Nothing about her appearance suggested she had been involved in a struggle. It wouldn't be the first time Alex had seen a grandmother look innocent as day, only to find out she'd killed someone. The first suspect was always the person who had reported the crime. No such thing as a Good Samaritan in a cop's world. Truth was, suspicion simply ran through a cop's veins like blood. It made cops miserable to live with, but it helped on the job. Since Alex didn't live with anyone, she considered her suspicious nature pure benefit.
Alex wondered when the housekeeper had arrived. And for that matter, who had seen Alex parked there this morning? Someone must have. People didn't often sleep in their cars in this neighborhood. It was bound to have drawn attention.
Greg approached the woman first and Alex followed without allowing herself to be distracted.
"You have to hurry. I can see him through the window," the woman said, waving her arms frantically.
Greg pulled a notebook from his pocket. "What's your name, ma'am?"
She leaned over his notebook. "Ramona Quay. That's Q-U-A-Y. I keep the house."
"Do you have a key?"
She shook her head. "I get here before he's gone to work and he lets me in."
"What about when he's not home?"
"Then, we make other plans. Sometimes he leaves a key out for me." Her head continued to shake in a firm, continuous motion as though she were emphatically denying something. "But that's only happened once or twice."
"What's the gentleman's name?"
"Mr. Loeffler. William Loeffler. He's an attorney downtown."
Alex nodded, feeling relieved. The name wasn't familiar. And looking at the large, half-timbered Tudor house, she knew she had never seen it before. The fact that Alex woke up down the street from there that morning was definitely a strange coincidence, but that's all it was. Her first coincidence. Maybe she'd be a believer yet.
"Mr. Loeffler lives alone?" she asked.
The woman nodded, still rubbing her hands together in nervous agitation. "Used to be him and his wife here." Mrs. Quay glanced at her feet and clenched her teeth as though cursing herself for saying too much. "They been separated about six months."
Warning bells sounded at the word "separated," but Alex kept her thoughts to herself. The wife would need to be questioned. Greg and Alex hurried up the stone steps, Ramona close behind. The house was painted white with thick beams such a dark brown they were almost black. It appeared to have been recently repainted and the yard was carefully kept.
When they reached the porch, Alex checked the door. It was locked. Her hands cupped around her face, she stared through the window. A man lay sprawled on the floor, his feet closest to them. Dressed in jeans, running shoes, and a plaid flannel shirt, the man wasn't at all what Alex had pictured. And dressed like that he wasn't on his way to work—not at any of the law firms she'd seen. When the call had come through, she'd pictured an older man, fallen dead from a heart attack.
The man she saw appeared thin, fit, and about her age. Alex could make out his dark hair, but she couldn't see his face. Maybe he had fallen and hit his head somehow. They rang the bell twice to avoid entering and alarming anyone. Cops got shot that way more than anyone liked to think about. But no one came to the door.
"Mrs. Quay, I'm going to have to ask you to stay here," Alex directed.
The woman continued to clasp and unclasp her hands as she nodded.
Greg and Alex circled the house, Alex leading. She waded through the knee-deep ivy toward a small clearing beside the house. Her ears honed for activity from any side, she climbed over a small gate that wouldn't open and stopped at a side door. The sight of glass shards on the wet ground made her halt.
Greg followed her gaze. "What is it?"
Her hand motioned down as she surveyed the house and spotted a small broken window on a door that led to what looked like the dining room. She patted her pockets in search of the stash of tissue she usually kept. "Do you have something I can use to open this door?"
Greg pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. "I'm going to status EMT backup." He pressed the speaker on his shoulder and said, "This is Officer Roback at 1112 Yolo. I've got a four-fifty-nine and a possible two-forty-five," he reported, letting the dispatcher know they were dealing with a break-in and a possible assault with a deadly weapon. "Victim appears to be unconscious. We're going in. Over."
"We read," came the response. "EMT's en route."
