Vivian, he realized, was definitely becoming a problem. A problem he’d have to take care of soon.
* * *
Reggie had just returned from that miserable dungeon, the Hall of Records, still shaking out the visions of rowboat-sized rats, dancing skeletons, and hooded executioners, when he got a call from Ronda Wiley. A Vivian Costanza had filed a missing-persons report for Laura Finnegan in Los Angeles. Reported missing as of April 20, nearly a week after Reggie figured Laura disappeared.
“On the form, did Ms. Costanza fill in the blood type?” asked Reggie.
“Hold on. Let me look.”
Reggie could feel his heart thumping as he waited.
“She put down A positive. Does that help?”
Yes. Yes. Yes. Reggie scribbled down Vivian’s number and left a message at her hotel, the Loews in Santa Monica.
He whistled a few bars from “Yankee Doodle.” He was on a roll.
At the Hall of Records, he’d brandished his badge and managed to avoid waiting an hour for the surly clerks to find the right microfiche. He’d threaded up one microfiche machine before he realized it was broken, then threaded a new machine—with the image upside down. Finally, he got it working, but found no birth certificate for Beatrice Steinacker. He looked up Ruth Steinacker, who had divorced in 1956, then remarried Samuel Cohen. He also found a marriage license for a Beatrice Cohen, married to Anthony Goodsell in 1971, her birth name listed as Steinacker.
Bingo.
Scott was now connected to the ring. Still, there was no body, and all the evidence was circumstantial. Certainly not enough for the district attorney. But it might be enough for Captain McBride to authorize a DNA test on Laura’s hair.
The next morning, Reggie cornered McBride before the day shift arrived. McBride appeared to be in a good mood.
“Would you sit down, Reggie!” snapped McBride. “You’re making me irritable.”
“Yes, sir.” Reggie was wrong about McBride’s mood.
“Don’t ‘sir’ me, for chrissake! How many years have we known each other? The rookies we get now don’t even ‘sir’ me except if they’re in trouble.”
Reggie slumped in front of McBride’s desk like a repentant choirboy. It had been a lot of years, but he still didn’t feel comfortable in front of the captain. Nobody did.
McBride was well respected, if not particularly well liked. He was fair and tolerated no jokes—no racial jokes, no lady-cop jokes, not even the harmless pranks his officers needed to keep sane. He was proud of the fact that his department had the fewest lawsuits against it in the city. He understood the political machine downtown and tempered his decisions accordingly. He was not, however, what you’d call easygoing.
Reggie knew it was time to get some muscle behind the investigation. He’d spent the previous evening putting all of his notes in a file. First there was the missing-persons report. Second, the ring on the arm had been bought by a man named Steinacker, the birth name of Scott’s mother. Third, the restraining order. Fourth, Laura’s blood type was A positive—same as the arms. In addition, there were the odd circumstances of her disappearance—how Scott handled everything, paid her bills, put her belongings in storage.
But the longer Reggie sat watching McBride read his summary, the more his confidence began to fade.
“This fellow, Scott Goodsell”—McBride peered over the file at Reggie, his bushy eyebrows angled sharply, like two diving pelicans—“how would you describe him?”
Reggie thought for a moment. “He’s around six feet, one-seventy-five, blond, good-looking. He’s never had to work very hard to get what he’s wanted, but then he hasn’t been all that ambitious. He’s smart enough to be easily bored, but lacks the character and drive to do anything constructive. A surfer dude turned to real estate. That kind of says it all.”
“You think he’s the type to commit murder, then orchestrate an elaborate cover-up?”
“He likes games. Likes watching them, likes playing them—racquetball, tennis, basketball. I think murder is another game to him.”
“The type who wants to perform the perfect murder?”
Reggie paused. “I don’t think it started out that way, but now I’ll bet he takes a certain pride in it.”
“Do you think he’ll kill again?”
“I think he’s come to see murder as a solution to his problems.”
