Chapter One
That Sunday evening Tim Hess lumbered down the sidewalk to
the snack stand at 15th Street. The skaters parted but
paid him no attention. It was cool for August and the red
flag on the lifeguard house pointed stiff to the east. The
air smelled of the Pacific and ketchup.
Hess got coffee and headed across the sand. He sat down on
the picnic bench and squinted out at the waves. A big
south swell was coming and the sea looked lazy and
dangerous.
A minute later Chuck Brighton joined him at the table. His
tie flapped in the breeze and his white hair flared up on
one side then lay down again. He set a briefcase onto the
bench and sat down beside it facing Hess. He tore open a
pack of sugar.
"Hello, boss," said Hess.
"Tim, how are you feeling?"
"I feel damned good, considering. Just look at me."
Brighton looked at him and said nothing. Then he leaned
forward on his elbows. He was a big man and when he
shifted his weight on the wooden bench Hess could feel the
table move because the benches and the table were
connected with steel pipe. Hess looked at the angry waves
again. He had lived his childhood here in Newport Beach,
well over half a century ago.
"You'll have to feel damn good for something like this. I
haven't seen anything like it since Kraft. It would have
to happen now, six months after my best detective retires."
Hess didn't acknowledge the compliment. Brighton had
always been as generous with his praise as he was with his
punishments. They'd worked together for over forty years
and they were friends.
"We can put you back on payroll as a consultant. Full
time, and you get all the medical. Forget the Medicare
runaround."
"That's what I'm after."
Brighton smiled in a minor key. "I think you're after more
than that, Tim. I think you need a way to stay busy, keep
your hand in things."
"There is that."
"He's got to be some kind of psychopath. There really
isn't much to go on yet. This kinda guy makes me sick."
Hess had suspected but now he knew. "The National Forest
dumps."
"Dump isn't really the word. But you saw the news. They
both went missing from shopping malls, at night. Cops
waited the usual forty-eight to take the missing persons
reports. The first was half a year ago, the Newport woman.
We found her purse and the blood. That was a month after
she bought nylons at Neiman-Marcus, walked out and
disappeared forever."
Brighton squared his briefcase, fingered the latches, then
sighed and folded his hands on it.
"Then yesterday late, the Laguna one. A week ago she went
to the Laguna Hills Mall and vanished from sight. Hikers
found her purse. The ground near it was soaked in blood
again--like the first. It'll hit the news tomorrow--repeat
this, serial that. More mayhem on the Ortega Highway. Both
the victims--apparent victims--were good people, Tim.
Young, attractive, bright women. People loved them. One
married, one not."
Hess remembered the newspaper picture. One of those women
who seems to have it all, then has nothing at all.
He looked up the crowded sidewalk toward his apartment and
drank more coffee. It made his teeth ache but his teeth
ached most of the time now anyway.
"So, it's two sites off the Ortega in Cleveland National
Forest, about a hundred yards apart. They're eight miles
this side of the county line. Two patches of blood-stained
ground. Blood-drenched is how the crime scene investigator
described it. Scraps of human viscera likely at the second
one. Lab's working up the specimens. No bodies. No
clothing. No bones. Nothing. Just the purses left behind,
with the credit cards still in them, no cash, no driver's
licenses. Some kind of fetish or signature, I guess.
They're half a year apart, but it's got to be the same
guy."
"Everyday women's purses?"
"If bloodstained and chewed by animals is everyday."
"What kind of animals?"
"Hell, Tim. I don't know."
Hess didn't expect an answer. It was not the kind of
answer the sheriff-coroner of a county of 2.7 million
needed to have. But he asked because scavengers have
differing tastes and habits, and if you can establish what
did the eating you can estimate how fresh it was. You
could build a time line, confirm or dispute one. It was
the kind of knowledge that you got from forty-two years as
a deputy, thirty in homicide.
We are old men, Hess thought. The years have become hours
and this is what we do with our lives.
