Cruel Vintage

by Huston Michaels

  “What are you working?”

  “We’ve got a Billy Joe and Bobby Sue team scamming jewelry stores on this side of town. They stay away from the high-end stores, but they’re pretty sophisticated and making quite the haul.”

  “Scamming how?” Kaye asked, curious.

  “They come in separately, the guy first. He engages the sales person, then she comes in and distracts them while he pockets one or two decent pieces and leaves fakes. They also leave separately. Sometimes the stores don’t even know they’ve been hit until someone else wants to see the same items or they pull the inventory at the end of the day.”

  “Weapons?”

  “Nobody has seen one yet.”

  “Video?”

  “That’s actually why I think I’m working the same team,” Lister replied. “They’ve used some pretty damn good disguises, so the descriptions are always a little different. But in every instance the wireless security cameras have been jammed.”

  “Pretty sophisticated for low-end thieves.”

  “I think they’re rehearsing. They obviously case the places first, pick out some nice pieces and make sure the cameras are wireless so they can jam them.”

  “How much take are we talking about so far?”

  “Just over a hundred grand in the last ten days.”

  “Wow,” Kaye said. “Quantity counts.”

  “Yeah, and I’ve got zip. Eyewitness descriptions that don’t match, no video, no vehicle, nothing. Bob Seger, man. Mysteries with no clues. But not those kind of mysteries, if you know what I mean.”

  “You’re down to FI cards?”

  “Every rose has its thorn,” she said. “But, hey, you never know. I can’t just let these two take the money and run, right?”

  “Well, good luck,” Kaye said. “If Thompson says anything to me about partnering, you’ll be the first to know.”

  She gave him a thumbs-up sign and bent back to the FI cards.

  Kaye sat at his desk, thinking about where to start. There were a lot of loose ends to tie up, but others had to deliver the string first.

  He did have one knot that he could work on untangling, though, thanks to Marella at SecureLife.

  She’d done well. The new security system log file was nearly six weeks’ worth of raw data dating back to not long after Sullivan became the contact. Thankfully, he’d already learned how to decipher it fairly easily and started with the oldest date.

  When he’d first started analyzing the front gate video and SysLog file, Kaye had focused on the daylight hours because the murders had happened in the middle of the day.

  But now he wanted around-the-clock details.

  If what he was looking for was there, he figured it would be within a pretty consistent, narrow time frame, so he ignored about eighteen hours of every day and focused on the other six.

  It turned out to be relatively easy to spot once he got a sense for the cadences and layout of the data and in less than ninety minutes he had what he needed.

  Starting two weeks after Megan Sullivan became the SecureLife contact the cleaning service van was at the property at least once a week, never arriving before 10:00 p.m. and never leaving before 5:00 a.m. During that seven hours or so, the entire system was disarmed at the main console in the house.

  Which made sense. But seven hours to straighten and vacuum? With what Kaye thought he knew now, the extended visits made sense. Now he just needed to figure out how to use the information to his advantage.

  He printed the pages he needed and put them in the case file.

  “Detective?”

  Kaye spun in his chair.

  “Hey, Patty. What’s up?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about the gun registry.”

  Kaye slid his chair across the floor, grabbed another from an empty work spot and offered it to the P.A.

  “What did you come up with?” he asked.

  “I didn’t find anything connected to Dennis Bettencourt.”

  “That’s kind of what I expected,” Kaye said, then paused a moment before asking, “How about we widen the net a bit?”

  “That’s what I was thinking. What am I fishing for?”

  “You remember the ‘vehicles registered to’ search we did on Megan Sullivan?”

  “Sure. We wanted the black Explorer.”

  “Right,” Kaye said. “See what you can dig up on Sullivan. Her husband, siblings, friends, stuff like that, and search the gun registry for them.”

  Patty’s eyes widened.

  “You think she’s involved in the murders?”

  “It’s looking more and more like she might be,” Kaye said, “but I’ve got no proof yet. I know it’ll take some digging, but see what you can come up with.”

  “Digging?” Patty said and laughed. “The woman’s a real estate agent, right? She’ll have profiles on every social media platform out there. By the end of the day I’ll have the names and birthdates of everyone she’s ever known, their spouses and those people’s kids, right down to high school classmates. Give me until tomorrow morning.”

  “Sounds like a plan. Thanks, Patty. Oh, hey, have you thought any more about the Academy?”

  She sighed heavily and said, “With the call-back and all, I think that window’s probably closed. Plus, I don’t want to disappoint you and I appreciate your confidence in me, but to be perfectly honest I like what I do now. I like the hours, and most of all I like that I don’t have to deal with fools with guns.”

  “I get that,” Kaye said. “Plus, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Her eyes lit up and she said, “Thank you, Detective. I appreciate that. I’ll have something for you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Sounds good. Stay dry.”

  She looked back over her shoulder and smiled. “Another advantage of my job. A roof.”

  Kaye leaned back in his chair and tried to think of where to take the case next. He decided to go through the file from beginning to end again, looking for things that might mean something now that his knowledge base had expanded.

  The positions of the bodies now perplexed him.

