A server sidled up to the bar with a tray and ordered six Pretty Pink Ladies on the Rocks. Red apologized for the interruption and said she had to get back to work.
“If you think of anything else,” I said.
“Don’t worry.” Red patted her right breast where she had hidden my card. “If I do, I’ll call. But remember, no names.”
I turned back to the stage and with my elbows behind me on the bar, scanned the room until I found Chase. I watched as he stood up from the table where Scarface was seated.
Whatever had transpired between the two men, I didn’t need to wait for Chase to tell me it was nothing. As he approached the bar, his eyes met mine, and he shook his head slightly from side to side. His expression told me everything.
“Sorry, Carol, he’s not you man.”
I looked back at the table where Scarface sat staring up at the stage. A long-legged dancer, dressed in a red sequined leotard, pirouetted on the pole and crouched down with her back to him, then held her head backward and with her long hair swept the floor.
“You sure?”
“The guy’s a wounded warrior, Carol. He spotted my ring and asked me to sit down.”
“That’s it? You guys are brothers-in-arms, and now you don’t think it’s possible he’s involved?” I checked myself. Chase’s own record as an injured vet was a sensitive issue I had learned to tread lightly on. “Xstacy was sure he was involved. She told Sam–”
“The man’s wearing a prosthesis. His left leg was blown off when his truck hit a landmine in Afghanistan. Took his left eye too. I’m surprised you didn’t notice.”
“That explains the scar, but–”
“If he were anywhere near the site those models’ bodies were found, his footprints would have been everywhere. And it would have been obvious the killer was walking with the aid of a prosthesis. It’s not him, Carol. I’m sorry, Xstacy was wrong.”
I closed my eyes and considered what Chase had said. If Scarface wasn’t Ely’s accomplice, then it had to be Marilynn’s ex-boyfriend. I opened my eyes and met Chase’s. “Fine. Then I think we should go.”
I was about to grab my bag and leave when I caught sight of Brian Evans over Chase’s shoulder. He was coming through the club’s door.
With one swift move, I picked up my bag and wrapped my arm around the back of Chase’s neck. Without saying a word, I pulled Chase’s face to mine and kissed him hard on the lips. I didn’t dare let Brian see me. Not until I knew what he was doing here.
Chase responded willingly. His hands slid around my back as he kissed me, then broke slightly. With our lips still touching, he whispered, “Something I missed?”
“Just kiss me, you idiot.”
I’d forgotten how mind-numbing Chase’s kisses could be. I forced myself to focus. With one eye open, I watched as Brain passed behind Chase and worked his way through the crowd to a small table by the front of the stage, next to Scarface.
“You plan on doing that again?” Chase smiled. “Because if you are, I may have to order myself a real drink.”
“Save that for when you may need it,” I said. “You’ll never guess who just walked in.”
I pointed in the direction of the stage, to the table next to where Scarface was sitting. “That’s Brian Evans, Marilynn’s ex. He told me he never came to any of the clubs Marilynn worked. Said he didn’t know any of her friends. So why’s he here?”
Chase and I sat at the bar and watched as Brian ordered a drink and exactly like Xstacy said, paid cash for it. Men frequenting a bar like the Sky High didn’t want to leave a trail. Maybe it was Brian all along? Sam said the lights from the stage made it difficult to make out who was in the audience. Could be Sam was mistaken about who she thought had been sitting with Ely. Maybe it wasn’t Scarface at all, but Brian.
I nudged Chase with my shoulder. The last act was coming to a close. I suggested we leave. I didn’t want Brian spotting me sitting at the bar as he left. Chase and I went back to his SUV parked across the street from the club where we had a good view of the Sky High’s front door and waited.
“What are you planning on doing?” Chase asked.
“I’m not sure, but I’m not leaving until I’ve got a picture of Brian coming out of the Sky High Club.” I took my iPhone from my bag and clicked on the camera app. From this angle, I could get a good shot of Brian as he left the club.
“Might be a while.” Chase leaned back against the seat and prepared to wait.
