Think fast, she thought. She thought as fast as she could and came up with almost nothing.
"I thank you for your time," she said.
"Feel free to call again if there's anything I can help you with, wish you success in solving your case."
Merci hung up, hit redial and asked for the B. B. Sistel security department. The receptionist put her through to Plant Security, which transferred her to Personnel Security, which transferred her to the Legal Department, Patents and Infringements.
"Ron Billingham," a smooth voice announced.
Merci identified herself and told Mr. Billingham that she was investigating a Southern California homicide, Gwen Wildcraft, a woman who had invested substantially in OrganiVen before it was bought b Sistel.
There was a pause, then Billingham put her on hold for nearly two full minutes. Merci listened to music and drank her coffee.
He came back with an apology, then, "Sergeant Rayborn, I'm going to give you a number for Ardith Day at the Federal Trade Commission in Washington, D.C. After you've talked to her, you can call me back if you need to."
Merci took down the number and called Ardith Day. Day took HER call immediately and gave her the number of FBI Special Agent Nicholas Behrens in Washington. Behrens took her call immediately and gave her the number of Special Agent Carl Komer in the FBI Investigative Resident Agency in Orange County. She left a message with the Santa Ana RA and Komer called back in less than one minute.
"We should talk," he said. "How about my office, eleven-thirty?"
"Thank you. I'll be there."
Sheriff Vince Abelera looked at her unhappily as she walked across the blue carpet of his office and sat in front of his desk. Marilyn shut the door behind her and Merci felt the familiar hush of the office.
"Have you heard from Wildcraft?" the sheriff began.
"Last night, sir, at ten-fifteen. He called. He would not tell me where he was. He would not let me come get him. He refused to surrender himself or go to UCI Medical Center for treatment. His mental condition seemed… unstable. Physically, he claims to be feeling fine."
"Why did he call you?"
"To tell us that he's okay, not to worry about him."
"Feeling okay, now that he's threatened a reporter with a shotgun on television and said he'd kill himself?"
"Archie told me he didn't say that. He said he told Brice that he'd 'kill them myself,' but somehow the 'them' got lost on the tape. To Archie's credit, sir, Brice was falling into the orange tree when Archie was talking. I remember the noise that caused when I watched the broadcast again."
Abelera's sharp dark eyes bored into hers. She broke the connection and looked out the window to the hazy August morning.
"We've got an all-unit alert for him," said the sheriff. "All-agency, all-unit. Nobody's seen him. Yet. We've got surveillance teams watching both sets of parents and the sister."
"He called from a pay phone, I believe. I heard road noise, two Harley-Davidsons."
Abelera eyed her. "I've called a press conference for one o'clock today. That's enough time to get it out onto the evening news. I've got Public Information blowing up two department photographs of Wildcraft, to be put on easels beside the podium. I've got stills from the CNB video to show. I've got Dr. John Stebbins coming in to explain Wildcraft's precarious medical condition. And you will conduct the conference, telling our community that we need the deputy's whereabouts reported immediately. You have his trust."
"I think so, at least some of it."
"Then I want you to use it to get him in here."
"Yes, sir."
"You will indicate that we have no plans to charge Wildcraft with the murder of his wife. You may indicate that we do wish to question him in this matter. You will deny that the district attorney plans to charge him with threatening Mr. Brice but you will express deep concern about Mr. Wildcraft's apparently suicidal statement. You will be telling Mr. Wildcraft-because that's who this damned circus is really for-that we are concerned first and foremost for his well-being. You will order him to please report to the nearest law enforcement or medical facility as soon as possible. And when we get him, Sergeant Rayborn, I'll be turning this case over to Wheeler and Teague. Am I not clear on any of this?"
"I think you're making a mistake, sir."
"That's not what I asked you."
"No, sir, you're very clear on what you want."
"Sergeant, I don't care about your personal feelings regarding this deputy. He's a suspect, whether you choose to believe it or not. His prints are on his gun. His gun was used to kill his wife. He fired that gun. He left the hospital without our authorization and then he ran and hid. Those are facts."
"Yes, sir, they are. But, sir, please let me continue as lead investigator. I've made mistakes but I'll correct them. I'll close it. This isn't a matter of feelings. Forget my feelings. I don't like them any more than you do. But I have to be successful on this case. It's absolutely necessary. If you pull me, you may as well write me out of Homicide Detail. That would be two disasters in a row, sir. Don't do that to me."
In the silence that followed, Merci tried to think loud. Tried to make her thoughts clearly audible, because she would go to her grave never putting these thoughts into words, never saying the words to another living soul, true as they were. But Abelera needed to hear them, and she willed those thoughts into his ears while her dark brown eyes stared into his.
I put you here. My blood and shame opened this office for you. I almost died for you. I need your help now. Give me your help.
The sheriff broke off this time, looking out the same window Merci had looked out of, at the same damp, warming morning. He pushed back in the rolling chair and stood.
"All right, Rayborn. All right."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The FBI Orange County Investigative Resident Agency is housed in four-story building not far from Sheriff's Headquarters. The building has other tenants besides the FBI, one of which is the Government/Courts Bureau of the Orange County
Journal.
The building wraps around a ground floor courtyard that is shaded by potted palms and is cool even on late August mornings. Merci was early enough to try the ground-floor ladies' room, but it was secured with a brawn lock system and she didn't have the numbers.
Komer led Merci and Zamorra to his office on the second floor and closed the door. He poured three coffees from a pot on a stand and offered it black and without questions.
"Well, it's obvious by now that Sistel is having some problem with MiraVen," he said.
"I didn't know until this morning," said Merci.
"Almost nobody did. Sistel kept it quiet as long as they could-no reason to worry the shareholders until you have to."
"What happened?" asked Zamorra.
"I don't know yet. But Sistel is claiming that there's a major problem obtaining the snake poison. The short supply-they say-was conveniently omitted by OrganiVen during the purchase negotiations."
"Fraudulently omitted?" Zamorra asked.
"Sistel would like us to use that word. Then we can go after the OrganiVen people. That's my job, to determine if there's been fraud or not. And if so, take down the fraudsters. It takes time. Everybody's got a line. And the good fraudsters, they can steal a lot of money without leaving a trail."
Komer folded his hands and leaned on his elbows. He was younger than Merci had expected, forty, maybe, with short straight brown hair, brown shoes and brown leather on his hip with what looked like a Smith nine inside it.
"I've been looking at OrganiVen for almost a week now. I didn't connect Gwen and Archie Wildcraft with OrganiVen until yesterday."