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  Sam recalled another crime scene where a man had beaten his four-year-old stepson to death in a drunken rage because the boy ate a sandwich left on the kitchen counter. He used a pipe, and the kid’s head looked like a rotten pumpkin that had caved in on itself. She pushed the memory aside and focused on what Larson was saying. “…so officially we have no leads as to motive.”

  “You don’t really mean that, though.”

  Larson looked at her impassively. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “The shallow knife wounds. Maybe somebody wanted the victim to tell them something he wouldn’t…or couldn’t. Either one of those are potential motives.”

  The detective’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “Yeah, I considered both scenarios. But I don’t like thinking out loud in the press. If someone was torturing him for information, he either didn’t know what they wanted, or he was one stubborn son of a bitch to take that many cuts.”

  “Any indication of how many perpetrators there might have been?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “Any signs of a struggle?”

  “None apparent.”

  “Who found him?”

  “A couple of kids riding their off-road vehicles. Their dad called 911 from his cell phone. And before you ask, Ham figures he was killed sometime after midnight.”

  “Care if I look around a little?”

  “Don’t go inside the tapes—forensics still hasn’t finished—but I can’t stop you from the rest of the desert.”

  Sam headed toward Dr. Newman, now leaning against a rock several yards away from the cordoned off crime scene, watching the body being photographed. She caught a glimpse of the victim. The top of his head was missing but the youthful face was intact, a death mask of incredulity. His eyes were open and clouded over. Back at the dawn of forensics, criminalists believed the last image a person saw before death was permanently imprinted in the eye. If you could see deeply enough into the pupil, the face of the killer would be revealed.

  The photographer finished and Sam introduced herself to the deputy coroner. “Doctor Newman, can I ask you a quick question?”

  “I don’t know why not.” He jabbed a thumb in the direction of the body, “That guy’s not being much company.”

  “Was he killed here?”

  “I’d say yes. There were no tracks in the sand indicating he was dragged to this spot and there’s plenty of blood underneath his head. Those knife wounds were a nasty bit of work. Forensics will have the final word on that, but that’s how I see it.”

  Sam thanked him and wandered over to where a trio of boulders jutted out, forming an overhang. The base sloped sharply back, forming a convenient natural cove. Unless you were headed here from straight ahead, this area would be hidden from view. Out of habit, Sam pulled a small Nikon digital out of her bag and began snapping pictures of the crime scene. Most reporters had switched to their cell phones for photos, but the Nikon was more likely to pick up some detail her eyes missed.

  Off to her right Larson and some other cops stood in a loose circle talking. So she headed the other direction. Over the years, she’d found all sorts of interesting things by walking away from crime scenes. The location of the victim was often the end of the story; the beginning may have started somewhere else, and backtracking was one of the best ways Sam knew to find leads.

  The sun reflected harshly off the nearby rocks, and she squinted behind her sunglasses, studying the stark surroundings where the victim spent his final moments. At night, deceptive shadows full of footfalls would make navigating difficult. And the isolation would be total—you couldn’t even see the highway, which was blocked by a row of trees planted along the shoulder of the road.

  A natural assumption would be that the killer, or killers, had taken the victim to that remote location. If not for the kids on the ATVs, who knows how long it would have been before the body was found. Sam tapped her pencil against the pad. She couldn’t explain why anyone would be out here in the first place, especially in the middle of the night. The boulders offered ground cover and plenty of hiding spots. What if the victim led the killer or killers to that spot?

  Sam walked another fifteen minutes, stopping when the laces of her right shoe came loose. She squatted to retie them, heat billowing off the ground like a steam vent. The theme song to the Death Valley Days TV series popped into her head, accompanied by visions of her sun-bleached bones.

  “This is seriously insane.” Fatigued and uncomfortably thirsty, she decided to head back to the car.

