Simmons stopped, and the kid who had hailed him bounced a basketball on the pavement. “A bunch of us are going over to the court,” the kid said. “Got a half hour for a pickup game?”
Matt Simmons. This was the guy who was doing the research on ololiuqui—morning glory seeds—and supplying Lucy LaFarge with the raw ingredients for the street drug she was cooking up in her kitchen. According to Shannon, he had been one of the male students on Laughton’s field trip to Oaxaca back in November. And then I remembered something else Shannon had said. Matt Simmons had been outside with Gloria in the parking lot of that hamburger joint when she unloaded her “tourist pottery.”
Matt Simmons. He lived here? In the same complex where Gloria lived?
Yes, apparently. “Sorry,” he said to the kid with the basketball. “Gotta study for a quiz tomorrow. Catch ya later. Okay?” He lifted a hand, went inside, and crossed the nicely decorated foyer to the elevator. As I watched, he stepped inside. The lighted indicator above the elevator showed that it was stopping at the second floor. The second floor—and Gloria had lived on the second floor. I was beginning to see some connections.
Blackie had already headed toward the manager’s office, and I was still processing this information as I turned to follow him. The office was even more nicely decorated than the foyer, with a handsome walnut desk, a plush, comfy-looking sofa, several obligatory potted plants, and an array of photographs of luxury apartments, the club room, the gym, and the spa. The photos featured the young and lovely and well-heeled residents the Villa was designed to attract, all of them engaged in various fun-loving activities.
Blackie was holding up his official identification for the skeptical consideration of a dark-haired woman dressed in a peach-colored power suit with a matching camisole and three-inch heels—Ms. Sternfeld, I presumed. A pair of reading glasses hung around her neck on a gold chain.
She examined his identification as she listened to his announcement that he was here to check out the apartment of a woman who might have been the victim in an arson fire the previous Saturday. Frowning, she said, “I find it hard to believe that one of our residents would have put herself into such a situation.” Her tone implied that their luxury apartments were never occupied by riffraff who might die in a house trailer, and her glance at the holster on Blackie’s belt suggested that weapons were both unwelcome and unnecessary in such an exclusive enclave.
“She might not have had a choice,” Blackie replied evenly. “We’re still in the process of making an identification of the body. I’m afraid it’s not an easy task. The victim was burned beyond recognition. However, we have probable cause to believe that it is indeed Ms. Graham, and we’re proceeding under that assumption, at least for the moment.”
Probable cause should have tipped her off, but apparently Ms. Sternfeld didn’t watch cop shows on TV. “I really don’t think I should permit—” she began in an officious tone.
“I have a search warrant,” Blackie said. He pulled a folded document out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “Your consent to the search is unnecessary, however. I am notifying you as a courtesy. I would appreciate it if you would either unlock Ms. Graham’s apartment for me or provide me with a key.” It was also true that she could not have given consent to the search in any circumstances, since a landlord, or his representative, lacks the authority to do so. I wondered if she knew that.
Ms. Sternfeld put on her reading glasses, unfolded the warrant, and scanned it. Then she handed it back with the tips of her fingers, as if it were loaded with germs. “Really, Sheriff, this sort of thing is highly irregular. Our residents simply do not—”
“Irregular, yes,” Blackie said. “Murder is a highly irregular event. Most people do not intend to burn to death.” He put the warrant on her desk, walked to the wall, and looked pointedly at a photo that showed a young boy and girl mounted on side-by-side stationery bicycles, gazing at a television set while they listened to their iPods.
“Of course, I wouldn’t want to cause any more disruption to your tenants than necessary,” he went on. “Your tenants and their parents, that is. The last thing you need is a half-dozen sheriff’s cars parked outside your door. But perhaps that won’t be necessary. At this point, I only intend to have a preliminary look. I hope you will agree to unlock the door, so I won’t have to make a forcible entry.”
The manager gave an involuntary shudder. “Well, I suppose we could go up there together, and see if Ms. Graham answers the door. Let me check for the telephone number, and I’ll call ahead.” Furrowing her brow, she bent over a computer, looked up a number, then punched it into a phone. While she was waiting, she glanced up and saw me for the first time, standing just inside the door. “May I help you?”
