"Did Beth socialize with Matt?"
"They've been friends for a long time. Matt's antics didn't seem to faze her. She had to be a bit more careful about the friendship after Ashley broke up with him and came to live in her cute little house."
"One possibility we're looking into is that Ashley discovered a secret in the course of her work. Something her killer needed to protect. Or maybe she upset someone she met."
"I suppose her work brought her into contact with all manner of people. She organized meetings, managed the Mayor's calendar, and mine. She was easy to get on with, even when people were rude."
"Could anyone have felt slighted by her, or by the Mayor?"
"Not by Ashley. But I can write you a long list of people angry at Mayor Whitehead."
It was too long a shot that anyone would feel angry enough with the Mayor to kill her assistant and her assistant's partner. I said, "A list of everyone with whom Ashley interacted would be helpful."
"Goodness. That is a lot of people."
"Can you think of anyone Ashley met who was opposed to her lifestyle?" I asked.
"Ashley dealt with all manner of people and beliefs, but I don't know of anyone who expressed anti-gay sentiments publicly. You don't know anymore what people get up to in private."
"Any change in her mood recently?"
"Something was bothering her. At times she'd talk in whispers on her cell phone and stare into space afterward. I supposed it was her love life, but she wouldn't talk about whatever it was, and we discussed our relationships all the time. Now I think about it, a couple of weeks ago she said someone had broken into their house and moved her stuff."
"You mean the house she shared with Beth?"
"The sad thing was no one believed her, Beth included. Ash couldn't find her phone and Beth said she'd just misplaced it. Then a couple of days later she said someone had moved her stuff again in the bathroom and her phone was back. We all laughed at her. You don't think it could have had anything to do with her murder, do you? I'd die if it did, and we didn't tell her to go to the police."
It was likely the people who bugged their house and killed them, I thought.
A middle-aged man with receding black hair and the extra pounds which come with advancing years poked his head into the room. Jill introduced him as councilman and businessman Buddy Olsen and told him the reason for my visit.
"Is she free?" He jerked his head toward the Mayor's closed office door. His voice was gruff, his demeanor dour.
"Chief Kane is in with her," Jill replied. Wes Kane had been Stockbridge's chief of police for six years. Many thought his relationship with Mayor Whitehead was too cozy.
"I have a few questions if you have a moment," I interjected.
"I had no contact with either of the dead women, except for meeting reminders from Miss Logan. I'm dashing to an appointment. Tell Whitehead I'm looking for her." He swept out of the room without waiting for a reply.
Jill gave me a look, but I kept my face deadpan. I'd met enough Buddy Olsens both in my time in the Military Police and afterward to know how to deal with them. I wanted to ask her about the irregularities between Olsen and the Mayor that I got from Kayla Ellis, but I decided to save the question for later. Right now, I didn't want to jeopardize the rapport we'd established.
A door opened, and Chief Kane stepped into the reception area, with Mayor Vicki Whitehead following. She was in her early fifties, tall and elegant, with a figure that only comes from regular visits to the gym. Her bobbed hair, black-rimmed glasses, and pantsuit were all business as she sashayed toward me. Kane nodded curtly to me and left. Jill gave me her number, and I thanked her for her time.
"I'm Detective Riley, here about Ashley's death," I said, extending my hand to the Mayor. "Do you have time to answer a few questions?"
"Come through. You have five minutes before I must leave. I'm so disorganized without Ashley here." I noticed she didn't express any feelings beyond the loss of her assistant's services. She showed me to a chair, then stood facing me with her butt perched on the edge of her desk, her arms folded. I was partway through my spiel about Logan's killing possibly resulting from something she discovered in the course of her work when Mayor Whitehead cut me off:
"You should know we can only make available a very limited amount of information about her work here, and only after the City Attorney reviews it to ensure we're not violating any party's privacy rights."
"Two women have been brutally murdered. We're concerned that more deaths may follow," I said.
