by Steve Gannon
“You’ve got that right. By the way, it appears you might have been correct about the stalking angle.”
“You turn up something?” he asked as we exited the building and headed toward the parking structure.
“Possibly. After you left yesterday, I checked any vantage points the killer might have used to watch the Pratts. Some construction guys on that ridge overlooking the house recalled a white truck marked ‘Imperial Valley Plumbing’ parked there days before the killings. There’s no such company, at least not in Orange County.”
“You might consider checking companies that make magnetic signs. You know, the kind you stick on. Maybe hit commercial paint shops in the area, too.”
“Good idea.”
“Did the security gate have a record of the truck?”
“One. Ten days prior to the murders. No plate number, though.”
“Your lab turn up anything on the door opener?”
“They’re still working on it. They did match the fibers on the doorknob to the rope found in the bed, like you said. We also recovered fibers from the kid’s doorknob. More on another across the hall.”
“Same thing at the Palisades scene,” I said. “At least we know now why the kids didn’t bolt. Our guy tied their doors shut.”
“Had it all figured out, didn’t he?”
“Seems that way. There’s one thing I’m not buying, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Both families leaving their front doors unlocked. But if they didn’t, how’d the guy get in?”
By then we had reached the parking structure. Barrello hesitated, looking for his car on the bottom level. After a moment he spotted his Taurus several rows back. “That’s been bothering me, too. Lemme know if you come up with anything,” he added, heading for his car. “See you tomorrow.”
I nodded, still unable to shake the feeling I was missing something.
I hadn’t come up with an answer by the time I arrived at my Suburban, two levels up. Instead, I found a problem of a different nature leaning against my fender: Lauren Van Owen. “Damn, Van Owen,” I said, plucking a handwritten note from my windshield. “What do you want now?”
“Two minutes of your time.”
Instead of replying, I read the note, which turned out to be an irate message from somebody on the bomb squad. “We’ll have to stop meeting like this,” I said, crumbling the note and shoving it into my pocket. “People will think we have something going on.”
“Let them,” Lauren replied. Although she had removed a blazer she’d been wearing in the lobby, she still appeared composed and businesslike-gray silk blouse, wool skirt, midheight heels. Her blond hair, neatly clasped for the news conference earlier, now fell loose on her shoulders.
I fished my keys from my pocket. As I reached past Lauren to unlock my car door, I smelled a faint hint of her perfume. Crisp, elegant. “How’d you find me?”
“It wasn’t hard,” Lauren answered with a slight lift of her shoulders. I’ve seen you driving this rust-bucket before. I just checked the parking structures, found your junkmobile, and waited.”
“I hate to disappoint you, this being TV news-sweeps month and all, but I have nothing to say to you.”
“I promise I won’t bother you after this,” begged Lauren. “Just hear me out. I think we can help each other.”
“Oh, sure. You say you want to help, but you’re wearing that look you news types get just before asking some unwary schmuck how he likes clubbing defenseless baby seals.”
“You don’t like me much, do you?”
“What’s to like?”
Something flickered in Lauren’s eyes, something I couldn’t decipher. She glanced away before I could nail it down. When she turned back, it was gone.
“Let me tell you something,” she went on, her voice hardening. “I’ve been scrambling all my life. I got where I am because I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get a story, even if it means stepping on a few toes. Maybe even a whole roomful of toes. And if I wind up offending a couple chauvinist pricks like you in the process-tough.”
“Nice speech, Van Owen. Did you practice it in the mirror?”
Lauren’s cheeks flushed. “You can be a real bastard, Kane.”
“There’re plenty who would agree with you on that.”
“You realize we’re not all that different, you and I.”
“Excuse me?” I said. “To the untrained ear, it sounded like you just said we have something in common.”
“We do. You think what you’re doing is important. Well, I feel the same about my job. Like you, I work a twenty-five-hour-a-day job that’s never done, busting my hump doing more than any other three people combined-all the while taking orders from higher-ups with half my ability.” Lauren gazed at me angrily, then shifted gears. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. I love what I do, but it’s cost me. I’m a single mother with no social life and a few more wrinkles than I had last year, a three-bedroom condo with a leaky roof and a big mortgage, and a nine-year-old daughter I don’t have time for. Sometimes I get up in the morning and wonder what I’m doing with my life. Sound familiar?”
When I didn’t respond, Lauren continued. “I’ll level with you. This story is my ticket to network. I want it so bad I can taste it.”
“Yeah? What’s it taste like?”
Lauren smiled. “Chicken.” Then, more seriously, “Look, when this is over, I could be in Washington, maybe New York. But I need an angle. Network is sending their top guys down here to cover the story. Unless I come up with a lock on this thing-something they don’t have or can’t get-I’ll get lost in the shuffle.”
“Van Owen, I don’t understand why you’re telling me this. Just because you have problems, you expect me to be your source?”
“No. At least not the way you think.”
“What, then? You know that all task force releases have to go through channels. Some pencil pusher named Snead is the unit’s sole news liaison. Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, I couldn’t help.”
