Justification for Murder (4 page)

V
irago sat behind her desk and set the files to the side. Sorensen and Jon took the chairs across from her and waited. She closed her eyes and exhaled audibly.

“It’s the third suicide we’ve got. Same type of deal as the other two. I want to dedicate some real time to it. It’s fishy, and I want to figure out what the hell’s going on.”

Sorensen nodded, a million questions forming in his head, but he didn’t speak, because he knew she wasn’t finished.

“I can’t tell you what a PR cluster fuck this can be if the media starts making stories about this and we’ve got nothing.”

That’s what he was waiting for. Sorensen respected Virago but knew she was juggling too many balls. Several of them had to do with making her bosses look good in the eyes of the public, the politicians and other department heads.

“I want you to investigate it as a suspicious death”—she made quote marks with her fingers—“but talk about it as if it’s a gruesome suicide so we don’t generate panic, in case this starts showing up in the media, okay?”

“You got it. So far I’ve got nothing linking the first two vics, so we’ll see if the third one brings any clarity,” Sorensen updated.

“What can I do?” Jon asked, sounding eager.

“Follow Sorensen’s lead. I’m counting on your contributions, Jon.” She fixed her eyes on the intern and he shifted in his seat.

“Of course. I’ll do everything I can.”

She nodded. “That’s all. Thanks.” Virago put on her reading glasses, letting them know it was time to go.

Before Sorensen walked out, she reconsidered. “Sorensen, two minutes.”

He did a one-eighty and sat back down in the chair. “Yes?”

“How’s the search?”

“Still haven’t found a new car. Why?”

Virago looked over her glasses. Her lips were pursed. “I don’t have time for your games. You know what I mean.”

“Captain, I’m okay. I don’t need a partner. Besides, if I need moral support, I can always talk to Chu.”

She raised a finger to admonish him. Her expression was stern, but her voice sounded too tired to be vicious. “Sorensen, I’m about to reach the limit. I’ve been asking you for over six months to find a new partner. I know it’s hard to replace somebody like Chu, but you don’t have a choice.”

“I have Jon. He’s actually helping a lot. I give him a hard time, but he’s bright and gets shit done.”

“And he’s not a detective, so he’s not a valid replacement.”

“I can manage.”

“What about Lynch?” she asked, ignoring his comment.

“No. I’ve told you many times. If I wanted a crippled partner, I already have one.”

“Don’t be an asshole. Chu retired with MS. He’s not active, he doesn’t want to work anymore, and he’s happy spending quality time with his family, so leave it alone.”

“He’s happy? Spending quality time? He’s happy not being able to make his own coffee or wipe his own ass? He’s happy? How is any of that quality time?” He raised his voice, and his right jugular pulsed with every heartbeat.

“I’m sorry. You know what I meant.” She lowered her voice but met his eyes.

Sorensen shook his head, willing himself to calm down. He knew she didn’t mean it the way it sounded.

“Chu retired. You have to move on—that’s all I’m saying. Besides, you know I respect Chu a lot and he’s one of the best detectives I’ve ever worked with, but he’s gone, and you have to pick a new one or I’ll assign one for you.”

“Fine. Give me a couple weeks.”

“These cases would go a lot faster if you worked with a partner.”

“ Okay, fine. Give me a week.”

“I want three names no later than next Monday morning.”

Sorensen nodded and left Virago’s office.

T
yler Warren eased his Tesla into a spot right outside the Los Altos Rod and Gun Club door. He had the best parking karma. He grabbed his large black duffle bag from the trunk and looked at the sky. Not a cloud and no wind. He opened the store’s door after hearing the double beep of the car lock.

“Mr. Warren, how are you this morning?” Carmela asked from behind the counter. Two deep dimples framed her smile.

“Excellent, excellent,” he said.

“I have row eight outdoors for you ready. The one at the very end, just as you requested.”

“You always take good care of me,
chiquita.
”

When he saw her cringe, he winked and scribbled his signature on the form she’d pulled out when he came in.

