“What time was that?”
“She thinks it was around seven, when she shoulda been at work already. She remembered running to her car, running through the parking area, not really paying too much attention to what was going on other than getting to her car, when all of a sudden a black Beemer pulled out in front of her and almost crashed into her. She said she had to jump back to avoid getting hit. She was screaming nasty words at the driver, but she was talking to the air. The car just bolted the hell out of the lot. She was so angry that she wrote down the license plate…”
“She has the license number?”
“She said she planned to report it to the condo board when she got back home.”
Decker’s heart started whacking in his chest. “So tell me it was Roseanne’s BMW.”
“Yes, it was, but she didn’t know it at the time.”
“Good Lord!” He smiled genuinely. “And she’s just remembering the car now?”
“Y’see, the first time we asked her questions, we asked if she saw Roseanne that morning. The answer to that question was no. This time we asked her what she did that morning.”
“Recalling her morning of the crash jogged her memory about the car.”
“Yes, but she didn’t know it was Roseanne’s car. She just wrote down the license number, worked a long day, and then forgot about the whole thing, especially once she heard about the airplane crash. That kinda took the wind out of her sails to be mad at anyone. All she could think about was poor Roseanne.”
“Okay, okay, give me a minute to digest this.” He closed his eyes and opened them. “Does she remember what time the Beemer almost crashed into her?”
“Sometime after seven but before eight.”
“Before flight 1324 crashed.”
“Definitely before the crash, because she heard about the accident at the hospital.” Wanda took in a deep breath and let it out. “When she got home that night, it was all over the condo that Roseanne had died. Everyone felt absolutely sick about it.”
“Did she know Roseanne?”
“Casual acquaintance. You know, they saw each other in the Jacuzzi or the gym or the laundry room. It’s always awful when someone you know dies unnaturally.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I asked her, ‘Are you sure you’re remembering the correct day?’ And she said, ‘Absolutely, positively.’ And then she told me the story. When she got to the part about the car being a BMW, I was holding my breath. I asked her to describe the car and that’s when she remembered she wrote down the license plate.”
“And she still had the number?”
“In the glove compartment, right where she left it. When I asked to see it, she asked me why. I told her I’d tell her as soon as I got off the phone with DMV. When the license plate matched, I told her that Roseanne drove a black BMW. The poor girl just about fainted. She started crying and carrying on, because she told me that it was probably Roseanne rushing to make her flight. And she said some real nasty things to the driver. In some respects, she said she wished the car would have crashed into her because then Roseanne would have stopped and missed the plane.”
Decker nodded. “If it was closer to seven, maybe it was Roseanne rushing off to work. If it was closer to eight, there is no way Roseanne could have made the doomed flight. Can she narrow down the time a little more?”
“No, sir, I tried that. She doesn’t remember beyond sometime between seven and eight.” Wanda raised her eyebrows and licked her pink glossy lips. “And we got one other major problem. It was Roseanne’s car; that is definite because the number she wrote down matched Roseanne’s plates.”
“But she couldn’t see who was driving the car.”
Wanda nodded. “It happened real fast. She was in a rush and she was flustered. And the Beemer was in a rush.”
“Could she tell you something about the driver?”
“She said it happened so fast, she couldn’t even see if it was a man or a woman. She thinks there was only one person in the car, but she won’t even swear to that.”
EVEN WITH JUST a skeleton crew in the squad room, Hannah’s batch of forty-eight cookies was gone. Decker had resorted to picking the crumbs left behind.
“Those were good,” Wanda Bontemps said. “Ask your daughter for the recipe.”
“I think I’m in sugar narcosis,” Marge said. “Can I adopt your daughter?”
“You’ve never seen her before a trig test.”
“I’ve seen my own daughter before a particle-physics test. She can’t be any worse.” Marge’s cell phone rang. She looked at her watch. “Speaking of which…It’s eight o’clock, it must be Vega. Excuse me for a moment.”
Oliver said, “I’m making more coffee. Any takers?”
