“I know, but you’re on that case and with the body having the same necklace I thought it best to get you out there. The farm’s not much of a farm; it’s more a facility. Nasty place. We have no clue how this will pan out, but I have a hunch that Ricardo has his hands in it, somehow or other. I don’t want those numb-nuts messing this up.”
“Got it. Body. Farmer. No numb nuts. I’m on it. Have you talked with Johnson?”
“Yes, Shyla, of course. He’s already on his way.”
“Why didn’t he just swing by and pick me up?”
“We didn’t know where the hell you where at. Both he and I have called your home phone a few times. It’s not like you not to answer. We thought maybe you…well…we weren’t sure what to think.”
Shit. She hung up. She desperately wanted to take a few minutes to get out of the car and stretch her cramped legs. Brushing her teeth to rid herself of the rotten, post-tequila dragon breath would have been the next priority. But, as Eli had mentioned, she needed to get her butt to the scene. And her partner, Daniel Johnson, was surely going to give her hell for not being available. The last thing she needed was to give him another reason to hate her. Maybe hate was too harsh a word, she thought. She guessed it was more a discomfort than anything else. She was used to it. Most of her associates acted uncomfortably around her.
She started the car and backed out of the garage. Tilting the rear-view mirror, she sneaked a quick glace at her appearance. Bypassing her blood-shot, jade green eyes, she tamed the wisps of hairs that sprang out around her head. A flicker of panic shot up her spine. Where was her hair clip? After rummaging around she came up empty handed. Shit. She ran a dry tongue over her lips.
Well, no time to gussy up, she thought, especially when you had a couple of cops on scene who didn’t know what they were looking for and a bunch of hungry swine waiting for breakfast.
*
The stiff breeze whipped Shyla’s dark brown hair into disarray. She swore under her breath as she pulled a long strand from the corner of her mouth. Irritated, she jerked back the loathsome mane and tucked it under the hood of the department issued wind-breaker she wore. Normally – obsessively - she kept it tamed and tied back.
She was mucking around in thick, ankle-deep mud, her hair loose and at the mercy of the blustery weather. At some point during the previous evening’s binge she’d managed to lose her hair tie. She felt the eyes of the crew - they had never seen it down; no one had since she was a little girl. Now, as she plodded through the pig shit and mud, it frustrated her that they were distracted so easily.
She ignored them and made a bee-line toward her partner. He was hunched over the farthest section of the thirty-foot, rusted-out feeding trough. As if sensing her, he stood up, turned and met her halfway.
He raised one bushy brow in question but remained silent.
“It’s just hair. Get over it. Where’s the body? Oh and don’t get too close to me. I haven’t brushed my teeth yet. My mouth tastes like ass and probably doesn’t smell much better, either.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Johnson said, “but the hair I like. I always wondered what it looked like down.”
“Are we bonding now?”
She watched his expression flatten. Once again, her dour mood had squelched any chance of making friends with her partner. A small twinge of regret fluttered in her belly.
“Why would we want to do that? Forget I said anything.”
He turned and walked away. She followed with her head held high but felt like a louse. She had never made sense of why she couldn’t bring herself to be polite to Johnson. It was logical that if she could, they would be a stronger team.
Her position as detective on the Federal Agency of Narcotic Control was everything to her. Other than a few minor mishaps from her tendency to bend the rules, she was building a solid and respectable career for herself. Her dedication was stalwart and she expected everyone else around her to perform to the same degree. She knew it was an unrealistic expectation but couldn’t change it. Biting sarcasm was her usual means of communication. It kept people just where she wanted them - at a distance. She absolutely did not want to be friends. She wanted to work. She wanted to solve cases. She wanted to be left the hell alone, which was why, even after a year, Johnson still didn’t like working with her.
“Quentin’s already here,” Johnson said over his shoulder, “I knew you’d want him specifically.”
Shyla had already spotted him.
“I know he’s quirky but he’s the best forensics guy on the west coast. Hey, Quentin, what’s the 411?”
He looked up, peeking over his thick-rimmed glasses, which seemed to be the newest style. He’d been wearing them long before the latest fad was to look like nerd extraordinaire, though, so she didn’t tease him about it. His eyes lit up and he broke into a smile.
“Morning, Sunshine. Glad you’re here. Come have a look.”
Shyla braced herself for grotesque and stepped forward. It never got easier.
Straton had been right. There wasn’t much left. It was a body. The only way she could see that it was human were the strands of bright pink hair streaming from the skull. Other than that, it was hard to conclude much more. Nearly all the flesh had been torn away. It wasn’t even that repulsive, just looked like mangled up chunks of meat dangling from a set of bones. Shyla had seen worse. This didn’t even have a face anymore. Without a face, it was easier to look at the cadaver from a professional and disengaged perspective. When they had a face, they looked at you and wanted answers.
Shyla was relieved those eyes weren’t looking back at her that cold morning. She felt like shit. Having a corpse stare up at you when you’re already miserable is not the best of ways to start the morning.
“She’s late teens- early twenties. Caucasian. Dark-blonde hair dyed hot pink,” Quentin’s energetic voice piped up.
