“SecureLife, this is Marella,” the same voice answered. “How can I help you?”
“Marella, this is Detective Kaye again. We spoke a while ago.”
“Of course. What can I do for you?”
“I forgot to ask,” Kaye said, mentally crossing his fingers, “if the system at the house we talked about includes front gate cameras.”
“Hold on, I’ll check.”
Kaye leaned back again and waited. Maybe this won’t be tough after all, he mused.
“Detective?”
“I’m here.”
“That system does include exterior and interior front gate cameras, as well as cameras that cover the back yard.”
***
Following the directions Marella had given him, Kaye rolled into the parking lot of a small strip mall off Westwood Boulevard a few blocks south of Santa Monica Boulevard.
SecureLife Security Systems occupied a moderately-sized storefront near one end of the building. A video camera was mounted above the door, offset enough to capture the face of anyone who walked up. On the door was a sign stating ‘Please Ring For Assistance’. A card scanner was mounted on the wall next to the door handle, a buzzer button above that.
Kaye pushed the button, turned to look directly into the camera and held up his open badge wallet.
“Detective Kaye?” a voice asked from a speaker Kaye couldn’t see.
“Yes, I’m here to see Marella.”
The door buzzed and a light on the card scanner went from red to green. Kaye grabbed the door handle and stepped into an empty room about ten feet square to face yet another secure door, this one transparent.
Seconds later, a woman appeared on the other side, held a card up to the reader and opened the door.
“Hi, Detective,” she said. “Come on in. I’m Marella.”
“Nice to meet you,” Kaye said as he looked around.
The space was nothing more than a reception area with two desks in opposite corners angled to face the door. A young man sat at the desk to Kaye’s right, absorbed enough in what he was doing that he didn’t even look up.
On the far wall was yet another door. Gray metal, and it didn’t have a knob.
Cameras were mounted in all four corners of the room, tucked up against the ceiling.
“That’s quite the security set-up,” Kaye said, glancing around.
“It’s overkill, I know,” Marella said. “It’s real purpose is to impress potential clients. We don’t just do home security. We also do tech facilities, industrial and retail, both interior and perimeter.”
“From here?”
She laughed and said, “It’s deceiving. That,” she pointed to the knob-less door, “leads to our main operations center. We look small from the street because we want to, but we actually have about fifteen thousand square feet of the total mall and as soon as another tenant vacates we’ll take that space, too.”
“It’s a tough world out there,” Kaye said.
“Indeed it is. Now, how exactly can I help you?”
“I’m interested in any video from the front gate cameras at the house we spoke about. How they work, field of view, logs, archives, anything and everything you can show and tell me.”
Marella studied Kaye for a moment before asking, “Are you working with Megan Sullivan at Classic Realty?”
“Not specifically,” Kaye replied. “But I’ve spoken to her. Why?”
“Because Ms. Sullivan was here last Friday morning, asking for the same things. We spent a couple of hours reviewing camera captures and generating a log of traffic in and out of the front gate over the past few weeks.”
“Really?” Kaye asked. “I understand there was some vandalism at the house. She must be trying to track that down. I’m working on something else. A homicide.”
“Oh,” Marella said, her eyes opening wide and her eyebrows lifting. “She said nothing about anything like that.”
“Well, like I said, I don’t think we’re after the same thing. But, if I can ask, did Ms. Sullivan find anything that might help her find the vandals?”
“We thought we did,” Marella said, grinning. “We saw you and your motorcycle, and we saw you jump up on the gate and peek over.”
“Are you sure it was me?”
She appraised Kaye and grinned again. “I wasn’t then, but I am now. You should probably call Ms. Sullivan and tell her that was you. I think she has the police looking for you.”
“I’m easy to find,” Kaye said. “Is there a chance I could get a copy of the file you created for Ms. Sullivan? I’m assuming everything is digital, right?”
