Or was it just occurring to her now?
“And art lessons?”
Sondra said nothing.
“She took art lessons as well, didn’t she?”
“She did. She quit those as well. About a month ago,” Sondra said. She stared into her lap.
“Sounds like Charlotte had been going through some changes recently,” Jamie said.
Sondra looked up, eyes narrowed. “She’s sixteen years old. That’s what children do at this age.”
“Did Charlotte say anything about new friends? You mentioned that she didn’t have a boyfriend, but is there any chance she liked someone?”
Sondra sat up straighter. Her shoulders shifted back. “No. I don’t think she liked anyone.” Sondra’s tone was clipped. Was she thinking about all that she didn’t know about her daughter’s life?
“I know this is difficult, but there is a strong possibility that she was assaulted by someone she knew. Is there someone who liked her? Someone she mentioned asking her out who she didn’t return the feelings for?”
Sondra’s shoulders dropped. “I’ve told you everything I know.”
Right. Even Sondra’s body language lied.
“What was the name of her art teacher?” Jamie asked.
Sondra’s lips slid briefly into a flat line. It was the only sign that she didn’t like the question.
“We need to speak to anyone who has been a part of Charlotte’s life recently,” Vich added.
“She hasn’t seen him recently.”
Jamie waited for the name.
“Heath Brody.”
“Spelled B-R-O-D-Y?”
Sondra nodded.
Vich was on his phone. He was probably texting the department to get a handle on Brody.
“How about the people who work for you and Mr. Borden?” Jamie asked. “Are they around your daughters often?”
Sondra looked tired. “No. Not often. Tiffany Greene is around more because she’s my assistant and she also helps with the girls when I’m at meetings.”
“How about Brandon Shambliss?” Jamie continued.
“Brandon? No. He’s not around much,” Sondra said. “Occasionally he comes to the house, but he works with Gavin.”
“Has Mr. Shambliss worked there a long time?”
“I believe he joined them out of school, yes.”
“But what about before that? Did Gavin or your father know Brandon when he was younger?”
“You’d have to ask them,” she said.
“Where were you yesterday afternoon?”
Sondra was surprised. “Me?”
“It’s standard procedure to know the whereabouts of the family at the time of the incident,” Vich interjected. “We’re not accusing you of anything.”
“I was at the office, working on the fundraising schedule.”
“Which office is that?” Vich asked.
“The opera,” she said.
“Were you there alone?”
“No. The executive director was there.”
“And who is the executive director?”
Sondra’s lips thinned again. “Helene Remy.”
Vich made notes.
Sondra took a deep breath and stood. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got an 11:00 appointment that I need to prepare for.”
Jamie remained seated. “I’m afraid I have one more thing that I need you to look at.” She drew out the photograph of the lingerie that Charlotte had been wearing. They’d photographed it lying out on an evidence table. It looked like an autopsy table. Jamie passed it over. “Do you recognize that underwear, Mrs. Borden?”
She stared at it. Then she dropped onto the couch. “Charlotte was wearing this?”
“Is it yours?”
“No. It’s not mine.” She stared at the picture as she spoke. “Where would she have gotten it?”
“It shows up as an expense on her credit card statement,” Jamie said.
“Charlotte bought this?” Sondra glanced at Jamie before returning her attention to the image, seeming simultaneously repulsed and entranced by what she saw.
“It appears that she did.”
Passing the picture back, Sondra said nothing but smoothed her hands over her pants. A moment later, she rose and thanked them for coming by as though they had been guests for tea. She shook hands politely and headed for the door, more quickly than she’d been moving on the way into the room.
Which question had triggered the hurry?
Heath Brody, Brandon Shambliss, or the fact that her daughter had purchased the four hundred dollar lingerie that she’d worn when she was allegedly raped?
