Shadows of Doubt

Shadows of Doubt Page 3

by Corcoran, Mell

  “Her file lists her current foster on Pearl in Santa Monica. No missing persons report on file. I’ll give a call while you check with LAPD.” Lou pulled out a fresh notepad and hunkered down to make the call.

  By 2 p.m. they had logged over a dozen calls apiece and knew two things for certain. Angela Talbott at the tender age of sweet sixteen was a hardcore junkie that would do anything for a fix and no one, but no one was even remotely surprised she was dead. Not a soul was sad or sorry or even had the decency to fake one or the other. Not one person, not even her social worker could give a known associate or a place she frequented other then the general vicinity of Santa Monica Beach or Venice. Like that narrowed it down or something. Apparently, it wasn’t unusual for Angela to drop off the grid for a couple weeks at a time. So far, everyone they spoke to hadn’t seen her in over a week, some said it had been over two. Vinny had gotten the blessing from LAPD to have a go at the case but they didn’t relinquish jurisdiction. Not like that was a big surprise. They did say they would do what they could on their end and get back if anything popped but for us not to hold our breath. Right. Intra-agency cooperation was just grand. So basically Lou and Vinny had zero. They decided they were going to have to head down to the Venice Boardwalk and see if anyone at all had seen their victim or could give them any solid lead to follow. On the bright side, it was a beautiful day to head to the beach.

  Halfway down PCH Lou’s cell rang. It was Caroline. “Give me some good news, girlie.” she answered hopefully.

  “Well, I wish I could.” The southern drawl on the other end sounded less then enthusiastic. “I can confirm cause of death as exsanguination and though I’ve documented over three-hundred and forty-seven cuts, slashes and slices, the laceration to the neck was the coup de gras. It was a painful, long drawn out process. You might be interested to know that for a junkie her preliminary tox-screen is oddly clean. By all indication she hadn’t used in anywhere from seven to ten days.”

  Lou pondered the implications of that for a minute. “No traces of methadone or LAAM?”

  “Honey, she wasn’t in rehab if that’s what you’re thinking.” Caroline was quick to answer. “Aside from the multitude of lacerations, she’s got severe ligature marks on top of severe ligature marks at the wrists, ankles and across the forehead. Based on the discoloration, I would put the oldest injuries at about five to seven days and the most recent within the past twenty-four to thirty-six hours.”

  “So she was restrained for a week?” Lou grimaced, waiting for Caroline’s confirmation.

  “By all indications, yes. And whoever did this to her wanted her sober so she could feel the pain.” Caroline sucked in a long breath before continuing. “Also, there was bruising around the mouth and horizontally thereabouts, I’d say classic ball-gag on a strap based on the buckle impression on the back of her skull. The one front tooth she had left had traces of urethane rubber that’s used in just about every ball-gag manufactured in the country. Other than that her body is oddly immaculate. We’ve swabbed every inch of her and come up clean save for the tooth with the urethane and one other wound and that is both weird and a dead end. But we are quadruple checking that now.”

  “Wait, are you serious? There is nothing else?” The frustration in Lou’s voice was more than apparent. “What’s the other piece? And why is it a dead end?”

  “Amylase was found in the neck wound. Specifically at the area around the severed carotid and no where else. The sample is clearly saliva but its too degraded to even tell whether its human or animal. It’s bugging me because the wound was inflicted less then twenty-four hours ago. If it was some critter like a rat that wandered by for a nibble after she was dumped, how could it be so damn degraded? Why is there no evidence of animal activity on the body? I am going to go over her again to see if I missed any gnaw marks from even a gnat, but so far there is nothing to support that and it’s really odd. We’ve been able to take three separate samples so far with the same results and the new guy, Carpesh, is running the fourth himself. I’m sorry, Lou, but we’ve got nothing for you on this so far.”

  Lou blinked a lot, as if that would help make sense of anything. “Well, hell. What’s you’re bottom line here?”

  “You’re the detective but it looks to me like some neat-freak sadist went to town on her. Maybe a dealer she ripped off or some sick twisted John, but what do I know?” Caroline seemed to be at a loss. “I’ve e-mailed you my findings but I knew you wanted to know what I had so far right away. If Carpesh’s run comes up with anything new, I’ll call ya.”

