Expert Witness

by Rebecca Forster

  “Do it,” Erika snapped.

  “Okay. Okay.”

  Josie struggled to her feet. Even at her full height, she was still a foot and a half lower than that missing brick. But arms up, pushing herself off the way she would on the volleyball court, she should be able to reach it. She took a deep breath, and put her bound hands on the wall.

  Eyes up and focused on the little bottle that had long ago ceased to sweat, she bent her knees, balanced on the balls of her feet, and jumped. Tied as she was, there was no way to actually grasp the bottle. The best she could hope for was to tip it into the hut. Her fingertips touched plastic. In the next split second, Josie had that bottle in her grasp, and in the second after that it was gone. The plastic was slippery, the bottle small, her hands bound and her aim skewed. The bottle tipped and toppled, and disappeared on the wrong side of the cement hut.

  Next thing Josie knew, she was crumpled on the ground, on her knees, the heel of her hands balancing her. Her head was bent, her breath labored. She had failed.

  “I’m sorry,” she breathed and when she turned her head to look at Erika, all she saw was a blur of color, and raised fists.

  “You did it on purpose. I’m going to kill you!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN:

  Xavier Hernandez’s Place, Los Angeles

  They drove the last five miles down the Harbor Freeway in silence broken only by the crackling of Liz’s radio. Archer prepared himself for evidence that Josie was dead, Liz tried to tamp down the sense that she was nearing detective glory, and Daniel? Who knew what Daniel was thinking? Archer checked the rearview mirror. He could see a sliver of Daniel Young’s face and what he saw told him nothing. More than likely, the vibes Archer felt from the guy were worry. He had to be wondering when it was his turn to be the target.

  Archer’s phone vibrated. He checked it and saw a text from Hannah. Peter Siddon had called again. He texted her back: Ignore him.

  Archer already had planned to track him down the next day, but tomorrow’s court date might change that. Then again, this trek might change everything. Instead of chasing a guy down in the high desert, he might be bringing Josie home and they would both see Hernandez behind bars again.

  He pocketed the phone just as Liz exited on to Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, and they were dumped into a part of Los Angeles few beach people knew existed. Archer had seen it before, though. All those years with the LAPD had sent him into every nook and cranny of this sprawling city. The nooks off the freeway weren’t worth a second thought. Not because it was the poor and the illegal who lived behind barred doors and windows, but because nothing could protect them. It was fate, bad luck that the people who ended up here were born ignorant and forgotten. Best thing was to get in, take what you came for, and get out. Today, they came for Xavier Hernandez or Josie and Erik Gardener – not necessarily in that order.

  “Here we go, boys,” Liz muttered.

  She swung her vehicle down Rose Street, and then took a hard left onto an unpaved, unmarked road. It led to a duplex squashed between a triplex in front and the rise of the Harbor Freeway in back. An LAPD black and white, a van and an unmarked unit were already there. Liz pulled up behind the Crown Vic and set the parking brake, stopping in what was technically a front yard but was in reality a junkyard that happened to have a duplex built smack in the middle of it.

  The ignition went off. Seat belts clicked. The heat sucker punched them the minute the door opened. Liz hitched her pants, touched the rolled up sleeves of her button down oxford, and then the badge and gun at her waist. Today she wore brown cowboy boots instead of her preferred biker footwear. She looked, as always, formidable for such a compact woman. Archer planted his feet and looked hard at the landscape: the duplex, the building in front, and the one on his left.

  Windows were open and curtains drawn back to catch any bit of breeze. But cool air seldom found its way down here, and if it did it would have to squeeze through along with the constant roar of traffic, the gulag-light from hovering police helicopters at night, the screams of faceless neighbors and the crack of gunfire.

  “Guess we’re not in Hermosa anymore,” Liz said wryly.

  “Simply the cycle of civilization,” Daniel added.

  “Shitty luck,” Archer wrapped up the discussion, his eyes constantly moving.

