By the time she returned with the coffee, Shana was in tears. Lily sat down next to her, holding onto her free hand as she sipped the steaming brew. “Do you remember Richard Fowler?”
“Of course,” Shana said, releasing her mother’s hand so she could wipe her eyes with the edge of her sweatshirt. “I tried to find Greg about a year ago. Did he graduate from college?”
“Yes,” Lily said. “I saw his father recently. He’s representing a client here in Santa Barbara.”
“I thought he was a prosecutor like you.”
“He’s in private practice now in Ventura,” Lily said. “I was thinking we should call him, maybe see if he can come up this afternoon.”
Lily watched as her daughter’s frustrations turned once more to fear. She locked her arms around her chest, almost as if she had to hold herself together. “Are you dating him?”
“We’re friends, Shana,” her mother told her. “We go back a long way together. He’s a brilliant attorney. Sometimes when you have a problem, calling in a big gun right away isn’t such a bad idea.”
“I thought you just said that the police were going to prosecute Dad. Why do I need an attorney?”
“Like I just said,” Lily answered, “it’s always wise to be prepared. I didn’t like the way the police treated you last night. But on the other hand, they have to do their job, which means they have to rule out any possibility that you were behind the wheel of your car. You haven’t been charged with a crime. In reality, your father has been arraigned, so they’ve already begun the criminal proceedings.”
“Why didn’t you just let him stay in jail?”
“I was concerned about you,” Lily lied, focusing on a spot over Shana’s head. Would the truth eventually surface? That she had posted John’s bail only after he’d threatened to expose her for the murder of Bobby Hernandez. She shuddered at the thought that Shana could have not only one but possibly both of her parents facing serious charges.
Shana pushed herself to her feet, pulling a strand of her tangled hair in front of her face. Even with the enormous stress she was under, her mother couldn’t help but marvel at her remarkable beauty. The paleness of her skin made her eyes sparkle like priceless sapphires. The sun picked up the gold highlights in her vibrant red hair. While her mother watched her, she gracefully lifted her chin, staring up at the sky as if she wished she could somehow take flight, leaving the problems of the world behind her. “Call your friend,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “You know, Richard.”
“Why don’t you take a shower?” Lily suggested, choking up with emotion. “I put some fresh towels in the bathroom. I’m sure you can find something of mine to wear. Pick anything you want.”
“Seems like old times, huh? You know, when we lived in Camarillo and I was always raiding your closet.”
“Yes, it does,” Lily answered. “I only wish you were here under different circumstances.”
“It doesn’t really matter why I’m here,” Shana said, suddenly appearing older and wiser than her years. “The most important thing is that we’re together, Mom. Maybe it takes something awful like this to make a person realize what’s really important in life. We’ve always been strong when we’re together. Marco Curazon might have hurt us, but we survived. I’m sure we’ll survive this as well.”
17
Fred Jameson barged through the doors to the detective bureau feeling energized and ready to take on the world. He cupped his hands together, then blew into them. “Can’t anyone turn the frigging air down in this place?” he called out, his voice carrying throughout the partitioned offices. “I feel like I’m in a meat locker. It’s colder in here than it is outside. Doesn’t the city realize they’re wasting the taxpayers’ money?”
“Can it, Jameson,” a male voice answered. “Some of us have to work for a living.”
“Work, my ass,” the detective continued. “What are you doing, Keith? Downloading porno off the Internet? Why don’t you send the one with the girl and the dog to the captain? I’m sure he’d get a real bang out of it, even though I hear he favors sheep.”
Keith Marconi poked his head over the top of the partition. “What got you so wound up this morning? Did you get laid last night or something?”
Jameson removed his jacket, draping it over the back of his chair. “You’re close,” he told the other man, pulling out his comb and running it through his prematurely gray hair. “What I stumbled across might turn out to be better than sex.”
Settling in his chair, Jameson dialed the number for the personnel department. “Detective Jameson here,” he said. “I need a number for a former employee from about six years back, a homicide detective named Bruce Cunningham. The last thing I heard, he was living in Omaha, Nebraska.”
While he was on hold, Jameson leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the desk, picking up a yellow notepad as he stared at his computer screen. The call regarding Lily Forrester had come in the day before, but he’d been in the field working another homicide and had not taken the time to check his messages until he had arrived home later that evening.
“I’m sorry,” Robbie Johnson said. “The only information I have on a Bruce Cunningham is that he transferred to the Omaha Police Department from Oxnard. Since he doesn’t receive a pension check from the city of Ventura, we don’t have a home address or phone number listed in his file. To be perfectly honest, we lost a great deal of data when the two departments merged. Oxnard has yet to put all their records into the computer system. You can’t imagine how many boxes of paperwork got shipped over here.”
“Thanks,” Jameson said, deciding he’d heard more than he wanted to know. Just his luck to dial up a woman who had worked for the department for twenty years.
Rather than continue his efforts to track down Cunningham, he called the central property room. “Hey, Wayne,” he said, recognizing the officer’s voice, “I need you guys to tell me what we have down there on an unsolved murder. Occurred about six years ago in Oxnard. The victim’s name was Bobby Hernandez.”
