“What,” Stacy asked, “could you possibly have in there that you’ll need in the next forty-eight hours?”
“My essentials,” the woman answered breezily, smiling at the skycap. The man, ignoring several people in line in front of them, asked if he could help her.
Amazingly, no one complained.
Not so amazingly, the skycap totally ignored Stacy, leaving her to schlep her own bag.
As they proceeded to the gate, her cell phone rang. Stacy saw from the display that it was Malone.
“You going to answer that?” Billie asked.
Was she? If she told him what she was up to, he could skewer her meeting with Chief Battard, Billie or no Billie. All he had to do was claim she was interfering with an active investigation, and the file the chief had offered would be sealed shut.
Besides, this was the first time she had heard from Spencer since Saturday. Clearly, he had cut her out. She was cutting him out, as well.
She smiled to herself. “Nope,” she said, hitting the device’s power button.
CHAPTER 42
Thursday, March 17, 2005
10:25 a.m.
“You filed your taxes yet, Slick?” Tony said as they slammed the car doors and stepped onto the sidewalk.
Crime-scene tape stretched across the front of the ironwork-laced French Quarter apartment building. Located just down the block from two of New Orleans’ most popular gay bars, Oz and the Bourbon Pub and Parade, clusters of men stood around the scene, some crying, some comforting and others stony-faced with fury or shock.
“Nope. Got a month still. I like to wait to the last minute. It’s an act of defiance,” Spencer answered.
“Death and taxes, man. Can’t get around ’em.”
Death would be the reason for this particular tête-à-tête.
Double homicide. Called in by a friend who discovered the bodies.
That would be him, Spencer thought as he caught sight of a man huddled on a bench in the building’s lush courtyard.
Spencer and Tony crossed to the first officer and signed in. The kid looked a bit green.
The two detectives exchanged glances. Not a good sign.
“What’ve we got?”
“Two males.” His voice shook slightly. “One black. One Hispanic. In the bathroom. Been dead awhile.”
“Great,” Tony muttered, digging a bottle of Vicks from his jacket pocket. “Another stinker.”
“How long?” Spencer asked. “Your best guess.”
“A couple of days. But I’m no pathologist.”
“Names?”
“August Wright and Roberto Zapeda. Interior designers. Nobody had seen them for a couple of days, their friend over there was concerned. Came to check on them.”
Spencer scanned the sign-in. Techs hadn’t made it yet; neither had the coroner’s office.
“Going up,” he said, then motioned toward the bench and the two men. “Keep your eyes on our friends there. We’ll be back to question them.”
The kid nodded. “Will do.”
They made their way to the second-floor apartment. Another officer stood outside the door. Guy named Logan. Spent a lot of time at Shannon’s.
Spencer nodded at him as they passed. He looked hungover. No surprises there.
Just beyond the apartment, Tony handed Spencer the open jar of Vicks. Spencer smeared some under his nose and handed it back.
They stepped into the apartment. The smell rushed over Spencer in a stomach-churning wave. He forced himself to breathe deeply through his nose and counted to ten, then twenty. Between the Vicks and his fatiguing olfactory glands, the smell became tolerable.
The front room appeared undisturbed. Elegantly appointed with a combination of new and antique pieces, richly patterned art and stunning floral arrangements.
“Classy,” Tony said, moving his gaze over the room. “Those gay boys got the gift, you know?”
Spencer angled him a glance. “They were interior designers, Pasta Man. What did you expect?”
“Ever see that show? Queer Eye for the Straight Guy?” Spencer indicated he hadn’t. “They take a regular guy like me and transform him into a GQ dude. It’s something.”
“A guy like you?”
The older man arched his eyebrows, indignant. “You don’t think they could spiff me up?”
“I think they’d take one look at you and kill themselves.”
Before his partner could comment, the techs arrived. “Hey,” Tony called. “You guys ever see that Queer Eye show?”