  Five kids hung out in the yard behind the house on the left. The same dirt that was under Archer’s feet was cropped into a private yard by a rusted and bent chain link fence. There was scruffy dead stuff that had been a bush once upon a time and a mattress that had probably been ten years old when it hit the Salvation Army, been put to good use for another five, and then tossed out back. Archer wouldn’t let a dog sleep on it, but the dog penned in with the kids looked like it would sleep any damn place it pleased.

  The animal was a hellish looking thing. A scar ran diagonally across its fist of a face. The kids kept their distance, and the pit bull kept its eyes on Archer and Liz. Those eyes were black and naked, as if the thing had no eyelids. In the middle of the night, that creature’s eyes would still be open and glittering. All a bull like him knew was viciousness, and such limited knowledge needed no storage space in a brain.

  What made the animal even more frightening was his stillness. He didn’t strain at the chain that held him to a rusted tetherball pole, but Archer knew they weren’t safe. That animal could snap any damn thing if it wanted; chain, pole or a neck.

  Beside him, Archer felt Daniel Young move close and look over his shoulder. Archer would have laughed except he knew the guy had good reason to be scared.

  Archer’s eyes moved from Daniel Young, skated over the brutish dog and noted the woman who looked out the window of the house on his left. Another click and he was looking over his shoulder at a woman pushing a stroller, head down as she hurried along. Two little kids bobbed in her wake: one in a first communion dress of cheap white lace and petticoats that had belonged to a much bigger girl, the other a boy who lingered, fascinated by all the cars. The pious little girl ran back to tug on her brother’s arm. He pushed her and she fell in a cloud of petticoats. The mother hurried back to herd her brood away. Across the way, a shirtless young man lavished with tattoos lounged against the hood of a car. Whatever had brought the cops to his part of the world was no worry for him that day, so he watched to see who or what they would drag out of the duplex.

  “Daniel,” Liz said, “do you want to wait in the car until we get the lay of land?”

  Archer knew Liz was giving an order more than asking a question, but Daniel seemed unsure.

  “It’s a hundred degrees inside that car,” Daniel objected. “And these people. . .”

  “They’re more afraid of you than you should be of them,” Archer said flatly.

  Liz added: “Look, Doc, here’s the thing. If they’ve got Hernandez, I want to see if it’s better if we keep you out of sight or bring you in. I gotta check out his state of mind. It’s for your safety. Okay?”

  “I see. That makes sense. Yes.”

  Liz and Daniel peeled off. The door of Liz’s car opened as she put Daniel inside. On her way back, Liz tapped Archer’s arm as she passed. Archer took the cue and started to walk.

  “We’re here as a courtesy,” Liz reminded Archer.

  “I know.”

  “I don’t want Hagarty’s notice.”

  “Figured.”

  “My butt, Archer, so be cool,” Liz insisted.

  “I hear ya, Liz,” Archer responded.

  Liz picked up the pace. She’d given him the company line and knew neither of them was going to tow it if push came to shove.

  Together they kicked up a little dust before stepping inside Xavier Hernandez’s abode. Daniel Young watched until all he saw was the dark doorway then he put his head back, closed his eyes and rested.

  An Outbuilding in the California Mountains

  Josie’s fist met Erika Gardener’s jaw. It was a glancing blow, but it stopped them both cold. They separated
, each to a corner, breathing hard, unable to believe what had just happened.

  Erika was shaking. Her blouse was ripped and Josie could see the rise of her breast and the soiled lace bra that encased it. Her face was a map of tear-rivers cut into dirt and blood and dust. Her hair hung over her eyes, and those eyes of her looked through the dirty, lank mess.

  Josie put her hand to her leg and it came up bloody. Without a word, she ripped the lower leg off her pants and wrapped it around the ragged wound as she spoke.

  “I want to get out of here alive. I’ll do it with or without you.” Josie raised her blue eyes so that Erika could see she was serious. “You ever come at me like that again it will be without you.”

  Xavier Hernandez’s Place, Los Angeles

  Xavier Hernandez’s living room was barely big enough for the love seat that had seen much better days and the chair that listed backward. There was a rusting electric heating unit built into one wall. To the left was a doorway to a bedroom. In front of Archer and Liz was a counter about two feet long and a foot wide. It separated the kitchen from the living area. That was where the LAPD staked out their territory. One detective stood in front of an olive-green stove that was missing a few knobs; the other was at ease, hands behind his back, at the end of the counter.