He looked at the sheriff. Brighton wore the brown wool-mix
off-the-rack sport coats that always make cops look like
cops. Hess wore one too, though he was almost half a year
off the force.
"Who's got it?" asked Hess.
"Well, Phil Kemp and Merci Rayborn got the call for the
Newport Beach woman. Her name was Lael Jillson. That was
back in February. So this should be theirs, too, but
there's been some problems."
Hess knew something of the problems. "Kemp and Rayborn. I
thought that was a bad combination."
"I know. We thought two opposites would make one whole,
and we were wrong. I split them up a couple of months ago.
Phil's fine with that. I wasn't sure who to put her with,
to tell you the truth. Until now."
Hess knew something of Merci Rayborn. Her father was a
longtime Sheriff Department investigator--burg/theft,
fraud, then administration. Hess never knew him well. He
had accepted a pink-labeled cigar when Merci was born, and
he had followed her life through brief conversations with
her father. To Hess she was more a topic than a person, in
the way that children of co-workers often are.
At first she was a department favorite, but the novelty of
a second-generation deputy wore off fast. There were a
half dozen of them. Hess had found her to be aggressive,
bright and a little arrogant. She'd told him she expected
to run the homicide detail by age forty, the crimes
against persons section by fifty, then be elected sheriff-
coroner at fifty-eight. She was twenty-four at the time,
working the jail as all Sheriff Department yearlings do.
In the decade since then, she had not become widely liked.
She seemed the opposite of her soft-spoken, modest father.
Hess thought it amusing how generations alternated traits
so nimbly--he had seen it in his own nieces and nephews.
"Tim, she filed that lawsuit Friday afternoon. Went after
Kemp for sexual harassment going back almost ten years.
Physical stuff, she says. Well, by close of the workday
two more female deputies had told the papers they were
going to join in, file suits too. The lawyer's talking
class action. So we've got a lot of deputies taking sides,
the usual battle lines. I was sorry Rayborn did it,
because basically she's a good investigator for being that
young. I don't know what to make of those complaints. No
one's ever complained about Phil before, except for him
being Phil. Maybe that's enough these days. I don't know."
Hess saw the disappointment. For a public figure Brighton
was a private man, and he bore his department's troubles
as if they sprung from his own heart. He had always
avoided conflict and wanted to be liked.
"I'll try to fly under all that."
"Good luck."
"What did the dogs find?" he asked.
"They worked a couple of trails between the sites and a
fire road about a hundred yards south of the highway. The
two trails were real close to each other--a hundred yards
or so. He parked and carried them through the brush. Did
whatever he does. Carried them back out, apparently.
Besides that, nothing."
"How much blood?"
"We'll run saturation tests on soil from the new scene.
Janet Kane was her name. With the first, most of it's
dried up and decomposed. The lab might get some useful
DNA. They're trying."
"I thought you'd find them buried out there."
"So did I. Dogs, methane probe, chopper, zip. A pea-sized
part of my brain says they still might be alive."
Hess paused a moment to register his opinion on the
subject of this hope. Then, "We might want to draw a
bigger circle."
"That's up to you and Merci. Merci and you, to be exact.
Her show, you know."
Hess turned and stared out at the riptides lacing the pale
green ocean. He could feel Brighton's eyes on him.
"You do look good," said the sheriff. The breeze brought
his words back toward Hess.
"I feel good."
"You're tougher than a boiled owl, Tim."
Hess could hear the sympathy in Brighton's voice. He knew
that Brighton loved him but the tone pricked his pride and
his anger, too.
The two men stood and shook hands.
"Thanks, Bright."
The sheriff opened his briefcase and handed Hess two green
cardboard files secured by a thick rubber band. The top
cover was stamped copy in red.
"There's some real ugly in this one, Tim."
"Absolutely."
"Stop by Personnel soon as you can. Marge'll have the
paperwork ready."
© 2003-2026