"I'm confident whatever got them killed was not a part of city business."
"I wish I had your certainty. People kill for any number of crazy reasons. Could someone have been upset with you or your office about the way they'd been treated?"
"People are upset at me all the time. I'm a convenient symbol for them to rail against when they feel wronged by anyone in local government. Just look online at my transportation and urban renewal initiatives or my plans to combat homelessness and use your imagination."
"Was Ashley a party to any contentious discussions recently?"
"I've spoken to Chief Kane, and you have no proof her death was in any way connected to this office. It could just as likely be a sex crime. Most men are brutes. My ex-husband, Patrick, is a good example, lording it in his job at the hospital. I hear he's shacked up with another young thing. Sophia or some such name."
"There is no evidence of a sex crime against either victim. We'll hold any information you give us in the strictest confidence."
Mayor Whitehead said, "I cannot endanger the privacy of citizens who do business with the city just because you have a hunch. It's much more likely their killer was motivated by sex or violence or both. That's all the time I have for now." I watched her shoulder a bulky purse and strut out of the office.
I could have threatened the Mayor with a court order for Ashley Logan's emails, and I may still need to. But it was clear the only outcome of my pressing her further, without more evidence, would be a reprimand from Lieutenant Townsend or worse. For now, there was no shortage of other avenues to investigate.
CHAPTER 9
THE ACRID SMELL of burnt wood assailed my senses as I stepped through the ruins of Ashley and Beth's house on Maple Street. The ME had scheduled the autopsies for the morning. I had asked Prentiss to observe, telling myself it was time he learned from the experience. In truth, I couldn't bear to see Beth's naked body getting cut up. He asked if he could skip watching Cliff Jackson work on Ashley's charred remains, and I told him just to make sure he came back with all the findings.
Flames had blackened the paintwork of neighboring houses, but quick action by the fire department saved them from significant damage. However, the towering oak, which had stood proudly beside the ruined house, hadn't fared as well. The bark on the trunk had split, and the branches were nothing more than blackened stumps. The brick chimney still stood, a silent sentinel watching over Chris Andrews and I as we worked to uncover the cause of the fire, and who started it. We hoped it would help answer the larger question: why the lives of two young women were so brutally cut short.
A few charred joists were the only remnants of the floor of the house. I was forced to keep ducking under them as I trudged through a thick layer of burnt debris covering what used to be the underfloor crawlspace. The slightest movement from either of us generated clouds of gray dust, which showered us from head to toe. It was in my hair, on my arms and legs, and despite my dust mask, I could taste it in my throat. Andrews resembled a phoenix rising from the ashes as he crouched over a sieve and worked a hand rake, hunting for remains of the incendiary device. I had only found a few metal items of no evidentiary value—which had done nothing to quench the anger I felt toward the arsonist and killer who subjected Ashley's body to one more desecration. It wasn't possible to recover her remains until after the fire was completely extinguished. By then, any hope of retrieving the attacker's DNA from her body had vanished.
&nb
sp; "Got something here." Andrews held up a plastic evidence bag.
I made my way to him, taking care not to disturb the ground where he was working. The bag held small gears, a spring, and several short lengths of wire. "A timing device?" I guessed.
"I'm not sure how useful it will be—these clocks are as common as dirt—but I'll send it to the arson investigators in Sacramento. The fire coated the metal parts with the products of combustion. It should allow them to identify the accelerant used. I'd guess it's thermite. The constituents are readily available, and it's not difficult to make. There's nothing large enough to bear a fingerprint, even supposing our guy didn't wear gloves. Whatever we discover is likely to be circumstantial."
"One step at a time," I cautioned. "We know where the fire started and that it was arson, so we're ahead of most fire investigations. The bigger picture is we're thirty hours into the murder investigations and still at square one. We don't know who Beth was on her way to see at Brockway or the connection to her work. Even supposing, there was one. We don't know what she was working on with any certainty, and while you've discovered the cause of the fire, I've found nothing that will even begin to answer one of those questions. If we can find something, anything, about the arsonist, even if it's inconclusive or won't stand up in court, we'll know where to focus our murder inquiries."
