Hitch thought about it, then pretended to have an idea. "Hey, if that's true, what if we go back there with a spit kit and check the house and the backyard for Brooks's DNA. If all he did was stand in the street and get her money, then his DNA won't be on the crime scene and we can cut him loose."
"'Cept we don't have a search warrant," I replied, furrowing my brow. Of course, all of this was patently ridiculous, but it was working because Brooks had a panicked look on his face.
"We'd need the owner's permission to go in there looking for the DNA," I continued. "Sheedy won't give it, so that's just gonna end up being a huge unproductive hassle."
"I have complete ownership of that property, not Sheedy," Brooks said, lunging at the idea. "I sign papers all the time on that place. Por taxes and all kinds of shit. I can give the permission."
"I don't know," Hitch said, looking at me. "It's pretty late in the case now for that. Maybe we should just keep him here and sort it out later."
"No! Please. No! I'll sign it. I will." He was almost shrieking at us.
"We gotta think about it," I said. "Don't go anywhere."
We walked out of the room, leaving him chained to the table. Hitch notified the jail guard that our wit was to be detained in the I-room, and not put back in 2-15. We wanted to scare him, but we didn't want him killed.
Then we went to the lobby of the jail to wait for Frieda Wilson from the ADA's office.
She arrived twenty minutes later with our warrant and turned out to be another fox with great legs, wearing a very short skirt. The warrant she brought us was extensive. This one included both the house and the yard. There was a place for Brooks Dunbar to sign, granting us permission to search the premises.
"You're the best," Hitch told Frieda, who smiled longingly at him before she left.
The two of us went back upstairs to the jail. Brooks was crying softly when we walked back into the I-room.
Hopefully, this had been an eye-opening, life-changing experience for him.
"You left me. I was so scared you weren't coming back," he cried.
Hitch and I sat down facing him. "Here's the deal," I said. "You sign this and maybe… maybe we let you go home tonight."
"I'll sign. I'll sign."
"Since this is a sensitive case with a lot of media overtones, you better damn well keep this to yourself," I added. "You tell anyone and we slam you back in here."
"I promise," he said. "I won't tell anyone. Where do I sign?"
"Right here." I handed him my ballpoint. "Two copies. You keep the bottom one."
He signed without even reading.
Chapter 31
By the time we stepped outside the Men's Central Jail with Brooks it was after one A. M. The temperature was hovering in the low seventies and the Santa Ana wind condition had fully developed. Santa Anas clear the L. A. basin of pollutants, but they also drive up the pollen count and Claritin sales throughout the city.
As it turned out, Brooks had allergies, so as soon as we got outside he started sneezing. "You just gonna leave me here?" he whined, wiping his nose with his forearm after a big wet one. "Aren't you even gonna take me home?"
"We don't run a taxi service," Hitch said.
"Then how'm I s'posed to get there?" Another sneeze.
Hitch pointed at Brooks's four-hundred-dollar Gucci sneakers, which, miraculously, he'd not lost to his murderous cellmates. "The left one goes in front of the right one," Sumner said patiently. "If you keep repeating the process, you'll be doing something we call walking. Should get you home."
"Here's your copy of our permission to search Skyline Drive," I said, handing him the paper. "Do not talk about this to anyone."
He nodded, then sneezed again.
"You're just gonna leave me here?"
"That's the plan," I answered.
We got into the slick-back and left him standing there, wobbly and confused as a day-old changeling.
Hitch and I headed back to the crime scene. On the way, we stopped at the CSI equipment warehouse at the new forsensic lab at Cal State L. A. where we checked out a fire extinguisher-sized canister of Luminol spray with a nozzle.
As I signed for the stuff, I couldn't help but think about the paper trail I was leaving for Dahlia Wilkes. I pushed that troubling thought aside and in minutes we were again in the slick-back, heading to the Hollywood Hills.
When we arrived at the mansion, it was almost two A. M. We parked our black-and-white in the bushes off the road, then grabbed our equipment and briefcases and snuck up the driveway, through the main gate, and around to the far side of the house, where we wouldn't be visible from the Prentiss's second-floor windows.
The twenty-foot cypress trees in the yard swayed in the brisk Santa Anas over our heads, shaking their leaves like giant pom-poms. We paused at the back door and looked down at the big, commercial-sized Yale padlock.
"Shoulda brought some bolt cutters," Hitch said, studying the padlock. "We'll have to break a window."
"I'm not breaking a window," I answered. "If we don't find anything, I want to back out of here without leaving a trail. I'm still hoping this doesn't draw too much negative official interest."
"Including your wife's," Hitch said.
I hate keeping stuff from Alexa. Even when I was skating the edges of the rule book, I always eventually told her what 1 was doing because she's the smartest cop I know and one of my best crime-solving resources. But there was no way Hitch could appreciate that, and since we were taking some career chances, I decided for the time being to continue to honor my promise.
"Okay, okay. I won't tell her without at least talking it over with you first."
"Some vow of silence," he muttered. "How you planning to get inside if we don't break a window?"
