First Offense (16 page)

While David rummaged around for something to eat, Ann went to the living room and collapsed on the sofa, meaning just to rest her eyes. In no time at all, though, she fell fast asleep. Soon she was dreaming. She was in Jimmy Sawyer’s kitchen, holding up a finger and examining it, when she saw the ring—the wedding ring she’d given her husband. She screamed, dropping the finger. When it struck the floor, it changed before her eyes to a rodent and scurried off. Bolting awake in a cold sweat, Ann glanced at the clock over the stone mantel and saw that it was after midnight. The house was still, David evidently in bed.

Sawyer’s arraignment would be tomorrow—no, today, she realized. That must be why she’d had that horrid dream. She would have to sit in the same courtroom with a man who had sliced off a woman’s fingers, who might broadcast his lies about her to everyone present.

Ann started to get up, and something fell off her chest to the floor. She bent over to retrieve it. David had placed his father’s picture, the one in highway patrol uniform that he kept in his room, right in the center of her chest.

Detective Phil Whittaker was in his late forties and getting close to retirement. Since he had left the military at age twenty-one, he’d never had any job other than as a cop. He was overweight by at least twenty pounds, and his pants hung low on his hips in order to accommodate his protruding stomach. But he was a pleasant, likable man with a jovial plump face and a hearty laugh. Unlike many other veteran members of the department, Whittaker was not bitter and disillusioned with law enforcement. Oh, there were days when he wanted to cash it in and take off to Oregon, but he knew he would never last.

Phil Whittaker was a stone-cold addict. He loved the job, fed on the excitement. When he was at home with his wife and kids, he thought of the job. On his last vacation, in Hawaii, he hadn’t thought of the beautiful young bodies decorating the beach, he’d thought of the job, his mind still sorting through facts and faces, searching for that one detail that he might have missed.

Assigned to canvass the neighborhood and see what he could learn about Sawyer and his roommates, he had been knocking on doors since seven o’clock that morning, thinking he’d catch people before they left for work. All the detective had learned the night before was that the rental house needed a paint job, the yard needed water, and the boys were going to run over one of the neighborhood kids one day. Shit, Whittaker thought, from the way it sounded they were describing his own house. His yard was dead, his house needed a fresh coat of paint, and every time the detective was called out on a hot case and screamed down the street in his police unit, the neighbors called his wife and sounded off.

When he had informed the residents of Henderson Avenue that the three boys were moving out, they were all relieved. He was glad to make their day, but Whittaker needed information. When he got back to the station. Reed would be waiting like a hungry bear. Right now the only evidence he had of any illegal activity amounted to nothing more menacing than a few traffic violations. Not exactly what they were looking for.

“Shit,” he said, pulling out a wad of tissues and blowing his nose. The rug rats had brought home another damn cold. Then he looked at the house before him and sighed. He’d finally made it to the residence next door to Sawyer’s. Last night the people had not been home. He hoped they’d be home this morning, because if he was going to hit pay dirt, Whittaker thought, this would be the place to do it.

He knocked on the door and waited. A few minutes later, a scruffy toddler opened the door and looked out through the screen. The detective couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl. The kid had short hair and big brown eyes and was dressed in a little blue tank top and flower-print shorts. “I need to talk to your mother or father,” he said. “Are they home?”

“My mommy’s sleeping,” the child said.

“Why don’t you be real sweet and go and get her for me?”

“She get mad if’n I wake her.”

“I’m a policeman, honey,” Whittaker said, reaching in his pocket for his badge, then kneeling down on one knee so the child could see it. “See, this is my badge. Now, be a good little kid and go get your mom for me.

“Mom,” the child screamed, taking off running down the hall, leaving the door wide open. “There’s a placeman at the door. A real placeman wid a real badge.”

Whittaker shuffled impatiently on the tiny cement porch, glancing down the street and then back at the door, coughing a few times.

“What do you want?” a woman said from somewhere inside the house.

Whittaker stepped closer to the screen. All he could make out was a dark shadow. “Can I ask you a few questions? It won’t take more than five or ten minutes max. I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“What’s this about?” the woman said, still in the shadows.

