“No, sir. I was in the last year of my program when I left.”
“You find your background helps you in your police work?”
“I don’t mind writing reports.”
Jarsdel’s attempt at humor went unnoticed. Sturdivant set the point of the letter opener on a yellow legal pad and began slowly twisting the blade. The paper dimpled beneath the steady pressure. “Don’t get me wrong. I actually put a lot of stock in test takers. Shows a man’s willing to apply himself. Discipline and a passion for the job. You want an example, look no further than our late Chief Parker. But there’s a lot more to police work than academics.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I understand you nearly washed out behind the wheel.”
Jarsdel wasn’t expecting this. Sturdivant was referring to the police academy’s grueling Emergency Vehicle Operations course, which, it was true, had nearly cost Jarsdel his badge. A recruit could ace firearms, law, tactics, and everything else but still fail out if his driving scores were poor. Jarsdel had been only one flattened road cone shy of being dismissed from the program.
“It wasn’t my strongest subject.”
Sturdivant grunted, continuing to twist the letter opener. “I don’t have my measure of you yet, Detective. I don’t know if you’re a liability or an asset. I don’t know if you’re just playing cop or if you’re some kind of rare talent who came late to the job. I’ll put it another way—this case will either do a lot of good for you or a lot of bad for you. All depends on how it goes. That make sense?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“So I’m offering you a way out.”
“Sir?”
Sturdivant glanced down at the letter opener, which had by now punched through several pages of the legal pad. He stopped turning the blade, set it back in the desk caddy and, frowning, rubbed his thumb over the wound in the paper. “I know Morales wants you to lead, but I very much doubt that it’s in your best interest at this stage of your career. A word from me and I can override him. Gavin too. Keep you out of the limelight a little longer.”
“I see,” said Jarsdel.
“I’m not sure you do. You’ve never had to face a hostile media, never had to explain to a panicked city and a grieving family why a case is stalled. And I’ll tell you something you probably already know. Lot of people would like to see you fail and HH2 right along with you. You represent a worrying trend in this department. Think of how it looks to guys like your partner. Just a few years in patrol and you get bumped to a rank it took him twice as long to make. And why? Because you’re smarter on paper. You blowing this case would go a long way toward convincing Chief Comsky she’d made a mistake, that there’s no substitute for the kind of cop smarts you only get from time on the street.”
“Everyone knows I’m lead. If I back off now, it’ll look just as bad.”
“Not so,” said Sturdivant. “I’ll say it was a command decision, nothing against you personally. Just that we wanted a seasoned detective calling the shots.”
Jarsdel was suddenly very conscious of his glasses. He took them off, slipped them into his pocket, and tried to stand a little taller. “No thank you, sir. I think I’ll see it through if that’s okay.”
Sturdivant nodded as if he’d expected this answer. “Well then,” he said, “I’ll be curious to see what happens. Very curious.”
“Is there anything else, sir?”
The old cop smiled. “Nope. Good luck out there. You’ll need it on this one.”
Chapter 7
Waiting for the DNA to come back was like being adrift on a windless sea. There was no action, no momentum, and each passing day brought with it a greater certainty that nothing would change.
In the meantime, Jarsdel and Morales turned their attention to a cold case—the bizarre serial poisoning of local dogs. In late 2005, an unseen killer had begun tossing deadly meatballs into yards around Los Angeles. Owners would find their beloved companions either dead or close to it—convulsing, eyes rolled back to the whites, foam oozing from their mouths. Inspection of the dogs’ stomach contents revealed that the killing agent in all cases was water hemlock, a pretty and extremely poisonous plant common throughout the state. So far, eleven animals had been murdered.
The killer was methodical and disciplined, allowing as many as two years to pass between attacks. He—or she—was also highly selective in the choice of victims—not in the dogs themselves, which ranged from Chihuahuas to Rottweilers, but in the owners, who were all attractive couples in their twenties. The most remarkable aspect of the case, however, was the killer’s eerie timing. Without exception, the dogs were killed on the couples’ wedding day.
Using LAPD’s COMPSTAT system, the crimes had been computer mapped to check for any common variables. But so far, nothing substantive could be deduced. None of the couples lived near one another. Some were wealthy, but most weren’t. No two shared the same social circles, fields of employment, wedding locales, caterers, or DJs.
The detective who’d first spotted the link between the cases—Rick Jackson, a Robbery-Homicide pro who’d since retired—came up with what many considered the best theory: the couples were being targeted at dog parks. Three of them ran their dogs at Runyon Canyon, four at Griffith Park, two in Silver Lake, and two in Long Beach. The theory held that someone was pretending to befriend the couples and, in the process, finding out when they were to be married. The killer would then simply follow them home, make note of where they lived, and come back on their wedding day.
The problem was what to do with that information. The poisonings took place so far apart that a stakeout or decoy strategy was impractical. For that same reason, publicizing the case would be equally ineffective. Too much time elapsed between the killings for any concerted public effort to pay off, and the ensuing panic would cause more harm than good. Furthermore, dog parks were social places, and the couples could never clearly recall whom they’d told about their upcoming nuptials. To date, not a single useful description of the culprit had emerged.
