Touched By Blood

by Craig Buckhout

  Nick chuckled and said, “Your mind astounds me.”

  “My writing instructor said practically the same thing.”

  Nick let out a breath. “No, actually I was thinking about how our suspect may have made a try for her tonight.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yeah, the lady across the street saw someone near Ellen’s house and the officers who responded found a shoeprint in the dirt under her window. So I was just wondering why. She’s not holding back on us, I’m sure of that. But maybe she knows something only doesn’t realize it? Or the other possibility is she doesn’t know jack but our bad guy just thinks she does.”

  “Know what, though?”

  “Haven’t figured that out yet, but it all has to start with the reason St. Claire was killed. He’s the first kill. Think about it. St. Clair was Molly’s customer. Ellen is Molly’s sister. Fontaine is Molly’s boyfriend. So maybe all three of them know or knew something, or the killer believes they know or knew something that is a threat to him, and he’s trying to eliminate that threat. What other possibility is there that makes any sense?”

  “Okay, I can buy that I guess, but if it’s true, then it probably has something to do with prostitution because that’s the only connection we know of between St. Claire and Molly Banks. And since we have …what’s the stripper’s name, the one who wants to tug your rope?”

  “Edna Faulk.”

  “Yeah, Edna Faulk telling us that Carl Malone was Molly’s pimp, he’s sounding more and more like our perp.”

  “Yeah, I think we better get him in for a formal interview. He’s gonna lie through his teeth, or lawyer-up, but let’s make a record of it anyway.”

  “And throw a surveillance on him as well. If we think he might be whacking people, we better keep an eye on him just in case there are others out there he still intends to whack on.”

  Nick wondered if “whack” was another word Al got from his writing class. “Yeah, good idea. They gotta be careful, though, I don’t want to screw-up any chance we have getting him through Edna. …You look at Fontaine yet?” Nick asked, nodding in the direction of the body.

  “Nah, I can see what I need to from here.”

  “Okay, well, I have to see it close-up.”

  “Naturally.”

  Fontaine was positioned in the driver’s seat of a black Chevy Camero, slumped sideways in such a manner that his head was pressed up against the lower half of the driver’s-side window. He was wearing a black leather coat with a greasy collar, and there was a bloodstain running down the left side of his face and onto his shoulder from a tiny, black hole in his temple. His left hand lay in his lap. His right lay next to his right thigh. There was a .22 caliber size hole in the same side-window he was leaning against, about three inches below the roof frame.

  Around six feet from the driver’s side of the car was an evidence marker straddling a .22 caliber shell casing. It would be in about the right position for someone standing next to the car and shooting if the type of pistol ejected back and to the right. Its position would help identify the possible manufacturer of the weapon, and the ejection marks on the casing would help them identify the exact pistol if they were lucky enough to find it.

  The conclusion was obvious. The shooter approached Fountaine while he was seated in his car. He probably came from the back of the car, otherwise Fountaine would have seen him, turned his head to look, therefore causing the entry wound to be in a different location than it was. The killer fired in a downward angle through the window and then simply walked away.

  Arnie Grant was working the crime scene alone, not that he needed any help; there wasn’t much to it. He was a short, bowlegged man with worn down shoes, and glasses that changed from clear to dark depending on the light.

  “Where’s Fran?” Nick asked.

  “She’s checking out a stolen Honda that patrol found dumped down south. It supposedly has a small caliber bullet casing in it.”

  “They were supposed to call me.”

  Arnie looked at him and shrugged and returned his attention to photographing the crime scene.

  Nick walked back to Al.

  “Where’s the woman who found him?”

  “The Night Detectives have her down at the department. I spoke to her briefly and she’s legit, so I told them to go ahead and take her statement. And to save you the breath, everything else is taken care of. The canvas for witnesses is underway, the plate numbers of all the cars have been written down, and we’re pulling the surveillance video from the stop and rob down the way just in case our shooter stopped for a pack of smokes and a Guns and Ammo magazine to unwind afterwards.”

