Outside the Wire

by Patricia Smiley

  Vaughn stepped closer to Chen. “Do you have the address?”

  She read it from the screen and Davie jotted the information in her notebook. The building was near the corner of Westwood and Wilshire Boulevards, not far from UCLA.

  “Did you drop him off or wait for him?” he said.

  “I waited in the parking garage. According to my log, he was in the building for a little over an hour. He texted me when he was ready to leave, and I drove around to the front of the building to pick him up. I was supposed to drop him off at his house in Topanga Canyon but he changed his mind at the last minute. Instead, he asked me to take him to Santa Barbara.”

  Davie looked up, surprised. “That’s a long trip.”

  Chen pulled a tissue from a box on the counter and wiped her eyes again. “It’s generally out of our service area, but he was such a good customer I said okay. He didn’t say boo when I handed him the bill. It was for a lot of money.”

  Davie continued questioning her. “Did he mention what he was doing in the building or who he was there to see?”

  Chen lowered herself onto a chair and stared at the crumpled tissue in her hand. “No, but he seemed upset when he got back to the car. We always had a great rapport. We’d talk about everything from baseball to books. But he didn’t say much for the rest of the trip. I even had a hard time getting an address out of him. He told me to just drive and he’d give me directions when I needed them. Actually, he was sort of rude, which was unusual.”

  Davie handed Chen her business card. “Please call if you remember anything else.”

  She and Vaughn left the woman to mourn in her own way and returned to the car. As Davie maneuvered through traffic, she processed the new lead Jade Chen had provided. Zeke had just returned from a long, tiring trip to Asia, but instead of going home, he’d taken a detour. It must have been important because otherwise he could have made a phone call.

  When Davie got back to the station, she found the cat carrier sitting on her desk with Hootch huddled in a back corner, spring-loaded and ready to fire. His box and a bag of litter were under her desk.

  She eyed Vaughn and nodded toward the carrier. “What is that?”

  “Looks like a failed attempt to pawn off your cat on April Hayes.”

  “He’s not my cat.”

  “I’ll find out.” Vaughn walked toward the lieutenant’s office, returning a few minutes later. “April said Hootch attacked her pug, so the feline foster home experiment is over. She sends her regrets. Expect a vet bill.”

  Davie sat on her chair and stared into the carrier. At least she’d bought one that was roomy enough for Hootch to move around in. “What am I supposed to do with him? Bear doesn’t want a cat.”

  “No surprise there, and don’t say I didn’t warn you about taking him in the first place.”

  “He can’t stay with me. I’m never home.”

  Vaughn walked to the coffee pot behind Giordano’s desk and poured himself a cup. “The way I see it, you have a few other options—unload him on Woodrow’s ex, or the shelter Amber Johnson told us about, or maybe your landlord will take him.”

  “Alex is out of town or I’d ask him, but I doubt he’d be interested. He already has two dogs.”

  Vaughn removed his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. “Well, he can’t stay here. That’s for sure.”

  Davie rested her forehead on the carrier’s grated door. Hootch stared at her. After a few minutes, he stood and arched his back in an exaggerated stretch. When he stepped toward her, she noticed that he smelled good and all the mats had been brushed out of his hair. He looked presentable, maybe even handsome. She reached through the grates to pet his head. The cat nuzzled its face against her finger and started to purr.

  “I’ll call Dr. Dimetri,” she said to her partner. “Maybe the clinic can board him overnight until I come up with a plan.”

  “Ka-ching. Ka-ching. Just take him home, Davie. You can figure it out tomorrow.”

  Despite her partner’s phony concerns about her finances, his suggestion seemed reasonable. Zeke traveled a lot for his job, so Hootch must be used to staying alone much of the day with periodic visits from a pet sitter. If he could handle that, then so could she.

  “Okay, I’ll park Hootch at the guesthouse until I find him a permanent home.”

  “Good. What’s next?”

  “Chen said she drove Zeke to a building on Wilshire Boulevard,” she said. “He was inside for over an hour. I want to know who he went to see and why. Let’s drive over and look around.”

  “You don’t even know what you’re looking for. How many offices are in that building? Tons of them, I bet. I’d rather stay here and chase other leads.”

  “Fine. I have to drop Hootch off at the guesthouse first. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

  Twenty minutes later, Davie maneuvered the carrier out of the car. It occurred to her that Alex might not appreciate a cat roaming free with his valuable antiques and Persian rugs. Normally, she would ask permission, but he was away for the week in Bali, buying antique furniture for a client’s Maui vacation home. Bear had always told her it was easier to beg forgiveness than to ask permission, so she hauled the carrier into the house, resolving that the cat would be in a permanent home by the time Alex returned from his business trip. She just hoped Hootch didn’t damage anything in the meantime. To protect against that, she parked him in the bathroom, along with his food, water, litter box, and a couple of toys left over from his brief stay with April Hayes.

  She gripped the bathroom door. “Stay safe.” Hootch let out one soft meow. She closed the door, feeling like a jerk.

