Walking down the corridor to her office, she saw how wrong she had been. A good-looking man with dark hair graying at the temples stood thumbing through the new copy of Journal of Forensic Science that had been left on the mail table outside her door, as if he had been waiting for a while. His clothes were well cut and carefully pressed, his hair neat, his shoes spit polished. He wasn’t a cop. That meant most likely he was a lawyer or a process server. An enemy.
“This is incredibly cool,” he said, slight southern flavor to his voice, holding up an article about maggots. The picture he had his finger next to showed a guy’s face covered with them.
“They are doing amazing things with entomology,” Windy agreed. Most people didn’t think it was even vaguely cool. Bill banned her books and periodicals from the bedroom because of “those horrifying photos.” And every time she went to visit her parents she still had the same conversation with them. It started in her mother’s voice: How can you do a job where you look through other people’s dirt?
It’s not dirt, its evidence. Besides, you work with dirt all the time at the dry cleaning place.
Her mother’s lips pushed together so hard that the color went out of them and you could only see the lip liner saying, I don’t know, Chicago. Is not a job for a nice girl.
Windy shook her head now, her mother’s voice sounding more and more like Brandon’s imitation as the days she refused to return her phone calls added up, and said to the man outside her office, “Are you waiting for me?”
He gave one last look to a different picture, this one of arterial blood spray on a wall going up and down like hills in a Chinese landscape. “Yes. Sorry.” Putting the magazine down now, giving her his hand and a friendly smile. “I’m Hank Logan.” They shook and he dipped into his pocket for a business card, extending it toward her.
“ ‘Vegas Loves Kids’ program of the Department of Juvenile Services,” Windy read. That was the mayor’s pet program, which would mean that Hank Logan was one of his inner circle. His hands were extremely well kept, nails short and well manicured, the sign of a man with time and money to take care of himself. A political appointee. Definitely an enemy. “What can I do for you, Mr. Logan?”
“I’ve been assigned the case of Roddy ‘Hot Rod’ Ruiz,” he told her. “I’ve got some questions to ask you. Can we talk in your office? For privacy?”
“Of course,” Windy said, wanting to say instead, why not just draw and quarter me right here. If the mayor was sending someone over to take an interest in Roddy’s case, that likely meant he had changed his mind and was going to pressure her again to change hers about the crime scene. The Starrs, the girl’s parents, must have some power.
Windy unlocked the door of her office and let him go in ahead of her.
Hank Logan looked around intently, taking in the blood spatter velocity chart she had hanging on the wall, the stacks of carpet sample books lined up on the bookshelf. His eyes stopped on a foam mannequin with a knife jammed in its belly.
“That how criminalists get their frustrations out?”
“It belonged to my predecessor.”
“If up here is anything like downtown at our offices in City Hall, there isn’t a lot of money in the budget for redecorating. Or even decorating.” Glancing now over the calendar of a woman wearing a lot of lip gloss and a bikini sitting in a golf cart, the head of the club between her legs, not commenting on it, which Windy appreciated. It was another leftover from the former chief Windy kept meaning to get rid of but had started writing appointments on and hadn’t managed to find a replacement for yet, reminding her of how unsettled she still was.
His eyes ended up finally on the snow globe Cate and Brandon had made as a present for her, her first day of work, the only thing of hers in the office. “Be careful out there, kid,” a balloon said out of Cate’s mouth, the photo glued over a postcard of the Vegas skyline.
Hank Logan chuckled at it. “How old is she?”
“Six going on thirty.”
“Ah, about the same age as my daughter. It’s nice to have such a good reminder of why we do this, isn’t it?”
“Especially since I have a feeling you are here to make me feel like I did the wrong thing with Roddy,” Windy agreed.
He sat in the chair she motioned him toward, shaking his head. “I can put your mind to rest on that. Roddy has been released and will stay that way. But I am here at the mayor’s request, and to be honest, what he really wants is for me to spy on the Violent Crimes Task Force, using Roddy as a lever. Nothing would give him greater pleasure than to close the Task Force down. I think he’s wrong about that—don’t quote me, but I think he is intimidated by Ash Laughton. To tell you the truth, I don’t care to get involved in his politics. I agreed to be his leg man because I wanted to work on Roddy’s case. Dismantle the system from within.”
Windy exhaled, just realizing how tense she’d been. She said, “Why are you telling me this?”
“I don’t want to be a political pawn, and I don’t want to waste your time. I think you and the Task Force have enough on your hands without some second tier functionary messing around.”
Windy looked at him. “You don’t sound like a political appointee.”
“Damn. I’ve been working on my oily speeches too.”
Windy had to laugh at that. “What can I tell you about Roddy?”
Hank got comfortable in the chair. “I think he’s a kid with a lot of potential, but I am having a hard time getting him to open up. He won’t talk at all about what happened that night, some sort of code of silence. I’ve tried explaining that it’s privileged, that if he tells me it won’t be useful against his guardian, Hector, only it might help him but he won’t budge. I read the reports but there were a few things I didn’t understand about what happened in the apartment and then afterward. I am looking for a way to reach this boy.”
