by Dianne Emley
Zhang’s red lips trembled and two fine, vertical lines appeared in her forehead. She flipped the photo facedown and glared at Vining. “The purpose of your visit is still unknown to me, Detective.”
“I want to know whether Ken has any involvement with a gang or criminal activity.”
“My son is not in a gang.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know my son. How dare you come here and ask these questions and show me this horrible picture.” Zhang shoved the photo with her index finger, sliding it toward Vining. “My son is a good boy. He’s an honor student. He’s an accomplished pianist. He tutors disad-vantaged children in his spare time.”
She darted her finger toward Vining. “If he was white, you wouldn’t be here. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? The inscrutable Chinese people. Outwardly respectable, putting on a proper face, while behind the scenes, we’re criminals, taking advantage of anyone, especially our own people. How racist.”
She stood. Her voice was even yet seethed anger. “You’re looking for any reason to keep my son away from your daughter. I know the questions you’ve asked about me and my background. Your insinuations that I have done something illegal and dirty to get where I am in life. Ken told me he doesn’t feel welcome in your home. Don’t worry about my son and your daughter. I will forbid him to go near her or any daughter of a police officer. Good-bye, Detective.”
Vining didn’t know if Zhang was being truthful about her son’s involvement in criminal activity or even if she was aware of it, but she’d gotten what she wanted.
THIRTY-FIVE
VINING RETURNED TO HER CUBICLE ON THE SECOND FLOOR OF THE PPD and picked up a voicemail message from Azusa P.D. homicide detective Gary Blanco, returning her call.
Azusa was about a dozen miles east of Pasadena and was where Sandra Lynde had been murdered during a convenience-store robbery over twenty years ago. Sandra was the mother of murdered LAPD vice officer Frances “Frankie” Lynde, whose battered body had been dumped beneath Pasadena’s Colorado Street Bridge. Vining and Kissick had solved that sordid case.
Auntie Wan had admonished Vining to appease the ghost that follows her. Vining thought that Frankie’s spirit should have been appeased. Vining had seen to it that Frankie’s killer had paid for her murder, big time, yet Frankie’s ghost would not leave her in peace. Maybe, Vining thought, she was overlooking the obvious. Justice for Frankie was not complete. Her mother’s murder remained unsolved. Maybe that was why Frankie’s spirit was still restless. Or maybe not, but it was worth a try.
Detective Blanco had left the response for which Vining had hoped. He would look into the long-cold Sandra Lynde homicide.
Vining called Dispatch and asked them to get in touch with Officer Frank Lynde, Frankie’s father, a twenty-five-year veteran with the PPD. He was a mountain of a man, rotund and florid-faced, and a steady cop, even and predictable. The only time anyone had seen Frank lose control was when they’d found Frankie’s body. He quickly got back to her.
Vining kept her explanation simple. “Sandra’s murder has been on my mind. Blanco said the lead detective on the case moved out of state twelve years ago and no one’s looked at it since. Fresh eyes and all.”
Frank’s voice was gruff, fitting his size and appearance. “In the early years, I used to check in on it, but time has a way of getting past you. Now with Frankie dead, too …”
“I understand, Frank. I just wanted to let you know.”
Vining ended the call. She felt the same hollow sadness she’d experienced after her other recent interactions with Frank Lynde. Talk about a dead man walking …
Before she had a chance to move on to the next thing, she got a call from Sergeant Terrence Folke whose officers were going to pick up Victor Chang.
“Nan, Chang is in the wind.”
“What happened?”
“The guys surveilling Newcastle say that an hour ago, Chang leaned his arrow against a lamppost and walked away. We’re looking for him, but no luck yet.”
“Nobody followed him?”
“The mission of the surveillance was to watch who came and went on that block, not to keep tabs on anyone in particular. I’ve pulled four patrol units in and they’re going door-to-door, chasing through backyards. I put out an APB—”
“Crap.” She loudly exhaled.
