He paused, then looked outside.
“No real visible blood outside. They might have washed it down. I’ll take a closer look.”
“How could they have dragged him away without leaving blood outside?”
“Someone’s waiting on the other side with a trash bag.” Decker walked back into the first bedroom to check on Jaylene Boch. They had taken off her soiled clothes and were cleaning her body. Decker looked away, but not before noticing an IV was in her arm and an oxygen tube was in her nose. He went back into the hallway as two paramedics were bringing in a gurney. “How is she?”
“Badly dehydrated. She’s conscious but barely so. It’s hard to tell what damage has been done.”
Ten minutes later, they put her on the mobile gurney, leaving the dirtied wheelchair behind, and loaded her into the ambulance.
“Where are you taking her?”
“St. Luke’s.”
The major hospital in Hamilton. “I’ll meet you there,” Decker said.
The paramedics nodded.
Baccus was still guarding the back bedroom. Decker said, “I’ll wait with you until Hamilton police arrive. They should be here any moment.”
“I’m okay by myself.”
“This is a crime scene. Who’s to say someone’s not coming back, or someone could be hiding outside. I’ll wait with you.”
A few moments passed, and then they heard sirens. “Okay,” Decker said. “You wait here and direct Hamilton police to guard the house. No one in or out until you’ve talked to a detective. Don’t tell him or her too much. Just that I’ll call later on. Then you all stand guard until Forensics comes out. If you get lip from the detective—someone tries to throw around weight—you stand your position. If someone gets nasty, tell him your last name is Baccus. That should shut the person up. When SID comes, you take them to the crime scene. And then once that’s taken care of, you give Hamilton PD the case—temporarily. I’ll call later and let them know what’s going on and why we were there.”
“What are you doing now?”
“I’m going to the hospital. If Jaylene becomes conscious and sentient, I’m going to want to talk to her. Unless you want me to stay and help you out?”
“No, no, I’m fine. Thanks for the trust.” She looked at Decker with pleading eyes. Her nails were clicking a mile a minute. “That poor woman. Will she make it?”
“I don’t know, Lennie, and that’s the truth.”
Tears formed in her orbs. She wiped them with her finger. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Just . . .”
“Don’t apologize for normal emotions. When it stops getting to you, that’s when you need to worry.”
Chapter 10
The waiting room in the ER was furnished with orange plastic chairs and a ceiling-mounted TV that had settled on CNN news. Doctors, nurses, orderlies, and volunteers went back and forth between two doors, looking very busy with white coats and clipboards. Triage was located behind glass windows with phones constantly ringing. It took a while before Decker made contact with someone who knew about Jaylene Boch’s welfare. ER docs were generally young, and the one who came up to Decker appeared to be in his late thirties, slim build with bags under his brown eyes. His name tag said Dr. John Nesmith.
“You probably found her just in time,” he remarked.
“She’ll pull through?” Decker asked.
“No guarantees, but I think so. She’s sleeping, but even if she were awake, it’d be useless for you to talk to her. She was barely conscious when she was brought in. She didn’t even know her name. But that’s par for the course with extreme dehydration.”
“Could I try to talk to her? Her son’s missing, and there was a lot of blood in her house.”
“She’s sedated, Detective. And if she can’t remember her name, she won’t be able to tell you anything. Stop by tomorrow. Twenty-four hours could make a big difference.”
Decker knew that Nesmith was right, but it didn’t make it any easier to accept. “Could someone call me if she’s up and alert later in the day?”
“Up, yes. Alert?” Nesmith shrugged. “But sure. Give me a number.”
Decker gave the man his card. “We might place someone on her.”
“You mean for her protection? She wasn’t killed the first time.”
“Until we know what’s going on, it’s better to err on the side of caution. Any objection?”
“Not from me, but you’ll probably have to run this by hospital security.”
“Thank you. I’ll come by tomorrow.”
As soon as he left the building, he called up McAdams. “Where are you?”
“At Crane Street, in a pissing contest with Hamilton Police over jurisdiction. Since it is in their city, we don’t have much of a case. On the other hand, if they want our information, it would behoove them to cooperate. I’m trying to impress them with my impeccable logic, but I’m getting mixed results.”
“How long have you been there?”
“Maybe an hour. Detectives and techs from Forensics are all over the place.”
“Who are the detectives?”
“Randal Smitz and Wendell Tran. Do you know them?”
“No.”
“They seem competent. Kevin’s here as well. They’re less proprietary than the uniforms. Radar has a call into Baccus’s office to help smooth the way, but he hasn’t called back. Are you still at the hospital?”
“Yes. Jaylene Boch will probably pull through, but I couldn’t talk to her because she’s heavily sedated. Is SID from Hamilton there?”
“Yep.”
“They’ve got a bigger department and more manpower, so that’s okay. Ask them to take numerous blood samples around the room. It could be Neil’s crime scene as well as Joseph Boch’s. Is anyone canvassing the neighborhood?”
“Hamilton is on it, but Kevin put a couple of our own officers with them. The police know what they’re doing. Judging by the city’s crime statistics, it’s not their first rodeo.”
