On the rocky ride up the mountain, I mentally replayed the phone call, pondering the information and testing her Robin Hood theory: Did it fit the facts? And was it the simplest explanation that did? I had to admit, it did seem to fit with Janus’s swashbuckling style, his daredevil streak. I’d seen videos of him landing a DC-3 in jungle clearings scarcely bigger than my backyard. Clearly the man didn’t mind some peril—in fact, he seemed to thrive on it. Was he simply braver than most of us, more tolerant of high doses of danger? Or was it possible that Janus was an adrenaline junkie: not just accustomed to risk, but addicted to it—that danger was his drug of choice?
If so, he may have suffered a fatal overdose, I realized—an overdose supplied by Chapo Guzmán, a rich but deadly devil to dance with.
“BIG DAY TODAY, GUYS,” SAID MCCREADY AS WE loaded onto the platform and prepared to descend the bluff for our second assault on the wreckage. “Summer solstice; longest day of the year. Fourteen hours of daylight.”
Boatman groaned; Kimball said, “Great! We get overtime, right?”
“Sure you do,” said McCready. “And good always triumphs over evil. And the Democrats and Republicans are about to set aside their differences and work together for the greater good.”
“Hmm,” Kimball muttered.
The morning wore on; the sun rose and the heat soared, the brown stone of the mountain soaking up the solstice sun. I was surprised by the heat—I’d heard that San Diego doesn’t get hot until July or even August—but somehow we had managed to catch a heat wave, which combined with the residual heat from the fire to make the crash site feel like a sauna. For much of the morning we were in shadow, sheltered by the rock wall at our backs. By eleven, though, the shadow had shrunk to a narrow band at the base of the bluff, and a hot, dry wind was funneling up the valley, swirling dust and cinders around us.
Mercifully, a few minutes later, McCready called a lunch break. Caked with dust and the salt of dried sweat, we boarded the platform and ascended the bluff. After our hours of baking on the slope, the comforts of the command center—ice water, air-conditioning, and a feast of sandwiches, fruit, chips, cookies, even ice cream bars—seemed wondrous beyond comprehension: as if we’d been released from a low, hot circle of Dante’s Inferno and whisked straight to Paradise.
AFTER LUNCH I STAKED A CLAIM ON A CORNER OF the command center’s small sofa. I must have nodded off, because I suddenly found myself waking up. The chatter in the room had ceased, and—hearing the abrupt silence—I jerked awake and said, “What?” Then, as the fog of sleep dissipated, I heard what had caused the agents to fall silent: the thrum of an approaching helicopter. My first thought was of the sheriff’s chopper, but then I realized that the pitch was too high. This was no army-bred workhorse; this was a racehorse—the same Fox 5 News racehorse that had trailed Carmelita Janus up the mountain, I saw when I followed the agents outside.
McCready and Prescott—apparently the case agent had arrived sometime during my nap—frowned as the helicopter settled down, and their frowns turned to scowls as a young reporter, accompanied by a cameraman, ducked beneath the swirling blades and scurried toward us. Prescott held up a warning hand and shook his head—a clear, strong no signal—but they kept coming. The cameraman handed the reporter a microphone, and as they neared us, he held it up and began speaking. “Mike Malloy, Fox Five News. Who’s in charge here?”
“I am,” said Prescott.
“And who are you?” he demanded.
“I’m the federal officer who’s going to arrest you both if you don’t leave immediately. This is a restricted area and you know it. So get back in your helicopter and get out of here, and I mean now.”
“Of course, of course. Just a couple quick questions before we go.”
“No,” said Prescott. “Now.”
“Have you identified the body of Richard Janus yet?” Prescott didn’t respond. “Have you found his body—or any body?”
“I won’t comment on an ongoing investigation,” said Prescott, his voice ringing like steel on stone. “But I will comment on this.” He held up a thumb and forefinger, practically touching. “You are this close to being arrested for tampering with a crime scene, interfering with a federal officer in performance of his duties, and two or three other things I haven’t thought of yet. When we have news, we will hold a press conference. Which you’ll be welcome to attend. If you’re not behind bars.”
The reporter held up his hands and began backing away, but he wasn’t giving up yet. “What’s the crime? You say this is a crime scene, so what crime are you investigating?” Prescott scowled, but I wasn’t sure whether his anger was triggered by the reporter’s doggedness or his own revelation—I felt sure it was unintentional—that the mountaintop wasn’t just a crash scene, but a crime scene.