She understood Giordano’s frustration. She felt it, too, but was powerless to change anything. If the LAPD brass ordered you to go, you went. With the Murder Book tucked under her arm, she followed Giordano toward the door.
Over his shoulder he said, “Make us proud, kid.”
“Will do, boss.”
At least she and Vaughn would stay partners for now. She thought of Dag Lunds and his band of brothers. He’d said they moved with one mind. That didn’t describe her relationship with Jason Vaughn. They approached police work in different ways, but their commitment to each other and to solving murders was in perfect harmony. Maybe Vaughn would have the opportunity to stay at RHD. If so, she would be happy for him.
26
“I have this cat … ”
The shrink nodded in approval. “I’m encouraged by that news. Research shows comfort pets are instrumental to recovery for PTSD sufferers.”
Comfort pet? Davie stared at the shrink’s thin smile and thought about Hootch. She didn’t know much about cats, but this one was standoffish and wary. That might be feline nature or maybe he was still adjusting to the loss of someone he trusted.
“He won’t play with any of his toys,” she said.
“Did you buy the toys so you could play with him or so he could entertain himself while you were gone?”
She thought about that before answering. “Somebody else bought them. Mostly, he prefers to bat a paperclip across the floor.”
“Give him time. I imagine he’ll come around.” The shrink rested his elbows on the desk and studied her face. “You look more rested. Has your sleep improved?”
Davie wanted to laugh. She had counted for nearly an hour before falling into a black pit of sleep. She’d barely managed to drag herself to this seven a.m. appointment. “I never sleep all that much when I’m working a case.” She considered leaving it at that but at the last minute added, “The counting helps quiet my mind … sometimes, at least, enough to fall asleep.”
He nodded and wrote something on his tablet. “I’m glad you tried the meditation exercises. They seem to have helped, wouldn’t you say?”
“Why do you always make me restate the obvious?” she said. “I just told you they helped.”
“I want to make sure I’m not misinterpreting your experience.” He waited for a moment before adding, “What else is happening in your life?”
Her gaze swept the room and noted a cartoony-looking greeting card displayed next to a pile of books. It was past Valentine’s Day and not yet Easter. April Fools? If so, she wondered who would send a card like that to his office. Maybe it was a thank-you from one of his patients.
Davie heard the shrink clear his throat and remembered he’d asked her a question. “I almost drowned.” She told him about the attempt on Lunds’s life, falling in the river, and how she’d felt those moments in the water would be her last.
“But you survived.”
Davie thought about that for a moment. “The man who saved my life was a soldier. He told me things. Horrible things he saw and did to protect his friends and survive the war. At night when I’m alone in bed I sometimes close my eyes and think about how I killed two men to protect people I love, and I wonder why I’m still alive.”
“People are sometimes called upon to make life-or-death decisions. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t mourn the loss of life, even if it was a necessary part of the oath you took—to protect and to serve. Isn’t that it? Your job now is to forgive yourself.”
Davie squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s hard.”
“Sometimes it is.” He looked at the wall clock. “Our time is up.”
Davie collected her purse from the floor and prepared to leave. “See you next week?”
The shrink slipped his notes into a file folder and scribbled something on a piece of paper. “Actually, I’ll be away for a couple of weeks. If you need to talk about anything, here’s a number you can call. We’ll set up another appointment when I get back.”
She studied his expression for hints to his thoughts. “Why do I get the feeling you’re brushing me off?”
He smiled. “Feeling? I’ll take that as progress.”
27
An hour later Davie sat in an RHD conference room on the sixth floor of the Police Administration Building in downtown Los Angeles, wearing a clean suit she’d laundered the night before. The building’s sharp angles and massive glass windows were a stark departure from the boxy shabbiness of the old Parker Center.
Before reporting for duty, she stopped by the personnel office to order a new detective badge to replace the one she’d lost in the river. They gave her a temporary and told her a badge with Bear’s old number would have to be ordered from an outside vendor and it might take a couple of months to come in.
The setup at the Homicide Special Section, where she and Vaughn were temporarily on loan, was similar to Pacific’s squad room with its workstations and desk computers, except everything was newer and shinier here. Plus there was a view from an actual window.
Sitting across from her at the table was Det. Reuben Quintero. She’d crossed paths with him on a previous homicide case when he was in Commercial Crimes Division. Davie was surprised to find him here and even more surprised to learn he had been promoted to a D-3 supervisor and assigned as the lead Investigative Officer for the Woodrow case.
Quintero was all sinew and attitude, with short black hair, a wiry build, and nicotine-stained fingers from a chain-smoking habit. He encouraged everyone to call him Q, like he was some one-name celebrity—Adele, Bono, Cher, Prince, and Q. She refused to indulge his grandiosity and had always called him by his full name because she knew it annoyed him.
He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. His breath smelled of mint. “Look, Richards, let’s make sure we’re on the same page. My lieutenant expects you to tell me everything you know about this investigation the minute you know it. Understood?”
He was referring to a situation that happened a few months back, when he’d accused her of withholding evidence during a brief encounter as their two cases intersected. He’d blown the incident out of proportion and she’d told him so. That had annoyed him, too. She wasn’t convinced Quintero had gotten over it, so a dose of caution was in order.
