The Last Good Place

by Robin Burcell

  Casey glanced at Al, whose face remained impassive. The man was too much of a professional to let anything show—something Casey was grateful for at the moment—but he knew what was coming the moment they were out of earshot, and so he thanked the doctor and gave her his card. “If you turn up anyone else who can offer us some background on Bella, I’d appreciate a call.”

  “Of course.”

  Outside, Casey braced himself for Al’s reaction.

  Al, however, decided to wait until they were in the car. “What the hell?”

  “How was I supposed to know?”

  “By checking the facts. That was shoddy police work. Do you have any idea what could happen if this reporter ends up on the stand and it comes out that she lied?”

  “People lie to us all the time. How is this any different?”

  “Because we’re talking about a potential witness in a murder case that’s being splashed across the national news on a daily basis thanks to some other dimwit reporter from the same paper, who turned it into a tourist thing. And even if this homicide you’re looking into isn’t part of the Strangler cases, how do you know you’re not being manipulated by some reporter who’s suddenly decided to write a book or something?”

  “She seemed sincere.”

  “You might want to rethink that lieutenant’s test, kid. For someone with two college degrees, you amaze me with how much you don’t know. She lied to you. Just be glad you found out now and not on the witness stand.”

  Casey bristled at the dig over rethinking the lieutenant’s exam. He was as ready for that as he’d ever be. More important, though, he knew that Al was probably right about Jenn Barstow lying to him. What he needed to know was why, and the moment they got back to the office, he called and left a message, asking her to come down for a few more questions. And though it didn’t do him any good to direct his anger at her, the longer he waited for a return call, he kept imagining what would happen if it turned out she had been manipulating him. What if she was writing a book, and he ended up in it?

  To hell with waiting for her call, he thought. He was driving straight to her office and—

  “Sergeant Kellog?”

  Casey glanced up to see the secretary for Homicide standing beside his desk.

  “This came for you while you were gone.”

  She handed him a manila envelope for interdepartment correspondence.

  “Thanks.”

  “Everything okay?” she asked, still watching him.

  “Fine. Just…a lot of paper work to get through.”

  She nodded then left, as he unwound the string that secured the envelope. Inside was a CD with a sticky note attached, reading: “Thought you might want to see this. A copy of the security video from Ghirardelli 211.”

  It wasn’t signed. But there was only one person who knew he wanted to see it.

  Becca.

  The thought made him smile, and he inserted the CD into his computer and sat back to watch. His thoughts kept turning back toward Becca while he fast-forwarded through the surveillance video. The perfect time to text her. Ask if she’d sent over the CD. Then ask her out.

  A proper date, not between calls. As incompatible as homicide and social life were, it made him wonder how anyone in here found a spouse. But then he looked around, realized how much older everyone there was. They were probably married before they ever got in.

  Which didn’t bode well for him.

  Al walked in about a half hour later. “You hear back from that reporter?”

  “Not yet. But I left a message for her to stop by. She has no idea why. Better that way,” he said, trying not to get worked up about it again.

  “What’s that from?” Al asked, eying the surveillance video playing on Casey’s computer.

  “From Ghirardelli. I think Becca might’ve made a copy for me.”

  “The guys from Robbery said there weren’t any clear shots of the guy.”

  “There’s not,” Casey confirmed. “If this is the suspect, he seems somewhat aware of the cameras.” Casey watched as the white male, possibly in his twenties, ran through the open-air mall and out to the street after the shop clerk had escaped and called for help. Unfortunately the suspect wore a baseball cap, which kept his face from being picked up by the cameras that were mounted above him. He wore a thick jacket and dark pants and black shoes with glossy toes. “Look at his shoes. What do you think? Military?”

  “His hair’s a bit long.”

  “Maybe he’s AWOL.”

  “Something to check out. No attack on tape, I heard.”

  “No. Before and after. But it’s damned close to the attack by that gift store, and that definitely fits my theory that this wasn’t a robbery. He tried to lure her back.”

  “You’re still trying to link this to the Strangler?”

  “They could be failed sexual assaults. You can’t dispute how eerily similar both attacks were. Early morning, where the victim was walking alone then attacked from behind. More important, if they are related, they’re two failed attempts. If I’m right, this guy’s going to strike again. But look at this…”

  He rewound the video to where the suspect had been standing in the entryway to the courtyard prior to the attack. “See his hand? He’s resting it on the banister.”

  “Sure is. Wonder if the CSIs dusted there?”

  Casey’s phone rang, and he picked it up. “Kellog. Homicide.” The secretary. “There’s a Miss Barstow in the lobby.”

  “Be right there.” He looked at Al. “She’s here.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  “Go get her, College Boy. I’ll make sure Robbery gets the info on checking for prints.”

  Perhaps Casey shouldn’t have shut the office door quite so hard. But the more he thought about being lied to, the madder he got. He slowed his pace as he neared the lobby, forced himself to act calm on the outside, pretend he hadn’t allowed a pretty face to manipulate him.