“What’s the case number?” a gruff voice replied. “You know how many evidence containers we have with the name Hernandez on them?”
“Damn,” the detective said, “do I really have to come up with the case number? Come on, Wayne, cut me some slack. Your people know how to find this stuff on the computer in about five seconds.”
“No can do,” the property sergeant told him. “My staff is up to their eyeballs in work.”
Once he was off the phone, the detective pushed his chair up to his desk and glared at the computer in front of him. He had as yet to jump on the technology bandwagon, even though he had finally admitted that he had no alternative. Regardless, he still wanted to take out his gun and shoot the thing just for the sheer satisfaction it would give him. First it was the Y2K problem, and everyone thought the world was going to end. Now people were so preoccupied playing on the Internet, no one got any work done. Pretty soon a man would need a computer to tell him when it was time to take a leak.
The information he was looking for might not even be in the Hernandez file, as the case had been closed for some time. For all he knew, the file clerks might not have downloaded the particulars into the computer. Before he let his imagination run wild thinking he was going to make it payback time for Lily Forrester, he had to be certain there was sufficient evidence to talk the brass into reopening such an old case. The situation was complicated by the merger between the two departments, just as good old Robbie Johnson had brought to his attention. Several active and viable cases had gone down the drain due to the fact that crucial evidence had been lost or damaged while in transit from the Oxnard facility to Ventura. He typed in the name Bobby Hernandez for a record search, waiting until the computer returned with a message telling him there were 4,838 matches. Great, he thought facetiously. He had no choice now but to track down Cunningham. If nothing else, the former detective might recall enough of the particulars to allow him to at leas
t narrow the parameters of his search.
“What’s the name of the company again?” he asked the operator at the Omaha Police Department.
“Jineco Equipment Corporation,” she said. “Their showroom is located on the corner of Eighty-fourth Street and L.”
“Hey, lady,” Jameson said, “I’m in California. I don’t want to go to the place. All I want is their phone number.”
The detective dialed the toll-free number she gave him, and within minutes he found himself speaking to Bruce Cunningham. Once he had explained that he had taken over Cunningham’s caseload, he knew he had to be polite and ask him what he was now doing for a living. As notorious as Cunningham was in local law enforcement circles, the two men had never met. “We sell and service power washers, along with various agricultural equipment, most of it manufactured by a company called Karcher. Are you in the market for a power washer?”
Jameson was doodling on his notepad. “Why didn’t you go into private security? People pay big bucks for your type of experience. Don’t tell me you prefer sales over law enforcement?”
“You bet,” Cunningham answered. “I enjoy what I do, Fred. You did say your name was Fred, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” the other man said, thinking he could cut to the chase now. “I’m calling about an old murder case you handled. The victim’s name was Bobby Hernandez. We’ve come across some new information that’s pretty sensational. The problem is, I’m having trouble locating—”
Cunningham cut him off. “Exactly what information are you referring to?”
The line fell silent. Jameson needed his cooperation. He had to keep in mind that the other man was no longer a police officer, however. “Oh, you know how these kinds of things go, Bruce,” he said, deciding if Cunningham could call him by his first name after exchanging only a few words with him, he could do the same. He suspected the former detective’s reputation had not developed from myths and exaggerations, as was generally the case. Eliminating formalities was a clever way to instantly take a conversation to another level. “Most of the leads that come in this late in the game generally turn out to be a waste of time. I just thought I might be able to pick your brain, you know, see what you remembered.”
“Didn’t you mention something sensational?”
Jameson was blown away. He didn’t recall making such a statement. He knew he had thought about how much publicity they would generate if they prosecuted Lily Forrester on murder charges. The words must have simply slipped out of his mouth. It was an eerie sensation to discover yourself making statements you had no intention of making. A number of years back he’d worked with a cop who possessed a rare talent for making people confess. Some of the old-timers had told him that this was one of Cunningham’s primary claims to fame, that even the hardest criminals would break down and spill their guts to him. When a man possessed that kind of power, a person had to be extremely cautious. “Surely you must realize,” he continued, intentionally pausing before each word, “that department regulations preclude me from releasing any details related to a criminal investigation.”
“I have to take care of a customer,” Cunningham said curtly. “Have a nice day, Fred.”
When Jameson heard the dial tone, he tossed the receiver up in the air, then watched it fall onto the top of his desk with a loud thud. “That sneaky son of a bitch,” he exclaimed, standing and turning in circles inside his cubicle.
“Stop talking to yourself, for heaven’s sake,” one of the female detectives said as she walked past.
“Wait, Sandy,” he said, stepping outside into the hallway. “Are you headed in the direction of the kitchen? Grab a cup of coffee for me, will you?” Another boost of caffeine, he decided, might be what he needed to clear out the morning cobwebs and help him figure out how to get Cunningham into cooperating with him without the man ending up knowing more about his business than he did. He’d already consumed five cups, though, and everyone at the office insisted he was a caffeine junkie. Everyone had their demons. He’d rather drink coffee all day than slug down a case of beer every night.
