“So your theory is that Evergreen paid Cummings to kill the couple and get the pictures back when he couldn’t find them in the judge’s house. But when Cummings committed the homicides, he left the pictures there. Why would he do that?”
“Possibly because the boy came home and startled him, or he just never thought of the crawl space. The carpet obscured it pretty well, and there was a box of old clothes on top of it. He went through those, he just didn’t think to look for the crawl space. Anyway, he ransacked Sanders tone’s house thinking they were hidden there, and when it was a no-go, Evergreen got desperate and contracted the killing.”
“A killing? You really think that’s possible? A judge contracting a killing?”
Rickerson raised his eyebrows. Both he and the chief had been in this business too long not to realize that anything was possible. “Maybe Evergreen just wanted the photos back…and the animal he hired—Cummings—simply went nuts in there. Pretty, sexy woman. He’s a sex offender. Then the husband walked in and he had to do him too.”
“Well,” the chief said, deep in thought, “if Evergreen is the man in the photos, he would certainly have a lot to lose. There’s no doubt about that. Boy,” he said, actually shivering, “that’s a chilling thought…a fucking iceberg.” The chief stopped walking and turned to the detective. “Do you have any idea, Rickerson, what it’s going to take to go up against the most powerful judge in the county? Don’t think for a minute you can put together a thin case and ever get out of the box.”
The chief waited until Rickerson unlocked the police unit and then opened the passenger door. He looked up at the sky and held his hand in the air, smiling at Rickerson. “It’s raining. Hope your ability to solve homicides is better than your ability to predict the weather.”
They were looking at each other over the hood of the police unit, the sky spitting forth moisture but only enough to leave a few drops on the windshield. Rickerson drew hard on his fat cigar, and an enormous cloud of smoke appeared, almost obscuring his face. Just before it started pouring, the detective ducked inside the police car. leaving the chief standing there in the rain.
The first step in building a case against Evergreen, Rickerson thought, was somehow connecting him to the homicides. The problem was simple: lack of evidence. Once the chief was inside the car, Rickerson fired up the ignition and pulled out into traffic. “I blew a lot of hot air out there, Chief. Even if my gut tells me it’s Evergreen, I’m gonna have a hell of a time proving it.”
The chief had his glasses off and was wiping them from the rain. Rickerson stopped at the light and glanced at him. Funny, he thought, people look so different without their glasses.
“I don’t think you’ve even broken ground with this case, Ted. What about this woman’s tricks? What if this Perkins fellow was dealing in child pornography and stepped on the wrong people? That’s a dirty business. These photos we just saw aren’t even recent. There’s no telling where they came from. And all you have to connect Judge Evergreen to these crimes is the fact that he asked Judge Sanderstone to grant Cummings an O.R. release. Why don’t you interview Evergreen and find out who asked him to release this man?”
The chief had some valid points, but Rickerson certainly wasn’t going to interview Evergreen and tip his hand. He liked the element of surprise, wanted his prey to move around freely while he stalked them. That way they might fall right into his hands. “There’s one thing you are right about, Chief.”
“Yeah, Fell me.”
“Even if our man isn’t Evergreen himself, the person behind these killings has to be someone working inside the system: a judge, D.A., cop, someone with access to booking information and rap sheets.”
“Thousands of people have access to that kind of information,” the chief said, “even clerical people.”
“Whoever arranged Packy Cummings’s release is our killer, Chief. I might be wrong about Evergreen, but I’m not wrong here.”
Chapter 13
By the time Rickerson got back to San Clemente that afternoon, Lara Sanderstone was waiting in his office. She was sitting in the little chair by his desk in the detective bay. Her hair was down instead of pinned at her neck. It fell to her shoulders in a blunt-cut style that was extremely flattering. The jet black hair against her fair skin, the high cheekbones, the stress she was obviously under, all served to give her a look of vulnerability and touching beauty. She was wearing a tailored pants suit and little black shoes with studs on the toes. Josh was waiting outside in the Jaguar with the radio blasting. Rickerson had seen him on his way into the building.
