by LS Sygnet
He struggled to control interest and lost the battle. "Are you thinking of staying that long? A house makes sense?"
"You almost sound like you want me to leave."
Johnny tossed his newspaper aside, one that looked like little more than a prop to support casual conversation. "Are you nuts? I'd love it if you stayed here permanently, Doc. I'm sure George Hardy and Donald Weber will be thrilled too."
"I wouldn't go that far. They had a definite change in commitment this morning. Frankly, the only real advocate I had in that impromptu meeting was Jerry."
"Jerry? As in Jerry Lowe?"
I nodded.
"Doc, you can't trust a guy like Jerry Lowe!"
"Why not?"
"He's as bad as Rodney Martin. Part of the problem across the street is that they keep promoting these ass-kissers to positions of power when the quotient of their street smarts and experience is zilch. Do you even know how Jerry got his job?"
"Do tell." Men could be so easy to play.
"He was a uniformed officer for six years, took every exam he could the second he was eligible. During his tenure in a uniform, Jerry had a desk job. He made lieutenant at thirty, passed the captain's exam at thirty-two. He was slick, and knew all the right things to say to Chief McNamara and ended up captain of major crimes, that elite crew over there that does very little even when it does happen between seven and four-thirty."
"That was your unit, I believe."
"Yeah, and I wasn't a clock watcher. When I had a case, we worked two days solid without more than spit baths and cat naps."
"Just because he was ambitious doesn't make him a bad guy."
"He'd been captain maybe four months when Harry McNamara keeled over dead at his desk. It was the first time Jerry lifted a finger to do anything on the job."
"Dialed 9-1-1, did he?"
"He performed CPR until the paramedics arrived."
"And that earned him the position of chief of detectives?"
"Oh, he lobbied like crazy for McNamara's job. Weber wasn't sure we needed a chief of detectives at all. It seemed to work best in the other divisions to have the detective squads led by lowly lieutenants. But Jerry is a good politician. By the end of January, he was sitting in his new office on the eighth floor."
I shrugged. "I fail to see the problem, Johnny. That's often the way it goes with the upper echelon of police administration. You don't think that the director of the FBI comes from the rank of field agents, do you?"
"Maybe he should!"
"Or she."
"The FBI has never had a female director."
"Yet."
He grinned. "Fine. Point taken. What the hell did Lowe do that impressed you so much?"
"He believes that we'll solve this case, Johnny. Hardy and Weber were ready to tuck tail and run, and Lowe stood up for us."
"I see."
"Not even Commander Broom up the Ass showed a speck of trust that Haverston and I will get to the bottom of this."
"I take it you're talking about Commander Darnell from OSI."
"Can you believe the nerve of this guy? He was actually gonna rip the case out of my hands and give it to the state police in his elite task force." I picked off the corner of my croissant and gauged Orion's reactions out of the corner of my eye.
"Darnell used to be some sort of commanding officer in the Marines," Orion said. "He's not the enemy, Doc."
"If he's in the way of me doing my job, he most certainly is. Plus, he made some comment this morning that made me wonder if he isn't behind those surveillance devices in my hotel room."
One finger traced the rim of his coffee cup. Orion's voice was low, serious. "He's a good man. Don't hold it against him simply because he understands the stakes in this. Darkwater Bay cannot afford to have another case like Brighton's go cold."
"It's far from that. It hasn't even been two days yet. Either people wanted me here because they believed that fresh eyes could make a difference or they didn't. I am not a politician, Orion. I won't play those games when I'm working a case. And I was pretty clear about the terms of our arrangement this morning. We either do this my way, or we're done. I won't be a quiet lamb led to the slaughter like –"
His eyebrows danced high on his forehead. "Like I was?"
"That sounds rather insensitive, but yes. You let yourself be the scapegoat in something you couldn't possibly have done."
"And how is it that you've become so certain of that fact, Helen? Like you said, you haven't even been here for two days."