  It wasn’t until Sam braced to stand that she saw it. Twenty feet away, beneath a relatively healthy bush, something yellow was half-buried in the sand. She trotted over for a closer look. It appeared to be clothing. When covering crime full time, Sam always carried latex gloves for situations like this. Now she had to improvise. Unable to find a stick she used her pen to carefully tug the cloth out of its shallow grave. It was a lightweight windbreaker and the white racing stripes down the left sleeve were spotted with rust-colored dots that could be dried blood.

  Pinned to the vest pocket flap was an Elect Konrad campaign button, black letters against a green background. Posters of the same logo were plastered over every bus bench in the city. Ellen Konrad was an Oscar- and Emmy-winning film and TV star turned local political dynamo running for mayor.

  Thinking she was going to die of exposure any second, Sam lifted the flap and peered inside the pocket. On top was a pack of matches with Crazy Girl Lounge stamped on the front, the G in the shape of a girl kicking her leg in the air. She nudged the matches aside and underneath was a $10 bill and a driver’s license. The face in the picture gazed at the camera with a self-conscious smirk, unkempt hair falling to his eyes. Sam recognized the face and maneuvered the license until she could read the name and address. She wrote the information in her notebook then closed the flap.

  Sam took pictures of the jacket then surveyed the craggy terrain. The windbreaker’s bright color and racing sleeves would be an unwelcome beacon for someone trying to disappear into the mountainside.

  “So, Jeff Rydell, why were you out here in the middle of nowhere in the first place? And who were you running from?”

  • • •

  Two morgue attendants were maneuvering Rydell into a body bag when Sam got back to the crime scene. She took Larson aside and told him what she’d found. “I recognized his face from when they were photographing the body.”

  “You touched the jacket?”

  “Not with my hands, no.”

  “But you still moved it.”

  “It was a mile away from here,” Sam replied calmly. “Once I realized it was related to the case, I left it and came straight here to tell you.”

  “I’m sure you did,” he sounded annoyed. “Okay, where is it?”

  She pointed off to her left, “Beneath a bush that way.”

  “Okay,” Larson took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You need to withhold the name until we notify relatives.”

  “We don’t go to press for the print edition again until Thursday night,” Sam hedged, unwilling to commit. If Rydell was a transient, finding relatives might prove difficult.

  Larson nodded and strode unhappily away.

  Twenty-five minutes and a half-quart of sweat later, Sam called Marlene from the car.

  “Where are you? I can barely hear you,” her editor yelled into the phone.

  “Sorry.” She turned down the air conditioning. “That better?”

  “Yeah. So tell me.”

  “The short version is the victim was named Jeff Rydell. He was tortured then had his head bashed in to resemble Hannibal Lector’s last meal.”

  “Descriptive literary allusion.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So, do you want me to assign the story to someone else…or did you want to work it?”

  Sam fiddled with the air vent. As emotionally and spiritually draining it was to witness the brutality of murder, the intellectual challenge a
nd life-and-death drama inherent in reporting crime was addictive as an opiate. If only human beings weren’t involved it would be a perfect profession. “Let me see how it goes today,” she finally said.

  “Fine. I’ll leave it in your hands.” Her editor was gracious enough to say it without a hint of I told you so.

  • • •

  Between Alejo and Ramon, Palm Canyon turned into a one-way street through downtown, becoming Indian Drive’s southbound counterpart. The patios of every restaurant Sam drove past were shrouded in moist fog from water misters cooling the hardy souls eating outside. She spotted Ellen Konrad’s green and black draped campaign headquarters on Arenas Road. Sam reasoned that if Jeff Rydell supported the candidate enough to wear a campaign button on his clothing, he might have been inspired enough to volunteer.

  Based on the mission-inspired shape of the doorway arch, the headquarters used to be a Mexican restaurant. Sam parked across the street and peered through the sparkling clean windows. Despite being a sultry Sunday morning, the office was abuzz with activity as busy worker bees manned the phones and scurried around with clipboards and computer printouts. Even if they weren’t accomplishing much, they certainly looked dedicated.

