The Target

by L. J. Sellers

  The sergeant blinked in surprise. “Why?”

  “Because I respect James Avery’s career. I think his wife will be more receptive to someone who’s a fan.”

  Hawthorne spoke up. “Let him. In fact, I want to keep the case. I can run it from a wheelchair with Cortez and Harris doing the legwork. I can’t afford to take any time off.”

  “I don’t know.” Riggs rubbed his dark, shaved head.

  Cortez had to fight for this one. “Avery and his wife are private people, and their contact information isn’t public. But the widow’s name is Veronica Scappini. She’s a part-time model, and I contacted the agency and acquired her phone number and address.” He hoped he’d demonstrated his resourcefulness.

  Riggs didn’t look impressed. “A gimp and a newbie? We’ll see how you do.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Keep me updated, because I’ll be taking the calls from the press and the fans. The sergeant turned to leave. “Better get to work.”

  Cortez pulled up a chair and took out his notepad. “What’s next after I talk to the wife? Phone and bank records?”

  “Yes, but I’ll make those calls. You need to do the legwork and find out where the victim was yesterday and who saw him.” Hawthorne sat up, grimacing. “What did the medical examiner say after I left in the ambulance?”

  “Avery died between eight and ten last night.” Cortez tried to remember the blood-pattern terminology, but couldn’t come up with it. “Blood had pooled on his side, so the ME thinks he died right there on the floor. The autopsy is tomorrow.” Cortez hadn’t decided whether he would attend. The report would be the same either way.

  “Ask them to send us everything, including photos, as soon as it’s done. I’ll have uniforms question people in the crime scene area, but I’m not optimistic about a witness.”

  “I’ll track the victim’s timetable.”

  “Harris will read through the paperwork as soon as we have the phone and credit card statements.”

  Cortez thought it was unfair to give all the boring stuff to Harris, but he wanted to question witnesses, so he didn’t say anything. Harris would have to fight her own battles. He stood, eager to get going. “I’ll go talk to Veronica Scappini now.”

  “Remember, she’s a suspect, no matter how pretty she is.” Hawthorne reached for his call button. “Go easy and learn what you can, but be skeptical of everything she says.”

  “Copy that.” Cortez couldn’t wait to tell his mother about his assignment. What if his name and picture ended up in the newspaper after he arrested the murderer? Maybe Risa Rispoli, the reporter he liked, would finally go out with him.

  In his car, he called the medical examiner’s office and asked to speak to one of the pathologists. After a long wait, a woman’s voice came on the line. “This is Dr. Dean.”

  Cortez introduced himself. “I’m investigating James Avery’s death. He was brought in today. I know the staff is busy, but considering Mr. Avery’s status, I hope you’ll prioritize his blood work. The media will be calling every day until we give them some information.”

  A pause. “Who exactly is James Avery?”

  How could she not know? “He’s a movie star. You know the Jack Kramer series?”

  “I don’t watch many movies. But I’ll do what I can to move his toxicology along.”

  “Thank you. Please send the report and the photos to me and Detective Hawthorne as soon as you have them.” He gave her their email addresses. “Please treat Mr. Avery’s corpse as respectfully as possible.”

  “We always do.”

  James Avery’s house in La Jolla surprised him. The single-level home sprawled across a hill near the ocean with a three-car garage on a lower level in front. But its modesty seemed unusual for a movie star. Then Cortez remembered that James Avery had a home in Hollywood as well. And Avery wasn’t exactly an A-list movie star anymore. He should have been, but the cruel industry tossed people aside if they started to go gray or put on weight. Avery had chosen not to dye his hair or starve himself the way some actors did. Cortez respected that.

  He parked behind the red Miata in the driveway, wondering who drove it and if another vehicle was in the garage. The summer sun beat down on his head, but he was used to it. The task ahead was what made him sweat.

  Before he reached the ornate double doors, a woman flew out of the house, her beautiful face stricken with panic. “Are you here about James? Was he in an accident?” Her loose white clothes didn’t hide her long, lean body and full breasts.

