by Elin Barnes
“I know it’s a lot, but maybe he can help,” Sorensen said, looking over at Lynch, sitting alone at his desk. “If the kidnappings are just a prank gone bad, I’d rather know right away.”
“I hope they don’t start another fight.” Virago pushed her glasses onto her head.
“I’ll beat those punks’ asses if they do.”
The phone rang. Virago picked it up and, after listening for a few seconds, said, “A Sergeant Major Williams is trying to reach you.”
“I’ll take it at my desk. Give me a sec.”
He excused himself and walked out. “What’s up?” he asked before he had the receiver all the way to his ear.
“We found Gunny Ben Walters.”
“Is he dead?”
“No. He’s in Mexico.”
“What’s he doing in Mexico?”
“He doesn’t know. The last thing he remembers was riding the VTA yesterday.” She swallowed. “Looks similar to the gunny in Seattle you were telling me about. Border patrol woke him up. He was also wearing a kilt.”
“Yep, just like the other guy.” Sorensen shook his head. “Did he at least keep his eyebrows?”
The sergeant major didn’t respond. “I’m very sorry, Detective. It seems that the Marines have wasted a bunch of law enforcement resources.”
“You need to get in touch with First Sergeant Loren at the 4th LSG. I expect the appropriate level of disciplinary action,” Sorensen said. “I still want to talk to your boys today.”
“Today?”
Sorensen imagined Williams checking the time.
“As I explained earlier, we have a third incident, a burnt body and somebody in critical condition. They may have gone from prank to murder, and if so, I want to find that out today.”
After she grudgingly agreed to send them over, Sorensen went back to Virago’s office to give her the update. He closed the door behind him, even though there weren’t a lot of people in the office. She was shutting down her computer and gathering her coat and purse. Sorensen didn’t sit, letting her know he wasn’t going to keep her there long.
“It looks like we may have closed the VTA and the coffee shop cases.”
She looked up, took her coat off and put her purse back in the drawer.
Chapter 30
Darcy was only mildly surprised when Sorensen asked for help to interview the Marines. He knew it was only because it was late, they didn’t have a lot of manpower, and it would probably lead to dead ends anyway. Just a bunch of guys being stupid, he thought. The bank was something different. Related, yes, but different. That was the main reason he hadn’t refused his partner’s request. He was going to find out what that connection was.
“Were you in a fight recently?” Darcy asked the fourth Marine on his list.
He was sitting in Interview Room 3. Darcy stared at the man in front of him. He had a split lip and a sizeable mauve bruise on his left temple. He kept adjusting his collar, as if it was itchy and was irritating his neck. Darcy had seen this behavior before and knew it didn’t always mean the person was nervous, but it often did.
“No.” The Marine licked his lip, but when he saw Darcy staring at him, he stopped and averted his eyes.
“How did you get the bruises then?”
“Playing football.”
“Don’t you wear a helmet?”
“It fell off.”
Darcy pulled out a couple photos from a folder and spread them across the table. Without pointing at any one in particular, he asked, “Do you know who these people are?”
The Marine didn’t say anything.
“Bishop, what started out as a funny prank has now turned into homicide.”
The Marine slouched further in his chair and crossed his arms over his square chest.
Darcy pulled out the photo of the burnt van. “Do you recognize this van?”
“No.” Bishop didn’t even look at it.
“Let me see the bottom of your boots,” Darcy said.
“What? Why?” The Marine craned his neck and fiddled with his collar again.
“I have a boot print. I want to see what yours looks like,” Darcy explained.
Bishop placed his right boot on top of the table that separated them. “I got nothing to hide.”
“What size are you, a twelve?” Darcy asked.
“Something like that,” he said, showing no emotion.
“Okay, show me your other boot.”
The Marine’s left temple started twitching. He moved his right foot down, pushed the chair sideways and brought up the other boot.
Darcy looked at it for a long time. “Your left foot is quite a bit smaller than your right one.”
Bishop stared at him while he lowered his foot to the floor.
Darcy looked down, still taking in the different-sized feet. “How did you get in the Marines?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“I’m that good,” Bishop bragged. This was the first time he didn’t show defiance.
Darcy opened the VTA file and searched through a set of photos until he found the ones he was looking for.
“At first I thought they belonged to two different people,” he said, showing him two different sets of prints. One was of a right boot; the other was a partial of the left one, but it had enough detail to determine the shoe size. “But now I can see I was mistaken.”
Bishop watched him.
“You were there.” It wasn’t a question.
“So what? You already know we did the prank on that prick Walters.” He spat the words at Lynch.
“Yes. But what I really want to know is what kind of prank was this one.” He opened the third file and showed him a photo of the entrance of the bank, where four men in dark clothing and gas masks were walking in.
Darcy watched Bishop.
“I got nothing to do with that,” Bishop finally said. “Both our gunnys are dicks. We decided to fuck with them a little. We never thought it would become this big a deal.”
Darcy pushed his chair away from the table and stood. He walked toward the one-sided mirror and, placing both hands on his head, shouted, “You go inside a public establishment wearing masks, gas the place up, kidnap somebody and you don’t think it will become a big deal? Are you a fucking moron?”
