REASON TO DOUBT Read online

  “I got confirmation a few minutes ago the police arrested a suspect in the Model Slayings. Cate was right. It’s her friend, Pete Pompidou.”

  Tyler put me on hold. One thing about talk radio, when news breaks, stations like KTLK are all over it. Like a vulture, once listeners got news of an arrest, it would be non-stop talk all day.

  Through the phone, I could hear Tyler set up my report. “We interrupt this broadcast with news from Venice Beach where KTLK reporter Carol Childs says police have arrested a suspect in the Model Slayings. Carol, can you fill us in?”

  “Thank you, Tyler. Neighbors along the Venice boardwalk this morning were alarmed when SWAT officers swarmed a beach residence and arrested a man police suspect may be the Model Slayer. A witness, who asked we not use her name, identified the man arrested as Pete Pompidou, a twenty-three-year-old freelance photographer.”

  CHAPTER 2

  When I got back to the car, Cate was huddled in the passenger seat, up against the door with her arms wrapped around herself.

  “You want to tell me what’s going on? When I left for work this morning, your car was parked in the garage next to mine.”

  “Pete picked me up.” Cate’s eyes avoided mine.

  “When?”

  “Last night.”

  I looked out at the window at the ocean and bit my bottom lip. Cate had snuck out of the house, and I hadn’t even noticed. What kind of mother am I?

  “Okay, Cate, let’s start at the beginning. Tell me everything you know about Pete Pompidou and how you met.”

  I would have liked to have the time alone with Cate to go over exactly what she knew about Pete Pompidou. To date, all I had was he was twenty-three, a freelance photographer, in love with my daughter, and liked burritos. My daughter wasn’t big on sharing details, and getting anything more was going to take time. But I wasn’t about to get any. I hadn’t even backed out of the parking space when my cell phone rang. It was Tyler.

  “How is she?” Tyler sounded anxious. The only time I’d ever seen Tyler express anything even close to human emotion was when it came to my kids. Cate in particular. Tyler had been raised by a single working mom, too, and I often thought he either related to Cate or maybe had some kind of schoolboy crush on her. The age difference wasn’t much. Cate was eighteen and Tyler barely twenty-three. Although somewhere between the bowties, the stovepipe pants, and the high-top tennis shoes, I doubted Tyler had much experience or interest in girls.

  “She’s with me now,” I said. “I’m taking her home.”

  “Can she hear me?”

  “You’re on speaker.”

  “Good. Because, Cate, I need to talk to you. I know this is a shock, but you’re going to need to keep your mouth shut. Not a word to anyone, you got that?” Tyler paused.

  Cate nodded, and I answered for her. “She understands.”

  “If the police haven’t talked to you already, they will. And you don’t want to say anything that will draw you into their investigation. At least not until you’ve talked to an attorney.”

  “An attorney!” I couldn’t believe what Tyler was saying. “Why would she need an attorney? She doesn’t have anything to do with the murders.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Maybe?” My voice cracked. “Tyler, this is Cate we’re talking about. Not some perp.”

  “Slow down, Carol. Your daughter was just found alone in the home of the man the police arrested as a possible suspect in a major crime, and thanks to her we broke the story of his arrest. In the next hour, this story’s going to be the lead on every station in town. And Pete Pompidou could be one of the biggest suspected serial killers we’ve seen in the city since the Hillside Strangler. Believe me, the cops, the District Attorney, and the FBI are going to be all over this case.”

  “Yes, but she isn’t involved, Tyler, she’s–”

  “Listen to me. I’ve put in calls to the station’s attorney, Mr. King, and Gerhardt Chasen. He’s familiar with things like–”

  “Chase?” Mr. King didn’t worry me, but Chase–a former Army Ranger who had returned from Afghanistan and hung up his PI shingle–he and I had a history. Last year, while Cate was away at school, we worked a case together. I was convinced the only reason Chase was still working as a PI was that he had the goods on some of L.A.’s more powerful players in town and knew where certain bodies were buried. Unfortunately, that list included me, and parts of my body. “Tyler, please tell me you didn’t call Chase.”

