The Past, page 10
“How do you know they’re dead?”
“You wouldn’t be here if they weren’t. Cops like you don’t care about people like me unless we wind up without a pulse.”
“Did you know her? This time at least take a peek.” He put the prints right in front of her face.
“So what if I did.”
“Which one?”
She pointed to the face of the first victim they’d found.
“We discovered her body in the park. Someone beat her to death. Did you see her night before last?”
“I don’t know. They ain’t my problem.”
“They who?”
“Other women.”
“Why aren’t they your problem?”
“Cause, you know. We’re both after the same men.”
“Yeah, but you’d notice if one went missing. You’d remember. You’d know it could have been you.” He hated to rub it in, but she must be glad she wasn’t the victim.
“Hell yeah, they called her Honey Bun, but I don’t know anything about her. I took a meeting with a friend. I came back, and she’d gone.”
“But you at least know her?”
“We didn’t hang out, but I know her street name.”
“Who’d she run with?”
“I don’t know. I’m not her pimp. She hung around. I saw her sometimes.”
“Where did she work the last time you saw her? What corner or on what part of the block was she standing?”
“I don’t know which corner she worked, but when I saw her last, she was across the street on that corner.” She pointed in the diagonal direction from where they stood.
“If you think of anything at all, or if you hear something, please call me.”
He handed her his business card. She took it, rolled her eyes, and stuck it in her bra.
“Yeah, I’m sure gonna do that.” She shook her head like he was the dumbest cop in the world, walked off, and left him to stare at her back.
He joined his partner.
“The redhead said she saw Honey Bun Thursday night, but didn’t see her picked up by our perp. Did you learn any new information?”
Vern glanced up from writing in his small note pad.
“Not much. One of them said the victim we found at the motel might work two blocks farther down. She didn’t know for sure.”
“We’d better check it out. We don’t have any other leads to follow up on. Damn it, this case sucks,” he said.
As they moved down the street, they questioned several other women, but none admitted they knew either vic.
They walked into the Naughty Lady Bar, standard fare. Several pool tables in the back kept half a dozen guys busy. The name tag on the man behind the barrier read Steve. He got the man’s attention.
When the guy brought his head up, he saw a faded scar that ran from his sideburns to near his hairline. “Hey, Steve, you seen either of these women around here before?” He placed both pictures down on the flat surface before him. The barkeep studied them for a minute and nodded.
“This one they called Hilda. She worked around the corner at the end of the street. The other one didn’t come in often, but I’ve seen her around.”
“What was she into?”
“I’m not sure, but she never got got much to drink. She mostly came in out of the rain.” Steve looked up and smirked. “Like we get showers here anymore.”
“Ain’t that the truth. Can you tell us anything that would help us? We need to find someone who’d know more information about her or Hilda.”
“You didn’t hear it from me, but I think they both worked for Terrell. It’s the only name I know him by.”
“Do you know where he calls home?”
“Not a clue, my man. Not a clue.”
He slipped him a card. “Thanks. Give me a call if you think of something else.”
After they left the Naughty Lady, he turned to Vern but saw he’d already called vice for a location and info on Terrell. Several minutes later Vern disconnected.
“They got a file on him?”
“They’re supposed to call us back.”
“Let’s take a break. It could take a while. I don’t want to drive halfway across town and back.” He walked to the corner. Vern followed him.
Out on the street, everything appeared normal. Cars whizzed by, lights glittered on many buildings, and a killer hunted his next victim. Why the hell did this, their last case, turn out to be such a bitch? Tired frustration hugged him like a tight dinner jacket.
“Our favorite deli’s over a block. We could grab a pastrami on rye. If we’re lucky, a beer could enter our future.”
Vern gazed at him. “Sounds perfect, but we’re still on the clock. You know you won’t take a drink until we’re off for the night.”
“I know, but I can dream can’t I? It won’t be long until we can grab a cold one any damned time we want.”
“I live for the day.” Vern’s phone sounded. He stuck a finger in his other ear so he could hear above the traffic. “You got anything for me?”
He spoke for a minute and turned back to him.
“They got nothing on this Terrell guy. If he runs a string of women, he’s not on their radar. So no help there.”
“Son of a bitch. Did I mention I hate this damned case? Who ever heard of vice not having info on a pimp?”
He pushed the door open to Henry’s Deli. Notorious for their pastramis, he felt he could eat a dozen right now. He’d been busy this long day. They found more bodies, and no one would talk. His feet already ached, and he needed a break. Vern walked up to the counter and ordered three on rye, while he hunted for a booth they could share.
Seven minutes later Vern joined him. His partner took his note pad out and reviewed his notes. The scratchings were illegible, but his old friend could make them out okay.
“We got an idea where he took Honey Bun from. We need to pull film footage, see if we caught him on tape when he took her. So I guess we go back and look for security cameras in the area.” He put his notes away and took a sandwich from Vern.
“Sounds like a plan, but my feet feel like nubs.”
“Mine, too.” He paused. “We’re already here. We’d have to come back tomorrow. I say, let’s get it over with.”
