Mortal Crimes 1

by Various Authors

  “No.”

  “It’s the stuff you get from carbide lamps, like the old miners had. Easy to get—you can find it at hardware stores. When you add it to water, it produces acetylene carbonate. Very dangerous shit. All you do is put the lid on tight and you’ve got a bomb. Stuff is unstable and highly flammable.”

  “Sounds to me like she could have blown herself up.”

  “She could have. I’m guessing she either left the lid off and put some cardboard between the water and the calcium carbide, or else she put the stuff in capsules—that would buy some time. Or else she had the capsules and was going to put it in right before she planted it on or in his car.”

  Laura squinted at the enhanced image. The way they could tell the figure was a woman was because of the legs. Long and paler than the surrounding blackness. A woman wearing short shorts.

  Laura knew who it was, and it shocked her. She knew who, but she couldn’t make the jump as to “why.” She was missing something.

  Victor said, “Looks to me like she followed him to the Circle K. When he went in, she tried to plant the bomb in his car.”

  “But she didn’t. I can only guess it was because he came out sooner than she expected.”

  “Me, I would have left it anyway.”

  “Maybe she didn’t get as far as Jaime’s car.” Another thought occurred to Laura. “Maybe she saw Christine in the passenger seat. Maybe that was what stopped her. If the thing didn’t go off for some reason, Christine would have gotten a good look at her.”

  Neither of them said what both were thinking: that the woman had glimpsed Christine in the dark car—the ponytail, the sling—and assumed it was Laura.

  “I don’t think she followed Jaime from the restaurant,” Laura said. “Otherwise, she would have seen me leave. Maybe she picked him up at his house.”

  Victor sighed. “We’ll never know.”

  “We know a lot more than you think,” she said. “We know who.”

  They took it to Jerry Grimes, then the three of them took it to Lieutenant Wiese. If they were right, Micaela Brashear was extremely dangerous. She had killed at least two people and probably more.

  The lieutenant closed the door to his office, and they sat there tossing around theories, formulating a plan of action. The office was utilitarian, lit by fluorescent panels in the ceiling, and held a cheap veneered cherry desk you could get at an office supply store.

  As they laid it out for him, the lieutenant seemed skeptical. “I’m having a hard time seeing a female doing something like this,” he said. “Women don’t like bombs—they’re much more likely to do something subtle. Like poison.”

  Laura kept a neutral expression, although his comment galled her. Victor said, “It’s a woman in the picture.”

  “Yes, but we don’t really know what she’s doing.”

  Maybe she’s dropping off a cup of sugar, Laura thought.

  “What’s her motive?” Wiese asked.

  Laura glanced at Victor, silently telling him to take the lead. It chafed her to have to do it that way, but there wasn’t any time to waste.

  Victor said, “We think she’s an imposter.”

  The silence was shattering.

  “An imposter?” Wiese said at last. “What do you mean?”

  “We think she’s been scamming the Brashears into believing she’s their daughter. As we got closer to finding Heywood, obviously the more precarious her situation was.”

  “She knew Heywood?”

  “We think she did. We’re working on the theory that she’s actually a twenty-six-year-old carnival worker named Angela Santero. She was Heywood’s girlfriend back in the mid-nineties.”

  “That would make her fifteen, sixteen years old back then.”

  “That’s right.”

  Laura and Victor had spent hours putting it together. What they came up with was chilling. Laura had faxed a photo of Micaela Brashear to Trudy Goodrich with G&H Shows. Trudy recognized her.

  That’s Angela. After all these years, and she still looks the same.

  “How did she pull this off?” the lieutenant said now. “I just can’t see it.”

  Victor said, “It helps that there wasn’t any DNA.”

  “What?”

  “Micaela was adopted. The adoption wasn’t legal—she was adopted from Nogales.”

  “They never did any DNA testing?”