“What’s Snead like?” asked Lauren, playing for time. “Off the record.”
“Off the record? Grab a dictionary and look up dickhead.”
Lauren smiled again, then said, “Listen, I don’t have it all worked out yet, but if these murders continue, there’ll be a news blitz like you won’t believe.”
Again I didn’t respond. Unfortunately, I knew she was right.
“And if the killings aren’t stopped, heads will roll.”
“What are you getting at, Van Owen?”
“I’m saying that if things get nasty, it might be helpful for you to have a friend in the media. And vice versa.”
“You scratch my back, I scratch yours?”
“Something like that. What do you say?”
Without answering, I opened my car door and slid behind the wheel. I started the engine, but before pulling away, I rolled down my window. “I’ll think about it,” I said for the second time that morning. “It won’t make any difference, but I’ll think about it.”
11
She was magnificent. Jewels of sweat sparkled on her chest and shoulders, staining her leotard in revealing patches from breasts to abdomen. She had a dancer’s body: long, shapely legs, small breasts, and lean, muscular arms. Weeks earlier she’d cut her hair in a medium-length pageboy, and as she moved, her honey-colored locks rose and fell like golden wings. Her stunningly beautiful face was set in concentration as she exercised with others in the aerobics class, her expression betraying nothing of her thoughts. But occasionally, if he watched closely, he could see her lips lifting in a fleeting smile as she found her image in the mirror.
Proud of her body, he thought, watching from the second-floor observation balcony. And with good reason.
Newport Beach Family Fitness, once a racquetball club, had been converted to a gym and aerobics center after the original establishment failed. Two center courts had been combined to form an exercise studio, but th
e sixteen-foot-high glass walls and an observation deck at the back still remained, providing a perfect vantage from which he had studied her for weeks. And over those weeks, while standing unnoticed, he had learned much about her.
He knew she finger-combed her hair from her forehead when pensive, pursed her lips in a pout when irritated, glanced at her ostentatiously large wedding ring when bored. Despite her pride in her figure, he knew from observing her with others that she didn’t like to be touched. He knew her schedule, her clothes, her car-everything but where she lived. And before long he would know that, too.
He had followed her on a number of occasions, even before she’d been chosen. Each time, as she had turned at last for home, he had been stopped short of his goal.
Does everyone in this city live behind one of those ridiculous security gates?
Turning from the glass, he pressed his thumbs to his temples, recalling the frustration of seeing her pass the guard station into her Spyglass Hill development. Although getting past the gate presented little difficulty, doing so while following her was another story.
No matter, he thought. There are other ways.
Her class would be over in minutes. On Tuesdays she showered at the gym before driving to the school on San Joaquin Hills Road to pick up her children. He checked his watch, deciding he could take a steam bath and still be outside in time. He stared through the glass several seconds more, then decided that today was too important to leave anything to chance. Today he would talk with her. Maybe even touch her.
Whistling happily, Victor Carns headed downstairs.
Julie Welsh stopped on the health-club steps, rummaging through her purse for her keys. Irritated, she pawed through a jumble of tissues, makeup, and a handful of change. Giving up, she pushed a damp lock from her forehead, trying to remember where she had last seen them. Her locker? No, after showering she’d checked, making sure the locker was empty. The car? Oh, please God, not the car. The last time she’d locked her keys in the BMW, it had taken hours to get a locksmith, not to mention the expense. Worse, later that evening she’d had to suffer another infuriating lecture from her husband on the value of organization.
“Ah, there you are,” she said aloud, pulling a bulky key ring from her jacket pocket. She smiled, relieved she wouldn’t be butting heads with Wes again over what he termed her habitual lapses of memory.
Keys in hand, Julie hurried down the steps. Barring unforeseen delays, she would just be able to pick up Heather and Brian and make it to their orthodontic appointment on time. Barely. Upon arriving at the parking lot, however, she found a dark-haired man leaning against her car.
“Excuse me, is this your BMW?” the man asked politely. “I’m afraid I’ve damaged it.”
“What?”
The man smiled apologetically, using an expensive-looking gym bag to indicate a scrape behind the BMW’s left rear wheel. “I was backing out and clipped the fender,” he said. “Is this your car?”
Julie nodded, bending to examine the damage.
“I’m terribly sorry. Naturally, my insurance will cover the cost of repair.”
“It doesn’t seem too bad,” Julie said doubtfully.
“It may not look like much, but you know how expensive body work is these days,” the man insisted.
“Well…”
“Listen, I want to make things right. By the way, my name’s Jeff Millford.” Without removing his leather driving gloves, the man pulled a ballpoint pen and a pad of paper from his pocket. “At first I was simply going to leave a note, but I decided the right thing to do would be to wait.”
“That was nice of you, Mr. Millford. A lot of people would have just taken off.”
“Call me Jeff. Are you a member here? I feel as if I’ve seen you before.”
“I belong to the club. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed you, though.”
