Chapter Twelve
Twelve
Willits, California
Oh no.
Elle could smell the death as she, Ronan, and the SWAT team approached the sheds she and Sara had seen in the drone footage. She pulled a mask from the pocket of her jacket and slipped it over her nose and mouth.
This was awful. Someone was dead and had been for a long time.
“I hope it’s an animal,” she said quietly, but she didn’t think so.
“We’ll see” was all Ronan answered, because he didn’t think so, either.
It wasn’t an animal.
She sighed when they came to the sheds. The two growers lay dead on the ground, bullet holes in their heads. She stood back, letting Ronan take the lead. He crouched beside the older man, pulling on a pair of gloves before he nudged at the man’s arm.
“Either rigor’s set in or they’re frozen. I think it’s the second one. Willits hasn’t gotten above freezing for the past week.”
Elle frowned. There were no outward signs of decomposition, although they had been a snack for the local predators. “They shouldn’t smell so bad yet. Not if they’re frozen.”
“I know.” Ronan stood and directed the SWAT team to open the sheds.
Rifles at the ready in case they were met with resistance, they checked one shed at a time, grimacing at the odors within each of the temporary structures—death mixed with the scent of weed, as the sheds were most definitely grow houses.
“It’s the water,” one of the deputies said as he emerged from one of the sheds, closing its door. “We need to find the water source.”
“Fan out,” Ronan instructed. “Do a grid search. Stay in contact. Elle, you’re with me.”
Elle was glad he wasn’t making her stay behind. She didn’t want to look at the dead growers. I should have told Ronan sooner. They might still be alive.
Yes, the men had threatened her and Sara, and they’d shot Reece Miller, but she didn’t want them dead. Just in prison for their many crimes.
“I wonder if Miller’s wife was telling the truth about Miller’s altercation with the growers,” she said aloud as they began walking, following their noses. “Did they really shoot him? Or did Miller kill them?”
“Depends on how long they’ve been dead,” Ronan said. “If less than a week, there’s no way that Miller could have done it. Not with a wound like that. He could barely move, much less hike out here to kill the growers.”
“Weapon’s wrong, too,” she said. “Those bullet holes weren’t from a shotgun, like Miller had in the tent. They’re too precise.”
“Probably, yes. Depends on the ammo used and the distance. We’ll know more when the coroner digs the bullets out of their heads.”
Elle’s stomach churned, both at the mental image and the smell of decomposition that grew stronger as they walked. They were getting closer.
“They still could have shot Miller like he claimed,” she said, trying to keep her mind off her queasy stomach, “but there’s someone else out here.”
“Which is why I didn’t leave you back there alone.”
“Thanks. But also so that you’d be able to keep an eye on me so I don’t do anything more to impede your investigation.”
“That too,” he admitted. Ronan paused, looking at the ground. “There. Part of a hose.”
It had been buried in the dirt, but only an inch or two below the surface. “Irrigation system for the sheds?” she asked.
“I think so. We’re going the right direction.”
They continued forward, the smell becoming more intense with every step.
“Oh my God,” Elle breathed, trying not to vomit.
“You need to take a break?”
She shook her head, powering through the nausea. “No. I’m okay. Let’s keep going.”
But it was hard. When she thought she wouldn’t be able to take another step, Ronan stopped.
Elle squinted, her eyes watering from the stench. “What is it?”
“The well the growers hijacked to water their crop.” He pointed to a squat concrete cylinder, about three feet in diameter. The concrete lid lay to the side, broken into pieces. “There’s the well head.”
Bile rose to burn her throat. “I thought wells were smaller these days.”
“Residential wells, yes. Those are maybe six inches in diameter. That’s an industrial well, meant for the ranch.”
She swallowed. “You think there’s a body in the well?” Then she froze, remembering a conversation from two weeks earlier. She felt even sicker than she had before, but this new wave of nausea came from dread. “Like the Hells Angels did to those bodies in the seventies?”
Ronan gave her a sharp glance. “Yes, I do think there’s a body in the well. Why do you mention the Hells Angels?”
Elle could see the young woman on horseback in her mind, her smiling face. She remembered her sweet contentment with her life.
“No,” she whispered as Ronan called to the other SWAT members on his radio, telling them to join him at the well head. “We didn’t ask her about Miller. It can’t be her.”
Ronan put his radio away. “Who?” he demanded.
“Kasey. Kasey Arnold. It can’t be her. We hired her to give us a guided tour of the area on horseback. But we never mentioned Miller’s name. Not once.”
Ronan went still. “Why would you think it was her, then?”
