Deadly Fun, page 18
“Where did he find it? And no, I’m not in the mood for guessing games.”
“Sometimes, you can throw a bucket of ice water on a man’s desire to have some fun. It was—” Solomon shoved past Gordon and thumped a drum roll on the desk. “In the cell phone donation bin.”
Where people could donate old cell phones. The civilian patrol made sure they were wiped clean, then donated them to nursing homes and assisted living center residents or other at-risk individuals who couldn’t afford a phone. The phones were restricted to dialing 911, but having that capability could make a difference between life and death.
Gordon took the bag, took a closer look at the simple black flip phone. He turned it over and saw a label with Romash printed on it. “You know who brought it in?”
“Nope. People drop them off all the time, and they don’t go through the donations until someone empties the box. And before you ask, we don’t know when, either. The last time someone went through the box was two weeks ago.”
Gordon knew that had been a longshot, but it would be just like Solomon to withhold that tidbit as a final flourish. “If the killer took it, he’d have cleared all the information before dropping it in the box. An innocent citizen who found it lying around probably wouldn’t. Did you check?”
Gordon had already gone through Nate’s phone calls, and Verizon was supposed to be providing text data. If the phone had been turned on when Nate left the house on Wednesday, they might be able to zero in on where he’d been between leaving the house and the phone ending up at the station.
“I figured you’d want to know we found it first,” Solomon said. “I did try to turn it on. Battery’s dead. We should be able to scrounge a compatible charger somewhere. Hardware store should have them.”
“Check our storage room first. There’s a carton in the back filled with odds and ends. You never know what someone didn’t want to throw away.”
Solomon grinned, tapped two fingers to his forehead. “On it, Chief.”
They had the phone, but hadn’t solved the mystery of who’d taken it, and when. A killer who knew death wouldn’t be immediate would want to get rid of the phone so his victims couldn’t call for help. Maybe. From what Stone had said, Ruth’s killer had stabbed her and left her at home where she could have called for help. She hadn’t. Why? She’d put a Band-Aid on her wound, so she hadn’t realized she was already dying.
Gordon hadn’t asked whether the other victims had their cell phones when their bodies were discovered. Ruth seemed to be the only victim where they had a reliable location of the stabbing. He hadn’t checked with all the investigators.
Rather than keep calling everyone, he started a list of questions.
Was location of the crime discovered for any of the cases?
Did the victims have cell phones with them?
Confidence level that victims were alone when killed?
Were all the stabbings as clean as Nate’s and Ruth’s?
Were there any indications that a victim did try to get help?
Gordon saved the list, then sent a copy to Solomon and Colfax.
He borrowed Solomon’s binder and made copies of the ViCAP pages that listed victim information. Other than Nate’s, they didn’t have pictures of the victims, but having a name made things personal for Gordon, moved them away from the anonymous, faceless victim category.
Next, he strode to the briefing room and, because they didn’t have another whiteboard, taped the map to the wall. Beside it, he tore a sheet of paper from the oversize tablet they used for workshops and training sessions, and taped that next to the map.
Following the timeline, they’d established, Gordon added the names he’d found.
Marco Palmieri
Blanche Eckerd
Joseph Porter
Florian deFalco
Naomi Kent
Ruth Fleischmann
Reggie Jenkins
Patience Osborne
Vernon Finch
Glynis Hodges
Frederic Corona
Nathan Romash
Stepping back, he studied the names for several moments. No similarities, no matter how far he tried to stretch things. Not by alphabet, number of letters, nationalities—nothing tied them together. They’d already decided the locations made no sense, either.
Solomon joined him, stared at the board. “Makes them more real with the names, doesn’t it?”
“I like to think we work harder when we know who our victims are, even if it’s a name on a board. Solving the murder of a white male, sixty-two years old doesn’t light the same fire as solving Frederick Corona’s murder.”
“Can’t argue with you on that.”
“You see any connections?” Gordon asked. “I’m drawing a total blank.”
