“So, spend the night?”
Claire slugged him softly on the shoulder. They laughed and finished their second pitcher before she mentioned the Kiley murder. “Do you think Helena did it? Or did she hire somebody?”
“Not gonna let up, are you?”
“What did you expect?”
When Collier slurred his words, Claire figured she had him right where she wanted him. “Want my opinion?”
“You know I do.”
“I think that Helena Shea is probably guilty in some capacity. She had plenty of motive to kill Leeza Kiley, and she had the means to make it happen. Do I actually think that she did it herself? Hardly. A man had to have done it for her. A lot of brute force was involved in that strangling. The bruising was severe. If Ms. Shea had done it herself, she probably would’ve gotten shot. I also think she hired someone to torch that rehab place she was building. Ms. Shea’s bank accounts aren’t as filled up as they used to be thanks to all the cash she’s been putting into that place. There’s a huge policy on it. Maybe she decided to back out, get her cash back, and let the government take care of the druggies. Maybe her do-gooder thing was simply an act. Now, I don’t think she knew that girl was gonna be in the place when it went to embers, but if I can hang her on that one too, I will.”
“Why do you hate her so much?”
“Why do you?”
“I don’t.”
“You could have fooled me with your sleazy stories.”
“My stories aren’t sleazy, and I’m only doing my job.”
“Me, too.”
“I think there’s more to it.”
“Nope. It’s a job, like yours is a job.”
“Whatever. Let me ask you, if she couldn’t have strangled Leeza herself, why’d you haul her in?”
“The DA and I are pals. I explained to Rogers that Ms. Shea had to be in on it in some way. We figured that by giving her a taste of prison grub versus that gourmet stuff she’s used to, letting her try an orange jumpsuit on for size and showing her what it’s like being intimidated by some hard cons hungry for a pretty piece of ass—we might just get her lips flapping. But she’s tough, and she’s gotten lawyered up with a high priced attorney. She’s not talking one bit.” He motioned for the waitress, pointing to the empty pitcher. “I’m thinking they definitely hired a pro. They’ve both got enough money to do something like that. But I knew going for Kiley wasn’t the answer. She could break under pressure. He wouldn’t, and then he might just hang the whole department out to dry. I don’t think Kiley had anything to do with the fire either—only her. Another thing that ties her in is that drapery chord—very stupid on her part.”
“But couldn’t that all be a setup? I overheard some guys talking about a frame-up job. Helena Shea must’ve made a few enemies in her time. Not to mention that if she’s behind the arson at her place, why now? She sets a fire and then murders her archenemy? I know the model stereotype says they’re not exactly geniuses, but how stupid could she be?”
“I’ve seen dumber. Anything’s possible, but I gotta go with what’s in here.” Collier pointed to his gut. “And I know that no one could’ve hated Leeza Kiley more than Helena Shea. After all the grief that siren caused her last year? I never thought we’d hear the end of that story.”
“Apparently we haven’t.”
“Hell, no. It’s hot again, and that’s why you need me—to give you the insides. I know that Leeza’s murder wasn’t a random attack. Now all I have to do is dot my i’s and cross my t’s, and you watch, it’ll all come together.”
“It’s that easy, is it?”
“Sure is,” Collier replied, his smugness growing with every gulp of brew.
“Wish I had your confidence,” Claire said. Although Claire had never been a Helena Shea fan, she hadn’t been her enemy either. She’d been the lucky messenger who caught a great story that had incidentally earned her some decent cash and given her some notoriety in the tabloid pages. It had even prompted some interest from a big media gun into Claire doing her own thirty-minute magazine show weeknights on one of the networks. She was still negotiating that. If anything, she had to be grateful to Helena. Without her juicy life to exploit, Claire wouldn’t have climbed the career ladder as quickly as she had.
“So tell me, what did Leeza want with you? What was your dinner date all about the other night?” Collier asked, leaning in closer to her.
