“I doubt it’s a coincidence too, Abby, but it wasn’t Gudziak’s bloody handprint we found at the scene of the Roswells’ murder. That was Dave McKenzie’s.”
“So what’re you thinking?” Candice asked.
Grayson sighed. “I’m thinking we have a lot of loose threads here and nothing that ties them all together yet. Even if McKenzie wasn’t at Wixom’s house last night, it doesn’t mean he didn’t have a hand in it. He could’ve orchestrated the whole thing for all we know.”
“All you know,” I muttered. “Not all I know.”
“Okay, so what do you know, Cooper? I mean, enlighten me on how all this fits together.”
I stared hard at her, angry that she wouldn’t drop the theory that Dave was guilty. “You really want to know?”
“Yes, yes, I do.”
My temper was flaring and my radar was wide open, reaching for the answer, when all of a sudden I had it. “Holy shit,” I squeaked when it came together in my mind.
“What?” Candice and Grayson both said.
I held up a finger to get them to hold on a moment and quickly pulled out my cell to make a call. “Hey,” I said when Dutch answered the call. “I need you to do something right away and don’t ask me any questions about it—just do it, okay?”
“Deal. What do you need?” he said.
“I need for you to send some of your private security to the homes of Roger Mulligan and Sylvia Ramirez. It needs to happen immediately, Dutch, and they need to be armed.”
“I’m on it,” he said, without argument or a single question. “I’ll text you when the security teams check in.”
“Thanks. I’ll call you in a while and explain.”
“That would be great,” he said, and clicked off the line.
When I pocketed my phone, I looked up to see both Candice and Grayson eyeing me with raised brows. “Private security for three other clients?” Candice asked.
“Yeah,” I said, seeing in my mind’s eye so clearly what must’ve happened. “They’re the most vulnerable.”
“Why’s that?” Grayson asked.
“Because they’re the three clients along with Chris Wixom who met with Gudziak when he was impersonating Dave, whom Gudziak and his buddy carjacked earlier that morning.”
“Come again?” Grayson said.
But Candice’s eyes went wide with understanding. “The accident!”
Grayson blinked. “What accident?” she said.
I pointed to Candice to let her know she got the answer right before I explained it to Grayson. “There was a report called into APD that a truck resembling Dave’s went off the road on Lost Creek Boulevard. We went there to check it out, but only saw a few signs that anything had occurred. When your patrol car arrived on scene, Dave’s truck was already back on the road.”
“What if,” Candice said, taking over for me, “Dave didn’t drive off the road? What if he was run off the road and abducted?”
“He’d be no match for the two guys that Wixom describes,” I said. “Dave’s fairly tall, but he’s skinny. If Wixom is right in his description of the tattooed assailant, then Dave would’ve been easily subdued, especially if he was rattled after having been run off the road.”
“Where’s the proof, though?” Grayson said to us, adding, “I remember that call. The guy on the line didn’t mention anything about another car.”
“True, but he also sounded under the influence and nervous about being identified. Maybe he was trying to give as few details as possible so that he wouldn’t be tracked down for his statement.”
“Or maybe he didn’t see the other car,” said Candice. “Maybe he only saw a partial view of the accident and didn’t see Gudziak and his accomplice come up behind Dave.”
Grayson rubbed her temples, and I suspected she was starting to get the first part of a headache. “You guys are chock-full of hypotheticals. But I still don’t see any evidence to back up this theory.”
“Okay,” I said, trying to see it from her perspective. “How about you lend us the benefit of the doubt and concede that there might be more to this story, Nikki?”
“I’ll concede to that,” she said. “But you need to show me something, anything, Abby, that backs up your theory before I lend you any more leeway here.”
“Cool,” I said. “I can work with that. And I’d love to show you something to back up my theory. The place that I think we need to start is at the beginning.”
“Where’s that exactly?” she asked.
“The scene of Dave’s accident,” Candice said, and I was grateful she was right there with me on how to proceed. “We need to look for evidence of another car.”
Grayson’s crossed arms remained crossed and she tapped her arm with her index finger, all the while looking super annoyed. “Tell me you guys didn’t know I used to work accident investigations.”
My brow shot up. “You did?”
She rolled her eyes.
“Seriously?” I said. “We didn’t know, Detective. I swear.”
With a heavy sigh she turned and began walking away from us. Over her shoulder she said, “Best come with me, ladies. Daylight’s a-wastin’, and we’ve got an accident scene to process.”
• • •
“Found something!” I yelled an hour later while standing on the rocky, dry ground of the place where Dave’s truck had gone off the road.
Detective Grayson moved to my side and squinted at the piece of clear plastic I held in my hand. “Yep,” she said. “That’s part of a headlight. Problem is, there’s no way to know how long it’s been here.”
“Why can’t we just assume it’s from the car that ran Dave’s truck off the road?” I whined. So far I’d found four pieces of similar size and shape to the one I currently held, and she’d said the same thing for each piece.
“Because there aren’t any skid marks or paint chips or pieces of metal from another vehicle lying on the side of the road to indicate that another car was involved, Abby. It’s all circumstantial evidence right now, and it’s flimsy at best.”
