Her brother cut her off. “I have a right to be there. I’ve known Laurel since high school. I want to pay my respects, okay. The service is being held at a church. I’m sure they’ll have a big turnout since Laurel was a local teacher. The family won’t even know I’m there.”
Melody walked over and draped her arm around Neil’s shoulder. He pulled her hand to his mouth and kissed it.
“Don’t worry, Carolyn,” Melody said. “I’ll wait for him in the car. He needs this for closure. Your brother is going to be back on his feet in no time. I’m taking him to the Chart House for lunch so he can get some decent food. Do you want to join us?”
“I’m sorry, I’ve got too much to do.”
After concluding the call, Melody brushed her hair and put on her makeup while Neil went down the hall to take a shower. After she dressed, she went to the kitchen to grab some breakfast. From the granite counter she picked up the piece of paper with the phone number to her father’s hotel. She hadn’t decided yet if she was going to call him. The paper felt strange in her hands, almost as if a part of him had been imprinted on it. Then she realized it was his handwriting. Unlike most doctors, it had always been so perfect. They no longer taught children to write that way. She remembered how she had tried to copy her father’s handwriting as a child. Seeing his disfigured hand had disturbed her, but it was his left, and he was right-handed.
Before the incident on the third floor of her home in Tuxedo Park, Melody had adored him. She’d been daddy’s darling, and he had lavished her with attention and gifts. Afterward, their relationship had been tempered by fear. If what he had told her was true, his rough treatment of her that day when he was having sex with the woman may have caused her to tell the police he was the one who’d pulled the trigger. Parents had no idea how their actions affected their children. Memories from the night Jeremy and her mother died were stalking her. Details she must have suppressed were resurfacing. Neil showing up as he did, regardless of the circumstances, had provided her with a much-needed distraction.
Neil was hers now. The best part was that Carolyn had handed him to her. This had given her the upper hand with both of them. Carolyn and Neil needed her in multiple ways, the most important they would never know about, the footage of the murder. Need was a powerful tool in the hands of a user. Melody had also discovered a new weakness in Neil—his suicidal tendencies. She could use this to her advantage.
So much had happened during the last twenty-four hours. Today would be another bitch of a day, but she would muscle through it. She poured two bowls of cereal, setting them on the table, then filled two glasses with orange juice.
“You’re getting your Ferrari back,” she said when Neil came and sat down beside her. “Aren’t you excited?”
“No,” Neil said flatly. “Once everything is over, I’m going to sell it.”
It was obvious by the look on his face that mentioning the car triggered negative memories. Today was Laurel’s funeral. He’d driven her to his house in the Ferrari the day she’d been murdered. By the time they got to Ventura, picked up the car, and had lunch, it would be time to go to the church. Soon Laurel Goodwin would be nothing more than a memory.
The ninety-minute drive to Ventura was filled with light conversation and long moments of silence. Melody knew that Neil needed time to sort through his feelings about Laurel.
The Ferrari wasn’t parked at the regular police impound lot. Because of its value, it had been placed inside a secured building owned by the city. She dropped Neil off, reminding him to meet her at the Chart House restaurant as soon as he was done.
Melody parked down the street from the Ventura Police Department and exited her Porsche. She was dressed in a gray business suit, a black blouse with the top three buttons undone, and low-heeled black leather shoes, with a matching inexpensive shoulder purse. She could have e-mailed the video from a library or some other publicly used computer, but what she was about to do was far more challenging. Showing the police she could step into their world and do anything she wanted made her feel powerful.
She opened the trunk and removed a manila file folder and a black wig. The file was empty, yet it served its purpose as a prop. Reentering the car, Melody slipped on the wig, then secured it with a clasp at the base of her neck. She removed a badge that said FBI, which she’d purchased the day before at a costume store, clipping it onto her belt. Looking in the mirror, she purred, “Perfect.”
Once inside the building, she stopped at the reception desk. “I’m Agent Rodriguez with the FBI. I have a conference scheduled with Detective Sawyer at eleven-thirty. I’m a few minutes early. Is he in?”
