“You sold only one in each size?”
She gave him a trifling smile. “For any given style, there is only one Carin in each size.”
He wasn’t impressed, although he was fairly certain she expected him to be. “You wouldn’t happen to have a phone number or address for either of the ladies, would you?”
“Of course.” She went to the desk, hit a couple of keys on the computer, and wrote the information out for him on the back of a business card. “Holly was just in here yesterday. It’s so weird that her dress would be part of a murder.”
Lou heaved a sigh of relief when he exited the store. He should have let Keating handle it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Keating look uncomfortable.
Lou picked up his cell phone to call Holly Spritzer, then realized he’d have trouble describing the dress, beyond the obvious. She might well own more than one black dress. So he drove to her place instead.
It was a lovely home near the Claremont Country Club. The woman who answered the door appeared to be in her late forties. She was fashionably dressed and had honey-blond, chin-length hair that probably cost her both time and money, but the image was marred by her scowl.
“No solicitors,” she snapped. “Didn’t you see the sign?”
Lou pulled out his badge. “I’m a detective with the Oakland Police Department.”
She squinted at it and then at him. Her expression never softened. “What can I do for you?”
He held out the dress. “This look familiar to you?”
“It looks like the Carin I bought last summer.” She examined the hem. “It is my dress. See, there’s a grease stain that wouldn’t come out.” Her frown deepened. “What are you doing with it?”
Lou had questions of his own. “When did you last see the dress?”
She shrugged. “I donated it to one of those thrift shops. The Salvation Army, I believe. In the fall. Only wore it the one time. Some idiot sitting next to me slopped mayonnaise into my lap.”
Lou groaned inwardly. This whole thing with the dress had been a long shot from the start. Now it looked impossible. How would they ever trace a dress through the Salvation Army? Still, he hadn’t expected to get as far as he had, and it was an avenue that couldn’t be ignored. You never knew what detail was going to break a case.
He hit all three of the Salvation Army stores in the East Bay and struck out, just as he expected. No one remembered the dress, and none of the stores kept track of inventory. But at least they knew their killer shopped at thrift stores. That was something.
It wasn’t yet five, but Lou decided to call it a day. It was Saturday, after all. And his back was killing him. He wanted to go home, put ice on it and settle in with a beer.
<><><>
He got to the nursing home earlier than usual and was surprised to find someone sitting in the chair by Jan’s bed.
It took a moment before he recognized who it was. “Nikki. What are you doing here?”
“Hi, Daddy. It’s nice to see you, too.” The sarcasm was unmistakable, but for once she sounded more amused than angry.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Los Angeles wasn’t exactly within “drop by” vicinity.
“I need to clear it with you before I can visit Mom?”
“That’s not what I meant.” Though Lou realized that on some level he probably did. Shouldn’t a daughter forfeit some rights when she thumbed her nose at everything her parents had taught her?
“Anyway, I did try calling. You weren’t home.”
Lou stood with his hands at his side. He felt awkward, as he often did around Nikki. She’d been a pretty girl. A little pudgy maybe, but with her mother’s soft eyes and the even white smile of an orthodontia graduate. Now, at twenty-five, she was rail thin. A brittle-looking bottle blonde with dark roots and enough body piercings to set off a metal detector. Lou noticed the flash of silver on her tongue, something he hadn’t remembered from the last time they’d seen each other. He averted his eyes in disgust.
“You’ve got my work number,” he said. “And my cell.”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure I do anymore. How’s Mom? Any change?”
“What’s it look like?” His sore back and the surprise of running into Nikki made his tone shorter than he intended.
“Yeah, I guess it was a dumb question.” Nikki looked over at Jan, and her chin quivered.
Lou felt a surge of affection for his daughter. “Why don’t you come to the house for dinner? Or we can go out, if you’d prefer. That’s probably a better idea given my skill in the kitchen.”
“Sorry. Willy and I have tickets for Incubus tonight. That’s why we’re here.”
Willy. The lazy, no-good, college dropout who had moved in with his daughter almost a year ago. Lou suspected Nikki was supporting him as well as sleeping with him. He couldn’t decide which angered him more.
“Meet me for breakfast then,” Lou suggested.
“Sorry, we’re going back first thing tomorrow.”
“You flew up from L.A. just for a concert?” Lou realized too late that it sounded like a reprimand. Mostly he was hurt she hadn’t told him she was coming.
Her tone, in response, was cool. “Frequent flyer miles, Daddy. It didn’t cost us a cent.”
Lou pulled a chair from the hallway and sat at the foot of Jan’s bed. Maybe he’d relate better if he wasn’t towering over Nikki. He bit back his hurt and anger. “How are things going for you, honey?”
“Fine. Really good, in fact. I got a promotion. Production assistant.”
“Great.” He had no idea what a production assistant did. “Is it interesting work?”
“For now. How about you?”
“Yeah, things are, you know”—he shrugged—”about as good as can be expected.”
“Bodies keep dropping, huh?”
“Afraid so.”
They talked for a few minutes about Jan’s health, then Nikki stood to leave. As she squeezed past him in the narrow space next to the hospital bed, she stopped to kiss him on the cheek. “Maybe you could come to L.A. and visit me,” she said.
