Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers (42 page)

“So you’re sure it was Winslow? Do you know how she was killed?”

“He said he went out for breakfast and when he came back, she was dead.”

Laura went back to the crime scene. She had to get back to the facts. Perhaps she was being influenced too much by all the crazy stories that came out of Sean Perrin’s mouth.

She and Anthony were like the blind men with the elephant.

Laura studied the parking lot. The crime scene tape had been removed except for the top parking lot. There were knots of hikers and picnickers here, enjoying a perfect day. Somebody was having a cookout. People in jelly bean-hued shorts and shirts collecting for their hikes, many of them clearly wondering what the yellow tape was for.

Laura was fairly certain of the time window—between eight and eleven at night. She was sure of the weapon, a .22. Whoever shot Perrin knew exactly what he was doing. The bullet from the .22 killed him instantly, since he was shot between the eyes, but the killer had taken no chances. The .22 was a small caliber; it would bounce around inside the skull, causing even more damage as it went.

One shot
.

No shell casing. The killer either picked up the casing or used a revolver.

Everything pointed to a professional hit.

She thought he had been waiting for someone. Someone he needed to talk to? To meet someplace where they would be alone? Up here at night when the hikers were gone for the day?

There could be a number of explanations.

He could be meeting a woman—or a man—for amorous reasons. Or a friend.

He’d been unarmed, but perhaps whoever he was meeting took his weapon. She’d asked everyone at the cabins if he’d had a weapon, and no one could remember seeing one.

Meeting someone.

Why?

His eyes had been closed.
Why were his eyes closed?

The only sensible explanation was that he’d been held at gun point, feared death, and closed his eyes.

But there had been no tension in his face. His eyes weren’t squeezed shut. His face looked relaxed.

In fact, there had been—was she imagining this?—just the hint of a smile.

She pulled out her camera and went through the photos.

Yes, just a hint of a turn-up at the corners of his mouth. His mouth was an easy line, his eyes shut. Death had been instantaneous. He looked—

Normal.

Laura would never know for sure. She was going on instinct and the experience of seeing countless death scenes. But she was pretty sure Sean Perrin hadn’t seen it coming.

Literally.

Back at the squad bay, Laura got on the phone and spent a couple of hours calling motels in Winslow. She’d winnowed down the motels to within walking distance of the McDonald's at 1616 North Park Drive.

From Google Maps, she was able to see the area from above and also from Street View. The land looked as if it had been cleared for building, and new stores were going up near an old neighborhood. There were several motels in the neighborhood—an Econo Lodge, a Quality Inn, and a Motel 6.

Laura called the Winslow PD, identified herself, and talked to the desk sergeant there. She asked if there had been any shootings at the motels on Park near the interchange approximately two weeks ago.

“No shootings near the main drag.”

“None near the McDonald's on Park?”

“Not in the last two weeks.”

“How about before that?”

She could tell he was looking. “I’ll have to get back to you. Can you describe what you’re looking for?”

From the mouth of a congenital liar
, Laura thought. “We have a homicide victim here in southern Arizona, a white male forty-three years old, name: Sean Perrin.” She described him and the story he’d told Terry Delmonte—the woman who was with him, his trip to the McDonald's for breakfast, his discovery of the woman dead in the room. “We believe he was driving a 2006 Dodge Viper Red Clearcoat.” She read off the VIN number.

“You say he’s a homicide victim? Anything else we should know about him?”

“He’s a mystery to us,” Laura said. “But he was shot once in the head at close range with a .22. No evidence at the scene. Shot in his car.”

“Sounds like a hit.”

“Which is why I’m following this lead.”

“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire? Can you describe this woman?”

“This is a guess, but she’s probably between the ages of twenty and forty. She would be a resident of Las Vegas. The name I was given was ‘Aurora’. She might have gone by another name. The last name, but not sure: Tattaglia.”

Laura knew the name was a shot in the dark. She was on shifting sands here. She thought about elaborating, but realized she’d only dig herself in deeper.

“So you’re sure he said McDonald's?”

“Yes.”

