Accused

by Janice Cantore

  “Whoa, I wonder what’s up.”

  Carly shrugged and hit the speed dial for the watch commander’s phone.

  “Tucker.”

  The name took her by surprise. Sergeant Tucker was the head of homicide. Why was he answering the watch commander line?

  “Uh, Sergeant Tucker, it’s Edwards. Did you page me by accident?”

  “Nope, you’re the one I wanted. We found the mayor and . . . uh, hang on.”

  Carly could hear muffled voices in the background. Shock brought on by the sergeant’s comment about the mayor left her slack jawed. We found the mayor coming from the homicide sergeant was not a good thing. She’d just been thinking about the woman! Speculation about Mayor Burke’s fate had run the gamut among department personnel during the past four days. Now Carly’s stomach turned as she guessed at the reality. She repeated the sergeant’s words to Joe, who whistled low in surprise.

  “You still there?” Sergeant Tucker came back on the line.

  “Yes, sir.” More questions clouded her mind. Why is Sergeant Tucker calling me about the mayor’s case?

  “I can’t tell you much right now. The area is crawling with press. The mayor was murdered. We need you at the command post ASAP.”

  “What?” Carly’s hand went numb with the confirmation of her suspicions. “Uh, sure, where?” Mayor Teresa Burke was murdered. This news would devastate the city she worked for. Carly listened as the sergeant told her where to report and broke the connection.

  “Earth to Carly, you still with me?” Joe tapped the phone. “What happened?”

  “Mayor Burke was murdered, and they want me at the crime scene now.”

  “Wow.” His face registered the shock Carly felt. “What do they want you to handle?”

  “Tucker didn’t say.” She held Joe’s gaze. “Why me? I work juvenile invest, not homicide.”

  “My guess would be there’s a minor involved somewhere. But why ask why? Go for it; this will be an important investigation. The fact that they want you says something.”

  “After six months of telling me to pound sand, suddenly they need me?”

  Joe laughed. “You know what they say about gift horses? If you look them in the mouth, they bite! Just go and be the outstanding investigator I know you are.” He gripped her arm. “Stop thinking less of yourself because they’ve stuck you in juvie. You’re a good cop.”

  “Thanks. You’re right, I guess, about doing my best with whatever they’ve got for me.” She shrugged. “At least I’ve got nothing to lose. Thanks for the swim.”

  He applauded as she left him at the water’s edge and jogged across the mostly empty beach toward home, a block and a half away.

  After a quick shower to wash away the salt, Carly took a minute to shuffle through her wardrobe. Juvenile was a nonuniform assignment, the dress code business casual, which for her afternoon shift usually meant jeans and a department polo shirt. But this was a big case. Deciding that she wanted her appearance to scream competent and prepared, she chose a pair of black slacks, a dark-green sweater, and hard-soled shoes rather than the running shoes she normally wore.

  A quick glance in the mirror left her satisfied. She double-checked the gun and badge in her backpack on the way to the car, the familiar ritual helping to calm her jumping nerves. But the adrenaline rush was intense.

  I’m going to be a cop again. I’m going to do police work, sang in her thoughts. She locked the seat belt across her chest and started the car. A question popped in her mind and zinged her pumped-up nerves like tinfoil on silver fillings.

  Why would anyone want to kill Mayor Teresa Burke?

  2

  A powerful and unpleasant feeling of déjà vu smacked Carly like a sneaky wave as she approached the crime scene. Much like her last night in patrol six months ago, media circus was an understatement. Press, cameramen, and onlookers laid siege to MOC-1, the PD command post. Police tape marked off the crime scene and served to barely restrain the intrusive crowd.

  Ghouls, she thought, scowling. Why do death and blood always seem to shake people out of the woodwork and then pinch the worst out of them?

  Carly drove slowly past the mess to get her bearings. The mobile operations center blocked the intersection of California Avenue and Tenth Street. From the positioning of tape and police cars, she could see the main focus of the investigation was to the north, where an entire residential block was shut down. Crowding the barrier, always seeking to ooze into forbidden space, were no less than six local news crews, with cameras and microphones straining to catch something that might titillate audiences and push their ratings higher.

