Part 13: Edge
"We figure the shooter was somewhere in those hills," Cheryl said, pointing toward a slight rise, populated by trees and bushes. She then turned and pointed toward a section of upscale townhomes to their left. "It happened over here. Number 12111."
Mark followed alongside her as they walked in that direction. "Looks like the scene has already been cleaned up," he said, disappointed that the splotches he'd wanted to look at might be gone.
"I guess the owners didn't think it was a good selling point to have blood- splattered sidewalks," Cheryl said.
"Yeah," Mark chuckled.
Cheryl's phone rang at that moment, and so he went on toward the area and to see if there were any clues. As he'd suspected, the splotches were gone. The whole area of the sidewalk and the front stoop were snowy white. There was no evidence at all that a vicious murder had taken place here. Sam Jarvis' home looked as if it was waiting for him to return. But death had changed that. Jarvis wouldn't be back here.
Mark sighed and turned away. As he did so, a smile broke out over is face as a familiar form approached. It was Andy Keffer. The lawn guy.
"Dr. Sloan, what are you doing here?" He grinned as he approached. "I thought you had an appointment this morning? You didn't cancel didja? Findley was all ready to go out there."
Mark winced. "Oh, Andy, I completely forgot about it!" A quick glance at his watch revealed that it was probably already too late. The man should have been there five minutes prior. "But my son is there. Do you think that would be okay?"
"Oh, I'm sure it will," Andy smiled reassuringly at him. "Are you investigating what happened here?" He gestured toward Jarvis' door.
"Yes, I am. Did you know him?" Mark asked.
"Not really." Andy shook his head, then smiled mischievously. "You aren't going to get arrested today are you?"
Mark laughed. "Well, I certainly hope not." He gestured toward Cheryl who was still involved in her conversation. "She's a police officer, and I came with her this time." Mark leaned in, and continued, "I think she's got my back."
Andy laughed at Mark's use of the slang terminology. "You're a cool dude, Doc. But I've gotta get back to work. See ya round."
Mark raised a hand, bidding him goodbye. "Take care, Andy." He watched the young man move lankily back toward his equipment, thinking that he reminded him just a little of Steve when he was that age.
Steve. He reached for his cell phone, figuring that better late than never would have to do for warning his son of the appointment. At least he had been feeling much better that morning, so his conscience was eased a little at causing him to have to deal with the abrupt Findley.
He'd just started to dial when Cheryl approached. He held off on the call, noting her expression. He hoped she didn't have to go off on another assignment. He wasn't sure where the murder of Jeff Johansen had taken place, he would need her to show him. Or perhaps Amanda.
"That was Sternen," she said, referring to the new detective. "The lab is done with the prints. He's going through all of the names for the ones that were in the system, just in case, and comparing it to the list of everyone even remotely associated. You wouldn't know why Steve wanted to know about the north corner would you?"
Mark was confused. "The north corner of what?"
"Your gate out back. When I told him that CSU didn't find the bullet, but they had pulled prints off your gate, he asked if they would go through those on the north corner first."
"I really have no idea, Cheryl." Mark frowned, troubled. "He didn't mention anything to me."
"Okay." Cheryl accepted his answer. "Maeve's lawyer is chomping at the bit to put this thing to bed. The Captain has already gotten a call. Apparently her family is well connected. You wanna head over there and finish up?"
~*~
Steve found himself in the same position that his dad had been in earlier. Sitting on the deck, pouring over the information in front of him. The feeling of trouble had intensified the more he'd thought about it. He'd even strapped on his gun and badge, definitely not something he normally did at home.
Becoming frustrated with the Jarvis folder, he switched back to the envelope from the lawn service. He wasn't really convinced that he was going to find anything in it as to what was bothering him, but he was willing to try.
The first pages were about the company philosophy. It was overblown business propaganda, and it made his head hurt to read through it all. But near the back of the brochure, he found a separate sheet slipped in between the pages. 'References' was printed across the top in boldface. The update date was a recent one.
He quickly scanned down the list. M. Michaels Real Estate. Garden Brook Golf Course. He visually tripped over the third name down. Palm Terrace Condominiums. Sam Jarvis' home had been in Palm Terrace Condominiums. A trickle of adrenaline began to flow through his system, but he controlled it, making a little mark beside the name as he continued.
The fourth name gave him pause as well, but he wasn't sure why. Fairview Apartments. The address stated that they were located on Fairview Rd. The answer was on the tip of his mind when he was interrupted by the ringing of the phone.
