The Next Victim

by Jonnie Jacobs

  Kali thought of the shattered window at John’s. She wondered if the detective’s choice of words was deliberate.

  Chapter 35

  Erling was leaving the courtroom where he’d spent the morning testifying in an armed robbery case when Michelle Parker caught up with him. She fell into step as he headed for the elevator.

  “Hey, Michelle. What are you doing here?” He hadn’t expected her, but he was ready for some good news. “A break on the Hendrix case?”

  The address on the map they’d found in Hayley’s car had turned out to be a vacant rental unit. A lot pricier than what he assumed Hayley could afford, but she might have had a sugar daddy in the wings somewhere, or even a potential roommate. It was an angle they were pursuing, but getting through to the investment company that owned the place was proving difficult.

  Michelle wasn’t smiling. “Hoping to catch you.”

  The elevator was jammed. Erling waited until they were outside, without extraneous ears to listen in, before he asked the obvious next question.

  “What’s up, then?”

  “Let’s take a walk.” Michelle pushed through the courthouse doors without looking back to see if he was following.

  Alarm bells sounded in Erling’s head. Michelle was a straight shooter. She didn’t play games and she didn’t go in for dramatics. Yet she was clearly upset. Had something happened to Deena or Mindy? His heart pounded like a sledgehammer in his chest before he convinced himself it wasn’t that. Michelle’s manner was too brusque. Maybe something in her own life? A serious illness? A job offer elsewhere too good to ignore?

  He hustled after her. “What is it?”

  She stopped in a shady spot at the edge of the plaza and turned to face him. “Were you involved with Sloane Winslow?”

  For a moment Erling was too stunned to speak. “Was . . . I . . . involved?”

  She crossed her arms. “Involved. Romantically involved. Sexually involved. Personally involved. Whatever.”

  So there it was. The bullet he thought he’d dodged. Erling considered denying it. What proof could she have? But a lie would only dig him in deeper.

  Michelle waited for him to speak, her eyes boring into him.

  He could simply refuse to respond. Take affront that she’d even ask such a question. But Michelle was perceptive. And a lie was a lie, no matter how it was disguised.

  “At one time,” he said at last. His mouth was so dry he had trouble speaking. “It was over by the time she was killed.”

  “Jesus.” Michelle feathered her hands through her hair, turned away from him and then back again. “Why didn’t you speak up? Ask for the case to be reassigned?” She hit her head with an open palm in the sort of dramatic play he’d just told himself she wasn’t capable of. “Because then you’d have to admit to the affair, right? Better just to sweep it under the rug and hope no one ever found out.”

  “It wasn’t something I was proud of.”

  “What, the affair or lying about it?”

  “Both.”

  “What if it had come out at trial? This could have blown our case against John O’Brien right out of the water.” She gave an exasperated sigh, then looked at him with an expression he’d never seen before. “You didn’t have anything to do with O’Brien’s death, did you?”

  Erling was appalled. “I hope that’s not a serious question.”

  But it must have been, because she was waiting for an answer.

  “You can’t honestly think I’m a murderer.”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore. You were quick to latch on to O’Brien as a suspect. As I recall, you were the one champing at the bit to arrest him. If the DA hadn’t raised some issues . . .”

  “They weren’t issues, Michelle. It was more a matter of making sure we’d crossed all the t’s and dotted all the i’s.”

  “That’s called making sure you’ve got probable cause for an arrest.” Her voice snapped with anger. “Shit, Erling. This throws the whole investigation wide open. Maybe O’Brien’s sister is right. Maybe he didn’t do it. It’s something to think about, especially in light of evidence that he may have been murdered. We don’t even know that Sloane Winslow was the intended victim. Not with Olivia Perez being a friend of Hayley Hendrix’s.”

  “If anything,” Erling said, trying to make his words sound reasonable, “we’ve got more on John O’Brien now than we did earlier.”

  Michelle shook her head, not so much in disagreement as confusion and dismay. “I don’t know. It’s a mess. We’ve got to take a fresh look at everything. Rather, I have to take a fresh look at everything. You need to take yourself off this investigation.”

  “If this gets assigned to a different team,” Erling protested, “it will take them weeks to get up to speed.”

  “What, you think I’m not up to speed?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “And you know one of the first names that’s going to come up as a possible suspect, don’t you?” She pointed a finger at him. “Yours.”

  He took a breath. “I know I messed up not coming clean about my relationship with Sloane. Believe me, I’ve agonized over that. But for personal reasons—”

  “Like screwing around on your wife.”

  He hadn’t expected sympathy from Michelle, but neither had he expected quite so much anger. It brought him up short and made him realize anew what a mess he’d made of things.

  He nodded. “You’re right. I . . . I wasn’t sure my marriage could take it if Deena found out. But I haven’t compromised the investigation. I swear to that.”

  “I was so happy to be partnered with you,” Michelle lamented. “I admired and respected you. I wanted to learn from you. I never thought you were someone who—”

  “Could be human too?”

  “That’s a lame excuse.”

  Erling spread his hands. “I’ve admitted I was wrong. What more do you want? I can’t undo what’s done.”

