After they got home, Rina said, “We did the right thing.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Decker said. “Why shouldn’t we have the money rather than those two vultures?”
“Because she willed me the artwork, Peter, not the cash.”
“Speaking of which, how about that garage sale you keep talking about? The frames alone should net us a couple of bucks.”
“Sure,” Rina said, “but give me a little time. Now that this nasty money business is over, I want to look up some of the names of the artists on the Internet. Like Hannah said, some of the works look old. Maybe a few of them are even worth something.”
“Yeah, we’re sitting on an undiscovered Renoir.”
Rina laughed. “I’m not saying that, but you never know. Cecily had collected for a long time. And even if the artwork isn’t worth anything, it doesn’t matter. I look at the pictures and I think of Cecily.”
“We can’t keep sixty-three pieces of junky art, Rina.”
“Don’t worry. I don’t intend to keep most of them. Just the little magnolia blossom that Hannah loves and our lucky rose painting.”
Decker looked at his watch. “I have some time. Give me the names of the artists, and I’ll look them up.”
“I’ll do it, Peter.”
“No, I’ll do it.” Decker sat down at the computer. “That way it’ll get done. So while I’m going online, get the names you want to look up. Start with the rose painting, if you’re determined to keep it.”
“It’s our lucky painting.”
“Not our lucky painting,” Decker groused. “We didn’t keep the cash!”
She hit his shoulder, then went over to the floral and studied the signature scrawled in the lower left side. “Franz Bischoll.” She spelled it for him.
Decker plugged in the name. On the screen came the words: Did you mean: Franz Bischoff? Absently, he clicked on the name. His eyes widened. His heart started beating faster. “Rina, could it be Franz Bischoff, with two F’s?”
“It could be. Why?”
“Uh, you want to come take a look at this?”
“Why? What is it?”
Decker laughed. “It’s a chance for you to say ‘I told you so.’ And for once, I don’t mind.”
OPEN HOUSE
“Open House” is another new story
penned for this anthology. Real estate
in Southern California took a major
price jump in 2005, and there were
quite a few houses for sale. As I looked
at one of the empty homes, my warped
mind thought, What a convenient
place to dump a body! I wondered if
finding a corpse during a house
showing would cool off an overheated
market. Probably not in a city that had
an attraction called Graveline Tours. It
used to take tourists in a hearse to some
of L.A.’s most notable crime scenes!
GEORGINA THOUGHT SHE WAS CLEVER, COMING twenty minutes earlier than the start time. Unfortunately, there were others who’d had the same idea. Two couples, plus what looked like a mother-daughter combo, were waiting on the sidewalk, sizing up the competition. This was the second and last showing of a new listing, and the Realtors were going to take offers tomorrow night. There were no lookie-loos here: All those present were out for blood.
This meant that Georgina would have to form a plan. Hers was typically blow and go. Sign in and grab a tear sheet, doing mental calculations about house size versus lot size while giving the place a quick once-over. The living room and dining room were public space, ergo usually in decent shape. If a house had a bad living room, it was probably one step ahead of the wrecking ball. Single-family homes showed their true colors in the kitchen and bathrooms; that and the size of the bedroom closets. She and Derek had lots of junk, so closet space would be a priority. If the place flunked any one of the above, there were still three other houses on her list.
This newest one would go fast because it was priced reasonably and in a good neighborhood. In a hot market, Georgina knew, she’d have to move if she wanted a chance at elusive home ownership. She and Derek had already lost two chances through indecision. The next time, Georgina swore, if the place was right, passing the kitchen/bathroom/closet test, she wouldn’t hesitate.
Finally, a black Mercedes pulled up in the driveway. The listing agent was Adele Michaels, and the ad in the paper said she had sold more than twelve million dollars’ worth of real estate this year . . . which translated to three houses in the flats of Beverly Hills. Of course, Canoga Park wasn’t Beverly Hills, but some areas in the West Hills boasted multimillion-dollar estates complete with swimming pool, tennis court, and home theater. The two-story English-cottage-style house Georgina was looking at wasn’t anywhere close to magnificent, but it wasn’t a shack, either. It had three bedrooms, two and a half baths, and sat on a good-size lot with fruit trees and a two-car garage.
