The Second Goodbye

by Patricia Smiley

  Under the bed was more dust, a ball of tinfoil the size of an egg, and a half-eaten Oreo.

  Striker appeared in the bathroom doorway. “Find anything?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “The first car-rental agent I spoke with said our guy had a thing for Oreos. This may have enough saliva for DNA analysis.”

  She showed Striker the cell cover and the tissue. “Hard to say how long these things have been here. The manager’s cleaning skills aren’t worth crap.”

  Striker went out to the car and came back carrying three evidence envelopes and a plastic bag with the room number scrawled on it with a black marker pen. “I found this on the cleaning cart by the office. The clerk says it was collected today.”

  Davie opened the bag and looked inside. There were several food wrappers and a crumpled piece of notepaper bearing the Beach Bum logo. Scrawled across the surface were a two-digit number and the letters Bay Ln.

  Davie showed it to Striker “What do you make of this?”

  He glanced at the paper. “Ln might stand for lane. Could be an address.”

  While Striker wrote on the evidence bags, Davie searched the Internet on her cell. The address wasn’t in L.A. or Santa Monica or any of the half dozen cities in the area that she searched. She finally found it in Palos Verdes, an affluent off-the-beaten-track community with panoramic views of the San Pedro Channel, Santa Catalina Island, and gray whales migrating to and from Mexico.

  “You want to go for a drive?” she asked.

  54

  The white stucco house in Palos Verdes was around 5,000 square feet and reminded Davie of pictures she’d seen of the Greek island of Santorini. Perched on the hillside, it had a gorgeous view of city lights with a patio facing the Pacific Ocean, a perfect venue for entertaining on warm Southern California evenings. They parked on the street and walked up a circular motor court to the front door. No lights were on in the house and nobody responded to the bell.

  Striker pointed to the house next door. “Let’s door-knock the neighbors.”

  They made their way to a pale blue Cape Cod. Davie heard footsteps inside and then the static of an intercom.

  The woman’s voice was slow and drawn out, tinged with a faint Southern accent. “How can I help you?”

  Davie glanced up and saw the camera. She held her badge up. “LAPD. We’re looking for your neighbor.”

  A woman in her fifties, wearing a polar-fleece bathrobe and sheepskin boots opened the door. Her tawny bobbed hair, round brown eyes, and slow manner of speech reminded Davie of a cuddly sloth.

  “They’re at their house in Cabo,” she said, drawing out each word. “Not sure when they’ll be back.”

  Striker stepped forward. “Sorry to bother you so late. We were under the impression a man lived there, possibly alone.”

  The neighbor glanced toward the stucco and frowned. “They rent the place out short-term through one of those online services. The neighbors disapprove. Just because people pay a lot of money to stay there doesn’t mean they’re good people.”

  “Is the house rented at the moment?”

  “A man has been staying there for the past few days. He parks in the garage so I haven’t seen him to say hello.”

  “Is he there now?”

  “I wouldn’t know. If you walk around back, you can look in the garage window. The Carlsons’ Jaguar is parked on one side. The renter parks on the other. He drives several different cars. My husband and I think he’s up to no good.”

  “We need to call the Carlsons to get the man’s name. Do you have their cell number?”

  “Not necessary. Before they left, they told me his name. It’s Al DeSalvo.”

  Davie decided against telling her that Albert DeSalvo was the name of the infamous serial killer known as the Boston Stranger. “You think the Carlsons would mind if we walked to the back of the house?”

  She brushed the tawny bangs off her forehead as she considered the request. “I’ll go with you. I’ve been wondering myself what’s going on over there.”

  Davie led the way with her flashlight through an unlocked gate along a narrow side yard to the garage. Striker looked over Davie’s shoulder as she beamed light though the window. There was only one car parked inside: the Jaguar. It seemed to take forever to get the slow-walking neighbor back to her front door, where Striker handed her a business card.

  “If he comes back, would you let me know?”

  She read the card. “Homicide? Should I be worried?”

  “We have no reason to believe he’d be a danger to you or your family,” Striker said, “but don’t approach him or question him about anything. If you see him come back to the house, please call me. My cell number is on the card. If you think it’s an emergency, call 911.”

  Davie and Striker watched the woman go inside the house and heard the audible sound of a deadbolt clicking into place.

  They returned to the car and sat in the darkness. Davie stared out the window, willing Mushroom Ears to pull into the circular driveway.

  “Without searching the house, we don’t know if the guy moved out.”

  Striker glanced at her. “I know what you’re thinking but there’s no way I’m going to let you go in there without a warrant.”

  She looked at him and smiled. “Of course not.”

  They watched the house for another thirty minutes but saw no signs of life. Davie noticed Striker’s head leaning against the window. His eyes were closed and his breathing was steady and rhythmic. She nudged his arm. He jolted awake.

  “Sorry,” he said, raking his hands through his hair. “Guess the day is catching up with me.”

  “Yeah, I need to crash for a few hours. Take me back to Pacific. We can start again tomorrow.”

