Sullivan’s Evidence Read online

  “Good,” Carolyn said, feeling she’d made a breakthrough. Rebecca contrite—she hadn’t seen her like this since she was ten. She was just the product of a broken home, after all. She’d learned to bury her feelings by rebelling and acting tough.

  “Seriously,” Rebecca continued, “I had a long talk with John when he gave me a ride to school this morning. I told him if he wants to smoke pot, he’ll have to do it outside or in his own room.”

  Carolyn’s jaw fell open. “I can’t believe you’d make up a story like this about your brother. John would never defy me. He knows how I feel about drugs.”

  “And John does everything you tell him, right?”

  “I guess I’ll have to find something worse for you to wear tomorrow. I have a green taffeta bridesmaid’s dress in the garage. How does that grab you?”

  “Super,” Rebecca said, challenging her mother with a cold stare. “My friends went wild over the clothes I wore today. Empire waistlines are back in style, and so are striped pants. You’re a real trendsetter, Mom.”

  “You’re grounded for the next month, young lady,” Carolyn exploded, suppressing the urge to walk over and slap her. Instead, she snatched her iPod off the end table as well as her portable phone. “I’m also going to turn off your cell phone tomorrow. I can’t believe a child of mine would tell such terrible lies.”

  “Hey,” Rebecca said, tossing her hands in the air. “Knock yourself out. I may not tell the truth all the time, but I wasn’t lying about John. He’s been smoking pot for years. I know he’s your favorite. You think he’s gonna win a Nobel Prize while I’m waiting tables or something. I make good grades, too, you know.” She stood and faced her mother, only a foot away. “Physics Boy isn’t as perfect as you think,” she told her, her breath warm on Carolyn’s face. “Maybe you should pay more attention to John, and quit ragging on me all the time.”

  “I’ll get to the bottom of this right now,” Carolyn said, experiencing a sinking sensation. If what Rebecca said was true, not only was John smoking marijuana, he had lied to her and laid the blame on his sister. And this was the kid she was giving up her home for. Talk about being disillusioned. A muscle in her eyelid twitched. “Where is he? Is he in his room?”

  “Heck, no,” the girl said, tucking her thumbs inside the waistband of her mother’s striped bellbottom pants, then rocking back on her heels like a cowboy. “It’s kind of like that saying about cops, Mom. A guilty person is never around when you need them.”

  Carolyn handed the iPod to her. “If I made a mistake, I’m sorry. I’ll find a way to make it up to you.” She started to leave, then spun back around, certain she’d been had again. “But I have John’s car. How could he have driven you to school if he didn’t have a car?”

  “Semantics,” Rebecca said, arching an eyebrow. “See? You never listen to me. I didn’t say John drove me. I said he gave me a ride. Turner picked us up.”

  “Is that who John’s with tonight?”

  “Yep,” Rebecca said, opening her underwear drawer and shoving in a stack of bras and panties. “They’re probably out cruising for drugs.” She glanced over her shoulder at her mother with a sly smile. “It’s only pot, Mom. You used to smoke it.”

  “Twice,” Carolyn said, realizing that not being forthright with your children might have its merits. “Your father was a writer. He said it helped his creativity. He wanted me to smoke it with him, so I did a couple of times. Back then I would have done anything for him. I decided it wasn’t good for a person’s lungs, nor for their motivation. Maybe if your Dad hadn’t smoked so much marijuana, he would have written a book someone wanted to publish. Anyway, I didn’t want to go to jail.”

  “If they catch you today,” Rebecca told her, “they just give you a ticket, as long as you’re not carrying around a brick or something. Half the kids at my school smoke weed.” She slammed one of her drawers closed. “Except me, of course. Why would I want to pig out and gain twenty pounds? All stupid pot does is give you the munchies.”

  Carolyn looked at the clock and realized she had only thirty minutes to shower and get dressed. “I have to go out,” she said. “Will you be okay here by yourself? Surely, John will be home in a few hours?”