“Or not,” I said. Across the street, Brian walked out the front door and paused beneath the club’s neon sign. I opened my window and clicked off several pictures before I realized I had left on the flash.
Brian’s eyes snapped in our direction.
Chase pulled me from the window. “Get down, Carol. He’s spotted you.”
With his foot on the accelerator, Chase peeled away from the curb.
CHAPTER 27
The next morning, no matter what I did, I couldn’t get the image of Brian Evans out of my head. The sight of him walking into the Sky High Club had been a total surprise, and after Chase had dropped me back at my car, I replayed every ounce of my conversation with Brian as I drove home. Everything he had said to me about Marilynn. How he didn’t like the clubs where Marilynn worked. How he didn’t approve of her clients or the Jezebels who danced in the clubs. Or that she wanted to be a standup comic. Yet there he was at the Sky High Club, staring up at a bunch of strippers like it was no big deal. I couldn’t stop wondering about him. The thought of Brian showing up at the Sky High Club had kept me awake all night, and by five a.m. the next morning, I had given up on trying to sleep. I rolled out of bed, threw on a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and my running shoes and before I went for a run, checked on Cate. She was home, safe and sound asleep in her own bed. I brushed a strand of her sandy blonde hair from her face, kissed her on the head, and promised her it was all going to be okay. Then quietly crept out of her room and went for a run.
I did two miles along the river walk, my mind pounding out the facts as I ran. Brian had lied to me. He not only knew the clubs Marilynn worked for, but if last night was any indication, he had visited them as well. Plus, the rabbit’s foot Xstacy had left for me that had clearly been Marilynn’s was evidence the two women knew each other. And while I didn’t have the final word on Brian’s blood type, if he was the father of Melissa’s baby, it had to be either A or AB. If it was AB Negative, it would be too coincidental for Soto to ignore. I quickened my pace. I had less than forty-eight hours to build my case against Brian and convince Soto that Brian had not only killed Marilynn Brewer but that he, not Pete Pompidou, was the Model Slayer’s accomplice.
By nine a.m. I was outside KTLK’s security gate waiting for the guard to wave me through. On the other side, I spotted Tyler as he trekked across the parking lot from the station’s old Airstream trailer parked out behind the antenna field. A year ago, Tyler gave up his apartment in West Santa Monica and staked his claim on what had once been a small temporary office for visiting tower engineers. Tyler claimed he preferred the efficiency of the trailer’s tight quarters to his near-empty apartment. It allowed him access to the station twenty-four seven, something that fit his workaholic nature, and eliminated the need for a commute. He waited for me as I parked my Jeep.
“What’s the problem, Childs? Can’t stay away?”
“Can’t sleep.” I fell in with Tyler as we walked towards the station lobby.
“How’s the investigation going?”
“Not as well as I’d like. Scarface is no longer a possibility.” I explained how Chase had gone with me to the Sky High Club last night and discovered Scarface was an amputee and wounded war vet. “Plus, he’s partially blind in one eye. Not exactly a likely suspect.”
“And Brian?”
“Still a mystery. I came in this morning because I wanted to call the coroner’s offi
ce. See if they’ve made an ID on the body in the desert. It’s been a week. There must be something.”
“Let me know what you come up with,” Tyler said. “I’m just down the hall. If you need anything, just ask.”
Tyler and I parted company in the hallway. He went his way back to the newsroom, and I went back to my office and hoped by the time I left today, I would know more than what I came in with.
Not every reporter in town had the L.A. Coroner’s inside line. But I did. When I first began reporting, Dr. Gabor, the Chief Medical Examiner, had insisted I attend an autopsy. Standard “operating procedure” he said for reporters who wanted access to the coroner’s office. It wasn’t, but I didn’t know that at the time and naively agreed. The fact I didn’t faint or toss my lunch as Gabor pulled innards, like spaghetti, from a corpse while Vivaldi played in the background, earned me his respect. Ever since we’ve had a nice working relationship. More than once he’s taken my call and explained in layman’s terms the doctor-speak written on an autopsy report.