  Stunning! And so much younger than her husband. Avery had been a lucky man. Well, until he was killed. “I’m Detective Cortez, SDPD.” He held out his hand.

  She ignored it. “Tell me. Is James in the hospital? I haven’t been able to find out anything.”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry. Can we go inside?”

  Her mouth opened in shock and her hand flew to cover it. “No!”

  Oh dear. What should he do now?

  Veronica’s knees buckled and she doubled over as if in pain.

  Cortez regretted volunteering to do this. “Let me help you into the house.” He reached for her elbow.

  She slapped at his hand, sobbing now. “No! Just go away! I don’t want to hear this.”

  He would wait it out. Cortez took a deep breath and counted slowly to twenty, while the widow cried with her face in her hands. A car on the street slowed down to gawk.

  “Miss Scappini? Let’s go inside and get you comfortable. We have things to talk about.” Cortez put his arm around her and led her toward the door. She didn’t object.

  Inside, he guided her toward a pale sofa in a sunny corner. The windows were draped in a gauzy material that softened the white room. A very different interior than his small house, which he’d painted in rich colors.

  He sat on the coffee table, afraid to dirty the furniture. “I’m sorry, but James Avery is dead. You’re his wife, Veronica Scappini, correct?”

  She nodded, her head still down. “Tell me what happened.”

  “We found his body in an abandoned cannery south of downtown.”

  “What?” She stopped crying and looked up, her forehead crinkled.

  “He was probably murdered there sometime last night.”

  “That makes no sense. Why would he be in an abandoned factory?” She gulped in air.

  “We think someone took him there and roughed him up. Do you know what they could have wanted?”

  “No.” She pushed off the couch. “Where’s my purse? I need to take something.”

  Cortez followed her through the house while she searched, marveling at how beige and white everything was. She found her bag in the kitchen and gulped a tablet from a pill bottle. A second later, she grabbed a partial bottle of red wine from the granite counter and downed three long gulps, splashing some on her white blouse.

  Unfazed, she set down the bottle, reached for a paper towel, and wiped her mouth. “Sorry, I was starting to hyperventilate.”

  Startled by her reaction, Cortez wondered how he would handle the death of his mother or sister. “If you’re feeling better, I’d like to ask some questions.”

  “I’m feeling a little numb, but not better. Let’s get this over with.” She plopped down at the small breakfast table, her bony hands gripped tightly together.

  Cortez took out his notepad and stuck a piece of cinnamon gum in his mouth to keep his throat from going dry. “When did you last see your husband?”

  “Yesterday morning when he went out to play golf.”

  “What was his mood?”

  “He seemed fine. Maybe preoccupied. He hadn’t made a movie in a while, so he was a little depressed.”

  Cortez realized he would never see another Jack Kramer movie. “Was James taking medication? Or seeing a therapist?”

  “No.”

  “Was there anyone new in his life? Anyone pressuring him?”

  “I don’t think so.” The widow fought to keep from sobbing. “He did
see his lawyer last week, but I don’t know what it was about.”

  Cortez would find out. The next question was delicate and he hated to ask. “Do you know about his will? About who would benefit from his death?”

  A flash of anger in her eyes. “I signed a pre-nup, so I didn’t marry him for his money. But his son and I will inherit his estate. What’s left of it.”

  “Do you have a copy of his will?”

  “You’ll have to ask his lawyer.”

  He asked for the lawyer’s name and contact information, then continued with questions about Avery’s immediately family—‌his son, parents, and siblings, hoping to contact them all. Sometimes wives were the last to know when a man was in trouble. “Had anything unusual happened in James’ life recently?” Her mention of depression made him think the chain of events leading to the murder may have started a while ago.

  “He was hit with a paternity lawsuit. A woman named Alicia Freison claimed he was the father of her three-year-old son.”

