Cold Justice (Kali O'Brien series Book 5)

by Jonnie Jacobs

  CHAPTER 27

  Kali popped the lid from her afternoon latte and dropped it into the trash next to Lou Fortune’s desk. She’d gotten to bed late last night and slept poorly. She was counting on caffeine to get her through the day.

  “Guys who’ve been in the system before,” Lou said with disgust. “They know not to say boo without an attorney present.”

  “It’s their right,” Kali reminded him. She shared his frustration, however. After Lancaster’s request for an attorney the previous evening, the detectives had been unable to question him further. Lancaster was scheduled to meet with a public defender today, but Kali knew his counsel would be to say nothing. Now she faced the prospect of filing charges in a case where she had more questions than answers. It didn’t help that Owen wanted an arrest so badly, he’d practically salivated when she told him about Lancaster.

  Bryce pushed his chair back from his desk and stretched. “Anyone who watches TV knows they have the right to an attorney.”

  “Most don’t insist on it, though,” Lou said.

  “What about the search of his apartment?” Kali asked. “Did anything turn up?”

  “Nothing obvious, but the full report isn’t in yet.”

  “Camera?”

  “Yep. With a telephoto lens. No pictures of Parkhurst though.”

  “And his van?”

  “Blue interior,” Bryce said. “Similar fibers to those found on both victims.”

  “Similar to what’s found in thousands of vehicle interiors, too,” Kali pointed out.

  Bryce rolled his shoulders, stretching further. “White van, two rear doors also fits with what that witness in the Bailey murder reported seeing.”

  “Nothing dangling from the mirror, though.”

  Lou shot her a contentious look. “So he took it down.”

  “What about the rope?” Kali asked.

  “Size and material fits. But it’s standard rope, available at any hardware store. I talked with his employer this morning. Lancaster called in sick on the night Anne Bailey was murdered. He was supposedly working the night of Jane Parkhurst’s death, but there’s no way to verify what hours he was actually in the building.”

  “Did you talk to other members of the crew?” Kali asked.

  “Of course we talked to them.” Lou’s tone was disdainful.

  “What I meant was, what did they say?”

  “Might have seen him, might not,” Bryce replied. “The evenings all blur together. No one could remember the night in question with any certainty, much less what time they remembered seeing Lancaster.”

  “But a couple of them admitted it’s conceivable Lancaster could have left the job site early, or left and come back. We asked them that, too,” Lou added pointedly.

  “Sorry, I wasn’t being critical.”

  Lou looked at her for a moment, started to say something, then changed his mind.

  Kali didn’t want to be sidetracked by a petty turf war. “I wish we had something that clearly tied him to at least one of the murders,” she said.

  Hard, physical evidence wasn’t absolutely necessary, but it put the prosecution in a much stronger position. And given the politics involved, if there was ever a time they needed a strong case, this was it.

  Lou pulled a pack of spearmint gum from his pocket and offered it around before taking a stick himself. “Don’t forget those dolls of his. They’re downright spooky.”

  Kali agreed. She’d gone by Lancaster’s apartment that morning when the cops were executing their search. It wasn’t just the dolls, although they were bizarre enough in themselves. It was also the way Lancaster had them positioned around the house, like his own private harem. But eccentric, or even kinky, she reminded herself, wasn’t against the law.

  “Has Mrs. Greene seen his photo?” Kali asked.

  “Yeah,” Lou said. “Doesn’t recognize him. She’s sure he’s not the same man she saw ‘snooping’ around the Parkhurst house.” He rolled the gum wrapper into a ball and tossed it into the trash. “Nothing says the stranger in an orange vest she claims to have seen is the man we’re looking for, either.”

  “True.” But so far they had precious little on Lancaster. “Do we know where Lancaster was eight years ago when Wendy Gilchrist was killed?”

  “Prison.” Bryce slid a page across the desk toward her. “That’s a summary of his record.”

