Not all homes are perfect, Jessica. I think you have to live in toxicity to understand it. And that’s why you suck at your job.
Chapter Fourteen
Dobbs
Dobbs stood in the interview room, staring at the two red spots on the cinder-block wall, then at the larger puddle on the tile floor. “Is Sillman gonna be okay?”
“Concussion,” Wilkins said. “They took him to Good Sam. Waynick rode with him and the paramedics. Said he came around by the time they got to the hospital, swore it was the attorney who hit him, not Kepler. Said he sucker-punched him. Sillman’s expected to make a full recovery, but he’s taking it pretty hard. Said to tell you he’s sorry he dropped the ball.”
Dobbs glanced up at the camera. It had been his call to leave it off while talking to Kepler. He preferred to leave the camera off until the start of an actual interrogation; the little red light blinking to life tended to rattle a perp.
This camera hadn’t recorded anything, but others had. In the security office, he watched Kepler and his attorney hustle through the building, go down the service elevator, and walk out into the parking garage. The camera lost them there but picked Kepler back up when he exited the structure in an old Ford, the attorney riding shotgun. The tags were bogus, but they had an APB out on the car. Rush hour in LA started at five, gridlock lasted until ten. Traffic cams might pick up the bogus plate, but if Kepler had half a brain, he’d ditch the car, maybe swap it for another or maybe go on foot.
“Get his picture out to all the bus stations, train, TSA over at LAX. We can’t let him out of the city,” Dobbs said.
“Already done,” Wilkins replied. “I also put it out to the taxi services, Uber, and Lyft. They got a pic of the attorney too.”
“He’s armed. Do we go to the press? Get his picture out in the public?”
Wilkins bit his lower lip. “He escaped from LAPD headquarters. You don’t want to put that out there unless someone up the totem pole signs off.”
Dobbs’s phone rang. He took it from his pocket and glanced at the display—Dantzler. He walked to the far corner of the room and answered. “Yeah?”
“Hey, I’m at Kepler’s truck over at Nadler Distribution. Do you have a second to talk?”
“What’d you find?”
“Well, for starters, Kepler’s an audiobook fan. He’s got about a dozen of them in here, CDs checked out from his local library. Not exactly the kind of thing I’d expect. It’s all highbrow stuff—nonfiction philosophy texts, sociology, ideology, and two books by a guy named Lawrence Levine. The book currently on deck is called The Interpretation of Dreams by Freud. Good book, but personally I prefer Jung over Freud.”
“I’m more of a Jack Reacher fan myself,” Dobbs said.
“No popcorn fiction for this guy. He’s burning the miles educating himself.”
“Why doesn’t a guy like this finish college? He’s got Mommy and Daddy footing the bill. Why drop out to drive a truck?”
“Did you pull his transcripts? Maybe there’s something there,” Dantzler suggested.
“I’ll get to that. Does the truck have a transponder?”
Dantzler said, “A Trux Data. They recently switched from CarrierWeb. I’ve got my guys downloading the data. Kepler’s boss said the box records thirty days. He’s dropping the rest on a thumb drive from some central server. Said he can go back to the day Kepler started, about two years ago. For what it’s worth, his boss said Kepler never gave him any trouble. Showed up on time. Delivered on time. Everything by the book. The ideal employee. We’re getting the security-camera footage too. I don’t expect to find much there. Sounds like he pulled in at midnight, unloaded, and left around three in the morning, just like he told you.”
“What else did you find in the truck?”
“Couple changes of clothes. Toothbrush, shaving kit. Our guy’s neat. You could eat off the floor. No garbage. Ashtrays look like they’ve never been used. He’s got one of those extended cabs with a small bed in the back—he actually makes the bed. Sheets are tight and white, reminds me of my army days. I was beginning to think we wouldn’t find anything worthwhile, but then we pulled the mattress out and got a good look at it. Found a small slit in the back corner, just big enough to get stuff in and out.”
Dobbs pressed the phone closer to his ear. “Tell me you found something.”
“We found a ziplock bag full of bird feathers.”
Dobbs frowned. “Feathers?”
“Sparrow feathers. About two dozen of them.”
“Why would he have sparrow feathers?”
Dantzler said, “I suppose it’s not weird to collect bird feathers. It is weird to hide them inside your mattress, so we plugged the bird-feathers thing into NCIC and got a hit. An FBI flag. When we hang up, you need to give them a call. I’ll text you the information along with a few pictures. You’ll have the rest of my file inside an hour.”
“What about a personal vehicle? Between his apartment and work, have you seen any evidence of some kind of car or truck? Nobody lives in LA without a vehicle.”
“I asked, and nobody here has seen him with a car. He walks in and walks out. His apartment is less than a mile away. It’s possible he doesn’t have one. Did you check the DMV?”
Dobbs said, “Nothing registered in his name. Either name.”
They hung up, and a moment later, his phone buzzed with a series of text messages from Dantzler. He used his thumb and forefinger to expand one of the images of the feathers in a bag. Fucking weird. Then he dialed the FBI special agent who’d put out the alert on NCIC—a Jessica Gimble—got voice mail, and left a message.
He needed coffee.
Chapter Fifteen
Written Statement,
Megan Fitzgerald
What was your mother like, Jessica? I bet she was a nice lady who spent half the day in a kitchen that always smelled of freshly baked cookies and the other half with her arms around you, telling you how much she loved you. Even Dobbs probably had a father who liked to toss a football around with him occasionally. Maybe helped him rebuild a ’65 Mustang so he could roll into high school at sixteen all king-of-the-hill-like.
My home life wasn’t quite like that.
Our home life wasn’t like that.
Although I was too young to remember when the Fitzgeralds adopted me, they were never shy about reminding me. Me or Michael. There was no mom or dad in our house. Not really even a mother or father. Such things, such terms, were deceptive, and when you’re raised by not one but two doctors, those falsities don’t fly. They insisted we call them Dr. Bart and Dr. Rose. The term mother never left my lips unless it was part of a compound word not quite as charming but perfectly appropriate for both my adoptive parents.
“Megan, dear, you’re not eating.”
Dr. Rose knew how to get under my skin. I looked up to find her watching me from across the table, her head tilted slightly to the side.
Even on Sunday mornings, she dressed to the nines in clothing no doubt purchased at Mint Julep, her favorite boutique in town. Usually she wore a cream-colored two-piece suit with a white blouse beneath, buttoned to her neck. A silver brooch to match the silver hair she pulled into a tight bun, the kind of bun that gave me a headache just looking at it. She spent hours applying her makeup, finishing moments before coming downstairs.