Pretty Corpse

by Linda Berry

  “Been checked out. The math teacher …”

  “Perez.”

  “Right. He has an airtight alibi for both nights The Strangler struck here in the city. He’s not our man. We’re watching Coach Tenney and the landscaper, Lafferty. Both have weak alibis. They were at the movies, or the mall.” Keach made a face. “A lot of blah-blah-blah. No witnesses to verify their whereabouts. Without evidence linking them to a crime …”

  “You can’t touch them. And the Larsen kid?”

  “His parents swear he was home both nights.” She shrugged. “They could be covering for him. Who knows?”

  “He’s under surveillance?”

  Valona shot Keach a look that said keep a lid on it.

  “No,” she offered anyway.

  “Why not?”

  “You know who his father is?”

  Lauren shook her head.

  “Big-shot attorney, Richard Larsen. We can’t touch this kid without bulletproof evidence.”

  “Like catching him with his pants down around his ankles,” Valona said sourly.

  “No wonder his date rape got shoved under the carpet,” Lauren said.

  “There’s no evidence a rape took place,” Keach said. “Just an accusation that was withdrawn and never reported to authorities.” Her expression was sympathetic.

  Lauren understood. The fact that Chris Larsen was moving in on her daughter was Lauren’s problem, not law enforcement’s. She changed the subject. “Anything else found at the crime scene? Any casings?”

  “No casings. Ballistics couldn’t match the bullets that killed Steve to those used by The Strangler when he shot at you in Cypress Park. Two different firearms. Neither matched anything in the system.” Keach looked uncomfortable. “The shooter was in the tower of Pillsner Cathedral Halloween night. He used a high-powered rifle. Looks like a .308.”

  Steve, Lauren realized with a sickening rush, never stood a chance. From that vantage point high above the park, and with that kind of weapon, picking Steve out of the crowd was as easy as target practice, the bullet easily piercing his vest. “It was an execution.”

  “Yes. The shooter had just enough time to get up there from the hearse, where he must have had his rifle planted.”

  “He killed his cop. Got his glory,” Valona said.

  Keach put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Lauren.”

  “Thanks for not shielding me. I prefer to know.”

  After the detectives said their goodbyes, Lauren remained on the porch, letting the brisk wind cool her anger. A cold-blooded killer had planned her partner’s death execution-style and was now zeroing in on her daughter. Lauren had wasted ten precious days, incapacitated, when she could have been working the case. She had let Steve down, and now Courtney. Anxiety festered in her gut. Tomorrow her private investigation would get back into full swing. One day, she promised herself, she would witness The Strangler’s own execution by lethal injection.

  When she returned to the kitchen, Jack was helping Courtney with her math homework, interspersed with lighthearted humor. Sofie was topping off slices of apple pie with vanilla ice cream. After washing down two aspirins with a glass of orange juice to ward off an oncoming headache, Lauren joined them. Soon after, Courtney retired to her room, and Sofie left for home.

  Looking right at home, Jack had removed his flannel shirt and was leaning back in the nook with the sleeves of his turtleneck pushed up.

  “Thanks for sticking around,” she said. “Having a man in the house makes Courtney feel safe. You helped create a sense of normalcy.”

  “Glad to be of service.”

  She managed a half-hearted smile. She had seen Jack at Steve’s funeral, but they barely spoke. The army of officers in dress uniform had stretched out like a blue sea at the cemetery. She and Jack were solemn pallbearers beneath the weight of Steve’s casket. Columns of foot soldiers followed behind, one carrying the American flag. She recalled the sharp cracks from the gun salute and the bright colors of the flag against the gray of day, folded and presented to Steve’s widow with great ceremony. Paying her respects to Pamela and the rest of Steve’s family had been like walking a gauntlet. Pamela had reached out to comfort Lauren and the two women clung to one another, a momentary anchor in a dark storm.

  “Hey, where’d you go?” Jack’s voice cut into her thoughts.

  She blinked and brought her focus back to the kitchen. “Sorry. I was thinking about Steve’s funeral. I just realized I didn’t see his oldest daughter. How did I miss Sarah?”