Four hands went up. Marge covered the cell’s mouthpiece and shouted, “Count me in.” She talked to her daughter for a moment longer then rejoined the group. They had decided to talk in the squad room because the common tables provided more space than Decker’s office. “What did I miss?”
“As it stands right now, the Loo was just saying that it’s unlikely that a judge is going to issue a warrant for the Beemer unless we can implicate the car in a crime.”
“We’re out of luck.” Oliver had returned, balancing coffee cups, cream, and sweetener. “There are no outstanding wants or warrants on the car. Ivan may be a murderer, but he obeys traffic signs.”
Wanda helped him with the coffee. “Are we still thinking about Ivan as his wife’s murderer?”
“What do you mean?”
The newest detective said, “If we get a match for Raymond Holmes as Belize Hernandez, isn’t it likely that Hernandez was Roseanne’s killer? He did it once to his sister-in-law. Why couldn’t he do it again?”
Oliver said, “He could, but something’s still not making sense with that.”
Marge broke in. “Scott and I were talking about this. Why is the man we call Raymond Holmes hanging around, knowing full well that we found his sister-in-law’s body?”
Wang sipped coffee. “Maybe he thinks we can’t identify the body.”
“Maybe, but I know what Scott and Marge are getting at,” Decker said. “There’s something out there that we’re missing and it has something to do with Manny Hernandez. The old man told me that as far as he knows, Manny’s still missing. According to him, Raymond Holmes is Belize, but Martin’s eighty and a con, so everything is suspect until we have evidence to back it up. Until we have a positive on the prints, we don’t know if Ray is Belize or if Ray is Manny.”
“Who’s doing the print comparison?”
“I asked for Zach Spector,” Decker said. “He’ll be in tomorrow at ten. I’ve already contacted Roswell Correctional. A copy of his prints on file should be arriving here by ten-thirty in the morning, providing that FedEx is on time. In the meantime, if we want to speculate, let’s go back to the Roseanne Dresden case. What are we thinking? That her husband stashed her in the trunk while still alive—because she didn’t die in the condo—then carted her off and killed and buried her somewhere?”
“That crossed my mind when Hermione told me the story,” Wanda said. “But why would he do it in daylight? Why not just wait for the cover of night?”
“Ivan is not a cool cookie,” Marge said. “Suppose they got into an argument. Ivan admits that they fought the day before. Maybe she came home early in the morning and they fought again. This time, he got really mad and pushed her. We found her cell under the couch. Maybe she fell backward and hit her head. She gets knocked out cold and he just panicked.”
Wang said, “People fall and hit their head, but usually they don’t die right away. Do you honestly see the guy throwing her in the trunk and then killing her and burying her?”
“Like I said, maybe he panicked. Ivan accidentally or on purpose knocks her out. He wraps her in a blanket, takes her out to her car, and stuffs her in the trunk. He goes out and gets rid of the body. Then, on the way back, he hears about the plane crash and fig
ures he’ll blame her disappearance on the accident. But then people might ask why her car is parked in the condo parking complex and not at the airport. So Ivan drives the Beemer to the airport, leaves it there, takes a cab back to the condo, drives to work, then turns on the faucet, and tells everyone that Roseanne died in the crash.”
The group nodded. Decker was the first one to speak. “It’s logical, but wasn’t Ivan at work by eight-thirty or nine? If the man was racing out at seven in the morning, he doesn’t have enough time to find a spot, bury her, take her car to the airport, then find a ride back to his condo so he can pick up his own car and be at work by nine.”
Wang said, “Maybe the witness got her times mixed up.”
Decker said, “Killing someone in a car in broad daylight is very chancy. So is dragging a body and shoving it into the trunk. There’s also a real possibility that her car was speeding because she was rushing to make the doomed flight.”
Marge said, “Erika Lessing, the flight attendant who worked the counter for WestAir, distinctly remembers not seeing Roseanne.”
