by Thomas Scott
Murton shook his head.
Miles scratched at the back of his neck. He looked like he didn’t quite believe them. “If you see her, hear from her, or have any contact with her of any kind, I want to know and I want to know right away. Am I making myself clear?”
“Crystal. Now are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?”
“I’d just like to ask her a few questions.”
“What questions?”
“Oh, you know, nothing too over the top. Just the usual straightforward sort of questions like, ‘Where is your brother and why did you try to fake his death?”
Virgil and Murton looked at each other. Faked her brother’s death? “Ron?”
“The budgetary cuts have hurt us, Jonesy. You know that. The state lab has been backed up for months. When the crime scene techs processed Pope’s apartment there were some shortcuts taken.”
“What kind of shortcuts?”
“I know you’ve seen the pictures. That apartment was covered in blood. We got the DNA back yesterday.”
“And you’re telling us that it’s not Nicholas Pope’s blood?”
“No, it’s his blood. There’s no question about that.”
“How about you start from the beginning?”
“Mimi was the lead technician that day. Her crew took numerous samples from the apartment and they all matched. Only one person’s blood. Then Pope’s sister, Nichole comes literally crashing onto the scene. When Mimi heard she was the sister—twin sister—she asked Nichole if she’d be willing to give a sample for comparison. The fact that they were twins would mean an exact match. Nichole said yes, Mimi took the blood and that’s where we think things started to go wrong.”
“Wrong how?” Murton said.
“We’d already collected all the samples by then. Mimi walked Nichole over to the mobile lab, drew the blood, then sent it out for DNA analysis and comparison.”
“Yeah, so what? How do the budget cutbacks factor into all of this?” Virgil said.
“Hell Jonesy, you know how it works…if you’ve got a perfect match on something like we did with Pope’s blood, they don’t run additional tests unless the prosecution needs them for trial.”
Virgil knew Ron was right. Blood work, DNA, forensic pathology, ballistics testing, it all cost money. A lot of money. When the cutbacks were put in place, if you had enough evidence to move forward without additional testing, that’s exactly what you did. If your case made it to trial—and many times they did not because of plea bargains or outright guilty pleas—only then did you move forward with additional testing. If the case never made it that far, why spend the state’s money if you didn’t have to? “So why were additional tests run on Pope’s blood, especially if the DNA matched?”
“It was at Mimi’s discretion. And we got lucky. She had a class from the academy visiting the lab. One of the things she always shows them is how they do their tests. Earlier today, when the class came in she demonstrated ballistics matchups, fingerprint recovery and basic blood typing. That’s when she noticed.”
“Noticed what?”
“Pope’s blood. The only test that had been done was DNA. Except DNA doesn’t show you anything…visually, that is. It tells you things, but it doesn’t show you. If you want to see anything, you have to take the time to look through a microscope and no one had bothered to do that until the academy class showed up in Mimi’s lab and she put some blood under the microscope. She used Pope’s blood because it was the most current case and she had so much of the stuff. That’s when she spotted the problem. All the cells had burst. Every single cell from every single sample was exactly the same.”
“What causes blood cells to burst?”
“That’s exactly what I asked Mimi. The cells had all burst because they’d been frozen, Jonesy. It looks like Pope’s blood had been in the freezer before it ever hit the walls and floor of that apartment. Our working theory right now is that Pope’s blood had been harvested over a period of weeks, maybe even months, then stored in the freezer until it was time to use it. And that means someone was trying to fake his death. The question is, was it Nicholas or his sister, Nichole, or both?”
“What the hell are they up to?” Virgil said.
“That’s exactly what I’d like to know,” Ron said.
The four of them were so caught up in their conversation they failed to notice the young woman jogging up the street. She made it almost all the way to Nichole Pope’s apartment door before any of them took note of her destination. When she got to the door, she stopped dead in her tracks, looked at the door, then back at them and finally at the door again.
“Hey, hey,” she shouted. “Are you guys cops? You look like cops. What the hell is going on here? Did someone break into my apartment?” Then she disappeared inside.
They walked toward Nichole’s apartment, but Murton grabbed Virgil’s arm and pulled him back behind Donatti and Miles. He spoke from the corner of his mouth. “Don’t say anything. Hector popped the door earlier. That’s how I ended up at Pate’s. I’ll explain later.”
By the time they got to the door she had already disappeared inside. They followed her in and when she popped back out from the bedroom the sight of them froze her. “Who are you guys? Are you cops? Someone has broken into my apartment.”
Ron held out his badge. “Ma’am, my name is Ron Miles. I’m a detective with the State Police Major Crimes Unit.”
“Are you here because of the break-in?” she asked.
“Excuse me, Miss,” Donatti said. “Could we see your identification, please?”
“My identification? Who are you? What the hell is going on here?”
“Ma’am, I already told you. My name is Ron Miles and I’m a detective with the State Police. These gentlemen are with me. Is this your apartment?”
“Of course this is my apartment. Who did this? Have you caught them? My god, look at my door. What does a new door cost anyway? That’s going to come out of my security deposit, you know.”
