“Look at me,” Preston said, seizing her by the shoulders. “You are not having a meltdown, understand? You’ve been in this business long enough to know that this kind of stuff sometimes comes in waves. You’re one of the best investigators we have. We need you, Carolyn. You are making a difference. Sure, the system isn’t perfect, but it’s all we have.”
They stared at each other. She thought of the night before with Marcus, and her sense of panic began to ebb. “I’m fine,” she said, taking a seat in a chair. “Thanks for letting me rant, Brad.”
“Are you sure?” He walked over and sat down behind his desk. “Your eyes looked a little psycho a few minutes ago. I don’t want you stripping your clothes off and running naked out of my office. I have a bad enough reputation as it is.”
Carolyn laughed. “Really, I’m fine. Why did you come looking for me?”
“I didn’t,” Brad said. “I was in a conference at the DA’s office. A woman named Helen Carter was arrested last month for shooting her former lover. Victor Paglia at the DA’s office thinks Carter’s attorney may be planning an insanity defense. The lover, you guessed it, had a restraining order. Carter was convicted on that count this morning. When you talk to her for the presentence report, try to find out if she’s faking. If you do, Paglia will give you a medal.”
“Yeah, sure,” Carolyn said, scowling again. “And then when she’s convicted on the homicide charges, you’ll assign me the case. I’m up to my eyeballs in work right now, Brad, and I’m trying to help the PD track down Holden.”
“Paglia wants to know where they stand before they get in too deep on this thing. He asked specifically for you, Carolyn. I know I’ve been hitting you hard lately. I’m trying to cut you some slack by assigning you lightweight cases. Why worry about the homicide count now? The preliminary hearing isn’t scheduled for another two weeks. The way the courts are bogged down, it might be a year before Carter’s convicted.”
“Helen Carter isn’t insane,” she tossed back. “I handled her seven years ago for nineteen counts of welfare fraud. She was only twenty-three, and she knew how to work the system better than most people twice her age.”
“Your memory is phenomenal,” Brad remarked, pleased to see her feisty spirit returning. “Since the computers are always crashing, we should just tap into your brain. You remember every case you’ve ever handled.” He put his feet up on his desk. “Guess I picked the right person for the job. I wonder if Carter will respond to you the same way men do. Be sure to dress up in a short skirt and show your tits. She likes girls. Of course, maybe you’re not her type.”
“I know you’re trying to be cute, Brad,” Carolyn said, snatching the file off the corner of his desk. “But if you make any more obscene remarks, I’ll do more than strip naked and go running out of your office.”
Dean Masters left the Porsche in the garage, jumped into Kathleen’s Mercedes and squealed the tires, propelling the car backward out of the garage. He was so consumed with rage, he slammed into the trash cans at the curb, causing one to roll down the hill.
How dare she order him out of their house and threaten to call the police?
Kathleen had summoned the past. He’d sworn to himself he would never be vulnerable to a woman again. He was in the same position he’d been in fourteen years ago, only worse. He couldn’t afford the scrutiny of a divorce, particularly not now.
As he drove, the rage grew stronger until he could think of nothing else. He turned the radio on at a deafening level, hoping to drown his thoughts out with sound. He had no choice. He had to…had to…His fingers tightened on the steering wheel; the road blurred in front of him. He had to…must…he couldn’t tolerate…he had to…kill her. Okay…okay, he thought, the decision was made. Now he could take action.
Dean’s mind changed gears, the coolness of logic replacing the irrationality of anger. He was smarter this time. All he needed was to formulate a solid strategy. Someone had to take the fall. Then he would stick around, play the grieving husband, put on a good funeral.
The sun had disappeared, and dark clouds loomed overhead, spitting forth moisture. With a cold wind blowing off the ocean, the temperature had dropped into the fifties. Already the smell of firewood filled the air. In Carmel, people used their fireplaces even during the summer.