Using the handkerchief on the very tip to avoid ruining potential prints, Alex turned the pointed door handle and entered the dining room. With the handkerchief tucked in her pocket, she gripped her gun between her hands and prepared to shoot if necessary. Halfway into the dining room, she halted at the smell. It had the rich spiciness of cologne, but was almost too rich. Flowers maybe? Perfume? Sucking in another breath, she tried to place it.
Suddenly, the room swayed beneath her, and she moved to hold on to a chair, catching herself before she did. When Greg shut the door behind them, a breeze crossed her face and she was fine again. The smell disappeared. She looked in both directions for the source, but there was nothing. Balanced, she ignored the rapid pulse in her throat, and continued across the hallway toward the body.
The library was cool and damp, the hardwood creaking beneath her feet. Lessons from the academy drummed through her mind as she waited for signs that she and Greg weren't alone.
She crossed a large burgundy area rug and halted over the body. The crimson wave that had spilled onto the carpet had dried like thick tomato sauce. The man lay with his face only partially showing, the one visible eye bulging and bloodshot. His neck was slit open, the purple veins exposed, the skin pasty and yellowed where the blood hadn't dried. Blood saturated the collar of his maroon plaid shirt, making it look crusty and darker at the top. Pieces of tissue and blood had sprayed in a two-or three-foot diameter around the body.
Swallowing hard, Alex was glad Mrs. Quay hadn't seen that from the window. She started to circle and realized that one hand was missing at the wrist. "Jesus," she whispered.
"Let's check the perimeter," Greg said.
Alex stood up, and together they moved slowly from room to room, starting upstairs and working their way down. Guns drawn, they moved around each corner, listening intently.
As they searched the last room, she shook her head. "It's empty."
"Unpeopled," Greg corrected as they returned to the corpse.
"Right, unpeopled," she agreed, her eyes fixed on the body. Unable to draw her gaze off the man, she found she'd unconsciously pressed her hand to her own throat and pulled it away. Her knees felt sloppy beneath her, but she bent slightly and resisted the desire to sit. She remembered her trips to the morgue. The first few minutes of dead body were the worst. After that, like anything, you got used to it.
She shut her eyes and could still envision the room. When she opened them again, it was as though she had seen the crime scene from the other side of the room.
"I think we can skip checking for a pulse," Greg said.
Alex was still picturing the room as though she were standing on the other side. She tried to move but couldn't. It was as though someone had taken the remote control for her body away from her and had paused her reflexes.
"You're looking a little pale. You okay?"
She kicked herself back on and nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
"This is your first corpse. It's not supposed to be easy. You want to get a breath of air?"
She forced herself to shake her head, letting her eyes move past the body. "I'm fine."
Greg grinned. "Tough guy." He pressed his radio. "This is Adam Nine. Come in."
"Nine, go ahead," the dispatcher responded.
"We've got a DBF. Cancel EMT. Call the ME's office instead. And notify the detectives on duty."
"Copy."
Alex looked down at their DBF, "dead body found," and wondered what the man had done to deserve such a death.
Beside h
er, Greg put his hands on his hips and shook his head, following her thoughts. "Wonder who this guy pissed off."
With her gun tucked back in its holster, she knelt and studied the side of the man's head. His dark hair was graying by his ears and thinning in a small circle at the back of his scalp. Except for one eye and the side of his nose, she couldn't see his face.
"You doing okay down there?"
She looked up, feeling more steadied the more clinical she became. "Fine, why?"
He shook his head. "Couldn't pay me to get that close."
"You're a cop, Greg."
With a wave of his arm, he dismissed her comment. "Medical examiner gets these guys. I work for the living."
"Smell's not bad yet." At the morgue, she'd encountered corpses that had been discovered by their smells days and even weeks after death. It wasn't a pleasant experience.
