by Linda Ladd
Claire recalled playing Detection a couple of times in a foster home where she’d lived in her early teens. That family had been one of the okay ones. At least they treated her okay and not like a paycheck from Child Services. They had liked to eat meals together, too, and always had a family game night once a week. That’s about all she remembered about that home, though. She had tried long ago to erase all memories of time spent in the Louisiana foster care system.
“That’s exactly what it is,” Bud agreed. “Brianna and I played Detection one night last fall. She likes guessing games.”
Nobody commented.
Claire took out the token with her thumb and forefinger and examined it. “Well, he’s left us another clue, I guess. One tied to a specific game. Guess the question now is: what’s he trying to tell us?”
Nobody had an answer. Claire didn’t, either.
“That he’s a sick son of a bitch?” Bud finally guessed, and correctly.
Claire stared down at the victim’s face as Ryan took close-up shots of the token and the small velvet box. This victim was getting to her. The young woman’s face was so small and smooth and unlined and young and inexperienced. Waxy white and frozen in an expression that looked almost peaceful now. She turned to Bud. “Guess we need to find out who she is before we can do anything else.”
“Yeah, and then we’ve got to notify her next of kin as soon as we find them. I guess she doesn’t look familiar to any of you guys?” Nobody knew her. “Okay, Buck, let’s see if she’s got any identifying marks on her. Anything that we can use right now for possible ID. If you wouldn’t mind to do just a quick cursory look-see before you bag her. Maybe she’s got a birthmark or tattoo we could use.”
As Buckeye started his examination, Claire stared at the blood-soaked angel robe. It was a nightgown. She wondered about that. Surely the killer didn’t have time to dress her up like that. Most likely she was already wearing the gown when surprised and assaulted. So that meant this happened at night, last night, and maybe even in bed. She was barefoot, the skin of her ankles and feet dark now, as blood settled down into the lowest part of her body. Her eyes were the worse. Pretty eyes. Wide open, staring and empty. Claire tried not to look at her eyes again.
The gown was tied with several satin ribbons, and Buck loosened the knots and opened the front. Underneath she had on a pair of white cotton panties, but nothing else. No wounds anywhere else on the body and no signs of physical abuse, now or before. No bruises, no abrasions, no scars. When Buck turned her over, he found one large tattoo behind her left shoulder. A small skeleton holding a scythe: a grim reaper, inked in black and white. Claire leaned down for a closer look. The image seemed halfway familiar. “Okay, there’s something we can work with. I doubt many people around here have that kind of tattoo.”
Buck turned to Ryan. “We need to get a close-up shot of that, too, okay?”
“Yes, sir.” Ryan shot several pictures.
Bud looked at Claire. “No shoes and the bottoms of her feet are clean. It either happened right here, or somebody carried her inside the house from somewhere else.”
“Or from somewhere upstairs, maybe a bedroom, because I think this is her nightgown. I think she was attacked here. Let’s get Corrigan and the other guy to check out the bedrooms and see if they can find any signs of a break-in.”
Bud moved off to talk to the patrol officers waiting outside.
“But why here? This is a house on a Christmas tour, for God’s sake. People coming through in groups. That doesn’t make a bit of sense, and it’s risky.” Claire glanced around the room. “There’s a French door over there that leads out to a screened-in back porch. We checked it out already. He didn’t come in that way.”
Buck nodded. “He staged her for shock value. He’s got a flair for murder and likes to use it. He’s a psychopath, if I had to guess.”
“Yeah, I can tell you already that Black would think so. But I’ll get his take on it.”
Bud was back. “They’re checking out the house now.”
“The woods all around this estate are dense. It would’ve taken months for anyone to find her body out there if they hid her in the brush. That tells me he wanted us to find her right here and right now. Wanted to make us play his game on his terms. He didn’t want to get away with this murder. He wanted to see if we can catch him.”
“I hate the game players,” Buck said.
“Are you done here?” Claire asked him.
“Yeah. Go ahead and bag her, Shaggy, and let’s get her down to the morgue.”