At that moment Candice—who’d spent much of the time we were there on the phone—waved to us. “You guys!” she called. “Come here!”
Grayson and I picked our way over the terrain to her and she covered the microphone with her hand to say, “I called Brice and told him to head to APD to put some pressure on the brass there to trace that recording,” she said. “He was able to get the gears greased and he’s been in with Seabright and the phone companies ever since, working to find a trace on the call. He just called to say they may have gotten a hit on the number.”
Candice moved her hand away from the microphone to say, “Yes, Brice, I’m still here.” Grayson and I waited while Candice listened; then she said, “You’re sure you got the right name?” Another pause, then, “Okay, I believe you. Send me the address and we’ll run it down and get back to you.”
After clicking off the call with Brice, Candice said, “The call originated from a cell phone belonging to a woman named Helen Leggero.”
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“Nope. Brice and Officer Seabright had the carrier double-check it just to make sure.”
“But the caller was a man,” I reminded her.
She rolled her eyes. “I know, Sundance, which only means that someone borrowed or stole her cell phone to make the call.”
“Let’s hope it’s borrowed,” Grayson said.
“Only one way to find out,” Candice replied, wiggling her cell when it pinged. “That’s Helen’s address. Let’s go talk to her unless you two want to continue to dig around in this scrub.”
“We’re good,” Nikki and I said together.
Candice grinned. “Let’s roll.”
Chapter Fourteen
Helen Leggero lived in a two-story stone house with big plante
rs filled with overflowing vines and hardy flowers. She answered our knock carrying a cane, looking a bit sleepy and rumpled, as if we’d just woken her up from a long winter’s nap. Also, she was like eleventy million years old.
We introduced ourselves to her, and she eyed us quizzically, then held up one finger and disappeared back into the house, only to reappear a few moments later shoving a hearing aid big enough to be mistaken for a pancake into her ear. “Can’t hear nothin’ without my aids,” she said, her voice crackling with phlegm. Pointing to the badge displayed at Grayson’s waist, she said, “What’s my great-grandson done this time?”
I rocked on my heels. Jackpot! I thought.
“Your grandson?” Grayson said, playing dumb. “What makes you think we’re here about your grandson?”
“Great-grandson,” Helen corrected. “Little shit’s always getting into trouble and expecting me to bail him out. That’s why I assume you’re here, cuz it can’t be for me. I haven’t left the house in a month, not since my daughter had a stroke, and her daughter ain’t around to take care of either of us or her own kid. Now there’s nobody to take me to get my lottery tickets. Not even that worthless little moron Kramer, who’s always busy every time I ask.”
“Kramer,” Grayson said smoothly. “Kramer’s last name is . . . ?”
“Kissinger,” Helen said. “No relation.”
I suspected Helen was referring to the former secretary of state, but why she’d think that we’d think that her great-grandson was a relation was a mystery to me.
“Helen, did you happen to give Kramer your cell phone?” Grayson asked next.
Helen dug into the pocket of her housedress and came up with a giant flip phone, which she’d probably gotten before Kramer was born. (Maybe around the time that Kissinger was secretary of state.) “No,” she said. “It’s right here.”
“Did you by any chance get him his own phone on your account?” Candice asked.
Helen scratched her head. “Maybe,” she said. “His grandmother took care of all that before she had the stroke.”
“We’re trying to get in touch with Kramer,” I said, pushing a big pleasant smile onto my face. “Do you know where we can find him?”
Helen made a motion with her thumb to the back of the house. “He’s got that room above the garage,” she said. “He’s up there most days when he’s not in school.”
“How old is he?” I asked.
“Twenty-eight,” she said. My eyes widened. She laughed like she knew what I was thinking. “Yeah, I’ve got a twenty-eight-year-old great-grandson. My daughter is seventy-four, and my granddaughter is forty-nine.”
“That’d make you . . . ?” Grayson said.
Helen laughed again and tapped her cane. “Ninety-two. I’ll be ninety-three next month. I want to live to see a hundred, but who knows if I’ll make it?”
I grinned at her, liking her spirit. My gut said she’d be around to make that birthday and then some.
We took our leave of Helen and walked the driveway to the rear, where an unattached garage stood sentinel over the backyard. There was a doorway into the side of the structure, and I noticed that an AC unit was perched in an upstairs window.
Next to the garage, an old, white Volvo sat dripping oil onto the grass. The car had a certain smell to it—one that might invite a search by a certain APD officer if she was so inclined.
Grayson stopped at the driver’s side door to peer inside the car, and came up smiling. Pointing to the passenger’s seat, I clearly saw an apple that’d been turned into a bong not long ago. It looked like there were still a few hits left, judging from the contents in the small well where the cannabis was kept.
Grayson then walked back down the drive and motioned for us to follow. We did and in the shadows of a row of crepe myrtle trees she made a call back to her department for a records search on Kramer Kissinger. We waited while she listened to the info; then she gave us a thumbs-up and finally disconnected. “Kissinger’s got a prior for possession,” she said. “He’s been on probation for the past year, was court ordered to take a drug test every month, which he has, and he’s passed each one. His last one before his probation ends at the end of the month was this past Friday.”
