Monica pointed to Max’s hand. “Hey, I, check out his fingers, they’re curled around something.”
Ian’s stomach recoiled. Did Hot Monica really expect him to pry open the dead dude’s icy claw? But Malcolm was already nodding in agreement.
“She’s right, man, crack open the hand.”
When Ian touched Max’s rigored fingers, all his future reoccurring nightmares took shape. “I can’t do this, okay? I’m like two seconds from puking up everything I’ve eaten since first grade. Kyle?”
“Dude, you’re already down there, just do it,” Kyle replied. Another queasy, neo-grunge voice heard from.
The sudden sound of shattering bone was followed by a collective gasp. Malcolm raised his Timberland boot off Max’s crushed hand, bent down, and casually removed the flash drive from Max’s broken fingers. “Got it, you ass cracks.”
Malcolm’s piercing dark eyes and sexy, pop-star swagger had already aroused Monica’s female curiosity, but with this singular display of Nietzschean will to power, he’d totally sealed the deal.
As Malcolm led the way out of the ravine, he shut down any talk of an anonymous call to 911 to save Max from the coyotes. Cell phones had GPS. “Hell, when I die, I want to be left to the scavengers. Circle of life, bros.” Seeing the glint of lust in Monica’s eyes, he basked in the force of his own magnetism. The alpha male was so getting laid tonight.
Fifteen
Three dead bodies in three days! No time for the merry rites of maintenance this morning. The tooth-whitening strips and Latisse eyelash extender would have to wait. Nola dry-swallowed a vitamin E, grabbed her Bliss jelly lip pen and shoulder holster, and headed out the door.
Alex was already examining Max’s body when Nola arrived at the scene. She was kneeling by his side, trying to ignore his signature odor, half formaldehyde, half Axe body spray, when Tony appeared, still wet from a shower and relaxed from a night of casual sex.
“Morning, Nols — sorry I was delayed. Is this our corpse?”
“No, he’s just trying out a new yoga position. Down Deadward Dog.”
“Somebody got up on the wrong side of the crime scene this morning,” he said, bright sex-eyes twinkling.
“Just tired.” She smiled. “I had unresolved-case-issues insomnia last night, and now we’ve got dead guy number three. It’s officially a hat trick.”
Tony looked down at the big purple and green dent in the back of Max’s skull. “Looks like he came up on the losing end of a polo mallet.”
Alex sat back on his bony haunches and squinted up at Tony in the early morning sunlight. “Actually, he appears to have been kicked. There’s dirt under the hair, and the imprint of a hoof, probably a deer. Most likely happened sometime between eleven last night and two this morning.”
Nola glanced around the surreal landscape of fire-scarred rock and dry brush. “I wouldn’t be caught dead up here that time of night.”
“Obviously, this tweed-jacketed gentleman felt otherwise,” Alex chuckled, pleased with his own joke.
Tony crouched down to get a better look at the victim. “Why would a dapper, I’m guessing mid-sixties ‘gentleman’ be up here deerstalking alone at night?”
Alex ran his magnifying glass over Max’s right hand. “I’m not sure he was alone. Someone stomped on this man’s hand postmortem. If you look close, you can just make out the faint tread of a hiking boot.”
Nola looked through the glass. The tread mark was light, but she could definitely see it, and something else was wrong. The fingers weren’t sitting right. She bent down to get a closer look. “Alex, his fingers . . . ?”
“Are broken. Yes. The hand was already in rigor when it was trod on, which means whoever did it either stayed with the corpse or stumbled across it hours later.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Tony said, borrowing the magnifying glass to get a closer look.
Nola had already inspected the area where the body lay, in situ. Whoever left the boot mark had to have walked away, but the ground was broken bracken and dry grass, so the chances of finding a print that matched were virtually nil. She sent a crew to inspect any nearby trails just in case.
Even if a deer kick was the cause of death, a boot-smashed hand after the fact was a mystery that demanded their attention. It might have been just a random act of sadism, or the victim might have been clutching something the boot wearer was after. “Alex, can you tell if our victim was holding something when his hand was stomped on?”
