I nodded. “Understood. Thanks.” I looked at the disc. “So what’s it say—who did it?”
Ron laughed. “Well-l-l-l, that’s a tough one, ain’t it. We’ve been three months busting our asses over here trying to answer that very question, chewing through one bullshit lead after the next.” He shook his head. “So far, not much to go on. If you really do come up with something, please feel free to cut us in. Matter of fact, now that you’re a member of the team, I insist. We meet downtown on the sixth floor every morning at eight.” He shook his head. “Honestly, we’re sure as hell not doing all that well on our own.”
I nodded. “That’s what we suspected. There hasn’t been much in the way of news.”
“There’s a good reason for that. We don’t have anything we want to give to the press yet.”
“Can you summarize what you do have for us?”
“Sure. First off, the fuckin’ papers are wrong, as usual. There is evidence. Plenty. It’s just that it’s all over the board—there’s nothing yet that comes together and points to a particular suspect. Sophie was strangled—she was dead before she hit the water. We know this. There were no drugs in her system, no alcohol. She was fully clothed in a bizarre-looking black dress that was consistent with what she’d been seen wearing at the Genesis club the night before she was found. There was no sexual assault. No unusual hairs, no fibers, no DNA—nothing. The autopsy says that the ligature looks to be a thin rope or line of some sort. The ME down there actually did find a few fibers from the rope embedded in her skin, but they haven’t been able to ID them yet. Some kind of synthetic thing, apparently. But the killer didn’t leave the actual rope around her neck. For that matter, we don’t have any other physical evidence anywhere near where her body washed up.”
“Or anywhere upstream either,” Yoshi added.
“Right,” Ron said. “Speaking of which, we have identified a few possible sites upstream where she might have been dumped—most likely the fish hatchery a mile or so upriver. But we didn’t find anything there, other than the fact that they’re close by. Most likely, somebody rolled her out of their trunk and into the water, policed up the site, and then drove away. Two minutes tops.”
“No tracks?” I asked.
“Nah. Half the places are asphalt; the other half are gravel—no imprints off either one.”
I nodded.
“So,” he continued, “the killer pulls up, unloads Sophie, and dumps her in the river. Current grabs hold of her and she floats off downstream. Killer thinks he’s in the clear and drives away fat, dumb, and happy. Maybe he even thinks Sophie’s headed down to the Columbia and out to sea. But, whatever—bad news for him: he apparently doesn’t know the river. Turns out he drops her in just above a big sweeping left-hand bend and not long after she hits the water, that big dress she was wearing snags on a tree. A couple of hours after that, a fisherman wonders why his line’s hung up. He wants that hand-tied fly back, so he investigates and hello! There’s our victim, floating facedown in the water. We’ve interviewed her boyfriend, her relatives, her coworkers, her neighbors—hell, we’ve even interviewed all the people who live in the area where her body was found hoping somebody saw something. One farmer says that same night, his dogs went crazy barking—woke him up. But by the time he grabbed his shotgun and got outside, there was nothing there. Might have been a car, but could also just have been a fox or a raccoon.”
“And these reports are all in here?”
He nodded. “Every one of them.”
“What about the phone call?” Toni asked. “She got a call at the club?”
“So her sister says. We checked her cell phone records. Call that came in just before ten originated from a pay phone—right in front of the restroom of the fuckin’ club. Someone must have been watching her the whole time, picked their time, and called her up. Bouncer sees her go outside and drive away. Doesn’t notice anything else.”
“No cameras there?”
He shook his head. “None. Bouncer says people are in and out all night long. Nobody stood out.”
“You guys found her car at an airport lot, right?”
“Yeah. One of those over on International Boulevard.”
“Explanation?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Two possibilities. Sophie drove herself there for some reason, and that’s where she was abducted. Or else, the killer drove there and left the car.”
Yoshi said, “We figure it’s the latter and that the killer was hoping that when we found her car, we’d think that Sophie jumped on an airplane and disappeared on her own.”
“He must’ve thought that we’d find the car before we found the body,” Ron said.
