The Target

by L. J. Sellers

  “I’m glad you reached out. But I only have a few minutes. I have tickets to a concert.” A pause, then quickly. “Unless you’re in crisis.”

  Not a chance. “I’m fine. I just wanted to run something by you.”

  “What is it?”

  “My dad is sick, maybe dying, and my mom wants me to fly home and see him. But I’m involved in an undercover assignment, and I don’t want to go.”

  “I thought you’d forgiven your parents.”

  “I never said that. And even if I did, it doesn’t mean I owe them anything.”

  Dr. Harper spoke with a gentle tone. “This isn’t about your father. It’s about you. If going home will make you unhappy, then don’t. But if not going will have a long-term negative effect, meaning guilt and regret, then suck it up and get it over with.”

  Right to the heart of it. That’s why she kept having sessions with this woman. “But what if I don’t know how not going will make me feel? I’d like to think I don’t really care.”

  “And yet, you’re talking to me about it. And you hate talking to me.” The shrink smiled, looking every day of her seventy-some years. “You must feel somewhat guilty about not going.”

  “My mother’s making me feel guilty.”

  “She has no control over your feelings.”

  So easy to say. “Okay, you win. I’ll fly out this weekend while I have some time, give the old man his peace of mind, and come right back.”

  “Probably a good choice. Where are you, by the way?”

  “San Diego. It’s pretty here. I love the ocean.”

  “Did you break up with Sam before you left?”

  “Not exactly. But I told him he was free to date someone else.”

  “How is the sex? Were you getting bored with him already?”

  The question no longer bothered her. It was why she’d started counseling with Dr. Harper in the first place. “It was still fine, but that’s because Sam isn’t clingy.”

  “I guess we’ll see what happens when he starts talking about a commitment.”

  Dallas started to mention that she might look up an old boyfriend while she was home, then changed her mind. Dr. Harper had plans. “Thanks for your time. I’ll let you go. Have fun at the concert.”

  “What are you not telling me?”

  Dallas waved and closed Skype. They could talk about it afterward, when she had something to report. Time to get online, buy a last-minute ticket to Flagstaff, and notify River. Being gone from her target location, even for forty-eight hours, felt wrong. But there wasn’t much she could do for the assignment this weekend, and it was still early in her investigation—‌so nothing was likely to happen while she was gone.

  Chapter 15

  Saturday, July 12, 7:45 a.m.

  Cortez woke to the sound of soft grunting. A wet tongue licked his hand, and he opened his eyes. Grumpy, his aging pot-bellied pig, nudged him. Cortez sat up and scratched the pig’s head. The little guy was always hungry. “Okay, already. It’s the weekend. Can’t a guy sleep in?”

  He trudged to the kitchen, put last night’s leftover macaroni and cheese in his pet’s bowl, then started a pot of coffee. His phone rang before he’d taken his first sip. A glance at the caller ID: Detective Hawthorne. Maybe it was a break in the case. “Good morning, sir. How’s your leg?”

  “The same pain in the ass it was yesterday. And just call me Thorn like everyone else. Okay? We’re working this case together.”

  Partners. Cortez beamed, glad Hawthorne couldn’t see him. “Do you have something new for me?”

  “A patrol officer spotted Avery’s Mercedes on a dead-end street about a mile from where we found the body. Just at the edge of National City.” Hawthorne read off the address. “I need you to check it out and have the vehicle towed to the processing building.”

  “I’ll go right now.”

  “Did you establish a timetable or get anything unusual from the widow?”

  “Sorry, but no.” Frustration surfaced again. “I called the top fifteen people in Avery’s cell phone, and no one saw him Tuesday after he left his house. I questioned his wife and his brother in person, and neither has any idea who would want him dead.”

  “What about the Freison woman who filed the paternity suit? Did you find her yet?”

  He felt downright incompetent. “I’ve called three times and stopped by the only address on file for her. I called her lawyer too, but he didn’t answer and didn’t return my call. I’ll try again today.”

