These results were trumpeted to the press and public, positive PR for the department, as when a deputy saved a life or helped a woman give birth because she couldn't make it to the hospital in time. It helped citizens to believe that even forty-year-old cases weren't just being closed and forgotten. The detectives either loved or hated the unsolveds, depending on whether they wanted overtime or not.
Merci thought that they were primarily a waste of time, overtime included. If the dicks of yore couldn't button down their own cases, how could anyone else?
"You look tired," said Glandis.
"So do you."
"Up all night with the hooker?"
"More or less."
"A silencer. Jesus."
Merci had long ago lost her amazement at the speed of gossip within her department. The air inside the county buildings was stiff with it.
Glandis shrugged. "Let me know if I can help. I was first-year robbery-arson back then, but I remember some things."
"Thanks, Mel. How are we on the body-parts boy?"
Most of an eight-year-old boy had been found dismembered, decapitated, his parts wrapped in plastic trash bags and buried neighborhood. No arrests or suspects yet. The case was taking fist bites out of Rayborn's soul. Wheeler and Teague got it, good investigators, but Merci wished it was hers. It wasn't personal but it was personal.
"We found a kiddie raper living one street over, ex-mental patient. They haven't located him yet."
Merci shook her head and thought about her own son meeting such an end. A dark, svelte violence in her shifted and stared out past its coils.
"How's Junior Tim?"
"Totally great in every way."
"I'd expect that, coming from you."
He knocked twice on her desktop with his big knuckles pivoted in shiny black shoes and turned to Zamorra's unoccupied desk. He slapped down another unsolved file, then moved on.
• • •
She made her usual nine o'clock call home. Her father told her that Tim Jr., had gotten up regular time, wolfed his breakfast and was now hurling blocks around his room. Merci heard shrieks of delight in the background. The words body parts in plastic bags shot through her mind and she banished them with force.
"Kid's got an arm for a one-and-a-half-year-old," said Clark.
Arm in plastic. Banished again.
"Take his temperature when he settles down, I—"
"Already did, dear. Ninety-eight point six."
"After lunch—"
"I will."
She missed him. By his absence she could feel his shape: a large, round, warm part of her. Missing. Gone. Elsewhere. But there was no way she could be there all the time, even if she wanted to. There was work to do. Work held her little family together. And it held her together, too. It always had.
"We're going to take the trike out later if it warms up. Then hit the market. We'll be here when you get home."
Clark had moved in with her two years ago, after her mother's death.
Merci had watched him crawl toward his private abyss, then crawl back away from it. Tim, Jr., had a lot to do with that turnaround. Her father was great with him. She thought of them as The Men.
"I miss my Men."
" 'Bye honey. We miss you. Don't work too hard."
• • •
Noon came but Paul Zamorra didn't. No call. No message. No word. She'd only worked with him for three months, and this was the first time he'd done anything so unprofessional and disrespectful.
Merci called his home at one, got the machine. The hospital, she thought. She found the number Zamorra had given her for his wife's room at UCI Medical Center, but decided not to call. She felt powerless over medical conditions, and she was afraid of what she felt no power over.
She ran a background on Alexander Coates: clean.
She checked the number of unsolved prostitute murders in the last two years: three.
She talked to a phone company security manager about getting an incoming number list for Aubrey Whittaker. She wanted it fast, no warrant, no subpoena, no bullshit, please. He said he'd call her back.
She looked through Aubrey Whittaker's leather-covered calendar/address book and considered some of the names she found there. Some were first and last, most just first initials and last names. Some even had what appeared to be credit-card numbers. Damn, she thought, charge a nooner to the credit card and when your wife pays the bills tell her it must have been the mobile car detail. Mobile sex detail.
