Authors: Faye Kellerman
"For instance?"
"She knew that Jensen had had an affair with Newel. We kept that under tight wraps. Steve certainly wouldn't have told her. So how did she find out?"
"Wives have ways."
"She knew about our suspect's hat. She also knew her husband had owned a similar hat. Furthermore, she told me the man who assaulted her wore the same hat.
If
she was attacked. Alison has a vivid imagination."
"Didn't you see scrapes on her face?"
"They could have been self-inflicted. She might have done it to make her story more real or to get attention."
"Even if Alison did fabricate the entire incident, it doesn't mean she
killed
anyone, Rom."
"I'm not saying she did. But she knows
something
. Right now, I'm exploring everything."
"Not that I'm defending the woman…can you tilt your head up?"
"Like this?"
"Perfect. Hold still." Gingerly, she applied ointment to his neck. "How would Alison have had enough strength to subdue and murder Newel? Drag her out to the desert? Newel wasn't murdered at the drop."
"She could have slipped something in Newel's drink—"
"The medicine would have kicked in quickly. Which means Alison would have had to drag Newel to her car. Then tie her up and mutilate her in a compulsive manner."
"My scratches look pretty damn compulsive."
"I thought you adored this woman."
"I have feeling, yes. But I'm not blind."
"Lower your head just a tad."
Poe complied. "Alison has always been different. So was I. If we were kids today, both of us would have been diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder. She has been diagnosed with OCD, as a matter of fact."
"Is she on medication?"
"Ruki, she's taken every kind of medication, had every type of therapy available. Everything has failed. Sure, there are times when she picks herself up, when she's almost normal. But they're getting fewer and much farther between. Right now, she's severely disturbed. I'm afraid she might have lashed out in a delusional state, thinking that Brittany was going to steal Steve away."
"If she lashed out
specifically
at Brittany, she had to have some kind of organized thought process going."
"Her shrink told me that delusions are often a mix of fact and fiction." He closed his eyes, feeling like a traitor. "I need you to do something for me. When Alison was at my house, she used my hairbrush. If I give you a sample of her hair, can you extract her DNA from it?"
"You're wondering whether her DNA matches the DNA of the skin scraping from Brittany Newel's nails."
"Exactly."
"It would be better if the hairs were pulled from the root. But, yes, it can be done. Especially with this new process of extracting the DNA from mitochondria. But it'll take time and money."
"Alison isn't going anywhere. Neither is Newel."
"What about Sarah Yarlborough? You want me to compare her DNA banding as well?"
"My opinion? The two cases aren't related. Yarlborough is Parker Lewiston's baby."
"You've found out something new?" Rukmani's eyes widened. "The grass underneath Yarlborough's nails! You've matched it to Lewiston's office! Good for you—"
"Not quite."
Rukmani stared at him. "So what do you have on Lewiston?"
"Nothing, actually."
"So…you're jumping to conclusions without a shred of evidence?"
"Basically. But I'm right about this."
"Poe, why would Lewiston risk everything to kill a crack whore?"
"For the thrill of it. Or maybe it was a genuine accident. Everyone knows Parker has a thing for hookers—"
"
Call
girls," Rukmani corrected. "Sophisticated, beautiful showgirls that know how to service very wealthy men. Not crack whores like Brittany and Sarah. And if you think he did one, why not both?"
"You said the forensics didn't match."
"No, I didn't say that," Rukmani chided. "I said that
superficially
, the deaths don't seem related."
"Are you done with my face?"
"Just about." Rukmani capped the ointment and took out a cream. "You know, I've ordered DNA extractions from the transfer evidence pulled from both Yarlborough's and Newel's nails and vaginal swabs…see if anything matches up. Those results should be back within two, maybe three weeks tops. If you want to buttress your nonexistent case against Lewiston with some actual evidence, get me one of his hairs. I know you can't ask him for it. Maybe you can con a couple strands from his barber. The man does get haircuts."
"In order to process the hairs as indictable evidence, I need to take it directly from his head."
Rukmani said, "Well, if you get the samples, I'll send them off to the lab. When we get the results back, we can play mix and match. If you're willing to pay. No way I can justify ordering them to the county."