  “Let’s put out a BOLO if she doesn’t turn up.”

  “What about Avery’s bank records and credit cards?” Cortez asked, shifting the focus.

  “Harris didn’t find anything unusual.” A voice in the background sounded like a nurse asking Hawthorne to get up. After a moment, he said, “You’d better hope the Hollywood reporters have another story or scandal to latch onto soon. If they keep calling the department, Riggs will pass this case to another team.”

  Cortez doubted that, but he said, “I’ll work through the weekend. There has to be a lead somewhere.”

  “Keep checking in.”

  “Copy that.” Cortez felt a burst of energy. He hung up and vowed again to find his icon’s killer. He regretted telling his mother he would do yard work for her that afternoon. He texted her and said he had to work instead. She read his texts, but never responded. His mother had adopted the parts of technology that worked for her—‌such as free TV on the internet—‌but ignored the rest. Plus her mix of English and Spanish didn’t work well for written communication.

  Cortez usually made huevos rancheros on Saturdays, but now he didn’t have time. He threw a burrito in the microwave, got dressed, and put Grumpy outside. The pig could come and go through his little pet door, but Cortez always encouraged him to get out in the morning while it was still cool.

  If the silver Mercedes Benz S had been left closer to Division, it would have been stolen, stripped of its license plate, and sold for a fraction of its value. Instead, it sat on a dead-end side street, mostly out of view of the main road. Cortez parked behind the black-and-white squad car and wondered what the patrol cop had been doing in the area. As he approached the car, the officer climbed out and strode up to him. A pretty woman about his age.

  His throat tightened. “I’m Detective Cortez. I’m working James Avery’s homicide.”

  “Officer Adie Silva.” Petite and curvy with big brown eyes, she held out her hand.

  Adie for Adelena? Her warm touch sent a charge up his arm.

  “Avery’s death is a shame. He was a fine actor and a good man.”

  She was a fan too. “I agree. I’ve seen every one of his films.”

  Officer Silva gave him a crooked smile. “He hasn’t made a movie in a while, but I still love him.”

  He wouldn’t let himself think of her as Adie while they were working. Torn between continuing their conversation and his responsibility to Avery, Cortez finally stepped toward the Mercedes. “Have you searched the vehicle?”

  “Just a quick visual. Then I ran the plates, recognized the victim’s name, and called it in. I knew he’d been killed around here somewhere.”

  “About a mile from here, at an old cannery.”

  “How did he die?” She stayed close, making his body hum.

  “They did the autopsy yesterday, and the cause of death is still unknown. Avery was beaten, but the blows didn’t kill him. I’m waiting for a toxicology report.” Cortez hadn’t attended the post, but instead, spent the day talking to Avery’s family members and friends. None of which had been helpful.

  As he took a series of photos to document the location and condition of the vehicle, Officer Silva commented, “I can’t imagine why someone would kill him and dump his car.”

  “I think he was driven out here, then assaulted.” Such a sad ending for a classy movie star. “I’d better search the car. A tow truck will be here soon to haul it to the processing bay.” Cortez pulled on gloves and examined the tw
o front door handles. They’d been wiped clean, but left unlocked. He opened the passenger’s side door and pulled the paperwork out of the glovebox. He thumbed through it and found only registration and insurance stuff. Nothing suspicious. He bagged the documents as evidence, knowing they would sit in a locker for decades, taking up space, and no one would ever look at them again. A quick glance inside the car revealed it was pristine, what he would have expected from Avery, but little help to him.

  “I’ll search the back,” Officer Silva offered, “but I don’t see anything.”

  “Maybe the technicians will pick up a print.” He wasn’t optimistic.

  After a few minutes of searching, he found a receipt for ProLabs, dated Tuesday, July 8th. The day Avery died. Was the lab the last place he’d been?

  “What did you find?” Silva asked.