  15

  Fifteen minutes after dropping Hootch at her guesthouse, Davie arrived at the office building where Jade Chen had taken Zeke the day he returned from Hong Kong. Street parking was nonexistent, so Davie left the ride in the bus zone on Westwood Boulevard with a plastic city-parking permit on the dashboard and made her way into the lobby of the building.

  Her rubber-soled boots squeaked as she walked across the marble tiles to a bank of elevators. A list of tenants was posted on the wall. The names were in alphabetical order—doctors, lawyers, accountants. None of them were people or companies she’d heard of before. She read the list again, slower this time, until she reached the Ls and stopped. Something was different about one of the listings, a bit of minutia that didn’t fit the pattern. She hadn’t noticed before, but it read only law offices next to a suite number. It was unusual that the name of the firm wasn’t included.

  Davie ran through the facts she knew so far as she waited for the elevator. Zeke and Juno Karst both worked for TidePool Security Consultants. Alden Brink was associated with Tidepool, but she wasn’t sure if he was an employee. Was the generic law office upstairs his?

  Time to find out.

  The elevator doors closed and the car began its ascent to the fifteenth floor. The hallway was empty as she located the suite number and turned the knob. Locked. She knocked but got no answer. There was an intercom on the wall. The button made a buzzing sound when she pressed it.

  An answer came back in a nasally whine. “May I help you?”

  Davie recognized the voice. It was the woman who’d answered Alden Brink’s telephone when she’d called the day before.

  “It’s Detective Richards from the Los Angeles Police Department. Open the door. I need to speak to Mr. Brink.”

  The woman had been less than cooperative during their last conversation, so Davie wasn’t sure she’d comply. But a moment later, the door cracked open. The face peering at her belonged to an older woman with a short blunt-cut hairdo and bangs that reminded her of a grayer version of Mo’s do from The Three Stooges.

  The woman held a cell phone in one hand. With the other hand, she pushed her oversized black-framed glasses up the bridge of her nose and tilted her head back to study Davie
through her bifocals. “I’m not supposed to let people in without an appointment.”

  “I’m a Homicide detective investigating the murder of one of your employees. You work for TidePool Security Consultants, right?”

  The woman adjusted the jacket of her boxy vintage suit and fingered a string of fat pearls that had to be fake. “I work for Mr. Brink.”

  Davie noticed her black velvet flats. They had rhinestone cats on the toes. “Is his name on your paycheck?”

  “How would I know? I’m a temp. I’ve only been here a week.” The woman must have decided further resistance was futile, because she opened the door.

  Davie stepped into a monastic room that was outfitted with only a chair, a desk that held a laptop computer, and a small vase with three wilted carnations. A cardboard box served as a wastebasket. There was a desk phone, but the lines weren’t connected to the wall socket. Three shadow boxes were stacked against a wall ready for hanging. The top one was filled with vintage political campaign buttons, including one that read i like ike. The contents of the other two collections weren’t visible to her.

  “Are you moving in or out?” Davie asked.

  “In, but we’re not open for business yet. How did you even know we were here?”

  Davie turned toward a door that led to what she assumed was another office. She walked toward it. “Is Mr. Brink in?”

  The woman was agile for her age, because she scurried across the room and spread her arms over the door to block Davie from going inside. “He can’t be disturbed.”

  Davie wondered if the woman was a temp from Central Casting, because her reaction was pure drama. “How much does that temp agency pay you?”

  “Eleven bucks an hour,” she said in her nasally voice.

  “You should ask for a raise.”

  “You been eating donuts?” she asked. “The sugar is making you cranky.”

  For a small woman, she has a big attitude. “Look, ma’am, unless you want me to arrest you for interfering with a murder investigation, step away from the door.”

  The woman blinked several times and then lowered one hand. “If I get fired it’s on you.” She used the other hand to tap on the wood. “Mr. Brink, can you come out here? We have a situation.”

  A man’s deep voice boomed from inside the office. “Handle it, Fern.”

  Davie didn’t wait for further discussion. She turned the doorknob and walked into the office. A desk sat parallel to the window, apparently so Brink would see anyone entering the office.

  The decor was partially assembled, but there were still boxes on the floor next to several new file cabinets, price stickers plastered on the front of each. Brink stood facing the wall with a tape measure in his hand. He sensed her presence and turned. He was in his early to mid-thirties, tanned, and dressed casually in a pair of cotton chinos, a long-sleeved Oxford shirt, and tan boat shoes—no socks. She guessed his hair was strawberry blond, although it was cut so short it was hard to tell. He looked like a successful corporate lawyer enjoying casual day at the office. Davie expected him to be confrontational when she introduced herself, but he flashed a high-beam smile worthy of any toothpaste commercial.

  “Detective,” he said with that same commanding tone she recognized from their phone call, the kind used by powerful men or those who aspired to be. “I meant to call back after my receptionist cut you off the other day, but as you can see”—he swept his hand to indicate the mess in the room—“things are chaotic around here. Fern’s not exactly up on the latest technology, so there were some mishaps along the way.” He followed that statement with a puckered smile.

  “Your headquarters are in Virginia. What brought you to California?”

