“Be safe, Dad,” they both said, almost in unison.
“Always,” he answered. In seconds he was out the door and backing out of the driveway.
The parking lot of the Sea Breeze Apartments was taped, barricaded, and surrounded by squad cars.
Rickerson leaped out of his vehicle, leaving the car door standing open, and jogged the short distance to Packy Cummings’s red Camaro.
A uniformed officer stepped forward and stopped him. “Wait a minute, bud. This is a crime scene.”
Rickerson sneered and flipped his badge, then placed it on his belt and made sure his coat was open. “What do you have?” he asked. “And who’s the commanding officer here?”
“Lieutenant Thomas,” the man said. “Over there.”
Thomas was a big guy, six-five or more. He was young for the rank of lieutenant and carried as much muscle around as height. His light brown hair was neatly cut, and he was standing by the vehicle as the men worked. The doors were open and several men from the medical examiner’s office and the sheriff’s crime lab were photographing the body and poking around for evidence. Packy was in the driver’s seat, his head back on the headrest, a bullet hole a few centimeters above his left ear. Blood had gushed out in brackish rivers down his neck and onto his white dress shirt. Most of it had dried now. His eyes were open and his mouth was gaping. From the expression on his face, Rickerson bet he’d never known what hit him. He was now wearing a permanent mask of surprise.
“Didn’t expect it, did he?” Lieutenant Thomas said, having arrived at the same conclusion.
“Are you sure it’s him?”
“It’s the car”—the lieutenant jerked his head to the side—“and that guy over there is his parole agent. He identified him. The parole office is only five minutes away.”
“What do you have?”
“Who knows?” Thomas said. “There’s all kinds of prints in and on the vehicle, but who knows who they belong to? The killer may have never stepped foot in that car. See,” he said, walking over to the vehicle, “the driver’s window was rolled down. Shooter could have stood right here and pulled the trigger.” Thomas took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Rickerson. He waved them away.
“What else is in there?”
“Hey, Stanley,” the lieutenant yelled at one of his men. “Show the sergeant here what you took out of the trunk.”
Both men walked a few feet away. On the sidewalk was what looked like most of Packy’s belongings. They had been inside a large plastic garbage bag and were now spread all over the sidewalk on a canvas tarp.
“Let’s see,” Officer Stanley said, picking through the stuff with gloved fingers. “We’ve got some underwear—definitely not clean—a couple of white dress shirts from J.C. Penney, their own brand. And these,” he said, laughing, pulling out something in little packets.
“Condoms?” Rickerson said.
“Yep. He might have gotten himself blown away, but he didn’t die of AIDS. Smart guy, huh?”
All the men around them started laughing except Rickerson. The detective failed to see the humor of the present situation.
Packy Cummings was the string of crumbs leading to the prize. Whoever had offed him had known just that.
“Any witnesses?”
“Little lady over there,” Stanley said. “She lives in the upstairs apartment, the one overlooking the parking lot.”
Rickerson felt his dinner rise in his throat and swallowed it. If she saw the killer, the case could come together in a matter of hours. “And…” he said excitedly.
“She was a good distance away, and the car was partially obscured by these trees. She saw two people in the car about two hours ago. They might have been inside the car and they might have been outside the car. She’s not certain.” The man’s lip was curling. “She was opening her curtains and casually glanced down and saw the Camaro. There was another car parked nearby that she didn’t recognize as belonging to one of the tenants, and she’d never seen the Camaro before today. Good place for a homicide, huh?”
Rickerson looked at the trees. “Right. The other car…?”
“She thought it was a green Mercedes, or a blue BMW, or a black Ford.” He looked at Rickerson and smacked his chewing gum. “Get the picture?”
“Yeah,” Rickerson said. “Did she hear the shots?”
“Yep,” the other man said, spitting his gum out onto the concrete. “Heard something…thought it was a car backfiring. We got the call when some kid saw this guy with a hole in his head inside the vehicle with the engine running. Killer was gone by then. We’re just lucky he called. People don’t like to get involved around here.”
None of this was worth anything, Rickerson thought, greatly disappointed. The woman was a shitty observer. Many people were. He’d had homicides in which a person was killed not more than two feet from where people were standing and they didn’t remember a blasted thing.
California, he thought. The land of the proverbial airhead.
“Nothing in his pockets, his wallet?”
“Nada, my man, no such luck,” Stanley said. “All the dude had in his wallet was a five spot. If he had anything else, someone could have lifted it after the killing. Won’t know if the killer took it or a neighborhood vulture. Fellow with a bullet in his head is a pretty unthreatening victim for a thief.”
“Small-caliber weapon?”
“Hole’s little…guess so.”
The lieutenant had walked back to the car and was flicking his ashes in the nearby grass. He saw Rickerson and nodded for him to come over. “We’re taking impressions of the skid marks. See,” he said, looking down where a man was working. “I’d say the killer arranged a meet here, pulled up, and parked right next to the Camaro. Killer stood outside the window and they talked. That’s when he pulled out a gun and blew him away. Cummings must have felt pretty secure with this person, because his own shooter is still in the glove box.”