I picked up the phone. If memory served me correctly, despite the fact it was a Saturday, and most people had yet to have breakfast, Gabor would have been at work for hours. The coroner’s office was responsible for twenty-five to thirty autopsies a day, and frequently Gabor’s hours were anything but orthodox. He worked six days a week, and despite his rigorous schedule, the man was a creature of habit. By now, Gabor would have cleared his desk for lunch, placed a white linen napkin down along with a diet soda, and was about to launch into a thickly-sliced, pastrami on rye, with a pickle on the side. His favorite. A staple he picked up on his way to work every day from Art’s Deli in Studio City, where Every Sandwich is a Work of Art.
Gabor must have recognized my number from the caller ID on his phone. He started talking before I could say hello.
“Well good morning, Ms. Childs. How’s my favorite investigative reporter doing this bright summer day?”
“Hoping you might be able to tell me you’ve made an ID on the woman’s body the firefighters found in the desert last week.”
“So, this isn’t a social call?”
“Sorry, Doc, I’m on kind of a tight deadline,” I said.
“Always working, Carol. Someday you’re going to have to slow down. Smell the roses as they say. Before it’s nothing but formaldehyde and dead bodies. But, you’re in luck if that’s all you want this morning. I’ve got good news. We made a positive ID late yesterday.”
I gripped the phone tighter. “Can you give me a name?”
“Don’t see why not. The report went out last night. Not my fault it’s so late. We were stuck waiting for dental records. Turns out our girl hadn’t seen a dentist in several years, and her doctor retired right after her last exam. Top of that, the office hadn’t digitized any of their patient’s records. We had to wait for someone to get them out of storage.”
“But you know who she is?”
“Name’s Marilynn Brewer. We sent a complete report to LAPD last night. Or as complete as we could make it.”
“What do you mean, complete as you could make it?”
“We’ve yet to rule on the cause of death. Could be accidental.”
“Accidental?” My voice cracked. “Did I hear that correctly? Marilynn’s body, or what was left of it anyway, was found hanging from a tree with a dog collar around her neck. How’s that accidental?”
“The girl was dead before she was ever strapped to that tree. Gruesome I know, but that’s not what killed her.”
“Then what?”
“Blow to the back of the head. Could be a fall or someone hit her from behind. I’m waiting on another forensic pathologist for a second opinion. But it was definitely the blow that killed her.”
“Any idea how it might have happened?”
“Sorry, I can’t tell you that, Carol. I’ve got twenty-five medical examiners here, some of them working round the clock and a half dozen investigators in the field. I wasn’t there when the body was found. I’ve no idea what led up to her being tied to that tree. And the crime scene, as you know, was pretty much destroyed by the firefighters clearing brush. In fact, the only reason I’m doing the autopsy at all is the police put a rush on it. They want to know if I suspect her death might be related to the model slayings.”
“Is it?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. The Model Slayer strangled and stabbed all his victims. This girl’s death, like I said, was probably a blow to the head. I have trouble thinking Brewer’s murder is related. Might have been someone trying to make it look the Model Slayer’s work though. A copycat maybe or even a rush job by the Model Slayer. I don’t know. I’m a medical examiner, not a detective. I can tell you the cause of death and pretty much how it happened. Beyond that, you have to talk to the cops.”
I thanked Gabor for his time and laughed to myself. The cops weren’t about to talk to me. Not if Soto had anything to say about it. I picked up my bag and headed to Tyler’s office. I needed to get news of the coroner’s IDing Marilynn’s body on the air.
Kari Rhodes, KTLK’s weekend entertainment host, had perched her birdlike frame on the stack of newspapers in Tyler’s office and was nibbling trail mix from the palm of her hand when I walked in. From above her round, red-framed eyeglasses, she raised her brow when I began to speak.
“Tyler, I need a favor. It’s Marilynn Brewer,” I said. “The coroner identified her body last night.”