“Listen, it was stupid, but it was a prank.” Bishop looked at the picture from the bank and, stabbing it with his index finger, said, “I don’t know anything about that one. It wasn’t us. I’ve been at the 4th LSG until you called us here.”
Darcy sat back down, crossed his arms and slouched in his chair, mirroring Bishop’s pose.
Staring at the Marine, he said, “You know they do incredible things with forensic science these days.”
He leaned forward, getting as close to Bishop’s personal space as the table allowed him. The Marine didn’t move an inch. Darcy pulled the picture from underneath Bishop’s finger and studied it. He didn’t find what he was looking for but didn’t let his face show it.
“I can’t tell which one of these guys is you. But CSU can take the video footage we have courtesy of the bank, and measure everybody’s feet. When we find one pair that doesn’t match, I’ll have more than probable cause to arrest you. So if I were you, I would start talking now, and maybe I can help you.”
Bishop closed the distance between them. He was so close, Darcy could smell oranges on his breath.
“Until you do, Detective, either bring me my lawyer, or let me go.” He maintained eye contact with Darcy as he spoke.
Chapter 31
After escorting Bishop to the elevator, Darcy went to the kitchen to refill his coffee mug. He regretted not being able to get more out of the guy, but once Bishop invoked his right to a lawyer, Darcy knew he needed more to hold him. On his way back into the bullpen, he looked around and saw a few more Marines still waiting to be interviewed. He sighed and walked back to his desk to leave his jacket.
Sorensen’s cell phone rang. Darcy looked around, but his partner wasn’t in the
bullpen. He saw Madison’s name on the caller ID. He hesitated for a moment, knowing that Sorensen wouldn’t be happy if he answered his phone.
“Madison, Lynch here. What’s up?”
There was a pause. Darcy was about to say something when the soft voice of the ME said, “I was trying to reach Detective Sorensen.”
“He’s interviewing a witness. Do you have something?”
“I’ve finished the autopsy of the burnt victim.”
“I’m coming over.”
He hung up before the ME could protest. Darcy knew he was technically off the case and that the ME would be unhappy to see him, but he couldn’t wait for Sorensen to be finished.
Darcy sprinted down the block, and when he got to the morgue he found Madison working on an unrelated body.
“Detective,” the ME said. There was some contempt in his voice, but Darcy ignored it.
Madison moved away from the new body and located the file on the burnt corpse. He glanced over his report and then, facing Darcy, said, “I thought you were off this case.”
“Our top priority is to find these guys. Sorensen is tied up. No reason why I can’t help move things along.”
Madison didn’t look convinced, but after a long, audible sigh he started talking. “The victim had a hip replacement. I’m waiting to get the match to the serial number, then we’ll know who he is.” He lifted the sheet that covered the man’s upper body and continued: “He was already dead when the van caught on fire.”
Darcy thought about what he’d just heard. “So they didn’t burn him to kill him. They burned him to get rid of the body or his identity,” he pondered while he looked at the corpse. The man was charred black, but yellow adipose tissue was visible through the cracks. There was still a hint of the burnt chicken smell emanating from the body. “They probably didn’t know he had the fake hip.” Looking up at Madison, he asked, “Cause of death?”
“Heart attack.”
“Heart attack?”
“That’s what I said, Detective.”
Darcy ignored him. “Any signs of assault?”
“That’s really hard to establish with burns, unless the victims have broken bones.” Madison thought for a second, probably trying to figure out how to explain something really difficult to somebody really stupid. “With burned skin, you can’t see hematomas. Also, if there’s broken skin, like a wound or ligature marks, for example, many times the heat alters the skin in so many different ways that these lesions are impossible to identify.”
“So he could have been assaulted.”
“I’m not prepared to say that. All I can say is that assault cannot be established or discarded with these levels of burns.”
Darcy looked at him. He wanted more from the ME—maybe an educated guess perhaps, even if it wasn’t a corroborated fact. “Doctor, this man was kidnapped and died of a heart attack. Do you think it may be plausible that he died of fear because he was being assaulted or tortured?”
“Detective, this man was kidnapped. It is plausible that he died before anybody had the chance to lay a finger on him.” The ME turned his back to Darcy and started working on the other body. Emphasizing each word, Madison continued: “I provide you with the medical findings: the facts. It is your job to explore the theories.”
He was right, and Darcy didn’t have a clever comeback, so he left. His cell rang while he was on his way back to the station. He was surprised to see the ME’s number.
“The serial number came back. Your victim’s name is Suresh Malik. He had the hip replacement done in India in 2003.”
Darcy thanked Madison and rushed back to the office. He hoped Sorensen was still interviewing so he could get a lead before his partner found out he’d been answering his phone.
He exhaled a sigh of relief when he got to the bullpen and saw there were no Marines left waiting to be interviewed. Without realizing it, Darcy looked over to Jon’s desk and felt his gut wrench. I’m going to find the assholes who did this to you. I swear it.
ViCAP didn’t turn up anything on Malik, but that didn’t surprise him. The Internet did, however. Just as he was finishing reading the victim’s profile on LinkedIn, Sorensen came into the room, rubbing his eyes as if he’d just woken up from a bad dream.