  “A receipt for lab work on the day he was killed.” Closer inspection revealed the nature of the visit: DNA analysis. It was probably connected to the paternity suit. Would the lab be closed until Monday? He was eager to question the staff and look at the video surveillance, if they had any. Cortez bagged the receipt as evidence and headed to the back of the Mercedes, which was flawless—‌no scratches or dings. The trunk was locked.

  “I have a crowbar in my cruiser, if you want to bust it open.” Silva’s expression was neutral, but her eyes sparked.

  Should he? It seemed unnecessarily destructive. “I think I’ll let the technicians handle it.” He grinned. “If I thought there was a body in there, I’d be all over it.”

  “Your call.”

  Cortez wanted to check with the lab and get going. Yet he was enjoying Adie Silva’s company. “Excuse me for a moment.” After locating the number on the receipt, he called and listened to a canned voice message indicating they weren’t open on weekends.

  He turned to Silva. “I have to question a suspect this morning. Will you stay with the car until the tow truck arrives?”

  “Sure.”

  He glanced at her hands. No wedding ring. Was it smart to date another cop? His mother would like that Adie was at least part Hispanic, but that didn’t matter. No, he decided, she was too pretty and would never go out with him. He would just make her uncomfortable and force her to come up with a reason to turn him down.

  “Would you like to get coffee later to discuss the case?” she asked.

  His heart skipped a beat. She was asking him. He tried to sound casual. “That sounds good.” He handed her a business card. Should he ask for hers? No, he didn’t want to press his luck. “Which division do you work out of?”

  “Mid-City.”

  “I’ll see you later.”

  Her smile made his day.

  Feeling optimistic, he drove toward Alicia Freison’s apartment, about five miles south on the edge of Chula Vista. The woman didn’t seem to have a place of employment, but a surprise Saturday morning visit seemed like the ideal time to catch her at home.

  Two tenants chatting on the sidewalk made the complex seem less abandoned this time, but the new graffiti gave it a slum look. How had someone from this world crossed paths with James Avery? It seemed unlikely—‌unless she was an opportunistic grubber. Cortez approached the end unit on the ground floor and heard a TV. Yes! She was home. He knocked, prepared to be assertive.

  A disheveled woman in her late twenties yanked open the door. “I told you I—‌.” She stopped mid-sentence, her mouth open. “Who are you?”

  “Detective Cortez, SDPD.” He started to show his badge, but she pushed the door closed.

  Cortez stepped forward and caught it with his knee. A painful save. “We have to talk.”

  “Not without my lawyer.” Her eyes were defiant, but her lip trembled.

  “Tell him to meet you at the department because that’s where you’ll be.” He pulled out his handcuffs. “Or we can talk here.”

  “About what?”

  “James Avery.”

  A defeated look. “Oh christ.” She stepped back to let him in. “I saw the news about his death, but I don’t know anything.”

  Cortez entered the dark space that reeked of fried food. “Why didn’t you return my calls?” A little boy watched from the couch.

  “Because there’s nothing to say.”

  Dishes, canned food, and unopened mail covered the kitchen table, and every sitting place in the small unit was stacked with laundry. It was no way to raise a child. Being poor was no excuse for being messy. Or so his mother always said. “When did you last see James Avery?”

  Freison laughed, a bitter outburst. “About four years ago, when we screwed in the bathroom at a party.”

  He didn’t believe any of it. “You filed a paternity suit recently. You must have seen Mr. Avery at some point.”

  “No. My lawyer handled it.”

  “Why file the lawsuit now?”

  She gestured with both hands, inviting him to look around. “Why should his son grow up this way? John deserves more.”

  It didn’t explain the delay. “Did you tell Mr. Avery about his son at the time of his birth?”

  “I had a boyfriend. We were trying to make it work.” She became aware of her appearance and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. It didn’t do anything for her stained pajamas.

  Cortez wondered how Avery’s death would affect the lawsuit. “Will you drop your case now?”

  “Why should I? John will inherit a good chunk of money.”

  “If you can prove paternity.”

  “His DNA is a match. Just look at him.”