“A positive witness is better than a negative one,” Decker said. “Roseanne could have slipped in without Erika noticing her.”
“Of course,” Marge answered, “but the bigger issue is that Roseanne’s remains haven’t been found at the crash sight.”
Decker said, “That, together with a witness who saw the car speeding off, is what we’re going to use to get a warrant to search the car. If Roseanne was violently murdered inside her vehicle or in the trunk, we would probably find more blood than would be expected, a reasonable amount even if Ivan cleaned the car.
“Assuming he didn’t change the carpets,” Wanda said. “What if he did?”
“Then that would be suspicious,” Marge said.
“Exactly,” Decker said. “So before we even bother a judge with a warrant, let’s investigate to see if Ivan did anything with the car that would arouse suspicions.”
“Like changing the carpets?” Oliver said. “What do you want? For us to start checking BMW dealers?”
Wanda said, “If he was hiding bloody carpets, do you think he’d use a dealer?”
Decker said, “Even so, start with the dealerships. Best place to order new carpets, and there aren’t that many of them in this area. If that doesn’t work, canvass the independent car-repair shops. Ivan’s not a genius but he wouldn’t drive around in a car with blood-soaked carpets.”
“Yeah, but he seemed really excited about driving Roseanne’s Beemer,” Oliver said. “Nothing as sweet as driving a car you didn’t pay for.”
AT ELEVEN TWENTY-SIX A.M., a grinning Decker announced that Raymond Holmes’s right finger-and right thumbprints matched the fingerprints on file at Roswell Correctional for Belize Hernandez. Upon hearing the first bit of definite news, the squad room broke into cheers. His matching prints together with the old man’s story made the contractor a prime candidate in Beth Devargas’s murder, and jumped Holmes to the top of the list in regard to the disappearance of Roseanne Dresden, speeding Beemer and lie-detector test notwithstanding.
With the matching prints, Raymond Holmes’s visits to Santa Fe Correctional, and Martin Hernandez’s assurance that he would testify against his son in exchange for his immediate freedom, Decker had no problem getting a warrant for Holmes’s arrest for Beth’s murder. It was signed and sealed by two in the afternoon, and at six in the evening, Decker, Oliver, and Marge were sitting in row 13, seats A, B, and C on a Southwest flight from Burbank a.k.a. Bob Hope Airport to San Jose International. Holmes would be brought in for voluntary questioning the next morning at San Jose PD and proper personnel at the police station had been informed of the mission, ready to assist the trio in whatever they needed.
To everyone’s relief, Holmes agreed to come in without the necessity of announcing the purpose of the visit. But this time, he was wary enough to ask for a lawyer. Three hours later Holmes and a gray-suited man named Taz Dudley waited for Decker in an interview room at San Jose PD in a western-area precinct.
The party was about to begin.
38
REMEMBERING HOW MUCH Holmes sweated, Decker brought in a box of tissues and made sure that there was plenty of water available. Immediately, the big man poured himself a glass, drained it, and poured another one. The interview would probably be interrupted by frequent bathroom visits, which would affect the rhythm of the questioning but such is life. Holmes had dressed comfortably—sweatpants and a black T-shirt that tented over his belly like a parachute. He had socks and sneakers on his feet. His mouthpiece, Taz Dudley, was garbed in a navy shadow-stripe suit, cream-colored shirt, and a red tie.
Some minutes were taken up by introductions. Then Decker started the conversation.
“Are you comfortable, Mr. Holmes?”
“How comfortable can I be when I’m dragged away from my house and continue to be treated like a common criminal?”
Taz Dudley placed a manicured hand on his shoulder. “Let me talk, Ray. That’s why you’re paying me. You just settle down, okay?” The lawyer was an austere-looking man, with a portly build and a decent head of salt-and-pepper hair. He had deep brown eyes, a square chin, and a tan that either came from many Caribbean vacations or hours in a salon. “Do you want to tell us why you brought my client in for questioning?”