“What do you want to know?”
“It wasn’t clear from the report—did Roddy hear what was going on? Or did he see it?”
“He watched it. From behind the door.” Windy went on, telling him about the entire event in detail, taking pleasure in having such a good audience. He asked a few astute questions and when she was done he sat quietly, nodding to himself.
Finally he said, “That explains why he keeps showing up at that house, hanging around outside.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes people do that, to work through their memories of an incident, consciously or unconsciously. I think Roddy is still confused about what happened and he’s trying to make sense of it, and the only place to do that is where the action took place. It’s a crazy world, isn’t it, where a boy is embarrassed not to have killed someone. Death doesn’t mean anything to him, it’s just a sign, a way to say fuck you to a world he feels like rejected him. Excuse me,” he said, hand coming to his mouth. “Sometimes my language isn’t what it ought to be.”
“No problem. Do you see a lot of kids like Roddy?”
“Unfortunately I do. My specialty is abuse, and when you see that, you see kids whose values are topsy turvy. They become numb inside, and then can’t feel anything for anyone else either, so taking a life and taking a sip of beer amount to about the same thing. Maybe even the same rush. With Roddy I feel like there’s still hope. That’s why I wanted to talk to you—if he really was crying over the body of the girl, showing some emotion, that’s a positive sign.”
Windy admired and envied his optimism, forgetting he was a political plant. “I hope so. How long have you been in social work?”
“I was in private practice for a while before moving here to Vegas two years ago. I joined the department because I was tired of listening to men wonder why their wives weren’t satisfied with the Mercedes, the floor-length mink, and the diamond tennis bracelet and kept demanding things like fidelity. I figured if I worked with kids maybe I could deal with those problems before they started.” He smiled, disarmingly. “Is there anything else you want to know abou
t me? I could take you to dinner some time and give you a complete rundown.”
Windy felt herself blush. “I would enjoy that, Mr. Logan but—”
“You’re not interested. You’re coming out of a bad relationship. You don’t date men with receding hairlines.”
Windy laughed, despite herself. “Your hairline isn’t receding.”
“A little on the sides.”
“Actually, I’m engaged.”
“Congratulations. But the dinner invite still holds. Or lunch. Just as friends.”
“Thanks. That would be nice.”
He stood to go and Windy realized she was a little sorry. His interest—interest in her work—had been refreshing and his enthusiasm, optimism, were infectious.
“It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Logan.”
“Please, just call me Logan. Everyone does.”
“Call me Windy.”
They were shaking hands when Ash appeared at the door. The two men looked each other over in a way that made Windy think of lions. Before she could introduce them Ash stuck out a hand, saying mechanically, “Ash Laughton.”
“Hank Logan.”
“He’s with the Department of Juvenile Services,” Windy put in. “Working on Roddy’s case.” Not saying he was supposed to spy on them. The machismo was thick enough in the air as it was.
Ash nodded, not really easing up. “Is there a problem?”
“Not yet,” Logan said. “See if we can’t fix the boy up.” He looked at Windy. “Thanks for the help. You have my card. Call me if you think of anything else. Or if you’re just hungry.”
“Thanks.”
Ash watched the man leave, wondering what the hell that meant. The woman was engaged. And if she weren’t—
She was.
He turned back to face her, said, “I wanted to give you the good news myself,” and was rewarded with her undivided attention.
“We got the green car?”
“Not quite that good. I found our killer’s artistic inspiration.” He dropped the program from the memorial service on her desk. It landed next to the crime scene photo of the Johnsons’ bedroom.
Windy had to swallow a lump in her throat before she could talk. The parallel between the two was unmistakable. “He posed the bodies to look like this photo. He purposely recreated this scene.”
“And the place you told me to look for evidence? Between the two sons? It’s the place the father filled in the picture.”
Windy looked at the crime scene photo more closely. “This photo was standing on the bedside table. He was making the picture real. I guess we can deduce that he purposely struck when Doug Johnson was out. Less competition.”
“Exactly what I was thinking. Which means he is trying to take the place of the father.”
“Fill his shoes figuratively as well as literally.” Windy tapped two fingers on the top of her desk, impatient with herself, feeling like she was missing something. “We know for certain that he felt at home at the Johnsons’ house or he would not have stayed long enough to pull a stunt like this.”
“True. It almost seems like he’s playing a game. A game about control, controlling the family, controlling his environment.”
Windy’s eyes met Ash’s. “He’s not going to stop after this one.”
“No, I don’t think he is. But what worries me even more is that he’s going to get better at his game each time he plays.”
“Which means for him to get the same thrill, next time will have to be worse.”
There was a long pause. Ash broke it, trying hard to sound hopeful, saying, “Unless we have him in custody right now. It could be the exterminator. I’ll go have another chat with him. I think I can break him.”
“Yes. That’s a great idea.”
As Ash left, Windy wondered which of them was lying more.
CHAPTER 14
The red silk dining room of the Paradise Lost Café was mostly empty, just one couple lingering over a soufflé and a group of businessmen studying the tips of their cigars as they debated whether to go out to a strip club or have the girls sent to their rooms. It was after midnight and in the prep area their waitress leaned against the wall, careful not to crush the white-feathered wings of her uniform, and downed her tenth espresso of the night, willing the stragglers to leave so she could have a cigarette.