Warren made a point of not using her real name, which was diplayed on a tag pinned to her double-D chest. Ever since his first visit to the shooting range about two years earlier, he’d taken some guilty pleasure in seeing her face react when he called her
chiquita
. He didn’t know why he did it, and he was amazed that it hadn’t gotten old yet.

The store lighting reflected against the yellow walls. The large glass cases contained everything from vintage and antique guns, to revolvers and semiautomatic pistols of all sizes and calibers, and all the accessories a shooter could ever wish for. Shotguns and rifles occupied the wall space, and the shelves were filled with ammunition boxes.

“Excuse me,” Warren said, passing behind a man drooling over a gun he probably would never be able to afford. His duffle bag brushed the man’s shoulder, but he didn’t protest.

He stopped before a pair of large double doors and fetched his 3M Peltor earmuffs. He eased them over his slick, gelled black hair and went inside. Warren passed by the rows of indoor shooting, surprised again that only three lanes were in use. He wondered briefly if it was the weak economy, but as soon as he went through the last set of doors, he understood that the perfect California weather had lured everyone to shoot outside.

His stride was strong, determined. He’d always walked as if he knew exactly where he was going. He reached row eight and started to settle in. He pulled his Sig P226 X-FIVE pistol and a box of ammo. He started loading the magazine.

A loud yet hesitant voice pulled him out of his concentration. “Mr. Warren.”

“Ah, Harper, I’m glad you could join me.” His smile was wide, almost genuine. He knew Harper wouldn’t have refused.

Tyler pulled the slide back sharply. He turned his back on the visitor and aimed at the target. The shots from all the other lanes were muffled by the earmuffs and didn’t distract him. His pulse was steady. The gun settled in his left hand, while the right cupped the grip. Warren pulled the trigger in rapid succession until the magazine was empty.

“That felt good,” he said, turning back to Harper. “Would you like to shoot?” His hand extended, gun pointing downward as he ejected the magazine into his left hand.

“No, thank you. I do enough shooting back at the ranch.” Harper shoved his hands further into his pockets, as if to avoid temptation.

“Suit yourself, but it’s a perfect day for it.” He looked at the sky again. “I don’t think I’ll be able to claim a perfect score based on my ability alone,” he said and laughed. It was a hearty laugh that came from the gut.

Harper shivered and kept quiet.

“I’m grateful for your progress,” Tyler continued. “I think we’re going to be okay.” He began pushing new cartridges into the magazine.

Harper bowed his head. “You told me to be creative, so I’m making sure each one is different.”

“Yes, and I hope you understand why.”

Tyler now turned to look at him and placed the loaded gun on the shelf to his left, after inserting the freshly filled magazine. He dug through his bag and pulled out two more boxes of ammunition.

“Hold these for a sec,” he said, handing them to Harper while he looked for something else. He finally found a few sheets of paper folded in half and held together by a silver paper clip on the left-hand corner. He handed them to Harper in exchange for the ammo. “These are the next ones.”

Harper opened the folded papers and saw the new list. “How many more are there?” he asked under his breath. Sweat had begun to mist his forehead and create dark stains under his arms.

“Just a few more, Harper. Just a few more.” He tried to sound reassuring, but his voice betrayed him, and sadness seeped through.

Before Tyler started shooting again, he turned again and locked eyes with Harper. With the words still lingering in the air, he smiled trying to lift the mood, showing perfectly aligned white teeth.

Tyler kneeled down again and grabbed a thick envelope from his bag. “Here’s what we talked about for the latest work.”

“You know that’s not what I really want,” Harper said, not taking the envelope.

“And I’m working on it, Harper. I told you already that you would be the first one to know when it’s ready.”

He placed the envelope on the shelf where the gun had been just moments ago. Tyler re-aimed the pistol at the target and started squeezing off shots in a deliberate cadence.