“No,” Desk Officer Carl Duval said. “He’s with the mayor right now. Is this an emergency?”
“No,” Melody said, smiling as she pressed her chest against the counter. “Can you direct me to his office? I have some paperwork to catch up on while I’m waiting.”
The officer handed Melody a clipboard to sign. She quickly wrote the name Samantha Rodriguez, then was buzzed through the security doors. The officer seemed to be more interested in her breasts than her credentials. Typical.
Filling her lungs with a deep breath and pushing her shoulders back, she entered a door marked HOMICIDE. The detectives must be out on cases as no one was around. Ten workstations were separated with half-height walls and had chipped blue Formica tops. Prominently displayed over each desk were gold nameplates. To the left, she saw an enclosed office with a window looking out into the open space. Hank Sawyer’s name was on the door. What a slob, she thought, entering. No wonder he had trouble doing his job. A disorganized desk was reflective of a disorganized mind.
Digging into her purse, she pulled on a pair of latex gloves and sat down behind Hank’s desk, inserting a DVD into his computer.
“Oh, hello,” a voice said, breaking the silence.
Melody placed her hands in her lap, quickly removing the gloves and depositing them in the trash can.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Standing there was a fresh-faced young man, wearing a white shirt, a tie, and slacks. He ran his hands through his tousled brown hair. Not a problem, Melody thought. This wimp was no threat. She wasn’t even sure he was a man. He looked about sixteen. “No, that’s fine,” she said, turning back to the computer. A window opened on the computer screen asking if she wanted to play the video or save it to a file. Noticing the man’s eyes track to the screen, she stood and walked toward him, extending her hand.
Fortunately, she distracted him from the monitor. “I’m Samantha Rodriguez,” she told him, closing her jacket so he didn’t see the phony FBI badge. “I’m from tech support. Detective Sawyer notified us he was having problems with his computer.”
“I’m Chris Alabanie,” he said, blushing. “I’m a police cadet. Most of the time, I end up making phone calls or filing. These guys are always chasing after one murderer or the other. I guess one day, they’ll get around to training me to do something else. You know, this computer I’m using is running out of memory. It would be great if you—”
Melody cut him off, “I’m sorry, but I have to get this taken care of before Detective Sawyer comes back. Call tech support and see if they can send someone else.”
Once he wandered off, she retrieved the gloves and clicked on the Lotus Notes icon. Hank’s e-mail program filled the screen. She typed out “Hank S” and his full e-mail address filled out the box. Then she attached the video file from the DVD and pressed send. A window appeared signaling that a new e-mail had arrived. Mission accomplished. Wearing a disguise had been warranted, she told herself, grabbing the DVD and shoving it into her purse.
Melody rushed to get out before the wannabe cop returned. Sawyer may have busted Sabatino, but as Carolyn had pointed out, these idiots needed proof. The video should seal Sabatino’s fate. Neil was innocent. That didn’t mean innocent people weren’t sent to prison due to incompetent law enforcement officials. Her father had been wrongly convicted, or so he claimed. The co
ps and their investigative units were pressured by the victims to get results. It was just like a slogan her stockbroker always used, “Churn and burn.” The police had to make cases quickly and move on to the next. She knew what the word “make” meant. Take any evidence collected and either add to or modify it to make a conviction. Right or wrong, the police felt they’d done their job.
Nobody was taking Neil away from her.
Chapter 30
Wednesday, December 29—1:30 P.M.
Hank burst into the detective bay, rubbing his eyebrows. What a waste of time, he thought. An hour and a half listening to the mayor speak on how to reduce crime in the city. Hank was convinced that the best way to reduce crime was to stop having stupid luncheons with the mayor.
His IN tray was filled with new yellow and blue files. Yellow meant faxes and blue signified an internal communication. The color-coding system was supposed to help him get organized. His desk now looked like a circus tent.
