Outside the Wire

by Patricia Smiley

  The hot wind burned her eyes as she pulled off the road. She got out of the car and made her way to a wizened old man sitting in a lawn chair under the shade of a tattered awning. He wore a black do-rag and a mask of suspicion. Nearby, a burro munched hay. Davie wondered why the man was living in a rusted-out trailer on some forgotten road. Maybe he’d lost his business to the Interstate and survived by selling tattoos to the occasional passerby.

  “I’m looking for Harlan Cormack’s place. He lives somewhere around here. Red trailer? Am I on the right road?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You must not have an invitation or you wouldn’t be asking.”

  She pulled back her jacket so he could see the badge hanging from her belt and the gun in its holster. “You know Mr. Cormack?”

  The dust cloud had reached the trailer and was hovering over them. Davie shielded her eyes from the gritty air and studied the man’s guarded expression.

  “Did I say I knew him?” he said.

  “But you know where he lives, right?”

  “I’ve seen his place.”

  “How far away is it?”

  He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Couple of miles.”

  “Can you give me directions?”

  The man squinted against the sun. “Maybe we can talk about it while I ink you a tattoo. It’ll only cost you eighty-five an hour. You’d pay four hundred in Vegas. If you don’t believe me, call and see for yourself.” He held out a handheld device that looked like it came from a Smithsonian display of vintage telephones.

  “What is that?”

  “Satellite phone. Got it at a swap meet a couple of months ago. There’s no cell towers out in the desert and sometimes a man needs to make a call.”

  She withdrew the twenty-dollar bill she always carried behind the plastic ID pocket hanging around her neck and held it up so he could see the denomination. “I’m not into tattoos. Will this cover the cost of a map?”

  His eyes were intense as he grabbed the twenty from her hand. From under his chair he pulled out a walking stick. “I’ll show you how to find the trailer, but the desert is unforgiving. Maybe you should give me the name of your next of kin in case you don’t come back.”

  Davie smiled. He didn’t.

  The man leaned over and used the stick to draw a map in the dirt. She thanked him and returned to the car. For the second time that day, the Jetta created a dust trail that could be seen for miles.

  19

  Harlan Cormack’s red trailer was located in a godforsaken area pimpled with brush, Joshua trees, and a cluster of boulders. A barbed wire fence surrounded the place. A sign hung from the metal gate that read: private property no trespassing.

  There was no room to park along the narrow road so she put the car in reverse and backed up until she reached a turnout a short distance away. She turned on her cell to text her partner but as the old man had warned, there was no service. Her radio was also inoperable. She left the car and went by foot toward Cormack’s trailer as the sun blazed overhead.

  A padlock hung from the chain-link gate. Cormack had left it unlocked, as promised. There was a pickup truck parked near the trailer, so she assumed he was home. As she walked past the pickup, she peered inside. There were a few tools in the bed, but the cabin was empty. She made her way toward the trailer’s front door.

  A wooden platform with three steps led to the entrance. With her hand hovering near her .45, Davie climbed the risers and knocked, making sure she was positioned to the side of the door in case of trouble.

  “Mr. Cormack, it’s Detective Richards. We spoke on the phone earlier today.”

  In the distance Davie heard the howl of a coyote. No response came from inside the trailer. Maybe he’d just dozed off. She’d come all this way to ask him about Zeke Woodrow, and she wasn’t leaving until she’d had that conversation. She knocked a couple more times.

  “Mr. Cormack. Are you in there?”

  No answer.

  She leaned over the wood railing and peered into the window. The kitchen sink was full of dirty dishes. From inside the trailer she saw a flickering TV but heard no sound. An opened bottle of beer sat on a tray in front of the couch. But there was no sign of Cormack. Tension needled her neck as she turned the knob. The door swung open.

  “Mr. Cormack.”

  She drew her Smith & Wesson and crept toward the back of the trailer, where she found a bathroom and a bedroom. Both were empty, so she returned to the porch and closed the door. The old man had warned her there were no cell towers out here, but she needed to call Cormack, so she holstered her gun and pulled out her phone again. Still no service.

  She swept her gaze across the landscape in all directions until she came to a rusty oil barrel near an outcropping of rocks about a hundred feet away. There was likely no garbage pickup out here; maybe Cormack used it to burn his trash. There was something blue next to the barrel. It looked like clothing, a sweatshirt perhaps. She again drew her weapon from its holster, eyeing the surrounding terrain, looking for movement or a flicker of light reflected off a watch or eyeglasses. Spotting nothing out of order, she returned her focus to the swatch of blue.

  As Davie inched closer to the barrel, she inhaled the odor of ash and decay. That’s when she saw the body of a man sprawled on the ground, still holding a plastic bag full of garbage. She stared at the bullet wound in his head. Time, blood, and gore had made his features unrecognizable, but she knew without a doubt he was one of the young men in Lynda Morrow’s old photograph.

  She checked for a pulse but it was only a formality. His body was cool to the touch. The blood on his wound had already congealed and rigor mortis was beginning to set in. Harlan Cormack had likely been dead for at least a couple of hours, maybe since not long after they’d spoken on the phone.

