by Style, Linda
He glanced at the file, searching once again for something he might’ve missed…any mention that Kolnikov had had a new boyfriend. Nothing. He flipped pages, searching for Anna Kolnikov’s death certificate, something he’d looked at more than once. While he’d scoured the file, he hadn’t paid particular attention to the woman’s place of birth.
He found the certificate, but it was of no help. She was from Poughkeepsie, New York. Her DOB and parents’ names were listed as unknown. Hadn’t anyone bothered to find out if she had a family to notify?
The thought disturbed him. If she had a family…and she must’ve had one at one time…did they even know she was dead? Did they know about her life? He dismissed the thought. Anybody in L.A. would know she’d died. Four years ago, the media had gorged themselves on speculation about Kolnikov’s clients, making thinly disguised references to particular California politicians. Kolnikov’s name made the front page of the L.A. Times for longer than most people cared to read about it. It was probably on the national news, as well. If she had family somewhere, how could they not know?
Checking again, he saw zero notations about anyone contacting the LAPD about her death. Her body had remained at the morgue for days after the autopsy. There’d been no memorial service and no visitors. Kolnikov was subsequently buried in Los Angeles’ equivalent of Potters Field. Alone.
What puzzled him was that no one had even acknowledged her existence. Both Laura Gianni and her ex knew Kolnikov. Why didn’t they make an appearance? If the woman who’d sent the birthday card, Rita Valdez, was such good friends with Kolnikov, why didn’t she pay her respects?
But then, what difference did it make? Kolnikov belonged to the dark underbelly of society. People who exploited other people. Like DeMatta. The world was better off without them.
“St. James.” The gravelly voice came from behind him.
The scent of cheap cologne and stale tobacco preceded Ralston as he rounded the desk. “Captain wants to see you.”
A conversation with the captain wasn’t first on Jordan’s list this morning. With all the flack from the mayor’s office, Jordan knew it was only a matter of time before Carlyle put the kibosh on the Kolnikov investigation.
Engrossed in some papers on his desk, the captain didn’t look up when Jordan entered. “Have a seat.”
The tension in the air was so thick it was almost palpable. Just as Jordan was about to ask Carlyle what he wanted, the captain looked up.
“You better have something for me,” he said. “Something worth all this crap I’m getting from the mayor’s office.”
Jordan cleared his throat. “It’s not huge, but it’s a lead. A boyfriend who seemed to have been overlooked before.” Or ignored.
“Where’d you get the information?”
“From a woman who, while she wouldn’t admit to working for Kolnikov, did admit to being a friend. Another lead left hanging.”
“Who screwed up?”
“I don’t know anyone did. It’s not documented.”
The captain leaned back in his chair and scrubbed a hand over his chin. “Anything to implicate DeMatta?”
“Not yet.”
“What about the Gianni woman?”
Jordan’s gut twisted. What about the Gianni woman? He’d asked himself the same question more than once. “She’s got a tough job.”
Carlyle frowned. “I’ve got a tough job. You’ve got a tough job. Lots of people have tough jobs. Does she know anything or not?”
Jordan thought she did—was almost certain. But he had no proof and the captain wanted evidence, not speculation. “She said she met Kolnikov a couple of times. But there was no documentation in the file.”
The captain slammed a hand on the desk and bolted to his feet. “Dammit. I’ve got the mayor’s office breathing down my neck on the Matthews case, there’s a serial killer roaming the streets, and now I find out I’ve got a bunch of incompetents working for me.”
The Studio Killer. So named because his victims were all porn actresses and had been killed near or at the setting of their movies, which was usually a third-rate motel.
“Luke’s on the Matthews case.” Jordan didn’t have to say that Luke was the best detective they had.
Carlyle clenched his teeth. His right eye twitched. It was obvious he was under a lot of pressure. “Yeah, well, Coltrane worked the whore’s case, too.”