  “Thanks Caroline, I appreciate you pushing this through and getting back to me. I’ll check in with you later.” Lou snapped the phone shut and looked at her partner who had just scored a prime parking space at the end of the boardwalk. Once the engine was off he turned in his seat and stared at her.

  “So you’re gonna tell me we got bupkiss?” Vinny could read the expression on her face clearly.

  She stuffed her cell into her pocket and relayed Caroline’s report nearly verbatim, with a few colorful expletives tossed in. “Well isn’t that just dandy. I’m tellin ya Lou, if we don’t get something solid on this within the next twenty-four hours, psycho-sadist or not, the captain is gonna have us box it.”

  “Yeah, I know.” She agreed as she peeled off her sweatshirt and put her jacket back on, grateful she pitched the wool sweater that morning. “No next of kin other than her mother, who forgot she even had a kid. So far not a single soul has batted an eyelash that she’s dead.” Locking up the car they headed toward the boardwalk. “Hell, the social worker couldn’t hide her relief that she didn’t have to deal with her anymore.”

  Vinny shook his head as they walked. “Nice legacy to leave. Maybe we’ll find a fan or two around here that can give us something to go on.”

  They started at one end and worked their way through to the other, stopping only briefly to grab a hotdog. The Venice boardwalk was a colorful and always bustling stretch that ran parallel to the Pacific Ocean. A wide expanse of walkway and bike path separated sand and sundries. Vendors and street-hawkers sold everything from crappy hand made jewelry, incense, second hand Jimmy Hendrix t-shirts and shoes made of hemp to high-end Italian leather goods and Murano glass sculptures. They talked to every last vendor and the best they got from any of them was that they may have seen her around, but that was it. Lou and Vinny were able to squeeze a little more information out of a few beach rats and skels that habitually loitered on the boardwalk. Those that recognized her, knew her or would actually admit to knowing her, confirmed she would do anything to get high. The limited info on her suppliers was that those she scored off were far too brain damaged to be violent towards anyone.

  Lou and Vinny came upon one young girl who sat on a colorful woven mat along the sidewalk making her living by braiding customers hair with pretty thread and beads for five bucks a braid. The hemp-clad urchin informed them that Angela would come around every few weeks or so to get some “sparklies” woven into her curls. The girl said Angela had told her once or twice that the freaky tricks paid more, so she could spring for the braids. Kink tipped big it seemed. Aside from the hippie-chick, no one knew anything more. No one even knew of anyone that might know more. Angela had no friends and no regular hangouts. She was a face some people recognized but not enough to give a when or where. Even the two guys that Lou and Vinny suspected of supplying Angela’s habit were oblivious and both claimed nearly identical stories. She would turn up once in a while but never long enough for them to even learn her name.

  It was well after dark by the time Lou and Vinny got
back to the car and most of the shops had long since closed. They had been at it for nearly seventeen hours straight and were both cranky, frustrated and tired. They headed up the coast, then through Malibu Canyon Road talking it out, trying to find something to grab on to. By the time Vinny pulled up behind Lou’s car in the station parking lot, they had worked it every which way they could think of. No matter how you sliced it, what it came down to is they had spit. Literally. Useless, degraded spit.

  Peter Carpesh was what many would consider a slight man of five-feet, seven inches in height. His rounded face with its apple cheeks gave him a jovial look, even at his most serious, like now. He leaned his face closer into his laptop and spoke urgently to the five men on his screen. “I took a sample and tested it myself! There is no doubt that it is one of ours, but more than that, I am certain it is him.”

  Los Angeles was roughly twenty-seven hundred miles from Washington D.C. but through the wonders of technology, Peter Carpesh frantically relayed his report to his superiors via live video stream. Five imposing men sat silently at a long mahogany conference table and watched the oversized face of the Ukrainian born medical examiner as he detailed recent events. It was clear to them all that Carpesh was a bit panicked at the situation given the way his spittle was hitting the screen and he was all but shouting at them.

  “I was not on duty when the case came in. However, I reviewed the initial findings and then I was able to play the helpful colleague and offered to assist so I could take a sample to test myself!” It was amazing how Carpesh’s accent had grown thicker and thicker in just the past five minutes. “I have no doubts whatsoever on this!”

