Cold Justice (Kali O'Brien series Book 5)

by Jonnie Jacobs

For whatever reason, the house had caught Mr. Smith’s fancy. He’d driven by, he said, seen her name on the for-sale sign, come right home and called her to set up an appointment.

  She punched in the code on the realtor’s box and took out the key. Inside, the house wasn’t much better, although with a few cosmetic changes and a fresh coat of paint, it could be made livable. It would take someone with a good imagination, though, to see the potential, especially now that it was vacant. Jane was determined to help Mr. Smith visualize the possibilities.

  She pulled a saucepan from her tote, filled it with water and spices, and set it on the stove to simmer. She put an easy-listening tape in the portable boom box, adjusted the volume so that it wasn’t too loud, then walked through the rooms opening the drapes and turning on lights.

  Mr. Smith had been fairly tight-lipped about what he wanted in a house. Sometimes that was a sign that people weren’t seriously looking to buy, but they were the ones trying to get a peek at the million-dollar homes, not at some rundown bungalow from the fifties. Jane had made Mr. Smith a list of other properties he might be interested in seeing. And she’d tentatively arranged to show the best of those today if he had the time.

  With the pot on the stove cooking away, the homey scent of cinnamon and cloves began to fill the rooms. It wasn’t such a bad house, Jane thought. Just neglected. And the neighborhood was a good one.

  She checked her watch. Mr. Smith was late. Probably caught in traffic if he was coming straight from work.

  Jane passed the time by imagining the changes she’d make to spruce up the house and grounds. She’d probably start outside by cutting down some of the eucalyptus trees that were blocking the light. It would really open the place up. And she’d rip out the carpeting. The owners had said there was hardwood flooring underneath. She could imagine the floors stained a honey blonde. It would give the interior the warmth it currently lacked.

  The doorbell rang. Jane pulled herself from her daydreaming and went to answer it. She was looking forward to meeting Mr. Smith in person. New clients were always an exciting prospect. You never knew what they’d bring.

  CHAPTER 13

  Because of the autopsy and investigation, Anne’s funeral had been delayed until the second week following her death. The day was bitter cold and damp—a lousy day for burying a friend, Kali thought. Not that there was ever a good one.

  The turnout at the church was large. Kali recognized Jerry, Anne’s brother Paul, and a few faces from the legal community, but most were strangers to her. She saw Owen in the church as well, accompanied by Selby and Alex, and a couple of media types who she guessed were covering Owen’s campaign. No doubt his presence at the funeral of a murder victim would make juicy news since it combined two of the public’s perennial favorites—politics and gore.

  She didn’t have a chance to talk with him until after the burial. Which was probably just as well since during most of the service she’d found herself too choked to trust her voice. But as they headed from the grave site back toward the parking lot, Owen fell into step beside her. The press was blessedly absent.

  “It was a nice service,” Owen said.

  “Except for the fact that it was Anne’s.” Kali didn’t mean to sound snappish, but as she’d watched the coffin being lowered into the ground, the reality of Anne’s death had hit her anew. Nice was a pale thing compared to life.

  “Except for that,” Owen agreed. They walked a few steps in silence. Kali’s mind filled with images of Anne, and anguish at the terrible way she’d died.

  “How’s it working out with the detectives?” Owen asked after a moment.

  “Could be worse.” And in fact, it might yet get worse. But Kali felt she’d bridged their initial skepticism. “Do you know either of them?”

  “By reputation. They’re both well respected within the department.”

  Kali had heard the same thing from others. She’d also picked up a bit of gossip about Bryce Keating’s “eye for the ladies,” as her secretary, Gloria, put it. But she’d certainly not seen any evidence of that herself.

  “You’ve done a good job keeping the details from the press,” Owen said.

  “That wasn’t really my doing. You put the clamp on Jackson, and nobody else has picked up on it.” She’d been surprised, in fact, how little coverage Anne’s murder had generated. A couple of stories early on, then nothing. It saddened her to think the loss of precious life was so commonplace it was no longer newsworthy.