“There’s only one of ’em here. I’ll check and see if there’s a homicide in a motel, but I don’t recall anything like this.”

Laura thought:
all you can do is try
.

She got a call back the next morning.

“No record of anyone shot to death in any of the motels near the McDonald's,” the desk sergeant, Manny Contreras, told her. “But there was a death that fits your time frame. A woman died of an overdose at the Meteorite Inn.”

“The Meteorite Inn?”

“Yeah, it’s an old motel, kind of off the beaten track, but if they were hiding out as you say… “

“A drug overdose? You sure?”

“To tell the truth, at first it did look like a homicide. She must have flailed around some, hit her head against the bed board and also on the chest of drawers. Turned out it was a drug overdose. Ketamine and PCP in her system, which fits with what we found.”

“How old was she?”

“Mid-to-late twenties, but she looked older than that. Her name was Aurora Johnson. She had a Las Vegas DL and one hell of a rap sheet,” he added. “She was a prostitute.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN
Running Down The Road

Laura and Anthony hit the road early the next morning. Early for Anthony was eight a.m.

Laura picked him up at his home, which was kind of on the way, and they hit Phoenix on Interstate 10 just in time for rush hour.

It was mid-afternoon by the time they pulled in to Winslow. The police department was situated along old Interstate 40, a white cube of a building on a one-way street.

It wasn’t far from the Meteorite Inn on State Route 99. They drove by there first.

The land around here looked like tanned deer hide. There were railroad tracks nearby, and a road that zigged, then zagged, and stuck like a postage stamp in the right angle was the motel. The side to the street was a jigsaw of colored rocks, most of them dark brown, some muddy yellow, pink, blue, red—all natural rock colors from the area. Wafers of flagstone were stacked at the base. Someone had put real care into this, but the result was ugly. And old.

“It’s a long way from McDonald's,” Laura said.

Anthony nodded. “You just maybe think we’re on a wild goose chase?”

“Probably. But a woman did die here.”

“The Meteorite Inn. Looks like it was
hit
by a meteorite. If a guy stood on this corner, the girl in the flatbed Ford would’ve driven right by. I’ll bet people rent by the month.”

Laura looked at the old motel. There was a cluttered look to some of the rooms—doors open, old cars outside. It did look like people were camped out there. “You think they were hiding out?”

“Could be. You can’t get more out of the way than this.”

“But the woman died from a drug overdose. Maybe he wasn’t running from anything at all in Vegas. Maybe he just met the woman here and paid her for sex.”

“It’s a theory,” Anthony said. Hands on hips, he stared out at the bleak side of Winslow.

“But that would be a coincidence,” Laura said.

“Yeah—and I know how much you don’t like coincidences.”

“Coincidences are rare. Besides,” she said. “Sean Perrin was killed by a pro.”

They met with Greg Wyland, the detective who investigated Aurora Johnson's death at the Meteorite Inn. Wyland was tall like Anthony, so the two of them towered over Laura, even though she was pretty tall, herself. Wyland looked boyish, with a pale blonde buzz cut and startling blue eyes.

He showed them the file.

Aurora Johnson did have a sheet—prostitution busts and drugs.

The crime scene photos were shocking. There was blood everywhere, mostly from Johnson running into things, like the dresser where she ended up, head smashed into the bottom drawer.

“Ketamine and PCP,” Laura muttered, looking at the sheet. Anthony leaned over her.

Even dead, Aurora Johnson was a beautiful young woman. She was twenty-four years old. She looked like she might be a mixture of Hispanic, African American, and perhaps Asian. In one of the close-up shots, Laura noticed a tattoo on her forearm: a bullet. Just the black silhouette, but it was unmistakable. “Did LVMPD send a photo of her?” Laura asked.

“Yeah.” He pulled it up on his desktop.

It was the first time Laura had seen a mug shot that was actually flattering.

“Jesus,” Anthony said. “She’s a knockout.”

Even the cloth they used to drape under her chin looked elegant.

Aurora Johnson had been arrested for possession of drugs twice and prostitution three times.