“Sure, as soon as I have some time.”
She turned at the doorway and waved. “I’d really like it if you did.”
When she was gone, Lou touched his cheek where she’d kissed him.
<><><>
Bryce Keating rubbed his eyes. He was reading the words just fine, but they wouldn’t stick. It was all a jumble of names and dates. Maureen Oliver had done a good job of collecting information about Bailey and Parkhurst. Everything from where they got their hair done to the stores they frequented. So far, he hadn’t found a common thread.
The phone rang and Keating picked it up.
“Are you the one I should talk to about the reward?”
“What?” Keating had been only half listening.
“You know, that woman was killed. Got a handout here says there’s a reward.”
Keating was instantly alert. “For information leading to the arrest and conviction of her killer, yes. You know something?”
“I mighta seen someone in the parking lot that night.”
“Might have or did?”
“I did see someone, absolutely. How much money we talking about?”
The initial surge of hope was quickly fading. “What’s your name?”
“John Jones.”
Yeah, sure. “Where can I reach you, Mr. Jones?”
“Uh . . .” The caller read out a number, stumbling once in the process. “It’s kinda hard to catch me, though. I’m not here real often.”
“Tell me what you saw.”
“A car, man. And this dude kinda hanging around, like he was up to no good.”
“Did you see him with a woman?”
“Yeah.” The caller grew more animated. “He was kinda following her.”
“And then?”
“That’s all I seen.”
“What kind of car?”
“Uh, old. N
ot real old, but not new either. And it was a van, not a car.”
“Make? Model? Color?”
“Gray. Or maybe dirty white. It was night, you know.”
“Big? Minivan? It would help if you could give us a few details.”
The caller was quiet a moment, and Keating wondered if he was trying to remember or simply fabricating details out of thin air. “More like a panel truck, I guess. It had those two doors at the back instead of a hatch. And something hanging from the rearview mirror.”
“How about the man,” Keating asked. “Can you describe him?”
“Six feet, about. Maybe early twenties. Caucasian.”
“What kind of build?”
“Average. Big through the chest and shoulders, though, like he was some mean punk.”
“Any distinguishing marks or traits?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, like maybe he walked with a limp. Or had a gold tooth.”
The caller took his time thinking about it, but came up with nothing. “It was dark,” he explained. “He mighta had those things and I just missed them.”
Keating’s head was beginning to hurt. “Okay, Mr. Jones. We appreciate your call. You think of anything else, let us know.”
“What about my money?”
“We’ll be in touch.”
Keating filled out a form and tossed it into the special hotline basket, along with the other useless tips. Later, he’d enter the name and information into his own personal database. No doubt someone out there had seen their killer the night he grabbed Anne Bailey in the drugstore parking lot, maybe even Mr. Jones. But unless that person could give them something solid to go on, the tip wasn’t going to prove particularly useful.
Keating went back to his notes, then gave up. Working weekends didn’t bother him, especially when he was on a pressing case, but he hated spinning his wheels. They needed a break, and they needed it soon.
Before the killer stuck again.
Keating was feeling antsy. He wondered if there was any legitimate excuse to call Kali. He couldn’t think of one.
Why hadn’t he spoken up yesterday on the drive back from Dunworthy’s? An offhand suggestion of coffee, or maybe dinner and a movie. Yesterday it would have been natural, but at the last minute on a Saturday evening. . . that wasn’t the same thing at all.
Without thinking, Keating ran his thumb along the base of his left ring finger. Warm flesh instead of the once-familiar metal band. You’d think by now he’d no longer expect the ring, but somehow its absence always caught him by surprise.
He pushed back his chair, grabbed his jacket and headed for the Marquis. Maybe he’d get lucky. If he was desperate, there was always his little black book.
Inside, the air was thick with smoke and booze, this despite California law forbidding smoking in public places. Keating took a seat at the bar, ordered a beer, and checked out the action. For one brief moment he saw a woman across the room who might have been Kali, and his gut tightened. But when she turned, he saw they looked nothing alike.
He tried to work up some enthusiasm for approaching one of the two women sitting at the bar alone, but it seemed liked work, so he ordered another beer instead. He must be coming down with a cold or something.
Keating was lost in his own thoughts and didn’t notice the young woman who slipped onto the stool next to him until she shoved a bowl of mixed nuts in his direction.
“Help yourself,” she said, and smiled at him. Her complexion was rough, as though she’d had a bad case of acne as a child. It gave her a hardened look, but she wasn’t unattractive.
“Thanks.” He picked out a cashew and smiled back. It was an automatic response.
“My name’s Linda.”
“Nice to meet you, Linda.” He was gradually falling into step. It was a dance he could do in his sleep.
“So what’s your name?”
“Bryce.”
“Like the canyon?”
“Yep. I’ve always been glad my parents went for that instead of Zion.”
It took a moment, and then she laughed. Her lips were naturally thin, and he could see that she’d used lip pencil to paint them fuller. “I’ve seen you in here before,” she said.
“You have?”
“Yeah, I come here with girlfriends pretty regular. They’re all busy tonight.”
