“She helped you with raising Ricky?”
“She did,” Jackie said, taking another swallow of her own drink. “She was my rock. Couldn’t have done it without her.”
“Surprised she doesn’t live here with you still . . . ?” Parks was fishing and she could tell.
“Oh, she’s still alive and kicking. Lives back down south near Baja or even more south I think. She keeps on migrating south. Lives on the coast. Gorgeous views. She loves it there. Closer to her family. All that. I get down there to visit a few times a year. Bring Ricky with me. We love it down there. She gets up here to see me all the time as well. We’re still close. Trust me, you don’t want to see our phone bills. She’s probably my best friend. I didn’t have a lot of those growing up but my mother was defiantly one of them.”
“Even during your rebellion phase?” Jackie eyed Parks, wondering what he was talking about. “I thought Ricky was the result of . . .”
“Oh, that. Yeah,” Jackie said, chuckling. “Not much of a rebellion phase. That was mostly against my father. My mother I still went too. Even during all of that. My father never accepted Ricky. That’s part of what put a rift between us. Ricky’s my son. My father didn’t care.”
“And Ricky’s father?”
“Just some guy,” Jackie admitted. “I mean he was more than that. I knew the guy. He wasn’t some one night stand. We were together almost a year. Surprisingly, as much as I started dating him as a way to piss my father off he was actually a descent guy.”
“Until Ricky came along?”
“No. No. I mean he would have done the ‘right’ thing. Whatever that would have been He would have married me. Or supported me financially. He did actually. For a while. He was there when I needed him to be. But being a father wasn’t one of his strongest suits. See, he never had a good relationship with his own father. Actually his father was a bastard. And he was always scared of turning out the same way with his own children. So he swore he would never have any. I don’t think he would have been a bad father. He would have stumbled, that’s for sure. But not a bad father. But I understand his fear. That is a lot of responsibility to take on. And his father was a bad man. I can understand being scared of passing that on to another generation. And while it might not always be valid, I think it takes a lot to admit you might not be what’s best for a child’s future. Takes a lot to give up your parental rights for the greater good of the child.”
“Sure that’s what he did?”
“He didn’t bail,” Jackie said, firmly. “I mean that. Ricky’s father was around when I needed him. But as far as Ricky’s concerned it’s just him and me. And I was good with that. Ricky’s had his ups and downs about it but I feel he’s made peace with it. He understands. Might not always agree with it, or like it, but he understands. I think part of the reason I was okay with Ricky’s father not sticking around had something to do with my issues with my own father. ” Jackie paused, as if deciding to admit something or not. “Truth is I say I’m fine with the way things were, and considering how they turned out, how can I not be? But there isn’t a day that doesn’t go by that I don’t think I screwed up my son somehow. I’ve been told that’s the same of all parents, regardless of the conditions. I’d like to think things turned out all right. Ricky’s in college. Going to have a bright future ahead of him. But somehow I just keep waiting for the ball to drop and reality to hit me that I screwed him up somehow and everything’s going to turn to shit.”
“You can’t be the only parent to have those concerns.”
“I’m sure I’m not. Sorry to get maudlin on you.”
“Well then, what about you?”
“Me? Oh, me, me. Oh, you know me. I’m a bucket of laughs. Truth is I don’t always connect with people. I think that’s why I got into the field I’m in. Keeps me segregated from everyone else. I get to work alone a lot. I like it like that to be honest. I work best by myself. Growing up I was such a bookworm. A total nerd. Then I had Ricky, got into college, and seemed to blossom. Decided to get out and see what the world had to offer. ”
“Yeah, I understand that,” Parks said, agreeing.
“You know, you’re not as damaged as everyone would like to make you out to be,” Jackie said, eyeing him.
“Oh? And who says I’m damaged? And why would they?”
“Oh, I hear the talk around the station. Everyone’s got their own opinions. You’re a man of mystery in some ways. They’re a little concerned about you after Kozlov. And with losing your partner. But you seem to be holding it all together to me. Then there’s your broken childhood. A mother who’s not around? And a dead father? I think they’re all waiting around for you to have a breakdown or something.”
“That’s what I don’t get,” Parks admitted, almost laughing about it. “I didn’t have a traumatic childhood. At least not as far as I can remember. Maybe that’s why I’m so mellow about it. My father died when I was like four. But I barely recall any of the circumstances revolving around it. Why he did it? Was he depressed? Running from something? Exhausted? What? My mother was no help after my father committed suicide. She was never around after that. Has almost never been around my whole life. But I was raised by her sister and brother-in-law in Newport Beach. I mean, it wasn’t exactly a lacking childhood. They had money. Clout. Treated me like their own. Never made me feel like an outsider. I went from being an only child to having a brother. I was never lacking growing up. Sure I was a bit of a loner, probably spawning from my immediate family’s circumstances, but I wasn’t some off the wall wild-child. Did baseball in high school. Was semi-popular, if I do say so myself. Especially considering I wasn’t really outgoing. Dated. Was nominated for Prom King. Lost both Junior and Senior years. Had a memorable time those four years though. Got married. That didn’t last. That was probably the most traumatic experience in my whole life. I was bitter after that. Real bitter. But I was never self-destructive or anything like that. I joined the force, found focus and direction. And . . . just been living my life for the last fifteen years. I date here and there. I’ve had a few serious girlfriends, but nothing worth proposing my undying and eternal love for. I’m a bachelor, probably for life, and that suits me just fine. I like where I’m at in life and see no reason for any major changes. Not that I’m not open to them if something right was to come along, but I see no reason for it. I’m good. There are far more people a lot worse off than me.”