Eve Sebastian, the marquee chef and half owner of the restaurant, sat in her office off the kitchen, putting her knives away. The night had started out crappy with two of the prep staff calling in sick, and gotten worse when a short circuit in the sprinkler system flooded the kitchen during the dinner crush.
“I never want to go through a shift like that again,” Reiko Mars, the assistant manager of the restaurant, said, coming into the office and dropping into the hardwood chair next to Eve’s. She slid off her mules and rested her feet on the desk. “When the sprinkler system went haywire, I thought things were bad. But then when Matt and Johan started going at it and refused to put their knives down . . .” She shook her head. “I keep expecting someone to come and tell me we had the New York Times reviewer in the dining room tonight. That would be the icing on the cake.”
Eve rested her fingers on the hilt of a carving knife and tried to bring out a smile. The office was small and she had purposely chosen the furniture to be uninviting. She was not comfortable having people near her except in the kitchen. She especially hated the way Reiko put her feet up, made herself at home. She worked not to stare at Reiko’s ankles, perched so casually on the edge of the desk.
“Hopefully tomorrow will be smoother,” Eve said, trying to be polite but also encourage the woman to go.
“We’ll have the hotel maintenance staff look at the sprinkler system. Disconnect it if they can’t fix it before dinner tomorrow. We don’t want a repeat performance.”
“No.” Eve’s fingers tapped against the blade of the knife.
“Are you feeling all right? You seem sort of distracted.”
“I’m just tired.”
Reiko leaned forward. “Do you need help with the knives?”
“No, thank you,” Eve answered, too harshly by the look on the other woman’s face. She forced another smile. “It’s bad luck to have someone else clean your knives.”
“You chefs are so superstitious,” Reiko said with a laugh. She slid her feet off the desk and stood up. “Well, I should get home.”
Yes, Eve thought. Leave me alone.
But the woman didn’t move. Instead she pointed to the flowers on top of the filing cabinet. “You are so lucky to have a man who sends you flowers every week. How romantic. That Barry of yours must be great.”
“Harry. He is. Well, see you tomorrow.”
“Bye.”
Eve watched her go through the door and could see the fat dimples on her bottom. She looked instead at the flowers, which did not make her feel better, then at the framed picture standing beside them. It showed a man and a little girl, holding hands. The man was wearing a bowling shirt with the name EDDIE S. stitched over the pocket. His eyes crinkled as he smiled at the camera, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Around the wrist of his free arm was a thick gold bracelet with a horseshoe on it, and the index and middle fingers of his hand were crossed. He always crossed them in pictures, for good luck he said. The little girl was wearing a gold necklace with a #1 DAUGHTER charm. You couldn’t see it in the picture, but Eve knew it was there. She still had it, carried it in her change purse.
There had once been another person in the picture, on the other side of the girl, but the only sign of her now was hidden under the thick frame, a tiny corner of a floral print dress. It had taken Eve several tries before she managed to trim away the image of her mother without ruining the composition. Sometimes if she stared long enough, she thought she could see the hem of the dress creeping out from under the frame, as if the woman was still trying to steal his attention. Trying to say, “See, I won in the end. You had to leave and I’m still her
e.”
He loved me the most, she wanted to scream. He loved me.
Stop it, she warned herself. Thinking about her mother always made her hungry. The office started feeling claustrophobic, like it was going to collapse on her, too many voices, too many memories. She had to get out of here. Carefully folding up her knife case, she slipped it into her purse, picked up the vase of flowers, and locked the office. On her way to the exit she paused just for an instant at the door of the dark kitchen to breathe in its familiar smell of cleaning products, stainless steel, and blood. Her kitchen. She loved that smell.
She remembered the time she’d brought Harry there, to seduce him. Long after closing time, just the two of them with only the task lights on. She remembered the way he looked laid out naked on the metal counter like a slab of meat, waiting for her. A slab of meat with an erection. He had liked her enough then. He’d sent her flowers the next day, telling her he loved her, and every Monday after that.
But two months after that he’d changed his mind. Two months later he had asked her to meet him at his office because they needed to talk. Instead of sitting in the armchairs with her, like he did in the past, he had her take the chair with the itchy ice blue upholstery on the other side of his desk. He smiled at her, the way he smiled at the people he worked with, his clients. Then he tented his fingers and said, “This isn’t going to work out. I’m sorry, Eve. You have too many issues.”
That had happened three weeks ago. The first Monday the flowers didn’t come, she thought she would go out of her mind. So she solved the problem by sending them to herself. No one needed to know about it. About her failure.
She hadn’t thought it could get any worse but it did. That afternoon, as they were setting up for dinner, he had called to congratulate her on a write-up about her restaurant in the local newspaper. He had asked how she was. How business was. If she was seeing anyone. Her heart had stopped, thinking that maybe this was it, he was going to say they should get back together. Maybe she had been wrong. So she’d told him the truth. “No. Are you?”
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