In Cold Blonde

by James L. Conway

  “Oh, there’s plenty of blood, but not enough to indicate he bled out. Something stopped his heart, which stopped the blood flow. Move your fat ass, Hanrahan,” she snapped. “You’re blocking the light.”

  Hanrahan shifted to his right as Liz plucked the penis out of the victim’s mouth then held it up to the light.

  “How humiliating,” Hanrahan mumbled.

  “Sort of puts everything into perspective if you ask me,” Liz said. “All the murder and mayhem created because you Neanderthals are always trying to prove who has the bigger dick. Well, here it is, fellas, in all its flaccid glory. Four and a half inches of shriveled meat…” Liz’s voice trailed off as she noticed something. “Huh, look at that, there are no hesitation cuts before the actual amputation.”

  “So the killer had medical training?” Ryan ventured.

  “Or was used to handling knives,” Liz said.

  “Or has done it before,” Syd said.

  “Grizzly thought but possible,” Hanrahan said, unwrapping a grape Tootsie Roll Pop. He’d taken to sucking the Pops when he quit smoking his beloved Marlboros. He turned to Ryan, “Be sure and run the specifics through VICAP.” The FBI’s Violent Crime Apprehension Program was an online database used by the county’s law enforcement agency to collect and compare violent crimes.

  “The bartender said the victim met a woman inside the club, they flirted for a few minutes then left. About twenty minutes later a couple noticed the body when they got to their car.”

  Ryan asked, “Could the bartender tell if they knew each other?”

  Hanrahan shook his head. “She sat down next to him and he started talking. Could have been a prearranged date, could have been an old friend, could have been two strangers in the night.”

  “The woman’s the doer?” Syd asked.

  “Or she was working with someone who was waiting out here,” Hanrahan said.

  “Robbery?” Syd asked.

  Tony Ramirez, the lead SID tech, held up an evidence bag. Ramirez was one of the department’s best. A chess champion as a kid, Ramirez was brilliant if a bit anal compulsive, which actually came in handy in his line of work. Forensics was all about the details.

  Inside the evidence bag was a wallet. “Found it in his front left pocket,” Tony said. “It’s got three hundred eleven dollars in cash but here’s where it gets interesting; there are credit cards in all the slots except one.”

  “She left his money but took a credit card?” Syd asked.

  “Which cards did he carry?” Ryan asked.

  Tony checked his inventory. “Master Card, Visa, Nordstrom and Barney’s.”

  “No American Express?” Ryan asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Then that’s what she took,” Ryan said. “Everybody who drives a Porsche carries American Express; they are all about status.”

  Syd made a note. “I’ll contact American Express. If she uses it, we can trace her.”

  “I don’t think she took the card to use it,” Tony said. “This wasn’t about money. Besides the cash in his wallet, there is a nine-hundred-dollar Patik Phillip watch on his wrist and a gold signet on the pinkie of his left hand.”

  Syd was confused. “Then why take the credit card?”

  “Souvenir?” Liz asked.

  “Maybe he just left it somewhere the last time he used it,” Hanrahan said.

  “We’ll check,” Ryan said.

  “His name was Colin Wood,” Ramirez said. “Registration in the glove box confirms it’s his car.” He ripped a page out of his notebook, held it out. “I wrote down his address for you.”

  “Thanks,” Syd said then turned to Ryan. “It should be easier to find a premeditated murderer than a random robbery.”

  “Right,” Ryan said. “Though it is a little troubling the killer didn’t even try to pretend it was a robbery. It would have been so easy to take the wallet and watch. It’s like the killer wants us to know it was murder…”

  “I think the dick in the mouth is message enough,” Liz said. “Sounds very personal to me.”

  “Old girlfriend?” Syd asked.

  “Sounds like a great place to start,” Hanrahan said.

  “What about a cell phone,” Ryan asked. “Did you find a cell phone?”

  Tony held up another evidence bag. “iPhone. I’ve already dusted it, so if you want to check it, it’s yours.”

  “If it was an old girlfriend, her number or picture could be in that phone,” Syd said. Cell phones were a treasure trove of evidence, from the phone directory to the picture and video files. And the cell phone cameras came in handy, too. There were a number of cases when victims have taken pictures of their attackers as they fled.