“If he has another problem, he’ll murder again?”
“Yes.”
McBride pressed his fingertips together in a tepee and rested his index fingers against lower lip. Then he dropped his hands. “Do you know anything about Scott’s family, Reggie?”
Reggie kicked himself. Why did he always jump into things before he was ready? “Apart from tracing the ring back to the Steinackers, no. I haven’t gotten that far.”
“Well, I do know something about his family.” McBride closed the file and pushed back in his chair. “His mother, Bunny Goodsell, has been married three times. Do you know who her second husband was?”
“No.”
“Richard Wyman.”
“The lawyer? The guy running for office?”
“That guy is doing great in the polls and could easily be our next mayor. Chief Bollinger hates his guts.”
Reggie caught his breath. Richard Wyman was a civil rights attorney who specialized in cases against law enforcement. Fancying himself an advocate for oppressed minorities, he took just about any complaint from any punk involved in a high-speed pursuit or petty crime, then sued the police for racial profiling and use of excessive force. Twenty percent of the cases had merit, the rest didn’t. Wyman picked juries who hated cops, so he always won. His client might win only a dollar, but, under the provisions of U.S. civil rights codes, Wyman got paid his full fee from the city. He wasn’t in it for the clients. Richard Wyman made life hell for the LAPD. Every division in the city had at least one cop being sued by him. Reggie knew of one who’d named Wyman in his suicide note.
McBride continued, “Wyman is running on police reform. He wants to fire the top brass and restructure the whole department. Chief Bollinger denounced him in the L.A. Times—said if Wyman was our next mayor, he’d throw the city into chaos. Without naming names, he blamed him for the Compton riots.”
Reggie ran his hand over his face. “We don’t even know if Beatrice Goodsell still speaks to her ex-husband. Just because Wyman was once married to her doesn’t mean—”
“Don’t even question it, Reggie. We’re not going there.”
“So we let Wyman’s stepson get away with murder?”
“No, of course not. The chief would love a scandal against Wyman, but we have to be a thousand percent sure that the allegations stick. Otherwise it’ll backfire against us. This might be a great opportunity to knock Wyman out of the mayoral race.”
So McBride was with him, but McBride wanted war. “Will you let me get a warrant to search Scott’s car and apartment?”
“No. I’m not sure as we have enough evidence to convince a judge yet. And the second a judge gets involved, Wyman will be all over the case.”
“Will you authorize a DNA test?”
“No, not yet. I want you to work on the arms case with Mike Morrison. Turn up more evidence, and I’ll get you DNA tests and search warrants. All you want, you betcha. Who knows, Reggie, if you handle this case right, it might break things open for you. We’re talking at least a promotion. You interested in working RHD at Parker Center?”
The robbery-homicide division, the crème de la crème of the LAPD. Reggie felt a stab in his chest. It was all wrong. It seemed every time you tried to do something right in this town, things got all twisted. Make a career move on apprehending a murderer—in essence, profiting from Laura’s death? Richard Wyman might be a weasel, but destroy him because of his stepson? No, that was not right at all.
“By waiting to open the case, aren’t we taking a risk Scott will kill again? If I’m working on it alone, there’s no way I can keep track of him twen
ty-four hours a day.”
“You’ll have to do the best you can. By the way, I do not want the sheriff’s department to know you have a suspect.”
“If he kills?”
“Goddammit, Reggie! Of course I don’t want to put anyone at risk, but there’s a lot at stake here. But we might get Wyman.”
Reggie was surprised by McBride’s vehemence but thought he understood. McBride had known Wyman since his first civil rights case in the eighties. He had witnessed Wyman twisting public opinion, stirring up hate, rending apart the city like an earthquake breaking up freeways. Until Wyman was defeated, the city would never heal.
Reggie had to pursue Laura’s killer despite his Captain’s ulterior motives. But it made him feel dirty and compromised.