“What have you told them about Brady Neil?”
“Just that his murder brought you to the house. They pressed for details. I told them I didn’t know the full story yet and that you’d fill them in.”
“Perfect answer. That means they’ll talk to me.”
“That’s my motto, boss. Always leave them asking for more.”
Senior investigator Wendell Tran spoke with a broad southern accent. He was born in Louisiana, the son of a Vietnamese shrimp fisherman, and had come to the Hamilton Police Department about ten years prior. How he got here was anyone’s guess. He was thirty-eight and average height with black, straight hair and brown eyes. He and Decker were doing the five-minute small-talk thing on the rotted front porch outside the house, sizing each other up before getting down to the case. Inside, Forensics was collecting and dusting, but the house was so disorderly it was hard to know what was normal and what might have been tossed.
“How do people live like this?” Tran asked.
“She’s in a wheelchair.”
“Then I reckon her son isn’t much of a housekeeper.” Tran pronounced I as Ah. He shook his head and looked Decker in the eye. “You want to tell me your connection?”
“We found a body dumped in our jurisdiction yesterday morning. He was identified as Brady Neil. He lived in Hamilton with his mom, Jennifer Neil. He and Joseph Boch—a.k.a. Boxer—worked together at Bigstore.” Decker filled him in on the details. “Neil wasn’t murdered where he was dumped. That’s why I asked SID for multiple samples. I think this might be his murder scene.”
“Which would make Neil’s murder in our jurisdiction.”
“Yes, that is true. I’d like to see this through, but it’s your call.”
“I heard you were a Homicide detective from L.A.”
“Fifteen years as a lieutenant detective, thirty years in Homicide, thirty-five years in police work.”
“I won’t lie, I could use the help,” Tran said
. “We have a significant crime rate, but it’s the usual drunks at the bar or gang shooting or drug deals gone sour. I looked up the names. These boys don’t fit into any of those categories.”
“I agree with you. I don’t think Neil was a dealer. For one thing, they didn’t kill the old lady. If it were pro dealers, she’d be the first to go.” Decker paused. “Brady Neil has a background. His father, Brandon Gratz, is in prison for a double murder.”
Tran’s eyes widened. “Huh! I didn’t see that when I pulled up his name.”
“Different last name. I think the family has been trying to expunge the connection for years. His mom told me about the father when I interviewed her yesterday.”
“That was the couple who owned the jewelry store—the Levines. Before my time, but it dominated the headlines a long while. Interesting.”
“I suppose you know that Chief Baccus was the lead investigator on that.”
“I do know. Is that relevant?”
“Not necessarily, no.”
“Y’all think that these murders have something to do with those murders? Like a revenge thing?”
“I don’t have a clue, Detective. But I’d like to talk to the surviving children, specifically Gregg Levine, who runs the store. He was the only witness against Gratz and his partner, Kyle Masterson.”
“Gregg Levine is a big man in the community, Lieutenant. He and his sister, Yvonne, are very generous with the charity.”
“That’s why it’s better if I talk to them. I don’t deal with either one on a regular basis like you. And by the way, Pete is fine. Or Deck.”
“I sure hate to bring up skeletons in the closet.”
“Neil Brady’s death has already done that. With this gruesome scene, how long before people make the connection?”
“I reckon so.”
“And I’d like to talk to Brandon Gratz.”
“Were he and his son in contact?”
“I don’t know, but I think we should find out. Because people are going to start asking the same questions you’re asking. Can I leave one of Greenbury’s detectives with you to search through the house while I go do some interviewing?”
“Sure, if you take one of Hamilton’s detectives with you to talk to Levine and Gratz.”
“Already done.”
“Excuse me?”
“Detective Baccus. She’s been here the whole time.”
“I know. I spoke to her.” A pause. “I thought she was called out by Hamilton.”
“No, she’s been working with me.”
Tran stared at him. “Why?”
“Chief Baccus wanted her on the Brady Neil homicide case. It was a deal we made since jurisdiction for Neil’s murder was debatable. If I took her on, he’d give me access to Hamilton’s files if I need them.”
“What did he get out of it?”
“I guess the chief wanted Lennie to get some on-site experience.”
“Well, that’s more than a little insulting,” Tran said.
“Maybe he wanted someone who wasn’t under his authority, someone who felt no compunction about correcting her mistakes.”
Tran made a face. “How’s she working out for you?”
“Well, so far.” And that was the extent of what Decker was going to reveal. “Then you have no problem with my talking to the Levines and to Brandon Gratz?”
“None. You’re right about one thing. Gregg needs to be told about this. It is probably better coming from you.”
Decker checked his watch. It was almost three in the afternoon. “I’ll see if I can talk to Levine today. I probably won’t get the paperwork done to talk to Gratz for a while. Is it okay if Tyler McAdams stays with your boys here?”
“The curly-headed kid from Harvard?”
“Yeah, he’s a good detective. How’d you find out the Harvard connection?”
“One of your guys called him Harvard.”
“He just finished two years of Harvard Law.”
“That’s aaall riiight,” Trans drawled. “I won’t hold it against him.”