  Ryan took the iPhone, turned to Liz. “Do you know what killed him?”

  Liz dropped the penis in an evidence bag. “Not until I get him on the table.” Liz glanced at Ramirez, “How long before you’re finished, Tony?”

  “We’re done,” Ramirez said.

  “First impressions?” Ryan asked.

  “We’ve got a little bit to work with. The killer wiped off any fingerprints, but we did find a long strand of blonde hair caught under aforementioned Patik Phillip.”

  “The woman in the bar was a blonde,” Hanrahan said.

  “And there was a smudge of lipstick at the corner of his mouth, bright red. We swabbed a sample.”

  “Can you get DNA?” Hanrahan asked.

  “Only if there is any saliva which, sorry to say, is rare. But we’ll check. Otherwise, we didn’t find much else.”

  “Check out where they were sitting at the bar,” Ryan said. “Maybe she left a print there.”

  “We’re on it,” Tony said. The SID techs left as Liz waved over the two morgue attendants waiting by a gurney at the morgue van.

  “I stopped by and saw your dad yesterday,” Liz said to Ryan.

  “Really,” Ryan said, surprised. His dad had been dead for three years.

  “My Uncle Elwood died; remember Elwood, he was the dentist.”

  “Right,” Ryan said. “He had twin boys, and they both became dentists, too.” Ryan remembered because Ryan’s father had been a lawyer, as had his grandfather. And the expectation had been that Ryan would follow in the family’s footsteps. But life got in the way.

  Ryan fell in love his junior year at UCLA. Her name was Anne Reich, a pretty brunette who grew up dirt poor in a Riverside trailer park. Ryan flipped for Anne; they had similar tastes in books, movies, food. She was smart, funny, attentive, and ambitious. They were the perfect couple, everyone said so, and they were soon daydreaming about getting married. Ryan wanted to wait until after law school, once their careers were safely on their way. But Anne got pregnant, and taking it as a sign, the happy couple got married the summer before their senior year.

  Then life threw a one-two punch. First, Anne lost the baby. A miscarriage. Ryan consoled Anne, told her not to worry they would have plenty of babies.

  Then the knockout punch; Ryan’s father was charged with tax fraud. Under financial strain from paying four alimonies and caught short by the bursting tech bubble, Ryan’s father had played a little fast and loose with the IRS. He was caught, convicted, disbarred and sentenced to six years in jail.

  Ryan scraped together enough money for his last year of UCLA and Anne had her scholarship, but now there was no money for law school. So Ryan made a decision. He’d work while Anne went to law school. When she graduated, she’d go to work and pay for his education.

  Not only had Ryan loved his six years with stepmom Liz, her stories about the Coroner’s office and police work intrigued him. So he joined the LAPD. Anne thrived at UCLA law school and Ryan loved the police force. But it was a financial struggle. A patrolman’s salary barely covered the studio apartment, groceries and incidentals.

  The summer after her second year of law school Anne got a job as an intern at a big L.A. firm, Rogers, Middleton and Roberts. There she met Rick Rogers, son of founding partner, Edward Rogers. He w
as five years Anne’s senior and an associate on the fast track to making partner. He was handsome, Harvard-educated, and rich. He also had a huge crush on Anne and pursued her relentlessly.

  And then one night, Anne never came home. Frantic, Ryan worked the phone calling hospitals, friends, family, desperately trying to find her. She called in the morning to say she’d fallen in love with Rick Rogers and she wanted a divorce. Rick sent movers to clean her things out of the apartment while a shell-shocked Ryan looked on. Two weeks after the divorce was final, Rick married Anne.

  Ryan was devastated. He tortured himself, wondering what he’d done wrong. Wondering what he could have done to keep Anne. His well-planned life had come completely unraveled. He was supposed to quit the police force and go to law school next year. But without Anne’s salary to support them, how would he afford it?

  And suddenly, the idea of becoming a lawyer didn’t appeal to him very much. It hadn’t done much to insure his father’s happiness. And indirectly, law school had ruined his life with Anne. Besides, he loved being a cop. He was good at it. And it was his brothers in blue who gathered round him when Anne dumped him. So Ryan stayed a cop and never thought about becoming a lawyer again.

