Riggs sighed. Tucker had his good qualities, surely? His buzzed hair, square jaw, and muscular frame were probably attributes of steroids, but who was she to judge? He somehow always seemed to rub people the wrong way. She was no exception to his lack of charm. Right now she had to suppress the urge to snap at him.
Ignoring Tucker, Riggs squatted down beside the vic, Isabel Rodriguez, a defense attorney with a popular local television show called Legal Matters that aired once a week. Jackson County residents called in to ask legal questions, often with both parties in the dispute on the line. Like Judge Judy, Rodriguez indiscriminately criticized and corrected, often chastising those gutsy enough to call in to the thirty-minute show. An instant success, even garnering national attention over the past two years, she had become famous, at least locally.
Of course, Riggs’s husband, a prosecuting attorney, had gone toe-to-toe with Isabel in court numerous times, but they were friendly socially. Richard had a great deal of respect for the opposing attorney and liked her as a person.
Now, to see her like this. Riggs shook her head. She let out a deep breath and leaned in, studying the body. Isabel appeared to have a few cuts and bruises on her right hand. Possibly defense wounds? Natural causes from something else? Riggs gently lifted her hands, examining the nails, which were clean and well groomed, but she’d been soaking in chlorinated pool water. Her skin was wrinkled, naturally, from about eight hours in the pool. Fat chance of finding anything under her nails now.
A quick examination of her body revealed faint scars from breast implants. Another scar on her stomach; possibly liposuction? The full lips suggested lip augmentation. Rodriguez the TV personality had played up her sultry good looks on the show. Although she was in her early fifties, no one would have guessed that. The tight dresses, long dark hair, red-painted lips. A sexy attorney whose wit and savvy legal knowledge smacked down callers with little regard for genteel etiquette. Perhaps she’d made an enemy or two?
With a sigh, Riggs reached out and touched her face, bloated and white, then noticed that one of her pearl earrings was missing. There was no clothing nearby, not even a robe, so apparently she had gone swimming in the nude and somehow drowned. A folded towel lay on a nearby lounger. The pool was clean, no floaties, no empty wineglasses, nothing suspicious, but until the autopsy and drug screening came back, Riggs would treat it as a suspicious death.
“A real looker.” Tucker leaned annoyingly over the vic. “She’s that TV personality. You know, Legal Matters. Probably had one drink too many or maybe a few more than too many, from the looks of it.”
These were assumptions that Riggs refused to participate in. “Tucker, my husband and I have known Isabel for about five years. I’ve seen her at all kinds of events around here, and she’s never been one to overindulge, at least not like this. She’s an active member of the community, she ran a successful law firm, her own television show. All that work certainly didn’t happen in a drunken state. Something isn’t right here.”
One bad day turned into a terrible tragedy? She hoped not.
The early morning sun rose beyond a row of elm trees at the edge of the property. Crimson clouds cast a glittering sparkle on the pool water like pink diamonds. A sunrise that poor Isabel would never see.
With real regret, Riggs stood and nodded to the ambulance crew to load the vic onto the stretcher.
She asked Tucker, “Where’s the friend who found her?”
“I interviewed her and sent her home. Told her to keep herself available for further questions. She was a real mess. Pretty useless.”
Riggs would have liked to speak to the witness, but perhaps it was better to wait until after the autopsy.
Tucker added, “I get that the vic was a friend of yours, but I’m tellin’ ya, Riggs. That girl put on some kind of a personal party last night, from the look of things.”
Riggs spread her hands wide. “I don’t see anything out here that would lead me to believe that. No glasses, no bottles. Usually there’s some evidence of a party. Nothing.”
“Go look in the house. Booze central.”
She followed the stone pathway toward the house, a one-level sprawling ranch house in the foothills south of Medford. It was positioned on a hill with valley views and no nearby neighbors. With the shrubs and trees bordering the yard, there was little chance of any witness. Considering the level of privacy, it was no wonder Isabel had felt comfortable enough to walk around outside in the nude, especially at night.