  “Not that we know of.” Victor leaned forward. “Look at it like this. She shows up on their doorstep after all those years. You’re a parent. Wouldn’t you want it to be your child? It was an easy sell. They convinced themselves.”

  “I don’t see how she could fool them,” Wiese said stubbornly. “What about her childhood?”

  Laura cleared her throat. “That’s the worst thing, sir,” she said. “We think she knew all about Micaela’s childhood.”

  “And why would that be?”

  “That’s the link with Heywood,” Victor said. “At the time, she was his girlfriend. We think they brutalized and killed those girls together.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  They planned to breach the Brashear house the following morning. It would take that long to coordinate with the other agencies. The sheriff’s office would definitely want a piece, considering what Micaela Brashear had done to one of their own. And the Brashear house was in TPD’s jurisdiction.

  It was also important to know as much about Angela Santero as they could.

  They were working on the theory that at the age of fifteen, Angela had hooked up with Robert Heywood at the carnival where they both worked. By his early twenties, Robert Heywood was a full-blown serial killer. It was impossible to know to what extent Angela participated in the murders, but Laura’s instinct told her the girl got a charge from the killings. It was just a guess, but it felt right to her. Maybe Angela was the one who lured the girls.

  Laura guessed that, as manipulative as she was, Angela probably got into the girls’ confidence—a “good cop, bad cop” dynamic. That was how Angela learned about Micaela, how she knew enough to snow the Brashears. Micaela’s memories became her memories.

  It must have galled Heywood to see Angela living the life of luxury. The sports car, the doting family, the money. Fresh out of prison, he had nothing, except for what he charged on his wife’s credit cards. They didn’t know this for sure—perhaps they’d never know—but it was assumed he had come to town to see if he could get a little piece of the action. It was possible he had come here to blackmail her.

  If that were true, it was the wrong move.

  Lieutenant Wiese couldn’t see a woman using a bomb, but Laura thought the calcium carbide bomb was perfect for Angela Santero. It was simple to make and produced devastating results. Angela had seen its full effect when Heywood had killed Tom Purvis. Not only that, but there were ways of putting off the explosion—although this was tricky. Angela might have thought she’d be nowhere near Jaime when the car exploded.

  It fit with her personality.

  Laura thought of the calls on her answering machine. Maybe they weren’t from Grady. They could have been from Angela. Angela could have made the other calls, too—the hangups—to confirm Laura’s whereabouts. Maybe she’d planned to go out to the Bosque Escondido Ranch, then changed her plans. But the sex trade calls … why would she do that?

  It could be put down to simple harassment. It was the kind of childish thing Grady would do, but it would fit Angela, too. Sociopaths were more alike than they were different. They did stupid things, petty things …

  Laura suddenly remembered handing Nina Lantz-Brashear her business card with her home phone number on it.

  There were other loose ends. Why did Heywood and Angela kill Heywood’s best friend? Did he know what they were doing, and they decided it was too dangerous to let him live?

  And was Bill Smith just a name Angela made up or was he real? Was her whole story about living in San Diego a lie?

  And the question Laura couldn’t get out of her mi
nd: Was there really a girl named Lily?

  Laura knew in her heart that Angela Santero was not just a criminal. She was the most dangerous enemy Laura had ever faced. She knew that this woman wouldn’t hesitate to kill any one of them, even if it did her no good. She would do it because she could. Angela Santero was far worse than any cornered animal.

  Normally, people responded to logic. But Laura knew that Angela Santero had her own logic, the logic of a sociopath. She was predictable, but in a different way from the average person. She had no fear, so they could not get to her that way. She had no sense of time, so the idea of a shorter prison sentence would mean nothing to her. She lived for the moment, in the moment.

  Angela was like a shark. A predator with no fear, no natural enemies, no conscience to govern its appetite, cruising the waters aimlessly and picking up sustenance along the way.

  The problem with Chris and Jaime—they had gotten in the way.

  Laura knew that Angela had a strong sense of self-preservation, but how that would play out would depend on the circumstances. Laura had no doubt that if threatened, Angela Santero would take the Brashears hostage. She would kill them without even thinking about it.