“We just want to ask you some questions about the three boys renting the house next door.”

“They’re moving,” the voice in the shadows said. “I don’t know anything else. I just know they’re moving. They loaded all their furniture in a moving van.”

“Do you mind if I come in and talk to you for a few minutes?”

“Yes, I do,” the woman said. “I don’t know anything. Officer. All I know is the people next door are moving.”

“I see,” Whittaker said slowly, wondering why the woman was being obstinate. Some people just didn’t like cops. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’m going to leave my card. Then if you think of anything, you can give me a call.” He stuck the card in the metal grille of the screen door and turned away. Damn, he thought, he hadn’t even gotten the woman’s name. The house on the other side of Sawyer’s was vacant, up for sale. He was going to have to face Reed empty-handed.

“Excuse me,” the detective said through the screen door. “I need to get your name at least. See, my sergeant’s not going to be happy when he hears I didn’t get a statement from you. Can’t you give me a break here?”

The pleading worked. A woman stepped out of the shadows and appeared behind the screen. She had limp shoulder-length brown hair and small hazel eyes. She was short, maybe a little over five feet, and extremely slender, almost emaciated. Her skin had a gray cast, and dark circles were etched under her eyes. She wore a pair of faded jeans and a blouse made of the same print fabric as the child’s shorts, and her face was void of makeup. “Sally Farrar,” she said. “Why are you asking me about the people next door?”

“Oh,” he said, “I’m really not able to give out that information right now.”

“Why?” she asked. “What did they do?”

“They haven’t been charged with a crime yet, Mrs. Farrar.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because we want to know if you saw anything suspicious.”

“What’s suspicious?”

“You know, strange people coming and going at odd hours. Maybe strange sounds like someone screaming. Stuff like that.” As soon as Whittaker got the last word out, he sneezed and quickly reached for a tissue.

“You’ve got a cold.”

“No shit,” he said, sneezing again. “Excuse my language. You’re right. I feel terrible.”

“Did someone say something about me? Is that why you came here?”

Whittaker studied the woman. A little paranoid maybe, he thought, deciding Sally Farrar might be the neighborhood weirdo. “No, ma’am, it’s just that you live right next door. Surely you know something about what was going on over there. I mean, if anyone did, it would be—”

“They were wild, okay,” she said, stepping up closer to the screen, her voice almost provocative. “They had girls over there every night and did disgusting things with them. Do you know what I mean, Officer?”

Whittaker blushed and put a finger inside his collar, pulling it away from his neck. It was the way she was looking at him, the tone of her voice. If she asked him to come inside now, the detective gave thought to sprinting down the street. Women used to make plays for him all the time, frustrated housewives and the like. But no one had approached him in years, not since he had stopped wearing a uniform. “Could you be a little more specific?”

“Orgies, Officer. Do you know what an orgy is?”

“Sure, but…how did you know they were having orgies specifically? Maybe they were just having parties.”

“I saw them,” she said, her eyes glazing over and her mouth falling open as she pressed her entire body against the screen.

“Ah, what exactly did you see?”

“There were three of them. A Chinese boy, very handsome, a tall blond boy with a gorgeous body…the most beautiful body I’ve ever seen.” She stopped and took a breath, trailing a fingernail down the screen as she stared at him.

The detective looked down at the ground nervously. The woman was trying to seduce him. He knew it. Shit, he thought, wait till he told the guys about this. “We’re…interested in the dark-haired boy, the one with the long hair. His name is Jimmy Sawyer. Can you tell us anything about him?”

“He was rough. You know, with the girls. I think he had a bad temper or was more jealous than the others. They shared their women. That’s the kind of thing I’m talking about. These weren’t normal parties. They began when the sun went down and never stopped. Day after day…” Her voice trailed off and she stepped back into the shadows.

Whittaker decided to drop this line of discussion. The woman was obviously a mental case, and they couldn’t arrest Sawyer and his roommates for excessive screwing. Then he thought of the fingers. Ann Carlisle had said she’d seen fingernail polish. He almost slapped himself on the forehead. The woman had said Sawyer had a bad temper. If the case got to court, this woman would be a valuable witness. “Could you describe the girls you saw over there?”

