“This woman has a turtle tattoo right here.” Jamie touched behind her own ear.
“Bianca.”
Bianca. A name. “Do you have a number for Bianca?”
“Sure.” Canterbury waved to Jamie to follow her as she walked into the apartment. Beyond a short entryway, the unit opened up. High ceilings, an open steel staircase that led to an upper loft; it looked like something out of Architectural Digest. Between this place, the Bordens’, and Heath Brody’s place, Jamie was beginning to feel self-conscious about her little split-level house with the original knobby carpet. She was obviously in the wrong business. This place screamed trust fund baby. That, Jamie decided, was the business to be in.
Abigail Canterbury turned from her desk and handed Jamie a piece of paper with a phone number.
Jamie handed it back. “Will you call? You might have better luck getting her to tell you what she overheard.”
Abigail hesitated only a fraction of a second before nodding. “Yes. Of course.” Abigail lifted a cordless phone off her desk and dialed the number. “What should I ask her?”
“We believe she overheard a girl named Charlotte arguing with someone about art lessons. I need to know who that person was.”
Abigail repeated the message.
“She’s helping me out,” Jamie confirmed. “She’s not in any trouble.”
After ten or fifteen seconds, Abigail put her palm over the receiver again. “She didn’t know his name. She says he is tall, with dark hair—not Hispanic. With a prominent nose.”
Bianca said something else and Abigail said, “She thinks his name is Brian.”
“Brandon?” Jamie asked.
“She’s not sure,” Abigail said.
Shambliss seemed like the kind of guy whose Facebook profile picture would be of himself. “Can we send a picture of him to her phone? So, she can confirm it’s the right person?”
“Yes,” Abigail confirmed. “Send her a picture. She’ll call us right back.”
On Facebook, Jamie found four hits on the name Brandon Shambliss. Only one in California. She zoomed in on his page. Bingo. She enlarged his face and took a screen shot of the image. He looked better on Facebook than he did in person. No surprise there. She texted the image to Bianca’s number.
She’d start a full check on Shambliss but not until she was certain.
A minute passed. Finally, after what felt like an hour, Canterbury’s phone rang. “Yes, Bianca says that’s the man who fought with Charlotte about the art lessons.”
Jamie folded Bianca’s number and tucked it into her back pocket. “Tell her thank you,” Jamie said, starting for the door. “And you, too.” She put her hand on the door. “I hope your father gets better.”
Jamie let herself out, closing the door firmly behind her. What a stupid thing to say. Did people get better from strokes?
She dialed the lab.
“Crime Lab. Roger.”
“It’s Jamie.”
“Hi. I’m glad you called.” Jamie’s stomach lurched. Had he already processed the mitt?
“I’ve got Ting working on the video surveillance footage from the flower delivery. And we—”
She didn’t want to think about Z. “Roger,” she interrupted. “Sorry. I need a rush on a full background and financial check on Brandon Shambliss. I don’t know any of the forensic accounting guys, but—”
“It’s in process.”
“What? What’s in process?”
“I started a full background check on Brandon Shambliss about thirty minutes ago.”
Jamie glanced at the clock. “How did you know?”
“We matched his prints to a cigarette found behind the bar where Michael Delman was drugged before his murder.”
“Is there a warrant out?”
“Hal is working on one now. I called him about ten minutes ago. Actually, you were next on my list.”
Jamie held her breath. Not the mitt, please not the mitt.
“I found something in the initial run on Brandon Shambliss,” he said.
“You did? What?”
“In November 2005, Shambliss moved into an apartment building on Fell Street. Apartment 312.”
“And that means something?”
“It jogged something in my memory. Kathy used to live near that building. It was kind of a dump.”
Jamie had no idea where he was going with this. “Roger?”
“Right,” he said quickly. “Well, guess who lived in apartment 315 at the same time?”
“No idea.”
“Heath Brody,” Roger said. “They lived down the hall from each other for almost two years.”
Jamie opened her notebook and started writing. “When was Shambliss charged with assault?”