  Davie put her palm on her chest, hoping to contain the pounding of her heart. Waves of guilt pummeled her until she felt as if she were drowning. She should have saved Harlan Cormack’s life but she had done the opposite.

  She stumbled toward the gate, dropped to her knees, and vomited. She stayed slumped over the dirt for a long time. Finally, she wiped her mouth and ran toward the road. By the time she reached the Jetta, her lungs burned from the dust. She felt wasted and fragile as she slipped the key into the ignition and sped toward the tattoo artist’s trailer and his satellite phone. When she got there, she called 911. Then she called her partner.

  20

  Slowly, methodically, she told her partner the story, stripping away feelings from facts just as she had been taught to do, grateful that Vaughn wasn’t around to see how the retelling of finding Cormack’s body had pierced the protective shell she’d worked so hard to build.

  When she ended the call with her partner she called Dag Lunds for a second time because there was a strong possibility he might be the next name on the killer’s hit list. If so, she had to warn him. He didn’t answer the call and once again she was forced to leave a message, this one more urgent than the last.

  Davie stood stiff and mute as she watched the San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Homicide team process the crime scene. Once the investigator had taken her statement and she was no longer needed, she somehow managed to fall into the Jetta and drive back to Los Angeles. It wasn’t until the early morning hours of Thursday that she pulled into the station parking lot, too drained to venture into the squad room or check her desk for messages. She abandoned the department car, dragged her exhausted body into the Camaro, and drove home.

  Once she arrived at her guesthouse, she looked for Hootch. He didn’t come when she called him and she wasn’t up for an all-out search. The furniture showed no evidence of damage. After his bowls were filled with food and water, she showered and tried to sleep, but her mind churned, replaying every move she’d made before finding Cormack’s body, obsessing about every detail she had gotten wrong
and every missed cue—analyzing, questioning, wondering what more she could have done to save Cormack’s life. For hours she thrashed in her bed, tangled in the sheets, counting and recounting to one hundred. Nothing quieted her mind. For the first time, she regretted not accepting the shrink’s offer of sleeping pills.

  As a last resort she got out of bed, put on her swimsuit and a heavy sweater, and jogged to Alex Camden’s swimming pool. The night air was cool and steam from the eighty-degree water rose like a mist in a creepy horror film. No one was home so the late-night splashing would go unnoticed. She dropped her sweater on a nearby chaise longue and slipped into the shallow end of the pool. It was rare to see stars in Los Angeles, but this night the marine layer had also obscured the moon. She shivered in the dark night, trying but failing to purge the feel of Harlan Cormack’s cold skin on her fingers.

  Lynda Morrow’s old photo had caught all four men in the middle of a laugh, somebody telling one of their trademark corny jokes, she guessed. They all seemed so happy and carefree. Davie wondered what had happened to them in the years following that picture.

  Three men, murdered. Who had wanted them dead? And what of the fourth man? Where was he? Was he dead or alive? Victim or murderer? She swam toward the deep end of the pool, back and forth until her arms and legs felt rubbery. The cold night air shocked her body as she crawled out of the pool. Throwing on her sweater didn’t stop the trembling. Her bare feet slapped against the flagstone path as she made her way back to the warmth of her cottage. Hootch was perched on the countertop near the sink, no doubt waiting for the small brown bird that had been delivering twigs to a nest it was building in the eaves of the house. It was dark now and Davie suspected the bird had retired for the evening.

  Her hair was still damp when her head hit the pillow, thinking about Dag Lunds and how she could never truly rest until she’d found him.

  She didn’t remember falling asleep, but sometime in the early morning hours of Thursday she was awaken by the jarring sound of a ringing telephone. It was her partner and he sounded stressed.

  “You okay, Davie? Why didn’t you call to let me know you got back from the desert okay?”

  She untangled her legs from the sheets and sat on the edge of the bed. “Sorry.”

  Vaughn’s tone was brittle. “I thought about the case for hours after you called. Three people connected to TidePool killed in the last few days. We’re talking about related murders in multiple jurisdictions. The Captain is going to make us turn the case over to RHD.”

  Robbery Homicide was an elite unit housed at police headquarters in downtown L.A. and considered the crème de la crème of department assignments. It consisted of five sections, one of them being the Homicide Special, which investigated high-profile murders, serial killers, and cases in multiple jurisdictions, among others. When a case grew too complex for divisional detectives, it was usually reassigned to RHD.

  Davie bolted to her feet. “Giordano won’t let that happen.”

  “He’ll let it happen because he has to. RHD has resources we don’t have. They can coordinate with other law enforcement agencies, like the FBI, or the Army’s Criminal Investigation Division, or Battlestar Galactica, if it floats their boat.”

  Davie wrapped the sheet around her body and went to the kitchen with the phone cradled against her shoulder. Hootch was sitting in his usual spot by the window near the sink, watching that squirrel performing a Flying Wallendas routine on the branches of the sycamore.

