Blood Matters

By Taffy Cannon

Now a new detective in the San Diego Sheriff’s Department, Roxanne Prescott ("Guns and Roses") is part of the team investigating the mysterious murder of the beloved Sam Brennan. The founder and head of Adoption Central, Sam spent his working life creating families and his spare time collecting the toys that represented the love he hadn’t received in his deprived childhood. Who could have wanted to hurt the man who did such wonderful things for so many grateful people? Roxanne must wrestle the shadow of her own past tragedy still hanging over her, along with rookie nerves and a killer determined to hide a different past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Taffy Cannon
• Release date: Mar 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781958749067

Taffy Cannon

Taffy Cannon is the author of fourteen books, including SibCare: The Trip You Never Planned to Take, which details all aspects of caring for a sibling. She lives in California. 

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The dead man lay half-buried in yellowed paperbacks, their lurid covers promising steamy lust, gory murder, illicit passion, and miscellaneous mayhem—generally heralded by dangerous, scowling men, and women of questionable character and extreme cleavage. There were dozens, maybe hundreds of them, cellophane peeling from curled covers, crumbling pages browned.

Hard to believe we were in Rancho Santa Fe, one of the wealthiest communities in the world.

The folks gathered on the twisting, eucalyptus-shaded road half an hour earlier didn’t really look like people who’d be in this ritzy neighborhood except by invitation, employment, or tragedy. In this case all three applied. Most of us were from the San Diego Sheriff’s Department Homicide Detail. Everybody had rolled, from the lieutenant on down to me, the lowest detective on the Homicide totem pole.

A couple of reporters waited behind the police roadblock down the hill and the road dead ended a couple hundred yards beyond us. The only other civilian was a woman sitting in the back of a police cruiser at the base of the driveway. She had made the 911 call. I positioned myself to watch her, as did some of the others. Mostly all I could see was a mop of black curls, though her head sometimes shook as if she were crying.

My name is Roxanne Prescott and I’m a fourth-generation officer of the law. My great-granddaddy and my granddaddy were both Texas Rangers, my father’s the Chief of Police in Mecklenburg, Texas, and I started my career on patrol in Austin, as did a couple of my brothers. I took a detour a few years ago and came to California to work for my aunt’s travel agency, but I never stopped feeling like a cop and I never stopped missing my badge. I considered going back to Texas, but by then I was hooked on Southern California. I checked out the options and chose the San Diego Sheriff’s Department over the San Diego Police Department because the SDPD seemed a little bit too urban for my taste.

It was the right decision.

We were waiting now on the fourth member of our Homicide team, Detective Mike Ortega, who was stuck in a traffic jam on I-15, carrying our search warrant that he’d picked up after testifying at the Vista Courthouse on the kind of case that haunts me, a baby shaken to death by a man who may or may not have been that baby’s father. Once the paramedics here had confirmed that the man inside was, in fact, quite dead, some of the urgency dissipated. It made more sense to do this by the books than to rush and screw it up.

The 911 call came in at 9:43 a.m. It was getting on to eleven now and the marine layer had burned off, leaving an azure sky that peeked through the canopy of trees. But it was still chilly here in the heavy shade, as we milled around, making small talk about sports, the latest San Diego political scandal, and the continued threat of a serious fire season after last spring’s heavy rains. The last seemed a foregone conclusion and overdue. It was early November now, and the greenery produced by those rains had crisped all summer into chaparral tinder just begging for a carelessly discarded cigarette or a passing pyromaniac.

This part of Rancho Santa Fe is old, at least by Southern California standards. Eucalyptus branches moving high above cast shifting patterns of light shadow. I couldn’t see the house beyond the trees, but the menthol aroma in the fall air seemed somehow mingled with the crass, metallic scent of money.

What had been called in as a possible homicide by the responding deputy could turn out to be something relatively simple, of course, perhaps a suicide mistaken for murder by an inexperienced officer. Deputies know to err on the side of caution, to expect the worst and act accordingly. It’s a lot easier to be extra careful at the beginning of an investigation than later to have to explain to some tight-assed DA just why something wasn’t done correctly.

Great day for a murder. Wilkinson stretched as he got out of his car, where he’d been reading the San Diego Union-Tribune..

Jed Wilkinson is the senior detective on our team of four, and he’d already been designated the case agent, the one who’d oversee this investigation. Wilkinson has more years in than our sergeant, or for that matter, the lieutenant. He’s tall and lean, his thinning hair cut close to his scalp, his skin the rough, sandy texture and hue that comes from three decades of smoking in a year-round sunny climate. Sure enough, he lit up as he leaned on the front fender. He carries an Altoids tin in which he stashes his butts till he finds a trash can.

A great day for something, I answered, just as somebody called out, Hey, here comes Ortega.

