He called Stone to see if he had any updates on Maureen, or anything else for that matter.
“Well, like you said, she wasn’t home. But I heard from the beat cop about one of her roommates—some shaggy guy with hair down his back and a serious attitude. Asleep in the middle of the day. Didn’t even know what time it was.”
“Did they ask him where she was? Did they search the house?”
“No, they didn’t search the house. There was no probable cause. They asked him where she was—said you wanted to know—but Shaggy had no clue. Said he wouldn’t tell the cops if he did. Real cooperative. I wouldn’t let her go back there if I were you.”
“Yeah, well, you’re assuming that she listens to me, chief. Thanks for sending those guys over there anyways.”
“Sure. No problem. Turn up anything at the service?”
Goode told him about his new Paul Walters angle and said he was going to try to needle Keith a bit on the drive home about that and other things.
Goode strolled over to Seth and Keith, who were standing on the lawn talking to a couple of attractive young women. The detective stood behind a tree while he watched them exchange business cards with the women, waiting for the girls to leave before he approached.
“Nice ceremony, don’t you think?” he asked no one in particular.
Seth gave Goode an uncomfortable smile and Keith nodded, sticking close to Seth like steel to a magnet. Hoping to get away from Goode, by the looks of it. They were an odd pair. Keith was obviously the weak link. Goode hoped he could push Keith to slip up and lead Goode to a possible motive, a link to the beauty school, drugs, the escort service, or Paul. Anything.
“Which one of you drove?” Goode asked.
“I did,” Seth said.
Keith chirped. It was like a hiccup, only louder.
“Good,” the detective said, looking directly into Keith’s eyes without blinking, an intimidation tactic that usually proved effective. “Keith, why don’t you ride back to San Diego with me?”
“Um, okay,” Keith said, dumbfounded. He glanced over at Seth, whose mouth was set in a grim straight line. Keith chirped again.
“Let’s go,” Goode said. He motioned for Keith to walk in front of him, then fell in beside him.
Goode could feel Seth’s eyes drilling into his back. He turned and saw him standing there, his arms folded across his chest, watching them walk away. When Goode looked again a few minutes later, Seth was climbing into his Porsche down the street.
Goode hated driving in LA. People were so rude. You could count on three cars to turn left after every yellow light turned red. It was an unwritten rule. He purposely waited until he’d been driving for fifteen minutes on the 405 freeway before he broached his first question. He wanted Keith to sweat a little.
The silence hung heavily in the car like LA smog hugging the horizon on a hot day.
“Keith, are you aware that if Seth did commit murder, and you had anything to do with it, that you could be looking at prison time for being an accomplice? Same thing if you tried to help him cover it up, which would make you an accessory after the fact.”
Keith’s shoulders drooped and he bowed his head, staring at the floor. He let out a long sigh and shook his head.
“So?” Goode said, waiting.
When Keith finally faced him, Goode could see fear in his eyes. “What do you want me to say?” Keith asked.
“I get the feeling that you’re not telling me everything you know,” Goode said. “Are you trying to protect Seth?”
“No,” he said. “And I don’t need to. You don’t know Seth like I do. He would never kill anyone. . .The only thing he needs protection from is this incredibly jealous woman he used to go out with, ‘cause he always did more coke when she was around. He always lets the little head think for the big head, if you know what I mean.”
Keith looked at Goode as if he would understand. It was hard, but Goode managed not to laugh, and focused on the road so Keith would keep talking. If Goode got lucky, Keith would give him enough information to charge Seth with a crime before they reached Irvine.
“She did a lot of blow—you know, cocaine. For all I know, she was dealing it, too. He used to do it with her at Pumphouse, but I finally got him to stop. I didn’t want him to get busted. He finally got a clue and blew her off. Anyway, she was at Pumphouse the night he met Tania.”
“Who is this jealous woman we’re talking about?”
“Her name is Clover.”
“So, what are you saying? That I should pick her up for dealing drugs?”
