While she waited for him to read and sign the new report, she mulled over Latham’s motive for killing Zeke. The guy was in his sixties. Not old, but not in his prime. She wondered why he’d risk coming back to the US to kill four men because of something that happened decades ago. If extradition from Hong Kong was as hard as Quintero claimed, it seemed more reasonable to stay in Asia and fight whatever charges came his way. What was the worst that could happen? Guardian might fire him, but Latham was near retirement age anyway. He must have set aside money to live out his so-called golden years, maybe even enough to support his father and pay lawyers to fight extradition.
Fifteen minutes later, Quintero dropped the reports on her desk. “Good work, Richards. The lieutenant is waiting for you in her office.”
“Me? Aren’t you coming?”
“Hell no. That woman hates me. I’m going to let you and your partner take the heat.”
Davie picked up the reports. “Thanks for your support.”
Quintero chuckled. “I’m sure you’ll return the favor.”
“You can count on it.”
Lieutenant Betty Repetto’s office was at the end of a long hallway. Davie only knew her by reputation but figured somebody had put her as far away from other people as possible because she was a hard-core cop who didn’t care about political correctness or who she offended. She’d also heard the woman was smart, tough, and fair as long as you did the work and built your case from facts and didn’t ignore exculpatory evidence. If you screwed up, she’d kick you to the curb. Even those who had felt the lash of her sharp tongue respected her.
Vaughn walked behind Davie as they approached Repetto’s office. Her door was open, but out of caution Davie knocked to announce their presence. Repetto was bent over a stack of papers wearing her signature work uniform—a dark skirt and an American flag pin attached to the lapel of her matching jacket. Davie heard she had a Beretta strapped to her thigh under that skirt.
The lieutenant gestured for them to enter the room. “Come in. Sit.”
Vaughn eased into one of the two guest chairs. Without speaking Davie set the case files on her desk within easy reach. Repetto adjusted her glasses and slid the file in front of her. Davie sat back and waited, looking for clues to Repetto’s personality through the items she kept in her office. There were framed commendations and certificates and a coffee cup printed with an LAPD lieutenant’s badge and a number she assumed was Repetto’s. There were no family photos or other personal items.
Her partner leaned forward and opened his mouth to speak. Davie grabbed his arm to stop him. He swung his torso toward her, confused. She put her finger to her lips warning him not to interrupt.
Some supervisors welcomed verbal explanations, but she’d heard Repetto thought pitching was for Hollywood movie scripts. She insisted on reading the report in silence to make sure it held up, because if you had to explain the case or gin up enthusiasm, you’d failed Homicide Detective 101. If the lieutenant had any questions after reading the report, she would grill the detectives, especially if she found any weaknesses in the evidence or the logic, which she frequently did.
Vaughn shrugged off Davie’s hand and turned to Repetto. “The suspect is a flight risk, so—”
The lieutenant lifted her attention from the page and gave Vaughn a death stare. “Did I give you permission to speak?” She paused for a moment to let the question sink in—but not long enough to entertain an answer. “No, I don’t believe I did. Until I do, keep quiet so I can concentrate.”
Vaughn’s jaw muscles twitched while Repetto resumed reading, making a few notes on the pages. When she finished, she turned to Davie. “Your name’s on this report so I guess you wrote it.” Davie nodded. “It’s good—a little obsessive-compulsive, but good. Your partner over there may be no slouch himself, but I don’t know either of you, so I can’t say for sure.”
While she appreciated the compliment about her report, she held her breath and waited for the lieutenant to notice what wasn’t included. It didn’t take long.
Repetto glared at Davie. “You collected blood and saliva evidence. Where are the results?”
“We just got the saliva this morning. The samples haven’t been analyzed or compared yet.”
Repetto’s chair squeaked as she leaned back. “This investigation started in Pacific, right?”
Vaughn still looked shell-shocked by her rebuke, so Davie assumed the lead. “My partner and I worked the case until it got complicated.”
“So your captain sent it to us.”
Davie nodded. “RHD has more resources—”
Repetto scribbled a note on the page. “Spare me the bullshit, Richards. I’ve been in this job long enough to know how it works. You division detectives think you do all the work and RHD takes all the credit, right?”
If Davie didn’t know better, she’d have sworn it was her boss Frank Giordano sitting in that chair. She didn’t answer Repetto’s question because they both knew it was rhetorical and commenting further would be counterproductive.
Vaughn leaned forward, apparently hoping to redeem himself in the lieutenant’s eyes. “I just wanted to say what an honor it is to finally meet you.”
It was Vaughn’s well-meaning attempt to be charming, but all Davie could think was, Oh crap.
Repetto removed her glasses and laid them on the desk. There was a deadly silence in the room as her stare burned a scarlet tattoo onto her partner’s forehead—a B for brownnose. Davie could tell by Vaughn’s wary expression that he realized his mistake but was at a loss on how to correct course.
