by Terri Nolan
“She still shouldn’t have done it.”
“She’s a journalist, George. That’s what she does. It’s her obligation to get in front of the shit storm.”
Thom glared out the window. Side streets passed in a blur as George ran one red light after another.
“No doubt it’s going to hurt. But it could be worse.” It was the most artful lie Thom could present under the circumstances.
four
Let me introduce myself.
My name is Mayo.
I borrowed the name from the big jar of mayonnaise in Jerry Deats’ refrigerator. He ate it by the spoonful. That kind of gross does not deserve to live. Also, he was a pain in the ass.
I did not kill Jerry Deats.
He was not my mistake.
Why should I have to open the curtains so the busybody across the alley would see his body and call the police?
I did not like going. Jerry was a slob. The worst kind of trash-collecting, crusty-dishes-piled-in-the-sink, toilets-black-with-filth kind of slob. His apartment was stinky. He was stinky. After two weeks of dead, he was leaky.
Trust me, leaky stink is the worst kind of stink.
five
The residence of Dominic Lawrence was a decrepit ’60s tri level sandwiched between a massive glass and steel job and an impeccably maintained Spanish villa.
Warped garage doors, rusty wrought iron, cracked windows repaired with duct tape, and twisted rain gutters were a few flaws that added detail to the random patches of missing stucco. A broad concrete stairway, edges chipped with hard use, hugged the house with nothing but a rickety wood rail offering protection from a slope of ivy and bougainvillea.
The stairs led to a narrow side yard overlooking the villa’s red roof tiles and a smattering of satellite dishes. A small concrete entry lined with broken brick planters contained anemic green things attempting to survive. Beyond a lawn of crab grass and dandelions was the only good thing the property offered: canyon and city views. A real estate bifecta worth millions.
Thom wondered how Lawrence got along with the neighbors, considering his house was the dog on the street.
Spenser Hobart from Scientific Investigation Division greeted them from the other side of the yellow tape. He had the spit-shine of a ’50s television personality. He gave George an earnest smile and said, “It’s about time you showed up, Silva. I was beginning to worry.”
“I had to pull Thom out of church,” said George.
“No doubt from the confessional,” said Spenser. Then to Thom, “Did the priest thank you for freeing up his morning?” He chuckled at his own joke.
Thom scratched his nose with his middle finger and turned his attention to the uniform with the sign-in log. He printed his name, badge number, and arrival time on the sheet. George did the same.
“Who called you out, Spenser?” said Thom, ducking under the tape.
“S&M.”
“James Seymour and Mortimer Morgan. Conceited blowhards of RHD.” Thom hated being second string to S&M. But he got some satisfaction knowing they screwed up by pinning Birdie’s abduction on Emmett Whelan despite her protestations.
“Sweet,” added George, his voice rimmed with astringent.
There was a rivalry between the two pairs of partners that stemmed from a long-ago tiff between Morgan and George. That was back when George was undercover vice working the southside of prostitution. They had an altercation that neither man would talk about, allowing idle speculation and gossip.
“I hear they have the highest clearance rate,” said Spenser.
“Because they’ve been there the longest,” said Thom. “It’s called attrition.”
Near the front door a second yellow tape marked a smaller, more important perimeter. A patrol officer at the tape held a clipboard with a second sign-in log. His nametag read S. Cross. He nodded in greeting as Thom flashed the badge.
“RHD Detectives Keane and Silva,” said Thom. “Where do I know you from?”
“I was in rotation at Birdie’s hospital door.”
Birdie’s abductors had dumped her naked body on a city street. She spent the next week in the hospital with a twenty-four-seven police guard.
Thom wagged his finger in recognition. “That’s right. You worked for Gerard at Hollywood Station.” The implication being he was one of Gerard’s dirty guys.
“I play softball with Patrick Whelan,” said Cross. “He asked me to volunteer for the duty.”
The Whelan clan was close family friends with the Keane clan. Thom made a mental note to ask Patrick for the lowdown on Cross because he didn’t trust anybody these days. “What do we have?”
“Four dead. Two Asian minors in the front bedroom. Two Caucasian adults in the back bedroom. All shot with a small caliber weapon. Killer wrote a message in blood on a bathroom mirror. No sign of forced entry. Other than that, it’s a peaceful crime scene.”
“Really?” said Thom. “I didn’t know murder can be peaceful.”
“You’ll see what I mean,” said Cross.
“IDs?”
“The adults are Dominic and Rachel Lawrence. The minors appear to be foster kids.”
“Give me entry details.”
“The person reporting said she touched the front door handle, a magazine, and the door knob of the master bedroom,” Cross said. “I was the first responder. All the doors were shut so I gloved and two-fingered the knobs. I left them open so that the paramedics wouldn’t have to touch anything.”
George took notes.
“You certain that every door was shut?” said Thom.
“Yes, sir.”
“You create a path?”