“Yeah, I see the hair. That’s where you get white female?”
Hands gloved, he tugged with a pair of small sterile forceps and pulled up a chunk of what must have been scalp. By the curve of the bone, she guessed forehead.
“You have to look real close, but just at the roots you can make out the color of her skin. Nowadays, pink hair isn’t real gender specific, but the bone structure, femur length, and the pelvis, says female- late teens, early twenties.”
Shyla raised a speculative eyebrow.
“I’ll take your word for it. I want to see the necklace. Straton said it’s identical to the one’s Ricardo’s gang wears.”
“Sure. I bagged it.”
“I already took a peek,” Johnson said. “It does look the same.”
Shyla nodded and kept her expression bland.
“Anything else?” she asked.
Quentin snorted and gently bagged his specimen.
“No. This is a mess. I’m gonna have to wait until she’s back at the lab before I can have my way with her. Give me at least a few days. Probably not going to be much to go off given her condition, but her skeleton might reveal the cause of death. We’ll see.”
“Meanwhile,” Shyla said, “we’ll stick to protocol - keep tabs on everything that the State authorities find, run her DNA, see if we can match her up with a missing profile. I know that Straton thinks she’s one of Ricardo’s but I want to know if she had any association with Victor Champlain.”
“Champlain? I didn’t know you were on that case.”
Johnson rolled his eyes.
“We’re not. Jesus, Shyla, let it go. I’m going to go have a talk with the farmer.” He stomped off.
Shyla felt Quentin’s curiosity, as thick as the mud under her boots.
“Ricardo’s gang is our main focus. But let’s face it - he’s small potatoes. I have a hard time believing he doesn’t answer to someone bigger. You and I both know that Champlain wouldn’t let just anyone deal in his territory. He has a whole fleet under him and I’m willing to bet Ricardo is one of them.”
Quentin peered over the
rim of his glasses.
“Well if you can draw that conclusion, then why hasn’t anyone else?” he asked.
“They have. Even Johnson,” Shyla said, averting her eyes, “But everyone has their hands full. Champlain’s reach is far. And he has a lot of people in his pockets, if you know what I mean. I’m not sure it’s a case that’s meant to be solved. But little guys, like Ricardo, they are perfect fall guys. So they focus on them.”
“But not you. You want to nail Champlain and use guys like Ricardo to do it.”
Shyla gave a rare sideways grin.
“Who, me?”
THREE
Shyla’s eyes crossed with fatigue. She had been working up her reports for the better half of the morning. She started when there was a hard knock on her door and Johnson peered in.
“Hey, Ericson. Captain wants to see you.”
“Just me?”
“Yep.”
“Hey, have you heard anything about the Jane Doe found in the pig trough yet?”
“No, but it’s been a few days. Give it a while longer. Besides, I don’t think that’s what the Captain wants to talk to you about.”
“Right.”
Johnson’s eyes met hers briefly, hinting that there was a question lurking in the back of his mind, but thought better of it.
“Well, you’d better head on back,” he said.
Sighing, Shyla ran a hand over her hair impatiently.
“Yeah, all right, at least it gets me away from this damn desk for a while,” she said, flipping the file closed and popping it down into the cabinet under her desk.
*
“Sit down, Shyla,” said Eli Straton, the director of F.A.N.C., as she entered the room. He’d been Captain of L.A.P.D. before stepping into the role of director of the Federal agency. Everyone still called him Captain.
Eli was a calm, collected individual at all times. He was a generous and hard-working leader - the kind of boss everyone wanted to work for. Shyla looked up to him. There were times, though, when his quiet demeanor took on a dangerous edge that could make anyone take heed. It was only a slight twitch of his lips, a sharp look in his eye. But it was enough to make even the toughest cops squirm.
Shyla swallowed hard.
“Yes, Sir.”
Straton sat in his chair, folded his hands on his desk and stared her down.
“I wanted to talk to you about the Champlain case.”
Shyla sat up straight. She’d been hoping that’s what he wanted to talk about. It was the biggest case in the state. She wasn’t on the team assigned to it, but she’d been hoping to make her way there eventually.
“Great. Let’s talk. Champlain is exactly why I went down there yesterday. An anonymous tip indicated that Ricardo, the guy I’ve been following on the Circo case was meeting up with Frank the Crank.”
“Frank? Why in the hell is Frank talking to someone like him? He’s small time.”
“Exactly. There is a reason why no one ever sees Champlain. He’s like a myth or something. It’s because he has so many people, guys like Frank the Crank, working under him. You have to go through layers and layers of contacts before you get to the source. I’ve suspected that this little gang I’ve been trying to bust is getting their goods from the big daddy himself. My guy is possibly on the very bottom of a very tall totem pole, dealing on the east side of town.”
“I interrogated him yesterday, after the bust. But he wasn’t cooperating. He’s tired and stressed out now. I want to go down there again and…”
“Wait, wait, wait. Damn, Shyla, I can’t even get a word in edgeways. This guy could possibly- just maybe- have a connection, a possible lead. But we both know it’s not going to get us real far. Victor Champlain is practically untouchable at this point. To bring him down, we are going to have to have some serious goods.”