Plenty of the names had no numbers attached. Private customers, Merci thought, no YACS middleman eating up the profit? She thought she recognized two of them and she called a friend at the Orange County Journal who could run a print search on them. She promised him a first tip in return, if any of them turned into a story. She threw in twenty more just for good measure, guys with names that sounded important, guys who would bend easy if she leaned on them. On the day she was murdered, Aubrey Whittaker had a date with "Dr." at 3:45 p.m. and "din" with "DC," 8:30 p.m. The day before had four dates on the calendar.
Sunday mornings, to Merci's astonishment, were marked by 8:30 a.m. entries that appeared to relate to sermons, and Aubrey's opinion of them.
Putting Christ First—Ken H., good but at times unrealistic.
Not terribly likely, Merci thought: They must mean something else.
Six phone calls later Merci found out that the Reverend Ken presided over Newport Maranatha Church, and had indeed delivered sermon of that title three weeks earlier.
Yes, he knew Aubrey. No, he didn't know she was murdered sounded somber.
He knew little of Aubrey, except that she had joined his congregation a few weeks ago. She was well-dressed, private, apparently unattached. She'd joined the Christian Singles. He wasn't sure what she for a living.
He asked Merci to keep the name of his church out of the newspapers, if it was in her power. She said it was and she would. He agreed to meet with her any time, or to gather up the names and addresses of some of the Christian Singles who had known Aubrey. Merci thanked him and asked him to have them ready by this time tomorrow.
She went to the restroom, washed her hands and wondered what it must be like to do what Aubrey did for a living. In the mirror she saw someone not cut out for such work, a dark-haired, big-boned woman with an unforgiving and guileless expression on her face. The face had some tenderness in it if you looked hard. Mostly it just looked eager to nail you.
She watched the coroner's team take photographs and X rays of Aubrey Whittaker's body. There were no bullet or lead fragments left inside, so far as Merci could see. Near the center of Aubrey's right ventricle was a small dark disturbance in the pale muscle: probably the bullet hole, said the deputy coroner.
Merci was surprised by the entry wound. The tear was jagged but small, but the edges of the flesh had been lifted up and burned. The skin in a half-inch radius around the break was scorched black. Surrounding the dark circle was another half inch of reddened flesh. Outside of that began the undisturbed perfection of Aubrey Whittaker's young body.
"The gun muzzle was right up next to her dress," said the deputy. "The silk was burned. And the skin."
The exit wound was twice the size but showed little discoloration. A small flap had been torn in the skin. It was nine centimeters higher than the entry wound. Merci visualized the apartment and the angle of the shot, and her mind's eye followed a line from Aubrey Whittaker's heart to the upper part of the sliding glass door, where the CSIs had found the hole.
"Looks like straight in and out," said the deputy coroner. "Didn't hit a bone, or at least didn't hit much of one. I'd say the ammo was hard-tipped. With a softer nose, it would have flattened more by the time it came out."
The full medical autopsy was scheduled for late that afternoon.
Merci hovered over Evan O'Brien's shoulder in the crime lab, watching him get the fingerprint cards ready for CAL-ID and AFIS. Two distinct sets already, one of them belonging to the decedent. O'Brien wa
s the most effective fingerprint tech Merci'd ever known. His knowledge of comparison points was matched by his knowledge of the labyrinthine state system, which he'd helped digitize during his tenure with CAL-ID up in Sacramento.
She watched Lynda Coiner get the ,45-caliber Colt casing ready for the Federal DrugFire registry, on the chance that the same weapon had been used in a narcotics-related crime. This didn't smell like drugs to Merci, but it was worth a try.
Merci helped one of the lab techs develop and dry the last of the crime-scene photos, which she would need for the walk-through. One set for her, one for Zamorra. Thank God for her college photography courses. As she stood in the twilight of the darkroom with the blow dryer roaring she watched Aubrey Whittaker's body take shape on the photographic paper, appearing slowly and steadily, as if conjured by a medium.
Aubrey Whittaker, she thought: servicer of men, sermon critic, home entertainer, Christian Single. Change your name, leave your home, begin again.
Who are you?
She burned two copies of the Responding Deputy Report, the lab data and the CSI sheets.
