by Ann Roberts
“Or abuse a child,” Rory said. “Listen to this. ‘Emilia equals pathetic girl. Supporting Edmund at any cost. Katherine and Caliban are the strength!’”
“It’s almost like she’s siding with two people and against two others,” Ari suggested.
“Maybe Edmund is Steve Garritson and Emilia is actually Sam,” Jane said. “She underlined ‘girl,’ so maybe that’s a clue that Emilia isn’t a girl at all. Maybe Caliban and Katherine are Georgie and Nina?”
Ari shrugged. “That’s as good a theory as any at this point.”
“Finally, there’s the third plot line,” Rory said, picking up Nina’s last journal. “It involves Orlando, Cesario, Benedick, Valeria, Horatio and finally, Aguecheek. Something was about to be uncovered and danger is implied for someone. That last entry before she died was very important. ‘The secret will be revealed—DANGER. Poor Benedick! Poor Horatio! And poor Orlando—a pawn?’” She looked up at both of them. “It’s interesting to me that only three characters are mentioned here. What happened to Cesario, Valeria and Aguecheek?”
She tapped the book and said, “I think this is the most important storyline, and I’m guessing this secret is the reason she was killed.”
“We don’t even know who these people are,” Jane said. “We’ve got five men and one woman.”
“Or that character could be a little girl in danger,” Ari suggested.
“Or it could be Nina,” Jane said. “But who are all the guys?”
“Well, remember that sometimes men and women were confused. Cesario is one of those characters. She’s actually a character named Viola who’s posing as a man.”
Ari looked at Rory. “How do you suggest we organize this?”
“I think we write out all the entries on these three sets of people and see if we can figure out who they are. That way we can watch all of our suspects at Nina’s funeral tomorrow.”
“I think this is impossible,” Jane said.
“It’ll be a little tricky, that’s for sure, but I’m rather certain I’ve got one story figured out already.”
“How so?” Ari asked, pouring herself a glass of wine from the box.
Rory chuckled. “Because I’m in it.”
Chapter Seventeen
Jack wiped his eyes, which were starting to cross from reading so many files. Pictures, index cards and sticky notes filled the makeshift collage he’d created against his closed vertical blinds. Margarita Escolido’s smiling face hung at the center.
He was starting to understand why Molly drew circles to nudge her thinking. This was a complicated case with many possible suspects, all of whom had been ruled out. Margarita had a large family, several close friends and dozens of co-workers, all of whom were investigated, but everyone had said the same thing—she was loved by all and had no enemies. No one had emerged as a viable suspect.
One fact bothered him: David Ruskin had supervised the detectives assigned to the case, and Jack had already caught a few minor procedural errors that would’ve spelled trouble for the prosecutor in the event a suspect was ever arrested, nothing huge, but he worried he’d find more mistakes the deeper he dug. As much as he hated Ruskin, he was past the point in his life where he desired confrontation. Or was he? If he was offered the promotion and accepted, he’d be working closely with Ruskin. He sighed. It would be worth it because he’d be in the same city as Ari.
He looked from the blinds to the corkboard that housed all of the notes on the Carnotti case and chuckled.
“Something funny, Adams?”
He looked up at Dylan Phillips, standing in the doorway with her purse and jacket over her shoulder. She was on her way out and she looked tired.
“I was thinking about life,” he said honestly.
She raised a sculpted eyebrow. “Oh? Reconsidering your choices?”
He shook his head. “You don’t understand my humor.”
“Perhaps you’ll have the opportunity to explain it to me some time. Your promotion is going through.”
He was marveling at the dimple that appeared on her chin when his phone rang. “Adams.”
“Jack, you gotta get over here right now!” Andre cried.
“Whoa, slow down. What happened? Is Ari okay?”
He glanced at Dylan, watching her smile and dimple morph into concern.
“I’m sure Ari’s fine, but you know our lead from the gym? She’s dead.”
* * *
The Arroyo apartment complex was well known by law enforcement. The beat cops fielded endless noise complaints, arrested drug dealers routinely and constantly fined minors for underage drinking at the legendary parties there. It was a meat market for the under-thirty crowd. As he passed the pool at nine forty-five, Jack wasn’t surprised to see two dozen men and women splashing in the water while a boom box blasted a rap backbeat that drowned out their laughter and playful screams.
He found Andre interviewing the neighbor who’d discovered the body. Andre motioned to his left, and he wandered down a sidewalk crowded with techs and uniformed officers. Her body laid on the concrete in a twisted sleep. He glanced up at the balconies filled with tenants and partiers staring down at the corpse until he found the one with a CSI officer working on it.
Andre joined him, pulling a folded paper from his pocket. It was a printout from Uptown Fitness that included her bio and a picture. “Her real name was Wanda Sells, a bank teller with Saguaro Credit Union. She was the one, Jack. After I sweet-talked the gym manager into pulling the possibles for me, I took them to Molly tonight and she ID’d Wanda.”
“I’m surprised she’s not with you now. How’d you keep her from tagging along?”
Andre shrugged. “It was weird. She was weird. It was almost like she was happy. Didn’t care about Wanda at all. Anyway, I came right over, and the uniforms had just gotten here to answer a call about a jumper.”