Lara stood when he walked up, glancing at the other officer at the next desk. The man was on the phone, not paying attention to them. “I wanted to apologize for the way I acted yesterday,” she said in a contrite voice. “I know you wouldn’t have leaked that stuff to the press. It was all just too much and I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”
He smiled at her. “Yeah, well, we all have our bad days. You’ve certainly had more than your share. Forget it.”
“Do you have any news on that man…Packard Cummings?”
Rickerson loosened his tie and flopped into his chair, tossing his legs on his desk. “He split, but we’ll nab him. Give us time. We’re working around the clock.”
“Did you find out who he’s working for? What agency?”
He didn’t want to tip his hand, take a chance on blowing the biggest case of his career. He looked away, avoiding her eyes. “We’re working on it.”
“Why don’t I just ask Evergreen? Why all this subterfuge? You know, I want to go back to my house. The condo is too small for Josh and me. I want to go home.”
“Listen to me. I’m going to repeat myself. I already told you this the other day. Don’t open your mouth about this to a soul. Not a soul, do you hear me? If you want to find out who murdered your sister, do exactly as I say and don’t ask questions. And as of this minute, I don’t want you anywhere near that house. Got it?”
Lara flipped a wayward strand of hair off her forehead. “I went over there this morning and got some more clothes and things.” Rickerson was glowering at her. “I didn’t go to the condo from there, so don’t give me that look. I came straight over here. If anyone followed me, they would have just followed me here. And I’m not going straight back to the condo.”
“It’s your neck, Lara,” he said. “You lead the guy back to that condo and you can kiss safety goodbye. Not only that, but I can’t spare the manpower right now to have someone sit there all night. As of right now, you’re on your own.”
“What about the autopsy and forensics? Is the report complete yet? I want to see it.”
“No, they’re still working on it. I told you no prints in the San Clemente house.”
“No prints,” she repeated. “Shit…”
“They’re completely swamped down there. All the M.E. told me is that he thinks it went down this way.” Rickerson paused, picking up his cigar, and then he remembered the scene in the restaurant with Lara. He dropped it back in the ashtray, turning his chair to face her. He spoke in a low, controlled voice. “Somehow the assailant managed to get into the house. He may or may not have intended to kill them. We can’t know that for sure. All we know is that he was looking for something in that house, and from the looks of it, he didn’t find it. She was there…he raped her, held the pillow over her face to keep her from screaming, drawing attention, and then he suffocated her. Maybe she was fighting; maybe he just likes to kill women, or maybe someone paid him to kill them both. Your brother-in-law more than likely walked into this scene. The suspect was hiding, probably in Josh’s bedroom, and bashed Perkins in the back of the head as he went to your sister’s side. Sam fell forward on the bed where we found him.” Rickerson sat back in his seat. “At first we thought there were two separate killers, but now we’re going on the basis of only one. Forensics has some pubic hair, not your brother-in-law’s, some skin under her fingernails, and other than that, they’re still
looking.”
Lara was trembling, her mind filled with the horror Ivory had endured. She hadn’t heard half of what Rickerson had said. She kept seeing the bloody walls, Ivory’s lifeless body, Sam’s cracked skull with his brain exposed. “Isn’t there something…that I can do?” she stammered. “I can’t let this person get away with this…my sister…I simply can’t.”
“Not a thing. We’re doing everything humanly possible to bring this man in and put this to bed. We’ve even called some men in from retirement, borrowed some men from the sheriff. We’re doing it all.”
“Nothing,” she reiterated, her frustration escalating. “Just like that, I’m supposed to sit around and do nothing.
“Just like that, kid,” Rickerson said, his rust eyes flashing with compassion. “I know you like to run the show, but this is one show you better stay out of or you’ll end up the star. That’s more or less what happened to your sister and she’s dead.”