Solomon’s lips pursed in and out as he studied the board. “Nope. I’m beginning to go along with the idea that he threw darts at phone book pages, assuming he could find a phone book. And you were right. I found a charger that fits Nate’s cell in the storage room. Phone’s plugged in, and as soon as it has enough juice, I’ll let you know what I find.”
“I sent you and Colfax a list of questions that occurred to me. I’ll let you decide how you want to divide them up. My thought was that we each touch base with the investigators we’ve already dealt with and try to fill in the blanks.”
“You know, we can still work as partners, bouncing things off each other. You don’t need to pretend you’re deferring to me as lead.”
“You are the lead, and that’s the way it should be. I’m always glad to brainstorm. Having twelve cases to try to connect might lead to missing some things, duplicating effort on others.”
“You think I should start a spreadsheet?”
Solomon’s tone said he was joking. In reality, it seemed like a good idea, and Gordon told him so. “Make it shareable, and we should be able to keep things organized.”
“On it, Chief.” Solomon marched toward the workroom.
Gordon stared at the board for a while longer, then went to his office to email the detectives he’d been working with his list of questions. When he’d done that, he drafted a memo for the duty officers and Jack Darrow, requesting they ask everyone if they had any information about the envelope Tyrell found slipped under his office door sometime Wednesday night. He read it over, trying to make sure it didn’t sound harsh.
He liked to think his officers felt comfortable enough to come forward without fearing repercussions, so he added “This is strictly for my information, and should not be interpreted as a reprimand of any kind.”
He wandered down to the workroom, found Gaubatz on duty, and handed him the memo. “This should be read at all shift briefings. Give a copy to Dispatch, too. Anyone with information can report to the duty officer if I’m not in my office, or if they’d rather not say anything in person.” He thought for a moment. “Hell, they can leave an anonymous note if they want. I just want to know how someone bypassed the front desk and got in the back.”
Gaubatz glanced at the memo. “Sure thing, Chief. I’ll check, see who was on front desk duty Wednesday night and ask them, too.”
Gordon called Jack Darrow, explained what had happened, what he needed. “I’m emailing you the memo. If you can make sure everyone gets it, we should be able to wrap this up quickly.”
“Of course, Chief Hepler. And if it turns out it was one of my crew who was responsible, I’ll be sure to let him know.”
“I’d prefer it if you didn’t single anyone out. It’s a policy issue, and it would be better if you presented it as a refresher for everyone.”
After a brief pause, Jack answered. “Makes sense. Understood.”
With that taken care of, Gordon let Solomon know where things stood with his emails to Boudreau and Stone, and headed for home.
He took a circuitous route through town, checking for black Rams. Tailing someone undetected normally required multiple vehicles, but it didn’t hurt to be cautious. He parked in the lot behind Daily Bread, strolled through the walkway to the street and entered like a regular customer. If Gilbert—or an as-of-yet undetermined suspect—was watching, Gordon should appear to be just another customer heading in for dinner. Which, more or less, he was, although he was going to have a private dinner with his wife.
As he pulled the door open, he wondered how much Angie needed to know.
Chapter 41
THE AROMA OF FRIED chicken, the Sunday special, hit him, reminding Gordon how hungry he was.
Patti, one of the servers, greeted him with a smile. “Evening, Chief. You need a table?”
“Not tonight. I’m supposed to be playing guinea pig for some new recipes Angie’s trying. Is she in back?”
“I think she went upstairs already. Let me check.”
Gordon waited at the counter, taking in the room, searching for men who might be Sullivan Gilbert. Had he come in today? Angie would have called.
As if she knew what he was thinking, Patti returned and said, “Angie’s not in back, so she must have gone home. We’ve all been watching for the people you asked about. Angie put their pictures up in the breakroom. We haven’t seen anyone except the artist woman with the funny name. She was here for lunch.”
“Quinlan,” Gordon said.
