“Have you located her car?” Hal asked.
“It’s parked in the lot out front. Locked. Keys were in her purse.”
People didn’t run off without their purses and phones and cars. Wherever Denise Ross was, she wasn’t there willingly. She probably wasn’t alive.
“There is a small trail of blood,” Schwartzman said, pointing to the floor. They followed it into the bathroom, where it disappeared at the sink. Hal moved in a circle, studying the floor and walls, looking for additional blood evidence. He found none.
They made their way back to the living room, looking for traces of blood or anything else that indicated a struggle. It was hard to tell what might have been a struggle and what was merely a bunch of kids having a party. Nothing was broken. There were no signs of blood in the living area.
“Hal.”
He stopped and turned to Schwartzman, who stood in the threshold of the small galley kitchen. She pointed to a tall metal water bottle, upside down in a drying rack by the sink. He’d seen some like it. They were advertised to keep water cold for two days. This one was bright blue.
He approached Schwartzman as she lifted the bottle, putting a finger in the mouth and holding it with one gloved finger at the very edge of the base. He knew what she was thinking. The weapon that had killed David Kemp was cylindrical in shape, with a straight base. Like a wine bottle. And the bright-blue paint was chipped along the base—the same color as the chip of paint she’d found in Kemp’s fatal head wound.
“We need a crime scene team,” Hal told Pena. “Can you get someone out to help us?”
“Sure. I’ll put a call in.” Pena stepped away and got on the phone.
Schwartzman replaced the bottle, carefully returning it exactly as she’d found it. “You think the killer left it?”
He shrugged. “I’ve given up trying to read this guy.”
“Someone will know if she used a blue water bottle. That, at least, should be pretty easy to confirm.”
The only easy thing. If Denise Ross was the owner of the blue water bottle, did that mean she’d used it to kill David Kemp? Or had she been set up? And where the hell was she?
When Pena returned, he said the crime scene team would be there in thirty minutes. Hal wanted to have Roger come out, but this wasn’t their jurisdiction. He and Schwartzman were here to help, which they were allowed to do as long as they had been invited. As much as he wanted to, it wasn’t his place to invite the whole SFPD team. He’d have to wait and see how things played out.
“We should check downstairs,” Hal said.
The stairs were narrow and poorly lit, so Hal used his phone flashlight. There were scuff marks along the white walls, which were dirty and dingy from years of wear, but it was impossible to tell which of them—if any—was recent. It didn’t look like Denise Ross had ever washed the walls, and he would have bet that the paint was original to the place. So ten, fifteen years of wear and tear. Despite the mess, the rest of Ross’s apartment had been decorated by someone who cared about her surroundings. The basement looked as if it belonged in a rental. An old rental.
At the base of the stairs was a small room that housed a stackable washer and dryer on one side and a set of inexpensive floor-to-ceiling melamine cabinets on the other. In between was finished sheetrock painted white. Inexpensive. Hal opened the cabinets. The shelves were filled with kitchen appliances, wrapping paper, and some random tools.
He closed the cabinets and paused to use his flashlight. Again no sign of blood or any obvious evidence of a crime. Beyond the small laundry room was a door to the garage.
He passed through first and found the light switch. As Pena had suggested, Denise Ross did not park a car here. There would have been no way. The outline of the garage was lined in boxes and large plastic bins.
“There’s blood on the floor,” Schwartzman said.
They all studied the concrete floor.
“Looks like it leads to the garage door,” Pena said. He pulled out an industrial-size flashlight and used it to illuminate the small drops of blood on the floor. “Maybe he opened the door and took her out this way.”
At the end of the blood trail was a stain roughly in the shape of a square. A few feet to the right was the garage door. Hal studied the stain again. The garbage can used to be there. It had been moved.
He approached the garbage can and used a gloved hand to flip the lid open. A large black trash bag sat on top.
Over his shoulder, Pena made a noise in the back of his throat. Hal took hold of the bag, thinking it would be heavy, but it wasn’t. Not at all. Inside was a blue hand towel. Pena’s flashlight caught the crusty dark stains on it. “Blood.”
Hal set the towel and the garbage bag on the floor and found a white kitchen trash bag at the bottom of the can. Through the stretched plastic, he could see several boxes. Lean Cuisine meals, napkins, regular trash. Below that was another kitchen trash bag.
No body.
“Hal.” Schwartzman was crouched on the garage floor.
He closed the trash can. “What is it?”
“These drops don’t lead toward the garage door.”
Hal sank to his haunches beside her. “What do you mean?”
“See the tails of the blood?”
He studied the drop she indicated, a roundish drop with a tiny line that came out of it, like a short-tailed tadpole. The momentum of the drop carried the blood slightly farther out on one end, an indication that the drop had come from something that was moving. Moving into the garage, not out of it.
Schwartzman was already heading back toward the laundry room. She stopped inside the door and looked left. There, against the wall, was a white chest freezer.
“Oh, God,” Pena whispered.
Schwartzman aimed her phone flashlight on a box of Ziploc freezer bags that sat on the thin white wire shelving by the door. In the center of the blue cardboard was a drop of blood.