He sighed and leaned back in his chair.
“This case is getting complicated and attracting more media. The state has been causing a ruckus, claiming that we haven’t done enough to get it under control. The agency has decided that we need to amp up our efforts to nail him before it gets political. And as of very recently, there have been some changes; changes which require a new approach.
“I’m putting you as the lead. I know you know that case as well as anyone else. And given the nature of some of these changes, I’m convinced you’re the best person for the job.”
It was exactly the opportunity that Shyla had been waiting for - head detective on a high profile case. The Champlain case was perfect. Victor Champlain was an up and coming star in the world of drug lords. He had been no one in particular as a boy, but in his late teens he made a few key alliances when he befriended and won the trust of one of the biggest Los Angeles mafia bosses this side of the Mississippi. Apparently, he was a fast learner and highly ambitious, because over the course of the next few years, he worked his way up to multi-millionaire status. His dirty hands were in many pots ranging from black market gun dealing, to the porn industry. But his favorite and most lucrative exploits were in the illustrious and dangerous industry of dealing cocaine.
Recently, he’d acquired the fame that came with such quantities of money and power. Links to other crime in the city had been discovered, not just a few of them homicide. Of course, most of the bodies were of other known criminals and never provided any direct evidence linking Victor specifically. A man with his resources would have many thugs under him to do the dirty work. Still, the State of California had him in their sites as a top priority and keeping careful watch on his seedy activities. To be assigned this case would be a definite promotion.
“Yes, Sir. I’d be glad to,” Shyla answered, containing her enthusiasm.
“Great. The department will cover the costs of your move…”
“My move?” she interrupted,
“Yeah. Didn’t you hear? Champlain moved to Redding this past month. It’s one of the big changes. They say he visited a friend up at Shasta Lake and fell in love with the area, the privacy. He bought a huge property just outside of town at the bottom of the mountain and does a great deal of his work from there now. Still flies his plane down the coast and hits L.A., San Fran., and San Diego, doing business. But his base is there now. And wherever he is, trouble will follow. The Redding Police Department has no clue what they’re dealing with. They’re going to need you.”
Shit. Redding fucking California. Her home town. She hated that place. Now in order to score the case of a lifetime, she had to move back. The offer was both intriguing and repulsive. What the hell type of sick and twisted fate was this?
“You okay, Ericson? I thought you’d be happy about this.”
She was. Kind of. It was just that she hadn’t ever thought she’d step foot back in that town.
“Um, yeah. I am. What’s the Redding force think about me coming down there?”
“Are you kidding me? People down there are getting antsy now that they’re aware who their newest resident is. Redding PD is stoked to have one of us on the case. A little territorial maybe but that’s to be expected. Besides, they don’t have much of a choice. And with you being born and raised there, you already have an in. You’re one of them. It’s exactly why I knew you were perfect for the job. They’ll be a lot more likely to accept a native.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Shyla said, cringing at the idea of what the town’s response would really be.
Straton met her wary eyes.
“Hey. I know you had a tough childhood, but no one holds that against you. You’ve come a long way. They need you up there in Shasta County and they know it. They’ll cooperate. And Champlain doesn’t know you - you’re fresh meat. You can go in under cover. Get in from the inside. You’ve done plenty of successful under cover jobs. You can handle this.”
“How in the hell am I going to pull off under cover when half the town knows me?”
Straton gave a devilish smile.
“Easy. You’re going in as an administrative assista
nt to the Chief. You’re moving back home. Lots of people do.”
“You mean I’m going to be a secretary,” Shyla scoffed, “Filing. Getting coffee. Pulling my hair out.”
Straton ignored her sarcasm and rifled through the stack of paperwork on his desk. He handed her a file.
“You’re going in as the Chief’s assistant so that you can be close to headquarters without it looking suspicious. Everyone knows that the assistant knows more than anyone else in a police department. You haven’t talked with anyone in the town in years, right? No one knows you are a detective?”
“Not a chance.”
That was the one thing she had going for her. The Captain said that he knew she’d had a rough childhood, but he had no idea how rough. No one outside of Redding did. The first thing she’d done to step away from that life was change her last name. At age eighteen she went from Shyla Strauss to Shyla Ericson and had her juvenile records sealed.
“Good,” he said, “I seriously doubt most will even remember you. Fifteen years is a long time. Now the only people who will know your position will be your team and the chief. Even the rest of their agency won’t have a clue. Got it? You will head an interagency task force made up of about three. That’s including you.”
“Three, huh? So much for sleeping and eating,” Shyla quipped. Not much of a task force, she thought.
“Hey, budget’s tight. We’ll still have a team here, keeping an eye on his minions and their activities here. You still work for F.A.N.C., but you’ll mostly be answering to Hal Jorgenson, Chief of Police in Redding. You will also cooperate with the State and County if they get involved. You are the liaison, the go-to gal for this case. We can’t send anyone else up there but the RPD will relinquish two of their officers to join your team.”
Shyla couldn’t hold her tongue on that one.
“What? I’m not even going to have Johnson with me? At first I thought I was getting a promotion here, but now it looks like I’m getting some sort of twisted punishment. What the hell is going on?”