Lara’s chest was rising and falling. She stood to leave but didn’t speak. She kept her eyes locked on the redheaded detective. He stared right back until she looked away. “The boy involved in the Henderson case? Have you found him yet?” she asked.
“He’s coming home from UCLA tonight. I’ve already talked to his parents. I’m interviewing him later this evening. To be honest, I don’t really think he’s involved, but believe me, we’re gonna give him a full tumble.”
“I’m frightened, you know,” Lara said. Her palms were sweaty and she was rubbing them on her pants legs. “And I keep thinking they’re going to get away with this. Too many people get away with these horrendous crimes.”
Rickerson came out from behind his desk. The other detective had disappeared. Phones were ringing. Outside the detective bay was a flurry of activity. He needed to get back to work. He put his large hands on her shoulders and stared her right in the eye, only inches from her face. “One of these days you’re going to have to trust someone, Lara. Why don’t you start with me? They aren’t going to get away with it.”
The detective dropped his hands, and Lara walked out of the police station. Packy Cummings was still out there somewhere. She tried to bring forth the image of his face from that day in the courtroom, but it was buried somewhere in her subconscious. Had he followed her here to the police station? Had someone hired him to eliminate her entire family? She saw the Jaguar and Josh still in the front seat. She should have never left him alone.
Once she was inside the car, Lara turned down the radio and smiled at Josh. “You hungry? I’m starving. Where do you want to go to lunch?”
Josh jerked his head away and stared out the window. With each passing hour the boy became more withdrawn and morose. Today he had barely spoken.
“Yes, Aunt Lara, lunch would be terrific,” she said, hoping she might embarrass him into opening up, acknowledging how hard she was trying.
Slowly he turned toward her and stared at her with a black intensity. “I’m not hungry,” he snapped. “And I don’t know why I have to go everywhere with you. I’m not your pet dog, you know.”
“No, Josh,” Lara said softly, trying to keep the exasperation out of her voice, “you’re not my pet dog, but you are the only relative I have now. It would be nice if we could help each other get through this, don’t you think?”
Josh didn’t answer. Lara felt her fingers tighten on the steering wheel. As horrid as it might seem, she knew she could not eliminate her nephew as a suspect. While the police were combing the city for the killer, the killer could be sitting right next to her.
The men were assembled in the squad room at the San Clemente Police Department. It was three o’clock, time for the regular change-of-shift briefing, and the majority of the men were uniformed officers. Chief Terrence Bradshaw walked to the front of the room to address the men.
“In a few minutes I’m going to have Detective Rickerson go over where we stand in the Perkins homicides. He’s heading the task force investigating these crimes, along with my son, who you all know.” The chief paused and looked out over the men, seeing the fresh-scrubbed face of his oldest son. He’d been on the force two years now. This would be his first assignment out of uniform, his chance to prove himself to both the seasoned men on the force and his father.
“As you’ve all probably heard by now,” the chief continued, “someone in this department leaked sensitive information to the press, and when that person is found,” he said, his eyes scanning the room with authority and menace, “he will be dealt with appropriately. Now, I’ll turn you over to Detective Rickerson.”
The chief took a seat in the front row and Rickerson stood. “This is what we have,” he began. “We have a man and a woman who were found murdered in their home in the San Simeon housing tract of our city. The medical examiner has placed time of death between 0100 hours and 0300 hours on Wednesday, September eighth. There was no forced entry into the residence, but the killer or killers could have managed entry through the rear door of the residence. There was a hidden key there. The murder weapon on the male was a twenty-pound dumbbell discovered at the scene. The female was suffocated. There are only two sets of prints on the murder weapon—the woman’s and those of her fourteen-year-old son.”
Rickerson paused and took a drink of water from a glass on the table. “We do, however, have a suspect, as you are all well aware by now. His prints were found in the residence of the murdered woman’s sister, Judge Lara Sanderstone, which was ransacked only a day before the murders.”