“I’m sorry, Nan. But I do have new information about what’s going on in that block. After the guys in costumes go home around midnight, fresh teams arrive. They sit in their cars all night at each of those two corners of Newcastle. We’ve also discovered some interesting characters living on that block. There’s Drew Huebner, age thirty-eight. He was a mortgage banker with that big bank in town that the feds took over during the home loan crisis. Got laid off. Was arrested for soliciting prostitution in Hollywood. Runs an Internet porno site out of his home.”
“Nice.”
“We’ve also got a Mrs. Elena Irani, sixty-three, who has a habit of shoplifting.”
“Uh-huh.”
“There’s a mother and daughter who are especially interesting. Grace Shipley, age forty-two, and Meghan, age twenty. They live at twenty-five-eighteen Newcastle, right in the middle of that stretch that’s being guarded.”
“Why do we like them?”
“The mother’s had a couple of DUI arrests and did time for drug possession. The daughter has no criminal record. The surveillance team has photos of Li going into the Shipley house and of Grace and Meghan at the Love Potion Bridal Salon. Li and the Shipley women are cozy. Hugging. Kissing. Possibly a romance between one of the women and Marvin Li.”
“Too much of a coincidence for me. Can you get me those photos?”
“I’ll bring them right over.”
CARRYING THE PHOTOS OF THE SHIPLEY WOMEN WITH LI, VINING FOUND Sergeant Early in her office and brought her up to date.
Vining said, “We’ve got probable cause to get warrants for the Shipleys’ telephone records and computers.”
“Absolutely, we’ve got the PC. I hear that Li’s memory improved after you tightened the noose.”
“He suddenly recalled Victor Chang having had words with Scrappy.”
“Remarkable,” Early joked.
“Did you know that Li is not a citizen? He’s a permanent resident.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Vining’s cell phone rang. She plucked it from her belt and looked at the display. She told Early, “It’s the deputy D.A.,” and then answered, “Hi, Mireya.” Listening for a moment, she snapped into the phone, “I want Li to tell me what’s happening on that block of Newcastle. No deal for anything less. I’m tired of his B.S. An accessory to murder conviction will be his third strike. At minimum, I’ll have him deported.”
She angrily clasped the cell phone closed. “Mireya just talked with Sammy Leung, Marvin Li’s attorney. Li is still claiming that his arrow guys are advertising apartments. Now, he’s saying the apartments are actually on La Pomelo Road, one block east of Newcastle. There probably are apartments on La Pomelo, and Li’s attorney has someone there right now, paying off the manager to say he hired Aaron’s Aarrows.”
Early added, “While another guy is busy making up a backdated sales contract.”
“I’ve had about all I can take of that smooth-talking, inked-up jerk.”
“What inked-up jerk? Our friend Marvin?” Kissick said as he came through the door.
“Hello, stranger,” Early said.
Vining smiled. “Hey, Jim. See all the fun you’ve been missing?”
“What’s going on?”
Vining summarized the developments with Marvin Li, Victor Chang, and Grace and Meghan Shipley.
“Looks like you’re close to breaking this thing.”
Vining saw him give an admiring look at the earrings he’d given her. “I’m hopeful.”
Early asked him, “What’s going on in your world?”
When he went to sit down, Vining started to leave.
> Early said, “Nan, stay. You’re part of this.”
Kissick went over what he’d learned about Marilu Feathers from his trip to Montaña de Oro and Cambria.
Vining pretended it was all news to her, even though she’d sneak-ily read his field notes. She showed surprise when he revealed Feath-ers’s pearl-and-turquoise necklace that she’d already handled after searching his jacket pockets. She hoped she hadn’t overdone her acting job.
Kissick went on to describe a telephone conversation he’d had with Lieutenant Owen Donahue, the lead investigator in the Johnna Alwin homicide in Tucson. “He said that Alwin had been wearing a pearl necklace when she was murdered. It had a garnet stone in it.”
The information that Johnna Alwin had owned a pearl necklace matching the others was now out there, Vining thought. Kissick had kept her secret that she’d traveled to meet with Donahue and had somehow “acquired” Alwin’s necklace. She’d withheld from him the details of how she’d gotten her hands on it. He hadn’t pressed, showing that he didn’t want to know.