~*~
While Cheryl entered the house, Mark wandered through the decorative wooden fencing that separated the back yard from the driveway. He was unsurprised to find that the beautiful landscaping continued even though this portion of the property wasn't visible to public view. Even the back yard wasn't truly visible. The property butted up against the far end of a golf course which was screened by a dense growth of trees and a tall chain link fence. But even the fence seemed to be a part of the overall scheme of the back yard. Findley had truly done an excellent job; a real labor of love.
Suddenly a thought occurred to him. He winced, remembering that he hadn't actually gotten around to calling Steve. It was probably far too late, now. After all, how long could it take to do an estimate? And as Steve hadn't called him to complain, he suspected that things were okay.
He turned away from the fencing, and headed toward the patio off the master bedroom. Crime scene tape surrounded the whole of the area, but he simply stepped under it. The curtains moved a fraction in his peripheral vision and he noted Cheryl looking outward. She pulled the curtains wider and waved at him. He smiled and waved back before getting down to the business of checking out the area.
There were a couple of lounge chairs and a table as well as the plants. As he looked down at the cement beneath his feet, he noted dark brown-green splotches against the otherwise light colored surface. He could almost hear the mental clicks as things began to fall into place in his mind. The splotches were Findley's special blend of fertilizer. That was what he'd seen in the picture at Sam Jarvis' place. Then there was Andy to make that connection as well. But Andy had also told him that Maeve had gotten Findley a big contract with some apartments on Fairview. Jeff Johansen had been killed on Fairview Rd. He was willing to bet that he lived in Fairview Apartments.
As he stood to go talk to Cheryl, for confirmation, he heard her voice. But it sounded tiny and artificial. She was obviously talking with someone at the precinct. Mark followed the sound to the box that was mounted to the wall of the patio and suddenly realized that it belonged to the intercom system. It must have been stuck on. A feeling of anxiety began.
He looked through the glass doors toward Cheryl and noted that she was standing near a blue chaise recliner. He recalled Steve sharing with him the conversation that he had with Maeve the day they'd discovered that she'd known Sam Jarvis. He'd mentioned in a dry tone that she'd sat in her favorite blue chair and told her friend Carla everything.
He looked from the chair to the broken intercom to the splotches on the patio. A chill ran through his heart when he next recalled whom he'd invited to his home that very morning. His eyes met up with Cheryl's, and when he saw the worry in her gaze, he new that she had something to tell him, and it wasn't good. Anxiety gave way to out right fear.
~*~
"Steve Sloan." Steve answered the phone a bit distractedly. It had rang while he went through the rest of the list of references. Because he hadn't thought to bring the cordless out to the deck with him, he'd had to go back into the den to answer it.
He looked up through the clear glass to see that Findley was standing on the deck, holding a clipboard. He was looking down at the things that Steve had been going over. His eyes locked with the man's for a moment, but then his attention was quickly drawn away at what Cheryl was telling him.
"We think Vincent Findley is somehow involved in this. His fingerprints were on the north corner of your fence. He was in the system because 5 years ago he was arrested for stalking and attempted assault. If he's there, be very careful, and don't try . . . ."
Cheryl's words faded to the background. It suddenly all made sense in Steve's mind. The figure he had seen that morning last week looking at him through binoculars. He would bet a week's wages that it had been Findley. He glanced back out toward the deck. He caught a blur of motion as the man disappeared off the deck.
"He's running!" Steve called into the phone before he dropped it and took off after the man. His body was stiff and sluggish, but he made good time weaving through the furniture and out onto the deck. He pulled his gun as he started down the steps, hearing the sound of Findley's booted feet as he jogged toward the front of the house.
Steve was starting to feel winded by the time he got around to the driveway and saw Findley climbing into a truck with the company logo on it. He raised his gun. "Stop, or I'll shoot!" he ordered.
Steve sighed when Findley ignored him and dove into the truck. Steve headed for his own truck which was parked in front of Findley's. The darker vehicle revved and was pulling out of the driveway by the time Steve retrieved his spare key from the wheel well. He had no intention of letting this killer get away. He realized that it had probably been this man who had taken a shot at him. He wasn't going to give him another chance to get it right. He started the truck and accelerated out of the driveway after him.