  “She wasn’t there. Sarah was in the hospital giving birth to a baby boy.”

  Lauren felt hot tears sting her eyes. “Steve just missed meeting his grandson. He was really looking forward to being a grandpa.”

  Jack placed a warm hand over hers. “There’s a lot of sadness in life, Lauren. I know things seem bleak right now, but they will get better. Give it time.”

  She recalled that Jack had lost a partner in the line of duty early in his career. The fact that he had endured this same deadening grief, and survived, reassured her.

  “I’m not far away if you need me,” he added. “You want me here, just call.” After a lingering gaze, Jack looked at his watch. “It’s late. I better get going.”

  At the door he pulled her close and his arms tightened around her. She noticed their bodies fit well together and his touch melted away some of her steely brittleness. She wanted to stay in his arms, wanted him to kiss away her blues, but he pulled away.

  “I’ll have a car here at eight a.m. to pick up Courtney.” His lips brushed hers and then he was out the door striding towards his SUV.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “MOM, this is so embarrassing. I’m not going to school in a police car.” Framed in the opened doorway in tight jeans and baggy blue sweater, Courtney stood firm, green eyes fierce, expression determined. Behind her a hard-driving rain painted the neighborhood in muted colors. A black and white was parked in the driveway, motor running, adding urgency to the morning drama.

  “Get in the car, Courtney. The officer’s waiting.” Lauren pulled her bathrobe tighter against the autumn chill.

  “Everyone will think I’m a delinquent. How could you do this to me, Mother? Can’t you drive me?”

  Lauren sighed. What seemed so obvious to her at times soared over her daughter’s head like a missile aimed at empty space. “Courtney,” she said, her patience ebbing. “Yesterday a dangerous killer and rapist planted something in your book bag. Obviously, he knew how, when, and where to find you. Why do you suppose that is?”

  Courtney pressed her lips tightly together.

  “It’s simple,” Lauren said. “He’s been watching you.”

  Her daughter’s complexion paled.

  Lauren wanted to comfort her, protect her. This was serious business, but Lauren couldn’t alter the circumstances. Courtney had to stand up on her own two feet. “Stay alert,” she said firmly. “Pay attention to what’s going on around you. Keep your book bag with you at all times. You’ll be fine. That officer who’s waiting for you is going to make a show at your school of providing you with protection, so this lunatic doesn’t try anything else. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll pick you up for lunch at twelve. In front of the school.”

  “What?” Courtney stamped a fashionably booted foot on the tiled floor—an act of frustration Lauren hadn’t witnessed since her daughter was a small child. It spoke volumes about Courtney’s feelings of helplessness.

  “I want to eat with my friends.”

  Chris Larsen, you mean. “Not today. Be there at twelve. Now go.”

  Lauren heard her daughter curse as she slung her book bag over one shoulder. She ran down the sidewalk and scrambled into the patrol car. As it backed out of the driveway and turned down the street, Courtney sat stiffly, staring straight ahead. Lauren’s heart went out to her. Today The Strangler was controlling her life.

  Lauren immediatel
y called Holly Baker, who was relieved to hear from her. She had left Lauren two messages, like so many not returned in the last few days. Holly said she had set up appointments with the two Oakland victims at the Rape Crisis Center. Lauren could speak with them as long as Holly and one of the parents was present. The interviews were scheduled for the following night.

  ***

  The French Gothic architecture of Pillsner Cathedral looked authentically medieval to Lauren, though she knew it was built in the 1930s. Designed to impress and intimidate, it soared high above the street, a stone fortress, its tallest spire piercing the voluminous clouds drifting overhead. The swollen clouds had been emptying their bounty of rain for days, but today the sun’s rays penetrated their billowy masses, illuminating the cathedral to its most stunning advantage. Sunlight glazed the granite steps, still wet from the morning downpour, and highlighted the gilded bronze panels on the oversized doors.