“Yeah, that’s right. We’ll keep checking for the others. Discreetly. Angie made that clear.”
Gordon gave the room a last once-over, then took the internal stairway to the apartment.
Angie had locked that door, but the apartment door wasn’t secured. Gordon was about to chastise her, but he’d bring it up more delicately later.
The apartment smelled—exotic. Spicy. He tried to place where he’d smelled that aroma before. The Indian restaurant they’d gone to? No, more like the Middle Eastern one. He stepped inside to a candle-lit dining table set for two. Red tablecloth, white candles. Her crystal glasses, two already filled with water.
After putting his gun in the end table drawer, Gordon crossed through to the kitchen, where Angie was arranging little oval-shaped pieces of toast covered in bits of tomato, he thought, along with more bits of something green and—he gave up trying to guess. She’d changed from her Daily Bread uniform t-shirt and jeans, and wore black slacks and a form-fitting blue sweater with a neckline that teased and tempted. Maybe there would be more than food tasting tonight.
He reached for one of the toast bits.
“Presentation counts,” she said, slapping at his hand. “Go pour the wine.”
When he brought the wine to the table, Angie had set out two platters of what he assumed were appetizers. Sticky notes on the counter identified them as One and Two.
“Here’s the deal,” she said. “The host wanted an international theme. I’ve got two variations of the menu items for the catering gig. You tell me which of each you like better. We’re starting with Italy. Bruschetta.”
As far as he could see, the two platters held identical offerings. He’d have to taste them to judge. He took one and sampled it. Definitely tomatoes. Onions, and something else. A little off, he thought. Still, not bad. “It’s okay.”
She pointed to the water glasses. “Cleanse your palate before the other one.”
He took a sip, then sampled from the second platter. The taste was similar, but the undertones weren’t quite the same. What did he know? His palate was more in tune with fried chicken. “If I had to pick, I’d go with this one.”
“I thought you might say that. Platter one has cilantro, and I know you’ve got the gene that makes cilantro taste like soap. I’d read you could get rid of the soapy taste by using only the leaves, not the stems, so I wanted to see if that was true.”
Gordon picked up another one from the first platter and tried it again. “It’s definitely less ... soapy ... but there’s something not quite right about it. I wouldn’t say it was bad, just not as good as the other.” He gestured to Platter two. “What did you use in that one?”
“Arugula,” she said. “It’s got a peppery taste. Some people find it bitter.”
“For me, bitter is better than soapy. My vote’s for the arugula.”
“Thanks. That’s probably the better choice for the gig.”
She got up and plated two more dishes, and Gordon decided he’d wait until her part of the evening was finished before bringing up the letters. Truth be told, he liked being part of her culinary world—probably as much as she liked helping him with his police work. Her feelings were better than his palate.
He'd been right about the aromas being Middle Eastern. She’d prepared two kinds of skewered meat. One she called Shish Tawook, which looked like chicken kebabs. Kofta, the other, also on a stick, was made from ground meat. He tasted that one first. Not hamburger. “Lamb?”
“That’s right. Another iffy one for some people, but the hostess said she wanted to get away from the normal luncheon menus. Do you like it?”
“You know I’m fine with lamb.” He went back and forth between each dish, with a water chaser between each bite.
Angie’s cell chimed “Peanut Butter Jelly Time”. “That’s the diner.”
She jumped up, went to the kitchen where she’d left her phone. “Now?” A pause. “Offer him a complimentary coffee or soda while he waits. We’ll be right down.”
Gordon was already holstering his gun.
Angie rushed into the living room. “Patti said the man you wanted us to look for is downstairs ordering takeout.”
“Stay here,” Gordon said.
Her eyes blazed. “It’s my diner.”
He hesitated, then relented. It was her establishment, and he had no right to keep her away. “Okay. Here’s the deal. I’m going down the back stairs, around, and in through the front. If this guy is trouble, I don’t want him figuring out there’s a way up here from the dining room.”
“You came up that way.”