“Sure,” Frank, the photographer, answered. “Hasn’t everybody?”
“Junior here says they’d take one look at me and kill themselves. Think that’s true?”
“Pretty much,” one of the other guys answered, smirking. “If I was your wife, I’d kill myself.”
“We’re burning daylight, boys,” Spencer interrupted. “Do you mind?”
They all turned their attention to the scene, a few of them grumbling. Not a magazine or bric-a-brac out of place. He always found it bizarre that there could be such calm only feet from horrendous violence.
And horrendous it was, he discovered moments later. The victims had been tied together and herded into the bathroom. Obviously instructed, or enticed, to climb into the claw-footed tub and kneel.
There, they had been killed.
But that wasn’t the part that was out of the ordinary. It was the blood.
Everywhere. The walls, the fixtures. The floor.
As if it had been painted on, with a house paintbrush. Or a roller.
“Holy shit,” Tony muttered.
“At least.” Spencer made his way to the tub, conscious of the sound his rubber-soled shoes made on the blood-streaked floor. Cursing any evidence that might be destroyed, but acknowledging no other option.
The victims faced each other, arms tied behind their backs. They appeared to have been in their thirties. In good shape. One wore only his skivvies, the other drawstring pajama bottoms.
They had both been shot in the back.
He frowned. But it didn’t appear either had put up a struggle. Why?
“What’re you thinking, Slick?”
He glanced at his partner. “Wondering why they didn’t put up a fight.”
“Probably thought not struggling would save their lives.”
Spencer nodded. “Guy had a gun. Herded them in here. Probably thought they were being robbed.”
“Why not shoot them out front? Why this elaborate stage?”
“Wanted the blood.” Spencer pointed to the tub. The killer had put the stopper in, to catch the blood. Some pooled in the bottom of the tub. “Part of a ritual maybe?”
“Detectives?”
They turned. Frank stood in the bathroom doorway. “Miss something?”
A plastic bag had been taped to the back of the door. Spencer looked at Tony. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“That this is a bit too familiar?”
“Uh-huh.” Spencer fitted on his gloves, crossed to the door. “Got your shot?” When the photographer nodded, Spencer carefully peeled the bag off.
With a sense of déjà vu, he removed the note inside. It read simply: The roses are red now.
CHAPTER 43
Thursday, March 17, 2005
Monterey Coast, California
3:15 p.m.
Billie hadn’t lied; after they’d gotten out of the city, the drive had been lovely. When they turned off Carmel Way and onto the famous Seventeen Mile Drive, Stacy caught her breath. The curving road, densely forested on both sides, wound its way through the breathtakingly beautiful hilly terrain. That stretch proved short-lived, transforming into a sinuous roadway, lined on both sides by fabulous estates and glimpses of the Pacific Ocean.
Billie’s friend had booked them into the Lodge at Pebble Beach-the Pebble Beach of golf fame-which even Stacy had heard of, though she’d never played golf. Excluding the goofy variety, of course. She’d been pretty damn good at that,
championship material, if she said so herself.
Somehow, she didn’t think that’d hold much sway here.
She leaned toward Billie. “What? The local no-tell-motel couldn’t fit us in?”
“Hush,” Billie said as a man hurried toward them. Tall, beautifully dressed and handsome, with silvering temples. The hotel manager, Stacy decided.
“Max, my love,” Billie said as he caught her hands, “thank you so much for making room at the inn.”
“How could I not?” He kissed her cheeks. “You’ve been away too long.”
“And I’ve been despondent every moment of that time.” She smiled. “My dear friend, Stacy Killian. It’s her first visit to the Lodge.”
He greeted her, motioned to the bellman, then turned his attention back to Billie. “Are you planning to golf?”
“Regrettably, no.”
“The pro will be devastated.” The bellman appeared; Max handed Billie over to his care-after he had coaxed her to promise to call if anything didn’t meet her expectations. Anything at all. No matter how small.