“Of course,” Marella replied, then caught herself. “I mean, yes, I created a digital file with the information and sent it to her. But I don’t know about giving you a copy. I think I should check with somebody first.”
“That’s fine. I’ll wait.”
Marella went to her desk and made a call. The space was small and Kaye couldn’t help overhearing her side of the conversation. After a minute or two she hung up and, wringing her hands, walk back to where Kaye stood waiting.
“I’m sorry, Detective. Apparently Ms. Sullivan has put a hold on that file. My boss says you either need to get her to tell us directly that we can release the file to you, or you should get a warrant.”
“I don’t need a warrant. Ms. Sullivan doesn’t own the house.”
“I’m sorry,” Marella said nervously. “It’s not up to me. I can’t release it without approval.”
Kaye grabbed his phone, found his call to Megan Sullivan in his call history and re-called the number.
Sullivan’s voice answered, but it was an invitation to leave a voice mail, with a promise to return the call as soon as possible.
Kaye left his name and number, and requested a call back.
“Well, so much for that,” he said to Marella. “Is there any chance you can at least tell me how the system is set up and how it works?”
“I’d be happy to.”
She explained to Kaye that there were two cameras linked to the front gate: One that saw a short stretch of street outside and the gate approach, and one that saw the interior driveway. The exterior camera had a motion detector adjusted so the camera came on when someone entered the driveway, either in a vehicle or on foot. If the gate wasn’t then activated using the keypad or a remote, the camera was programmed to go off after a preset interval.
“That’s how we saw you,” she said, explaining that if the gate was activated from either side using the keypads, the appropriate camera came on and stayed on until the gate closed or it timed out.
“So,” Kaye interrupted, “if someone is leaving and opens the gate from the inside, the outside camera doesn’t come on?”
“That is correct,” Marella said. “There’s a software limitation in this version that doesn’t allow the simultaneous creation of two image files. Most of our clients are only interested in who’s getting in, so we set the default so the external camera has priority. They can change that if they want to. But if the gate is correctly activated from the inside the interior camera gets priority.”
“How long do the cameras stay on?”
“That depends on how the customer wants it programmed. If the exterior motion detector is tripped and no one activates the gate, the default is ten seconds.”
The gate openings and closings, along with other system activity, were logged in the local system memory, and that file was dumped to SecureLife every morning between 2:00 a.m. and 3:00 a.m., when the system was polled by the server in the Operations Center. The data was kept for thirty days unless there was an alarm activation that recorded an unapproved intrusion or the client made a complaint. In both cases the preservation was open ended so data could be retrieved as needed.
“Are there cameras or lights for the back of the house?” Kaye asked.
“Yes,” Marella replied. “They’re programmed by the client from the console inside the house, and motion activated if they are turned on. There was
no video capture at all from the back of the house.”
“Did you see anything out of the ordinary when you reviewed the data with Ms. Sullivan?”
“I…don’t know if I should –”
“Marella, two people died. Shot to death for no apparent reason.”
“Oh,” she said. “I guess I could share what I saw. I mean, I wouldn’t be giving you actual information, right?”
Kaye just shook his head.
“I had two impressions,” she said. “The first was that Ms. Sullivan seemed happy with how many people were coming to look at the house. I guess a lot of people are interested.”
“It’s a nice house,” Kaye said. “And the second?”
“Well, of course I could be wrong, but I almost got the impression that she was looking for something specific and didn’t find it.”
“What was she looking for?”
“She didn’t volunteer anything, but when I asked her, she said she was looking for realtors who came and went, but didn’t sign her sheet in the house.”
“Was she upset about that?” Kaye asked.
“Not really, I don’t think. She seemed to know them all just by their cars.”
“Do you distribute the gate code to realtors when a client’s house goes on the market?”
“We do not. But we can’t control who Ms. Sullivan shares it with, and once one person has it, well, you know what they say about secrets.”