Dean needed a drink, so he took a sharp right into the parking lot of Twin Pines Liquor. When he stepped out of the Mercedes, a voice broke the silence. “Can you spare a few dollars?” a man asked, his words slurred. The plea came from a drunk with a long beard and matted hair. He was wearing a ripped Charlie Manson T-shirt.
There are times when solutions come out of nowhere, Dean thought. This appeared to be one of them. The drunk, sitting on a cardboard box behind the building, could be part of the framework of a perfect plan. “What’s your name, guy?” he asked, squatting down to the man’s level. His stench was almost unbearable. Alcohol seemed to be oozing through his skin, and he smelled as if he’d been lying in his own excrement.
“Arnie,” he said. “You’ve got to help me, man, I’m really hungry.”
“Are you hungry or thirsty?” Dean asked, his eyes scanning the parking lot to make certain no one was around. “Be honest with me, Arnie, and I might help you get what you need. Isn’t that what you want, money for booze?”
“Yeah, man,” Arnie said, becoming more alert. “I’d give my right arm for some whiskey. Warms me up, you know. I ain’t got no place to live.”
“Sure you don’t,” Dean said, repulsed that he’d been reduced to conversing with the lowest level of humanity. “I can drive you to the homeless shelter. You don’t want that, do you? Come on, be honest, pal. All you want is to get drunk.”
One thing he had in common with Arnie was an addictive personality. Women were an addiction, something he needed as badly as this disgusting man needed alcohol. If his mother and father had not rejected him, if people would only appreciate him and do the simple things he asked of them, he might not be in the position he was right now. There was no halfway house, no pills he could take to cure himself. He craved the attention of women, and at the same time, he often wanted them to shut up and leave him alone. He wanted his kind of attention—praise, affection, a desire to do anything he asked of them. In the case of Kathleen, she’d seemed like the perfect candidate. Then she’d become overly clingy and inquisitive. “Wait here,” he told the man. “What kind of whiskey do you drink?”
“Whatever you’re buying, I’m drinking,” Arnie said, salivating. He brushed a filthy hand across his mouth and slowly pushed himself to his feet.
“No,” Dean said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out two twenties, “you’re buying and I’m paying. Get a gallon or something. That way, you won’t run out.”
Arnie glanced over at the Mercedes. “That’s a beautiful car you got. Is it warm in there?”
“Of course,” Dean said, smiling. If nothing else, he’d lost his desire to drink. “We’ll party in the car. I’ll be waiting for you, buddy.”
“God bless you,” Arnie said, staggering around the corner.
God wasn’t going to save this man, Dean thought, even if there was a God, which he seriously doubted. Only a matter of time, and old Arnie would be scraped off the street like a dead cat. Winter was coming, and this area of California was far colder than Los Angeles. If Arnie didn’t die of hypothermia or dehydration, cirrhosis of the liver would surely kill him. The man’s skin had a yellowish cast. What Dean had in mind would give Arnie’s worthless life some degree of meaning.
When Arnie emerged from the store, Dean realized he had a problem. How the hell was he going to get this guy into the trunk? The man struggled to open the bottle.
“Where’s my change?”
“Here,” Arnie said, handing Dean both the change and the bottle. “Open it for me, will you?” Losing his balance, he toppled over to find his old familiar friend, the pavement. “Shit.”
As Arnie’s eyes zeroed in on the bottle, Dea
n pressed the button on his key to open the trunk. “Can you get up?”
“I don’t think so,” the drunk said. “A sip of that whiskey sure would help.”
“You’ll have plenty of that in a few minutes. You’re going straight to whiskey heaven.” Dean placed the bottle next to the open trunk. The rain was coming down harder now, and his clothes were getting soaked. “Let me give you a hand.” He grabbed Arnie’s arm, using his own weight to pull the man upright. Arnie’s momentum and his weak legs brought him into Dean’s arms. All he needed was some stinky bum’s arms wrapped around him! He pivoted and dropped him into the trunk. The bottom half of Arnie’s body sank, but his feet still dangled outside the car. “Pull your feet in.”
