by Tami Hoag
“Why are you defending her?” Weiss demanded. “Are you fucking her or something?”
“I’m not defending her. I barely know her, and what I do know, I don’t like,” Landry said. “I’m doing my job. Are we picking and choosing vics now? Did I miss that briefing? Can I just go sit on my boat every goddam day until we get a vic I feel is worthy of my services? I’ve gotta say that’s going to cut my hours by a lot. No more crack whores, no more white trash—”
“I don’t like that she’s involved in this,” Weiss declared.
“So? I don’t like that I just watched a dead girl get carved up like a side of beef. If you don’t like the job, go drive a cab,” Landry said, turning away and starting down the hall. “If you don’t think you can work this case, tell the boss and get the hell out of the way for someone who can.”
His pager went off again. He swore, checked the display, then went back to the phone and dialed.
“Landry.”
He listened as he was told about an anonymous tip stating the exact location of evidence in the murder of Jill Morone. A kitchen cupboard in a town house occupied by Tomas Van Zandt.
“Make up your mind, Weiss,” he said as he hung up the phone. “I’ve got to go see about a search warrant.”
I had no real way of knowing what happened to my 911 call. The operator had given me a hard time, clearly thinking I was trying to pull a hoax, and keeping me on the line so she could send a radio car to my location. I was as adamant as I could be that I knew Van Zandt had murdered “my friend” Jill Morone at the equestrian center, that Detective Landry could find Van Zandt’s bloody shirt in the kitchen cupboard of the town house owned by Lorinda Carlton at the specific address on Sag Harbor Court. I described the shirt in as much detail as I could, then I hung up, wiped my prints off the phone, and went to sit on a bench outside the Chinese place. A deputy cruised by shortly after.
I hoped the message had gotten to Landry. But even if it had and he had decided to do something about it, a lot of time was going to pass before he made it to Van Zandt’s.
A search warrant isn’t something a detective can just run off his computer. He can’t simply go to his boss and get one. He has to write an affidavit, substantiating the reasons for his request, specifying probable cause for the search, and specifying in detail what he intends to search for. If he wants to execute the search at night, he needs to make a convincing argument that there is imminent danger of evidence being destroyed or of another crime being committed, otherwise executing a search at night can be considered grounds for harassment charges. The affidavit has to go to a judge, who decides whether or not to issue the warrant.
It all takes time. And during that time the suspect might do anything—ditch evidence, bolt and run.
Had Van Zandt been in the car with the woman? I couldn’t say. I knew the car was a dark color, but I hadn’t taken the time to register make and model. It might have been the Mercedes Trey Hughes had given Van Zandt to use for the season, or not. I assumed the woman was Lorinda Carlton.
Whoever had seen me, if they had seen the shirt in my hands, I had to hope it would be assumed I had taken it with me.
I checked my watch and wondered if there were uniforms knocking on doors in the neighborhood around my car. If I nonchalantly showed up with the key to a BMW in my hand, would I be questioned? I walked to the Chevron station, used the bathroom and washed up, checked my watch again. More than an hour had passed since my escape.
I took the long way back to Sag Harbor Court
. There were no cops, no searchlights. Van Zandt’s black Mercedes was sitting in the drive at Lorinda Carlton’s unit.
He did not come running down the street to accost me. Things seemed as quiet on Sag Harbor Court
as they had when I had arrived. I wondered if Carlton had called in the break-in after all, or if the siren I had heard had gone elsewhere. I wondered where in that time frame Van Zandt had shown up, and if he might have dissuaded her from calling because he didn’t want a bunch of deputies in the house.
Unable to get answers to those questions, still twitching with the idea of being found out, I drove out of Sag Harbor Court
and headed toward home with a detour through Binks Forest.
There were a couple of cars parked on the street on the Seabrights’ block. Probably surveillance from the SO. The house was lit up.
I wanted to be inside, assessing the level of strain among the natives. I wanted to see Molly, to let her know she wasn’t all alone. She had me on her side.
And I had just made the fuckup of the century, compromised my cover, and compromised evidence that might have linked Van Zandt to a murder.
Yeah. That would be a comfort to her. Me on her side.
Depressed and upset, I went home to regroup and wait for the worst to happen.
T his is an outrage!” Van Zandt ranted. “Is this now a police state?”
“I don’t think so,” Landry said, opening a cupboard door and peering in. “If the police ran the state, I’m pretty sure I’d be making more money.”
“I can’t believe anyone would think Tommy could do such a horrible thing!”
Lorinda Carlton had that look of someone who wished she had been a hippy once, but had probably gone to boarding school. She was forty-something with long dark hair in braids, and she wore a T-shirt with some kind of New Age bullshit saying on it. She would probably claim to be descended from Indian shamans or reincarnated from the ancient Egyptians.
