was embarrassed by Sarge’s praise. He allowed himself a modest smile. Meanwhile, she, who had taken great personal and professional risks in pursuing T. B. Mann and had collected critical evidence, was forced to suck in her pride and sit quietly.
Early held out her hand for the drawing of the dangling woman, which Kissick gave her. “So while Jim and I were looking at this sketch, a murder that happened in Colina Vista popped into my head.”
Colina Vista was one among the string of what locals called the foothill cities. They numbered about a dozen, and the northern border of each abutted Angeles National Forest in the San Gabriel Mountains. Pasadena was one of the largest. Several of the foothill cities were little more than villages, throwbacks to a gentler era tucked away from the hustle-bustle of their larger neighbors and blissfully free of most of their big-city problems. Their well-heeled, well-educated, and mostly Caucasian residents shared other traits— disdain of urbansprawl and chain retailers, fear of wildfires, and a fierce protectiveness of their lifestyle.
The twin cities of Colina Vista and its neighbor, Sierra Madre, the jewels in the crown, had both been mountain resort towns in the late 1800s. Both shared a deep connection with the Pasadena P.D. Each had a female police chief who had come up through the ranks of the PPD. Colina Vista was the smaller of the two towns, with a population of barely 7,500 and a police department of eleven sworn officers, plus the chief.
“I called the Colina Vista P.D. earlier this morning,” the sergeant said. “Of course, my friend Betsy Gilroy was already at her desk. Do you know Chief Gilroy, Nan?”
“Not personally,” Vining replied. “I’m familiar with her reputation.”
“She was deputy chief at the time of the murder I was recalling. It happened ten years ago. The victim was a young female police officer named Clarissa Silva. Her nickname was Cookie.”
Cookie Silva, Vining thought. My sister.
“Chief Gilroy was the lead investigator. She’s more than happy to discuss the case with Jim, though she says they got their man. He’s on death row in San Quentin.”
That information meant nothing to Vining. The lieutenant in Tucson had also been certain they’d nailed Johnna Alwin’s murderer. He was wrong.
Early said, “We’ve tentatively identified with some confidence the women in three of the four drawings. One is you, Nan. One is Ranger Marilu Feathers, and one is Officer Cookie Silva.”
Kissick held up the drawing that depicted Johnna Alwin on the floor of the storage closet. “This is the only one we haven’t identified. Still, we have nothing to link these women to your attacker.”
Two of them are wearing identical pearl necklaces, Vining thought. It’s right in front of you.
She just nodded. She knew that Early’s assigning Kissick to work the leads full-time was a boon to the investigation, especially now. T B. Mann was stirring in his hole, darting out, taking risks. It was a good time to ramp up the chase, yet she again had her hands tied with a new homicide investigation. Kissick could spend all the time heneeded and openly travel to follow up leads, whereas she’d had to sneak around and pay expenses out of her own pocket. But without giving him the information she had, she could see these new leads being squandered, turning into dead ends or worse.
Get too close, too soon and everything could disappear. Revealing the evidence she had could keep the investigation on course, but how could she tell all without hanging herself?
Kissick had found out about one of her infractions. He knew she’d stolen Nitro’s necklace. He’d kept her secret. She didn’t want to risk revealing more to him. If he told her secrets, her career would be dust. If he kept them, he’d put his career at risk. She cared about him too much to do that. Her motives were not completely altruistic. She also didn’t want him to learn about the dark
Early held out her hand for the drawing of the dangling woman, which Kissick gave her. “So while Jim and I were looking at this sketch, a murder that happened in Colina Vista popped into my head.”
Colina Vista was one among the string of what locals called the foothill cities. They numbered about a dozen, and the northern border of each abutted Angeles National Forest in the San Gabriel Mountains. Pasadena was one of the largest. Several of the foothill cities were little more than villages, throwbacks to a gentler era tucked away from the hustle-bustle of their larger neighbors and blissfully free of most of their big-city problems. Their well-heeled, well-educated, and mostly Caucasian residents shared other traits— disdain of urbansprawl and chain retailers, fear of wildfires, and a fierce protectiveness of their lifestyle.
The twin cities of Colina Vista and its neighbor, Sierra Madre, the jewels in the crown, had both been mountain resort towns in the late 1800s. Both shared a deep connection with the Pasadena P.D. Each had a female police chief who had come up through the ranks of the PPD. Colina Vista was the smaller of the two towns, with a population of barely 7,500 and a police department of eleven sworn officers, plus the chief.
“I called the Colina Vista P.D. earlier this morning,” the sergeant said. “Of course, my friend Betsy Gilroy was already at her desk. Do you know Chief Gilroy, Nan?”
“Not personally,” Vining replied. “I’m familiar with her reputation.”
“She was deputy chief at the time of the murder I was recalling. It happened ten years ago. The victim was a young female police officer named Clarissa Silva. Her nickname was Cookie.”
Cookie Silva, Vining thought. My sister.
“Chief Gilroy was the lead investigator. She’s more than happy to discuss the case with Jim, though she says they got their man. He’s on death row in San Quentin.”
That information meant nothing to Vining. The lieutenant in Tucson had also been certain they’d nailed Johnna Alwin’s murderer. He was wrong.
Early said, “We’ve tentatively identified with some confidence the women in three of the four drawings. One is you, Nan. One is Ranger Marilu Feathers, and one is Officer Cookie Silva.”
Kissick held up the drawing that depicted Johnna Alwin on the floor of the storage closet. “This is the only one we haven’t identified. Still, we have nothing to link these women to your attacker.”
Two of them are wearing identical pearl necklaces, Vining thought. It’s right in front of you.
She just nodded. She knew that Early’s assigning Kissick to work the leads full-time was a boon to the investigation, especially now. T B. Mann was stirring in his hole, darting out, taking risks. It was a good time to ramp up the chase, yet she again had her hands tied with a new homicide investigation. Kissick could spend all the time heneeded and openly travel to follow up leads, whereas she’d had to sneak around and pay expenses out of her own pocket. But without giving him the information she had, she could see these new leads being squandered, turning into dead ends or worse.
Get too close, too soon and everything could disappear. Revealing the evidence she had could keep the investigation on course, but how could she tell all without hanging herself?
Kissick had found out about one of her infractions. He knew she’d stolen Nitro’s necklace. He’d kept her secret. She didn’t want to risk revealing more to him. If he told her secrets, her career would be dust. If he kept them, he’d put his career at risk. She cared about him too much to do that. Her motives were not completely altruistic. She also didn’t want him to learn about the dark
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