  As popular as Mayor Teresa Burke was, the coverage is no surprise, Carly conceded, but there’s always something obscene in the glee reporters seem to have when they cover tragedy.

  She recalled all the good Teresa and her husband, Galen Burke, had done to put Las Playas on the map. The city was always overshadowed by LA and had experienced money problems a number of years ago that tarnished its image. The Burkes transformed Las Playas from a city on the brink of bankruptcy into a popular tourist destination in five short years. 60 Minutes had even interviewed the pair about the transformation. Because the piece was so positive and flattering, Teresa and Galen became media darlings overnight.

  A light rain began to fall, but none of the roaches ran for cover. They’re just a bunch of real-life sharks, always dangerous—especially now, when they smell blood. Carly slid into a barely legal parking space and prepared to push through the chaos. She grabbed the police-issue Windbreaker she carried in her car and pulled it on once she stepped out. She then clipped her ID card on the front flap and pulled the hood over her head as she picked her way carefully through the pandemonium. She saw him before she could avoid him.

  “Edwards!” Alex Trejo, crime beat reporter for the Las Playas Messenger, waved for her to stop.

  Carly wished she could disappear. In the world of sharks, Trejo was a great white. He could turn “no comment” into controversy; he’d done it to her before. Without stopping her progress toward MOC-1, Carly pretended not to hear the reporter.

  “Edwards! Care to give me a comment about Mayor Burke?” Trejo pushed through the crowd, ignoring the exclamations of people he shoved. Tall and well-built, dressed all in black with his dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, the reporter reminded Carly of a character from an old swashbuckling movie as he bounced through the crowd. He couldn’t be ignored now, and she knew she must respond carefully.

  “Sorry, you’ll have to wait for the PIO,” she said quickly as she ducked under the yellow tape and into the command post. The door closed behind her, cutting off Trejo’s protest. Carly chuckled and mentally patted herself on the back; Trejo was never easy to get around.

  “What’s so funny?” Sergeant Tucker, standing at a tactical cubicle, regarded her with a bemused expression. He was a big man with blunt features and a head of thick gray hair cut in a military-style flattop. B. K. Tucker had been the homicide sergeant as long as Carly had been a cop. He was a legendary old-timer who always had a humorous story on his tongue about “the good old days.” Speculation about what his initials stood for was a favorite pastime of many officers. One guess often tossed around was “Bagging Killers.” It was part of Tucker’s mystique that no one seemed to know, or wasn’t saying for sure. His flat, cold eyes sometimes gave Carly the creeps, but his reputation was solid and she respected him.

  “Nothing, Sarge. I just stonewalled Trejo; it was kind of fun.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard how much you love the press.” He held up a hand to indicate he’d be with her in a minute.

  Media coverage, specifically from Trejo, was the reason Carly was exiled to juvenile; of that she was sure. Trejo’s skewed reporting about that shooting incident with Punch-Drunk Potter had created a firestorm of controversy. He’d blasted Carly’s involvement and ignored the report clearing her of any wrongdoing. She supposed she could have risen above his criticism if it hadn’t go
tten her yanked out of patrol. Thanks, Alex. Carly shrugged off the most recent encounter, determined to stay upbeat, and focused on the organized chaos around her.

  The inside of MOC-1 churned with the type of activity that characterized a high-profile police operation. The department’s public information officers hammered out a news release in one corner, while communications personnel fielded phone calls and stalled news seekers in another. Search-and-rescue personnel provided coffee and snacks to the cops on scene. Everywhere, the brass tried to look important. Chief Kelly and Captain Garrison were deep in conversation, coordinating the operation.

  Just like with Trejo, seeing the captain tweaked Carly. Garrison was the command officer who signed her transfer to juvenile, couching the move with “It’s for your own good.” He didn’t look her way.

  Sergeant Tucker’s approach stopped her brooding about Garrison. “You ready?”

  “Sure. What’s up, Sarge?”