“Yes ma’am,” Miles said. “I’m sorry about that, I really am, but I’ve introduced myself twice now. If you don’t mind my asking, what is your name?”
The young woman dug through her fanny-pack, pulled out her driver’s license and handed it to Ron. “My name is Darla Walker. Would one of you please tell me what the hell is going on here?”
Wu rang the bell, waited, rang the bell again and then knocked until his knuckles hurt. When nobody answered he walked around the side of the house and found Pate standing next to the pool, fully clothed and dripping wet. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Something. You all wet.”
“I was pushed into the pool. It’s not important. Go inside and check on Hector.”
“What wrong with Hector?”
Just then Hector came through the French doors, his hand on the back of his neck. “They gone?”
“Yes, but not before I was almost electrocuted in my own pool. Next time I tell you to shoot, you shoot.”
“I didn’t have a shot, Boss.”
“Bullshit. I’ve seen you shoot, Hector.”
“Didn’t have the shot. Couldn’t risk it.”
Wu wasn’t sure what he’d missed and he really didn’t care. He moved closer to both men, looked Pate in the eye and said, “Wu got bad news. Somebody claim ticket.”
Pate closed his eyes, his fists clenched at his sides. Then he rushed up to Wu, grabbed the hair on both sides of his head and pulled his face so close that for a split second Wu thought he was going to get kissed. “Three hundred million dollars, Wu. That ticket is worth three hundred million dollars. That’s my money.” Pate let go of Wu’s hair and turned away. When he turned back he looked at Wu and said, “We’re out of time. We need to find out who has that ticket.”
“No.”
“What did you just say to me?”
“Wu say no. Say no because not need. Not need because already know who has ticket. Come. Wu show you vide
o.” He walked into the house. Pate and Hector stared at each other for a moment and then followed him inside.
Ron looked at the woman’s driver’s license, then her face, then back at the license before he handed it to Virgil, who did the same thing. The picture, description and address all matched with the woman who stood in front of them. Virgil handed the license to Donatti and tilted his head toward the hallway. Ed nodded, took out his phone and stepped outside.
“Hey, where’s he going with that?” the woman said.
“He’s not going anywhere,” Virgil said. “He’s running a check on your identification. It’s standard procedure.” She looked, Virgil thought, like she didn’t quite believe him. “Do you live alone?”
“Yes. It’s a one bedroom unit in case you haven’t noticed. I’m not married, no roommate, no kids, so yes, I live alone.”
“How long have you lived here?”
She furrowed her eyebrows, the math going in her head. “A little over three years or so. Almost four.”
Donatti walked back in, handed the license back to the woman and said, “Ms. Walker. Sorry for the intrusion.”
They asked a few more questions to verify her identity and she cooperated. There was some reluctance in the cooperation, but it felt like the type of reluctance you would expect if the police were questioning you in your own home over something you knew nothing about. “Ms. Walker, I’d like to ask you a couple of personal questions. You’re under no obligation to answer, but if you will, it would be a huge help to our investigation.”
“You never told me what you are investigating.”
Virgil grinned at her. “With all due respect, it’s not the break-in of your apartment.”
“No kidding. Even I was able to put that together, about ten minutes ago if you haven’t been keeping up. So what are you investigating?”
“We’re not at liberty to say,” Murton said.
“Well that sounds just about right.” She crossed her arms, sucked in her cheeks and nodded. “So ask. Maybe I’ll answer.”
“That’s fair enough,” Virgil said. “How’s your credit?”
“Good enough that I don’t have to worry about it constantly. Bad enough that I worry about paying for a busted door.”
“Ever have any identity theft problems?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact. I had my purse stolen from a cell phone kiosk at the mall. I turned my back for maybe ten seconds and when I turned back around it was gone. That’s where the credit problems came from.”
“When was this?”
“Right after I moved in here.”
“I see.”
“What is this about?” When no one answered her question she brushed past them and stood next to her open door. “This place where all of you are standing? It’s a crappy little apartment with secondhand furniture and wilted plants and thin carpet and thinner walls and a hot water heater that has the work ethic of a spoiled rich kid. That means it works when it wants to, which isn’t all that often. Whatever is going on here has nothing to do with me. This is my home. It’s not your crime scene, or your office and clearly I’m not your victim. Goodbye, gentlemen.”
Virgil smiled. Couldn’t argue that logic.
Wu turned the laptop on and brought up the video. Not a video, though. Not really. It was a series of stills taken from a security camera mounted on a light pole just outside the entrance of a mini-mart on the city’s east side. Wu knew the camera well because he was the one who installed it six days ago. It was the same mini-mart where Bradley Pearson stopped every morning for his coffee and newspapers.
“Wu create program. Program detect winning ticket and trigger security camera.” It was all bullshit, but Wu knew they’d buy it.
Pate and Hector leaned in and looked at the screen. “Let’s see them, Wu.”
A little wheel spun on the screen. “Still loading. Few more seconds. Maybe Wu should upgrade your Wi-Fi.” Before anyone could say anything about that, Wu’s phone began to vibrate on the table next to his computer.