This time, Keith answered a little too quickly. “No, I mean, I don’t know if she’s a dealer, but she’s definitely got a personal habit.”
Goode wondered who Keith was truly trying to protect. So what if Clover had a coke problem? Keith had offered him a possible source for the drugs on Tania’s table, but something didn’t ring true about his story. Why would he volunteer all this information about Seth doing drugs and his relationship with Clover? Maybe he was trying to distract Goode or throw him off the trail of something more important. And where had the meth come from? Most users picked either coke or meth and stuck with their drug of choice.
“Is Seth selling drugs at Pumphouse? Or are you?”
“No, man, I told you. Recreational use only,” Keith said. “Shit, you’re not going to arrest me, are you?”
“I’ve got bigger fish to fry right now, pal. . .So, what about Saturday night?” Goode asked. “Where were you between nine and ten thirty P.M.?”
“We already told you—at Pumphouse with Seth, waiting for the chicks to show up, and then we went to that party. You can ask the bartender, man, he knows us. Or ask Richard, the guy who threw the party.”
“Oh, don’t you worry, we will,” Goode said.
Goode drove on for a while, letting Jason Mraz sing and the conversation sink in. He finally turned down the stereo where Interstate 405 merged with the 5. They’d passed Irvine and Goode still didn’t have enough to arrest anybody for anything. But they were still an hour away from home. Keith looked uncomfortable, claustrophobic even, as he shifted around in his seat. “Does the name Sharona Glass ring a bell?” Goode asked.
“Yeah, she’s Clover’s friend. Why?” Keith sounded sincere.
“She’s dead, too,” Goode said.
“Whaat?” Keith said, his mouth hanging open. “How?”
“Strangled.”
“Shit. This is getting weird.”
“That’s one word for it,” Goode said. “Do you know Paul Walters?”
“Who?” Keith asked, frowning.
“Paul Walters. He was Tania’s next-door neighbor.”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Just doing my job, pal.”
Keith kept pulling the seat belt away from his neck, as if it were too constrictive, as if he’d rather be anywhere else. Goode sped up to pass a Buick that was going way too slow. Left him in the dust.
“Tell me more about Clover,” Goode said.
“I don’t know. She goes to some beauty school during the day and gets blasted at Pumphouse most nights.”
Goode pulled a pen and a notebook from his inside coat pocket, rested the pad on the steering wheel, and wrote her name under Paul’s, with the notation, “Jealousy?” He swerved wildly to avoid a blue vintage Corvette that shot in front of him, sending the pen onto the floor at Keith’s feet.
“Shit,” Goode exclaimed. You have to keep your eyes on the road at all times when driving in Southern California. Or you’ll end up dead.
“Asshole,” Keith said to the Corvette driver for Goode’s benefit. He reached down and handed the pen to Goode. “She’s a pain in the ass, you know, neurotic as hell. I don’t know why Seth kept seeing her, apart from the obvious.”
“You know Tania Marcus went to that beauty school, right?”
“Yeah,” Keith said. “She was talking about it that night we all met. Hey, maybe Clover knew Tania from there.”
/> Or maybe she knew Maureen. “What about a woman named Maureen? You know her from around PB at all?”
“Yeah, maybe,” Keith answered a little too quickly. “Why?”
“Just wondering if you knew her.”
“That’s right,” Keith said, turning to Goode with a trace of a smirk. “You guys have the same last name. She your wife?”
That threw him. No one had put Goode and that word in the same sentence for quite some time. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no, she’s my sister, smart ass. So?”
“We went out a couple times.”
Keith wasn’t a good liar. Goode figured it was more intimate than that, but this guy didn’t seem like his sister’s type. He seemed like a decent guy, but as he kept reminding himself, everyone was a suspect at this point. Goode decided to drive the rest of the way and let Jason Mraz do the talking.
