A Deadly Blessing

by Kathy Bennett

time, all I know is that she was shot in the head. It's rather complicated because the body was discovered in the Kern County Sheriff's jurisdiction. The FBI is at the scene as well, and of course, she is missing from the City of Los Angeles."

  "What about suspects?"

  "No, nothing at this time. However, I will keep you informed of any new developments."

  "Thank you." Even with the news of Heather's death, Preston wanted to keep the chief on track. "Chief, there isn't anything that can be done to help Miss McCall now. I'd like you to put all your resources on finding Tiffany. Can you make sure that happens?"

  "Uh, well, of course." The chief sounded hesitant. "Kern County will be handling the murder investigation, unless we determine the crime happened within the city limits. Of course, our detectives and the FBI will be working in conjunction with the Kern Sheriff's Department."

  "Maybe I need to be more clear, chief. Let the sheriff handle Heather's murder investigation. I want all your people looking for Tiffany."

  "Governor, with all due respect," said Fryer, an edge in his tone, "we haven't ruled out that the two cases aren't related. It would be foolish to walk away from this investigation without a little more information. In fact, Cutter and Divine are at the scene now. I'll know more once they return. I'll be in touch."

  A distinct click indicated the chief had disconnected.

  "The bastard hung up on me," he said to Bain.

  "So, what'd you find out?" Bain, sitting on a sofa, maneuvered a pencil through his fingers as if he was practicing a magic trick.

  Preston related what little information the chief had provided.

  "Well, that's certainly not the outcome we were hoping for. This could be very bad for you. You'll have to find another donor for Tiffany," said Bain.

  "Yes," said Preston, bracing his elbow on the arm of his chair, holding his head in his hand. "Heather was a godsend, no doubt about it."

  PILAR – 64

  Putting the disturbing phone call from Sorriano out of her mind, Pilar hummed to herself as she slipped into a pair of designer jeans. She'd opted to go sans panties, thinking Preston needed the extra distraction. Easily zipping up her pants, she smiled. Luckily, she was one of those people who ate less during stressful times. Spraying herself with her favorite scent, she slipped on a ruffled chiffon top. Low-heeled sandals completed her casual chic look.

  It was going to be a good night. She'd called Preston earlier in the evening and suggested he come over to her apartment, the one she kept when she needed some non-mayor time. She'd been surprised when he'd agreed. Lately, he'd seemed distant with her. With Tiffany and her friend, plus the bone marrow donor missing, she thought he'd make an excuse and decline. Apparently Preston needed some down time too.

  There was a discreet knock at the door. Looking through the peephole, she recognized Preston's good looks in spite of the tan baseball cap he wore low over his eyes. He shifted back and forth on his feet and raised his fist to knock again.

  She unlocked the door and he burst past her.

  "They found Heather McCall. She's dead," he said, whipping the cap from his head and running his fingers through his hair.

  "What? When, where?"

  Preston quickly relayed what he'd been told by Chief Fryer.

  "Okay, calm down and let's get settled. Here, give me your hat," she said, placing it on the counter as she moved into the kitchen. "What do you want to drink?"

  "Two fingers of scotch, and keep the bottle out."

  Pilar looked at him questioningly.

  "Christ, Pilar, don't look at me like that. Heather went missing and now she's dead. Tiffany is missing and I'm worried she might be next."

  "I'm not judging you Preston, but there's no indication the two events are related. Try to relax." She poured him three fingers of scotch and handed it to him. She poured herself a glass of Chardonnay. "Here, let's sit on the couch. Then you can tell me everything again. Maybe we can make some sense of it."

  He'd already downed the scotch, so she poured him some more. She didn't give him as much. She didn't want him drunk. Tonight she was going to get laid, and if he needed to talk about the McCall woman first, all the better. Let him get it out of his system.

  "Ah," he said, sipping, instead of guzzling, the alcohol. "Now I'm feeling better."

  She smiled at him and sat next to him. "I knew you would. Now tell me exactly what Chief Fryer said."

  "Late this afternoon I got a call from Fryer. He didn't know much except Heather McCall's body had been found outside of Lancaster. Apparently she'd been shot in the head."

  "And?"

  "And, nothing. That's all I know."

  "They don't have any clues as to who did it?"