  “Peter...” The man seated at the head of the conference table leaned forward, interrupting Carpesh. “You need to take a breath and calm down. And you need to sit back and stop shoving your face in the web cam. For Christ’s sake I can see your nose-hair.”

  Snickers and chuckles stirred from the other four men but Carpesh finally leaned back and took that deep breath, raked his fingers through his hair and gathered his composure.

  “My apologies, Dominor. I simply had not expected to encounter this and am not certain how you wish me to proceed.”

  “We need to discuss that. Someone will get back to you shortly. Now calm down and get back to your normal routine until we contact you.”

  “As you will, Dominor.” Carpesh bowed his head respectfully before the transmission was cut off and quiet contemplation blanketed the room.

  The conference room was a classic, old world law office with several high-tech touches. The long mahogany table monopolized the center of the room and was encircled by sixteen high-backed oxblood leather chairs on swivels. The eastern wall was a long expanse of glass that looked out over the snowy landscape of Georgetown. At one end of the room the sixty-five inch video screen, where Peter Carpesh’s face had been moments ago, was flanked by floor to ceiling bookshelves stuffed with various legal publications. The opposite wall was fixed with an ornate mahogany bar that housed a huge, gleaming gold dome espresso machine and baskets that overflowed with fresh fruit and pastries. The wall that separated the conference room from the rest of the floor was also glass, but was set to privacy. With the touch of a button the usually clear glass instantly turned opaque, making it appear frosted, providing privacy from curious onlookers. It also helped that the room was soundproofed for complete confidentiality and discretion for the firm’s clientele.

  Maximilian Augustus Julian, the commander-in-chief of the law firm of Julian and Associates, among other things, sat at the head of the conference table with his hands folded pensively under his chin. He was an imposing man of nearly six-feet, five inches with a shoulder span that would make any NFL linebacker feel a bit puny. The bespoke three-piece cashmere suit of dark umber complemented his rich olive complexion and golden-amber eyes with an understated sort of poshness. His dark sable hair had been slicked back making it look a glossy black. This only added a regal polish that softened the dangerous fierceness that was unmistakable in the man. Flanked on both sides by his equally fierce and imposing lieutenants, Yuri Markovic and Finn Erikson seated to his left, Niko Gattilusio and Connor McManus to his right. They all sat quietly for several minutes before anyone spoke.

  Finn was the first to break the pensive silence. “Okay, I’m on it.”

  “No, I’ll go.” Connor chimed in next.

  “No. No, I’ll do it.” Yuri followed suit.

  The four lieutenants began to argue about who was going and why it should be one or the other until Max raised his hand in a halting gesture and silence filled the room once more. All eyes rested on him as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket, pressed a button, then spoke to whoever had answered the other end.

  “We’re going to Los Angeles. Make the arrangements. I want to leave in the morning.” He listened briefly. “However long it takes.” He ended the call and placed the phone back into his suit pocket.

  “With great respect, Dom...” Yuri looked at his associates, then back to Max. “I hardly see why it is necessary for you to make the trip. Any one of us can handle this.”

  “Things are out of hand out west as it is. We all know it.” Max pushed himself away from the table and started to rise before he continued. “It’s long overdue that a formal assessment is made. This isn’t simply about verification of Carpesh’s findings. I don’t want to discuss this any further up here, we’ll take it below and get things sorted.” Turning for the door, he paused to press an inconspicuous button underneath the edge of the conference table that set the glass wall back to clear. As he exited the conference room with his lieutenants in tow, Max was met by an efficient looking woman who was dressed more like a Victorian era librarian than a top-of-her-class Harvard Law graduate. Her mass of brown hair was pulled into such an impossibly tight bun, it literally made Max’s head hurt to look at. It simply had to be painful. The clippity-clap of her sensible shoes rang out as she tried to keep up with Max’s stride.

  “Mr. Julian...” It was a question, not a statement, that the woman often greeted him with rather than a hello. Max found her at-the-ready personality both comforting and annoying at the same time.

  “Hanna, the boys and I will be out for a while. Please make sure things are handled while we are gone would you?”

  The young office manager nodded enthusiastically, forcing her to push the thick horn-rimmed glasses back up onto her face. “Absolutely sir. Is there anything you need me to take care of while you are out?”