“I ain’t going to ride in this here trunk, am I?”
Dean shoved the bottle at him. “Here’s your booze.”
Arnie’s eyes got big, his feet retracted, and Dean slammed the trunk closed. “You all right in there?” he asked, not wanting the guy to start screaming before he managed to get on the road. The man was too busy taking large gulps of the alcohol to care where he was. It would only be a matter of time before he went into an alcoholic stupor.
When Hank called and told Carolyn he was sending Mary Stevens to San Diego to talk to the local authorities and examine their evidence on the disappearance of Lisa Sheppard, she called the detective and asked if she minded if she tagged along. “A little company would be great,” Mary said, in high spirits. “I’ll swing by the courthouse and pick you up. Be downstairs in fifteen minutes.”
Carolyn packed up her briefcase and walked down to Brad’s office again. “I’m going to interview two defendants at the jail today,” she said, not wanting him to tell her she couldn’t take the afternoon off to go with Mary. “Then I’m going to lock myself up somewhere and see if I can knock off a few reports. If you need me, I’ll be on my cell.”
Brad gave her a curious look before slapping his hands on the desk. “You’re the worst liar I’ve ever seen,” he said. “Never play poker, baby, or you’re going to lose your shirt. What’s going on?” He continued with a devilish smirk on his face, “You got some new man you’re taking to the house while your kids are at school?”
Carolyn was accustomed to Brad’s jokes and innuendos. Although she protested, she actually enjoyed their banter. With the kind of control she needed in her job, it was good to occasionally have someone to butt heads with and release her frustrations. She stepped closer to his desk, apologizing and telling him the truth about the trip to San Diego. “I want to nail Holden so bad, I feel as if I’m going to jump out of my skin. I can still hear his voice inside my head. No one else knows him like I do, Brad. That’s why the police aren’t going to catch him without my help. I promise, I’ll keep up with my caseload. You know me. I can juggle a million things.”
“Humph,” Brad said, checking his fingernails. “As your supervisor, I have to advise you that you could be jeopardizing your job. The agency doesn’t pay you to investigate murders until the person is convicted. Now as…”
She waited for him to finish, but he nonchalantly glanced around the room. He was baiting her.
“What, for God’s sake? If you’ve got something to say, say it.”
“Well,” he said, undoing his tie and tossing it on top of a stack of files on the floor, “as the magnanimous individual that I am, I’d say forget the rules. We can’t do much to stop crime after the fact. If you think you can help bring Holden in, go for it, but you’ll owe me.”
“Put it on my tab,” she said, rushing toward the door, knowing Mary was probably waiting.
“All this and I don’t even get a thank-you.”
“Thanks, Brad. I’ll buy you lunch or something.”
“Can’t you do better than that?”
“I’ll frame your picture and hang it up next to the pope,” Carolyn tossed over her shoulder as she disappeared through the doorway.
CHAPTER 16
Tuesday, September 19—12:45 P.M.
Mary Stevens should have been a race-car driver instead of a cop, Carolyn decided, having white-knuckled it all the way to San Diego as the speedometer barely dropped below ninety and several times inched its way past one hundred.
When the two women arrived at the San Diego Police Department, Detective Pete Fisher met them in the lobby and led them down a corridor to the detective bay.
Mary looked stunning, so much so that several of the officers stopped and stared. Wearing a clingy pink dress and sling-back pumps, she had straightened her usually curly shoulder-length hair for the day and carefully applied her makeup. Her sensuous lips were a bright, shiny coral. She leaned over and whispered in Carolyn’s ear, “A little glam can open a lot of doors, know what I mean? Particularly when we’re poking around on another department’s turf.”
“I agree,” Carolyn said, asking herself if Mary knew that she herself occasionally dressed provocatively when she went to conduct an interview with a violent offender. Anything to get them to spill their guts. No wonder she and Mary got along.
