She arrived at the office early enough to stake her claim on the card table. A few weekend stragglers remained, catching up on paperwork or continuing their investigations. A series of murmurs were exchanged between all, the best anyone could manage.
She booted her laptop and sketched out her plans. First thing was to contact the Colemans. She needed to get a look at Zachary’s room. See if anything suspicious was there. That could take most of the morning. Afterward, she’d track down the teenager’s friends to interview, or she’d chase whatever clue she found.
A deep, gravelly voice across the room interrupted her solitude. Lieutenant Segura was in early too.
“Good morning, sir,” she said.
He nodded. “Alvarez.” He walked closer and nodded toward her laptop. “Anything happening with the Coleman case?”
“Not yet. I’m going by the home today and checking out his room. Maybe something there will clarify things.”
“Maybe. More likely you’ll find his stash of drugs or whatever. When you do, close the case. The tox report will confirm what we already know. The kid died of an OD.”
But we don’t know that. Not yet. “Sir, it could be four or five weeks before we get the report back. By then, any evidence or suspects will be long gone.”
He stared at her without speaking.
She glanced away. “I agree. Unless I find something suspicious, it might be time to put this one in the file.”
“Just because there aren’t any new murders doesn’t mean there’s not plenty of work to do. Check out the boy’s room. See what you find. We’ll determine how to proceed after that.”
We’ll? How long before he trusted her?
The LT shook his head. “Don’t give me that look. You have your job and I have mine. We stay on track and on budget. When the time comes that I think a case needs to be put on hold, you’ll have a chance to change my mind. Any detective here will tell you I do the same thing to them. Doesn’t matter if they’re a thirty-year vet or a rookie. No one wants to let loose of an investigation until they’ve solved it, but the reality is sometimes we have to wait for someone to come forward or new information to turn up. Until that happens, your time is better spent elsewhere.”
She pressed her lips into a thin line. Tell that to the victims’ families. “I understand, sir.”
He sighed and stepped closer. “Understanding and accepting aren’t the same thing, but I get it. Two pieces of advice for you, Alvarez. First, focus on the victim, not the family. You’re paid to solve a crime, not to bring people closure or relief or whatever you want to call it. That may sound harsh, but that’s the way it is. You work for the deceased, or more specifically, the next victim. Your job is to make sure a murderer isn’t around long enough to kill again.”
“And the second?”
“Human nature is your best friend and worst enemy. People are predictable. They kill for the same reasons. It almost always comes back to love or money. Problem is”—he pointed at her—“your nature, all of ours at first, is to want to believe what people tell us. Don’t. Everything and everyone is suspect unless the evidence confirms their story.”
Starsky said the same thing. Everyone lies, intentionally or not. The only truth was whatever you could prove.
And right now, that added up to a big, fat nada. A lack of wrinkly toes wasn’t persuading a grand jury. Didn’t really convince her either. If this hadn’t been her first shot at a case, if she’d had other real homicides on her plate, she’d probably have passed on this one. Wait for the tox results, she’d have told Pritchard. Call back then.
But, just like Cotulla, the itch had grown, demanding to be scratched. Insisting there was more. Always more.
Zachary Coleman. Seventeen years old. Dead. Too young.
Like Mama.
Far too young.
Mama would get her answers. Doctors would diagnose. Suggest options and treatment plans. Give her the odds.
Zachary would get no answers. Too late for him.
Amara scooped up her belongings and headed for the car. She’d get the answers. For his family and friends. For the public. For the other Homicide detectives.
But mostly, for herself.
No other way to make the itch disappear.
8
Amara pulled into the driveway of the Coleman residence. The garage doors were open and Zachary’s Mustang remained where she’d seen it last Thursday. Both of the other vehicles—his parents’ cars, she assumed—were also there. No indication that anyone else was at the home, meaning the heavy silence that came after a funeral would hang over the house like a shroud.
