“We’re not accusing you of anything, Ms. Potts, but you do look like an intelligent woman who knows human nature. I’m guessing you could tell what was going on in that room just by the expressions on their faces.”
Fern patted the towel and sniffed. “Well, that’s true.” She paused for a moment and then asked if he wanted a fresh-baked macaroon.
“No, thank you,” he said. “I’m sure they’re delicious. Did Mr. Woodrow say why he came to the office?”
She leaned forward and lowered her voice in a conspiratorial tone. “He didn’t tell me, but he was very angry.”
Striker leaned in and matched her tone. “Angry at Mr. Brink?”
“Not at first. But later I heard shouting, so I put my ear to the door … you know, in case I had to call for help.”
“Of course. Very smart of you. What were they arguing about?”
Fern batted her eyes at Striker, oblivious to her reptilian-colored mask. “Something bad happened on his trip to Hong Kong, so bad Mr. Woodrow didn’t want TidePool to work with that client anymore. Mr. Brink tried to reason with him at first. He said the contract was too important to trash over a personality conflict. He offered to put another employee on the account but Mr. Woodrow was having none of that.”
“Did he say what the conflict was about?”
“I’m not sure, but Mr. Brink accused this Woodrow guy of having a wild hair up his—well, you know the rest. He warned Mr. Woodrow to let it go. They argued like that for a while. Mr. Brink told him he was going to assign the account to another employee and that was final. That’s when Mr. Woodrow told him he was quitting.”
Davie looked up from her notes. “Quit, not retire?”
“You got a hearing problem? I said he quit.”
Davie exchanged a knowing look with Striker. If Fern was telling the truth, then everything Alden Brink had told her was a lie. Davie didn’t know the whole story and couldn’t prove Brink killed those three men, but he was involved in some way.
“Please don’t tell Mr. Brink you spoke with us,” Davie said.
“Why not? You said I wasn’t in danger.”
Striker reached out and patted her hand. “You’re part of an official homicide investigation now, Ms. Potts. Can I depend on you to keep this meeting confidential?”
Fern made a cross over her heart with her index finger and whispered, “Of course, Detective.”
On the way back to the car, Davie said, “That was impressive.”
He flashed a male version of Mona Lisa’s smile. “I have a few moves.”
Yes, she thought, I bet you do.
When Davie and Striker returned to RHD, she sat down to finalize her interview notes. He went in search of Quintero to update him on what they’d learned. Davie sensed movement and turned to see Jason Vaughn approaching her desk. He pulled up a chair and listened as she updated him on the case.
“We need to bring Brink in for questioning,” he said.
“I’m down with that, but we don’t know where he is. He’s probably armed, so we need a plan before we go. Striker is strategizing with Quintero.”
“How long will that take? If we were in charge, we’d scoop him up before he even knew he was a suspect. I think we should stake out his office, see if he’s there. Once we have eyes on him, we can call for backup.”
Davie doubted Brink knew he was under investigation, but once he figured it out, she wasn’t sure how he’d react. “It’s not just you and me anymore, Jason. We’re part of a team. I don’t think we should do anything without telling Striker and Quintero.”
“You’re talking like we’re not partners anymore, Davie. I don’t get it. You don’t even like Striker.”
His comment surprised her. She wasn’t sure how she felt about Jon Striker. She didn’t dislike him, but she must be sending a contrary vibe if her partner thought so.
“My objection to a stake out has nothing to do with Striker. Going it alone is a bad idea. Quintero wants to control everything and if we ask him, he’ll say no.”
“You’re the one who always says it’s better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission,” he said, turning toward the exit. “I’m going to the Westside.”
Vaughn was at the elevator when she caught up with him. “Okay, I’ll go with you, but we’re just there to watch, right?”
He winked and punched the elevator button. “Right.”
She and Vaughn had been parked across the street from Brink’s office for about an hour when they saw his Mercedes exit the garage and drive toward the San Fernando Valley.
Vaughn reached for his cell. “I’ll call Quintero.”
It was against her better judgment, but she put her hand on this arm. “He might just be going to lunch. Let’s follow him for a while.”
Davie trailed Brink’s Mercedes along Sepulveda Boulevard until he got to Sherman Oaks where he turned onto a side street and entered the garage of a modest three-story apartment building.
“You think he’s in for the day?” Vaughn said.
“Let’s wait a little longer. If he doesn’t come out, we’ll call for reinforcements.”
Davie pulled to the curb a block away. She watched and Vaughn checked his incoming emails. “You going to the Margaritaville party at Garcia’s on Sunday?”
“Is she that new MAC detective?”
“Yeah. Her.”
“I didn’t get the memo.”
“Everybody’s invited. I don’t know her very well but she seems normal. A bunch of guys from the squad room will be there. It could be fun—”
Davie reached over and grabbed Vaughn’s arm. She pointed toward the apartment building. “Brink’s on the move.”
Alden Brink’s Mercedes pulled out of the garage and onto the street. As the car drove by, Davie could see that the backseat was filled with cardboard boxes. She followed the vehicle onto the 405 North and tailed him as he transitioned onto the 101 toward Ventura and then exited at Topanga. It wasn’t until he turned onto the dead-end road that she knew where he was going—to the house where Zeke Woodrow had once lived.