Claire paused for a moment, deciding how to handle this. She knew that she couldn’t keep information from the police. But this was more personal, wasn’t it? Fancying herself as an amateur sleuth, she didn’t want to reveal everything to Collier just yet. She wasn’t convinced of Helena Shea’s guilt. By telling him about the confrontation Helena had with Leeza a few days before Leeza was murdered, she would definitely be dumping fuel on his investigative fire.
“I’m sure it’s not news to you that Leeza was nothing less than a drama queen. She wanted to talk about her upcoming spread in Playboy. She was quite proud that at thirty-eight she’d gotten the centerfold. The scandal was partially responsible for her getting that spread. Leeza always knew how to work the angles.”
“Scandal or not, she was pretty damn hot. I’m nearing fifty, and she was one of the best-looking women I’d ever seen. Reminded me of Melanie Griffith. It was a bitch seeing her dead like that. So, nothing else you need to tell me about the dinner?” His eyebrows rose skeptically.
“That was it. I left her at the restaurant to flirt with all the men wanting to get into her pants. The next thing I hear, she’s dead.” Claire could feel the alcohol going to her head, but poured another for each of them anyway.
“All right, Nancy Drew, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt for now. But you’d better expect me to have a few more questions if I find out you’re keeping anything from me.”
“I’ve got nothing to hide, Hardy Boy. What do you say we down another, and you tell me your woes?” Claire knew she might regret the evening, but with her beer goggles on, Collier was beginning to look a little like Elvis, for whom she had a certain fondness. Besides, he was sweet, lonely, and she was sure he held the key to unlocking this story. What could be the harm in having one more, anyway?
****
The harm turned out to be that a half-dozen beers and one persuasive detective found Claire’s leg draped over Collier’s—at five in the morning. With breath that would embarrass a dragon, Claire pulled the sheet around her as she got up quietly and made her way to the bathroom in hopes of finding an extra toothbrush. The sight of the one-bedroom bachelor pad—not to mention the stench coming from something rotting in the kitchen—confirmed to her that Collier and his wife had indeed split. No extra toothbrush meant that Collier hadn’t entertained any other overnight guests recently. Feeling ashamed by the evening’s events, she dressed quickly and quietly snuck out of Collier’s bachelor pad before he could lift his head.
An hour later, after stopping by her home for a shower and her usual two-cup-caffeine-jumpstart, she headed to her office at The Scene. She rolled her car window down, letting her wet hair dry in the morning air. It was also an attempt to shake the pounding headache that reminded her of her poor judgment in last night’s escapade. How could she have let it happen? Oh, but Collier was really, really cute—well, last night he was, anyway. Ugh, cute schmute, you schmuck! You crossed way over the line between professionalism and sheer stupidity!
All day at work she tried hard to shake off the memories of the night before. She left early—a rarity for her, especially at the beginning of a big story—taking the work home with her. One of her hobbies was developing her own photographs, and she’d told the tech that she’d do these herself, hoping she’d gotten that shot of Helena looking directly at her. That shot, she was certain, would make its way onto the front pages of millions of newspapers.
Her answering machine blinked obnoxiously as she walked in, signaling what Claire figured was inevitable: another call from Collier. He’d left messages
that ranged from courteous and professional to nasty and obscene. On the last two, he’d sounded quite perturbed.
As she started to play back the messages, the phone rang again. She decided it wouldn’t do her any good to avoid Collier; in all likelihood it would make things more difficult. “Hello?”
“Busy day?”
Claire heard disrespect tinged with anger in his voice. “Actually it was. I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to you. It’s just I’ve . . .”
“No worries, Claire. I thought that maybe you really liked me. Maybe, hell, who knows? But I see that pumping information is your deal. And I mean that literally. You truly are the all-American-career girl.”
“No, Collier, that’s not what it was about, I swear.”
“You broads are all the same. Don’t bother.”
Claire could tell that he’d had a few. She also realized that she’d better handle this situation with care. Otherwise, last night’s poor decision could have severe consequences. She did need Collier for the information he could give. He’d given her the inside scoop on several stories in the past concerning the jet set and their criminal side.