“The killer’s prints could be on the door handle. This might have gone down inside the car.” Rickerson knew the door handle was the perfect surface for prints. He could hope. “You guys didn’t stick a dozen prints on top of it when you got here, did you?” he said, accusing the few officers standing around of destroying evidence.
“Hold on a minute, Sergeant,” the lieutenant barked. “We aren’t a bunch of backwoods cops. We know how to handle a crime scene.”
The lieutenant was being a prick, letting him know he was the one from the small department. In their eyes, they were the pros. “Well, I guess you’ve got a handle on it, then,” he told him. “I’ll be waiting for the reports. As soon as your people write them, fax them to my office.”
“No problem,” the lieutenant answered. “Think this is your shooter?”
“Maybe you need to review the facts of this case yourself, Lieutenant,” he told the man, already heading across the parking lot, tossing the words over his shoulder. “We never had a shooter. Cause of death was a blow to the head and suffocation.”
Rickerson smiled. Let him blow that one out his asshole, he thought. Then he marched to his unit, threw the gear shift in reverse, and burned off backward onto the street.
Alone in the condominium, Lara tried reading the newspaper, but she couldn’t keep her mind focused. She thought of returning to Emmet’s, but his nurse was there now. All she could think about was Josh, and then the horrid conversation she’d had with Evergreen. Was he really going to pursue this? Pull out all the stops and place her entire career in jeopardy just because of a few words on the phone over Sam’s pawnshop? It seemed incredible.
The phone rang and Lara seized it, thinking it was Irene or Benjamin. She’d left messages for both of them.
“He’s dead,” Rickerson said.
“Who’s dead?” Lara said, her heart pounding.
“Cummings. Someone shot him this afternoon not far from your apartment.”
“My God,” Lara said, her spirits soaring. “Then I can go home. If the m
an who broke into my place is dead, I’m safe.” She wouldn’t have to move into Emmet’s condo. She could get Josh back.
“I’m right down the street,” he said. “Can I stop by in a few hours? I’ll fill you in on all the details. But, Lara…”
“Yes?” she said. She was sitting up straight. There was a God, she thought. He’d heard her prayers. Everything was going to be fine now. She couldn’t bring Ivory back, but she could care for her son, resume her own life.
“You can’t go home just yet, and…well, let me tell you everything when I see you. Right now I’ve got to go.”
Before she could say anything, the detective had hung up. The way she saw it, this was a cause for celebration. She showered, dressed in clean clothes, sprayed herself with cologne. She went to the corner liquor store and bought a bottle of wine. Then she waited.
“You can come in,” the woman said at the door to Rickerson. “Ian’s expecting you.”
He stepped over the threshold into a picture-perfect living room. The furniture and the decorations were nice enough to be on the cover of House Beautiful. Mrs. Berger was still standing at the door. She was in her mid to late fifties, well dressed and still fairly attractive. Her husband was a successful businessman. Finally she shut the door.
“I’ll go get Ian. He’s in his room.” She turned and had started walking toward the back of the house when the detective called to her.
“No,” he said, his voice low. “Rather than talking to him in here and disrupting the rest of the household, why don’t I just speak with him in his room?”
The woman’s eyes drifted up and then down. She shrugged her shoulders as if it didn’t matter. She was worried sick about her son. It showed. “First door on the left,” she said.
The door was open. Ian Berger was sitting at a small desk with several books open in front of him. He looked up. Dark circles were etched under his eyes. Rickerson let his gaze wander. At least six framed pictures of Jessica Van Horn surrounded him. On the wall was an enormous poster of the murdered girl, larger than life. Her entire presence seemed to fill the room.
Ian stood and shook Rickerson’s hand. “Sit down,” he said, indicating his bed. “Or you can sit here if you want. I mean, we could go in the living room.”
Rickerson dropped to the edge of the bed. He’d wanted to see the inside of this room. When a person’s mind was disintegrating, enough to do something rash, their surroundings generally reflected it. This room might be a shrine to the dead girl, but it wasn’t the room of someone who’d gone over the edge. It was neat and appealing. The bed was made, everything was in its place. But, of course, he reminded himself, the boy lived in an apartment near the UCLA campus during the week. The lack of clutter and disorder in this room might mean nothing. His mother probably cleaned it.
“Do you know why I’m here?” he asked the boy.
“Sort of…” He coughed and leaned over his knees. “It’s because something happened to that judge, isn’t it?”
Rickerson changed the subject. He liked to switch things around, get a subject headed in one direction and then head off in another. “What are you studying at college?”
“Economics.” The boy’s eyes were locked on Rickerson’s face.
“Good subject,” the detective said. “Tough one, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“I was never very good at math. There’s a lot of math in economics. Right?”
“Look,” Ian Berger said, “can we get down to what you wanted to talk to me about? I have a big test next week. I have to study or I’m not going to make it this year.”
“Where were you on Wednesday, September eighth, between say twelve and three o’clock?”
The boy thought a few moments and then turned back to his desk, flipping through a calendar. “I was at school…in class.”
“The entire time?” Rickerson stood, glancing up at the poster of the dead girl. Like the Mona Lisa, her eyes seemed to follow him around the room. He hadn’t told the boy the crime had occurred in the afternoon instead of the morning, but Ian had known it had. Of course, he probably read the papers.