Fortunately, PCH wasn't overly busy at the moment. They had managed to find the lull in the noontime rush. Steve had no problems spotting Findley's truck speeding away ahead of him. Steve had the advantage of more horsepower in his engine and found that he was gaining on the smaller vehicle.
His cell phone rang as he closed the distance. He reached for it, knowing that it would be Cheryl. She'd probably be furious that he'd dropped the phone on her. "Yeah, Cheryl," he answered. "Kinda busy right now."
He was right. She started in on him, but he cut her off.
"I'm heading south along PCH, just pass our place. Findley's just ahead of me, driving a beige truck with the company logo on it. License plate number is . . . Highway patrol shouldn't have any problem picking him out if they've got someone near Arrowhead Point who can back track this way."
Cheryl made somewhat agreeable sounds and then there was a shuffling and Steve heard his father's voice on the phone.
"Steve, be --" He only caught the first bit of what Mark was saying as he and Findley were approaching an area where the road made a sharp turn. Signs warned of the curve where the pavement continued on to the left, but the land dropped off a short sandy overlook into a shallow run-off below. Findley was going to have to slow down at least a little if he was planning on make it through the turn.
"Give me a minute, Dad," he spoke quickly into the phone before throwing it on the seat beside him, knowing that he would need both hands to stay in control of the vehicle. A satisfied smile settled over his features as Findley tapped at his brakes. His gun was also on the seat beside him. If he could get alongside the other truck, he could probably compel him to pull over. If they made it to a clear, safe portion of the highway, he might even try to blow out his tires.
Glad of the plan, he tapped his brakes to slow as well. There was no response. His heart stopped as the pedal went all the way to the floor with little resistance and the vehicle only seemed to be gaining speed as the road declined toward the curve.
Time seemed to slow as he watched helplessly as events began to unfold. He was going too fast, he wasn't going to be able to stop. And he was too close to Findley for the man to get out of the way. The distance between the two vehicles narrowed. He thought he saw Findley's hands go up just before his larger Ford plowed into the back of the lawn truck.
There was a sickening, loud crunch first as they collided and then as Findley's automobile slammed through the thin metal barrier. It plunged out into open air. Steve knew for a certainty that his would follow. There was nothing he could do as his vehicle seemed to topple slowly over the side, inexorably following the one before it.
"We figure the shooter was somewhere in those hills," Cheryl said, pointing toward a slight rise, populated by trees and bushes. She then turned and pointed toward a section of upscale townhomes to their left. "It happened over here. Number 12111."
Mark followed alongside her as they walked in that direction. "Looks like the scene has already been cleaned up," he said, disappointed that the splotches he'd wanted to look at might be gone.
"I guess the owners didn't think it was a good selling point to have blood- splattered sidewalks," Cheryl said.
"Yeah," Mark chuckled.
Cheryl's phone rang at that moment, and so he went on toward the area and to see if there were any clues. As he'd suspected, the splotches were gone. The whole area of the sidewalk and the front stoop were snowy white. There was no evidence at all that a vicious murder had taken place here. Sam Jarvis' home looked as if it was waiting for him to return. But death had changed that. Jarvis wouldn't be back here.
Mark sighed and turned away. As he did so, a smile broke out over is face as a familiar form approached. It was Andy Keffer. The lawn guy.
"Dr. Sloan, what are you doing here?" He grinned as he approached. "I thought you had an appointment this morning? You didn't cancel didja? Findley was all ready to go out there."
Mark winced. "Oh, Andy, I completely forgot about it!" A quick glance at his watch revealed that it was probably already too late. The man should have been there five minutes prior. "But my son is there. Do you think that would be okay?"
"Oh, I'm sure it will," Andy smiled reassuringly at him. "Are you investigating what happened here?" He gestured toward Jarvis' door.
"Yes, I am. Did you know him?" Mark asked.
"Not really." Andy shook his head, then smiled mischievously. "You aren't going to get arrested today are you?"
Mark laughed. "Well, I certainly hope not." He gestured toward Cheryl who was still involved in her conversation. "She's a police officer, and I came with her this time." Mark leaned in, and continued, "I think she's got my back."
Andy laughed at Mark's use of the slang terminology. "You're a cool dude, Doc. But I've gotta get back to work. See ya round."
Mark raised a hand, bidding him goodbye. "Take care, Andy." He watched the young man move lankily back toward his equipment, thinking that he reminded him just a little of Steve when he was that age.