She stood beside Van Zandt, trying to cling to him. He shrugged her off. Tommy.
“This is not even my home,” Van Zandt said. “How can you come into Lorinda’s house this way?”
Weiss showed him the warrant again, tipping his head back so he could manage to look down his nose at a man half a foot taller than he was. “Can you read English? It has her name and address right on it.”
“He lives here, right?” Landry said to the woman.
“He’s my friend,” she said dramatically.
“Yeah. You might want to rethink that.”
“He’s the kindest, most honest man I know.”
Landry rolled his eyes. This one needed “Victim” tattooed on her forehead. Her rotten little shit-ass dog circled her feet, growling and barking. He was built like a little torpedo with hair and teeth. No question he’d bite if he got the chance.
“I don’t know what you think you are going to find,” Van Zandt said.
Weiss looked under the sink. “Bloody shirt. Torn, bloody shirt.”
“Why would I have such a thing? And why would I keep it in a kitchen cupboard? It’s ridiculous. Do you think I am stupid?”
Neither detective answered.
Landry reached up to move a stack of phone books off the refrigerator, and dust rained down in a thick cloud. The tip had specified the shirt was in a cupboard, but he had expanded the scope of the warrant to include the entire property, on the chance that Van Zandt had moved it. It was looking like he had. They had been through all the kitchen cupboards. A deputy was upstairs going through the cabinets and dresser drawers.
“On what grounds did you get this warrant?” Van Zandt asked. “Or are you allowed to persecute just anyone who is not a citizen?”
“A judge determined we have probable cause to believe this item is in your possession, Mr. Van Zandt,” Landry said. “We have a witness. How’s that for grounds?”
“Lies. You have no witness.”
Landry arched a brow. “And how would you know that if you weren’t there and didn’t kill that girl?”
“I haven’t killed anyone. And who could know what I have in this house? I have had no one here but a burglar. I’m sure you don’t care about that.”
“When did you have a burglar?” Landry asked casually as he looked in the closet that housed the washer and dryer.
“Tonight,” Lorinda said. “Just as I got here from the airport. There was someone in the garage. Cricket chased him through the house, bu
t he got away.”
The dog started barking again at the mention of his name.
“Was anything taken?”
“Not that we’ve been able to see. But that doesn’t change the fact that someone broke in.”
“Was there a sign of forced entry?”
Carlton frowned.
“Did you call nine-one-one?”
Van Zandt pulled a face. “What would you have done? Nothing. Nothing was taken. You would say to be more careful locking the doors. A waste of time. I told Lorinda not to bother.”
“You’d had your fill of law enforcement for one evening?” Landry said. “That’s great. For all you know, this person killed someone last week, and now they’re still running around loose thanks to you.”
“Then you should have caught that person when they killed someone,” Van Zandt pronounced.
“Yeah. We’re working on that,” Weiss said, bumping Van Zandt as he passed him to go into the living room.
“Did you get a good look at this person, Ms. Carlton?” Landry asked, thinking he was going to have to lock Estes in a cell for the duration of this mess. And if Lorinda Carlton had called 911, that job might already have been taken care of.
“Not really,” she said, squatting down to catch hold of her dog. “It was dark.”
“Man? Woman? White? Hispanic? Black?”
She shook her head. “I couldn’t say. White, I think. Maybe Hispanic. I’m not sure. Slight build. Dark clothes.”
“Nnn,” Landry said, chewing his lip. Jesus Christ. What had Estes been thinking?
That she might find a bloody shirt. But she’d gotten caught in the act, and Van Zandt had ditched the evidence in the time it had taken to get the warrant.
“Do you want to file a report?” Weiss asked.
Carlton kind of shrugged, kind of shook her head, her attention on her dog. “Well . . . nothing was taken . . .”
And Van Zandt didn’t want the cops going over the place with a fine-tooth comb. That was why they hadn’t called it in. And what the hell was this woman thinking? How could she listen to him tell her not to call the cops after a break-in and not think he had something to hide?
The rationale of the serial victim never ceased to amaze him. He was willing to bet Lorinda had a rotten ex-husband or two in her background, and this asshole had somehow managed to convince her he was a good guy—while he lived off her largesse.
“That person might have been here planting evidence,” she said. And now Landry knew how Van Zandt had explained away a bloody shirt.
“The evidence we’re not finding?” Weiss asked.
“We can dust the place for prints, see if we get a hit on a known criminal,” Landry said, looking at Van Zandt. “Of course, we’d have to fingerprint both of you for elimination purposes. You know, the guy might have been a serial killer or something. Wanted all over the world.”
Van Zandt’s eyes were narrow and hard as flint. “Fucking assholes,” he muttered. “I’m calling my attorney.”
