by Sheila Lowe
Giving her a moment to settle herself, Jovanic sat beside her and took a sip of coffee that was a few hundred times better than anything they brewed at work.
Marilyn Sanders ran her hand through short blonde hair twice, drew a deep breath and let it out. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. She was ready.
Jovanic spoke first. “Can you tell me why you believe your son-in-law—”
Before he could finish his question, she broke in. “I thought you people always looked at the husband first. You must know he beat her up before, more than once, though he was just arrested that one time. You don’t need to look any further than that. He did it. He killed my daughter.”
“Do you know whether Mr. Steinman owned any firearms?”
“Well he had to, didn’t he? He must have got one from somewhere, even if there aren’t any registered to him. I’m sure he must know people—gang people, maybe. He shot her three times! Once wasn’t enough.” Her eyes filled with tears and she pulled a tissue from her pocket. “I’m sorry. I—”
“Please don’t apologize, Mrs. Sanders. I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you.” Jovanic knew better than to tell her he understood, even though he did. But it wouldn’t do any good to tell her that his father had been murdered in a robbery when Jovanic was just a kid. A new victim’s angry family needed to be allowed their own pain without being expected to consider his.
“It is. It’s very difficult.” Marilyn Sanders dabbed around her eyes with the tissue and swallowed hard.
Jovanic waited a couple of beats. “I need to ask you something that might seem unrelated, but are you aware of your daughter having a tattoo?”
She frowned. “That skull thing? My husband and I were furious when she did that.”
“Would you happen to know where she had it done?”
“She didn’t have it done anywhere. Her boyfriend did it. Alvin something or other. She was sixteen. He was a lot older—maybe in his early twenties. He was the brother of someone she knew at school. That was an awful time. I’d rather forget it.”
“Awful because—”
“Darla was incredibly rebellious. She was truant from school every other day. We tried putting her in several different private academies, but nothing helped. She used to climb out the window in the night when my husband and I were asleep and take off with these dreadful young men on motorcycles—a gang, I’m sure. We tried everything we knew to stop it, even down to sleeping in shifts to keep an eye on her. I was ready to send her to live with my sister in Ohio.” Marilyn Sanders paused to give him a sad smile. “Then there was the big fight.”
Jovanic raised an inquiring brow.
Sanders continued. “That Alvin character and another young man—I don’t remember his name—they had this terrible fight over Darla. I believe the other one ended up in the hospital with broken bones and internal injuries. And then she decided she wasn’t interested and just walked away from both of them and we didn’t have to do anything drastic after all.” She gave a big sigh that sounded like regret. “We loved that girl to distraction. She was such a sweet, compliant child, but once she got into her teens, trying to control her was impossible. I believe that’s what shortened my husband’s life by more than a few years. He died of a broken heart. And now she’s gone, too.”
“Raising teenagers is always rough,” Jovanic spoke with genuine sympathy, thinking of some of the trials he and Claudia had ridden out with Annabelle before she connected with her birth father. And the more recent ones.
“So, why are you asking about that tattoo? It’s ancient news.”
“Just pursuing some leads, ma’am. We sometimes have to ask questions that might seem irrelevant.”
“It was something I’ll never forget. Though now, what does it matter?” She sighed again, as if she were having difficulty catching her breath. “I remember that Darla told me Alvin was learning to be a tattoo artist, of all things. He was practicing on her. Can you imagine? Why would anyone want to deface their body that way?”
Her words made him think of the tattoo on Darla Steinman’s corpse. The colors of the glamorous skull had been fresh and vibrant, not the faded look of twenty year old ink. “You said Darla walked away from these two men after the fight. But would you know whether she had any contact with Alvin later? Maybe got the tattoo refreshed fairly recently?”
“I would certainly be shocked if she had. She was your typical good mother, devoted to her children; always taking them to dance lessons, music lessons, Little League games. Anyway, what’s that got to do with Bill murdering my daughter?” She paused, confusion spreading over her face. “Wait a minute, is Alvin involved in this?”
“We’re looking at a number of scenarios,” Jovanic said, which seemed to mollify her. “Are your grandchildren here, Mrs. Sanders? I’d appreciate a few words with them, if you don’t mind.”
“They’re playing video games in the den. It’s been a nightmare. Tim came home and found her—but you already know that.”
“I just have a couple of questions.”
“Is that really necessary? They already spoke with the other detective—Flynt. They don’t know anything.”
“I understand, but it’s important.”
When her lips compressed into a disapproving line, Jovanic knew she wanted to refuse, but after a moment she resigned herself. “Please be gentle with them.”
“Yes, ma’am, of course.”
Darla Steinman’s mother rose and left the room, returning five minutes later accompanied by a young boy and girl. Bill Steinman had told Jovanic that they were eleven and thirteen. Typical of his age, the boy was gangly and as tall as his grandmother. His sister stood behind him, half-hiding until Marilyn Sanders made the introductions. She pulled the children to each side of her and put her arms around their shoulders. “Emily, Tim, this is Detective Jovanic. He’s looking into the—what happened to your mother.”
