“Sure would be nice to find where the vic was killed,” Oliver said.
“Funny you should think of that, Scottie,” Decker said. “I just got off the phone with Solana’s landlord. He’s meeting me at her apartment in forty minutes.”
Marge asked, “Where did she live?”
“Reseda. Who wants to join me?”
There was resounding silence.
“Okay, let me rephrase that. Who’s on call?”
“I think that would be Oliver and me,” Marge said.
Wang stood up. “Thanks for dinner, Loo.” He looked at Wanda. “See you tomorrow at ten.”
“Wait, I’ll walk you out.” Wanda threw away her paper plate and picked up her purse. “See you tomorrow.”
After they left, Decker spoke to Oliver. “You look like you swallowed quinine.”
Oliver sighed heavily. “I was planning to meet someone for drinks. She’s gorgeous and in her forties. You’d approve.”
“Don’t start, Oliver. I outrank you.”
“I’m serious, Pete. I’m trying to act somewhat age-appropriate.”
Marge added, “Especially because forty now seems young to him.”
Decker smiled. “All right, Oliver, go on your date. Margie and I can handle this. If the apartment turns out to be the crime scene, I’ll page you.”
“I’m suspicious when you’re too nice.”
“Nah, don’t be fooled. It’s part of my persona as the benevolent dictator.”
Decker and Marge accompanied Irv Fletcher up a flight of outdoor steps. The apartment building was an anonymous white box with sparkles in the stucco. The landlord was in his late seventies, short, slight, and bald, but with a spring in his step. “Her rent wasn’t due for another week, so I had no reason to contact her.”
“Good tenant?” Decker asked.
“The best kind: the one who pays her rent on time.”
Decker had a thought. He still had Solana’s postmortem picture in his pocket. “Did you know her well?”
“Never met her. Everything was done through an agent.”
So much for the quick ID. At the top of the stairs, Fletcher fished out a ring of keys. “You think something happened to her?”
“Maybe,” Marge said. “She hasn’t been at work for the last couple of days.”
As they got closer to the apartment, a faint stale smell wafted through the chilly air. “Here we go . . . number eight.”
“Do you mind if I open the door?” Decker asked. “Fingerprints, you know.”
“Sure, sure.” Fletcher handed him the master key. Decker put on a pair of latex gloves, inserted the key into the lock, and opened the door. He groped around the wall until he found the light switch. It turned on two floor lamps, bathing the tiny living room in soft light.
A couch decorated with lacy pillows, and a coffee table, a chair and an end table, a set of bookshelves that held more DVDs than paperbacks, discount furniture, cheap but serviceable. The same space also held a dinette service for four and moribund flowers in a vase set in the middle of the table, dropping dead petals. The water stank of rotten eggs.
Marge and Decker exchanged looks. Marge said, “Mr. Fletcher, would you mind waiting outside?”
“Sure, sure. You mind if I sit in my car? It’s a little warmer in there.”
“No, sir, not at all. We’ll be down in a bit.” Decker walked around and peered into the kitchen, an out-pouching of the living area. It appeared clean and tidy. He went back into the living room and studied the floor, slowly walking toward the lone bedroom. Before he opened the shut door, he crouched down and stared at the joint where the jamb met the floor. “Looks like some blood here, mixed with hair. Our victim had a contusion on the side of her head.”
Marge said, “He was dragging her out and bumped her head on the doorjamb.”
Decker nodded. “I don’t see any smear tracks from the wound. He came back and cleaned up pretty good. But not all that good, if he left this. I’ll have the techs luminol the area tonight.” He got up from his squat and opened the door.
The room was orderly. The bed had been made; the nightstand held a lamp and a book. Framed photographs lined the dresser. Decker pointed to a pretty young woman with long flowing hair and full red lips. A glint twinkled in her brown eyes. She appeared around twenty. Decker took out the postmortem photograph. It was the same woman, but the two snapshots couldn’t have looked any more different.
Marge sighed. “Well, it looks like we’ve ID’d our victim.”
“And most likely found the crime scene.” Decker pointed to a corner of the room, at a blotch of something rusty brown. He bent down, sniffed it, and made a face.
“Blood?”
“More like excrement.” He stood back up. “Since she was choked, we wouldn’t expect to see a lot of blood. But victims piss and shit as they die. We’ll have the techs dust for fingerprints and take a look at this splotch under the scope.”
Marge said, “What should we do with Lombard?”
“We’ve got a witness who tells us he was in the open house that Sunday. And we know he worked with Solana. That doesn’t mean there was a relationship.”
“We could probably find that out easy enough. Should we bring him in?”
“Not yet. First let’s see if the techs can put him in her apartment by finding his fingerprints. In the meantime, Margie, he gets his cup of coffee from the same convenience store every day. Tell the store clerk to pour Lombard a cup from the dregs. Then, after he takes a sip, the clerk should offer him a fresh cup. When Lombard throws his cup away, you move in. Let’s get his DNA. If he’s the father of the kid, he can’t very well deny a relationship.”