He decided to dig into the pile before his phone started ringing. Picking up one of the blue files, he found the forensic report on the Ferrari. CSI had certainly taken their time, he thought. He looked at the signature. Who was Alex Pauldine? He remembered a message from someone named Alex with a last name he couldn’t make out, advising him that they were releasing Neil Sullivan’s Ferrari. What did he care if they released the car? They’d done a complete workup and Sullivan didn’t appear to be their primary suspect at the moment.
The report was dated yesterday, December 27. His eyes locked on the name Raphael Moreno on the second page. Blood! Raphael Moreno’s blood inside Neil Sullivan’s Ferrari! What in the hell is this all about? He picked up the phone and called Alex Pauldine at the lab.
“Have you already released the Ferrari?”
“Neil Sullivan picked it up less than twenty minutes ago,” Pauldine said. “Is there a problem?”
“Yeah, there’s a problem,” Hank shouted. “According to your report, Raphael Moreno’s blood was found inside that car. Why wasn’t I notified?”
“Don’t yell at me,” Pauldine said defensively. “I sent you the report yesterday. I also called you to let you know we were finished working up the car. Since you didn’t call us back, we assumed you didn’t object if we released it. As I understand it, Sullivan is no longer a suspect. What’s the big deal?”
“Do you know who Raphael Moreno is?”
“I think the morgue has a Moreno on ice,” Pauldine answered. “I’m not sure if his first name is Raphael. Traffic accident. We’ve got the wrecked car. It’s a common name in the Hispanic community. What’s going on?”
“Raphael Moreno slaughtered an entire family. One of the victims was a six-month-old baby. How could you not know about something like that? Mr. Hartfield’s Cadillac was sent to you guys.”
“I didn’t handle that case. Bernie Wolcott did, I believe. Since the defendant pleaded guilty, the DA’s office pressured us to work the Caddy up in five days.”
“You obviously remember it, then,” Hank argued.
“Now that you mentioned it, I do. When the case involves kids, I try my best to forget. What’s that got to do with the Ferrari? We held the car long enough. We got everything we needed. You don’t need the car anymore.”
“That Ferrari may be tied into the deaths of nine people.”
“Where do you come up with nine? Weren’t there only five members of the Hartfield family?”
“Here they are,” the detective said. “The five you mentioned, along with Moreno’s mother and sister. Those occurred in Oxnard, so they were out of our jurisdiction, but they were all tried as the same case. That makes seven. Then there’s the Goodwin and Porter homicides. Got it?”
“You’re telling me they’re all connected?”
“It’s looking that way. We thought we had the killer, but I’m not certain now. This is big, Pauldine. As soon as you realized Moreno’s blood was in the Ferrari, you shouldn’t have released it. What if you missed something? It’s not like it’s never happened before.”
“Remember, we process evidence. We don’t solve murders, Sawyer. That’s why we sent you the report. We also sent it to you twenty-four hours before we released the car. We were well within protocol. After you read the report, if you still have questions, call me. Otherwise, do your job, partner, and let me do mine.”
“Fine,” Hank said, slamming the receiver down. Damn crime scene techs. Most of them weren’t even cops. Because the work they did was so essential to solving crimes, they could bring an investigator to his knees.
He picked up the report and continued reading, something he should have done before he’d jumped on Pauldine. When they’d removed the driver’s seat in Neil Sullivan’s Ferrari, they’d found a small quantity of blood. DNA testing determined that the blood belonged to Raphael Moreno.
Hank had to resist the urge to call Carolyn. She was the only one who’d ever spoken to Moreno. He couldn’t call the probation officer, however, as her brother owned the car in which they’d found Moreno’s blood. It was no longer a speculation that the murders were connected, it was fact.
How did Neil Sullivan fit into the picture? A drug deal had been one of the first things that had crossed Hank’s mind. This was somewhat supported by the fact that the lab had found trace elements of methamphetamine in the trash can of Sullivan’s next-door neighbor. They hadn’t pursued it because they didn’t have a search warrant.