Jovanic appraised them as she spoke, taking in the Abercrombie logo on Tim’s plaid shirt, the pricey-looking jeans they both wore. As if they were adults, he held out his hand to each of them in turn. Tim, the older of the two, had an unusually firm grip for one so young. Emily’s hand was soft and small inside his big rough one, and he felt her vulnerability like a kick in the teeth. In her yellow cropped tee, decorated with daisies, she was still very much a child.
Emily plopped onto the sofa and hunched into the corner next to her grandmother, a worried look on her pale face. Tim perched on the edge of a chair opposite, trying to look grown up.
“I’m very sorry about your mom.” Jovanic took care that he did not come across patronizing. “I know you’ve already talked to Detective Flynt about it, and I know it’s really hard to keep going over things. But I have a couple questions I need to ask. Is that okay?” He gave them a moment to nod agreement, then continued. “First, can you tell me, did you notice anything that was unusual, going on with your mom?”
Both blonde heads shook, “No.”
“That other guy already asked us that,” Tim said with an edge of defiance.
“I understand, and sometimes I have to ask the same questions because I wasn’t here when Detective Flynt spoke to you, okay?”
After two reluctant shrugs, Jovanic asked, “Did you ever go someplace with your mom and have to wait out in the car?” In the short silence that followed, Jovanic caught the look that passed between brother and sister. “Hey, guys, whatever you say here, you’re not going to be in any trouble. All I’m asking is for you to tell the truth.” He smiled and pointed at his white shirt. “If I tell you my shirt is blue, is that true or false?”
Tim’s expression indicated that he thought the detective was a moron. “False, obviously.”
“Okay, good. I just want you to say what you know that’s true.”
It came a
s a surprise that Emily was the one who piped up first. In a voice so quiet that he had to strain to hear her, she said, “Sometimes, when she would go in that tattoo place, Mom would make us wait outside in the car.”
Marilyn Sanders gasped. Jovanic raised a warning hand and she held her tongue with obvious difficulty. “Did you go to the tattoo place with her very often?”
Emily looked over at her older brother with a question. Tim said, “Not exactly often, like, maybe a few times.”
“She always promised to come right back, but sometimes she was gone a long time,” Emily said. “We mostly played video games while we were waiting.”
“Do you remember when the last time was that you went there with her?”
“It was last week, on Friday, right after she picked us up from school,” Tim said. “Except that time she let us go inside.”
“Yeah? What was it like?”
“It’s pretty cool.”
“Was mom getting a tattoo?”
“No! She was just talking to the owner.”
“She said they were friends,” Emily added, her voice beginning to tremble. “She went to high school with his little brother.”
“Okay, thank you. Do remember if anyone else was there besides the owner?”
“Some guys were sitting in the back,” Tim said. “They didn’t say anything to us, though.” His cheeks flushed scarlet. “And there was this girl sitting with them.”
Jovanic smiled. “Pretty girl?”
Tim shrugged, but the blush remained. “I guess.”
“But you didn’t get introduced to any of those people?”
“Nope.”
Jovanic would have like to show the boy a photo of Angel, but all he had in his phone were post-mortem shots. “What did the girl look like?”
“She had blonde hair and…I don’t know. She was a girl.”
“Do you know her name?”
“My mom said hi to her,” Emily added. “She said, ‘Hi, Angel.’ I thought it was a pretty name.”
Jovanic’s heart rate sped up. He had his connection. “Do you remember anything about the guys, what they looked like?”
Tim scrunched up his face, thinking back. “One of them was real buff. And he had tats on his face. But we didn’t talk to him or the other guys.”
“The owner guy gave Mommy some money,” Emily said. “She told us to don’t say anything to Bill about going there. She said it was a secret place and only we could know about—”
Tim interrupted angrily. “You shouldn’t make us say bad things about our mom.”
“You’re not saying anything bad, Tim,” Jovanic said. “Remember, you’re just telling the truth.”
Emily looked up at her grandmother, tears rolling down her face. “Are we being bad, Nana?”
Glaring at Jovanic over the child’s head, Marilyn Sanders put a protective arm around her granddaughter and pressed a tissue into her hand. “No, honey, of course not. You’re not being bad at all. Just tell Detective Jovanic what he needs to know. He’s almost ready to leave. Isn’t that right, Detective?”
“Yes, that’s right. Just one more thing, kids. Do you remember the name of the tattoo place, or where it is?”
“Um, yeah. It has a big red dragon painted on the window,” Tim said. “It’s called Dragon House.”
Just then, Jovanic’s phone signaled a text message. He excused himself and took out the phone, checked the screen. Serendipity. Lenny had come through.
***
Jovanic was on his way to the crime lab, wondering what Darla Steinman’s cell phone number was doing in Shane Oliver’s wallet, when he took a call from Jose Preza at the Cozy Suites.