“Someday I hope I can say the same about you, Detective,” Repetto said, “but I have my doubts. Just so you know, I like false praise about as much as I like sloppy writing. You’d be wise to remember that. No self-respecting Deputy DA would file this case because all you’ve got is an interesting theory.” She pushed the paperwork across the desk toward Davie. “If you’re harboring any notions of staying at RHD, keep working until you have something to show me.”
Davie filed away Repetto’s bias against sloppy writing for future use. She nodded and followed Vaughn out of the office. She caught up with her partner at the elevator as he stabbed the down arrow.
“Sorry, Jason. I would have warned you but I didn’t know until the last minute we’d be presenting the case to her. But it’s good news she even mentioned a permanent position for you in RHD.”
“No thanks,” he said. “Look, Davie—my suit is still soggy from the Seattle rain. I’m tired, and I’ve had enough abuse for one day. I’m going home.”
She waited for a moment as the elevator doors closed, assessing the level of her partner’s unhappiness and what she could do to snap him out of his funk.
“Surviving Repetto is a right of passage. He’ll get over it.”
Davie whipped around to see Jon Striker standing behind her. His jacket was off and slung over his shoulder. The dark shadows on his cheeks indicated he was in need of a shave.
“Did you set us up just to amuse yourself?”
Striker’s face was a stony mask. “I would never set up another cop. Q didn’t tell me about the meeting or I would have been there.”
“How did you find out?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He swept his gaze over her black pantsuit, crumpled from rain, travel, and hours of hunching over a desk. “You just need to know that Repetto and Q are good people. We all care about closing this case. You and your partner did a damn fine job on this investigation to date. Just think of us as force multipliers.” Without waiting for her to reply, he walked past her down the hall.
Davie returned to her temporary desk and worked alone until the early evening, when she decided to go home, too. Maybe a hot shower, cool sheets, and some mac-and-cheese baked in her new casserole dish would provide clarity on what to do next. She’d been chasing leads for six days straight wit
h little time off. There were other detectives working on the case now, so she decided to take Sunday off and regroup.
On Monday morning, Davie left her house with her temporary badge clipped to her belt and her gun secured in a holster. Before reporting to RHD, she stopped by Pacific Station to check her desk for any subpoenas or department bulletins that might have been dumped there.
When she got to her desk in the detective squad room, she saw a bouquet of red roses in a plastic vase, along with a pink Mylar balloon that read congratulations! An envelope attached to a wood dowel was tucked between the foliage with a note that read RHD! Kick ass and take names! SH.
Spencer Hall.
She grabbed the vase and rushed out of the squad room, shouldering open the door to the women’s restroom. The vase thudded as it hit the bottom of the trash can. She planted her feet wide apart on the tile floor and fumed, refusing to acknowledge that she might be overreacting. At least Vaughn hadn’t seen the flowers. There would have been no end to his lecturing.
She caught her breath and went looking for Detective Giordano. As she exited the restroom, she nearly collided with flower man himself.
“What were you thinking?” she said in a low voice. “Flowers? In the squad room? Where everybody could see them?”
He seemed taken aback. “I heard you went to RHD. That’s a big deal. I just wanted to let you know I was happy for you. Why are you so upset?”
She noticed that his tie was crooked and wondered who straightened it now. Not her. Those days were over. “You’re giving people the wrong idea. We’re not a couple.”
He sighed and ran a hand through his blond hair. “I know, Davie. You’ve made that clear. But I thought we were friends.”
Davie was a week into the Woodrow murder investigation and she hadn’t made an arrest. Her nerves were on edge. She considered the possibility that she was taking out her frustration on Hall. Maybe she’d ask the shrink to sort it out at their next appointment.
“I’m sorry. We are friends. Thanks for the flowers.”
“You’re welcome.” He walked past her without meeting her gaze and proceeded toward the watch commander’s office.
Davie glanced up and saw Joss Page standing by the door of the squad room, wearing a sympathetic expression.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I think Taylor Swift has already written a song about him.”
“Which one? ‘I Knew You Were Trouble’?”
Joss walked toward her. “I’d guess more like ‘We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together.’” She laughed. “So … the flowers. Do you mind if I take them home to my mom? I’ll sneak them out to my car. Spencer will never know.”
“Works for me.”
“And by the way, running is a great stress reliever.” Without waiting for a reply, Joss strolled into the restroom to rescue the flowers.
Davie found Giordano upstairs in the roll-call room bent over some paperwork. The room was set up in typical classroom style with rows of tables and chairs facing toward audio/visual equipment on either side of a head table. The space was used for a variety of meetings, including sharing intelligence with patrol officers at the beginning of each watch. It was appropriate to find her boss there, since intelligence sharing was exactly what she wanted to do.
Davie walked down the center aisle and stopped in front of Giordano. “You got a minute?”
He turned the papers over so she couldn’t see what was on them. “Sure. How’s it going, kid?”
“Jason and I met with Lieutenant Repetto on Saturday. She said there wasn’t enough evidence to file with the DA’s office and told us to keep working on the case.”
He chuckled. “That must have been ugly.”
“Brutal. But she’s right.”