Steve. He reached for his cell phone, figuring that better late than never would have to do for warning his son of the appointment. At least he had been feeling much better that morning, so his conscience was eased a little at causing him to have to deal with the abrupt Findley.
He'd just started to dial when Cheryl approached. He held off on the call, noting her expression. He hoped she didn't have to go off on another assignment. He wasn't sure where the murder of Jeff Johansen had taken place, he would need her to show him. Or perhaps Amanda.
"That was Sternen," she said, referring to the new detective. "The lab is done with the prints. He's going through all of the names for the ones that were in the system, just in case, and comparing it to the list of everyone even remotely associated. You wouldn't know why Steve wanted to know about the north corner would you?"
Mark was confused. "The north corner of what?"
"Your gate out back. When I told him that CSU didn't find the bullet, but they had pulled prints off your gate, he asked if they would go through those on the north corner first."
"I really have no idea, Cheryl." Mark frowned, troubled. "He didn't mention anything to me."
"Okay." Cheryl accepted his answer. "Maeve's lawyer is chomping at the bit to put this thing to bed. The Captain has already gotten a call. Apparently her family is well connected. You wanna head over there and finish up?"
~*~
Steve found himself in the same position that his dad had been in earlier. Sitting on the deck, pouring over the information in front of him. The feeling of trouble had intensified the more he'd thought about it. He'd even strapped on his gun and badge, definitely not something he normally did at home.
Becoming frustrated with the Jarvis folder, he switched back to the envelope from the lawn service. He wasn't really convinced that he was going to find anything in it as to what was bothering him, but he was willing to try.
The first pages were about the company philosophy. It was overblown business propaganda, and it made his head hurt to read through it all. But near the back of the brochure, he found a separate sheet slipped in between the pages. 'References' was printed across the top in boldface. The update date was a recent one.
He quickly scanned down the list. M. Michaels Real Estate. Garden Brook Golf Course. He visually tripped over the third name down. Palm Terrace Condominiums. Sam Jarvis' home had been in Palm Terrace Condominiums. A trickle of adrenaline began to flow through his system, but he controlled it, making a little mark beside the name as he continued.
The fourth name gave him pause as well, but he wasn't sure why. Fairview Apartments. The address stated that they were located on Fairview Rd. The answer was on the tip of his mind when he was interrupted by the ringing of the phone.
~*~
While Cheryl entered the house, Mark wandered through the decorative wooden fencing that separated the back yard from the driveway. He was unsurprised to find that the beautiful landscaping continued even though this portion of the property wasn't visible to public view. Even the back yard wasn't truly visible. The property butted up against the far end of a golf course which was screened by a dense growth of trees and a tall chain link fence. But even the fence seemed to be a part of the overall scheme of the back yard. Findley had truly done an excellent job; a real labor of love.
Suddenly a thought occurred to him. He winced, remembering that he hadn't actually gotten around to calling Steve. It was probably far too late, now. After all, how long could it take to do an estimate? And as Steve hadn't called him to complain, he suspected that things were okay.
He turned away from the fencing, and headed toward the patio off the master bedroom. Crime scene tape surrounded the whole of the area, but he simply stepped under it. The curtains moved a fraction in his peripheral vision and he noted Cheryl looking outward. She pulled the curtains wider and waved at him. He smiled and waved back before getting down to the business of checking out the area.
There were a couple of lounge chairs and a table as well as the plants. As he looked down at the cement beneath his feet, he noted dark brown-green splotches against the otherwise light colored surface. He could almost hear the mental clicks as things began to fall into place in his mind. The splotches were Findley's special blend of fertilizer. That was what he'd seen in the picture at Sam Jarvis' place. Then there was Andy to make that connection as well. But Andy had also told him that Maeve had gotten Findley a big contract with some apartments on Fairview. Jeff Johansen had been killed on Fairview Rd. He was willing to bet that he lived in Fairview Apartments.
As he stood to go talk to Cheryl, for confirmation, he heard her voice. But it sounded tiny and artificial. She was obviously talking with someone at the precinct. Mark followed the sound to the box that was mounted to the wall of the patio and suddenly realized that it belonged to the intercom system. It must have been stuck on. A feeling of anxiety began.
He looked through the glass doors toward Cheryl and noted that she was standing near a blue chaise recliner. He recalled Steve sharing with him the conversation that he had with Maeve the day they'd discovered that she'd known Sam Jarvis. He'd mentioned in a dry tone that she'd sat in her favorite blue chair and told her friend Carla everything.