Hal gripped the corner of the freezer chest and pulled it open. There, inside, was Denise Ross.
“Oh, God,” Pena said, louder and emphatically this time.
Ross was on her left side, her knees folded under her. Her torso had been wedged into the freezer, her neck at an impossible angle, probably broken after her death to get her to fit. Hal noticed her eyes had been closed. Someone the killer cared about?
“Hal.”
Schwartzman pointed to Denise Ross’s right hand, which was tucked up under her chin. She was missing all four fingers and her thumb.
“Why would he take her fingers?” Pena asked, his voice a whisper.
“Because she scratched him,” Schwartzman said.
Hal leaned on the edge of the freezer, the cold creeping up his arms. “That would be my guess, too.”
30
As Schwartzman attended Denise Ross’s autopsy at the Contra Costa County Coroner’s Office, one thought kept crowding into her mind: Spencer knew her father. It was barely two, and already the day had gone on longer than she’d wanted.
Exhausted, she watched the county coroner at work, although she knew what had killed Denise Ross. A cursory exam of the body revealed that her hyoid bone had been crushed. The thick red marks around her neck were further evidence of strangulation by someone stronger than herself. Likely male, though she wouldn’t rule out the possibility of a female killer.
Other than the missing fingers, there were no other marks on the body. Hal confirmed that there were no signs of forced entry at Ross’s apartment and no signs of a struggle.
The evidence pointed to the fact that Denise Ross knew her killer.
Which brought them back to the cancer center.
The same list of suspects.
The victim’s fingers had been severed postmortem, which explained why there was so little blood at the scene. Schwartzman had noted the hesitation marks on the cuts. Even though Denise Ross had already been dead at the time, the killer had severed the fingers with difficulty. A sign of emotion. He had closed her eyes, wh
ich were more than likely open when she’d died. Another sign of emotion.
In whatever way it was possible for a person like him, the killer had cared about Denise Ross. Killing her was not pleasurable. This meant the killer felt forced to kill her and, after that, forced to take her fingers to protect his identity.
Hal was working with the crime scene team to gather evidence at the scene, and he had convinced the attorney father to let his son look at a digital book Naomi had put together of the possible suspects from the cancer center. The kid hadn’t recognized anyone.
The cancer center had been through their security footage and were able to recover deleted footage of Denise Ross entering the pharmacy after midnight two weeks earlier. Alone, she’d crossed to the refrigerator, removed a bottle of Adriamycin, and left. She’d used Sarah Washburn’s access card, but there was no sign of Washburn with her.
Denise Ross had become her own dead end.
It was after three when Hal picked up Schwartzman from the county coroner’s office and the two started back to the city. Traffic had slowed for the afternoon commute, and Hal didn’t blare his siren or use his lights. He was obviously lost in thought and likely dreading the return to the station. Seated between them was the single piece of evidence that might answer a question—what weapon had been used to kill David Kemp. The blue water bottle was packaged in an evidence envelope, signed off by the crime scene team leader into Hal’s possession. Roger was awaiting its arrival.
Schwartzman considered offering to join him at the lab, but Hal’s mood discouraged talk, so she kept quiet. His captain had already called twice. Two short calls where Hal mostly listened, punctuated by several “Yes, sirs” and one “Understood.”
They’d been in the car almost a half hour when Schwartzman’s mobile rang. Ken.
“Hi,” she said.
“We meeting to look at the house tonight?”
She’d forgotten all about the viewing. A half dozen text messages sat unread on her phone. Likely one of those was the Realtor, who had given up on leaving voicemails. “I think the Realtor set it up for five thirty. I’ll check my messages and text you the address. Does that work for you?”
“I’m looking forward to it,” he said. “I found a Cuban spot right near there—it’s supposed to be great. You up for dinner after?”
“Yes.” She hadn’t eaten anything all day. A quiet dinner was exactly what she needed.
“I’ll wait for your text. You want me to pick you up?”
“Actually, that would be great. I’ll be at the station in about an hour.” She felt Hal beside her, his shoulders tensing, heat from his gaze. Anger? About what? “I’ll be in touch,” she said, ending the call.
She went through her messages without acknowledging Hal. He had something to say. She sensed it. The Realtor had confirmed their showing, so she texted Ken to tell him she’d meet him in the back lot at five. She hoped they’d make it back to the station by then. Surely Hal would turn his lights on at some point.
She returned the phone to her purse.
Hal was watching her.
“What?” she asked.
“You can’t seriously be thinking about buying a house.” His voice was low, cautious. Anger laced with something else. Protectiveness? Fear? “Living alone, in a place with no security—” He clamped his mouth closed.
“Excuse me.”
“Harper called me today.”
Schwartzman’s mouth went dry. “Is she okay? Her daughter?”
“They’re running a DNA test on the necklace found at Spencer’s house.”
They were okay. They were processing the evidence. “Okay.”
Hal’s jaw popped in and out as he clenched and released.
“What is going on?”
“The video,” he said in a low, angry hiss.
“Video,” she repeated, the word out before she knew what he meant.
“When were you going to tell me about that?” Hal asked.