Shaggy and Ryan opened the black bag and carefully lifted the victim inside, zipped it up, and then set about getting her onto the gurney. Claire and Bud stood together and waited until they rolled her out of the library into the front foyer. “We need to find her family, and fast. My God, Bud, can you imagine them getting this call? Only days before Christmas. It’s sad, it really is.”
Bud sighed. “One thing for sure: She’s too young to be on her own. Somebody’s got to know her and miss her or recognize that tat. Which brings us to this question: Why the hell would a young girl like that have a tattoo of a grim reaper, of all things? That’s weird in itself.”
“Yeah, it is. But it will help identify her. Her parents are probably out looking for her right now.”
“Let me call in to dispatch. See if any missing persons have turned up around the lake area. I don’t remember hearing that. Do you?”
“Not since I’ve been here. We would’ve checked into it by now.”
Bud moved off to call the office. Claire stood back and watched the rest of Buck’s criminalists spread out around the room to do their jobs. Pure professionals. This had turned out to be a strange case with a murder scene she wouldn’t forget anytime soon. The image was burned into her brain, all right, with all of her friends kneeling around a white angel with half a head, while twinkling lights blinked and the smell of pine boughs and burnt flesh mingled all around. Definitely a manger scene designed in hell.
“I’d sure as hell hate for you to have to alert the media to this one.” Buck looked halfway angry. “I hear there’s a ton of them out at Cedar Bend raisin’ a ruckus about you and Nick.”
“Yeah, the story of our lives lately. And they’re reading the same tabloids as you are. Black and I are avoiding them like the plague, and we definitely don’t intend to give any interviews. Never again, if Black has anything to say about it. In fact, we’re pretty much hiding upstairs in the penthouse until they go away.”
Buck smiled. “Fat chance of that. You and Nick are like nectar to them. You make them lots of money, you know.”
“I just hope we don’t have to go to the press to help with the identification. Or use her morgue photo. That would be awful.”
They all turned as Corrigan and Reid showed up. Corrigan did all the talking. Fine with Claire. “We’ve finished searching the house, tossed every room, took our time doing it. Didn’t find anything of much interest, except in one bedroom. Somebody was definitely staying in there. Bed messed up, cosmetics spread around on the bathroom counter. But no personal items, no address book, no family pictures, nothing in the medicine cabinets except some toothpaste and a toothbrush and some Excedrin. A couple of garments hanging in the closet. Looked like stuff the victim might wear and about her size. We found her purse but no ID in it. The killer might’ve taken it, though. No sign of a struggle in the bedroom. No food in the kitchen, except for a small pizza box and the leftover refreshments the tour provided. Nobody’s been living here except for her, as far as we can tell.”
“Where was the pizza from?”
“The box was plain white. No name of any restaurant.”
“You’ve tossed every room? You’re sure?” Claire asked. She looked at Corrigan and ignored the new guy. She just didn’t care for him. Go figure.
“Yeah. Didn’t take long because, like
I said, there are no personal possessions to be found, except in that one room. A ton of bedrooms, but all with empty drawers, empty closets. The house is immaculate. Untouched. Probably cleaned up and sanitized for the visitors coming through. Looks brand new to me. Nearly all the furnished rooms have Christmas trees in them, each with different themes, like the Christmas tours usually do.”
“Okay, we’ll take a quick walk-through before we leave. Which bedroom was she staying in?”
“Master. It’s right off the library’s balcony, facing the back.”
“Okay. First thing? We’ve gotta find out who owns this house.”
“Could be just an empty house up for sale that they decided to use for the tour,” said Bud, now back, his phone still in his hand. “No dice on a missing person. I’ll call the realtor now. I found her card on the kitchen counter.”
Bud turned and walked away again, his cell phone already up to his ear.
Shaggy was back. “I can’t think of any reason the perp would leave us that game token. Or dress her up like an angel. Except that it’s Christmas. What’s he tryin’ to tell you?”
Claire shrugged. “Maybe there isn’t any reason. Maybe he’s just a theatrical psycho freak and thought it would be fun to blow our minds and make us lose sleep trying to figure it all out. Or maybe this is his way of throwing us off the scent.”