Decker’s words addressed the lawyer but he looked at Holmes. He threw out a false start. “Your client was having an affair with a woman who is now missing.”
“God, I don’t believe this!” Holmes shouted.
“Ray, please—”
“No, you let me handle this, Mr. Dudley. I want to have my say. Then you can take over.” He glared at Decker. “You asked me to take a polygraph test, I took a polygraph test without a lawyer. And I passed. Now here it is, what…like four weeks later, and you’re back again. This isn’t questioning, this is harassment. I cooperated. Yet you continue to prevent me from working, so I’m losing money there. Plus, you’re costing me money to retain a lawyer. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do if this continues, I’m going to sue San Jose, I’m going to sue LAPD, and I’m going to personally sue you!”
Holmes grabbed the glass of water, but knocked it down instead. Decker dabbed up the mess with some tissues and gave Holmes a wad to dab his face.
“This is just ridiculous!” The big man mopped up his wet face. “Look, I am truly sorry that the woman is missing—”
“Ray, you’ve said enough,” Dudley interrupted.
“Okay, okay.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Just get me out of here, okay?”
“Is it your intention to arrest my client?”
“It might be.”
“What the fuck do you want from me?” Holmes cried out.
“Ray—”
“No, I want to know why you’re harassing me after I cooperated with every request you made. This is what I get from being a good citizen?”
Decker said, “If you would just hold your outrage for a few minutes, maybe I can ask you a few questions and straighten this mess out. Then we can all go home, happy campers.”
“That’s what you said the last time I was here!”
“Mr. Holmes, I understand your frustration. We are just doing our job.”
“Have you been talking to that scumbag husband of hers?”
“Ray—”
He stood up abruptly. So did Decker. “Relax,” Holmes said. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
Decker nodded. “I’ll take you.”
“You’re not going with me. For all I know, while I’m in there with you, you’ll zap me with a taser.”
“Your lawyer can come as well.”
“This is just plain embarrassing!” He looked at his lawyer. “Make sure he stays away from my dick.”
The excursion took up another ten minutes. After they were reseated, Holmes appeared as if he had lost a little of his steam. Decker said, “I’d just like to ask your client a few questions, all right?�
�
“Go ahead,” Dudley said.
“Thank you.” Decker looked at Holmes. “The night before Roseanne Dresden disappeared, you told me that you were home with your wife all evening.”
“Yes,” Holmes answered.
“I really think it would be in your best interest to have your wife come in and sign a statement backing up your claim.”
“You know that’s just a form of intimidation, Lieutenant,” Dudley said. “Mr. Holmes has admitted to an affair with Roseanne Dresden. He has also told you that he had not seen the woman in six months prior to her disappearance.”
“We’ve been through this already,” Holmes broke in. “I swear to God, I don’t know what happened to Roseanne. I don’t know if she died in the crash, I don’t know if that scumbag husband did her in, or I don’t know if she hooked up with some loser with a nasty temper. I don’t know, okay?”
“Okay,” Decker said.
Holmes wiped his wet face. “Okay.” Sensing that the heat had been lifted, he sat back in his chair and took another glass of water. “Can I go home now?”
“Not quite yet,” Decker said. “I have a good reason for asking your wife to sign a statement, sir. It would just be one less charge to deal with.”
Holmes sat up. “What are you talking about?”
“Let me handle this,” Dudley said. “Are you going to explain or is it your intention to keep us holed up for nothing?”
“Mr. Dudley, your client has an identity problem.” He looked at Holmes and then reached in his suitcase and pulled out a legal document dated twenty-three years ago. “You weren’t always Raymond Holmes, were you?”
Dudley picked up the paper, but Holmes grabbed it from his hand. The big man looked at the paper and a new wave of sweat washed over his face. “This is what you’re asking me about?” He shook it in front of Decker. “This is what you’re in an uproar about? So what? So I changed my name. I didn’t think Tomas Martinez would go over too well in the Silicon Valley. You think I’m an upstart spic, is that what you think?”
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