"No prob. I'll just dip into my readily accessible spare cash—"
"Don't play Hardluck Harry on me. I know you have mucho casino winnings squirreled away."
"More like
had
," Poe said flatly. "Mom doesn't have private medical insurance."
Rukmani was quiet. "She has Medicare, doesn't she?"
"Yes, she does. But you know these things, Ruki. Not everything is covered. Certainly not every doctor is covered. And at the time of treatment, you're not thinking in cost-analysis terms. Only what's best. Then you get the bills." He shrugged. "Hell with the money. Let's just get her healthy first. How's she doing?"
"Much better. She's starting to eat again. I think she even asked the nurse for a beer."
Poe smiled. "Never thought I'd say this. But I'm anxious to see her. How about if I move her to my place Sunday afternoon?"
"Great.
"Late afternoon."
"Putting it off as long as you can."
"You got it." He squirmed. "Aren't you done yet?"
"You really should let me put a bandage on. For protection as well as…aesthetics." She gave Poe the mirror. "Take a look."
The left side of his face looked like an oil slick with ski tracks running through it. "I'll grow a beard."
"I've never seen you with facial hair." She grinned. "Will it be as thrilling as my imagination leads me to believe?"
"Breathtaking." Poe laughed, then grimaced.
It still hurt to show emotion.
After signing a mound of discharge papers, he reached the Bureau by three in the afternoon. The two front-office secretaries—blue-suited Molly and black-slacks/white-shirt Brenda—gave him applause as he walked in. Each of them was trying not to stare.
"It'll heal," he assured their worried faces.
"You look great," Molly said.
"Terrific," Brenda agreed. "Very…masculine."
"A big dueling scar." Molly paused. "I don't think that came out right."
Poe smiled good-naturedly "Any messages while I was gone?"
"A few calls." Brenda handed him a thick pile of paper.
"A few?" Poe said, leafing through the stack.
"People care," Molly said.
"More like they want a favor."
Molly said, "Have fun, Sergeant."
Poe blew a kiss, then came into a near-empty squad room. After exchanging pleasantries with the other guys—who were also trying not to stare—Poe sat at his desk and busied himself in catch-up. One new homicide had occurred in his absence. A bar fight. Cut-and-dried.
The rest of the messages involved details and paperwork—court cases, files, evidence, witnesses, interviews. And a never-ending sea of phone calls. A couple hours later, he jumped at the tap on his shoulder.
Patricia asked, "Is this a ghost I see?"
Poe gave her a lopsided grin. "More like the creature from the black lagoon. Whaddaya think? Lon Chaney? Peter Lorre? Scarface?"
"You look great."
"Take pictures of my good side, baby."
Patricia pulled up a chair. "How do you
feel?"
"Pretty good, actually." He drummed his desktop. "Got anything for me?"
She dropped her voice. "Alison's time frame."
Poe nodded, took out his pad.
Patricia skimmed her notes. "Here we go. On the night of Newel's murder, she went out to dinner in the early evening. Verified that from her credit card
and
the restaurant. The waiter remembered her. She sat alone, ate scampi and steak, and was very polite. Waiter said she tipped big, then left around…nineish."
Poe wrote in his notepad. "Go on."
"She didn't go directly home. But she made a phone call to her house at nine-fifteen. That I got from the phone records. She spoke to her father, who was baby-sitting." She cleared her throat. "That I got from him."
"Really."
"Yeah, Mr. Hennick was very nice, but…well, he seemed to be playing it pretty cagily. Why, I don't know. Maybe he's trying to protect his daughter, maybe he honestly doesn't remember. It was a month ago."
"What did he have to say?"
"He recalled Alison's phone call. She told him that she'd be home in a bit."
"How long was 'a bit'?"
"He said she came home several hours later. Which would have put her home around eleven…maybe twelve."
Poe said, "Big Ray, the bartender, remembered Newel leaving with Hatman around ten-thirty. If Alison came home at eleven, she's off the hook. Even in one of her manic stages, she couldn't have worked
that
quickly—picking someone up, then murdering her."