“Well, it worked. I sure can’t figure out the trophy. I mean, I get the trophy was a murder weapon but it looks clean, too. Don’t expect to get prints off it. Don’t know why he left that token, but it’s got to mean something.”
“What it means is that he’s playing games with us. He thinks he’s clever. He thinks he can bait us and lead us around by our noses, but I’m not going to let that happen. I’m going to get him. He’s not getting away with murdering that kid.”
Bud walked back up, looking so grim that Claire hesitated to ask questions. “Brace yourself, Claire. You ain’t gonna like this one bit. Guess who the realtor lady says owns this place?”
“Oh God, no. Who?”
“Wait for it…wait for it: Jonesy Jax.”
Nobody said anything for a few seconds. Then Claire said, “Not Jonesy Jax, the whiskey-guzzling, drug-addled, sex-addicted hard rocker from hell.”
“The one and only.”
Claire muttered a couple of gross things under her breath, words that she rarely used out loud. Damn it. Jonesy Jax was a complete and utter moron loser jerk. “You’re sure, Bud? Why the hell would he have a place down here? He’s a big-time L.A. hell-raiser. Every day there are pictures of him in the tabloids, clubbing in some sleazy bar with women hanging all over him. He’s constantly in the news for getting into some kind of trouble. Oh man alive, I bet he’ll let his groupies stay here in this very house. I heard he buys places in the sticks just to give big, drunken raves with free booze and drugs.”
Bud shrugged. “Well, we have celebs down here. You and Nick, for example. Nick Black’s world famous. So are you since you married him. And now there’s that Sexiest Man Alive thing goin’ on.”
Claire ignored every word of that. That was her new plan moving forward. If anybody mentioned People or the National Enquirer, she was gonna go nonresponsive and lapse into a stare down. “Is Jax in town now?”
“Nobody’s been able to get ahold of him. His agent’s not answering her phone. Her assistant said all she knows is that Jonesy wants to spend Christmas here at the lake. So, lucky us. We get to suffer the consequences. This house is brand new, she says, decorated by a top team from some elite Beverly Hills design firm, never lived in to date, but built to Jax’s rather exhaustive specifications. He didn’t ask to be part of the tour, apparently, but said yes when the realtor hit him up to use his place before he moves in. My guess? Jax is probably planning to have some drug-fueled New Year’s Eve rave, with all his entourage stayin’ right out here. More fun for us, huh?”
Grimacing and badly wanting to throw up, Claire still could not comprehend why a guy like Jonesy Jax would want to own a big house on a remote rural lake in the middle of Missouri, especially given his perverted brand of fun and games. Lake of the Ozarks was a beautiful place at any time of the year, true, but it was not riddled by high excitement twenty-four seven. That state of peaceful coexistence wasn’t gonna last long once Jonesy Jax hit town, especially if he brought his own illicit brand of personal depravities into their fold. Good thing, though, now Jonesy Jax had come aboard as her prime candidate for this girl’s death. She wondered if he and his scuzzy friends liked to play Detection and had grim reapers tattooed on their backs. Maybe that was something that she and Bud ought to find out.
Play Time
Every single thing about Junior’s mother’s inquest went off as smooth as a stream of melted milk chocolate. The cops’ incompetence was truly a beautiful sight to behold. According to the LAPD reports, on the day of the drowning, a sweet little cook named Rosaria Fernandez let herself into Junior’s kitchen around four o’clock in the afternoon on the day of the murder. Lucky for Junior, it took her almost an hour before she happened to notice Junior’s extremely dead mother floating facedown in their swimming pool. Outright panicked, she became completely hysterical, and called 911 with all manner of garbled groans and screams for help.
By the time Junior got home that evening, around seven o’clock, the LAPD homicide detectives, forensic techs, and patrol officers were swarming the property. His chess tournament had gone well, of course, because he was such an excellent player, and he was able to concentrate on the matches, even after he’d murdered his mom only a few hours before. It was sort of funny, really, when you got to thinking about it. He’d won a bigger trophy than usual to join the others on his Shelf of Superiority in his game room. He beat six different players that afternoon, one right after another, with lots of spectators watching in hushed reverence. His alibi was as solid as it was false.
