Cruel Vintage

by Huston Michaels

  “Which means nobody in the house can see us, either.” Kaye opened the car door. “I’m going to see if the Corvette’s in the garage.”

  “Whoa, whoa,” Lister said. “When you get past the house next door you could be seen. Bettencourt’s been face-to-face with you before. He’s never laid eyes on me. Let me go.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Kaye said. “Think you’ll be able to see in the windows? They’re pretty high.”

  “Watch it, buddy. Randy Newman was not singing about me, okay?”

  “Then you go. But just look for the Vette or the van. No freelancing. Got it?”

  Lister nodded, grabbed her portable radio, got out, and headed down the sidewalk toward the house while Kaye moved to the driver’s seat.

  They had parked three houses away. Kaye’s view from the driver’s seat was better, but his view of the garage door was still partly obstructed by the lush landscaping.

  As Lister got closer, her pace slowed. As soon as she passed the last planter belonging to the house next door she left the sidewalk and cut across the small lawn area, stopped next to one of the tall Cypress trees that flanked the garage, and leaned forward. Kaye could just make her out through some intervening branches, and could tell she was listening.

  After a moment Lister bent down slightly and crept onto the driveway.

  Kaye lost sight of her. It made him nervous enough to get out of the car and step into the street for a better view.

  He heard the muffled sound of the shots at the same instant he saw Lister spin and tumble backwards onto the driveway. He raced for her, drawing his Kimber.

  After only a few strides he saw the garage door start to go up. At the same time he saw Lister roll off her back and start to scramble away. He heard her shout her call sign and then, “Officer needs help! Shots fired!”

  When the door was about halfway up, Dennis Bettencourt, pistol in hand and arm extended, ducked under it and walked casually toward Lister.

  “Bettencourt! Put it down!” Kaye roared as he stopped about fifty feet from the man and took aim.

  Bettencourt heard and turned toward Kaye, taking aim.

  Lister, alerted by Kaye’s shout, rolled onto her back and drew her pistol just as the emergency traffic alert tone blared from her radio.

  “Police! Drop the gun!” she shouted.

  Bettencourt looked down at her and instantly changed targets again, aiming almost point blank at Lister’s face.

  All three fired at the same time. The noise was sharp and deafening.

  Running forward, Kaye saw Lister’s head snap back as she fired again.

  Bettencourt staggered backwards a half-step, regained his balance and raised his pistol toward Lister again.

  Kaye, closing fast and still running, raised the Kimber and started firing as fast as he could, over and over, trying to lay down fire that would take Bettencourt down.

  He was almost on top of Bettencourt before the tall man started to topple. He lowered his shoulder and hit Bettencourt squarely in the chest, sending him airborne and crashing into the back of the red Corvette in the garage. Without stopping, Kaye kicked Bettencourt’s pistol to get it beyond the man’s reach, the adrenaline in his system propelling the weapon thirty feet across the driveway and into the middle of the front yard. He glanced down at Bettencourt. The front of the man’s shirt was covered in blood, he was absolutely still and his open eyes stared at nothing.

  Kaye rushed to Lister, knelt beside her, grabbed her radio and called in an ‘officer down’.

  Her eyes were open and her eyelids fluttered rapidly. Blood poured down the side of her neck, staining the grass.

  “Mel, listen to me,” he said urgently. “Where are you hit?”

  “Leg, I think, but I don’t know,” she whispered slowly. “I can’t feel anything except the side of my head. It hurts like hell.”

  Kaye quickly looked her over. Her pants were ripped and there was a flesh wound on the outside of her right thigh, below the hip. There was some blood on her cheek, and blood flowed freely from her neck area, staining the grass below. Not wanting to risk moving her head, he gently pushed her hair aside and bent low to try and get a better look at the wound. He saw a graze below and outside her right eye, and it looked like her right ear lobe was gone. That was where the blood was coming from.

  By now, they could hear sirens converging on their location from all sides.

  “Well, look on the bright side,” he said, smiling.