  Jenn Barstow sat in the lobby chair, looking at something on her phone screen. She’d changed into flat shoes and pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and was once again wearing her dark-framed glasses. Like the female version of Clark Kent, he thought. Hiding her true self. Except it didn’t matter what she wore. He couldn’t erase the image of how she looked this morning in her formfitting skirt and high heels. How had he never noticed the woman behind the glasses before now?

  When she saw him, she smiled.

  He smiled back, even though it took some effort. “This way,” he said, leading her down the hall to a regular interview room. It was not one of the so-called soft interview rooms, the ones that looked more like a comfy corner in a high-end doctor’s office, color-coordinated with upholstered chairs and framed prints on the wall.

  This was the room where they interrogated suspects. It was hard, cold, and very much how he was feeling at the moment.

  Apparently she noticed, because she stopped in the doorway, eyeing the scarred table and industrial-looking metal chairs. “What’s this about?” she asked.

  “Just a few questions. Please. Have a seat.”

  She pulled out a chair, sat, then folded her hands in her lap.

  He sat opposite her, tossing his notebook on the tabletop. “We found the methadone clinic where Bella Orlando was a patient right before the murder.”

  Jenn’s brows rose slightly.

  “And we interviewed the therapist she’d been seeing at the time.”

  “Did you learn anything?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. Apparently Ms. Orlando never had a sister.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Why you lied, for starters.”

  “I didn’t lie. Not really.”

  “Not really?”

  She shrugged. “You wouldn
’t understand.”

  “Try me.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “Maybe you don’t get the severity of what we’re dealing with. We’re talking homicide.”

  “I get it. Completely.”

  “Then why would you, a member of the press, no less, lie to an officer of the law in the middle of a murder investigation? Does this have something to do with why you changed the way you looked?” He thought of the dinner at his mother’s, and a sinking feeling gathered in his gut, that maybe she used his mother to get to him. “What are you trying to pull here?”

  “Would you have listened to me otherwise? Because my experience these last few months is that no, you wouldn’t.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That every time I’ve tried to get the police to reopen that case, they’ve ignored me.”

  “Maybe because they had nothing to work with.”

  “Or maybe because no one cares about dead prostitutes.”

  “As I told you, I wasn’t working Homicide back then. But I’m sure that’s not the case.”

  “That’s exactly the case. Those women weren’t pretty to look at, and they didn’t matter to anyone. Just like no one listened to me until after I changed my appearance. I was invisible before then. But suddenly, a prettier version of me shows up, and then you sit up and take notice. Admit it.”

  He couldn’t believe she was actually accusing him of this. “You think we pick and choose what cases to work based on someone’s appearance?”

  “Appearances, occupations, yes. Otherwise those older murders would’ve been solved by now.”

  “First of all,” Casey said, doing his best to rein in his temper, “you have no idea what has or hasn’t been done to try to solve those older cases. Sometimes, things just don’t turn out the way we hope. Second, you’re still overlooking that you have lied to us in the middle of a murder investigation. And while you may not think it’s important, I do.”

  “You’re right. I don’t think it’s important,” she said, standing. Angry. “And I really don’t want to sit here and talk about this anymore. So if you have no further questions, or something to arrest me for, I’m leaving.” She stalked to the door, pulled it open.

  “Do you have any idea what your lie can do to our case?”

  She turned, looked at him. “I’m sure you’ll inform me.”

  “Should we be fortunate enough to identify and arrest the person responsible, we’ll have to testify in court about the investigation. Someone may call you to the stand. And they may even ask why you lied to us. The defense, for your information, loves that sort of thing. Anything to throw a shadow on the suspect’s guilt. They’ll rip you apart for lying. And then they’ll suggest to the jury that you’ve lied about everything else.”

  For a moment he thought she might respond. Instead, she left.

  He got up, followed her out. “Why would you risk your career as a reporter by lying to me?”

  “Does it matter?”

  He walked faster, caught up with her at the elevator, and saw that she was crying.

  She removed her glasses, wiped at her tears, jabbed the Down button, her hand shaking.

  The door opened, and she started to step on.

  He grabbed her arm, stopping her. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Just leave me alone,” she said, trying to pull away.

  “Why?” he asked, and as the elevator door started to shut, he shoved his foot in to keep it from closing. “Why the hell would you lie to me about something like this?”

  “Because…” She looked away, wouldn’t face him. “It’s…”

  Whatever she said was too faint for him to hear. “It’s what?”

  “My fault, damn it! I’m the reason she’s dead.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “What do you mean it’s your fault?” Casey asked, his foot still against the elevator door.

  Jenn wiped the tears from her eyes as the elevator next to them opened and two officers stepped off.

  They looked from her to Casey, and he felt like a cad, certain they were judging him for making her cry. “Miss Barstow…Jenn,” he said softly. “Can we please go back to the interview room?”