“October 2005. So, he moved in right after the assault. Brody had been living there about seven months. They moved out about four months apart. Shambliss first, then Brody.”
“Roger, you’re brilliant.”
She was afraid what the homicide inspector might tell her, but Jamie needed to talk to Hailey Wyatt.
Chapter 37
He listened at the door to Brandon Shambliss’s apartment. Eyes down, he noticed his shoes were in need of a polish.
It was Monday, and Shambliss’s Monday schedule included coming straight home. Mondays were pretty well set in stone—most of his nights were. An odd thing about Shambliss. He came across as someone who was used to accommodating himself to whomever he deemed the most powerful person. But he didn’t often adjust his evening schedules.
Sunday night would have been preferable, but that was the Shambliss family night. Every Sunday afternoon, Brandon Shambliss went back to the East Bay to see his mother, stepfather, sisters, and their kids. He talked about barbecues and lawn games like croquet or cornhole. Cornhole—that was actually the name of a game. This was some big family gathering he raved about. Not married, no family of his own, but Shambliss went home to his mother on Sundays and pretended like it was something to be proud of.
Maybe he was bitter about the joy Shambliss found in that pseudo family. After all, he certainly didn’t have the big happy family scene. Never had. He had promised himself he’d never be as miserable as he was as a kid. But here he was. More miserable. And maybe Brandon Shambliss was happy with a shitty fake family. That made him want to hurt Brandon Shambliss. Had made him feel that way from day one, really. Now, he got to actualize the dream. And he could blame Shambliss. Things would have been fine if he hadn’t involved Tiffany Greene. Why she had fallen for Shambliss was a mystery. She would do anything for him. But that wouldn’t last. It never did. Before long, Tiffany would recognize the situation and she would give up Shambliss to the police. If Tiffany gave up Shambliss, he had zero doubt that Shambliss would give him up. No. Shambliss should have kept Tiffany out of it. Why should he suffer for Shambliss’s stupidity?
Sure that Shambliss wasn’t home, he let himself into the apartment with the key he’d stolen and looked around. The place was pathetic. Filled with uninspired furniture. The kind of stuff that was all made out of North Carolina, places like Ethan Allen. It belonged in some beach house rental. All light woods and cheap finishes. The walls were white, of course, and mostly bare. A poster of an Ansel Adams photograph hung over a pastel striped couch. Shambliss had never had any taste, but the apartment was worse than he’d expected. He could have afforded to have someone make it look presentable, at least. What the hell did Shambliss spend his money on? Clearly, it wasn’t his place. Or his appearance. And the little black sports car was at least five or six years old. Nothing special about it.
As he moved through the apartment, he tried to imagine what Shambliss would do first upon arriving home. Most people stopped in the kitchen. Mail was piled on the counter, so it seemed like a safe bet. The element of surprise would be essential. Not that he couldn’t overpower Shambliss. That wouldn’t be an issue. Shambliss was maybe five-ten, but scrawny with a thin man’s gut developed from years of playing croquet
and cornhole instead of doing real exercise.
He surveyed the bedroom, too. Bed unmade. Of course. Dress shirts and slacks were piled onto a single chair, like some animal might be living in there. The smell of the place. Body odor and socks. God, it was awful.
Out of habit, he checked for his watch again. Remembered he didn’t have it and checked the time on his phone. Shambliss would be home any minute. As he smoothed his gloves across his hands, he searched for a good hiding place. Clothes spewed out of the closet like vomit, leaving no good spot for hiding. Best to hide in the little pantry off the kitchen. He made his way back down the hall and pulled the length of cable from his pocket. Unlike the bedroom closet, the pantry was practically empty. Some tomato soup, an empty box from a twelve-pack of diet root beer. Pathetic.
He stepped into the pantry and closed the door until it was ajar. He wrapped the cable around each hand, leaving a length of maybe ten inches between them. And he waited.
He was cool under pressure. He had to give himself credit for that. He’d been in some pickles in his life, but this one was the worst of it. Still, he’d managed to find a way out. Clever. Smart. A key scratched in the lock and he felt a little start. Maybe best not to get ahead of himself yet.