She didn't read any of it because she wanted to learn it fresh, there where it happened, when she was there with just her partner. A crime scene was always different in daylight.
She spent a few minutes down in the impound yard, talking with Ike Sumich, a young tech that she considered to be a real up-and-comer. Like Evan, Ike was one of her people. Merci liked the idea of tribe; was forming one, collecting members because they could help her and because she liked them.
Sometimes she would look at them and imagine what they'd like thirty years from now.
Sumich looked good in her future-vision, but he had a gut he'd need to get to the gym to avoid.
Ike had helped her out in the case that almost got her killed a couple of years ago. She had no pending business with him; she just wanted to check in, let him know he had a friend in Homicide.
When Zamorra finally came into the detective pen it was almost 3 p.m. He was freshly shaven and his hair was still wet from a shower, but his eyes looked empty and red.
"Are we ready for the walk-through?" he asked.
"We're ready."
"I'll drive."
CHAPTER THREE
Merci unlocked the door and pushed it open, calling on her memory.
"Coates heard the noises and made the call at ten forty-five. Deputies Burns and Sungaila arrived ten minutes later. This porch light was on and the door was ajar about four inches. All three of them saw the blood."
She gently swung the door inward again and watched it come back toward her. It once more stopped four inches short of the frame. Standing in the shade of the building, she shivered once in the cold December air. She found the CSI sheets, scanned down the typewritten copy.
"CSIs examined the porch for shoe prints, but between the old paint and all the foot traffic, they couldn't find anything useful. That, from Lynda Coiner. If we believe Alexander Coates, Aubrey's first visitor wore hard-soled shoes or boots, her second wore soft ones. What do you make of Coates's ear-work, Paul?"
"Sixty-forty. Sixty he's right."
"I gave him better than that. I think we should consider two men. Were they working together is the question. Working on what is the next question."
Zamorra said nothing. He faced the door with a bloodshot stare. He pointed to a small, crescent-shaped cut in the gray door paint. It was deep enough to reveal wood, just to the right of the blood spray, heart-high.
He looked at his copy. "O'Brien says that was where the casing bounced off, on its way to the dinner table. Coiner found the brass the flower vase. That was good work."
"She had the bounce to go from."
Zamorra slowly shook his head. "He shot her from right here, didn’t even come through the door. She opened it and zip, all she wrote.
There was something mechanical in his voice, Merci thought, something distanced: He's still in the hospital with his wife.
They stepped inside. The front door swung almost shut again. Bright afternoon light shot through the sliding glass door and the windows. The day was clear and cool and the sun was already low out over the ocean. Merci felt the heat coming through the glass. She noted the bullet hole in the upper left corner of the slider, the one she hadn't noticed the night before.
Nobody's perfect, she thought, but she expected herself to be. What was it Hess had said? Forgive yourself, Merci. You've got another fifty years to spend with you.
Duly noted.
The CSIs had outlined the body in dark chalk before removing it. Merci looked from the case file to her partner.
"I don't get this. Coiner and O'Brien say she was dragged three feet into the dining room. That, from the blood smear on the carpet."
"So he could shut the door behind him," said Zamorra. "Her feet were in the way."
"But why, Paul? What did he do in here? He didn't use her sexually, at least not that we know of. He didn't take anything we know of. He left cash, credit cards, some good prescription drugs in the medicine chest. He took a big risk coming in. He wasted time. Why?"
"Maybe he took her picture, got himself off, then hit the road.'
Merci recalled the recent unsolved murders of prostitutes: two in motels at different ends of the county, one dumped on Harbor Boulevard, down by the car dealerships. All three were streetwalkers strangled, one bludgeoned, one shot in the head.
"No semen."
"Maybe he used a rubber. She had plenty."
Merci thought about this but couldn't make it fit. The whole thing seemed so efficient, so cold, so sexless. There was no evidence he'd even touched her, other than to drag her out of the way of the door.