The hair on the back of Jordan’s neck bristled. “Briefly,” he added. “Luke uncovered one of the leads before he got transferred. Ralston and Vargas finished it up.”
Carlyle glanced toward where Ralston was sitting at a computer. Vargas had been transferred out a year ago. “Right. And we can’t change what they didn’t do. But if something doesn’t happen soon, we’re going to quit wasting time. We’ve got other priorities.”
“What’s more important than taking down DeMatta?”
“The good citizens of our thriving community get freaked out when a cold-blooded killer is on the loose. They call the mayor’s office, he calls the chief, and he calls me.”
Yeah. Jordan rubbed the back of his neck. He knew the captain’s dilemma, appreciated the leeway he’d been given already.“I know you’ve gone the distance for me on this one, chief. But I’m close. I just need a little more time to finish it.” He had to. And he didn’t need to remind the captain that some of their own had gone down at the hands of DeMatta. The lives the mob boss had destroyed, the number of people he’d hooked on drugs and then exploited for prostitution couldn’t even be counted.
Carlyle became pensive. “Okay,” he finally said. “What’s the plan?”
“I’m going to lean on DeMatta.”
The captain chewed on the inside of his cheek. “That’s a dangerous proposition.”
“I know. But he knows what I’m doing, anyway.”
Carlyle looked surprised. “You know that?”
Jordan nodded.
The phone rang and Carlyle picked up. Listening, he silently indicated Jordan could leave. But before Jordan got to the door, the captain said, “Hold it.”
Carlyle covered the phone. “Rita Valdez?”
Jordan tensed. “She gave me a lead on Kolnikov’s case.”
“You got her address?”
He nodded.
“Get out there. We’ve got another homicide.”
***
Laura was still reeling when the sharp ring of the phone startled her. But she couldn’t bring herself to answer it.
“Mommy?”
“Uh…it’s probably just a phone solicitor, honey. They kept calling the whole time you were at the party and I’m tired of them.”
The electricity had miraculously come back on, the rain had stopped, and sitting with Caitlin in the family room watching an old Disney DVD as they waited for the rest of the group to come home had a calming effect.
Keeping her cell phone at the ready, she thought about what had happened and always came back to the same thing. If the intruder had wanted to hurt her, he could easily have done it when she was there alone. And if he didn’t want to hurt her, the destruction had to be meant as a warning. For her? Caitlin? One of the residents? Realistically, it could be anyone at the shelter. She needed to talk to the girls—without Cait around.
“Shannon’s mom is getting married,” Cait said out of the blue.
“Really. How wonderful.”
“He’s got lots of money, too.”
Laura glanced at Cait, who’d pulled her legs to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She rested her chin on top of her knees. Cait had never mentioned money before. But the child was aware they didn’t have much. “Well, money doesn’t make a person happy, sweetheart.”
“Shannon gets lots of presents and she’s happy.”
Laura frowned. “You’re happy, aren’t you?”
“Yes…but presents would make me happier.” Her little girl grinned, eyes sparkling mischievously.
Laura laughed, giving Cait a noogie. “Well, you�
�ll get presents on your birthday and that’s not too far away. In the meantime, you’ll just have to suffer.”
Just then, a car door slammed outside. Then another and another.
“Oh, I hear them,” Cait shouted, jumping up. “They’re home.”
Laura heard a cacophony of female voices as the women came inside.
“I’m starved,” Brandy said. “Who’s got dinner tonight?”
“How can you be hungry with all you ate at the mall?” Claire demanded.
“It’s no one’s turn for dinner,” Laura said. “It’s pizza night. I’ve already ordered.”
After the girls went to their respective rooms, including Cait, who wanted to play with her prizes from the birthday party, Laura pulled Phoebe and Rose aside. “We have a situation. After you left, we had a power outage and someone broke into the house.”
Phoebe’s eyes grew big and Rose looked aghast.
“When you were here?” Rose asked.