“Come on, David. I did enjoy being with you. And I like you. It was just kind of weird. We’ve been friends for so long. And I was busy today. I’m sorry I left so early this morning. I guess I didn’t know how to face you.”
A long pause on the other end; Claire could hear voices and laughter in the background. “All right, so maybe it was a bit weird. But nice weird, huh?”
“Definitely.”
“Well, do you think maybe you could meet me tonight?”
“I’d like to, but I’ve got to finish my article.” He didn’t reply. “What about tomorrow for lunch?” That was safe.
“Yeah, okay. I’ll call you in the morning.”
“Great.” Claire mustered all the enthusiasm she could, then hung up with a sigh. She went into her hall bathroom, which she’d turned into a darkroom. Visitors rarely stopped by, so she could keep it set up. Like a frustrated child, she purposely banged her head several times against the wall, repeating, “Stupid, stupid, stupid. Forget about it for now, and handle it tomorrow. Forget it,” she said staring at the painting on the wall facing her—a Picasso replica.
Claire’s home projected her enjoyment of life’s simple things. It was a small end-unit condo, all in white, offset by her bright and colorfully eccentric art. Art was her one extravagance, besides the plants which occupied any vacant spot in every room. She liked contemporary.
Coming from the CD player in the other room, Billie Holiday sang the blues as Claire developed her photos. The red light shone on the tray solution. There it was. Helena Shea, looking out the door of the limo just before it closed and right into the lens of her camera. Her eyes appeared sad, frightened and tired. Guilt swept through Claire as she strung the photos up to dry and stared at the picture of the beautiful woman who was obviously so worn and confused. This photo wasn’t just worth a million words; it was also worth a lot of money.
It was a living and it paid the bills. Her readers could come to their own conclusions. I only write the stories, she argued with her demons, as she looked at a broken-down Helena Shea. She’d seen the woman come through scandal after scandal: the loss of her dad, a life shattering bout with alcoholism and drug addiction, a very well publicized trip through rehab, and to top it all off, the public revelation about her daughter’s birth followed by a tabloid war with Leeza Kiley. Now, she’d lost her rehab center and was facing a possible conviction for murder and arson. Claire’s contribution to exploiting this woman’s life made her feel pretty damn miserable. How much more could Helena take? Claire was not accustomed to thinking of the people she wrote about like this; she hated the feeling.
She walked out of her darkroom, needing some air. She left the photos behind, wishing she’d become a doctor or something that benefited mankind. For the first time in her career, she struggled with her responsibilities as a journalist. Was she doing the ethical thing? She couldn’t help but wonder if, as her work hurt others, it could also be doing damage to her?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Tyler listened with interest to the update on the Leeza Kiley murder on his car radio. Something about the woman’s murder nagged at him. He felt sorry for Helena Shea and angry with Detective Collier, with whom he’d had the distinct pleasure of having a few run-ins with in the past. Collier seemed hell-bent on proving her guilty. But Tyler had far more important things to take care of. There was a dragon to slay. He was sure that Ms. Shea had a good lawyer who could get her off if she was innocent of the crimes she was charged with.
He made a right turn into suburbia and headed straight for his boss’s home. Loretta had called earlier to say she’d gathered some interesting information for him, and that he could stop by her place to pick it up.
As he pulled into Loretta’s circular driveway with his window cracked, he heard her Rottweiler barking in the backyard announcing his arrival. Her teenage son came out, a skateboard under his arm. He nodded to Tyler as he put the board down and skated away.
Tyler tapped lightly on the door, then let himself in. The house smelled of mothballs and fried chicken. Loretta was from the south, and though she was first and foremost a cop, she hadn’t forgotten her southern hospitality.
Loretta Frey was fiftyish, with a few grays peeking through her otherwise dark hair, which was cut in a severe bob. She was taller than he was, making her at least six-feet, with clear blue eyes framed by finely etched lines.