I reached into my pocket and removed my little leather lock pick case. It's no bigger than a small manicure kit. I'd learned to pick locks from one of my training partners almost twenty years ago. It's actually not too difficult once you get the hang of it.
I unwrapped the leather case and pulled out the main pick. It was longer and thicker than the other ones and had a small right angle at the very end. Then I removed half a dozen shorter, thinner picks, each with a variety of different shaped bends at the end.
The idea was to slip the main pick into the guide slot, then jiggle it until it found the main tumbler. The smaller ones then slid in under it, fitting into the secondary tumblers, until you had enough traction to turn the lock. There are easier, more high-tech ways to open locks, such as master tap keys or electric magnets. This was admittedly a little old school, but I liked the fact it took some skill and that I had mastered it.
"Shine your Mini Mag on this," I said, and Hitch aimed the small LED at the lock while I worked.
It took me about two and a half minutes before I had the padlock open.
"When we do the movie, I think the Hitchens character should work the lock pick and the Scully character should hold the light," he said. "Those picks are way cool. Its exactly the kind of thing Jamie digs in a film."
I was still fighting the idea there was going to be a film, so I just let that go and pushed the door open. We stepped inside and closed it quietly behind us.
The house was dark and creepy. We stood in the back pantry and listened to the mansion creak and groan in the growing wind.
I saw a documentary once about a bunch of little birds in the Amazon who have this unique relationship with the river crocodiles who live and hunt along the banks of that mammoth river. Part of the film told how sometimes, when a croc had meat stuck in the back of his mouth, he would open it for one of the little birds to hop inside. The bird would then stand on the huge reptile s tongue and feed himself by cleaning the croc s sharp, deadly teeth. The narrator called it an extraordinary act of synergy and trust. I remember thinking there had to be a better way for those little birds to feed themselves. To me, it just seemed stupid.
As I stood in the back pantry of that creaking, windblown mans
ion, I felt just like one of those little birds.
One snap and a crunch from oblivion.
Chapter 32
We left the large canister of Luminol inside the back door because it was too heavy to lug around, and took a slow walk through the downstairs, leaving our telltale footprints in the dust. I entered the solarium, and walked over to the curved windows to look out at the pool house, where the triple murder had occurred just days earlier. But tonight I was here to look at a completely different crime, one that had happened nearly thirty years ago.
I turned and saw a series of framed photographs on the far wall that looked like an exhibit of some kind. Hitch and I walked over and examined them. A wide framed placard above the shots said the mansion had been designated as a California landmark house in 1980. Since certification, no renovations other than standard maintenance had occurred to the historical structure. Prior to that freeze, previous owners had photographed the different stages of the home's development and those shots were displayed on the wall.
It had always been a magnificent house, but when first built, it was considerably smaller. There was a pool, but no pool house. In a photo dated 1928, a big ugly-looking concrete building with a metal door and a pitched roof was shown at the side of the house near where the trash area now was.
"What the hell is that?" Hitch said, studying the shot.
"Some kind of poured-concrete one-car garage," I said. "Kinda ugly. Musta been torn down during one of the renovations before this became a landmark house."
There were other pre-1980 renovations displayed in the photographs. The solarium was a '60s addition, as was the pool house. A second floor had been added on the east wing in '76.
Something heavy fell over and crashed upstairs.
We both froze.
"What's that?" Hitch whispered.
My heart was pounding. I could hear nothing but the Santa Anas rattling the windows and blowing the branches of a large elm into the roof on the east side of the house.
"It's nothing but the wind," I said, not exactly believing it.
Then we heard scratching.
"Rats," I said softly, under my breath.
"Rat must be on steroids," Hitch whispered. "Whatever's doing that is big."
We now heard something moving upstairs, followed by some kind of clawing, dragging sound.
"Thomas Vulcuna s ghost coining to get us?" I said, half in jest.
"Don't joke about shit like that," he hissed.
Hitch definitely seemed to be worried about a poltergeist factor. Then I remembered him saying, "I don't get along with dead people, they don't get along with me." Was it possible my new homicide partner believed in ghosts?
We listened in silence for almost a minute. When it didn't recur, I figured it was rodents. "See? Nothing," I said.
We moved cautiously into the living room, where I looked at the old, dusty Christmas tree and the twenty or so unopened presents.
"Let's see where the two Vulcuna women got killed," I said. "According to Norris and McKnight s murder book, the bodies were found over by the fireplace."
I went into the back porch area, grabbed the metal spray canister, returned to the living room, and pumped up the pressure. Then I aimed the nozzle at the fireplace area, wetting down the floor in front of the hearth.
It immediately lit up like a truck stop diner.
"Look at that," Hitch said softly.
Even though it had been a quarter century since the murders had occurred, we could see the outlines of both bodies in the Luminol's fluorescent glow. One had died over by the hearth, the other was farther out in the room, perpendicular to the fireplace. The women had bled profusely. Blood had collected around them, but not under them, leaving form impressions outlining where they fell.
"They were definitely killed in here," Hitch whispered softly, then added, "by the way, if we get Jamie to do this movie I think he should spray the Luminol."