It took little time for Decker to learn about Lombard’s affair with Solana from several of her coworkers. Office gossip was rampant, though no one had anything damning to say about Solana other than she was having an affair with a married man. Lombard’s fingerprints were on file, a requirement of his state license, and they matched dozens of prints found in Solana’s apartment. Though the DNA profile hadn’t come back, Decker decided it was time to bring in the young lawyer for questioning.
Dunn and Oliver caught up with Lombard during his lunch break—two hours at the Marquis Club, a posh private organization that catered to the downtown white-shoe firms and the multimillion-dollar corporations they represented. The young lawyer was accompanying the bosses. His job was to take notes and say nothing. The detectives waited until Lombard was done with his official business and discreetly moved in. The young lawyer reacted without dramatics. Wearing a black suit, a white shirt, and an ice-blue tie, Lombard was an average man in all respects, the only distinguishing mark being the mole over his right eye. The nevus was a dark, round spot, serrated at the edges and flush with his skin. At a quick glance, it resembled a bullet hole. After he made excuses to his bosses—an emergency at home—he willingly came down to the station house without a peep of protest.
Once in the interview room, Decker expected Lombard to lawyer up. Instead, the man sat stoically in his chair, waiting for the cops to make the first move. Oliver and Marge were behind the one-way mirror.
Decker said, “You know why you’re here?”
“You tell me.”
“We’re investigating the murder of a woman named Solana Perez.”
Lombard nodded. A moment later, a single tear leaked from his right eye. He quickly blinked it away.
“How long were you two involved with each other?”
Without a moment of hesitation, Lombard answered, “A while.”
Decker tried to hide his surprise at the admission. “Could you be more specific?”
Lombard rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t kill her.”
“That’s not what I asked you, Matt. I asked how long you two were involved with each other.”
“Two, three years.”
“A long time.”
Lombard didn’t answer.
“Did you know she was pregnant?”
Again he had talked freely. Decker gave himself a microsecond to collect his thoughts. “Solana told you she was pregnant with your child?”
“Yes, she told me.”
“How’d you feel about that?”
“Surprised.”
“Just surprised?”
“It wasn’t planned.”
“Since you’re married with two kids, I could imagine it wasn’t planned.”
Lombard said nothing, exhibiting none of the usual bodily reactions that most suspects had. No sweating, blushing, random movements, or fidgeting. It was as if his nervous system had shut down.
Decker said, “How’d you feel about her condition after the surprise wore off?”
“Maybe a little nervous . . . maybe excited.”
“Excited?”
Lombard shrugged.
“Did you tell your wife?”
“No.”
“Did you intend to tell your wife?”
Again Lombard shrugged. “I don’t know what I intended to do. I was thinking long and hard about it. I was at a crossroads. Then Solana . . .” He paused. “I don’t want to talk anymore. Am I under arrest?”
“So, here’s the story, Matt, and it isn’t looking very good for you. Your mistress is dead, and you, by your own admission, know that you’re the father of her unborn child. We’ve got forensic evidence that puts you in her apartment. We’ve got an eyewitness who puts you in the house where we found the body.”
For the first time, Lombard reacted. “Where did you find the body?”
“You dumped her there. Why don’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t dump her anywhere. I have no idea where you found the body. For all I know, you could be lying. I know that’s what you people do. And I know it’s legal.”
“I’m not lying.”
Lombard became still. Then he slumped in his chair, a defeated man.
Decker said, “Matt, you’re a married man with two kids. Now you’ve got a love child on the way. That could cause all sorts of problems—with your work, with your wife, with your life. You wanted Solana to have an abortion. You offered to pay for it and her medical expenses and even a little extra cash to boot. But she refused—”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“You didn’t kill her?”
“No.”
“You’re the father of her unborn child, you were at the crime scene, you were in the house where the body was found, but you didn’t kill her.”
“I don’t know anything about a crime scene, and I don’t know where the body was found. I loved Solana. I would never hurt her. I would never force her to get an abortion.”
“She was killed at her apartment, Matt. We’ve got your fingerprints all over the place.”
“Or course you do. I was at her apartment dozens of times.” A pause. “She was murdered in her apartment?”
“You tell me.”
“I can’t tell you, because I didn’t murder her. I certainly wasn’t at any crime scene, unless you count me going over to her place to look for her when she didn’t show up at work.”
“Yes, Matt, I’ll count that.”
“I didn’t know it was the crime scene. Everything looked pretty much in order when I was there. But I knew something was wrong. She wouldn’t just disappear without telling me.”
“So if you suspected something was wrong, why didn’t you go to the police?”
“I don’t know why I didn’t. Maybe I was scared because I was afraid that something had happened to her. Maybe I was confused. I loved Solana, but I also have a wife and two kids. You can think what you want, but I didn’t kill her.”
“You didn’t kill her.”
“No.”
“If you didn’t kill her, do you have any idea who might have killed her?”
“Don’t ask me that.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not going to answer that.”
“So what’s going to happen when you’re asked the question on the witness stand?”
“I’ll plead the Fifth.”
“That’s going to look bad for you, Matt.”