  She allowed him to lead her back.

  “Tell me what happened,” he said. “From the beginning.”

  She sucked in a breath, nodding. “Have you ever wanted something so bad that you were willing to go to any length to achieve it?”

  His police career came to mind, not that he was about to admit any such thing to her. “Go on…”

  “I wanted to be this star reporter. For as far back as I remember. It was my ticket out. I—” She cleared her throat. “I was also in the system as a foster child. Just after my sixteenth birthday, Bella was taken in by my foster parents. I caught her stealing from them. I—I told on her, and, well, they ended up reporting her, and she was placed in another home.”

  “And you think this is why she’s dead? You were a kid.”

  “No. Maybe…” She shrugged. “I went on to college, and she went on to…Well, you know what she went on to. And then I ran into her years later, after I’d graduated and started working at the Union-Examiner. The guilt overwhelmed me, but I ignored it. Here she was working the streets. And then—My editor wanted more human-interest stories. As I said, star reporter, and I wanted to do this big piece that would highlight the downfall of the foster care system. What happens when some of the kids fall through the cracks. They nixed it. Been done. That’s when I came up with the bright idea of shadowing a prostitute. Because it was right after the first murder, they loved it. And—” She looked away, brushed at her eyes. “I just thought she’d be okay with everything.”

  “Hold on a sec.” He got up, left the room, then returned with a box of tissues. “Here.” He slid the box across the table toward her.

  “Thanks.” She grabbed one, dabbed at her face.

  “You were saying?”

  “Um, that they accepted my story proposal. So I approached her. She wanted nothing to do with me at first. She really did blame me. But I made promises. I’d get her out of there. Help her move away…She really did want that. She—She met with me several times. She let me follow her, as long as I parked far enough away, and I…” Jenn closed her eyes, took a breath, then looked at him once more. “She caught me.”

  “Caught you?”

  “Filming her. On my phone. She got mad. That wasn’t part of the deal, she said. She wanted me to erase everything. I tried to tell her that no one was going to see it. It was more for my reference than anything else. But she made me erase the files, then searched my phone to make sure there was nothing else on it.”

  “How long were you filming her for?”

  “Pretty much the entire time. Half of it is useless, glare from headlights, but what I did capture? The way she looked when she shot up. The people she associated with. It was…” Jenn’s face seemed to crumple, and it was several seconds before she continued. “She accused me of using her to get ahead. And I’m ashamed to say that was the truth. I sat there in my car, filming her, thinking of Pulitzer Prizes and promotions and—Here’s how selfish I am. Even after she was murdered I thought about using what I did have. Thank God, the guilt got to me. I couldn’t do the story after—”

  “Wait,” he said, not sure if he heard her right. “Use what?”

  “The story. I couldn’t do it. That’s why when these Strangler cases came up, I realized I had to make sure she wasn’t forgotten. I can’t stop thinking about her.” She twisted the tissue in her hand. “She was so mad after she caught me, she wouldn’t let me shadow her again. And—”

  “Not that,” he said. “You said something about using what you did have.”

  “No. There’s no way I could use it. Not and live with myself.”

  Casey leaned forward
. “What files do you still have?”

  “Just a few clips I downloaded to my laptop each night. But there’s no way I’m doing the story. Not anymore.”

  “You still have those?”

  She nodded. “They’re at my office on my laptop.”

  “I need to see them.”

  “Now?”

  “I’d be glad to follow you. But yes. Now.”

  Casey left Jenn in the interview room, telling her he’d be just a few minutes while he returned to the office to get his radio and brief Al. He had no idea if what she had was even relevant to the case. But there was no way of knowing that until he actually looked at the files she’d saved. Which was why he intended to personally escort Miss Barstow to her office, then pick up the flash drive himself, just to make sure nothing happened to it between here and there.

  Unfortunately, the moment he walked into Homicide, Al said, “Glad you’re done. Jon Gregory wants to show us something he found belonging to his stepson.”

  Casey glanced at the clock, not even sure where the day had gone. It was a little after five. “When?”

  “Should be here any time. So how’d it go with the reporter?”

  “Not quite the lie we thought. Apparently she and the victim were foster sisters way back when.”

  “Which has what to do with anything?”

  “She feels partly responsible for the murder.”

  “Because…?”

  “It’s complicated and not as important as the fact she might have video of the victim out near the crime scene a few days before the murder.”

  “That would be worth seeing,” Al said as his phone rang. “Krug,” he said, answering it. “We’ll be right out.” Then, to Casey, “Mr. Gregory’s here.”

  “What about Jenn? Miss Barstow?” he corrected as they walked down the hall to the lobby.

  “She can wait a couple of minutes. Shouldn’t take long. Short of a signed confession, can’t imagine what, if anything, Mr. Gregory could show us that’ll change anything.”