by Matt Clemens
Stopping short of the gate, Amari went over to the gray electrical box that contained the controls for the cameras and motion detectors. Careful to avoid adding to a group of preexisting footprints, Amari squatted to one side.
A gray metal box maybe twelve inches wide and eighteen inches tall. With a clasped padlock.
Judging from the footprints, someone—either the guard who discovered the body, the killer, or both—had been near this box.
Yet it was locked.
She hoped that the guard had not closed the lock after finding it open—she’d find out. In the meantime, she studied the ground around the box, seeing nothing other than footprints … and when she got a closer look at those, they didn’t seem that promising. Not a clean print in sight.
“Anything?” Polk asked, still standing on the dirt path.
Amari shook her head. Then she spotted something. Or was the sunlight playing tricks?
“Whatcha got, Lieutenant?”
“Not sure.”
She took a couple of steps back up the hill, then stopped, withdrew a latex glove from a jacket pocket, and snapped it on. Squatting, Amari picked up a small red tube no longer than a quarter of an inch, and dropped it into a cellophane evidence bag.
She held it up to the sun, studied it, then returned to Polk and handed him the bag.
“Some kind of casing?”
“I think it’s the sheathing from one of the wires in that control box.”
“It’s padlocked.”
“Now it is. Does that look fresh to you?”
Polk nodded. “Still a bright red. Hasn’t been in the weather long.”
“That’s what I was thinking too. File that in your pocket and let’s go see our body.”
Polk obeyed.
They passed through the gate, carefully stepping down between the giant letters to where the group of six uniforms, four patrolmen, a patrol-woman, and the security guard stood in a semicircle around the body.
A young uniformed cop, unknown to Amari, joined them. His nameplate read KAYLAN, and he had curly dark hair and glasses. He looked just a little older and more with it than a kid dressed as a policeman at Halloween. The other patrol officers, who seemed to be holding an impromptu memorial service over there, looked equally young.
So many babies on the force now, she thought.
After making introductions, Amari said, “Forensics team been here, Kaylan?”
“Not yet,” he said.
“So, are you fellas finished trampling the crime scene? Or do you need a little more time?”
Kaylan froze, agape.
Polk, perhaps happy to find someone below him in the pecking order, said, “Were you absent that day?”
“Uh … what day?”
“The day they did footprints at the Academy?”
“We … uh … we …”
“Round up your friends,” Amari said quietly, not wanting to start a stampede, “and get up the hill. Send the crime-scene unit down when they get here.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the officer said.
“Nobody leave. CSU will want your shoes.”
“Shoes?”
Polk asked, “First crime scene?”
The young officer nodded.
Amari told him, “Now that you’ve all walked through an active crime scene, and had a good long look at a nude dead woman, CSU will need your shoes … so they can separate your footprints from those of the killer.”
“Yes, Lieutenant,” the rookie said.
“Don’t cry. Just get up the hill and keep an eye on that security guard—we’ll want to talk to him after we’ve had a look at the body.”
“Will do.”
“Don’t yell over to them! Go over and quietly round them up and tell them to watch where they step.”
Kaylan nodded, went over, and passed along Amari’s orders to the others, who looked back at her in various ways (alarm, resentment, fear, confusion), then led the parade back up the hill.
“Damn rookies,” Polk said.
Amari felt it was to her credit that she didn’t smile.
Thing of it was, civilians weren’t the only ones who gawked at a crime scene. Often, it was cops, too. Not just young ones—you could be a cop for a long time in a city this big and never encounter a murder scene … particularly one with a nude woman as its HOLLYWOOD star.
Chapter Seven
Last night
Appraising herself in the restroom mirror in Kyuui—LA’s trendiest new sushi bar—twenty-five-year-old Wendi Erskine felt nervous, excited, and fortunate all at once.
The diminutive blonde—born in Hermon, Maine, near Bangor—had gotten out of the snow belt and come to Hollywood only two weeks after high school graduation.
Now, seven (often frustrating) years later, she was at a chic LA eatery with a movie producer (slash prospective boyfriend) waiting for her in a dining room far swankier than those at the half dozen restaurants where she’d been a waitress in this very tough town.
She granted herself a final look in the mirror. Her hair just right, eye makeup fine, lip gloss emphasizing the natural fullness of her mouth. And the little black dress showed off her shapely, slender figure to fine advantage without making her look slutty. She wanted to look desirable to Louis, but not available.
Anyway, not readily available….
When he had ordered a second round of drinks before dinner, she’d excused herself to the ladies’ room. This was a date, definitely, but there would be business talk as well, and she wanted to stay sharp.
She hoped when she returned to the table, their dinner would beat her there, and she could nurse the second cosmopolitan through the meal. Of course these fancy-schmancy restaurants took their time serving up meals. Come on, she thought, how long does it take to prepare raw fish, anyway?
The way his smile blossomed, seeing her return, was really cute. But “cute” didn’t quite cut it for the suave filmmaker. Lacking this town’s usual tan, Louis had longish black hair, a nicely trimmed matching goatee, alert brown eyes, and dimples when he showed off those blindingly white teeth.