Detective Fisher gestured toward two chairs, then sat down behind his paper-strewn desk. He was a tall, thin man, with dark, unruly hair, his face pockmarked from acne. Inside the open room, phones jangled, men and women chattered, and plainclothes officers rushed in and out. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression over the phone,” he said. “I handled the missing person’s report on the Sheppard case, but that case is closed. We didn’t find any evidence of foul play.”
Mary’s jaw dropped. “The woman disappeared, didn’t she? Didn’t you send your CSI team to her house? There’s a possibility she’s our murder victim.”
“I doubt it,” Fisher told them, standing. “Hey, can I get you two some coffee?”
“No,” Mary said, pissed. “What I drove all the way down here for is answers. We have an unidentified body. Our computer models show that it’s Lisa Sheppard. We need to confirm this, understand? How could you handle this as a simple missing person’s report? Lisa Sheppard is still missing, am I right? That’s because she’s dead. In Ventura, we call that a murder investigation.”
“Don’t get huffy with me,” Fisher said, flopping back down in his chair. “You know how many people go missing every year? This isn’t your victim. The couple had a falling out, that’s all. The husband reported her missing, then called a week or so later and said she’d phoned him from her mother’s house in Missouri, and they were more than likely going to get a divorce. No more missing person. Now if it had been a kid or a retard or something…”
The two women exchanged tense glances. “Did you speak to Lisa Sheppard and make certain she was okay?” Carolyn asked, deciding to step in before the detective threw them out.
“Nah,” Fisher said, wadding up a piece of paper and tossing it into the trash can. “Mr. Sheppard was the party who reported his wife missing. If he says she’s accounted for, case closed. When a guy calls and tells you his car is stolen, then calls back and tells you he’s found it, it’s no longer police business.”
“A wife is not the same as a car,” Mary said, even more annoyed. “Give us the contact information for the husband and the woman’s mother in Missouri. Please don’t tell me you don’t have it.”
“Listen,” he said, leaning forward, “I drove by there a week or so after the husband contacted us to say his wife was no longer missing. The house was up for sale. One of the doors was unlocked, so I went inside and looked around. At first I thought there might be something going on. All their furniture was still there, like I told you. Since their clothes and miscellaneous personal items were gone, I decided the husband packed up and left after the wife dumped him. The furniture was shit, anyway. They probably split up because they couldn’t make the payments on the house. Do you know money is one of the most common reasons why people divorce?”
“Let me get this straight,” Mary said, counting on her fingers. “You didn’t collect any evidence. You didn’t talk to Lisa Sheppard to ve
rify her husband’s story, and you didn’t call her mother in Missouri. What exactly did you do, Fisher, other than walk through the victim’s house without the benefit of a search warrant?”
“Tell you what,” he said, “I’ll make copies of the file and you folks can go at it anyway you want. Will that get you off my back? I don’t know about Ventura, but San Diego is a big city. We probably had twenty crimes go down since you got here. You know, real crimes, things that are happening right now.”
Once Fisher left to make the copies, Mary turned to Carolyn. “Hope he doesn’t handle his other cases the way he handled Lisa Sheppard’s disappearance.” She glanced at her watch. “Want to stop by the place where they lived and question some of the neighbors?”
“I’m game,” Carolyn told her. “If Lisa answers the door, though, we might owe Detective Fisher an apology.”
“Shit, that lazy fool,” Mary said, scrunching up her face. “I’m not apologizing for nothin’. He’s the poorest excuse for a cop I’ve ever seen. Besides, I don’t like him.”
“You don’t even know the man.”
“Oh, yeah,” Mary said, lowering her voice so the other detectives couldn’t overhear. “I know enough to know I don’t like him. My guess is he didn’t even write a missing person’s report. He might have only filed an incident report that can be written in five minutes. Right now, he’s probably back there scribbling down whatever he can remember.”
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