The decorations were in bold colors, white leather sofa, green pillows, and pink throws. A thick burnt-orange shag took up the center of the floor. A zebra-wood coffee table and two end tables flanked the low-slung sofa and two glacial white egg-shaped swivel chairs rounded out the conversation area. A slate fireplace dominated the wall leading to the master bedroom. Next to it was a zebra-wood bar with a wine rack on top.
The vic lay at the base of the bar, on her back, staring up at the ceiling, or what was left of her did. The left side of her face had been smashed in, the skin torn and bloody, showing skull and if Peyton looked closely enough, brain between the skull fragments.
She closed her eyes and tried to fight back the bile. Officer Frank Smith put a hand on her shoulder to steady her. She looked up into his friendly face, the huge brown mustache and the mop of dark, shaggy hair, as she patted his hand. “Thanks.”
He nodded.
“The perp was probably right handed,” she said, nodding at the woman’s head. Strands of blond hair lay soaking up the blood pooling beneath her.
“Looks that way.”
“Any idea who she is?”
“We’ve got a call into the super, but he hasn’t returned it. Both neighbors are out and we can’t find any papers that have a name on them. Whoever did this was definitely beyond rage.”
Peyton nodded and wandered toward Marco, where he was gathering information from the other uniform.
“Who placed the call?” he asked.
“Dispatch is looking into it. All we know is that he was a male and pretty shaken up. He just went silent in the middle of the call and hung up. They tried to call him back, but he wouldn’t answer. We’ll get a number for you as quick as we can.”
“Who found her body?”
The uniform glanced at the clipboard he held. “The security guard in the lobby.”
“What time did he come up here?” asked Peyton.
“He came in at 10:00.”
“He couldn’t identify her?”
“Apparently they’ve got a tenant list in a locked safe down there, but he was too shaken up to remember the code. He called his supervisor, but couldn’t get ahold of him. It’s a bitch tracking down anyone on a Sunday.”
“Why is the tenant list locked up?”
The uniform shrugged. “How the hell would I know? To protect the tenants’ privacy or something.”
“We need to get the film from the security cameras.”
“Aren’t any.”
Peyton exchanged a look with Marco. “What?”
“No security cameras in the lobby or the hallways. To protect the tenants’…”
“…privacy,” finished Peyton. “What made the security guard come up here if there aren’t cameras?”
“The fire alarm went off. He could pinpoint the floor and came up. That’s when he found her door open.”
“Where is he now?”
“One of our guys took him down to try the safe.”
“We’ll need to question him before we go,” said Marco.
“On it.”
“Thanks,” Marco answered, turning to Peyton.
She nodded at the bedroom to their right. They entered the master bedroom and found a huge king sized bed, unmade, and a sheer robe discarded on the floor beside it. The curtains were drawn, blocking out the light.
“We need to take those sheets and see if we can get any DNA off them.”
Marco nodded to a uniform to make a note of it. The young man wrote it on his clipboard. Peyton strolled around the room, frowning. Something wasn’t right. She ran her fingers over a dressing stand and looked up in the mirror, viewing the room from a different angle.
“What?” asked Marco.
She pulled out a dresser drawer and found it empty, then she reached for the one below it. Despite a few pairs of feminine panties, it was virtually empty as well. “If the vic lives here, where’s all her stuff? Jewelry boxes, perfume, tchotchkes – you know, feminine stuff?”
Marco looked around as well. Backing to the closet, he pulled it open and looked inside. A window at the other end allowed light to fall in the small room, but it was impossible to step inside. Boxes were piled up from the floor nearly to the ceiling.
“Looks like she planned to get out of Dodge,” said Marco.
Peyton leaned into the closet and pushed up one of the boxes to look at it. “They aren’t labeled. How strange. Most women would label the contents.”
“Not if she was packing in a hurry.”
“Hm. Have you seen a computer or anything?”
“No, have you?”
“Not a one.” She moved toward the door. “Let’s look at the other room.”
They crossed the main room and pushed open the other bedroom door, finding themselves in a little girl’s room. The bed was piled with stuffed animals and the dresser was littered with flower shaped jewelry boxes and trinkets. A whole row of fairies lined the shelves of a bookcase in the corner.
“What the hell?” said Marco, opening the closet. Brightly colored dresses, shirts, and pants hung from the railing, and lined up neatly along the floor were rows of shoes. “Do you suppose she didn’t get to this room yet?”
Peyton didn’t answer, her attention captured by something on the desk beneath the window. She picked up a flowered frame and stared at the picture inside. A pretty little girl with dark hair and huge black eyes stared back at her, and next to her was a man Peyton could only describe as beautiful. He was obviously Native American with high cheekbones and chiseled features. His long black hair lay in a blanket on his shoulders and his charcoal eyes glowed with sensuality. He was smiling, his teeth even and white, but there was something wistful about the smile that arrested Peyton.
“Holy shit,” she breathed out.
“What?” said Marco behind her.
She turned and held the picture out to him. “Do you know who this is?”
He studied the man for a moment. “He looks familiar.”
