CHAPTER 17
Tuesday morning as I drove into work, I kept thinking about Misty’s reading of the rabbit’s foot. It had left me with an uncomfortable feeling, but not nearly as disquieting as the feeling I had in the pit of my stomach when I tried to call Xstacy again. The call went immediately to voicemail, and I heard the same prerecorded message I had received before. The person you are trying reach has a voicemail box that is full and is not accepting calls at this time.
Next, I tried Sam, and when she didn’t answer, I left a message. I apologized for the early hour. Told her I’d been trying to reach both her and Xstacy and hadn’t received a word back. “Call me,” I said. “I’m concerned.”
After that, I called Sheri. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t dare ring my best friend before ten a.m. But twice a week, Sheri liked to rise early for an online yoga class, part of her new fitness routine, with a master yogi from India. I crossed my fingers this was one of those days, and if she weren’t sitting cross-legged in some lotus position and meditating, she’d pick up.
I was in luck. Being careful not to send off any alarms, I told Sheri I was on deadline to wrap the story about college girls working strip clubs. I had tried Sam’s number, but she wasn’t answering.
“I thought since you were taking pole dancing lessons with Sam you might have another number or know how I could get hold of her.”
“You could try Pamela’s.” Sheri sounded out of breath. I pictured her in some pretzel curl on the floor with the phone in front of her. “We talked last night. She said she was working out at a new dance studio down on the boulevard and wanted me to come. It’s not far from your place. In fact, you should come with me. I’m anxious to get in a couple more workouts before Max gets back.”
“He still a thing?”
Sheri giggled. “Of course he’s still a thing. Or at least he is for now. He’s been out of town for a couple days, so who knows? But I’m having fun, and between my yoga and the pole dancing, it’s a great way to keep toned. Why don’t you come with me tonight? Might be fun.”
I couldn’t imagine a worse way to spend the evening. I was familiar with a number of local businesses on the boulevard, restaurants, nail salons, and gyms. Dance studios, yoga, Pilates and now pole dancing salons were the new it places to go after work and meet people. To me, they all looked like giant fish tanks. Over illuminated white box-like studios, with big glass windows and high ceilings that allowed passersby to leer-in at their spandex-clad clientele. The idea of caressing a pole and hanging upside down in front of a group of strangers like some monkey in the zoo didn’t strike me as appealing.
“Sorry, I have to work late tonight. Rain check?”
“I’ve got a better idea. How about, you, me, Chase, and Max get together for dinner some time? Give me a chance to introduce him to my friends.”
“As long as it doesn’t include spandex or pole dancing, I’m good. But, it’s got to be next week. This weekend is crazy.”
“Monday, then.”
“Monday, it is.”
I hung up the phone. At least Sheri had talked to Sam. As for Xstacy I still had no idea where she was or how much trouble she might be in.
Tyler called as I was about to pull into the station’s lot. “Carol, where are you?”
“Outside.Why?”
“Turn around. We got a call from a listener. There’s police activity at Venice beach. Somebody found a body tied to a post on one of the volleyball courts. Sounds like it could be another victim of the Model Slayer. I need you to check it out.”
“Please, tell me this body’s nowhere near Pete’s place.” I gripped the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles white. At least Cate was home this morning.
“Don’t jump to any conclusions, Carol. Just get us the story.”
I pulled a U-turn in front of the station’s gate, waited for the light to change, and sped down La Cienega to Venice Blvd. If this was the Model Slayer’s work, he had chosen a convenient location, so close to Pete’s house. Too close, I thought.
CHAPTER 18
I parked my red Jeep off Washington Boulevard, near the Venice Pier. The same spot where I’d parked when Cate had called me about Pete’s arrest. From the backseat, I grabbed my to-go bag. Inside was a pair of tennis shoes and things I might need in the field like a baseball hat, sunscreen, and a candy bar. I slipped off my heels, put on my tennis shoes and pulled my hair up into a ponytail and pulled it through the hole in the back of the baseball cap. Then hiked my pencil skirt above my knees and jogged down the bike path towards the volleyball courts.
Ahead of me, the police had already cordoned off the area, refusing access to anyone, including reporters. Yellow crime scene tape circled the volleyball court but did little to block curiosity seekers who were gathered two and three deep behind the tape.
The police had done what they could to hide the victim’s body from the public’s view without disturbing the scene. A privacy shield about four feet high provided circular coverage of the area. What lay beyond was anybody’s guess. With no access to the police, I queried the crowd, looking for possible witnesses. I spotted a runner, standing off by himself.
“Excuse me. My name’s Carol Childs. I’m a reporter.” I handed him my business card. “You know what happened?”
“Not really. I came along right after the cops got here. A couple of joggers said they found a body on the beach and called it in. They’re talking to the police now.” The runner pointed to the yellow crime scene tape where three men in matching T-shirts and shorts, who looked like they might all be members of a local running club, were talking to investigators. “The tall one told me they were jogging on the beach when they saw a woman’s body strung up on one of the volleyball poles. Said she was tied to it, with her hands above her head. Like those models who got killed.”