“I usually do my workouts in the evening. Listen, this is sort of embarrassing, but I rushed out today without my wallet. I don’t have my license or insurance papers with me, but I can supply all the information you’ll need. That’s my car,” the man added, pointing to a blue Toyota in the adjacent space. “If you’ll give me your insurance details, I’ll report the accident to my carrier. They’ll get in touch with your company, or with you directly. Whichever you want.”
“My insurance company will be fine,” Julie sighed, realizing she would be late picking up the kids. She leaned into her car and spent several moments finding the insurance papers. “Here,” she said, handing the man a rectangular white card. “I’m in kind of a hurry.”
“Won’t take a minute.” The man glanced at the card and made a quick entry on his pad, then ripped off the sheet and passed the pen and notebook to Julie. “I’m with Continental Casualty, but I don’t know the policy number,” he said, removing his gloves. “By the way, I noticed on your insurance certificate that you live on Montecito Drive. I have friends up there on Spyglass Hill. Do you have a view of the bay?”
“A slice,” Julie answered, jotting the names “Jeff Millford” and “Continental Casualty” on the pad, then adding an address and phone number he gave her moments later. She walked to the front of the blue Toyota and copied down its license number, too. “Well, thanks for waiting, Mr. Millford. I mean Jeff. Perhaps I’ll see you around,” she said as she tore off the sheet and dropped it into her purse.
The man’s fingers brushed Julie’s as he retrieved his pad and pen. “Perhaps,” he said, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “You know how life is. We’ll probably meet again when you least expect it.”
12
After leaving headquarters, I made two quick calls on my way back across town. Although I realized it would take most of the afternoon to transfer my active cases to other members of the West LA homicide unit, I also realized that this might be my last chance for independent action on the Larson murders, and I wanted to make the most of it. My first call was to Philip Nostrant, a detective friend in Administrative Narcotics. He wasn’t in, so I left a message. The second call was to Graysha Hunt, the realtor whose name I had seen on the property listed for sale next to the Larsons’ house. Graysha was in, and although puzzled by my call, she agreed to meet me for lunch.
Forty minutes later, after parking on Twenty-Sixth Street in Santa Monica, I entered an open-air shopping mall with picnic tables and green umbrellas reading “Country Mart” on their canopies. I’d been there before and knew the food was great. Deciding to grab something to eat before finding the realtor, I crossed to a booth advertising deli sandwiches and barbecue. I squinted at a sign above the booth, briefly considering ordering a sandwich.
A leather-faced attendant wearing a “Grateful Dead” T-shirt scowled across the counter. “Made up your mind yet, bud? Sometime this century would be nice.”
“Chicken basket,” I said, deciding on my usual.
“You get fries or slaw with that.”
“Fries. And make ’em crispy.”
“You got it.”
Behind a glass shield, sizzling spits of whole chickens turned on a vertical roaster, one above the other, the juice from each spit dripping onto the next. The counterman removed the lowest spit and slid a well done bird from the metal rod onto a cutting board. After replacing the spit, he cut the bird lengthwise and sectioned one of the half-portions with shears, placing the pieces into a paper-lined basket brimming with French fries.
I paid for the chicken and picked up a quart of whole milk two stalls over. Food in hand, I started looking for Graysha. I finally spotted an attractive brunette in her late twenties sitting alone at a table near the back. As I approached, she looked up from her lunch. “Graysha Hunt?” I asked.
The woman nodded and extended a hand. “Detective Kane. I appreciate your meeting me here. I sometimes have to squeeze in lunch when I can.”
“No problem. I like this place, and I hadn’t eaten yet myself,” I said, briefly taking her hand in mine. Sliding onto a redwood bench across from Graysha, I glanc
ed at her food, a tiny spinach salad with a parsimonious sprinkling of goat cheese. “That all you’re having?”
“It’s all I can afford.”
“Real estate market’s that bad?”
“You know what I mean,” Graysha laughed. Her voice sounded musical, like a tinkling of bells. “A girl has to watch her figure. What did you want to talk about, Detective?”
Direct. I liked that. “How long has that house you have listed on Michael Lane been on the market?” I asked.
Graysha withdrew a notebook from her purse and flipped through. “Over two months,” she answered, finding her place. “We haven’t had many showings, though.”
“Do you keep a record of prospective buyers who go through?”
“Every one of my clients. Other agents have shown it, too. They keep their own records.”
“But you could put together a list?”
“Why?”
“Your house looks similar to the Larson residence. They’re mirror images, right?”
Graysha nodded. “They were built by the same developer. Same floor plan, but reversed. Is that important?”
I took a bite of chicken, wiped my fingers on a napkin, and took a swig of milk from the carton. “Maybe, maybe not,” I answered. “I’d like your cooperation, so I’m going to tell you something we held back from the media, something I want you to keep to yourself. We think whoever killed the Larsons knew his way around their house a lot better than he should have. He was either in there before, or…”
“… in a house like it.”
“Right. What I want from you is a list of every real estate agent who’s shown your property.”
Graysha’s eyes widened. “You think an agent might be the killer?”
“Not really, but it’s a place to start. Mostly I want to find out whether anyone has seen anything suspicious-a client who acted strangely, a car they noticed cruising the area, a window mysteriously left open.”