  They had to get the parents out of the house. The morning was a good time because Dr. Brashear would leave for the clinic by eight o’clock at the latest. Nina Brashear was a bigger problem. Laura had to get her to leave the house without tipping off Angela.

  Laura wanted to make sure that Dr. Brashear was safely out of the way, so SWAT had been directed to watch for his black Lincoln Navigator; they would not move in until he’d left for the day. Laura also wanted to get as much information as she could from Nina Brashear—about the layout of the house and what dynamics were currently in play.

  They spent the night making their case for probable cause and planning the raid. One piece of good luck: Micaela Brashear had been stopped by a TPD patrol car for speeding two blocks from the Lariat Motel at nine oh three a.m. She had talked the officer out of the ticket, but after running her registration and license to make sure she was indeed the owner of the car, he’d asked her why she was dressed as a maid. She told him she was rehearsing for a play.

  Circumstantial evidence was building. Computer forensics had been able to enhance the video of the Solstice as it pulled out of the Circle K parking lot—the first three digits of the Arizona license plate corresponded to the plate on Micaela Brashear’s car.

  The pieces falling into place. They were lucky.

  Don’t worry, Jaime, Laura thought. I’m going to nail her ass.

  The SWAT team would gather at the staging area in Reid Park, which would make it appear they were doing some training. They hoped to have SWAT in place at the Brashear house by ten o’clock, providing Laura could get Nina Brashear out of the house.

  Laura called Nina Brashear at eight thirty the next morning. Angela Santero answered the phone.

  That was bad luck. Laura tried to relax. “Can I talk to Nina?”

  “Sure.” Laura heard the phone crack down on a wooden surface.

  As Laura waited, she thought of the mockingbirds, Buster and Blanca, and the imposter bird who had sounded so much like Buster—how easily she had been fooled. Just the way Angela Santero had fooled everyone, including Micaela’s own mother.

  Laura heard a muted click on the line and realized she’d been waiting for quite some time. Then she heard the sound of someone picking up the receiver, Nina Brashear saying, “Hello?”

  Laura wondered if Angela was listening in. Had to play this right. She told Nina she had to sing a solo that weekend and desperately needed her help.

  “You can come here … I could work with you at two o’clock—”

  “We have a rehearsal then,” Laura said quickly. “Look, I just want you to go over the music with me, show me where I should take the breaths. We can get in the room I’m going to sing in. It’s at the Arizona Inn—the library area. I’m heading out there now for breakfast. I thought we could check out the acoustics and run through it once or twice.” Laura was making it up as she went along. She remembered that the Arizona Inn had a piano room, that people did perform there, so that was plausible. “Could you meet me there? We could have breakfast by the pool. ”

  “Well … ”

  “I’ll buy.” It had been her experience that wealthy people loved a free lunch. That was how they stayed wealthy.

  “I’m not sure … ”

  Laura praying now.

  “I guess I could do that.”

  Laura closed her eyes. Her relief made her smile. They arranged to meet by the pool at nine fifteen.

  Laura wanted to ask about Dr. Brashear, if he had already gone to the clinic, but didn’t dare take a chance.

  As she hung up, she realized she was shaking. Worried that Angela had picked up on something. A born predator, Angela would sense if something was wrong. Laura hoped she’d been a good enough actor, that her story sounded plausible to Angela. She was counting on the notion that Angela didn’t know much about voice lessons or singing. It wasn’t necessary for her to know about music, so she didn’t bother.

  Laura used the Arizona Inn to lure Mrs. Brashear. The recital ploy made it an easy choice, but that wasn’t the only reason. Very few people turned down a chance to eat breakfast poolside at the Arizona Inn.

