by P J Parrish
Vince was already flipping the pages. Jim Morrison had moved on to “I Can’t See Your Face in My Mind.”
“Looks pretty standard, Louis,” he said. “No anguis in herba that I can see.”
“What?”
“Snake in the grass. Nothing weird lurking.”
Louis let out a tired sigh. “You sure?”
“I am always sure.” He hesitated. “Wait, here’s something interesting. Look at this.”
Louis moved closer.
Vince had flipped back to the first page. “Cause of death: cerebral hemorrhage due to blunt trauma. Not possible.”
“Why not?” Louis asked.
“Because according to this, she lost most the blood from her body. Dead people don’t bleed like that.”
“So the stab wounds killed her?”
Vince nodded. He was reading something else.
“Was she hit or stabbed first?” Louis asked.
“I’d guess hit and knocked out. She had a skull fracture. Then someone stabbed her. The pathologist got it backward. Humanum est errare.”
Louis shook his head. “The detective didn’t say something was wrong. He said something was missing. Missing.”
Vince ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and flipped back a page. He was silent for a moment. The Doors had moved on to “When the Music’s Over.”
“Whoa,” Vince said softly.
“What?”
“According to this, they took two semen samples, one from the panties, the other vaginal. Standard procedure,” Vince said. “See this? This is the lab report on the sample from the panties—blood type O positive.”
“Yeah, I know about that.”
Vince looked up.
“What?” Louis asked.
“There’s no lab report from the vaginal sample,” Vince said. “The lab would routinely type all samples to eliminate the possibility of multiple perpetrators or partners. You know, in case she was having sex with a boyfriend.”
“Her father says this girl didn’t have a boyfriend,” Louis said.
“Right . . .”
“She was fifteen, Vince.”
Vince gave him a look.
“I don’t think Kitty was the type to fuck around,” Louis said.
Vince just stared at him. “Calm down, Louis, I’m not knocking your lady’s reputation. De mortuis nil nisi bonum, bud.”
“Is there any way to track this down?” Louis asked.
“The second sample or the report itself?” Vince handed him back the autopsy report. “Hard to say. State lab did the tests. Who knows if they still have the results or the sample.”
Louis looked at him. Vince sighed.
“You’re going to find a way to follow up on this whether I help you or not, aren’t you?” Vince said.
“Yeah, I am.”
Vince hesitated. “You know, when I heard you were working the other side, I didn’t believe it. I mean, Jack Cade—”
“Save it, Vince.”
Vince crossed his arms over his chest, then nodded.
“So can you get that report?”
Vince was quiet.
“Come on, Vince. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t a big deal.”
He shrugged. “I’ll make a call, but don’t get your hopes up. Twenty years is a long time.”
“Thanks.” Louis rubbed a hand over his face.
“You all right?” Vince asked.
“Yeah, yeah. Just didn’t sleep last night, that’s all.”
A haunting bass line was coming out of the tape player, echoing off the tile walls. Jim Morrison singing “You’re lost, little girl, you’re lost . . .”
Louis grabbed a pen and scribbled a number on the desk blotter. “Here’s my beeper. Would you call me if you hear anything?”
“Yeah, sure.” Vince paused. “Look, you wanna go get some breakfast? Mrs. Piccoli isn’t going anywhere.”
“Haven’t got time.” Louis started toward the door.
“Louis?”
He turned back.
“I wasn’t getting on you, about Cade I mean,” Vince said. “In my line of work, you come to think everybody gets their due eventually. I forget sometimes you guys can’t wait for that. I’ll call as soon as I get that report.”
Louis nodded.
“Fiat justitia, ruat coelum,” Vince said. “Let justice be done, though the heavens may fall.”
Chapter Twenty
Louis pulled up to Susan’s house and cut the engine. He sat for a moment in the dark, thinking about his wasted day.
