“There are a few things about the murder scene that bother me,” said Peirce. He waved his arm at Holloway, who immediately moved around to the front of the desk, taking his egg roll with him. Peirce leaned back in his desk chair, grabbing the container of General Tso’s chicken, and scratched his head with his chopsticks before continuing.
“I’m not sure we have the right perp,” he said.
Holloway made a garbled sound, then chewed his egg roll very rapidly and swallowed. “You closed the case; shouldn’t we be working on the next case on the board?” He pointed to the six-foot-wide whiteboard mounted on the wall behind Peirce’s desk. The column on the left side of the board, labeled open cases, contained a list of murder victims’ names written in red ink. The second column, the closed cases, contained names written in black ink and included the names of Michelle Ackerman and Sylvia Radcliffe.
“There are a few things about the Ackerman murder that don’t add up, and if Mortimer Banks didn’t kill Michelle Ackerman, then maybe he didn’t kill Sylvia Radcliffe either.” Sam Peirce turned his head to stare at the names on the board.
Holloway kept his eyes on Peirce and slowly reached for the container of General Tso’s chicken.
“Do you see the problem with the evidence?” Peirce asked as he turned back to Holloway.
Holloway immediately redirected his hand toward the container of Kung Pao shrimp. “Well, he certainly did get sloppy, leaving fingerprints and DNA at the crime scene. He never left any evidence before.”
Peirce bobbed his head in agreement and moved the General Tso’s chicken closer to his side of the desk. “It’s not just that he got sloppy. The fingerprints were on a card he dropped, and the hairs were in the messed-up bed. There were a ton of prints all over the house, but none of them were his.”
“Except for the plastic card,” Holloway said as he watched Peirce open the chicken container.
“That’s right,” Peirce said. “He obviously wore gloves. So why were his prints on the card to begin with? And as far as the hairs go, the bed looked slept in. The covers were messed up as though Michelle had been sleeping when she was attacked. The hairs were on the sheets inside the bed, but when the body was found, she was fully dressed and she hadn’t been sexually assaulted. She was killed with a single blow to the neck with the baseball bat—”
“Ouch,” said Holloway, holding his own neck.
“Even if he pushed her onto the bed while they struggled—and there were no signs on the body of a struggle—the hairs wouldn’t have been inside the covers. I think the evidence could have been planted.” Peirce stood and walked back to the whiteboard. He erased the names Michelle Ackerman and Sylvia Radcliffe from the right column on the board and rewrote them on the left side with a red marker.
Holloway stood, and as Peirce wrote the names on the board, Holloway swapped the two open containers of Chinese food. He placed two pieces of General Tso’s chicken on top of the Kung Pao shrimp on Peirce’s side of the desk and pulled the container of General Tso’s chicken to his side.
“The officer canvassing the neighborhood after the body was discovered was told that a fancy motorcycle, a Suzuki Hayabusa—this guy knew his bikes—had been parked not far from Ackerman’s house. He checked all the houses on the block, but no one in the neighborhood owns that kind of bike, nor did any of their guests—it’s expensive. It was seen speeding away on the night of October 14th. The same night that a security camera at the airport caught Michel’s abandoned car entering the parking lot. The ME puts the murder around the same date. Maybe we have an accomplice.” Holloway used his chopsticks to fish a piece of General Tso’s chicken from the container he had just purloined and stealthily popped it into his mouth.
“Let’s run a check with the DMV to see how many of those Haya-whatevers are registered in this county. Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Peirce said as he extracted the first piece of chicken from his container. “Let’s also take another run at Ackerman’s boss, the dentist, and Dr. Klein’s screwy patient, Jameson. As a matter of fact, let’s reinterview Dr. Klein too; she may know something that could help.” Peirce plucked the second piece of chicken from his container. Peirce leaned back in his chair and nodded, satisfied with the progress made this evening.
“Are you sure you aren’t just looking for another reason to see that lady shrink again?” Holloway asked. “She’s a fox. If you’re not interested, I could give her a try.”