* * *
As Reggie parked his unmarked cruiser by Grand Canal, ducks skittered across the muddy water. It always surprised him that wildlife managed to live in the city—birds and possum in the marina, bobcat and deer in the Santa Monica Mountains, coyote and raccoon in the Hollywood Hills. It made him happy to see Mother Nature taking back what was rightfully hers.
He walked up Washington Boulevard toward Venice pier, and stopped in front of Bay City Realty. The company had taken over a failed French Provençal restaurant, so the office had a homey look, with shutters and shingled siding. Reggie wondered if they’d found a use for the courtyard; when he looked around the side the building, he saw they’d paved over the brick to make a parking lot.
Reggie planned to interview Scott at work to make him nervous. He wanted Scott’s coworkers to look at him with suspicion, to start the wheels of speculation; then, when Reggie got around to interviewing them later, they might have already thought of something they’d noticed that was odd about Scott, a lie they’d caught him in, an appointment he missed, a confrontation in which he behaved irrationally. Also, it would be difficult for Scott to refuse to speak with a policeman in front of his colleagues.
When Reggie showed his badge to the receptionist, he got the saucer eyes he was looking for and was pretty sure that there would be some fresh gossip during the next coffee break.
The receptionist glanced at the large wall clock. “Scott has a staff meeting right now. Can you wait five minutes?”
Of course he could, but it might make a nice impression to pull Scott from a meeting. “It’s very important. Would you see if he could step out for a moment?”
She looked hesitant, caught between authorities, then said, “Okay. I’ll go ask.” She disappeared down the hallway to the conference room.
Scott came stumbling into the reception area, blinking like a mole at midday. Reggie thought he looked thinner.
When he spotted Reggie, Scott straightened up and swaggered toward him. “Good morning, Officer Brooks. Do you want to look at properties on the Westside this morning?” Apparently, Scott said this for the receptionist’s benefit.
“Good morning, Mr. Goodsell. Do you have a moment? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Of course. I’d be most happy to answer your questions. The conference room is busy, so why don’t we use an office here.” Scott led Reggie into Harrison’s office. He closed the door, hesitated, then took the chair behind his boss’s desk. Reggie stood. Scott looked relieved to have the desk between them.
“The department has received a missing-persons report for Laura Finnegan. Since it’s an official investigation now, I need to ask you a few more questions.”
“As I told you, she’s not missing, but go ahead. Shoot.”
“Where were you on Friday, April 12, through Sunday, April 14? That’s the weekend after Laura’s last day at work.”
“I don’t have any idea.” Scott laughed uncomfortably. “That was months ago.”
“Do you have an appointment book? Maybe it would jog your memory.”
“Well, yes.”
“Do you have it here?”
“Yes,” Scott said grudgingly. “Let me go get it.” He left the room and came back with a blue leather-bound appointment book with the Bay City Realty logo on it. He sat back down behind the desk and flipped to the right page. “I had appointments all day on April 13th and 14th. We’re busiest on the weekends.”
“Do you recall what you did in the evenings?”
“No. I probably stayed home.”
“Do you have a roommate or anyone who could corroborate that you were at home?”
“No. I probably made telephone calls you could check.”
Reggie had checked. On the night of April 12, Scott’s phone had been uncharacteristically silent. “I talked with Laura’s landlord, Jean Boulogne. He stores a variety of tools on his property and he mentioned he’s missing an ax. Would you know anything about that?”
“An ax? No.”
“We’ve also had a chance to call all the registered nursing homes in upstate New York. There was no one named Mrs. Finnegan admitted in the last month.”
It took a moment for Scott to remember what he’d told Reggie before. Then he guffawed. “I’m sorry to break it to you, Officer, but you’re wasting your time. Laura called me from France. She said her mother’s illness was all a ruse. She’s been in Europe all this time.”
Reggie was surprised. “You’ve heard from her?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve gotten postcards from her and everything.”
“Really? So the story about her mother wasn’t true?”
