Sullivan’s Evidence Read online

  They brushed up against each other when Carolyn stepped in front of him to exit the elevator. He wanted to say something, but he didn’t think the timing was right. She looked weary and tense. Maybe it was because he’d reminded her of the man she’d killed. Or perhaps it was because of her confrontation with Holden.

  As they stood outside the entrance to the building, she said, “Are you still dating that waitress? What’s her name?”

  “Betty,” Hank said. “I parked behind the jail.”

  “Can’t we take my car?” Carolyn protested. “You know how nervous is makes me to ride with you after what happened.”

  “Look, you have to put what happened last year behind you. It was a freak incident, Carolyn. It’s never going to happen again. Even I don’t get into shoot-outs on a regular basis. Some of the guys on the force have never fired their weapon. This is Ventura, for Christ’s sake, not South Central.”

  “Fine,” she said.

  Once they were on the road, he asked her where she wanted to eat. “Marie Callender’s, Islands, Mario’s, what’s it gonna be?”

  “El Torito,” Carolyn said.

  “El Torito it is, then,” Hank said, thinking he’d have to make certain he stayed away from the chips. He could go off the diet every once in while, but he didn’t want to make it a habit. The dispatcher’s voice sounded over the radio, advising him that a detective with the Oxnard PD was trying to contact him. He punched in the number on his cell phone and soon heard the high-pitched voice of Sergeant Arty McIntyre on the speaker phone.

  “We just found the body of Robert Abernathy,” McIntyre said. “Looks like he was shot in the head. His daughter came over and found him after she couldn’t get him on the phone. It’s our homicide, of course, but I thought you might want to know.”

  “Are you certain it wasn’t a suicide?” Hank asked, glancing over at Carolyn. “You know who he is, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. But there’s no chance of it being a suicide. Neighbors said they didn’t see or hear a thing. Abernathy’s house is set back from the street with a high fence and a lot of greenery. The ME is already here. He thinks the guy’s been dead since sometime yesterday. The killer must have caught him just before he unlocked his front door.”

  “I’ll stop by in about an hour,” Hank said, not wanting to give up his dinner plans with Carolyn. He copied down the address of the crime scene on a pad mounted on his dashboard. Turning to Carolyn, he said, “Guess Abernathy got what he deserved, huh? Have any idea who killed him?”

  Carolyn shook her head, trying to sort through her feelings about what she’d just learned. Maybe Abernathy had genuinely suffered from some type of mental illness. Hearing he had a daughter made him seem more human. She’d only met him on a few occasions in the past, and he’d appeared to be an affable character, a man who enjoyed what he did for a living. She’d held such overpowering animosity for him that she felt as if she’d been the one to pull the trigger. “Just drive me back to my car,” she told the detective. “We’ll catch dinner another time.”

  “Hey,” Hank said, “you aren’t going to use this as an excuse to not ride with me again, are you? I told McIntyre I wouldn’t stop by until later. There’s no official reason for me to respond to a crime that went down outside of our jurisdiction. We can still go to El Torito. You’re the one who’s been so up in arms about Abernathy. You should be elated that someone bumped the sucker off. The DA was going to let him slide with a stint in a mental hospital.”

  “Maybe I was wrong and they were right,” Carolyn said. She leaned over and touched the detective’s arm. “I’d rather we go to dinner another time, Hank. Seeing Holden today was unnerving. Regardless of who’s responsible for him being back on the street, he’s going to kill again. That is, if he hasn’t already. Holden doesn’t care if he gets caught and shipped back to prison. He lives for it, understand? Killing is his hobby.”

  Hank dropped her off at her car at the government center, waited until she was safely inside, then gunned the big engine on his unmarked Crown Victoria and steered it in the direction of Oxnard. Rolling the windows down, he inhaled the night air, now thick with excitement.

  As much as he’d wanted to have dinner with Carolyn, his disappointment had already faded. His blood pumped faster as he grew closer to the scene. He was eager to be a part of the event unfolding—the urgency of the investigators and the CSI team, the emergency vehicles with their flashing lights disrupting the quiet of a residential street, onlookers and reporters straining against the yellow police tape, hoping for a morsel of information or a glimpse of the dead body.