“Ms. Bayles is with me,” Blackie said.
“Oh,” Ms. Sternfeld said, and went back to listening to the ringing on the other end of the line. Finally she put the phone down. “No answer,” she said unnecessarily, and reached for a set of keys. “Well, I suppose we’d better go up there. Ms. Graham might be sick or something.”
Sick or something, I thought dryly. How about dead?
But I was still thinking about Matt Simmons. As the three of us went to the elevator for the ride to the second floor, I spoke to Blackie in a chatty, isn’t-this-a-small-world tone.
“What a coincidence, Sheriff. As we were coming in, I ran into Matt Simmons. Shannon Fisher may have mentioned his name to you this morning. He was on the field trip to Oaxaca with Gloria Graham. Thinking about it now, I wonder if maybe he shared her connections.”
Blackie nodded. He was expressionless, but he flicked me a glance. He understood what I was saying.
“Mr. Simmons?” Ms. Sternfeld asked brightly. “He’s a friend of yours? Actually, he lives across the hall from Ms. Graham, on the second floor.”
“Is that right?” I asked in a friendly tone. “It was a surprise to see him. I’m sorry that we didn’t have a chance to talk. I wonder—were Matt and Ms. Graham friends?”
“Actually, he moved in just a few weeks before she did. And yes, I believe they were acquainted before they both came here. He referred her to us and received a lease discount for the referral.” She was looking at Blackie. “Really, Sheriff, I hope you’re not right about Ms. Graham. It would be devastating if she was the one who . . .” The elevator door opened and she broke off, finding it impossible to say the words “burned to death in that house-trailer fire.”
The second floor was quiet, its wide, carpeted hallway stretching from one side of the building to the other. Ms. Sternfeld rapped loudly at a door marked 204, waited a moment, then knocked again.
“Ms. Graham,” she called, trying another knock. Then, with a heavy sigh and a great show of reluctance, she pushed a key into the door and turned it.
We stepped into the apartment, leaving the door partially open behind us. We had entered an elegant living room, with an off-white carpet, white leather sofa and chair, glass coffee table, and an entertainment center with a flat-screen TV the size of my dining room tabletop. The walls were covered with Mexican woven hangings, there was a large Mexican area rug under a dining table, and several pieces of Mexican pottery were scattered around the room. I looked at them, wondering if they were the real thing—real pottery, that is, rather than the stuff that ended up on the street, killing people. The kitchen boasted stainless steel appliances, but they were so spotlessly clean that I was willing to bet that they weren’t seeing much use. The bedroom was as posh as the living room, although the floor was littered with clothing, the bed was unmade, and the bathroom counter was crowded with bottles and jars and tubes of makeup. A sliding glass door looked out on a private sundeck furnished with luxury redwood loungers, pots of marigolds and cosmos, and a view of the cedar-clad hills above the campus.
“A very nice apartment,” I said appreciatively, as Blackie went quickly from room to room, looking for signs of violence that might suggest that whatever had happened to Gloria Graham
had begun here. My own quick glance told me that this wasn’t likely, but he’s the expert in such matters. His trained eye would see things I missed. “I’m sure parents must feel that their children are safe here.”
“Safety is our highest priority,” Ms. Sternfeld said quickly. “And of course, we’re always glad to add the names of young people to our waiting list. Sometimes parents put their children on our roster when they’re still juniors or seniors in high school. This is quite a desirable complex, you know.” She paused. “I can give you my card when we go back downstairs, if you’d like to make a referral.”
“Perhaps I would,” I said. “How much would someone expect to pay for this particular apartment, for instance?”
“Our one-bedroom units are $950 a month, which includes convenient garage parking and all utilities, as well as unlimited use of our fitness facilities. We do have two- and three-bedroom apartments, as well, if your student would prefer a roommate situation. Less expensive, too.” With a practiced enthusiasm, she had switched into her saleslady mode. “I might also mention that you can choose from several different designer furniture, drapery, and appliance packages. And we offer a weekly cleaning service—for an extra fee, of course.”