  “Elwood was buried at Calvary,” Liz said. “Not far from your dad. So after the service I stopped by his grave.” Ryan’s father died of a heart attack while in prison.

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Still dead, but there were fresh flowers on the grave.”

  Ryan nodded. “Maggie never stopped loving him.” Maggie was Ryan’s father’s second wife. She only lasted two years. “Not even after he dumped her for you, Liz. Maggie visits the grave every week.”

  “Epic love,” Syd said. “Even in the teeth of a gale. That’s so romantic.”

  “Pathetic if you ask me,” Liz said. “Ryan’s father was a self-centered son of a bitch who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. I’m just sorry it took me six years to realize it.” Liz started for her car. “I’ll call you guys when I know something.”

  Hanrahan shook his head. “I can’t imagine waking up to that every morning. How’d your dad do it?”

  “She makes a mean blueberry pancake,” Ryan said. “She’s also smart, informed and passionate about life.”

  “Yet she spends her days sticking her hands in dead people, go figure.” Hanrahan sucked the last bit of chocolate off his Tootsie Roll Pop. “Anyway, the bartender’s inside along with a few of the customers who got a look at the blonde.”

  “Don’t suppose the bar or parking lot had a surveillance camera?” Ryan asked.

  “No,” Hanrahan said.

  Syd pointed across the street. “There’s a 7-Eleven. I’ll check to see if they have a camera pointed in this direction.”

  “Great idea,” Ryan said. Syd hurried off.

  Hanrahan watched Syd cross the street. “If she was my partner, I’d have trouble keeping my dick in my pants.”

  Ryan studied Hanrahan for any sign of suspicion, found none. “I’ve never had a thing for redheads,” Ryan said, not crazy about lying to his boss. Then he sprinkled on a little extra seasoning. “Besides, she’s got a boyfriend.”

  “Good,” Hanrahan said, turning back to Ryan. “Because fucking your partner always ends the same way. You end up fucking yourself.”

  THREE

  Syd was excited. She just had a feeling. Not about the security camera. 7-Eleven’s have their cameras inside, trained on the aisles and cash register, not on the parking lot. There was probably no way there was a security camera to help in their murder investigation. No, she was excited about Ryan’s lottery ticket. She just had this feeling.

  “Can I help you?” the clerk asked as Syd approached the counter. He was smiling, but he didn’t mean it. Syd could just tell. He was Middle Eastern, of course, late thirties to early forties, and he just oozed resentment. He was probably a doctor or an engineer in his native country but in America he’s stuck behind a sticky, slurpee-stained counter.

  “Yes,” Syd said, handing him Ryan’s Lotto ticket, beaming him her brightest smile. “Could you check this for me, tell me if I’ve won anything?”

  “Certainly,” he said, perking up. No man, no matter where he is from, can resist a pretty girl. He tried to put it in the Lotto reader, but it was so wrinkled the machine rejected it.

  “Sorry,” Syd said. “It was sort of forgotten about, stuffed in a glove compartment.”

  “No problem,” he said, smoothing it out. “You’d be surprised how many millions of dollars go unclaimed because people forgot about their tickets.” He carefully placed the ticket in the machine and, with a mechanical whir, the machine sucked it in.

  Syd couldn’t see the screen from her angle so she watched the clerk’s face. He stared at the screen, expressionless, and then shook his head. “Sorry, miss, no luck today.” He hit a button, the machine spit the ticket out and the clerk threw it into the trashcan behind the counter.

  “Can I have my ticket?” Syd asked.

  “No need, miss, it’s a loser. I’ve thrown it away for you.”

  Syd pulled her .9mm Glock and stuck it in his face.

  “Shit,” he gasped, raising his hands. “Take whatever you want. But, please, don’t shoot.”

  “I’m a cop, you jackass, and all I want is my Lotto ticket.”

  Looking even more worried than when Syd pulled the gun, the clerk leaned down, plucked the ticket out of the trash and handed it to her.

  “You lied to me,” Syd said. “I could see it in your eyes. What came up on the screen?”

  “Nothing, I swear. It was like I said, the screen said, no winner.”

