Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 16

by The Burnt House

  “I finished up about ten minutes ago.”

  “Good stuff?”

  “Yes, but it’s complicated. I’ll probably be back in L.A. around two. Did you pull the warrant?”

  “We pulled the warrant, we have the car. Things are looking up.”

  “Great. We’ll talk about it later. Cell lines aren’t protected, and for all I know, we’re being secretly taped by the enemy.”

  “Who’s the enemy?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  AS SOON AS the plane took off, Decker fell asleep. He didn’t stir until he felt a slight shaking, courtesy of a flight attendant. He roused himself to a state of semistupor, and was barely conscious enough to drive home from Burbank. He was too tired to notice that he had accidentally driven to his house in the West Valley instead of the station house. Rina took one look at him.

  “Go immediately to bed. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars.”

  “Can’t.”

  “How long have you been up?”

  “Awhile.”

  “You’re the living dead.”

  “I’ve got to go back to work. I probably shouldn’t be driving. Can you take me back to the precinct?”

  “You’re asking me to be an accomplice in this folly?”

  “I’m finally getting somewhere with both cases. I can’t stop now.”

  Rina sighed. “Did you eat?”

  “Just tanked up on coffee and even that’s not working anymore. Maybe some protein will help.”

  “Salami sandwich?”

  “Way too strong.”

  “Egg salad?”

  “That would be terrific, but only if it’s no inconvenience.”

  “Not at all. Go take a shower and I’ll make you some lunch. You’ll feel better after you’ve changed clothes and have eaten.”

  A shower and food were exactly what he needed. He dragged himself into the bedroom. By the time he’d cleaned up, he felt slightly renewed. He knew he shouldn’t waste time by eating at home, but he needed a few moments with his wife to center his aching body. “So tell me what’s new?”

  “Your daughter made Model UN.”

  “Really. That’s great!”

  “Hannah was very proud, although I’m not surprised. The kid could debate her way to the Supreme Court.”

  “Ain’t that the truth? Have you spoken to Cindy and Koby?”

  “They’re doing fine.”

  “How’s the construction going?”

  “Quote, unquote—Mike is a godsend. If you’re going to be conscious this weekend, I’ll have them over for Shabbos.”

  “That would be wonderful. To prove my gratitude, I’ll make ribs.”

  “Yum, but don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

  “Yeah, you’re right about that.” He finished off his sandwich. “This really hit the spot.” Rina knew him very well. She had made him a second one without even asking. Sheepishly, he picked it up. “Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome.” She leaned over and kissed his forehead. “Food always tastes better when you’re hungry. I take it the case is going well?”

  “Not perfect, but good enough.” He gave her the salient details, leaving out the gory parts.

  “Do you have enough to get it past the grand jury?” Rina asked.

  “Yes, I’m pretty sure of that.”

  “And you believe that the wife wasn’t there when it happened?”

  “I do.”

  “So where does that leave you in the case against Raymond Holmes?”

  “You mean what do we have against him?”

  Rina nodded.

  “We have a signed statement given by Holmes’s father. In it, Ray told his father that he pushed Beth, and that’s how she died. Unfortunately, the father is now backtracking, claiming his memory is fuzzy. He’s now saying that it could have been Manny who pushed Beth and being that the guy is close to eighty, maybe he was confused.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “First of all, Beth didn’t die by hitting the back of her head against a wall. She died because someone bashed in her head with a blunt object. According to Lindie, there was spatter everywhere.”

  “Ugh!”

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. I should be used to it by now. So who do you think hit Beth Devargas?”

  “Not that my opinion matters in a court of law, but I know it was Raymond Holmes. Manny wasn’t described as being violent or having a hair-trigger temper. By the accounts of those who knew him, he was a pretty decent guy who smoked a lot of weed and ate a lot of food. I think after Ray killed Beth, Manny couldn’t bring himself to turn in his brother.”

  “Or maybe he was frightened of his brother.”