Levine’s Luscious Gems of old was now Levine’s Jewelry, located in the small but nicely appointed business district of Bellweather. It was located three streets away from the original murder scene, in a spacious building with bulletproof-glass windows that displayed things that sparkled. While the pieces weren’t the size and scope of a showcase in Beverly Hills or midtown Manhattan, they stood out in a working-class city like a beacon from a decaying lighthouse. The street had free diagonal parking, and Decker pulled up in front of the store. It was necessary to buzz in. He turned to Lennie.
“Take out your ID now. I don’t want to have to reach into my pocket once we’re in there. They may be a little gun wary.”
She nodded, and Decker rang the bell. They were buzzed in a second later. He gave the room a quick once-over. Dozens of glass cases displaying rings, earrings, necklaces, bracelets, charms, and chains sat on either side of a small hallway that ran down the middle of the room. An armed, muscular security guard stood watch in the back. A teenaged girl was manning the counters. She was thin and gawky with a long face, long curly hair, and round hazel eyes. She wore a miniskirt and a sleeveless white blouse that showed a rose tattoo on her right shoulder.
“May I help you?”
Decker offered up his ID. He spoke while she examined his billfold. “I’m Detective Peter Decker from Greenbury Police Department, and this is Detective Lenora Baccus from Hamilton Police Department. We’d like to speak to Gregg Levine.”
Her eyes grew darker in color. “Mr. Levine is out at the moment. Can I ask what this is about?”
“When do you expect him back?” Decker asked.
A door opened from the back wall, and a well-dressed woman stepped out. From old newspaper pictures dated twenty years ago, Decker knew that the woman was Yvonne Levine. She was now in late thirties with strawberry-blond hair and bright blue eyes. Her curvaceous body was shrink-wrapped in a red dress with a hemline that fell slightly below her knee. Spiked heels on her feet. “Dana, why don’t you grab some lunch, sweetheart.”
The girl looked at her Mickey Mouse watch. “It’s almost four.”
“Then grab a cup of coffee.”
“What about the rule, Mom? Two of us in the shop at all times.”
“It’s the police, Dana. What could happen? Anyway, Otto is here.”
The girl heaved a resigned sigh, picked up an oversize denim bag, and left. The woman went over to the door and switched the Open sign to Closed. “Otto, don’t let anyone in.” She turned to Decker and Lennie. “Yvonne Apple. Let’s talk in the back office.”
Leading them through the paneled door in the wall, she walked down a corridor and then opened the second door and invited them inside. The space was small and contained two desks with chairs, two computer monitors, two printers, a landline phone, and a large bank of video camera monitors hanging on the wall. They showed every imaginable angle and space of the store plus the exterior down to the street. Decker supposed she wasn’t taking any chances this time.
She said, “Sit anywhere you’d like.”
Decker looked around and pulled out a desk chair. “You’ve been expecting us.”
“Wondering what took so long. It happened yesterday.” Yvonne found a chair for Lennie Baccus, placed it next to Decker, and then sat on the desk. “He popped up on my newsfeed. His death did. Brady Neil’s death.”
“You keep track of him?”
“I keep track of all the devils’ relatives—Gratz and Masterson. After you’ve experienced something that horrific, you never trust again.” She stared at the security monitors, watching Otto pace. “What did the little shit do to get himself murdered?”
“We don’t know.” Decker paused. “Since you’ve been keeping track of all Gratz’s relatives, you probably know more about Brady Neil than I do.”
“Just where he lives. Up until yesterday, he has seemed to live a quiet life, like his sister and his mother. Kyle Masterso
n’s family is another story. His son, Jason, is a chip off the old block. He’s in prison for armed robbery. Nine-year sentence. He’ll get out and fuck someone else’s life up again. Kyle’s ex-wife moved to Georgia after their daughter, Norma, was killed in a motorcycle accident. So that now makes two down, one locked up, and one to go. Maybe I’ll get lucky and Brandy will come down with painful cancer or something like that.”
Decker said, “Does your brother know about Brady Neil’s death?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“Playing golf . . .” She looked at Lennie. “With your father.”
“Regularly scheduled game?” Decker asked.
“No, not at all. He called up the chief this morning after I told him about the death, wanting to make sure it was true. I’m sure he wants details.”
“Brady Neil is a Greenbury homicide,” Decker said.
“Baccus is the chief of police. I’m sure he can get all the details he wants.” Yvonne looked at Lennie, whose face was unreadable.
“When do you expect Gregg back?” Decker asked.
“Soon.”
“An hour?”
“Perhaps.”
“Could you call him for me, please?”
“Sorry, no cells allowed on the golf course. And Gregg just isn’t important enough to carry a pager. I will tell him you dropped by.”
“Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“If you must.”
“From what you know, Brady Neil has been living a noneventful life for all these years?”
“Obviously not if he was murdered.”
“And you don’t have any idea about that?”
“What kind of ideas? Do I know who killed him? No, I do not. Do I care that he died? No, I do not.”
“Mrs. Apple, where were you Tuesday at around two in the morning?”
Walking Shadows Page 8