Kari jumped off the stack of papers, obviously irritated at my interruption, and wiped her hands. “Well, that’s it. I’m out of here.”
“Stop!” Tyler pointed to Kari. “This may concern you too.”
“Moi?” Kari put her hand to her chest and batted her eyelashes. The woman never ceased to amaze me. She was a cliché, a gossip columnist personified. Beyond thin, beloved by fans, and dripping in fake jewelry.
Tyler rolled his eyes, shook his head and started to bark orders.
“Carol, I’m going to need you to get me something about Marilynn Brewer for the top of the hour, but first, before you go, we need to talk. Kari, sit down.”
Kari plopped herself back down on the newspapers while Tyler explained to me that Kari’s morning guest, the acclaimed Hollywood Diet Doctor, Dr. Olivia Johansen, had come down with the flu. More likely a reaction to her awful green glob, Kari said. But whatever the reason, Kari was suddenly rudderless, looking at filling the first half of an hour-long live talk show with no prospects.
“Here’s what’s going to happen. Carol, you’re going to fill in for Kari’s missing diet guru, and your topic this morning, ladies, is the Model Slayer. If Detective Soto thinks he can show up on Channel Nine and try to steal our lead on the story, let’s show him what we can do. Carol, this is your story. You were the first to report on the Model Slayer murders, and I want you to fill us in, bring us up to date on everything you know, beginning with the coroner identifying Ms. Brewer. Now’s your chance. You’re no longer sitting in the news booth and restricted from opinions. You’re a guest. Free to discuss the case any way you like. Meanwhile, I’ll handle the news update. Now go.”
Ideally, under KTLK’s new management, Tyler had drawn a line between his news department and those on-air persons considered to be talent. Reporters were strictly news people. Limited to the top of the hour news programming, field reports, and the occasional more in-depth news wraps like the upcoming Townhall Meeting where reporters would interview those who make the news. In short, reporters were not paid to editorialize and forbidden to do so. That job was for talent, and they had much more leeway. Talent could interact with listeners and express their opinions. Which were usually outrageous, because that’s what drove ratings. Only if an on-air personality was ill would Tyler wrangle a reporter from the newsroom and sub them in as talent.
Tyler included news of the coroner’s report IDing Marilynn’s body with the station’s top of the
hour news, and Kari took the story, exactly as Tyler had suggested, and used it to open her show.
After introducing me, referring to me as KTLK’s star reporter, an accolade I could have done without, Kari asked what I thought about the coroner’s announcement.
“Are you surprised, Carol? I mean you of all people, you must have suspected when firefighters found the body it might be Marilynn Brewer. The girl had been missing for six weeks. I know we all thought maybe...but the way she was found? Tied to a tree like that in the desert with a dog collar around her neck. Who does that kind of thing?”
“I can’t answer who, Kari. At least not yet, but I can tell you I’m not surprised the body the coroner IDed this morning was Ms. Brewer, any more than I’d be surprised to learn she was another of the Model Slayer’s victims. But, before I share with your listeners why I think so, it might help if I explained what I know about the murders and why I think the police have mistaken Ms. Brewer’s murder for a copycat and been reluctant to include it with the others.”
“A copycat? You really think so?”
“I believe the police think so.”
“Well, you’ve certainly piqued my interest. So why don’t you tell us why you think the police haven’t included Ms. Brewer among those of the Model Slayer’s victims? After all, you of all people would have some idea. You were the first reporter to uncover the murders.”
“Which in all honesty, Kari, was an accident. The result of my Jeep’s navigation system sending me in the wrong direction.” I explained how Tyler had assigned me to cover the reopening of one of the ski lifts in Big Bear, and how I was on my way back to the station when my GPS went wacky. “I was lost and driving slowly, inching along when I spotted a body off the side of the road. Thinking somebody had slipped from the roadside, I parked my Jeep and hiked down the mountain to a muddy ravine. That’s where I found Shana Walters.”
“And she was dead?”
REASON TO DOUBT Page 18