The door opened and the apartment was filled with Shambliss’s nasal voice.
“I already told him,” he whined.
Christ, he wasn’t alone. He backed quickly to the rear of the pantry, looking around as though a door might magically appear. He hadn’t considered a second person.
“He says you didn’t,” came the response.
“That’s horse shit,” Shambliss said as he came into view, a phone held awkwardly between his shoulder and his ear. In one hand, he had the same worn leather briefcase he’d had forever; in the other, a thin plastic bag. A pair of chopsticks poked through the bottom of the sack, but he knew from the smell that it was Chinese. Shambliss loved his moo shu pork.
“You want to call him?” echoed a voice from the phone.
His chest deflated as the pressure released. There was no one with Shambliss. For whatever reason, the idiot had the phone on speaker.
“No,” Shambliss barked in the tone he took with people he judged were beneath him, which was most everyone. “You tell him I said so. And don’t call back until it’s taken care of.”
What was Shambliss talking about? He didn’t recognize the voice on the phone. Then, there was no time to wonder. Shambliss entered the kitchen and walked straight for the pantry. What could he possibly want from here? His own heart thundered in his neck. Shambliss’s face was visible through the open door. Shambliss seemed to glance up. He stopped breathing, certain that he’d been seen. But there was no reaction from Shambliss.
Shambliss hadn’t noticed him in the dark pantry. He was still safe. Shambliss set the bag of food down, dropped his briefcase on the floor, and removed the phone from between his chin and his neck, setting it on the counter. It was almost time. He tightened the cable, got ready to spring.
Go now!
A moment passed in hesitation, then he took a small step as Shambliss walked away.
Damn. Shambliss was no longer in the kitchen. Other than his blood rushing across his ears, the room was silent. He waited, adrenaline coursing like hot water down his spine. He didn’t hear the front door. Shambliss must have gone to the bedroom or the bathroom. He hadn’t thought about waiting in the bathroom. That might have been smarter. Now, he was stuck.
He shifted to look out the cracked door and spotted Shambliss’s phone. Considered grabbing it as a shadow crossed the kitchen. He jumped back as a hand reached for the phone. He shifted his angle and watched Shambliss slide the phone into the front pocket of his shirt. Then, he opened the plastic bag and pulled out the carton of Chinese.
He’d be going for a fork. Shambliss had never mastered the art of chopsticks, something Shambliss found bothersome. He’d seen chopsticks around his old apartment the times he’d visited. On the table by the couch or on the counter, like maybe Shambliss practiced when no one was watching. That would be something Shambliss would do. A drawer slid open. He pulled the door ever so slightly, saw the narrow expanse of Shambliss’s back. Pulled the door farther.
The hinge creaked.
Shambliss turned.
With a quick breath, he pounced.
“What the—” Shambliss lifted a hand to shield himself as he encircled Shambliss’s neck with the cable. Not quick enough. Shambliss was facing him, making it difficult to pull the cable taut. Shambliss’s face went red. He ducked back as Shambliss reached out to claw at his face. Shambliss was half facing him, making it easy for Shambliss to take swipes at him. He loosened his grip. Shambliss choked and sputtered. “What the fuck—”
He didn’t let Shambliss finish. He used his knee in Shambliss’s back to push him away, then came behind him and crossed the cable over itself on the back of his neck.
Shambliss was trying to say something, and it felt unnatural not to stop and listen. He was starting to feel short of breath himself. Meant to protect his arms from any clawing, the jacket he wore was too heavy for inside. He was a little light-headed. Sweat poured down his face. Into his eyes. He blinked hard as Shambliss clawed at his arms and then swung around to try to reach his face. He responded by pulling the cable down with a hard yank so that Shambliss fell off balance. His arms spun like a pinwheel before he fell hard.
The landing knocked his wind out, and he clutched his chest. The cable was underneath Shambliss, the position of his hands holding up the man’s head. Which left him looking directly down at Shambliss’s face. He pulled harder. Blinked away the sweat. Gave the cable a hard pull.