I dragged my lower lip through my teeth a couple of times in the course of a great debate. Exactly how much trust did I need to engender with Orion? A little more wouldn't hurt, and it might be invaluable down the road.
"The procedure for handling evidence collected in the process of autopsy," I said. "I have it on high authority that it hasn't changed over the years."
"So?"
"It would've been impossible for you to get a vial of Bennett's blood containing EDTA to plant evidence on Masconi's clothing. Ergo, whoever did the deed had help, had access to evidence that would've left a trail, had anybody bothered to look for it."
His gaze grew uncomfortably tender before it skittered away. "I don't think that's a point that anyone bothered to consider. Thank you."
The knot in my belly that hadn't yet dissipated from the confrontation in Hardy's conference room unfurled on the wings of a billion butterflies. I struggled to tamp down the tingling nerve endings and confused synapses that resulted in an urge to crawl into Orion's lap and promise that I believed he was a good man.
Logic whispered through my brain. So he didn't tamper with evidence. So what if his alibi is iron clad. Anybody could've saved you from Kelly and Varden. This man is the enemy, Helen. He's a liar, a slick manipulator who would've said or done anything to seduce you Monday night.
Part of me didn't want to give a damn about that. There comes a time in a woman's life when the need for physical intimacy outweighs all other concerns, no matter how practical they are. I had stretched several months beyond the breaking point. It may be a primary difference between men and women, but only in the duration of how long those needs can be denied. After all, men are the weaker sex. Y is nothing more than a broken X.
I'm a sucker for sincerity. I know this. Shaking off the trappings of his lure, I cleared my throat. "Well, it would appear that the detectives at central aren't the only ones who struggle with investigations."
"They had their man. Why dig for the truth?"
"Hmm," I sipped the dark roast Orion had slid in front of me. "We'll see about that. This isn't over, Orion. Weber and Hardy wanted answers. If I have to cram the truth down their throats, I'll do it. It's like my father always said. Be careful what you wish for."
Johnny avoided eye contact and started playing with his food again. "Helen …"
"Uh-oh. This sounds serious."
"Monday night, was anything you told me the truth?"
"Sometimes nothing is completely true or completely a lie."
"That's a non-answer. Don't use your bag of psychological tricks. It's important to me."
"Mostly half-truths," I said.
"Maybe someday, you'll trust me enough to tell me everything."
And maybe I'd get a lobotomy while I was at it.
His shoulders slumped. "I'll get you a city directory so you're not wandering around blind running errands today."
"I don't rate a long shadow from my protector today?"
"We've both got work to do." Orion slid away from the table. "Besides, I'm pretty sure that the FBI is keeping a close enough eye on you and Kelly and Varden to avert any further attempts."
Damn that man, but he made a good point.
Chapter 23
Theresa Oswald was a perky, blonde forty-something who could've easily been on the radar of my prolific rapist-slash-suspected murderer in years past. She pulled out a file of properties that she swore would meet my criteria for privacy and security w
ith the enthusiasm of a shark entering a beach side swimming area for the first time.
"There are a couple of lovely penthouses out on Hennessey Island."
I wrinkled my nose. Secure, perhaps. Private? No.
"You may not know this, but Hennessey Island has the lowest crime rate in the state."
"So I've been told. I really prefer private residences, Ms. Oswald."
"Well, we've got Beach Cliffs. There is one property that isn't technically on the market yet, but it does have a few furnishings that the owner is trying to decide if he'll sell with the house or if he has time to come back to the city to properly close up the house."
"It's not for sale yet?"
"He's testing the waters with a new job in Chicago through the winter. If he can tough it out through the wind and snow, he'll sell the place. If not, he'll want to return here. So you see, the house isn't really for sale, more of a lease with an option to purchase in six months."
"Honestly, that sounds perfect. Is there any chance I could look at this house today?"