“Ahhh,” I said as Candice’s face lit up with recognition too. “So, Kramer takes his last drug test, and has a couple of hits to celebrate.”
“Looks like it,” Grayson said. “Too bad for him he’s still got a little over twenty days of probation left.”
“But lucky us,” Candice said with a knowing wink to Grayson.
“Yep,” Grayson said, motioning for us to follow her back down the drive to Kramer’s door, which she gave several good whacks to.
“What?” we heard someone yell from inside.
“Kramer Kissinger?” Grayson asked through the door.
Silence followed. I suspected Kramer was right now creeping along the floorboards to the window to peer down at whoever had called his name in such an authoritative voice.
I looked up, as did Candice and Nikki, and a moment later we saw one lever of the blinds pulled aside and an eye and a partial glimpse of a nose peek out. “Yeah?” he asked when he saw us looking up at him.
Detective Grayson flashed him a toothy grin and her shield.
“Aw, shit!” he said, disappearing from the window.
Candice moved away to look at the rear of the garage; she then turned back to us and shook her head. The door Grayson and I were standing in front of was the only way in or out, excluding of course the big garage door, but Kramer would have to raise it up or wait while it rose up to scuttle under and make a run for it. I was almost hoping he’d try it, because we’d easily catch him.
For a long time there was only silence from Kramer’s side of the door. Grayson knocked again and called to him, but he wasn’t responding. At some point we heard a toilet flush, and Grayson rolled her eyes. Eventually we heard loud footsteps descend the stairs and on the other side of the door Kramer said, “I didn’t do nothing.”
“We believe you,” Grayson said, shaking her head and rolling her eyes at me to let me know she thought him a liar, liar, pants on fire. “We just want to talk for a few minutes.”
“Okay, so talk,” he said, without opening his door.
“Is that your car right here on the lawn, Kramer?” Grayson asked.
A long pause followed, and finally he said, “Yeah?”
“Cool. Is that your apple on the front seat? The one with what looks like cannabis still in it?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t know where that came from.”
“Really?” she said. “Kramer, you know you’re still on probation, right? Which means I don’t need probable cause to search your car, your house, or your person. Nor do I need a reason to haul your ass downtown for a drug test, which I doubt you’ll pass, which would be a real shame as you passed the one on Friday with flying colors.”
“Shit!” Kramer swore again. “Goddammit! I didn’t hurt anybody! This is bullshit!”
“Yeah, I know, kid,” Grayson said, as if she had all the sympathy in the world for the fact that he’d been caught with a bong on his front seat. “But here’s the deal. We’re not here to check up on you or arrest you for your drug use. We’re here about the call you made to APD the other day. And you can come out here to talk to us, nice and calm, or I can call for backup, bust down this door, haul you into custody, and send you to prison for a few months—or years, depending on what else I find inside your car or in the pipes leading from your toilet. I’ll search it all if you don’t come out right now, Kramer. Play nice with us or accept the consequences. The choice is yours.”
There was a pause, then a mechanical sound as the lock was released. The door opened a fraction and Kramer’s one eye peered out at us, squinting in the daylight. “How do I know you won’t try and arrest me after I talk
to you?”
Grayson crossed her arms casually. “You don’t, kiddo.”
Kramer rolled his eyes and stood there defiantly without coming out or saying another word, so Candice said, “You were right, Grayson. He’s not going to cooperate. I’ll keep watch on the door while you call for backup.”
Grayson reached for her cell and Kramer’s one eye widened—along with the door, revealing a lanky, scruffy, bearded young man in a dirty T-shirt and saggy shorts. “Okay! Okay!” he shouted, holding up his hands in surrender. “Fine, okay? I should’ve stuck around until you guys got to that accident, but the guy seemed okay—I mean, his car didn’t roll or anything. And there were the two guys in the other truck that stopped! What about them, huh?”
I stiffened. “What two guys in the other truck?” I asked him.
He pulled his angry gaze away from Grayson to vent his frustrations at me. “Aw, man! You don’t know about them?”
“No,” I said. “So tell us.”
“Two guys in a black truck pulled over to help the guy in the silver truck. If they didn’t wait around for the cops either, then that’s not on me.”
Grayson said, “Of course it’s not on you, Kramer, but we still need your full statement, because the guy in the silver truck was hurt a lot worse than you might’ve thought. Which is why we need you to tell us exactly what happened on that road, starting from the beginning.”
Kramer sighed dramatically and looked away like talking to us was such a chore. I barely resisted the urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake his strung-out, skinny ass for all it was worth until he started talking.
As it turned out, I wasn’t the only one who was feeling a little impatient. Candice stepped up to Kramer, grabbed him by his grubby T-shirt, and got right up into his face. “Listen, you skinny little shit,” she hissed. “I am not playin’ around here, you feel me? You start telling us what happened on that road last Saturday, or I will personally use your face as a scrub brush on that toilet upstairs to see what traces of drugs might stick to your beard!”
A Panicked Premonition Page 23