Chapter 11
At the light table, Roger worked beside Chase, measuring tire tread imprints from the photographs taken at the scene. Roger made careful notes, checked the measurements twice, made a little hash mark next to the ones that were correct. Went on to the next. His measurements didn’t match Chase’s. Before saying anything, he measured again. Same number as before.
“Check point fourteen,” he told Chase who, despite multiple warnings, had a tendency to rush. Slightly flustered, Chase went back to re-measure.
Once the measurements were completed, they would be compared with the tread from Dwight Stewart’s body to match the car and hopefully identify the make and model.
Roger appreciated the soothing momentum of the crime scene lab. Not the mad rush of a CSI episode—nothing moved that fast. The sense of things being uncovered one by one, over time, like moving through a haystack, one handful at a time. This was the slow process of narrowing in on the killer, the thief, the rapist. As with anything, there were times when this was not the case, when things halted. This morning was not like that. This morning, things were moving.
As he and Chase were finishing up, the lab door opened and Hal entered. He crossed to them in three long, clean strides. Roger enjoyed those kinds of things. He made a note to measure his own stride next time he went for the door. Hal scanned the images. “Any evidence of more than one car?”
“No,” Roger answered. “All tires are the same make and model. I did notice something though.”
“What’s that?”
Roger sorted through the images to find the two he wanted. He spun them so they were upright for Hal then pulled them side by side for comparison. “One of the tires has significantly more tread than the other three.”
“So it’s newer?”
“Yes,” Roger agreed.
“A replacement?”
“Maybe the spare,” Roger suggested, using his pencil to point to the tread in the images. “The front right tire appears new, while the left rear shows signs of toe wear, more on the inside.”
“What causes toe wear?” Hal asked.
“Could be underinflation,” Roger said, “but, since it’s more prevalent on one side, it may be an alignment issue. When we see it on the outside of the tire, it’s sometimes a sign of the driver having too much speed when he or she takes corners.” Roger was quiet for several seconds, considering another possibility. “Huh.”
“What?” Hal asked.
“It occurred to me that if the tires were rotated, it’s possible that this tire with the toe wear was on the front of the car before they were rotated. Then, the wear would be a result of cornering, which is the most common cause of toe wear.”
“So maybe the tires were rotated when the spare was put on.”
“Maybe,” Roger agreed.
“Those other tires are pretty worn. Wouldn’t a tire store recommend new tires?”
“Most places would—more for the opportunity to upsell than for necessity, I’d think,” Roger said. “But, if they fixed any alignment issue and put the toe wear on the inside, the tire could go longer.” He shrugged. “Of course, I’m not a mechanic.”
“Can you guess how long they’ve been driving on this new tire?” Hal asked.
Roger turned to Chase, who had been quiet. “That’s probably more up your alley.”
Chase
lifted the image of the tire and put a magnifying glass to it. “Time depends on how far and how often they drive, as well as how hard they are on tires. There’s maybe a thousand miles of wear. Maybe a little less.” He handed the picture back to Hal and set the magnifying glass down before returning to his measurements.
“So the tires might have been rotated a week ago or a month ago.”
“I thought you had all the answers,” Hal joked.
Chase laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d heard all day.
The lab door opened and Hailey came in. It took her five strides to cross to Hal. “Here you are,” she said.
All the men in the room—himself included—looked up as though Hailey might be talking to them. Of course she wasn’t.
“Hey. I was studying these tire marks,” Hal said. “How’d the interview with the victim’s son go?”
Hailey wore a light gray pantsuit with a blue shirt. Where Roger’s wife’s full figure came from being tall and big-boned, Hailey was petite with an hourglass figure that men couldn’t ignore. He was no different, although he’d like to think he’d grown subtler. Chase, on the other hand, was staring. Roger not so subtly stepped on Chase’s foot. Chase winced and looked away. Thankfully, Hailey didn’t—or pretended not to—notice.
“Dwight Stewart seems like a good candidate for stumbling out into the street and getting hit,” she said. “But the idea that someone hit him intentionally doesn’t ring true.”