Overhead the sky was filling with news choppers, all vying for a shot of the beach. While around me, TV reporters had started to arrive and were doing their best to set up live shots with the volleyball court and the ocean in the background. If I were going to get the story on the air, I needed to act now.
“You mind sticking around?”
“Not if you’re gonna put me on the air I don’t. I’m a big fan of Kit and Carson. You work with them, right?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Cool. Name’s Jason Holder. I’m a personal trainer. I work out on Muscle Beach. Think you could mention it when you introduce me?”
“Sorry,” I said. It never ceased to amaze me how, even in the midst of tragedy, some people would seize on the moment for self-promotion.
I punched star five, speed dial on my phone for the station, and told Tyler I was in Venice. “I’m standing on the bike path with a witness who’s pretty sure the body on the beach is the work of the Model Slayer.
“Hold on, Carol. I’ll patch you into the morning show. And good work. You break this before anyone else in town and we’re four for four.” I assumed that meant because I had been first to report on the murders of the three models. If today’s body on the beach was the Model Slayer’s fourth victim, I had set some record. Not quite the record I was going for, but I knew Tyler was anxious to claim credit for KTLK being first to break the news of the Model Slayer’s latest kill.
With Jason standing next to me, I took my earpiece out of my bag and plugged it into my iPhone. The earplugs allowed me to hear the station and use the phone in place of my mic, a simpler solution when I wasn’t in a large public setting. Tyler came back seconds later, interrupting Kit and Carson’s morning show with breaking news.
“We’ve got news of another possible Model Slaying in Venice Beach. Carol Childs is there now. Carol, can you tell us about what’s happening?”
“Thanks, Tyler. The police discovered a female body this morning. I’m standing here with Jason Holder, an early morning jogger who said he was here when two other jogge
rs found the body and called the police. Jason, can you tell us what you saw?”
“It’s like I told you. She was tied to the pole. With her hands above her head.”
“There’s a lot of speculation among the crowd here this morning, this might have been the work of the Model Slayer. Do you think so?”
“I can tell you this, that girl, whoever she was, didn’t get there by herself. And from what I’ve read about the Model Slayer, sure looks like it. She was nude and the way those other joggers described her, she had been posed.”
“Anything else?”
“I heard one of ’em say she had dark hair and tattoos.”
My throat tightened. Tattoos? Was this how I was going to find out the body on the beach was Xstacy?
I forced the words from my mouth. “You see anything else unusual this morning?”
“No, but seems strange doesn’t it?”
“What’s that?”
“That suspect the cops let go Monday? That photographer. He lives just up the beach. ’Course it probably wouldn’t be too smart if it was him to go kill some girl in his own backyard, but then some people aren’t too smart, right?”
I wished I could have cut Jason’s last remark from the broadcast, but I was live, and there was no stopping his words as they slipped out over the airwaves. I wrapped my report and thanked Jason for his help.
Tyler whispered into my earpiece. “Good job. Carol. Now I need one more thing.”
I knew before Tyler asked what he wanted me to do. And there would be no negotiation about it. I either wanted my job, or I didn’t.
I asked anyway. And stared down the bike path towards the small salmon-colored bungalow Pete called home. “What do you need?”
“Check out Pete’s place. You can probably see it from where you are. Find out if he’s home. If he is, interview him.”
Down the beach, a small crowd had already begun to gather on the bike path outside of Pete’s small bungalow. Some pointed back in the direction of the yellow crime scene tape where a coroner’s van had arrived. If I had any chance at all of talking to Pete, I couldn’t approach the house from the ocean side.
Instead of the bike path, I chose Speedway, the narrow alley-street that ran directly behind the homes facing the ocean. From behind the houses, I could approach the back of Pete’s bungalow without drawing attention to myself.
I picked my way down the alley-street, pockmarked with potholes and dumpsters. The narrow blacktop thoroughfare was a community of its own. Shared by the residents–who lived in multi-million-dollar homes and drove expensive imports–with dozens of homeless with their makeshift camps and shopping carts.
When I reached the back of Pete’s house, I stopped. His van, a VW Bus, like Misty’s only much newer and without all the peace symbols painted on it, was parked in the carport. Next to it was a late model BMW coupe with personalized plates. BILLYBOY. I took that as a sign both Pete and Billy might be home.
I checked to make sure I hadn’t been followed, then dashed across the street. Quietly, I slipped between the two cars, then approached the back door, and knocked.
The door opened, as though the wind had pushed it. With my hand still on the doorknob, I entered.
“Pete. Are you here?” I looked around the kitchen.
No answer.
“Billy? Pete, it’s Carol Childs. Hello?”