  Syd walked behind the counter, stopped in front of the Lotto machine. “Let’s just double check, shall we?” Syd smoothed the edges and slipped it into the machine. The screen flashed: CALL 800 465-9586.

  “What’s that mean?” Syd asked.

  The clerk hesitated, then, “It means you’ve won a very large jackpot. The 800 number comes up whenever the ticket is worth more than fifty thousand dollars.”

  “And if I’d left after you threw my ‘losing’ ticket away, you were going to take it out of the trash and claim it yourself?”

  He just stared at her, sullenly silent.

  “One final question,” Syd said, writing down the 800 number. “Do any of your security cameras point toward the parking lot across the street?”

  The question was so out of left field, confusion filled his face. “What?”

  “Look there,” Syd said pointing out the window, losing patience. “See all the police cars? That’s a crime scene. Do any of your security cameras point toward that parking lot?”

  “No, they only point inside.”

  “At you, ripping off your customers?”

  “It was an honest mistake, I swear.”

  “Yeah, right,” Syd said. She was tempted to arrest him for attempted robbery or fraud, or whatever the hell you call trying to fuck someone out of their Lotto winnings. But deep down she understood the clerk’s survival instinct. He was a cliché stuck in a xenophobic wasteland, a Middle Eastern man running a 7-Eleven. He’s mocked in pop culture in everything from The Simpsons to South Park. And in return for his humiliation he makes minimum wage. So he plays a few angles and, if the locals are dumb enough to fall for his act, more power to him. So Syd simply withered him with a look, holstered her weapon and left.

  Syd was used to guys trying to take advantage of her. She had such a sweet, girl-next- door look that most guys thought she was naïve, or worse, nice. At her core, Syd was neither. She outgrew naïve when her stepfather raped her on her fourteenth birthday. She outgrew nice when she killed him two years later after countless molestations. Well, that’s not exactly true, it was one hundred and thirty-eight molestations. Syd kept count.

  Ryan didn’t know about the rapes or the murder. No one did. In fact, no one even knew Syd’s real background. She lied to everyone.

  Syd walked out of the 7-Eleven, pulle
d out her cell phone and called the Lotto 800 number. A woman answered on the third ring. “California Lottery.”

  “Yes, hi, I hope you can help me. I’ve got a Lotto ticket and when I checked to see if it was a winner, a screen came up telling me to call this number.”

  “There is a serial number on the ticket, just below the date. Do you see it?” Syd could hear a change in the woman’s voice, a thrum of excitement.

  “Yes.”

  “Read the number to me please.”

  “193-036806682-086035.” Syd heard her type the numbers into a keyboard.

  “Oh my God, congratulations, you have a winner with a capital W!” The thrum had turned into a marching band. “Where are you calling from?”

  “Hollywood.”

  “There’s a Lotto office in Van Nuys. Bring the ticket, answer a couple of questions and we can begin to process your check. But you better hurry. The jackpot must be picked up within one hundred and eighty days of the drawing date; you’ve only got two days left. The ticket expires on the twenty-sixth, that’s Thursday, the day after tomorrow.”

  Thank God I found it when I did, thought Syd. “Actually, I’m calling for a friend, it’s his ticket,” she said.

  “Well, you got a very lucky friend.”

  “How lucky, how much has he won?”

  The woman laughed. “Oh, of course, sorry; the jackpot is forty seven million dollars.”

  FOUR

  Syd walked in Havoc with a big smile on her face. Ryan was at a corner table conducting an interview with the bartender.

  Syd loved Ryan’s looks. He was tall, six-two to be exact, with jet-black hair, straight nose and strong chin. But what sent her heart a thumping were his dimples, one in each cheek, and his boyish, self-deprecating style. Like he had no idea how cute he was.

  And Ryan loved his work. He practically oozed enthusiasm. His hazel eyes looked almost incandescent as he asked questions, made notes. He was one of the few truly happy people she’d ever met.

  “Okay,” Ryan said joining Syd in the doorway of Havoc. “The victim met a beautiful blonde somewhere around one-thirty. The bartender knew Colin Wood, knew his face at least, not so much his name. He’d come in every so often looking for a hook-up. He’d never seen the woman before. He’d remember, he said.”