“I don’t know who it was and yes I was here. I heard a noise early on, but ignored it. Later when I went into my bedroom and Cait’s, both windows were open. Someone had slashed Cait’s quilt and smashed her music box.”
Both women stood there, speechless. Finally Phoebe said, “Why would anyone do something like that?”
“We’ll know the answer if we find out who it was. Do either of you know anyone who might have a grudge against you or any of the girls?”
Rose shook her head, but Phoebe’s eyes lit up. “There’s that wacko guy I dated. The one who kept calling and told me I’d be sorry I didn’t go out with him anymore. He sent me a dozen rambling letters, but then he quit. I thought it had ended. Only if it was him, he’d probably destroy things in my office.”
“Maybe. But if he didn’t know whose room it was—and he knew I was in the house and he’d have to pass me to go upstairs…” She shrugged.
“Brandy had an argument with her old boyfriend a week or so ago,” Rose injected. “She said it was nothing and assured me he was harmless.”
Laura remembered the incident.
“What about Cait? Does she have any friends who’re jealous of her? Kids can get really nasty sometimes.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. But I also can’t think of anyone who doesn’t like Cait. Besides, I doubt any seven-year-old could’ve opened those windows and come in.”
“And then the electricity just came back on?” Phoebe asked.
“It does seem coincidental, doesn’t it?” Laura frowned.
“Yes,” Rose said. “But it’s not the first time the power has gone out in a storm. We all know the old wiring needs to be replaced.”
“We should call the police,” Phoebe said.
The doorbell rang. “It’s the pizza, and no, I don’t want to call them yet. I want to talk to each of the girls first. In the meantime, keep an eye out and your ears open.”
***
Once he got on the freeway, Jordan floored the gas. Six o’clock and it was getting dark. He hated California winters. It was dark when he got up and dark when he went home. He swerved to avoid a vehicle going so slowly the car was a danger to others. The rain had stopped, but the roads were still slick.
Jordan reached the crime scene as quickly as possible, arriving in concert with three squad cars, the scream of overhead sirens and blue-and-red flashing strobes lighting up the graffiti on the outside of the building. The entry to the place was cordoned off and a couple of uniforms held the gawkers at bay. There were always gawkers. People whose morbid curiosity couldn’t be contained.
“Detective St. James,” Jordan said to one of the officers, flashing his shield. “First officer on scene?”
“Officer Hansen. He’s upstairs.”
Jordan took the stairs two at a time, clipping his badge on the pocket of his suit jacket as he went. The closer he got to the top, the worse he felt. His heart hammered in his throat and he started to sweat. Fifty freaking degrees and he was sweating. More than a hundred homicides and his reaction was always the same. Whoever said you got used to seeing a DB was crazy.
Upstairs, crime-scene tape surrounded Rita Valdez’s apartment, but the door was open. A couple of techs from the Scientific Investigation Division followed directly behind him. The SID was alternately referred to by detectives as the CSU or CSI because of the television show—a joke the techs didn’t appreciate.
“Hansen?” Jordan said to the first officer he met.
“That’s me.”
“Detective St. James.”
Hansen glanced at Jordan’s shield and nodded.
The officer looked as if he’d barely graduated high school. “Give me a rundown,” Jordan said.
“We got a call. The guy wouldn’t give his name. Said he came to see her and found her dead. Probably one of her customers who doesn’t want to be identified.”
“Or her murderer.”
“She’s in the bedroom.”
“Anything else I should know?”
“No signs of a breakin, so she probably knew her killer.”
Nothing new there. “Maybe. Maybe not. She opened the door for me last week and she didn’t know me. And I doubt she knows all the johns sent her way.”
Hansen cleared his throat. “Uh…right.”
It was obvious the kid was green. Jordan smiled, sympathizing.
“My first,” Hansen said. “I didn’t expect it to be this bad.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Jordan lied, then crossed the room.
The coppery scent of blood met him at the bedroom door, a precursor to the ugliness inside. The fact that he was there to see justice done was the only thing that kept him going. Like Hansen, he’d done a lot of reassessing after his first homicide.
