Irving pulled out a small notepad and removed a pen from his shirt pocket. “What time did you arrive at your house?”
Dean cupped his hands over his face. “It’s hard to remember anything before this happened. My plane got in yesterday morning. Kathleen met me at the airport, and we had lunch at the Lodge at Pebble Beach. It was her birthday, so I’d arranged for her to have a massage and facial. I met her at the house around six, I believe.” He took a deep breath, then said, “We got into an argument and I left.”
The detective remained stoic, but it was obvious that Dean had captured his full attention. “What did you argue over?”
“Let me be honest,” Dean told him. “Kathleen and I weren’t getting along. I thought everything was okay, but then I found out she’d started popping Valium again. She accused me of having an affair. Kathleen was completely out of control last night, screaming and yelling at me like a banshee. I can’t deal with her when she gets like that, so I went out for a drive to cool down.”
“Did you come to blows? Did you hit her?”
“Absolutely not.” Dean acted incensed that Irving would even imply such a thing. “I would never, and I mean never, strike a woman. Kathleen has hit me dozens of times, but I never once retaliated. Her first husband was extremely wealthy, Detective…”
“Call me Brian,” he said. “People say you’re pretty well-heeled yourself, Dean, that you even have your own private jet. Is that true?”
“Not really,” Dean answered, uncomfortable with inquiries regarding his financial holdings. “The jet is a coop deal. If you’re wondering if I had anything to gain if Kathleen died, I didn’t. When we married, we signed a premarital agreement. Basically, if we divorced, my wife would retain whatever assets she had prior to the marriage, as well as anything she earned during. The same applied to me. Money was never an issue.” He stopped and cleared his throat. “What I was trying to say about her first marriage is that her husband treated her like a child. He spoiled her, but he also dominated her. I came along and picked up the pieces. For the first year or so, everything was fine. Then Kathleen’s emotional state began to disintegrate.”
“I see,” Irving said, jotting down a few notes on his pad. “Let’s try to focus on the night of the break-in. When you left to cool down, did you go to a bar or stop off at a friend’s house?”
“No,” Dean answered. “Are you wondering if someone saw me? Is that what this is about? You said you knew who the murderer was…this…this…Arnold Layman person.”
“I know it’s a technicality, Dean,” Irving told him, “but your wife isn’t dead yet. Right now, the crime is an assault with a deadly weapon, not a murder. Now, about the time you arrived home and discovered the crime…”
Bastard, Dean thought. The detective was trying to make him nervous by challenging him on every detail. Another troubling thought came to mind. What time had he called Kaufman? If they decided to consider him a suspect, which he still felt was unlikely, they would be able to find out he’d called Kathleen from his cell phone around five. But they wouldn’t know what had transpired during the conversation. “I didn’t look at my watch, Brian,” he said, using the man’s name in a not altogether pleasant manner. He had every right to be defensive. Anyone would be, under the circumstances. “I guess it was around ten or ten-thirty. I called Kaufman pretty fast, or at least it seemed that way. I was in shock, so there’s no telling what I did.” He stood. “I’ve been in this place since last night. I need to get some air. Maybe we should talk about this tomorrow.”
Irving slowly pushed his six-five frame to a standing position. “I’ll step outside with you.”
Great! When was this asshole going to leave? He’d laid the groundwork, though, and when the police finished going over the forensic evidence and the autopsy report on his pal Arnie, the case would be closed. If he didn’t stick around and Kathleen pulled through the surgery, they might not think too highly of him, but he knew they couldn’t lock him up for leaving his wife, even under the present circumstances. As long as they didn’t consider him a suspect, he could do whatever he wanted.
Irving leaned against a wall outside the entrance to the emergency room. When he just stood there, Dean wondered if something was going on he didn’t know about. “I thought they operated on Kathleen last night. How could she still be in surgery?”
“There was a problem last night, and they had to postpone the surgery,” the detective told him. “She might be in the recovery room by now. I doubt if they’ll let you see her right away.”