“Possibly,” she whispered, “if I wanted to.”

“What about drugs? Did you ever see them using drugs or anything else relating to narcotics?”

“Don’t people like that use drugs?”

“Did you ever see smoke or anything along those lines? There’s a possibility that they were manufacturing narcotics, running a home lab. You know, like chemical smoke?”

She laughed. “A lab? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The door slammed in his face.

“Thanks a hell of a lot,” Whittaker mumbled, staring at the door. There was no use trying to get any more information out of this lady. They’d just issue her a subpoena when the time came.

Whatever Sawyer and his friends had been up to, he decided, they’d been having the time of their lives, and Whittaker was a tad envious. Fast cars, fast girls, easy money. Sure beats the hell out of getting doors slammed in your face. He sighed and then headed off down the street, reaching for another tissue.

Arraignment was scheduled for one o’clock. Ann met Tommy Reed outside the courtroom, and they went in and took seats in the front row. Even Reed had his reservations about filing so soon, but the case was out of their hands. Ann wanted to get it over with, get Sawyer locked up whatever it took. She was anxious about what he would say, however. If his lurid story surfaced in an open courtroom for everyone to hear, Ann knew she would be humiliated.

When the bailiffs escorted Jimmy Sawyer in, Ann couldn’t help but stare. Both shackled at the ankles and handcuffed, he could walk only in small steps. His long hair was lifeless and stringy, his shoulders slumped, and his face had an unhealthy cast. In his jail-issued jumpsuit he certainly looked different from the last time he had appeared in court, she thought, feeling a measure of satisfaction. A night in the Ventura County Jail could do wonders for an inflated ego.

Harold Duke was waiting for him, and stood to allow the bailiff to seat Sawyer at the counsel table. Then the two men leaned their heads together and began to confer in hushed whispers.

Ann craned her neck around, expecting to see the entourage Jimmy had brought with him the last time, but no one was present today but his mother. After what Ann had seen in the Henderson house, she wasn’t surprised that Sawyer’s friends had decided to stay away.

“Where’s Hopkins?” Tommy asked her.

“I called before I came over, and he was still arguing with Robert Fielder. He should be here any minute.” Ann frowned as she said this, worried that Fielder had quashed the proceedings for lack of evidence. Again she looked over her shoulder, this time checking for reporters, but the courtroom was practically empty. Just then she noticed Sawyer watching her, a glint in his eyes. When he smiled, Ann quickly looked away and inched closer to Reed. A thought kept racing through her mind: maybe Sawyer had followed her and Glen to the fire stairs, had been the one who opened the door while they were having sex. That could be the foundation for his ridiculous story. Seeing her having sex in the stairwell would give anyone food for thought.

Hopkins suddenly came barreling into the courtroom and slammed his briefcase down on the table. Removing his notes and files, he glanced back and saw Ann. “I got the go-ahead from Fielder,” he said, smiling confidently. “Don’t worry, Ann, everything’s under control.”

She got up out of her seat and met Glen in the aisle on the far side of the courtroom. “Why didn’t you tell me what Sawyer said about me last night?”

“Why?” Glen said, not happy she had been told. “Why have you listen to something like that? I knew it would upset you, Ann. I hate to see you upset.”

Gratitude swept over her, and she quickly touched his hand with her own. “Can you come over tonight?” she asked. “Maybe we could visit in the backyard after David goes to bed.”

His eyes softened. “Just take care of your son, Ann. Next week will be better. The last thing I want you to worry about right now is me. Besides, I’m burning the midnight oil on Delvecchio. Since we lost Estelle Summer’s testimony, the case is not as solid.”

The two exchanged a grimace at this, and Ann slipped back into her seat, watching as Glen crossed the room to the clerk, handing her two copies of the information form, which was used in felonies to set forth the various pleadings and charges. The clerk then handed a copy to the bailiff to deliver to Sawyer’s attorney and placed the judge’s copy in the file. The woman’s phone rang, and she picked it up. Then she yelled out to Hopkins, “Judge Hillstorm wants to see you in chambers before we go on record.”