'Go get your gloves now!' Eric yelled.
Piles and piles and piles—
'Tandy?' Eric asked. 'Tandy, you okay?'
She took in a lungful of air, then screamed as loud as she could, her head throbbing even after the sound had vanished from her throat.
Then she went and got her gloves.
The small, fresh red stains made abstract art in a pile of grease. Harlow had cordoned off the area with yellow crime tape. Nobody like an old-timer to do the right thing. Decker said, 'What makes you think these stains have anything to do with Marie Bellson, Bri?'
'I'll tell you the whole story, Sergeant. One of my men comes to me. He's doing the third-floor interviews. He talks to this nurse, gal's name is Janie Hannick. Janie says she knows Marie Bellson but doesn't really know her. My guy asks her what the hell does that mean. Only he doesn't use the profanity, that's my addition.'
Decker smiled and told him to go on.
'Janie says she's never worked with Marie - she works in one department, Marie works in another. But for years they've been doing the same shifts, and the same overtime shifts. Soon they noticed they're always parking their cars at the same time and walking into the hospital at the same time.'
Harlow sucked in his belly.
'To make a long story short, as Janie and Marie always seem to be together anyway, they decide to walk in and out of the lot together. You know, like protection. 'Cause these underground parking structures are stewpots of crime. So each one waits for the other for about five minutes. If the other doesn't show up, the one who's left goes in solo.'
'So it's an informal kind of thing?' Marge asked. 'Seems that way,' Harlow said. 'Naturally, my guy asks this Janie if she and Marie walked in together last night. She says yes. Lucky break with a capital L. My officer tells me, then I ask Janie where'd she and Marie park their cars. I figure we can maybe pull a tire print or something from the empty space. Boom, I find this!'
'Good work, Brian,' Decker said. 'Let's get a lab man down and see if they can get a clean sample of blood.'
'Gonna be hard,' Harlow said. 'All sorts of crap on a garage floor - oil and grease with the grime.'
'The lab should have cleaning emollients. Hopefully, they'll be able to precipitate something decent. If we can find prior blood workup on Marie Bellson, maybe we can
do a rough comparison and see if there's a basis for a match.'
Marge said, 'We should see if there was blood work done on the baby, too.'
Decker made a face. It was a horribly gruesome thought, but Marge was right. 'Go ahead. And while the lab is out here, try to pick up a tire print. Marie could be savvy enough to change the plates on her car, maybe even spray it a different color. But most people don't think about the tire prints. Also keep an eye out for shoe prints. Lots of grease around here.'
Harlow said, 'How're you going to find some blood work on Bellson?'
'I'll see if she has a private doctor,' Decker said 'Maybe she's been a diligent health professional and has had a yearly checkup.'
Marge said, 'Maybe she's had surgery done at the hospital. If so, she'd have a chart here.'
"Good point,' Decker said. 'Get someone to check the chart room.' He stuck his hands in his pockets. 'I'm on my way to Bellson's apartment. Call me through the RTO after you're done with the scene.'
'Sure thing.' Marge stared at the blood spots. 'I don't like this.'
'It does get the heart going,' Harlow said.
'So does a good cup of morning coffee,' Marge said. 'And without the bitter aftertaste.'
The temperature was climbing as Decker pulled out of the Foothill Substation parking lot. Warrant stowed in his jacket, he turned right on to Osborne, steering the unmarked car on to the freeway. Amazing what seventy-two hours indoors could do to the perspective. The streets seemed wider, the buildings appeared taller, and the noise of traffic hurt his ears. But at least he was outdoors, no longer engulfed by the cries of the ill and the smell of death.
Fueled by coffee, he reached into his pocket for the scrap of paper with Marie Bellson's address. She lived about three miles away from his ranch - his and Rina's ranch. After living alone for so long, it was still hard for him to adjust from mine to ours. Not that he was selfish: Rina could have anything she wanted. Decker figured his exclusive thinking was mere habit. Maybe Hannah would change all that. Something created by their union.
Bellson lived on a windy side street that dead-ended into a wide cul-de-sac. The block was a mixture of old, small one-story ranch-style houses, duplexes and modern apartment buildings. Marie's complex was at the mouth of the turnabout, three stories done in ecru wood siding pocked by weather. Hunting for a space, Decker managed to squeeze the Plymouth between a white Ford Bronco and a white Volvo sedan. Down the street sat the watch cruiser, Norwegian-blond Tim Swanson at the wheel. Decker gave a little wave, and Swanson got out of the black-and-white.
'Sergeant,' Swanson said.
'What's shaking, Officer?'
'Nothing.' Swanson cocked his thumbs under his belt-loops. 'Place has been as interesting as a tomb.'
'Who's watching Bellson's door?'
'Len Kovacs. Nothing there, either.'
'You look bored.'
'More like brain-dead, Sergeant. Story of my life. I almost miss the excitement of the riots. I may have been hated, but at least I was doin' something.' Swanson smiled, then popped a stick of gum in his mouth and offered one to Decker, who politely declined. 'We finally located the manager of the building. She'd spent the night at her daughter's and should be here any minute with the key. Save our shoulders some bruises. Unless you want to bust the door down.'
