The Silenced Women

by Frederick Weisel

  Russell handed a joint to Victor. “Is that from Cyrano? Little late in the game to be quoting the neoromantics, isn’t it?”

  Victor took a deep hit from the joint and let it out. “Also a little late to think that night can make all things dimly beautiful. It’s time for Russ and me to leave before the law gets here.”

  Thackrey leaned back in his chair. “This thing’s all so boring and second rate. I don’t want a cop intruding in my life, poking around my house.”

  “Unavoidable now, I’m afraid,” Victor said. “We’ve cleaned up what we can. Turned all the binary choices from ones to zeros. Paid back all the debts you said we owed. But we’re improvising. It’s sloppy, spur-of-the-moment stuff. We’re bound to make a mistake.”

  Russell nodded. “And your friend wasn’t exactly the model of discretion. Probably left a trail that leads back to you.”

  Thackrey turned to face his friends. “You know what I hate? People who solve mysteries, figure out puzzles. It’s derivative. The real creativity is making the mystery, not solving it.”

  Victor studied the burning end of the joint. “Can’t dispute your logic, Benjamin. On the other hand, you did kill a young woman. Actually, two, if we’re keeping count—Girlfriend One and Girlfriend Two. Society tends to frown on that. One of the ancient boundaries.”

  “What’re you saying?”

  “Matter of time. Local coppers’ll be out here in a couple days, three at the outside. You might want to contact Armand, see if he can recommend a good criminal attorney.”

  “I don’t want Armand involved in this. He’s got his fingers in my business as it is.”

  “I should point out, we’re all in this together,” Russell said. “For Vic and me, it’s called principal liability. Same penalty under California law.”

  Thackrey poured pills from a small container onto his left armrest, picked up two, and swallowed them dry. “Don’t get ahead of yourselves.”

  Russell played with the touchscreen on his iPad. “Let’s see what the keystroke logger has on the VCI investigation.”

  Thackrey looked up at the night sky. “Before you two make judgments about the messiness of this, you should know the drama I’ve been exposed to. When Elise was in one of her manic binges, she went shopping. I was with her once when she bought five hundred dollars’ worth of art supplies—brushes, paints, canvases. All excited about some project. She never took the stuff out of the bags when she got home.”

  Victor smiled. “As I remember, you said you liked her energy.”

  “One time we drove nine hours down to LA just because she wanted to have breakfast at Nick’s Café. You know that place in Chinatown where the cops eat? Then we turned around and drove back. Me doing a hundred on Interstate 5, her asleep in the back seat. Eighteen hours, door to door.”

  “You told us, you met this new fun girl. You used the word spontaneity.”

  “Then there were the down times, when I found her on the bathroom floor, cutting her ankles. Blood smeared everywhere, and she’s dabbing at the cuts with a Kleenex. Or she drives up here at four in the morning, pounds on the door, and wants me to give her a bottle of OxyContin. ‘Just give it to me, Benny, and I’ll go away. I’ll swallow them all and be done. You won’t have to worry about me. I promise I won’t take them until I get home. No one will know it was you.’”

  “Water under the bridge now.”

  Russell bent close to his tablet. “Something here you ought to see, Ben. VCI talked to a former roommate named Jessica Alvarez, who told them Elise was dating a guy who made money in computers and drove a silver car. And the meth dealer we went to see, Arturo Peña, said he saw three men fitting our description with your girlfriend last Saturday.”

  Victor took a long toke from the joint and put it back in the ashtray. “Sounds like the boys in blue will be here sooner than later. Good luck with that, Ben.”

  “What makes you think I’m the one they arrest?” Thackrey pulled the gun from his waistband and laid it on the armrest. “How about if I shoot you two right now? I say you killed Elise. Your car’s the one driving into the park. You threatened me, and I shot you in self-defense.”

  Victor faced Thackrey. “You’re not going to do that.”

  “Really? You know that? What do I have to lose?” He picked up the gun. “I could put a round in each of you before you stood up.”