“If you don’t mind, Brian, I’d like to check on Kathleen, then go home, shower, and change my clothes. I’m beginning to stink.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. We haven’t finished processing the crime scene. It’ll be several days before we’re done, and the place has to be cleaned. Do you have some friends you could stay with?”
“I’ll go to a hotel,” Dean said, running his hands through his hair. “I don’t want to go back there now, anyway.”
“Would you like me to make arrangements for a crime-scene cleaning crew?”
“Sure.”
“You’ll be billed. Cleaning crime scenes is their specialty, though, so it’s worth the money. They have the experience and chemicals to get out blood and other stains. They’ll even replace your carpet if necessary.”
“Whatever,” Dean answered, not sure if he ever wanted to set foot in that house again.
Irving handed him his card. “Call and let me know which hotel you’re at.”
Dean gave him his cell phone number. He started to walk away when the detective called out to him.
“Oh,” he said. “Just one more question. Do either you or your wife drink Old Crow whiskey?”
“I’m not sure,” Dean responded, suddenly realizing that this could be the one flaw in his perfect scenario. He hadn’t known that Arnie was a burglar who broke into homes to steal booze and food. If he’d known, he would have cracked Kathleen’s skull open with a bottle of Jack Daniels. Yet, even that wouldn’t have solved the problem. Drunks don’t bring their own booze when they burgle a house. “I don’t drink whiskey at all, Brian. Besides, it’s my wife’s home. It was part of her divorce settlement. I was only there one week per month.” He started to suggest one of the housekeepers had stashed away a bottle of Old Crow, but he didn’t want the police to know the house was cleaned the day before the crime. “If you want to know what Kathleen drinks,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, “I guess you’ll have to ask her.”
“We’ll be in touch,” Irving said, walking off in the direction of the parking lot.
Not for long, Dean thought, relieved to finally ditch the detective. He’d go upstairs now and see if Kathleen was out of surgery so he could establish himself as the dutiful husband. A few phone conversations with the nurses if she pulled through, a call or two to Irving to see how the case against Layman was stacking up, then he would disconnect his cell phone. After that, Dean Masters would cease to exist.
CHAPTER 21
Wednesday, September 20—4:30 P.M.
By the time Carolyn turned onto the street, the late September sun had disappeared behind a thick wall of fog. She slowed down and checked the numbers on the curb until she located 4005 Park Avenue. The street name alone was a joke. Park Avenue was only a few streets over from the old projects, an area they now called Westview Village. The high cost of California real estate anywhere near the coast meant that even a low-income house could run into the hundreds of thousands.
She wondered if the place might be a crack den. Black wrought-iron bars covered the front door. Rather than put on fresh paint, someone had removed the shingles from the roof and nailed them over the exterior. After last year’s rains, a person would have to be on drugs in order to stand walking into the place. It must be like a swimming pool in there.
The window on the right had black lace curtains in front of what appeared to be a yellowed white shade. The window to the left of th
e main entrance was covered with pink satin curtains, but they had been pulled back to let in the light. Maybe that’s where Holden’s mother’s bedroom was located. No wonder he had been traumatized by the woman. The house looked like something out of a horror movie.
Carolyn assumed Holden’s mother had either passed away or was in a nursing home and the state had taken the house for back taxes. It looked as if it hadn’t been occupied for years. The grass had died from lack of water, and weeds had taken over. The sales sign was even leaning sideways. Several other houses on the block were in a similar state of disrepair.
She hadn’t been in this area in a long time. Years ago the inexpensive tract had been occupied by young families, thrilled to own their first home. Now, she assumed, most of the residents were renters, people who couldn’t care less if the yard was mowed or the house painted. On the opposite side of the street was a storage yard belonging to what appeared to be a trucking company, the property protected by a high curled-wire fence like the ones you saw around prisons.