It had started out promising enough. After Vince had told him about the semen sample, he had spent the morning trying to track down Kitty’s friend Joyce. There was no one listed in the Immokalee phone book under Novack, but there was a Stan Novick. Louis got an answering machine with a woman’s voice but didn’t leave a message. He had been about to drive out to Immokalee when Susan beeped him.
“I ran the Toyota’s plate,” she said when he called her office. “It came back to Harold Lieberman of Dade County.”
He had stayed silent, thinking about losing the whole day driving to Miami.
“There’s six Liebermans in the directory. You need to call them,” Susan said. “I’d do it myself, but I’m in court all day. You got a pen?”
So Louis had called five Harold Liebermans in Dade County, looking for someone who fit the description of the woman he had seen on Candace’s patio. He hit on the sixth call. A woman answered and told him yes, she had a daughter named Hayley and Hayley had wrecked her own car and was using her father’s Toyota, and if he saw her, tell her to bring it back because Harry was going to be pissed off when he got out of Mt. Sinai and found out it was gone. The woman said she didn’t know where her daughter was living, and Louis had the feeling she didn’t want to.
A breeze wafted in from his open window. Louis leaned forward and glanced out the windshield. The clouds were moving over the moon. It smelled like more rain was coming.
He leaned back against the headrest, looking at Susan’s dark windows. She wasn’t going to be happy about the Lieberman dead end, and he had been thinking all day that he wasn’t earning his pay and they should part ways. For her sake—and for his.
He shifted, reaching in his jeans pocket. He pulled out the picture, holding it so he could see it in the streetlight.
Kitty Jagger smiled back at him.
She would be thirty-five now. Maybe she would have found her rich knight and he would have whisked her off to a pink palace in Palm Beach. Maybe she would have found a way to get to college or be a model. Or maybe she would have just married a nice guy, had a couple blond kids and lived in a house over in Cape Coral, driving over on the weekends to take care of Dad’s flowers and bring him apple juice.
The smell of something sweet came in the car window, carried by the breeze. Louis looked up, almost expecting to see someone. Just darkness. He rubbed his hand over his face. He put the picture away and got out of the car.
The sweet smell followed him as he went up the walk. He knocked on the front door. When he heard nothing, he peered in the small diamond-shaped window on the door. The living room was dark. He looked at his watch. It was only nine. Who went to bed at nine?
The heady perfume was swirling around him. A porch light went on. That’s when he saw the big plant by the door, its delicate white flowers swaying in the wind.
Shit. It was just Night Blooming Jasmine.
The deadbolt clicked open and then the door. He smiled. Susan didn’t.
“You were supposed to call me,” she said, walking away. She was barefoot and wrapped in a fuzzy white robe. Her hair was pulled to the top of her head, spraying out like a small fountain.
Louis could hear soft music coming from the back of the house. Elegant. Classical. Handel’s Water Music. Frances used to play it sometimes to make him sleep. It used to make him think of palaces and chandeliers. Susan faced him, her face scrubbed clean of make-up. She looked different; fresh,
younger . . . cuddly. Like a polar bear cub.
His eyes went to the hallway. He could see the dim flicker of candlelight on the walls. Oh man, he was interrupting something.
Say something.
“You weren’t asleep, were you?” he said.
“No.” Susan turned, walking into the kitchen, returning with a glass of wine. “So did you track down the Lieberman thing?”
“Yes.”
“Who is she?”
“Her name is Hayley.”
Susan waited.
“That’s all I found out.”
“No address?”
“Not yet.” The last word came out too close to an apology.
Susan gave him a long look. He was trying to figure out how to bring up the idea that he wanted to quit the case when Susan spoke again.
“So what else did you do today?” she asked evenly.
He hesitated. “I went to see Vince Carissimi.”
“The M.E.? Why?”
“I wanted him to take a look at Kitty Jagger’s autopsy report. There was a second semen sample.”
“A what?”
“A second semen sample taken from Kitty, other than the one on the panties.”
“What panties?”