  Russell leaned forward. “Okay. Let’s calm down. What do you want, Ben?”

  Thackrey looked to the end of the deck. “We need to do something with the dogs.”

  “Petey and Oscar? What do you mean?”

  “Dog hairs on the blanket that we wrapped around Elise are going to help the cops trace the murder back to me…to us.”

  “So you shoot them,” Victor said, “and bury them in the meadow.”

  Thackrey shook his head. “I’m not killing them.”

  “Wow. Good to hear you draw the line somewhere. We could take them to Mendocino and leave them.”

  “I’m not doing that either.” Thackrey walked to the end of the deck and sat next to the dogs. He was still carrying the gun.

  Russell watched him. “The cops are going to find them if you don’t do anything.”

  Thackrey smiled. “All right, then. Why don’t we give them to the cops?”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “If they’re bound to find the dogs, let’s turn them over.”

  “You mean drive up to police headquarters and drop them off?”

  “No, take them to one of the detectives’ houses. Or, better, put them in one of their cars.”

  “You do know that’s stupid, right?”

  “Unlike everything else we’ve done for the past twenty hours?”

  Victor looked down the length of the deck at Thackrey. “I’m not doing this. We’ve already done the three things you wanted.”

  “What three things?” Thackrey asked. “I’m a coder. What makes you think I can count?”

  “I can. We’re done, out. You want to shoot us, go ahead.”

  Russell stood and faced Victor. “I’ll do it. What do you want?”

  “Are you crazy, Russ?” Victor shouted. “He’s playing us. This is all a joke to him.”

  Russell sat on the arm of Victor’s chair. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll do it. I owe him.”

  “You owe him what?”

  Russell put a hand on Victor’s shoulder. “Four years ago. Remember? I was ready to off myself. Ben helped me. He was the only one. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.”

  “It’ll never stop. You know him. It’ll always be something.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll help him.” He looked up. “What do you want, Ben?”

  Thackrey scratched the head of the dog nearest him. “Put the dogs in the girl’s car. What’s her name? Eden Somers. No, wait. We’ll do something with the girl later. The dogs go to the ex-Marine, Frames. I assume you can get into the police parking lot?”

  “Probably,” Russell said.

  “And into the cop’s car? Without being seen?”

  “Yeah. We hack the keyless lock.”

  “You two are idiots,” Victor said. “So you put the dogs in the guy’s car. So what? What’s that achieve?”

  Thackrey smiled. “It’s all about how you put them in the car. Suppose we give them some juice? If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to stay awake.”

  “You mean speed? They’ll tear us apart.”

  “Not if we sedate them first. Then we give them speed. They’ll be little time bombs.”

  “You want us to do all this? Why? What do we gain by it?”

  “How the fuck do I know? The Marine gets a surprise.”

  “It’s pointless. It’s nuts.”

  “We’ll do it,” Russell said quietly. “Then we leave.”

/>   “Sure,” Thackrey said. “Then you leave. Fly off to Thailand, or wherever you’re going.”

  Victor snorted. “While you get a head start.”

  “Oh, I’m not leaving yet,” Thackrey said. “I’ve got one more task of my own.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m going to find my way into Lieutenant Mahler’s house.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Not at all. I’ll bet you I get in and out before he finds me.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “Because I can. They invade my privacy, I invade his. Anything, boys, to fuck with their minds.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  (i)

  (WEDNESDAY, 9:15 P.M.)

  Tom Woodhouse parked his Honda and walked back toward Mahler’s car.

  As Mahler watched, the retired detective moved with a slow, uneven gait. Knees gone to hell. But even in Tommy Woodhouse’s prime, quickness had never been his gift. It was something else.

  Mahler remembered a 10–66, suspicious subject call, years earlier, when a junkie with an Oakland Raiders neck tattoo suddenly lifted a Ruger from a hoodie pocket. Mahler could still picture how Tommy stood, two feet from the junkie, not moving at all—three cop guns drawn behind him, calmly talking, minute after minute, voice barely above a whisper, until the kid handed him the gun.