  “Actually...” He broke stride and paused to face her eager, yet utterly professional face. “A matter has come up that requires my presence in Los Angeles, immediately.” He tried not to grin when panic washed over her face.

  “Los Angeles? Sir did I miss something? I wasn’t aware of any pending matters in Los Angeles! If I mishandled something...” The poor woman began to stutter. Hanna Brown made it her life’s work to know every speck of firm business so that it was handled quickly and efficiently. A point of pride with her was that she would already be on top of something before Max ever asked about it. However, she had no clue about any business pertaining to Los Angeles on any docket and she felt herself start to freak out.

  “No! Hanna its nothing you missed, I assure you. Now, I’ll need you to handle things for me in my absence. If you don’t feel comfortable dealing with something yourself, pass it off to one of the boys here or one of the senior associates. I am not sure how long I will be gone so if you feel you need assistance, hire someone.”

  “Sir?!” The woman nearly fell over at that suggestion. Did he think she was incapable of handling matters on her own?

  “Hanna!” He p
laced a gentle hand on her shoulder before she jumped out of her own skin. “I am well aware you work your ass off for me and this firm nearly twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. While I am gone you will need to handle everything in my absence. This does not mean overload, it means delegate.” Max could see her starting to calm down at his reassuring words. “If you need an assistant to take the menial work off of your hands, you have my blessing to hire someone. Make sure they are properly vetted. Mr. McManus can handle that for you.” After giving her a light pat on the shoulder, Max turned crisply and the five men continued down the hall leaving the young woman standing with her mouth agape.

  The law firm of Julian and Associates was the oldest in the state, the most respected, and had owned the building where it was housed for as long as the Capitol itself stood. Granted it had been modernized along the way, but it held that enduring aura of rich, judicial tradition with its well worn hardwood floors, mahogany walls and oxblood leather accents. With a staff of over one-hundred-fifty that included the best and brightest legal minds in the country. One would expect to see a gray-haired old codger at the helm of the firm rather than the elegantly dangerous man who now strode through the hall toward the elevator. The gleaming brass doors to the lift opened as soon as they reached it and the five men stepped inside. Once the doors closed, Max placed his hand on the mirrored wall to the right of the doors and a faint glow emanated from beneath his palm as it read his hand print. He then leaned in and a tiny, nearly invisible hole in the mirror gave off a blue beam of light as it proceeded to scan his eye. The cleverly camouflaged security devices verified Max’s identification and the elevator car began its descent. Though the digits above the doors listed nothing lower then the basement level, the elevator kept going down. In fact, the lift was sinking to a depth nearly ten floors below basement level. When the car finally came to rest, the doors opened up to a large corridor leading to a giant steel door flanked by two very large, very heavily armed men. The men were dressed in immaculate black combat uniforms, complete with tactical combat vests and stood vigilantly in port arms stance. As soon as Max and his lieutenants came into view the two guards snapped to attention. They instantly lowered their weapons, placed their left fists over their chests and bowed their heads in perfect synchronicity and salute. Once the five men exited the car, blue beams of light emanated from the ceiling and proceeded to move down horizontally along the walls, finally disappearing into the floor. With the scan of the men completed, the heavy door opened for them and they proceeded forward, past the guards and into a buzz of activity. The heavy door opened to reveal an expansive room about the length and width of a tennis court. Computers hummed, phones rang and a melody of half a dozen different languages could be heard amidst the organized chaos. On each side of the room were two doorways spaced evenly apart and flanked by two workstations, each diligently manned. Only a single set of double doors stood at the far end of the room but they too were flanked by desks on either side. A man speaking Russian into his headset sat on the left, and a woman who appeared to be mumbling various obscenities at her computer screen sat on the right. A few paces from the entrance to the room was an impressive circular desk where a petite woman sat twirling around in her chair. Her flame red hair was expertly pulled back into a high ponytail and whipped around as she spun faster and faster. She was screaming to someone named Karl about the significant differences between the color pink and the color fuchsia and why he had better learn said differences if he wanted to continue being a fully functional male. Upon spotting the men entering the room, the woman’s face lit up with an enormous grin. She began clapping her hands merrily as her chair came to an abrupt halt.

 

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