“Did anyone see her jump?”
“No, I think they just assumed, though apparently more than a few drunks have fallen over these balconies, if you can believe it.”
“I can. Do we know if she was drinking?”
“Yeah.”
They walked several feet past the body to a spray of glass shards glistening in the moonlight. Jack found a larger chunk and surmised it was a highball glass. He sniffed it.
“Vodka.”
“Yup. According to the neighbors Wanda had a reputation for guzzling vodka on her balcony every night. She’s lived here for more than a year and nearly every tenant in her building knows her habits. The guy who discovered the body was out power walking, making his laps around the complex. He says he does it three times every night. Second time he came by everything was normal, but on the third lap, which was about ten minutes later, she was on the ground. Whipped out his cell phone and called nine-one-one.”
“So she wasn’t dead very long before she was discovered. That’s good,” he said. He glanced up at the balcony. “That’s a hell of a fall. Let’s go upstairs and check out her apartment.”
“So I guess this is our case, huh?” Andre asked eagerly. “Do you think the chief will give us more time since our best lead is dead?”
“Hard to say.”
A uniformed officer guarded the door; they passed him with a nod. The place was a mess, but there was no sign of foul play. They went to the balcony, where a crime tech was just finishing up.
“Just her prints,” he said as he left.
Jack took a deep breath. “Do you smell it?”
Andre shook his head. “No.”
“Pot. Just faint traces, so either her neighbor is toking up or she was.” He leaned on the railing and was surprised when it jiggled. “What the hell? Check the other side,” he told Andre.
He squatted and examined the screws. The plaster around each one was worn down and they floated in the holes.
“Same thing over here,” Andre said, wiping his hands on his handkerchief. “That railing was about to go.”
“Or went,” he muttered.
He peered over the railing and noticed fresh-looking drag marks moving toward the edge of the building, as if the railing had come out and been pulled back into place.
“What do you think?”
“I’m thinking this is fishy. How tall was she?”
“Five-five.”
“And this railing is four feet tall. For her to fall over the railing and not catch herself is somewhat implausible. And look at this.” He pointed to the drag marks. “At some point the screws popped out, probably as her body went over.”
“That makes sense,” Andre agreed.
“So why are they back in the holes? She was flying through the air. How did the screws go back?”
“Maybe they popped back in?”
He pushed the railing and the screws popped out again, but when he let go, the railing didn’t move.
“So you’re suggesting that somebody pulled the railing back?”
He nodded. “Maybe it was one of the techs. We’ll need to check.” He pointed to the ground where the broken glass glistened in the moonlight. “That makes me uncomfortable too. If you’re falling over a railing accidentally, you’re going to fall straight down. You don’t project out, and the fact that her drink is so far away from her body suggests she was still holding it when she fell—or flew—over the railing.”
“So somebody pushed her.”
“It would make sense. Let’s see what else there is to find.”
They wandered through the bedroom and noticed the unmade bed and clothes strewn everywhere. Wanda’s life seemed to revolve around work and the gym. Silk blouses were heaped in piles with running shorts and exercise bras.
Foraging through the medicine cabinet yielded prescriptions for Vicodin and Zoloft amid the typical over-the-counter drugs for colds and allergies. “It’s gotta be somewhere,” he said.
He went to the corner of her living room she used for a home office and studied the small bookshelf above the desk. He opened a few trinket containers and found the usual mementos—movie ticket stubs, change and discarded keys. He pulled out each of the books while Andre went to the kitchen.
In the middle of the second row he found an old dictionary. Most young people didn’t bother with them anymore because of smartphones. He opened the book and chuckled. The center of the pages had been carved out, creating a great hiding place—for her pot, cocaine and Ecstasy.
He carried three baggies into the kitchen and waved them at Andre. “Oh, my,” Andre said, pulling his head from the refrigerator. “Apparently Wanda enjoyed many recreational activities.” He opened the cabinet under the sink and revealed an empty vodka bottle in the trash can. “I’d say Wanda loved to drink.”
“Let’s look at the rest of the trash,” Jack said.
He pulled out the liner and inspected the contents of the partially filled bag. In addition to the vodka bottle, he found the recent edition of People, a Lean Cuisine TV dinner box and several pieces of junk mail.
“There’s only trash from a single meal in the can, suggesting that she was rather particular about removing garbage. I’d say this is from today, meaning that unless she spent the entire day getting snockered, it’s highly unlikely she drank the whole bottle by herself.”
“She might’ve been finishing it,” Andre said.
“True,” he conceded, “but did we find another glass?”
Andre went to the cabinet where glassware was stored. “It looks like she bought a standard set with highballs, tumblers and fruit juice glasses.”
“How many tumblers do you see?”
“Eight.”
“How many juice glasses?”
“Five, but…” He opened the nearly empty dishwasher and found three more. “There’s eight total.”
Jack felt a familiar rush of energy. “How many highball glasses?”
Andre paused and looked around the kitchen before he answered. “Six.”
“Let’s go through the house again,” he said.
They scanned all the rooms but found no additional glasses and nothing to suggest Wanda had entertained anyone.