“From twelve to one, I was at lunch. I think I ate in the commissary. I eat there everyday. At one, I had a class in macroeconomics.”
“I see,” Rickerson said. He took a cigar out of his pocket and rolled it around. He had no intention of lighting it. “How long did the class last?”
“Until three. Look, why don’t you quit playing around and just ask me what you want to ask me?” His face flushed and he sat up, his back rigid. “I threatened that woman judge. That’s what this is all about. I certainly didn’t do anything, though.”
Rickerson stopped and glared at him, flicking the hairs on his mustache. “You did threaten her…tell her someone should kill her whole family?”
The boy looked down. “You know that. Everyone in that room heard me. I…didn’t really mean it. I was upset, angry.”
Slipping the cigar back into his pocket, Rickerson barked at him, “Maybe you were angry enough to carry through on those threats, make her pay?”
Ian Berger shook his head. Beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead. He was a nice-looking young man, with dark hair and penetrating dark eyes, but he looked older than his years now. He would never be a carefree young man again. “You can check with my classes. I was there. Not only that, if I wanted to kill someone, I would kill that maniac that murdered Jessica, not the stupid judge.”
“But you didn’t threaten Henderson. You threatened the judge. Right?”
“Right,” Ian said. “I made a mistake, okay? I was acting like a fool. I know she was only doing what she had to do. It was just so hard to take…to accept…Do they have anything new, or is he still out?”
“Not my case, son,” Rickerson said, stepping toward the door. Henderson was out, but it wasn’t something to tell the boy. “Write down the name of your professor and we’ll verify your story.”
The young man scribbled something on a piece of paper and walked over and handed it to the detective. “What if the professor doesn’t remember that I was in class that day? It’s a big class.”
Rickerson searched Ian Berger’s face. He couldn’t tell if what he was seeing was grief or fear. Some of the classes at UCLA had a hundred students or more, and it wouldn’t be surprising if the professor didn’t keep track of attendance. Without something to substantiate his statements, Ian Berger would remain an active suspect. “Then I guess you’re gonna have a problem, Ian. What about friends, other students? Surely someone saw you that day.”
Ian’s head dropped. He said without looking up, “Jessica was my best friend.”
Could he have done it? Rickerson asked himself. The ingredients were all present. Again he let his eyes roam around the room. Thomas Henderson had taken more than one life from the looks of it. The boy standing in front of him might never recover. He could even end up in prison for murder. Rickerson hoped that wasn’t the case. He felt an overwhelming sadness in the room and was anxious to leave. “We’ll be in touch.”
“Tell the judge I didn’t mean it, okay? Tell her I’m sorry about her family.”
“Sure,” Rickerson said, taking several steps down the hall. Then he turned and returned to the bedroom.
“Son, let me give you some advice. Take down all these pictures. She’s gone now. Let her go. Go on with your life. She would have wanted you to.”
The boy had turned back to the desk. He spoke without turning around. “I can’t,” he said in a voice laced with emotion. “I just can’t.”
As Rickerson let himself out of the house, his own words echoed in his head. She’s gone now. Let her go. Go on with your life. You’re pretty good at giving advice, he told himself. Might just be time to take some of that advice for yourself.
It was almost ten o’clock before Rickerson arrived at Lara’s condo. She had already consumed three glasses of wine.
She threw open the door and he strolled into the sma
ll living room. He didn’t appear to be in the best of moods. “Don’t open the door, remember? One of these days you’re going to open that door and get a face full of lead.”
For a moment she just stood there. “Thanks,” she said. “I mean, I thought this was a celebration. The man is dead. Isn’t that what you told me?”
He turned around and looked at her, letting his eyes roam up and down her body. “First, I believe this man was responsible for more than the break-in at your house. I think he might be our killer, but he was hired to kill them. The person responsible is still out there, and to be perfectly honest, the next person to go could be you.”
Lara felt her heart racing. Up to this point it had been only speculation that the two crimes were related. Now the detective was confirming her worst fears. And she had released this man. “You think someone contracted these killings? But why? My God, why?”
Rickerson’s voice was urgent, his face flushed. They were both still standing in the center of the living room, only a few feet apart. “He thinks you know something, maybe have something incriminating.” He let his words sink in before continuing. He had to evaluate how much he was willing to reveal. “If I’m right, he’s eliminated the one man who could identify him—Cummings. He’s cleaning house now, Lara, tying up loose ends. You’re a loose end or your house would have never been ransacked.”
“But I can’t identify anyone. This just doesn’t make sense.”
“Your sister came to your house claiming someone was following her. If the man who hired Packy Cummings was the man following your sister, then this man has to consider that you know something, that she told you something. I mean, you were her sister. If she was in trouble, why wouldn’t she tell you?”
“Well, she didn’t. I already told you why.”
“I know that, Lara, but he doesn’t. Think about it.”
She did. The silence hung heavy.
“I see your point,” she finally answered. “What now? And what about Jessica Van Horn’s boyfriend?”
Interest of Justice Page 21