  Striker dropped her off in the station’s parking lot and pulled away with barely a “goodnight.” She was opening her car door when her cell squawked and vibrated with a force she’d never felt before. A message appeared on the screen from the Office of Emergency Services to residents of Bel Air: Increased winds creating extreme fire hazard. Stay alert. Listen to authorities. Prepare to evacuate. Davie’s thoughts swirled with fear and disbelief as she called Alex Camden’s number.

  He answered without prelude. “I got the alert, too. I’m in Laguna Beach, dining with a client. I’m heading home right now, but it’ll take me at least an hour to get there. Leo and Vinny are alone inside the house. Can you stay with them?”

  “On my way. What about the art?”

  “All I care about is you and the dogs. If the fire comes anywhere near the house, get out. You won’t have time to save anything.”

  She sped north on the 405 behind a stream of red taillights moving toward an inferno, people heading home as she was, preparing to save what they could before evacuating. Red flames with pockets of white and yellow devoured the hillsides and sent plumes of smoke into the night sky. She was still two miles from the Sunset Boulevard exit when, for the first time, she feared she wouldn’t make it home. Her heart ached as she thought about Leo and Vinny trapped inside Alex Camden’s house. The place was hermetically sealed because of his artwork, so she doubted the dogs could smell the smoke, but they might sense the disturbance in the atmosphere.

  Finally her exit appeared and she tore up the ramp. After she drove through Alex’s gate, she parked the Camaro to the side of his driveway and used her key to open the French doors by the swimming pool. There was no security in the cottage, but the main house was Fort Knox, complete with an alarm system and an armed response from a rent-a-cop company. Alex kept an inventory of expensive art objects in the house, so she understood his concern. Other houses in the neighborhood had been broken into. Valuables had been stolen, but never from his place as far as she knew.

  The sound of barking and the clicking of toenails on hardwood floors met her as she turned off the alarm. She called to th
e golden retrievers, but that was hardly necessary. Leo and Vinny barreled around the corner and scooted to a stop when they recognized her. She ran her hand over their soft coats to calm them and maybe to calm herself, as well.

  Their leashes were hanging in the mudroom. She pulled them off the hooks and set them by the French doors in case it became necessary to load the dogs into the Camaro and leave. She grabbed a bag of kibble and filled their bowls and refreshed their water dish, all the while monitoring her phone for updates.

  The TV was tuned to Channel 4 for the latest news as she collapsed on the couch with the dogs at her side. The wind was fluky. No one could predict which way the blaze would turn next. All she knew was the Skirball wildfire was burning out of control and heading her way.

  Davie was exhausted from stress, travel, and the time change. She closed her eyes. The next thing she heard was the sound of barking. She glanced toward the French doors and saw Alex Camden standing on the patio. As soon as he opened the door, the dogs ran to him and smothered him with love.

  “Thank you, Davina. I’m so grateful you’re all safe.”

  Davie glanced at the TV and saw a Bel Air home not far from them, fully engulfed in flames.

  Alex saw it, too. “I have a friend with a loft in downtown L.A. He’s invited me to stay with him until things settle down. I just need to pack a few things and put the dogs in the car.”

  Davie spent the next twenty minutes helping to crate Alex’s most valuable pieces of artwork and loading them into his SUV, keeping an eye on fire updates on the TV and her phone.

  “I think we’ve done all we can for now,” Alex said. “I’m going to my friend’s place. You’re welcome to come with me.”

  “I can bunk with Bear if I have to leave. For now, I’ll stay and keep an eye on things here.”

  After Alex drove away, Davie located the garden hoses, for all the good that would do, and retrieved her overnight bag from the trunk of her car. She left the Camaro parked in Alex’s driveway—closer to the street in case she had to evacuate in a hurry, but mostly because she was too exhausted to move it.

  Once inside her cottage, she peeled off her travel clothes and showered but didn’t dress for bed. Instead, she put on a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and her running shoes. If an evacuation notice was issued in the middle of the night, Davie had to be ready to go. She called Bear to let him know she was safe before grabbing her gunbelt and climbing up the spiral staircase to the loft where she had better visibility in case the fire moved closer.

  She’d always thought about people in a disaster who were given fifteen minutes to decide what they’d choose to save before fleeing their homes. She’d never considered that in the context of her life—until tonight. The cottage contained no family photos. The ones from her early years were at her mother’s house. Those taken as a teen were in a box in Bear’s bedroom closet. None of the furniture in the cottage belonged to her except for Celeste, her grandmother’s rocking chair. It made her sad to think if she had to evacuate, the chair would be too bulky to take with her.

  She collapsed on the futon with a feather comforter wrapped around her body. Her hand touched her most cherished possession—her grandmother’s earrings—before drifting off to sleep.

  55

  Code Red.

  His client was still dithering about eliminating Detective Saffron. She was no match for his skills but appeared to be a good investigator. That was the problem—she was too good. He couldn’t take the risk of her learning his identity. Acting on his own would break his rule not to kill anyone he wasn’t paid to kill, but if his client didn’t make a decision soon, he would be forced to take her out without authorization.

