“You’re stepping way over a line here, Al.”
“Fuck you. And fuck your line.”
Al didn’t wait for him to respond. He did a one-eighty and spotted the Cage a few steps away.
“Hi, Charlie,” Al said as he leaned on the counter. Portly and nearly bald, Charlie Brown, as one might imagine, had been harassed most of his life for having the same name as the dubious character in the comic section of every newspaper in the country. Charlie even looked like his namesake and shared the same small tuft of hair just above his forehead. Al wondered if his parents had even the slightest inkling how they’d cursed their only son. Charlie had more insecurities than a turkey two days before Thanksgiving. Whenever he spoke to Charlie, a selection of one-liners hung in the back of Al’s throat. The possibilities to mock him were endless. But to piss off Charlie, the guy in charge of every piece of evidence ever associated with a crime, would be a hugely consequential mistake.
“How they hangin’, Detective?”
“I need a little help, Charlie. I’m investigating the Foster homicide and need to sign out a small price tag that we found at the scene. It’s about this big.” Al referenced the approximate size with his fingers. “It’s from Saks Fifth Avenue.”
“Is this the gal we found at Mission Bay Park dressed like a prom queen?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘prom queen.’ More like someone on the cover of Vogue.”
Charlie did an about-face and looked over his shoulder at Al as he headed down one of the aisles. “Be back in a flash.”
Al felt that the price tag could yield something significant. After all, it did contain the store name, price, and UPC code. Besides, how many three-thousand-dollar dresses did they sell every day? Surely the salesperson would remember the perp. He likely paid for the dress with a credit card and this could prove to be a significant piece of information.
Charlie returned with a small sandwich bag, price tag inside. He set it on the counter and wrote something on a clipboard. “Sign right here, Detective, and it’s yours for twenty-four hours.”
Al just couldn’t help it. “Thanks, Charlie. Tell Lucy and Linus I said hi.”
“Bite me!”
Because of the exigency of the situation and the importance of determining Genevieve Foster’s cause of death, Maggie Fox, Medical Examiner, began the autopsy almost immediately after receiving Judge Foster’s written consent. Al made it a point whenever he could to observe the autopsies of homicide victims so he could view the body firsthand and ask questions that might give him a lead. He had intended to drive to Fashion Valley Mall and speak to the manager of women’s apparel at Saks, but the autopsy loomed more important. Besides, no matter how thorough or skilled the medical examiner, four eyes were always better than two—even considering his limited medical knowledge. In this particular instance, his presence might prove to be more critical. Doctor Fox had been part of the forensics team for only six months, and he wasn’t yet convinced that she possessed the same skills as her more experienced colleagues. She just didn’t look like a medical examiner. To Al, a medical examiner should look like Mr. Magoo. Doctor Fox was anything but Mr. Magoo.
Al walked into Exam Room 3, and as in the past, he felt uneasy. He wasn’t sure if it was the indescribable odor, what he was about to observe, or a little of both. From the outside looking in, one might believe that a seasoned homicide detective could witness an autopsy with casual indifference. But even though Al would never outwardly show his emotions, inside, his stomach felt like it was trying to digest itself.
Lying on a stainless-steel table, the curves and contours of Genevieve Foster’s body clung to the blood-stained white sheet. Her right foot stuck out from under the sheet and he could see the yellow ID tag on the victim’s big toe. Doctor Fox stood next to the body, latex gloves covering her hands, white lab coat neatly buttoned, an assortment of surgical instruments positioned on the table adjacent to the remains of the victim.
“Detective Diaz,” Doctor Fox said, more cheerful than what seemed appropriate for the situation. “It’s nice to see you again. Sorry we’re not meeting under different circumstances.” Her honey-brown eyes locked on Al’s, lingering for just a bit.
“Not my favorite part of the job, Doctor Fox.”
“Mine either. It’s one thing to dissect an eighty-year-old man with heart problems and quite another when it’s a young woman with her whole life ahead of her. Makes you wonder if God is really paying attention.”
“Well, he wasn’t paying attention in this case.”
The medical examiner grasped one corner of the sheet. “Shall we begin?”
Al nodded.
She handed him a mask and latex gloves and removed the sheet with one swift motion, almost like a matador waving his red cape at a bull. He surveyed the woman’s body, noticing extensive bruises in the center of her stapled-shut chest, and burn-like marks on her upper left and lower right torso. He also noticed an incision on her upper thigh. But the rest of her body showed no signs of trauma. He didn’t even see a mosquito bite.
Before making any incisions, Doctor Fox poked and prodded the victim’s chest, carefully evaluating the bruises and running her fingers up and down and side to side on the woman’s ribcage. “I can’t imagine why, but it looks like our man performed open heart surgery on this poor gal.”
She looked more closely, her focus on the burn marks. “It appears that the killer repeatedly tried to resuscitate her with a defibrillator and with CPR.” Her eyes drifted to her lower body. “That’s interesting.”
“What is it?”
“There’s a small incision on her thigh. Right above the femoral artery and vein.”
“Any suspicions why?”
“That’s generally the area where a cardiologist would insert a catheter to perform an angiogram.”