Patricia said, "But if she came home later, around midnight, then she'd have enough time."
"I'll call Hennick, see if I can pin down the time. What about Jensen? Where's his alibi?"
"According to the bellman who comped the room at the Big Top, Jensen met Gretchen there around midnight."
"The bellman comped Jensen the room?"
"Comped Gretchen the room. They have an arrangement."
"Gretchen pimps for him?"
"That was the implication."
Poe mulled over the facts. Newel left with Hat at around tenthirty. Steve was unaccounted for from ten-thirty to one-thirty, when he finally answered his page—enough time to do something nasty. "When did the anonymous call come in from the Big Top?"
"Around twelve, maybe later."
Poe snapped the fingers on his right hand. Big Ray had remembered Newel leaving with a short, thin man. A
man
disqualified Alison—unless she was in drag. And a
short
man disqualified Steve—unless he did something to disguise his height. Maybe he was off-base in suspecting either one of the Jensens. Hell, maybe Lewiston did both of them.
Patricia closed her notepad. "Does this help at all?"
"Time will tell." A beat. "I've got a job for you."
"Just as long as it doesn't involve botany," she answered. "I must have contacted a hundred nurseries while you were sleeping off your snake attack."
"Anything productive?"
"If I'd found something out, I wouldn't be sitting on it. All the wholesalers in the western part of the United States sell the same three types of grass, seed, and sod. And they're all variations of Marathon—Bonsai fescue, tall fescue, medium fescue. It grows well out here."
Another dead end. But he didn't expect anything, so he wasn't disappointed. "Deluca, I need you to go to Naked City and talk to the whores. I'd do it myself, but my face would scare them off."
Patricia grew nervous. "When?"
"Tonight. Take a couple of plainclothes with you for protection."
"What do I ask them?"
"If any of them were ever sold to Parkerboy."
"Sir, if they were sold to Lewiston, he probably paid them off to keep their mouths shut."
"If he paid 'em to be silent, then we'll pay 'em to talk." He handed her an envelope. "From my personal treasure trove. Use it wisely."
Patricia looked at the bills inside. Around five hundred in twenties. "I can't take your money."
She started to hand it back to him. Poe pushed it back against her chest. "If we get something, department'll reimburse. If any of the ladies have been with Parker, try to find out what his proclivities are."
"And if I get nowhere with Lewiston?"
"Ask about Sarah Yarlborough. Find out if she had ever been with Lewiston Parker. Hell, you can even talk about A. A. Williams. See if any of them think his bang-up was more than just a bad accident."
"And if they still don't talk?"
"If they don't talk, then I keep my money."
Patricia winked. "If I don't abscond with it."
"Sweetheart, if you break the law, you do it big-time. Like the old-time robber barons or Western outlaws or even D. B. Cooper. You remember him, don't you? The one who parachuted into nowhere with millions of bucks in his knapsack. Good old D.B. That's the difference between being a petty criminal and being a legend."
TWENTY-NINE
W
HEN THE
pain overtook the productivity, Poe called it quits. By six, he was in his car, his destination being dinner at Rukmani's with Mom. Five minutes from her apartment, he turned around and headed toward Honey's. But as he thought about it, he wavered. His last encounter with the call girl had ended on a sour note. The way she had spoken about Rukmani…
She's so accomplished.
Sneering. As if one couldn't be accomplished and sexual at the same time.
He didn't really like Honey—she was vain and egotistical—but he needed to assuage this gnawing hunger in his groin. And he wanted it without complications. There were other call girls, but they required advance notice. Honey, on the other hand, always made time for him.
Yet his stomach churned as he neared Honey's apartment. He realized he didn't want a quickie. What he wanted was
real
sex. Naked, sweaty sex and lots of it with someone he liked. He wanted to take Rukmani into the desert, lay her down on a blanket, and chug vintage Cabernet from the bottle. Then he'd strip her naked, her body sprawled out like a centerfold, the setting sun beating onto her damp, nut-brown skin. Then he'd overturn the bottle and spill wine all over her stomach. Then, pinning her arms, he would slowly lick—