Alex could only confirm that the fingers had been clutched in rigor at the time of impact. Whether they’d been clutched around something was purely a matter of conjecture.
Tony stood and did a quick 360 of the area. “So, where’s the jogger who found him?”
Nola quickly brought him up to speed. “I interviewed her and sent her home in a black and white. Actually, it was her dog that found him. They were out on the road for a run when puppy got a whiff of dead guy down here in the ravine. I’ve got Baz checking to see if she had any prior links to the victim, but my instincts say no. And there’s no way she’s our hand crusher.”
“You sure? Because there’s one philosophical school that ascribes to the theory that bitches be crazy.”
“Yeah, and there’s another that says it’s men who make them that way. But, tabling the chicken-or-egg discussion for a minute, our jogger was supermodel skinny.”
“So?”
“So, I’ve exfoliated more than she weighs. She could have gone Gangnam Style on the victim’s hand without breaking a pinkie. Plus, she was wearing Skechers, not hiking boots, and her dog was a shelter mutt. Woman plus shelter mutt equals nice.”
Alex smiled. “Sounds like someone wants a mutt of her own.”
“I do, but my condo has a no-pets policy. Fortunately, I already have a loyal partner who scarfs his food and ruins the carpet.”
“I spilled one beer, like, ten years ago,” Tony protested to Alex. “She’s got a memory like a supercomputer.”
While Alex continued examining the body, Nola filled Tony in on what she knew about Dr. Max Waxman. She’d found his wallet in his pants pocket, no indication of robbery, his cash and credit cards were still intact. His vehicle registration matched a Prius parked on the road just outside the ravine, so carjack was also a nonstarter. The biggest news she saved for last. In addition to his driver’s license and his University of California faculty card, Max Waxman had a civilian military ID.
Tony let out a low whistle as they headed back to their cars. “So we check out his home, his office on campus, and then what, the Pentagon?”
“Pretty much.”
“Why do long days always have to come after exhausting nights of great sex?”
“She was great, huh?”
“She was good, but I was fantastic, so it evened out.”
“Is this another Kim?”
Tony was a sort of god to the guys down at the station for having successfully juggled three different women named Kim one summer and having lived to tell about it.
“Nope. This was a lithe, hazel-eyed Chelsea who kept me ‘up to the sun, up for good fun, and up all night to get lucky.’ ”
“Look at you, knowing a pop song that’s not Nickelback. So, if the sex was really that good, your electrolytes must be pretty depleted. Wanna stop at Pressed Juice for soy green tea with acai smoothies?”
“Have I ever? I swear, if Gwyneth Paltrow said she drank motor oil in the morning, you’d have STP dripping down your chin.”
“Oh, Gwyneth’s gone way beyond diet tips. Now she wants us to start steaming our vaginas. Although she didn’t specify how to serve them. Maybe over rice?”
Tony winced. “Oh come on, you really thought I needed that image in my head? Give your keys to one of the patrol guys, so they can drive the T-bird back to the station.”
“Why do we always have to take your car?”
“Because I feel like an idiot climbing out of yours.”
“Hater.”
“Nut job. You can have your smoothie, but we’re taking the grownup car, and I’m driving.”
Sixteen
Tony drove while Nola scrolled through the recent call list on Max’s iPhone. There was no high volume of calls to any one number, so it was unlikely he was married. She found a Tom Waxman and clicked Call. This was the hardest part of the job, the saddest part.
“This is Nola MacIntire from the Santa Barbara Police Department. I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”
Tom turned out to be Max’s brother. Genuinely grief-stricken over the news, he’d agreed to leave work and meet them at Max’s home with a spare key. “Sorry for your loss” never seemed like enough, but she didn’t know what else to say. When she hung up, she went back to studying Max’s phone for clues that might explain his nocturnal wanderings in the woods.
“Finding anything interesting?” Tony asked as they cruised by the bird sanctuary.