They stood at opposite ends of the dining-room table. Merci noted the place mats, the matching cloth napkins beside them, the short crystal vase in which Lynda Coiner had found the casing. There was a nearly empty glass of water at one place, and a nearly full cup of coffee at the other. She could see the oblong smudge of lipstick near the rim of the water glass. Both were laden with black fingerprint dust. Merci could see where the tape had been lifted off the tumbler. She got down to a good angle for light and saw fingerprint dust on the glass table, too. Prints galore.
She went into the kitchen, saw the still-crusted baking pan on the counter, and the flatware, salad bowls and plates in the sink. There was a wing and a thigh in the pan. No booze glasses, no booze bottles. Standing in front of the sink you could see the ocean out a window to the right.
"Okay, Paul. So she makes dinner for someone. Her calendar said D.C. Let's say it's the eight-thirty arrival that Coates heard—a big man, light on his feet, familiar with his surroundings. He knocks and she answers. No loud words. No loud music. No sounds of struggle or gunshot or anything else. They eat their salad and chicken. No alcohol. At ten-ten he leaves. All's quiet for five minutes. We know this because Alexander Coates is in his bathtub with his trusty stopwatch."
Zamorra had moved into the living room. He stood in the sunlight looking down at Aubrey Whittaker's high heeled shoes. His voice sounded flat, abstracted. "Then Man Friend Number Two climbs the stairs and comes down the walkway. He's a smaller guy, wearing soft shoes. He doesn't knock but she opens the door anyway."
Merci leafed through the CSI reports to see if the doorbell had been dusted. Evan had worked it and found nothing. She said so.
"Maybe he wiped it," said Zamorra. "Maybe he knocked quietly. Maybe Coates belched, splashed, yawned—just didn't hear."
Merci considered. "She hears the knock or the ring, goes to the door and opens it. But not before she turns on the porch light and looks through the peephole. This is important. She must have recognized him.
If she didn't, why did she open up? She's a call girl. She's seen a lot of things. It isn't her nature to trust. But she opens the door."
"She knew him," said Zamorra. "She thought she did. If we cancel out Coates's assumptions based on sound, we're looking at the same guy. The simplest explanation
. The dinner guest, D.C. That's why Coates didn't hear the knock. It was soft, because he'd just left. He knew she'd assume it was him again. A soft knock, she comes door and says who is it, and he says it's just me, Man Friend Number One. I forgot my jacket. My cell phone. My glasses."
Merci came into the dining room and looked at the chalk outline. "So he came to dinner knowing he was going to kill her."
"Absolutely. That's why he left and came back."
"To get the gun. Because he couldn't carry the gun in without her seeing it."
"That's what I get, Merci. And not just a gun, but a gun with a suppressor. We got four neighbors who were home last night, and nobody heard a shot. Nothing like a shot. You know what a racket a forty-five would make here. A covered porch and entryway, the door half open. It had to be silenced."
Merci thought he was right: The shooter came here to shoot, she tried to take it the other way: Man Friend comes to dinner and leaves mad, by the time he gets to his car he's furious, gets the gun and goes back up. Working girls get killed by furious johns all the time. But she couldn't get any logic out of that one. She didn't think Aubrey Whitaker was working that night. Call girls don't make dinner for their clients. The bed was made up. And nobody carried a silenced .45 auto unless they planned to use it. Soon.
"All right," she said. She hadn't worked with Zamorra long enough to know how he reasoned, so she wanted to take things slow, get them right from the start. "Take our path back to the first fork, though, if there were two guys?"
"Then it's connected or unconnected."
"Connected is a lot of coming and going, a lot of personnel on the job.”
"Lots of secrets to keep," said Zamorra. "I like one guy, period, no matter what Alexander Coates heard."
Merci was leaning that way, too. "That could explain why he came in after he shot her."
"Exactly. To clean his prints off of everything he touched at dinner."
"And something else, now that I think of it."
Zamorra looked at her.
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