Schwartzman let her head fall back against the headrest. “I spoke to Patchett this morning—right before you called.”
“But she sent the video last week.”
She didn’t respond.
“What was in that bag?” Hal asked.
“I told her that it had some tools, things I might have needed if I was going to break in.”
“You told her.”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t break in,” Hal went on.
“No. I found a key that I’d put outside when I lived there.”
“Because he had locked you out once.”
She hadn’t told him that story. But Harper knew. She might have shared it with Hal. She was a victim. People always discussed victims. Her blood went hot in her veins.
“What was really in the bag?”
“What?” she asked, surprised.
“You said you told Patchett it was tools. But what was really in the bag?”
“Why would I lie to the ADA?”
Hal’s gaze narrowed. “Answering a question with a question. That’s how I know a suspect is lying.”
“Good thing I’m not one of your suspects,” she snapped.
Hal looked away. Chagrined.
She felt a flash of triumph for the sting. How dare he accuse her of lying? And yet she was lying. He was right. She was evading the question. She would not tell him. She could not.
“I’m on your side,” Hal said, his voice raspy as if he’d been shouting. “I want to help.”
She felt the tightness in her throat. At the same time she was sick to her stomach. How long had she been doing this on her own? Wasn’t that why she’d kept her distance from Ava? Because she’d worried that involving her would bring down Spencer’s wrath?
And it had. Despite her efforts to keep Ava safe, Spencer had killed her.
And he could kill Hal.
Hal could take care of himself. That thought was followed by the cold burn of fear. But what if he couldn’t? Ken was a police officer, too, a grown man who was almost killed because of her. She couldn’t risk that again. She had to find a way to defeat Spencer on her own.
Or decide to stop fighting him.
She stared at the screen on her phone. Without letting herself think about it, she texted the Realtor and told her something had come up with work. Then she texted Ken to say she needed to reschedule their dinner. She didn’t want to look at a house.
Why not tonight? She was exhausted, but it wasn’t just that. The urge to beg off, to postpone—was that about the house? Or Ken?
No. She wasn’t changing her mind about buying a house.
She thought about her apartment in the industrial building. High up, behind security and guards. Like a modern-day Rapunzel. Without all the hair.
Ken texted that he understood. That was the thing about Ken. He always understood. For now.
One day he would give up. She would block him out one too many times.
But Hal. She turned sideways in the seat, searching for something to say to him.
Hal glanced over at her. Waiting for her to talk.
What could she say? Yes, she was grateful for his help, but no, she couldn’t accept it. She would not rely on someone else. Not when it meant putting him at risk. She shifted to face front again. Closed her eyes.
The car sped up, and she jumped when the sirens blared. Beside her, Hal honked cars out of the way and pushed through the heavy traffic. She hadn’t answered, and he’d obviously had enough. He probably thought she was being stubborn. Maybe she was.
But maybe being stubborn about letting him in was smart.
Or maybe it was stupid. Because it meant she was alone again.
Which was another victory for Spencer.
31
Hal’s first stop Tuesday morning was Records, where he picked up the reports he’d ordered on Ruth Finlay’s in-home nurse, Alice Williams, and Joseph Strom. He tucked Strom’s file under his arm and read the one on Williams as he made his way to the lab
. He hadn’t walked more than ten feet before he had confirmed that Williams was clean. If Ruth Finlay’s nurse was guilty of so much as a parking violation, she had yet to be caught.
He tucked the report under his arm with Strom’s, which he would look at later, and fought not to get frustrated. At least Roger had made progress on the Kemp case.
In the lab, Roger confirmed that he had matched the paint chip, and it had definitely come from that brand and color of water bottle. Of course, there would be thousands of them. Roger was working to try to fit the shard of paint onto the bottle like a puzzle piece. If they were able to match it, they could say with absolute certainty that the water bottle found at Denise Ross’s home was the weapon that had killed David Kemp. That was something, finally.
Leaving Roger to his work, Hal went to meet Sarah Washburn in Homicide’s interview room. Seated at the table, Sarah Washburn wore a peach sweater so close to the color of her skin that, from the door, she looked like a giant newborn. Washburn was pale, and even through the sweater he could see she had spindly arms and a thick middle. The skin around her nose blossomed with tiny red veins. That and her bloodshot eyes told Hal she was likely a heavy drinker. Although the crying probably didn’t help.
Hal introduced himself. “Thank you for coming.”
“I can’t believe she’s gone. Who would want to hurt Denise?”
“You were aware that Denise used your access card to enter the pharmacy?”
The skin of her neck grew red and mottled. “I found out this morning. Dr. Fraser told me. I had no idea.”
“Did she ever talk about getting into the pharmacy? Ever express any interest?”
“No. Never.”
“Had she ever taken your access card before?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think so.” The mottling on her neck started to come together until the skin was simply red. “But I don’t know,” she confessed. “I didn’t know she had it this time either.”
How many interviews had he done on this case? He was already thinking this was going to be another one that added up to nothing, but he forced himself to keep going. “Was Denise dating someone?”
Excise (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 2) Page 24