  Cortez glanced over at the child again. The boy had the same sandy hair and wide forehead as the actor, but it didn’t prove anything. “Where were you last Tuesday night between eight and ten p.m.?”

  A worried expression crept onto her face as she thought about what he was asking. “Oh yeah, I was at my sister’s for dinner.”

  If Freison had killed the actor, she probably hadn’t done it by herself. “Did you hire someone to assault Mr. Avery? Were you trying to extract money from him?”

  She blinked a few times, then scowled. “Are you serious? Why would I do that? I have a solid paternity suit that’s worth a million bucks.”

  Good point. “Maybe Mr. Avery threatened you. His wife says you’re a DNA hustler. That you stalked him until you managed to snatch a strand of his hair. Then you filed suit, hoping for a quick settlement to keep it out of the press.”

  “That’s a lie.” Freison moved toward the fridge, not looking at him. “I’ve answered your questions. Now leave me alone.” She pulled out a milk carton and gulped some down.

  Unsanitary. Cortez didn’t know what else to ask. He didn’t trust the woman, but she hardly had a reason to commit murder. “Give me your sister’s name and contact information, so I can confirm your alibi.”

  Freison rolled her eyes, but wrote the information on his notepad. “Maybe James’ wife killed him to get his money. Or because she was tired of his screwing around. She seems pretty cold to me.”

  Startled, he asked, “You’ve met Veronica?”

  “No, but I saw an interview with her a while back. She seemed upset that he hadn’t been offered any good movie roles recently. I think she was worried about money.”

  Wasn’t everybody? “I may have more questions. Don’t ignore my calls and don’t leave town.” He’d always wanted to say that.

  She rolled her eyes again and gave a smart-ass wave. The lack of respect offended him, but he was slowly coming to accept that police officers weren’t seen as heroes anymore. Cortez let himself out, then waited in his car for a few minutes to see if Freison would leave the apartment. If she did, she might be headed to warn the thug who’d helped her assault Avery.

  Chapter 16

  Saturday, July 12, 1:07 p.m.

  The sight of Flagstaff below the plane’s window triggered a flood of emotions: first, nostalgia for the beauty of the trees and the quaintness of the architecture, followed by a fear of becoming stuck there again. Rippling under the
surface was a fading bitterness that her childhood in this mountain town had been disappointing at best. This was her first visit in years. She often thought about making the drive from Phoenix to see her aunt, but never did. Fortunately, Lynn made occasional trips to the city, so they had dinner and drinks at least once a year. Ten minutes later, she walked off the plane into a blue-sky day and gulped in cool, fresh air. Flagstaff in July was about perfect. But she was here to witness a death, and her mood darkened in spite of the scenery.

  All of her dread washed away when her aunt wrapped her arms around her and murmured, “I’ve missed you.”

  Dallas had called Lynn to pick her up because her aunt was dependable, and she didn’t want to commit to seeing her mother. Just because her dad was dying didn’t mean she had to pretend everything was okay with Mom. They had both been lousy, neglectful parents, but she blamed her mother more. It was sexist and unfair, but that was the cultural expectation. Mothers were supposed to give a shit.

  “You look great,” she said, meaning it. Lynn took excellent care of herself, and Dallas hoped to look as good as she did at fifty.

  “Hah. But thanks. How have you been?”

  “Excellent. I love my job.”

  Her aunt didn’t ask about her love life. That would come later, after they’d had a few drinks. “How about you? What are you writing now?”

  “A futuristic paranormal romance.”

  They both laughed. Her aunt’s strange fiction was popular, and her success had inspired Dallas to dream big. “Have I thanked you recently for everything you did for me? All the acting lessons and day camps and tutors. I know it cost you a fortune.”

  Aunt Lynn winked. “You’re a great investment.”

  “You spent time just hanging out with me too. It changed my life.”

  Another quick hug. “Hey, I’m not the one dying.”

  “Thank goodness.” They walked toward the exit of the tiny airport. “So how is Dad? Have you seen him?”