She stepped outside and walked toward the porch, eager to dig into Zachary’s life but hesitant to intrude. Best case would be for the Colemans to leave her alone while she poked around the boy’s room and car. The father seemed like the kind of person who wouldn’t have a problem with that, but the mother could be a different story. With Zachary’s death so recent, she might not want anyone messing with his stuff.
The front door opened and Paul Coleman half waved. “Good morning, Detective.”
She increased her pace and hopped up the steps onto the porch. “Good morning, Mr. Coleman. I appreciate your cooperation. I know this is a difficult time.”
He motioned her inside without responding. “Lori is still asleep.” He sighed and scratched at the stubble on his face. “Prescription sleeping pills.”
Her heart sank. The woman was trapped in a nightmare of anguish. Amara had taken a semester of psychology back in college. The professor said everyone dealt with sorrow differently. That the so-called five stages of grief were meant to apply to terminally ill patients, not to those left behind, and people might go through all the steps or none of them. Ms. Coleman had opted to postpone the process with medication.
“Yes, sir. I’ll be out of here as soon as I can. If possible, I’d like to take a look in his car before I leave?”
His expression remained flat. “Won’t be a problem. Zach’s room is this way.”
She followed him down a narrow hallway, pausing as he pointed out a bathroom she could use, and walked inside Zachary Coleman’s room. The space was huge, with a full-size bed shoved against one wall and opposite it, a desk smothered with computer equipment. A walk-in closet was off to the right, its open door revealing a pile of dirty clothes on the floor. The short-shag beige carpet, well-worn and dotted with various colored stains, covered the entire area. A triangular path had been permanently etched into the flooring’s fibers. Door to bed to computer to door.
Mr. Coleman’s voice had a new scratchiness to it. “This used to be two bedrooms, both small. We took out a wall and combined them.”
She nodded. “Has, um, has anything in here been touched? I mean, since Zachary passed?”
He shook his head. “Lori rests on his bed sometimes. Everything else should be the same, as far as I know.”
“What about his cell? Do you have it?”
“It’s in our bedroom. Do you need it? We were hoping to get some pictures off it, but it’s locked. I thought one day I’d take it to the phone store and see if they could help.”
“It’s okay. You can hold on to it for now.” She paused. “Mr. Coleman, if you have other things you have to take care of . . .”
“No. Nothing else except another cigarette. I’ll be out by the pool. Take your time.”
“Thank you.” She pulled on a pair of latex gloves.
“What exactly are you looking for?” he asked.
Drugs, weapons, or money would be a good start. “Not sure,” she said.
“Do you think it will make things better or worse?” he asked.
She turned and peered at him. “What?”
“If Zach was killed. Is that better or worse than an overdose or natural causes or whatever?”
The same thing she’d wondered when she was here last week. “I don’t know.”
“Yeah. Me neither.” He dragged his finger down the doorjamb be
fore pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and wandering away.
Amara surveyed the room and planned her search. No posters or photos on the walls. Did teenagers not do that stuff anymore? On the desk to the left, computer equipment was surrounded by empty energy drinks and colorful figurines. Save that for last. Move along the wall on her right, check out the dresser and small bookcase, then into the closet. Next, the bed, area around the window, and end up at Zach’s computer setup.
The dresser looked like one of those IKEA deals. Clean lines with a modern look. Everything comes in a box that’s about two inches thick and weighs eight hundred pounds. Nothing fancy but plenty functional. An assortment of loose change, some candy wrappers, and small bundles of pocket lint dotted the top. She opened the first of four drawers and shuffled through a pile of underwear and wrinkled T-shirts. Nothing out of the ordinary.
The next drawer contained a few pairs of socks, a couple of swimsuits, and some shorts. She squeezed everything to be certain nothing was hidden inside. The next two drawers held various items he’d accumulated in his short lifetime. Concert ticket stubs, plastic and metal figurines from video games, some superhero comic books. She riffled through everything else, confirmed there was nothing of interest, and ran her fingers along the bottom and outside back of each drawer without discovering anything.