“Preserved the center.” He gave Thom a map drawn on graph paper. “I recognized Lawrence from court and directed the watch commander to call RHD right away, but the Hollywood suits and Sergeant Anselmo rolled out anyway. There was the usual discussion and it got kicked. S&M arrived and then Lieutenant Craig came and changed it up.”
“Craig still in there?”
“Never went in.” Cross angled the clipboard toward Thom.
Thom studied the log. “You locked it down and restricted access,” he said.
Admiration replaced Thom’s trepidation of Cross. Thom had seen too many crime scenes wrecked by adrenaline-jacked patrol cops or overzealous detectives. Investigations are a methodical process and Cross had a keen awareness to protect and maintain. Not only did his thorough actions make the detective’s job easier, there’d be little to question by a savvy defense attorney. And Thom was always thinking of the endgame.
“You’ve got a pair,” said Thom.
“Lawrence is a big fish,” said Cross.
“Who’s the PR?”—“Person reporting.”
“Speaking of whom,” interjected Spenser. “Seymour got her to agree to a field process.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I checked her hands and clothing for GSR, took an index card and a hair sample. She even gave signed consent.” He passed the form to George.
“What’s the name of this helpful PR?” said Thom.
Cross held up a driver’s license. “Jelena Shkatova. She’s in a car waiting for you guys.”
Thom plucked the license from Cross’ hand and stared at the tiny photo of the blond-haired, green-eyed beauty. The odoriferous memory of cigarettes, sickly-sweet gardenias, and latex smacked him hard across the face. He felt disconnected. Woozy.
He had sex with Jelena last night.
Thom coughed to mask emote. “What connection does she have with the victims?”
“They were her foster parents,” said Cross.
Thom rocked slightly, felt sick, tried to stay focused. He had followed the rules of catch and release. No last name. No occupation. Nothing personal about family. The rules burned him.
“Talk t
o the residents next door?” he said, unsteady on his feet.
“We’ve got FI cards.” Field Interview. “No one heard or saw anything.”
“Security cameras?”
“One resident up the street has a partial view of the street. Spenser has the disc.”
Thom turned too suddenly and faltered.
George grasped Thom’s elbow and led him away from the yellow tape. “What’s up? You look like you’re about to faint.”
“The girl, Jelena,” whispered Thom. “I met her in a bar last night. We were together.”
George raked his fingers through his hair—an obvious tell that presented when he was upset or nervous. There was nothing to say. The panic on Thom’s face said it all.
Thom’s hands shook as he pulled free his business phone from the holder and punched Craig’s number. Despite the shock of learning he had an intimate encounter with the PR he had the presence of mind and temerity to call it. They walked to the far edge of the crab grass. George leaned toward the phone to listen.
“Keane. You better have a good reason for calling,” answered Craig. “Last I saw, you have four homicides to solve.”
“I can’t work the case.”
“What?” said Craig. “It sounds like you’re talking shit.”
“I had a sexual encounter with the PR last night.”
“Aren’t you married?”
“That doesn’t change the fact that I’m compromised. My involvement will jeopardize the integrity of the case.”
“Be professional and figure it out,” said Craig, killing the call.
“Damnit,” said Thom.
“What the hell?” said George. “He’s the one always quoting the manual and spouting off about procedure.”
Thom swept his eyes over the corps of uniforms and SID who stared back, confused. Thom’s gaze landed on an abandoned coffee cup resting on a planter. Next to it was a folded newspaper. He turned back to George.
“When was the last time Craig came to a crime scene?” said Thom.
“One of ours?” said George. “Never.”
“Exactly. And why were S&M dispatched?”
“They were on the callout board.”
“Then Craig arrived and changed it up?” Thom took a step aside so that George had eyes on the front door. “Over my shoulder. Two-o’clock.”
George flicked his eyes and hissed. “Birdie’s article?”
“The department has clear written policies about conflict of interest,” said Thom.
“The rules are up for interpretation when lawyers get involved at the trial stage.”
“But when an officer needs to be excused because of the potential, the department usually errs on the safe side. Craig knows this more than anyone.”
“Which is why it doesn’t make sense. What’s his game?”
Thom shook his head. “I don’t know.”
He looked out on the city of his birth. The city where he worked. The city where he lived. The city he loved. He knew he was in mud and had a sick feeling he might be on the verge of losing something he’d always taken for granted.
“Well,” he said, in a self-aware way, “we work it squeaky clean. You take the girl. I’ll take the house.” And with that he turned away and then—almost as an aside—he whispered, “I think I’m being screwed.”
“And me along with you,” said George.
six
Detective George Silva leaned into the backseat of the black-and-white and said, “It’s cramped in there. Come out and get some fresh air.”
Keen green eyes looked up at him. Other than pink gloss on her lips, her skin was makeup free. She offered her hand for assistance. When George didn’t oblige, she shrugged and wiggled out on her own.
“I’m Detective Silva,” he said.
“Lena Shkatova.”
“Russian?”
“On my father’s side. Can I sit?”