Peyton gave him a bewildered look. “Familiar? Are you shitting me? Every woman my age had his posters plastered all over her bedroom when she was a teenager. I had one that I’d kiss every day before I left for school. You don’t know who this is?”
Marco held up a hand, giving her his annoyed look.
Peyton shook her head in disgust. “This, Marco Baby, this is the man that makes women weak in the knees. This is the man that makes them swoon. This, Marco Baby, is the sexiest lead singer ever to grace the microphone. This is…”
“Joshua Ravensong,” he finished.
Peyton touched her nose with her index finger. “And I’ll bet you dollars to donuts that the woman in the other room is his ex-wife.”
* * *
Jake gave a low whistle as he came through the condo door. He took in the expensive furnishings and the artful décor. He’d always been partial to modern style, not that he could afford it, but he liked the minimalist approach. Then his eyes landed on the victim, lying at the base of a bar. Half of her head was smashed in and it was the half that faced him.
He settled his case on the floor and studied her for a moment. She had been pretty, blond hair, striking features, trim and fit. She wasn’t naturally pretty like his wife, Zoë, had been; she was more artificial and affected. Her shirt was low-cut, showing an impressive amount of cleavage, and her jeans looked like they’d been painted on. Heavy makeup was smeared on the side of her face that remained, and she wore five inch heels.
His eyes tracked over the rest of the room, picking up little things that he’d been trained to spot, like the pressed down spot in the burnt orange rug where the sofa had been moved, the splatter of blood on the wall beside the bar, the two glasses on the bar with a few fingers of bourbon in the bottom.
Peyton and Adonis came out of a room on the left side of the condo. Jake could just see the pink walls and the frilly bed-skirt behind them. He bent over and took out his camera as Peyton stopped in front of him.
“
You’re finally here,” she scolded. She didn’t like sharing him with the other detectives, but he wasn’t her private photographer; although truth be told, he’d rather work for her than anyone else in the precinct.
“Yes, Mighty Mouse, it was traumatic seeing a guy with the back of his head blow in, and thank you for being so concerned about my state of mind, especially walking into this little shop of horrors.” He motioned at the dead body.
She smiled and Jake realized he enjoyed making her smile. Sure, he also felt guilty for enjoying anything now that Zoë was gone, but Peyton and this job made it hard for him to wallow in his loss. Once he wanted to hate her. She’d ruined his life, but six month ago, she’d also redefined it for him. Most days he wasn’t sure the change was for the best, but he couldn’t deny that life now was certainly not boring.
Adonis moved past them and went to talk with Smith. Smith was a hard-assed uniformed officer, but he was a solid guy. Jake liked him better than Holmes, who could never allow an opportunity to pass where he didn’t give Jake grief about something, especially the Lazy-ass Daisy.
“Do we have an ID on her?” Jake asked.
“Nothing official. I can’t find a purse or a computer of any kind, but I found a picture of Joshua Ravensong in the little girl’s room.”
“Joshua Ravensong? The rock star?”
“That’s the one. I’m guessing this is his ex-wife and the little girl in the photo with him is his daughter.”
“Where’s the little girl?”
“Marco’s talking with Smith about putting out an Amber Alert on her right now.”
Jake studied the crime scene again. “She wasn’t alone.” He pointed the camera at the glasses on the bar.
“Yeah, I got that impression myself, seeing as I didn’t think she bashed in her own brains.”
Jake gave her an arch look. “Funny. Actually, what I meant was, don’t you think it odd they were drinking this early in the day?”
“Maybe it was from last night?”
“Then why was she killed right there?”
“Good question.”
“Any sign of forced entry?” He looked around again. “This place seems bare. Zoë always had bobbles and bits on every surface, but there’s nothing here.”
Peyton gave an approving nod. “I noticed that too. No, no forced entry. She must have let whoever killed her in, but when I looked in her closet, I found moving boxes, so I assume that’s where her bobbles and bits went.”
“It is odd that you didn’t find a purse or a laptop. What about a cell phone?”
“Nothing.”
“Hm, very odd. It really worries me that we don’t know where the little girl is.”
“Me too.”
Smith and Adonis came out of the master bedroom.
“The uniforms have got an unidentified male sitting in a black Jeep Cherokee in the parking structure,” said Smith, stopping in front of them. “They want you or D’Angelo to talk him down.”
Peyton nodded, then turned to Jake. “Make sure you photograph every room.”
“On it,” he said and watched her head toward the door trailed by Adonis and Smith.
CHAPTER 2
“Joshua, this is my son, James, and my daughter, Jennifer.”
Joshua gave the two children a once-over. The boy was big, raw-boned like his father with the same blunt features. He had blond hair that was cropped close to his scalp and the same overlay of freckles. The girl was small, younger than Joshua, blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. She swung back and forth on her father’s hand, studying Joshua in return.
Dr. Connor smiled down at him, forcing Joshua to back into his mother’s legs. He couldn’t get over how big he was. The doctor turned his attention to Joshua’s mother. “I’m so glad you came, Mary.”
She smiled, smoothing down Joshua’s hair with her palm. “I really appreciate you offering me this job. It will mean so much to both of us.”