She made a sweeping gesture that included the leather sofas. “This package is our best. We have a parking garage for tenants—the door is just at the far end of the hall, so our residents don’t have to go out into the weather. And twenty-four-hour security.” She smiled toothily. “We make every effort to protect the young people in our care.” But her smile faded quickly, as she remembered that the sheriff had told her that something very bad may have happened to Gloria Graham.
I was thinking that a student—or her parents—had to have plenty of money to afford a place like this, with its designer furniture package and weekly cleaning service. “Is Matt Simmons’ apartment similar?” I asked.
“All our one-bedroom units have an identical floor plan,” she replied. “Of course, his has a different view.” She gestured toward the door to the deck. “I like this one, because it looks out onto the hills.”
I was about to make a response, but through the partially open door, I saw a movement in the hallway. Across the hall, the door of 205 had opened, and someone was coming out. He was carrying a large canvas duffle bag, empty, and striding swiftly down the hall in the direction of the parking garage.
I crossed to the bedroom in three quick steps. “I’ve just seen Matt Simmons going down the hall,” I said urgently to Blackie, who was inspecting a closet. “Looks like he’s headed for the parking garage. I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but he’s carrying an empty duffle—about the size of a body bag.”
Blackie grasped the situation immediately. “Stay here,” he commanded. He unsnapped the flap on his holster and stepped out into the hall. “Mr. Simmons,” he called. “Adams County Sheriff’s Department. Hang on a minute, please. I’d like to talk to you.”
But at the sound of the sheriff’s voice, Simmons broke into a run, pushing through the door that led to the stairs to the parking garage. Blackie sprinted after him. I pretended I hadn’t heard his command and ran after him.
“Wait!” Ms. Sternfeld cried. She was trying her best to follow, but she was hobbled by her narrow skirt and three-inch heels. Power suits may connote clout, but that’s about as far as it goes.
I turned, running backward. “Call 9-1-1,” I said. “Now! Tell them to come to the parking garage.”
She gave up the chase and was pulling out her cell phone by the time I hit the stairway door. I pushed through and rattled down a flight of concrete stairs. The door to the parking garage had already thudded shut behind Blackie, and I opened it and stepped into the garage.
I was standing on the lowest level of the two-level concrete structure, a few cars parked nose-in along each side. In the dim light, I could see Blackie. He had slowed down and was moving deliberately through the half-darkened garage, looking into and under every car. He held his gun in one hand. Simmons was nowhere in sight.
I listened, waiting for the sound of an engine starting up, thinking that Simmons had reached his vehicle and might try to drive out. And then, off to my left, about three or four cars up the row, I saw a door in the wall, closing itself on one of those door closers that work very slowly.
I reached it before it closed completely. It was a gray-painted metal door with the words Storage Area stenciled across the front in brown letters. Under that, Residents Only. It had one of those key-pad security locks on it, where you punch in a number code to gain access.
I knew immediately what I was looking at. Right after I graduated from law school, I had rented an apartment in a large unit in Houston. Every resident had a walk-in storage locker in a large room adjacent to the parking garage, which was handy for stowing stuff you didn’t use regularly and didn’t have room for in the inadequate closets in your apartment. Sports equipment, out-of-season clothing, stuff like that. The door to the parking garage was locked. Residents put their own locks on their lockers.
Matt Simmons had just carried an empty duffle bag into the Villa’s storage area—not a suspicious act, of course. But instead of turning to ask why the sheriff wanted to talk to him, he had fled. Why?
My foot still in the door, I glanced around, and spotted what I was looking for, leaning up against the wall, just within arm’s reach. It was a four-foot piece of lumber that people were using to prop the door open and keep it from locking when they were moving stuff in and out. I wedged it into place, then ran to Blackie.
“I think he’s in the storage area.” I pointed at the door. “Over here!”