Mike Ortega’s black Taurus was inching up the roadway. When he got out he clasped his hands in front of his body, moving them from right to left and back, like the boxer he had been briefly in what he usually called his misspent youth. He handed the warrant to the lieutenant, who quickly read it and nodded.

Okay, people, let’s get moving. Lieutenant Sara Blair was all business, but this was hardly a surprise. In the three months I’ve been on this detail, I’ve seen no evidence of a sense of humor. It was two weeks before I saw her crack a smile.

We gathered around as the uniformed deputy who’d answered the call took a deep breath and readied himself to report. I’d been on his end of this situation before, and it was something I always dreaded. His name plate identified him as Deputy Larson. He was young and buff, with pale coloring, honey blond hair, and a set of shoulders that could advertise for any gym.

I responded to a nine-one-one call for a dead body and possible one eighty-seven at nine forty-nine. A woman was sitting in a blue Honda on the parking pad outside the residence. She identified herself as Ms. Lauren Masters and said the paramedics had gone inside. He pointed up the driveway. There were eleven other vehicles present on that parking pad, including an ambulance. Ms. Masters told me that she had come to this residence to see why her boss, Mr. Sam Brennan, had missed a meeting earlier this morning. When there was no response she stated that she tried opening the front door and found it unlocked. She went inside and discovered Mr. Brennan lying on the floor of his office. She stated that she then exited the house and went outside to call nine-one-one.

One of the paramedics had come outside then. He confirmed that there was a dead body, said it appeared to have been there a while, and agreed to wait with Ms. Masters while Deputy Larson checked the rest of the house for other possible victims.

Inside he found the other paramedic standing over the body of a white male with silver hair, lying on his stomach on the floor, apparently beaten about the head. He determined that there were no other persons on the premises and the EMTs left.

The deputy wasn’t getting any more comfortable, and I could hardly blame him. He soldiered on, using that formal cop jargon that vaguely resembles English. Then the questions started, thick and fast. The young deputy held his ground and I was proud of him.

Ms. Masters had identified the dead man as Samuel Brennan, who ran an organization called Adoption Central in La Jolla. She had been to the residence previously and was familiar with the layout. There was some evidence that a search had taken place in the office where the body lay. She had mentioned a missing computer.

Up until the missing computer, this could have been something relatively simple: a domestic dispute gone sour, a surprised burglar striking out, a suicide turned messy.

But in a neighborhood like this, a computer suggested finance, probably high.

With Deputy Larson fully debriefed, Detective Wilkinson took charge. Leadership comes easily to Jed Wilkinson, though not of the touchy-feely variety. After three months on his team, I had very little personal information about him because that was how he wanted it. But I did know that he was organized, serious, and almost preternaturally aware of his surroundings. Some detectives from the Encinitas substation were helping out down at the roadblock, and he immediately dispatched them to canvass the neighborhood, a task likely to involve more hiking than interviewing, the houses around here being on multi-acre lots. He dispatched two criminalists up to the house with Walter Barr from the Medical Examiner’s office. He put Mike Ortega on notification of relatives. He asked the sergeant to track down and commandeer a detective from Financial Crimes named Ray Craig, renowned for his skill on finance, investments, securities, and miscellaneous fiscal chicanery.

And let’s pick up all the computers at Brennan’s office, too, Wilkinson said. Probably too late if there’s something going on, but at least we’ll have locked the barn. It’s about eleven-thirty now. Let’s plan on meeting up back at the office around four. Anything jumps out at you, call me ASAP. Prescott and I will start out with the witness— he nodded toward the woman in the back of the squad car —and the crime scene. Any questions? Nobody spoke. Good, then. Let’s hit it.

As the group dispersed, Lieutenant Sara Blair came up to me. Pay attention on this one, she ordered. Make yourself Wilkinson’s shadow. It could be very instructive.

Yes, ma’am, I said, but she had already turned and walked away.

Did she think I wasn’t normally paying attention? I try not to feel paranoid, but the lieutenant has a very unsettling effect on me. She is always crisp and efficient and fit to the point of obsession. Nothing pleases her more than a nice triathlon under a blazing sun. And no matter what she says, I can always feel an undercurrent suggesting my own inadequacy. I’ve watched to see if she acts this way with everybody else, or anybody else, and I honestly can’t tell. Does that mean I really am a crummy detective? Maybe so, if I can’t even understand my own boss. On the other hand, Lieutenant Blair never seems chummy with anybody, and I’ve heard murmurings that she is simply getting her card punched at Homicide on the road to higher ground.

I’m going to run up and look at the crime scene, she told Wilkinson.