“Didn’t I just give you an assignment?” Peirce said. “Get the DMV info on that motorcycle.” Peirce poked his chopsticks into his container and pulled out a spicy shrimp.
Holloway said, “I’m on it, boss.” He took his container and quickly walked out of the room.
Peirce dropped the shrimp back into the container and prodded its contents in a futile attempt to find the rest of the General Tso’s chicken.
Holloway sat at his desk in his cubicle stuffing the chicken into his mouth as fast as he could. He laughed to himself as he heard Sam Peirce’s voice booming through the homicide squad room, “Holloway!”
29
“Laura Carpenter,” Holloway said. “There are only three Suzuki Hayabusa motorcycles registered in the county. One was in an accident and has been out of commission for six months. Another is owned by a restaurant—a burger joint—and it’s on display in the lobby. The third one is owned by a Laura Carpenter. Not much I can find so far, other than her address—I vote for Ms. Carpenter.”
“Why not the bike in the restaurant?” Peirce asked, taking the DMV report from Holloway and scanning it. “Someone could have used it, then put it back on display.”
“I don’t think so, boss. The motorcycle is mounted on the wall ten feet above the floor. It’s registered, but the owner says it hasn’t had gas in it for a year. The smell was driving away customers.”
“Well, if that checks out, then Laura Carpenter is our winner. Let’s pay her a visit.” Peirce opened his top desk drawer and lifted out his gun in its leather shoulder holster. He had reached the end of the holes in his belt and still couldn’t pull it tight enough to keep his waistband holster from slipping into his pants. A shoulder holster would have to do. “What have we got on Michelle Ackerman?”
“I got a court order and pulled her bank statements. It seems she deposited two thousand in cash on the fifteenth of each month. She didn’t make enough to have that much left over from her paycheck, what with her mortgage and car payments and such. She was getting extra money from somewhere,” Holloway said.
The ride across town was uneventful. Peirce drove while Holloway ate a box of Good & Plenty. The residence of Laura Carpenter was a garden apartment building with an attached single-car garage. Through the window in the garage door, Peirce could see the Suzuki Hayabusa standing in the center of the floor, sporting a black helmet with a tinted visor placed on its seat.
“Can I help you?” a man asked in a gruff and annoyed voice.
“Police,” Sam Peirce said, pushing his badge with its leather folder a little closer to the man’s face than was necessary.
“I’m the building manager, Jake Townsend.” He backed away to put some distance between his nose and Peirce’s badge. “What can I do for you?”
“We’re looking for Laura Carpenter.” Sam snapped his ID and badge folder closed while walking to the front door.” A pile of dry leaves covered the doormat and several envelopes protruded from the overstuffed mailbox.
“You won’t find her here,” Jake said. “She owes me a month’s rent. I’ve been keeping an eye out for her, but she hasn’t been here for about six weeks. She was always on time with her rent. This isn’t like her.”
Jake reached for the chain hanging from his belt containing a large key ring. He sorted through the keys until he found the one marked 28D and walked toward the door.
“Are you allowed to just walk into her apartment without her permission?” Holloway asked.
Jake paused, letting the key drop back into the drove of others on his
ring. “Oh, no, I would never do that. I thought you had a warrant or something,” he said, stuffing the ring of keys, chain and all, into his overall pocket.
“No, we don’t,” said Holloway.
Sam Peirce shook his head in Holloway’s direction.
“Mr. Townsend, you said you hadn’t seen Ms. Carpenter for some time. Is it possible that she could be sick or injured inside the apartment?” Sam asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” Jake said, scratching his chin as he spoke.
“Is it possible?” Sam said, raising his eyebrows and making a not-so-subtle nodding gesture with his head.
“Oh, oh yeah, I get it. You know, I actually never saw her come out. Maybe she fell or something, and she needs help,” Jake replied with a knowing grin. He reached back into his pocket, pulled out the key ring, and stood on his tiptoes to allow the key on the short chain to reach the high deadbolt lock on the apartment door. “Maybe she slipped in the shower and is unconscious…”
“We’ll take it from here,” Peirce said as he pushed past Jake Townsend. “You can wait outside while we make sure it’s safe.” Sam jerked his head, signaling Holloway to come in and close the door. The manager opened the mailbox and pulled the wedged bundle of mail out. “I’ll take that,” Holloway said. “We’ll leave it inside for her.”