“Okay,” Harper said, his voice muffled by the overwhelming noise. He took the envelope from the shelf. Tyler watched him walk away. His shoulders seemed too heavy for a man his age.

D
etective Darcy Lynch was tapping the floor of the squad room with his right foot. It was a tic that had driven more than one girlfriend to despair. He gnawed on the cap of a blue Bic pen while he listened to Lou.

“So basically, you’ve come up with absolutely nothing,” he interrupted, holding the receiver harder than he needed to. His gaze was lost on a computer screen that had long ago gone black.

“What I’m telling you, Detective Lynch,” Lou said, marking every word with a pause, “is that we’ve run about sixty percent of the items and have found no evidence so far.” He took a deep breath and added, “We still have forty percent to go.”

“You have the knife,” Darcy said, feeling that he had to cling onto something.

“We have a possible match on the knife. I mean, at least we narrowed it to a particular kind of knife. It’s sold in specialized hunting stores. The seat belt cut was really clean. That knife was extremely sharp.”

Darcy closed his eyes. He pictured the head forensic scientist sitting in his office, his lab coat bursting around his huge stomach while his boyish haircut made him look at least ten years younger than he was.

“Thanks, Lou. I’m just frustrated. I have nothing. I don’t think I’ve ever worked a case where I had so little to go on.”

“We’re working on it. I’ll call you as soon as something comes up,” Lou said and hung up.

Darcy put the phone down and clicked the mouse. The computer screen came alive. Before he was able to enter his password, Captain Virago caught his attention. She had come out of her office and was standing by the doorframe, as if waiting to be noticed.

He figured she’d been a knockout when she was younger, but juggling the job and three kids had done a number on her. Now she was a plump, middle-aged woman with good skin, beautiful eyes and graying roots that needed touch-ups more often than she took care of them.

“Yes?” he said, looking in her direction.

“I have an easy case for you.”

Darcy lifted his left eyebrow and smirked. “I don’t believe you.”

“No, seriously,” she said, walking toward his desk. She stopped on the other side, facing him, and explained. “A couple days ago there was a car accident.”

“Oh, not again. The last one was supposed to be a hit-and-run, and look at me now, buried in a attempted murder.” He rolled his eyes and slouched further in his chair.

“Stop the whining. Seriously, you’re too manly to whine so much.”

Darcy smiled.

“As I was saying, a car went off the road. It looked like the driver had fallen asleep at the wheel or something like that. But Lou’s team worked its magic and found that the brakes had been tampered with.” She handed him the case file.

“Oh, man. I wish they weren’t so good at finding stuff sometimes,” he said, pushing the folder away on his desk as if it were dirty. “You know this is going to be a shitter, like the one you just gave me yesterday.”

“Lynch, you wanted easy, I’m here to oblige.” She turned around and plugged her ears with her index fingers just in case he decided to whine some more.

He opened the file and read the report. It was a standard accident report until he got to the forensic notes. The brake lines had been punctured just enough for the fluid to leak out slowly.

Darcy hit the redial button on his desk phone and waited for Lou to answer. “Hey, is Rachel in the office?” he asked.

“Why? You want to ask her out?” Lou started laughing, but it sounded more like an asthmatic wheezing than a laugh. Darcy imagined Lou’s belly lurching up and down like Jell-O and shook his head to push the image away. Lou ran out of air and almost choked. “Man, that was funny,” he said once he finally caught his breath. “Can you imagine you with Rachel?” He started laughing again.

“Lou, really, stop it. She’s a really nice lady. You shouldn’t disrespect her like that.” He waited until he made sure that Lou could hear him. “Virago just handed me the car accident she worked on. I wanted to ask her a few questions.”

“Ah, that one. Are you specializing in car cases now?”

“Very funny. I’m surprised you are not cracking up at that one.”

“She’s doing some testing on the evidence we got from the latest suicide Sorensen’s working on. She’s very busy, so if you want to talk to her, I suggest you come over here and talk while she works.”