It wasn’t working. Shambliss was still breathing. He doubled the cable back across Shambliss’s neck and pulled tighter. He stared into Shambliss’s brown eyes, bulging slightly, and down that hooked beak. The cable tore into the skin of his neck, blood seeping from the wound.
Shambliss flopped his legs to one side, trying to roll himself over. His hands clawed into the thick fabric of the jacket, occasionally bucking his hips and trying to reach his attacker’s face. Die already. Shambliss reeled back and tried again, unable to get his hips over with the tension on his neck. While Shambliss struggled, he pulled and yanked, twisting the cable to make it tighter, finally shifting to Shambliss’s side and using his foot to press against his chest and increase the tension. Shambliss’s face grew steadily redder before taking on a purplish shade and finally something more like blue. His hands were focused on the cable at his neck. It was bizarre to watch the man claw with such ferocity into his own neck. A fingernail snapped off and bounced across the linoleum floor.
Finally, Brandon Shambliss’s body went slack. He didn’t release the tension at his neck until he was sure Shambliss was dead. A dark stain spread across the front of Shambliss’s slacks. Followed by the ripe smell of feces. He scrambled up off the floor and away from the body, burying his nose in the crook of his elbow.
He gagged. Breathed slowly through his mouth. He had to get the hell out of there. He needed the cable first. He returned to the body and reached down for the cable. The cable had cut deep into Shambliss’s skin. He tried to pull it straight out, but the skin gripped the cable. He tried wiggling it from one end and finally pulled the cable straight through the wound. The last bit broke free and sent a chunk of tissue into the air. He recoiled; his stomach heaved. He pressed his lips together. He would not be sick. He swallowed slowly. Counted to ten. When he had control, he retrieved the cable and wound it around his gloved hand. He placed it in a trash bag he found in the kitchen.
The last task was to check for any footprints he might have left. He used the back of his glove to swipe at the area of Shambliss’s shirt where he’d placed his foot for purchase, though he didn’t see any footprint there. Then, he studied the floor. It was clean enough. As he bent down to get a better look, Shambliss’s phone rang from inside his shirt pocket, giving him a start. Once again, he was h
alf-tempted to take the phone off the dead man and see who was calling. This is where people make mistakes, he told himself. Instead, he waited until the phone had finished ringing and slowly backed out of the kitchen and down the hallway until he was at the front door. He checked the peephole before stepping outside where he locked the door with the stolen key, dropped it and the gloves into the trash bag with the cable, and walked toward the rental car.
He concentrated on walking slowly, not hurried. Like a man on regular business. Just visiting a friend. When he reached the car, he ducked in, put the bag on the floor beneath his feet. He would keep an eye out for a dumpster once he’d gotten a few miles away.
He started the car, felt a rush of relief when the engine turned over. And why wouldn’t it? He was thrilled to hear the low purr. Checked all his mirrors twice before pulling onto the street and taking a right at the first corner.
All in all, not a bad job for an amateur. And that was the last of the mess to be cleaned up.
Unless Charlotte came out of that coma… But he wasn’t thinking about that now.
Chapter 38
Jamie sent Z a text message to tell him that she’d pick him up from baseball practice early. Practices were going until 8:30 these days, but that was too late if they were going back to the lab to take care of his DNA sample. And they were. They were doing that, and they were coming clean about Charlotte. She would tell him that she’d had the mitt and he would tell her where the blood came from and why it had made a print on the side of that Mercedes. The thought filled her with dread.
As soon as she hit send, a message displayed on the screen from Hailey. Brandon Shambliss is dead. Home. Patrol found him. The next message was his address. Followed by one more. On my way. Meet you there? Shambliss was dead.
In the meeting with Bishop and Ikerd, she had asked point-blank if they were tracking anyone else. Of course they’d said no. But she was almost certain that was a lie. If they were tracking employees, Shambliss was an obvious choice. Had she and Vich planted the idea that one of their employees might be involved and, as a result, gotten Shambliss killed?
Everything to Lose Page 26