She couldn’t follow him up the hill without being seen, so she eased the car to the shoulder of Topanga Canyon Boulevard behind an oleander bush and waited. Vaughn played solitaire on his cell while Davie stared at the road, willing Brink to reappear. Fifteen minutes later, the Mercedes bumped down the dirt road and continued toward Pacific Coast Highway. The boxes were no longer in the backseat.
Vaughn eased the cell into his jacket pocket. “Aren’t you going to follow him?”
“Call Quintero and let him know we spotted Brink heading toward PCH. Ask him to have the nearest black-and-white follow him until a surveillance team can get there. I want to find out why Brink was at the house.”
37
Davie stopped the car at the top of the hill and saw that the gate had been fitted with a new lock. She couldn’t risk tampering with it. There was no choice but to leave the car parked on the road and hike the rest of the way on foot.
When they reached the top of the hill, she noticed that curtains now covered the front windows. The place looked dark and hermetically sealed. She had no intention of entering but she turned the front doorknob anyway and found it locked.
She pointed toward the side yard. “Let’s have a look.”
Vaughn followed as she crept along the path until she reached the garage window. She rose onto her toes and peeked inside.
“See any BMWs parked in there?” Vaughn said.
“That would be convenient, but it’s empty.”
“Even if the Beemer is his, he’s probably not stupid enough to keep it here.”
There were three trash and recycling bins lined up against the garage like police cadets in formation. The lid of the blue recycling bin was overflowing with empty boxes that had once contained a set of frying pans, a mi
crowave, and a cell phone.
“Looks like somebody’s moving in,” Vaughn said.
When they reached the patio, Davie saw that new curtains also covered the French doors, except for a small opening where the seams didn’t meet. She peered through the crack and saw a dining room table, several small appliances on the kitchen counter, and a half dozen cardboard boxes stacked on the floor.
“You think Brink is the new tenant?” Vaughn said.
“TidePool sent him to L.A. to open a satellite office, so he’s probably going to be here for a while. The company owns the house. Now that Zeke doesn’t live here anymore, it makes sense Brink would move in.”
Davie walked to the edge of the patio and scanned the horizon. All she saw was hazy-blue sky, eucalyptus trees rippling in the wind, and gray-green brush clinging to the dry hillside. Three birds wove in and out of the airspace like aerial acrobats. Davie watched, mesmerized as they caught an updraft and soared high above the terrain in search of prey.
A rustling sound made her jump. A rabbit darted through the brush midway down the hill where she had first seen Hootch crouching inside the drainpipe. She squinted against the sun and noticed that a cluster of tumbleweeds now clogged the opening. They looked unnatural sitting there, like they’d been herded together by some force other than the wind. As she swept her gaze along the terrain, she noticed some of the ground cover had been torn away, carving a narrow path into the hillside leading from the patio. It looked like somebody or something had skidded down the slope.
“Jason.” Her partner joined her at the edge of the flagstones. She pointed toward the damage. “What do you make of that?”
He studied the fresh trail. “Definitely looks like somebody’s been down there recently. Could have been kids.”
“I’m going to take a look.”
Vaughn pulled a pair of sunglasses from his jacket pocket. “I’ll stay here in case you fall and break something. Somebody has to call Med Evac to haul you out of there.”
“Good idea,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you to get your suit dirty.”
He gave her a jovial slap on the back. “That’s what makes you the perfect partner.”
Davie planted her boots sideways, stepping and skidding down the hill in the loose dirt, careful not to lose her balance. The last thing she needed was to twist an ankle, adding insult to the cat scratches, sore muscles, and all those bruises.
By the time she got to the drainpipe, her clothes were covered with dust and her hands were scratched from grabbing rocks and dry chaparral to steady her descent. She pulled away the tumbleweeds and stared into the dark opening of the pipe where Hootch had been sheltered from the elements. There was nothing in there.
She walked the area looking for a safer path up the hill, her boots sinking into the soft dirt. Several moments later something underfoot jarred her spine. It wasn’t a rock because the ground under her boot seemed smooth and even. She squatted, rapped the spot with her knuckles, and heard a dull thud. Something was buried just beneath the topsoil.
Curiosity and dread set her heart racing as she brushed away the dirt until her efforts exposed the top of a metal box at least three and a half feet long. Her fingers dug deeper into the earth, scooping away soil until she saw what looked like a locked gun case.
“Jason,” she shouted.
Vaughn looked down the hill toward her. “What do you need? A rescue helicopter?”
“A search warrant. Call Quintero. Tell him to get here as soon as he can and tell him to bring a shovel and some rope.”
Davie clawed her way up the hill, grabbing onto any bush or rock that gave her leverage against the steep incline. Vaughn was waiting for her at the top with a blank search warrant form he’d pulled from the Murder Kit in the trunk of the car.
She brushed dust off her suit and sat down on the edge of the patio to write the statement of probable cause and the parameters of the search. When she was finished, she bypassed the DA’s Command Post, which was generally used for telephone warrants in the field. Instead, she called the direct line of a deputy DA she knew and trusted. Davie filled her in on the case and her reason for being at the house.