"Certainly, Dr. Eriksson, but I should tell you that he wants all six months up front, which of course would apply to the sale price of the property, as the down payment. It's quite a lot of money, which is why it's been sitting empty for three months."
Not an issue. I pasted on an expression of haggling hesitation. "So he's not even going to make it through winter in Chicago? It's June right now, Ms. Oswald."
"Right, so he endured March in Chicago and thinks he's ready for November and December. I expect that life in the big city has him enamored enough that the weather isn't going to be a factor."
"Exactly how much are we talking about?"
"Twenty percent of the sale price as a down payment, and the leasing fee."
"Which is how much exactly?"
"Just above half a million. I know that sounds incredibly steep, Dr. Eriksson."
"What it sounds like is a scam. This guy lives in another city for six months while some poor sap depletes their life savings in the hopes that it'll truly be a down payment on an expensive piece of real estate, only to end up paying half a million dollars for a six month lease. I don't know what universe this guy lives in, but that sounds like theft to me. Who in their right mind would pay almost 100 thousand dollars a month for rent?"
"I'm sorry," she dripped saccharine from perfectly straight teeth. "I was unclear. The majority of the funds will be held in an escrow account. Should the owner decide to return to Darkwater Bay in six months, the amount deducted is equal to approximately six-thousand per month, not 100 thousand."
"It's steep, but not too much of a stretch. I'd like to see the house, know a bit more about the security."
Oswald delved into her sales pitch inclusive of gated properties and high-tech security systems, locations on Darkwater Bay's prestigious cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and all the modern amenities a woman of my discerning taste could want. The dolt had me at gated property and security system and didn't even realize it.
"Four bedrooms, five full baths, a gourmet kitchen, formal dining, a spacious living room, a den with built-in bookshelves. As a doctor, that might be a feature you'd enjoy. The back yard is landscaped and has a permanent in-ground pool. But the most stunning feature of the property in my opinion is the beautiful lanai at the back of the house. It overlooks the landscaped yard, the pool and the Pacific."
"I thought this was a gated property. Am I incorrect that it implies fenced as well?"
She chuckled. "Unless you're getting robbed by Spiderman, there's no way anyone would bother scaling Beach Cliff. It's a treacherous climb, almost a three hundred foot drop directly down to craggy rock and crashing waves. Some of the neighbors have constructed fences that don't completely obscure the view, but there has never been a report of a burglary in Beach Cliffs."
"So I take it there's no literal beach at the base of these cliffs. Odd choice in names."
"It's as if the beach is your back yard." One hand fluttered over her chest.
"Sounds dreamy." Internal eye roll. "When can I see it?"
"We can go right now, if you're free."
"As a bird." I grabbed my purse, and within an hour arranged the wire transfer for my down payment. Even though Theresa's sales skills were dubious at best, she was in luck. The property sold itself, particularly the security system which was indeed state of the art.
"As soon as this transfer clears, I can drop off the keys. Where are you staying, Dr. Eriksson?"
"LaPierre Tower. You can leave them at the front desk for Michel. He'll see to it that I get them."
By noon, I was back in Johnny's lair busy installing software. He wasn't around, just like he said earlier over croissant and coffee. I thought about a power nap and my agreement with Jerry Lowe. Curiosity and impulse trumped caution. I grabbed my cell phone and called the number on his card.
"Jerry Lowe."
"Jerry, it's Helen Eriksson."
"I was hoping to hear from you sooner rather than later. Are you hungry?"
"Famished," I said. It was true. The croissant from breakfast had helped quell hunger pangs, but no longer.
He rattled off the address to his home. "It's in Nightingale. I trust you remember the route."
"Unfortunately, I do. I'm going to be about another hour before I can meet you. Does that work?"
"Perfectly. It'll give me time to whip up something fitting for the occasion. If you have any trouble finding the house, call my cell. I'll keep it on when I get home."