After they had been seated in a golf cart modified for passengers and were on their way to their rooms, Stacy looked at Billie. “I’m surprised they didn’t ask me to walk behind the cart.”
Billie laughed. “Just relax and enjoy yourself.”
“I can’t. Your friend Max, he knows I’m a fraud.”
“A fraud?”
“I don’t belong here.”
“Don’t be silly. If you can pay your bill, you belong.”
“But I can’t.”
“Leo’s paying for you. Same thing.”
She frowned, unconvinced. “You golf?”
“Quite well, actually.”
“I got that impression.” The cart stopped in front of an alcove shielded by a camellia tree covered with pink blossoms. “How well, by the way?”
“I was the U.S. Junior Amateur champion three years running. Gave up the game for love. Eduardo.”
Eduardo. Jeez.
They climbed out of the cart and followed the bellman. They had side-by-side rooms, both accessible from the alcove. The bellman opened Billie’s first-no surprises there-and they stepped inside.
“My God,” Stacy said. The room was large, complete with a sitting area and big stone fireplace. Sliding glass doors led to a shady patio. The pillows on the king-size bed had the look of down.
Billie brought her hands together in girlish delight. “I knew you’d love it!”
How could she not? She might be uncomfortable with wealth and luxury, but she was human, after all.
The bellman opened Stacy’s room, accepted Billie’s exorbitant tip and left them alone.
Stacy took in the room, stopping on the set fireplace, then glanced back at Billie, standing in her doorway, expression pleased. “I don’t want to know what this place costs a night.”
“No, you don’t. But Leo can afford it.”
“This just seems all so…extravagant. And unnecessary. Cops don’t live like this.”
“First off, sweetie, you’re not a cop anymore. Second, extravagance is never unnecessary. I know this. Trust me.”
Before Stacy could argue, she added, “I promised I’d call Connor the minute we’d checked in. Do you mind?”
She didn’t and used the opportunity to go to the bathroom. While there, she checked her cell and found that Malone had tried her again. He hadn’t left a message either time.
When she emerged, she found Billie waiting by the door, expression that of a cat presented with a saucer of cream.
“Good news. He’s free now.”
No surprise there either-the carrot was Billie, for heaven’s sake.
The trip from the Lodge to downtown Carmel-by-the-Sea took less than fifteen minutes, including parking the Jaguar at a meter on Ocean Avenue.
Carmel-by-the-Sea was as picturesque as Stacy had imagined it would be. More so, actually. Like a town out of a fairy tale, but inhabited by humans instead of fairies, elves and hobbits.
As she and Billie strolled up Ocean Avenue, her friend filled her in on all things uniquely Carmel. Billie explained that there were no street addresses in Carmel. Everyone had a post office box that served not only as a place to receive mail, but also as a social hub. Many a piece of news had been shared-then disseminated-from the post office.
“What about ambulances?” Stacy asked, disbelievingly. “Or FedEx deliveries?”
“All done by direction, description or association. For example-” she pointed to Junipero Avenue “-the third house from the corner of Ocean and Junipero.” She pointed toward another. “Or, the house across the street from the Eastwood place on Junipero.”
Stacy shook her head. In today’s high-tech world, it seemed impossible that any community still operated this way.
Stacy glanced at her friend. “By the way, when you say Eastwood, you don’t mean-”
“Clint? Of course I do. He’s a great guy. Very down-to-earth.”
A great guy. Very down-to-earth. Billie said this as if they were personal acquaintances. Buddies, even.
She wasn’t even going to ask.
They reached police headquarters; the officer at the information desk called the chief, who directed them to his office.
Chief Connor Battard was waiting. A big, handsome man with a head of dark silvering hair, he held his hand out when Billie made the introductions.
Stacy took it. “Thank you for agreeing to see us, Chief Battard.”
“Happy to help.”
