The last page of Raymond’s file offered an interesting fact, of which Jim knew nothing. The ACLU had moved to bring a class-action suit against the Newport Beach PD in the summer of 1988, alleging that minorities were either not hired often enough or not promoted high enough. But Ray had refused to cooperate, and actually had spoken out against it in an interdepartmental letter to the then chief, Lawrence Hiller. A letter back from Hiller, included here in Ray’s file, stated, “We commend Lt. Cruz’s discreet handling of these potentially disruptive matters, and consider it a substantial recommendation toward the lieutenant’s eventual promotion to captain.” The suit was dropped. Ray, thought Weir, was a stand-up guy. He had bigger fish to fry: law school, graduation, the bar exam, practice. Raymond, true to form, wanted to prosecute someday.
And who, really, would be better at it? Raymond Cruz had lived in Newport Beach longer than anyone else on the force, and his great-great-great-grandfather had been a cop before the word cop was invented. Ray’s family, generations ago, had owned Rancho Boca de la Mar, seven thousand acres that included what would become Newport Beach, long before land became real estate. The patriarch, Francisco Cruz, had ruled over the rancho in its glory days of the vaqueros. And Francisco Cruz, as Raymond had told Jim so many times in his childhood, had been a Justice of the Plains, as appointed by the Mexican governor. Justice of the Plains: The phrase had rolled with pride off of Raymond’s youthful tongue.
Weir remembered the tragic story now as he sat in Ann’s small kitchen and felt layers of irony forming. He had first heard it from Raymond himself, in the fourth grade. Francisco Cruz was married to Lisbeth, a beautiful woman of German-Irish blood, who was kidnapped for ransom by the bandit Joaquin La Perla in a daring daylight raid on the rancho. Joaquin was nicknamed La Perla for the pearl-handled revolvers he wore, which, if Weir remembered correctly, were displayed at local fairs for years to come when Joaquin was finally caught and hanged. In Raymond’s fourth-grade version of the story, Francisco had tracked La Perla and shot him down like a dog in the dirt, rescued his wife, and rode home to Rancho Boca de la Mar to celebrate with the largest fiesta in the history of the territory. Weir remembered the toy revolvers that Raymond had brought in as props for his story, complete with the white plastic handles. What actually had happened, however, was that Francisco’s men had abandoned him in the eleventh hour and Cruz had continued after La Perla alone. He finally found the outlaw in what is now Silverado Canyon, where La Perla shot him full of holes and hung his body from an oak tree that is still standing today. Lisbeth was never found. Weir could remember that some heartless fourth-grader had pointed out the discrepancy between Ray’s story and the version in a book of Orange County history, which he brought to class the next day as evidence. Raymond had stated flatly that the book’s author was a liar and probably wasn’t even there when it happened, then had withdrawn into brooding quiet that had lasted for days.
Now this, thought Jim. History might not repeat itself, but its echoes come sounding off the walls. He pondered the fate of the Cruz family. In the last 120 years, they had gone from being major landholders to renters of little houses and apartments, employees, proprietors of small businesses. Francisco’s debt-riddled rancho was eventually sold off by his sons. Now, every inch of it belonged to someone else — even the Eight Peso Cantina was on leased land now held by the PacifiCo Development Group. Irena and Nesto had named it the Eight Peso because that was about how much money Nesto had waiting for him when he came back from Guadalcanal in 1946. His father had invested Nesto’s service checks on a new idea — an automated car wash — which had gone belly-up earlier the same year.
It struck Jim that Raymond had never bemoaned the downward legacy left to him, never developed the sour pride of the fallen aristocrat, never considered himself entitled because of blood or race. Quietly, in his own way, Ray had been trying to turn it around. If he executes this guy, Weir thought, he’d be killing a part of himself, too. If he doesn’t, Ray might join Francisco at the gates of heaven with similar stories to tell.
Next, he divided the time cards for the thirty-two officers on night and graveyard shifts — some of which overlapped one hour for obvious reasons — into partners and solos. The partners he set aside. That left eight solo officers out on each shift. Next, he checked their personnel files for blood type, and came up with five type B’s. Four were right-handed, but two of these clocked out on the early stagger, at 12:02 and 12:18, respectively.
He wrote down the two remaining names on his legal sheet: Philip Kearns and Dale Blodgett.
According to Kearns’s application and performance reviews, he was thirty-four years old, a bachelor. He’d made sergeant at thirty-two. Good, if not outstanding record. Helped deliver a baby in his squad car while partnered with Raymond Cruz, summer of ’87. Yellow-slipped in September of the same year for parking his patrol car in a woman’s driveway and leaving it unattended for twenty minutes — an irate neighbor had complained about the radio noise. An evaluation by Captain Chris Saunders lauded Kearns’s “easy disposition with the public” and “low-key approach to law enforcement.” Kearns had been on the Police Pistol Team, Distinguished Marksman, ever since he was first hired.
Jim wondered whether Ann knew Kearns well enough to get into his car.
The transcript from Dispatch showed that Kearns stopped for coffee at a doughnut shop on Balboa between 11:15 P.M. and 11:35. So, thought Weir, he was patrolling the peninsula, where Ann lived and worked, where Ann was last seen. There was no communication between Kearns and Dispatch from 12:30 and 12:50. His Activity Log and Citation Book showed nothing, either. Twenty minutes, thought Weir, smack dab in the middle of the hour in question. On his legal pad, he wrote, KEARNS UNACCOUNTED FOR 20 MINUTES BETWEEN MIDNIGHT AND ONE. He studied the personnel file of Sgt. Philip Kearns: a slender, small-featured face, wispy mustache, lively eyes, handsome in the way that cops are handsome. Medium brown hair, thinning and worn long, combed back from his forehead. Would it match the hair on Ann’s blouse? Jim could feel his hands warming, a ripple of adrenaline easing through his body.
He sat back in the uncomfortable dinette chair and looked around the Cruz kitchen. Neat but not too neat: lived in. A cat clock hung from the wall behind the fridge, with eyes and a tail that moved with each tick and tock. Ann was a cat person. Ann was also a sweats-and-socks person, around the house. Why had she driven to work, then changed into something minimal and flattering? BECAUSE YOU WEREN’T COMING HOME, Weir wrote. Why no coat? BECAUSE YOU WEREN’T PLANNING ON BEING OUTSIDE, WHERE WERE YOU GOING, SWEET SISTER, WHERE DID YOU CHANGE YOUR CLOTHES?
He called the Whale’s Tale and asked for Sherry. Sherry was Ann’s favorite compatriot at work, a woman with an easy sense of humor and the hard legs of a professional waitress. She came on the line a little breathlessly, and when she was done talking, confirmed that Ann left the restaurant in her uniform, not street clothes. Weir thanked her and hung up. Did Annie change in her car? How come the cops hadn’t found it yet?
He picked up Dale Blodgett’s file. Blodgett was a sergeant now, like Kearns. He was forty-eight years old, and his personnel mug shot showed a face that looked heavy, humorless, tough. Married, three kids, an average record. His evaluations always stressed the same thing: “Blodgett shows little interest in promotion or future administration. Prefers his beat, works well alone. A capable officer. Recommend step increase commensurate with experience.”