Still no answer. In front of me, a kitchen sink was filled with dirty dishes. An empty pizza box had been left on the kitchen table. I poked my head into the front room. The curtains were drawn, and the room was small and dark with minimal furnishings. A leather couch. Chair and big screen TV. I peeked through the front window, careful not to be seen. The crowd was beginning to disperse. I went to the foot of the stairs and yelled again. No answer. The house was empty. I checked upstairs anyway. Two bedrooms. Both beds appeared to have been slept in, the sheets tossed and clothes scattered on the floor. The small bath, between the rooms, looked as though it had been ransacked. Drawers open. Men’s cosmetics scattered on the counter. The shower stall showed no evidence anyone had taken a shower recently. At least not today.
I went back downstairs and checked the kitchen once more for any evidence that might tell me when they had left. Coffee or breakfast cereal. There was nothing. Wherever Pete and Billy had gone, it looked as though they’d left in a hurry.
It wasn’t until I left the house and was in the driveway facing Speedway that I noticed it. Parked directly across the street was a two-door white, utility van.
“Xstacy?”
I ran towards the van and knocked on the driver’s window. “Xstacy!” I cupped my hands and tried to see inside, but it was useless. The only thing I could see was my own frantic reflection in the blackened window. “Xstacy!” I screamed again. I hoped she was asleep in the back. That the body on the beach, the tattooed girl, hadn’t been Xstacy.
I pounded harder on the window, and when there was no answer, I tried the door. It was locked, and one of my fingernails broke off as I tried to open it. I stood back and prayed I was wrong. Maybe this wasn’t Xstacy’s van. Maybe someone else with a white van had parked it here. Then I noticed the dented front fender and that telltale damaged headlight secured with gray duct-tape.
I put my hand on the window of the van and made a vow. If it’s you, Xstacy, I’ll find who did this. No matter where the trail leads.
I ran back toward the volleyball court. I needed to talk to the officer in charge of the investigation. A small four-post tent had been set up, and more police along with several blue-jacketed FBI agents were working the beach, scouring the sand for any signs of clues.
I approached the cordoned off area and held out my business card. “I need to talk to the detective in charge. It’s about the body. I think I know who it is. If I’m right, her van’s parked down the street off Speedway.”
My meeting with Detective Soto, the lead investigator on the case, had a bad beginning and an even worse ending. He started with questions I couldn’t answer. Like, why I was so sure I knew who the victim was? And what exactly was my relationship with her? None of which I could explain. Even if I wanted to share what Xstacy had told me, I couldn’t. Dead or alive, Xstacy was a confidential source and so was Sam. And Sam’s safety depended upon my silence. All I could tell Detective Soto was that while covering the story this morning, I got a description of the woman’s body from a jogger on the beach, who had talked with another jogger, who had called the police to report the body. And from that description, I thought I might know who she was.
“Third hand, huh?” Soto looked down at my business card and scribbled something beneath it on his clipboard. “So that’s how you reporters work. With third-hand sources? No wonder they call it fake news.”
I didn’t appreciate the put-down. I reminded him the cops weren’t exactly talking to the press when I showed up. They had cordoned themselves off and restricted access. Finally, feeling like I was being treated more like a suspect than a reporter willing to share inside information, I came back with, “Hey, you want this lead or not?” I didn’t care if I sounded flippant. The sooner I confirmed it was Xstacy’s body on the beach the sooner I could get to work on finding the murderer.
“Alright, Miss Childs, if you can’t tell me how it is you know this victim, why don’t you start with telling me what it is you think you know about her.”
“I know she’s tattooed and drives a white van, and that it’s parked over on Speedway behind those houses.” I pointed down the beach to Pete’s house, where several LAPD’s finest were combing the sand with metal detectors. “If you check the registration on the van, you’ll find it’s registered to a Stacy Minor, aka Xstacy.” I remembered the name from the pedestrian accident reports I’d pulled for the station’s Town Hall Meeting. “At least, that’s the name I know her by.”
“And just exactly what is it you and
this Stacy Minor have in common?”
“I’m afraid I can’t share that with you. It’s confidential. But I’m sure if you check the van out, you’ll find it belongs to the girl on the beach.”
Soto signaled for two officers who had been standing guard over the crime scene to go look for the van, then glanced back down at my business card.
“You’re Carol Childs. The Carol Childs, the reporter who’s been breaking all these news stories about the Model Slayer.” I nodded. I had an uncomfortable feeling I wasn’t going to like his next question. “Seems to me, Ms. Childs, when the Model Slayer hits, you have an uncanny way of being first on the scene. You have any way of explaining that?”
“It’s a big story,” I said. “Reporters are competitive when it comes to something like this.”
Soto unclipped my card from the clipboard, glanced at it again, then put it in his pocket. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact your daughter’s friends with our principal suspect, would it?”
There it was. Soto had linked Cate and me together.
I rallied back, “Pete Pompidou? Not at all. In fact, curious as it is to find a body so close to his residence on the beach, I don’t think it was him at all.”
“You sound pretty confident.”
“I know my daughter wouldn’t be involved with a serial killer.”
“Let’s hope not.” Then Soto looked back at the blue tent and asked if I planned on hanging around.
“No. I’ve got what I need. But, I’d appreciate it if you confirmed the van is Xstacy’s you call and let me know. You’ve got my number.”
REASON TO DOUBT Page 11