  “I’m not ready to let it go yet, Jason. There are a few more—”

  “Forget it, Davie. If the Captain says the case goes downtown, there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  Davie let the sheet drop to the floor as she opened the cupboard in search of coffee. “Zeke Woodrow is the only homicide in our division. The rest aren’t even in L.A. County. Karst was killed in Nevada, Cormack in San Bernardino County. I think they’re linked, but we need to question Dag Lunds. He might be able to connect the dots for us. Once we interview him, I’ll put all our notes in the Murder Book. Giordano can review what we have. If he thinks it’s necessary, he can ask the Captain to send the case downtown. I just need another day or so. It’ll be fine. Trust me.”

  “You can’t keep Cormack’s murder from Giordano.”

  “I’d never do that.” Davie opened the bag of coffee, but there was only a half-teaspoon of grounds at the bottom. That wouldn’t pack enough punch to bother with, so she threw it in the trash. “I’ll talk to him as soon as I get to the station,” she continued. “Then I’ll follow up on a few more leads and put my notes in order.”

  “When are you coming in?”

  She checked the clock on the microwave—6:10 a.m. “I’m out of coffee.”

  “Get your butt in here. I’ll make a fresh pot.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  The squirrel was taunting the cat with its acrobatics. Hootch’s tail slapped against the tile in annoyance. He wanted to be outside, doing what cats do, she supposed. It was time to find someone who could make those inside-cat/outside-cat decisions. One thing Davie knew for sure—allowing Hootch to settle into her house would only make his transition to a permanent home more difficult for both of them.

  She didn’t have time to make the bed, but she dragged the sheet back into the bedroom and threw it on the mattress. Only one of her black polyester pantsuits remained hanging in the closet. The other two were in the laundry basket because she hadn’t had time to wash them. Tonight, she thought.

  She corralled her hair into a knot, anchored by a stretchy band. From his perch near the window, Hootch stared at her with his hooded green eyes, as if he knew she was plotting against him. Her shoulders slumped at the thought of this new responsibility. It would have been better to place the cat with the shelter when she’d had the chance.

  Davie had promised Shannon she’d find a good home for the cat but wasn’t at all sure that would happen anytime soon. Before she left the house, she phoned Dr. Dimetri’s clinic to ask if they could keep Hootch for a couple of days. They told her the facility wasn’t set up for long-term boarding of healthy animals and explained that even if they were able to take him, he’d spend all his time alone in a cage with little human interaction. If Hootch had to be alone, he was better off at the cottage. To err on the side of caution, she would buy a scratch post as soon as she had a free moment.

  The squirrel was gone. Hootch tracked her movements until she opened the front door to leave. Over her shoulder, she saw him open his mouth in a silent meow.

  21

  When Davie drove into the station’s parking lot, Jason Vaughn was waiting for her outside near the back door. He looked hyped-up with adrenaline as he handed her the cup of coffee he’d promised.

  She drank and waited for the caffeine to stimulate her central nervous system. “Why are you out here?”

  “An arrestee got sick in the hall outside the jail. Smells like hell in there. Let’s go for a walk until somebody cleans it up.”

  Davie followed him toward the Centinela Avenue gate near the tree where several engraved rocks were placed on the ground, each bearing the name of a Pacific officer who had been killed in the line of duty.

  The coffee made her feel more alert. “What’s up?”

  “I just heard from Christina Lunds. She couldn’t find your number so she called the front desk. They transferred the call to me. She wanted you to know she contacted her ex about Zeke. He freaked out—her words, not mine. He wants to talk to us.”

  “Where is he?”

  “At his cabin in Kern County. He stopped by a convenience store for supplies. They have Wi-Fi, so he got your messages and the one from his ex. He called her first because he thought she might be calling about his son.”

  “Did she give you directions to his cabin?”

  “Yup.” He held up a set of car keys. “I just filled the tan
k.”

  “What about RHD?”

  “I told Giordano we were going to interview Lunds. Let’s get his statement, file everything in the Murder Book like you said, and then if the Captain wants to send it downtown, I’m on board.” He gave her the thumbs-up sign. “What do you say?”

  She was disappointed at the thought of possibly abandoning Zeke’s case but forced out a reply. “Sounds like a plan.”

  Three and a half hours later, Davie transitioned onto Highway 180 near Fresno and aimed the car toward the Sequoia & Kings Canyon National Park. The narrow mountain road hugged a meandering river through a steep, tree-lined canyon that looked like it had been carved during the last ice age. Brush struggled for purchase in the rocky terrain.

  Vaughn hadn’t said much during the trip. He seemed to be deep in thought and she didn’t want to interrupt his meditation.

  “It’s pretty out here,” he said, finally.

  Out the window she saw clouds, puffy white and gray against a brilliant blue sky. In the distance was a snow-capped peak, one of the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

  Davie glanced at her partner. “Maybe you should buy a place up here.”

  “Nah. Too far out for me. I’m a city boy.”

  She nodded and kept driving.

  A couple of miles later, he said, “Davie, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

  The melancholy tenor of his tone made her feel apprehensive. “O-kay.” She stretched out the two syllables like saltwater taffy.

  “I’m thinking about putting in for a transfer.”

  She slowly turned her head and stared at him. “Out of Homicide?”

  “Out of Pacific,” he said. “To the Mounted Platoon.”