“Actually, I’m finding our victim interesting. He has some very eclectic apps. I think I would have liked him. Hey, wouldn’t it be great if first dates were just a ritualistic exchange of smartphones over cocktails? You’d know instantly if you were going to click with somebody. ‘Well, I see by your browser history that you’re into French cinema and kayaking, that’s good . . . uh-oh, lots of vicious texts from ex-girlfriends . . . looks like somebody has commitment issues . . . waiter, check please!’ ”
Tony shook his head in frustration. “Geez, even your fantasy relationships end badly.”
“Yeah, that’s not good, is it? How does your fantasy phone exchange go?”
“Perfectly: ‘So, your Facebook profile says you’re a born-again Rastafarian, an elephant trainer, and you’re into Maroon Five and dead flower arranging — shall we go ahead and order dinner?’ ”
“That’s what your fantasy girl is into? Dead flowers and whiny bands?”
“In my fantasy she’s mad-sexy, so who cares what she’s into?”
Nola sighed. “You have no sense of romance. I’m going back to my phone date with Max. He knows how to electronically court a girl.”
Max’s stored info revealed that he was a psychiatrist with a large circle of friends who read whatever non-zombie-smash-up was currently on The New York Times bestseller list, herb-infused his own vodka, and was not into Maroon Five. So far, Nola and Max’s imaginary smartphone date was going pretty well.
She clicked over to his calendar. Last night’s entry was just two letters highlighted in red: VD. Screech, pause, rewind. She could feel the neurons in her brain starting to pop. It was doubtful Max had contracted a social disease and marked the occasion by boldly noting it in red. Although, he could have been alone in the hills waiting to confront his STD-transmitting lover. But why would they meet outside in the middle of the night? Maybe it was a married lover? Maybe one who wanted a letter back that he was clutching in his hand? Check that, even aging intellectuals didn’t send romantic snail mail anymore. Maybe he’d been clutching a ring or a locket? A locket? Seriously? Did she think he was shagging Jane Austen? Okay, train of thought running off the tracks. It was far more likely that VD was someone’s initials, but there hadn’t been anyone with the initials VD on Max’s contact list. Maybe they were the initials of a place?
“Hey,” Tony said breaking her concentration. “What’s going on in that feverish little bean of yours? Your eyeballs are bouncing around like martini shakers.”
“Last night’s entry in Dr. Waxman’s calendar is two initials: VD.”
“Bummer. Good you’re wearing evidence gloves.”
Nola didn’t bother to respond. She was too intrigued by the next entry on Max’s calendar.
“Hey, Tone, listen to this! Tomorrow’s calendar entry: Coastal Commission meeting, nine a.m.”
“So?”
“So, Gus Gillette wrote a speech in favor of the Wyatt deal that he was planning to deliver at the same meeting. We have a link!”
“Cool your jets, Nancy Drew. That property sale is a pretty hot topic. A whole lot of people are going to that meeting. It’s probably just a coincidence.”
“Freud said, ‘There are no coincidences.’ ”
“Actually, he said, There are no accidents.’ ”
“I know. . . I was hoping to slide that one by you. But two guys popping up dead who were both going to attend the same meeting . . . our mysteries have totally converged!”
“Pretending for a moment that I agree, how would ‘murder by deer’ and a probable suicide link up?”
“I don’t know. Let’s start with the meeting. We know why Gus was going. Why would Dr. Waxman want to be there?”
“Well, if he’s like everyone else who’s going to be there, he’s either an investor who’s enthusiastically in favor of the project or an environmentalist who’s dead-set against it.”
Tony turned the Audi into a cul-de-sac and pulled up in front of Max’s modest adobe-brick home. It was a model of self-sufficiency: voltaic solar tiles, double-paned windows, drought-tolerant landscaping, and a “Save the Ocean” sticker on the mailbox.
“Yeah, I’m going to go out on a limb and say environmentalist,” Nola said, with her smuggest of smiles, positive now that her link theory had legs.
Billowing purple sage lined the sand path that led to Max’s front door. His brother Tom had said Max lived alone, but families didn’t always know. When no one answered their knock, they made their way around to the back.