  “Mom!” Rebecca yelled, “I’m almost sixteen. I swear I won’t do anything wrong. I have tons of homework. Hillary is coming over in a few minutes so we can study together.”

  Carolyn moved her feet around on the floor, trying to decide if she should call Marcus and cancel. Then she remembered that the only number she had was for his office. If he expected to reach Ventura by seven, he would have had to leave LA around five-thirty. “You can always reach me on my cell.”

  “Duh!” the girl said, holding out her palm and wiggling her fingers. “You might want to give me my phone back. Your room is off-limits, remember, and I can’t hear the one in the kitchen when I’m concentrating.”

  “I love you, honey.”

  “I know,” her daughter said. “I love you, too. You shouldn’t have cut your hair, though. It makes you look like a butch.”

  “You’re getting back at me, aren’t you?”

  “Yep,” the girl said. “I was telling the truth about John. If you hadn’t made me wear that hideous outfit to school, I wouldn’t have ratted him out. Now he’s gonna find a way to get back at me.”

  Carolyn slouched against the wall by the door. “Not if I can help it,” she said. “I’m sorry I doubted you, honey. Do I really look like a lesbian? Not that there’s anything wrong with being a lesbian, but…”

  Rebecca said, “You try too hard, Mom. I love your hair. Everyone’s getting their hair cut short. The guys at my school think you’re hot. I don’t know why you’re so freaked out about turning forty.”

  Carolyn walked over and hugged her. “Thanks,” she said, “I needed that, even though I’m sure you made it up.”

  “Anytime,” Rebecca said, putting her headset on and turning on her iPod.

  Mary Stevens had slept for a few hours, made herself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, then soaked in a hot bath. She was bone-tired, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the poor women they’d found in the lagoon.

  When she’d moved out of her apartment in Los Angeles after resigning her position with AMS Biotech to concentrate on finding her father’s killer, Mary had been fortunate to be able to purchase a home of her own. Ventura PD had offered her a job, and she’d been attracted to the area because it was close to the beach.

  She lived a few streets over from Carolyn Sullivan and passed the probation officer’s house on her daily jog. Since she’d purchased her home outright with the proceeds from her father’s life insurance, along with the money she’d saved from her job in the private sector, she didn’t have to worry about payments. This was good, as she was used to living on a comfortable salary, and police officers were paid barely enough to survive. She wasn’t certain how Carolyn pulled it off, particularly with two kids. The probation officer told her once that she and her former husband had purchased her house years ago, when California real estate was still affordable.

  Mary had converted her guest room into a small office. Wearing her turquoise-colored bathrobe, with a towel wrapped around her head, she plunked down at her desk to begin the arduous task of searching through as many missing persons’ reports as possible. An unidentified body was the stuff of nightmares. Already, the dead woman seemed to be haunting her. She heard a faint but desperate voice inside her head, pleading to be reunited with loved ones. Somewhere a mother, a father, children, a brother or sister were vigilantly waiting and praying. Not knowing placed all their lives in an extended state of misery. It was her job to answer that call and resolve it as quickly as possible.

  The detective booted up her computer, then rubbed her hands together to warm them. As hot as it had been during the day, the past two nights at the crime scene had been cold and damp. Of course, digging up a body created its own kind of chill.

  Now that the evidence had bee
n collected, Mary could begin to work her magic, as Hank called it. She was by far the most technologically advanced detective assigned to homicide. While other, more seasoned officers had been passed by, she was certain Hank had recruited her because of these specific skills.

  The computer in front of her was a Silicon Graphics Platform, which ran on the UNIX operating system and had the power to do accelerated 3D animations. Computer imaging was becoming an accepted alternative to more traditional modes in the practice of forensic anthropology. Mary also used Encase Forensic, a program specifically designed for law enforcement agencies, enabling the various agencies to securely share sensitive information and communicate their findings immediately.

