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Inkslingers Ball (A Forensic Handwriting Mystery)

Page 19

by Sheila Lowe


  ***

  Jovanic’s stomach was growling. The acid from the coffee he had consumed over the morning hours was eating a hole. He flipped back the towel that covered a plate of fresh flour tortillas, happy to munch while waiting for Shane Oliver, the caller who claimed to have information that linked the two female victims.

  Recognizing them as cops, the hostess had rushed to seat them in a secluded booth at the back of the restaurant. They had a view of the arched doorway up front. At eleven-twenty the place was empty, easy enough to spot Oliver when he came through the door.

  “Be nice if we could solve crimes as easy as ole Bogie.” Flynt nodded toward the glass booth near their table, where a life-size figure of the actor wore his familiar fedora.

  “Maybe if you had his looks.”

  Flynt gave him the finger. “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.”

  The waitress brought their drinks and took their order with a big smile. Jovanic guessed he would have to argue with her to get a bill. Restaurants in this neighborhood liked having cops for customers. It discouraged the riffraff.

  Colin Flynt stuffed a second tortilla in his mouth. “Damn, these are good.”

  Jovanic agreed they were the best he’d ever eaten. Or maybe he was just hungry. He tore off a piece of his tortilla. “Steinman didn’t do it.”

  “Yeah, I know; I just hate assholes who beat up on women.”

  “Mind if I talk to Grandma and the kids?”

  “You think they’ve got something?”

  “You never know.”

  “You’ve got a copy of the murder book. Knock yourself out. ” Flynt checked his watch. “Oliver ought to be here any minute.”

  “Darla and Angel,” Jovanic mused. “Seems unlikely. But stranger things have happened.”

  “Oliver sounded pretty spooked. Of course, he might turn out to be some schmo with a tin hat who believes aliens are controlling his thoughts.”

  “Not if he’s the journalist we’re looking for. Maybe he’s got something we can use.”

  “What’s his story?” Flynt chuckled. “Pun intended.”

  “Can’t you do any better than that? My CI says he’s been hanging around Under My Skin, doing research for an article about the tattoo culture.”

  “Maybe he saw dumpster girl get whacked—” Flynt broke off as the waitress approached, arms laden with plates piled high with chicken, rice, and beans.

  They ate and chatted about the cases, but by eleven forty-five when there was no sign of their witness Jovanic felt a ripple of unease, a cop’s sixth sense warning that something wasn’t right. He knew Flynt felt it too, though he didn’t say it out loud. His troubled expression spoke louder than words.

  Shane Oliver had not showed by noon.

  “Either he changed his mind and booked it,” said Flynt, “or…”

  Jovanic got out his cell phone and started tapping the screen. “Lemme see if Hardcastle’s dug up anything.”

  ***

  Flynt returned to Pacific Division to work the Steinman case while Jovanic drove across town to the Cozy Suites motel in Santa Monica. Shane Oliver’s sometime editor in San Francisco had grudgingly parted with the information that the journalist was staying at the motel on his own dime, freelancing on the tattoo culture story. The editor had refused to divulge any details, even after Detective Hardcastle indicated that they knew from a confidential informant that Oliver had been hanging around a tattoo parlor, interviewing biker members of a notorious club.

  “An investigative reporter’s no different from you, Detective. They investigate,” the editor said. “Shane’s a free spirit. Once he gets his teeth into a big story, he’ll go off the grid without warning. If you can’t find him, he’s following up on a lead.”

  ***

  For an economy hotel, the champagne-colored paint on the Old California style building looked fresh, the Kelly green awnings over the windows crisp and clean. Jovanic found a parking place on the street, then entered and made his way across a short lobby to the registration desk.

  A young woman in a light blue shirt, the hotel’s logo embroidered on the pocket, stood behind the counter, talking on the phone. She glanced over, acknowledging Jovanic with a smile, and held up one finger, signaling him to wait. He could tell from her side of the conversation that she was talking to a guest. He moved aside his suit coat to let her see the shield on his waistband. Her brows went up and she hurried to end the call.

  “What can I do for you, officer?”

  “Detective Jovanic, LAPD. You have a guest staying here, last name Oliver?”

  The clerk moved over to a computer. Her fingers flew over the keyboard. “Shane Oliver?” She looked up with a slight frown. “He’s prepaid through today. It looks like he hasn’t checked out yet.”

  Jovanic gave a pointed glance at his watch. “It’s only 12:40.”

  “Checkout’s at 11:00. If he doesn’t show up by the time the maid’s ready to clean the room, he’s gonna get charged for today.”

  “Would you please ring the room and see if he’s there.”

  “Of course.” She picked up the phone and dialed. After listening for a few seconds she hung up, shaking her head. “No answer.”

  “Do you record vehicle information?”

  “We sure do. I’ll write it down for you.” The clerk peered at her screen again and grabbed a piece of scrap paper and pen. “He registered a motorcycle, a 2005 Harley.”

  Jovanic thanked her and excused himself then went outside to look in the parking lot behind the building. At this time of day there were few vehicles in the lot. The license plate on the gleaming blue and chrome Harley Sportster XL matched the numbers the clerk had written down. The bad feeling grew.