Kissick left his visit with Colina Vista Police chief Betsy Gilroy for last. Before he got to it, he took out the satinette bag that held Vining’s pearl-on-pearl necklace and handed it to Early.
There it is, Vining thought. Out in the open. Judging from Early’s nonchalant response, Vining suspected that Kissick had already spoken to Sarge about it.
While Early took out and read the handwritten note on the panel card, Vining explained how it had shown up in her mailbox after the Lonny Veltwandter shooting.
Early didn’t question Vining about why she hadn’t come forward when she’d received the necklace and the note. She said only, “The three necklaces suggest a link between Feathers’s and Alwin’s murders and Nan’s murder attempt.”
“There’s a fourth necklace,” Kissick said. “The beat-up one that Nitro was wearing when we apprehended him.”
“That’s right.” Early put Vining’s necklace and the panel card inside the satinette bag. “Wonder if and how that plays into all this.”
Vining doubted she’d ever get her necklace back. She had to get used to the idea that the evidence, her evidence, and research was now out in the open for everyone to poke and prod. It was all good. So, why did she feel empty?
Kissick moved on to his meeting with Betsy Gilroy.
Sergeant Early brightened. “How is my buddy Betsy?”
“She’s great,” Kissick said with admiration. “It’s true, what everybody says. She’s the queen of Colina Vista.”
Early laughed. “Yes, she is, but she earned every accolade she receives. Jim, I hope you gave her my regards.”
“I did, and she sends hers.”
Early added, “I couldn’t be prouder of her.”
Vining had known Gilroy slightly when she’d been with the PPD. She’d heard gossip about how ambitious the then-lieutenant was. Vining was in no position to judge, as she had been the topic of similar gossip. While she didn’t think that being political or ambitious was a negative trait, it did make one wonder, like with any politician, when push came to shove, on what side would the political animal’s loyalties ultimately lie?
As Kissick and Early chatted about Gilroy, even Bessie the bear came up. Vining was anxious to get on with it and hear what Kissick had learned. She stood with her back against the large windows that overlooked Garfield Avenue, her arms stretched along the window sill. Looking into the suite through the windows on the facing wall, she saw Caspers poke his head over the top of his cubicle to share something funny with another young male detective a few cubicles away.
“About Cookie Silva …” Kissick leaned forward in his chair.
Vining leaned forward as well.
“The Silva murder has been long closed,” Kissick said. “A man named Axel Holcomb, a caretaker at the Foothill Museum where Cookie was murdered, is on death row in San Quentin. Physical evidence and Holcomb’s confession put him there.”
“He confessed?” Vining repeated with surprise.
Kissick described what Gilroy had told him about Holcomb’s reputation as the town bully, including the incident as a teenager in which he’d nearly drowned a girl at the public pool. He mentioned the unwanted attention Holcomb had paid to Cookie and his jealousy about her boyfriend.
“There’s no doubt in Gilroy’s mind that they got their man,” he said. “Holcomb’s circumstances couldn’t be more different than those that implicated Jesse Cuba in the murder of Johnna Alwin. Cuba was found dead of a drug overdose. The police pegged him for Alwin’s murder based on circumstantial evidence. Holcomb was convicted after a jury trial and has already gone through a couple of appeals.
“Cookie’s murder doesn’t fit the profile of our other three victims in a couple of ways. Unlike Feathers, Alwin, and you, Nan, Cookie hadn’t done anything heroic that landed her in the news and that would have drawn our bad guy’s attention. She wasn’t as solid a cop as the other three victims. Gilroy described Cookie as headstrong. She said that Cookie reminded her of herself when she was just starting out. She and Cookie were very close.”
Early nodded knowingly but said only “Cookie’s murder must have hit her hard.”
Kissick remembered Gilroy’s tears. “It did.”