  Kali’s eyes scanned the printout. A couple of small-time drug arrests and the one that sent him away, burglary of a residence. “No mention of violence,” she noted.

  “It’s a summary rap sheet,” Lou said. “Not a full-blown biography. He coulda killed his mother for all we know, and not been caught.”

  “It doesn’t put us on very solid footing,” Kali said.

  “What about the shoplifting charge?”

  “His word against the clerk’s.”

  “Still, we oughta be able to hold him a couple of days,” Lou said. “He’s on parole, don’t forget. That makes shoplifting a felony.”

  They could hold him forty-eight hours, regardless. It was what they did after that worried Kali.

  She rose. “I guess that’s it for now. Keep me informed if there are new developments.”

  Bryce stood also. “You headed back to your office? I’ll walk with you.” He held the door for her. “Good catch you made, recognizing that Lancaster had done work for both victims.”

  “It was pure chance.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You’re quick to deflect credit.”

  “Just telling it the way it is.”

  His dark eyes held hers for a moment, and the corners of his mouth smiled. “So what do you do when you’re not unveiling killers?”

  “Defend them.” It was the sort of seat-of-the-pants response she tossed off among close friends. She regretted it instantly. “That’s not entirely true,” she amended. “Criminal defense work is only part of what I do, and so far I’ve been lucky enough to represent only innocent clients.”

  “But you couldn’t have known for sure that they were innocent when you agreed to represent them.”

  “No.” In several instances, in fact, she’d had serious doubts. And it troubled her. She knew the arguments in favor of defense representation as well as the next person, but when it came to personal feelings, theory didn’t hold much weight. And the last person with whom she wanted to explore the issue was a cop.

  “It’s interesting the way you have a foot in both camps,” Bryce said, walking slightly askew to address her face on. “I’d like to hear more about it sometime. But what I was really asking is, what do you do for fun?”

  “Fun?” Her mind was still on weightier matters.

  “You do believe in fun, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.” Didn’t she?

  Just then Lou poked his head into the hallway and called out. “Hey, Bryce, you’ve got a call.”

  He turned to Kali. “Save that thought. I’d like to continue this discussion. Maybe over coffee some morning?”

  “Okay.”

  “Or drinks some evening?”

  She smiled. “Even better.”

  Bryce gave a small salute and headed back toward the homicide room, leaving Kali warm with the recognition that she’d just been hit on.

  <><><>

  Owen popped a braised mushroom cap into his mouth and washed it down with a gulp of Pellegrino. As fund-raisers went, this wasn’t a bad event. Less formal than most, and since Owen was familiar with many of the names on the guest list, it felt more personal as well. Not quite as comfortable as an evening with friends, but definitely an improvement over the glad-handing and forced repartee of the last fund-raising dinner he’d attended.

  The Hobarths, formidable political wheeler-dealers as well as long-time acquaintances, had offered to host the evening at their luxurious Pacific Heights home. Though the food and service were catered, Beth Hobarth’s practiced hand was evident in everything from the valet parking at the curb to the party deco
r, which featured the California state flag with Owen’s picture superimposed.

  They’d told him to expect a crowd of about fifty, which Owen thought might be overly optimistic in light of the thousand-dollar-a-head cost of attending, but looking around the room, he now decided their estimate had actually been on the conservative side. The guests were all wealthy and influential people who would potentially make much larger contributions once they’d met Owen in person and heard firsthand his vision for the state’s future. It was this underlying element of salesmanship that kept Owen from fully enjoying the evening. It was also the reason he was holding a glass of designer water instead of wine or even, God forbid, a nice scotch.

  At least now they had an arrest in these murders. He was no longer fielding so many questions about an ongoing crime spree and uncanny parallels to the Davis case. That was a pleasant change from the last few weeks when Owen had felt squarely situated on the hot seat.

  Not that Lancaster wasn’t a topic of conversation, too. Though the print media had little in the way of hard facts, they’d put the story of his arrest on the front page, filling two whole columns.