“I know you’re right, but damn it anyway.” Vern took the third sandwich, cut it in half, and handed one to him. They didn’t say much during their meal. Ten minutes later they exited back to the street.
They retraced their steps the way they’d come. He pulled a flashlight from the glove compartment. With so much neon in the area, they hardly needed it, but it helped them to see in dim places that the light didn’t reach.
They walked around each corner where the dead hookers most likely worked their trade. After forty-five minutes, they got enough information to get warrants for the videos. Within fifteen minutes they’d arrived back at headquarters.
This time Paige left Josh at home with Caroline while she canvassed Ben’s neighbors. The rest of the day passed swiftly. She talked with dozens of people from the beach houses lined along the Pacific Coast Highway. No one saw Ben the night the murder took place.
She asked about security tapes that might have faced Ben’s house and learned the police had taken them. She didn’t see any that faced the front of Ben’s property. Most were too far away and pointed back at the owner’s homes. If Ben had a security system, you could bet the authorities had taken the hard drives from those, too.
She noticed the Escalade was gone when she pulled the Porsche into the garage later in the evening. Tired and aggravated, she opened the door to the kitchen and found the house dark and quiet. They’d probably given up on her and gone out to eat. She left the access open. They would be back soon. She entered her room. It didn’t take long to change into her cutoff sweats and top. She went into the kitchen, intent on a workout in the gym.
She saw a silhouette move. A blur really. It brought her heart rate up. She froze midstep, as a figure in black emerged from the living room doorway. What the hell?
Nothing in his hands. Not a burglar.
“Josh?”
He stopped. The gun came up next.
She didn’t have time to think.
She took a step back, slammed the door, and set the lock. The egress seemed flimsy at best. The protection it provided wouldn’t hold long. She went for her gun holster, pulled the Glock out, and hurried to the door that led to the garage. The overhead remained open, but the intruder came through the kitchen door at a right angle to her. He seemed determined to move past her and escape through the outside opening.
“Freeze. Hands in the air.” She took her stance and pointed her weapon at him.
He ignored her and continued forward.
Ferguson, Missouri and the riots there flashed through her mind, plus a dozen since. She left her doorway and cut him off. As she tackled him, they both rolled to the ground. He kicked hard and shoved her away from him. Pain erupted through her ribs, and the pistol flew out of her hand. By the time she managed to get up, he stood on his feet, ready to land another blow, but this time with his right fist. She countered with a block from her left hoping to protect her ribs.
He must have known his boot did its damage because his blue eyes dared her to try again. She dropped her left shoulder and kicked out with her right foot. It hit him and glanced off when he twisted away and ran. She fell to the concrete floor.
She picked herself up, grabbed the firearm, and started after him. The darkening sky and the vegetation hid the perp. She searched the perimeter around the house and grounds. No trace of him.
She went back into the house and pulled her top up. A faint discoloration covered her ribs. The angry red would turn purple before morning. She checked her backside, painful from her last landing. Soreness might last for a day or two, but she’d be fine.
She strolled through Josh’s home and searched for any signs of disturbance. One drawer in Caroline’s room gaped open, but the contents didn’t look moved. Only her friend would know if she missed anything. She pushed the dresser closed and walked away from the area.
Did he take anything? She didn’t think he had time since she’d interrupted him. Besides, his hands were empty when he fought her. Who could the man be? She could only attest to blue eyes because he wore a ski mask. Unless Ben was innocent and this guy the killer, she couldn’t figure out why anyone would want to take Josh’s home apart. What motive would the perp have? Nothing here would affect the case.
But he might not know that. Did he lose something at the crime scene and thought they found it? What other reason could he have? The ideas that ran through her head were only conjecture.
He could be a burglar, but in her experience he didn’t feel like one. He wore gloves and didn’t feel threatened when she pulled her weapon. He handled himself like he’d been trained. Someone searched Ben’s residence. Now this. Her instincts told her he acted like a pro who wanted something specific, but what?
Before she stirred everyone up or called the police, she needed to figure out what exactly went down here. Too much didn’t add up. Besides, she’d learned from her work, on a small crime like this, her brothers on the job couldn’t do much.
She went to the gym. The rowing machine held her attention for about twenty minutes. It didn’t seem to bother her ribs too much. She figured it would, but she still needed to go slow and easy. She worked to strengthen her arms with weights. Though she refused to say it aloud, in her head she still repeated, Monsters kill you. Monsters kill you . . .
Sweat poured down her back. Her breathing felt labored. Still, she continued to lift and repeat in her head the words she was determined to remember. She moved to the bag and punched without rhythm or gloves. Only frustration and fear drove her until she collapsed on the floor. She sat and leaned against the heavy bag while her hair dripped and tears slid down both cheeks.
She strained to gather enough strength to go up for a shower and didn’t notice the shadow approach. A second later, she felt a presence, jumped to her feet, and took her position to defend.
“Whoa. I came to find you.” Josh stepped toward her.