The first-floor apartment in the two-story townhouse was larger than it looked from the outside. A bright-red sectional sofa on a white carpet demanded your attention as you entered the living room. Large modern art paintings of shapes Peirce couldn’t recognize hung on the back wall. It wasn’t his taste, but it looked like money.
The dining room table was piled high with folders and computer printouts segregated into piles with handwritten notes on them. Each note contained a full name written in capital letters. Peirce looked through the names, reading them aloud. He looked for anything that was familiar. “JAMES FARNSWORTH, ALBERTA KINSLEY, BRET KERCHIEF, HYRUM GREEN…” That one rang a bell. Peirce held up the folder. “This guy’s name seems to be coming up everywhere we go.”
Holloway walked to Peirce and began to read over his shoulder. Peirce turned a quarter turn to the left and said, “Why don’t you see what else you could find? Look for a connection between Hyrum Green and this gal, Laura Carpenter.”
Holloway again assumed the wounded puppy persona and began to search the other folders. He thumbed through several and then fumbled through his pocket for his cell phone. Holloway then tiptoed out of the room while poking in a number.
Peirce, his nose buried in the Hyrum Green folder, sat drumming his fingers on the table as he read the folder from cover to cover. He thought for a few minutes, then said, “This is almost the complete life story and financial report on the dentist. Why do you suppose Laura Carpenter is interested in this guy? Holloway? Holloway!” he shouted.
“Right here, boss.” Holloway slowly sauntered back into the room, beaming from ear to ear. “I was just checking a few things, and I found something interesting. All these names on the folders—well, all except the dentist—they were all on the flash drive that we found on Mort Banks, the one he stole from Sylvia Radcliffe’s house. They’re the names of robbery victims. They also all bought jewelry from Stanton’s Fine Gems.”
“We suspected Sylvia Radcliffe’s mother or sister of feeding info to Banks about jewelry purchases and possibly helping to set up the robberies,” Peirce said. “But what does this Carpenter gal have to do with it? Was she the accomplice who did the research for Banks, and if so, what was she doing at the murder scene?”
Holloway slowly pulled out a chair, sat, and put his feet up on the table. He leaned back in the chair and folded his hands behind his head. “I noticed that the name on the electric bill”—he held up the stack of mail—“was Laura S. Carpenter. I had Samuelsson check birth records. Laura S.—S stands for Sylvia, by the way—Carpenter was born to Henrietta Carpenter on June 7, 1971. That’s also the DOB of Sylvia Radcliffe. I’ll bet my argyle socks that Henrietta Carpenter was the maiden name of…”
“Henrietta Radcliffe,” they said in unison.
“So that means that Sylvia Radcliffe, aka Laura Carpenter, was Mort’s partner. And if Mortimer Banks didn’t kill Michelle Ackerman, if the evidence was planted, then it was probably Sylvia Radcliffe who planted it,” Peirce said.
“Maybe, boss. That would make Sylvia a suspect in Michelle Ackerman’s murder. She could have killed Michelle and tried to blame it on her partner. She could have planted the evidence to cover her own crime,” Holloway said.
“Or to cover for someone else,” Peirce said, holding up the Hyrum Green folder.
“We still need a motive. This guy, Green, is in this thing up to his neck. Dr. Klein said she had evidence that Hyrum Green and Sylvia Radcliffe were having an affair. We’ve got two dead women, and this guy Green was involved in some way with both of them. Let’s take another shot at him and see what turns up.”
30
“Hyrum, dinner,” Elaine sang out, holding a platter of neatly arranged slices of prime rib by its rim and a large wooden bowl containing a Caesar salad in her other hand. She rushed to the dining room table, racing to rest the warm plate on the trivet alongside the crystal serving dish of asparagus before the strength in her fingers gave out.
“Hyrum, it’s going to get cold,” she said in a more insistent tone.
