“Do you have a date or something?” Mike asked, having noticed that his mother was acting strange lately. She was spending more time on her hair and makeup, wearing slightly shorter skirts, dousing herself with cologne.
“I can’t talk now,” Joanne said, fishing her ID out of her backpack. “Make yourself a sandwich. There’s plenty of food in the house. And to answer your question: No, I do not have a date.”
Joanne left her backpack in the car, slipped her phone into the pocket of her jacket, and depressed the alarm activation button on her key ring to lock the Lexus. When she’d come to work that morning, it had been overcast and drizzling. The sky was clear now and the sun was slowly setting on the horizon. Enjoying the beauty of the sunset didn’t seem appropriate, however, considering that she was on her way to look at a corpse.
The building was a dilapidated five-story structure erected in the seventies. The police had cordoned off the area with yellow evidence tape, and officers were stationed at opposite ends of the street to keep people from entering the crime scene. Flashing her ID at one of the police officers, Joanne asked where she could find Detective Vogel. “Third floor,” the officer told her, reaching for the microphone clipped near his left shoulder. “The command post is in apartment 3B. I’ll let the lieutenant know you’re on the way up.”
Joanne headed up the narrow stairway, having to inch her way past the various descending officers. David Vogel was waiting for her. An attractive, slender man in his late thirties, he had unruly blond hair, fair skin, and dark circles under his hazel eyes. Dressed in a tweed jacket, white shirt, and brown slacks, he tilted his head toward an empty apartment. “Let’s talk in here before we go in,” he told her. “We’ve got too many people in the victim’s apartment right now. The lab is still collecting evidence.”
Joanne started to take a seat on a stained beige sofa when Vogel scowled. “I don’t know if I would sit there,” he said, pulling up two rickety wooden chairs. “The landlord told me the former tenant was a prostitute and crack addict. He evicted her last week.”
“Great,” Joanne said facetiously, dropping down on one of the chairs.
“We have something close to a witness,” Vogel said, taking a seat across from her. “I can get one of my men to bring him in if you want to interview him. He’s a little like the sofa, though. I’m not certain he’s worth anything outside of establishing a time line—and even there, we’ve got problems. The guy’s sixty-eight, and he’s probably been drinking for fifty years. We’re talking major alcohol dementia.”
“Not again,” Joanne said, crossing her arms over her chest. “The Rubinsky brothers are the scum of the earth. One of the witnesses in the Quick-Mart robbery had just been released from rehab, and the victim doesn’t speak English. Now you’re telling me the only witness to this crime is a burned-out drunk. Heaven help me.”
“I think they took the day off,” the detective told her, fiddling with his watch.
Joanne asked, “Who took the day off?”
“Heaven,” Vogel said, giving her a lopsided grin. “This place is about as close as you can get to hell, know what I mean?” He paused and then continued, “We’ve got a dead dope dealer, a stolen car, and a lousy witness.”
Joanne wondered why the detective had asked her to come out. She rubbed her temples. During her last year of law school, she’d suffered from excruciating migraines. For the past week or so, she’d had a headache almost every day. If they got any worse, she’d have to see a doctor and start taking medication again. “Don’t forget about Ian Decker,” she told him. “What if this person kills again? Make certain your men perform a thorough investigation, Vogel. You may think you’re dealing with a skid-row killing…that no one is going to care what happened to this person. I won’t allow you to take that position.”
“Until someone either finds Decker’s body or arrests him, we’re classifying him as a suspect in this crime in addition to the Quick-Mart robbery. Nothing new has turned up regarding his disappearance. All you have is a tip from an anonymous caller.”
“You’re missing the point.” Joanne glanced behind her, then lowered her voice so the people outside the room wouldn’t overhear. “Don’t botch this investigation, Vogel, or Kennedy will have both our heads on a platter. Our stats are down at the agency. Kennedy hasn’t been in the best mood lately. No margin for error. Are we clear?”
“We lucked out on the coroner,” Vogel told her, ignoring her comments. “Charley Anthony is handling it.”