Rickerson stopped and picked up a large stack of flyers off the table that he handed to one of the officers to distribute. “This individual should be considered armed and dangerous. Use extreme caution if you attempt to stop him. I’m certain you’ve all heard earlier broadcasts and have been on the lookout for this vehicle. The suspect, a Packard Cummings, was on parole and recently arrested for carrying a concealed weapon. Right now he’s wanted only for questioning and for violation of parole. If located, book him on the parole violation and contact me immediately. Do not interrogate the subject.”
A commotion broke out in the room. Officers were talking among themselves and fidgeting in their seats. So far Rickerson hadn’t told them anything they didn’t already know, and they were eager to hit the streets. The senior Bradshaw stood and the pandemonium immediately stopped. He then sat back down. Rickerson continued.
“The murdered woman, an Ivory Perkins, was working the trades as a prostitute, specializing in S and M. We have reason to believe that she and her husband, Sam Perkins, were extorting money from someone, possibly a high-placed government official.”
“Who? Tell us who,” a voice from the back yelled out.
“No names will be disclosed at this point.”
The younger Bradshaw raised his hand. Rickerson glanced at his father and then back to the boy. “Yes, Mike.”
“What evidence is there implicating extortion?”
Rickerson’s opinion of the chief’s son was obvious from his expression, but he didn’t let it show in his voice. “Next sentence, Mike. I was getting to that. Just be patient here.”
“Sorry,” the young man said, a flush spreading over his face. The men let forth a round of laughter. It wasn’t easy being an officer in a department where your father was the chief. Every time the young officer opened his mouth, someone thought it was a reason to ridicule him.
“Shortly before the murders, Samuel Perkins started throwing a lot of cash around—paying for things with a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills. He was seen at the racetrack in Del Mar, where he dropped a bundle, and there was about forty thousand in cash in the safe at the pawnshop. We know of no legitimate means for him to come up with this kind of money. His pawnshop was failing. Before this date he was being hounded by creditors. In addition, he was apparently fencing stolen property through the pawnshop. Some of it we have recovered and returned to the rightful owners.”
A burly cop in the second row spoke up. “I tried to pop this guy a number of times f
or receiving stolen property. He was connected. Judge Sanderstone stepped on me hard.”
Rickerson coughed and looked at the ground. This was something he didn’t want spread all over the department—that a superior court judge was using her position to cover for a small-time thief like Perkins. Of course, with the kind of cash they had found, he was evidently growing in stature and couldn’t really be classified as small-time anymore. “Let’s move along, okay.”
Now the officer who had spoken up stood. His name was Connors. “No, let’s not move along. I’m getting pretty fed up with the graft and corruption in this county. We do the work and some crooked judge throws it out or tells us to take a hike.”
“As I said, Connors, let’s move along,” Rickerson said, again glancing at the chief. “We have the phone records from the residence and numerous other leads that we will be following up on. Anyone with any information regarding this case, please contact me at once.” Rickerson started to walk off and then reluctantly returned, remembering the chief was in the room. “Or contact Investigator Mike Bradshaw if I’m not available.”
Getting that out of his mouth took a lot. It was a bitter pill to swallow, getting stuck with the chief’s inept son on a case as big as this one. As soon as he was out of the squad room, he removed a cigar from his pocket, bit off the end, and shoved it between his teeth. A few seconds later, the younger Bradshaw was right by his side.
Rickerson looked down at him. He almost wanted to laugh. The man was so small. He couldn’t be taller than five-six. The chief was a giant of a man. Son must have taken after the mother, he thought, in more ways than one. Everyone knew he wasn’t that sharp, was borderline to even be in the department at all. Rickerson headed to the detective bureau, the younger man hot on his heels.
“Some attorney has been calling here asking a lot of questions about this case,” he said. “Says he’s a friend of the judge.”
Interest of Justice Page 17