Al shook his head. “What the hell did this nutcase do to her?”
She examined both arms, wrist to triceps. Ran her hands down the victim’s torso and checked every rib, her breasts, her nipples. Then, Doctor Fox gently spread her knees apart and poked and prodded her genital area. “No evidence of trauma. I don’t think she was raped or assaulted in any way.”
“So he performed some kind of mock surgery and tried to revive her?”
“Seems that way.”
The superficial exam went on for twenty minutes. The doctor recorded her observations on a digital tape recorder while Al scribbled on his notepad. After putting on a protective face shield, Doctor Fox used a surgical staple remover that resembled special needle-nose pliers, and one by one removed the stainless-steel staples.
As if she were working on a live patient, Doctor Fox’s gentle precision stuck Al as peculiar. Was it respect for Genevieve Foster, or the tentative actions of an inexperienced ME?
When finished, Doctor Fox carefully inserted a Finochietto rib spreader into the victim’s chest and cranked it open, exposing the heart and other internal organs. Her fingers began to probe, squeeze, and examine.
The medical examiner pointed to Genevieve Foster’s heart. “See that area on the right lower part of her heart? That’s the right ventricle. Notice that it’s bluish and the rest of the heart is mostly red? That bluish area is a myocardial contusion. In other words, her heart is actually bruised.”
“And what would cause such injuries?”
“A couple of possibilities. Injuries such as this generally suggest that the victim fell twenty or thirty feet and landed square on her chest. However, there is no evidence of head trauma, so although it’s possible, it’s unlikely. Second, she could have been in a head-on collision, but in most cases, we find facial injuries from the impact of the air bag. As you can see, her face is perfectly normal.”
“So, Doctor Fox—”
“If we’re going to be working together closely, Detective Diaz, why don’t we dispense with the formalities and address each other by our first names? You okay with that?”
“Sure. Call me Al.” He wasn’t positiv
e, but it sure seemed like the medical examiner was flirting with him. He had noticed her wedding ring just before she put on the latex gloves, but based on Al’s years as a detective looking into people’s backgrounds, marriage didn’t guarantee fidelity.
“And please call me Maggie rather than Doctor Fox.”
“Deal,” Al said. “So tell me, Maggie, what caused the victim’s death?”
“I still have to examine her lungs, throat, skull, and stomach, and run a series of blood tests before I can determine the cause of death. However, whatever killed her was directly related to her heart.”
“When do you think you’ll be finished with the autopsy?”
“Give me a couple hours. By then, I should have it wrapped up and I’ll also get a complete blood workup and toxicity report.”
Al scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to Maggie. “Call me on my cell as soon as you know something.”
She smiled. “Will do, Al.”
Al turned and just before he took a step, Maggie grabbed his arm. “Maybe you and I can grab a cup of coffee sometime soon.”
He just smiled.
“Hi, Sweetie,” Al said. “I’m on my way to check out a lead. Traffic is at a standstill so I thought I’d touch base. Did the doctor convince your mother to have the surgery?”
“Not yet,” Sami said. “I’m meeting him at the hospital in an hour.”
“How is your mom?”
“Ornery as ever, which I suppose is a good thing.”
“Want me to come home and stay with Angelina?”
“Thanks for the offer, but Emily’s on her way over as we speak.”
“Gotta love that Emily,” Al said. “We should adopt her.”
“I’m not so sure you can legally adopt a twenty-two-year-old cousin.”
He exited Freeway 5 and headed for Friar’s Road. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed that Doctor Templeton is a convincing litigator.”
“That’s all we can hope for.”
“Okay, Sami, I gotta run.”
“We need to talk about something when you get home. Think you’ll find time for dinner?”
“Not sure, but I’ll do my best. I have a witness to interview a little later, but I don’t think it should take me too long.” Al turned into the Fashion Valley Mall and headed for the parking ramp. “Am I in hot water again?”
“Could be.”
“You really know how to hurt a guy, Samantha Marie.”
“And you love every minute of it.”
“Sure I do. I love hangin’ by my fingernails, waiting to find out if I’m going to spend the next two weeks sleeping on the sofa.”
“I was thinking more of the garage, Honey.”
“Terrific.”
“Drive carefully.”
“Good luck with the doctor.”
“I’m going to need more than luck.”
“I’ll speak to you later,” Al said. He tossed the cell phone on the passenger seat.
After parking his car next to the red curb, Al weaved his way through the crowded mall and found a directory that indicated where Saks Fifth Avenue was located. He’d never been in this store let alone purchased something there. And if three-thousand-dollar cocktail dresses and thousand-dollar shoes represented their mainstream prices, then he seriously doubted he would ever be a patron. This was not a store that catered to the middle class.
The busyness of retail stores and restaurants in San Diego never ceased to amaze Al. No matter what time of day, most places were packed with customers. If there truly were a recession, apparently no one told San Diegans.
He walked in the front door and immediately recognized that he was not in JCPenney. The sales people were impeccably dressed and the store was beautifully decorated. From the rich wood-covered walls to the stunning light fixtures to the marble floors, the place smelled of money. Every customer looked like they’d just left the beauty salon and had that air of snobbery so prevalent in people with deep pockets. At this particular moment, he really appreciated Sami.