“Anything jump out?” he asked a tech who was dusting for prints. Another was bagging the woman’s hands.
“Nope. No gun. No bullets or casings. Yet.”
Blood pooled under Rita’s black hair. The woman’s partially naked body and the way all the drawers were half-open, the contents spilling out, fit the usual MO for a robbery-rape-murder.
But it was too perfect. Too obvious.
Hansen came up beside him. “Rape and robbery.”
“Or cold-blooded murder.” Jordan studied the body. “Look at the ligature marks around her wrists. The red marks on her knees. And where the bullet entered.”
Hansen shifted from one foot to another, his eyes bugging out, as if it’d just dawned on him that his quick leap to judgment wasn’t necessarily correct. “You think the crime scene was staged?”
“Always a possibility,” Jordan answered. Murderers had good cause to throw suspicion in another direction. What bothered him the most was that the crime scene was eerily familiar.
“So what do you think?” the younger man asked.
“I think someone wanted her dead. And we need to find out why. Anyone contact her family yet?”
“I don’t think she has anyone.”
“She has a daughter,” Jordan said. And someone had to tell the kid. His stomach rumbled. “I’ll take care of it.”
“St. James,” someone called from another part of the apartment. That grating voice was all too familiar.
Howie Ralston. Ralston was talking to the ME when Jordan reached him. “Gentlemen.”
“I’m your backup while Santini’s gone,” Ralston said. “What’ve you got?”
Jordan gritted his teeth. He didn’t know Ralston very well, and what he did know, he didn’t like. The guy was an arrogant bully on a power trip. Always looking for a way to promote himself. But if the captain had assigned Ralston to take Santini’s place, there had to be a reason. Maybe so Jordan could keep an eye on him?
“Take a look,” Jordan said. He’d see just how close they were in their assessments.
CHAPTER NINE
LAURA GLANCED OUT the front window to see if Cait was walking home. No kids. She checked her watch. It was too early. She shouldn’t be watching and waiting. She needed to get
a grip.
But she couldn’t get last night out of her head and hadn’t slept a wink. She’d gotten up and checked on Caitlin probably a dozen times, checked the doors just as many.
She’d debated all night whether to call the police—or Jordan—but decided to give it one more day. Everyone at the shelter was on red alert. Except for Cait. She was too young to know what was going on, and God knew Laura didn’t want the child watching over her shoulder every minute.
Laura had long ago cautioned her daughter about talking to strangers and she’d participated in the Stranger Danger program the police gave at the school. But knowing what to do and doing it were two different things.
Rose had already arrived for her shift and was in the kitchen with Brandy and Claire. Alysa wasn’t home yet but would be soon.
“Need some help?” Rose said, coming up behind Laura.
“Oh!” Laura jumped. “I didn’t hear you.”
The other counselor put a hand on Laura’s shoulder. “She’ll get here. Give the kid some slack.”
Laura sighed. “You can say that after last night?”
“Well, worrying isn’t going to change anything. Besides, if someone wanted to hurt any of us, they could’ve done it already.”
This was true. But it didn’t stop her from worrying.
“Someone wanted to scare us, and it looks as if they’ve succeeded.” Rose twisted her long hair into a knot and fastened it with a clip. “We’ve had things like this happen before and you haven’t wigged out. What’s different now?”
Laura closed her eyes, felt the burn behind her lids. Lack of sleep was making her punchy, even paranoid. She drew a long breath, then turned to Rose. “It’s different because…I feel violated. Someone was in my room. In Cait’s. And destroying Cait’s quilt, a keepsake from her grandmother, and the music box from her father…those things seem personal.”
“Do you know anyone who might be carrying a personal grudge?”
“You mean other than the usual suspects?” Laura gave a wry laugh. “No. I don’t know anyone who has it in for me, or Cait. Especially not Cait.”
