Detectives Morton and Brandon walked toward Brandon’s car. It seemed to Kit that the two detectives were on better terms now than they had been earlier in the day, at the press conference.
The teenager stepped out of the car again. Watching them together, Kit felt sure that this must be Brandon’s nephew. Chase Brandon.
Ontora was next warned away from Brandon’s Taurus by the deputy. Kit had to admire her tenacity.
All attention suddenly focused on some activity near the door of the building, and the television camera lights glared bright. Flashes strobed. The coroner’s assistants were bringing out the bodies. Both bodies were encased in dark bags. They were placed in the coroner’s van, which drove away within minutes after its doors were closed.
The television crews began leaving. The lieutenant made a final statement, and most of the reporters left, too. Close to the building, crime scene tape and wooden barriers were still in place, but beyond them, there was not the same number of patrol cars or officers on foot-most of the deputies were being released to other duties. Even the FBI man left. Ontora made another try, but again came up with nothing. Ciara Morton left next-he noticed Ontora didn’t even bother approaching her.
Kit got out of the Jeep and stretched his legs. The long hours of driving over the past few days had left his muscles stiff, and he decided to walk a little. He drank from a bottle of water and opened a package of beef jerky. He stayed in the shadows. If anyone else asked, he had credentials to show he was Ed Thomas, reporter for the Mountain Chronicle.
He found a short, darkened alley and stepped just inside its entrance. Its shadows hid him as he leaned against one of its walls. Perhaps some new story was breaking, because Ontora quickly ordered her crew back to the news van and drove off.
Something scraped against the pavement of the alley, and Kit flattened himself against the wall. It occurred to him that he might be invading some homeless person’s territory-or the territory of someone violent. He didn’t feel fear so much as annoyance. He had skills now that he had not had at fourteen and felt capable of defending himself. Besides, he wasn’t far from a dozen or more members of the sheriff’s department. But he’d prefer to avoid making any kind of scene.
His clothing was dark, so he might not be noticed. He listened carefully, and now he recognized the sound. He stared into the darkness, and gradually he made out the form of a large dog creeping slowly toward him.
As it moved into the light, he felt his heart stop.
A skinny yellow Labrador retriever.
Not Molly, he told himself, but he already knew that. The dog had a different face, was closer in looks to a true Lab than his beloved mutt, was younger, not much more than a pup. Again he felt the unyielding grip of grief, felt it take hold of him as it did with any thought of her, and for a moment he could not breathe or think or move.
Was this some omen? he wondered. Labradors were one of the most popular breeds in the country, but why, out of a thousand breeds of dogs, was this dog so similar to the one he had buried only a few days ago?
He stepped forward, and the dog flattened itself against the ground. Kit slowly lowered himself so that he was squatting over his heels. The dog crept closer, looking up at him uncertainly. Its tail was tucked between its legs. He saw it look nervously toward the street, and was surprised to see Chase Brandon standing nearby.
“Is that your dog?” Chase asked in a soft voice.
“No,” Kit said.
Chase moved a little closer, slowly approaching until he was only a few feet away from Kit. He kneeled down and sat back on his heels. “It’s okay, fella,” he said to the dog, half singing to it. “We won’t hurt you.”
The dog’s tail uncurled and gave a small wag.
To Kit, Chase said, “I think he wants your beef jerky. Or maybe your water.”
Kit saw his earnest look of concern for the dog and smiled. He extended both the water and the opened package of jerky to him. “Here, you try. I think he already trusts you more than he does me.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Kit saw the dog’s eyes follow the package with longing. Chase held out a stick of jerky, and the dog took it quickly but gently. A few moments later, the dog was eagerly lapping water from Chase’s hand.
All the while, Chase spoke to it, told him he was a good dog, asked him where he had been and why no one was feeding such a handsome fellow.
Kit looked at the dog’s dirty coat, the scrape on his hindquarters, the tendency of one ear not to lie quite as flat as it should, behaving more like a wing than an ear. The alley itself smelled better. “He is handsome, isn’t he?”
“He needs more to eat,” Chase said, and looked up at Kit.
“Sorry, I’m out of beef jerky.”
Chase went back to talking to the dog. “You’ve got rust on you,” he said, stroking the coat gently. “Is that who you are-Rusty?”
The dog, it seemed, had fallen in love as well. Revived by what Kit guessed to be the best meal it had enjoyed in days, undoubtedly hoping for more, it was showering kisses on its benefactor.
“He doesn’t have a collar or a tag,” Chase said.
“No,” Kit said. “I don’t think anyone has cared much about him for some time.”
“I know how you feel,” Chase said in a low voice to the dog.
“Chase!” a man’s voice called frantically. They looked up to see Alex Brandon standing near his car, obviously searching for his nephew.
“Sounds to me as if someone cares after all,” Kit said. “You’d better let him know where you are. See you around.”
“Wait! What about Rusty?”
“Fight for him,” Kit recommended, “or forget you met him.”
He hurried away from Chase and the dog, back to the Jeep. If the boy left the dog here, he would do what he could for it.
“I’m here, Uncle Alex!” Chase called.
Alex all but ran to where he was. “Jesus Christ, you scared the hell out of me!”
“I needed to take a leak. I told the…”
“Whose dog is that?”
There was an uneasy silence, then Chase said, “His name is Rusty. He likes me.”
Alex was just ready to leave the scene, when Lieutenant Hogan came in to tell him that Frederick Whitfield IV had been found dead in a Maserati off Mulholland Highway-Whitfield and another young male, Morgan Addison, apparently had a suicide pact. “You realize what this means?” Hogan had said. “If we can tie these two to the crime scenes, we’ve seen the end of this business. And not a moment too soon, if you ask me. I know it’s late, but you’d better head out there.”
Unlike Hogan, Alex hadn’t felt excited. If Frederick Whitfield IV had committed suicide, all the answers died with him.
What brought you to this? Why would you-a rich, good-looking young man with the resources to do almost anything-turn into a killer, and then kill yourself? How is it that your family never noticed what you were up to?
The answers to a hundred questions would be nothing but guesswork from now on. It was a damned waste all the way around.
So he had gone outside in a foul mood, not-as Hogan suspected-because he now had to drive another forty or fifty miles to a new crime scene, but because this was not the way he wanted this one to end. And he wondered if Frederick Whitfield III would give a damn, over in France or wherever the hell he was, when he learned that his son had shot himself.
He talked Hogan out of calling Ciara back, saying that he’d call her himself if needed, but this way one of them would get some sleep. He agreed that Hamilton should be notified as soon as possible. He was debating whether to take Chase home to Malibu or back to his own house, when he saw that Chase was no longer in the car.
He felt panic, anger, and guilt for leaving Chase alone so long. And let his temper get the best of him. Chase