'We'll use a key, Tim.' Decker slapped the warrant against the palm of his hand and told Swanson that they'd enter together. First they'd check the place out to make sure no one was hiding. Then, if Bellson's apartment was empty, Decker would look around by himself - less people, less chance for a screwup.
Bellson lived on the third floor. The place's elevator traveled like a turtle, smelled of mold, and creaked as it rose. Kovacs was sitting cross-legged in front of Bellson's door, and he blushed when he saw Decker. He stood and swiped at his pantseat.
'Not used to standing so long.' Kovacs shook out his legs. 'Guess I'd make a lousy palace guard.'
'Anything suspicious at all?' Decker asked.
'Not a thing, Sergeant.'
Decker knocked loudly, announced himself, and got no response. He turned to Swanson. 'When's this manager supposed to be here?'
'She said around eight. Five minutes maybe.'
Decker looked at the space between the door and its frame. Marie had a deadbolt. He couldn't trip the lock with a credit card. Decker jiggled the doorknob. The door was flimsy and he was impatient. A baby was missing and so was a nurse; the only thing left behind, an empty parking space dotted with blood. One good shove and he'd be inside. But he knew it was more prudent to wait. Ten minutes later, the manager finally showed up. She seemed to be in her late fifties - scrawny and wrinkled with a bouffant of carrot-colored hair. Her voice was husky, her breath charged with cigarette smoke.
'Renee Fulbright.' She offered a bony hand, nails buffed and covered with pumpkin polish. 'What happened to Marie?'
Decker said, 'Who said anything happened to her?'
Renee pulled out a massive ring and began to sort through keys. 'It's gotta be serious. Otherwise, why would the police— Ah, here it is. Apartment Three-twelve. Marie's been a model tenant, by the way. Never missed a month.' She slipped the key into the lock, then turned the handle and opened the door. 'Don't go messin' up the carpet... if you can avoid it, I mean. I just had it cleaned.'
Decker wiped his feet on the burlap mat. 'I'll take off my shoes as soon as I'm convinced the place is secured.'
'The cooperative type, huh?' Renee gave him a slow smile. 'You know, I got this thing for redheads.'
Decker said, 'My new infant daughter's a redhead. Bet you'd really like her.'
The smile disappeared. 'That was subtle.'
Decker laughed. 'You don't have to stick around, Ms Fulbright. But I'll need the key until I'm done.'
Renee sighed then slipped the key off the ring. 'I'm in
number 101. Just drop it in the mailbox.'
'Got it.' Decker stepped over the threshold and called out, 'Police!' When no one answered, he did a quick onceover of the living room. First the closets - clothes, utility, water heater - nothing. Then he started going through the kitchen as Swanson and Kovacs did quick checks on the bedrooms and bathrooms.
It was unremarkable — small counters, white stove and refrigerator, a corkboard hanging on the wall, a calendar thumbtacked to the board. Decker pulled out the thumbtack and leafed through the yearly log. None of the date boxes had the words "baby-snatching" written in them. He smiled to himself. Bells on was going to make it hard. He'd look over the calendar thoroughly when he had more time.
Swanson came out of one of the bedrooms. 'Guess what I found, Sergeant.'
Without turning around, Decker said, 'A cat.'
Swanson didn't answer right away. 'How'd you
knowV
'Litter box and food bowl in the kitchen.' Decker faced Swanson who was holding a gray kitten with black stripes. He chucked the animal's chin. 'Cute little bugger. That what they call a tiger cat?'
'I'm not up on my cats,' Swanson said.
'Just his pussies,' Kovacs said.
The men broke into laughter.
Decker said, 'Was the cat locked in the room?'
'Yeah, the door was closed, come to think of it,' Swanson said.
'Either of you find anything else that moved?'
Kovacs shook his head.
'Looks like the place is empty. You two can report back to your regular duty.'
'What do we do about this?' Kovacs held up the cat.
'Just leave it here. I'll take care of it.'
Swanson lowered the animal on to the floor. The kitten immediately made a mad dash for its divided food dish. There was water in one compartment, but the food side was empty. It meowed plaintively.
'I think it's hungry,' Swanson said.
'Appears to be the case,' Decker said.
'You need to feed the kitty,' Kovacs said, then laughed at his own joke.
Decker slipped on gloves, then opened several cabinet doors until he found a box of kibble. 'See you fellas.'
After the uniforms left, Decker poured the food into the bowl and watched the kitten stuff its face. Then he took out his notebook.
His overall impression was that the apartment had been expecting its tenant to return home. The cat, of course, suggested that. If Marie hadn't returned home soon, the poor animal might have starved. Ironstone dishes were stacked neatly in the drainer, two hardback library books lay on the dinette table. Decker read the titles:
Being single in the Nineties. A New Revitalized Look at the Feminist Movement.
Adult Daughters Child Mothers - When Nurturant Roles are Reversed.
Seemed like Marie was doing some soul-searching. Taped to the refrigerator was a reminder note - 3 p.m. with Paula. He found today's date in Bellson's calendar - PD at 3 marked in red.