  If Nicole Ingram had been the primary target, why had Avi Geller been shot first? Had Geller been shot first? It seemed logical based on entry wounds and the fact that Ingram had two exit wounds, attributed by Arch to bullet fragments, but no damage to the seat she’d been in. To Kaye that seemed to say Ingram had a chance to stand up before she was shot, which meant she must have seen Geller get hit. Did that make Geller the target? Or was the shooter just that good?

  He plowed through the file and his notes. Some things now seemed to make more sense, but others now seemed to make less.

  It didn’t faze him. In his experience, when a big case came together it usually did so in a hurry. It just needed a trigger, a tipping point. It might be a major breakthrough or it might be something small and trivial that blossomed and became the key for the entire case. It would happen if he just kept after it.

  He grabbed the desk phone and called the LAFD Station up on Mulholland, identified himself and asked for Edler.

  “Detective Kaye, I honestly didn’t expect to ever hear back from you.”

  “Sorry,” Kaye said. “I’ve been pretty busy, but I do have some news.”

  Kaye ran it down for the kid, from his belief it had likely been a bomb, that Ferrari had fetched the car back to Italy to investigate the possibility, and that he had a possible culprit but no identity to go along with it.”

  “The guy on the Hayabusa, right?” Edler asked.

  “I think it was a woman on the Hayabusa,” Kaye said. “But the plate on the bike was stolen, so…”

  “A woman?” Edler asked. “Wow. Are you still looking?”

  “Not personally, no,” Kaye said. He quickly explained who the victim had been in the grand scheme of things and that his boss was considering turning the case over to the FBI as a possible terrorist attack.

  “Holy shit,” Edler said softly. “Hey, thanks for
letting me know.”

  “Thank you for raising your hand and being persistent.”

  “Will you let me know what happens?”

  “If I find out, you find out,” Kaye assured Edler.

  Kaye took a breather and went to look out the break room window. The rain seemed to be slackening a bit, but from inside a second floor window it was hard to tell for sure. But there was no way he was walking around the corner to get a sandwich. Instead he picked out two of the least unhealthy snack items and a water from the vending machines and headed back to his desk.

  Captain Thompson’s office was still closed and dark.

  Must be downtown, Kaye thought. Or home working on an Ark.

  He sat down just in time for his phone to ring. He recognized the Robbery-Homicide number.

  “Kaye.”

  “Ben, it’s Tom Gannett. How’s it hangin’?”

  “Can’t complain. What’s up?”

  “I called, first of all,” Gannett said, “to thank you for the tip on the traffic cam images on the phony hari-kiri murder suspect.” Gannett pronounced it ‘Harry Carey’ like the famous baseball announcer. “I had them blown up and enhanced. You were right. There was something sticking out of the rider’s jacket, angled just enough not to interfere with head movement, and it could be the grip of a sword.”

  “Yeah, a longer blade is consistent with the decapitation.”

  “What about the abdominal cut? I did some research and the guy who’s offing himself is supposed to do that himself, right? But this wasn’t a suicide.”

  “Agreed,” Kaye said. “If this guy was looking to kill himself, he’d have likely done the deed in his office instead of the middle of the parking garage. Maybe gone off the roof. A lot easier and a lot less painful.”

  “Plus,” Gannett said, “there’s no hint he was depressed and his business was thriving.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He was a Ph.D. economics professor,” Gannett replied, “and a consultant with an extensive list of loyal clients. I’m slogging through them, just in case. Can I ask you another question about this ritual suicide thing?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, so, if I’ve got this right, the person who wants to kill himself sits or kneels down, uses a short blade to slice his belly open, then a twisted friend cuts off his, or her, head to end the pain, right?”

  “Basically, yeah,” Kaye said.

  “So, assuming Collum didn’t open himself up to begin with, do you think one person could’ve done this? Or am I looking at two perps?”

  “It could’ve been two, I guess. I think one person with the right skills and speed could do it, but…”

  “But what?” Gannett asked.

  “If one person did this, they would’ve had to get pretty close to start with.”

  “Which means Collum probably knew whoever it was.”

  “Probably.”

  “Okay, good. That’s what I was thinking, too. Thanks.”

  “No problem,” Kaye said. “Don’t forget to check the dojos.”

  “I got help on that. Nothing yet.”

  “Good luck,” Kaye said and disconnected.

  While he ate, Kaye browsed the Times website to try and catch up with what was going on in the world. To him it seemed like the names changed, but the problems didn’t. Nothing was ever really solved, but the arguments kept the news outlets scrambling.

  Near the middle of the home page, though, was a link to an article headlined ‘LAPD Internal Investigation Continues’. He clicked on it and learned that he was still being investigated by Internal Affairs for stalking and harassment, with the revelation that the alleged victim, who was not named to protect her privacy, was rumored to have applied for a restraining order.

  The story went on to quote Detective Leale of Internal Affairs, who said, “We continue to look at this very closely and are still gathering evidence for possible criminal charges. But we all know Detective Kaye’s history. We should have this wrapped up soon.”

  Kaye closed the website. Next time he saw Leale he’d have to resist the temptation to separate the man’s head from his shoulders. No sword involved.

