Justification for Murder (8 page)

“H
ey, Lynch. Why do you have a girl’s name?” Sorensen asked, lifting his eyes from his computer screen, looking at the only other detective still in the office.

“Jesus, Sorensen, what are you, in high school?”

“Sorry, man. I looked at you, and you seemed so depressed I thought giving you a hard time would pull you out of it.”

“You have a strange way to show love.”

Sorensen laughed. It was a hearty laugh. It felt genuine, which was a rare thing.

“Let’s grab a beer. The missus is out with her friends and my kids always hope I’m pulling a double shift.”

He grabbed his suit jacket and waited by Darcy’s desk.

“Sure, what the hell. I got nothing. Staring at the files for another hour is not going to make the evidence appear from nowhere.”

They walked a few blocks to Fibar McGee’s. It was the closest to a cop bar you could find in Silicon Valley. The Irish bar was dark, grim, dirty and scarcely populated. There were about ten beers on tap, and
SportsCenter
played on the TV without sound.

“Howard, how have you been?” Sorensen asked a stocky man sitting at one of the side tables with an older guy.

“Great. You?”

They shook hands and Howard’s head tilted toward Darcy, as if to get confirmation from Sorensen he was one of them.

“This is Detective Lynch. Import from Seattle. The biggest pain in the ass you’ve ever met.”

He moved enough to let Darcy shake hands with the other detective.

“Do you remember Thomas?” Howard asked, gesturing toward his sitting partner.

Sorensen nodded. After considering it for a few more seconds he said, “How could I forget. You worked on that black widow case way back when.”

Thomas looked away and finished his beer.

“Outstanding work.” Sorensen’s voice didn’t hide his disdain. He didn’t shake his hand.

Before Howard could protest, Darcy started walking toward the bar and said, “Great to meet you both, but I need a beer.”

Sorensen followed him without saying good-bye. They sat on the short side of the L-shaped bar, both facing the door. Sorensen looked back at Howard and Thomas and, not caring much about whether they could hear him, said, “That fucking asshole got one of our biggest cases dismissed.”

“What happened?”

Before he could respond, the owner appeared from the back and approached them. He was a large man with pockmarked skin from teenage acne. His hair was mostly white, in a short buzz cut.

“Long time no see, Detective.”

He put a Stella in front of Sorensen.

“Been busy with the kids, Bernie. You know how it is.”

He then introduced Lynch.

“What can I get you?” Bernie asked.

“I’ll have the same.”

Once Bernie left to polish some glasses, Sorensen answered Darcy’s question. “Apparently the dick forgot all about the Fourth Amendment and those little details about illegal searches and seizures.” He looked over to see if the other two detectives had heard him, but if they had, they were trying to ignore him. “A few years ago, this woman hired a dude to do her husband, but her thing was that she wanted to make sure it was done, no mistakes or half tries. So, one day she calls the assassin and tells him that her hubby is at a restaurant down in Los Gatos and that she wants to come with while he does it. After some persuasion, she wins. You know how women are.

“They wait until he leaves the restaurant and gets in his car. They drive by, the assassin pulls a gun and shoots the husband through the passenger window. Blood spatters all over the place, including her pretty blouse. She goes home and makes sure everything is washed. Mr. Asshole over there is sure she’s done it, so he decides to break into her mansion the next day while she’s shopping in Santana Row for new clothes or something. He’s looking all over the place with no warrant and finally finds something that looks like blood on the side of the washing machine. He takes a sample, and before he’s able to sneak out, the victim’s brother comes into the house and catches him there. Long story short, by the time they got a warrant there’s no more blood and nothing else to go after her.”

“What about the shooter?”

“Probably basking in the sun on some Mexican beach somewhere. We never found him.”

He munched on a few peanuts.

“Was it his blood?”

“Yep.” Sorensen washed a mouthful with his beer.

“Have you ever done it?” Darcy asked, knowing he was stepping on quicksand.

Sorensen didn’t respond. He stared straight through the bar and watched the door open. A couple, probably out-of-towners looking for a cool bar, peered in and then walked back out.

“This guy is an arrogant son of a bitch that screwed up the case and put the department in jeopardy. The brother almost sued the Sheriff’s Office for breaking and entering. Can you believe that? And he didn’t even like the widow.”

They drank in silence for a few minutes. The TV now showed the weather. Another balmy week in the Valley.

“You never told me what happened to your eye.”