“If ever,” Yoshi added.
“If you’re right, it means there were probably two people,” Toni said. “After he dropped the car off, someone probably drove him away.”
Yoshi nodded. “That’s right. But we don’t know anything about a second car.”
I nodded. “What about the boyfriend?” I asked.
Ron shook his head. “Innocent kid. Love-struck. He was crushed. He’s Dave Crosby’s kid, you know.”
“West precinct Captain Dave Crosby?”
“Right—Captain Dave. Married to Katherine Crosby. As in, her honor Superior Court Judge Katherine Crosby.”
“Kid has a rock-solid alibi. Both parents say he was home with them that night.”
“He’s twenty-five, and he still lives with his parents?” Toni asked.
“Nope. Don’t worry,” Ron said. “Ain’t nothin’ weird going on. Kid’s in his third year of law school. He has an apartment in the U-District, but his mom keeps trying to drag him into politics. She wanted him to go to a breakfast meeting with her early the next morning, so he just stayed with them. Apparently, before he moved out, he had his own poolside bungalow at the family compound, and that’s where he stayed that night. Note I say ‘compound.’ These people ain’t exactly paupers. Her honor inherited a shitload with a capital S some time ago. Anyway, Mom and Dad said the kid got to their place at eight thirty after a karate class he teaches downtown. Stayed in the rest of the night. Meanwhile, Sophie’s at Genesis with her sister and some other folks until ten when she drives away.”
“Any patterns with known serial killers?” Toni asked. “Remember that guy you told us about last year? The guy who snips off the fingers of his victims?”
Ron smiled. “Yeah. Mr. Finger Snipper, the fuckin’ wacko. Good news, though. Sophie Thoms had all her digits when they pulled her out. It wasn’t the same psycho.”
“But maybe another?”
He laughed. “There’s plenty of psychos to go around. But this doesn’t fit with anybody we know. Most of the time, there’s some sort of sexual assault with those guys, or some other kind of mutilation or trauma. Here, there was nothing.”
I nodded and considered this. “Young woman. No sexual assault. No trauma. You think that means it was somebody she knew, maybe?”
He shook his head. “No idea one way or another. We’ve considered the same thing, though.”
I thought about this for a second and then said, “I’m sure you have a suspect list.”
He nodded. “Sure. ’Cept it’s more of a ‘person of interest’ list, really. I hate to say it, but it’s damn short and the fact is, so far we don’t have anything that would lead to bumping any of them up to suspects yet. In fact, I got more reasons to take most of ’em off the list altogether. Most everyone has a solid alibi. I just haven’t done it yet. We need a break on this case and so far, it ain’t coming.”
“How ’bout anything from CIs?”
Ron shook his head. “We got all our people squeezing every snitch they got. So far, no one knows anything. Or, at least, no one’s talkin’.”
I nodded. “How many people you got working on this?”
“Between you and me? We’re down to fifteen. But that knowledge is a serious fuckin’ state secret and if you tell anybody, I’ll deny it and then right befor
e I get canned, I’ll kick your ass, Captain Jerry be damned.”
“Fifteen? Really? I thought there were like forty people on the task force.”
“There were. Politics put ’em on. Economics took ’em off. Technically, they’re all still on. But a bunch of guys have been quietly shuffled back to their normal duties. Be different if we actually had any of them things called leads, but as it is, I don’t have enough going on to keep that many people busy anyway.”
I nodded and thought about this. “Understood. Aside from babysitting Cecilia, where do you want us working?”
“That’s not enough? Oops,” he glanced at Toni. “I forgot. You guys are going to solve this for us.” He nodded. “Good. That being the case, you tell me. Where do you think you can help?”
I thought about it for a second, then I held up the DVD. “How ’bout we do this? Why don’t Toni and I study the evidence today and tomorrow, and then we can hook back up on Monday after your meeting. We’re seeing Nicki Thoms at ten Monday morning. We’ll give you a call when we’re done.”