  “They found the mayor in the trunk of her own car. There’s a minor in custody. You were called out . . . Well—” he paused and stroked his chin—“let’s just go outside.”

  He led Carly out the other side of MOC-1, into the crime scene proper, and to the mayor’s car, a charcoal-gray Lexus. Teresa was last seen driving the car, presumably on her way to city hall; then she disappeared. Now, the car’s front end was embedded in the back of an older-model parked car, and rainwater dripped from the bumper like slow tears. Black-and-white patrol cars bracketed the Lexus, and Carly noticed that every uniformed officer assigned to the day shift was at the scene.

  A realization hit like a baton thrust and took her breath away. Nick would be here. Oh, I hope my assignment is not connected to him in any way, she thought to herself. Her mouth went dry at the very thought of having to face him. She directed her attention to Sergeant Tucker and shoved all thoughts of Nick from her mind.

  “A patrol unit spots the Lexus, recognizes it as the mayor’s missing car, and tries to make a traffic stop,” the sergeant explained. “The two geniuses in the car split on foot almost as soon as the black-and-white turns on the red lights. They left the car to roll forward.”

  “I’d run too, with a dead body in my trunk.”

  “They didn’t get far. Both suspects are loaded on pot, the adult worse than the juvie. The juvie was the driver. The trunk popped open when the car crashed.” He pointed to the trunk, which was now partially closed.

  Carly noted the absence of a coroner’s van and knew Teresa was still in the trunk.

  “You want to take a look?” he asked.

  “Do I need to? I mean, is it obvious how she died?” I’d rather remember Teresa Burke as an animated, competent mayor, not a smelly, pale corpse.

  “Nope, can’t really tell much, except she’s still got all her clothes on. The coroner will have to place time and cause of death.”

  Teresa would stay, untouched, in the trunk until the coroner came and took possession of her body. Carly and Tucker walked around to the side of the car and surveyed the interior. The unmistakable odor of hemp still oozed from inside the car.

  “Teresa’s been missing four days, and they have four days’ worth of trash here.” Carly nodded to the backseat.

  “Yep. Add three dime bags of weed, two coke pipes, and an empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s. These punks were partying hearty.” Tucker slapped the roof of the car with his palm. “And all with the poor mayor in the trunk.”

  “She’s definitely not running for reelection.” Karl Drake, one of the homicide detectives, walked up behind Carly and pointed to the trunk.

  “Leave it to a homicide dick to state the obvious.” Carly reached out to shake his hand. “Hi, Karl, how’s it going?” Drake and his partner, Peter Harris, enjoyed the reputation of being the department’s best investigators. “So were you two handpicked for the investigation, or was it luck of the draw?”

  “I’d call it bad luck of the draw.” He cast a glance at Tucker, whose expression said nothing, then went on. “It’s been better, for both me and the mayor.” He nodded toward the perimeter of press and onlookers. “Politics and press, almost as lethal a combination as guns and morons.” Drake turned back and looked directly at Carly. “The coroner just got here. Pete is going to bring him over, so we’ll be moving this show to the station shortly. Are you ready?”

  “Ready? Ready for what? What is it you guys need me to do?”

  “You haven’t told her?” Drake asked the sergeant, who shrugged and shook his head.

  “Told me what?”

  “The juvie—he’s a friend of yours, asked specifically for you.”

  3

  “No, he’s no friend of mine.” Carly seethed, peering into the backseat of a patrol car at the handcuffed minor. “He’s a friend of my mother’s.”

  “Your mom hangs out with gangbangers?” Drake raised an eyebrow.

  Carly sighed and tried to control her temper. The rain had stopped and she threw back her hood. “No, she’s naive. She counsels kids like him at her church and is friendly with his mother. This kid stayed at her house last summer. She insisted he was saved—you know, some kind of born-again Christian—and on the straight and narrow. His name is Londy Akins.” A thug! The argument with her mother over the boy still made her wince.

  Kay Edwards’s words echoed in Carly’s mind. “He needs a chance. How is he ever going to get back on his feet if someone doesn’t give him one?”