Chapter 24
Norman
Norman Klein knew PB pretty well enough that he didn’t have much trouble finding the murder scene. It only took a little longer than it should have to get to the dead woman’s apartment because he stopped to get a pepperoni slice at Bronx Pizza in Hillcrest. He missed the pies from home.
Al, the dayside editor, had called him at home and told him to start his shift early to find a follow-up story on the Tania Marcus murder. By the time he got to work, Al had already heard a bunch of talk on the scanner about a second dead girl in PB. Sully, the regular cops reporter, was still out on medical leave and Charlie was still sick, which made it another lucky day for Norman Klein.
“Let’s see if you can improve on the other night, kid,” Al said, chortling. “Or we’ll fire your ass.”
Al was a wiry, no-nonsense guy who ate rocks for breakfast. Norman was sure of it. He felt very intimidated by Al and Big Ed, but didn’t know what to do about it other than dig in and hope for the best.
Norman scanned the crime scene for Detective Goode, but saw no sign of him. Most of the cops were the short-haired, uptight ones who hated talking to reporters. Goode was way cooler. Norman figured he got a lot of women. The good kind.
“Are you the officer in charge?” Norman asked a uniformed cop who had stripes on his sleeve and a no-nonsense attitude.
“Sergeant.”
“Oh, sorry. Sergeant. What’s going on?”
“Dead girl.”
“What happened to her?”
The sergeant was apparently too busy standing with his arms folded over his potbelly to answer. Norman struggled to remember all the questions Al told him to ask. “Any connection between this murder and the Tania Marcus case?”
That got the cops’ attention. He turned and looked at Norman. “Could be. Who are you with?”
“The Sun-Dispatch.”
The sergeant grimaced. “Are you the jerk who got my name wrong on that armed robbery last week?”
“Uh, no, I don’t think so,” Norman said, knowing full well that it was his story; he just didn’t know what he’d done wrong. “But while we’re at it, why don’t you spell it for me so it doesn’t happen this time.”
“It’s Love. That’s L-O-V-E, not L-I-V-E.”
Shit. A stupid typo spell-check couldn’t catch.
“What’s your first name?”
“Sergeant.”
What is the deal with cops and these dumb stonewalling tactics? It must be in the training manual.
Norman had a lot riding on this story today and he wasn’t going to let some jerk-off dick him around. But he had to stay cool. Use the charm like Al told him.
“Come on. I have a police department roster back at the newsroom. I can just look it up. How ‘bout helping me out a little here?”
Sergeant Love looked Norman up and down. “All right, all right. It’s Mike. Screw it up again and this is our last conversation.”
The two of them stared at each other for a good thirty seconds until the sergeant finally cracked a smile. “So, what else you want to know, kid? She was a beauty school student just like that other girl. I saw you there the other day. I was on crowd control. A little late weren’t you?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
The sergeant looked at his watch. “Speaking of the time, I’ve got to get going.” He turned and started to walk away.
“Wait,” Norman called after him. “I have a few more questions.”
Sergeant Love stopped, turned part way around, then spoke so fast Norman could hardly write fast enough to keep up. “You know, you’re lucky I’m in a good mood. Look, here it is, kid. We found a twenty-three-year-old white female dead in the apartment. Cause of death is pending. Could be a drug-related homicide. But don’t quote me. You’ve got to talk to Sergeant Stone from Homicide. I’m just helping to keep the lookie-loos like you out of the way. It’s Stone’s case and he’s not here yet. So no quotes. Got that?”
“Yeah, yeah, right. Autopsy today?”
“You’ll have to call the ME’s office.”
“What’s her name?”
“Can’t release that. Family hasn’t been notified. And by the way, kid, you’d better wipe that newsprint off your face. You look like you got in a fight with a bag of charcoal briquettes. And lost.”
Al’s voice echoed in his head: Push the envelope. “Can I see the body?” Norman asked.
The sergeant shook his head. “You’re really getting to be a pain in the ass, you know that?”