Although his words were directed to her, he could hardly take his eyes off Billie.
“As I explained on the phone, I’m looking into Dick Danson’s death.”
“I have the file here. You’re welcome to it.” He slid it across the desk to her. “I’m sorry, but it can’t leave the building.”
Of course. Standard operating procedure. Stacy didn’t move to pick it up. She preferred to ask questions first. “On the phone, you mentioned a warrant for his arrest. What for?”
“Embezzlement. From a company he was doing game designs for.”
“Think the charge would have stuck?”
“Point’s moot now, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
The chief frowned. “What are you thinking?”
She shook her head, not ready to share her theory. Yet. She wasn’t in the mood to be laughed out of the room.
“How certain are you that it was a suicide?”
“Pretty damn certain. We had a warrant for his arrest. A search of his property turned up, considering the circumstances, the notable lack of an outdoor grill. Or any other device requiring portable propane. Those canisters were in his car for one reason only-to cause a really big explosion.
“He drove off Hurricane Point. Again, in terms of getting things done, he picked the right spot. And most damning, he left a note saying he had nothing to live for.”
“Did your investigation back that up? Did he have financial or emotional problems?”
The chief narrowed his eyes, obviously growing annoyed with her questions. She supposed she didn’t blame him.
“Frankly,” he said, “the case was open and shut. We had a positive ID. A suicide note. And a pending arrest. Danson was seeing a shrink. Let’s just say the man wasn’t shocked by the news. I didn’t see a need to dig deeper. It’s all in the file.”
“Thanks,” she said, disappointed. She’d been so certain she was onto something, now she felt like an idiot. And one who had blown a lot of time and money on an unsound hunch.
Her instincts had turned to shit. She picked up the file. “Why don’t you and Billie go catch up. Get dinner. I’ll review the file.”
“Great.” He rubbed his hands together in what Stacy was certain was anticipation of being alone with Billie.
“I’ll get you set up in one of the interrogation rooms.”
Stacy spent the next couple of hours alone with the file, a Coke and bag of corn chips fro
m the vending machine. Long after the chips and a soft drink were history, she was still reading.
And learning little new. Sure, details. Times. But nothing that promoted her hunch.
Dick Danson was dead.
And she’d left Leo and his family alone with a killer.
She called Billie to let her know she was finished. She heard music in the background, people laughing. Connor offered to have one of his officers drive her back to the Lodge.
Apparently, the night was still young.
The officer, a nice young man barely out of his teens, dropped her off at the hotel. She lit the fire, ordered room service and slipped into her robe.
Her cell rang. She saw that it was Malone. Again. This time she answered, ready to grovel if need be. Admit to being a hunch-happy, burned-out, instincts-shot has-been.
She needed to hear his voice.
“Malone.”
“Where are you?”
He sounded tense. He wasn’t going to like her answer. “In California. The Lodge at Pebble Beach.”
A long silence followed. “You’re playing golf?”
She smiled at his obvious confusion. “No. Checking out a hunch. With Billie.”
“Man-eater Billie?”
Funny, she had thought of her that way, too. “The very one.”
“Can-do Killian. Girl Wonder. The hunch?”
“I’ve learned my lesson, actually. My hunches suck.”
He laughed, but the sound was tight. Humorless. “The playing cards are dead-August Wright and Roberto Zapeda. Partners. Professionally and personally.”
“Any connection to Leo?”
“His interior designers.”
“Shit.”
“I’d say. Your boss is knee-deep in it right now.”
“Leo? What-”
“Got to go.”
“No, wait-”
He ended the call. She flipped her cell shut and looked at the crackling fire. All this luxury was wasted on her.
Time to go home.
CHAPTER 44
Friday, March 18, 2005
Carmel-by-the-Sea, California
6:30 a.m.
“I’m not ready to go home,” Billie said, sliding into the Jaguar’s passenger side seat. “I love that room. I love being waited on. I love the coast.”
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