“Because she told us that story. About the Hells Angels in the seventies.”
He studied her for a moment. “That’s a stretch, Elle.”
“I know. That’s why it can’t be her. It just can’t be. Miller can’t have known about her. That’s insane.”
“You stay here. I’m going to check.”
She nodded numbly. It can’t be her. But all she could think about was Dianne Foster and Steve Garfield. Dead after she and Sara had talked to them.
But they’d talked to Dianne and Steve about Miller.
With Kasey, they’d only talked about the terrain, the history of the county, and the fake movie they’d claimed to be making.
She watched as the SWAT team reassembled. One of them had a GoPro camera and they tied it to a rope, lowering it down into the well.
She watched the expressions on their faces as the men stood around the well. Repulsion at the smell, anger at what they saw on the GoPro screen.
And sadness as they pulled the camera back out.
Ronan had his sat phone in his hand, and he held it next to the phone of the deputy who’d been operating the GoPro.
He looked back at Elle over his shoulder and gave one grim nod.
He approached her carefully, his expression blank.
He gave her his sat phone, where a photo of Kasey Arnold filled the screen.
It was from her Instagram page and she was smiling.
“This is the woman who took you on a guided tour?” Ronan asked, his tone gruff. Harsh.
She nodded. Swallowed.
Closed her eyes, but the tears seeped from her eyelids, nonetheless.
“That’s…her? In the well?”
“Yeah.” He put his phone away with a sigh. “Elle, you’re going to need to come with me. We have questions for you.”
She nodded again, still numb. “Okay.”
Ukiah, California
Monday, February 2, 6:30 p.m.
“Well?” Howard asked, standing at the two-way mirror, looking at Elle, who sat at the table in the interrogation room. “Did she do it?”
“No,” Ronan said. She’d hidden things from him, but he was certain she hadn’t killed anyone.
She sat quietly, her hands clutched on the table. She shivered and he didn’t think it was from the cold. She’d removed her new coat and only wore a sweater and her ever-present leather jacket.
“Why’d she lawyer up, then?” Howard asked, pointing to the woman sitting beside her.
“Because she’s not stupid. She said that she and the lawyer were old friends from college. She didn’t know who to call around here.”
Howard harrumphed. “I thought she was a lawyer herself.”
“She is. She practiced family law in Florida. I don’t think she got an attorney because she’s guilty, Howard. I think she got an attorney because she’s smart enough to see how bad this looks for her.”
Howard exhaled quietly. “We’ve got ourselves a mess, don’t we?”
“Yeah. We do. You want to stay here while we talk to her or go in the room with us?”
“I’ll stay here. You and Gary can handle it when he gets here.”
“I’m here.” Gary entered the observation room carrying a box, which he put on one of the chairs. He gave Ronan a look that did not bode well. “I found some things when I searched her room at the inn.”
They’d gotten a search warrant on the basis of Elle’s connection to all three victims. Ronan had been surprised that he’d been successful at getting the warrant.
He didn’t think the connection was sufficient, but a judge thought it was.
Gary had executed the warrant, personally handling the search since he’d been on the coast wrapping up the scene at Steve Garfield’s house.
Ronan didn’t want to look in the box, but he knew he had to. “What did you find?”
Pulling on a pair of gloves, Gary opened the box and lifted out a laptop and a manila envelope. “Laptop is consistent with the make and model used by Steve Garfield. Doesn’t mean it’s his, but it’s the same kind.”
Well, shit. This really wasn’t looking good for Elle. “And the envelope?”
Gary opened it, shaking the contents onto his palm.
Ronan stiffened, recognizing the jewelry Gary held. “Dianne Foster’s brooch.” The one she wore every day. The one her late husband had given her.
The one that had been taken from her lapel the night she’d been murdered.
“Shit,” he whispered.
Gary nodded. “Yeah. Sorry, Ronan.”
Ronan shook his head, not believing any of this. “Was there anything belonging to the Arnold girl?”
Gary reached into the box again. “This book.”
It was a textbook.
A nursing textbook.
Ronan had seen one exactly like it that morning. In Penny’s hand just before she dropped it into her book bag.
“Give me a second,” he said, taking his cell phone from his pocket. “One of my daughter’s classmates went missing two weeks ago. Penny got a text from the girl saying that she was skipping town, so she couldn’t finish their project.”
“You think that was the Arnold girl?” Howard asked.
“I’m going to find out.”
He typed a quick text to Penny.
What’s the name of the partner who left you high and dry on that project?
Her reply came seconds later. Kasey Arnold. Why?
Ronan’s heart sank. When did she send you that text telling you she was leaving town?