  Nobody noticed Sam walk in. After waiting politely and being completely ignored for a few minutes, she grabbed one of the earnest workers rushing by.

  “Excuse me; can you tell me who’s in charge?”

  “Are you looking to get some literature or to sign up as a volunteer?” the young woman asked hopefully. She wore tinted glasses and her hair hung loose, covering much of her face. The delicate features reminded Sam of Daphne on Scooby Doo.

  “Neither. I’m looking for someone who might help out here. His name is Jeff Rydell.” A flash of anger briefly animated the girl’s eyes then was gone just as quickly. “So you do know him?” Sam asked, intrigued by the reaction.

  “Yeah, but I don’t think he’s here,” she said, her demeanor now decidedly less friendly. “Are you a friend of his?”

  “No. I’m a reporter.”

  The girl she took a wary step back. “You should probably talk to Luke. Lucas Konrad.”

  “Any relation to the candidate?”

  “He’s her son. But he’s in a meeting right now.”

  “With his mother?”

  “No, with Phil. Atkins.”

  “And who is that?”

  “He’s our campaign manager.” She moved away, avoiding eye contact, “I’m sorry, I have to go,” and retreated into one of several small cubicles lining the left-hand wall. Next to the girl’s work space was a well-used mountain bike with a gray and black messenger bag hanging on the handle bars. Sam half expected the girl to jump on and take off.

  At the far end of the room was an office with glass panels on either side of the door, through which she could see two men hunched over engaged in an intense—bordering on heated—discussion. Sam strolled to the door and knocked, amused to see them both jump. Luke was tall and lanky with dark hair and anxious eyes.

  And this would be Shaggy, she smiled to herself.

  Phil Atkins looked straight out of Central Casting: middle-aged, balding, a cigar clenched between his teeth, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow…every bit the stereotypical politico—or the living embodiment of Mr. Spacely on The Jetsons.

  I’ve been watching way too much Cartoon Network.

  Atkins opened the door. “May we help you?”

  Phil’s smile stopped at his lips and Sam distrusted him on sight. “I hope so. I was wondering if either of you knows a young man named Jeff Rydell?”

  The smile faded. “Should we?” Atkins asked.

  “Shouldn’t you?”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Samantha Perry. I’m a reporter for the Weekender.”

  “I didn’t know the Weekender was starting to take such an interest in politics.”

  “Oh, we know we’re number two, so we’re trying harder these days. But this isn’t really about politics.”

  “Whatever it’s about, I’m afraid we can’t help you,” Atkins said impatiently. “Nobody by that name is here.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted to see him, I just wondered if either of you knew him.”

  “Why?”

  “Jeff Rydell was found murdered this morning.”

  The silence in the room was so sharp she could hear the ticking of Atkins’ wristwatch. Neither man moved for several seconds. Sam waited, feeling suspended in a still life.

  Luke finally spoke. “I know Jeff,” he acknowledged, ignoring Atkins’ glare. “I’m more involved with our personnel than Phil is. Are you sure it’s him?”

  “Completely.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was basically beaten to death.”

  “Oh, God,” Luke went pale and Sam moved to the side—vomiting was a common reaction to murder.

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “Jeff was very…dedicated.”

  “I meant, can you tell me anything about his background, like where he was from, or if he ever mentioned family?”

  “No, it never came up. Our relationship was all about the campaign so we didn’t really get into personal stuff. Around here we mostly just talk politics.”

  “You don’t ask your volunteers for any kind of personal information?”

  “They’re not being paid, you know, by the campaign,” Konrad said.

  “Any idea where he worked or hung out?”

  Luke shook his head and looked away. Sam noticed sweat stains forming on his shirt.

  “I don’t suppose you know of any reason why someone would kill him? Could he have been involved with drugs or some other illegal activities?”

  Atkins bristled at the suggestion. “As far as we know, none of our workers are involved in drugs. We run a clean ship. We have to,” he added with a conviction that bordered on menacing.