  Cate looked over at me. “Mom, who’s Chase?”

  CHAPTER 3

  Maybe it was because I gave Cate the sterilized version of my relationship with Chase that she clammed up. But what could I say? I couldn’t explain my feelings about Chase to my daughter any more than I could rationalize them to myself. The truth was, I was still mourning my breakup with Eric, my long-time steady. I missed him, or the thought of him anyway. And Chase? Well, he was a mistake. A weak moment when he was there and I needed him. But I wasn’t about to tell my teenage daughter that. As far as Cate was concerned, Chase was a work friend and nothing more. But when I tried to explain it to Cate, it got me an immediate eye roll followed by a heavy sigh and the old, unmerciful silent treatment.

  I’ve never been good with silence.

  Finally, when I couldn’t take the chill between us any longer, I pulled the mother card from my deck of tricks, and said, “I think you need to tell me how it is you know this Pete Pompidou. I’m your mother. I deserve to know.”

  “Look. Mom. I know you want to know what’s going on. I do, too. But I don’t. Okay? And I don’t want to talk about it. Not right now.” Cate snapped her hoodie up over her head then huddled back in the corner of the passenger seat with her arms wrapped around herself and looked out the window.

  The message was clear. Any Q&A on my part would only drive Cate deeper into her shell. I turned on the radio, found her favorite top 40’s pop station, and hoped the music might do something to warm things up. It didn’t. The silence got stonier and by the time we got home, Cate got out of the car, slammed the Jeep door shut, and followed me up the steps from the garage without saying a word.

  It wasn’t until I put my key in the front door that things changed.

  The door swung open, and my best friend, Sheri, flung her arms wide and hugged me like an Italian mother. “You’re home.”

  Then going to Cate, Sheri threw both arms around her as though Cate was her own daughter. “Cate, you had us so worried. How are you?”

  Cate didn’t answer

  I stepped into the foyer and watched as Sheri kissed Cate’s cheek and brushed the hair from her face. I was about to ask how she knew anything when I heard a noise coming from the kitchen.

  Misty, my rescue, live-in housekeeper, was bent over a pot of something on the stove and next to her, with an apron tied around his waist and a wooden spoon in his hand, was Chase. The musky smell of mint wafted from the kitchen to the front door.

  “You!” My voice hit like a dart across the room. “What are you doing here?”

  It wasn’t like I had been avoiding Chase since our encounter–or whatever the proper term for a one-night stand might be–or that I had left things up in the air between us. The fact was, I just wasn’t ready to deal with a day-to-day boyfriend. Particularly, one who stopped by unannounced.

  “Tyler called.” Chase smiled at me and winked.

  I rolled my eyes back to Sheri. Did you know this?

  Sheri shrugged, and by way of an excuse, said, “And then Chase called Misty and Misty called me, and well, here we are.”

  “Just like one big happy family,” Chase said.

  Cate, with her arms still about Sheri, looked over at me. “Mom? Who’s that?”

  “Gerhardt Chasen,” I said, “He’s a– ”

  “Friend?” Cate gave Chase a quick once over and from the look on
her face, I could tell she liked what she saw. Mid-thirties, tall, dark wavy hair, blue eyes, with a short stubble beard and dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. “Yeah, right, Mom.”

  Chase walked away from the stove, handed me the spoon, and extended his hand to Cate. “People call me Chase. Your mom and I work together.”

  “Sometimes,” I said firmly. I slapped the spoon back into Chase’s hand and went into the kitchen to get a drink of water.

  “You a reporter?” Cate asked.

  “No,” Chase answered.

  “Cop then?”

  “Neither. Private Investigator. The difference is we don’t arrest people. Instead, we dig around for things the cops sometimes miss. Your mom’s boss thought I might be able to help, and the station’s attorney, Mr. King, hired me to look around.”