  The old man climbed into the passenger seat. “Okay. I’m here. You going to tell me why we had to meet in a car instead of my living room?”

  “It’s better this way.”

  They sat in the dark. Even three feet away, Mahler could not see Woodhouse.

  “This the book club you always talked about?” Woodhouse asked. “How’s that plan of yours to read all of Thomas Hardy’s novels in order? Start with Far from the Madding Crowd, wasn’t it, all the way to Jude the Obscure?”

  “It’s…something else.” Mahler leaned across Woodhouse and reached into the glove compartment. He removed an object wrapped in a towel and laid it on the console. As he opened the towel, the glove compartment light revealed a darker glow—the barrel of a handgun.

  Woodhouse looked down without touching the gun. “I saw lots of guns on the job, Junior. I don’t ever need to see another one.”

  Mahler clicked off the light. “It’s a Browning 22 with a suppressor. I found it at a crime scene a few years ago and never logged it into the system. Brand-new. Unregistered. Never been fired. Serial number filed off. Doesn’t exist.”

  “Clean gun. So what?”

  “I decided to kill him. Irwin Partridge—I’ve decided to kill him.” As he spoke, Mahler breathed in relief. He’d meant to take his time and gradually come to this admission.

  Woodhouse snorted. “Partridge? You’re kidding, right?”

  “He goes to the Tap Room on Santa Rosa Avenue every weekday night except Friday. Gets home about ten. Parks in a carport behind the apartment.”

  “You actually checked this out?”

  “The carport’s lit by two fixtures. I remove the bulbs before he arrives.”

  “What if someone sees you?” Woodhouse asked.

  “No windows face the carport. Most residents are older. By that time they’re inside.”

  “At least that’s what you hope.”

  “When Partridge drives up,” Mahler said, “I put two in his head. No one finds him until morning, unless his girlfriend comes looking for him.” Mahler could see it in his mind. Partridge’s car approaching down the alleyway, slowing, and pulling into the same space. The engine shuts off, the headlights go out. Walk out of the shadows, raise the gun, wait to see Partridge’s face turn.

  “Is the car window up or down?” Woodhouse asked.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “The hell it doesn’t. Window up, he’s harder to see. Makes more noise, too.”

  “I’ll play it by ear,” Mahler said.

  “That’s what the dumb ones say.” Woodhouse shook his head. “Where’s your car?”

  “A parking spot a block away. I walk in and out.”

  “Someone can see you.”

  “There’s no one around. I’ve been there a dozen times.”

  “A dozen times? Are you serious?” Woodhouse took a deep breath. “What about the sound? That suppressor isn’t like on TV. It’ll still make a sound on a quiet night.”

  “It’s a 22. It’s not that loud.”

  “You’ll have brass on the ground.”

  “I’ll pick it up.”

  “What happens with the gun?”

  “I take it apart and dump it.” The entire exchange made Mahler feel far from himself, as if he was describing someone like him, but not him.

  Down the street, a man stepped out on his porch and lit a cigarette. Mahler imagined being that man. He pictured the family left behind in a living room around a TV, while he came outside to be alone for a few minutes.

  “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation,” Woodhouse said. “How’d you get so stupid so fast? It must be some kind of record.”

  “He’s going to walk again, Tommy. Maybe he didn’t do this latest girl, but he did the others. And we’ve got nothing.”

  “You sure about that? What I hear, your Detective Somers is working on a few things.”

  “We don’t have evidence.”

  “So this is your answer? You’ll get caught.”

  “How? Tell me. It’s dark. No one else there. The gun’s got no forensics.” Mahler rewrapped the gun and put it back in the glove compartment.

  “Anyone know you took it from the crime scene?”

  “No, I was alone.”

  “What about the gun’s owner?” Woodhouse asked.

  “Dead. I took it before the techs got there.”

  “Can it be traced to a dealer? There’ll be a bill of sale.”

  “Not without a serial number.”

