draft Anchor Steams. He hadn’t talked to anyone in the bar. He thought the bartender was a woman, but again, he couldn’t remember for sure.
“That should be easy enough to check out,” Watson said. “If the bartender was a woman, she’d remember him.”
“For his sake, let’s hope so,” Rebeck said.
Watson nodded slowly. “I hear you.”
After he left the bar, Steven went back to the mall and took in a movie: Collateral, with. Tom Cruise.
“That’s definitely checkable,” Watson said.
“But he had to think a minute to remember it,” Rebeck retorted. “The marquee’s right there, front and center, anybody passing by would notice it. I asked him about it, trying to get some information you wouldn’t know if you hadn’t seen it.”
“Clever. And?”
“He was fuzzy with most of the details. Hit man comes to L.A. Jamie Foxx was in it. He remembered it was directed by the same director who did The Insider, all of which he could have read about in a review.”
“Or he could have seen it some other time,” Watson said.
“That’s true,” Rebeck agreed. “At any rate, when he got out of the movie it was eight o’clock, and he met up with Woodruff,” she concluded, folding up her notebook.
The rest of his story matched Woodruff’s. The gate had been left unlocked. They hadn’t seen or heard anything back at the ranch.
“What now?” Watson asked.
“Let’s call the girl the Woodruff kid was with,” Rebeck decided. “If she corroborates, Woodruff’s clear.”
“What about McCoy?”
Rebeck’s forehead wrinkled. “Five, six hours alone? Plenty of time to meet Maria Estrada, drive up to the ranch, kill her, drive back. In his dark-blue Pathfinder.” She grimaced. “You never have a good alibi when you need one.”
“You think he needs one?”
She pondered the question. “Let’s eliminate whatever elements we can, then see what’s left.”
Tyler had programmed Serena’s number into his cell phone, so Watson was able to reach her easily. He explained that the police were questioning everyone who had been at the location where the recently murdered girl was found.
Serena substantiated Tyler’s account of their afternoon together, then asked nervously, “Is Tyler in trouble?”
“No,” Watson answered. Now that you’ve cleared him. “This is purely routine.”
“Good,” the girl’s tinny voice replied. “Tyler wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
We’re all capable of violence under the right conditions, even the Pope, Watson thought, but didn’t express. This girl didn’t need to share in his acquired cynicism about human nature. “That’s nice to know,” he said. “Thanks for your time.”
He hung up. “Woodruff checks out,” he told Rebeck. “The girl alibied him, airtight.”
“Which still leaves McCoy.” She ticked the incriminating points off on her fingers. “Five or six hours unaccounted for by any corroborating witnesses, knowledge of a remote location where the body was discovered, color and make of his car, the combination to the lock…”
Watson nodded. “A lot of coincidences. But let’s get real. We don’t have anything substantial enough to hold him on. His stonewalling is annoying, but it isn’t criminal.” He picked at a cuticle. “We’re going to have to cut them loose. If this was some lame off the street I’d hang onto him for another day, sweat him a little, because there certainly are holes in his story. But the grandson of Juanita McCoy? Not in this man’s lifetime. Unless the order comes down from above.”
Marlon Perdue, the forensic investigator who worked with the coroner, pulled up to a stop in front of the old ranch house. Keith Morton was already there, waiting for him. Perdue got out of his car and stretched his legs. It was a good forty-five-minute drive out here from his office in Santa Barbara, and his back had been acting up. He needed to see a chiropractor, and start working out on a regular basis. If he could ever
“That should be easy enough to check out,” Watson said. “If the bartender was a woman, she’d remember him.”
“For his sake, let’s hope so,” Rebeck said.
Watson nodded slowly. “I hear you.”
After he left the bar, Steven went back to the mall and took in a movie: Collateral, with. Tom Cruise.
“That’s definitely checkable,” Watson said.
“But he had to think a minute to remember it,” Rebeck retorted. “The marquee’s right there, front and center, anybody passing by would notice it. I asked him about it, trying to get some information you wouldn’t know if you hadn’t seen it.”
“Clever. And?”
“He was fuzzy with most of the details. Hit man comes to L.A. Jamie Foxx was in it. He remembered it was directed by the same director who did The Insider, all of which he could have read about in a review.”
“Or he could have seen it some other time,” Watson said.
“That’s true,” Rebeck agreed. “At any rate, when he got out of the movie it was eight o’clock, and he met up with Woodruff,” she concluded, folding up her notebook.
The rest of his story matched Woodruff’s. The gate had been left unlocked. They hadn’t seen or heard anything back at the ranch.
“What now?” Watson asked.
“Let’s call the girl the Woodruff kid was with,” Rebeck decided. “If she corroborates, Woodruff’s clear.”
“What about McCoy?”
Rebeck’s forehead wrinkled. “Five, six hours alone? Plenty of time to meet Maria Estrada, drive up to the ranch, kill her, drive back. In his dark-blue Pathfinder.” She grimaced. “You never have a good alibi when you need one.”
“You think he needs one?”
She pondered the question. “Let’s eliminate whatever elements we can, then see what’s left.”
Tyler had programmed Serena’s number into his cell phone, so Watson was able to reach her easily. He explained that the police were questioning everyone who had been at the location where the recently murdered girl was found.
Serena substantiated Tyler’s account of their afternoon together, then asked nervously, “Is Tyler in trouble?”
“No,” Watson answered. Now that you’ve cleared him. “This is purely routine.”
“Good,” the girl’s tinny voice replied. “Tyler wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
We’re all capable of violence under the right conditions, even the Pope, Watson thought, but didn’t express. This girl didn’t need to share in his acquired cynicism about human nature. “That’s nice to know,” he said. “Thanks for your time.”
He hung up. “Woodruff checks out,” he told Rebeck. “The girl alibied him, airtight.”
“Which still leaves McCoy.” She ticked the incriminating points off on her fingers. “Five or six hours unaccounted for by any corroborating witnesses, knowledge of a remote location where the body was discovered, color and make of his car, the combination to the lock…”
Watson nodded. “A lot of coincidences. But let’s get real. We don’t have anything substantial enough to hold him on. His stonewalling is annoying, but it isn’t criminal.” He picked at a cuticle. “We’re going to have to cut them loose. If this was some lame off the street I’d hang onto him for another day, sweat him a little, because there certainly are holes in his story. But the grandson of Juanita McCoy? Not in this man’s lifetime. Unless the order comes down from above.”
Marlon Perdue, the forensic investigator who worked with the coroner, pulled up to a stop in front of the old ranch house. Keith Morton was already there, waiting for him. Perdue got out of his car and stretched his legs. It was a good forty-five-minute drive out here from his office in Santa Barbara, and his back had been acting up. He needed to see a chiropractor, and start working out on a regular basis. If he could ever
Similar Books