  Mary felt as if she’d already made her mark in life. She had managed to put the man who had shot and killed her father behind bars, something every cop in LAPD had failed to do. And she had done it without leaving her apartment.

  With the use of DMV photos and mug shots, Mary had first tried to match them to a composite drawing of the suspect made from the input of her father’s fellow officers, those who were present when he was killed. The technology to run such a search on a national level had not been implemented at the time; therefore, she’d gone through hundreds of thousands of records in each state, superimposing them over the composite sketch. Because the killer had never been arrested, his mug shot and fingerprints were not on file. DMV now made it mandatory that every person holding a California driver’s license be fingerprinted and the information shared with all law enforcement agencies. Many states had followed suit, which would have made Mary’s quest to track down her father’s killer far less time-consuming if it had been the practice back then.

  After a year of fifteen-hour days and many dead ends, she had finally tracked down Leroy Collins in Florida. Once he’d been convicted, Mary decided to become a police officer in tribute to her father.

  For this case, she had asked Dr. Ferguson’s office to send her the electronic file containing the information necessary to reconstruct the face of the victim on her computer. The forensic pathologist had informed her that once she got the bones back to the lab, she found evidence of a broken femur. Since they didn’t have access to the victim’s medical records, this information didn’t do them much good.

  Using an X-ray and the weight of the skull, the detective could get a numerical value. Then, with the help of her sophisticated software, she could set specific tissue-depth markers. There were thousands of variables in the predefined database, based on NURBS curves—Nonuniform Rational B-Splines—which used mathematical equations to create shapes to be applied to the skull. The result would be a close approximation of the facial features of the victim, the same as Dr. Ferguson could do with clay in her lab.

  Using computer imaging was more flexible, as features could be changed with a stroke of the keyboard. The majority of forensic scientists were now using the same technology, but Ferguson liked to do things the old-fashioned way. The problem for Mary’s work was that she didn’t have the credentials, and if a match was made and a suspect brought to trial, a forensic expert would have to testify in court as to anatomical landmarks of the cranial and facial bones. Yet, experts like Ferguson, whose reputations were at stake, had been known to bog a case down for months, even years. In a homicide investigation, the first few days following the crime were the most crucial. This was Mary’s way of getting critical information fast, hoping the experts would later validate her findings.

  Although Carl Holden was a viable suspect, even with the similarities in the two homicides Mary knew he might not be their killer. The clock had begun ticking the moment the body was discovered. That was when the killer knew he was being hunted. If he was going to make a mistake, he would make it then.

  After four hours, she had eliminated Janice Foster, Marilyn Wells, and Betsy Styles as victims of Holden. The face of Lisa Sheppard, however, the missing woman from San Diego, fit almost perfectly when superimposed over her computer model.

  Nothing that easy could be right, Mary thought, but every now and then a person got lucky. She would still have to eliminate thousands of other possibilities. She stood and stretched, knowing she couldn’t ask her aching body and burning eyes for anything more tonight. Now that she had a possible match, she was ready for a trip, but it wouldn’t include tropical drinks, a bikini, or action from a warm-skinned island guy. This would be a serious fact-finding mission to San Diego.

  When Marcus Wright walked into the dimly lit bar at the Holiday Inn, Carolyn knew this was the man she wanted.

  He was dressed in a beautifully tailored business suit, a white shirt, and a blue and red striped tie. Even the way he walked intrigued her. His long legs and torso moved purposefully forward, while his head seemed to remain motionless. It was a trick of the eye, Carolyn told herself, created by his graceful but deceptively fast pace. This was the walk of a man who didn’t like to waste time.

  Since she’d raced out of the house without makeup on the day of the collision, she’d made an attempt to look as good as possible tonight. Her red dress had been purchased from the markdown rack at Macy’s for twenty-nine dollars. Her figure made the lightweight knit an eye-catching garment, regardless of the modest price. The V-neck showed a tasteful amount of cleavage, and the fabric hugged her hips. As much as she complained about her weight, she still fit comfortably into a size six. She wouldn’t much longer, however, if she didn’t find a way to curb her newfound addiction to chocolate.