  “You’ll get blowback on your clothes.”

  “I’ll throw them out.”

  “What if someone walks up while you’re doing it? You shoot them, too? A hundred things can go wrong. Partridge sees you and drives away. You miss. You hit him and don’t kill him. He falls on the car horn.”

  “That won’t happen,” Mahler said.

  “It could. Haven’t you sat across the table from a hundred idiots who thought what you’re thinking? They always screw up. You’ll screw up.”

  “That’s just it. They don’t always screw up. Look at Partridge. We never found a single piece of direct evidence. He killed those girls, maybe more, in daylight in a public park.”

  The smoker dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk and stepped on it. The man leaned back and looked up at the night sky. Mahler wanted to be him, looking as far into the sky as he could.

  “Guess who’s going to be lead investigator?” Woodhouse said. “You are. You’ll have to pretend not to know what you know. A hundred chances to say something wrong.”

  “It’s not that complicated.”

  “Rivas and Coyle, and this new smart one, Eden Somers, will be on the case, too. They know you want this guy. What’s your story going to be? Where were you at the time of the killing, Lieutenant Mahler?”

  “I’ll be at Tristan’s every night,” Mahler said, “watching a game at the bar. That night I’ll leave my spot at the bar at nine thirty and go to the can. Be back by ten fifteen.”

  “You’re screwed. You’ll spend the rest of your life in prison, with every dirtbag you sent there.”

  Mahler shrugged. “But Partridge’ll be dead.”

  “Can’t argue with that. But what if you’re wrong? What if he’s not the guy? Then what? It’s okay because he’s a worthless piece of shit?”

  “Come on, Tommy. You know he’s the guy.”

  “Maybe, but that doesn’t give me the right to kill hi
m. What gives you that right? Because you’re a cop? Because you have the skills?”

  “Because I saw the girls.”

  “I saw them, too. And forty others. Still doesn’t give me the right. After this, you’ll never look at suspects the same.”

  “So what? You think we’re different?” As he said it, Mahler realized he didn’t believe his own words. He knew he wouldn’t kill Partridge, never wait in the dark with his gun, never see the fear in Partridge’s eyes. The failure of his plan brought a new sadness. He saw, too, the shame of talking it out in front of Woodhouse. Whatever happened, this would be between them. Down the street, the man gazing at the stars was gone.

  “You need to quit this job, Eddie. Retire. Get out. Leave it all to someone else.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” Mahler was too tired to think. He looked at Woodhouse in the dark. He wished he could see his face. “You going to give evidence against me for this?”

  “No.” Woodhouse opened the door. “Far as I’m concerned, our little confab here never happened. This whole deal is about your destiny, Eddie, not mine. Read your Thomas Hardy.”

  Woodhouse climbed out of the car, then leaned back inside. “Besides, if you’re really as smart as you think you are, you’ll find Partridge when he’s got his own gun, in public, in front of witnesses. Then, Mr. Clint Eastwood, you put two in the SOB’s head.”

  (ii)

  (WEDNESDAY, 10:42 P.M.)

  Eden looked up as Mahler appeared in the interview-room doorway. “Okay if I work here?” she asked. “I needed to spread out.” She opened her arms to indicate her stacks of papers that covered the tabletop.

  Mahler entered the room. “Just don’t leave things here if you go out.” He sat on the edge of the table. “Tell me about Partridge.”

  “We know he lived in Vallejo from 2004 to 2006. Worked at a company called Mare Island Rigging as a rigger, tying loads for long-distance haulers.”

  “How do we know that?”

  “Detective Jermany of the Vallejo PD found the apartment complex where he lived.” Eden shuffled through the papers. “The apartment manager confirmed the dates of Partridge’s rental, and the rigging company faxed over an employment history. Beth Hunter was killed March 11, 2005. Coroner puts the time of death at about 5:30 p.m. I talked to the Mare Island foreman, who checked timecards and confirmed Partridge was working that day. The shift was from seven to four. Partridge would’ve been in the yard until at least four.”