“Indeed,” Kaye said. “Marella, thank you very much for your time. I appreciate it. If Ms. Sullivan calls me back and gives the okay, I’ll call you about where you can send the file.”
“You’ll need Ms. Sullivan to call us directly first. No offense.”
“None taken,” Kaye said. “I’ll have her call you.”
Or, he thought as he walked to the bike, after I talk to the D.A.’s office to make sure, I’ll be back with a warrant for your boss’s arrest on obstruction charges.
***
On average, there are about three hundred homicides a year in Los Angeles, which works out to roughly one murder every twenty-nine hours. Not the biggest number or the highest rate around, but enough to keep everybody busy.
Most go to Robbery-Homicide Division. But with the manpower shortage some, like Avi Geller, were being handled by Bureau detectives.
When Kaye walked into the squad there were several familiar, and a couple unfamiliar, faces gathered around Lister and Hilliard’s adjoining desks.
“…and it was gone,” Kaye heard Hilliard say to his audience.
Kaye heard the comments.
“You’re fucking kidding.”
“No way.”
“That’s one sick dude, man.”
“Welcome to the jungle,” Lister said. “Manic Monday. But not a fun day, you know?”
Hilliard groaned, a couple of the others laughed as they drifted away.
They all saw Kaye. Pleasantries and welcome backs were exchanged, introductions made. Things were getting back to normal.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” Kaye said to Hilliard. “What was gone?”
“The victim’s head,” Hilliard said. “Totally gone.”
“What case?” Kaye asked.
“Not mine anymore, thank God,” Hilliard replied. “Went to RHD this morning.”
“You mean the victim was decapitated?” Kaye said.
“Yep,” Hilliard said, making a chopping motion with his hand. “Clean as a whistle. And disemboweled. But the killer took the head. That’s what I mean by ‘gone’.”
“You got called out?”
“Yep,” Hilliard said. “Everything was quiet until about eight o’clock Saturday night. Some guy was found, well, everything but his head, in a parking garage behind a building on Wilshire. Like I said, clean as a whistle.”
“Who was the guy?” Kaye asked.
“Don’t know,” Hilliard replied. “No ID or phone, no jewelry, pockets turned inside out. Looked like a really gruesome robbery to me. But taking the guy’s head? Weird.”
“A trophy,” Kaye said.
“Definitely a twisted mind,” Lister said.
“Any leads at all?” Kaye asked.
“Not really,” Hilliard said, shaking his head. “I took plate numbers and photos of every car on that level of the garage, but, like I said, it’s RHD’s case now, which does not break my heart. If it was me, though, I’d have canvassed the building this morning.”
“Well,” Kaye said as he turned away, “let’s just hope it’s not the first of many.”
“Amen,” he heard Lister mutter.
Back at his desk Kaye checked his phone for a call back from Megan Sullivan. Missing such things was sometimes an unavoidable consequence of riding a motorcycle.
Nothing.
He debated calling her again, but decided against it. He didn’t want to piss her off, and it hadn’t been all that long since he’d left the message.
Next he checked his e-mail and was surprised to see replies to his inquiries from both Vice and Missing Persons.
He opened the message from Vice first.
Detective Kaye;
I ran your Jane Doe photo through the system and showed it around. She’s not on our radar. Sorry. If anybody comes up with anything, I’ll let you know.
Sgt. Tilley, Vice
He printed the message to include in the file, then opened the message from Missing Persons.
Kaye:
We may have found a match for your Jane Doe. We have an old flier from Santa Barbara County S.O. from about seven months ago on one Nicole Justine Ingram, WF DOB 08-19-1995 Brn and Brn. Except for the hair color and that she’s a little rougher looking, it’s a good likeness. A small facial scar in common. The flier also noted a small scar inside her right elbow. SBSO forwarded it to us because her permanent address was West Hollywood. We checked the apartment at the time, no sign of foul play. Hope this helps.
Ofc. Mason Westbury, Missing Persons.
