Havert didn’t answer. Marge thought about Bruce’s blow-by-blow account, which he had repeated over and over.
But there was still a missing step: transferring the body from the apartment to the back of his car without being noticed.
Marge took a sip of water while she thought some more.
She had told Havert that they had him “on tape” lugging the duffel bags out of the apartment. He never once denied it.
The duffel bags.
As in plural.
Something reverberated in her head, specifically Bruce Havert’s job history. Marge said, “Let me backtrack for a moment, Bruce.”
“Oh God—”
“Just bear with me. Randi called you down to the apartment.”
“Yes.”
“She was panicked because Penny was dead, Georgina was dead, and the tiger was waking up.”
“Right.”
“So you told her you’d come down to the apartment to help remove Georgina’s body. Because you didn’t want her to be eaten by the tiger.”
“Exactly.”
“So you brought your shovel because you knew you were going to have to bury her.”
“She deserved to be buried.” Havert’s tone was self-righteous.
“I understand. So you went to the apartment and picked up Georgie’s body.”
“I already admitted that. What’s the point of repeating stuff over and over?”
“The point is you had to get her body out of the apartment without arousing suspicion. We have you on tape toting out the duffel bags that Georgie and Randi had brought with them.”
Silence.
“Bruce, you were toting two duffel bags. Because . . . you know and I know . . . that Georgina wouldn’t have fit in a single duffel bag. It was way too small for that.”
Havert’s face went green. Before he could speak, before he could ask for a lawyer, Marge said, “Along with the shovel, you brought a couple of butcher knives, right?”
Havert still didn’t answer.
Marge said, “Bruce, she was already dead. She didn’t know the difference.”
Still no answer.
“You worked as a short-order cook,” Marge said. “I’m sure you cut up a lot of chickens in your days.”
More silence.
“You dismembered her, didn’t you?” Marge’s voice was even.
A nod.
“Could you answer the question with a yes or no? Did you dismember Georgina Harris?”
“Yes . . .” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I didn’t kill anyone.” Havert wiped his eyes. “How can I get you to believe me?”
Marge slid a blank, yellow legal pad and pen across the table. “It would help if you wrote down what happened in your own words. That way we can stop asking you all these questions.”
Havert nodded. “I can do that.”
“Good.” Marge got up and so did Oliver.
They closed the door to the interview room and left him with his grotesque thoughts.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
BRUCE HAVERT EVENTUALLY wised up and got a lawyer, but there was more than enough to hold him, and that bought the detectives a little time. The arraignment was scheduled for tomorrow morning, and unless there were legal theatrics, the case would go back to L.A. It was unlikely that Havert would make the bond, but Detective Jack Crone had assigned surveillance duty just in case.
Shortly before ten in the evening, Marge and Oliver left the LVMPD to grab dinner. They found an Indian restaurant with an all-you-can-eat buffet for five ninety-nine, which would have been perfect except that the place was closing in five minutes. From behind a window, an Indian woman with a long gray braid and a lime green sari welcomed them in with a beckoning hand.
They came inside. It was warm and smelled of exotic spices. The buffet was still intact, but God only knew how long the food had been sitting there in tray warmers.
Lime Green Sari said, “I’ve got fresh batches in the kitchen. It’s a little of this and a little of that. Let me make a plate up for you. I’ll charge you the same as the buffet. I’m Domani, by the way.”
“Thank you, Domani,” Marge told her. “It all sounds good.”
“Sounds great,” Oliver said. “Are you sure we aren’t hanging you up?”
“No, stay as long as you want. We’re cleaning in the kitchen.”
Marge thanked her. Both of them were exhausted. It had been a long day, and neither of them felt like talking. Domani returned a minute later carrying a tray of Indian specialties: tandoori chicken, tandoori lamb, fried shrimp, rice with vegetables and chicken, lentil dal, spinach with cheese, spicy eggplant, and a dish of mixed potatoes, carrots, and peas. There were three dipping sauces and a heaping mound of garlic naan. She gave them two empty plates and poured water. “Anything else?”
