“You want a hand?”
“I’m fine.” He brushed aside Keating’s offer of assistance and reached for the top of the door frame. A slow and painful process. Just as getting into the car had been. But he was damned if he was going to give Keating the satisfaction of helping him. Bad enough he had a back that gave him trouble, he didn’t need a partner giving him trouble too.
Once he was standing, it was easier going. Lou joined Keating on the sidewalk.
“What do you think?” Keating asked, waving a copy of the photograph Owen Nelson received along with the poem from the killer.
“It’s sick, is what I think.”
“Yeah, I know that. But about the photo.”
Lou pulled a pair of drugstore reading glasses from his pocket and examined the photo more closely. Very little of the house was visible. On the outside, just a little of the siding and part of a curtain. He could see an interior door in the background, just to the left of where the woman, Jane Parkhurst, was standing. The walls were papered in some sort of swirling pattern.
He glanced up at the actual house before him. It wasn’t large. It wasn’t even particularly well kept, which surprised him given that Parkhurst was in real estate. White stucco with a red tile roof, situated in a quiet residential area off College Avenue.
“Not a front-facing room,” Lou said. “I couldn’t say for sure that it’s even the same house.”
“Look here, though. The trim around the window and the pattern in the stucco. I bet it is.”
Lou studied the photograph, and nodded.
“If the killer did snap the photo here,” Keating said, “there’s a chance someone in the neighborhood saw him.”
There were areas of the city where people kept to themselves as if their life depended on it, which it often did. But most places, neighbors looked out for each other. Lou thought they were lucky this was the kind of neighborhood Jane Parkhurst had lived in.
While Lou stood at the bottom of the front steps, Keating rang the bell. It went unanswered, which was no surprise. The window shades were lowered, but Keating peered through a narrow slit of glass next to the door.
“What do you see?” Lou asked.
“Not a bloody thing. Let’s try the back.”
Keating took off down the narrow stone path that led to the rear yard. Lou hobbled after him. Back there, the windows were uncovered, and Keating pushed his way through the bushes near the house to look inside.
“Watch the pansies,” Lou said. Pansies had been one of Jan’s favorites.
“The what?” From the way he continued stomping through the flower bed, it was clear he didn’t know a pansy from a doorknob. Or maybe he thought Lou was making a crack about gays.
“The flowers. No need to trample them.” Although Jane Parkhurst wasn’t going to care.
Apparently, neither did his partner. Keating retreated from one window and pushed his way toward another without so much as a downward glance.
“Bingo,” he said at last.
“What is it?” Lou rested a hand on his lower back, pressing against the knot at the base of his spine. No matter how he shifted his weight, his back cried out for a different position.
Keating yanked the photo from Lou’s grasp. “The picture was taken through that window.” He pointed to the panel of glass he’d just come from. “Probably with some kind of telephoto lens. So our photographer would have been standing back a ways.”
Lou examined the yard. It was small, deeper than it was wide, with enough bushes and small trees to hide a person who didn’t want to be seen. There were single-story houses on both the left and the right, but the building behind had two stories. The perimeter of the yard was veiled by a canopy of branches and greenery.
Lou turned back to his partner. “I don’t know . . . with all the shrubbery and stuff, it’s not likely a neighbor would notice a stranger in the yard.”
“Not likely, maybe, but not impossible either. You want to wait by the car while I ring a few doorbells?”
“Nah, moving’s good for me.” Just as long as he did it at his own pace.
They checked with the occupants of the houses on both sides. Lots of concern on the neighbors’ part, but nothing at all helpful. The building to the rear turned out to be a small apartment house. The window most closely centered on Jane Parkhurst’s yard opened onto a stairwell.
Lou held the picture at eye level and looked through the window.
“The angle’s wrong,” Keating said.
“So now you’re Ansel Adams?”
“Adams photographed nature scenes.”
“Look at all that greenery.”
“He was known for composition and contrast, not angles. Besides, there’s a screen on this window, and none in the picture.”
“Well, it was a thought.” Lou peered through the window again. He hadn’t even seen the screen, and for all he could tell, the angle wasn’t so far off. But nobody ever said he had an artistic bone in his body.
They were back at the curb in front of Jane Parkhurst’s house when a heavyset woman in tight athletic leggings came out of the house across the street. Lou could never understand why a woman with fat thighs and a bulging stomach would wear leggings that left nothing to the imagination. In fact, it was a rare woman over twelve who could wear them at all.
“Are you with the police?” she asked.
Lou was dressed, as always, in a dark suit. Keating wore a sports jacket and slacks. How had she known? Lou couldn’t see they looked any different than your average business types.
The woman smiled. “Don’t ask me how, but it’s written all over you. Anyway, my mother”—she gestured to her house— “she sent me out to get you.”
Lou raised an eyebrow.
“It’s about our neighbor who was murdered. I imagine that’s why you’re here.”
The mother, Mrs. Edna Greene, looked to be in her early seventies. There was a cane beside her chair, but she appeared otherwise fit. Her skin was remarkably smooth and her hair a bright emerald green.