  “Any progress finding her killer?”

  “Nothing substantial. They think she was abducted from a parking lot in North Berkeley. That’s where her car was before it was stolen by some punk kids. And one of the store clerks thinks she remembers seeing Anne the night of her murder. The cops have distributed flyers to shoppers there, hoping to find someone who might have seen what happened, but the response so far has been disappointing.”

  “Nothing more related to the Strangler murders?”

  Kali shook her head and shoved her hands into her pockets. The tips of her fingers were numb with cold. “Her family and friends are offering a reward. Maybe that will elicit some response.”

  “I know. I contributed to it myself.”

  As had Kali. “Anne’s husband has hired an attorney,” she said after a moment.

  Owen gave her a questioning look.

  “Turns out Anne was pregnant. Jerry didn’t want a family. And he has no clear alibi for the night of the murder.”

  “But the rose, the note—”

  “I know. But the Strangler tie-in could be a clever cover.” Keating was the one pushing this angle, and although Kali was far from convinced, she wasn’t ruling it out either.

  “Wouldn’t that be something,” Owen said.

  From his tone, Kali could tell he didn’t hold out much hope it would be that simple.

  They came to Owen’s car, where Selby and Alex were waiting for him. Selby nodded a greeting. She was clearly impatient to be gone.

  Owen turned to his son. “Alex, do you remember Kali O’Brien?”

  Kali extended a hand. Alex looked at her a moment, then responded with a reluctant handshake.

  “Hi,” he said.

  Alex had grown taller since she’d last seen him; in fact, he was several inches taller than Owen. He’d bulked up, too. His shoulders were broad, his arms thickly muscled. Gone was the awkward adolescent who’d favored drugs over exercise.

  “Kali and Anne Bailey worked for me at one time,” Owen said.

  “I remember,” Alex said. “It was around the time Mom died.”

  There was something about the way he said it, Kali thought, that spoke louder than the words themselves.

  But Owen seemed not to notice. “Keep me posted,” he said to Kali.

  “Will do.” She leaned over to wave to Alex, who’d already climbed into the car. “Nice seeing you again.”

  His eyes met hers and he waved back. But he didn’t crack a smile.

  <><><>

  What did one do after a funeral? Kali recalled her mother’s funeral twenty years earlier, when she’d gone home following the service, headed straight for her room and wrapped herself in her grief, waiting for her father to search her out and offer comfort. She couldn’t imagine now why she’d ever thought he might. Her father had been a stone. A man whose feelings were so deeply buried, he’d forgotten what they were. Whether that was his true nature or an adaptive defense, she’d never know. But she was still paying the price for having had a father who scorned emotions.

  What Kali ended up doing after Anne’s funeral was what she often did when feeling unsettled—she took Loretta for a walk. Bundled against the sharp wind, she headed up the road past her house to a small park where the dog could run free under a canopy of eucalyptus. There she said her own, final farewell to Anne. Twilight had settled in by the time they returned. Passing Margot’s house, she was drawn by the warmth of lit windows and the smoky tang of a wood fire. She rang the bell.

 
“Hey, how’d you know?” Margot asked.

  “How’d I know what?”

  “That I was just going to call you.” Margot’s wolfhounds sniffed Loretta, whose excitement at finding canine friends made their task more difficult. “Come on in. You want something to drink?”

  “Do you have any wine open?”

  “I think so.” Margot looked in the fridge and pulled out a bottle of chardonnay. “I can’t say how old it is.”

  “It’ll be fine.”

  Margot poured Kali a glass, then covered the bottom of her own tumbler with scotch.

  Kali took a seat at one of the high stools in the kitchen. “Why were you going to call me?”

  “I need advice.”

  “Legal advice?”

  “Dating advice.”

  Kali burst out laughing, spilling her wine.

  “You think my dating is funny?”