Vining tapped her fingernails against the window frame and thought about Axel Holcomb on death row. She couldn’t fathom why he’d confess to a murder he hadn’t committed. Still, history has shown that there are innocent people on death row. She found it merely interesting that Cookie didn’t fit the profile of T. B. Mann’s other victims. She didn’t enjoy Kissick’s and Early’s lauding of Gilroy. That would only make it harder to convince them that even after the police and judicial system had followed all the rules, a mistake could have still been made. She saw T. B. Mann’s grubby fingerprints all over Cookie’s murder. The link was there. They just couldn’t see it yet.
The more they talked, the more annoyed Vining became. They were not taking a step back from the official version of Cookie Silva’s murder case. Sure, it all looked thorough and complete, and it probably was, but they needed to question everything. It was precisely because of a similar unwillingness to look deeper that T B. Mann had gotten away with Johnna Alwin’s murder in Tucson. Their discussion now brought back to Vining her wisdom in having investigated T B. Mann surreptitiously. She knew her theories about him went beyond standard thinking, maybe even too much, treading into the realm of irrationality. She knew her peers and higher-ups would have just patted her on the head and told her to relax, while exchanging knowing looks behind her back. They would gently caution her to look at the facts. Well, she had facts right here— long scars on the back of her hand and down her neck.
“What did the chief have to say about Nitro’s drawing of Cookie’s body?” Her private musings had gotten Vining worked up. Drumming her nails, she asked questions in rapid succession. “Was it accurate? Did it reveal inside information?”
When Kissick again spoke, his voice was lower than it had been before, trying to calm her down.
“Chief Gilroy said the drawing accurately depicted the crime. The Colina Vista P.D. wasn’t sophisticated about handling a high-profile murder and hadn’t adequately secured the scene. A reporter got inside and took photos of Cookie’s body. The police got rid of the pictures, but that didn’t stop the reporter from writing what he’d seen. I confirmed that by doing an Internet search on the Cookie Silva murder. Several articles accurately described the disposition of Cookie’s body in that barn.”
Vining pushed away from the wall and nervously strode across the office, rattling off more staccato questions. “Did you ask Gilroy about whether Cookie was found wearing a pearl necklace? Had Cookie been given one?”
“I asked all those things, Nan. Chief Gilroy said she’d never seen a necklace like that.”
Vining pressed. “Did you show her my necklace?”
He responded softly. “I did, Nan. She didn’t recognize it.”
Vining bit
her lip, thinking. “Did you specifically ask her if there was a necklace on the body?”
Early watched their exchange, her head resting atop the steeple she’d made of her hands.
“There was no necklace, Nan.”
Vining continued to pace, gesturing with her hands. “The crime scene photos would show that. Did you ask to see them?”
“I didn’t, but maybe you can come with me and we’ll have a look.”
“I’m curious about Holcomb’s confession. Why did he confess?”
“Gilroy and a sergeant did a good job at interrogating and Holcomb’s conscience finally got to him.” Kissick held up both hands, palms tilted down, trying to calm her. “Nan, I realize this is emotional for you, but see no need to second-guess Chief Gilroy.”
Vining’s voice was strident. “I’m not second-guessing Chief Gilroy. I’ve been tracking this guy long enough to know that nothing is ever the way it seems at first. Back then, Gilroy didn’t know what we know now. Doesn’t it make sense to take another look through different lenses?”
Kissick was beginning to get annoyed. “Nan, Axel Holcomb is on death row.”
“You know darn well that juries sometimes set murderers free to walk the streets while innocent people spend the rest of their lives in prison.” Vining again moved to the wall and leaned against the window. “Here’s the thing, we can’t disregard Nitro’s four drawings. They’re a set. Cookie Silva’s murder was ten years ago. Marilu Feathers’s was eight years ago. Johnna Alwin’s was three and the attack on me was fifteen months ago. With each one, his setup and execution became more complex and daring. I can make an argument that Cookie’s murder doesn’t fit the mold because it was his first.”
Kissick and Early watched her with more than simple interest.
Vining went on. “It took him a while to refine his craft, so to speak. We can’t forget how cagey this guy is. He stalked me for years. He planned and waited and waited until just the right …”
Vining’s cell phone rang again. She looked at the display. “It’s my daughter. I apologize. I have to take this.”