The driver’s door opened, and out came a pipsqueak of a kid. She looked nothing like Adele Michaels, whose picture showed a forty-plus big-haired blonde with large white teeth. Georgina doubted if this girl was even old enough to vote. The agent had spiky black hair, wore the requisite black suit, and balanced on black spike heels. She rested her sunglasses on the top of her head, then swung a large purse over her shoulder as if she owned the world. To the ten of them anxiously waiting to be let inside, she did.
Obviously, Adele had handed off the listing to one of her flunky neophytes, a house under a million bucks just not worth her time and energy. Georgina rolled her eyes. The flunky fiddled with a ring of keys and then opened the lockbox to the house. Once she’d freed up the front door, she opened it and stepped inside, the faithful gathering of hopefuls dogging her heels in single file. The agent headed straight into the kitchen. From her leather sack—either a Marc Jacobs or a knockoff—she took out a stack of tear sheets and a clipboard that held a pen and a sign-in sheet. She plunked them down on the kitchen counter.
“Everyone sign in, please—name, phone number, and agent, if you have one. This is the last showing, we’ve already got offers. All offers will be entertained tonight, so if you’re interested, you’d better act fast.”
First to reach the pen was the mother-daughter combo. Georgina waited her turn to sign in, noting that the living and dining rooms had hardwood floors. The kitchen countertops were tiled. She had hoped for granite, but in this case, she’d make an exception because she loved the design of the kitchen. It had been done Tuscan-style, filled with warm golds, and there was a copper hood over the stove. Newer appliances: a side-by-side fridge and a dishwasher.
Things were looking way up.
Georgina finally picked up a tear sheet and signed in. Scanning the paper quickly, she saw that the house had twenty-two hundred square feet on a ten-thousand-square-foot lot. This was getting better by the millisecond. The house wasn’t going to last through the showing. Immediately, she put in a call to Derek. He picked up on the third ring.
“You have to come now! I haven’t even checked out the bathrooms, and already I want it.”
“Remember that we agreed not to get swept away in mass hysteria.”
“Okay.” Calm, she told herself. “All right, I’m in the master bedroom. Not so big. We can fit our bed in it. But one of the dressers may have to go.” She slid back a mirrored door. “Good-size closet. That’ll help . . . Oh, Derek! The master bathroom is marble, with a huge Jacuzzi tub!”
“I’ll be right over.”
“It’s going to go above asking, I just know it! The agent already said they have offers from the Sunday showing—”
“Don’t panic, Georgie, we’ll deal. And don’t do anything until we call up Orit.”
“What if we don’t get hold of her?”
“I’m sure they’re not going to consider offers right on the spot.”
“No, that’s true.” Georgina went back into the kitch
en. Oh, how she loved the kitchen. “Derek, the kitchen is just perfect. It’s got good appliances and plenty of cabinet space.” She opened a drawer. “The cabinets are all on sliders. And it’s got a pantry and . . . what’s this door? Looks like a broom closet.” She yanked on it. “I think it’s stuck.”
“Georgina, I’m going to hang up now. I’ll see you soon.”
“Bye.” She stowed the phone in her purse and turned to the Realtor. “Excuse me. I think this door is stuck.”
The agent ambled over and gave the door a hard tug. “It may be locked.” Without another word, she walked away and began to chitchat up a promising-looking young couple.
Little snot, Georgina thought. And I bet those two don’t even qualify. With determination, she pulled on the handle with all her strength, and the door finally gave way. A large blue plastic garbage bag tumbled out and spilled onto the floor. The tie to the top broke open, and something popped out. It took about a toe tap of time for Georgina to realize what it was.
Then she screamed.
“How long before the coroner’s investigators get here?” Decker checked his watch and didn’t wait for an answer. “You want to give them a call, Sergeant Dunn? Find out if they’ll be here in this century?”
