table and drained the rest of her water. John noted the sheen of sweat on her forehead and the way her hair stuck at the temples.
'Then,' she continued, 'there's the fact, too, that Susan
Baum broke the story about Teresa Descanso-the shooter' aunt-accusing Patrick of rape. It was explosive. The accuse* murderer dumped the public defender because he couldn't get results on Patrick, and let Glory Redmond take the case pro bono. You can imagine the circus she made of it. She didn't even try to link Patrick to Descanso with physical evidence, which was smart. What better could they do-Redmond argued-than ai eyewitness? All the while, Baum crusaded in print, with a series of articles in which Descanso, then another woman, accused Patrick not only of the rape, but of solicitations for prostitution public drunkenness and aggravated assault. Baum argued to he readers what Redmond was arguing to her jury, that a white male-establishment- Orange County DA was ignoring the fact while prosecuting a fifteen-year old scholar for defending hi family. Orange County is supposed to be the hotbed of conservatism, the Republican citadel, the land of the John Birch Society right? Redmond and Baum set out to challenge that assumption And the question of Patrick's supposed exploits in the barrio-dramatized by Baum's articles-probably helped deadlock the jury. The shooter's name, by the way, was Jimmy Ruiz.'
'I remember now,' said John. 'Justice please. Justice please Free the hero, Jimmy Ruiz.'
'You weren't so out of touch down in Key West, were you?' asked Dumars with a smile.
'Stick to the story, Sharon,' snapped Weinstein.
Dumars's smile faded. She looked at Joshua briefly, thei back to John.
'All right. To add insult to injury, Baum wrote an unflat tering column about Puma two years after the trial was over. Shi implied that Puma had become a loose cannon, a profiteer, a racist, a nuisance. Why? Because when Puma moved out to Liberty Ridge, he had opened a private investigation and security firm that catered to the rich and, she tried to prove, refused business from minorities of any color. Baum chose off Puma in print, be cause Puma had donated generously, very generously, to certain organizations that Ms. Baum dislikes. Organizations such as the California Association of Peace Officers, the NRA, the Freedom Foundation, the John Birch Society, Ducks Unlimited and the California Republican Committee. Her slant was something like 'here's a man so embittered by the death of his son that he's become infected with hatred.' Ms. Baum seemed to have a point as Puma had given money only to the Mormon church before Patrick was murdered. Since then, not a penny. I feel that the article was overly aggressive and a violation of Puma's privacy, though-'
'-Sharon, don't-'
'-Josh, let me continue… I agree completely with Baum's conclusions. But what I feel doesn't matter. So, back to our line of logic, is it coincidence again, that Susan Baum was the intended target? Okay, we can call it coincidence again.'
Sharon made another run on the water machine, filling up her third cup. Then she pulled out one of the chairs and sat. John watched her coat-close back over the gun.
'When Puma went into his new business after Patrick's death, someone had to file a fictitious business statement, like any lawful company. We took a look at it. The statement ran in a little weekly paper down in San Juan Capistrano, which isn't far from Liberty Ridge. Everything was fine, done by the book, no problem. Trouble is, the original name chosen for his new company, we assume by Puma, was The Freedom Ring. They filed it on statements two consecutive weeks, but on the third week, no DBA was filed at all. Instead, a new name for what we can only assume was the same company-with the fictitious name of Liberty Operations. Some simple research of the newspaper's classified files showed us that The Freedom Ring and Liberty Operations DBA costs were covered by checks from the same account. That account belongs to one of Puma's inner circle- his head of security, if you will. Coincidence? No. Hell no. When enough coincidence piles up, it isn't coincidence anymore. The Freedom Ring claimed responsibility for Rebecca. Puma believed the name The Freedom Ring never really existed on record anywhere, and he was right-except for in the dusty files of a little mom and pop paper down in San Juan.'
'Have you questioned him?' John asked.
Weinstein stood now and glanced at Dumars. 'Thank you, Sharon. No, we've chosen not to. All we would really do is tip him that we're on. He'd have an alibi, and there sure wouldn't be any evidence of a crime left in plain sight around at Liberty Ridge. We're better off letting him believe we're not even looking his way, until we've got enough to justify a search. Questioning him now would be like…'
'-Scaring up the bird while it's still out of range,' said Dumars.
'Exactly,' said Weinstein. He smiled again-that smile so unmirthful, so produced. 'John, there's a final element you should know about. Come.'
Dumars stayed behind as John followed Joshua out of the room and back down the hallway, then around a corner and into another office. The room was small, lined with bookshelves and bathed by the same chilling, fluorescent light as the conference room. On the wall behind the desk was the Bureau's seal. A chair sat squared to the desk, empty. Joshua shut the door.
'We used to give school children tours of the building,' said Weinstein. 'Back before we had to check them for weapons They always wanted to see a real agent. See a real agent's gun. Sit in a real agent's chair. So, have a seat right there, John.'
'I'll stand.'
