Could it be the driver didn’t even
The white truck was gone.
He tasted blood in his mouth where he’d bit his tongue. Tasted dirt and bits of grass. He dropped to all fours and threw up. Could smell himself. He smelled like fear.
The Pinarello’s superior frame geometry had saved his life. He checked the bike, spun the wheels, turned the cranks, and ran it through the gears.
A couple of dings.
He could ride it down.
And he did ride it down. Shaken. Scared. Looking back to see if the truck was coming. Scared of cars. Scared of other cyclists.
He rode like a little old man. His neck was torqued. His wrist hurt him. He’d banged it against the guardrail.
This close to going over.
He rode slowly, a light hold on the brakes, pumping them.
He couldn’t think very well but what he did think was this:
Sheppard, out for revenge.
At one point he reached the bus. He thought about asking the driver to stop. He wanted to ask about the guy in the white truck. What he looked like.
But he guessed that the bus driver might not have even seen it.
Besides, he would settle it himself. He would take care of Sheppard himself. He didn’t want to draw attention to this.
Michael’s cleats clacked over the hardpan ground as he walked his bike to the 4Runner. He put it back on the rack. He got into the SUV and sat there. Now he could absorb it.
He was shaking. Couldn’t stop.
He stared bleakly out the windshield—
And saw a sheet of paper stuck under the wipers. Facing him. Written in pencil in block letters.
I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.
CHAPTER 43
Tess didn’t have long to wait before Hanley’s USB flash drive came back from evidence.
It was pretty straightforward. There was only one document on the thumb drive, entitled “Diary.” The opening page looked like a form that had been scanned in. An older form she recognized, even though there were differences: the front page of a homicide detective’s murder book.
The victim in the report was a man named Felix Sosa. He’d died five years ago, the victim of a sniper. Sosa lived in the Phoenix metropolitan area where George Hanley once worked homicide.
Only Hanley had long been retired by the time Sosa was killed.
Tess looked at the graphic photos. Read the stats, and what had been done. A detective named Manuel Alvarado was the primary on the case. Tess wondered if Alvarado was a friend of Hanley’s, and just exactly how Hanley had managed to get a copy of the murder book.
Tess scrolled down the file until she found Hanley’s notes.
Danny picked up on the second ring. Today he and Theresa and their baby girl were going home, but Tess wasn’t sure if they were still at the hospital. He sounded like he was on cloud nine.
“How are things?”
“
“Are you home?”
“Just got in.” She heard him muffle the phone and call out to someone. “My brother just got here. What’s up?”
Tess told him about the Felix Sosa case—a man shot by a sniper at a campground in Payson, Arizona. “What do you think of that?”
“So he made up his own murder book, is that what you’re saying?”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“Of a homicide in Payson. The guy was shot by a sniper?”
“Yes.”
A pause. “Then he probably was shot by a sniper before.”
“You know a guy up there, don’t you? Jimmy somebody?”
“Jimmy Tune.”
“Jimmy Tune? Really?”
“Yeah. We met at an interrogation course in Phoenix. I still talk to him—I’ll give him a call and give him a heads-up to talk to you. I’ve got his e-mail somewhere. Wish I could do more, but um, I’m a little busy right now.”
“You only have your first child once,” Tess said.
“You got that right. I’m sending you his e-mail now.”
Tess finished reading Hanley’s makeshift murder book on Felix Sosa. There was no mention of the man having been shot before. But there were more murder books. Tess counted three. One for Quentin DeKoven, the father of Michael DeKoven. One for Peter Farley.
And one for himself.
He knew they were coming for him.
Tess looked at the murder books. There were holes you could drive a truck through in them—his access had been severely limited. He made up for this lack by scanning photos and articles from newspapers or collected from websites.
Tess had seen the murder book for Peter Farley—briefly, but due to her memory, thoroughly. This one was similar, but different. It had been written by a different detective, one who did not have the same kind of access. More gaps, and more supposition. Tess was beginning to recognize Hanley’s way of writing—courtly and old- fashioned. Just the facts, but with an occasional reference to literature or an old-fashioned word. He did not have access to the official murder book photos, but had inserted reams of expert articles on mountain lions and the Santa Anas. He had a picture of a smiling Farley with his wife and college-age daughter, taken several years before—Tess thought he’d gotten it from the newspaper.
There were photos of Quentin DeKoven’s plane, scattered across a meadow, and a burned swath through pines and fir trees on the top of a mountain in the Pinalenos. He’d typed in his own theory—something to do with the wrong fuel mixture. He’d included photos of the senior DeKoven, his wife, and his children. He’d found and used the photo Tess herself had seen of the kids and their parents at the water treatment plant opening. And there was an old black-and-white newspaper photo of a similar aviation accident, the one DeKoven had survived. He’d scanned in an article in
His own murder book was equally sketchy. He had scanned in a photo of himself. He’d scanned in a photo of the DVD of
He’d made his case, once piece at a time. Carefully laid it out.
