A mahogany desk was angled in the corner, facing built-in cabinets, the closet, and a small TV. The unmistakable three-ring navy binder of a murder book sat on his desk. It hadn’t been on his desk last night, but now it was, as if he had looked at it this morning before leaving for work. The handwritten label on the spine read Trinh.

His desk and the area around the murder book were immaculate, with a desktop PC, a cordless phone, and a short stack of papers beside the keyboard. I fingered through the papers, but found nothing related to the case. Folders inside the desk drawers were labeled for personal things like insurance policies and utility bills. I went to the closet, and there was the rest of it. The box Munson gave to Marx was on the floor. Several thick folders held together by rubber bands were stacked on top, and two more murder books were on the floor beside the box. Repko and Frostokovich.

I felt a twinge of sadness when I saw them.

“Hello, Debra.”

I photographed the box and the murder books, then snapped a wider shot to establish the material was in the closet. I dragged the box into the room, put the murder books on top, then took more pictures from angles that included Marx’s desk and personal possessions, and the Trinh murder book on the desk. I wanted undeniable proof the missing files were in Marx’s home.

When I had enough pictures, I opened Sondra Frostokovich’s murder book. I was reading the first page, all good to go and work my way through the entire thing, when my cell phone vibrated.

Pike said, “Marx and Munson just passed, inbound. Thirty seconds.”

He didn’t waste time with more words. I had been in the house less than eight minutes, and now I was done. I had wanted to read through the material, photograph those things I found incriminating, and leave the files undisturbed to buy myself more time, but now I couldn’t play it that way. It was a lot of paper but I took it. The box was only half full, so I shoved in the loose folders and murder books, and carried it into the bathroom adjoining Marx’s office.

The garage door rumbled on the far side of the house as I stepped into the hall. I carried the box into the bathroom, set it on the toilet, and pushed open the window. The front door opened as I climbed out. Marx said something I didn’t understand as I reached back inside for the box.

I closed the window, slipped into the thick bushes between Marx’s house and the next, and hit the speed-dial for Pike. He answered like this:

“I’m here.”

“Never a doubt.”

I pushed through the hedges into the neighbors’ yard and saw Pike’s Jeep in the street. I probably should have walked, but I ran as hard as I could without looking back and without caring who saw me.

I jammed into Pike’s Jeep with the box in my lap, and Pike gunned away, the door snapping shut so hard it hammered my elbow.

Pike said, “Close.”

My eyes burned as I laughed. It was a stupid laugh, like a barking dog. I couldn’t stop until Pike gripped my arm.

34

THE CANYON behind my house was pleasant during the midday hours, with a slight breeze that brought out the hawks to search for rabbits and mice. Somewhere below, a power saw whined in the trees, punctuated by the faint tapping of a nail gun. Someone was always building something, and the sounds of it were encouraging. They sounded like life.

We put the file box and murder books on the dining table, then drank bottles of water. We ate muffins slathered with strawberry jam, standing over the murder books as if we were stealing time to eat like we had stolen the files.

We split the material between us. I skimmed the Frostokovich murder book first, and immediately saw that pages had been removed. Every murder book begins with an initial report by the original detectives who caught the case, identifying the victim and describing the crime scene. Marx and Munson had signed off on the opening crime scene report. Reports relating interviews with the workmen who discovered her body came next, followed by their initial interview with Sondra’s parents, Ron L. and Ida Frostokovich. If Marx and Munson interviewed Sondra’s girlfriends about the dinner they shared, the report of that interview was now missing. A twelve-page gap in the page-numbering sequence followed the interview with Sondra’s parents. The medical examiner’s six-page autopsy protocol was intact, but another three pages after it were missing. I didn’t bother to flip through the rest of the book.

“They gutted this thing. We’ve got missing pages all through here.”

Pike was fingering through the files in the box. He grunted, then lifted a ziplock bag containing a silver DVD. The name REPKO was written directly onto the DVD and clearly visible through the transparent plastic bag.

Pike said, “Your missing disk.”

A folded letter was stapled to the bag. Pike read it, then passed it to me.

“They sent it to the FBI. SID had it right. The Feds couldn’t get anything off the disk, either.”

The letter was from the FBI’s lab in San Francisco and was addressed to Deputy Chief Thomas Marx. It confirmed what Pike had just told me.

“But why send it at all? If Marx thought it would clear Byrd or implicate Wilts, why not just destroy it?”

Pike grunted again, and we went on with the files.

The Trinh murder book was also missing material, though not as much as Frostokovich, but the Repko book had been looted. Most of the documents and large sections of each report were missing.

I put the murder books aside and picked out a thin file marked REPKO-PDA/PHONE LOG. The first page was a letter from the president of a cellular service provider addressed to Marx regarding Debra Repko’s missing PDA.

Dear Chief Marx,

Per your personal request today and with the understanding that this communication is off the record until such time as our attomeys receive the proper court instruction, please find the call record covering the prior sixty-day period for the above referenced cell number, which is held in contract by Leverage Associates. As discussed, I am trusting in your good word and discretion that our cooperation will remain undisclosed.

If I can be of further assistance in this matter, please do not hesitate to call my personal line.

Sincerely.

Paulette Brennert, President

The date indicated that Marx had requested the call log almost a week before Byrd’s body was found.

I said, “Get this-Marx knew about Debra Repko’s PDA. Darcy and Maddux didn’t even know about it, but Marx knew and requested the call history.”

“Didn’t you ask Bastilla about it?”

“This is from before that. Bastilla must have been pretending.”

Pike moved closer and turned the page.

The next five sheets were the call logs listing the numbers to and from Debra’s PDA during the period prior to her death. Handwritten notes in blue or black ink were by each call and most of the calls were identified as being to or from Leverage employees. A few of the calls were simply marked as family, but six of the calls were highlighted in yellow marker. The six highlighted calls had all been made in the ten days prior to her death, and all were to or from the same number. The highlighted number had not been identified. I kept reading.

The next page was a spec sheet showing a picture of a simple basic cell phone manufactured by Kyoto Electronics. It was an inexpensive model that did not fold or take pictures, and likely offered very few features. An accompanying letter was attached to the spec sheet.

Detective C. Bastilla,

The cellular number in question is a prepaid number assigned to a cell phone (Model AKL-1500) manufactured by Kyoto Electronics. (See enclosed picture.) Our records indicate that the phone unit, cell-service activation, and additional talk-time minutes were purchased by cash. For this reason, we are unable to provide information about the purchaser.