“Obviously not. She told me she used that story because she wanted an easy excuse to get out of town fast.”
“Why’d she need an excuse at all?”
“I think she didn’t know exactly where to go or what she wanted to do. It was easier to say she had a sick mother.”
“Did you tell her I wanted to talk to her?”
“Sorry. It slipped my mind. I was kind of shocked to hear from her.”
“It’s essential she call us. We have personnel actively looking for her.”
“I understand.”
Reggie looked at Scott severely. “Did you ever give Laura an engagement ring?”
“Well, I think you know I asked her to marry me. She turned me down.”
“Did she keep the ring?”
“Of course not. Why would she?”
“Do you know where the ring is now?”
“I happen to have it with me.”
“Really?”
Scott reached into his pocket and pulled out the cracked-leather jewel box. He smiled at Reggie.
Reggie opened the box and picked up the ring. “You know,” said Reggie as he watched Scott closely, “this ring looks a lot like one on a hand that washed up on Venice Beach.”
“It’s just a ring,” said Scott, shrugging.
“The one we found on the arm wasn’t just a ring.”
“What do you mean?”
“We got it appraised. It’s worth around a half a million dollars.” Scott’s eyes seemed to darken, but otherwise, he didn’t react. “We were surprised, too. It looked so simple.”
Scott said coolly, “That’s a lot of money for a ring.”
“Sure is,” said Reggie. “Do you own a boat, by the way?”
“You mean in the marina?”
“Yes. Or anywhere, for that matter.”
“No. I’m afraid of water.”
A surfer afraid of water? Reggie let that slide. “Do you know how to sail?”
“God, no. You couldn’t get me on a boat if you paid me.”
“Is your mother Jewish?”
“What?” Scott jolted back defensively.
“It’s not a crime, being Jewish,” said Reggie, smiling.
“Yeah, I suppose you’d call her Jewish. But she doesn’t practice or anything. She took us to all sorts of different churches when we were young.”
“You have other siblings?”
“Yeah. Three sisters. One older, two younger.”
“Where do they live?”
“Martha lives in North Carolina, Samantha lives in Los Angeles, and P
atricia goes to school at UCLA.”
“Is Patricia in L.A. during the summer break?”
“No, she’s in Europe.”
“France?”
Scott, apparently realizing his mistake, blushed, but he didn’t miss a beat. “No, I don’t think so. Greece, I think.”
Reggie marveled at Scott’s skill as a liar. “Is your mother’s family from Europe?”
“Aren’t most American Jews?”
“I suppose. Do you know a Vivian Costanza?”
Scott didn’t react at all to the name. “No. Why?”
“She’s the one who filed the missing-persons report.”
“Never heard of her. She related to Laura?”
Reggie smiled. “Not as far as I know. You will be in town for the next few days?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We may have more questions for you. Will you get a number from Laura if she calls again? And make sure to tell her to call me.”
“I’d be glad to.” Scott’s tone was perfect—an earnest citizen wanting to help. Reggie couldn’t detect even the slightest insincerity.
Scott walked Reggie to the reception area. Reggie opened the front door, then turned. “By the way, what’s your mother’s birth name?”
“Really, Sergeant Brooks, I hardly see how any of these questions will help you locate Laura.”
“Funny thing—you know that ring I was telling you about? The one that showed up on the dismembered arm? We traced it back to a jeweler in Sainte-Croix, Switzerland. Those Swiss keep excellent records, you know. Turns out it was sold to a man named Steinacker. That name mean anything to you?”
Scott lost all expression, then said, “Isn’t that interesting,” and walked in the other direction.
As Reggie left Bay City Realty, excitement pulsed through his muscles; he knew he had the fox on the run. Yet he was confused by the ring. If Scott gave Laura the engagement ring, what was the ring in his pocket?
Later, Reggie ran another credit check on Laura. It appeared charges were being made on her card in France. Reggie assumed someone else was using her card. He suspected Scott’s sister Patricia.
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