  The cold and wind pierced her clothing. Lauren wrapped her raincoat tighter over her sweater and jeans and mounted the steps. Upon entering, she stood in awe of the grandeur and drama of the cavernous space. A sense of order and calm greeted her. The vaulted ceiling was resplendent with shafts of light bursting through the rosette stained-glass window above the altar. A weighty silence hung in the air.

  Her heels clicked on the marble floor as she followed the aisle along the south wall to the central nave, where a dozen visitors occupied wooden pews. She passed the sanctuary, High Altar, and some smaller side chapels before discovering a darkened corridor at the far end of the building. Her purpose became more determined as she tried the ornate brass handles of several arched doors. All locked.

  One of the doors opened and a priest dressed in a black suit and white clerical collar stepped into the hallway. Avoiding his glance, she studied a gold-threaded wall tapestry of the Madonna and Child.

  “I’m Father Rivera. May I help you?”

  Reluctantly, she turned to meet his inquiring gaze. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  Strong cheekbones and a bold nose accentuated Father Rivera’s lean face, giving him an aura of wisdom, while his soft, fleshy jowls made him appear approachable. Strands of white hair were combed neatly over his balding crown.

  “I noticed the door handle turning,” he said.

  Feeling her face warm, she bit her lip. “I’m sorry. I’m Officer Lauren Starkley, off duty.”

  His eyes registered nothing.

  “My partner, Steve Santos, was killed across the street. Halloween night.”

  “Oh yes. Of course.” His expression softened, and compassion shone from his deep brown eyes. “Forgive me. With all the media attention, I should have known your name.” He paused. “I’m deeply sorry for your loss. A cruel tragedy. Terrible that our house of worship was involved. Nothing like this has ever happened here before.” His bushy gray brows knitted tightly together. “I don’t know how I can help you. I’ve already spoken to the detectives.”

  “I didn’t come here to talk to anyone. I just want to go up to the roof.”

  “Ah, I see.” He pondered this for several moments. “I don’t see why that should be a problem.”

  Lauren smiled, relieved.

  “Come with me. I’ll take you up.”

  Father Rivera pulled a chain of keys from his pocket, unlocked a thick wooden door, and motioned to Lauren to follow him down a dim corridor lined with more arched doors. He paused before the steel door of an elevator and inserted another key into a lock. She heard the elevator pulleys come to life within the shaft, the door opened and revealed a space barely large enough for three slim people. He stepped aside so she could enter.

  She hesitated.

  “Ah, perhaps you were expecting a stairway?”

  “Yes. I’m wondering how the gunman got through your locked door and into this locked elevator.”

  “The doors were open Halloween night. We had choir practice, which always draws a big crowd. Our seventy-five choir members and guest musicians have access to this area. The dressing room where we keep the robes is just down the hall. With so many people moving in and out, it would have been easy for him to slip through unnoticed.” He crossed the hall and opened a door marked FIRE EXIT. “This is our emergency exit. Always unlocked. The stairs go up to the roof. Undoubtedly …”

  “That’s how he got up there.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you mind if I take the stairs and meet you?”

  “Not at all. It’s a long climb. Several stories.”

  “Thanks, Father.”

  The tiled stairway was as modern as in any corporate building, offering a sharp contrast to the Gothic motif of the rest of the cathedral. Lauren tried to put herself in the gunman’s shoes. How had he blended in so unobtrusively that no one remembered him? Had he stolen a choir robe? Was he carrying his rifle in an instrument case, passing himself off as a musician? What was his state of mind as he ascended these stairs, knowing in seconds he would kill a man? Had he been anxious, or cold and calculating?

  As Lauren climbed from one floor to the next, scrutinizing every inch of stair and wall space, looking for trace evidence. CSI would have gone over everything thoroughly, yet she prayed for a miracle. Her praying skills were rusty. She found nothing. By the time she reached the roof, she was winded, and realized her days of inactivity had taken their toll. Father Rivera waited calmly in a dark narrow corridor off the stairwell, next to a substantial steel door. She joined him, catching her breath.

  “We’re going to enter the Winter Tower,” he said. “Its twin, the Spring Tower, holds the cathedral carillon of forty-four bells.” He glanced at his watch. “Which chime every hour. We’re minutes away from eleven. We don’t want to be up here then. Hard on the ears.” He put his hand on the door handle. “I have to warn you, the tower is exposed to the elements.”