  Like everyone else Owen had talked with this evening, the couple across from him were interested in knowing more.

  “Why did he do it?” the husband asked.

  Owen remembered the man was involved in some biotech start-up, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember the fellow’s name. It was one of Owen’s pet peeves that name tags were considered tacky at exclusive events such as this. In fact, he sometimes thought life would be easier if people had name tags permanently affixed to their lapels.

  “Why? I’m afraid I have no answer for that. We may never know.”

  “You must be relieved to have gotten him so quickly.”

  “Yes,” Owen agreed. “Very relieved. It was a top-priority investigation, but we were also lucky.” He added the last because it was true, and also because he felt that a touch of humility made a good impression.

  “Why did he copy the Bayside Strangler?” the woman asked.

  Owen shook his head. “We don’t have the full story yet. We aren’t even sure whether it was just coincidence or if he copied intentionally.”

  “The similarities are a bit close to be simple coincidence, don’t you think?” The husband took a smoked-salmon roll from the silver platter of a passing waiter.

  Owen had been eyeing the salmon all evening, but he was always on the wrong side of the gathered group. He tried to catch the waiter’s eye, but the young man had already moved on. One would think a perk of being the honored guest might be that the servers would make sure he wasn’t overlooked.

  “Harvey is right,” the wife said. “It is odd. The yellow rose, the poems, the way he dressed them.”

  Harvey Blakewell. Owen remembered the name now. He tried to imprint the name in his memory, but Owen knew it was a lost cause. His biggest political failing was his inability to remember names.

  “He must have wanted you to think the Bayside Strangler was still around,” Mrs. Blakewell added.

  “You sure he isn’t the Bayside Strangler?” Her husband’s tone was joking, but Owen heard a thread of doubt in the question.

  “Yes,” Owen said with a confidence he hoped was warranted. “We’re sure. Frankly, I think we’re dealing with a copycat, but it’s quite plausible too that whoever committed the recent murders was operating entirely from his own imagination.”

  Mr. Blakewell scoffed. “What are the odds of that?”

  “Not as long as you might think,” Owen responded. “There are certain patterns we see time and again with serial killers. For instance, their murders often involve ritual, especially dressing, posing or putting makeup on the body. There are also numerous cases of killers stalking their victims and then reveling in their accomplishments via notes or poems. Even flowers are a recurring theme.”

  “But a single yellow rose . . .” Mr. Blakewell was not ready to give up.

  “Maybe,” said his wife, “this Lancaster fellow was an admirer of the Bayside Strangler. Many years ago when the Zodiac killer was preying on women of this area, my neighbor’s nephew collected . . .”

  Owen was tiring of playing spin doctor. He’d barely had time to digest the arrest himself, and since he’d missed Kali’s latest call, he was short on details. “Our man wouldn’t be the first copycat killer, for sure. And there was a book about the case, so the specifics—”

  “Right,” Harvey Blakewell said. “I remember reading it. You made a name for yourself with that case. Got yourself elected district attorney, and you’ve been a damn good one too, I might add.”

  Back on comfortable ground. Owen breathed a sigh of relief. “I appreciate the kind words, but I hope my appeal as candidate for governor goes beyond the realm of crime.”

  “Absolutely. Your stands on accountability in education and the economy—”

  Another man, the senior partner at a boutique intellectual-property law firm, joined them just then, picking up on the conversation. “But crime is a big concern in the state right now. There are strong feelings about the death penalty, especially with the DNA testing in death-row cases. And with the three-strikes law, well, I think most people didn’t understand how it worked. They’re all for getting tough on crime, but they want to be fair about it too.”

  “That’s my motto,” Owen said with a self-effacing grin. “Tough but fair.”

  “You going for the death penalty on this one?”

  No need to ask which one. “We haven’t decided yet.”

  “Who’s representing him? One of the big guns?”

  “Public defender’s office,” Owen said.

