“Somewhere across the lake but our C.S.I.’s couldn’t be sure exactly because they could never get a fix on the distance and that affects the trajectory.”
She pointed across the lake. “Somewhere in those trees.”
“Where was the bullet found?”
“In her,” said Flores. “Stuck up against her cervical spine.”
“Both of ours went clear through,” he said. “For yours to lose that much velocity, it was a helluva distance.”
“We — the detectives — got estimates based on where the boat was found but there was a wide range — a hundred or so feet. Another problem was that just because she was found in that spot doesn’t mean she was shot there.”
“The boat could’ve drifted.”
“For sure.”
“Who spotted her?”
“A neighbor coming by to check her own place. Lives mostly in Santa Barbara, eighty years old, not exactly a prime suspect and in no shape to try to rescue Jarrod, so she called 911. She was totally freaked out, hadn’t seen any strange cars near the entrance.”
I said, “A car parked farther down wouldn’t have drawn her attention.”
“Exactly. The detectives canvassed like half a mile down. They actually did a good job. But you know.”
She shrugged.
Milo said, “What time of day was Whitney discovered?”
“Just after noon.”
“Any idea how long the boat was out there before it was spotted?”
“Pathologist estimated TOD around an hour prior.”
“Morning boat ride with Mom,” he said. “The kid was out there all that time.”
“Scary, no?” said Flores. “Maybe God was looking out for him. They tried to question him but he didn’t talk much and mostly he just cried for his mommy. They also did all sorts of wind analysis to figure out drift but it didn’t help ’cause there’s no stable air pattern here. It fluctuates between calm and sudden gusts but also sometimes there’s a steady breeze. Like today. There’s no county or state data, period. It’s like its own little microclimate. They searched the southern shore and went back into the trees. No cigarette butts, no bottles or cans, no shoe prints — it’s mostly pine needles. That’s why distance was impossible to calculate.”
I said, “Drive up in the dark, leave your vehicle where it’s not going to be conspicuous, walk right in and wait.”
“Well planned,” said Milo. “Any idea who’d want her dead that badly?”
“Sure,” said Shari Flores. “Her baby daddy, there was a custody battle headed for court. But he had a golden alibi. In New York, at a board meeting with a whole bunch of other people.”
“Corporate type?”
“Executive at a clothing company based in Japan. That’s how they met, Whitney was an accountant assigned to do their internal audits.”
Milo pulled out his pad. “Name?”
“Jay Christopher Sterling.”
I said, “The relationship went really bad?”
“According to Whitney’s mother it did,” said Shari Flores. “They had a brief affair, she got pregnant, they broke up soon after the baby. Sterling’s much older than her, in his fifties, has kids in college.”
“Married?”
“Divorced. According to Whitney’s mother, there was no love lost and Sterling didn’t want to pay as much child support as Whitney asked for. But the big fight was when he moved to New York and wanted to take Jarrod with him.”
I said, “He wouldn’t have much of a case unless he could prove her unfit. Did he try that?”
“Not that I know about,” said Flores. “Never actually spoke to the mother, what I’m telling you comes from her interview in the murder book. Which I brought you a copy of, it’s in my car.”
Milo said, “Deeply appreciated. Where’s Jarrod now?”
“With his father. Talk about a motive paying off, huh?”
“Your guys had a strong feeling about Sterling.”
“He’s the only person of interest they developed. I called one of them before I came up here and he verified it. He didn’t mind my talking to you, sees the case as an unsolvable loser.”
Milo laced his fingers and rocked back a bit. “Obviously, Sterling didn’t pull the trigger but a guy like that, plenty of money, easy enough to hire someone.”
“You wouldn’t even need money,” she said. “Miguel told me in Westmont you can find someone to do it for like twenty. Or some dope.”
“True,” he said, “but money gets you a smarter shooter. I’m assuming your guys checked out Sterling’s banking records.”
“They had no grounds for a warrant but Sterling let them, he was like, ‘Sure, look.’ No transfers of cash that looked weird.”
“Mr. Cooperative. So maybe he controlled what he showed them.”
“Could be,” said Shari Flores. Her toe nudged the dirt. “I suppose he could be innocent but no one else ever came up.”
We returned to our vehicles, where she retrieved a large box file and handed it over.
“Unbound,” she said. “Didn’t have time.”
Milo said, “Shari, everything you’ve done is amazing.” He winked. “West L.A. has its issues but it’s a light-year from Westmont. Just saying.”
She smiled. Hazel eyes segued back to the water. “What I did was no big deal. I keep thinking of that little guy. Sitting there, next to her.”
Chapter 17
Shari Flores’s Tahoe backed out, reversed, drove off. Milo stashed the box file in the Impala’s trunk and we returned to the water’s edge, shielding our eyes from glare.
Milo said, “Weirdly peaceful... thoughts?”
I said, “Like you said, smooth and professional. It firms up the hit man scenario, and nothing gets people angrier than child custody battles.”
“Accountant in a boat. Can’t see Whitney linking to Parmenter or O’Brien so the work we’ve been doing trying to connect them could be a waste. Then again, wouldn’t it be interesting if Whitney had done his corporate audits, too? Maybe learned something she shouldn’t and it has nothing to do with the ex.”
“Easy enough to find out,” I said. “Most likely she worked for a firm and CPAs don’t have confidentiality.”
“There you go with that positive-attitude thing again. Yeah, will do. Anything else?”
“After twenty-six months, Whitney’s mother will be frustrated and eager to talk.”
He retrieved the box, spent a while thumbing through, said, “Here we go, she lives in West Hills, right on the way back. I’ll take that as an omen.”
He called the listed number, spoke briefly, listened for a long time, hung up and patted his ear as if cooling it.
“Beyond frustrated. She’s waiting.”
As we got back in the car, he said, “Here I was, ready for some grub at the Ventura Harbor, there’s this great place, fresh catch. Alas, duty calls.”
Words of regret but spark in his eyes. It takes a lot to steer him away from lunch.
Thirty-five miles to the Valley Circle exit on the 101 was a forty-one-minute drive. Once we got past the businesses facing the freeway, we were in leafy suburbia.
Milo continued to Roscoe, hooked left for half a mile, then turned right on a gently sloped street lined with ponderosa pines and marked by a No Outlet sign. Wide, low-slung houses were arranged around a ladle-shaped cul-de-sac. Basketball hoops were a regular feature and several of them were being put to good use. A few toddlers rode plastic tricycles under the gaze of watchful parental eyes. One man washed a vintage gold Corvette with exquisite care.
Milo said, “No lake. Seems like a good thing today.”
Before beginning the drive, he’d done some background on Whitney Killeen’s mother, Donna Batchelor. Fifty-four years old, living at the Brunswick Court address for twenty-one years, zero criminality.