Max’s backyard abutted a hillside that had been trenched and tiered like an Incan village to accommodate a thriving winter vegetable garden. Nola rubbed some rosemary together in her fingers and inhaled. “I’d love to have a backyard garden.”
“You just hate grocery shopping.”
“Good a reason as any to go green.”
“You? You empty the whole Castaic Reservoir every time you take a shower.”
“You’re right. I’m drought intolerant. I wonder if there’s a self-help group for that.”
To keep it fair they flipped a coin to decide who would search the compost heap and who would search the potting shed for anything that might seem suspicious. When they met up again, neither of them had found anything, but Nola smelled faintly of potato peels, coffee grounds, and something distinctly fishy. Her forensic gloves were tough and flexible but apparently not odor resistant.
“If the brother doesn’t show up in two minutes to let us into the house, I’m going to smash an energy-efficient window and climb in,” she said, eyeing the thick glass. “I’ve got to have soap. I smell like a fertilizer factory.”
“You do have a certain air about you,” Tony said as they walked up to the back porch.
Luckily a B&E proved unnecessary. They spotted the Frontgate hide-a-key rock almost simultaneously. Any savvy burglar worth his salt would have done the same. Frontgate had been aiding and abetting top-notch crookery for years. Still, paging through its spring furniture catalogue was the easiest way for a woman to achieve orgasm without sex, so . . . good points, bad points.
The inside of Max’s house was a patchwork of bamboo flooring, recycled-tile countertops, and reclaimed-wood furniture. The man definitely had the aesthetic courage of his convictions. Nola scrubbed up in the kitchen, and then joined Tony in the study. He was sitting at Max’s desk staring at his blank computer, wondering how to get in.
“Any guesses what his password might be? ‘Green’? ‘Sustainable’?”
Nola’s eyes lit on a photo of Max posing in front of Old Faithful. Hoping Sebastian’s theory might hold, she gave it a shot. “Try Yellowstone.”
“What?”
“Just a hunch.”
Moments later they were illegally browsing through Max’s patients’ case files. Nola was engrossed in Max’s notes about a man who had gained forty stress pounds in six weeks when Tony clicked over to the next patient.
“Hey, I was reading that!”
“It has no bearing on our case. The guy got fat. Why would that make him smash Waxman’s
hand open?”
“Maybe Waxman was holding a doughnut?”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re not taking this seriously?”
“Because I don’t think we need to be checking his patients. Whatever we’re looking for has something to do with that development deal.”
“You think that, but you don’t know it.”
“True, but I do know we could get in big trouble going through doctor-patient files without a warrant.”
“Do I look scared?” The words were barely out of Tony’s mouth when they heard a car pull up outside. “Okay, yeah, I totally am. Back to the living room, we never saw these.”
Tom Waxman was a fair-skinned man in his mid-sixties with curly yellow hair cut so short it looked like someone had superglued popcorn to his head. Though still in shock, he was anxious to be of help. Unfortunately, like most relatives of the unexpectedly deceased, he had a lot more questions than answers.
“I don’t understand. Why would Max be walking around the Montecito foothills in the middle of the night?”
Nola took a seat beside him on the non-rain-forest-threatening sofa. “There was a notation in his calendar yesterday that said ‘VD.’ Did he know anyone with those initials?”
Tom thought a moment before answering. “No one that comes to mind.”
“Maybe one of his patients?” Tony asked.
“I don’t know. He couldn’t talk about his patients. He kept files on them, of course, but those are all doctor-patient protected.”
“Right,” Tony said, nodding innocently. “We’re working on a warrant, so we can take a look at those later.”
Tom’s shoulders started to tremble. The face beneath the popcorn hair was streaked with tears. “Who do I need to call about the body?”
Nola passed him a Kleenex and explained that the coroner’s office would be calling him to come down and make a positive identification later that afternoon. Then, patting his hand, she asked, “Max’s calendar indicated he was planning to attend the Coastal Commission meeting tomorrow morning. Do you have any idea why?”
Marry, Kiss, Kill Page 7