He nodded. “Good. And seriously, something to keep in mind. Even though we like to keep things light around here, we’re committed to solving this case and we’re happy to take help from wherever we can get it.” He paused for a second. “Even from a couple civilians such as yourselves.”
“Do you think what he said about Sophie was really true?” Toni asked. “All those nice things?” We were in my Jeep driving north on Fourth Avenue on our way home. The downtown traffic on Saturday afternoon was light, and we were making good time.
“Who? You mean Gaston?”
“Yeah.”
I tried to recall his speech. “I don’t know. He sounded sincere. Cecilia said Sophie was doing well at work, but Gaston made her sound almost like a saint.”
“Yeah. Oliver stuck up for her too,” she said. “Cecilia seemed pretty much down on both girls at first until Oliver defended her. Gaston seems like he lands on Oliver’s side, that’s for sure.”
I nodded. “Yep. Keep in mind that he was on stage today, trying to raise money for a new fund. He’s a pro at that. I get the impression that the hail-fellow-well-met persona of his is quite polished. Even if he knew of any faults Sophie might’ve had, he’s not going to bring ’em out in front of three or four hundred potential donors.”
She nodded. “That’s true.”
We drove for several minutes, listening to Demi Lovato playing softly on the radio, asking us to give her heart a break.
“The pictures get to me,” Toni said, interrupting the music.
“Sophie’s pictures?” I remembered the large posters in the ballroom.
“Yeah.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know. It’s like, I always get a little wierded out when I look at pictures of people who are dead—especially young people, and especially black-and-white pictures. It makes me realize how fragile all this is.” She looked outside, scanning the view as we drove, before turning to me. “It’s like one day it’ll be me up there looking down on the people.”
I nodded slowly. “I get that. It’s like the photos seem to take people basically just like us and freeze ’em in time, all young and full of life. And then later, when you look at the pictures they look like they’re just standing there, right in front of you, having a good time. It’s like it could be us.”
“I know. And that big picture of Sophie’s just like that. It’s like she’s not even gone. I know it shouldn’t, but it kind of creeps me out.”
I made the turn onto Blanchard. “Maybe she’s talking to you.”
She spun abruptly in her seat and looked at me. “Why do you say that?”
I shrugged. “Just talking.”
She turned back and stared straight ahead without speaking. Several seconds passed.
“You okay?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yeah. Sorry.” She turned back to me. “But that’s the weird thing, Danny,” she said. “You hit it. When I look at the picture—those eyes in particular—they’re like Mona Lisa eyes.”
“Mona Lisa eyes?”
“Yeah. You know: sad, haunting eyes. They follow you around, wherever you go.” She shivered and clutched her arms together. “It’s weird. I get feelings.”
“What kind of feelings?”
She thought for a second, then shrugged. “I don’t know—just feelings, you know? It’s unsettling.” She looked at me. “You don’t feel any kind of connection when you look at those pictures?”
I nodded, familiar with the feeling but not really knowing how to articulate it. “Yeah. Gratitude.”
She looked at me. “What?”
“Gratitude.”
She looked at me, waiting for me to continue.
“Gratitude that we might have a paying job.”
She glanced at me and shook her head. “Really? A paying job? You look at the picture of that girl, and that’s what you take away? A paying job?” She gave me a bit of a scowl. “Jesus, Logan, you know, for someone who comes from a wealthy family, you sure worry about money a lot. It’s not only about the money, you know.”
“Thanks,” I said sarcastically. “That’s not fair, and you know it. It’s funny how your attitude shapes up when people are relying on you for their paychecks every other Friday.” We were down to less than a month’s reserve in the company checking account, and this little factoid weighed heavily on me.
She looked over at me. “You don’t have to get sanctimonious. I know about the money.”
I shrugged. “Yeah, well it’s hard for me to forget.”
“I know. So when you call Cecilia up and tell her we’ll take the job, then, do it for the money if you must,” she said. She turned and looked at me. “But don’t do it only for the money.”
I smiled and I nodded. “I hear what you’re saying.”