Marge smiled. She had been promoted over a month ago and her new title was a kick to her ears. “I just called the office, Loo. Soon.”
They’d been waiting almost an hour. Normally, that would be a good thing. Although they couldn’t deal with the body until the coroner released it, Decker and his detectives utilized the time by going over the crime scene. In this case, one thing was immediately clear: The house wasn’t the crime scene. The place was spotless. For his effort, Decker found only a couple of fibers that could have been dragged in by someone’s shoe and an empty can of soda in the garbage can under the sink. It was possible that they’d lift something off the items or from the body itself.
Marge hung up her cell and rocked on her feet, her five-foot-ten frame swaying from side to side. “Techs should be here soon, Pete.”
“To do what?” Decker snarled. “Sweep the floor?”
“They can dust. Check out the drains—”
“Crime wasn’t committed here.”
Marge shrugged. “An empty house is a good place to lure a victim.”
“No spatter anywhere, no wet spots on the floor . . . it’s not the crime scene.” Decker raked his fingers through his hair, a combination of copper and silver. “I mean, I’m not positive, but I’d bet a winning lottery ticket on it.”
That was Decker’s experience talking: thirty years as a cop, most of them with Homicide, and the last ten as a detective lieutenant.
She said, “Hardly any bloat on the face.”
“She’s fresh, probably dumped last night. There’s no heating inside, and the cool night air probably helped to preserve her.”
“The face looks Hispanic, maybe Mideastern.”
“Yeah, she’s out of her element in this solidly middle-to-upper-class area. The residents are by and large white. She also has a front tooth rimmed in gold. That’s not white American dentistry.”
“A housekeeper?”
“That’s what I’m thinking. It would have been nice if there had been clothes on her. You can tell a lot by a person’s clothes.” Decker smoothed his ginger mustache. “This isn’t some gangbanger’s crime. A group of Latinos carrying a body and entering a house would stick out in this neighborhood. This feels like a white man’s crime. Some guy screwing the maid, and when she threatened to tell the wife, he panicked. I bet the perp lives nearby and knew the house was empty.”
“There’s no forced entry,” Marge added.
Decker thought a moment. “Maybe it was someone in real estate who had a key to the place. Who’s out canvassing the neighborhood?”
“Wanda Beautemps and Lee Wang,” Marge said. “Scott Oliver is talking to the people who were in the house when the body was discovered. We got an angry mob out there, Loo. They’re furious that the open house was canceled.”
Decker smiled. “Go tell the agent that I want a list of everyone who has a key to the place and a list of every Realtor who has shown the house.”
“I think it’s a brand-new listing.”
“Good. That’ll make our jobs easier.”
“Petechiae in the eyes, deep bruises around the neck that look like finger impressions . . . no overt ligature marks.” The investigator was a woman in her fifties named Sherelle Holland. She and her partner wore black uniforms covered by black jackets with CORONER’S INVESTIGATOR in yellow lettering on the back. Sherelle had slid the body out of the blue plastic bag and onto the coroner’s white plastic sheeting while the police photographer snapped pictures. “There’s a contusion on the right side of her head.”
“Blunt-force trauma?” Decker asked.
“No, more like she just hit her head. It’s certainly not deep enough to cause her death. There aren’t any bullet or stab wounds. Manual strangulation would be the logical guess. There’s lividity . . . rigor is just starting to set. Ordinarily, I’d say less than twenty-four hours, but it’s cool outside.”
“Anything under the nails?”
“At a quick glance, it looks like she fought back. Or maybe the blood is hers.” Sherelle started bagging the hands. “We’ll clip them. Once we get her onto the table, the doc can tell you more. Any idea who she is?”
“No.”
Sherelle shrugged. “Maybe she’s a real estate agent. People are getting pretty angry about the housing situation.”
“That’s a thought.”
“Good luck, Lieutenant. You’ll need it.”