He found a salesperson and told her he needed to speak to the manager of women’s apparel. He waited by designer handbags while the salesperson paged the manager to the sales floor. Curious, Al looked at the price tag on a Prada handbag: four hundred and fifty dollars. What could be so special about a hunk of leather that it would cost so much? He owned two pair of Docker knockoffs he’d bought on sale for nineteen bucks apiece, he never paid more than thirty dollars for a pair of jeans, and even the one suit he reserved for weddings and funerals cost a hundred and twenty-five dollars. Then again, Al had never been particularly fashion conscious.
After a short wait, Al spotted a tall, slender woman walking toward him with purpose in her step. Her hair, a few shades darker than auburn, barely touched her shoulders. She wore a perfectly tailored, navy-blue pantsuit with a stark-white blouse.
“Are you Detective Diaz?” she asked.
Al extended his hand and nodded.
“Katherine Levy.” Her grip put a man’s to shame. “Let’s go to my office, shall we?”
He followed her past racks of dresses, skirts, business suits, and lingerie. She led him to a small office next to the dressing rooms, and when Al walked inside, the first thing he noticed was the stark difference between the pristine store and Katherine’s shabby office. It looked more like the kind of office you might find in the back of a convenience store.
“Please have a seat, Detective.”
“Thanks for taking the time to talk to me,” Al said. “I just want to assure you that this conversation is strictly confidential.”
“What exactly can I do for you?” Levy asked.
“I’m working on a murder investigation—”
“Is it that girl they found at Mission Bay Park?”
It wasn’t a secret. Everyone who could read had heard about Genevieve Foster’s murder. The story dominated both newspapers and television. “It is.”
“What a shame. Is it true they found her dressed in designer clothes?”
“Her outfit was purchased here, Ms. Levy.” Al pulled the sales tag, still in a plastic bag, out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “Is there any way to identify who bought that cocktail dress?”
“It really makes my skin crawl to think that the murderer might have been right here in this store.” She grabbed the plastic bag and examined the sales tag. “Well, I can tell by looking at the UPC code that it’s a Herrera designer dress. One of our more expensive items. Unlike general merchandise that uses a generic UPC code, designer items have a unique number specific to that particular item.” She set down the tag, planted her elbows on the desk, and rested her chin on folded hands.
“So, what does that mean?”
“Well, I can scan the code in our database, and we should have the buyer’s name and address on record.”
Al wanted to jump up and down and yell, “Yippee!” But from past experiences, he had learned that many promising leads led nowhere.
“You do have a warrant, correct?”
“It’s in process as we speak. I can have one in your hands in an hour.”
“I’m afraid that places me in a rather difficult situation. Saks Fifth Avenue is very rigid on customer confidentiality. I could lose my job if I gave you this information without proper authorization.”
“And another young woman could lose her life while you and I debate company policies and procedures, Ms. Levy. I can appreciate your situation. Truly. And I’ll be happy to get you a warrant, but time is absolutely critical. How would you feel if Genevieve Foster’s murderer abducted another woman while I was chasing down a warrant? I give you my word that I’ll—”
“I’ll be right back, Detective.”
After several minutes, Katherine Levy returned to the office and shut the door behind her. Instead of sitting at her desk, she plopped down next to Al and crossed her legs. “Unfortunately, the gentleman who purchased the cocktail dress paid cash.”
“So what does th
at mean?”
“The name on the sales receipt is ‘John Smith,’ and the address he gave us is a post office box.”
“John Smith? That doesn’t give me a cozy feeling.”
“Then this should ruin your day,” Levy said. “The address he gave us is PO Box 1234, Vancouver, Canada. No zip code.”
No need to check out the name or address, Al thought. Obviously, both were bogus. Then again, he couldn’t take anything for granted. “Can I speak to the salesperson who sold him the dress?”
“I figured you might want to speak to her, but her shift doesn’t start for another two hours. So, I called her and asked if she could come in immediately.”
“And?”
Levy glanced at her watch. “She’ll be here in twenty minutes.”
“Terrific. Mind if I hang around until she shows up?”
“Not at all. In fact, our lounge is on the second floor. Grab a coffee or muffin—whatever you like—and I’ll come get you when she arrives.”
“I really appreciate your cooperation.”
“No problem.”
“Do you want to come with me when I speak to your mom?” Doctor Templeton asked. “Or would you prefer that I go solo?”
“I think you might have more impact one-on-one,” Sami said.
“Make yourself comfortable in the visitor’s lounge while I speak to your mom.”
She was no stranger to this lounge. “Thank you, Doctor. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you’re doing.”
“It’s part of what I do, Ms. Rizzo. You’d be surprised at the number of people who have to be pressured into consenting to surgery.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, have you been successful in convincing reluctant patients?”
“At the risk of sounding pompous, I have a pretty impressive track record. I can only think of two holdouts that stood firm and refused.” The doctor’s lips tightened. “Their outcomes were not pleasant. They both died within weeks of being discharged.”
“Do you have a special dialogue that you use to persuade them?’
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