  Cortez made notes. Avery’s beating and death could have been about blackmail or extortion. Someone probably wanted his money. “I’d like to see her legal papers. She could be a person of interest.”

  Veronica stood, her voice bitter. “The lawsuit was bullshit. She’s probably one of those DNA grabbers who stalk celebrities.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They follow movie stars and famous athletes around, waiting for a chance to snatch a strand of hair or a drop of saliva.” The widow made an angry grabbing gesture. “Then they file a paternity claim or blackmail the celebrity into keeping the claim quiet.”

  Vile. Such a person might kidnap and kill a movie star too. “I need everything you know about this woman and her lawsuit.” He couldn’t wait to tell Hawthorne he already had a lead.

  Chapter 9

  Friday, July 11, 8:40 a.m.

  Dallas flashed her ID badge and hurried through the TecLife doors before they locked again. First-day jitters made her clutch at her shoulder bag. She had to be professional at this administrative gig—‌so she could keep the job long enough to gather incriminating intel. No pressure. She stopped at the reception area and spoke with Adrian. “Jace Hunter again. Cheryl Decker said you’d get me set up with an email account.”

  “I will. Welcome.” He held out his hand. “Write down how you want your first and last name to read, then I’ll add at teclife dot com, and you’ll be good to go in an hour.”

  She jotted down JaceHunter on a sticky note. “Anything else I need to know?”

  “Ms. Decker likes her coffee really hot. We have an espresso machine in the break room, but you’ll need to nuke it before you take it back to her.”

  Coffee fetching? Whatever. Dallas smiled. Between both paychecks, she’d be the highest paid barista on the planet. Waiting tables in college had taught her that there was value in serving others. And had given her opportunities to charm strangers with elaborately fabricated background stories.

  “Did your boss tell you about the morning staff meetings?”

  “Not yet.”

  “First floor atrium at nine-fifteen sharp.”

  “See you there.” She was eager to meet everyone and size them up. The weak links—‌who she could extract information from—‌were easy to pick out. One of the three top executives was most likely the mastermind, and she had to narrow it down to focus on a target for her probe. Catching the perp in an act of setting up a sabotage would be the ultimate reward. More likely, she’d have to cobble together emails, bank statements, and photos to create enough evidence for a conviction or plea deal.

  Dallas took the elevator to the third floor and strode down the hall. The click of her heels was an unexpected but happy sound. In the Phoenix bureau, she wore pants and sensible shoes like everyone else. It felt good to wear a skirt and show some leg. She stepped into Cheryl Decker’s front office without knocking, dropped her bag on the assistant’s desk, and glanced around. A small window next to the door opened into the hallway, but otherwise the room was suffocating and dreary. She’d have to bring in a plant or maybe fresh flowers every day.

  Decker opened the door between their offices and stuck in her head. “Would you bring me some coffee from the break room? The good stuff. Then we have an employee meeting. After that, I’ll get you started on some data entry I need done.” Decker started to walk away, then turned back. “Impress me today.”

  Hardass. “I will.” Coffee fetching and data entry. Oh boy. Good to see her college education and sniper training paying off. But she would enjoy the challenge, at least for a while. If she had to do the same thing every day for the rest of her life, she’d put her Glock to her head. Some people thrived on predictability. She wasn’t one of them.

  The employees gathered in the atrium outside the break room. The space had tables on both sides of a glass wall, with the patio being accessible through a locked door. She would have to remember to keep her badge with her if she ever stepped outside. Only one person approached and introduced himself.

  “Max Grissom, CEO. Thanks for joining us.” He was short, and because she wore heels, his eyes stared directly into her chest. He caught himself and looked up again. “I hope you find our gathering inspirational.” His face was pleasant, with a deep worry wrinkle on his forehead and a patch of dark pigment along one jawline.

  She would have to fake an interest in him to get close enough to access his texts and emails. “I’m excited to be here.”