  “Could be, but I don’t think so. According to Lindie, after Beth was murdered, Manny took over. Lindie described Manny as being very calm, probably more shock than anything else. After it wore off and Manny realized that he had buried his murdered wife, I think the boy was overcome with guilt. He had lost everything—his father, his brother, his wife. He was despondent. He drank himself into a fatal bar fight: his own brand of suicide.”

  “Poor man. Trapped by being born into the wrong family.”

  “Still, people make bad choices,” Decker told her. “He should have known his brother was bad news.”

  “At least Manny was related to Ray. They had a history together. What was Lindie Holmes’s excuse?”

  “Just plain dumbness.”

  “And you really don’t think she was involved in the murder?”

  “Not in the murder, no, but she did help Ray or Belize clean up the mess after Beth was killed. She also helped bury her brother-in-law in the desert.”

  “So you’ll charge her with what? Tampering with evidence?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Suspended sentence.”

  “Two for two.”

  “And what about Roseanne Dresden? Do you think Holmes had anything to do with her disappearance?”

  “That’s an open question.” Decker told her about the disposed carpet mats that shone blue with blood protein after being sprayed with luminol. “I haven’t ruled out Holmes, especially considering who he is, but he’s down on the list. After his arrest, we got access to his credit cards. I turned up a receipt with his signature on it, putting Holmes in San Jose at ten-fifteen on the morning of the crash.”

  “You found him an alibi.”

  “I did. There is no way Holmes could have murdered Roseanne that morning, disposed of the body, and then hopped a plane back to San Jose and signed that receipt at ten-fifteen on that same morning.”

  “Could Holmes have hired someone?”

  “The next question, and it’s a very good question. So far we don’t have any evidence that proves or disproves that theory.”

  “So that brings you back to Ivan,” Rina said. “All that blood on the car mats…and Ivan took in the car to be completely reupholstered. There’s a logical connection.”

  “Logic doesn’t always enter into the picture, but we do what we can.” He looked at his wristwatch. “Ready?”

  “Whenever you are.”

  “That’s never.” He stood up. “But tuition is expensive and I’ve got to make a buck, though Lord knows there are easier ways.”

  “But you love your job,” Rina said.

  “Sometimes,” Decker admitted. “It’s rewarding when you solve some perplexing cases and put away some real bad people. But most of the time, the work is a lot of drudgery and just plain sad.”

  MARGE WAS WAITING for him, a cup of coffee in her hand. “We’ve got news.”

  She wasn’t smiling but she wasn’t frowning. He’d just have to wait for the verdict. Decker pulled out the key to his office. “It’s been that kind of week.” He opened the door. “Come in and tell me all about it.”

  She handed him the coffee and stared at his ravaged face. “When was the last time you had some sleep?”

  “A
while back.”

  “Go home, Decker,” Marge told him. “We can execute warrants without you.”

  Oliver walked into the office and regarded Decker’s puffy face. “You need sleep, Loo.”

  “I do, but as long as I’m here, you two might as well bring me up to speed. Then one of you has the privilege of taking me home.”

  “I can do it,” Oliver said. “I’m ready to pack it in myself.”

  “What happened to your car?” Marge asked.

  “Rina drove me. I’m not alert enough to be behind a wheel.”

  “Good call.” Oliver leaned against the wall and looked at Decker. “You want to go first?”

  Decker sipped coffee. By now, his gut was on fire from all the acid, but being conscious took precedence over comfort. “I have a quick question, first, and then I want you two to tell me what’s going on. My question is: Are we still considering Raymond Holmes as a suspect in Roseanne Dresden’s murder?”

  “Why?” Marge said. “Do you have anything new that would point us in that direction?”

  “No, but I’ll add this. If Holmes did it, it would most likely have to be a murder for hire. A credit-card receipt puts him in San Jose at ten-fifteen on the morning of the crash. So I’m flinging the question back to you. Do you have any indication that he was involved?”

  Oliver and Marge exchanged looks. Then she said, “I’ll repeat what you told me over the phone. It’s complicated.”