“Aren’t you going to answer your phone, Wu?” Hector said. “Wow, look at that picture. She’s hot. Who is that?”
Wu looked at his phone. “Wife. Wu call back.”
They all stared at the little wheel for a few more seconds, waiting for the pictures to show up. Wu’s phone began to vibrate again. “For God’s sake,” Pate said. “Answer the damn phone already.”
Wu picked up the phone, swiped his thumb across the screen, held it to his ear and said, “Wu.”
The woman with the secondhand furniture and wilting plants and thin carpet and thinner walls and a hot water heater that had the work ethic of a spoiled rich kid had a name, but it wasn’t Darla Walker. Her real name was Linda and she was Wu’s wife. Linda Wu watched from the window until the police all got in their vehicles and drove away, then she waited ten agonizing minutes to make sure that they weren’t coming back. When they did not, she took out her phone and called her husband.
“It worked, Wu. Just like you said it would.”
“Good, good. Perhaps you should go now. Pizza will be fine.”
“Can’t talk, huh?”
“No, perhaps one hour. With traffic I would say go now. Yes, Domino’s.”
“Gotcha. See you on the beach, big boy.”
“Domino’s?” Hector said. “Jesus Christ, Wu, that’s not pizza.”
“Wu still like.”
“They deliver, you know.”
“Wu not trust delivery people. They steal toppings. Here come pictures.” The little wheel on the screen had disappeared and the first picture popped up. This was the critical part, Wu thought. If they didn’t believe the pictures, he wouldn’t make it out of the house alive.
“I thought you said it was video,” Pate said.
“Hmm, like video, but not video. Pictures taken at rapid intervals. Five per second. Like choppy video.”
“Yes, yes, Wu. Let’s see them.”
Wu pressed the play button and the pictures began stuttering along in sequence. He didn’t need to look at the pictures; he’d spent all day manipulating them on Photoshop, bringing out the clarity, tweaking the contrast, adjusting the brightness and so on. He instead watched the look on Pate’s face when he saw the pictures of Bradley Pearson and Nichole Pope walking out of the mini-mart, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm. They stopped just outside the door, just like Nichole had intended, their faces were framed perfectly for the camera. Then they looked at each other and Pearson said something. There was no audio of course, but the visual was perfect. Nichole tipped her head back, the laughter obvious. Then she placed her other hand on Pearson’s chest, both of them smiling like idiots just before they walked out of the frame.
They looked, Wu thought, like two people who might have just won three hundred million dollars.
Pate turned away from the laptop, walked over to the bar and poured himself a drink. He downed it in two large gulps and poured another before walking back over to Wu. “Play it again.” Wu played the slideshow again and when it was finished Pate threw his glass against the stone fireplace, the cut crystal tinkling around the room. “Hector?”
“Yes, Boss?”
“Get the car.”
“Yes, Boss.”
Pate looked at Wu. “Print me one of the pictures with Pearson and the woman.”
Wu pressed a few keys and Pate’s printer began to hum. When the printer was finished, Pate picked up the photograph and studied the image.
“What you going to do?”
“I’m going to have a little chat with our Mr. Pearson and find out who this woman is.”
“Not need.”
“What?”
“Not need. Wu know who. Name Nichole Pope. Nicky Pope’s sister.”
When Pate heard that it sent him right over the edge and right out the door.
Wu closed his computer, wiped down everything he’d touched—there wasn’t much so that little detail took all of twenty seconds—put th
e laptop in his bag and walked away.
His part was over.
27
Virgil and Murton ended up back at the bar for a late Saturday dinner. The house band had already started playing, there weren’t many seats available and the noise was so loud they could barely talk to each other. They went upstairs to the office and found Becky working at the desk. The office itself looked like a train had derailed. Empty computer boxes were scattered everywhere and little pieces of crumbled Styrofoam were stuck to the carpet, chairs and virtually everything in the room. Murton walked behind the desk, kissed the top of her head and told her that they needed everything she could get on Nichole Pope.
“You want me to stop working on this code thing?”
“No,” Virgil said.
“Good, because I think I’m close. What happened with Nichole?”
They spent about fifteen minutes filling her in and when they finished she shooed them out of the office so she could work in peace. They ended up sitting down to eat at the only spot available…the employee picnic bench just outside the kitchen entrance at the back of the bar. Robert brought two plates of food out and a few minutes later Delroy stepped through the back door with two glasses of juice. He set them on the table, lit a cigarette and then sat down. “Busy, mon?”
“Not as busy as you from the looks of it,” Virgil said. “Everything going okay?”
“Yeah mon, everyting irie.” Then he looked at Murton and said, ‘“Irie’ Jamaican slang. It mean ‘everything all right.”’
“I know that.”
“Uh huh.” Delroy winked at Virgil.
“You and Robert are coming tomorrow afternoon, right?”
“Yeah mon, yeah.”
“Coming where?” Murton said.
Shit. “Uh, I almost forgot. Sandy and I wanted to invite you and Becky over tomorrow afternoon. Little get together. No big deal.”