She tugged the dresser away from the wall—validating her eight-hundred-pound IKEA theory—and inspected the space. No secrets here. She eased the furniture back into place, planted her hands on her hips, and arched her back. A tablet or two of aspirin might be in order tonight.
The walk-in closet turned out to be mostly empty. The pile of clothes on the floor appeared to be clean. Dumped straight to the ground. She squatted and went through each item but found nothing. Three pairs of shoes and as many flip-flops were semi-organized along the wall, and she inspected them before standing to survey the rest of the closet.
Shirts and pants, jeans mostly, hung along the white wire-rack shelving, and she ran her hands down each item. Nothing. A couple of baseball caps had been tossed on the top shelf, and she stretched for them. Her fingertips brushed the hats, but her height, or lack thereof, made reaching them impossible. She frowned and glanced around for something to stand on.
Unwilling to disturb the Colemans and with no other options, she settled on the rolling chair at the computer desk. After maneuvering it into the closet, she placed one palm against the wall and stepped up. The seat swiveled slightly and she grabbed the shelving to keep her balance. Wonderful. Couldn’t wait to fill out the on-the-job injury report. She steadied herself and inspected the hats. A bit of dust in each and nothing else.
She pressed her palm against the wall again and eased her right foot toward the floor. As she did, the chair spun and she balanced precariously, left foot planted midseat and right foot dangling in the air. Her heart pounded in her ears as she slowly sank to the ground.
The seat edged a millimeter toward the closet door and disturbed the delicate balance, sending her tumbling to the floor. At least no one was here to see it. Nothing hurt but her ego. She scooted onto her hands and knees and glanced around to make sure she hadn’t put a hole in the wall. Everything appeared to be as it should.
Almost everything.
From this low perspective, she could make out the hint of another carpet trail. This one led to the back far corner of the closet. No clothes, boxes, or anything else stacked there. She crawled over and inspected the wall. No sign of any secret hiding spots. She scrunched lower and found the trail again. It led right to her. Had to be old. At one point something was here, maybe back when it was two separate bedrooms.
She ran her hand along the indentation in the shag. The rut stopped short of the corner by about a foot. She rapped her fist on the floor, unsure of what she was listening for. It sounded like wood under there, but weren’t all floors wood? Besides, there were no visible cuts in the carpet. She grabbed a handful of fibers and tugged.
The carpet came up a little, maybe more than expected, but nothing major. Nothing. How many times had she thought that word in the short time she’d been here? She released the flooring and it settled back in place. A bump remained and she smoothed it in all directions in a futile effort to eliminate the evidence of her work. Old carpet, loose padding, whatever. She sighed and pushed herself off the floor, then squinted at the back corner. The carpet there wasn’t under the baseboard. Had it been like that before?
She bent forward and gripped the edge, then pulled the flooring back. After staring for a moment, she grabbed her phone and snapped a couple of photos. There, in the plywood panel supporting the carpet, was a perfectly cut rectangle, roughly a foot by a foot and a half. Scattered crumbs of dark sawdust bordered the cuts. On the side closest to her, thin gouges indicated where a knife or screwdriver had been used to pry up the rectangle.
She closed her eyes for a moment and forced herself to focus. No assumptions. Whatever was under there might not have anything to do with Zachary or his death. Don’t jump to conclusions.
She pulled her keys from her pocket, chose the thinnest one, and wedged it into the crack. The board came up easily and she peered into the space. The plywood subfloor rested atop a series of two-by-fours turned sideways and mounted on what she assumed was a concrete slab.
It was hard to know for sure, considering the entire area was filled with bundles of cash protected in plastic wrap.
9
“What are you doing?”
Amara jumped at the voice behind her. “Ms. Coleman?”
The woman’s anger radiated from her. Her disheveled hair, baggy eyes, wrinkled pajamas, and bare feet validated her husband’s information about the sleeping pills. “Get out of my son’s room.”