“I don’t like to talk about it,” Darcy said and rubbed his left temple, more out of reflex than need.

“Fair enough.”

Darcy was grateful Sorensen didn’t push it. Maybe he was more decent than he let on.

“How long have you been married?” he asked, partly to change the subject and partly to try to establish that rapport he’d been unable to build since he joined Santa Clara Sheriff’s Office a few months back.

“Too long, that’s for sure.” But he smiled. “Thirteen years.”

“That’s pretty impressive for a cop. You may be reaching a record.”

Darcy lifted his glass.

“Yeah, no shit. You?”

“Nope. My last girlfriend got sick of me working undercover. One day I came home and all of her things were gone, except the fish.”

“She left you a dead fish? That’s cold.”

“No, actually, the frigging fish was alive. In fact it still is.”

“You kept it?”

“What the hell was I supposed to do?”

“Let it swim down the toilet?”

“Harsh,” he said, but they both laughed.

“Her name’s Lola.”

“Your ex?”

“No. The fish.”

H
arper Johnson was tired of stealing cars. But he was smart enough to know that his beat-up pickup truck would stand out like a sore thumb in an affluent neighborhood like Los Altos. So he stole a nice Lexus ES that seemed to be well kept.

After tonight, there would be only one more name on his latest list to cross out. But he also needed to take care of Saffron Meadows, the woman who kept evading his grasp. After that, he hoped to be done, but with Tyler Warren, you never knew for sure.

He studied his crossword puzzle against the streetlight, but it was hard to see. He heard a car approaching. He checked the picture one more time and then watched the car get closer. It stopped a few yards away. A couple in their sixties got out of the car. He could hear them talk, but not what they were saying. The woman laughed. The trunk opened. They each took a Trader Joe’s bag out. He hoped they didn’t have to make a second trip.

He realized he was holding his breath. He forced himself to inhale deeply and exhale slowly. He had no idea when his victim was going to arrive, so there was no need to stress. He was not on a deadline. Not yet, anyway. So if it didn’t happen today, there would be another chance some other day.

The porch light turned on as soon as the couple stepped inside the sensor area. The old man set the heavy bag on the floor and fetched the keys he had put back in his pocket. He opened the front door and held it for his wife to go in first. Harper saw the man pause on the other side of the translucent door and figured he was locking it.

He looked back at his crosswords puzzle. “Three-letter word for ‘race the engine,’” he murmured. He often did better when he read it out loud.

Another car entered the cul-de-sac. He looked up. He grabbed the photo of the woman resting on the passenger seat and looked at it again. When he confirmed the match, he put it in his breast pocket without losing sight of the passing car.

Harper waited until she pulled into the driveway. He hoped she wouldn’t go into the garage. She didn’t. She parked the car in the driveway and shut down the engine. He got out of the car quietly and walked toward her. Then he waited behind a large bush that framed the side of the driveway. The woman was busy doing something, but she finally opened the door. He watched. He turned around and surveyed the neighborhood. There was no activity on the street.

He saw her step out of the car, switch the purse to her left hand and fiddle with the keys to lock it. Harper walked behind her and hit the back of her head as hard as he could with his fist. His knuckles hurt. Her head slammed forward with such force she broke her nose against the hood of the car. He thought she would drop to the ground, but she turned around and tried to hit him with her purse. Her eyes glared at him, wild with fear. Her mouth was open. She was trying to breathe through it without swallowing the blood that poured from her nose. She glanced to her right, and Harper knew she was weighing her chances of fleeing.

He reached for her purse and pulled as hard as he could, throwing her off-balance and drawing her much closer to him. He knew he had very little time before she realized she should be screaming. He turned her around and managed to cover her mouth with his large, gloved hand and pressed hard. With the other, he stabbed her with his hunting knife. He punctured her right kidney first, then stabbed her between the fifth and sixth ribs, perforating the right lung. She stopped resisting. He held her a moment longer and thrust the knife into her two more times to make sure she would die. Her strength faded, and once she stopped resisting him, he let her slide from his grip and fall to the ground, a large pool of blood forming beside her.

He pulled a large black garbage bag from one of his cargo pants’ pockets, put her purse in it and jogged away from the scene, trying to not call attention to himself. A few streets away, he took his flannel shirt off and stuffed it into the bag. He checked his black T-shirt for blood, but in the moonlight he couldn’t see any, so he left it on. He would probably stand out more walking around shirtless than with soiled clothing.