  “That ought to make it an easy win for the prosecution.”

  Civil lawyers liked to win. That was the name of the game for them. Lawyers in the district attorney’s office liked to win, too, of course, but they were charged with going after the truth, not simply winning at all costs. Owen was always a little uneasy when the two sides were unevenly matched, especially when the stakes were so high.

  “Well, I’m glad you’ve moved so quickly and we can now put the Davis matter behind us once and for all. This one could have brought you down, Owen. Or at the least, done major damage. A group of us were talking just the other day. We all had the same reaction when the story broke, and we were a bit leery about throwing our support behind you.”

  “And now?” Owen hoped he didn’t sound desperate. Or resentful. With all the important issues facing California in the years ahead, it annoyed him that so many people got hung up on a single, narrow issue.

  The man gave him a hearty slap on the back. “I think you’ll find the money coming in a bit more easily.”

  Another man elbowed his way next to Owen, introduced himself, and started in on the subject again. Owen scanned the room for Selby and felt a moment of unease when he didn’t see her. Then he spotted a streak of red. Ah, there she was, in her form-fitting, one-shouldered scarlet gown, charming a group of admirers. She was his best campaign asset, he sometimes thought. He’d get votes not because people wanted to see Owen as governor, but because they wanted Selby as the state’s first lady.

  Owen caught Selby’s eye and gave her their secret signal, a tug on his left earlobe. She was at his side in little over a minute.

  “Owen, darling,” she cooed. “I wonder if I might have word with you.” She turned and flashed the large man next to Owen her most winning smile. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but wives have that prerogative.”

  The men chortled with good humor, their eyes riveted on Selby. She slipped her arm through Owen’s and they walked to a quiet corner on the far side of the room.

  “You having a rough time of it?” she asked.

  “Just tired of talking about murder.”

  “And one trial in particular, I bet. I’ve had my ear bent on that subject, as well.”

  Owen looked around the crowded room. “Not one person has asked me about the workfare program I out
lined last week during my talk at the World Trade Club. Not one person.”

  “That’s nuts-and-bolts stuff, Owen. Important but hardly as engrossing as murder.”

  “Nuts and bolts is what running the state is about, damn it.” He caught Selby’s look, which was sympathetic but also slightly amused. It was the look she wore when she thought he was taking himself far too seriously. A not infrequent occurrence.

  Owen sighed. “I wish I knew more about this guy Lancaster.”

  “And you don’t because . . .?” Selby tilted her head to the side the way she often did when she was coaxing him out of a grumpy mood.

  Because he’d been campaigning when he should have been working. “I missed Kali’s call and haven’t been able to reach her since. Besides, it’s early in the process. Between now and the trial, there will be quite a lot unveiled.”

  Selby squeezed his hand. “What matters, Owen, is that Lancaster’s arrest makes you look good.”

  “But it’s not—”

  Beth Hobarth swooped in on them in full hostess mode. “Owen, what are you doing off in a corner? No hiding allowed.” She wagged her finger at him. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

  Owen handed his glass to the bartender for more Pellegrino and lime, gave Selby a beseeching look, and let Beth lead him across the room where he was immediately surrounded by a group of potential supporters. Half an hour later, he caught sight of Jack Jackson in the crowd and made his way over to him.

  “You coughed up a thousand dollars for this?” Owen asked.

  Jackson laughed. “Of course not. I’m here in an official capacity. In fact, there are a couple of us sympathetic press types sprinkled among the masses.”

  “Do I detect the hand of Les Amstead?”

  “Indeed you do, and a very nimble-fingered hand it is. He’s doing a good job overseeing your campaign, Owen. He knows how to market you.”

  “He’s a good man to have on board.” Owen sometimes thought Amstead seemed more determined to win than Owen himself.

  “So what can you tell me about Lancaster?” Jackson asked.

  “You need to talk to Kali O’Brien. I’ve been keeping my distance with respect to the day-to-day developments on the case.”