Probably caps, but who cared? She had implants, didn’t she? Hollywood was always part illusion.
Her date’s natural good looks were amplified by his well-tailored charcoal pinstripe suit, off-white shirt, and geometrically patterned black-and-gray tie.
Louis St. James had approached Wendi after seeing her in a showcase production of Bus Stop at a little theater in Santa Monica where she had played Cherie, the Marilyn Monroe part (actually, Kim Stanley part). After the show, he’d come backstage, introduced himself, and told her he thought she had a big future.
Instead of hitting on her, he had given her a business card.
“There are a lot of lovely girls in this town,” he’d said. “But only a handful have your sensitivity. And if the camera can capture the charisma that comes across on stage … do give us a call.”
Seemed sincere, but a lot of creeps in LA were capable of smooth lines like that—town was full of actors, after all—and back when she’d first got off the bus, Wendi might well have fallen for it.
But not now.
She checked out Louis St. James on the Internet Movie Database, where he looked legit, and a link was provided to his website. He had plenty of producing credits and several projects “in development” and a several more “in pre-production.”
Admittedly, most of his credits were lower-budget indies she’d never heard of; but then the two movies she’d been in would fall into that same category.
And a faker would have made himself look like a bigger shot than this. His credentials seemed legit enough.
He’d turned out to be articulate, and sophisticated, with a genuine interest in her, and not just her body. Mostly he wanted to know about roles she’d played, on stage and the handful in movies and TV. Even the infomercials that had been her steadiest gig, outside of waitressing.
“I have the perfect role for you,” he’d said severa
l times, once calling it “the role of a lifetime.”
When she reached the table, he rose, held her chair for her, and only returned to his own place when she was seated. Wow—a gentleman. In Los Angeles, California, yet.
“You look especially beautiful tonight,” he said, with a gentle smile. “You have a glow.”
“Stop it,” she said, returning the smile.
He gestured toward her cosmo, which had come while she was gone. She took a tentative sip.
“I thought our food would be here by now,” she said. “I don’t like to drink on an empty stomach.”
“Shouldn’t be long. You know these places—they put ambience ahead of appetite.”
She laughed lightly and took another sip.
“You know,” he said, “you did a fine job in that infomercial. It’s a thankless task, but you really came across well.”
“Which infomercial?” she asked. She was grateful he didn’t look down on her for doing them; infomercials paid well, and gave her the opportunity to act, sort of.
“The tortilla press,” he said.
“The Sancho!” she said. “Whenever did you see that?”
“Oh, at three a.m. a couple nights ago, when I was fighting insomnia.”
“That’s prime time,” she said with a half smile, “in the infomercial biz.”
“Well, I’ve seen a lot of your work, thanks to sleepless nights—Snuggie, ShamWow. … You rocked the Flowbee.”
“Now you’re teasing,” she said.
“No. You did a good job with what was not exactly Shakespeare. Not even Mamet. Anyway, I’m a professional, and I admire professionalism. Here’s to you, Wendi.”
He raised his glass and she did hers, and they both drank.
Finally dinner arrived. They made small talk through the meal. Wendi finished her second drink and allowed herself a third, though Louis was still nursing number two. She was not a heavy drinker and wasn’t surprised when, as they left the restaurant, she felt a little tipsy.
Still, she hadn’t had that much, and Wendi wondered if maybe the sushi was bad. She knew all about restaurants selling fish that was off.
“I hope we know each other well enough,” Louis said, “that I can suggest we go back to my place, and look at that script.”
“Actually,” she said, “I’m not feeling so great. … Not opposed to stopping over, but …”
“I understand. Could be the drinks—they don’t skimp on the alcoholic content at Kyuui. That’s why I held it to two.”
“I was stupid to have so much to drink. I’m really sorry, Louis. I don’t think I could give you much of a reading tonight….”
He helped her to his Eclipse in the parking lot.
“Maybe you’ll feel better after a little drive. It’s a delightful evening. We can put the top down and let the warm breeze roll through.”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Give it a try. If you feel better, we’ll have a run at that script.”
“Maybe you could just take me … take me home….”
He started the car and they were moving. She tried to focus on where they were going, but the more she tried to settle her eyes on something as they sped past, the worse she felt.
Finally, she just gave up and shut her eyes.
When she finally opened them again, the car had stopped and Louis had the rider’s side door open to help her. He’d already removed her seat belt and was half lifting, half dragging her out of his car.
“Where … where are we?” Her voice sounded strange and faraway in her own ears, her tongue dry and thick.
“My place,” he said, getting her on her feet and putting an arm around her as he helped her walk from the driveway to the house.
Her vision was blurry, like a soapy film was over her eyes. Just a bungalow. Nice lawn. She could smell fresh, clean air. Were they in the country?
“Your place?” she asked.
Her legs felt weighted down and her brain felt fuzzy.
“You said take you home,” he said. “This is my home. You wanted to go over that script, remember?”
“Did I say that?”
“If you meant I should take you back to your apartment, I can do that. You fell asleep. Are you feeling better?”