Riggs slipped booties over her shoes. Entering through the French doors into the great room, she saw a lamp leaning off the edge of a table at the end of the couch. She walked over and righted it. Signs of a struggle? Everything else in the room was in its place. Rodriguez had been a minimalist, it would appear. No children or spouse, and the decor shouted cold leather and metal, except for the abstract paintings done in primary colors on the walls. The leather furnishings, all black, were top of the line—Italian, she guessed. A pair of red fur slippers were tucked under the glass-top coffee table. On intuition, she crouched on one knee and looked under the couch and the table. Nothing there, but to her left, something shinny caught her eye. A tip of a needle. A sewing needle? No, more like a syringe. Her heart sank. Surely Isabel was not into heroin? She bagged it as evidence. On the other hand, she might have been diabetic, which would be a much more plausible explanation. She made a mental note to examine the body for needle marks during the autopsy.
“She looked like a real schmoozer to me,” Tucker was saying from the doorway. “Always drinkin’ it up all over town. Hobnobbin’ with the who’s who. You know?”
Riggs ignored him and progressed to the kitchen, where she found a bottle of vodka, half empty, a half-full glass of vodka beside it on the kitchen counter. Another empty bottle of vodka on the floor in the corner. A broken glass, smelling of vodka, in the trash. The doors to a liquor cabinet in the dining room were open, revealing a wide array of quality liquor. The story was pretty clear.
Sick at heart, Riggs asked, “Tucker, can you make sure the fingerprint guys do it right? Something is off here to me. I know her, or at least I think I do. This just doesn’t seem right.”
“Methinks you’re barking up the wrong tree on this one. It’s pretty obvious what happened here.”
She shook her head and inhaled a deep breath. “If I didn’t know her, I’d probably agree with you. Just humor me. Okay? I mean, I could be wrong, but sometimes things aren’t necessarily what they seem. Everything is so neat. These bottles left out. That bottle on the floor, not even in the trash. It just feels staged. I’ve known a few alcoholics in my life, and their homes were generally not perfectly spotless except for their bottle or glass. No … they tend to lead messy lives, with DUIs, broken friendships, banged-up cars, perpetually late for work or no-shows—you get the picture? A trail is left in their wake. She had a thriving business, a weekly show, spotless home and vehicles. Unless someone comes forward with a story of her unraveling the past few months. No … I just don’t see it.” She shook her head.
“Geez, Riggs, it’s all spelled out for you. She’s a drama queen. The TV personality. It fits. The spoiled prima donna.”
“Sometimes, Tuck, I want to punch you out like Panetta did. Keep it up!”
He bristled, puffing his chest out. “What? I’m callin’ a spade a spade. You’re just emotionally involved on this one, so I’m gonna let this pass.”
Shaking off his irritating negativity, Riggs walked down the hall to get away from him and continue her investigation. She entered the master bedroom and found a red dress tossed into a chair. On closer examination, the dress was crusted with a dark substance all over the bodice, with a few drops on the skirt. Blood? She didn’t see any cuts on the body. Perhaps the blood was someone else’s?
Next to the bed, on the floor, lay the missing pearl earring. Had Isabel just had a terrible day and gotten drunk? Maybe come home and hit the liquor cabinet? Decided to undress and drink herself into a
happy state, only the happy state turned into a pity fest? Or worse, an argument with someone that grew violent?
The king-size four-poster bed didn’t appear to have been slept in. It was neatly made with a black-and-white-striped silk duvet cover and matching pillows. A black leather bench with iron scrollwork sat at the foot of the bed. A pair of heeled white sandals sat on the bench, with one shoe hanging off, the strap caught in the ironwork. Riggs examined both shoes. One had red smear marks. Possibly blood, like the dress? Riggs studied the pale carpeting for any signs of blood drops, but found nothing.
Discouraged, she sighed. What a sad end. She dreaded telling Richard about her. He admired her spunk and ingenuity. Her first responsibility, of course, would be to tell Isabel’s parents. The weight of that hung heavy.