  She gave him a confused look that said ‘bright side?’

  “You’ll save a lot of money on ear rings from here on out,” Kaye said.

  It took her a moment to comprehend what he’d said, then she tried a weak smile that turned into a grimace and retorted, “Very funny coming from my partner.”

  ***

  Within minutes the scene was crawling with cops and medics. The street was closed and crime scene tape encircled everything. The neighbors began to gather and gawk.

  Lister was transported and Bettencourt’s body covered to await the arrival of the coroner.

  Kaye called Thompson and filled him in.

  The Captain ordered him to remain at the scene and wait for the shooting investigation team, and he would head for the hospital to be with Lister.

  Kaye used the time to search the house for any sign Sullivan had been there. The place was completely empty except for a sleeping bag on the living room floor and a few boxes and cans of groceries on the kitchen counter. He didn’t find anything obvious, but with Sullivan’s DNA now on file he decided to call forensics and have them check the house.

  The forensics team and the coroner arrived at the same time.

  Dr. Jaime Archuleta slid out of the coroner’s van, saw Kaye, shook his head, and came up the driveway.

  “Kaye, we’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

  “I hear you, Arch. As soon as you figure out how we can do that, let me in on it.”

  “What’ve you got?” Arch asked, reaching down and lifting the corner of the tarp. Eyes wide, he looked around at Kaye. “Holy shit, somebody shot Robert Mitchum’s grandkid.”

  “His evil twin,” Kaye said. “And the somebody is either Mel Lister or me, so do a first rate job on the slugs because the Board will want details.”

  “Got it, and sorry about the joke. Nobody told me this was officer-involved. Who is he? I mean, he’s obviously not Robert Mitchum.”

  “Meet Dennis Bettencourt, the guy who shot Avi Geller and Nicole Ingram at Paloma Canyon Country Club.”

  Arch’s eyes went wide. “You’re shittin’ me. You actually figured out who did that?”

  “Arch, that’s why I’m the detective.”

  Kaye next spoke with the forensics team, explaining the house was vacant, a woman was missing, and what he wanted them to specifically look for.

  “Collect the sleeping bag for hair and bodily fluids, please,” he said to wrap it up. “I know you’ll do that, I just have to say it out loud. It might be the only real lead we have.”

  The team collected their gear and went to work.

  Kaye spent the next half-hour being interviewed by the shooting investigation team detectives, thankful they weren’t another George and Lennie team like Sloan and Leale.

  About twenty minutes into the interview, the forensics team Supervisor approached and stood about ten feet away.

  “What is it?” one of the investigator’s asked.

  “I need to ask Detective Kaye a question.”

  “What’s up?” Kaye asked.

  “I need to know if you want us to dig.”

  “Dig?” Kaye asked. “Where?”

  “Out back,” the supervisor replied. “We noticed what looks like a patch of freshly-turned dirt out by the pool house. Since you mentioned a missing woman, well…” He shrugged.

  Kaye sighed. “Yeah, better check it. Keep your fingers crossed it’s tulip bulbs.”

  “Amen to that,” the supervisor said.

  “Wow,” t
he second shooting team investigator said, “sounds like you’ve got a real mess on your hands.”

  “This is only the tip of the iceberg,” Kaye assured him.

  “Well, then, we’ll get out of your hair. With Lister in the hospital with gunshot wounds, this is all just a formality, anyway. We’ll let your Captain know when the report is filed.”

  The investigators hadn’t been gone for five minutes when the supervisor found Kaye again.

  “Detective, you need to come see this.”

  “You found something?”

  “We didn’t have to go very deep.”

  The pile of dirt wasn’t very big. People sometimes bury beloved pets in the back yard, and Kaye was hopeful as he walked up and stood over the hole.

  He was disappointed.

  He shook his head, pulled out his phone, punched in a number and put it on speaker.

  “Kai, hey, it’s Ben Kaye.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I wanted to let you know I’ve got Howard Feinmann.”

  “No kidding?” Iwamura asked excitedly. “Where are you? Is he talking?”

