Dark Justice(57)

Months later we would verify that the blood drops in the Shire residence matched the blood of this latest victim. But at the time we could only surmise this man had been in the Shire home and taken the items. This now left four dead men connected to Hannah Shire.

MORSE: What about the real identity of this victim?

WADE: His driver’s license read Arthur Rozland, age 34, of San Bruno, California. He was divorced, a father of two. No criminal record.

MORSE: Yet you couldn’t possibly believe this man was as innocent as the other three victims. He’d posed as an FBI agent and stolen two items from the Shire residence. And he looked like one of the two men who’d threatened Hannah Shire the previous afternoon.

WADE. He could have been one of those men—assuming Mrs. Shire’s story was true.

MORSE: Did you not make the connection between the video Hannah Shire gave you and the theft of her computer and backup drive?

WADE: She’d copied the video onto her own computer, but we told her to erase it. Talk about connections—at that point I had four homicides, and every one of the victims was connected to Mrs. Shire. Who had fled. And was refusing to turn herself in, despite public pleas that she do so.

MORSE: This man broke into her house and stole her computer!

WADE: As I told you before, there was no sign of forced entry. We surmised he’d been in her house, and maybe she’d shot him. But she could have let him in, and then some kind of argument ensued. Hannah Shire knew about the surveillance, and even which car our deputy was in. Maybe she told Rozland to come to her back door. Maybe she told him to shoot the deputy first.

MORSE: Did it not occur to you that this FBI poseur shot Deputy Williams on his own? And then expertly jimmied a lock to break into the Shire house?

WADE: That was a possibility. But without a tip from Hannah Shire, how could this man have known about the surveillance?

MORSE: Indeed, Sergeant Wade. How could he have known?





Chapter 32


Monday, February 25, 2013

The minutes seemed like hours. Emily huddled in the Mexican restaurant’s bathroom, clutching her cell phone. Any moment Rutger could show up. By now he could have followed the bus to its next stop and seen she wasn’t on board. He’d backtrack to this stop. Search the strip mall, asking if people had seen her. It didn’t help that three women had come in and out of the restroom, all eyeing her torn pants and wild expression with curiosity.

Five minutes passed. Six. Dave should be there by now.

Emily’s cell phone rang. Dave’s number. She jammed the Talk button. “Hi.”

“I’m in back of the building. There’s a rear entrance.”

“Be right there.”

She stuck her head out of the restroom, then eased out into the hallway. At the corner, she leaned around, peering across the tables of the small restaurant. No Rutger. No back door, either.

A waitress came by. Emily tapped her on the shoulder. “Where’s your back entrance?”

The young woman frowned. “Oh. You must mean the one through the kitchen.” She pointed. Emily limped toward the kitchen door. “Hey, that’s just for employees!”

Emily flung back the door and hurried through the bustling kitchen as fast as she could. Smells of eggs, cilantro, and sizzling tortillas swirled in the air. Heads turned to gaze at her, eyes taking in her limp, her frightened face. She kept going.

If Rutger came looking for her, she would be remembered.

The back door drew near. Emily ran outside, ignoring the pain in her knee. Dave sat waiting, his passenger door open. She threw herself into the car, sliding far down in the seat. “Go, go!”

Dave took off.

Emily unlooped the laptop bag’s handle off her head and shoulder. Pulled her cell phone out of her bag and turned it off. “Lock the doors.” She replaced her cell and tossed the bag in the backseat.

Safety. At least for the moment. Emily tried to breathe.

“Thank you. For saving my life.”

“What kind of car is he in?”

“Don’t know.” If only she did. How were they supposed to watch every car on the road?

“Baseball cap’s back there.” Dave pointed backward with his thumb. “Sorry I didn’t have a black wig handy.”

Emily reached into the backseat and snatched up the cap. She put it on her head and tried to shove her thick shoulder-length hair underneath. Her hair wouldn’t stay. She needed bobby pins. Something.

“Doesn’t work?” Dave glanced at her.

“No.” She gave up and slipped further down in the seat. Unless Rutger was up high in a truck, he wouldn’t be able to see her.

“That knee doesn’t look very good.” Dave gestured toward it with his chin.