“I suppose it will. I think I should call a lawyer now.”
“That’s up to you.”
“I know that. The interview is over.”
And that was that. Still, Lombard had admitted the affair. He also had admitted being the father of Solana’s baby. Adele had put him at the open house, but there was nothing specific to tie him to the actual murder. Since DNA banding charts took months to get back, Decker had yet to receive a profile for Lombard. But even if they found trace amounts of Lombard’s blood at the apartment, that would be meaningless, since he had acknowledged being there many times. He could always say he nicked himself shaving or cut himself . . .
Nicks and cuts.
Decker mentally slapped himself on the forehead. There had been material found underneath Solana’s fingernails, and Lombard’s face was free of scratches. Decker wondered about other areas of the man’s body and decided to try the most obvious first. “Now, I’m not going to ask you any more questions—”
“You can’t ask me any more questions,” Lombard said. “I already asked for a lawyer.”
“You know, it would be really good for you if you rolled up your sleeves.”
“What?”
“I’m not asking you to do it, but if you happen to do it, I’d like to take a look at your arms.”
“What are you doing? You’re not taking my blood, are you?”
“Of course not,” Decker answered. “All I’m saying is that if you roll up your sleeves of your own volition, I would like to take a look at your arms.” Lombard was silent, his eyes locked with Decker’s. “You don’t have to do it. Completely up to you. But an innocent man has no reason not to cooperate.”
“Innocent men have no reason to be charged with crimes they didn’t commit. Still, it happens all the time.”
“Your cooperation would be duly noted,” Decker said.
“You shouldn’t be asking me anything after I asked for a lawyer.”
“I haven’t asked you a thing. I’ve just said that if you did it, it would be convenient for me to look at your arms.”
Lombard shook his head. “You’re out of line.” Still, he rolled up his sleeves. His forearms were covered in dark stiff hair; the undersides were pale, with prominent pulsing veins.
“Thank you,” Decker said. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”
“I have a cell phone. I’m calling my lawyer.”
“Sure. I’ll be back in a minute.” Decker closed the door to the interview room and went into the chamber where Oliver and Marge had been watching. From the one-way mirror, Decker saw Lombard picking up his cell only to stow it in his pocket. He sagged in the chair, his hands in his lap, his chin almost touching his chest. Then he closed his eyes. Lombard was on automatic pilot. It was clear to Decker that he was involved, but in what way? The lawyer hadn’t exhibited any agitation that Decker would expect from a guilty man.
“What now?” Dunn asked.
“We have a strong circumstantial case, but not beyond a reasonable doubt. Certainly we can get a warrant to search his house. Maybe we can turn up some bloody clothes or something that puts her DNA on his clothes, or . . .” Decker thought a moment. “Or even better would be something that put his DNA on her body.”
“The body was nude, Loo,” Oliver reminded him. “Someone had cleaned her up.”
“Well, she had a full head of hair. Someone at Mission Road must have combed through it by now.”
“They did,” Marge said. “We checked. The loose hairs that they pulled were consistent with her own hair.”
“There was matter under her fingernails. Lombard’s arms were clear, but I couldn’t check his back or his legs. We need a DNA profile from the scrapings.”
“The labs are backlogged.”
Decker frowned. �
��Anyone on good terms with a DNA geneticist who does private testing?”
“I know someone who works for Biodon,” Oliver said.
“Him or her?”
Oliver smiled.
“Good terms with her, Scottie?”
“She never complained.”
“Take her out to dinner on the department. Impress upon her the need for speed.”
Oliver grinned. “I know a great bistro with a dynamite pinot noir. Quiet, dark, a good place to conduct business.”
“What place is that?”
“Geraldo’s.”
Marge said, “That place is around seventy-five a person, Scott.”
“I know. I take my job very seriously.”
The woman who answered Decker’s knock was around five foot eight, with a full bosom and curves. Her hair was strawberry blond, and a sprinkling of freckles dotted her nose. She wore faded denim jeans, a long-sleeved cotton blouse, and a red bandana around her neck. Her eyes went wide when Decker showed her his badge.
“Police?”
“Yes, ma’am. Are you Laurie Lombard?”
“Yes. What do you want with me?”
“Who said I wanted anything with you, ma’am?”
The woman went silent. Decker produced the search warrant. “This says we’re allowed to come inside your house and search it. We also have separate documents for your car and your husband’s car.”
“You can’t come in here now. My husband’s at work.”
“He doesn’t have to be home for us to execute the warrant. But you can call him if you want.”
Laurie said, “I’m calling my lawyer, that’s what I’m doing.”
“It’s up to you, Mrs. Lombard. But we don’t have to wait around for either one of them to get here.” Decker turned to his detectives. “Let’s go.” He gently grazed Laurie’s shoulder as he sidestepped around her.
Laurie stared as a stream of official interlopers invaded her private space. “I was just about to go out.”
“You can’t use your car, ma’am,” Marge Dunn told her. “We have to search it. It may be impounded.”
“But I have to pick up my children at school!”
The Garden of Eden and Other Criminal Delights Page 6