I braced myself for Andrews reply. He knew he was free to speak his mind with me. Instead, I heard a commotion from the street and turned to see an elderly man waving his arms at the uniformed officer guarding the front of the property. As I approached, I heard the man say Beth's name.
"I'm Detective Riley. What seems to be the problem?"
"I live there." The man pointed to the yellow house next door to the ruined one. "I demand to know what is going on." He had a full head of gray hair and delicate features with a rosy complexion. I placed him in his sixties and retired.
"There's been a fire. Can I have your name?"
"Peter Taylor. I can see there's been a fire, thank you. Are the girls okay?"
"I'm sorry to say there have been some fatalities. Someone should have spoken to you sooner."
"I've just got back from visiting family in Livermore. Did something happen to Beth or Ashley?"
With the help of Officer Smith, I managed to get Taylor seated on a garden bench in front of his house. Singed rhododendron bushes shielded us from the worst of the devastation, and from the small crowd of reporters and photographers gathered on the sidewalk. But it did nothing for the acrid smell hanging in the air. Perhaps sensing bad news, Taylor took a silver flask from his pocket and gulped several mouthfuls, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but Beth Gervais and Ashley Logan both passed away," I said.
"Oh my God, that's terrible. Neither girl was able to get out in time?" He took another drag from his flask, his hand shaking violently. "How did the fire start? Was it the electric heater they had in the bedroom?"
"We're looking into exactly what happened. Until we know more, I can't give you any details. How well did you know the women?"
"I saw them every day. They were wonderful girls, each in their way. Ashley was my direct line to City Hall. I'd tell her about potholes around town, and she'd promise to tell the Mayor or the City Manager. She got them fixed, would you believe. I used to read Beth's column in the paper at breakfast, and when I saw her later, I'd ask her for the inside scoop. She'd take the time to explain what was going on behind the scenes." He was gulping air, and tears streamed down his face.
Thinking I might need to call an ambulance, I said, "I don't think you can stay in your house tonight. There's damage to the siding. Nothing that can't be easily fixed, but the fire marshal needs to declare it safe. We don't want you breathing the fumes from the fire. Is there anyone you can stay with?"
He stared unfocused into the distance for a while but seemed calmer when he said. "I've got friends in the next street. I stayed with them when I was sick last year."
"This is Officer Smith. He's going to enter your house with you to pick up any essentials, like medications and your toothbrush, and then he'll see you get safely to your friends."
As he unlocked his front door, Taylor paused. "I've got something of Beth's. Can you see that Beth's family get it?" He disappeared inside before I could reply.
I was expecting a dish or the like, but when he returned, he thrust a smartphone into my hand.
"It's Beth's. She dropped it on Sunday, just before I left. I offered to replace her cracked screen. Before I retired, I worked for Verizon doing just that. Understandably, she didn't want anyone to see what's on it, and she knew I wouldn't look. You'll find the password taped to the back. The phone won't be of use to anyone without it."
CHAPTER 10
HALF MY LIFETIME AGO, when Beth accused my dad of molesting her, it hit me like nothing else ever had. I was young, and my immediate concern was not just the loss of my father as police led him away—Beth refused to see me. Losing her friendship changed not only my feelings at that moment but the trajectory of my life.
That Beth would lie about something so terrible, told me I never truly knew her. She had been a huge part of my life, and in a moment, she undid all the joy we'd ever had. For as long as I could remember, I lived with the expectation that the next time we met, we'd do something awesome together. Because we cared about each other's happiness. Now it all was shamefully shown to be a lie. Everything we'd shared vanished in an instant. My life was suddenly a vacuum, hollow, and empty. I had to find something to fill it. I started dating in earnest and went a little crazy with the boys I met.