Sandy Weinberg was a statuesque brunette, not what a man might consider pretty. After ten years on the job, she was highly respected. “Get it yourself, Fred.”
“Thanks,” he yelled, wanting everyone in the room to hear him. “What is this, anyway? Pick-on-Fred day?”
Grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair, Jameson decided it was time to hit the street. He had a fresh stiff in the morgue, and two additional homicides only weeks away from the trial date. For the time being, Lily Forrester and any connection she might have to the Hernandez killing would have to wait.
18
A little after three o’clock Shana went to the guest bedroom to take a nap. John called just as Lily was about to carry her portable computer outside to the porch to see if she could get some work done. She walked over and shut the door to her bedroom.
“Where’s Shana?” John asked, beside himself with concern. “I thought she spent last night with one of her friends, then went to school today. I’ve called everywhere. No one has seen her. That girl Jennifer, the one she hangs out with all the time…she says Shana didn’t even show up for her morning classes.”
“She’s with me.”
“You bitch!” he shouted, furious. “You took her to Santa Barbara? You couldn’t even call me—”
Lily started to hang up, then decided he would only call back. “You not only killed that kid, John, you killed him in your daughter’s car.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“When are you going to stop lying?”
“And you don’t lie?” he shot back. “Right, Lily. Tell me you haven’t been lying about shooting that Hernandez guy. At least I don’t put other people behind bars for doing the same thing I did. You’re a hypocrite, Lily, a damn hypocrite.”
“The crime lab found pieces of the victim’s flesh trapped in the undercarriage of Shana’s Mustang,” she told him. “We spent hours at the police department last night. Since the car is registered in Shana’s name and she was alone at the time of the accident, they have to consider her a valid suspect. They think she might have even known the boy because they both went to UCLA.”
“Flesh? Did you say flesh?” John was mortified, unable to believe his ears. She was trying to torture him, punish him. “Why are you saying these things? Because I made you leave your precious job to post my bail? You couldn’t even wait until they released me to give me a ride home. I had to use what little money I had on cab fare. Stop playing fucking mind games with me, Lily!” He paused and sucked in a breath. “The police don’t have enough evidence to convict anyone, let alone Shana. They didn’t say anything to me about finding pieces of flesh.”
“It takes time for the lab to go over the car,” Lily told him. “I’m telling you the truth. The police know whoever killed that boy was driving the Mustang. They just don’t know if it was you or Shana.”
“You’re going to make me lose my mind,” John said. “God, tell me this isn’t true.”
Lily was standing over the bathroom sink now, staring at herself in the mirror. A fiery rage was building inside her. Seeing it on her face was terrifying. It was leaping from her eyes, a muscle in her forehead was twitching, her lips had compressed into an angry, narrow line. “You’ve already lost your mind,” she lashed out. “Not only that, you’ve lost your daughter.”
“Put her on the phone.”
“She refuses to speak to you.”
“You did this,” John snarled. “This is just what you wanted, to drive us apart.”
Lily remained silent, her back rigid.
“We used to have everything,” he continued. “We had a nice house. I had a good job with the government. Shana was a cheerleader, the most popular girl at her school. You’re the one who destroyed our lives. Why do you think I started drinking? Why do you think Shana didn’t want to live with you?”
“You killed that boy,” Lily said, her energ
y depleted to the point where she could barely speak. “He was a student at UCLA, John. I may have to hire an attorney now to represent Shana. She’s afraid to go back to her classes because people are going to know what’s going on.”
“You’re the cold-blooded killer,” John said. “When you make a mistake, everyone is supposed to look the other way. Not with old John, huh? No, I lose everything. I go down for the big count. I’m the scum of the earth. Isn’t that what you’re telling Shana? You’ve been waiting for something like this so you could turn her against me.”
“I want you out of the duplex,” Lily told him, hissing the words out. “I’m not giving you another penny. You have three days to move out.”
“I don’t have any money,” he pleaded. “I don’t even have a car now. How can I find another place to live? You have to help me.”
“You’re on your own, John,” she told him. “The only person I’m concerned about is Shana.”
“I’m not going to let you get away with this,” he shouted again. “You want to play dirty? Fine with me. See how you feel when you find your ass in the hot seat. You’re going to be sorry.”
“I’m already sorry,” Lily said, sinking back against the bathroom wall.
WAS SOMEONE here?” Shana asked, walking out of the guest bedroom not long after Lily had received the phone call from John. “I was sleeping when I thought I heard someone arguing.”
“No one was here.” She headed to the living room, her daughter trailing behind her. Lily had to use every ounce of strength she possessed to regain her composure. “Richard will be up later this evening. We lucked out because he has a court appearance scheduled here tomorrow. He said he had already made reservations in a local hotel. This way, he won’t have to rush home.”
Dressed in a pair of her mother’s tapered beige slacks and a brown sweater, Shana acted as if she hadn’t heard a word Lily had said. “That was Dad on the phone, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t want to lie to you,” her mother answered, shrugging. “You told me you didn’t want to talk to him. All I did was deliver your message, adding a few words of my own.”
Buried Evidence Page 17