  Nick looked at his watch. It was after 2 AM.

  “Shit …let’s check The Rack and see if Malone is still there. If not, then we better run by his place and grab him up.”

  When they got to The Rack, Sonny Boy was locking the front door.

  “Carl around?” Al asked.

  “Ah man, not you guys again. I’m gonna find another job, that’s what I’m gonna do. This isn’t worth it. Carl’s not here.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “I don’t know, I wasn’t paying attention. He got here a couple hours after you left. When I told him you’d been here, he got mad at me, at the customers, even the girls. After that, I just avoided him. When he’s in a mood, you don’t want to be anywhere near the man.”

  “Okay, when you see him, tell him we came by again.”

  “No offense but you can tell him yourself. I’m not saying shit.”

  They next checked Malone’s house in the Burbank district. His car wasn’t in the driveway and there wasn’t a response to either his home phone, cell phone, or the doorbell, so they decided to call it quits until tomorrow.

  After being dropped off at his car, Nick did a roll-by of Ellen’s place. There was a beat cop parked out front, sitting in his car with the map light on reading a paperback. By the time Nick had left, a second car had joined the first and both were blacked out and looking.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Try the D.A.’s Office, they’ve got a witness protection program.” Then Deputy Chief Theodore Billings made that sound with his mouth — “tsst,” which was kind of like the sound a kid makes spitting between his two front teeth, only without the spit.

  “Tried ‘em,” Nick said. “She doesn’t fit their protocol. A complaint has to be filed before they’ll assign an investigator and spend the money.”

  “Tsst. I don’t know what to tell you then. I don’t have the manpower to do it. Two cops around the clock to protect someone we can’t even say for sure is in any danger.” He shook his head, “Impossible.”

  Billings’ phone buzzed and he picked it up.

  “Yeah. Tell him I’ll call him right back, I’m in a meeting.”

  After Billings hung-up, Nick asked, “Well, what can you do for me Chief?”

  The Deputy Chief stared at him for a second and then said, “Tsst, goddamnit Nick. Okay, you said she runs a business out of her house, right? So I’ll give you one uniform during the day when she has to be there. The rest of the time we’ll park an empty blue and white out front and swap it out each shift so if someone is watching, it won’t be the same car number all the time. It’s the best I can do.”

  “I’ll take it,” Nick said.

  “But …tsst …after three days we’ll re-evaluate.”

  “By then we should have something figured out.”

  As Nick started out the door, Billings asked, “We gonna get this prick?”

  “We’ll get him Chief; I just don’t know how many more people are going to die before we do.”

  Once outside, Nick was stopped by Billings’ assistant.

  “You’re a popular guy this morning. Your office forwarded a couple of calls for you.”

  She handed him the messages. One was from Dr. Nguyen at the coroner’s office and the other was from Jim Westin.

  Nick put off calling Westin and instead dial
ed Nguyen.

  Dr. Nguyen told him Molly’s body was available to be picked-up. He also said that their contract forensic dentist confirmed that the bite mark on Molly’s breast was made by St. Claire.

  Not as good as DNA, Nick thought, but good enough for now.

  Back in Homicide, Nick could see several investigators crowded into Lt. Navarro’s office and around the only video player in the unit.

  “There,” he heard Al say. “Doesn’t that look like him? That’s got to be him.”

  “That’s him all right.” It was Fanucchi’s voice this time. “No two guys in the world are that ugly. Man!”

  Nick stuck his head in the door just as Carla was coming out.

  Over her shoulder she said, “It’s him, look at the hair cut.”

  “Got something?” Nick asked.

  “Yeah, look at this,” Al said. “We have Malone leaving The Rack at about 3:30 AM on the morning St. Claire and Emerson were killed.”

  Al rewound the tape and pushed play. The image of Carl Malone came onto the screen. Down at the bottom, a running clock showed 3:34 AM.