The only thing investigators could depend on was that the killer must, ironically, also be a dog owner. Otherwise, it would be impossible for whomever it was to approach the young couples without arousing suspicion. But again, what to do with that information? All they could really do was wait, hoping the alert they’d sent to vets and animal hospitals across LA County would yield a fresher crime scene the next time a dog was poisoned.
The case had slogged through the system for fifteen years, passing from detective to detective until finally landing at the desk of Oscar Morales. And when he moved to Hollywood Station, the case had followed. Now Tully Jarsdel had been added to its long list of custodians. At first, he’d questioned why Homicide was handling it, correctly assuming they didn’t usually get involved in animal murders.
“Officially,” Morales had said, “any serial out there targeting pets is probably on his way to doing people. It’s the same kind of crazy. Unofficially, one of the victims—you know, one of the dogs—belonged to Chief Ballard’s niece. You believe that? Of all the people in LA, this fuckin’ wacko pisses off the chief of goddamn detectives. So we’ll get him.”
But so far, they hadn’t. What they did have was a catchy nickname for their boogeyman, inherited from previous investigators, and one for which Sturdivant had threatened suspension if it were ever leaked to the media: the Dog Catcher.
And now Jarsdel and Morales were parked on North Catalina Street in the Hollywood Hills. A break between the houses revealed a stunning view of the city, the day so bright and clear it looked like a matte painting.
Jarsdel turned to Morales to ask him a question and noticed the other man’s belt and pants were undone. “What are you doing?”
“Huh?”
“What’s with the pants?”
“Always do that when I’m in the car. So I don’t stretch out the waist. More com
fortable.”
“Oh.”
“Was there something you wanted to do here, or you just gonna keep staring at my briefs?”
“Sorry.” Jarsdel looked out the window. “That the place?” he asked, pointing to a home done in the Spanish-Moroccan style so popular in the 1920s.
“Yeah,” said Morales.
“You can’t see into the yard at all.” It was an obvious statement, and Morales didn’t acknowledge it. The house was protected by a high, white stuccoed wall, and the only way in was through a heavy wooden door. A doorbell intercom was affixed to its right.
The home belonged to the last couple the Dog Catcher had targeted. Their dog, Abby, an Akita mix, had died almost a year earlier while they were getting married at the Hotel Figueroa. Her body had been found in the pet bed underneath the eaves of the back porch, but she’d probably picked up the poison in the front yard. A narrow breezeway connected the two yards, and the couple reported that Abby had the habit of running to the front whenever the intercom bell rang.
Jarsdel stepped out of the car, taking in the aroma from a nearby stand of honeysuckle, and approached the house. He stopped at the wall, then looked down the street to his right. He had a clear view downhill for a quarter mile until the street curved and was lost to view. Jarsdel looked to his left, where the road almost immediately vanished around a bend. He nodded to himself, then went back to the car, rapping on the passenger door.
Morales rolled down his window. “What?”
“I don’t think the killer parked here.”
“Why not?”
“Too exposed. Look at all these houses here. Middle of the day—anyone could’ve seen him. I’m betting he parked around the bend, then approached the house on foot.”
“Okay. So what?”
“I’m recreating the narrative. He parks around the bend, out of sight—”
“The narrative?”
“Yeah.”
Morales let out a pained laugh, looked pointedly up, presumably at God, and shook his head. “Go ahead if you want.”
“You’re not coming?”
By way of answering, Morales closed his eyes and hit the recline button on his seat. Jarsdel waited another moment, then walked back over to the house. He took a breath, then pressed the button on the intercom.
A woman’s voice answered. “Yes? Hello?”
“Hello, Mrs. Andreotti? I’m Detective Jarsdel, LAPD. Would you mind if I had a word with you?”
“What’s going on?” She sounded alarmed.
“I’m sorry. No, nothing’s wrong. I’ve been assigned to your case. The death of your pet.”
There was a pause. “I’ll be right out.”
Jarsdel glanced back toward the car, but Morales had reclined out of view. There was a click as the great studded door was unlocked, and Jarsdel turned back in time to see it swing open.
Aleena Andreotti was tall, standing nearly eye to eye with Jarsdel, and wore a sweat-stained, blue cotton T-shirt and spandex tights. Her shoulder-length brown hair was damp and tied back in a ponytail. She offered a slight smile. “I’d shake your hand, but you caught me in the middle of my workout.”
“I shouldn’t have come by unannounced,” said Jarsdel. “And I didn’t mean to startle you. But I’ve been reviewing the circumstances of your case and thought I’d catch myself up. You and your husband were the last known victims…” He trailed off, concerned he’d been rambling. He waited for Aleena to say something, but all she did was give a small, curt nod. Even beneath the flush of her cheeks, Jarsdel could see she’d grown paler as he spoke.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “This must be a very difficult subject for you. I can come back some other time.”