“How so?” Hal asked.
“There’s nothing to suggest someone would want him dead.”
“There’s always something,” Chase mumbled.
“What did the son have to say?” Hal asked.
“Warren—that’s the son—” Hailey began. “Warren was well aware of his father’s drinking. It’s the usual story on that.” Hailey rolled her hand like she was summarizing a long list. “Tried to quit dozens of times. Sometimes he’d go a week or maybe a month without a drink. Warren remembered one particular summer when he was eight, his dad was sober for the whole summer vacation. Said they played baseball every day. Everything was great, then bam. First day of school, Warren came home and his dad was on the couch with a bottle of malt liquor.”
Roger had an uncle who’d been an alcoholic. “The addiction was always on his heels.”
“Exactly,” Hailey agreed. “Warren doesn’t drink at all.”
“So, the dad was a mean drunk?” Hal asked.
“Nope.” Hailey settled onto a stool.
“Warren said his dad was about the nicest drunk you’d ever meet. Passed out, mostly. Could be a little cheeky with the women—Warren said that’s what his dad called it, ‘cheeky.’ He had no debt, lived within his means on his Social Security checks. His son owned the house and paid the expenses. Dwight Stewart didn’t drive. Got a DUI about six years ago and sold his car, stopped driving.”
“And when he didn’t come home two nights ago,” Hal interjected. “Didn’t the son think that was strange?”
“He said it happened sometimes,” Hailey said. “Warren made sure his dad never went out with more than twenty bucks and knew where the hide-a-key was. He’d been rolled a couple of times, so Warren was pretty vigilant about what his dad took out with him. No house key or credit cards, that kind of thing. Warren would listen for him to come home, but every few months Dwight fell asleep somewhere else. He always showed up the next morning, so Warren stopped worrying about him.” Hailey sighed.
“And no one had a beef?” Hal said.
“Nope. No enemies. Guy played poker with a bunch of geriatrics for nickels and pennies.”
Hailey waved at the tires. “Anything interesting?”
“Nothing conclusive yet,” Roger said.
“Any luck enhancing the surveillance video from the gas station?” she asked.
“I don’t think so,” Roger said, glancing over at David Ting, who was hunched over his keyboard. “Ting, any luck with the video from the Chevron station?”
“Uh, not really,” Ting admitted. He pivoted the monitor so they could see the image. “This is the best I could do.”
In the center of the screen was a white shape. The image wasn’t detailed enough to confirm that the shape was even a car. This was not going to help.
Hal walked toward Ting. “Isn’t there some way to have the computer fill it in? Like a program that fills in the colors and shapes based on some statistical assumptions?”
Ting gave Hal a blank-faced look.
“A program that does what, Hal?” Roger asked.
“You know, they’ve got all these sophisticated computer programs that run crazy algorithms to fill in missing data and create full images from partial ones, that sort of thing.”
Hailey waved a hand at him. “Ignore him. He watches way too much Science Channel.”
“Going to have to side with Hailey on that one,” Roger agreed. “We don’t have anything like that, I’m afraid. If it exists, I’m guessing the price tag is too high for the public sector, except maybe the feds.”
“Makes sense,” Hal said. “Google probably bought it for fifty billion.”
“Let me try something else,” Ting said, ducking his head back down. His fingers moved across the keyboard so quickly they were hard to follow. The screen flashed black, then the image slowly reloaded.
As the first lines appeared, it was clear that the image was out of focus. It was better though. In this version, at least it was clear that it was a car.
Ting looked up at Roger as though begging.
“We can’t do better than this, Hal.”
Hal sighed and rubbed his bald head.
“We’re lucky this camera got anything at all,” Roger continued. “That equipment is meant to capture a license plate or a face at the pump, not something two hundred yards away at another intersection.”