The place was obviously vacant. There were no furnishings, and Carolyn could see through the window all the way to the backyard.
She hit the autodial on her cell, ending up with Hank’s voice mail. He must be testifying, she decided. Glancing at her watch, she saw it was after five. Rebecca had a ride home from art class, so she didn’t have to worry about that, but she needed to talk to John. Today was his day off.
“Hank,” she said, speaking when she heard the beep. “I’m at Holden’s mother’s house, and it’s vacant. Looks like nobody has lived here for ages. Forget about getting a warrant. I doubt if there’s anything inside this dump except rats.”
After concluding the call, Carolyn drove to the end of the block and turned around. A group of thugs were congregated on the street corner. They stared at her for a second or two but quickly lost interest. Just before she passed Holden’s house again, she eased her foot off the accelerator. It couldn’t hurt to take a walk around the property, especially since she’d told Hank to forgo securing a search warrant. Removing her gun from her purse, she got out and opened the trunk to get the flashlight she kept there.
Circling to the back, she climbed the stairs to a rotting wooden porch. A noise made her freeze. Taking a step forward, she realized it was probably her own weight that had caused the boards to creak. She peered into what seemed to be another bedroom. Nothing but dirty walls and worn carpet there.
To the side of her, the door was flung open. Spinning around, she found her flashlight pointed at the face of a man. My God, she thought, gasping. It’s Carl Holden!
He was neatly dressed in a blue sweater and black slacks. He shielded his eyes from the light of the flashlight. She clasped her gun tightly, concealing it behind her back. She’d sworn she would never take another life, even if it meant sacrificing her own. Although she wouldn’t be unhappy if Holden ended up dead, she didn’t want to be the one to do it. She carried the gun only to frighten people or, if someone attacked her, to use as a bludgeon.
Her hand shook as she tried to steady the flashlight beam on Holden’s face, hoping it would prevent him from recognizing her. “I’m sorry,” she said, speaking in a higher pitched voice to disguise it. “I’m a real estate agent. One of my clients is interested in purchasing this house. I’ll come back tomorrow.”
The area was suddenly illuminated. It took Carolyn a moment before she figured out the neighbor had turned on his backyard lights.
“How did you find me?” Holden exclaimed, his face etched with fury. “You have no business poking around in my business.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Carl,” Carolyn told him, trying to distract him while she readied herself to flee. “I was just passing by and remembered this was the address you’d given me for your mother. Since you got evicted from your apartment, I thought you might be staying here.” Her palms were sweating and her heart racing. Holden’s chest was rising and falling, his rage simmering. “I may not be charged with supervising you,” she continued, “but I do need to advise the court where you’re living.”
Carolyn spun around to run. Holden surged forward and grabbed her blouse, leaping on her back and causing her to fall face first onto the edge of the porch. The flashlight flew out of her hand. She tried to crawl away, but his weight crushed her. The pressure released as he bent over and encased her ankles with an iron grip. “You don’t want to do this, Carl,” she managed to gasp. Her hand holding the gun was dangling over the side of the porch where he couldn’t see it. “Assaulting a police officer carries a stiff penalty.”
“You’re a stupid little probation officer,” he said, letting forth a sinister laugh. “No one cares what happens to you. I don’t see any police cars anywhere. I bet nobody even knows you’re here. That’s right, isn’t it? Answer me, damn it!” He slammed her head down with tremendous force.
When Carolyn lost consciousness, her fingers opened and the gun fell onto the dried grass below the porch. She awakened as he was dragging her over the threshold into the house. Thrusting her arms forward, she clawed the wood surface with her fingernails. Her head was throbbing, and her muscles already ached from exhaustion. He was too strong. She screamed, thinking she could attract the attention of the people next door. “Help! Someone help me! Call the police!”
“Nice try,” Holden snarled, wiping his runny nose with the back of his hand. “The lights next door are on a timer.”