  Jovanic returned to the front desk and asked for Shane Oliver’s room number.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not authorized to give you that information.” The clerk leaned forward. “I thought he looked kinda seedy. Is he in trouble?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Well…I’ll have to call the manager.”

  “That’s fine. Please do it.”

  ***

  The manager, a trim young man in a business suit, held out his hand and introduced himself as Jose Preza. “How can I be of assistance, Detective?” he asked, seeming eager to help. Unlike the restaurant Jovanic had just left, having a police detective in the lobby was bad for the hotel business and he knew Preza was in a hurry to move him along.

  “I’m trying to locate a guest who’s not answering the phone in his room. His motorcycle is parked outside in your lot.”

  “I see.” The manager considered the information, then offered his opinion. “Maybe somebody came and picked him up?”

  “I need you to show me to his room, Mr. Preza. And if he doesn’t respond, I’ll want you to open the door.”

  “Well, I’m not sure….I think maybe I should call our legal counsel…maybe a warrant…”

  Jovanic was at least a head taller than the manager, who was doing his best to stand up straight. He stared the young man down. “A guest’s safety might be at stake, Mr. Preza. While you’re busy on the phone, this guy could be bleeding to death on your carpet. Exigent circumstances don’t require a warrant.”

  The manager’s face paled. “Yes, yes, of course. Let me get the key.” He hurried behind the desk and programmed a card key for Shane Oliver’s guest room while the clerk looked on curiosity oozing from every pore.

  Leading the way through a back door, Jose Preza crossed the courtyard and around the pool deck, which was empty of guests. “Mr. Oliver has been staying with us for the past week,” he explained as they climbed the outside stairwell to the second floor. “He paid in advance with cash, which is a little unusual. We’re not that kind of hotel, you know.”
<
br />   “Do you require guests to show ID?” Jovanic asked.

  “Yes, indeed, we scanned his driver’s license. It’s in the computer if you want to see it. I’d be happy to print it out.”

  They exited the staircase at a door-lined balcony overlooking the pool. Preza told him that Oliver’s room was 215, the third door down.

  “Do exactly what I tell you,” Jovanic said. “Give me the key and stand over there.” He indicated the stairwell they had just exited, took the card key from the manager, and unholstered his weapon.

  He moved along the balcony to 215 and knocked hard on the door. “Mr. Oliver?” he called loudly. “Manager.”

  The silence behind the door felt like the room was empty, but he was not taking any chances. It was less than a year ago that he had taken a bullet and he was not eager to repeat the experience.

  With his Glock pointed 45 degrees downwards at half-ready, Jovanic slid the card key through the reader. When the light blinked green he pushed the door open with his free hand and quickly stepped out of the kill zone.

  The door hit the wall with a sharp thwack. Bracing for a shot, Jovanic took a quick peek into the room. Left to right, up and down, a split-second threat assessment before the door could swing back. He caught it before the self-closing piston hinges slammed it shut.

  Jovanic stepped inside. His hands were clammy, every sense on edge. He cleared the living room and bath, then the bedroom, confirming that the suite was empty. He let out a breath.

  The queen bed was unmade, pillows dented as if recently slept on, comforter spilling onto the floor. The air was stale with the lingering smell of a heavy smoker. A large black duffel stood open on the bed. The journalist had started to pack, perhaps interrupted in the midst of the task.

  The dresser drawers were empty. A classic black leather motorcycle jacket hung in the closet. A helmet the same metallic blue as the bike in the parking lot stood on the suitcase rack.

  In the bathroom, a Dopp kit on the toilet tank held a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, a partially smoked joint in a baggie. Another baggie contained a handful of undetermined pills and capsules. Was Oliver a druggie, or just playing the part for his research?

  In the living room, a laptop was still plugged into an electrical outlet on the desk.

  “What do you think happened?” The manager spoke from the doorway, staying on the threshold as though afraid to enter the room.

  “That’s what I’m going to try and figure out.”

  Jose Preza wrinkled his nose and stepped inside, looked around. “Cigarettes! This is a non-smoking room. He’s going to get charged for the extra cleaning.”

  “Please step back outside, sir.”

  “Are you gonna take anything out of here?”

  “If you want to report these items as ‘found property’ and turn them over to me, I’ll take them off your hands.”

  “Well—don’t you need a warrant for that at least?”

  “Not if you’re worried about the guest’s safety and you believe he’s not coming back for his things.”

  “Hmmmm. Let me go ahead and call the head office on that. I’ll see what they want me to do.”

  “I’ll wait for you here.”

  “Okay, but if you find an ashtray, I need to keep it as proof he was breaking the rules.”

  The manager closed the door behind him and Jovanic got out his cell phone. He took video of each room before he touched anything. When he was done, he returned to the laptop and donned a pair of latex gloves he’d brought in his jacket pocket. He touched the glide pad and a screen came up requesting a password. Damn. Nothing he could do there. It would have to go to the lab. Were it not for the password, he might have been tempted to poke around a little and see what he could find. But the way it stood, his situational ethics went untested.