“I know,” Hal conceded. “I was hoping we’d be able to pull something off that car. Without more detail, we’re going to be searching for a white sedan in a city of a million people, and that’s not including the suburbs.”
“Okay, grumpy,” Hailey said. “It’s not perfect.”
“Roger, do you have a request in to match automotive paint?” Sydney Blanchard asked from the doorway.
They all turned toward her voice.
“Actually, I do,” Roger said. “It’s from our hit-and-run last night.” He checked his watch. “Did it come back already?”
“Not exactly,” Sydney said, crossing the lab with a paper in one hand. “What time did that happen?”
“Seven thirty-seven is when we get the car on video, so we think the accident happened about then, give or take a couple of minutes,” Hal answered. “Why?”
“There was paint transfer found on the driver’s side mirror of a Mercedes that was involved in an assault case.”
“The Borden girl,” Roger said. He’d heard about that one.
“Right,” Sydney confirmed.
“And?” Hal asked.
“The lab hasn’t identified the make and model of the vehicle that hit the Mercedes yet, but I got confirmation that the paint from your hit-and-run is an exact match to the paint found on Sondra Borden’s Mercedes.”
Hailey crossed to Roger’s computer. “Maybe Michael Delman’s car is white.”
“Hang on,” Roger said, logging in to access California’s DMV records. He typed in Delman’s name and searched the results. “Nope. Delman drives a blue ’90 Ford Focus.”
Hailey pulled out her phone. “There has to be some connection. I’m texting Jamie.”
“Delman might have had an accomplice,” Sydney suggested.
“Roger, will you pull up Delman’s record again?” Hal asked.
“I’ve got to get back,” Sydney said, excusing herself as Michael Delman’s record loaded onto the screen.
Roger scanned the rap sheet alongside Hailey and Hal. Assault. Burglary. Assault with a deadly weapon. B&E. Known accomplices: none.
Hal grunted. “Doe
sn’t look like Delman is much of a team player.”
“Right,” Hailey agreed. “Maybe it wasn’t Delman. Maybe the driver who hit and killed Dwight Stewart is the perp in the Borden assault. He assaulted her and was on the run when he hit Dwight Stewart and the girl.”
“And Delman just happened upon a rich teenage girl and decided to put her in her own Mercedes, drive her to the hospital, and leave the car there?” Hal asked.
“Yeah,” Hailey said. “Doesn’t sound really feasible, does it?”
“At least we have a good theory about where Sondra’s Mercedes was the night of Charlotte’s assault,” Roger said.
“I’ll get a team back out there to look for evidence.”
Hailey’s phone buzzed in her hand. “Jamie,” she answered. “I think we’ve found the location where Charlotte was attacked.”
Something triggered in Roger’s brain. An address that had come across his desk. He shifted several papers until he found it, then studied the two addresses side by side. He slid the paper to Hailey and pointed to the name and address. “Same place,” he whispered.
“Shit,” Hailey said then into the phone. “And Jamie?”
There was a muffled response.
“The place where we think Charlotte was attacked—it’s also Michael Delman’s home address.”
Chapter 12
Jamie rode shotgun while Vich drove the department car down 7th and turned left on 16th, then right onto 3rd toward the apartment building where Charlotte was attacked. The building where Michael Delman lived. She didn’t want to think about Delman. She checked her e-mails for any further news about Charlotte’s condition. If Charlotte woke up, if she could talk, all this would be over. They would have their answers. The thought was followed by an uncomfortable pain in her chest.
Z was keeping something from her.
What if it related to Charlotte? His school, his father, his blood type… how could she ignore that all these things led back to Z?
Vich found 23rd and followed it to Tennessee like he’d been driving these streets his whole life. He got along surprisingly well, Vich did, for someone new to San Francisco. Dogpatch had more than a few dead-end streets and the occasional road that looked like a throughway, only to take some bizarre turn. She didn’t try to find her way anywhere without Google Maps talking in her ear.
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