Careful not to disrupt anything, she poked the dead man's muscles through his sleeve. The muscles were taut with rigor mortis, but she knew that wouldn't indicate exactly when he had died. Rigor mortis tended to start between two and six hours after death, then disappeared in about the same time frame. Alex had paid extra attention to the basics because she hoped to end up in the detective division. Which also meant getting used to death.
Inhaling deeply, she returned her gaze to the victim's neck and then followed the trail of blood that looked like finger paint along his chin and neck. She circled the body with her gaze, searching for blood splatter and the evidence that the technicians would use to determine how and when the man was killed. Except for the pool of blood and a little tissue, the area surrounding the body was relatively clean. Alex guessed the victim might already have been lying down when he was shot.
Feeling solid, she studied the stump where his hand had been, scanning the remnants for defense wounds and finding none. No pooled blood there. She guessed the hand had been removed post-mortem. Forcing a detached, clinical mode, she surveyed the area around the body. Every few minutes, she glanced back at the body to test that she was still in control, that she could do it.
"What's this?" Greg asked.
She turned to see Greg lean over and pick something off the floor with a tissue.
In the white cloth, he cupped a small gold loop earring.
Alex's eyes widened as she touched her ears. It was one of hers.
"It's yours?"
Fire lit in her cheeks.
"Alex?"
She showed him her empty left earlobe. "It must have just fallen off."
He handed it back to her. "Rookie, we call that contaminating the crime scene."
She saluted, trying to make a joke of it.
He handed her the earring. "Lombardi would have your head on a platter." With a sardonic smile, he stopped and motioned to the body. "Guess that wouldn't be too funny to this guy."
Alex forced a smile and put the earring back on as Greg pulled his notebook from his pocket.
"Must've fallen out of your pocket," he said.
"My pocket?"
She looked up at him and started to shake her head when he said, "You didn't have it on in the car either."
She blinked hard and forced the earring into her ear before turning her back to Greg. "Damn thing is always falling off," she lied. She knew the earring hadn't been in her pocket. She'd never put it there. She never even took the earrings off. She slept in them, ran, showered, everything. She must've knocked it off in the struggle with the perp, and it had just gotten stuck in her clothes or her hair. She was amazed that she hadn't lost it.
Someone knocked on the door and Alex turned to see Ramona Quay peering in through the glass.
"I'll handle it," Alex said, heading for the door.
The housekeeper's eyes were wide, her hands now red from wringing them together. "Is he going to be all right?"
She shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Quay."
The woman dropped her hands to her sides and began sobbing. Thankful to have someone else to worry about, Alex led the woman down to the car.
With the patrol car door open, she seated Mrs. Quay on the passenger side. She found a package of tissues next to Greg's breath mints in the glove compartment and gave her a handful of them.
Alex took out her notebook and pen. "I need to get some information from you."
"How... how did it happen?" the woman asked, her large nose bending almost in half as she wiped it with a tissue. Her eyes seemed suddenly droopier as tears ran down her cheeks, creating little pink lines in her dry skin.
Putting the notebook down, Alex squatted on the curb in front of her. "We're not sure yet."
"What do you mean, not sure?"
"We'll have to do some checking before we know what killed him." The fact that a close-range shot appeared to have almost detached his head from his body was a likely explanation for his death, but Alex kept that to herself. The police had good reasons for not disclosing the cause of death. Even if not a suspect, Mrs. Quay could become a material witness. She may have seen something or known someone who wanted Loeffler dead. And for that reason, they needed to talk to her before she found out anything about the crime scene. Plus, who knew how the woman would take it, and Alex didn't need anyone having a coronary on her.
"He had a very good heart," she said. "He was in very good shape. Always ran downtown and stopped for a bagel and ran home—every morning."
Alex nodded. "I don't think it was his heart, Mrs. Quay. I believe someone wanted him dead. Can you think of who might want to hurt him?"
She shook her head quickly. "I can't believe. Mr. Loeffler."
Alex listened while Mrs. Quay expressed disbelief at the demise of her employer. But the woman couldn't offer any clue as to who might have wanted to kill him. "No, he was a good man. No one would do this to him."