Louis forgot she had not reviewed Kitty Jagger’s case. He knew she didn’t want to hear about this, but he needed to tell someone.
“The biggest piece of evidence against Cade was the semen on Kitty’s panties that the cops found in Cade’s truck,” he said. He could hear the eagerness creep into his voice, an eagerness he wanted her to share.
“It was blood type O,” he went on. “There was also semen inside her. The sample was probably tested, but there is no report on the results.”
Susan was standing there, hand on hip, staring at him. He knew what was coming.
“And what does this have to do with Spencer Duvall?” she said.
“The report is missing, Susan,” he said. “What if it was taken out of the police files for a reason? What if it turns out to not be O positive, what if—”
“Kincaid . . .” she said.
“Susan, listen,” he said. “I got a lead today on Kitty’s girlfriend and—”
“Kitty’s girlfriend?”
“She’s living in Immokalee and I think if I talk to her about Kitty—”
“Kincaid, stop,” she said more firmly.
He looked at her. She was shaking her head, her eyes tired. She dropped down on the sofa, holding the wine glass between her hands, head bowed.
“Susan,” he began, “I know I promised to—”
“Yes, you did,” she said. “We made a bargain, remember? You told me you’d find me something, but you’re running around chasing some damn ghost.”
He just stared at her.
She set the wine glass aside. “You have got to get off this Jagger thing.”
“It’s important to the case,” Louis said.
“No, it’s important to you, Kincaid.” She shook her head. “I can hear it, I can hear it in your voice when you say her name now.”
“That’s nuts, Susan.”
“No, it’s not,” she said. “I’m going to say this one more time, okay? You are trying to keep Jack Cade out of the electric chair. You are not trying to solve that girl’s murder.”
It was time to tell her he wanted out. But then he took a good look at her face. He knew she had been in court all day, but she had never looked this beaten down before. He sat down in a chair across from her.
“What happened today?” he asked.
She rubbed her temples. “I lost all three of my motions.”
She began to gather up a bunch of drawings and colored markers, putting them back in their case. She looked up. Louis followed her gaze.
Benjamin was standing in the hallway in his pajamas. He gave Louis a curious glance, then disappeared down the hall.
Susan waited until she heard a door close. “There’s something else, too.”
“What?”
“Sandusky told me today he’s seeking the death penalty for Cade.”
Louis was silent for a moment. “Any way around it?”
“I don’t know. He might reconsider if Cade pleads and saves him the trouble of a trial.”
“Cade will never do that.”
“Sometimes the thought of death can quickly alter how you look at life, even if it’s behind bars.”
She stacked the papers neatly on the table and put the markers on top. She ran a hand over her hair, staring vacantly at the coffee table. A toilet flushed and a moment later, Benjamin reappeared.
“Nite,” he muttered.
“I’ll be there in a minute, honey.”
Benjamin went back to his bedroom. The phone rang. Susan went into the kitchen, switching on the light.
Louis glanced down the hall. He could see the open door of Benjamin’s room.
“Dammit,” Susan said into the phone.
He looked toward the kitchen.
“I’m not on call tonight.” Susan was leaning against the doorjamb, head in hand. “Don’t you throw this up at me again.”
Louis looked back at the hall. Benjamin had ventured out and was listening to his mother. Susan hung up, her back to Louis.
“You okay?” Louis asked.
She nodded stiffly. “Idiot.”
“Who?”
“My boss,” she said, facing him. She saw Benjamin. “Get dressed, Ben. You’re going to April’s.”
Benjamin let out a whine. “I don’t wanna. I hate April.”
“Get dressed. You have to go. I have to go see a client.”
“I can stay alone,” he said.
“Benjamin, don’t argue, please,” Susan said, ripping the scrunchie from her hair. “Get dressed and pack up your clothes for tomorrow.”
Susan swept past Benjamin and disappeared down the hallway. Louis watched the boy as he slumped against the wall. Apparently he had been wrong; there was no Mr. Outlaw around. Not tonight, anyway.