“Hi, Tyler. I thought I heard you pull in,” she sang out, peering around the entry from her kitchen. Her home felt like a Hansel-and-Gretel-cottage, with archways leading into various rooms. At a glance, one would never guess that Loretta Frey ran the Child Abduction, Serial Killer Unit, Los Angeles Division. Her charm as a hostess coupled with her perfectly kept home were deceiving, but after working several cases with her, Tyler knew that she, too, could be a hard-nosed agent who lived to put away the bad guys and did it very well. Though there were many in this male dominated profession who wished they could deny this fact, they simply couldn’t argue with a career filled with successful arrests, convictions, and closed cases. Loretta had earned her job running his division.
“How’s it going, Ms. Loretta? Something smells wonderful in here.” He rubbed his stomach.
“Good, good. I fried us up some of my mama’s famous chicken for lunch. She always made a fine fried chicken. I thought you might be hungry.”
“Starving. I’ve learned to bring an empty stomach when coming here.”
“You’ve learned well, then.” Loretta winked at him and put together a heaping plate of the chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, coleslaw, and biscuits. Tyler wouldn’t leave hungry. That was for sure.
She made herself a plate of food as Tyler started in on the feast. “I checked out your hunch,” she said, “and I came up with this.” She set down her plate and handed him two files: Bridgett Simons a.k.a. Bridgett Core, and Trudy Giles.
“What’s this?” He flipped one open.
“Vics showing trace elements of formaldehyde. The bodies were found partially decayed a couple hundred miles between one another. Bridgett, a former porn star, was found out in the Mojave just like your Jane Doe. Trudy Giles was found in a rural area outside of San Diego. UNSUB still out there on both cases, as far as we know.”
“I knew it! We’ve got a serial killer here.”
“Looks like a strong possibility.”
“What’s the time span? Why didn’t the computer catch this?”
“Good question. Trudy Giles was found in the late 80s. San Diego PD thought it was an isolated case and the national mainframe, as you know, wasn’t operating at that time. Bridgett was found in ’95. Her porn star status led police to believe she’d pissed the wrong guy off. No one gave any thought to a possible serial killer.”
“Any others across the board?”
“Well, haven’t found anything yet, b
ut if our man is a serial killer, he’s been at this for at least fifteen years, maybe longer.”
“What about funeral homes? Mortuaries? Medical schools?”
“I’m on that, too. We’re looking for priors in that line of work and at the med schools. This could be some janitor who knew where the stuff was stored.”
“I don’t think he’s blue collar.”
“You have a profile going?” she asked.
“Working on it. I know this much: he’s organized, practiced, maybe a professional. He’s been at it for a while which means he can blend into society. If he’s been at it for that many years, he’s not in his twenties or even early thirties. He’s probably at least forty. If he’s preserving these women, then he’s got some twisted fantasy going on that’s most likely escalating.”
“What are you thinking?”
“My guess is they’re used as some sort of emotional or romantic partner, perhaps representing or tied to someone he’s lost. Someone close to him.”
“Maybe like a mother figure?” Loretta asked dipping her biscuit into the gravy.
“Could be. If he’s saving the bodies for a period of time, he needs physical companionship, but fears intimacy. He needs to be in control. I think he adapts very well to different locales, maybe takes on a variety of personalities. Is there anything in the computers about rape?”
“By the time they found the Giles girl it was too late to tell. Minimal remains. We had to go off dental. But there did appear to be signs of post-coital on the Simons girl. Too many years to get a semen sample. They tried to get the DNA, but couldn’t.”
“That’s what I’m saying! This guy’s good, knows exactly how to do it—a true psychopath. The problem with these bodies being so dated is figuring out if he’s still prowling, or maybe in jail for other crimes, or has changed his MO, or maybe he’s dead.”
“Like finding a needle in a haystack.” Loretta put down her fork.
“But something tells me he’s still at it. This needle’s gonna pierce again, and I’ve gotta blunt him before it happens. I don’t think he’s dead or moved on down the road. Okay by you if I talk to the detectives on these cases?”
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