A few blocks further away, he pulled his slim jim out of another pocket and used it on a dark blue Acura RLX. He started driving away, but suddenly his body froze.

“Fuck,” he said out loud. “Fuck, fuck!”

He hit the steering wheel with increasing force. Then he stepped on the accelerator and drove away from Hawthorne Court as fast as he could, wondering if he had chewed on the pen he was using for the crossword puzzle.

D
arcy motioned for Bernie to pour them two fresh beers.

Sorensen grabbed a handful of peanuts and shoved them all into his mouth. “This is why I’m fat. I have no self-control,” he said once he finished chewing.

“I’ll drink to that,” Darcy said. “I swim a lot. You should try it.”

Sorensen’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket. “Shit, it’s the captain.” He pressed the green button. “Yes, ma’am.”

“There’s been a mugging-turned-homicide. I need you to go to the scene.” The volume on the phone was so loud, Darcy could hear everything she was saying even though it was not on speaker.

“Give it to the new guy. He always gets the easy ones.”

“I’m sorry, you said something?”

“I already got a full plate with all those suicides.”

“I’ll text you the address. I want you there in ten.”

“Captain, I can’t. I’ve been drinking.”

“Beer?”

“Yes.” He made a face realizing fatal mistake. “I mean, beer backed with cheap scotch, neat.”

“Better splash your face with some cold water before heading out. I want you there in ten minutes.” She paused for a second, but before he could argue again, she added, “Make it eight now. You’ve been talking too long.”

The line went dead.

“Call of duty?” Darcy asked, as if he had heard nothing.

Sorensen nodded. “I guess my kids will be happy I’m actually pulling a double and won’t be home all night.”

“I’ll go with you. I have nothing else to do.”

Sorensen remained silent while he put on his jacket. Finally he said, “Sure. But you know what they say about too many cooks…”

“Understood.”

Darcy paid, and they both headed back to the station’s parking garage, then went to the scene in separate cars. Darcy wondered if Sorensen would make a point of getting there faster than him. He decided to not push his luck and stopped at every yellow light.

When Darcy got to the crime scene, the area was already cordoned off. There were two Sheriff’s cars with the lights still flashing, and the captain’s black Mustang was behind them. Darcy parked, and as he approached the uniform holding the clipboard, he spotted Sorensen inside the yellow tape.

“Name, please.”

“Detective Darcy Lynch.” He showed his badge.

The deputy noted it, wrote down the time and nodded, indicating he was cleared to go through.

“I see that you brought reinforcements.” Captain Virago’s brow wrinkled. She didn’t seem particularly happy Lynch was there.

They were standing by the trunk of the car, leaving enough space for the medical examiner to finish with his preliminary findings.

“I thought it would be easier for him to get up to speed once you transfer the case to him.”

“Shut up, Sorensen, and get to work.”

She shook her head and went to the victim’s house. Sorensen circled the car and knelt down to check what the ME was doing.

Lynch looked around. The car door was open and seemed to be in Sorensen’s way, because he pushed it closed.

“Detective, I had that open for a reason,” the ME protested.

“Oh, the flood lights not bright enough for you?” Sorensen asked and handed him his extra large flashlight.

The ME’s face twitched in disapproval. He went back to work without taking it.

Darcy pulled his own Maglite and aimed it at the ground. The car shaded the area he wanted to check out. He swept the flashlight left to right and then up and down, in layers.

He doubted anything he found would be of use, since the crime scene had been contaminated already by all of the people present. It always amazed him that if you didn’t get there first, then secured the area yourself and monitored absolutely everything that happened from that point on, you could pretty much consider the evidence collection a joke. This usually excluded the body and its immediate proximity, for whatever reason.

He gave up his search when the ME stood up. He was a very tall man, with a slight hunch. Darcy wondered if he had developed it over the years by having to bend to everybody’s eye level, or if he had been born with it. His pants were held in place by a tight belt in its tightest hole. His large hands came together on a soft clap, and then he rubbed them, as if they were cold.

“Four stab wounds. She died about half an hour ago. I’ll give you more information in the morning.” He grabbed his case and said goodbye to Darcy with a soft nod.

Two assistants came by and bagged the body. They put it on a stretcher and took it to the ambulance that had responded to the 911 call. Darcy stood in the road and watched the ambulance’s taillights fade into the night.