Giordano sat for a moment, thoughtful. “Your partner probably thought he could finesse her with his charm but I’m surprised at you. Why didn’t you just wait before involving her?”
“Because I’m not in charge of the case.”
Davie straddled a chair across the table from Giordano and updated him on the evidence she’d collected on John Latham/Van Kuris but also her concerns about what it meant.
Giordano frowned. “You think Latham is the wrong guy?”
She leaned back, gathering her thoughts. “It’s the logistics. Zeke bumped into him unexpectedly in Hong Kong. It must have been a shock to both of them. But what happened next seems so farfetched.”
“In what way?”
She leaned forward with her elbows on the table. “We’re supposed to believe that Latham told Guardian he had a family emergency and requested leave. He got it and flew to British Columbia. He crossed the border into the US without anybody knowing, collected an arsenal of heavy-duty weapons, and located all four men, not even knowing for sure if they were all still alive. Then he traveled hundreds of miles to take out three people. He didn’t kill Lunds, but it wasn’t because he didn’t really try. Seems like a lot to accomplish with little information in a short amount of time.”
Giordano tapped his pen on the table. “But not impossible, especially if he’s motivated. You said he worked for an international defense contractor. He must have had contacts in the US who could supply him with weapons and information.”
“So, why did Zeke decide to fly back to Hong Kong? What was he planning to do? Kill Latham? Bring him back to face justice? None of that makes sense. He was responsible for a disabled daughter. The risk of injury or death on a mission like that seems excessive. Why not just contact the Army’s law enforcement division and report Latham? Let them handle it.”
Giordano set his pen on the table. “Who would profit from Woodrow’s death?”
“Not his daughter. She idolized him. Even if she inherited his assets, she’d lose his love and support. Not TidePool. The Guardian contact was worth a lot of money, and they were eager to win the bid. They certainly had a huge stake in making sure nothing went wrong. From what Alden Brink told me, they’re privacy fanatics. Clients might be upset if Zeke destroyed a potential client’s reputation over something that happened fifty years ago, but TidePool could claim it was their patriotic duty to report him. Plus, Guardian was interviewing other security contractors and TidePool knew that.”
Giordano continued his litany of thought-provoking questions, getting her to think of all the angles. “Who stands to lose the most if Latham is exposed?”
Her cell chimed with an incoming text. She focused on the screen and saw her partner’s name. She pushed a button to silence the phone. “Latham, of course, but also his father and sister. His sister told me without her brother’s money, she and the father would be in financial trouble.”
“What does Guardian have to lose?”
“Not much. It might be embarrassing for them, but I doubt it would damage the company in any real way. They’d claim Latham, aka Van Kuris, lied to them about his past. They might feel pressured to fire him but that’s about it.”
Giordano leaned forward to meet her gaze. “Like I’ve always told you, murderers lie for a lot of reasons—because they have to, because they think they’re smarter than you are, and sometimes they lie for the pure joy of it. But they always lie. Figure out who’s lying and you’ll have your killer.”
“That’s easier said than done. First, I have to have a plausible suspect.”
“No one ever told you it would be easy.”
She nodded toward the stack of pages. “Your retirement paperwork?”
He leaned back in the chair and laced his hands behind his head. “Yeah. Pain in the ass trying to figure it all out.”
“Save yourself the aggravation and stick around for a while.”
He looked up and smiled. “Thanks, kid. Appreciate that.”
As soon as Davie left the roll-call room she called her partner and told him she was at Pacific. He sounded stressed. “What’s wro
ng?”
“I just got a call from the serology lab. The DNA comparison came back. They can’t prove it was John Latham’s blood we found in Santa Barbara. Our entire case just came unglued.”
34
Vaughn arrived at Pacific station fifteen minutes later. Davie sat across from him at a table in the employee break room, reading the serology report he’d brought with him. His jacket was off and slung over the back of a chair.
“How did you get the results so fast?” she said. “I didn’t expect them until next week.”
“You underestimate me, Davie. All I had to do was flash one of my movie-star smiles and boom.”
“In other words, our case was next in line.”
He smiled. “Something like that.”
She continued reading. According to the report, the serology lab had first analyzed the blood she’d collected from the door of Zeke Woodrow’s house and developed a profile, which they ran through the FBI’s national database—Combined DNA Index System, or CODIS. They required two conditions be met before the profile was uploaded into the system—the sample had to be from a Forensic Unknown and the profile had to meet minimum quality standards that involved loci and alleles, a complicated process that made Davie’s head spin. She was lucky her sample met the criteria, but was disappointed to read they’d found no exact match in the database. Next they did a familial DNA comparison between the blood sample and the buccal swab she’d taken from Robert Latham’s mouth.
“Wait a minute,” she said pointing to the last page of the report. “This says the two samples do share a number of alleles, so it’s possible whoever left the sample in Santa Barbara could be a relative of Robert Latham. They also share an identical Y chromosome, which is passed down from the father to his sons and grandsons, so the blood sample could be John Latham’s or another relative from the same line, like a brother or a son. They just can’t say that for sure.”
Outside the Wire Page 20