  He touched her arm, then trotted to the glass wall that everyone was facing. Most of the employees were women between the ages of thirty and fifty, dressed in gray or black A-line skirts and jackets. Not one was smiling. Sales and marketing, she guessed. Two men in short-sleeved cotton shirts stood in the back, commenting in voices too low to understand.

  She stepped toward them. “What’s this about?”

  The guy next to her let out a little laugh. “You’ll see. I’m Eric. You must be Cheryl’s new assistant.”

  “Yes. Jace Hunter.”

  He shook her hand and introduced his pal, Nikola. She committed their names and faces to memory.

  “Good luck with Cheryl,” Eric leaned over and whispered. “She can be demanding. And you might as well know that Max Grissom will hit on you right away. Just tell him no. He won’t fire you.”

  “Thanks for the head’s up.”

  A moment later, the CEO’s voiced boomed, “Good morning! Let’s get physical!”

  A loud version of Eye of the Tiger blasted into the room. Grissom began a series of stretches and jumps, and the employees joined in.

  What the hell? Was it mandatory? Dallas glanced at the other women in skirts and heels. They were participating, so she did too. The sales reps had to be making a damn good commission, or the job market was even worse than she’d heard. Cheryl Decker, in the front row, wore black pants and a white pullover shirt. Smart woman, but maybe she was the only one who could get away with wearing casual clothes. Her background file indicated that she didn’t socialize or meet with clients.

  After the physical routine, Grissom announced the week’s sales numbers—‌which everyone cheered. Then he burst into a pep talk, urging a better performance, stopping intermittently and calling, “Give me a ‘hell yeah’!”

  The employees raised their hands and gave it their best. Dallas was too stunned to do much but watch, wide-eyed. Was this typical in the medical device industry, or was Grissom an ambitious wingnut? She decided to focus her probe on him first, and she’d probably have to get cozy with his administrative assistant to gain access to his files. Thank goodness this wasn’t her real job. Even her love of acting couldn’t get her to embrace the drink-the-Kool-Aid crap.

  The cheerleading was abruptly over, and the employees quickly dispersed. Eric paused to caress her shoulder and say, “Let’s have lunch today, and I’ll give you survival pointers.”

  An opportunity to pump him for information. “Thanks. I think I’ll need them.” She gave him a l
ook of mock distress, followed by a smile. “Unless my boss has other plans for me, I’ll meet you in the lobby at noon.”

  In the hallway, Decker grabbed her elbow. “Walk upstairs with me and we’ll get started.”

  On the climb, her boss laid out her training philosophy. “I’ll show you how to open the software I use and sort the data I’ve collected, but I’m not going to explain how our server works or where to find everything.” Decker looked back to check her expression, then continued, “Your one reference that I could reach said you were smart and competent, so I assume you’ll figure it out. The product I’m working on will be a blockbuster, so I can’t waste time on anything else.”

  “That sounds exciting. What is it?”

  Decker stopped on the landing and locked eyes with her. “This is strictly confidential, and I’m only telling you because you’ll see it once you start working with the data. It’s called Slimbiotic, and it’s a device that you swallow. Once it reaches the intestines, the case dissolves and releases special microbiota that begin to change the patient’s metabolism and response to inflammation. The molecular chemistry is more complex than that, but no one will care. The product is incredibly effective and safe, and every overweight person in the developed world will want it.”

  The holy grail of pharmaceutical research? “What a breakthrough.” Dallas wanted to know more. “What exactly are special microbiota?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “I really do.”

  “They’re living organisms that originally came from the intestines of healthy, naturally slim people. But they’ve been produced in large quantities through recombinant processes.”

  “You mean like a fecal transplant?”

  Decker scowled and shook her head. “We never use that term. Our product is an advanced, patient-friendly form of that medical procedure.”

  Bacteria. Slimbiotic was the intestinal transfer of healthy bacteria without surgery. The concept was brilliant. But it also meant TecLife could have produced the bacteria that killed Agent Palmer. Was Decker, or maybe Santera, a killer, or had it been accidental? The product could be more dangerous than anyone realized.