  Laura got to the Inn fifteen minutes before she was due to meet Mrs. Brashear, entering through the gate in the north wall. On her way to the pool, she passed croquet wickets on shaved green lawns, flagstone paths bordered by beds of bright flowers, a cactus garden, and a tennis court hidden by twenty-foot-tall oleanders. The Inn and all the casitas were pink stuccoed-adobe with blue shutters and doors. Coming here was like stepping back into the 1930s. The Inn was built by Arizona’s first congresswoman, Isabella Greenway, who put wounded World War I veterans to work building furniture to support themselves. Eventually, there was so much furniture she built the Inn to accommodate it.

  Celebrities stayed here. The employees at the Inn were discreet.

  Laura found a table and watched the guests splash around in the pool. No celebrities popped out at her. Above the clay-barrel tile roof across the way, royal palms and Aleppo pines rose against the blue vault of sky. But despite the beauty of her surroundings, she felt a mixture of dread and grief. Dread that Angela Santero might kill again. Grief for Christine, forever her Broken Wing Sister. Grief for Jaime and his family. Even if Jaime recovered, he would never be the same. He might never be able to go back to the job that made him who he was.

  And now she was about to tell this woman that the daughter she thought had been returned to her was an imposter. She had to tell Nina Brashear that she and her husband had been scammed. Someone had come into their home, bringing with her a palpable evil.

  For the hundredth time, Laura asked herself how she had missed it. How had Angela Santero fooled her so easily?

  She heard the iron gate open and close. Nina Lantz-Brashear walked toward her, the sunny yellow of her suit matching the umbrellas and tablecloths.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Steve awoke to the smell of bacon cooking. For some time now, he had suspected that the man was in his house. Living in his house.

  That was crazy, of course. But as he slowly swam his way out of sleep, he heard the sound of a gas burner turning on, a small whumpf, and a pan being set down on the stove.

  Jake, by the bed, did not move. But he growled. He growled low and deep in his throat.

  Steve got up as quietly as he could. Reached over for his glasses. Got out of the old double bed without making the springs creak. Moved silently across the floor. Looked back at the jingling sound of Jake’s tags. He held out a hand: stay. Jake sometimes obeyed the signal and sometimes ignored it. This time, he put his head down on his paws, no more anxious than Steve to confront the ghost in the kitchen.

  Steve crept down the short hallway.

  The man was using tongs to remove bacon from the pan, placing the bacon on a
doubled-up paper towel. The smell of bacon, the sizzling sound of the pan, the man’s tuneless whistle—all of it made the moment so vivid that Steve could not look away.

  “Who are you?” Steve asked.

  The man’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t turn to face him.

  “Turn around and look at me,” Steve demanded.

  The man sighed. He set the tongs down in the sink. He started to turn around.

  That was when Steve awoke.

  The sun came through the window. It was late. Late for him anyway: nine o’clock.

  He had dreamed—that was all. But he knew that it wasn’t all. It might have been a dream, but the reality he awoke to was not all that far removed. The man really was out there. He still roamed the woods around Steve’s cabin, still sat at his picnic table, still walked in and out of the tool shed with impunity. Didn’t matter that Steve had replaced the padlock; every time he went out there, the padlock hung askew, the lock open.

  The man might as well be in his house.

  Steve was beginning to think that the man who was so free with himself on his property was also the man who had killed Jenny Carmichael. That was the current theory at least.

  He wouldn’t tell the detective, though.

  He didn’t want to make a fool of himself in front of her. He found more and more of his time was spent thinking about her. It felt as if they had known each other all their lives. Ridiculous, but he felt so comfortable around her. Even though he was still a “person of interest,” he knew she felt that pull, the same as he did. He knew that in her heart she did not really suspect him at all. She was supposed to suspect him, so she did what she was supposed to do. But inside, he knew that she saw him as a good person.

  He wished he could help her find the man who did kill Jenny. He wished he could drop the killer before her like a cat leaves a mouse on the doormat for its owner. Signed, sealed, and delivered.

  If he could just get a look at the guy’s face. But The Man Without the Face was too quick for him.