Three p.m. was a way off. If Marie didn't show up, most likely Paula D would call her up and ask what had happened. He wondered if Marie had an answering machine. Scanning the living room, Decker located the phone attached to a machine. A red zero showed on the message window. No one had called last night while Marie was working.
Or someone had called and the messages had been listened to and rewound.
Decker tapped the Play button, and the machine began to spit back prior messages. There was one from a woman whose voice was raspy and old and hurried - as if she was calling on the sly. Another from a woman named Dotty, who left no phone number, and a third from Paula, who did leave a number. Decker copied it down, then depressed the digits into the keypad. Two rings, then Paula's message machine took over. Decker hung up. He'd call back later.
He had no idea when those calls were made. Marie's machine didn't have a built-in clock. Yesterday, Marie had showed up at work in the late morning and worked until she disappeared. If those calls were made when Marie was at the hospital, it meant someone else had rewound Marie's messages. Otherwise, the message dot would have been blinking.
He wrote his observation in his notes and started to take in the living room. Feminine taste, from the soft pink plush carpeting to the rows of cherubic figurines that lined a curio cabinet. The walls were white tinged with pink and decorated with posters of cats doing cutie-poo things like wearing top hats, and Impressionist prints. A bowl of potpourri sat atop a nineteen-inch TV. The couch was a broadcloth of pale blue and pink waves, spruced up with needlepoint throw pillows. End tables flanked the sofa and a coffee table in front.
The coffee table held one book - a King James Bible. Across from the coffee table was a white rocker, an afghan neatly draped over the back. A matching ottoman rested at the chair's feet.
Having finished dining, the cat jumped on to the ottoman, then leapt on to the chair. It proceeded to claw the afghan until the blanket fell forward, burying the
kitten under a knitted patchwork. The cat wriggled out to freedom, then nestled into the soft folds of the cloth and closed its eyes.
'At least one of us is getting some sleep,' Decker muttered.
Bellson's bookshelves were nearly empty, except for a dozen thumbed paperbacks and academic nursing and medical texts. The cabinets below were filled with odds and ends - board games, a picnic basket, Durablane logs, a couple of cameras. Photographic equipment but no photo albums.
Decker thought, everyone has photos. Where were Marie's? He went back to his work.
Seemed like Bellson didn't have a lot of young children as visitors. The light-colored furniture wouldn't last a week around sticky hands. The carpeting wasn't made for spills and dirty shoes. Lots of breakable things sitting in open shelves, as well as uncovered wall sockets. The worst offenders were the magazines on the coffee table. Toddlers just loved ripping the covers to shreds.
He moved on to the bedrooms.
The sleeping quarters held a double bed, sheets folded army-corners tight. Her duvet was a down-filled patchwork of pink, rose and white. On the left nightstand was a phone, the right was topped with a clock radio. The alarm had been set for ten a.m. There was a television guide stuffed into one of the stand's drawers along with a book rating feature movies shown on TV. The other stand gave space to a King James Bible.
Decker thumbed through it. Lots of underlined passages, but no specific theme he could detect.
Marie the nurse.
Marie the Bible reader.
And that was about all he knew of her. Nothing else was illuminating the woman.
He went over to the closets.
Marie's apparel was neatly stowed in a white lacquer dresser and a wall closet. After he'd sorted through dozens of pieces of clothing, it was clear that there were no secret baby clothes or blankets squirreled away. If Marie had been planning on bringing an infant home, she'd done an inadequate job of stocking her place with baby supplies.
As intimate and feminine as the bedroom was, it was as generic as a movie set, except for the Bible.
Decker waded through the bathroom connecting the two bedrooms. It was papered in vining pink roses on a white background with color-coordinated towels and washcloths. Another bowl of potpourri rested on the white linoleum counter. The medicine cabinet held over-the-counter drugs as well as some prescription ones -Erythromycin, Gantrisin, Lomotil, Estranol. Decker wrote down the names and would check their functions later. Under the sink was spare toilet paper, facial tissues, and two shampoo bottles.
Exploring the second bedroom - which had been converted to an office - Decker found much of the same. A small secretary's desk topped with a white leather blotter, bronze penholder, a crystal clock and yet a third bowl of potpourri. The woman liked sweet smells, but he hadn't seen
perfume on her dressers. He wondered if that meant anything, then remembered a lot of nurses didn't wear perfume. Scents were often displeasing to sick people.
He started going through the desk drawers. The supply drawer in the middle contained small items, nothing of any significance. The left drawer held her personal stationery, at the top of which was Marie Bellson RN done in a florid scrawl. Matching envelopes printed with a return address as well as smaller note cards also in
the same matching calligraphy. The right side of the desk was a bank of files - car, insurance, taxes, bills, bank statements, tax-deductible receipts.
Decker picked out the bank statements. After an hour of perusing deposit and withdrawal slips, he surmised she had one checking account, her balance hovering around three hundred dollars. She also had a savings account with approximately three thousand dollars as of three days ago. He gathered her statements and called the bank, only to discover that the account was still active, and no transaction had taken place within the last week.
Faye Kellerman - Decker 06 - Grievous Sin Page 13