  Chase took a sucker from inside his shirt pocket, unwrapped it, and offered it to Cate.

  Cate smiled. The first smile I’d seen all day. “And you carry these instead of a gun?”

  “No, but it beats smoking. It’s my vice.”

  Cate took the candy from his hand like a baby and I glanced back at Misty. Do you believe this?

  Misty is a flashback to the sixties, a former Hollywood psychic who came to California in a flower painted VW camper selling love potions. I’ve never been one to believe in any of that stuff. Although, throughout her career, she was a favorite with the Hollywood set and had consulted with the FBI on some pretty big cases. Several years ago, we worked a case together. But that was before she fell out of favor with her agent and her eyesight and memory started to fail. Last year, she showed up on my doorstep and suggested I might need a housekeeper. She keeps saying she’s going to move out, but for the time being she’s a welcome relief to my busy schedule.

  Misty put the lid back on the pot and shuffled over to the kitchen table. “Well, don’t just stand there, child, come in and sit down. You must be starving. I’ve made some nettle soup. It’ll clear your head and calm your nerves. And, Carol, it wouldn’t hurt you either.”

  I’ll never understand the effect some men have on women. But whatever magic Chase had, it was working wonders with my daughter. She sat next to him at the table, and within minutes she was not only sucking on the lollipop he had given her, but also explaining everything she hadn’t shared with me about Pete Pompidou and his roving photography business.

  I interrupted. “So, Pete Pompidou isn’t a student at UC San Diego?”

  Cate took the sucker out of her mouth and exhaled like she didn’t believe I didn’t know.

  “No, Mom. How many times do I have to tell you? Pete’s an artist. He’s not interested in school. He doesn’t think it has anything to offer him. He wants to take pictures and share his vision with the world.”

  I glanced over at Sheri. Nothing Cate said about Pete was making me feel any better about him.

  “He travels up and down the state taking photographs,” Cate said. “Kind of like Ansel Adams.”

  “I thought he wanted to be a fashion photographer like Richard Avedon?” I said.

  “He prefers nature, but he can’t make a living just shooting pictures of mountains and rivers right now, so he makes his money taking pictures of models. They pay him for headshots and such. You know how models and actors are. They always have to have their photos updated. It’s not much, but it pays.”

  “And when he’s on the road, where does he sleep? In his car?” I sounded like a snob, but I couldn’t help myself. This vagabond drifter was sleeping with my daughter.

  “Mom, don’t be so judgmental. He’s got a van. Like Misty’s, only a little newer. And when he’s here in town, he shacks up with a friend at the beach.”

  “That’s the place in Venice where the police arrested him?” Chase asked.

  “It belongs to his friend or his friend’s parents anyway. His roommate’s away right now. That’s why Pete asked me down last night.”

  I clenched my jaw. The news wasn’t getting any better.

  “His friend got a name?” Chase asked.

  “Billy Tyson. His father’s some big shot investment banker. The house is his. I don’t know anything more than that. But Pete’s not the Model Slayer, and neither is his friend. This whole thing’s ridiculous.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s ridiculous, Cate. You sneaking out of here in the middle of the night and going to the beach. How could you do that?”

  Sheri bumped shoulders with me and whispered. “Careful, Mom. The girl’s in love. Patience.”

  Sheri didn’t need to remind me to be patient. I wasn’t much older than Cate when I married her dad. Patience wasn’t part of my vocabulary back then and neither was Cate who was born barely nine months later.

  “I’m not doing anything different than I would at school, Mom. You just have to get used to it.”

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll get used to. You going to work every day, coming home every night and staying in. That’s what I’ll get used to. And you will too.”

  “Are you grounding me? I’m a little old for that don’t you think?” Cate stood up, took the sucker from her mouth, and slammed her hand on the table. “I’m in college now, Mom, I know what I’m doing. And I don’t have to ask permission.”

  I looked over at Misty then back at Sheri. I could use a little help here. Sheri raised an eyebrow, an indication for me to dial it back a bit.