“Ma’am, I’m Detective Alvarez from the—”
“I don’t care who you are.” Ms. Coleman took a step forward and pointed at the door. “Get out. Now.”
Amara froze. “Your husband said—”
“I don’t care what he said.” The woman moved another step closer. “I want you gone.”
Amara extended her left arm and planted her feet. “I understand, but first, I need you to back away. Please, Ms. Coleman. Neither of us wants a confrontation.”
“This is my house.”
“Yes, ma’am, and I’ll be happy to leave as soon as you give me some space. Please. For your safety and mine.”
She squinted at the hole in the floor, seemingly noticing it for the first time. “What did you do?”
Amara lowered her arm. “Would it be all right if we got your husband and the three of us talked? About Zachary?”
“Zachary’s gone.”
“Yes, ma’am, he is. And I’m trying to figure out why.”
The woman’s shoulders slumped. “Nothing you can do will help.”
Amara shook her head. This was the part where she was supposed to talk about getting answers and bringing closure. Justice too if that was needed. But none of that mattered to Ms. Coleman. “No, ma’am,” she said. “I can’t give you what you want. Nothing I do is going to fix this.” She wanted to hug the woman. Tell her how sorry she was that Zachary was gone and that sometimes things just happen. Things like murders and overdoses and breast cancer. Instead, she clasped her hands in front. In her new job, sympathy worked. Empathy destroyed. “Let’s go find your husband, okay?”
She nodded once and Amara followed her as the woman shuffled out of the room, down the hall, and to the back patio.
Paul Coleman sat at a table, the ashtray beside him overflowing with cigarette butts. He glanced at them but remained seated. “Honey, you shouldn’t be up. You need rest.”
The woman squinted against the sunshine, then walked to the table and sat beside him.
He covered her hand with his and squeezed. “Finished, Detective?”
“No,” Amara said. “I have to show you something and then I was hoping we could talk.”
He raised his eyebrows. “What did
you find?”
“There’s a, um . . . I found a compartment under the floor of your son’s closet. Inside was money. A lot of money. Do you have any idea where he could have gotten it?”
Ms. Coleman looked up. “Zach worked at Target. He probably just cashed his checks and put the money there. You know, to keep it safe.”
Amara gestured toward the home. “Could we go inside and I can show you? That might help.”
The Colemans trailed her into Zachary’s closet, and Amara stood aside while they stared into the hole. What was going through their minds? Cash like that didn’t come from working at Target, and they knew it. Mr. Coleman squatted for a closer peek.
“Please don’t touch anything,” Amara said. “Perhaps it would be best if we talked somewhere else?”
“My office,” Mr. Coleman said. He wrapped his arm around his wife’s waist. “It’s okay if you want to go back to bed. I can fill you in later.”
“No,” she said. “I want to hear this. Or I don’t. I’m not sure how much more I can take.”
Amara turned her gaze away from the couple. How much worse could it get? Would anything she said be harsher than Zachary’s death? At this point, what difference could it make if their son was a drug lord or an overpaid Target employee? The only thing possibly affected would be his reputation, and was that so important?
“Sit with us,” Mr. Coleman said to his wife. “I’ll fix some coffee, okay?”
She nodded and the group moved to his office. Amara sat in the same chair she used last week and pulled out a notepad and pen. Mr. Coleman flicked on a coffeepot behind his desk while his wife sank onto a love seat and curled her feet up under herself.
“It looks bad,” the husband said. “Doesn’t it?”
Amara scooted forward in her chair. “It doesn’t look good or bad. It just is. Of course, we need to determine where your son got the money so we’ll know whether it had anything to do with his death. Can either of you think of any explanation?”
“No,” Ms. Coleman said. “Zach never really spent a lot of money on things. You saw his room. Other than his computer stuff, there’s nothing to amount to anything.”
Network of Deceit Page 5