Chapter 61
TWO HOURS LATER, Justine sat in the passenger seat of the Suburban as Sci drove them north out of Thousand Oaks on the 101. Kloppenberg was monitoring up-to-the-minute radio coverage of the Harlow disappearance.
Justine barely listened. Her mind surged with battling thoughts and emotions about what she’d done so blithely earlier in the morning. How could she have done that? She barely knew Paul. And locked door or not, they’d taken such a chance, making love on the floor of the gym and up against the steel poles that supported the pull-up stations. But maybe the possibility of getting caught had only magnified the experience. Even now, hours afterward, Justine had to admit that the sex had been incredible, mind-blowing.
But that’s not me, she thought in sudden desperation. The Justine I know doesn’t hook up with strangers and … She alternated between wanting to call Paul, to tell him how amazing it all had been, and wanting to sob.
Was this the kind of random sexual acting out she had feared? She couldn’t come to any other conclusion. The knife fight in the jail cell in Guadalajara had seriously affected her. For God’s sake, she knew risky sexual behavior was a symptom of PTSD, and yet she’d just gone ahead, almost as if she were an adolescent again, unable to make rational choices.
“You okay?” Sci asked as they drove into Ojai and headed toward the Harlows’ ranch.
“Huh?” she replied, feeling foggier than normal. “I’m just tired, Sci. I haven’t been getting much sleep lately.”
“Lot of that going around,” Kloppenberg offered. “You see the text from Jack and Del Rio?”
Justine shook her head.
“Rick moved his right big toe about an hour ago. Jack saw it.”
She smiled. “That’s so good.”
“I know, right?” Sci said. “There they are.”
Ahead on the winding road, Justine could see several satellite broadcast trucks set up across from the gate to the Harlows’ ranch. With klieg lights and cameras trained on the Suburban, Sci pulled into the drive behind two vans emblazoned with the symbol of the FBI. A short, slight man, forties, buzz cut, FBI blue Windbreaker, already stood by the front gate.
“Good,” Sci said. “That’s Todd McCormick. We work peachy together.”
“You being sarcastic?”
“No, I mean it. He’s first-rate. Little uptight. FBI, what do you want? But the man’s completely on it when it comes to forensics.”
They got out. Sci introduced Justine to McCormick, who seemed Kloppenberg’s exact opposite in almost every way. And yet Justine noticed immediately that the men appeared to have some kind of quiet bond, a shared expertise and curiosity that was remarkably free of ego or competition.
“I saw the tapes of the children,” McCormick said. “Of course, I’ve heard of you, though I’ve never seen you in action. Impressive, Ms. Smith.”
“Thank you,” Justine said.
“You trained in forensics as well as child psychology?” McCormick asked.
Justine shook her head.
“Gotta admit, it’s a little off from my perspective,” the crime tech said.
“What’s that?” Sci asked.
“Townsend letting you both back on the crime scene,” McCormick said.
Sci grinned coldly. “Private’s forensics teams and labs are fully accredited with every major law enforcement agency in the country, even yours, Todd. If you remember, I have lectured at the FBI Academy.”
“I remember, Sci,” McCormick said before gesturing toward Justine with his chin. “No offense, but I was talking about her.”
Justine said, “Look, I’m here because Jack Morgan thinks I have a good eye for things. Special Agent Townsend concurs. I certainly won’t touch anything you consider evidence, Mr. McCormick. I’ll notify you the moment I find anything that seems germane to the investigation.”
You could tell the FBI tech didn’t like it, but he nodded. “You have a key?”
“No,” said Sci. “I thought you got it from Sanders.”
Justine sighed, stepped by them to a keypad. “Don’t worry, gentlemen, I have the entry code. I wrote it down the last time I was here.”