  Assuming Shane Oliver did not return to claim it before they had the opportunity, the techs would make a mirror image of the hard drive and figure out the password before they could comb through it. That way, if the computer later became evidence in a court case, a defense attorney would not be able to accuse Jovanic of having tampered with it.

  Jovanic returned to the closet and began a systematic search of the leather jacket, unzipping, unsnapping pockets, finding nothing. He checked the duffel, taking out each item and laying everything on the bed. When he had finished, there was nothing of interest in the jumble of T-shirts, underwear and socks. There were a few coins and a wadded up dirty tissue in the Levi’s pockets, which made him glad for the gloves.

  In the nightstand drawer he found Shane Oliver’s wallet. Inside was a thick wad of cash, his driver’s license, three credit cards, and a handful of other identification. His room key was not present, but unless he was out talking a walk around the block, which seemed unlikely given that it was well past checkout time, the fact that his wallet was in the room did not bode well for the journalist. Had someone picked him up?

  Jovanic counted almost five hundred bucks, which he spread out and photographed with his cell phone. Behind the cash he found a scrap of paper torn from a legal pad. Someone had scribbled a phone number on it in the 310 area code—Los Angeles.

  He tapped in the number for the dispatcher and asked her to find out who the number belonged to. She called back and told him it was a mobile number, which increased the level of difficulty. Thanking her, he clicked off and went for Plan B.

  ***

  “What’s it gonna get me?” Lenny Burton wanted to know. “Tell me why I should kick it to the front of the line.”

  Lenny worked in the intelligence unit, which gave him access to information using means that Jovanic knew better than to ask about. He and Lenny had a private arrangement that circumvented the need to wait for a search warrant in cases like this one. Jovanic needed to know who owned that cell phone number, and he needed the information now.

  “It’s your damn job, Lenny,” he retorted. “It’ll take you five minutes.”

  “Aw, c’mon, man. Five minutes? You got any idea of my workload? There’s a stack of files on my desk a foot high. Plus I got no help today—the budget cuts, everyone’s on vacation—”

  Jovanic cut in. “Quit your whining. My girlfriend’s brother has some Dodger tickets he can’t use. I can probably get them for you.”

  The intel man’s voice brightened. “Yeah? Good seats?”

  “C’mon, Lenny. When’d I ever screw you over?”

  “True enough, JJ, you always come through. So, what d’ya need?”

  Jovanic had known that once he got his standard gripe out of the way Lenny would come through for him. “Got a missing person connected to a couple of fresh homicides, so I need it yesterday. I’ve got a feeling this guy is in deep shit.”

  “Okay, pal, what’s the number? I’ll get back to you.”

  Jovanic read it off to him. “Don’t take all day, Lenny, okay?”

  “You just call your girlfriend’s brother and make sure he’s still got those tickets. I’ll get back to ya.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Jovanic packed up Shane Oliver’s possessions in Oliver’s duffel bag. He wrote a receipt that he left with the manager, planning to drop everything at the crime lab for processing.

  He put the duffel and laptop in the Jeep, then phoned Marilyn Sanders, whose name was on his list to call. The mother of homicide victim Darla Steinman was more than willing to grant him an interview at her home in Santa Monica, a few miles from the hotel.

  She lived off Montana near Twenty-Sixth in a beautiful old Craftsman style bungalow overshadowed in the front yard by two enormous trees. Jovanic didn’t know what kind they were, but as soon as he walked between them, he noticed the temperature drop several degrees. Residents of that house would not need air conditioning.

  Darla Steinman’s
mother was standing inside the big picture window, waiting for him. As he came up the brick front walk and climbed the short staircase she opened the door wide and welcomed him in.

  She wore a navy sheath dress, pearls and high-heeled shoes, reminding Jovanic of a 1950s TV mom. Despite the tight botoxed face shared by many older women on this side of town who were fighting gravity, he could see the grief etched there.

  Marilyn Sanders invited him inside the pre-WWII era home. Serious money had been pumped into redecorating: Natural wood floors, whitewashed walls, minimalist furnishings. Interior walls had been eliminated to create a large open-plan living space that included the kitchen. A French coffee press stood on a marbled counter, scenting the air. She offered him a cup.

  Jovanic accepted with thanks and followed her to the counter, where two china cups and saucers had already been laid out.

  “Cream? Sugar?” Now that he was here, she was delaying the moment they would begin the interview.

  “Black is fine.” As she filled the cups, Jovanic said, “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Sanders.”

  Her back was turned to him and he saw her shoulders sag a little, her head drooping as if she no longer had the strength to hold it. “The children are staying with me.” Her voice caught. “There’s no way I’m going to let that monster near them.”

  “You mean Mr. Steinman?”

  “That drunken womanizer! My daughter filed for divorce, but she waited too long. Now it’s too late.” Marilyn Sanders handed Jovanic his cup. “Have you arrested him yet?”

  “We’ve talked to him and we’re checking out his story.”

  She led him back into the living room and moved to the Italian leather sofa. “Please, have a seat,” she said a little too loudly. Jovanic wondered if she was trying to cover the sound of her cup rattling in its saucer as she set it on the cocktail table. He could not fault a bereaved mother that her hands shook.

 

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