  He got a chance all right, and he took his chance to kill the mayor! Carly’s stomach churned at the thought that it could have been her mother’s body in the trunk of a car.

  “You okay?” Drake asked.

  “Yeah, I was just thinking. I mean, my mother let this kid stay in her guest room for heaven’s sake.” She pressed her palms into her temples. “I told her he was bad news, not to be trusted.”

  “If you don’t really know him, why would he ask for you?”

  “I have no idea. He’s certainly getting no sympathy from my corner.” She shook her head, face crinkled with disgust.

  “Why don’t you ask him what’s up?”

  “What would I say? He conned his mother and my mother, playing along like he planned to clean up his act, going to church, singing a few songs, all the while pulling the wool over their eyes. And now the mayor is dead.” Realizing her frustration was getting the better of her, Carly took a deep breath. It was Drake who helped calm her.

  “Relax.” Drake put a hand on her shoulder and patted. “Our folks always do stuff to push our buttons, don’t they?”

  “Yeah, they do. I’m sorry.” Carly felt her composure returning. “It’s a big sore spot with me. My mom’s a Jesus freak, and she has the idea that God can change anyone.” She looked from Tucker to Drake. “You guys know as well as I do—once a dirtbag, always a dirtbag.”

  “I hear you,” Drake said with a firm nod. “Do you know what the kid has been arrested for?”

  “He was on probation for car theft until about a month ago. And he’s a known gang member, been in and out of trouble since he was twelve. I think he just turned seventeen.”

  She shot Drake a rueful smile. “Mom threw a big party for him when the probation officer released him. Supposedly he was going to go back to school to get his diploma.” She pinched the bridge of her nose as a headache bit with sharp teeth.

  “Do you know anything about the other suspect, Darryl Jackson?”

  She frowned. “Name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  Carly brooded about her mother’s blind faith. It rubbed like a recurring blister, never healing and often swollen to bursting. According to Kay, church fixed everything—criminals, broken marriages . . . everything. Yeah, right.

  Her father had been the same way: faith no matter what. Cancer took its toll on her dad, and Carly’s faith withered and died along with him. No God stepped in to fix him. She decided at his funeral that people made their own heaven or hell on earth. There was no all-powerful being running the show. God was a myth to de
lude the naive.

  And faith in God left her mother wide open to a con artist like Londy Akins.

  Peter Harris brought the coroner’s investigator to the car. Carly watched as the examiner bent over the trunk to do his job recording facts, inventorying property, and preparing the body for transport. Tucker and Drake joined them, asking questions from time to time.

  She wondered what evidence might be wrapped up with the body. A coroner’s assistant wheeled a gurney close to the car. Carly looked away and took a minute to survey the rest of the area taped off as a crime scene. Her gaze traveled right to the face of her ex-husband, Nick Anderson. He was standing about forty feet away, on the perimeter, watching her thoughtfully.

  Carly jerked her gaze away, feeling scalded by his eyes. She focused on Alex Trejo, haranguing the public information officer. What else can go wrong today?

  After a few minutes, Drake, Harris, and Tucker left the coroner and walked to where Carly stood, hemming her in.

  Peter Harris began. “Look, we understand how you feel, but we need you to forget your personal attachment to this for a minute.”

  “Let me lay out the situation for you.” Drake picked up from Harris like a zone-defense player, putting Carly in the middle of a full-court press. “So far we don’t have a lot of physical evidence—no murder weapon, no blood. We’re not even sure how she died. The adult demanded a lawyer, so we can’t talk to him. The juvenile wants to talk to you. A confession would go a long, long way.”

  Both detectives pleaded with their eyes. Carly looked from one to the other, wondering how she could sit in the same room with Akins and talk to, not strangle, him.

  “This is a huge case, Edwards,” Sergeant Tucker said. “When I talked to Sergeant Altman in juvenile, he assured me you’d do a good job. If you get a cop-out, it might even be your ticket out of juvenile.”

  Tucker pushed the right button. More than anything Carly wanted a release from juvenile exile, and her supervisor, Altman, knew it.

  “You guys know this will be hard.”