“No, that’s okay,” said Aleena. “Please, come in.” She moved aside, and Jarsdel stepped past her into the courtyard. It was done in red tile, the same shade as the roof’s heavy clay shingles, with a large fountain at its center—a statue of a half-nude maiden pouring water endlessly from a jug at her hip. It could have been tawdry, but the aged patina of the stone, along with the intricately mosaicked pool she stood in, put forward a quiet, subdued elegance.
Aleena closed the street door, then wove her way between Jarsdel and the fountain toward the front entrance. Jarsdel followed, and when he found his gaze lingering on the woman’s toned and shapely backside, he felt a stab of shame.
“Can I get you something to drink? Some iced tea?”
“No, thank you.” The inside of the house was cool and silent, and Jarsdel’s first thought was of emptiness—of empty theaters or cathedrals. There was nothing on the walls but white paint, nothing on the floors but bare marble. It didn’t feel like a home, a place to be shared, but like a museum that’d been looted and then forgotten. A built-in nook by the door held a small purse and a set of keys, but that was the only sign of life in the place.
“Let’s go in the kitchen,” Aleena said.
Jarsdel turned a corner and was struck nearly speechless. The slice of view he and Morales had glimpsed between the houses was expanded tenfold from Aleena’s picture window. From Pasadena to Santa Monica and all the way out to the gentle rise of Catalina Island, the city was laid out before them. It was magnificent, yes, but also unsettling. As a child, when his parents used to take him up to the Griffith Observatory, Jarsdel had always felt more comfortable looking through the crummy pay telescopes that lined the observation deck than he did taking in the entire city. As a whole, it was overwhelming, perhaps even unbelievable, that there could be anything quite so big and complex as Los Angeles, that so many lives could be thrown together like that and still survive. It was too hard for Jarsdel not to imagine death when he looked at a view so tremendous, so mighty, so vast. Too hard not to believe that he’d see some terrific cataclysm, some great balance upset, the city destroyed before him as he watched.
Aleena must have sensed Jarsdel’s awe; she glanced over her shoulder at him when she reached the refrigerator. “Oh yeah,” she said. “I guess I kinda take it for granted now.” She poured ice into a tall glass, then filled it with a bright-red tea. It looked good. Hibiscus, thought Jarsdel. I should have said yes when she offered.
As if sensing his thoughts, she asked, “Sure you don’t want one?”
“Maybe I will. Thanks.”
Aleena handed Jarsdel a glass and led him to the sitting room just off the kitchen. She directed him to the sofa facing the panoramic view. He wished she hadn’t. It made him uneasy. He took a sip of his tea. It was tart and unsweetened but refreshing. He drank again and felt its cool fingers spread across his chest as it went down.
“So how can I help?” asked Aleena.
Jarsdel set his glass down on a painted tile coaster and took out his notepad. “You and your husband were the last known victims of the Dog Ca—I mean, the perpetrator of these crimes. I know you’ve answered these questions already, but it couldn’t hurt to go over them again. You never know when something new might come out.”
“It’s not something I really like to talk about,” said Aleena.
“Of course. I’ll take up as little of your time as possible.”
“What do you want to know?”
“If you could just take me back through that day. Did you have any deliveries to the house? Any flowers or anything?”
“David’s family sent a couple arrangements by.”
“Any idea what company they were with?”
“I think it was—oh, you know that florist on the corner of Franklin and Western?”
Jarsdel smiled. “It was called Floral & Hardy when I was a kid. Not sure what it is now.”
“That’s the one,” said Aleena.
“And about what time did you leave for the ceremony?”
“It was in the late afternoon. Probably around three. We got dressed at the venue.”
“What time
did you get back?”
“Oh, had to have been close to midnight.”
“You didn’t go straight to your honeymoon?”
“No, we were going to leave the next day. Playa del Carmen.”
“Near the ruins at Coba,” said Jarsdel. “Nice.”
“I wouldn’t know. We never made it.”
“You didn’t go?”
“No. After David found Abby’s body, we took her to an all-night vet to find out what happened. That’s when we learned she’d been poisoned. Then we called you guys, and then…” She made a small gesture, then folded her hands in her lap.
“You missed your flight?”
“We weren’t really in the mood to go celebrating. Spent the next few days just trying to deal with what happened. Kept going over it again and again. Who’d want to do this, why us—you know, all the usual questions.”
“Did you come up with anything?”
She shook her head.
“What line of work are you in? Maybe something to do with that?”
“David comes from money. He works for his dad. And I’m a CPO, so not exactly a lot of conflict in what I do.”
“CPO? Certified professional…?”
“Organizer.”
“Oh. You work for companies? Or…”
“Sure, yeah. I specialize in human factors—time and motion study and industrial psychology—so I do a lot of corporate and government stuff. But if I have gaps in my schedule, I still like to take on private clients.”
Jarsdel sat up straighter and gave a slow, considering nod. “Human factors. That’s quite a field. Very involved.”
For the first time in their conversation, Aleena broke into a wide and genuine smile. “You’ve never heard of it.”
One Day You'll Burn Page 7