  “This is not what I wanted to hear,” Decker said. “Okay, what do we know so far?”

  “We are pretty sure that the Beemer was a kill spot,” Oliver said. “Forensics stripped off the new carpet, went down to the original metal, and sprayed it with luminol.”

  “It lit up like blue fireworks,” Marge said. “There was a big pool of blue on the rear floor behind the driver’s seat, but there was also a lot of fluorescent spatter.”

  “On the steering wheel, on the dash, on the gauges, on the gearshift, on the convertible roof, which wasn’t replaced, just cleaned.”

  “There was a steady stream that fluoresced on the glove compartment. It looks like the initial spurt that might come from a stab wound that hit a major artery.”

  Decker said, “Do we know if the blood is Roseanne’s?”

  “Not yet,” Oliver said. “We called up Shareen Lodestone and asked her if she might have something that contains her daughter’s DNA, like an old hairbrush or an old toothbrush.”

  “No go on the toothbrush, but she does have an old hairbrush,” Marge said.

  “We need a hair with a root,” Decker said.

  “Yes, that would help,” Oliver said. “But even if we don’t find a hair with a root, we can always do a mitochondrial DNA. If Shareen’s mitochondrial DNA a is perfect match to the mitochondrial DNA extracted from the blood, we can establish that the blood has to have come from a female progeny of Shareen. The woman doesn’t have any other daughters. I think the conclusion is obvious.”

  “Can we extract mitochondrial DNA from the samples we have?”

  “According to forensics, definitely,” Marge told him. “The samples are not that old and not that degraded. Plus they found what they think might be tissue.”

  “Excellent.” Decker smoothed his mustache. “So if there’s a match, we can be almost certain that she was murdered in her car.”

  “With that much fluorescence, it’s a safe bet,” Marge told him.

  “Can we put Ivan at the scene?”

  Marge said, “We found some latent bloody prints. Several partials on the dash and a lovely right thumbprint on the steering wheel itself.”

  Oliver said, “Meaning that the prints were made at the time Roseanne was murdered in her car.”

  “You’re hesitating. What is it? The prints aren’t Ivan’s?” Marge and Oliver shrugged. Decker swore. “Do you have anything that links Ivan to the bloody scene?”

  Oliver said, “We have his prints all over the place, but since he’s been driving the car for over six months that proves nothing.”

  “Damn!” Decker told himself to backtrack. Let the evidence point to the suspect and not the other way around. “Where is Ivan right now?”

  Marge shrugged. “We have a warrant to search his car for blood, Loo, not one for his arrest.”

  “We’re working on that,” Oliver told him. “As soon as the blood is determined to be Roseanne’s, we’ll get a warrant for his arrest.”

  “In the meantime, he goes south of the border?” Decker said.

  “Wanda Bontemps and Lee Wang are watching him.”

  “Where is he?” Decker repeated. When the question was met with silence, Decker said, “Scott, call Wanda and find out where Mr. Dresden is currently parking his ass.”

  Oliver left wordlessly. Decker looked at Marge. “I take it you’re running the prints through AFIS?”

  Marge answered, “George Kasabian is on it, and he’ll call either way.”

  “He’s good,” Decker said. “How long has he had the prints?”

  “About an hour.”

  “Let’s hope he’s contemplating something.” No one spoke for a moment. Then Decker said, “Do you have Kasabian’s number?”

  Marge read it off of her cell. Decker put the phone line on speaker and punched in the number. George announced himself after picking up on the fourth ring.

  “Hi, George, it’s Pete Decker from West Valley.”

  “Welcome back, Lieutenant,” Kasabian told him. “I was just about to call you. Actually, I was just about to call Marge Dunn.”

  “I’m right here, George,” Marge answered. “What’s the good word?”

  “If you have a pencil, I have a name.”

  Two shocked but spontaneous grins. Decker gave his hands a loud clap and said go into the speakerphone.

  “The thumbprint belongs to Patricia Childress.” He spelled the last name and gave them Childress’s date of birth. “These particular prints were taken when she was arrested for prostitution seven years ago.”