“Man, what a waste of time,” he said, and collapsed into his chair. “Did you get anything?”
“Get up. We have somewhere to be.” Darcy put on his jacket.
“You have a lead?” Sorensen asked, perking up.
Darcy told him about the visit to the morgue, avoiding how he’d learned that the autopsy was done. “Once Madison told me his name, I was able to find that he’s a middle manager at a law firm.”
“I don’t like lawyers either, but burning him seems a bit extreme,” Sorensen said. “What type of law firm?”
“From what I could gather, patent law.”
“Patent law?” Sorensen asked. “I know there are millions at stake in that, but this seems like a very weird way to get rid of a body. And why burn him if he was already dead?”
“Let’s say this guy gets kidnapped in the bank for some reason—ransom probably—but has a weak heart and dies. Now the perps have two problems. They have a hot van the police are after as a top priority, and the person they were after for money is dead, probably before he could give them what they wanted.”
“So they burn the body and the van,” Sorensen concluded.
“Exactly.”
“But if they didn’t get what they wanted from Malik . . .” Sorensen said, stopping before stating the obvious.
“They’re going to do it again.”
Chapter 32
Darcy managed to avoid the subject of how he came to learn about Malik from Madison the whole drive to Mountain View, but he could feel Sorensen was starting to deduce it. So he rushed out of the car before his partner could admonish him about this too.
The law firm was in one of the few high-rises in Mountain View. They walked in silence into the building. The reception area was spacious and modern, and several exotic plants decorated the room. Two gorgeous receptionists answered phones, which were ringing nonstop even though it was almost six o’clock.
“How is it that these companies always have models for receptionists? Where do they get these women?” Sorensen asked, probably a little too loud, since the redhead smiled at them.
“How can I help you, gentlemen?” she asked as soon as her call ended.
“We’re looking for Suresh Malik’s manager.” Sorensen parked his elbow on the tall, shiny desk.
“That would be Mr. Leon Brantley. Who may I say is looking for him?”
“Detectives Sorensen and Lynch,” he said.
She pecked at a few keys on the phone, whispered something to somebody on the other end, nodded a few times and hung up. “Please take a seat. Somebody will come and meet you shortly.”
Just as Sorensen sat down, a man came into the reception area and said, “Detectives, I’m Carlo Buenavente. Let me take you to Mr. Brantley.”
He looked very young, barely past college age. He was well shaven, his hair was short and shiny. His suit was probably more expensive than a week’s paycheck.
The long hallway was flanked by offices with glass walls. Inside, people were busy, typing on their computers, going through files or discussing cases in small groups. Darcy had to check his watch to confirm that it was indeed early evening.
Carlo stopped by the kitchen’s entrance. “Can I get you anything to eat or drink? We have specialty drinks, vegetarian sandwiches, quinoa salad . . . Pretty much anything you want, we probably have it.”
Darcy looked at Sorensen. The big man’s expression said it all. Darcy almost laughed, then said, “Coffee would be great. Black. Thank you.”
“I would love a vanilla cappuccino with a splash of cinnamon,” Sorensen quipped.
“My kind of drink.” Carlo’s face lit up.
He walked into the kitchen to start working on the seven-thousand-dollar e
spresso machine.
Sorensen rolled his eyes at Darcy and said, “I’m joking. Do you have a Red Bull?”
“Oh.” Carlo stopped pouring the grounds into the portafilter and dumped it into the garbage. “I think we do.” His voice was flat. He pointed to the fridge with glass doors that occupied the entire back wall of the kitchen.
There were so many different drinks there that Darcy felt he was in the minimart of a Los Gatos gas station.
Sorensen moved from one side of the fridge to the other, probably overwhelmed with the choices. He opened the left door, reached in, then decided he wanted something else from the other side of the fridge. After he had done this a couple times, Darcy said, “Detective . . .”
“Right, right,” he replied without looking back.
He finally picked a strange-looking power drink that was very long and skinny, with a green neon label. When he opened it, Darcy heard it fizz.
Brantley’s office was the second-to-last one on the right side of the long hallway. His door was closed, and Carlo knocked. The lawyer waved them in as he was finishing his conversation and hung up the phone.
“What can I do for you, Detectives?”
He walked around his massive desk and shook their hands.
Carlo excused himself and closed the door behind him.
“We understand that you’re Malik’s manager,” Darcy started.
“That’s correct.” He looked from one to the other. His face didn’t say anything at all. “He’s not here today.”
“Was that scheduled?” Darcy asked.
“No. And he’s extremely reliable.”
“Mr. Malik is dead,” Sorensen said.
“What? How?” Brantley said, for the first time showing emotion on his face. He walked back around his desk and slowly descended into his chair.
“We’re still investigating. What was he working on?” Sorensen sat across from Brantley and took a sip from his drink. He then set the can on the desk. Darcy saw the lawyer disapprove, but he didn’t say or do anything. The can’s condensation left a ring when Sorensen picked it up again.
“Are you suggesting that there is foul play?” Brantley asked, now looking into Sorensen’s eyes.
