The previous night’s activities and the photo of Typhoon and Breezeway had preempted another headline, shoving it to a strip along the bottom: “Mayor’s Superhighway Plan: Genius or Madness?” A thumbnail photo showed gray-haired Anthony Paulson smiling at the camera. Mention of the mayor made her think of Detective Mark Paulson, of course. She hadn’t told Analise which handsome police detective had escorted her home.
“What is it? Oh—is Paulson on about that again? You know the historic preservation people’ll never let him get away with it. It’ll take an earthquake to level half the city before they let anything get torn down.”
Part of Paulson’s platform for the last election featured a “revitalization” plan. He wanted to build a multilane ring highway circumscribing the city, to facilitate commerce and to attract business. The usual buzzwords. The trouble was, a number of existing neighborhoods would have to be demolished to accommodate the highway. Many argued, convincingly, that an essential character of Commerce City would be lost if it turned into yet another ungainly urban sprawl surrounded by cookie-cutter bedroom communities.
“That’s not really what I was thinking of,” Celia said absently, refolding the paper and handing it back to Analise. Could she still date Mark if she hadn’t voted for his father?
Celia’s lunch hour was almost finished, and the dishes were cleared away, when Analise asked, “You’re really okay after what happened? You don’t seem shaken up at all.”
“Yeah. Remember, this is like kidnapping number”—she actually had to stop and count—“seven for me. It’s been a couple years since the last. I was probably due for it.”
“That’s really messed up. That you can even think like that.”
“It’s either that or spend the rest of my life in therapy.”
“You could probably use some. Therapy, I mean. You’re always complaining about your parents, that their reputation is always getting in your way. Why don’t you leave town? You could change your name, start a new life somewhere.”
She’d always told herself she shouldn’t have to give up her identity for them. “I like it here. What would I do without coffee at Pee Wee’s? I guess I keep thinking I can make a place for myself. I keep thinking someday people will just forget about me. Stop trying to kidnap me.” Every kid wanted to get out of their parents’ shadow. Her problem was, for her that shadow was just so big.
Analise huffed self-righteously. “Your folks should have retired when their cover was blown.”
Not that it would have helped. Then, people would have used her to try to draw them out of retirement. Or try to ransom her. Warren West was still one of the richest men in town.
“Just remember you said that, if it ever happens to you.”
THREE
CELIA put her hands on her hips and surveyed the computer printouts, financial statements, and depositions spread across the table in the conference room. “I think you’ve got him on a dozen counts at least. Insider trading, money laundering, tax evasion, mail fraud. You did get warrants?”
DA Kevin Bronson patted his suit’s breast pocket. “Oh yeah. Three different judges signed ’em. I’m not taking any chances with the Destructor.”
Celia let out a sigh. “Good.”
“Don’t worry. This one’s personal for all of us.”
To think, for all the Destructor’s megalomania, his fantastical plans of annihilation and mayhem, his unending vows to rule the world and the Olympiad’s failure to bring him to justice, it was the accountants who were finally going to lock the key to his jail cell. Celia West, CPA. She had to admit, it felt pretty good.
“We haven’t identified all his assets,” the DA continued. “I’ll need you to track them down.”
The materials filled banker’s boxes. Usually, these cases involved a file folder. But the Destructor was a big case. She paged through some of the records. They went back years, decades. Sito’s entire history was laid out here, in bits and pieces and bank statements. Fascinating stuff, to her at least. Which was why she had this job. She resisted an urge to rub her hands together and cackle.
Celia and Bronson carefully organized and labeled every possible shred of evidence that might have a bearing on the trial. Bronson already knew that Sito planned to plead insanity. It was a dangerous defense: the very nature of his crimes—calculating, methodical, and ambitious—spoke the coldest brand of criminal sanity. Celia could help show that. Even so, no matter what the verdict, with enough evidence to show he was a danger to himself and others—mainly others—the judge could order him locked so deep inside Elroy Asylum he’d never dig his way out.
They had almost finished when Bronson paused and checked the door to make sure it was closed. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back and studied her.
“Did Kurchanski tell you that I requested you for this case?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Do you know why?”
She shrugged. “Good press. Because of my parents. Get the whole West clan on board.”
“Is that a problem?”
Time to be professional and swallow her angst. “If you aren’t worried about a conflict of interest, then it’s not a problem.”
“Good. Because I was hoping you could give me a little more insight into Sito than what we can tell from the records.”