Though most of the organic material on the blades remains unidentified, DNA matches to three missing persons have been obtained. The victims were homeless men whose names have not been divulged. All were seen in the company of Arundel Roi or one of his wives at a bar in Saugus. Monetary gain appears to have been the motive, as welfare checks in the names of the deceased were mailed to a post office box rented by Roi.
Further studies will be carried out on soil and other samples at the site, set on a remote pocket of federal parkland rarely encountered by the public due to its inaccessibility and rumors of environmental taint due to a history as a military practice bomb site during the Korean War.
Grace composed a list: arundel roi, wives, victims, selwyn rodrigo, candace miller.
She reread the article to see if she’d missed anything. Rodrigo had cited reports of child abuse but made no mention of specific children.
Scrolling back four additional months, she found the original account of the raid. Candace Miller’s age was listed as forty-nine, making her seventy-three now. References to the cult’s “odd food preferences, survivalist tactics and living off the land” told Grace she was on the right track.
Then the clincher: Roi and his wives had been found wearing “crudely fashioned, homemade black uniforms.”
But still no names other than Roi’s. Because this was L.A. and it was all about the star.
Same old story, she supposed. Charismatically endowed freak attracts brain-dead followers. Sires children, of course, because megalomaniacs crave self-perpetuation.
The original article also came with a photo: a headshot of Arundel Roi, in his early fifties, back when he’d been Correctional Officer Roald Leroy Arundel.
The guru of the Fortress Cult had probably been decent looking as a young man, with a strong, square jaw, the suggestion of broad shoulders, and neatly pinned ears. But middle age had left him bloated and dissolute, with a loose-skinned face and neck, and heavily pouched, down-slanted eyes that glinted with arrogance.
His hair was trimmed in a white no-nonsense cop buzz. A bushy salt-and-pepper mustache completely obscured his mouth.
The whiskers spread in a way that suggested amusement.
A hungry smile the likes of which Grace had seen before.
She pictured Roi swaggering past the cells of female prisoners, drunk on power and personality disorder and testosterone.
Fox, henhouse.
Several more hours looking for anything she could find on the Fortress Cult exhausted the resources of three wire services and four additional newspapers.
All that energy expended for zero insight; journalism apparently consisted of rephrasing someone else’s copy. Though in this case she supposed reporters could be forgiven their thin grueclass="underline" The authorities had let out precious little by way of facts.
She searched a year forward. No additional stories on the forensics, not a single word about wives, homeless victims, the impact upon children of being raised on filth and lunacy.
Looking for personal data on the reporter, Selwyn Rodrigo, she found a six-year-old death notice in the Times. The reporter had succumbed at age sixty-eight to a “long illness.”
The obit outlined Rodrigo’s career. Shortly after the Fortress piece, he’d switched to financial and business writing in Washington, D.C., and had stuck with that. A promotion, no doubt, but Grace wondered if Rodrigo had craved escape, switching from bourbon to weak tea.
His survivors were listed as a wife, Maryanne, and a daughter, Ingrid. The former had passed away three years after her husband. No data on Ingrid and no reason to think her father had confided in her.
Turning her attention to the wounded social worker, Candace Miller, she found lots of women with that name but none that matched age-wise.
Now what?
Focus on the kids.
But if information on the cult progeny existed, it would be buried in the inaccessible bowels of social services. She seriously considered tapping Delaware’s police connections to see if any other official reports existed, dismissed that quickly: She’d killed a man, the last thing she needed was police scrutiny.
So what to do... once upon a time, faced with tough questions, her reflex had been Ask Malcolm. At some point — soon after entering adolescence — she’d decided that growing up meant pulling away from Malcolm, sometimes to the point of avoiding him. Still, the knowledge of his presence had been a balm.
Now... her nerves were thrumming in all sorts of discordant keys.
Crossing to the mini-bar, she took out a mini-bottle of vodka and considered a mini-drink. Thought better of it and returned the booze to its resting place.
What would Malcolm do?
His voice, in finest low-volume bass register, coated her brain: When everything’s a mess, Grace, it can sometimes help to start at the beginning.
Grace deep-breathed and relaxed her muscles and concentrated on dredging up long-avoided details about the three children in black. That failed to produce anything new and frustration led to a loose, maddening free association.
Her own life at the ranch.
The night she’d been driven there, her fear as the car hurtled through desolate terrain. Past signs indicating the place where the red room had... surrounded her.
So different from previous foster-treks, apathetic drivers showing up unannounced, curt orders to pack her paltry belongings. Dumping her with no explanation and often no introduction.
The worker who’d taken her to the ranch had been different.
Wayne Knutsen. Portly, ponytailed, would-be lawyer. During their final conversation, he’d handed Grace his card. Which she’d promptly tossed. Snotty little kid.
Like Candace Miller he’d be at least seventy. Not a healthy-looking guy at the time so vital old age seemed unlikely.
Not expecting much, she returned to Google.
Surprise, surprise.
Substantial downtown enterprise on South Flower Street, Wayne J. Knutsen the founder and senior partner, presiding over two dozen other attorneys.
A former welfare worker spending his days with “contracts, estates and business litigation”? Could it be?
Grace linked to KDBL Professional Staff, found photos and bios of all the lawyers in the firm.
The senior partner was elderly and beyond well fed, completely bald with a tiny white goatee that filmed the first of two and a half chins. He’d posed in navy pinstripes, a snowy pin-collar shirt, and a large-knotted bright-blue tie of gleaming silk.
His smile radiated self-satisfaction. No more rattling compact for Attorney Knutsen, Grace figured him in a big Mercedes.
He’d complained about attending an unaccredited law school but had graduated from UC Hastings, followed up with specialty certificates in tax and real estate law, earned himself numerous seats on bar committees.
If you ever need anything.
Time to test his sincerity.
Chapter 28
A hotshot attorney would be shielded by layers of assistants so Grace decided to show up in person. Her research in the hotel room had lasted until just after five p.m. and the drive downtown would be wretched but what else did she have to do? She ate a handful of mixed nuts, chewed a stick of beef jerky to pulp, washed the gourmet meal down with a sixteen-ounce bottle of water.
Exiting the room with watchful eyes, she took the stairs to the garage, revved up the Jeep, and was gone. An hour and twenty minutes later she was driving past the gray stone edifice that housed Knutsen, DiPrimo, Banks and Levine and figuring she’d arrived too late, everyone would be gone.