  "I told you. She was shot in the head. She's dead."

  Pilar leaned back into the sofa cushions, deep in thought. "While it's an unfortunate turn of events, you'll just have to find another donor for Tiffany. I'm not really sure why you're so worked up."

  Preston looked at her in amazement. "Do you have any idea how long it took us to find a matching donor for Tiffany?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Two years!"

  Pilar didn't say anything. She didn't want to point out the obvious, that if his daughter wasn't found alive she wouldn't need a donor. The whole thing was giving her a headache. Her evening was being ruined.

  "Let's not talk about the McCall woman anymore. There's nothing we can say that will change anything." She eyed his empty glass. "Would you like a refill? I'm having another glass of wine…and… I'm not wearing any panties." She had to hide her smile as his eyes zeroed in on her honey pot with obvious interest.

  A while later, after they'd each smoked a joint, they thrashed around on her bed, each of them determined to reach nirvana for different reasons. Preston's practiced lovemaking relieved his pent up anxiety. Pilar's energetic and, at times, athletic copulation was designed to exhaust her lover. She wanted him passed out and down for the count. She needed to make a phone call…to another man.

  MADDIE – 65

  As we returned to PAB, my heart pounded in anticipation of showing Darius the incriminating photograph of him and Heather McCall. During the day, the underground parking area was a commotion of activity with carloads of detectives coming and going. But at eleven forty-five at night, things were much quieter. Our footsteps echoed in the silence of the concrete parking garage as we made our way to the heavy metal security door to the building. Still, we didn't talk.

  Stepping off the elevator, I was a little surprised when Darius spoke. "I'm going to hit the head. I'll be back in a minute."

  "Okay, I'll see if I can find the photo," I said, but I wasn't sure if he heard me. His strides were fast and long. Was he hurrying to relieve himself, or was there another reason he was rushing out of my sight? A part of me wanted to follow him and park myself outside the men's room until he came out. Instead, I hustled into our squad room.

  I wasn't surprised to find the office nearly empty. The only people there were the two officers manning the phones for the Mental Evaluation Unit. They didn't even look up as I came into the room.

  I crossed over to my desk and logged into my computer. Within a minute, I was once again scanning photos of dozens of women named Heather McCall. It didn't take me long to find the photo I was looking for. Nothing had changed. Darius was still dressed in a hideous Hawaiian shirt and obviously drunk. Heather was still almost naked and smiling coyly at the camera. I clicked my mouse and the photo enlarged to fill the screen.

  Glancing at the clock, I wondered what was taking Darius so long. Was he stalling? As if to reassure me, my partner suddenly appeared. Marching toward my desk, he grabbed the empty chair from the cubicle next to mine and positioned the seat next to me. He plopped down and looked at the screen.

  I watched him carefully, following his gaze as he scrutinized the image.

  "Las Vegas. July, two-thousand ten. Roger Selnick's bachelor party. I don't remember having this picture taken, but I do re
member being incredibly drunk. Are you sure that's Heather?"

  "Yes, that's Heather McCall. She's a blonde here." I couldn't keep the irritation out of my voice. "If you don't remember the picture being taken, how do you know where and when this was?"

  "Because that bachelor party was the last time I saw my beautiful shirt. Roger and I got into a tussle with a bouncer at a strip club on Fremont Street. My vintage homage to 'aloha wear' was torn right off my back. That trip was forever known as 'the Vegas caper where Cutter lost his shirt.'"

  I locked my eyes on his. I didn't know if this was true or not. Worse yet, there was no way to confirm if he was telling the truth about not knowing or remembering having his picture taken with Heather McCall.

  "Okay," he said, looking at me with meaning. "If that's all you got, let's fill out our overtime slips and get the hell out of here."

  I wasn't sold, but I wasn't ready to call Internal Affairs either.

  It was almost one in the morning when I drove slowly up the tree-lined street where Travis and I lived. I've always liked coming home when almost everyone else is asleep. A lesser speed allowed me to check the neighbors' yards for anything out of the ordinary in the shadows. It gave me a sense of well-being to know, even in the wee hours of the morning, while others slept I watched over them.

  But tonight, all appeared quiet until I approached my own house. Adrenaline shot through my veins seeing the roll-up door to our garage wide open and the interior completely lit. Travis