  “TidePool is increasing its presence in Asia, so they asked me to open a satellite office here. As you can see, I’m still moving in.”

  Davie glanced around the room. “The place seems small.”

  His expression soured, as if he had interpreted her comment as an insult. “This place is temporary, just until I assess the merits of having an L.A. office. If I decide it’s the right choice, we’ll move to a larger space. If L.A. doesn’t work out, I’ll relocate the office to someplace that better appreciates our business.” Brink set the measuring tape on the desk. “Have a seat.” He gestured to the only chair in the room reserved for guests.

  Davie waited for him to sit. When he didn’t, she remained standing, too. He noticed but didn’t respond.

  Brink pulled a black-framed diploma and a rag from a cardboard box and wiped fingerprints off the glass. “How can I help you?”

  “You can tell me why Zeke Woodrow came to see you last week.”

  He looked up from his cleaning. If her knowledge surprised him, he didn’t show it. “Company business.”

  “Mr. Woodrow had just come back from a business trip that day. Was that what he wanted to discuss?”

  Brink set the diploma on his desk. “I believe he was sent with a team of executives to court a new client. The contract was worth a lot of money, so we showed them the best we had.”

  Davie noted he didn’t answer the question. She wandered over to the desk and picked up the diploma, a JD degree from a law school in Arizona. She didn’t recognize the name, but it was definitely not one of the top-tier schools. “Did everything go well?”

  He frowned and jerked the diploma from her hands. “As far as I know, yes.”

  “Is that why you were sending him back? To close the deal?”

  He tilted his head toward his shoulder and frowned. “I’m not involved with employee work assignments, but as far as I know, nobody at the company authorized a second trip. That first meeting was just to establish relationships. The next step in the process would be handled by email.”

  Davie glanced inside the box on the floor. It was full of pens, a stapler, and a hammer. “Mr. Woodrow was booked on a flight on Cathay Pacific scheduled to leave yesterday morning.”

  “If he went back to Hong Kong, he was going on his own dime.”

  “Why would he do that? What happened at that first meeting?”

  Brink’s tone was self-assured but measured. “I’m a lawyer. I acquire and manage TidePool’s extensive real estate portfolio. I also write contracts and offer legal opinions. What I don’t do is arrange sales meetings with potential clients, and even if I did I couldn’t tell you the details. It’s confidential company business. Maybe you should speak with someone who runs that division.”

  Davie stepped closer, hoping to breach his comfort zone. “As I told you on the telephone, Mr. Woodrow never made his flight because somebody killed him. That makes two of your employees who’ve been murdered within the last few days. If somebody were targeting my people, I’d be concerned.”

  He seemed taken aback. “Two? How do you figure?”

  “Zeke Woodrow and Juno Karst.”

  Brink paused before responding. “Mr. Karst committed suicide. At least, that’s what the local sheriff told me. He had no close family so the company handled the arrangements.”

  Davie didn’t understand why Juno had been killed first, but she would figure it out eventually.

  “I doubt it was a suicide. Two similar deaths, so close together. That’s odd, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Of course, we’re all saddened by the loss. They were valuable employees and important members of our training team.”

  “What was Juno doing in Nevada?” she said. “Did the company send him there on assignment?”

  Brink fished in the bottom of the box until he found the hammer and a nail. “As I told you before, I wouldn’t know why he was there, but I don’t think we sent him.”

  “Who took possession of his personal property from the car, like his wallet and cell phone?”

  Brink walked toward the wall. “I assume the sheriff has all that. He asked about the gun Mr. Karst used to shoot
himself. I told him to dispose of it.”

  “I’ll need Juno’s home address.”

  He studied the wall, avoiding her gaze. “He lived in a property owned by the corporation. After he died, I had the place cleaned out. Since he had no family, his possessions were donated to charity.”

  “That was quick,” she said, adding an edge to her tone. “He’s been dead less than a week.”

  He slowly turned toward her. “I have a lot of responsibilities and not much time.”

  “Is it common in your industry to provide housing for your employees?”

  “No, but it’s a brilliant idea—at least, the board thought so when I presented it to them. In fact, they were so impressed they asked me to head their new real estate division. We offer housing to employees at a discount, which is especially important in high-priced areas like Southern California. It’s a recruiting tool and an important part of our retention strategy. It also adds valuable assets to our balance sheet. Win-win, as they say.”

  Davie ignored his self-aggrandizing sales pitch. She had interviewed a slew of witnesses in her career. Reactions to her questioning ran the gamut from hostile to heartfelt. Hostility was easy to read. Brink seemed thin-skinned and full of himself, a clear departure from the businesslike response in their prior telephone conversation. That didn’t surprise her. It didn’t take much effort to brush off a detective’s phone call, but remaining even-tempered during a face-to-face interview required different skills.

  She walked toward the window and looked out at the view. In the distance was the Los Angeles National Cemetery—row after row of white headstones like dinosaur teeth bleaching in the sun.

  “Ever wonder why military gravestones all look the same?” she said. “No matter how you look at them, they’re always lined up in perfect symmetry. You don’t see that in civilian cemeteries.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find the answer on Wikipedia,” he said.