My God, Lou thought, did the -poor woman have a disaster at the beauty shop?
“She just did it last week,” the daughter explained when she caught Lou staring.
“Because of her name?” Keating asked.
“To match my eyes,” Mrs. Greene said, batting them in Lou’s direction.
Lou figured she was as nutty as a fruitcake.
“You’re investigating the murder of my neighbor.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Do you know something that might help us?” Keating asked.
“There was a man, a couple of weeks ago. He was wearing one of those orange vests, like a workman. I saw him walking back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the house. Then I saw him again a couple of days ago.”
Hardly suspicious behavior, Lou thought. “What makes you think he might be connected to the murder?”
“It’s just a feeling I have.”
The daughter rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Mother, they’re not interested in your feelings.”
“Wasn’t like he was going anywhere so much as fiddling around. Like he was casing the house, maybe.”
Keating took out a pen. “Can you describe him?”
“About your height. And muscular. Not that you aren’t.” She did the eye-batting routine for Keating’s benefit.
The description left the field pretty much wide open. “Anything else?” Lou asked.
“Not that I can remember.” Mrs. Greene studied her hands. “My subconscious might know, though. Maybe if I was hypnotized . . .”
“Mom, please.”
Lou had known she was a flake the minute he saw the green hair. This only confirmed it. “We only use hypnosis in rare situations.”
“Couldn’t this be one of them?”
“With all due respect, ma’am, there isn’t much that ties this man you saw to the murder.”
“Soon as I heard about her being killed, I thought of him,�
�� Mrs. Greene explained. “I’m sure he was up to something. If I was hypnotized, I might be able to come up with one of those, what do you call them, composed sketches.”
“Composite,” Lou said.
“Yes, that’s it. My sister was hypnotized once at the county fair. Years ago. Quacked like a chicken, she did.”
Lou groaned under his breath. Did Mrs. Greene really want to quack like a chicken?
“That’s not how we do it anyway,” Keating explained.
“Well, you change your mind, just let me know. I’m willing.”
“Absolutely, ma’am. We’ll be in touch.”
The daughter shrugged as she showed them out. “What was I supposed to do? She said she’d gotten a glimpse of the killer.”
Lou walked gingerly across the street to the car. “Not one of our more successful forays into detection,” he said, easing himself into the passenger seat.
“At least we’ve determined that the woman in the photo is our victim and that her killer stalked her here at her own house.” Keating started the engine. “I’m heading back downtown. Shall I drop you home first?”
Lou shook his head. “I’d rather get a head start catching up.”
<><><>
One look at this desk and Lou wished he’d put it off another day. It was worse than he’d predicted. The desk was piled high with paper. Messages, memos, folders he’d requested from records, solicitations from organizations he’d never heard of. A couple more days of being gone and he’d have had to dig his way through to find the telephone. He sat there awhile wondering where to begin. Finally, he shoved the whole mess to the side.
Next to him, Keating was sorting through his own, much smaller cluster of message slips. “They’ve finished the inventory of evidence from the Parkhurst murder,” he told Lou. “Want to take a look?”
“Sure.” It beat trying to sort his way through the paper jungle on his desk.
The crime scene lab was only one floor down, but no way could Lou take the stairs with his back acting up the way it was. He headed for the elevator, and after a moment’s hesitation, Keating followed.
The tech at the desk that afternoon was Joe Moran, a man who reminded Lou of a rabbit. He had big ears, big front teeth, and while he didn’t actually hop, he seemed always to move in fits and starts.
Moran pulled the bin for the Parkhurst case.
“Jesus, what is all this crap?” Lou asked, poking through the collection of cigarette butts, loose change and buttons, pocket combs and gum wrappers.
“It was a public place,” Moran explained. “Lots of debris. We got prints off the outhouse, though. And we had the septic guys hold the contents for processing.”
Lou gagged. “Jesus, glad I’m not in line for that job.” Sifting through shit had to rank as the least pleasant job imaginable.
“Someone’s got to,” Moran pointed out.
“This was at the scene?” Keating pointed to a tube of lipstick. “Any chance it matches what was on her lips?”
Moran’s face grew flushed. “I don’t know.”
“Even if it does, so what?” Lou asked.
Keating tugged on an earlobe. “Kali thought Jane Parkhurst’s lipstick looked fresh.” He turned to Moran. “See if it matches. And check for prints.”
Moran nodded. “The blue fibers on her clothing were like those found in the Bailey case,” he said. “Something man-made, like nylon. Maybe from a car’s interior. We’re still working on that.”
“What’s with the lipstick?” Lou asked as they left the room.
“If you’d been abducted and feared for your life would you think about putting on lipstick?”
“I never think about it.” Lou laughed at his own joke. “What are you thinking?”
“Maybe the killer applied the lipstick himself. He took pains to dress her, after all.”
Lou grunted. “So our girl from the DA’s office looks at a corpse and first thing she checks is the lipstick. Typical female.”
“You know, Lou, you’re really out of touch with the times.”
There was probably some truth to that, but Lou wasn’t about to lose sleep over it.