Dr. Connor shrugged. “I should be thanking you. There’s a lot more work here than I originally thought and I really need someone to keep all the records and appointments straight.”
Joshua ignored the kids and looked around the white doctor’s new office. It smelled of paint and cleaning fluid. A wide white counter took up the north wall and a number of chairs in pastel colors lay scattered around the entrance hall.
“Why don’t we let the kids play a bit out here and I’ll show you the file room?” said the doctor, motioning to a door behind him.
Mary turned Joshua to look in his face. “Stay here with James and Jennifer, all right? I’ll be back in a moment.”
“I want to go with you.” He didn’t want her leaving him with the strange white kids.
“You’re a big boy now. I need to learn about my new job. We talked about this, remember?”
“I remember.”
She leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “Be good, all right?”
He rolled his eyes, but didn’t answer.
“Be good,” she said again, following the doctor across the room and to the door.
Joshua watched her go. They left the door open, but when they disappeared around the corner, he couldn’t see her any more. It made him nervous, but he was determined he wouldn’t show these white kids how anxious he was.
The boy leaned back against the counter and studied him. The little girl put her arms behind her and swayed back and forth, the skirt of her dress swishing against her legs.
“How old are you?” said the boy, sticking out his chin.
Joshua tore his eyes from the empty door and studied him in return. “Five.”
“I’m eight. She’s four.” He motioned at the girl with his chin.
“I’m four,” she echoed.
Joshua didn’t respond.
The boy pushed away from the counter and walked toward him. He towered over Joshua, forcing Joshua to look up, but Joshua refused to back down. “You’re small. You don’t look five.”
Joshua peered around him at the door, but it was still empty.
“You afraid?”
“Who’s afraid?” Joshua shot back.
Behind the boy’s back, the girl had disappeared around the counter. Joshua could see a chair rolling across the floor, then the girl climbed into the seat and from there, she scrambled onto the counter. Joshua’s eyes widened, making the boy turn to see where he was looking.
“Get down from there!” the boy scolded the girl.
“I wanna color,” she said.
Shaking his head, the boy went after her and she crab-walked away from him to the printer in the corner and pulled papers from it.
“Get down.”
He grabbed her arm and she kicked at him, but he was stronger and pulled her off the counter, setting her on her feet. Then he reached up and grabbed a few pens from a cup on the counter and handed them to her. “Color on the floor.”
She skipped around the end of the counter, her blond ponytail bouncing against her back and settled in the middle of the floor with her pens and paper. Joshua watched her draw enormous loopy lines down the center of the paper, her tongue pressed between her teeth in concentration.
When he glanced over at the boy, he’d disappeared beneath the counter. He came out a moment later, carrying a small, white ball with red stitching circling around the outside of it.
“You play baseball?” he asked Joshua, showing him the ball.
Joshua knew of baseball. Some of the older men got together and played softball, swinging sticks at a fat yellow ball. As for baseball, Marshall Youngblood had turned it on the television one night when April Youngblood had watched him while his mother went out. Marshall tried to explain it to Joshua, but Joshua grew bored with all of the rules. He still wasn’t sure why the runner couldn’t run to whatever base he wanted. It would make it harder to get him out if he could. Joshua just couldn’t see any sense in both sides knowing exactly where the runner was going. It took some of the sport out of the game.
�
�I play soccer.” He tried to puff up his chest the way the white boy did, but he didn’t have much of a chest to puff.
“What’s the name of your team?”
Joshua’s face fell. Team? He didn’t play on a team. They played in the empty lot by his house. “The Patwin,” he lied because he wasn’t going to let this boy gain anything over him if he could help it.
“Never heard of it.” The boy tossed the ball into the air.
Joshua’s gaze involuntarily went back to the door where his mother had disappeared.
“You know what they’re doing back there?” asked the boy.
Joshua shook his head.
“They’re smooching.”
“Smooching?” Joshua wasn’t sure what that was, but it didn’t sound good.
The little girl giggled and made a kissing noise with her mouth, then she went back to her drawing.
The white boy smiled. It wasn’t a happy smile. “Yep, smooching. You know what that is?”
Joshua edged toward the door, anxious now for his mother. Based on the reaction of the girl, he could guess what it was and it worried him. “’Course I know.”
“Let’s play baseball.” The boy tossed the ball into the air again. “Come on. They’ll get mad if you spy on them.”
“Who’s spying?” Joshua shot back. His worry for his mother made his voice more antagonistic than he intended.
“Come on. You go over there.” He pointed to the front door of the office. “I’ll go back here.” He moved past Joshua and blocked the door to the file room.
Joshua shifted weight from one foot to the other, wondering if he should push his way past the larger boy. “I don’t feel like playing.”
“You chicken?”
“Who’s chicken?”
“Then go over there,” said the boy, pointing to the front door.
Joshua realized the boy wasn’t going to give up. He moved toward the door, positioning himself with an armchair to his left and a glass end table with a collection of magazines spread across its surface. An orange and yellow lamp sat on the outer edge of the table, closest to the window. This wasn’t how he remembered the men playing softball, but who was he to argue with the older boy?
Murder on Russian Hill (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 3) Page 3