“So if she was pushed off, then the killer took the extra glass. Six plus the shattered one on the concrete equals seven. But she could’ve broken one before today.”
“That’s certainly possible. People do it all the time.”
“But you don’t think so.”
“Those glasses look pretty new. They don’t have any dishwasher stains or filmy bottoms, you know, the stuff that happens eventually to your glasses after you’ve sent them through the dishwasher a hundred times.”
“Yeah, so it’s a little less likely that she broke a new one.”
“Possibly.”
He went to the coffee table. A single glass coaster with a visible ring confirmed it had been recently used. It rested near the edge, suggesting Wanda and her guest—if she’d had one—had sat on the couch, talking and sipping drinks. He glanced at the coaster stand on the nearby end table. Each coaster had its own little compartment, and one was empty, which accounted for Wanda’s. He pulled the rest of them out and set them on the table. All of them were dry except one. Droplets of moisture remained on it, even after someone had hastily wiped it off.
“Here’s our evidence.”
He motioned to a tech with a camera. The guy took pictures of the coasters while he pulled out his cell phone. “You asked if Chief Phillips might give us some more time. Since our only lead in the investigation of Vince Carnotti was just murdered, I’d say she might.”
Chapter Eighteen
Biz glanced at her watch under the hazy glow of the fluorescent lights illuminating the ten gas pumps. Although it was two in the morning, the Quik Mart was busy, filled with night owls who needed smokes or alcohol. She was still an hour outside of Laguna Beach, and although the Harley had a half tank of gas, she’d stopped to acquire some insurance, carefully scoping out the Quik Mart as her best option.
She casually picked through one of the nearby trash cans. Not finding what she needed, she headed to another one and resumed her search. Still nothing. She shook her head. It should be easier than this. She noticed a can over by the bathrooms outside the front door of the shop. A young Hispanic man pushed through the door, discarded his receipt in the trash and headed for his car.
She smiled.
She walked around the building so no one from the store would see her pass directly in front of the windows and quickly thumbed through the trash, knowing she’d need to burrow toward the bottom.
“Excuse me. Are you okay?” a voice said.
The woman had clearly been clubbing all night, judging from the alcohol on her breath and her glassy eyes. She wore tight jeans and a black jacket with a tank top on underneath, but what Biz noticed was her sparkling turquoise lipstick. Definitely L.A.
“I’m fine. I walked out of the store and accidentally threw away my receipt and I dropped my bike keys in here too.”
“I could help you look?” the clubber asked in a very friendly tone.
“No, I got it. Thanks.”
The woman shrugged at the dismissal and walked into the store. Biz searched faster. The idea was to be invisible, not have conversations with people. Yes! Nestled against some used paper towels and an empty cigarette pack was a white slip of paper. She grabbed it and searched some more, until she found two more slips.
She quickly pocketed them, jumped on the Harley and zoomed away. She turned into the next gas station and pulled up next to the air and water station. She pulled out the receipts, praying one of them would serve her purpose. She grinned when she scanned the second one. It had been generated at ten eighteen p.m., just a few hours ago. The customer had bought ten gallons of gas, a Diet Coke and a bag of Doritos—and paid with cash.
“I love Doritos,” she murmured.
If anyone ever asked, she could now prove that she’d been in California, that there was no way she could have been pushing a woman off a balcony in Phoenix at nine p.m. It was physically
impossible for her to be in two cities at the same time, and by the time anyone would think to question her, the store videotapes would probably be erased.
She carefully slid the receipt in her wallet, noticing for the first time in six hours that her heart had stopped pounding. She’d thrown up twice already and nearly toppled the Harley outside Quartzite when she started to cry, but she’d regained more and more control as the mile markers descended and she’d ridden closer to the California border.
She hopped on the bike and blasted Springsteen through her earbuds for the last part of the ride, refusing to think about anything except making love to Ari. It was easy to forget the darkness of the last six hours when she pictured the two of them in Ari’s new Jacuzzi tub, the jets massaging their bodies while they kissed and cuddled.
She went out of her way to Costa Mesa and found an all-night motel. She doubted the sleepy-eyed clerk would ever remember her or the fake name she used in the event anyone ever investigated the story she planned to tell Ari—that she’d spent the night on the beach.
The place looked relatively clean. She fell onto the bed, her last ounce of energy depleted. It had been the most emotional day of her life. She could still hear the three tiny gasps that had slipped from Wanda’s lips. She was too inebriated and too surprised to scream, but in a cruel twist of fate Biz deserved, she’d spiraled and stared at her for the four-story drop. She doubted she’d ever forget the look of confused terror on her face.
She’d made three mistakes and she couldn’t stop beating herself up for them. She’d staged crime scenes before. She’d lost track of the number of deadbeat dads she’d set up, and she knew how the police operated. She’d never been questioned because she was good.
But she’d never killed anyone.
She’d been so careful with the setup. She’d run into Wanda at the gym and they’d spoken for less than thirty seconds. She’d agreed to her terms and told her she would bring the money to her apartment at eight thirty, when the weeknight parties would be in full swing and darkness would disguise her as she moved through the complex.