His arms felt so good, supporting her, holding her up. Some citrus-scented masculine cologne. Nice. He was warm, gentle.
Next thing she knew, they were in the house. The lights were out and she’d never been here before, so she just went with it as Louis guided her.
“I think you need to lie down for a little while,” he suggested.
“Yeah, rest a little while,” she managed. “So sorry about this. So sorry.”
He guided her to the bedroom, her feet dragging more with each step, and she still couldn’t figure out why she was so darn drowsy. Oddly, though, a mild euphoria had come upon her. And she felt safe with Louis. Secure. He had been such a perfect gentleman….
He sat her on the bed and, when he suggested that she remove “her lovely dress so it doesn’t get wrinkled,” she had no argument.
The euphoria shorted in and out with another feeling, the sense that she was sitting on the edge of a black abyss and the more she tried to rear back, the more the abyss beckoned.
When she finally forced her eyes open again, she realized she was naked, Louis next to her, kissing her breasts in a sweet, loving way, and the lights were on in the bedroom, not bright, fairly dim, but on … and despite a sense that she really should protest, it felt nice….
She didn’t dispense sex like so many actresses, and she was never a one-night-stand kind of girl. She’d had regular boyfriends though, even lived with a few, so sex was nothing unnatural to her.
But she had never been casual about it. … Was this a shameful slip? Was she trying to buy a role from a film producer? Was he just another asshole who had gotten her tipsy and was taking advantage?
None of that seemed to matter, because his kisses soothed her, and when his lips moved down her belly, she didn’t resist. She felt something within her heating up, though drowsiness still flirted with her….
Then he was crouching between her open legs, his tongue finding its way inside her, the portal of her thighs widening.
Gently, he rolled her over onto her stomach, slipping a pillow under tummy, the satin sheets smooth against her erect nipples, the bed warm against her stomach. She was afraid for a moment that he would take her in her private place, but then he was inside her right where she wanted him, gently at first, filling her as no one had in a very long time, then with more force, but not rough. Not rough. Her hips rose to meet him, of their own accord.
His driving became more insistent, and she did her best to stay with him. She moaned, the feeling of him making love to her spreading through every nerve ending. He was good. Very good….
She was almost there, as he thrust ever faster; then suddenly the wave crashed over her and she involuntarily moaned and filled her fists with the sheets as she shudderingly came.
He held her as the waves of passion ebbed away; then she felt him withdraw. She purred with contentment and managed to turn onto her back and willed her eyes to open. The room was dark, and all she could make out beyond the bed was his silhouette and the outline of a vase of flowers on the night stand next to her.
Roses?
She wanted to kiss him desperately, and she tried to rise, but couldn’t seem to navigate the task. She slumped back to the bed. She tried again with even less success and simply surrendered to the afterglow.
He leaned over and brushed blonde hair from her eyes.
“I’ll be right back, sweetheart,” he said softly, and was gone.
She wanted to drift to sleep, but she also wanted to hold him first, and for him to hold her. When she opened her eyes, a figure hovered over her. … Louis? Just a pale shadow really, in the dimly lit room. She looked up to see something metallic flash in the moonlight, filtering in through the curtains.
&nbs
p; Something burned on the flesh of her throat and a quick, unbidden gurgling gasp escaped from her. She felt liquid spurting, then falling, like warm dark spattering rain, onto her face, shoulders, and breasts. There was a vague pain in her neck and she struggled to get her hand up to try and wipe it away, but her fingers only got wet, too.
She fought to breathe, worked to stay awake, not awake, conscious, struggling against an eddy of darkness pulling her down.
When the blade flashed again and again, sinking into her body as if it were mud, she felt nothing, her performance already ended.
Chapter Eight
The dead woman had long blonde hair, neatly brushed—remarkably pristine, as if she had been carried down from the top of the hill. A pretty face, eyes closed, Sleeping Beauty effect. Lipstick looked fresh, as if it had been applied after she got here.
Her carotid artery had been severed.
Seven jagged stab wounds in her chest and abdomen—the blood had been cleaned away, though; no sign of blood anywhere.
Amari frowned in thought. So she had been carried in and left here. Otherwise the ground would have been soaked with blood, and—unless the killer had washed the blood from her at the scene—she would be covered in it.
And she wasn’t.
Neatly draped over one arm, almost as if she were carrying them, were a dozen red roses—an actress at encore presented with a bouquet. A note protruded from the top of the gathered, still fresh-looking blooms.
That was one good thing about cop gawkers as opposed to the civilian variety—none of the children in blue had taken the note as a souvenir.
The dead woman’s body was white, lividity having taken the blood to the lowest parts of her body. Amari touched a finger to flesh—rigor mortis had set in.
“Probably sometime last night,” Amari said. “Coroner’s assistant can give us a better idea, when he gets liver temperature.”
They had a look at the surrounding footprints, but the police parade had turned the place into a mess, doubtful they would get anything worthwhile. She wanted to see, to read, the card on the bouquet, but had better sense. The crime-scene unit would have it bagged and tagged soon enough.