After a search of Isabel’s bathroom cabinet, Riggs concluded that none of the pieces of the puzzle fit. No drugs, nothing out of the ordinary. No needles or insulin. No bloody tissues in the trash. She decided the blood must have happened somewhere else.
Tucker stuck his head in the door. “The forensic team is finally here. Oh, and the vic is loaded in the ambulance.”
“Thanks.” She pointed to the red dress. “Can you make sure this dress gets bagged and tagged properly? Looks like blood on the front of the dress.”
“Will do. Anything else?”
“The shoes too.” She frowned, then added, “Tucker you said she showed up for work last night at the TV station. Find out if anything unusual happened there. An argument with someone. Anything.”
“Yeah. Sure. I already got the producer to meet me in about half an hour at the news station.”
“Good.”
With a heavy heart, Riggs walked to her car, ready to follow the ambulance to the autopsy bay. She was bone-tired. Not the best way to start her day. As soon as Rodriguez was safely tucked into the morgue freezer, she would inform the parents, then head to the Niki Francis press conference. A shit show for sure. At times like this, she had to rethink what she was doing with her life. Wasn’t life precious? Was all this focus on death really worth it?
She sat in her car, the sun now up in the sky and promising another hot day, and pondered the question, finally deciding that Isabel’s friends and family would want answers. Deserved closure. An opportunity to move on with their lives. That made everything worth it. Her job really wasn’t about the dead; it was about the living.
CHAPTER
13
SOMEWHAT REFRESHED AFTER a quick shower, Whit walked into the newsroom wearing a conservative navy-blue sleeveless A-line dress and matching two-inch pumps. Simple power clothes for whatever the day might hold.
“Nice story, McKenna.” Irene Bradshaw’s head popped up from behind her cubicle, her dark, unruly hair a mass of curls. She slung an arm over the divider. In her midthirties, on the full-figured side, and partial to polyester with bright prints, Irene covered the business section. Astute and hypersocial, she kept her nose to the ground. “Haven’t sold so many papers or received so many hits on our internet rag since … I don’t know when. Management has a group of temps coming in to handle the expected wave of advertising. Money, honey. Too bad about Niki, though.”
“Yes, it is.” A chorus of phones were ringing. Whit glanced around. The newsroom was already a beehive of activity at nearly every desk. Reporters generally worked the streets and came and went at odd hours. Almost no one showed up before nine. Like Stu said, it was like herding cats. It was true, at least until the witching hour around five PM when everyone got serious about filing their stories before the seven PM deadline. “Is Stu in his office?”
“I think he’s been there all night. He’s with Mr. Arenburg.”
“The owner?” Her anxiety shot up a notch.
“The one and only.” Irene pulled a piece of licorice from a jar on her desk and nibbled on the end of it. “Stu said to hustle in there. They’re trying to decide which stringers to assign you. I volunteered, but they said they needed me to cover business. Huh, like opening a new super Walmart is as exciting as your bombshell. I’m oozing jealousy right now. Let me know if you need any help. We’ll keep it under wraps. I’ll trade. You can help me cover the RoxyAnn Winery tour next week. We’ll make it a playday.”
Irene was one of the few people in the newsroom who hadn’t eyeballed her when she was first hired as if she were an alien from another world. Back then, Whit had felt like she was wearing a sign that read Tragedy. Beware. People were generally uncomfortable around someone in mourning, but in her case she also came from the snooty Los Angeles Times.
Not Irene Bradshaw, though; there was no shifty slinking away for her. She had looped her arm through Whit’s and paraded her around the newsroom, introducing her to one and all as if she were a new trophy. Irene had even crossed into the bowels of the newspaper, the advertising and public relations department, to introduce her to a few friends of hers. She was the only reporter who could cross that bridge, because she was a business writer, but the rest of the reporters had to remain pure, untainted by the stench of sales and the stigma of the for-hire crowd. The creed of the Society of Professional Journalists must be adhered to by shunning even the perceived notion that advertising dollars might in any way influence their stories. True that advertising paid for everyone’s salaries, but that was beside the point. Keeping an expectable distance was mandatory.