“You do that, Mr. Van Zandt,” Landry said, moving past him to go into the garage. “Waste your money—or the money of whatever sucker you’ve got supplying you with a lawyer like Bert Shapiro. There’s nothing he can do about us searching this house. And you know, even if you’ve gotten rid of that shirt, we have blood evidence from the stall where Jill Morone died. Not her blood. Yours. We’ll nail you on it eventually.”
“Not mine,” Van Zandt declared. “I wasn’t there.”
Landry stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “Then you would be willing to submit to a physical exam to prove your innocence?”
“This is harassment. I’m calling Shapiro.”
“Like I said”—Landry smiled a nasty smile—“it’s a free country. You know what’s funny about this murder, though? It looked like a rape, but there wasn’t any semen. The ME didn’t find any semen. What happened, Van Zandt? You didn’t want to do her after she suffocated? You like ’em kicking and screaming? Or could you just not get it up?”
Van Zandt looked like his head would explode. He grabbed at the phone on the wall and knocked the receiver on the floor. He was shaking with anger.
Landry went out the door. At least he’d gotten in a shot.
They searched the premises for another forty minutes—and ten of those were just to annoy Van Zandt. If there had been a bloody shirt, it was gone. All they found was a video porn collection and that no one in the house ever bothered to clean. Landry was certain he could feel fleas biting his ankles through his socks.
Weiss sent the deputy on his way, then looked at Landry like what now?
“So this burglar,” Landry said as they stood in the foyer. “Did you see which way he went?”
“Through the patio and that way through the yards, along the hedge,” Lorinda said. “Cricket went after him. My brave little hero. Then I heard a terrible yelp. That awful person must have kicked him.”
The dog looked up at Landry and snarled. Landry wanted to kick him too. Filthy, flea-ridden, vicious mutt.
“We’ll take a look,” he said. “Maybe the guy dropped his wallet on the way out. Sometimes we get lucky.”
“You won’t find anything,” Van Zandt said. “I already have looked.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not exactly playing on our team,” Weiss said. “We’ll see for ourselves. Thanks anyway.”
Van Zandt went off in a huff.
Weiss and Landry went to the car and got a flashlight. Together, they walked around to the back of the town house, shining the light on the shrubbery, on the grass. They walked in the direction Lorinda Carlton had pointed until they ran out of real estate, and found not so much as a gum wrapper.
“Pretty strange coincidence Van Zandt’s place gets broken into while he’s being interviewed,” Weiss said as they walked.
“Crime of opportunity.”
“Nothing was taken.”
“Thievery Interruptus.”
“And then we happen to get that tip.”
Landry shrugged as they reached their car and he opened the driver’s door. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Weiss. They bite.”
Chapter 27
The call came at 3:12 A.M.
Molly had taken the handset from the portable phone in the living room, snuck it upstairs, and hidden it under a magazine on her nightstand. She wasn’t allowed to have her own telephone, even though practically every girl in her class did. Bruce believed a girl and her own phone were a recipe for trouble.
He didn’t let Chad have a phone either, though Molly knew Chad had a cell phone and a beeper so he and his stupid loser friends could send text messages back and forth, and page each other like they were important or something. Bruce didn’t know about that. Molly kept the secret because she disliked Bruce more than she disliked Chad. According to Bruce, everyone in the house—except him—was supposed to make calls from the kitchen, where anybody could hear the conversation.
The phone rang three times. Molly stared at the handset she clutched in one hand, holding her breath, holding her microcassette recorder tight in her other small, sweating hand. She was afraid Bruce was going to sleep through the call. He didn’t care what happened to Erin. But just as she decided she would answer, the ringing stopped. She bit her lip and punched the on button on the phone and the record button on the tape recorder.
The voice was that terrible, creepy, distorted voice from the video, like something from a horror movie. Every word drawn-out and deliberate, metallic and ominous. Molly’s eyes filled with tears.
“You broke the rules. The girl will pay the price.”
“What are you talking about?” Bruce asked.
“You broke the rules. The girl will pay the price.”
“It wasn’t my choice.”
“You broke the rules. The girl will pay the price.”
“It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t call the cops. What do you want me to do?”
“Bring the money to the place. Sunday. Six P.M.
No police. No detective. Only you.”
“How much?”
“Bring the money to the place. Sunday. Six P.M. No police. No detective. Only you. You broke the rules. The girl will pay the price. You broke the rules. The girl will pay the price.”
The line went dead.
Molly clicked the phone off, clicked the recorder off. She was shaking so hard, she thought she might get sick. You broke the rules. The girl will pay the price. The words played over and over, so loud, she wanted to slam her hands over her ears to drown them out, but the sound was inside her head.