  Certain she’d been stood up, Carolyn had been sipping on a glass of red wine when Marcus arrived almost thirty minutes late. Thirty minutes wasn’t a long time unless you were waiting.

  As soon as he took a seat on the bar stool next to her, Marcus ordered her another glass of wine and a cup of hot tea for himself. “I can’t thank you enough for paying for the repairs on my car,” she told him, a slight tremor in her voice. She’d hadn’t been nervous on Saturday when they’d had lunch, but this was more along the lines of a date.

  “It was nothing,” Marcus said. “Did you pick it up already?”

  “No,” Carolyn said. “Today was a hectic day. I’m borrowing my son’s Honda. I left it in the parking structure so I wouldn’t have to pay the valet.”

  The parking structure next to the hotel was a popular place in Ventura. People left their cars in the high-rise structure when they went to the beach, kids congregated and partied there, and car thieves ditched stolen cars. The police officers assigned to that beat made it a habit to drive through the structure several times during their shift. If nothing else, they would run all the license plates for warrants, then wait for the guilty parties to return so they could arrest them.

  She told Marcus about finding the marijuana cigarette in Rebecca’s room and then learning that it was her son who was allegedly the culprit. She went on to tell him about John’s desire to become a physicist and attend MIT. “If what my daughter said is true,” she added, asking the waiter for a glass of water, “I don’t think my son’s going to be driving for a while.”

  Marcus laughed, tossing a handful of peanuts from the small bowl in front of him into his mouth. “I had a similar problem with my son a few years ago. He didn’t aspire to become a physicist, though. Your boy must be highly intelligent. It takes a fine mind to get into MIT.”

  Carolyn was taken aback. “But you told me you’d never been married. You’re not married now, I hope.”

  “No,” he said, self-conscious. “I’ve been divorced for seven years. I don’t like to talk about my divorce. Do you generally discuss your failed marriage with someone you’ve just met?”

  “No,” Carolyn said, disenchanted, “but I did with you.” No matter what the situation, she wouldn’t have lied about something that important. Then again, she’d told Marcus she had just broken up with a race-car driver, not a supervisor from work who drove cars as a hobby.

  Carolyn stared at the fancy alcohol bottles behind the bar. She decided to speak her mind. “I’m more or le
ss an open book,” she said, turning her bar stool around to face him. “I practically told you my life history an hour after we met. And I also gave you a fairly extensive overview of the judicial system, as well as the Holden case.” Her lower lip protruded. “In case you’ve forgotten, you found it fascinating.”

  “Tell me about this woman who was murdered,” Marcus said, asking the bartender to bring him more hot water for his tea. Seeing that her wineglass was still full, he asked, “Would you like something other than wine?”

  “No,” Carolyn said, reaching over to snatch another bowl of peanuts, since it appeared that they weren’t going to be having dinner. Her stomach was kicking up such a ruckus, she cursed herself for having guzzled liquid chocolate for lunch and, instead of picking up a salad at the cafeteria, snacking all afternoon on nuts and raisins. She filled Marcus in on what had transpired that morning at the lagoon, explaining why she felt certain the killer was Carl Holden.

  “Aren’t you concerned this man might hurt you?” he said, spooning sugar into his tea. “You said he has some kind of vendetta against you because of the things you put in your report.”

  “Sure,” she said, shrugging, “but I’m good at what I do. There’s nothing in my job description that says I have to pry information from offenders. I just want the court to be fully informed before they impose a sentence. Although the margin isn’t as great, I also try to help people who I believe have been wrongly accused. A lot of probation officers simply don’t care. They write their reports, make whatever recommendation they feel like, and promptly forget it. It’s easy to burn out in this type of work.”

  “Why don’t we get out of this place?” Marcus said, removing his wallet and handing a twenty-dollar bill to the bartender. “Are you hungry?”