“I’m not going,” Benjamin yelled.
“Don’t be a butt, Ben,” Susan yelled back. “Get dressed.”
Benjamin sank down to the carpet, burying his head in his arms. The kid looked miserable, pulled up into a tight little ball. Louis watched him, listening for tears, but he wasn’t making a sound. The Handel stopped abruptly.
“Ben!” Susan called out.
Louis stared at the kid, shaking his head.
Oh man . . . don’t do this. You don’t even like kids.
Louis rose and went to the hallway. “Susan? I’ll stay with him,” he called.
Benjamin looked up at him. Susan came out of her bedroom, brush in her hand but still in her robe.
“What?” she said.
“I said I’d stay with him. No sense in dragging him out at this time of night.”
Louis looked down at Benjamin. The gratitude on the kid’s face was almost painful to see.
“I can’t ask you—”
“I don’t mind,” Louis said, motioning toward the sofa. “I’ll just sit here and watch TV. It’s no problem.”
“No, it’s not right.” She disappeared into her room, half-closing the door.
Louis looked at Benjamin. “Sorry, buddy.”
With a sigh, Benjamin dragged himself up off the floor and trudged off toward his room.
Louis could hear them both rustling around in their rooms. Finally Susan reappeared, wiggling her arms into a beige jacket. Her hair was pulled back into a knot, and she had put on lipstick.
“I’ll only be an hour,” she said.
“I thought—”
“I changed my mind. Make sure he’s in bed by ten and that he brushes his teeth after you give him that pudding in the fridge that he’ll con you out of ten minutes after I leave.”
“Okay,” Louis said.
Benjamin had come back out. He had put on jeans and T-shirt but was still barefoot.
“You can stay here,” Susan said to him.
&
nbsp; “Yes!” He made a pumping motion with his scrawny arm.
“But don’t give Mr. Kincaid any lip, you hear?”
She was stuffing things into her briefcase. “You have my pager number. I’ll be at the jail.” She paused. “You look tired. If you feel like it, take the sofa. There’s a blanket in the closet at the end of the hall.”
“Thanks.”
She started to the door.
“Susan?”
She turned.
Louis hesitated. “I’ll find Hayley Lieberman.”
She nodded and opened the door.
“Take an umbrella,” Louis said, “it’s getting ready to rain again.”
She stared at him for a moment, then grabbed the umbrella.
“Thanks,” she said softly. Then she was gone. Louis locked the door behind her and stood looking out the window, watching her old Mercedes chug off into the darkness.
He turned. Benjamin was standing there, staring up at him.
Louis looked at his watch. “You got a half-hour. What’s on?”
Benjamin scrambled onto the sofa, dug the remote from under a cushion and started punching it. A.J. Simon was giving his slob brother Rick grief as they drove down yet another San Diego freeway in pursuit of yet another dirtbag.
“You like this show?” Louis asked, sitting down next to him.
Benjamin shrugged. “It’s junk. I’d rather watch Miami Vice. Mom won’t let me. Too much drugs.”
Louis nodded. “Where’s your bathroom?”
Benjamin pointed down the hall.
Louis started down the hall toward the bathroom, but then paused. Her bedroom door was open. He took a step, trying to see inside without being too obvious.
It was painted an off-white, with a ceiling border that swirled with browns and deep reds. The furniture was old, borderline antique. Her bed was unmade, the comforter a big, billowy thing that matched the border. There was a pile of black clothes on the floor, something lacy looking, and a wad of pantyhose.
He spotted the tape player on the bureau, and could pick up the strong scent of vanilla. He saw a candle burning on the night stand.
“Hey, Benjamin,” Louis called.
“What?”
“Your mom left a candle going in her room. Come here and blow it out.”
“Your legs broke?”
“Just get in here, please.”
Benjamin went in and blew out the candle. He gave Louis a “you’re nuts” look and started off to his own room.