<><><>
Kali flipped on the television. She’d only have time to catch the beginning of the news before leaving to meet Nathan Sloane for dinner. If their news conference wasn’t one of the lead stories, she’d have to record it and watch when she returned.
Or forget about meeting Nathan. She had trouble remembering now why she’d agreed.
Oh, come on, you know why you said yes. Nathan is an attractive guy and he’s clearly interested in you. Why shouldn’t you go out with him?
Because I’m not ready for another relationship. I don’t even trust my own feelings anymore. And after what happened with Steven, I need time to heal.
But living was what would help her heal, people said.
Too late to get out of it now, anyway. Besides, what was the harm in dinner? One date and that would be the end of it.
Loretta, who had been lying at Kali’s feet, stood up, circled once, then plopped back down just as the news anchor led into coverage of the afternoon’s press conference. Kali was tuned to channel four, the station that had received a copy of the poem, thinking they would probably have the most extensive coverage.
The news report began with a rehash of the murder and the station’s own role, then switched to clips from the conference itself. Kali was impressed with Bryce Keating, just as she had been earlier. He was confident and in control, but managed at the same time to exhibit a genuineness not often seen in police personnel, particularly in public. The hotline phone number was prominently displayed on the right of the screen, and the reward for information leading to an arrest was mentioned at least twice. The phone would undoubtedly ring off the hook. Whether anything came of the calls was another matter.
And then came commentary from a reporter noting similarities between the two recent murders and those attributed to the Bayside Strangler. A quick clip from the Davis trial followed, along with a recording of his own words proclaiming his innocence.
The news anchor, a young woman with dark, doe eyes, looked directly into the camera. “Has the real Bayside Strangler been at large all these years, or has a copycat killer recently surfaced? That is the question police are asking themselves as they work frantically to find an answer before yet another woman is murdered.”
Kali switched channels in time to hear sound-bite interviews with women on the street about their reaction to the recent murders and what they were doing to ensure their own safety. By the time she checked her watch again, she realized she’d have to hurry to make it to the restaurant in time.
<><><>
Nathan Sloane was already seated when she arrived at the Oakview Grille. He stood as she approached. “I thought maybe you weren’t going to show.”
There was a thin but cool undercurrent to his tone that Kali thought wasn’t justified. She was barely ten minutes late, and that was because a car fire had stalled traffic on Telegraph Avenue.
“Sorry I kept you waiting.” She didn’t bother with excuses.
He smiled and the ice melted. “Anyway, I’m glad you made it.”
He’d probably worried he’d been stood up, she realized. She liked it that he felt a little vulnerable and wasn’t one of those men who thought they were God’s gift to women. “A car fire caused a major traffic jam,” she explained.
As soon as she sat down, a waiter appeared with a chilled bottle of champagne. He poured a glass for each of them, then set the bottle in an ice bucket next to the table. So much for the simple meal Nathan had originally suggested.
“Cheers.” Nathan raised his drink in a toast.
“Cheers.” The champagne was cold and smooth. Almost immediately, Kali felt its effervescence hit her bloodstream.
The waiter returned with a platter of tapas. “I took the liberty of ordering an appetizer for us,” Nathan said.
Kali responded with a smil
e since the right words eluded her. First the champagne and now this. He’d obviously arrived well before the time they were set to meet. And gone a bit overboard in trying to make a good impression. She was both flattered by the attention, and a little uneasy with it.
Finally, she gave up analyzing the situation, sat back and sipped her champagne. Nathan, too, appeared to relax.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said. His eyes were a bright, almost iridescent blue, and he fixed them on her intently. This, too, was both flattering and disconcerting.
“That could take forever,” she said, keeping it light.
“I’ve got time.”
Kali folded her hands around the stem of her champagne flute. “What would you like to know?”
He leaned forward slightly, leading with his chin. “Why not start at the beginning. Where did you grow up?”
“Silver Creek. A small town in the Sierra foothills.” A town she’d returned to several years ago when her life in the Bay Area began crumbling. Now she was faced with deciding which place to make her permanent home. But she wanted to avoid that discussion tonight.
“Brothers and sisters?” Nathan asked.
“One of each. How about you?”
“Only child. My parents traveled a lot so I was raised mostly by a succession of housekeepers.”
The waiter appeared, ready to take their orders.
“The duck is excellent,” Nathan told Kali. “As is the pork tenderloin. You can’t go wrong with either of them.”
Giving in to the tiny voice of rebellion in her head, Kali ordered the grilled salmon instead.
Nathan laughed. “A woman who knows her own mind.” He ordered duck for himself, then turned back to Kali. “Now, where were we?”
“In the early stages of the getting-to-know-you dance.” She smiled, hinting at flirtation. “I thought you were new to the area. You seem to know a lot about the menu here.”
“I like to eat well. And I’m a lousy cook.” His brow creased slightly in concentration; then he seemed to remember the earlier thread of their conversation. “Family,” he said. “That’s where we were. You were lucky. I always wanted siblings. And parents like other people had.”
Cold Justice (Kali O'Brien series Book 5) Page 12