  Then in a final outburst, Cate announced she was going upstairs. “I need to be alone.”

  “We’re not done here,” I said.

  I wanted to follow her, but Sheri grabbed my hand and shook her head. “Let her go. She needs some time.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The next day the headlines in the LA Times read, “Suspect in Model Slayings Arrested.” Beneath the story, front and center, above the fold, a photo of Pete Pompidou with his hands cuffed behind his back stared out at me. From the slack look on his face and the blond hair hanging in his eyes, he looked like a fugitive on the lam. A two-page jump story included details of the murders along with headshots of the three young models: Shana Walters, Kara Stieffers, and Eileen Kim.

  According to the story in the paper, the police believed all three girls had been lured to their deaths thinking they were meeting with a photographer for a photo shoot. Blood from victims and traces from the killer had been used to paint smiles on their faces. The coroner said stab wounds had been inflicted post-mortem. He theorized the killer must have stabbed himself as well when he cut the girls. Investigators described each scene similarly. The bodies of the women all appeared as though they had been posed like centerfolds. Their hands were tied above their heads, secured with plastic ties. A twelve-inch piece of white nylon rope had been wrapped around their necks, like a choker collar. Cause of death had been strangulation.

  The arrest of the suspected Model Slayer made for a big news day. Reports about Pete’s arrest were everywhere, including on KTLK.

  KTLK’s morning talk team, Kit and Carson, began fielding questions from listeners as soon as I finished my own ripped-from-the-headlines version of the latest news. Not wanting to take part in any freewheeling conversation about Pete or his arrest, I packed up my gear and was about to head back to my own small office when Tyler poked his head in the news booth.

  “My office. Now.”

  I followed Tyler back through the newsroom to his office, a cramped ten-by-ten square room stacked with old newspapers. I waited until he sat down.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Cate say anything more to you last night about this guy the police arrested?”

  “You mean other than she’s convinced they’ve got the wrong guy? No.” I shook my head. “She says the only possible connection Pete Pompidou has to any of the slain models was that he took their pictures...before they were murdered. She thinks this whole thing is just some crazy coincidence and that the pol
ice are jumping to conclusions.”

  Tyler hesitated, then picked up a pink call-slip. “She may be right.”

  “Why?” I felt my heart quicken. Tyler wasn’t one to jump to conclusions. “What do you know?”

  “I got a call this morning from a woman who said her name was Xstacy.”

  “Xstacy?” I repeated the name with a question in my voice. The name sounded made up. But in Hollywood, lots of people have stage names. With talk radio, it’s not unusual for people to call-in using a pseudonym, afraid of being recognized. “Really?”

  “That’s what she said. Told me she works as a cocktail waitress at the Sky High Club, a topless bar by the airport. I suppose for somebody in that line of work, the name works. You know it?”

  “It’s not quite my style, Tyler, but I’ve seen the billboard.” It didn’t take much imagination to know what went on in a place like the Sky High Club. Outside, the club had a neon sign, an illuminated statue of a partially nude girl raising a whiskey glass to her mouth as she winked at passersby. “Why?” I asked.

  “Because Xstacy agrees with your daughter. She thinks the police have the wrong man in custody.”

  “And she knows this how?” I asked.

  “She says the Model Slayer’s dead. Because she killed him.”

  “What?” I sat down in front of Tyler’s desk. “When?”

  “Last week. She said she ran him over with her van behind the club.”

  “Was this some type of hit-and-run?”

  “On the contrary. She claims she reported it to the police. And, according to her, the cops wrote it up as an accident.”

  That much didn’t surprise me. Between the city’s growing homeless population and the number of people staring at their cell phones as they stepped into traffic, L.A. was quickly becoming the pedestrian death capital of the nation.

  “And what now? She wants to confess on the air maybe?” I asked.

  “No. She says there’s more to it than that. She wants to talk to a reporter. It may be nothing, Carol, and I’m hesitant to pass this off to you, seeing as you’re somewhat involved, but–”