  “How do you know the time is accurate? Or the date for that matter?” Nick asked.

  “That’s easy,” Al said. “Around 2 AM a deputy made a car stop right in the parking lot. I called dispatch and asked if there was a record of a stop at The Rack on Thursday at that time in the morning, and there was. Everything matches up.”

  Lt. Navarro sidestepped into his office and threw his briefcase on the desk. Fanucchi surrendered Navarro’s chair.

  “What’s going on?” Navarro asked.

  Al filled him in.

  “So maybe he’s the one,” Navarro said.

  “We’re still not there yet,” Nick said. “For instance, how did the killer know St. Claire was going to leave when he did? St. Claire could have just as easily left at two or three in the morning instead of around five. And how did Malone, if he is the killer, know which car was St. Claire’s? That’s a big parking garage and if Malone was in the wrong place, St. Claire could have been in his car and gone by the time Malone got to him.”

  “Maybe he just waited near the exit until St. Claire came out and then followed him to his car,” Fanucchi said.

  “Or maybe Malone knew what car St. Claire was driving because the two of them met when they were making the deal for Molly’s services,” Al added.

  Nick turned his palms up. “Maybe, but that still doesn’t answer how he knew when St. Claire was going to leave. He sure as hell wasn’t going to hang out near the exit for four or five or more hours until St. Claire decided to get out of town. Someone eventually would have wondered who the blockhead eyeing everyone coming out the door was and reported it.”

  “Could be less complicated than all that,” Navarro stated. “Maybe St. Claire and Malone had a meeting scheduled.”

  “I don’t know about that one boss,” Fanucchi responded. “St. Claire and Malone, somehow I don’t see St. Claire wanting anything to do with that guy.”

  “Look,” Navarro said, “Malone knew that Molly and St. Claire were together when Molly was killed, right? So it’s not hard to believe that Malone put the bite on him for hush money. Malone meets St. Claire in the garage to get his money, but something goes wrong; St. Claire refuses to pay, or makes a counter offer, or tells him if you snitch on me I’ll snitch on you, whatever, so Malone does the only thing any red blooded thug could do, sticks a knife in him.”

  Al nodded his head. “I like it. But it could be that Malone was going to kill him all along.”

  “The trouble with that is the broom,” Nick said. “It was a prop. Why would you need a prop if you were expected? Also, there’s no indication that the killer made a search of St. Claire’s body or belongings for money. Malone isn’t likely to pass up something like that.”

  Nobody said anything for a second.

  “Hmm, I think I better have another talk with the staff at the Lexington,” Al said. “St. Claire ordered room service for 4 AM. Maybe Malone or whoever somehow found out about it.”

  “Good idea. I’ve got a couple of things to do and then I’ll catch up with you,” Nick headed for the door.

  Nick was just about to sit down at his desk when Fran Decker called him into the back room. Setting on her work table were several photographs of shoeprints.

  “I want to show you something,” she said.

  Nick moved around until he was standing next to her.

  “This is a picture of the shoeprint left at the scene of Emerson’s murder, and this …” She moved another photo next to it, “this is the shoeprint left under the window at your witness’ house. I’m no expert, but they look like the same shoe to me.”

  “Son-of-a-bitch! I knew it. It was him. Now, I just have to figure out who it is. Thanks, Fran.”

  Nick went back to his desk and called Jim Westin who directed him to his website, gave him the password to access it, and explained how the photographs were organized. Westin agreed to stay on the phone until he was sure Nick was on track.

  Together they cycled through the first twenty-six photos, at which point Westin stopped him. It was a photograph of St. Claire talking with a tall distinguished looking man in a gray suit and yellow tie.

  “Who’s the guy he’s talking with?” Nick asked.

  “That’s Peter Blaine. He’s the President of the Western States Commercial Real Estate Association, the organization that hosted the conference.”

  “Peter Blaine, yeah, somebody already talked with him.” Nick jotted the name down in his notebook.