  Death had a strange way of making a person feel alive. And stepping in on another agency’s crime was the best. He didn’t have to worry about writing reports, barking orders, or getting pissed that his people weren’t paying enough attention to the fine details that could make or break a case. He could poke around, ask questions, shoot the breeze, and then, when the flurry of activity died down, take off and get himself something to eat. The food would taste better, the air would smell fresher. Afterward, he would go home and relish a hot shower while he replayed the night’s events in his mind. Later he would drift off to sleep in his warm bed, grateful that it wasn’t him being zipped inside a body bag and shoved into a frigid drawer at the morgue.

  Hank screeched to a stop behind a row of police cars, clipped his gold shield to his belt, and leaped out of his car to head into the action.

  CHAPTER 6

  Friday, September 15—7:00 P.M.

  The killer was dressed in a long, dark trench coat, a cowboy hat pulled down low on his forehead. The flattened section of land was perched on top of a hill, and the city stretched out below him. On the left stood the framed shells of future houses. Not large homes, but expensive because of the view.

  How long did he have?

  A few months back, he’d called the sales office and inquired when they would be starting on the second phase of the development. Some silly woman had wasted ten minutes of his time trying to convince him he should buy now, as the homes in the new addition would be fifty thousand more.

  Walking back to the unpaved road, he counted off the paces to the grave. Once he was standing on top of it, he reflected on the night he’d buried her. So much time had elapsed, it seemed like another lifetime. Everything had gone well, far better than he’d expected. No problem with the authorities whatsoever. He had made few, if any, mistakes. He couldn’t really consider the location an error. At the time, the spot had been in the middle of nowhere, a hill covered in scrub brush. Houses were everywhere now, as well as condominium complexes, apartments, parks, and shopping centers. Because of the ocean, the city could only expand in one direction. He looked behind him, wondering when the next moving equipment would appear and flatten that area as well.

  Squatting down, he scooped up a handful of dirt and let it sift out between his fingers. She’d been a pretty girl—common, but attractive. She was far from brilliant, but then again, not at all stupid. He could have thrown the dice and let her live, but that wasn’t how he operated. She was fine where she was, in the ground, just not in this particular ground.

  He suspected there wasn’t much left of her. Good, he thought, as she’d been heavy. Not overweight, just dead, and a dead weight seemed far heavier. In addition, the human body was cumbersome, with so many protruding parts. Even on the darkest of nights, it was risky to walk around with a body slung over your shoulder.

  He stood, a fragrant breeze from the ocean brushing past him. Soon the air around him would stink of humanity—car exhausts, cooking odors, dirty diapers, garbage. He didn’t have long before he would have to move her. But first he had to find another location. And how could he be assured that the same thing wouldn’t happen again? He couldn’t risk driving long distances carrying human remains. Another solution was required, something that would put an end to the problem, allowing him to move forward without having to always look over his shoulder.

 
By now, outside of the digging, it wouldn’t require a great deal of effort. Time and insects had minimized his task. All he would need was a plastic sack.

  Carolyn headed home, rock music blasting from the speakers of her ten-year-old Infiniti. She’d purchased the car three years ago at an auto auction run by the Feds to dispose of confiscated vehicles. The car had served her well, but she needed to take it in and get the brake pads changed. When she stopped, she could hear them rubbing against the drum. She’d gotten such a good price because the Infiniti had over a hundred thousand miles on it. Part of the reason she’d picked it was the dynamite stereo system that some drug dealer had probably paid a fortune for. Like everything else she owned, though, the car would soon need major repairs.

  Her taste in music was eclectic, ranging from groups like the Fine Young Cannibals to Prince, Peter Gabriel, and Sting. There was a group of nuns who sang like angels called the Daughters of St. Paul, who produced their own music. It was far from boring religious music. Some of it you could even dance to, and the joy in their voices never failed to lift her spirits. She also liked blues singers like Etta James and John Lee Hooker.

  Tonight she needed something that might rock her out of her present funk. She settled on Prince. She couldn’t listen to him with Rebecca in the car because of his suggestive lyrics and profanity, so this was her secret. But after her frightening confrontation with Carl Holden, even the music couldn’t dispel her gloom.