“I thought you’d want to know, Detective.” The manager sounded excited. “The maid was changing the linens in Mr. Oliver’s room. She found something under the pillow.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Let me get some gloves,” Claudia said, leading Jovanic into her office. Opening a drawer, she took out a box of disposable vinyl exam gloves and plucked two from it. “I know you don’t want my prints on it.”
“You’re such a pro,” Jovanic teased, setting the paper bag containing Shane Oliver’s notebook on her desk.
“I learned from the best, Columbo.” Claudia sat down behind her desk, and eased her fingers into the stretchy gloves, then reached for the bag and pulled the top open.
They had eaten a late dinner while he gave her a broadbrush summary of his day. They had then climbed the stairs together to Claudia’s office. Jovanic wanted her take on Shane Oliver’s journal, which he had picked up from the Cozy Suites. It measured around six and a half by nine and a half inches and was bound with a black cardboard cover.
“Have you read it yet?” asked Claudia.
“Not yet, just flipped through a few pages. It’s a work journal, notes. The last page was dated yesterday. Too bad it’s not like the movies—a big clue, telling me where to find him.”
“How inconvenient. There should be a big neon arrow in the book, pointing to Angel’s killer.”
“We pretty much know who the killer is. We just need the evidence to tie him to the crimes.” Jovanic came around behind her chair as she opened the book and rested his hands on her shoulders and began massaging the tight muscles. “You’re all knotted up.”
“M’hm. All this upset with Annabelle—Angel, then Jamie disappearing. It’s been getting to me. Ohhhh, that feels good.” His firm thumbs made little circles as they inched up her skull. His fingers raked her hair, making it hard to concentrate on the handwriting in the journal. She made an effort to pull her focus onto the page.
The journal paper was unlined. Shane Oliver’s writing style was small in size and highly simplified, a mixture of print and cursive. Those letters that were joined had quick, clever connections. Many words were written at high velocity, which resulted in a thready, undefined look and impacted the legibility, making it hard to read. Some notes were written at an extreme uphill slant, others straight across the page.
Claudia, who had not yet read what was written there, looked up from the journal and started describing her first impression of the writer’s personality from his handwriting. “He’s very intelligent; a quick, facile type of thinker. He’s articulate and he’s got a talent for jumping from one thing to another without dropping the ball. He’s also damned unpredictable—kind of an action junkie. It’s hard for him to make a commitment. He likes to leave everything open-ended, in case something better comes along and he wants to change his mind.”
“That would support what his editor said, but that doesn’t mean he left the hotel willingly. He left his computer behind; his wallet, his notebook. I checked back with the manager after I left the crime lab. Nada. No sign of him.”
“Well, for sure he’s a smooth talker, so let’s hope he can talk himself out of whatever it is that he’s apparently gotten into. Any idea what might have happened to him?”
“Yeah, unfortunately, I do. We know he’s been developing a story about tattoo parlors. But he’s an investigative reporter, so that means the story isn’t what it looks like on the surface. He’ll have been asking a lot of questions, digging up whatever shit he can find, which maybe certain people would rather keep buried.” Jovanic leaned over and pointed to something written on page one. “Viper’s name keeps popping up—Alvin Rousch. Remember, Angel’s boyfriend, Mouser, told Annabelle that Shane was hanging around Dragon House, which Viper owns. And Viper is the guy who put his mark—the sugar skull—on Darla Steinman, who’s now dead.”
“And on Angel, who’s also dead. And on Jamie, who’s missing.” Claudia shivered, thinking of the sugar skull tattoo on Annabelle’s skin, and was thankful that even though the artist had copied his design, Viper was not the one who had put it on the girl.
>
“Then there’s my firebombing victim, Travis Navarette,” Jovanic continued. “It’s all happened too close together. Three homicides connected. That can’t be a coincidence. And now Shane Oliver may have dug up something too dangerous for him to know. Maybe he saw or heard something he shouldn’t have.”
Claudia voiced the question that was nagging her. “I wonder what a soccer mom like Darla was doing at the tattoo parlor while her kids were waiting outside in the MommyMobile.”
“Probably not having milk and cookies. Maybe she was just getting that old tattoo refreshed. Plenty of women get tats these days.”
“Her mom told you she dumped Viper when she was about sixteen, didn’t she?”
“Yeah, after ‘the big fight.’”
“Why would she start up with him again now? Maybe this is nothing new. She might have been seeing him for years.”
“Flynt’s going to take a closer look at Darla.” Jovanic’s fingers gave her shoulders a final squeeze. He dropped his hands and went to the office door. “Viper’s at the center of all the strings. I just need to find a way to pull them all together.”
Claudia stretched her neck from side to side, already missing the warmth of his touch on her skin. “I’m worried about Jamie, too.”
“I have no doubt Jamie’s back on the street, looking for her next fix.” Jovanic rubbed his eyes and yawned wide. “Girls like her learn how to survive.”
“Angel didn’t.”
“She hadn’t gotten down to that level of desperation yet.” He yawned again, wider. “I’m gonna hit the shower and head back to the office. Don’t wait up for me.”