  Working with the client over the years had been lucrative, and at the rate his cat Gizmo was powering through kibble he could use the extra money. So, for now, he waited. In a year or two he would retire and go on a long vacation in Europe. Maybe he’d go back to the restaurant in Zaragoza for his favorite paella with Spanish saffron. The more he thought about it, the more the idea appealed to him. It would be a fitting nod to the sexy detective. Truth was, he’d grown attached to her. They would never be friends, of course, but he had grudging admiration for her style.

  His St. Christopher medal was still missing, causing him a sense of pervasive distress. The medal had kept three generations of male family members safe. He had to find it before he left town. He’d searched through all of the cars he’d rented and the restaurants where he’d eaten. He even went back to the house in Palos Verdes. No luck. There was only one place he hadn’t looked: Detective Saffron’s place. He doubted he’d lost the medal there but had to make sure. He’d wait until she was away from the house and have a look.

  He poured an inch of Talisker into a glass and stared out the hotel window to the ocean view, wishing Gizmo were in his lap, raking his rough cat tongue across his cheek with his foul breath smelling of fish. As soon as he found the medal and tied up a few loose ends, he’d be finished with this assignment and on his way home. That moment couldn’t come fast enough for him.

  56

  Just after midnight, Davie was jolted awake by metallic scraping sounds coming from the front of the house. Her breathing became slow and shallow as she listened, wondering if Alex Camden had changed his mind about evacuating and had returned to the house with the dogs.

  She grabbed her cell and the .45 from her gunbelt, creeping to the loft’s dormer window. Her back was pressed against the wall with her head turned toward the patio. In the darkness, a glint of light caught her eye. Her hands felt clammy when she saw a man wearing black clothing, sweeping a flashlight near the metal patio furniture where she’d found the St. Christopher medal. She realized she’d never mentioned it to Alex to see if it belonged to a yard worker. Well, coming to look in the middle of the night didn’t make that seem likely.

  If the man was indeed looking for the necklace, he wasn’t going to find it. The medal was inside the house on the Chippendale table. The man moved to the front door and began tinkering with the lock.

  Her cottage had only one exterior door yet she’d always felt safe—until now. Given all its private security, Bel Air was one of the most protected neighborhoods in the city, but with residents fleeing the inferno in the nearby foothills, thieves might see this as their golden opportunity. But a burglar would target the main residence before bothering with the contents of the guesthouse. She watched him quietly move another chair and peer at the ground. This guy wasn’t any run-of-the-mill burglar. He was looking for something specific—the St. Christopher medal.

  She assumed he was armed and, as she’d learned in training, all guns were always loaded. If he were successful in breaking into the cottage, there were several options. She could turn on all the lights and hope he’d run away. Except in the loft she had no access to the light switches downstairs. Once he was inside her house, she was justified in shooting him, but she preferred to arrest him instead. The last option was cover and concealment.

  She slipped the flashlight from her gunbelt and pressed her body against the wall at the top of the spiral staircase, just out of sight. The front door rattled and creaked open. The man stepped inside and beamed his flashlight around the room and then disappeared into her bedroom. Moments later, he reappeared and headed for the door, and then stopped at the Chippendale table. He paused for a moment before scooping up the St. Christopher medal and slipping the chain around his neck.

  Davie powered on her flashlight with the beam pointed directly into his eyes. “I have a .45 pointed at your temple. Get down on the ground and put your hands behind your head.”

  The man looked up, startled. He was in his late thirties with a military-style haircut and a well-defined jaw, medium complexion, and a dark spot on his upper right lip that could have been a mole. His ears were unusually small and close to his head. There was no earring, but that didn’t matter. She knew who he
was—John W. Booth, Miles Standish, Andrew Jackson, or whatever alias he was using today. She believed he’d killed Sabine Ponti and probably Jack Blasdel, as well.

  For an instant her breathing stopped while her thoughts continued to swirl. She was alone and not sure what would happen next. She kept herself calm by focusing on the things she did know—keep your finger off the trigger until your sights are aligned with the target and you intend to shoot.

  Davie waited until Mushroom Ears was on the ground before creeping midway down the spiral stairs, just out of his reach. She was alone. It was too dangerous to try to cuff him. She wedged the flashlight in her armpit to leave her hands free to juggle her gun and the cell to call 911. Because of the fire, cops had to be close by. If evacuation orders were issued, they’d have to be in the neighborhood to knock on doors.

  She kept one eye on Mushroom Ears while she accessed the numbers on her keypad. It was only one distracted moment, but that was enough. He shot off the ground and grabbed her ankle, pulling her to the floor.

  By the time she got back to her feet, he was gone.

  She ran to the door but couldn’t open it. Looking out the window she saw him lodging a metal patio chair under the doorknob, shutting off her escape. He sprinted toward the wall surrounding the property.

  Davie recovered her gun and cell and bounded up the stairs to the loft. Bear’s ladder was lying by the futon. She grabbed it. Her father’s concern that she’d be trapped in the house with no means of escape seemed prescient.

  The loft’s side window opened with little effort. Davie held the ladder away from the siding to control the noise and manage its fall. She threw her leg over the windowsill, caught the first rung with the toe of her running shoe, and descended to the ground. Before calling 911 she wanted to know the direction he’d taken, so she headed toward the wall.