  “Not at all. It’s just that I’m the wrong person to ask.”

  “Oh, come on. You’ve had more experience at it than I have.”

  Kali leaned an elbow on the counter. “Experience maybe. But my track record isn’t so hot.”

  “I’ve never done this before,” Margot explained. “As a woman, I mean. Didn’t do much of it in my former life either. I married my high school sweetheart.”

  “You have someone special in mind?”

  “Not yet, but I’m working on it.” Margot crossed her legs, revealing silken limbs. Who but someone new to being female would wear a skirt with pantyhose around the house?

  “Think of it this way,” Kali offered, “you’re an expert on men. That’s got to be a real advantage.”

  Margot made a face. “I’m not so sure.”

  Kali ended up staying for a second glass of wine and then a third over dinner. By the time she made it back to her own house, the disquiet she’d felt following Anne’s funeral was considerably muted.

  <><><>

  A shrill ringing woke her at quarter to six the next morning. She tried the alarm first, and when that did nothing, thought to reach for the phone.

  “Hello.” She looked out the window. The sky was still pitch black.

  “Bryce Keating here.”

  Kali pulled herself to a sitting position and blinked to clear her mind as well as her vision.

  “We’ve got another murder.’ he said.

  “Another. . .” Her voice croaked. She swallowed. “Like before?”

  He didn’t offer an explanation. “How soon can you get here?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Lake Temescal. The parking lot at the north entrance.”

  Kali’s mouth was cottony; her body cried out for a shower. “Half an hour?”

  “That should be good. We need to wait for daylight before we can finish processing the scene anyway.”

  <><><>

  Forty-three minutes later, Kali showed her new district attorney ID to the uniformed officer at the entrance of the lot. He waved her through. Half a dozen police vehicles, including the coroner’s van, were already parked there.

  Temescal was an urban lake fed by runoff from the nearby hills and storm drains. In the summer, people swam in the lake—an undertaking Kali felt sure had to be fueled by desperation. In the late fall, the lake was often green with algae. Now, with the recent rains, she imagined it was muddy brown. It was still too dark to tell.

  She found Keating in the far corner of the lot, where most of the activity seemed to be centered.

  He looked at his watch. “Not bad considering you sounded like you were still asleep when I called.”

  Of course she’d been asleep. Most of the city was asleep even now. He didn’t have to make it sound like she was a laggard. “I had to let the dog out,” she explained, in case he was inclined to think she’d spent the intervening time primping.

  “Of course.” No inflection. Kali couldn’t tell if he’d intended sarcasm or agreement.

  Keating pointed in the direction of the lake. “The body’s over there.”

  “Do we know who she is?” Kali turned up her jacket collar against the icy wind blowing in from the west. She wished she’d had time for a cup of coffee before leaving the house.

  “Not a clue. White, late thirties I’d say someone who took good care of herself.”

  “Strangled?”

  He nodded.

  “What makes you think it might be same killer?”

  “Come see for yourself.”

  Floodlights from two cruisers were directed on an area near the outer edge of the asphalt, where a Port-A-Potty stood. “That’s where he left her? In the outhouse?”

  “Next to it.” Keating handed her a pair of latex gloves.

  Kali slid them onto her hands. She had seen plenty of crime scene photographs but she’d never visited a fresh scene, and she wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of doing so now. Especially without the benefit of her morning cup of coffee.

  Two evidence technicians were working the scene. One of them was down on his hands and knees with a flashlight. The other was conferring with a man in a jumpsuit that had coroner printed on the back in block letters. Kali followed Keating to the body.

  The woman lay on the ground, her upper torso propped against the side of the Port-A-Potty. One leg was bent at the knee, causing her skirt to ride up. Her hands were folded in her lap. Despite her attire, which to Kali’s mind could be summed up as “provocative,” her appearance was more elegant than sleazy. Chin-length hair of a rich chestnut brown, eye makeup that was subtly applied and expertly manicured nails. The only thing a little off was the bright red lipstick that had somehow stayed in place despite the horrors of her death.