“Good,” Joanne said, thinking he’d finally told her something worthwhile. Charles Anthony was one of the best forensic pathologists on the West Coast. She’d heard rumors that he was exhibiting some bizarre behavior recently, yet there was nothing to indicate that it was interfering with his work.
“Okay,” Vogel said, lacing his hands together. “Here’s the rundown. Leon Carter heard what sounded like a gunshot. He didn’t check the time. His statement was the following: ‘I bet it was around ten ‘cause that’s when I usually wake up to pee every morning.’”
“Horrors,” Joanne exclaimed, slouching in the chair. “What kind of description did he give you of the assailant?”
Vogel had slept only four hours in the past two days. He had a wife and four kids. The baby had been sick with the flu, and his oldest daughter had broken her arm earlier in the week. He worked two jobs, and still had trouble paying his bills. He yawned, stretching his arms over his head. “He said it was a man.”
Joanne waited for the detective to continue speaking. Instead, he just stared at her, wanting her to get a taste of the frustrations he’d been dealing with for the past four hours. He was also offended that the prosecutor would insinuate he might botch a murder investigation. Although he was a meticulous and intuitive investigator, David Vogel had a hair-trigger temper. He’d once beaten a suspect within an inch of his life.
“Did he know the person?” Joanne probed, gesturing a circle with her hand to get things rolling. “Did the physical description match up with Gary Rubinsky? I don’t care if the witness is brain dead, Vogel. He must have seen something.”
The detective stood, picked up the chair, then dropped it back on the floor. “Want me to have him brought in? I’m trying to keep from wasting both your time and mine. It took a pot of coffee and two hours just to get Carter to identify the suspect as male. He doesn’t care. He isn’t sure. He doesn’t know.” He placed his hands on his hips. “You want to listen to that crap, go right ahead.”
“Settle down,” Joanne said, not wanting things to get out of hand. Whether their personalities clashed or not, they would be working together until the case was resolved. “I apologize,” she said. “We’re both tense. We got off to a bad start.”
“All Carter knows is that he heard a loud noise that sounded like a gunshot,” Vogel told her, his face muscles softening. “He thinks he was in his apartment and came out to see what was happening. A male voice said there was nothing to be concerned about, that what he’d heard was a car backfiring.”
“He can’t describe the man’s features or clothing?”
“What I’ve been trying to tell you,” the detective said, “is Leon Carter’s got about three brain cells left, and even those aren’t firing right.”
“No one else in the complex saw anything?”
“If they did,” Vogel answered, “they’re not talking. Even Carter may not have seen the killer. For all we know, the person who spoke to him was one of the other tenants.” He paused and pointed at his chest. “You think I’m happy about this situation? I brought you out here so you could see firsthand what kind of case we’ve got on our hands. Finding the car was a lucky break. And if Rubinsky and Decker are the killers, they’re both dumb enough to have left evidence all over that apartment. Bottom line…We’re not going to solve this case with witnesses. The name of the game is evidence.”
A young dark-haired police officer had been standing in the doorway, waiting for them to finish speaking. �
�They’re asking for you. Lieutenant,” he said. “The coroner says he’s ready to transport the body.”
Detective Vogel stood. Joanne followed him to apartment 3F. Willie Crenshaw’s body was outlined in chalk only a few feet from the front door. Charley Anthony was dictating some last-minute notes on a small recorder, so Joanne and Vogel waited. A body bag was unzipped and open on the floor, and two lab techs were waiting on the outside landing with the gurney “Who called this in?”
“Mr. Gonzales, the landlord,” Vogel told her. “Gonzales brought someone up to look at the vacant apartment at eleven-fifteen this morning when he saw the victim in the doorway.”
“Did the killer leave the door open?”
“Not necessarily,” the detective advised. He pointed at the row of dead bolts. “Gonzales said the original latch bolt doesn’t work. The apartment was burglarized several years ago. The owner’s too cheap to fix it. Crenshaw installed the dead bolts after he moved in. My guess is the killer didn’t realize the latch was busted. He must have slammed the door hard enough that it sprang back open.”