His movements were quick and powerful. “What are you going to do to me?” she said, panting as she reached into her pocket of her skirt and pressed the redial button on her cell phone.
“I’m going to give you what you deserve,” Holden told her, dropping her on the floor in a small room that smelled of mildew. He placed his foot in the center of her chest as he pulled out a long strip of gray duct tape, ripping it apart with his teeth. “No one will catch me. I learned a lot in prison.”
“You’re making a mistake, Holden,” she said, emphasizing his name. “I called for backup before I reached your house. The police will be here any second. They’ll shoot you, understand? They know you murdered that other woman and buried her in the lagoon.” She prayed Hank had picked up his cell phone this time. If not, she might end up in a drawer at the morgue next to Lisa Sheppard.
“You wanted me dead all along, didn’t you?” he hissed, wrapping the tape around her wrists and extending it behind her head. He then secured her hands onto her forehead. “Look at me now. Eight years, and I’m standing in front of a perfectly ripened female, right in my target demographics.”
“Stop, Holden,” Carolyn pleaded. “I’m not your mother. Nothing you do is going to change the abuse you suffered as a child.”
He exploded, raising his arm and hitting her in the face with a closed fist. “My mother’s dead. She died alone in this shitty house while I was in prison. They didn’t find her body for almost a week. She didn’t abuse me. My mother loved me. I just made that stuff up so the court would give me a lighter sentence.”
Carolyn was struggling to remain conscious. The impact of his punch had blurred the vision in her right eye, and she could feel blood from her nose running down her face. He strapped another piece of tape over her mouth. The thought of him raping her was so repugnant, she could feel her stomach coming up in her throat. If she vomited, she could drown in her own fluids.
Holden removed his slacks and let them fall to the floor. Carolyn fought furiously against the restraints as he knelt down in front of her. He lifted her skirt and tore off her panty hose. She kicked out with her legs, but it was no use. “I’m going to show you who’s in charge here, you conniving slut.”
He pinned her down with his upper body. Then he stuck several fingers in his mouth, wetting them before reaching down to grope her vagina.
Carolyn tried to pray but couldn’t. All she wanted to do was kill him. She stared at the ceiling, trying to separate her body into compartments. Whatever was happening between her legs was happening to someone
else. She tried to imagine she was listening to her car stereo, about to turn into her driveway. The guttural animal sounds Holden was making made that impossible. His unshaven face scraped against the tender skin on her cheek. She didn’t think he’d penetrated her except with his fingers. He was moving his hand up and down on his penis, trying to get an erection. He’d probably subdued her too soon. Many rapists only became stimulated when their victims fought and pleaded for mercy. This was what empowered them.
Carolyn had to keep her mind working on a rational level. If she let her emotions take over, she would not be able to think straight if an opportunity presented itself to escape. He’d taken away one of her strongest weapons when he’d taped her mouth. Now all she could do was remain mentally detached.
Why worry about his raping her? Regardless of what he did, he was going to kill her. If Hank was coming, he would have been here by now. His trial must have carried on into the evening. Because of a judge’s decision to move the calendar, Carolyn would die.
Holden’s attention was suddenly drawn to something behind her. Climbing off, he picked up her lighted cell phone off the floor where it had fallen. “Fuck,” he said. “You called someone.”
Carolyn watched as he yanked his pants back on. He rushed around inside the dark room as if he was looking for something. In the distance, she heard the shrill of sirens. Tears of relief gushed from her eyes.
Holden ran out the back door, the screen slamming shut behind him. Minutes later, Hank and several uniformed officers burst through the front.
“Get Romero,” the detective barked. “He and Hooper are covering the back.” He looked down at Carolyn as the other officers ran out, one of them speaking on his portable radio. “Is Holden armed?”
Carolyn started to shake her head, but then nodded, afraid Holden might have found her gun. It was humiliating to have the officers see her spread out on the floor, but her personal feelings would have to take a backseat to catching a killer.
Sullivan’s Evidence Page 20