Marge was salivating. She didn’t realize how hungry she was. “This is perfect.”
“I’ll bring out some chai. I’ve also got rice pudding when you’re done. Bon appétit.”
“Thanks.” Oliver helped himself to the meat. “This looks good.”
“Does it ever.” Marge took some vegetables.
“Did you ever get hold of Decker?”
“I called, he called. He didn’t leave a message and I didn’t leave much of one myself. Havert’s case wasn’t something I could sum up after the beep. I did tell him that’d we’re doing an overnight.”
“Where are we staying?”
“Some suite-type motel. Looks clean enough and has several slots in the lobby.”
“Great.” Oliver took a big bite of lamb and dipped it in some spicy brown sauce. “Tasty. Or maybe I’m just starved.” Another bite. “How much of Havert do you believe?”
“I was going to ask you the same question. I think he could murder someone—if you can dismember, you can murder—but I believe him when he said he wasn’t there when the murder went down.”
“Why?”
“Good question.” She sipped water. “For one thing, I couldn’t trip him up in a lie. He admitted getting the call, going down to the apartment, and bringing a shovel. Hell, he admitted dismembering the body and burying her. It’s not like the usual: he prates on until he’s caught with his foot in his mouth and has to backtrack. What about you?”
“I’m still on the fence. Once we get him back to L.A., we’ll ask him to take a polygraph on the promise that if he passes, we’ll support a lower charge. I suppose the next step is finding Randi Miller and finding Georgina’s body.”
“If there is really a body. She may still have a beating heart. Maybe Georgina killed the old man and it wasn’t self-defense. If we think she’s dead, we won’t be looking for her. She’s free to start a new life from scratch.”
Oliver said, “That’s why we need the body.”
Marge’s cell was playing Mozart’s Turkish Rondo. “It’s Decker.” She depressed the green button. “Hey, what’s going on?”
“Where are you?” Decker asked.
“We’re still in Vegas.”
“How convenient,” Decker said. “I’m in Vegas, too. We need to talk, and it’s not something I want to do over a phone. Where are you, as in an address?”
“We’re at a restaurant. Hold on.” Marge got the address and gave it to him.
Decker consulted with the cabbie. “I’m two minutes away.”
“It’s Indian food. Are you hungry?”
“Starved.”
“We’ll save you some vegetables.” Marge hung up.
Domani had been clearing away the buffet warming trays. “I can get you some more vegetables from the back.”
“That would be great,” Marge said. “Our boss is coming in.”
“Your boss? At ten in the evening?”
“This is unusual even for him. It must be important.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“Cops,” Oliver said.
“You’re cops?” The woman looked confused. “How come I’ve never seen
you before?”
“We’re from LAPD, not Las Vegas Metro,” Marge said.
“Oh . . . that explains it. You’re picking up a bum and taking him back to L.A.?”
“Something like that.”
“Happens all the time. Las Vegas attracts lots of losers. I hope you mix your work with a little recreation.”
“With the boss is coming, it’s gonna be more work and less recreation,” Oliver said.
Domani laughed. “Well, if you do have a chance to hit the Strip, good luck.”
“Sure you don’t mind us staying after hours?” Marge asked. “It sounds like he has lots to tell us.”
“No problem.” Marge gave her a fifty. Domani’s eyes went wide. She said, “Are you kidding me? You can stay overnight as far as I’m concerned.”
“A few hours tops. It’s just our way of thanking you for cooperating with law enforcement.” Marge smiled. “It’s all yours as long as you keep that saag paneer and baingan bharta coming.”
WHEELING A CANVAS overnight bag, Decker looked around then sat next to Marge and across from Oliver. He wore a polo shirt under a leather bomber jacket, a pair of jeans, and black leather cowboy boots. He sank back in the chair and looked at the ceiling. He smiled, but it was without energy. “Willy says hello.”