"Yeah, you're right. Scully would be huddled over in the corner, shitting his pants."
Another clawing sound came from upstairs.
"There it is again!" Hitch whispered in fright, looking up at the ceiling.
I had to admit, it didn't quite sound like a rat. It sounded much bigger.
"I'm gonna unpack," Hitch said, pulling out his sidearm.
"This house is empty," I assured him. But because fear is even more contagious than a yawn, I pulled the Springfield from my belt holster.
"You wanta go up and check it out?" Hitch asked. "I'll cover you from down here."
"Don't you think Jamie would want the Hitchens character to man up and do the ghost check?" I whispered back.
"No," he said adamantly.
"Come on, numbnuts. Let's clear this fucking house."
We climbed the staircase. I took the lead with Hitch close behind me like a Marx brother in a forties comedy. Each stair seemed to creak louder than the last. Halfway to the landing we heard a frenzy of motion.
A lamp broke.
Glass shattered.
My heart leapt up into my throat. When I turned, Hitch was already back downstairs, standing by the front door, gun up in a shooting stance.
"If it's a ghost, that gun won't help you." I motioned for him to follow me up. "Come on, or you're not my partner anymore."
Reluctantly he rejoined me.
We finally got to the landing on the second floor. The walls were covered in some kind of old red flocked wallpaper. The floors were wood and creaked as we moved slowly and deliberately toward the master suite, where in 1981 Tom Vulcuna was supposed to have taken his life after killing his family.
As we approached the room, I had both my gun and my Mini Maglite out, pointing them at the threshold.
Then I saw a pair of yellow eyes shining brightly over by the window.
I swung the light and caught a huge raccoon in its beam.
It was the size of a fat beagle.
It screamed at us, then turned, raced along next to the floorboards, and jumped up on an old dresser, knocking a porcelain bowl over in the process before disappearing into the open heating duct.
The bowl, which was still teetering, suddenly fell and broke on the floor.
My heart was pounding even harder. Hitchs breath hissed out through his mouth.
It took us both almost a full two minutes to calm down.
"I think we should leave this out of the movie," I suggested.
"Solid," he replied.
Chapter 33
After the raccoon vacated I went back downstairs and retrieved the canister of Luminol. Then we sprayed the bedroom.
Nothing fluoresced.
The bed linens and mattress had been removed and the box spring didn't glow. But the important fact was the headboard with the bullet hole also showed no sign of blood or CFS splatter. Neither did the wall behind it.
"Vulcuna wasn't killed in this room," I said and Hitch nodded.
I saw a color picture in a silver frame on the dresser so I walked over and picked it up.
The photo was of the Vulcuna family, done in studio by a professional photographer who had used a draped multicolor sheet as his background. They were a nice-looking family. Thomas was a handsome, middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and a prominent chin. He was looking into the lens, his eyes projecting pride in his wife and daughter. Elizabeth was a fragile forty-five-year-old beauty with a long neck and wistful smile. The real looker, however, was their young daughter, Victoria. She had long dark hair and almost perfect features.
Somehow, seeing them made this cold case investigation more relevant. I now had a mental image of the family for whom I was attempting to seek justice. I carefully set the picture back down.
"I'm about ready to get out of here," Hitch whispered. "Let's go think this out in a crowded bar someplace."
"I want to open a few of those presents downstairs first."
"Why?"
" 'Cause I had a shitty Christmas and maybe I'll like something," I said
sarcastically.
"I want to go now," Hitch persisted.
"And I want to see what these people were giving each other for Christmas. Norris and McKnight got pulled from this case before they could fully investigate it. That's something you know they would've done."
Hitch followed me downstairs and I started with the presents marked to Victoria from her dad. The notes inside the cards were sweet. It was obvious that Thomas Vulcuna had cherished his eighteen-year-old daughter.
One read:
Dear beautiful Victoria, As you grow, you make your dad prouder with each day. Nothing in my life equals the joy you have brought me.
I hope you still like this necklace. You admired it in New York, so I snuck back and bought it for you.
Merry Christmas, darling,
Poppie
I handed the card to Hitch, who took it and read it carefully. After he was through, he said, "This guy didn't beat his daughter to death with a damn hammer."
I didn't think so either.
There were lots of presents to his wife, Elizabeth. One box contained a flimsy negligee and a note that said:
Open after Christmas right after.
Tommy
More notes and cards to Vulcuna's wife and daughter followed. Each one was loving, all of them written in his neat, careful hand.
I looked up from my unwrapping project and saw that Hitch had gone wandering. I found him in the library looking at the Vulcunas' book collection.
"What are you doing?"
"You can tell a lot about people by looking at the books they read."
He began reciting titles. "Jacqueline Susann Valley of the Dolls, Stephen King The Stand, Jackie Collins Lovers and Gamblers. The Vulcunas were populists."
"And that's unusual?"
"Where's the Shakespeare, the Chaucer, the Beowulf? This guy chooses The Divine Comedy to leave as a suicide note, yet there's not one piece of classic literature in here."
"Good get, homes."
The prostitutes ball ss-10 Page 14