  Turning into her driveway, she saw the real estate sign on her front lawn. The agent had told her it wouldn’t be long before the home she’d raised her children in would be sold. Most people would be happy with the amount of cash she’d receive at the close of escrow. It was her home, though, and the thought of giving it up was depressing. So much had happened within those walls. Certain memories would linger for a while, then be forgotten once the familiar rooms were no longer there as a reminder.

  The house had to go, Carolyn told herself. Her eighteen-year-old son, John, had been accepted at MIT. He’d graduated from Ventura High last year and had worked as a busboy at a local Italian restaurant all summer, trying to earn money for his education. He was slated to start school in the spring if Carolyn could come up with the necessary funds.

  John was a brilliant young man, over six feet tall, with thick, dark hair, clear skin, and a likable, easygoing way about him. Girls flocked to him, but he found intellectual pursuits more interesting, although she was fairly certain he wasn’t a virgin, as if any eighteen-year-old boy was these days. He’d worked hard throughout junior high and high school—she couldn’t ask him to go to a less expensive university. Attending MIT was his dream. Yet, even with student loans and scholarships, his four years of college would cost over a hundred and fifty thousand. And then there was graduate school to consider. She wanted John to go as far as his intellect could take him.

  A few years back Carolyn had attended law school, hoping she would have her own law practice by now and could earn enough money to pay for both of her children’s education. She’d been unable to stretch her income as a probation officer to cover her tuition, however, and going to school and working while raising two teenagers on her own had turned out to be too difficult.

  Her younger brother, Neil, had offered to chip in, but Carolyn had refused. As an artist, his income was unpredictable. Besides, Neil obsessed constantly about running out of money.

  As soon as she clicked the release on her seat belt, her cell phone rang. “Hey,” Neil said, “you haven’t called me in almost a week. Mom’s complaining, too. I need my big sister. Since I broke up with Melody, I’m here all alone.”

  “You were all alone when you were with Melody,” she said, having formed a great dislike for that materialistic young woman. Neil would say anything to get attention, which was why he’d mentioned Melody, but she knew he’d long ago reverted to his bachelor traits and was now juggling a dozen women. She was the one who should be complaining about being lonely, at least as far as companionship with the opposite sex went.

  Neil and Carolyn had an uncanny ability to read each other’s minds. John, already a die-hard skeptic, insisted such a thing was nonsense. Since childhood, though, whenever sister or brother thought of each other, or one of them was in trouble, the phone would invariably ring. “Can I talk to you tomorrow, Neil? I just got home, and the kids may not have eaten.”

  “They’ll live,” he quipped. “God, Carolyn, you’re not going to cook, are you?”

  “Shut up,” she said, laughing. “I’m a good cook, and you know it.”

  “I’ve eaten your stuff, remember?” Neil took a deep breath. “Poor Mom. If you don’t call her soon, she’s going to call the elder abuse hotline. When I talked to her last night, she said she didn’t have much longer to live. I cried myself to sleep.”

  “Mother has been saying that for the past fifteen years, and you know it. I talked to her on the phone for an hour Wednesday night. I’m going over there Sunday with the kids. You’re coming, aren’t you?”

  “You know I want to, Carolyn,” he said, dramatically, pretending to be devastated. “Unfortunately, I have a showing. You and Mom need to spend some quality time together. You know—talk about whatever women talk about. Female problems, hairstyles, Depends.”

  “You’re incorrigible, Neil.” She smiled, always a sucker for his brand of humor. Then, “Wait a minute. I didn’t see anything in the paper about you having a show this Sunday. You’re lying so you don’t have to drive Mother to mass. It’s your turn, damn it. I pay all of her bills and do most of her grocery shopping.”

  “So?” he said. “You’ve lied to me before.”

  “When?”

  “That time you said you were going to the store for milk, and bought candy, then hoarded it all for yourself.”

  “Jesus, Neil, I was only twelve.”

  “Olga just walked in the door. She’s the Swedish model I’ve been painting. Cheekbones to die for, and the longest legs I’ve ever seen. Doesn’t speak a word of English. I love it.”