Davie placed Zeke Woodrow’s Murder Book on the table in front of her. “If you don’t trust me, you could have just taken my partner on loan. My boss would be happy to keep me at the division.”
Quintero had an intense personality, but today he seemed more jittery than usual. “I know Giordano is pissed, but we’re friends. I’ll make it up to him. As for you, you’re a cat-five hurricane, but you know your stuff and you know this case. You and your partner uncovered a shit storm here. I give you credit for that. Not everybody would have linked all these murders the way you did.”
She leaned back in the chair and assessed his backhanded compliment. It seemed sincere. “Thanks. How’d you get back into RHD?”
Quintero grabbed the Murder Book and pulled it to his side of the table. “None of your damn business. Where’s your partner?”
“Parking the car.”
“Text him and tell him to get his ass up here. We have work to do.”
Texting wasn’t necessary because a moment later Vaughn sauntered into the room with a paper cup in his hand. Walking behind him was a man wearing a tie but no suit jacket. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up past his wrists. He was in his mid- to late thirties with broad shoulders and high cheekbones. His dark hair was streaked with gray at the temples and cut in a short spiky style. He acknowledged Quintero with a nod and slid his athletic body into a chair at the table. Davie waited for Quintero to introduce him, but that didn’t happen.
Vaughn removed the lid on the cup, releasing steam and the scent of hot milk into the air—a latte, his drink of choice. Then he flashed a cocky grin. “So
rry I’m late. I had trouble finding a parking spot. I thought RHD big shots had valet.”
“We do, smartass,” Quintero said. “You hinterland dicks have to park on the street.” He gave Vaughn a good-natured slap on the back and pointed to a chair. “Sit down. Tell me everything you know about this case and everything you don’t know. Start with the easy stuff first.”
The man turned toward Vaughn and extended his hand. “I’m Jon Striker. Q’s D-2.”
As he reached out to shake Vaughn’s hand, Davie noticed a tattoo inked on the inside of his right forearm in blue cursive script, but all she could read was the letter e at the end of the word. Davie sensed the energy in the room shift as he turned his focus toward her with an intensity that made her uncomfortable.
“Davie Richards,” she said. “Pacific Homicide.”
He outranked her, so she studied his expression to determine if he was irritated that she hadn’t walked over to shake his hand. His face was impassive, but the wrinkles around his sapphire eyes hinted at mild amusement.
Vaughn settled into a chair at the table with his coffee. Davie shifted her focus to Quintero as he walked toward a nearby whiteboard and picked up a green marker. The day before, Davie had faxed him a case report, but she and Vaughn went over the details again as Quintero wrote each victim’s name on the board, along with the date they died.
Quintero poised the marker over the whiteboard. “What about forensic evidence?”
Davie flipped to a report in the Murder Book but it wasn’t necessary. She could almost quote it from memory. She told Quintero about the theft of Zeke’s computer from his house in Santa Barbara and the blood sample collected by the local PD.
“We’re still waiting for the results,” she said.
Quintero studied the names on the whiteboard. “Karst was killed first in Nevada. As I recall, the report said a Glock 19 was left at the scene. What about the other murders?”
Vaughn leaned in. “We don’t know what kind of gun killed Woodrow. There were no spent shell casings found at the scene and no weapon has been recovered. The bullet might be lodged in the victim’s head, but there’s a backlog at the morgue, so the autopsy hasn’t been scheduled yet.”
Davie felt Striker’s attention drilling into her. “Did you find out what kind of gun was used in the Cormack murder?”
Davie was used to working with men, but at the moment there was an excess of testosterone in the room and the fumes were getting to her. She got up and walked toward the window, wishing she could open it to breathe the fresh air.
“The techs are still processing evidence,” she said. “They’ll call as soon as they know anything concrete.”
Quintero drew an arrow from each victim’s name to the type of weapon. The arrows leading to Woodrow and Cormack ended in a question mark. “What about the shell casings from Kern County?”
Vaughn pulled a rolled up piece of paper from his jacket pocket and spread it out on the table. “We stopped at the crime lab this morning before coming here. The casing is a 7.62x51mm NATO. They think it’s from an M110 semi-automatic sniper rifle. The Army used them in Afghanistan until recently.”
Quintero nodded and wrote M110 next to Lunds’s name. “How would the killer get access to an arsenal like that?”
Vaughn laid the report on top of the Murder Book, but before he could answer, Striker spoke in a low, steady voice. “Glocks are easy to find and you can buy M110s on the Internet, but they’re expensive—over twenty grand. The shooter could have gotten all the firearms from a dealer or a private owner.”
Davie stared at his full lips. They barely moved as he spoke, like he was some badass ventriloquist. She wondered how he knew that information. He’d likely read the report she’d faxed and perhaps done some checking on his own. If so, she was impressed.
Quintero held the marker between his index and middle finger like a cigarette. “What’s next?”
Davie peered out the window at the downtown cityscape. There were tall buildings out there, but you couldn’t prove that today. The tops were obscured by gray smog as opaque as Jon Striker’s inner thoughts.