  She’d been glaring at him but now she looked away. “It’s a disappointment is all. I had you pegged for a better man.”

  Her words cut to the quick. There wasn’t much he could say in response.

  Michelle turned on her heel, back toward the station. “I’m going to be spending the rest of the day going over the file. Let me know when you’ve spoken to the lieutenant.”

  Erling felt beads of perspiration forming on his forehead. Talking to the lieutenant would be tough, but not half as tough as admitting to Deena what he’d done.

  As Erling watched Michelle’s retreating form, his stomach knotted with shame and regret, and with dread about what would follow.

  Chapter 36

  As she was leaving Java Joe’s, Kali called Sabrina, but her sister didn’t call back until Kali was in line at the grocery, where she’d stopped to pick up lunch from the salad bar. A morning of coffee and biscotti had left her feeling queasy, and she was hoping a dose of healthy greens might be a remedy. She suspected, though, that her discomfort had more to do with recent discoveries than with what was in her stomach.

  “You think she’ll follow through?” Sabrina asked after Kali had reported on her conversation with Michelle Parker.

  “The odds are better than if I’d gone straight to the top. The big guns usually have their sights trained on public image and putting the right spin on things. I was afraid they’d stonewall the entire incident.”

  Kali had reached the cashier. She tucked the phone against her shoulder and paid for the salad, then headed for her car. “How are you doing?”

  “Okay. And Peter’s being very sweet. For all his flaws he’s a decent man and a good father.”

  “That’s nice. What about the gambling?”

  “He’s getting help. And we’ve set up a meeting with a financial adviser about paying off the debts.” Sabrina sounded more upbeat than she had in days. “I think it’s going to work out.”

  “I’m so glad.”

  “I’ve been thinking about the kids at Sunshine House,”
Sabrina said. “It’s so sad. Our boys coming first is one thing Peter and I have always agreed on.”

  “And it shows. They’re great kids.” As Kali neared the car, the signal began to break up. “The connection’s fading,” she said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  <><><>

  The message light on John’s answering machine was blinking when Kali arrived home. Five calls, all of them hang-ups, and all identified as “private” on the caller ID log. Telemarketers, Kali concluded. Anyone who knew her would have left a message.

  Kali poured Pellegrino water over ice, added a wedge of lime, and had just popped the top of the plastic salad container when the phone rang again. She answered it, feeling mildly irritated.

  “Hello.”

  The sound of breathing greeted her on the other end.

  “Hello?” she said again.

  “Too bad about the window.” The voice was male and throaty. Not one she recognized.

  Kali’s skin prickled. “Who’s this?”

  “Guess you’re having something of a rocky stay here in Tucson.” His laugh was a mirthless bark.

  “What do you want?”

  “Face facts, dear. Your brother isn’t the upstanding guy you thought he was. Why not cut your losses and go back home?”

  “Who are you?” Kali’s heart was racing. She glanced through the window, half expecting to see a masked figure watching from outside. The yard was as placid and peaceful as always. Still, she felt like a bug under a microscope.

  “I’m simply looking out for you,” the caller said. “I’d hate for something . . . unfortunate to happen.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “I’m trying to help. There are so many dangers out there.”

  Kali dropped the phone into its cradle and rubbed her hand against her pant leg, as if she could wipe away the slime of the call. Her heart was pounding. She waited, thinking he might call back. When he didn’t, she checked caller ID again—another “private”—then took a deep breath and punched in star sixty-nine.

  A recorded message informed her the return-call service was unavailable for the number she was trying to reach.

  Kali hung up. She realized she was shaking. The rock thrown through the window had not been a simple act of vandalism.

  Someone was trying to scare her off. Someone didn’t want her digging into . . .

  Into what? That was the key.

  She remembered the beige sedan she’d seen earlier. Maybe she hadn’t been imagining that it was following her.

  Her pulse fluttering wildly, she backed away from the phone. She was being silly, she knew, but she couldn’t bring herself to turn her back on the suddenly sinister instrument. She checked all the doors and windows in the house and looked out to the street. Nothing.

  She wasn’t in imminent danger, she decided. The caller wanted her to drop her investigation and go home. If he’d wanted to harm her, he’d have done so. Just as he hadn’t harmed Sabrina the day he’d tossed the rock.

  But if Kali didn’t back off, all that could change.

  She thought of contacting Michelle, but she had no proof of the threatening call. And Kali felt she’d laid enough on the detective already. Although she was no longer hungry, she made herself swallow a few bites of the salad. Her nerves weren’t being helped by the fact she’d eaten nothing so far today but caffeine and sugar.

  The CDs and book Sabrina had pulled from John’s Porsche were on the kitchen counter. While she nibbled, Kali reached for the book and read the blurb on the back. Political intrigue and international machinations—not the sort of book that generally appealed to her. When she opened the cover to read the inside jacket, the business card John had been using to mark his place fell to the floor. As Kali leaned over to pick it up, the name on the card caught her eye.

  Wayne Clark.

  One of the names she’d found in John’s datebook. The man with the Australian accent who’d left a phone message on John’s machine.