  A tremor of unease worked its way down Kali’s spine. The similarities between this and the pictures she’d seen of Anne’s body were unmistakable. And both bore an uncanny resemblance to the photos of the Bayside Strangler’s victims. Except this woman was a brunette and not a blonde.

  “Who found her?” Kali asked.

  “An early-morning jogger. He doesn’t live far from here. He headed straight home to call us after he found the body.”

  “Any missing-persons reports that fit?”

  “Not yet. It looks like she hasn’t been dead long, probably less than twenty-four hours. That’s not much time when we’re talking about a missing adult.”

  “No, I guess not.” Kali tried to imagine how long it would take before someone noticed she was missing. A lot longer than twenty-four hours.

  Keating bent down next to the body. The harsh light of the floods lent a surreal feeling to the scene.

  “Look here,” he said, “see the bruising around her neck. It’s practically identical to the markings on Anne Bailey’s neck. I’m not an expert on this, but I’m betting the coroner will tell us they were made from the same type of rope or cord.”

  Up close, the lifelessness of the woman’s body was raw and real. Nothing like the quiet sleep Kali had seen in funeral homes, or even on the video screen at the morgue. This was a woman, not unlike herself, who’d been caught in an eddy of unexpected horror. Kali felt suddenly light-headed.

  Keating looked up at her. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.” She forced herself to kneel and follow Keating’s discourse on ligature marks and angle of attack.

  “Also similar posing of the body,” he said, rising. “And the clothes. I’m guessing they aren’t hers. Either it’s a hell of a coincidence, or we’re dealing with the same killer in both cases.”

  “So Anne’s husband is off the hook?”

  “Unless this is a ploy to throw us off.”

  “You don’t really think that, do you? That he’d kill another woman just to divert attention from himself?”

  Keating pushed his tongue across his inner cheek, a habit Kali had noticed he fell into when he was thinking. “I’m not saying he did, just that we shouldn’t rule it out.”

  “If it wasn’t him, though, we’re dealing with a killer who’s targeting women for God kno
ws what reason.” She hesitated. “Someone like the Bayside Strangler.”

  Keating nodded. The play of harsh artificial light and murky dawn cast his face in shadows, making it hard to read. “The very toughest type of killer to catch. I worked on a case like that in Los Angeles once.”

  “Did you get the guy?”

  “No.” It was almost a whisper. “Eventually the killing stopped but not before six women were brutally stabbed and dismembered.”

  “Dismembered.” Her hand flew to her mouth.

  “Your standard motives—greed, revenge, jealousy—those are the easy ones to solve. You get a psycho who’s listening to voices in his head or wrestling with some kind of faceless internal rage, and there’s no clear path from victim to killer. You’re left with nothing to fall back on but dumb luck.”

  Which was how they’d caught Dwayne Allen Davis. A necklace belonging to one of the victims had shown up in his possession during a routine traffic check. Without that, who knew how many more women would have died.

  Kali and Bryce Keating had moved to the perimeter of the cordoned-off area. “I need to finish things here,” Keating said. “No point your sticking around. I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

  “You’ve got my cell phone number?”

  Keating was already moving off in the direction of the crime scene van. He patted his jacket pocket. “You gave it to us the other day.”

  The sun had finally risen high enough behind the hills to offer daylight visibility. Crime scene personnel were moving with an increased sense of focus. As Kali headed back to her car, she noticed several news vans parked along the frontage road. A helicopter was approaching from the west. The second strangulation murder of a woman in a relatively short period of time—the media was sure to make the connection, even without comment from the police. How long would it take before someone brought up the name Dwayne Arnold Davis?

  CHAPTER 14

  Kali had barely settled in at her desk with a latte from Peet’s when the phone rang.

  Jack Jackson wasted no time getting to the point of his call. “Is this one the same?”