  He opened the door and they both stepped into the stone interior, an area perhaps twenty feet square. She was glad for his warning. At this height, the wind blew through the arched openings with the effect of a wind tunnel. It hit with a blast, pushing hard against her body and making her raincoat flap like wings. Her hair was loosened from her ponytail and strands whipped her face.

  “The detectives believe your gunman was positioned up here,” Father Rivera yelled over the wind, his white hair blowing around his head. “That night it was clear and calm. Probably very little wind.”

  Lauren nodded. Perfect for target shooting.

  She pressed against the strong current, crossed to the opening she knew the shooter would have selected, and stood where he had stood. The sounds of the city rose up to meet her: traffic roar, car horns, tires hissing on wet asphalt. She stretched her gaze out to the horizon and surveyed the world that she was intimately acquainted with, spread before her in miniature.

  In the distance were the hills of Oakland and Marin, and the mouth of the bay opening to the Pacific spanned by the Golden Gate Bridge. In the foreground she saw her district, the hills of Noe Valley, and the tenements and high rises of the Valencia neighborhoods. She took a deep breath, lowered her gaze to Cypress Park, and pinpointed the spot on the summit where the hearse had been parked and Steve lost his life.

  Nausea rose in her gut. A sudden, suffocating wave of vertigo struck her and she quickly stepped back from the opening. She gulped in mouthfuls of air to clear her head, and signaled to Father Rivera, who immediately opened the door. They stepped back into the corridor. The door clanged shut behind them, and they were engulfed in deadening silence. Lauren leaned against the wall, breathing hard.

  “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. “Yes. A little dizzy. I’ll go down in the elevator.”

  The elevator descended slowly. Lauren was relieved to escape the tower. It had felt like a place of evil. By the time they reached the ground floor, she had pulled her snarled hair back into a ponytail and regained her composure. Father Rivera ran his hand through his hair a few times, restoring his dignified appearance. In silence, she foll
owed him back the way they came. He guided her into a small softly-lit chapel adjacent to the nave. The faded tapestries and intricately carved furnishings were of a late medieval period and gave her the illusion of stepping back in time. Lauren approached the altar where the flames of a dozen candles flickered in small colored jars.

  “Perhaps you would like to light a candle for your partner,” the priest said gently.

  Melancholy enveloped her. It had been a while since Lauren had willingly entered a church—before two funerals in as many years. But under the kind auspices of Father Rivera, she selected a long wooden match, lit it, held it above a votive candle, and whispered a heartfelt prayer. The wick caught, flared, danced vigorously for several seconds, and then settled down into a bright, steady flame.

  Something warm brushed her arm. She turned to see the priest seated several feet away, eyes closed, lips moving silently. Lauren shivered. She didn’t know if a spirit world existed, but if so, a ghostly presence had just reached across time and space and entered her world. She sank to her knees and closed her eyes. Yes. She could feel it. A spirit was near. Warm. Loving. Forgiving.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  AT NOON Lauren pulled into the Cypress High parking lot and spotted Courtney standing in the midst of a group of teens on the sidewalk. She pulled over to the curb and Courtney stepped up to the open window followed by Megan Riley and Chris Larsen.

  “Mom, is it okay if Chris and Megan eat with us?”

  Lauren fought an impulse to pull her daughter into the safety of the car and speed away. Clearly, Courtney had set her up, but Lauren decided to play her daughter’s game and use the situation to assess the young man, up close and personal. Larsen’s lean, muscular build and all-American good looks could fool any unknowing mother into trusting him.

  This time, Chris spared her the arrogant stare but made no attempt to reach into the car to shake her hand when Courtney made introductions. Lauren didn’t encourage the courtesy. Courtney directed Megan to sit up front and she scrambled into the back with Larsen, seating herself close to him. Lauren’s anger flared. Courtney had become quite a manipulator. “Honey, don’t sit in the middle of the seat. I can’t see out the rearview mirror.”