Authors: Caitlin Rother
Yes, there definitely are.
“What about you?” he asked Keith, who was doodling on a lined yellow pad, and seemed startled by the question.
“What?” he asked, letting out another chirp.
“Why were you at her apartment yesterday? I saw you coming down the fire escape.”
Seth now seemed just as startled as Keith and just as interested in his friend’s answer. Everyone knows murderers often revisit the scene of the crime.
“I was—”
“You were what?” Goode interrupted. He stared at him. Hard. