Right now, though…well, it was curious. Suspicious even. But enough to grab the attention of an overworked detective crew? Or, make that twelve of them?
No, it probably wasn’t enough. Not under these circumstances.
“Did the police reports mention whether they looked at where the flowers came from?”
She flew out a frustrated breath. “A couple looked for any records of a delivery but didn’t dig too deeply. Several of them didn’t even note the flowers at all.”
“How do you know—”
“I spotted them in the crime scene photos, once I knew what I was looking for.”
Christ. She was very serious. And very thorough.
“Okay, I understand why this has caught your attention. It’s…it’s weird. Interesting. But you know it’s all circumstantial.”
“I know.” She came closer, looking both sad and determined to get through to him. “Do you see why I want to look into this a little more myself before I potentially go cry wolf to the police, claiming they’re overlooking a serial killer? I could be wrong. I might be way off base.”
She took another step, putting a hand on his chest. He felt the heat of it burning through his clothes, right to his skin. There was such an intensity about her, such fervor as she added, “But I have had this feeling before, Rowan. I’ve felt this intense certainty down deep inside. And I have to do what I can to see if I’m right.”
Their stares locked. Her blue eyes were clear, her gaze steady. She absolutely believed every word she was saying.
And, God help him, he believed her.
He covered her hand with his. Their fingers entwined.
Finally, he said, “Okay, Evie. I’m in.”
Chapter 7
Retired LAPD detective Phil Smith lived in a modest bungalow in Westlake, on a quiet, neatly kept street lined with similar homes. His place looked exactly what a working-class retiree’s place should look like, but Smith didn’t look exactly how she would picture a retired cop.
“Hey there. Miss Fleming, I presume?” the sixtyish man said as he opened the front door.
The voice was gravelly, a little phlegmy. The heavyset man wore sweatpants, a baggy T-shirt, sneakers, and had a thin oxygen hose resting on his upper lip. A portable oxygen tank stood at his side. The handle was raised for easy grabbing, like a rolling suitcase. He likely had to walk around all the time with the thing.
He extended his left hand. The right one, she noticed, was curled in against his chest, and swollen, with visible bulges at the knuckle that told tales of arthritis. What a shame.
“Yes,” she said, extending her left hand, too, a little awkwardly. Funny how much the world discriminated against lefties. “Please, call me Evie. And this is Detective Winchester, who is assisting me while I’m doing research for my book.”
Smith reached out for a handshake with Rowan. She couldn’t help noticing how careful Rowan was with the ritual. His grip was brief and appeared gentle. He’d noticed the condition as well and had immediately reacted with thoughtful consideration. The way he did with anyone and everyone, as far as she had seen. Including her, for the most part.
Except when his late agent’s name came up.
“Come on in, folks,” Smith said with a big smile. “Not often I get visitors these days. I’ve made some fresh iced tea.”
He led them into a small family room decorated with an old tweed sofa, two well-worn recliners, and some knobby pine furniture. The only self-indulgent thing in the place was a huge flat-screen TV, which was tuned to a sports channel but muted.
Immediately, she noted several things, made several impressions.
He’d made the tea—he lived alone.
He didn’t have family nearby—he wasn’t used to visitors.
He was frugal, cautious with his retirement income because he’d been forced to retire earlier than he’d planned due to his medical conditions.
He was very neat; the place wasn’t immaculate, but it was tidy, like the front yard.
The details painted a picture in her mind, and she found herself feeling a little sorry for the man. She didn’t know if he was divorced, widowed, or had never married, but she had no doubt his life now was very lonely.
“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing toward the sofa. “I’ll get the tea. It’s presweetened, hope that’s okay. Had to give up some of my vices, but I just can’t do without all my sweets.”
“Sounds delicious,” Evie said with a smile.
Rowan nodded as well.
She sat down, as invited, but Rowan walked around the room. A nicked and slightly warped bookshelf stood in a corner, and he walked over to read the plaques and framed commendations that stood on it. There were several.
The only photograph in the room was a framed eight-by-ten that stood in a position of pride on the coffee table. A black and white, it depicted an older woman with a beehive of dark hair on her head. The hairstyle and fashion hinted that this wasn’t a late wife, but probably Smith’s mother. That added to the picture of a lonely lifelong bachelor.
Smith returned with a tray holding three glasses, as well as a plate with some prepackaged cookies. The gesture again hinted he didn’t do much entertaining.
“Help yourself,” he said. “I can’t do the cookies on account of my blood sugar, but you go right on ahead.”
“Looks like you were very busy on the job,” Rowan said, nodding toward the bookshelf as he walked over to sit down.
Smith shrugged, modest as she’d found many police officers to be. “Like any job, you do the best you can.”
He sat in a recliner, extended it to lift his feet, saying, “Sorry, gotta keep ’em elevated for the diabetes.”
Good grief, the poor man didn’t have it easy.
“That’s fine,” Evie insisted as she sipped the icy cold drink, which was delicious.
“So,” said Smith, “you say you wanna talk about a couple of my old cases from when I was still on the job?”
Right to business. Once a cop, always a cop.
“Yes, as I said when I first contacted you, I am writing a book on older crimes in the Los Angeles metropolitan area.”
Smith snorted. “Lots of material there, missy.”
No doubt.
“Two murders that you worked before you retired caught my interest.”
“Lemme guess,” he said, piercing her with a sharp glance that revealed the inquisitive, determined mind that still lived in the sick man’s body. “One of ’em’s gotta be Felicity Long.”
Evie lifted a brow. He’d nailed that one. “It is.”
Shaking his head, Smith looked at Rowan. “Always a couple of cases that haunt you, am I right?”
Rowan was sipping his drink and swallowed quickly, coughing a little, before answering. “Oh yeah. They keep turning up like…”
“A case of herpes!” Smith laughed at his own joke, then grew serious again. “That one stuck. She was young, a wannabe actress I think.”
Evie opened one of the two files she’d brought along. “Yes, she was trying to break in to the movie business.” Like so many others in Hollywood.
“Strangled in her own bed.” He closed his eyes and winced. “Such a sight, never stopped seeing it in my mind’s eye.”
She had seen the crime scene photos and understood.
“Pretty red hair,” the older man mumbled.
She turned to another page in the file. It was the victim’s picture, likely a professional headshot taken when she was going on auditions, full of hopes and dreams.
Seeing it, Smith nodded slowly. “Yes, long and red. Such a pretty girl.”
She had been. So had all the women Evie had connected to this mystery killer. No connection as far as hair color or body type went, but they’d all been very pretty.
“Really bothered me that we never caught her killer. I hated goin’ out with that one still open, on the books. I spent the first few months of my retirement digging into it, on my own dime, ya know. Till I go
t too sick. Never did see anything new. No prints, no sign of forced entry, nothing stolen, no usable DNA.”
Just like all the other cases she was pursuing. If this was the same killer, he was very good at covering his tracks.
Rowan leaned forward, dropping his elbows onto his knees. “How does somebody go into a house, commit a violent murder, and not leave a single hair, fiber from his clothes, or a drop of spit, sweat, or tissue anywhere?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Smith said with a shrug.
“There were a few other cases you worked on that remain unsolved,” Evie pointed out.
The former cop stiffened a tiny bit.
“I’m sorry, I’m not being critical,” she quickly explained. “Your record is outstanding. I just mean, there was one other murder of a young woman that you worked on fourteen years ago that remains in the cold case file.”
Frowning, he scratched his slightly grizzled, graying chin. “Can’t remember ’em all. Sorry, but it’s a myth that we remember every victim forever. In this line of work, you just can’t afford to hold on to every single case, every single victim.”
“Of course not,” Rowan said.
“Fourteen years you say? Similar case?”
Evie nodded, opening the second folder. “Another young woman, same age, found murdered in her apartment, about ten blocks from where Felicity eventually lived, but eleven year earlier.”
She turned the file around and lifted it to show him the other picture. He leaned forward in his chair to get a better look.
“Hmm, yeah, she looks familiar.” Another chin scratch. “Wait, GSW to the chest, right? In her kitchen? What was her name?”
“Amy Nolan.”
“Right, Nolan,” he said, nodding. His brow was furrowed as he obviously tried to remember. Then he snapped his fingers. “Oh of course! That was not long after I transferred into the Central Bureau. Rampart. Pretty sure it was the first murder case I caught there.”
“That one remains unsolved as well.”
“Well, yeah, but I always knew the ex-boyfriend did it. She had dumped him a week before. He’d been following her, calling, showing up at her house.”
Evie had read all of that in the investigation notes. “But he had a solid alibi. He was on an overnight trip to Las Vegas with his friends to try to get over the breakup.”
Smith rolled his eyes. “Four-hour drive. He coulda ditched his drunk friends, driven back here, killed her, and gone back to Vegas overnight with nobody the wiser.”
She knew that wasn’t the case. There were a lot of witness statements from the owner of the hotel-casino where they’d stayed, plus surveillance images of the ex-boyfriend playing blackjack and talking to every sexy “single” woman on the floor. He’d ended the night with a prostitute.
But with an unsolved case of a pretty young woman, maybe the old cop preferred to think he had mentally solved the case, even if he’d never made the arrest. Perhaps it made it easier to swallow. He just hadn’t had a similar explanation about Felicity Long’s murder, which was why her case was the one that haunted him while Amy Nolan’s did not.
“Did you have any other theories?”
He frowned, looking irritated that she hadn’t bought his explanation. “No.”
She sensed his back was up. Worried he might stop talking, she went right to what had brought her here. “What about the flowers?”
He stared at her, shaking his head, mumbling, “Flowers?”
Evie quickly reminded him that in his own report on the first murder he had mentioned a vase of fresh flowers in the bedroom and had speculated that the ex-boyfriend had brought them to her to pretend he had come to make up.
He considered, scrunching his brow. “Oh yeah, right. Roses I think. Typical take-me-back-or-I’ll-kill-you gift.”
“They were carnations.”
He shrugged. “So the guy was a cheapskate.”
“Felicity had the roses.”
“Whadda ya mean?”
Beside her, she felt Rowan grow very still. Here was where the path got more slippery, the steps more tricky. She didn’t want to make another comment that annoyed the sick man enough that he clammed up. Hinting that he had missed something by not even mentioning the flowers in Felicity’s case file might do just that.
“There was a vase filled with roses on Felicity’s dresser. They were visible in the crime scene photos, but I didn’t see anything about them in the report.”
“Lemme see the file,” he snapped.
She got up and brought the documents she’d printed out over to him, placing them on his lap to avoid him having to use his gnarled hands any more than necessary. Going back to her seat, she waited while he glanced at the crime scene photos. He stared at the two with very clear views of the roses for a long while.
Then, finally, he crossed his arms over his chest, tucking the twisted fingers under his armpits. “It was a couplea days after Valentine’s Day, right?”
“Yes, it was.”
“No big deal about red roses on Valentine’s Day. I guess I didn’t note them because they didn’t seem relevant.”
“But she wasn’t seeing anyone, was she?”
“So what? Don’t single women buy themselves flowers once in a while?”
“Oh, of course they do,” she murmured.
But not usually red roses, at least in her experience. They were just too closely connected to romantic love. It was the same reason why when she bought her mother roses—her favorite flower—for her birthday or Mother’s Day, she always chose yellow or peach. Never red. It was just too weird to give red roses to a friend or family member who wasn’t your significant other.
Or to buy them for yourself.
Not impossible. No, definitely not. But unlikely.
Plus, in going through the scans of banking records and receipts found in Felicity’s purse and her home, there had not been a mention of a florist or even a grocery store flower purchase, anywhere. She’d found the same lack of evidence in the Amy Nolan case. Actually, the retired detective had noted it himself in the first murder.
“It’s just,” she went on, speaking casually, as if she were merely curious and not deadly focused, “it seems a little funny that two women around the same age were killed in their homes and unexplained fresh flowers were found in their bedrooms.”
The folder resting on his lap, Smith sipped his tea, staring at her. His brown eyes, sharp and youthful, unlike the rest of his body, were narrowed, piercing, as he considered.
Finally, he said, “You tryin’ to say you think those cases were connected?”
“Do you think it’s possible?”
His jaw flexed. “No. You think I’m a bad cop or something? You think if they were at all alike I wouldn’ta noticed it?”
She leaned forward, matching Rowan’s pose. “No, not at all,” she said, trying to calm him. “The cases were almost a decade apart! One victim was shot, one was strangled. There’s no reason they would have come together in your mind.”
He nodded, appearing a little mollified.
“I’m just asking if now, looking back on both cases from a distance of time, do you think there’s any chance they were connected?”
Although he still didn’t look pleased with the line of questioning, Smith appeared to think about it. One hand resting lightly on the file folder, he stared into the distance, rocking his recliner the slightest bit. The silence stretched on, save for the tiny squeak of the chair every time it came forward. At one point he closed his eyes. For a second, she wondered if he had fallen asleep. But finally, he sighed heavily and returned his full attention to her.
“Okay, I’ll admit it,” he said, not sounding pleased about it. “Yeah, looking back, it’s possible the cases were connected all along. And I missed it. That what you wanna hear?”
Smith’s hands were painfully clenched now, and she suspected he was starting to accept her theory and wondering what his part in the unsolved murders might be. It woul
dn’t be easy to accept that he might have missed something critical while investigating those two crimes.
“Detective, I didn’t come here to accuse you of anything, or to insult you,” she said, hoping she hadn’t mortally offended the man. He didn’t appear to have much of a life, and his memories of his glory days as a decorated police officer were probably the most important thing in the world to him. She would never want to stain those memories. “You were obviously an excellent detective, and I know this is coming at you from a very long time ago.”
Smith hesitated for just a second, and then finally shrugged. His tense body relaxed a little bit. “No, it’s okay. I guess because the Long case always stuck with me, I’m a little mad at myself for possibly missing something. Not your fault for pointing it out.” The older man lowered the footrest and leaned forward in his chair. “How’d you come up with this, anyway?”
“Pure luck,” she insisted. “I’m doing research on unsolved crimes, and these caught my eye. I have no official capacity.”
He nodded, and then looked at Rowan. “You on these cases now?”
“Nope. Just tagging along.”
“Bodyguardin’?” He looked back at Evie. “I know about the Angstrom thing. You watchin’ your back?”
Evie’s brow went up. Of course she wasn’t surprised the retired officer would have investigated her before this meeting. She was just surprised that he’d so quickly zoned in on the fact that Angstrom might pose a danger to her. Then again, he was a former cop with twenty-five years investigating crimes and criminals; maybe it did make sense.
“I’m fine, thank you very much.”
Seeing the way he winced as he shifted on the lumpy old chair and had to suck in a slow, deep breath, Evie realized he was in physical pain from more than his hands. And they’d worn him out. She imagined the theory she’d laid out for him hadn’t helped with his heart any, either.
She rose to her feet, as did Rowan. “Thank you so much, Detective Smith. I truly appreciate you taking the time to meet with us.”
Wanting You Page 15
