PROLOGUE

Fierce Santa Ana winds barreled down the rugged coastal canyon, pummeling the manicured grounds of Casa Bella Rosa and raining palm fronds onto a fleet of black limousines parked in the driveway. Nearby, the gated estate’s main house stood guard against the wind, the massive white stucco building appearing dark and deserted. There was not a soul in sight.

Within the fortress-like walls of the 25,000 square-foot mansion, a sense of emptiness filled the ground-floor rooms and hallways, the eerie silence deafening. Up the grand staircase and down the great hall of the east wing, a light shone from under a pair of hand-carved mahogany doors at the end, beckoning. Only the master of the house had the key to his private study. Inside the richly-paneled room, the fireplace crackled, the flames providing little warmth for the elderly man seated in a deep leather armchair. He had been excluded from the hushed conversations emanating from the room’s other occupants.

At last, the room fell silent and a heavyset man stepped away from the huddle but remained in the shadows, savoring the last remnants of his cigar. The room reeked of power and mixed well with the pungent aromas from twenty-five-year-old scotch and bootlegged Cubans, the rewards of men in their positions.

“Enough of this cloak and dagger B.S.,” the old man said, turning from the fire toward his accusers. “It’s time you told me why you called this emergency meeting. It’s bad enough I had to fly cross-country to get here, but I have a meeting in Manhattan, first thing in the morning.”

The big man took another step forward. “I’m afraid you may not make that meeting, Robert, unless you can allay our concerns.”

“And just what the hell is that supposed to mean, you fat slob? You work for me, remember?”

“Not anymore, I’m afraid.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because,” he replied, moving to within several feet of Robert’s chair and staring him directly in the eyes, “we have reason to believe you may be considering betraying the syndicate.”

“And why would I do that?” the old man said, his regal voice thick with disdain. “I’ve got just as much to lose as everyone else in this room.”

The big man, chosen to speak for the assembled group of eleven men, pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolding it before dropping it onto the traitor’s lap. “Because you’re dying.”

The accused glanced at the paper, the conclusion from the results of his lab tests … BRAIN TUMOR: Diagnosis–three months to live. That had been four months ago. “What of it?” he scoffed, a man unaccustomed to being challenged by anyone, least of all his colleagues. “We’re all going to die, eventually.”

“Perhaps … but we’re not all going to be testifying before the Senate Committee on Finance.”

“But it’s your committee,” the old man snapped, losing his temper, “and it was your office that subpoenaed me!”

The Senator nodded. He was the group’s most high-profile member and an expert at using twisted logic for maximum effect. It was the sign of a great politician. “A regrettable circumstance,” he said, still unsure as to which of his fellow Senators had manipulated certain procedural rules in an effort to make an end run around him, “and something that was done prior to learning of your health issues.”

“Then simply withdraw the subpoena.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“And why the hell not? You’re the goddamn chairman of the committee!”

“That may be true, but someone’s managed to burrow a mole into the Capitol and somehow gain access to highly-sensitive information I keep locked in my office.” The Senator leaned in close, until he was only inches from the other man’s face. “And I suspect that you are that someone.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said with such force he had to take a moment to collect his breath. “What would be the point of that?”

“Is it not true,” the Senator asked, ignoring the other man’s question, “that you’ve been in touch with Bryce?”

Fuming, the old man sipped his whiskey before taking a long pull on his cigar. “Of course,” he finally said. “When it comes to dealing with the Chinese, who better to consult?”

“That may be so, but is it not also true that you’ve been in contact with the White House?”

“On unrelated matters,” he hissed, jaw clenched, “yes. Is that the problem? You think I’m working in coordination with the President?”

“The thought had crossed our minds.”

“Then why would I need a mole, especially since I’ve already got you in my back pocket? I’ve funneled tens of millions of dollars to you over the years. If you go down, I go down.”

“Unless you’ve cut a deal, something that grants you immunity in exchange for rolling over on your colleagues.”

“You can’t be serious!”

The big man shrugged. “I must say that, lately, you seem to have grown a bit of a conscience.”

“Listen, you pompous buffoon,” he said, trying to rise from the chair but too feeble to do so. “I helped found this syndicate, way back when you were still in diapers.” He hesitated, breathing heavily. “If anyone is a traitor, it’s you!”

Bored with the hollow protestations, the Senator made eye contact with the square-jawed man standing directly behind the leather chair, giving him a nearly imperceptible tip of his head.