  The guy at the stove was tall and thin with a hint of a belly. He wore a white short-sleeved dress shirt, a tie that looked like a clip-on and a wedding ring. The other was super-buff, narrow of waist, broad of shoulder, tight of ass, but lacking the height of his counterpart. He was turned out in a neatly pressed, long sleeved dress shirt and a tie that was surprisingly sophisticated for a cop. That one didn’t wear a ring. Either he was a player with a wife at home or didn’t want to get tied down. Liz decided the first guy was the lead, but the second detective was moving up on the track fast. Satisfied she knew who she was dealing with, Liz interrupted since they seemed to have lost their manners. They knew damn well she and Archer had arrived.

  “Afternoon, gentlemen.” Liz hailed them.

  “Hey.” The tall one pushed off the stove and put his hand out as he came around to meet her. “Detective Arnson.”

  “Levinksy.” The guy without the ring put his hand out and gave a macho squeeze that Liz returned in kind.

  “Liz Driscoll, Hermosa Beach PD and Archer. PI, retired LAPD.”

  The men nodded Archer’s way and Levinsky asked: “Who was your chief?”

  “Gates,” Archer replied.

  “Good man. Before my time.” Archer nodded to show that the point was taken. He'd been marginalized as old guard.

  “Archer knows the missing Hermosa woman,” Liz said.

  “Personal background’s good,” Arnson agreed. “What have you got on the Hermosa victim?”

  Archer picked up the dialogue:

  “The house is clean and we’re going over the car. I’m running down phone calls, clients and meetings. There were a lot of people involved in the Hernandez trial that weren’t happy with her.”

  “Understand. We checked it,” Levinsky said.

  Arnson offered an apologetic smile, “We only came on late yesterday, but we picked up what we could. Any thread you pulled that might unravel?”

  “Not yet, but I guess we agree Hernandez is our guy,” Liz piped up with a little too much enthusiasm.

  Levinsky gave her the once over. “If he is, he’s in our jurisdiction. No working at cross-purposes. We good on that?”

  Levinsky flexed his cop muscle, and Archer was amused. Archer thanked his lucky stars he quit before he turned into Levinsky. Arnson was already tired, and probably planning his retirement considering the way he rolled his eyes at his partner’s bravado.

  “That’s not to say we don’t appreciate what you bring to the table.” Arnson stepped in smoothly “Best we can tell, Hernandez has been out of touch about two weeks. Before that his parole officer says he was quiet.”

  “The PO doesn’t seem to have been real attentive,” Archer noted. “Hernandez could have been out of touch since the day he walked, for all we know.”

  “It happens. Martin’s not the brightest bulb and his caseload is heavy. His superiors are having him go through his records with a fine-tooth comb,” Arnson answered practically.

  “Do you have any idea why he was calling Josie Bates? He sent letters to the others – victim’s families, witnesses,” Liz asked.

  “Don’t know. Make a note to ask,” Levinsky directed Arnson.

  Archer resisted the urge to point out that would be the first question Levinsky should have asked, and that Arnson should tell his pompous ass partner to stuff his note-taking comments. Arnson was a better man than Archer by far and actually took the note.

  “How long has he been living here?” Liz turned in a tight little circle to give the place a once over.

  “Six months.” Arnson took a few steps just to move. This place made them all itchy. “We know Hernandez had three job interviews in the last four months. Cuwin puts his chances for real employment at minus ten on a scale of one to ten. Hernandez got out on compassionate release and is on all sorts of meds: blood pressure, heavy insulin. We have syringes. He reuses so watch yourself if you find one.”

  “Money’s tight all around,” Liz muttered as she joined Archer to look at the evidence bags laid out on the counter. “Quite a pharmacy.”

  Levinsky took over. “Seconal. Nembutal. Ketamine.”

  “Date rape drug?” Archer picked up the bag and looked at the powder. Levinsky took it away from him and put it back neatly.