She meant this literally. Without waiting for a response, she sprinted up the driveway, sticking to the gravel edges and avoiding the asphalt pavement. Not likely, of course, but there just might be some kind of usable footprint or tire print, and she would not be the one who obscured it.

With everyone on their way, Wilkinson turned to me. You got a Coke or something in your car?

He knew I did. I always travel with a little cooler holding an assortment of soda and bottled water. Sure. You want something to offer her?

You got it.

I fetched a can of Coke Zero and a bottle of Dasani water, both products of the same mega-purveyor of liquids, and we went to the squad car where Lauren Masters was sitting. I realized as we got to the car that she was doing something on a laptop computer and that much of the movement I’d noticed earlier seemed related to the iPod she had dangling from her ears.

So much for sorrow.

Still, people react differently to sudden death, and sometimes it’s with the sort of it-didn’t-really-happen-because-I’m-not-thinking-about-it behavior she was exhibiting here. In any case, the woman was an employee, not a relative. There was no reason to think she was working. She might be playing solitaire or catching up on e-mail. Or, given the circumstances, polishing her résumé.

Wilkinson opened the rear door. Ms. Masters, I’m Detective Wilkinson and this is Detective Prescott. Why don’t you step out and stretch your legs a bit? We’d like to ask you some questions about what’s happened here this morning.

Lauren Masters snapped shut the laptop, on which I caught a glimpse of black text on a white base, some kind of word processor. She carefully removed the earbuds and stepped out of the backseat, stretching like a cat as she did so. She was fortyish and very thin, with chocolate eyes and shoulder-length, blue-black curls pulled back on one side by a silver clip that matched her hoop earrings. No rings. Her jeans were fashionable and snug, her trendy magenta top trimmed in matching lace. Her manicure and pedicure also matched the magenta, and her handshake was cool and firm.

She had been crying, but was dry-eyed now.

What happened is that I found the house unlocked and Sam dead on the floor in his office. Not much more that I can tell you than that.

I held out the beverage selection, feeling a bit like a flight attendant. Would you like something to drink?

She took the water bottle, twisted off its top, and said, Thanks. She didn’t sound very thankful, however. What she sounded like was a sulky teenager. I reminded myself again that severe shocks affect people many different ways.

I’ve got a couple of Granny Smith apples, too, if you’re hungry.

She shuddered. They’re probably not organic. And frankly, after seeing Sam, I don’t feel like ever eating again.

CHAPTER TWO

Wilkinson looks stern, but he can produce a very charming business persona at will. It was cranked to the max now. I’m sorry. I know this must be really difficult for you. But let’s see if you can help us out with some information?

I can try, Lauren Masters said, without enthusiasm. What do you want to know?

Well, let’s start with how you happened to come out here this morning, and take it from there. He leaned back against the front fender of the black-and-white, somebody who had all the time in the world.

Be open-ended, he had told me repeatedly. Let the witness structure the story. Don’t lead.

Meanwhile, I’d be taking notes, letting him give Lauren his full attention.

She took a deep breath. Sam missed a meeting this morning, a breakfast meeting. The woman he was supposed to meet called the office and she was pretty upset. I guess she’s not accustomed to being stood up. I was in the office when she called, and I was supposed to meet with Sam this morning anyway. That’s why I was there. Usually I work out of my house. But when we called up here a few more times and didn’t get any answer, I said I’d come check on him. She gave an exaggerated shudder. That was a big mistake, but how was I to know?

Where is this office you’re talking about? Wilkinson asked.

La Jolla. She gave the address, waited for another question that didn’t come, then started talking on her own, just as Wilkinson said most witnesses would. Sam is—was—the CEO of Adoption Central. The company handles all kinds of services related to adoption. Sam set it up a long time ago after he found his own birth parents. Back then it was mostly investigative. He wanted to give other adoptees the chance to experience the closure he’d found by locating them. Sam expanded the focus of the company after a few years and began handling actual adoptions as a facilitator. Since then Adoption Central has helped place thousands of children in loving homes. I actually know the number, but I can’t think of it right now. It’s always changing anyway.

She was starting to sound a bit like a sales brochure on crystal meth, accelerating her delivery as she prattled on.

What is it that you do for the company? Wilkinson asked.

I write stuff—books, brochures, interviews, magazine articles. That explained why she sounded like a marketing manager; it was her job. Sam has published eleven books on various aspects of adoption and I’ve written all but the first two. He actually wrote the first one himself but it had some problems. The second book he hired somebody else to write and that one was even worse. Somebody put me in touch with him after that and it just clicked. I fixed up the problems with both books and began working on others. That was six or seven years ago.

Wilkinson nodded. He appeared to be hanging on her every word and she seemed visibly more comfortable. So you’re actually his ghostwriter? I never met a ghostwriter before.