Darcy walked to the forensic unit located a couple blocks away. The air was dry and the sky a beautiful deep blue with two parallel white stripes made by a plane flying high above. The structure was old—it could have been a courthouse or a post office in the past. The forensics lab and the morgue shared the entire building.

He figured Rachel would be in the lab, so he got into the large elevator and pushed
3
. He was alone. The doors closed after several seconds, and the elevator started going up with a whine, as if the effort were unbearable. After what seemed like a full minute, the doors opened and he walked into the lab’s reception area.

“Mary, how are you?” Darcy asked, reaching the front desk. He didn’t bother showing his badge.

“Doing great, handsome. When are you going to take me on that date you’ve been promising for months now?”

“As soon as you divorce that body-builder husband of yours. You know he scares me.”

She patted his hand. “Who are you looking for?”

“Rachel. Is she around?”

“She is, actually. She was downstairs in the garage the whole morning, but she just came up. Do you want me to page her?” she asked, picking up the phone.

“No, I’ll find her.” He pointed to his left, toward a wide and short corridor that ended in large frosted doors, looking for confirmation.

Mary nodded. “I’ll let you know as soon as I file those divorce papers,” she called out behind him.

“And I’ll make reservations,” he replied without looking back.

Before he reached the doors, he heard a beep followed by the loud click that disengaged the lock. He pulled on the large handle, and the emptiness and silence of the lobby was suddenly replaced by the bustle of technicians working, walking and talking about their respective projects.

Darcy crossed paths with a few people he barely knew and nodded. He continued down the hall, peeking into each department, looking for Rachel. He finally found her in one of the last rooms. He opened the door and heard classical music coming out of Rachel’s white headphones. She didn’t notice him.

She stood barely five feet tall. Short silver curls, probably permed, framed her face. She didn’t wear any makeup except for the brown kohl she used to carefully paint her almost nonexistent eyebrows. Her hands were small, but they moved efficiently through the evidence, even though they were twisted by arthritis. She had the most uncanny ability to do several things at once he’d ever seen.

A large metal table took up most of the room. Several pieces of evidence were spread on top of it, every single one tagged. He coughed, then again more loudly, but she still didn’t hear him. He finally knocked on the table.

She jumped, clinching her lab coat around her chest. “Jesus Christ, Detective Lynch.”

“But Rachel, with your adoration to heavy metal, there’s no other way to get your attention.”

“No, no. You just do it because you enjoy scaring the bejesus out of me.” She pursed her lips but didn’t keep that face for long. “Besides, I don’t listen to heavy metal.” Darcy winked, and she asked, “What can I do for you?”

“Jacqueline Pritchard’s car,” he said.

“Ah, yes. Just finished processing the brake lines about an hour ago.”

She moved a few inches from the table and peeled off her latex gloves. Her nails were painted a Christmas red. Without looking at her notes, she said, “I checked the brake lines and I first was surprised to find brake fluid on the rubber hose going to each caliper in the front. So, I inspected the hoses and found one puncture in each. This would have caused the brake fluid to leak out.”

“But wouldn’t she have noticed the loss of brake pressure?”

“Probably, but with such an old car, the brakes were probably soft already and she may have not noticed until it was too late.”

Darcy rubbed his temple. His eye was bothering him again. He nodded for her to continue.

“The pricks were very small.”

“Have you narrowed it down? Do you have any ideas what could have been used to make them?”

She shook her head. “They may have been done with something as common as a pushpin. So no, there are too many things that could have been used to make such small holes.” She reached for a set of color printouts she had taken from the microscope. “See this thing here?” She pointed at one of the holes.

“Yeah.”

“Even when you blow it out to this size, you can see that there’s nothing distinctive about it.” Her shoulders hunched over, making her even tinier than she already was. “I’m sorry, Detective. I wish I had better news for you.”

Darcy left Rachel and walked back to his office, wondering why somebody would have gone to the trouble to puncture the brakes lines of such an old car.