  “We call it a drug-facilitated sexual assault drug now,” Levinsky responded.

  “Behind the times, Archer,” Liz snickered. “What did Cuwin say about this stuff?”

  “The guy has sleep problems. Possible epilepsy.”

  “Possible?” Liz raised one of those pretty eyebrows.

  Arnson shrugged, “Government doctors. Amazing those bozos kept him alive after the little fray inside. You know about that, right?”

  Liz and Archer nodded.

  “Anyway, they used the Nembutal to reduce the pressure on his brain when he was in the prison hospital. It doesn’t explain why he has all this stuff. Then again, I was kind of surprised he didn’t get the big sleep. Your friend must be one heck of an attorney.”

  “Hope we find her. I’d like to hear what she was thinking representing scum like that.” Levinsky added his two cents. “Especially now.”

  “Maybe the government boy shouldn’t have been in the ring with her.” Archer came to Josie’s defense, but before the discussion could escalate, Liz stepped in. She touched two of the evidence bags.

  “These two are both strong enough to knock the victims out so they could be transported, but it would take a while to take effect. The Ketamine is fast acting, easy to administer. The women wouldn’t remember a thing,” Liz noted. “Was he cooking it?”

  “If he was, he wasn’t doing it here. Best guess, he helped himself at his last job. Raining Cats & Dogs Veterinary Clinic. It’s illegal in the U.S. for humans, but you can use it on animals. He had the placement for two days before they fired him for being creepy,” Levinsky said.

  “And they didn’t report anything missing?”

  “Even if they knew he had taken something, they didn’t want any trouble,” Arnson replied.

  “Is there a roommate? A girlfriend?” Liz again.

  Levinsky barked a laugh. “Women aren’t his favorite people.”

  “Then he’s in touch with his feminine side,” Liz drawled. “A set of high end kitchen towels? A spoon rest?”

  “His mother,” Arnson replied. They all looked at him. “That would be my guess. He borrowed her car a couple times. She gave him money. I talked to her yesterday. She doesn’t know where he is.”

  “What did the car look like?” Archer asked.

  “Big. Blue. It’s an old Buick. A real classic,” Arnson answered just as his eyes went to the bedroom door. A uniformed cop was waiting for a break in the
conversation.

  “I’m almost done here,” he announced.

  “Let’s have you take a look before we close up.” Levinsky and Arnson stepped back so Liz and Archer could go first.

  “We’ve got a possible red mid-size seen in Hermosa. That is what we’re looking for,” Liz said and Arnson followed up with some small talk. Then they were in the bedroom.

  A mattress and box springs were pushed up against the wall and into a corner. There was a small window sans shades or curtains. Clothes were draped over a chair with a fraying rattan seat. On the far wall was an old bureau and over that, thumb-tacked to a wall that could really use a scrubbing, was a big desk calendar. Neatly tacked to the calendar and taped to the wall were pictures, newspaper clippings and a book cover. A police photographer was snapping his last, for-good-measure shots and moved aside when Archer walked toward the calendar.

  “Don’t touch . . . “ Levinsky began but a look from Archer silenced him. Liz followed up with a glance that said ‘you asked for it’ as she joined Archer.

  In the old newspaper clippings, Daniel Young’s quotes were highlighted in yellow marker, and Josie’s picture was circled. There was a picture of Hernandez sitting in court looking over his shoulder. Archer looked closer. Hernandez cleaned up good. Archer never would have guessed this was the guy in the booking photo. Xavier Hernandez looked white, not Hispanic. His skin was pale, his features delicate. His eyes were keen but soft. He was one of those guys who could have been fifteen or twenty-five depending on who was looking. Two teenage girls wouldn’t have seen beyond those pretty eyes.

  Archer moved on.

  There were pictures of Josie on the beach, taken within the last few months. Archer recognized the bikini she was wearing because he’d been with her when she bought it at a shop on Pier Plaza. They'd ended up at the tapas place for dinner. This guy had been stalking her even then. How could they have missed a guy like Hernandez pointing a camera at them? One of them might, but not both.