“Yes. There was an incident last night. Red was injured. He’s fine. He’s at Horizon Ranch.” She took the coffee from Cate. “Two men in a car stolen outside of San Francisco pursued him on Highway 1, northbound, after he left the ranch to go to his place. They opened fire on him.”

“They—” The cup and saucer rattled together as Cate offered them to Hugh. “Shot at him?”

“With an AR-15. His truck’s riddled. He sustained a minor wound to his left arm.”

“He’s been shot!” Hugh gripped the arms of his chair, started to push up.

“It’s a minor injury. Hugh.” Michaela’s tone switched from objective cop to friend. “I can reassure you on that because I was there when he was examined, when the wound was treated.”

“He could’ve been—”

“Could’ve been,” Michaela agreed. “But he wasn’t. We’re still reconstructing, but from what we have, Red was able to outmaneuver them, and as they were unable to control the stolen car at such a high rate of speed, they jumped the guardrail, went over the cliff.”

“We saw—last night Dillon and I were driving back from the Roadhouse. We saw the barricades. We thought there’d been an accident. He’s all right, you said. He’s really all right?”

“Minor injury, lower right shoulder, upper right biceps, treated on-site. The other two weren’t so lucky. The first was DOS—dead on scene. The second died this morning in the hospital without regaining consciousness.”

“There’s a reason you’re telling us,” Hugh commented.

“We were able to identify the second man—the shooter—who died this morning. Jarquin Abdul. Is that name familiar to either of you?”

“No,” Hugh said as Cate shook her head.

Michaela took out her phone, brought a mug shot on-screen. “This is Abdul. The photo’s about three years old. Do you recognize him?”

Cate took the phone, studied the photo of an angry-eyed man of color with a shaved head and a thick goatee. With another shake of her head, she passed the phone to Hugh.

“I’ve never seen him before, or not that I remember. Should we?”

“He’s out of L.A., has done some time. Gang related. He’s been out about a year now.” She took the phone back, put it away. “It’ll take some time to identify the other man through dental records and DNA.”

“That’s not the answer,” Cate murmured.

“I’m looking at some angles. There have been two murders and this attempted since November. Frank Denby was killed in prison. Charles Scarpetti was killed in his home in L.A. Now Red.”

“They’re all connected to me. To the kidnapping,” Cate corrected. She had to set her coffee down, grip her hands together to keep them still and calm.

“Almost two decades ago,” Hugh pointed out. “Are you saying they were killed by these two men who tried to kill Red?”

“No, I don’t believe that. But the connection’s there. Whoever killed Denby was most likely another inmate, or someone in the prison system who had access to him. The LAPD has eliminated robbery as a motive for Scarpetti’s murder. They’re pursuing the theory of revenge killing. Someone he represented who got sent over, a victim of someone he got off. That’s not panning out. With Red added, we’re looking into the possibility all three were hired out.”

Connecting dots wasn’t hard when they stared back at you. “Someone who’d pay to have people connected to my kidnapping killed. But why?”

“Revenge still works.”

Unable to sit, Cate pushed up, walked to the glass to look out blindly at the sea. “You think my mother may have done this.”

“Has she attempted to contact you since you came back to Big Sur?”

“No. She knows better by now. She gets in little digs now and again, through the press. That’s her way. I can’t see her doing this.” On a hiss of breath, Cate pressed her fingers to her eyes. “Then again, who would have seen her doing what she did to start all this? But . . .”

She turned back, looked at her grandfather. Hated to see the stricken look in his eyes. “She has all the money in the world now. It may sound dramatic, but if she wanted someone dead, she could hire a professional. She wouldn’t need a thug from a gang in L.A. How would she know how to hire someone like that? And what does it gain her? She’s about what it gains her, personally.”

“There’s a cruelty in her,” Hugh said. “A calculated cruelty. But like Cate, I can’t see her doing this, only because it offers her nothing. And if she wanted revenge? She wouldn’t have waited so long.”

“You’re connected.” Cate swung around to Michaela. “You, the Coopers. Gram. My God.”

“I’m a trained police officer, like Red. And like Red, I can take care of myself. As to the Coopers, I’m going over to speak with them, with Red. But if Charlotte Dupont isn’t involved, I’d look to her as the next target. You found the Coopers that night, Cate, they didn’t find you. I’m not saying they shouldn’t take precautions, be careful.”

“Dad. G-Lil.”

“Again, if Dupont’s not involved, they didn’t have a part in it. They’ll be informed, this morning, but they weren’t part of the kidnapping, they weren’t investigators, lawyers. It’s a theory,” Michaela stressed.

“Grant Sparks.”

“I intend to make a trip to San Quentin, speak with him. Get a sense. He has a record of being a model prisoner. I don’t fully subscribe to model prisoners.”

“But how could he arrange this from prison?” Cate demanded. “He couldn’t even competently kidnap and hold a ten-year-old.”

“What better place to hire killers than a facility that holds them? Again, it’s a theory.” Michaela set down her coffee. “And I know it’s upsetting. If these were random, unconnected acts—”

“You don’t think they are,” Cate interrupted.

“I don’t. I’ll do my best to find and stop the source. Let me know if anyone contacts you, or attempts to, that feels out of line, if you feel uneasy about anything.”

“The calls, Catey.”

Michaela’s eyes narrowed, flattened. “What calls?”

“They’ve been going on for years.” Because she wanted to dismiss them, Cate reached for her coffee again. Calm and steady. “Recordings, various voices—my mother’s is often in there, from movie dialogue—music, sounds.”

“Threats?”

“They’re meant to be threatening, meant to scare and upset me.”

“When did they start?” The notebook came out.

“When I was seventeen, still in Beverly Hills. They come intermittently, months pass, sometimes more than a year. The last one came right before Christmas.”

“Why didn’t you report it?”

“I did. Detective Wasserman, in New York. I—Most of the calls happened when I lived in New York. I sent him the voice mail. The calls aren’t long enough to trace, and they say it’s a prepaid cell.”

“I’d like Detective Wasserman’s contact information.”