“How’s he doing?”
“He’s a good guy, Marge. A good guy and a good detective.” Decker opened his bag and pulled out a notebook and peered around. “Is this a good place to talk?”
The buffet trays had been cleared and the restaurant was empty. Clean-up noises were coming from the kitchen. Marge said, “The owner said we can stay as long as we want.”
“Okay,” Decker said. “Fill me in.”
They did. As Marge and Oliver ran down the interview, Decker ate, nodded, and took notes. After answering all of Decker’s questions, the recap took a half hour. When it was over, Decker had a monster headache. He popped another two Advil on top of the two that he had taken just two hours ago. He regarded his scribbles. “So . . . as far as the murder goes . . . we have a secondhand account of what happened and we don’t even know if it’s true or not.” He rubbed his forehead. “Do you two believe him?”
“We were just talking about that,” Oliver said. “Once we get him to L.A., we’ll ask him to take a polygraph. If he passes, maybe we can get the DA to reduce some charges.”
“You didn’t book him for murder, right?”
“Right.”
“So you have him on tampering with evidence, destroying evidence, mutilation of a corpse. That’s serious stuff, but he didn’t hurt anyone. Bail’s not going to be set that high without a murder charge.”
“He dismembered a body,” Marge said. “We’ve got the yuck factor working for us.”
“If he has any spare change, he’ll make bond and be out in twenty-four hours,” Decker said. “What about Randi Miller? Have we started looking for her?”
“She’s not listed in the Missoula directory,” Oliver said.
“She hasn’t lived there in about fifteen years,” Marge said. “Havert says she might be there.”
“Is Randi Miller even her real name?” When Oliver shrugged, Decker said, “So we don’t know that, either. What about parents?”
“We don’t know her mom’s name—first or last,” Marge said. “If her mother’s last name is Miller, it means calling up a lot of people. I say we wait until the county records open up tomorrow and look up Randi Miller’s birth certificate. If one exists, we can find out her mother’s name.”
“Okay,” Decker said. “If we find Mom, maybe we can find Randi. Havert pointed the finger at her. Let’s give her a chance to point the finger at him.”
Domani came out of the kitchen and looked Decker up and down. “So you’re the boss?”
“In title only.” Decker smiled. “Everything was great. Thank you.”
“Ready for rice pudding?”
“I’m full,” Marge said.
“For fifty bucks you get dessert.”
When she left, Decker smiled. “You tipped her a fifty?”
“Including the food,” Marge told him. “It’s better than flushing it down the slots.”
“I suppose that’s true. You never answered my question. Do you think Havert’s telling the truth?”
“Yes,” Marge said.
“Mostly yes,” Oliver said.
“I think his answers are plausible.” Decker dry-washed his face. “We’ve got a real problem with the victim. I’m not saying anyone has a right to pop another person, but our victim is uniquely reprehensible. This case, no matter who’s guilty of what, will never go to trial.”
“You found blood in that Sabrina’s house?” Marge asked.
“There was a room as well as a closet that glowed electric blue. Penny did bad things there and probably to multiple women. Will and I went over some cold cases, specifically missing person cases that went back thirty years ago: a twenty-two-year-old waitress and a twenty-year-old part-time student at a community college. Then, after that, we went to UCSB police and asked about missing coeds. It took a while, but they found two cold cases of missing girls—one was eighteen and the other was nineteen. I’m grateful that this mess belongs to Will and not me. But all of us realize that we might have matches for some of the frozen fingers. And that would explain the lack of blood in the tissue, sitting in the deep freeze for a very long time.”
The table went quiet. Marge said, “Is Sabrina involved?”
“She knew that he took girls into that room but claims that she didn’t know what went on.”
“Do you believe her?” Oliver asked.
“I do. In my mind, she was more than happy to foist her monster husband onto someone else. I don’t think she knew about the murders, but it was clear that she didn’t ask any questions.”