“Of course.” George gestured toward the hood of the car. Lena tried several leaning positions before settling on one she liked. She smoothed the crown of her long, blond hair.
“Can I smoke?” she said.
“If you wish.”
Slender fingers reached into her back pocket and pulled out a slim cloisonné case. She popped it open and George glanced inside: six cigarettes, a book of matches, and a lip gloss. She stuck a cigarette between her lips and struck a match. She met George’s eyes through the flame and took a single seductive pull.
George felt it as a tickle in his stomach. If only this were another time, another place, another circumstance.
“How long have you been in the United States?” he said. All business.
“Since I am eight,” she said, exhaling. “My parents die when I am ten. I go to house for girls with no family. I am naughty and get trouble, but they let me stay. This is where Dom found me when I am thirteen. He brought me here. It is not improvement.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Curfew, smoking, stealing. Boys.”
“What was the name of the home?”
“Compass. It is orphanage in Rosemead.”
“So the Lawrence’s are …?”
“Foster parents.”
George gave Jelena’s license one last look before handing it to her. She was twenty-two. Much younger than Thom’s usual. “Lena is your nickname?”
“Yes.”
“It states this as your address.”
“I move two months ago, but have not changed license. Now I live at apartment. Downtown with other girls. It is near library. Close to work at courthouse.”
“Address.”
“Six-twelve Flower. Between Wilshire and Sixth. Pegasus apartments.”
George wrote it down and check-marked courthouse.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“No, but I can tell you what I see.”
He liked that she was literal. Most people weren’t.
“I come here at seven. I do this every Sunday morning. Rachel makes big breakfast. Today, we take twins to Exposition Park to see exhibit at museum.”
“Twins?”
“Girls. They are new foster kids. They are ten.”
Oh, shit, thought George. Thom had five children. His youngest were 10-year-old twins. Females. He needed to get Thom’s head ready for what he was about to see. He quickly tapped a text message to Thom’s cell.
HEDZ UP POS TWIN 10YO XX
He snapped the phone shut, clipped it to his belt.
“What door did you use when you arrived at seven?” said George.
“Front door.”
“Was it unlocked?”
“Dom and Rachel are strict about locking doors. I use key.”
“Are you certain it was locked and not just closed?”
“It was locked.”
“What kind of lock is on the door?”
“The dead kind. And there is button you push on handle.”
“What did you see when you entered the house?”
Lena shrugged and puffed on the cigarette. “Nothing. Usually everybody is up and Rachel is in kitchen making cinnamon rolls. They are my favorite. But today … I think everyone sleep late. I wait with magazine. Then I hear beeping of Dom’s alarm and knock on door, but they do not answer. I open door and see blood. I close door and run away.” Her eyes welled.
“What then?”
“I call nine-one-one and all these people come,” she said as she dabbed her eyes on her shoulder. “I sit in police car, and get inked and I wait for you.”
George thought Lena’s use of the word inked was an odd usage, but he knew what she meant. As a city employee, she would’ve been fingerprinted.
“What phone did you use to dial nine-one-one?”
She slid a hand into the ot
her back pocket and produced a cell phone.
“May I?” said George.
She pressed it into his waiting palm and he scrolled through the most recent calls. Her last was indeed to 9-1-1 at 7:07 a.m. No calls since. The last call prior was at 10:30 p.m.
Though Lena’s accent wasn’t yet Americanized, her fashion was. She wore expensive designer jeans, a pearl and gold chain belt, a white, formfitting t-shirt, a short denim jacket, and wedge sandals. The trendy color of her toenails matched the short fingernails. She looked like every other young, party-girl-wannabe, yet her phone log showed few calls and no text messages, unlike other girls her age. This bothered George.
He passed the phone back. “What was your relationship like with the Lawrence’s?”
“They are hard people. Dom is very discipline man and Rachel does not hug. Living here is very strict. If I behave, I get reward. The twins get lots of rewards. But they are tricky and fool Dom and Rachel. I am glad I no longer live here. But Dom help me learn English and become citizen and he teach me how to make good work. Now I live on my own, can stay out late, sleep late, do what I want. I am sad they are dead.” She took a deep drag.
“How do you know they’re dead?”
“I saw blood.”
“Did you see the twins?”
“NO,” said Lena, blowing smoke out her nose. “They are dead because no one is up. Rachel would be in kitchen. Every Sunday. Cinnamon rolls.”
She spread her hands like George didn’t get what she was saying, but he understood perfectly.
“If your relationship wasn’t good, then why come and visit?”
“Cinnamon rolls!” She flicked an ash. “But also, Dom wants me to help twins, so I come because he is my boss.”
“You work for him?”
“Yes. In his office. Me and Claudia both.”
“Who’s Claudia?”
“Claudia Stepanova. One of my roommates.”
“You’ve been sitting here for a couple of hours with your phone and it didn’t occur to you to call Claudia and tell her that her boss, your foster dad, was dead?”