“He wasn’t in the dining room then. If he had been, I wouldn’t have.”
“Fine.” Angie stomped for the back door.
“Wait,” Gordon said. “Change into your Daily Bread clothes. Go in via the employee entrance. Stay back there. Talk to Patti, see what she noticed about the man.”
Her expression lightened. “So I’ll be helping. You’re not just trying to get me out of the way. I could look at the video footage, too.”
“Excellent idea.” He didn’t bother mentioning he’d rather not let Gilbert—if it was Gilbert—connect him to Angie.
“What about you?” she asked. “You’ll be in the dining room. You don’t think he knows you? He was at the memorial service. You delivered the eulogy. He may have sent you those letters. What if he tries something?”
“He’s not going to do anything when there are people around,” Gordon said. “Not his MO.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not going to confront him, are you?”
“Confront him? Of course not. Then again, if the opportunity presents itself, I might have a brief, and with luck, meaningful conversation with the man.”
Chapter 42
GORDON SPARED A MOMENT for a kiss, then put on a jacket and headed for the back stairs. “Lock the front door,” he called to Angie.
As he trotted down the stairs and through the walkway toward Daily Bread, Gordon called Dispatch. “I want coverage on Daily Bread. Watch for Sullivan Gilbert exiting the building. Alert all available units and the civilian patrol to be on the lookout for his vehicle.”
“Roger that, Chief,” Tessa, the night dispatcher, said.
Once he’d made his way into Daily Bread, Jemma, another of Angie’s servers, flashed a welcoming grin. Gordon lifted a finger to his lips, hoping Jemma wouldn’t use his name. Not that it mattered. Gilbert, if he had sent the letters, would have done his homework and known what Gordon looked like even before seeing him at the memorial service. Even if Jemma had used his name, Gordon doubted anyone would have noticed above the heated conversations about the Rockies game, the clattering of cutlery against ceramic, and the two toddlers having a screaming match in the back corner.
Gordon scanned the room again. He moved in closer to Jemma, his voice lowered, while she gestured to one of the few vacant tables. “Patti called about a customer we were looking for. Takeout. Where is he?”
“Right this way.” Jemma turned, grabbed a menu, and led him to a table toward the rear of the room, past a man in a gray hooded sweatshirt, sitting alone, reading one of the free local newspapers. A cup of coffee and a glass of water sat on the table, both apparently untouched.
The man hadn’t looked up when Gordon walked past, and he gave about sixty-forty odds that he hadn’t noticed him. From where Jemma had seated him, Gilbert would have to turn in his chair to spot them.
Gordon picked up the menu Jemma had placed on the table and hid behind it while he studied the man. The angle wasn’t ideal, and the hooded sweatshirt and newspaper served to obscure his face. Gordon pulled out his phone—nothing conspicuous about that move—and called up the pictures of Gilbert, both from the memorial and Angie’s surveillance feed. He remembered Solomon saying he’d be in touch with the sketch artist, but that was before they’d seen Angie’s surveillance footage. If Gilbert kept wearing hooded sweatshirts, Gordon couldn’t see that Becca’s sketches would be better than the picture he’d put on the board.
Gordon sent a text to Dispatch, updating Gilbert’s description to include the gray hoodie and jeans the man was currently wearing.
Might be carrying a Daily Bread takeout bag.
Meanwhile, the suspected Gilbert hadn’t picked up either his water or his coffee. Not interested, or did he know better than to leave prints? According to Colfax, the man hadn’t shown up on any searches. Innocent people didn’t think about leaving their fingerprints all over the place.
Gilbert still hadn’t touched his glass or mug. Hadn’t lifted his eyes from the newspaper. Hadn’t turned a page. When Angie approached his table with a takeout bag, Gordon’s heart took an extra second to beat again. What was she doing?
“Here you go, sir. One fried chicken dinner, mashed potatoes, coleslaw, and I’ve added a piece of apple cobbler, on the house. Sorry you had to wait.”