  Carolyn hit the END button on the phone. They never said good-bye. They both instinctively knew when a conversation was over. She opened the car door and stepped out, gazing at her house. It was in need of a fresh coat of paint. John hadn’t had the time to mow the yard lately, as he generally worked the lunch shift. The grass was high, and her once beautiful flower beds were nothing but dirt. When things got to her, she went outside and furiously pulled weeds. At least that part’s done, she thought. Tomorrow she would try to find time to go to the nursery and pick up some bedding plants before the Realtor started showing the house.

  Unlocking the front door and stepping inside, Carolyn tried to look at her home as a stranger would. She noticed that the furnishings were worn, and in several places the carpet was threadbare. The neighborhood was decent, though, even today. Ventura College was only a few blocks away, as well as the high school and several hospitals. True, the street wasn’t as lush as some of the more pricey areas, and the nearby strip centers and buildings needed a face-lift. Still, it had been a satisfactory place to raise her children.

  She headed to Rebecca’s room. When she opened the door, the girl was moving her head back and forth to the music on her iPod as she painted her toenails blue. Carolyn pulled the earphones off her head. “Have you eaten, sweetie?”

  “Nope.” Rebecca said, uninterested.

  “I’d thought about cooking some steaks, but I’m beat. What do you want me to pick up for dinner?”

  “Nothing,” the girl said, standing, then flopping down on her unmade twin bed. Clothes, magazines, school books, plates with old food on them, and other unidentifiable items were strewn all over the floor. The fact that her daughter refused to keep her room in order annoyed Carolyn, but she considered both her children’s rooms their private space. If Rebecca wanted to live like a slob, it was her decision. All her mother asked was that she keep the door closed. Now, however, with the house on the market, things would have to cha
nge.

  Rebecca toyed with her hair. “I figure if I don’t eat, you can save money, and then maybe we won’t have to move into a stupid apartment. My friends all live in houses. Only people on welfare live in apartments. Am I going to have to buy my lunch with food stamps now?”

  “You’re exaggerating,” Carolyn told her. “Living in an apartment isn’t anything to be ashamed about. We’re downsizing, that’s all. People all over the world are less fortunate than us. You should appreciate that you’re not living in a cardboard box in the rain, having to rummage through garbage cans for food.”

  The girl rolled her eyes. “Please, Mother, if you start lecturing me again, I’m going to throw up. All you have to do is tell John to go to another school. Why does he have to go MIT? No one I know has ever heard of it. It’s a geek school, right? Why doesn’t he go to UC Santa Barbara? That’s where I’m going.”

  “You’ll be going to beauty school if you don’t take your schoolwork more seriously,” Carolyn told her. “And clean up this pigsty. The real estate agent is going to start showing people the house.”

  Rebecca kicked her backpack off the edge of the bed onto the floor. “So I’m a dummy, huh? Just because I think physics is boring, you think I’m a loser. I’m going to be a fashion designer, or a famous painter like Uncle Neil. I showed him some of my drawings last month, and he said they were great. He thinks I’m ready to work in oils.”

  Her mother glanced over at the easel in the corner, draped with dirty clothes. “It doesn’t look like you’re working on your art to me.”

  “I need supplies, okay?” her daughter argued. “I didn’t ask you because I know they’re expensive. Uncle Neil said he would give me some, but he must have forgotten. I don’t want to draw anymore, I want to paint.”

  Carolyn remembered how her mother had belittled her brother when he was Rebecca’s age, insisting art was only a hobby and he would never be able to support a family if he didn’t chose a more suitable career. With no encouragement from either of their parents, Neil had ended up studying at the finest art institutes in the world. He’d even restored priceless works of art in the Vatican. “Just write a list of what you need,” she told Rebecca. “I’ll speak to Neil for you. If he doesn’t have some supplies he can give you, I’ll stop by the art store one night next week and buy whatever you need.” The girl’s eyes moistened with tears. Carolyn leaned down and kissed her on the forehead, stroking her silky hair off her face. “I love you, honey. You know I’ll support you in anything you want to do. I shouldn’t have made that comment about going to beauty school. I had a bad day at the office.” She placed her finger underneath the girl’s chin. “Wanna make up and start over?”