Stupid rookies, he thought. They were always tossing things without a warrant. The instructors at the academy drilled them on what was known as the “Fruits of the Poisonous Tree,” or the exclusionary rule, but the lesson never seemed to stick. Basically, any evidence that was obtained without the benefit of a search warrant was inadmissible in a court of law. When they ended up with stacks of evidence and no warrant, district attorneys would go to extraordinary lengths. They’d have the cops perjure themselves and swear the person wasn’t a suspect when they searched their property. Sometimes they had already booked the suspect and then had to set him free long enough for a jury to buy their story. No one wanted to be responsible for putting a guilty person back on the street, so the majority of judges would simply pass the buck.
Hank knew how the system worked. A suspect was arrested and arraigned, then a date was set for the preliminary hearing. The preliminary hearing was held in the municipal court. Many judges weren’t concerned if their case was overturned on appeal as long as they appeased the public while the case was hot. After the defendant was held to answer in the superior court or supreme court, the name depending on the jurisdiction, the case then went to trial. If it was still hot in the court of public opinion, even a superior court judge might allow the evidence to be admitted, with full knowledge that the ruling would be overturned once it reached the appellate court.
Evidence that was illegally obtained was eventually brought to light, no matter how desperately the prosecution attempted to hide it. The sad part, at least as Hank saw it, was that the person or persons who screwed the case from the get-go were cops. Some were rookies, like the officer who went through the neighbor’s trash in the Goodwin homicide. It was worse when the officer had been on the force for years and simply decided to make his own rules, thinking he could lie his way out of it.
Hank no longer wasted his time with illegally obtained evidence. He didn’t mind knowing about it—he just knew he couldn’t build a case around it. Why take it to a DA and watch him salivate over it, or start scheming for a way to get it admitted as evidence? Some of the DAs were fresh out of law school, and not Ivy League schools, but cram schools like the one Carolyn was attending. Give an overeager DA a sloppy case and they’d screw it up so the suspect could never be convicted. Try them once and the jury finds them not guilty and they could never be tried again.
Hank called Captain Gary Holmes. “Things blew up on us, Captain.”
“Which case?”
“All of them,” Hank told him, his voice sparking with excitement. “Th
e lab found Raphael Moreno’s blood inside Neil Sullivan’s Ferrari. The Hartfield killings occurred at 1003 Seaport Avenue. Laurel Goodwin was found dead in Sullivan’s pool located at 1003 Sea View Terrace. Three blocks away, Suzanne Porter was murdered in the same fashion. Her address was 1003 Seaport Drive.”
“The killers are looking for something.”
“Exactly my thoughts,” Hank answered. “Even then, how does it explain Moreno’s blood inside Sullivan’s Ferrari?”
“Have you asked Sullivan about it?”
“No, he disappeared,” the detective said. “The lab released the Ferrari before I found out about Moreno’s blood. Since we arrested Sabatino, they assumed Sullivan was no longer a suspect.”
The captain’s voice elevated. “Why didn’t you read the report? You’re not back on the sauce, are you?”
Hank angrily yanked his tie off, tossing it on his desk. His affair with the bottle had lasted six months. The way it seemed, it would follow him forever. “I’m not drinking, okay? We’ve had two homicides in less than a week. You’re the captain. Tell me what to do.”
“We need to have a conference,” Captain Holmes told him. “I’ll have Louise take care of the notifications from my end. All you have to do is call in whatever people you have on the street. It’s one-fifteen now. Let’s call it for two-thirty. Make sure you fire off an e-mail to everyone in your department. Just because you’re computer handicapped doesn’t mean your people are. The city paid a fortune to create an integrated network connecting the entire department, including unmarked as well as regular patrol units. Try using it every now and then, Sawyer.”
Hank disconnected and stared at his computer screen. First, the captain implied he was drinking, then he made him sound like a dinosaur because he didn’t worship this stupid box on his desk. He checked his e-mail at least once a week, and he occasionally used the Internet for research. He didn’t like deleting messages, though, fearing he might need to review them again. He squinted and saw a small envelope at the bottom of his screen indicating he had e-mail. He’d never tried to send e-mail to several people at one time.
Sullivan’s Justice Page 28