She stood in front of the large teakwood dining table, checked the position of the silverware at each place setting, and fluffed the elaborately folded napkins peeking out of the water goblets.
The archway leading to the living room was only a few steps away. She leaned to see if he was coming.
Elaine untied her apron, revealing a form-fitting black sheath far too elegant for a weekday dinner at home. She placed the open bottle of merlot against her cheek to feel its temperature, then set it on a silver tray in the center of the table to breathe.
“What day is it?” Hyrum asked, causing Elaine to turn with a start.
“It’s Monday of course,” she said, looking mildly confused.
“No, I mean, is it my birthday, or, don’t tell me it’s our anniversary?”
“No, I just thought it would be nice to have a pleasant meal at home. So many things have been going wrong lately; I just thought it would be nice.”
Hyrum put his arms around his wife and held her tight against his chest. He pressed the side of his face against hers. Both closed their eyes and held each other for longer than either expected. The chimes of the front doorbell broke the spell. They pulled away from each other, each turning in the opposite direction, both trying to hide the surge of emotion evident from the mist that filled their eyes.
“Who could that be?” Hyrum asked, wiping his nose with his handkerchief and then stuffing it into his back pocket. Elaine stood twisting the corner of the folded apron still in her hands.
“Lieutenant Peirce,” Hyrum said as he opened the door.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Peirce said. Before Hyrum could reply, he added, “I have a few questions I wanted to ask you.”
“Actually, we were just about to sit down to dinner. Couldn’t this wait until tomorrow?”
“I’m sorry; it will only take a few minutes. Then I’ll leave you to your meal.”
Hyrum glanced at Elaine, who nodded and picked up the food to take it back into the kitchen. “Ask,” Hyrum said.
“Dr. Green,” Peirce began, speaking in almost a whisper, “I understand that you and Sylvia Radcliffe had more than just a doctor-patient relationship.” Peirce watched to see how Hyrum reacted to his statement. Hyrum stared at Peirce without uttering a sound.
“I also believe that you were paying two thousand dollars a month to Michelle Ackerman, possibly off the books, in addition to her salary. Can you tell me what that was for?”
Hyrum’s face began to flush, and he balled his hands into fists. Peirce maintained an icy stare. His posture seemed relaxed, but he was prepared to react defensi
vely if necessary.
“Lieutenant, I don’t know where you get your information, but I am a happily married man. Sylvia Radcliffe was a patient, just a patient, nothing more. And Michelle Ackerman’s compensation is none of your affair. Perhaps you should report me to the IRS if you think there’s a problem.”
He turned and looked quickly at the kitchen door, then hissed, “I don’t appreciate your accusations. Now if that’s all you wanted, I would like to get back to my meal.” Hyrum pulled the door open and motioned for Peirce to leave. Peirce stepped farther into the room and said, “Just two more questions. Where were you on the nights of October 14 and October 27, the nights that Michelle Ackerman and Sylvia Radcliffe were murdered?”
Hyrum’s hands began to shake. Peirce held his ground, rising slightly on his toes for balance and, possibly, to appear taller—he wasn’t sure which.
“Why, he was with me both of those nights,” Elaine said, walking in from the dining room. Both men turned toward her. Neither had heard her enter the room.
“And you remember those dates specifically,” Peirce said.
“No, Lieutenant. I remember that neither of us was out of the house alone any night in October. Home or away, we spent each night that month together. We’re a close couple,” she said, taking her husband’s hand and intertwining their fingers. “I understand that you already arrested someone for those murders. Why are you harassing my husband?”
“We did arrest someone, but there wasn’t enough evidence to hold him,” Peirce said.
“Well, maybe you should be out finding that evidence rather than interrupting our dinner. Now, if you don’t mind,” Hyrum said, smiling for the first time since Peirce arrived. “If you’re not going to arrest me, please leave.”
Peirce said, “Enjoy your dinner.” He turned and walked out the door.
Hyrum closed the door and walked back to the dining room, where Elaine was placing the food back on the table. “I don’t know why you did that,” he said, “but I’m glad you did.”
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