“In all fairness, no one expects her husband to be a serial killer,” Marge said.
“Of course,” Decker said. “She was distraught about it. But she didn’t delve too deeply.”
“So . . .” Oliver tapped the table. “Do you want us to soldier on with the current investigation? I mean, like you said, it’s never going to go to trial. From what you just said about Penny, it buttresses Randi’s claim that it was self-defense.”
Decker said, “We’ve come this far, we’re going to see it to the end.”
Marge’s cell rang. “Don’t recognize the number.” She connected the line. “This is Sergeant Dunn.”
“Hi, it’s Mindy.”
It took about ten seconds for the name to register. “Oh, Mindy Martin from Sunset Strip. How are you doing, Mindy? Are you keeping out of trouble?”
“Never was in any trouble.”
“Good to hear. What’s going on?”
“I seen her.” A pause. “The lady you were looking for with the glove.”
“Fantastic, Mindy, good job.” Marge pushed the button to be on speakerphone. “Thanks for calling and helping us out. Where did you see her?” There was a delay. “Hello?”
“Yeah, I’m still here. You promised to give me something for being helpful.”
“That can be arranged, depending on how accurate the information,” Marge said. “I’m not in town right now. How about if we meet tomorrow night somewhere—”
“I don’t know if she’ll be there tomorrow night or the next night or the next. But I can tell you where I seen her if you pay me something.”
Marge said, “Let’s set up a time to talk. How about if we meet in front of The Snake Pit?”
“I’m not meeting a cop in front of The Snake Pit.”
“So tell me where.” A long pause. Marge said, “Mindy, I’m going to have to meet you in person to hand over any money. Pick a place.”
“Not The Snake Pit. How about where you picked me up?”
“That was around Sunset and Genesee, right?” Marge said. “What time?”
“How about nine? That’s when I saw her. But I’m not telling you where until we have a
deal. So bring the cash, okay.”
“I get it, Mindy. I’ll have cash. Sunset and Genesee around nine tomorrow evening, okay?” When the line disconnected, Marge shrugged. “Looks like I’ll be going home tomorrow.”
“The gloved woman is Shady Lady?” Decker asked.
“Hopefully,” Marge said.
Decker said, “I’ll book an afternoon flight for both of you back to L.A. If Bruce Havert needs to come back to L.A.—which I doubt, without a murder charge—I’ll go with him. Let’s pack it up for the evening. Tomorrow morning see if you can’t get a bead on Randi Miller. Missoula’s not a tiny place, but it’s small enough for the police to know locals. If Randi did murder Penny, I want to hear about it from her, even if it was self-defense.”
“Got it,” Marge said. “So how much should I give Mindy Martin?”
“Twenty bucks maybe.”
“That’s lowball, Deck,” Oliver said. “You can’t even get a hand job for a twenty.”
“You’re not asking for a sex act, just for some information,” Decker said. “Do what you think you can get away with.”
“I’ll do my best,” Marge said. “Poor Willy. He’s got a lot ahead of him.”
“Thirty-five-year-old cold cases,” Oliver said. “He’ll be busy for a while.”
“He’s done his fair share of homicides,” Decker said. “He should be used to it.”
“Yeah, but he came to Santa Barbara to get away from big city crap.”
“The life of a cop,” Decker said. “You can run, but you cannot hide.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
AFTER THREE HOURS of searching, Marge called it quits. It was one in the morning and Shady Lady remained elusive. With a long day behind her and an even longer day ahead of her, Marge could barely keep her eyes open. Driving on a stretch of monotonous freeway, she stayed awake on residual adrenaline. Then the Bluetooth kicked in with Decker’s cell number on the screen of her console. She pushed the button to accept the call. “Thank you for waking me up.”
“Sorry. Are you in bed already?”
“No, I wasn’t being sarcastic, I’m grateful. I’ve been cruising Sunset Boulevard, fruitlessly looking for Shady Lady. Your voice is a shot of espresso. What’s up?”
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