We drove for another couple of minutes, listening to the music. Just before we got home, Toni said, “You’re right about one thing. I look at that picture, and I look into those eyes, and I think maybe she is talking to me.”
I glanced over at her. “Really? What’s she saying?”
She thought about it, then she shook her head. “I don’t know. Not yet. But I guess I’m feeling like she wants us to be here . . . looking.”
I pictured Sophie in my mind—her eyes, her smile, the way a lock of hair had dropped casually across her forehead. I felt something, to be sure, but I can’t honestly say I felt the same way Toni did. Maybe I’d get there.
Meanwhile, a paying job is a paying job, and I was thankful for that. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll call Cecilia when we get back. We’re in.”
Chapter 5
WE SPENT SUNDAY AT HOME REVIEWING the evidence DVD Ron had given us. After nearly eight solid hours of going through the notes, transcripts, photos, and all the other documents, the only conclusion we could draw was that the police had done a very thorough job of gathering up the obvious evidence and interviewing the typical suspects. In the end, though, Ron was right: there wasn’t anything they’d uncovered that made anyone stand out as a suspect. There were no smoking guns.
Based on this, we decided that, at least initially, it might be useful to recover some of the same ground that SPD had already covered. We wanted to re-interview some of the people they’d talked to three months ago. Most of the time, it’s best to talk to witnesses and potential witnesses right after a crime’s been committed when their memories are fresh. Occasionally, though, with some people, the passing of time aged their recollections of the sights, sounds, and impressions. Sometimes, their overall perspective might shift a little. And with these new angles opening up came the possibility of a new light being flicked on. Admittedly, it wasn’t much, but it was a start.
Monday morning we showed up at the Millennium Tower in downtown Seattle at ten for our meeting with Nicki Thoms. The uniformed security guard in the lobby was all business. He checked our credentials carefully before calling upstairs for clearance. After
a very short conversation, he nodded and waved us through to the elevator. We rode up to the sixteenth floor, where Nicki met us at the front door of her condo. She was barefoot and wore faded blue jeans with fashionable rips in the knees and a long-sleeved green-and-blue T-shirt with “Seattle Sounders” printed on it. She’d just gotten out of the shower—her hair was still wet and slicked back. She had that sexy-morning-woman smell: soap and shampoo and makeup. “Come in,” she said, sounding sleepy and a little hungover. “Excuse the mess.” Gone was the flirty coyness I’d noticed at the Memorial kickoff on Saturday. We entered the foyer, and Nicki led us back to the living room.
Two maids were hard at work clearing away what had apparently been a hell of a party last night. Half-full champagne flutes and wineglasses were strewn about the table. Sofa cushions were in disarray. Fifteen or twenty beer bottles had already been assembled on the bar, ready for recycling. A large ashtray in the center of a glass coffee table held what looked to be a dozen marijuana roaches. A mirror with decorative flowers around its border sat beside it, cocaine residue and razor-blade tracks plainly visible across the shiny surface.
Nicki looked around as we settled in and shook her head.
I was deciding whether to make some sort of clever comment when Toni jumped in and said, “Looks like it was one helluva party.”
Nicki glanced up at her, then rolled her eyes and nodded. “Yeah, it was. I’m completely knackered this morning.” She grimaced and reached up, rubbing her temple.
“You gonna be okay?” I asked.
She smiled and nodded. “I will be in another hour or so. I just took three Tylenol. Some friends are in town, and we all ended up here last night.” She looked around and shook her head. “What a fuckin’ disaster.”
I smiled. “Looks like your friends came to the right place.”
“Yeah, I’m sure they think so.”
The room was furnished with a striped sofa and two overstuffed chairs on either side of the table in the center. A very large, colorful oil painting of a moonlit grass hut in a mystical tropical landscape dominated the wall behind us. The exterior wall of the condo was floor-to-ceiling glass and featured a magnificent view of the morning sun playing peekaboo with the clouds, causing dappled shadows to skim across the bright blue waters of Elliott Bay.
Mona Lisa Eyes (Danny Logan Mystery #4) Page 6