My caffeine buzz was history. I rummaged through Orion's kitchen until I found his dark roast and brewed half a pot. The software was on auto pilot. The ironing board and steam iron were stored in the room Orion had deposited me in that morning. All I needed to do was run a search on the names of my perp's surviving victims. I crossed my fingers and hoped that at least a couple of them were still local enough for a road trip later this afternoon.
My cell phone chimed.
"Eriksson."
"Hey, Helen."
"Charlie. How goes the evidence processing at the crime lab?"
"When was the last time you talked to Lieutenant Forsythe?"
"At the Foster residence. Why?"
"They found a key at the scene."
"Is that unusual? I'd imagine that she, like the rest of us, have a number of them lying around."
"This one was on the floor under the coffee table. They might've missed it if the flash from Jones's camera hadn't illuminated it. Here's the thing, Helen. The key was on a broken chain. Forsythe said there was tissue on the chain."
I sat up straight. "Like it might've been pulled off the attacker during a struggle?"
"Yeah, that's what I was thinking. The key itself is pretty unusual, Helen."
"Describe it."
"It's the size and shape of a skeleton key, but it's some kind of flattened aluminum. There appear to be numbers or letters engraved on one side, but they're eaten away. Forsythe says he can use some kind of acid something or other to lift whatever's there."
"Sure," I said. "It's a process often used to restore serial numbers that have been obscured. What does it open? Any clue?"
"I've got Thieg out with a photograph checking banks for safety deposit boxes, the bus depot, the airport, basically any place with public lockers for rent."
"What about the post office?"
"Nada, chief. Our post office is antiquated. They've still got boxes with the little combination locks on them."
"It narrows the field. That's not a bad thing, Charlie. What about the DNA? Did you get an ETA from Winslow on the DNA testing?"
"She made me promise to tell you exactly what she said."
I laughed softly. "Let's hear it."
"Keep your pants on, princess. I'll call you the second I've got the results."
"That sounds about right. Do me a favor. Call her back and tell her to stop calling me princess. Anything else happen?"
"Not yet. The key seems to be the
biggest lead so far."
"Perhaps it is. Listen, I'm gonna try to get caught up with a power nap this afternoon. Is it feasible that you could meet me at seven or eight tonight? We may have some more people to take statements from, and I could really use the backup."
"You found living victims in the area?"
"We're not sure these crimes were committed by the same guy yet, Charlie. Let's not start jumping to conclusions. When Maya has the DNA results for comparison, we'll know if we're moving in the right direction with hard evidence. In the meantime, it's not going to hurt to talk to women who were clearly the victims of a serial rapist."
"Gotcha, chief."
"And Charlie?"
"Yes ma'am?"
"Don't call me chief. It's Helen."
"Right. Sorry."
"I'll call you after my power nap. In the meantime, if something breaks in the investigation, call me regardless."
"Will do. Helen."
I grinned and disconnected the call. The necessary software to search for my rape survivors was installed, so I started working my way back in reverse chronological order. Some of the names belonged to girls still in their teens. It would be messy, not to mention unkind, to dredge this up for any of them, but the minors would present specific problems I wanted to avoid until we were certain that the DNA was a match to that left by Gwen Foster's rapist.
Two names on the list from reports seven years ago popped out on the list. "Interesting. Sisters. Candace and Caroline Blevins, aged fifteen at the time of the assault, now a few weeks shy of age 22." I typed in Caroline's name first.
"You've gotta be kidding me." Her address popped up on the screen. "She's living on Hennessey Island. What luck!"
A few keystrokes later and the rap sheet of her sister scrolled down the screen. "What have we here. Candace, aka Candy Blevins, multiple arrests for prostitution, drugs, underage drinking … whoa." The record stretched back farther than the date of the assault. Shoplifting, truancy, curfew violations. "Candy is the girl I need to talk to."
Last known address, Portico. "Please let this be one of the suburbs Briscoe mentioned last night. Please let it be."