“Right? Amen to that.”
“So I’ve got some tics and whatnot. Who doesn’t? I’m not out committing crimes or hurting myself or anyone else. I feel I’m pretty well grounded. Why do I need to be flawed and damaged goods?”
“Hey, don’t look at me,” Jackie said finishing off her drink and setting it aside. “I think you’re good just the way you are.”
“Do you now?”
Jackie got up and moved over and sat down in Parks’s lap. She leaned in and began to kiss him.
“I do. And just so you don’t question me, let me prove it to you.”
Jackie slid into the chair and Parks’s arm, the two of them laying there, kissing as they relaxed and took in all that was around them. This, to the two of them, at that moment, was paradise.
And both of them wondered how long it would really last.
25
“Parks. Parks!”
“What is it?” Parks shouted, looking up from the iPad he was playing brain teaser games on. He was testing his memory skills, his logic skills, and just plain playing games and forgetting the rest of the world for a few minutes. He had been in a much better mood since the Kozlov ordeal was finalized. He could move on. Was determined to. He had even slept good, through the entire night.
“The pack—what are you . . .?” Parks made a face that encouraged Fairmont to continue with what he was there to discuss.
“Um, yeah. That package . . . that was . . . that was delivered to Ian Harris,” Fairmont said, almost out of breath. “The one . . . that held . . . the death adder? Wit
h . . . the prints on it? Remember?”
Good thing he’s trying to quit smoking, thought Parks. “You mean the prints that we didn’t get a hit on? What about it?”
“I have a match.”
Fairmont smiled from ear to ear.
“How?” Parks was genuinely shocked by this information. “We ran them through IAFIS. We didn’t get anything.”
“I know,” Fairmont said. “But I had a hunch, and I had them run against everyone else connected with this case. Maybe someone who didn’t have prints on record with IAFIS.”
“And? Who did they match?”
“Deborah Bollinger.”
“The third victim’s wife?” Parks wasn’t expecting this.
“The one and only.” Fairmont was excited. “So now what?”
“Now?” Parks said. “Now we go have a chat with the widow Bollinger.”
* * *
“Deborah Bollinger,” Parks shouted through the closed door. “LAPD.”
Parks knocked forcefully on the door to the Bollinger’s apartment and waited with Moore and Fairmont at his side. He went to knock again when the door opened. Mrs. Bollinger appeared as if she was still accepting the fact that her husband was never coming home again. She wore sweats, and her greasy, matted hair was down, giving the appearance of having been untouched for the past few days. She was without makeup and looked like she’d been doing her fair share of crying, her eyes all puffy and red, aging her a decade. The look on her face was anything but welcoming to the detectives.
“Detectives,” Mrs. Bollinger said, recognizing Moore and Fairmont. “What is it?”
“I’m Detective Dave Parks,” Parks explained. “We have a few questions for you.”
She hesitated for a moment, huffed mostly for show, took a swallow of whatever alcoholic beverage was in the short glass she held, and let them in. She didn’t walk to the couch so much as moped her way to it before plopping down, staring at the coffee table in front of her as if remembering a moment from her life before her husband had been murdered. She uttered a short laugh then made a face as if deciding whether she should cry or not.
“I’m supposed to be planning a funeral. Though with what money, I don’t know.”
“We wondered if you were familiar with this person,” Parks said, holding up a picture of Ian Harris. Mrs. Bollinger stared at the picture, puzzled, as if she knew the face but couldn’t place how or why, before taking another swallow of her drink.
“Who is he?”
“Have you seen this man before?”
“No. No, I don’t think so.”
Parks stalled as he thought of the best way to advance the interrogation now that he had caught the woman in a lie.
“But he . . . he does look familiar. But I can’t tell why.”
“His name is Ian Harris,” Parks said, pausing to see if the name struck a bell with her.
Mrs. Bollinger shook her head. She couldn’t place him.
“He lived across the courtyard,” Parks said, nodding toward the windows behind her. “He—”
“Lived? You mean he’s dead? Was he another victim of the same person who killed my husband?”
“We’re not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation. We—”
“Oh!” Mrs. Bollinger threw up her hands. “Oh. Oh. Across the courtyard. That’s where. Yes. I-I-I do know him. I mean, I don’t know him, but I met him. Just once. The day my husband died.”
“Yes?” Parks sat up on the edge of his seat while Fairmont and Moore who had been pacing behind him, stopped and leaned in to hear what she had to say.
“When I was going to leave, to go see my family, I noticed a package on our doorstep. But it didn’t have mine or my husband’s name or address on it. It had that other man’s on it.”
“Ian Harris.”