Void of expression, the muscular guard reached inside his jacket, coming out with a silenced 10mm Glock. An ex-Green Beret, he now made a small fortune eliminating problems for his wealthy benefactors. In the blink of an eye, he jammed the gun’s muzzle into the old man’s right temple and popped off several rounds, blowing out the opposite side of his head, splattering blood and bits of brains everywhere.

Satisfied, the Senator calmly watched as his ex-colleague’s body rolled onto the floor. “Take him out back to the conservatory and turn him into fertilizer,” he said, placing a forceful hand on the big man’s shoulder. “Once you’ve run him through the meat grinder, plant his remains under the orchids, but make certain you do it in a way that no traces of him are ever found.”

CHAPTER ONE

Standing near the center of the Tumwater Canyon Bridge, I leaned into the railing, feeling the ease with which someone could take the plunge. Flashing back to a happier time, I considered how first love is the best; pure, innocent and unafraid. Her name was Jennifer Locke, the cutest and sweetest six-year-old girl a dopey kid could ever hope to fall for. Jenny and I made huge plans to one day get married and capture the American dream—a white picket fence, two kids, a dog, the works. But childhood fantasies seldom come true, and that one was no exception. As it was, we managed to remain best friends for more than thirty years, but now she’s dead.

Suicide, my ass!

Still fighting the shadows of dawn’s early light, I peered over the bridge railing, desperate for answers. “How far is it to the ground?” I asked the only person within earshot, or eyesight for that matter. “You can at least tell me that much.”

“Because we’re friends,” Skip replied, softening his previous tone, “I’m going to say this one more time. For once in your life, you need to just butt out and leave well enough alone.”

“We’re at the scene of a murder involving one of our closest friends,” I shot back, genetically incapable of ever leaving well enough alone. And not having slept much recently, I was in no mood for him to be withholding facts germane to his investigation, regardless of whether they helped or hurt Jenny’s cause. “I’ll butt out once you tell me the details of how and why she was killed … the real details.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? Jenny jumped! The sooner you accept that, the sooner we can all move on.”

While pondering those harsh words, I took a moment to survey our surroundings. The Tumwater Canyon Bridge is situated about twenty miles outside of the lazy beach town of Bellavista and spans a deep gorge that slices through a coastal range of molehills we Bellavistans refer to as mountains. Behind us, an occasional car whizzed past, the only disturbance to this otherwise serene setting—trees, wildlife, purple mountains majesty; it was nature’s eye candy. From our vantage point atop the bridge, I could make out several head of cattle grazing in a distant field, and I was currently watching a lone eagle sailing on the thermals. This was a place to renew your faith in life, not practice your diving technique.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” I said, my tone unapologetic, “but this is one time when your official report just isn’t going to suffice. In order for me to move on, you’re going to have to share everything you know, then let me make my own determination as to her cause of death. If you want me off your back on this, that’s how you do it.”

Sunday being his day off, Skip was wearing jeans and a Polo shirt, but his mirrored aviator glasses—his intimidators, he liked to call them—had cop written all over them. And despite being a consummate blabbermouth, he was playing stingy with even the minor details this morning. “Okay,” he grumbled through clenched teeth, “exactly what is it you want to know?”

“Well, for openers, you can tell me how far Jenny fell after she was tossed over the rail.”

“She jumped just a few feet from here, and according to the forensics guys, she fell precisely 416 feet 11 inches to the point of impact.”

Despite knowing they had shot the distance with a laser rangefinder, I took a quick peek over the guardrail to judge for myself. “I don’t know,” I said, knowing the more irritated I could get him, the more likely it was that he would inadvertently divulge whatever secrets he was withholding, “it looks more like 417 feet to me.”

Sticking out his right hand, Skip saluted me with his middle finger.

For the record, we were confabbing near the site where Jenny had supposedly leapt to her death. I say supposedly, because I wasn’t buying that scenario, for a number of reasons. “You know,” I said, drawing perverse pleasure from needling him, “it was probably that last inch that killed her.”

“You’re an asshole, Tinker.”

That’s me, Jake Tinker, lifelong friend of the aforementioned deceased, and in the opinion of at least one person, I’m an asshole. In reality, I’m a building contractor. If I was a detective, I’d get off my butt and hunt down Jenny’s murderer. It wouldn’t be the first time I had tracked a killer, and it never ended well for them, just as it would not end well for the son of a bitch who broke my #1 rule, made when I was only a kid. He would pay with his life. “Give me one good reason for why Jenny would’ve done what you’re suggesting.”