  “God bless vice.” Decker handed the information to Marge. “Dunn is going to feed her information into the computer. Thanks, George. You made my day.”

  “I made my own day.”

  Decker hung up and rushed over to the computer. Marge had inputted the data and the information on Patricia Childress popped up on the monitor. Two arrests for soliciting, two drunk-and-disorderlies, one misdemeanor drug possession, meaning less than an ounce of weed. At the time of her first arrest, she had been nineteen years of age, five six, 105 pounds, blue eyes, and dark brown hair. Her expression was fear masked by contempt.

  “Her last known address isn’t too far from here,” Marge said. “I’ll get a warrant, and if she still lives there, we’ll pay her a visit and bring her in.” She pressed the print button to get copies of her mug shot. Decker picked up one of the sheets and stared at the face. “Who are you, Ms. Childress?”

  Oliver walked over to where Marge was working. “According to Wanda Bontemps, Ivan Dresden is eating dinner at Sage with a couple of buddies.” He looked at the monitor and became excited. “George found a match to the bloody fingerprint?”

  “He did.” Marge handed him the printed mug shot. “Meet the owner, Ms. Patricia Childress.”

  Oliver snapped his head back when he saw the picture. “Patricia Childress?”

  Decker said, “You’ve seen her before?”

  “I’ve met her before. She was using the name of Marina Alfonse. She’s a lap dancer at Leather and Lace. More important, she’s Ivan Dresden’s girlfriend.”

  45

  OLIVER POINTED OUT a sleek blonde in pasties and a rhinestone-studded thong, grinding away at a customer. “That’s her.”

  Marge nodded. “Let’s do it.”

  The two of them walked over to Patricia Childress a.k.a. Marina Alfonse and pulled her off the lap of a sweaty bald man in his late fifties. He was incensed but not as mad as she was. “What the fuck?”

  Marge flashed her badge. “Police,
Ms. Childress. You need to come with us.”

  “I’m clean!” she cried. “I swear I’m clean!”

  “We believe you,” Marge said. “We’re not from narcotics.”

  “Homicide,” Oliver answered.

  The owner of the club came rushing over and asked what was going on. Oliver showed him the shield and said, “Hello, Mr. Michelli, nice to see you again. We have a warrant for the arrest of Marina Alfonse—whose real name is Patricia Childress—”

  “You!” Recognition of Oliver’s face in the dancer’s eyes. She had turned ashen. “I had nothing to do with it. It was all Ivan’s idea!”

  Michelli said, “Can we do this in a more private place?” He regarded the confused look on the customer’s face. “You’ll get every penny back, sir.” To the cops, Michelli said, “This way.”

  The detectives followed Michelli, guiding a furious dancer between them, until they stepped into the common makeup and dressing room. The owner waited until after Marge had Mirandized his dancer. Then he said, “You’re fired, Marina. Pack up your things and go.”

  “But I swear I didn’t do anything, Mr. Michelli!” Patricia cried out.

  Michelli glared at the dancer. “Get her out of here!”

  By now, Patricia was sobbing. Her makeup was smeared, black streaks of mascara running tracks down her cheeks. She moved slowly, taking off her thong and her pasties until she was stark naked. With effort, she poured herself into her street clothes—a low-cut pink T-shirt, skintight jeans, spike-heel sandals, and a hooded sweater jacket. Since she was still wearing loads of cheap rhinestone jewelry around her neck and arms, she looked like a streetwalker. Patricia had stuffed her working clothes into a giant handbag and looped it over her shoulder. Tears were still washing her face. “It was all his idea.”

  “You can tell us all about it at the station house.” Oliver grabbed one of Patricia’s arms and Marge grabbed the other. They led her out the back door, into the parking lot, and toward the unmarked car. Oliver let go of her arm to pull out the handcuffs. As soon as he did this, Marge turned Patricia until she was looking at the dancer’s back, pulling one of her arms behind her in anticipation of snapping on cuffs. That’s when something metallic winked at her.