Blackie turned and strode toward the door. I was ahead of him, feeling on the wall to the right for the light switch I knew must be there. My fingers found it and I flicked the switch. The room inside was what I expected, a labyrinthine complex of closets, large enough to store a stack of boxes, a bicycle—or a dead body.
If I had thought, I might have been more prudent, but I acted purely on instinct and without thinking. “Jessica!” I cried. “Jessica, are you there?”
“Help!” I heard from a far corner of the room, the quavering sound echoing eerily. It was a young woman’s voice. “Oh, help, pl—!” The last word was cut off, strangled, as if a hand had gone over her mouth.
“Shut up,” a man shouted. “You hear me? Just shut up!”
Blackie shoved me to one side. “Matt Simmons!” he shouted, raising his gun to shoulder level. “Come out with your hands over your head. No weapons. I want to see both of your hands up and empty.”
“No way,” Simmons said. “I’ve got the girl, and I’ve got a gun. Come after me and I’ll kill her.”
He must have jabbed her or twisted her arm, because there was a shrill, panicked cry. “No, don’t, please!”
“Hear that?” Simmons asked roughly. “I mean what I say.”
“I heard.” Blackie’s voice was calm. “Jessica, can you confirm that he has a gun?”
I heard a low, quavering, “Yes.”
“Didn’t I say I had a gun?” Simmons demanded, sounding annoyed.
“Yeah,” Blackie replied. “Just wanted a confirmation, that’s all.” His tone, calm and steady, became conversational. “Jessica, you do what Simmons says. Don’t take any chances. You hear me? We’ve got officers out here. You’ll be okay.”
There was no answer, but Blackie went on as if there had been. “Good. Simmons, I’ll get back to you shortly. Stay where you are for now.”
Without waiting for a reply, Blackie stepped back, closing the door against the prop. To me, he said in a low, steady voice, “Go out to the parking lot, China. Tell the PSPD officer to call in backup. Tell them we’ve got a hostage situation here. I want them to clear the garage and the outside parking lot, and keep everybody away.” He unclipped the radio from his belt. “I’ll call for county backup.”
I ran toward the entrance to the garage, where I saw Jerry and two other uniformed PSPD patrol office
rs approaching fast. “We just got a 9-1-1 call from the manager,” Jerry said crisply. “What’s up, China?”
I pointed to where Blackie was standing, using his radio. “The sheriff has an armed man holding a female hostage. He wants you to radio for backup from the PSPD, and keep everybody away.”
Jerry’s eyes narrowed. “Hostage?”
“Yes,” I said. “The owner of that green Ford you’ve been watching. We’ve found Jessica Nelson.”
IT was like a scene out of a movie. The police were dealing with a desperate individual—in this case, a suspected killer who was holding a hostage and threatening to kill her. After a while, it became clear that the situation was in what’s called the “standoff phase,” when the hostage taker is holed up with the hostage and the police are in control of the possible exits—in this case, the one door to the storage room.
While the backup gathered in the parking lot, Blackie established contact with Simmons, via cell phone. Simmons seemed cool and rational, and—in return for Jessica—asked for promise of safe passage out of town. To hold the ante down, Blackie was treating this as if it were a single act, unrelated to anything else, and he didn’t mention the murder of Gloria Graham, or Simmons’ possible involvement with her. But both he and I were pretty well convinced that Matt Simmons had murdered Gloria, and that he had seized Jessica because she managed to follow a trail of clues that led to him.
Sheila arrived and took charge of the area outside, directing the cordoning off of the area immediately in front of the parking garage. Before long, there were a dozen patrol cars and deputies’ vehicles parked around the perimeter. Two EMS ambulances were there, too, with a couple of teams of medics. I waited nervously just inside the entry to the garage, where I could see the door to the storage area.
Nearby, Blackie and Sheila had set up a command center. The sheriff was on the phone to Simmons, trying to persuade him to let Jessica come out, unharmed. Simmons was stubbornly resisting, saying he would only come out if there was a car waiting for him and a promise that he could get in it and drive off. The conversation went on until Simmons suddenly stopped talking.
Mourning Gloria Page 25