  After another twenty photos or so, Nick found another one of St. Claire. It showed St. Claire standing with four other men in a circle, all with drinks in their hand. A ruddy faced man, wearing what looked like a dark brown suit with a stick-on nametag on its lapel, was pointing at St. Claire with the same hand holding his highball glass. It gave Nick the impression the man was trying to make a point about something beyond casual conversation and that maybe he was just a little bit drunk, too. The others were smiling slightly.

  “Number forty eight,” Nick said. “Who are these guys?”

  “Other than St. Claire, I only know one of them. It’s the guy in the pin stripe. His name is Roger Templeton. He’s the local event planner who Blaine contracted with to put the whole thing together. He’s also the one who hired me to take photos. As for the rest, I’ll bet Blaine can tell you who they are.”

  “I’m going to need a copy of forty eight so I can show Blaine. I think I have the hang of it now. So how about I go through these on my own and, afterwards, give you the numbers I want printed. You tell me if you recognize anyone and print up the copies.”

  “Okay, I can do that.”

  An hour later, Nick called Westin and gave him the numbers and then arranged to pick the prints up in an hour. He also got Templeton’s contact information. He then contacted Peter Blaine and made an appointment to meet with him at 2 PM in his office.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The blue and white was parked out front as promised, but the out front promised cop was nowhere in sight.

  Nick pulled to the curb two doors away. When he got out of his own car, he first scanned the neighborhood looking for a uniform. Not seeing anyone, he approached the patrol car and did a slow walk around it. Everything looked all right. The keys weren’t in the ignition, the doors were locked, and the computer screen was tilted down so passing eyes couldn’t see what might be displayed on it. That made him feel better, a lot better. Maybe the officer was checking out the back of the house instead of lying dead somewhere.

  Ellen opened the door to his knock.

  “Mikolaj, is this business or pleasure?” she asked.

  He looked past her and saw Officer Ray Trent sitting on the couch with his legs crossed drinking coffee from the same ‘Life is Great’ cup Nick drank from the night before, which for some reason annoyed him. But what annoyed him more was Trent didn’t even bother to uncross his damn legs. How can you pr
otect anyone sitting on your ass with your legs crossed, he asked himself?

  He ignored Ellen, looked at Trent and said, “Can I talk to you outside?”

  Once outside, Nick led Trent off the porch and to his car before he spoke.

  “Did anyone explain to you what this assignment is about?” Nick asked.

  “Not really,” he replied. “They just sent me out here saying a witness in Sergeant Emerson’s case might be in danger.”

  “That’s part of it all right, but I’ll tell you what, you better take this assignment seriously. There’s a strong indication that the guy who killed Sgt. Emerson and another man, cased this place last night and after that killed another witness. This guy is dangerous, you hear me? You need to be on the outside checking out everyone who comes by. If someone looks just the least bit hinky, you have to find out what he’s about. You’re not here for show.”

  “I didn’t know. Nobody said anything.”

  “Well, I’m telling you now.”

  “Okay, okay, I got it. You don’t have to say anymore. I’ll let the team know, too. We’re switching off.”

  Ellen didn’t meet him at the door this time, or even acknowledge his return for that matter. Instead, she was standing at her dining room table laying out prints from one of her jobs when Nick walked back in.

  “Ellen.”

  No response.

  “Ellen.”

  No response.

  He walked up behind her and lightly touched her shoulder.

  She turned and faced him, causing him to take two steps back. Her left fist rested on her hip, her right was still holding some of the prints.

  “What was all that about, huh? You just come in here, don’t say anything, and start bossing people around, is that how it goes? This is my home, not yours. I invited him in. He was just sitting there.”

  What crawled up her butt, he wondered?

  “He wasn’t doing his job, that’s what that was all about. He could have gotten you both killed.”

  “Both killed? Isn’t that just a little over the top? I hardly think someone is going to come on in here, blasting away, when he knows there’s a police officer around.”