  “I’m just east of Westwood, maybe fifteen minutes from your office,” Kaye replied and gave Iwamura the address. “And, no, he’s not talking. His mouth, nose and ears are full of dirt.”

  “Full of –” Iwamura started to ask, then tumbled to what Kaye was telling him. “You dug him up?”

  “That we did. Found him in a shallow hole in the back yard, still wearing a very expensive suit. Looks like he’s been here, maybe, a day or two.”

  “Think it was Maisano’s guys?”

  “No,” Kaye replied, and quickly explained the circumstances. “I guess what I need to know is if the Bureau wants the cold leftovers or if you just want me to handle it.”

  “Would you mind? I know it’s extra work.”

  “I’m already here, and it is my case. I’ll send you copies of everything.”

  “Thanks, Ben. Oh, and hey, you’ll be glad to hear that we found five of those missing women locked in another house on the Valle delle Viti property. But no sign of any others, at least so far. We’ll keep searching.”

  “Five is better than none, I guess. Thanks, Kai.”

  “Thank you, Ben. Take a vacation, buddy. You’ve earned it.”

  After the call ended, Kaye turned to the supervisor. “You heard the man.”

  “We’ve got it, Detective. We’ll find the shovel, maybe some DNA.”

  Kaye walked back to the front of the house. Arch was busy packing up.

  “Where are you going?” he asked the deputy coroner.

  “I’m done here.”

  Kaye laughed. “You wish. You have another customer in, well, actually under, the back yard.”

  “No joke?” Arch asked, raising his eyebrows. “Did you or Lister bury the body? I only ask because that would make it easy.”

  Kaye shook his head. “I’m pretty sure it was Bob,” he said. “But not a hundred percent.”

  “I didn’t really think it was you,” Arch said, then reached down, picked up his over-sized red duffel bag and headed for the back. After a few steps he turned around. “Maybe Lister, but not you.”

  Kaye stood in the driveway. The shadows had moved across the street since he and Lister had arrived. Much had happened, very quickly. His mind flashed back to his very first day on the job, his first shift after graduating from the Academy, and the very first thing his training officer had said to him after they got into the patrol car.

  “Ready, rookie? This is it, your first shift. If we’re lucky, it’ll be four hundred and seventy-five minutes of boredom and only five minutes of absolute terror. But don’t hold your breath.”

  It was still the truest thing he’d ever heard from another cop.

  But now, today, standing there in the driveway, he still had no idea where Megan Sullivan might be.

  He no longer needed her as a witness, and her deal with Okafor might be null and void with Bettencourt’s death, but he felt a responsibility to at least find her and make sure she was safe.

  He’d been almost certain that when he found Bettencourt, if he didn’t find Sullivan with him, he’d at least be able to lean on Bettencourt and find out where she was. But there’d been no sign of her in the house. Maybe she’d crawled back to her husband, or sought refuge with her cousin. Until he got forensics back on the sleeping bag he was stymied on even putting her here with Bettencourt.

  He sighed deeply and decided he was done at the house and would go check on Lister.

  That’s what partners do, he thought, then grunted in self-deprecation.

  As he turned to go tell Arch he was leaving a strong glint of reflected sunlight hit his eyes and made him turn his head. Instinctively, he turned to trace its origin.

  The garage had a peaked roof with a gable above the door on the street-facing side. Centered in the gable was a round window; a cheap, miniature representation of the rose windows found in churches, this one maybe eighteen inches in diameter. Until the reflecting sun had betrayed its presence, Kaye hadn’t really noticed it.

  But he did now. A window usually means space on the other side of the wall.

  Curious, Kaye walked into the garage. The walls were finished and painted, and looked to be standard drywall. He saw the bullet holes in the garage door from Bettencourt’s first shots, and even pulled the door down partway to check above it, but couldn’t see a hatch or any other method of access to a possible attic space.

  He walked outside. The soffits had vents, and when he checked he saw a vent running the length of the roof’s peak. He glanced inside, then again looked at the outside walls. They were several feet taller than the inside ceiling height.