“You startled me. I need to go up for a shower anyway.” She attempted to walk around him, but he reached out for her.
“Are you all right? You look exhausted.” His eyes searched hers.
“I might have worked out too hard. I wanted to smash something. My afternoon was wasted. I didn’t find anyone to corroborate Ben’s story.” She felt totally defeated. A part of her wanted to believe Ben. Caroline did, but she strived to keep her objectivity. She’d learned if a person got tunnel vision by believing one line of thinking without proof, it could blind them to the facts. Evidence led to the truth, not believing in people. Anybody was capable of doing horrible damage to another person when cornered. She’d seen it too many times not to know that truth for a certainty.
“We picked up food. You’re probably hungry. Come on.”
He sounded so hopeful she didn’t have the heart to bring him down. The intruder was probably just that. Since she’d interrupted him, she doubted he’d be back. The guy knew she had a gun.
“You’re right. What did you bring me?”
“Steaks. Caroline has the grill heating. She cleaned out the salad aisle too, but I’m okay with green veggies. Sound good?”
“Let me shower and change. It sounds great.” Her legs trembled, but she moved ahead of him up the stairs. He left her in the kitchen. She walked into her bedroom and didn’t stop until she reached the bath. Hot water soothed her exhausted muscles and steamed up the mirror. Finally, she adjusted the temperature to cold. The blast got her moving again.
She emerged from her room twenty minutes later feeling much better. The smell of grilled meat assaulted her empty stomach. “How long before we eat? I’m famished. Do I have time to dry my hair?”
“Not if you want your T-bone hot. Come on. You’re fine. We planned to eat outside by the pool anyway.” Caroline walked past her carrying a huge bowl of salad.
She followed. The glass table held casual dinnerware. A small fridge contained wine, water, and most importantly, Pepsi. She went to retrieve one, then decided she needed to hydrate with water first after her workout.
Josh came through the back door in a white T and cutoff jeans. The clothes looked immaculate on him. She noted his fantastic chest muscles move beneath his shirt. She wondered if she would find him more attractive if she still didn’t dream about Bobby several times a week. Her smile of appreciation faded. Over a year passed since the accident that claimed Crissy and Bobby Youngblood. It changed her life so much.
They sat down together. Caroline suggested they hold hands during her short prayer to bless the food.
She cut into her steak with determination. She quickly finished her meal and took seconds on the salad.
Caroline and Josh continued the small talk. The trio relaxed as the last of the light faded from the mountainside. She mentioned she felt tired and moved toward her bedroom. Caroline claimed she still needed to finish the notes for her sermon. So they both went inside, while Josh reclined beside the L-shaped pool.
She closed the door and felt antsy. She paced for several minutes. She grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. She flipped through channels for a bit. Her sports bra and jeans came off next, and she pulled an old gray T-shirt over her head. When she glanced up, she saw two detectives on the news. They worked a case concerning prostitutes. She turned the sound up and listened.
A woman from the local news station interviewed a homicide detective named Buck Tillman. He discussed the bludgeoning deaths of two prostitutes.
“Isn’t this the second prostitute you’ve found this week? Does it mean a serial killer is loose in LA?”
“It could, but we can’t panic. He’s only killed a specific type. Prostitutes with shoulder-length, brunette hair. So if you’re a working girl who fits the description, you should be careful.”
“Is there a certain area we should be aware of?”
“We only give out the pertinent information. The investigation’s ongoing. We don’t discuss details. If anyone out there has information regarding this case please call us.” The detective gave the contact information.
Once the taped portion flipped back to the news anchor, she smiled and thanked the reporter. “In other news, the case against the Oscar winner, Ben McCall, may take a turn for the worse. A secret source told our entertainment liaison his fingerprints matched those found at the scene of a double homicide more than twenty years ago. We asked the lead detective, Curtis Sampson, about this report. He declined comment. The tongues in Hollywood should wag for a long time.”
She rewound the remote and watched the news anchor’s report again. Shit. The lying ass. He never mentioned he’d been involved with another homicide. How could he be so clueless? Did he not consider that the police would run his prints?
After she turned off the TV, she seethed in silence. She hated working for the other side. Suspects always lied. If not outright, then by omission. Ten minutes later she turned out the light. Tomorrow would come soon enough. She would confront him. When she got through with him, he’d know better than to do anything like this again.
10
Special Agent Jordan Trinity sat in his sterile apartment and thought about the one person who’d taken up residence in his mind over the last six months. Paige Stone left her mark on him and didn’t know it. A mixture of wholesome beauty and innocence made a man imagine fantasies he shouldn’t. The fifteen-year age difference bothered him, and his jaded experience would eventually corrupt the ideals he loved about her. The transition into maturity would come to her like it did everyone who lived a long life. He didn’t want his disillusionment to change her sooner rather than later.
He cleared his mind of thoughts of Paige and pulled the file up on his computer. His boss had sent a text with the case number to him a few minutes ago. While the laptop hummed, he stared out the window at the overcast sky. The weather in DC called for more snow. LA offered a nice change.