He looked from the chair to the broken intercom to the splotches on the patio. A chill ran through his heart when he next recalled whom he'd invited to his home that very morning. His eyes met up with Cheryl's, and when he saw the worry in her gaze, he new that she had something to tell him, and it wasn't good. Anxiety gave way to out right fear.
~*~
"Steve Sloan." Steve answered the phone a bit distractedly. It had rang while he went through the rest of the list of references. Because he hadn't thought to bring the cordless out to the deck with him, he'd had to go back into the den to answer it.
He looked up through the clear glass to see that Findley was standing on the deck, holding a clipboard. He was looking down at the things that Steve had been going over. His eyes locked with the man's for a moment, but then his attention was quickly drawn away at what Cheryl was telling him.
"We think Vincent Findley is somehow involved in this. His fingerprints were on the north corner of your fence. He was in the system because 5 years ago he was arrested for stalking and attempted assault. If he's there, be very careful, and don't try . . . ."
Cheryl's words faded to the background. It suddenly all made sense in Steve's mind. The figure he had seen that morning last week looking at him through binoculars. He would bet a week's wages that it had been Findley. He glanced back out toward the deck. He caught a blur of motion as the man disappeared off the deck.
"He's running!" Steve called into the phone before he dropped it and took off after the man. His body was stiff and sluggish, but he made good time weaving through the furniture and out onto the deck. He pulled his gun as he started down the steps, hearing the sound of Findley's booted feet as he jogged toward the front of the house.
Steve was starting to feel winded by the time he got around to the driveway and saw Findley climbing into a truck with the company logo on it. He raised his gun. "Stop, or I'll shoot!" he ordered.
Steve sighed when Findley ignored him and dove into the truck. Steve headed for his own truck which was parked in front of Findley's. The darker vehicle revved and was pulling out of the driveway by the time Steve retrieved his spare key from the wheel well. He had no intention of letting this killer get away. He realized that it had probably been this man who had taken a shot at him. He wasn't going to give him another chance to get it right. He started the truck and accelerated out of the driveway after him.
Fortunately, PCH wasn't overly busy at the moment. They had managed to find the lull in the noontime rush. Steve had no problems spotting Findley's truck speeding away ahead of him. Steve had the advantage of more horsepower in his engine and found that he was gaining on the smaller vehicle.
His cell phone rang as he closed the distance. He reached for it, knowing that it would be Cheryl. She'd probably be furious that he'd dropped the phone on her. "Yeah, Cheryl," he answered. "Kinda busy right now."
He was right. She started in on him, but he cut her off.
"I'm heading south along PCH, just pass our place. Findley's just ahead of me, driving a beige truck with the company logo on it. License plate number is . . . Highway patrol shouldn't have any problem picking him out if they've got someone near Arrowhead Point who can back track this way."
Cheryl made somewhat agreeable sounds and then there was a shuffling and Steve heard his father's voice on the phone.
"Steve, be --" He only caught the first bit of what Mark was saying as he and Findley were approaching an area where the road made a sharp turn. Signs warned of the curve where the pavement continued on to the left, but the land dropped off a short sandy overlook into a shallow run-off below. Findley was going to have to slow down at least a little if he was planning on make it through the turn.
"Give me a minute, Dad," he spoke quickly into the phone before throwing it on the seat beside him, knowing that he would need both hands to stay in control of the vehicle. A satisfied smile settled over his features as Findley tapped at his brakes. His gun was also on the seat beside him. If he could get alongside the other truck, he could probably compel him to pull over. If they made it to a clear, safe portion of the highway, he might even try to blow out his tires.
Glad of the plan, he tapped his brakes to slow as well. There was no response. His heart stopped as the pedal went all the way to the floor with little resistance and the vehicle only seemed to be gaining speed as the road declined toward the curve.
Time seemed to slow as he watched helplessly as events began to unfold. He was going too fast, he wasn't going to be able to stop. And he was too close to Findley for the man to get out of the way. The distance between the two vehicles narrowed. He thought he saw Findley's hands go up just before his larger Ford plowed into the back of the lawn truck.
There was a sickening, loud crunch first as they collided and then as Findley's automobile slammed through the thin metal barrier. It plunged out into open air. Steve knew for a certainty that his would follow. There was nothing he could do as his vehicle seemed to topple slowly over the side, inexorably following the one before it.