  He went back inside. Bettencourt’s Corvette and van fit in the two-car-wide space, but the size of the van made it tight. Recessed can lights had been installed, along with a garage door opener. While the width was tight, the depth was not. There was at least ten feet of free space in front of the van, with two large fluorescent lights in the ceiling. A regular pattern of marks on the floor told Kaye that at some point a workbench, maybe two, had likely occupied the space.

  The entire back wall was floor to ceiling storage cabinets, except for a door to the house between the first and second cabinets on the left. He randomly opened a couple cabinets. They were only about two feet deep, with shelving spaced to accommodate a variety of stuff, and no sign of an access panel.

  Kaye opened the door to the house and peered inside. A hallway extended about ten feet, ending at the bottom of a short set of stairs. He could see enough to tell him they led up to the kitchen. Through on open door not far in on the right he could see a laundry room. On the left, a wall extended to the bottom of the stairs, broken only by a set of folding doors near the far end.

  He pulled the door closed as he stepped back into the garage, mentally fitting the pieces together.

  He stepped to his left, opened the storage cabinet between the wall and the door and found what he was looking for. There was no false bottom in the cabinet. The concrete extended into a blind space maybe half the depth of the inside hallway’s length. Centered in the ceiling was an access panel about two feet by five feet. The back edge was hinged, and from the front hang a stout piece of rope with a red plastic handle attached.

  Kaye reached up, grabbed the handle, and pulled. At first the panel stuck a bit, but then it came free. The hinges and mechanism squeaked in protest as the panel swung down. Kaye could see what was either a ladder or set of folding steps mounted to the inside surface of the panel. As soon as he could reach it, he grabbed it and pulled. A set of steps unfolded as three pieces, the topmost attached to the access panel, and he used them to finish lowering the panel and ground the steps on the floor.

  He looked up. Above the ceiling, the wall was unfinished and only about three feet tall before supporting the rafters. Light was scarce above the ladder, but he was able to make out a blue plastic electrical box nailed to one of
the studs. It had wire running in and out, and the front was a light switch cover plate, complete with a toggle.

  Aware that his weight was probably well in excess of the manufacturer’s recommended maximum load, Kaye climbed slowly and kept his feet at the very outside edge of the treads, testing each one before putting his full weight on it. He felt the treads flex, but they held.

  He had to twist his shoulders to fit through the opening, and still several steps from the top he was able to reach up and try the light switch. Light; not enough to read by, but enough to keep him from bumping into things; filled the space above.

  He took the last steps up, bending at the waist to avoid the rafters, and ended up standing on a piece of plywood laid atop the joists. Still bent over, he took a couple steps into the space before he straightened up, turned and looked around.

  The entire space was unfinished and uninsulated, just exposed studs, rafters and roof decking perforated from above by thousands of nails. Much of the attic had been floored with plywood to create a platform, probably for boxes of treasured items never touched or used, but never discarded.

  Megan Sullivan, her head turned toward Kaye, her open eyes dry and sightless, lay prone in the middle of the space.

  She was naked. Her arms extended out to her sides, palms down, and her hands had been nailed to the platform. Her ankles were bound to a length of board that had been fixed between them to keep her from closing her legs. A chain, pulled tight enough to lift her ankles slightly and create an arch in her back, ran from the board to a collar around her neck. A ball gag was tied around her head, the red ball still in her mouth.

  She had obviously been tortured. Her back, buttocks and the bottoms of her feet were half-congealed masses of lacerations and welts.

  Her arms and legs bore dozens of cigarette burns.

  But it was the drying blood that stained the backs and insides of her thighs and puddled under her hips, and the foot and a half of rusty rebar protruding from her vagina, that turned Kaye’s stomach.

  “Oh, my God,” he muttered.

  He stared until his numbed brain simply stopped receiving and decoding the nerve impulses his eyes were sending. His vision went fuzzy around the edges and he had to turn away and find support before he fell down.