Decker called over a tech from the CSI unit. “You can evidence the garbage bag. Turn it inside out and see if you can’t find something. This is desperation time.” He signaled to Oliver, who was checking himself out in a full-length door mirror. He was over fifty, with mostly dark hair and a gut that hadn’t gone to fat, but he was as vain as a schoolgirl. Decker didn’t like Oliver because his own daughter once had. That was way in the past, and Cindy was now happily married to a more age-appropriate guy, but some things remained stuck in one’s craw. “What’s going on, Scottie?”
Oliver tore himself away from the mirror and walked over to Decker. “Not much. Just calming down a bunch of freaked-out people.”
“Did the agent recognize the corpse?”
“Never saw her nor any other corpse in her life. Her name is Sarah, and I offered to take her out for coffee to calm her down after this is all over.”
“Out of the goodness of your heart,” Decker said.
“I’m just that kind of sensitive guy.”
“She’s not only young enough to be your daughter, she’s young enough to be your granddaughter.”
Oliver smiled. “What can I say? Some people can’t adjust.”
Decker wasn’t sure if Oliver was referring to Decker or himself. “Did Margie or you get a list of brokers from her?”
“Not much of a list, Loo. She told me this was only the second time the house has been shown.”
“When was the first showing?”
“Two days ago . . . last Sunday.” It was Marge Dunn who responded. She checked her notes. “From two to five. Sarah Atacaro, that’s the agent for this showing, told us that the only ones with keys were her, her boss, and the owners, who are now in Denver.”
Oliver added, “This was Sarah’s first time inside the house. She was just helping out her boss, Adele Michaels, who was in San Diego for a wedding.”
“Get Michaels on the phone. We need to talk to her.”
“I already did,” Oliver told him. “She’s en route, and the cell reception was iffy. For what it’s worth, she told me she’d checked out the house yesterday afternoon in anticipation of today’s showing, and she was adamant that there were no dead bodies anywhere. I think it would have been something she’d remember.”
“Did she specifically remember checking out the broom closet?”<
br />
“She said she checked out everything.”
“All right. Then, assuming her information is correct, that would mean the body was placed no more than a day ago. Did any of the neighbors see or hear anything?”
“Nothing that would point us in the direction of the murderer.”
“I doubt the killer just stumbled on the house. He must have known that the house was going to be empty between Sunday and today.”
“Someone in real estate.”
“That’s what Marge and I have been thinking. We have pictures of our vic now. Why don’t you show them around? Maybe someone’s housekeeper didn’t show up for work. And if the two agents were the only ones with a key, let’s recheck the doors and windows for pry marks. Maybe we missed something because this wasn’t the crime scene, and as sure as hell, the body didn’t walk in on its own accord.”
The cigarette smoke didn’t bother Decker, but Marge was less tolerant and kept fanning her face. Eventually, Adele Michaels got the hint and stubbed out the butt with her foot. They were in the house’s backyard outside the kitchen door. The body was gone, but a pall remained.
“I don’t know what more I can tell you guys. The body wasn’t here yesterday afternoon.” Adele’s voice was deep and hoarse. A face-lift had stretched her leathery skin over cheekbone implants. “I checked every closet and cabinet. I turned on and off every tap, flushed every toilet, and opened and closed every window. The house was in tip-top shape.”
“And you have no idea who she is?” Marge asked again.
“No, for the tenth time. I don’t know who she is. Why would you think I’m holding back on you?”
“Just trying to prod your memory,” Decker said.
“There’s nothing to remember!”
“And you’re sure that no one besides Sarah Atacaro, the owners, and you has a copy of the key?”
“Positive.”
Marge said, “What if someone made a copy from your key and you didn’t know about it?”
“Two sets of keys besides the owners in Denver, guys: Sarah and me. And both sets are accounted for. You think I’d allow someone access to my listing without my permission? This hasn’t gone to caravan. The house is going to be sold in a couple of days, body or not. It’s a fair price.” She paused and looked Decker up and down. “Are you in the market?”
The Garden of Eden and Other Criminal Delights Page 4