Once the news staff realized Whit was not cut from snooty LA cloth, they were perfectly happy to embrace her as a comrade-in-arms. A major contributing factor in her acceptance was her parents, who had retired in Medford and developed social roots over the past fifteen years, as well as the Rotary, the Women’s League, and numerous fund-raising organizations. She had also visited her parents many times over the years and become familiar with the community, so the transition was not a difficult one. Thanks to Irene, her somewhat terrifying reentry into the world of journalism had been achieved with minor setbacks.
“Okay, Irene, it’s a deal,” Whit laughed. “I’ll cave to your demands and suffer through a day of wine and food. A playday it is.”
Goal achieved, Irene took an earnest bite of her licorice. “You’re on, dollface.”
Whit ventured down the hall, semi-listening to the scanner crackle with police chatter. Stu’s office consisted of half windows that faced the newsroom, all the better to keep an eye on the reporters, whom he referred to as “defiant toddlers.” She tried to dampen a flicker of apprehension as she approached his office and fixed a half smile on her face. She had a niggling fear that Stu might abscond with her story. Pitch it to someone else. Taking a quick breath, she knocked on his open door.
“About time.” Engulfed behind a large steel desk piled with books and stacks of papers, Stu’s small frame appeared almost childlike. He stood up, thin and wiry in a green-and-white plaid button-down dress shirt tucked into corduroy pants. The satisfied smirk on his thin, moustached mouth preempted his introduction. “Robert, this is Whitney McKenna, the new star of the Chronicle.”
Whit stepped forward and clasped hands with Mr. Arenburg, who had been leaning over the desk reading the Wall Street Journal. He was a couple of inches taller than Whit; slender, well-groomed, late sixties, he sported classic features. She caught a whiff of expensive cologne. An attractive man, exuding a refined grace she hadn’t expected. He wore understated solids in gray and black business attire, a notable fact that she appreciated because she also adhered to solid colors on principle. She thought it garnered more respect without ever even opening her mouth, and more importantly it saved a lot of time deciding what to wear. She had a thing about efficiency. Especially the time required to shut off her alarm, roll out of bed, wash her hair, dress, drink coffee while watching the news, and slap on minimal makeup. She had it down to twenty minutes. She knew because she often timed it just to be sure. The obsessive-compulsive behavior probably had something to do with growing up as an Air Force brat, with a father who thought his house should operate like the base barracks
.
Mr. Arenburg smiled pleasantly and said, “Congratulations on a well-written story. Your headline is making world news right now.”
“Thank you. My phone’s been going crazy with media calls. I’m not sure how you want me to handle them.”
“Sit down, McKenna.” Stu slurped from his coffee cup, which had The Boss printed on it in Times Extra Bold font. An open planner sat in front of him next to a plate of glazed doughnuts. He was still old school about his planner; he didn’t trust computers for something so vital. He motioned to an empty chair across from his desk. “Coffee, doughnuts?”
She sat stiffly. “No thanks, I just had breakfast.”
The confined air in the room smelled of a bakery, coffee, and men’s cologne. But what she sensed was an anxious excitement and an underlying tension that fanned her fears into paranoia.
Stu cleared his throat, glancing briefly at Mr. Arenburg. “Here’s the deal, McKenna. We’re gonna help you manage the media. This story is hot. It’s really hot. Phone’s been ringin’ off the hook. We’ve got you lined up with interviews with major networks. You’ll need to appear on local channels, of course—we have to support our community. You’re pretty much booked all day.” He grinned, revealing coffee-stained teeth, obviously pleased with himself.
Stu hadn’t come out and asked her, but he knew if she didn’t cooperate, all that business would be down the drain. They were walking a thin line. Her interviews had more to do with the Chronicle taking advantage of breaking the story and less to do with her as a reporter.
A Desperate Place Page 11