Law enforcement wasn’t allowed to go inside a residence to search even if they’d seen potential evidence through a window or open door, but Davie had found the box outside. She wasn’t even sure it had been buried inside the property lines. Brink might have hidden it on state-owned Topanga Canyon parkland. If it was ever found, he could claim it wasn’t his, though a jury wasn’t likely to buy that excuse.
After determining that the case was suitable for a telephonic search warrant, the DDA added a judge to the conversation and activated the tape recorder. Under oath, Davie read the warrant and the judge gave her a verbal authorization to proceed with the search.
She was required to have a supervisor at the scene, so while Davie had been on the telephone with the judge, Vaughn confirmed that backup was on its way. Detective Quintero was annoyed they’d gone off without telling him, but her partner caught the brunt of his lecture. Vaughn also called the real estate manager to drive over to see if her keys still opened the door. Brink hadn’t yet changed the locks, because Amber Johnson was able to access both the gate and the front door. The woman seemed shaken. As soon as the detectives went inside the house, she hurried back to her car and drove away. Davie guessed this would be her last official duty for TidePool.
Thirty minutes later, two vehicles raced up the drive, kicking up clouds of dust. Quintero spilled out of the passenger side of the lead car and jogged to the front porch where Davie and Vaughn waited. Jon Striker lingered just outside the driver’s side door scanning the area. Look around, don’t walk around, the LAPD’s crime scene mantra. Two RHD detectives Davie didn’t recognize rolled out of the second car.
Quintero’s breathing was labored from the jog. He worked a piece of gum—peppermint from the smell of it. “A couple of our guys are following Brink, so we’ll know if he comes back this way. What did you find?”
Davie filled him in on the details. Striker remained on the porch, watching as Quintero conducted a briefing before the search began, outlining what they were looking for: weapons, keys and anything they opened, receipts, Zeke’s stolen computer, and other evidence related to the murders. He also reminded the detectives where they were allowed to search: the residence, the garage, any vehicles, and the exterior of the property.
Once they were inside the house, Quintero told the two RHD detectives to recover the box from the hillside and assigned Vaughn to look around outside while Davie searched the ground floor.
Striker walked toward the stairs to check out the second floor but stopped in front of Davie, invading her comfort zone. He reached out and pulled a twig from her hair, presenting it to her like a prom corsage. “I thought we were a team, Detective.”
It was a subtle rebuke but she got the message. She should have called to let him know they were following Brink.
After Striker disappeared up the stairs, Vaughn strolled toward her, frowning. “You have a weird look on your face. What did Striker say to you?”
“He said ‘good job.’ Let’s look around. We need to find the key, so we can connect Brink to whatever’s inside that box.”
Vaughn left to search the exterior of the property. Davie remained on the first floor, where she found several cases of cola stacked in the dining room. It appeared Brink had an addiction to caffeine in a can, which might explain why he’d taken a soda from Zeke’s refrigerator in Santa Barbara.
It wasn’t until she walked past a mirror hanging on the dining room wall that she noticed her clothes were still dusty and more twigs were caught in her hair. The scratches on her hands stung as she brushed soil from her pants before moving toward the kitchen. She hoped to locate a sample of Brink’s handwriting for comparison with the so-called suicide note found with Juno Karst’s body, but all
she found was an instruction booklet for the microwave and an extra set of keys to the house, but none for a car or a gun case.
In the bathroom she found a new set of beige towels. She shook them out but nothing was hidden inside. People sometimes concealed contraband behind pictures on the walls, but there was no artwork. Bed mattresses were favorite hiding places, but there were no beds on the first floor.
Davie’s gaze swept the living room. Propped against a wall in the living room was another shadow box, similar to the three she’d seen at his office. This is one was filled with military medals, including several Purple Hearts. Brink obviously liked to collect things, maybe even dog tags. Then she noticed the drapes hanging from metal rods. Brink was only partially settled into the house but he’d taken the time to install curtains on all the windows. She assumed he didn’t want anyone invading his privacy, but it still seemed odd.
She dragged a chair from the dining room to the window coverings and unhooked the rod from its cradle. She unscrewed the cap of the curtain hardware and tapped the rod on the floor. Nothing fell out. She threaded the rod back through the curtain and hung it up again. Then she ran her fingers along the bottom seam of the curtain. Nothing. She was searching the second curtain when her fingers felt something hard.
She pulled out her cell and texted her partner: Come inside. Bring your Leatherman.
Vaughn entered the house through the French doors. He handed her the knife tool she’d bought at the convenience store in Kern County. Davie pulled out the scissor attachment and picked at the seam until it opened. A key fell to the floor.
38
Davie put on gloves and picked up the key by the edges. “What do you suppose this opens?”
Vaughn smiled. “Only one way to find out.”
The two RHD detectives had horsed the box up the hillside with ropes and positioned it on the flagstone patio. They were sweating and covered in dust and didn’t look happy. From the box’s dimensions, she guessed it must weigh at least twenty pounds, a lot of weight to pull up a steep and unstable slope.
Outside the Wire Page 22