As Alex turned, an olive green Chevrolet as old as she was pulled to the curb. It was Detective Lombardi's. "It's a one of a kind," he always bragged.
When Lombardi stopped by the patrol car, Alex excused herself from Mrs. Quay. As he surveyed the area, his eyes looked small and beady like an animal's. Instead of walking, Lombardi lumbered, moving the way an elephant grazed, heavy and slow.
A black trench coat that looked as though it had been through a gang war hung over his broad shoulders. It had a bullet hole in the right shoulder where he'd been shot once, and another midway down the right side where he had shot at someone from his pocket. Like a medal of honor, he wore the coat day in and day out, no matter what the weather. He once came to the station with a pair of swim shorts beneath it.
At the academy, she had heard cop stories like this one. Lombardi considered the coat his protective shield, and wearing it, he felt invincible.
"Up here?" Lombardi asked, motioning toward the stairs.
She nodded. The crime scene van pulled behind her squad car, and a team of three investigators, carrying large black plastic cases, emerged from the van.
Lombardi moved past her and waved for the crime scene investigative team to follow. "Come on, girls," he said, although there were two men and only one woman.
As always, Lombardi smelled like dirty ashtrays. The smell reminded Alex of her own days of smoking. As she always did when he passed, she inhaled, longing for just one more cigarette.
The female investigator rolled her eyes. Alex nodded her pity. Lombardi was old school. He didn't see a place for women on the force, except maybe as secretaries, and, of course, to clean up after him.
Returning to Mrs. Quay, Alex sat down on the curb. "Do you think you're up to giving me some information?"
The woman sniffled and gave a weak nod.
As she pulled her chewed-up pen from her pocket, Alex noticed Mrs. Quay glance at it. Alex really did need to get a pen she couldn't chew on—maybe a steel one.
Returning her attention to her notebook, Alex wrote down Mrs. Quay's name, address, phone number, and the standard questions about the housekeeper's arrival this morning. "Did you see any strange cars on the street
?" As soon as the question was out, Alex cursed herself for asking. A good cop would have let someone else ask that question. She poised her pen for the response, promising herself she'd put it in her report, no matter what it was.
Mrs. Quay stared out at the street in silence. When she looked back, she shook her head. "I don't think so. I don't really know. I never notice. It's such a busy street in the morning."
Dismissing her own selfish relief, Alex put her hand on Mrs. Quay's arm. "Don't blame yourself. You might remember something later."
The woman nodded, staring at the ground.
"Are you going to be okay here for a minute?"
She gave a stiff smile. "I'll be fine."
"I'll be back down and we'll get someone to take you home."
Mrs. Quay looked up, her eyes wide again. "I'd prefer to go to my daughter's."
"Of course. We'll get you to your daughter's, then. I'll be right back." Excusing herself, she followed Lombardi's group up the stairs.
Inside, a photographer snapped pictures of the body while the other investigators collected data. One man moved along the carpet on plastic kneepads, a pair of tweezers in one hand and a plastic bag in the other, collecting hair and fiber samples. After he finished, they would vacuum the rest of the area for anything he missed.
Another held a flashlight to the table beside the body. With a grunting noise, he pulled a fluffy brush out of his coat pocket and dipped it into powder, brushing it across the table. Then, like a proud child with a new toy, he blew the excess powder off. In the black dust, Alex saw a fingerprint.
Lombardi knelt beside the victim, snapped on some gloves, and handed a pair to Greg. Lombardi's eyes met Alex's and he dangled a pair of gloves. "You, too, Sugar."
Alex glared. "Sure thing, Pops."
Greg laughed while Lombardi pretended he hadn't heard her.
An adolescent-looking man with bad skin arrived from the medical examiner's office. On his knees, he laid a thick black plastic bag beside the body while another man, much older, brought in the gurney.
Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel) Page 3