Lauren Masters nodded. It’s not terribly glamorous.

Would he tell you what to write? How does that kind of thing work?

"It varies according to the project. Usually the ideas are his. I’ve been doing corrections on our newest book, Love from Ukraine. Adoption Central has become more and more involved in international adoptions in recent years, and this is a collection of first-person accounts from parents who want to share their experiences with others. We did the same thing for China and Romania." She was chattering now, the way people sometimes do under stress.

Okay, Wilkinson said, let’s back up a little. You came out here this morning when your boss didn’t answer his phone. Was that unusual, him not picking up?

She nodded again, more vigorously. Absolutely. Sam’s a punctuality fanatic and he can’t stand to hear a ringing phone. Everything he does has to be right on schedule, and his schedules are very precise. For him to miss an appointment is unthinkable. Sometimes I have to really force him to spend some extra time on a project that needs his attention. Then he has to reschedule other stuff and he hates that. Hated, she amended, closing her eyes momentarily, in what appeared to be a genuine wave of grief.

What happened when you got here?

I drove up and rang the bell a couple of times but nobody answered. So I walked out on the deck to take a peek into the office. It has a big bay window. She took a deep breath and continued. His desk is right by the window, and the first thing I noticed was that his desk was totally messed up. That never happens. Sam would stop everything and rearrange the papers on his desktop if they weren’t absolutely aligned. Then I looked beyond the desk into the room and there were papers all over the place. And then . . . then I saw him lying there, just his legs, but he was on the ground and not moving.

She took another cleansing breath.

I guess I should have just stayed outside and called for help, but I thought maybe I could do something for him, so I ran around to the front door and this time I tried turning the knob. It was open, and I went in. I went straight back to the office and I found him. It was so awful!

I’m sure it was, he said gently. Did you call nine-one-one from inside?

Lauren shook her head. No, outside on my cell. Once I saw that Sam was dead, I just wanted to get out of there. I mean, what if whoever did that was still inside? I locked myself in my car until the paramedics showed up. But I did notice something as I was leaving the office.

What was that?

His computer was gone.

Interesting, Wilkinson said. How did you happen to notice?

Her eyes opened wide. Haven’t you been inside?

Not yet.

"Well, the office is just trashed, papers all over the place, file drawers dumped. And I looked around, trying to figure out what could have happened. That’s when I realized that his desktop computer was gone. It’s a big, black, Darth Vader kind of CPU and when it was on, which was every time I was ever here, it had a bright blue light pulsating out of it. I always thought it was pretty odd for Sam to be attracted to something like that. Though he does have a collection of vintage neon signs.

But who knows? she went on. I suppose there’s a chance that it was knocked over and it’s under the papers or something. The place is a real mess.

And that messiness isn’t customary?

She shook her head. Not hardly. Everything is always in perfect order. His cleaning service comes once a week, on Wednesday. The gardeners come the same day. I was here once while they were. The cleaners brought in five or six people and the gardeners had three. It was like locusts.

When was the last time you saw or spoke to him?

She thought for a moment. The last time we spoke was on Friday afternoon. He mentioned a couple of concerns about the Ukraine book and I told him I’d have the manuscript ready for him to pick up at the office today.

Did Mr. Brennan schedule his own meetings?

Some of them. Dana Kingston, the office manager, has the same access to his schedule as Sam himself, so she could add things, or check on where he was. Of course he’s been much less involved with the day-to-day operations these past couple of years as the place has grown. He would always go to any events with the children, of course. Tears slipped out the corners of her eyes. Sam really loved children and they really loved him. You can’t fake it with kids. They know when you’re insincere.

Wilkinson retrieved a mini-pack of tissues from his right jacket pocket, pulled out a couple, and offered them to her. Was he in the process of retiring? How old was he?

The question seemed to startle her. He just turned forty-eight, she said. It’s not a question of retiring so much as spending a lot of time on other interests.

Such as?

Lauren Masters offered a brief, musical laugh. You wouldn’t have to ask that question if you’d seen the house already. Sam was a collector out of control, an eBay junkie. He had to widen and improve the driveway so the UPS and FedEx trucks could make it up the road. For a while, he had a huge lockbox down by the mailbox at the start of the drive, but it was spray-painted by vandals and he worried that somebody would break into it. So he built a lockbox that went directly through the wall by the front door instead, and fixed up the drive down to the street.

The responding officer mentioned some cars outside the house. What do you know about them?

"It’s like any of the other stuff. He collects all sorts of things and one of those things is cars. Kind of offbeat ones, actually, but I think he’s gotten out of the habit. Once he had the cars he wanted, he lost interest. He’d get them, have somebody get them running well and fix up the bodies and interiors, but once that was done he wouldn’t even bother to drive most of them. He had a sixty-five