Charley Anthony peeled off his rubber gloves and shook Joanne’s hand. A heavyset man in his fifties, Anthony had curly gray hair and a ruddy complexion. “How’s it going, sweetheart?” he asked, as if he’d just run into an old girlfriend in a coffee shop. “I haven’t seen your pretty face in a month of Sundays.”
“I haven’t tried a homicide lately,” Joanne responded, glancing down at Crenshaw’s face. Although he hadn’t discussed it with her, she suspected Kennedy had purposely lightened her caseload due to the problems with Doug and the children, inhaling the stench of death made her question whether she was emotionally able to handle a homicide even now. She was spreading herself too thin, making too many impulsive decisions. She shouldn’t have allowed Eli access to Decker’s files. Glancing at her watch, she reminded herself to call Dreiser later and find out what he’d decided regarding the detective. Doug was scheduled to go on trial in two weeks. Kennedy would have to bring in another prosecutor. How could she handle a chain of homicides when she would have to testify in her husband’s trial in Los Angeles? The throbbing in her head intensified.
“You’re looking good,” Charley Anthony said, leering at the outline of Joanne’s breasts through her jacket. “We should get together now that you’re single.” He reached into his pocket and handed her his card. “Call me tomorrow. I’ll take you out for a nice dinner.”
Joanne couldn’t believe her ears. Her feet were two inches from a pool of blood and Anthony was trying to put the make on her. “I’m seeing someone,” she lied. “Nice man, you know.”
Anthony’s eyelids fluttered. He knew she was lying. He rubbed his hands together, more determined than ever. “I know where to find you,” he said. “Nice guys don’t last that long, ill give you a call in a couple of months.”
Joanne jerked on Vogel’s jacket sleeve, pulling him to the other side of the room. “Did you catch that?”
“Yeah,” Vogel said, chuckling. “He’s something else, isn’t he? I hear he pops Viagra pills like candy. I’m scared to call him out if the victim is a woman. Nastiest old goat I’ve ever seen. Look at his pocket. That’s the edge of a porno magazine. I think he jerks off six times a day”
Joanne’s tension erupted into laughter. She ducked her head behind Vogel, then peeked over his shoulder at the coroner. Charley Anthony had struck up a conversation with a young blonde technician. They burst out laughing again when they heard the coroner repeat the same lines and give the woman his card. “You’ve got to hand it to him,” Joanne whispered in Vogel’s ear. “He’s persistent.”
“Too persistent,” Vogel said, scowling. “This is a crime scene, not a singles bar. Forget Anthony Come, take a quick look at the victim’s wounds. I’m ready to lock this place up and go home.”
As soon as Joanne walked over and bent down beside the body her nostrils were assaulted by the putrid orders of body gases, excrement, and blood coagulating in the warm room. She opened her mouth, certain she was about to vomit. Vogel quickly unwrapped a piece of chewing gum and stuck it in her mouth. The gum was strong, causing Joanne’s eyes to water. The stench of death was instantly replaced with peppermint.
“This usually does it for me.”
“Thanks,” Joanne said, deciding she and Vogel would get along just fine.
TWENTY-FOUR
Friday, February 16, 2001, 5:35 P.M.
LEAH WAS ten weeks pregnant.
Nathan Salinger pulled out his wallet to pay for their sodas at the Burger King on State Street, a block from the doctors office. They’d taken the bus to town after school. Dr. Sarah Malloy had tested and examined Leah without charge, but she’d encouraged both Nathan and Leah to tell their parents about the pregnancy. Dr. Malloy also recommended that they speak to a counselor before making any decision related to an abortion.
Leah scooted to the far side of the booth near the window, stabbing her straw through the plastic cap attached to her soda. “I’m not going to tell my mother,” she said, her jaw set in defiance. “She’d go ballistic. You’ll have to arrange for one of your doctor friends to give me an abortion. Make sure the appointment is after four. That way, I won’t have to skip any of my classes. I’m already behind.”
Nathan sucked in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. He’d learned a valuable lesson, he told himself. Now he was going to have to figure out how to deal with it. Leah was less mature than he’d realized. While Dr. Malloy was speaking to them, she had rudely flipped through the pages of a magazine.