  His desk phone rang again. This time he didn’t recognize the number.

  “LAPD. Detective Kaye.”

  “Detective Kaye, my name is Glynis Mitchell. I’m the database administrator at the National Missing and Unidentified Persons System. How are you today?”

  “I’m well, Ms. Mitchell,” Kaye replied. “Is this about my request for information?”

  “It is.”

  “I was expecting an e-mail.”

  “I wanted to talk to you directly about my findings.”

  “You found something?” Kaye asked.

  “Oh, yes, I found something very interesting, and quite troubling,” Mitchell said. She proceeded to give Kaye an outline of her process and the tailoring of his search parameters into a workable query. She had added a couple additional data points, like credit card usage and mileage, to help refine the results.

  “When I first ran it, I honestly thought I had a bug in my query,” she said. “But I didn’t. Detective, I got returns on thirteen additional missing women in the last eighteen months. For all of them, their last known whereabouts were in your search area. Santa Barbara, San Luis Obispo and Kern Counties seem to be the hub.”

  Kaye was stunned.

  “I thought we might get a couple hits, but thirteen? And I take it Nicole Ingram is not included in that number.”

  “She is not,” Mitchell said. “In fact, she’s not even the most recent.”

  Kaye thought for a moment before asking, “Ms. Mitchell, could you make me a list with particulars?”

  “I already have. I’m sending it to you right now.”

  Seconds later the e-mail and attached file dropped into Kaye’s inbox.

  “Got it,” he said.

  “Interestingly enough,” Mitchell said, “almost all of these young women were only reported to the local authorities where they lived, and not directly to the jurisdiction where they went missing.”

  “I know Nicole Ingram was reported to the Santa Barbara Sheriff’s Office by her parents in Texas,” Kaye said. “I was able to identify her after their people sent a bulletin to us because she had a West Hollywood address on her driver’s license.”

  “Unfortunately, not all agencies are that thorough,” Mitchell said. “I will be sending this list to the counties involved and expanding the search to more of the surrounding counties. I hope that’s okay with you.”

  “Absolutely,” Kaye said. “Thank you, Ms. Mitchell. I appreciate how fast you got on this.”

  “I had to, Detective. It became pretty obvious, pretty fast, what’s going on.”

  “What’s that?” Kaye asked.

  “Someone, possibly a serial killer or human trafficker, is harvesting young women in the central California area.”

  Kaye spent an hour combing through the summary report Mitchell had sent.

  There was no particular type, no set of shared characteristics or appearance among the missing women. Ages and race varied. They had lived all over the country.

  Kaye could find no pattern, rhyme or reason at all other than at some point they had all passed through his search area and disappeared.

  The only commonality was that all were young and pretty and, except for Nicole Ingram, gone without a trace.

  ***

  Outside, the rain was still coming down, but it wasn’t the downpour it had been earlier. Kaye again thumbed through the Geller case file, more anxious than before he’d spoken with Glynis Mitchell, looking for something, anything, he might have missed. Some rational explanation of how Nicole Ingram, reported missing seven months before, had ended up on the Paloma Canyon Country Club golf course with Avi Geller.

  It just didn’t compute.

  And he was still troubled by the fact that Rod Howell and Avi Geller, both with either personal or business connections to Vall
e delle Viti, had been murdered within a relatively short time. Especially after what Kai Iwamura had uncovered about Valle delle Viti.

  He was missing something, something key.

  ***

  After his unexpected dinner date with Auggie the previous evening, the thought of going home to a big, dark house and scrounging up something to eat put Kaye in a funk as he walked through the rain to the truck.

  He thought again about selling the house, then beat himself up all over again for not being able to make a decision about it.

  Even in the rain he saw the piece of paper, tucked under the windshield wiper, from thirty feet away.

  “Are you kidding me?” he muttered.

  The rain had left the note so saturated that it tore in half on the wiper blade and hung limply in his hand when he grabbed it. When he managed to peel it open he could tell it was a note in Kanji, but the rain had so obliterated it that the characters were unreadable.

  He turned it into a tight round ball, tossed it into the footwell and began the long drive home.

  His mood went even more sour only a block later when he heard the ding of a system message from the truck and looked down to see the amber-colored gas pump light and a ‘low fuel’ message. He’d driven the pickup more in the last week than he’d driven it in the last three months, and hadn’t paid attention.

  While he mentally berated himself, the rain picked up again.

  “Well isn’t that just wonderful?” he asked the windshield.

  He decided that gas would be the first order of business, then food, and started looking for a gas station.

  He pulled into the first one he saw and was confronted with yet another dilemma. The only open pump was on the end. If he chose not to wait, there was just enough wind from just the right direction that he’d end up getting wet if the wind gusted while he gassed up.

  He stopped, sighed deeply, then took the open spot.

  “It’s only water,” he told himself as he pushed the door open.

  The next spot over was occupied by a blue SUV, and the woman putting gas in it smiled weakly at Kaye when they made eye contact, as if to say ‘yeah, me, too’ and share the misery.

  Kaye slid a finger under the edge of the gas cap cover to pry it open. About a third of the way, it stuck.