The black marble trophy he’d carried in with him that night and showed off to the cops was just icing on the verifiable alibi cake. That prize would always symbolize the reward he got for finally putting his mom out of her misery. Or maybe that should be out of Junior’s misery. Not surprisingly, he felt absolutely nothing, zero, nada, zilch when the somber detectives broke the oh-so-sad news to him, but he did manage to cough up a suitable show of tears and cry like a slapped baby. Quite believably, too, if he said so himself. He was proud of that performance. He should’ve been in films. He’d always been able to cry on cue, and yes, those were pretty much tears of joy, because he was so damn relieved that that stupid bitch was finally dead. Plus the fact that he hadn’t been caught, hadn’t even come close to being caught. He had outsmarted the best of them, and it was freakin’ gratifying.
Yeah, man, everything was just working out beautifully. Except that Lucky hadn’t shown back up. Probably long gone and fleeing the scene of the crime until things cooled off. Junior was disappointed that he hadn’t come around again. He sure did hope that Lucky would at least drop by so they could celebrate and have a beer together, or something. He wanted somebody around with whom he could share his joy about the murder and its delightful ramifications. Lucky was the only one he could safely talk to.
Three days after Junior had killed his mom, her funeral was held inside a cavernous Methodist church in downtown L.A. Junior’s disgusting dad hadn’t deigned to call and didn’t even acknowledge his ex-wife’s death or his son’s new poor little orphan boy status. Surprise, surprise. The sanctuary was filled to the brim with some mighty pitiful sounds of phony sniffling and crying and whispering that rose up into the rafters and echoed back down in a muted murmur. All that dramatically expressed grief didn’t fool Junior, not for a single second. Fake as hell, all of it. He knew full well that most of the mourners were no more grief stricken than he was. None of them gave a hot shit about Junior’s mom. They just wanted everybody to see them in their super tight, short black dresses and their chic
floppy-brimmed black funereal hats, all purchased on Rodeo Drive, no doubt. He felt even better when the first spade of dirt hit the top of the fancy white casket. Junior had faked some tears then, too, covered his face with his palms so it would look good to the pastor. He only had to keep the grief thing going a little bit longer, thank goodness. It was a real bore to pretend to mourn his mother.
Hell, he was good at it, though. He almost fooled himself. That’s how well he carried off the weeping, rending-his-clothes crap. Truth be told, all he really wanted to do was laugh and sing and dance and count his new fortune, dollar bill by dollar bill. Millions and millions of dollar bills. All his for the taking. At last. Do not pass go. Do not wait until you are twenty-five. It was all his now, every single dime was his to spend, and his alone. He was going to be richer than anybody sitting in those folding chairs around that gravesite. Despite their teary eyes and kindly pats on his back, they were phony, false whiners, the whole lot a bunch of fools. All stupid as hell and greedy and self-absorbed, but they were all well-dressed and coiffed, of course. He bet he had fifty or sixty, or even seventy IQ points on all of them put together.
Best part of the service? The exact moment Junior caught a glimpse of Lucky where he stood a good distance off from the funeral tent. He caught sight of his newly minted friend the exact moment they started lowering poor Mom’s coffin into the grave. Lucky was standing up on a knoll directly in front of the mourners gathered around the grave. He was leaning one shoulder against a big white monument under the spreading limbs of a giant oak tree. He was grinning from ear to ear. When he gave Junior a brief thumbs up, Junior almost laughed out loud.
After that, he had to restrain himself from smiling and giving everything away. Oh yeah, he and Lucky were going to be best buddies. They were going to have a ton of fun together. This was his first glimpse of Lucky since that sweet day in the swimming pool. And that’s the last he’d probably see of him until after his mom’s attorneys released the inheritance. But then, they would party hard. Man, did that sound great to Junior. God, he couldn’t wait. He was so damn filthy rich now. He was free of his mom and his dad and anybody else who tried to tell him what to do. Junior couldn’t really blame his dad for not showing up. He hadn’t called, either, and certainly hadn’t offered Junior a place in one of his many vacation homes, or even wanted the chance for them to get to know each other. That didn’t matter to Junior. Junior didn’t want a home with him. Not anymore.