Beth came from a good family, and I felt sorry for them. They had poured their lives into raising her well, only to have her throw it back in their faces.
"Ashley Logan was twelve-weeks pregnant. Beth Gervais had sex in the twelve hours preceding her death."
Prentiss's voice jerked me back to the present moment. I was seated at my desk, with Andrews' crime scene report up on my monitor. A white-faced Prentiss was standing over me, crowding my personal space.
"That's all you got from spending the morning with the Medical Examiner? I thought he liked to cut at night?" I'd noticed myself getting increasingly testy since I stopped taking the anti-depressant a week earlier. The Desyrel messed with my alertness and with comprehending what people were telling me. It made my thoughts appear in slow motion. Not at all good for a cop. Doctor Kate, the psych I'd been sent to routinely after the bank shooting, had prescribed them to help me sleep. They must have been working before because now I was repeatedly waking in the night and tossing and turning for hours.
"He found lubricant, but no semen or spermicide. Not typical findings for rape, so the sex was probably with Logan." Prentiss looked distinctly queasy, I assumed from what he saw at the autopsies.
"It's not surprising since our victims were an item. I assume they're running a paternity test on Logan's fetus?"
"In process. The Medical Examiner estimated she was about twelve weeks. There's unknown contact DNA on Gervais, and fibers from a black leather jacket or gloves which are too generic to lead anywhere. The fire destroyed anything forensic on Logan."
As he left, Jackie Orvar, a young detective's assistant, stepped forward and said she had something I needed to see. I followed to her work area where a time-stamped still image of a street was up on the monitor,
"I've found two surveillance cameras of interest to us." Jackie pointed a pen at the screen. "This one is primarily covering traffic on the freeway interchange at Pine Street, but a corner of the image captures what's happening on Main Street. Watch as I play the video. At 7.02 a.m., we see Beth park her car in front of the apartments. We can't see the registration, but I confirmed it's her Honda because the fender damage matches the dents on her burnt-out car. Now pay attention to the SUV parked on the street in front of her. If I rewind the video, you can see it arrived 14 minutes earlier. Two men in plaid shirts got out and dis
appeared off camera toward the apartments. A Fed-Ex truck blocks us from seeing what happens later, so we'll switch to the second camera."
Orvar worked her keyboard and brought up another video. She continued:
"The city installed this one because of the neighborhood's high crime rate. Like the first camera, it covers a wide expanse, so our area of interest appears small on the screen. At 7.16 a.m., you see the same two men return from the direction of Brockway. Since we can't see much detail in their faces, I'm going on their plaid shirts and baseball caps. One man gets into the black SUV they arrived in, the other into Beth's car. Both vehicles drive off. They must have retrieved the keys from her body."
"Great investigative work," I said as she replayed the videos. This time she froze the second video at the best images of the two men. "They arrived before Beth, then lay in wait for her, which means they knew what time she'd be there. It also implies pre-meditation. Taking the victim's car clearly implicates them in killing her while they are out of sight of the cameras. That's big."
"Not necessarily, Detective." I recognized Lieutenant Townsend's voice behind me. "They could be laborers arriving for work," he continued. "Probably illegals who had an altercation with the victim and when it got out of hand, they split. Could be a sex crime, pure and simple. Why is everything a big conspiracy with you, Riley?"
"So why was her apartment ransacked, the roommate killed?" I countered.
"The murders are two separate crimes. A burglar broke into the house, not expecting the roommate to be there. He killed her when she confronted him. Turned the place over, looking for valuables."
"How about the incendiary device? We found the remains of a clock used as the timer."
"The clock you found is just a clock, and your incendiary device is an electrical fault. I heard the fire started in the coffeemaker. Probably a cheap piece of foreign-made junk. Maybe the roommate was raped, but we'll never know after she got toasted. Concentrate your efforts on thieves and perverts, and you'll never go too far wrong." He pursed his pencil-thin lips with the hint of a smirk.
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