Skip cocked his head toward me. “There are a billion possible reasons, but I’ll give you three. Guilt, depression and booze; they’re a nasty trio.”

“Guilt!” I scoffed, ignoring his backhanded reference to the missing loot that had the town abuzz. “Over what?”

“You tell me.”

“And she wasn’t depressed a single day in her life. She was like Disneyland, only happier.”

“If you say so.”

“Don’t give me that psychoanalytical cop talk,” I said, angered by having to defend Jenny to one of her closest friends. “You knew her almost as well as I did and know she didn’t drink and drive, ever.”

Unlike me, Skip Moody was a detective, homicide division. Under normal circumstances, he suffers from diarrhea of the mouth, but ever since he’d caught the lead in the investigation into Jenny’s death, our friendship had been on the skids. “You’ve always had a blind spot when it comes to Jenny,” he said, pulling his intimidators down the bridge of his nose so that I could see his eyes. “You need to take off your rose-colored glasses and realize she was as screwed up as everyone else.”

There it was again. Until Jenny’s death, a week or so ago, no one ever said anything bad about her, least of all Skip. “If that’s the way you want to play it,” I said, fully prepared to take matters into my own hands, “just show me where the killer tossed her into the canyon, and I’ll get to work finding him.”

Barely able to stifle his rage, Skip’s jaw was clamped shut like a vice, the veins on his forehead pulsating as if they might burst. “Believe it or not,” he finally said, seething, “this isn’t my only case, but you are by far and away the biggest pain in my ass.”

“You know what they say, ‘go big or go home’.”

“If all you’re going to do is crack jokes,” he said, turning to leave, “I have to get to work on another case … a real murder.”

“Now there’s a thought,” I said, growing increasingly suspicious of his unwillingness to discuss any scenario other than suicide. “What with the violent crime spree that’s been burning its way through town in recent months, maybe Jenny’s murder was a part of it.”

“Jenny wasn’t murdered,” he snapped, whipping back around, “and her death was not a part of anything.”

Turning my head for a look at the road, the black skid marks and bits of broken glass were another painful reminder of that fateful night. “How are the people who plowed into Jenny’s Volvo?”

“Touch and go.”

“Which is it, touch or go?”

Skip moaned, coming to a decision. “Against my better judgment,” he said, moving to a point on the railing marked with a big black X, “I’ll give it to you one more time from the top. Jenny was obviously depressed that night; she maybe had a few drinks and popped some pills, and then she drove around until she ended up right here.” With those last words, he placed an index finger on the X. “And here’s the part you need to get through your thick skull—around one a.m., she jumped or fell over the rail from this spot, but either way, she maybe killed two people. With all of the fog we had that night, the poor bastards probably never saw it coming.”

The visual image Skip was painting of Jenny was unacceptable to me. Not that Jenny was a saint—she wasn’t—but he was going out of his way to make her something she also wasn’t—depressed and suicidal. And to make matters worse, there were the rumors being circulated in the media about Jenny and a rather substantial amount of missing money. Deciding this had drawn out long enough, I stuck my head over the side for a good look at the unfathomable drop to the bottom. As expected, there were scattered clusters of pine trees interspersed with enormous boulders and a few clear areas, all of it very rugged and extremely uninviting.

Straightening up, I had to wonder whose life could be so bad that jumping off this bridge would seem like an improvement to them. I mean, they’d have to be fucking nuts which, I suppose, was the whole point. But while Jenny may have been capable of many things of which I was unaware, I knew in my gut that a 400-foot swan dive onto a bunch of rocks wasn’t one of them. “How many people have jumped off of here?” I asked, more certain than ever that Skip was withholding critical information.

He sighed. “A couple every year.”

“How many leave a note?”

“Almost none.”

“How many are crazy?”

“Depends on who you ask. Personally, I think they’re all nuts.”

“Even Jenny?”

“Maybe,” Skip said, preparing to make his exit, “at least she was that night.” Satisfied, he strutted toward his car with that cocky cop-walk he’s been perfecting for years, sorta like Daffy Duck with a carrot up his ass. Like his intimidators, the plain tan Chevy he always drove was a dead giveaway he was a cop. “I’ll see you at the bottom,” he called out over his shoulder, “but I think you’re making a huge fucking mistake.”