  Sam doubted Atkins would stand for somebody’s unsavory habits getting in the way of an election, and he was clearly a man with a tempter. But there were easier ways of bouncing a volunteer than killing them. Still, it was obvious both Atkins and Konrad knew more than they were letting on. She fished two business cards out of her pocket and put them on the desk.

  “If you think of someone who might know anything about Rydell’s background, I’d appreciate you giving me a call. We’ll be running a story in Friday’s edition.”

  Sam closed the door behind her and resisted the impulse to turn around. But she was sure Atkins and Konrad watched her until she walked out the front door and into the blinding sunlight.

  • • •

  A trail of discarded, damp clothes littered the floor from the front door to the master bathroom. Sam stood under the spray of water, her second shower before noon.

  “Do you suppose Lady Macbeth started this way?” she asked Alpha and Omega while drying off.

  Sam dressed quickly and finger brushed her wet hair. She sat at her desk and scanned the Palm Springs phone book. There was no listing for any Rydell. But then again, there wouldn’t be if he was a new resident. Sam called directory assistance and was connected to an automated operator.

  “Are you looking for a business or —”

  “A residence,” Sam impatiently spoke over the recording; voice recognition systems annoyed the hell out of her.

  “I’m sorry…I didn’t understand you. Are you looking for a business or a residence?”

  “A residence.”

  “What city?”

  “Palm Springs.”

  “That’s Palmdale, correct?”

  “No, that’s not God damn correct—”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t understand you. What city?”

  Sam angrily punched buttons until she got a live operator. “In Palm Springs or anywhere nearby, is there a listing for a Jeff or J. Rydell? It’s probably a relatively new listing.”

  When trying to find someone, the obvious approach wa
s the one most frequently overlooked. Although celebrities and bigwigs of all types have unlisted numbers, the majority of people who had land lines were still listed in the local white pages.

  “There’s a Jeffery Rydell in Palm Springs.”

  “Is there an address listed, too?”

  “3101 Desert Wash Road. Please hold for the number.”

  The address matched the one on the license so this was the right Jeffrey Rydell. Sam dialed the number hoping to reach a roommate, but the phone rang in apparent solitude.

  Sam leaned back in her chair to mentally organize her day. The clock on the microwave read 11:27. Should she go to Rydell’s address right now before the cops had a chance to or grab a bite at Elmer’s first? As she debated, her eyes drifted to the wall calendar…

  Sam slammed her hand on the desk. “Godammit!”

  The dogs scattered, and Dorian flapped his wings in alarm, blowing a blizzard of seed onto the hardwood floor. “Oh shit, Joe…I forgot about Joe.”

  Joe Sapone, her best friend since high school, was flying in today from Chicago for a visit, and she was supposed to pick him up at LAX. His flight was due in at 1:00. It was usually a two-hour drive.

  “Dammit, dammit, dammit.”

  Sam raced through the condo, grabbing her keys and wallet. Now confident they were not the objects of her upset, Alpha and Omega trotted behind her expectantly. Sam gently pushed them back with the side of her foot. “No, you guys stay.” But when she opened the door to leave, the girls stood at the threshold with tails wagging and heads tilted in unison. An easy touch for canine manipulation, she gave in. “Oh, all right, come on. But hurry up, we’re late.”

  Sam didn’t relax until she was speeding down Highway 111 significantly over the posted limit. She had a convertible but kept the top up, always half-worried the dogs could blow out of the car. Sam glimpsed herself in the rearview mirror and felt a shot of despair—she never blow-dried her hair. She’d see Joe for the first time in two years looking like Edward Scissorhands.

  “Just great,” she muttered. Alpha, the runt of her litter, yawned and shamelessly pushed onto Sam’s lap, curling into a comfortable ball while Omega sprawled out on the passenger seat. “And look at you two…you’re beginning to look like sheep.”