  What caused her breath to catch were Clark’s job title and company: Wayne Clark, Executive Producer, Nice’n’Naughty Productions. A post office box and phone number, both in Tucson, were listed. On the back of the card, someone had scribbled a couple of names and phone numbers.

  Nice’n’Naughty Productions had a . . . well, a naughty sound to it. Kali was reminded of the porn sites John had visited. The DVDs in his cupboard and the videos he’d downloaded. She went into his study to look the company name up on the Web. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe Nice’n’Naughty had to do with manners instead of sex. Or with dog training. But once she saw the Web site, she knew her initial instinct had been correct.

  Kali’s knowledge of the porn industry was limited. True, she’d watched a couple of videos with a former boyfriend, though she’d been more turned off than titillated. And sometimes she’d inadvertently clicked on an e-mail that slipped past her spam filter. What little she knew beyond that she’d picked up here and there from reading or from news coverage. Porn was widely available and more mainstream than it used to be, but for most people it was still part of a seamy underworld they tried to avoid.

  With trepidation, she reached for the phone and punched in Wayne Clark’s number. Just when she expected voice mail to click in, a man picked up. She recognized the cadence of Clark’s accent right away.

  “This is Kali O’Brien,” she said, “John’s sister.”

  If Clark was surprised to hear from her, he didn’t show it. “Such terrible news about John’s death. My condolences to the whole family. I know I should have dropped a note or something. Sorry to be such a bludger.”

  Kali could hear conversation in the background, and over that, a female voice sounding impatient. Clark must have put his hand over the mouthpiece briefly because there was a muffled “Give me a minute” before he came back to the phone.

  “If you’re calling about whatever money your brother had coming,” Clark continued, “you need to talk to our accounting people. Or better yet, have the attorney handling the probate get in touch.”

  “Money?” Kali wondered if Clark had confused John with someone else.

  “Payouts are made on a semiannual basis.”

  “What payouts?”

  “Return on investment. John was one of our backers. Isn’t that what you’re calling about?”

  John in the pornography business? “Not really,” Kali answered, confusion overriding dismay. “I was calling because my brother met with you a few days before he died.”

  “Ah, that.” Clark didn’t seem inclined to elaborate.

  It was a conversation better handled face-to-face, she decided. “Is there a time when we can get together?”

  “We’re in production right now, so the days are pretty busy.”

  “How about after work?”

  Clark seemed to hesitate, then finally acquiesced. “This evening, around seven? We should be winding down by then.”

  “That’s fine.”

  He gave Kali an address and directions for finding the door and buzzer once she was there. “It sounds more complicated than it is,” he explained.

  “I’ll figure it out. See you at seven.”

  The agitation over the ominous phone call was overshadowed now by uneasiness. And, yes, curiosity over John’s ties to the porn industry.

  <><><>

  Kali had taken the tourist tour of Universal Studios in Los Angeles, and she’d been on a small company’s set where a friend of hers once worked as a production assistant, but when it came to porn films she didn’t have any idea what to expect. She’d sort of assumed they were shot in the back bedroom of a run-down bungalow in some seedy neighborhood where every house had bars on the windows.

  Nice’n’Naughty Productions, however, was housed in a sleek and modern warehouse-like building out by the airport. The entrance was on the east side, off a paved and striped parking lot. Kali pushed the button and a buzzer sounded, signaling her to open the door. She stepped into a small, carpeted reception a
rea that resembled the waiting room at her dentist’s, right down to the artificial, and slightly dusty, fichus tree in the corner.

  A moment later, one of the two interior doors opened and a man emerged.

  “You must be John’s sister,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m Wayne Clark.”

  He was in his early thirties, of medium height and build, though he had a bit of a bulge around his middle. He was wearing blue Bermuda shorts and a yellow polo shirt. She could more easily picture him teeing off on a golf course than filming hot and heavy sex.

  Wayne ran a hand through his hair. It was golden and wavy, curling around his ears. “Like I said, I’m sorry about John. I didn’t know him all that well—I try to leave the business end of things to others—but he seemed like a nice guy.”

  As he talked, Wayne led her past several offices, a sound booth, an editing room, and a couple of production studios. Through the glass panel of one of the studios, Kali could see a cameraman on rails positioning a shot on the set of an empty living room. A pretty high-class living room, Kali thought. Oriental rug, overstuffed couch, mock fireplace, and big-screen television.

  Clark’s gaze followed hers. “Fun’s over for today. He’s just setting up for tomorrow’s shoot. We’ve got the girl-girl in the morning, and a girl-girl-boy after that.”

  “A what?”

  “The scenes. Most of our productions incorporate the standard variations. It’s pretty formulaic, but you’ve got to have them because customers expect it.”

  A young woman in workout pants and a T-shirt emerged from an area to Kali’s right. “The shower sucks,” she said to Wayne. “Still no water pressure. I thought you were going to get that fixed.”

  “I thought it was fixed, love.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “I’ll get the guy back out tomorrow.”

  “Before I go on.” She tossed her canvas tote over one shoulder and strode out the door.

  Wayne turned to Kali. “That’s Amber Lane. She’s a pain in the ass sometimes, but she’s dynamite in action.”