Kaye logged out and went to the Department’s on-line missing persons directory. He searched for Nicole Justine Ingram, but got no returns because the flier was info only.
He next went to the law enforcement portal for the California on-line missing persons directory and entered the name. Seconds later, a picture appeared. Along with it were matching details from Westbury’s e-mail, plus the SBSO case number and contact information.
Kaye grabbed his cell phone and pulled up Jane Doe’s photo from the crime scene.
She was thinner than in the photo on-line, and the different hair color only served to confuse the issue, but it was the same woman. Both photos showed a very small, white scar just outside and below the left side corner of her mouth.
“Well, shit,” Kaye muttered, disappointed that this was how Nicole Justine Ingram’s story had ended.
He grabbed his desk phone and punched in the Santa Barbara County contact number.
“Sheriff’s Office, Deputy Stephenson.”
“Deputy Stephenson, my name is Ben Kaye. I’m a detective at the LAPD. I’m calling about a missing person report from your office. Nicole Justine Ingram.” He read off the case number.
“Got it,” Stephenson said. “Did you find her?”
“It’s not confirmed yet,” Kaye said, “but, yeah, I found her. She was the victim of a homicide here in Los Angeles last week.”
“Goddamn it,” Stephenson muttered. “Have you made an arrest?”
“Not yet. Until I saw your flier on-line she was a Jane Doe. Can you give me some particulars?”
Nicole Ingram had been reported missing by her parents, Bradley and Sylvia Ingram, seven months ago. They became concerned after losing contact with her for almost a week, which they said was unusual. Although she lived in West Hollywood, she had last called them from the Santa Barbara area, which is what led them to file the report there.
Ingram’s parents lived in Amarillo, Texas. Nicole had moved to Los Angeles after finishing her MFA at Texas Tech. She had disappeared from Santa Bar
bara while she was there to pitch a screenplay to a movie producer.
Her parents hadn’t known the name of the producer.
“Do you have vehicle information?” Kaye asked.
“Her parents said she drove a silver two-thousand fourteen Jetta, Texas plates.” Stephenson gave Kaye the number, then added, “We’ve never found the car, either.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep. Still active in the system, and never even a nibble. Believe me, we scoured the countryside for that car.”
“I’ve got a place here I can check for it,” Kaye said. “I don’t have a positive ID by family or friends of the girl yet, but as soon as I get one I’ll call you so you can close your case.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“If it’s okay, I’ll make the notification. I don’t usually do it over the phone, but I have some questions and I think it would be better if her parents hear it from me instead of an Amarillo PD uniform at their front door that doesn’t know anything about what happened.”
“I’m fine with that,” Stephenson said. He gave Kaye the Ingram’s number and added, “Please pass along our department’s condolences.”
“Will do.”
Kaye logged back in to his e-mail and wrote a quick reply to Westbury.
It’s her. Nicole Ingram. Just talked to SBSO and will notify parents. Thanks again for the help.
Kaye
The next e-mail was to Arch.
Got a possible ID on Jane Doe from Paloma Canyon. Not confirmed yet, but almost certain it’s her. Nicole Justine Ingram. West Hollywood address, originally from Amarillo, TX. Reported missing by her parents seven months ago to the Santa Barbara County SO because that was her last known location. I’ll call the parents.
Kaye
He hit ‘send’ and leaned back in his chair.
An aspiring screenwriter, murdered along with one of Hollywood’s prominent producers, goes missing seven months ago after supposedly going to Santa Barbara, where said producer has $50M invested in a real estate development not far away, to pitch a script.
He recalled Ziva Geller’s outrage over her husband’s infidelity and idly wondered if the Gellers owned a house in or near Santa Barbara or Montecito.
Even if they did, there was still no motive. No nexus. Why hadn’t Nicole Ingram called her parents for almost seven months? The drugs? Maybe she’d been less than forthcoming about the nature of her ‘business’ in Santa Barbara. Who tells their parents they’re hooking?
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