Norman just smiled.
“Sorry, kid. As much as I’d like to watch you lose your breakfast, we don’t want anyone contaminating the crime scene.”
Norman didn’t really want to see the body. He was just trying to test the boundaries. It was high time to head back to the office and start making calls anyway.
Norman walked to his car and started back to the newsroom. As he careened around corners, the newspapers he was saving to read later slid around in the back seat.
I really need to do something about those papers this weekend, especially if I want to ask Lulu out. She is one tasty waitress.
It was ironic. By murdering young women, some sick bastard was creating an opportunity for him to get on the front page. He felt bad for thinking something so cold, but it was the truth. And he was all about the truth.
Norman hoped he would have as much luck reaching this girl’s parents as he had reaching Tania Marcus’. He’d felt like he might have taken advantage of Helen Marcus a bit in her intoxicated state, but he also knew he had to be tough or he’d never get assigned another big story. So he kept going.
She’d sounded like she wanted someone to talk to, so it couldn’t have been all that wrong. Right?
As he approached the freeway exit for the paper in Mission Valley, Norman changed his mind and decided to reverse course. If he went to the beauty school, maybe he could get the name of the dead girl without having to wait a day for the ME to release it. Besides, he was still looking for ways to follow up on the first murder, because he was convinced that the two cases were related.
Norman sang along to the radio, letting the wind whip through his hair. This was what Southern California was all about. Warm breezes and hot babes in dental floss bikinis, their long hair flowing down their backs and their tight abs glistening with oil as they flounced down the beach. It was a far cry from the lake in New Jersey, where he went with his family in the summers as a kid.
Norman headed north on the 5 freeway, then west on Grand Avenue toward the beach, the same way he’d come, but this time, he hit one red light after another. If he’d thought of this an hour ago, he’d be back at the paper writing already. He was turning right onto Mission Boulevard when his car began to sputter, even with the accelerator to the floor. Then he noticed that the gas gauge was on the big red E. He’d forgotten to fill her up that morning.
“Dammit,” he yelled. “Why didn’t I stop last night?”
Luckily, no cars were coming the other way and he was able to guide his car across the street into a supermarket parking lot. He’d seen the yellow
and red of a Shell station sign about five blocks back. He may have been stupid enough not to fill the tank, but at least he had that empty gas can in the trunk.
Norman eased the car into a parking space and came to a stop, then sat there for a few seconds, shaking his head. “Get over yourself,” he said. “Everything will work out.”
Then Norman opened the trunk, saw there was no gas can.
“Shit!” he said, accentuating the t for emphasis. He’d forgotten that he’d loaned the can to Lulu the other night at the Tavern when her car wouldn’t start. He’d offered to take her to the gas station, but then Big Ed beeped him and told him to run on that armed robbery, so he left the can with Lulu and she got some prison guard to take her to a station nearby.
He took off on foot, hoping that the Shell attendant would loan him some kind of container. He was not going to lose this story—no way, no how. He hadn’t gotten this far without knowing the meaning of intrepid. He was determined to get a Page One story and a date with the fabulous Lulu, all in one day.
Ten minutes later, as he approached the yellow and red sign, he saw that a chain-link fence had been erected around the perimeter of a vacant lot, which was piled high with chunks of torn-up asphalt. There were deep holes in the earth where the underground tanks had been removed. A cardboard sign said a Fresh-Mex restaurant would be opening soon.
Norman began to panic. What should he do now? He needed to clear his head and come up with a game plan.
This, he decided, called for a cheeseburger, a chocolate shake, fries, and a bottomless cup of coffee. He retraced his steps and headed for Denny’s.
Chapter 25
Goode
Goode was really worried about his sister, especially now that he’d learned she had dated Keith and hung out in the same bar as this group of friends who were doing drugs and getting murdered. He knew he needed to get over to the latest murder scene, but he felt compelled to check Maureen’s house one more time first.
Naked Addiction Page 18