She reviewed Zeke’s military service and his work for TidePool Security Consultants. Striker seemed to hang on her every word, but his expression still gave no clue what he was thinking. She had the feeling he was trying to figure out what made her tick. Good luck with that, she thought.
Davie shifted her gaze from Quintero to Vaughn, avoiding Striker. “Like my report says, about two weeks before the murder, TidePool sent Zeke Woodrow and Juno Karst to Hong Kong on a business trip. We think something may have happened there that triggered the killing spree.”
There was a slight tremor in Quintero’s hand as he poised the marker on the whiteboard, ready to write. “So, who was this client the victim went to see?”
“Guardian Advanced Technologies,” Vaughn said. “They’re a multinational defense contractor with offices all over the world, including a small office in Irvine.”
Quintero set the marker in the whiteboard tray and turned to face Vaughn. “Irvine? Like in Orange County?”
Davie nodded. “It’s a long shot but we could drive down to see if Guardian knew of any confrontation that occurred during that trip. If so, maybe they can tell us who was involved and what happened.”
Quintero unwrapped a piece of gum he’d pulled from his pocket and shoved it into his mouth. “How could a shooter kill three former US Army Rangers all by himself and attempt to kill a fourth—unless he was a cop or military himself?”
“It’s none of my business,” Davie said, “but you seem jumpy—”
“You’re right,” he said, pointing a nicotine-stained finger at her. “It’s none of your business. I stopped smoking. Two weeks ago. Can’t you tell? That’s why I’m in such a good mood. What else do you know? You think the shooter had help?”
Davie had never smoked but she’d heard plenty of people talk about the challenges of quitting cold turkey.
She walked back to the table but didn’t sit. Standing gave her leverage. “Hard to say. If he acted alone, he covered a lot of territory in a short amount of time. He missed killing Lunds, but he may try again.”
Striker had been quiet for a while but reentered the conversation at the mention of Lunds’s name. “Where is he now?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “I offered him protection but he felt safer on his own. He gave me his cell number if we need to reach him.”
Quintero rolled the marker between his palms as he paced. “Okay, so here’s the plan. I’ll send Striker and one of our other detectives to Irvine, see what Guardian has to say.”
Davie leaned over the table and pulled the Murder Book toward her. “Jason and I know the case. It makes more sense to send us. We have only one shot at this interview. We can’t afford to screw it up.”
Quintero worked the gum until his jaw clicked. “You always have to drive, don’t you, Richards?”
“It’s better that way, especially if you want to get to where you’re going.”
Davie glanced at Striker to get his reaction. His hand was balled into a fist that covered his mouth. She could tell by the wrinkles around his eyes that he was hiding a smile. This assignment had just gotten a whole lot more interesting.
28
Orange County was known for conservative Republicans, pricy master-planned communities, and the happiest place on earth—Disneyland. If OC had a superstar, it was Newport Beach and that’s where Davie and Vaughn were going.
Before they left headquarters, Davie had called Guardian and spoken to the company’s Director of Human Resources. The woman agreed to contact her counterpart in Hong Kong to find out if the company had received any complaints about Zeke’s Asia trip. She wasn’t keen on speaking with LAPD detectives in person but finally agreed to meet them following a business lunch she’d scheduled at a yacht club.
>
Davie drove south on the 405 in heavy traffic. Vaughn was in the passenger seat checking emails on his cell. Angelenos calculated travel time in minutes rather than miles, but these days it was impossible to judge how the traffic would be flowing at any given time. If this jam didn’t clear in the next few miles, she calculated it would take them an extra hour to get to their meeting.
Vaughn was stretched out in the passenger’s seat with his head tilted back and his eyes fixed on the screen of his phone. The air conditioner wasn’t working and the heat had coaxed out the odor of the menthol vapor rub he carried in his pocket.
Vaughn pressed buttons on his phone. “I’m bored. Let’s turn on the siren.”
“Not a good idea if we ever want to make D-2. What were you looking at?”
“Just checking to see if San Bernardino identified the gun in the Cormack murder,” he said. “Nothing yet. We still have a lot of territory to cover. Those four guys worked together for over forty years. They could have made all sorts of enemies in that time. If we can’t uncover a motive, how can we narrow our search?”
“Like we always do, by eliminating suspects until there’s only one left.”
Vaughn turned off the phone and slid it into his pocket. “What did you make of Striker?”
“Too early to say.”
“He’s not very talkative.”
Davie cracked the window to let in some air. “He doesn’t need to be Mr. Congeniality to help us clear this case.”
Vaughn paused and then changed the subject. “If you subtract travel time, Zeke was only in Hong Kong for a week. What could have happened in seven days that triggered him to retire?”
“He was nearing that age. Shannon told us he’d been thinking about it for some time.”
Vaughn’s handheld radio blasted out a 602 call—Criminal Trespass. He lowered the volume. “Maybe Zeke uncovered some kind of illegal activity at Guardian. If so, he must have told Juno Karst. They were both there. Maybe that’s why he was killed, too.”
Outside the Wire Page 16