“Yeah. I saw the address was just next door, so I decided to drop it off on my way out of town.”
“So you took it to Mr. Harris?”
“Yes.”
“And what time would that have been?”
“Early afternoonish. Around twelve thirty. Maybe one. But I think earlier than that.”
“Did you speak to Mr. Harris?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Bollinger admitted. “When I handed him the package.”
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary about Mr. Harris?”
“How would I know what was out of the ordinary for him? That was the first time I had met him. But he was drunk.”
“Drunk?”
“Yes. Really drunk. He slurred his words and could hardly stand. He tried to cover it up, but it was obvious. Place reeked of booze.”
“The methanol,” Moore muttered to Parks.
“There was something else actually,” Mrs. Bollinger continued. “He seemed . . . oh, um, I don’t know. Ashamed.”
Parks thought about this.
“Spying,” Fairmont mouthed to Moore, who nodded back.
“Ashamed?” Parks asked.
“Sorta. Like I had caught him doing something he shouldn’t have been doing. But I’d never met him before. So how would I know what he should or shouldn’t be doing? Anyways, that’s how he acted. Caught. Didn’t say much of anything. Just took the package and that was it.”
“And this package . . . you don’t know where it came from?”
“No idea.”
“You looked at it?”
“At it, yes. Not in it. No idea who it was from. It didn’t say on the box. Just the delivery address. So I took it over there.”
“Thank you for your time. There is one other thing, if I may. I need you to look at some photos.”
“Photos?”
“Yes. They’re of your husband’s death scene. I’ve had the portions of his body blocked out, but I need you to focus on the rest of the scene. Around him. See if you notice something out of place.”
“Dave,” Moore muttered. “What are you doing?”
Parks ignored his associates. “If you’re not up to it, I understand Mrs. Bollinger. But it would really help us.”
“Help you catch the man who did this to my husband?”
“It could.”
Deborah Bollinger turned and stared out a nearby window and didn’t say a word. She seemed lost, confused, frailer than Parks figured the woman usually was. He was about to stand up and leave when she turned back to him.
“Okay,” Mrs. Bollinger replied, finishing off her drink, the ice clinking against the side of the glass. “Show them to me.”
Parks retrieved the pictures and handed them over and let the grieving woman look through them. The area where her husband’s body was supposed to be in each photo was blacked out so that she wouldn’t have to look at him. As much as it was there to help, it didn’t, and Mrs. Bollinger began crying at the sights displayed before her, as she knew her husband was still in them, sitting there, lifeless.
“There’s . . . nothing,” Mrs. Bollinger finally said. “Nothing. I don’t see anything.”
She held the photos in front of her and stared at them without even looking at them while they rested limply in her hands, the last connection she had with her deceased husband. Parks knew when he was defeated, and this exercise, though a good intention, proved fruitless.
“I’m sorry to have taken your time,” Parks said as he stood up and reached to take the photos.
As he grabbed the pictures, Mrs. Bollinger’s grip on them tightened and she pulled them in closer, focusing on them for the first time. She looked to the kitchen then back at the photo. “Did your people remove anything from the apartment?”
“I’m sure some things were removed that the body touched or when we dusted for fingerprints,” Parks explained. “We have a log list.” Parks motioned to Fairmont. “What in particular have you noticed?”
“A baseball,” Mrs. Bollinger said, pointing to a five-shelved stand next to the kitchen table. On the shelves in the stand were various knickknacks and mementos. Glass figurines of animals were spread throughout
each shelf, while photo frames were filled with the generic pictures that had originally come with the frames.
“A baseball?”
“It was special. To my husband. It was a signed baseball that he had up on the . . . the . . . over there. It’s not there. It was always right there. I know it was there the day I left.”
Fairmont shook his head from side to side as he glanced through the log list.
“Nothing here about a baseball,” Fairmont said. “Plus, we didn’t take anything on those shelves, so there’s no reason we would have taken just the baseball.”
“Now this baseball, you said it was special?” Parks asked.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Mrs. Bollinger said. “At least to my husband it was. It was signed.”
“Signed? By whom?”
“A baseball player.” Mrs. Bollinger shrugged.
“Yes.” Parks smiled, trying to keep his patience. “Do you know who? Was it from—”
“Yes,” Mrs. Bollinger interrupted. “It was the Dodgers. I remember that. Jason loved the Dodgers. Only team he would watch on TV. We have—well, used to have, season tickets.”
“Do you remember who? Or when?”
“It was late spring or early summer. Just this year,” Mrs. Bollinger recalled immediately. “I remember that because we saw him out with his girlfriend, and I remember her because she’s that actress that everyone loves. I don’t remember the guy’s name. But he was cute. That much I know. It was a short name. And foreign. Not his first name. His last name. But then again, most of the players these days are foreign.”
“Does the name Kyle Oni sound familiar?”
“I’m sorry. All those names sound the same to me.”
Parks turned to Fairmont. “Tell me we have a picture of Oni on us?”
Fairmont dug through a folder and shook his head.
“Mrs. Bollinger,” Parks broke in. “Do you perchance receive the LA Times?”
The Poisonous Ten Page 21