“How come you’re not?”
She made a face. “I got stood up.”
“Can’t imagine why a guy would pass on an evening with you.” The words tumbled out. Bryce felt like he was reading the lines in a bad play.
Linda gave him another smile. Her eyes were a mink brown, and very inviting. “What do you do for a living, Bryce?”
“I’m a cop.” Most women were impressed, but not all. Tonight, Bryce didn’t really care.
“For real?”
“Yeah.”
“No, I don’t believe you.” She smiled flirtatiously. “Prove it to me.”
What the hell? He showed her his badge.
“You got a gun, too?”
He opened his jacket to allow a glimpse of his shoulder holster.
“Guess I’m safe sitting here with you.” She punctuated the words with just enough eye contact to make the double meaning clear.
“Absolutely safe,” Bryce said. He was beginning to tire of the game already. Linda was a lot safer than she thought. “What’s your line of work?” he asked.
“I’m a teacher. Third grade. Not very exciting, I know. Some of my friends are dot-commers. That’s much sexier.”
“But you’re sexy,” he said. It was the required line, and he delivered it without thinking.
“Am I?” She touched his knee and let her hand linger there. He could feel himself respond. But he wasn’t interested.
He squeezed her hand and moved it back to her own lap. “You’re very sexy, Linda, but you got me at a bad time.”
“You still getting over someone?”
He shook his head. Kali’s image flashed in his mind. “Just the opposite.”
CHAPTER 21
Kali got into work late Monday morning. She and Margot had gone to an arts fundraiser Sunday evening—one of Margot’s clients had offered free tickets—and they’d both had way too much champagne. Kali might not have pulled herself from bed at all if Loretta hadn’t made such a pitiful plea for human activity.
Kali signed in, then stopped to confer with Gloria.
“Bryce Keating called,” Gloria told her. “And someone named Hannah Slade. She said she needed to see you as soon as possible. I set an appointment for ten. Your calendar looked clear then.” Gloria paused, then added with a touch of apology, “I expected you’d be in before now.”
“Ten is fine.” Although it gave Kali less than fifteen minutes to prepare for the visit. “Did Ms. Slade say why she wanted to see me?”
“Only that she’d read about the recent murders, seen your name in the paper, and needed to talk to you.”
Kali’s office had been closed up by the cleaning crew over the weekend. The blinds were drawn so that no outside light came in. She flipped on the switch and immediately headed for the window. When she turned back toward her desk, she muffled a yelp. Sitting there next to the blotter was an arrangement of yellow tulips in a clear glass vase.
She buzzed Gloria. “Where did the flowers come from?”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. They were delivered Friday. After you’d gone. I put them in water so they wouldn’t wilt. Is there anything left to them?”
The petals were, in fact, tight. Objectively, it was a lovely bouquet. “They’re fine,” Kali said, still feeling the shock of finding yellow flowers in her office. The box they’d arrived in was on her desk. She found the card and opened it with a shaking hand. Thanks for a great evening, Nathan.
She relaxed, but only marginally.
It was a sweet gesture, she told herself. Romantic even. And they were tulips, not roses. But they were yellow, and that left her feeling
queasy.
She moved the flowers to the narrow bookshelf behind her desk, where she wouldn’t be constantly staring at them. She was crumpling up florist’s tissue when Gloria ushered Hannah Slade into the office.
Kali held out a hand and introduced herself. “Can I get you some coffee or a soda?”
“No, thank you.” Hannah Slade was barely out of her teens, with short black hair and heavy-frame glasses. Attractive in a no-nonsense sort of way. She took a seat where Kali indicated, perching on the edge of her chair as though she’d been summoned to Kali’s office against her will.
“What can I do for you?” Kali asked.
Hannah appeared nervous. She rubbed her thumbs together. “About those two women who were murdered . . .”
“You know something that might help us?” Kali felt a surge of adrenaline.
“No, not really. It’s just that I was hoping. . .” She stopped, took a breath and started over. “Slade is my married name. My family name is Gilchrist. Wendy was my sister.”
Wendy Gilchrist, fifth and last of the Bayside Strangler’s victims. One of the murders of which Dwayne Allen Davis had been acquitted.
Kali vaguely remembered seeing a younger sister at the trial, two of them in fact. Wendy’s parents had appeared in court every day but they’d kept the children away until the very end, when the jury returned. In the fevered pitch of tension that preceded the reading of the verdict, Kali had caught a glimpse of the family sitting in the gallery. But what she recalled most vividly was the anguished cry from Wendy’s mother at the words “not guilty.” Kali remembered thinking it a cruel twist of fate that Wendy’s parents had tried to spare their children the grisly details of their sister’s murder, and had given them instead a ringside seat to something equally painful.
“I’m sorry,” Kali said. “I imagine these last years haven’t been easy for you.”
“Worse than you can imagine. My father died a year after the trial. Died of grief, my mother always says. It’s true, I think. He pretty much lost interest in everything after that. My younger sister had a hard time too. She got into drugs, petty crime. She’s more or less disappeared from our lives at this point.”
Cold Justice (Kali O'Brien series Book 5) Page 15