Nathan felt as if an enormous weight had been placed on his shoulders. His eyes drifted to the window, watching as two teenage girls in tight jeans and cropped tops walked by, laughing and talking on their cell phones. Their suggestive clothing and demeanor now seemed repugnant to him. He asked himself how many girls at his school had already undergone abortions. A cloak of sadness fell over him. A human life was growing inside the girl sitting across from him. Leah’s attitude was appalling. She didn’t want to miss a class. A class! The possibility of receiving a bad grade held more importance than the life of an unborn child.
Until Leah, Nathan had never had sex. Because of his looks and popularity, he’d played along when his friends told crude jokes and boasted about their sexual conquests. Pretense could go a long way Even his closest friends didn’t truly know him. Girls were always telling him he should be an actor, a suggestion he found absurd. Under the surface, Nathan was a shy, sensitive, and deeply serious young man. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself.
A woman with a baby sat down in the adjacent booth. Nathan was transfixed as the mother gently placed the child in her lap, pressing her lips to the silky, fine hair on the top of the baby’s head. Nathan found himself drawn into that intimate moment. The woman glanced over at him and smiled, her face glowing with contentment and joy. He’d seen women with children before, but this was different. Love, he told himself. He had been allowed to witness the wonder of maternal love. As long as the woman had the child in her arms, she would be happy She didn’t need material possessions. The entire world was in her arms.
Turning his attention back to Leah, she seemed to be bathed in dark shadows. Nathan couldn’t lay all the blame on her, however. They were both at fault. He was angry at himself, angry at Leah. His first mistake was having gotten drunk.
What was done was done, Nathan told himself. The problem wasn’t something that could be pushed aside and dealt with later. The clock was ticking. The longer they waited, the worse it would be. “Look,” he said, “I agree that neither one of us is ready to get married and raise a kid. There are alternatives….”
“What?” Leah said, shoving her hair to one side of her head. “You’re not going to tell me to have the baby and then give it up for adoption, I hope.”
“Something could be arranged,” Nathan told her, one of his eyelids twitching. “Are you saying you wouldn’t consider having the baby under any circumst
ances? You’ve already made up your mind. Am I right?”
“More or less,” Leah told him. “How can I have the baby? I have to finish school. And why should I go through all that misery just to give the baby to a stranger? I’m not that far along. If you don’t know a doctor who will give me an abortion for free, you’ll have to find a way to get the money I’ve been to your house. Your family is loaded. You must have a trust fund or something.”
Nathan felt himself shaking. He suppressed an urge to reach out and slap her. When he spoke, however, his voice was low and controlled. “This isn’t about money”
Leah shook her head. “You’re crazy if you think I’m going to have this baby,” she snapped at him. “It’s not even a baby. It’s nothing right now, understand?” She held up her fingers. “I’m only just over two months, Nathan. I could see you pitching a fit if I was four or five months. All that’s inside me is a bloated sperm. And you put it there, I didn’t. I was unconscious, remember?”
Nathan felt his body stiffen. An imaginary wall dropped into place, and Leah disappeared. Without speaking, he got up and walked out of the restaurant. When Leah shouted after him, he didn’t hear her. He tucked his chin toward his chest and darted across the street in the middle of traffic, oblivious to the skidding tires and honking horns.
Joanne had accidentally turned off her cell phone as she slipped it into her pocket when she arrived at the scene of the Crenshaw homicide. Seeing that she had a message as she returned to her car, she hit auto dial without checking the caller ID. “What’s going on?” she asked her son. “Is Leah home?”
“Nope,” Mike answered, sprawled out on the sofa in front of the TV.
“Did she call?”
“Nope.”
“Turn off the television,” Joanne said, unable to tolerate the background noise. Hearing a repetitive pinging sound, she assumed Mike was playing a video game. Her headache was getting worse. She reached up and turned off the dome light. Even lights were beginning to disturb her. This was how she felt in the early stages of a migraine. She had to relax, put things into perspective. A migraine could last for days.
Conflict of Interest Page 19
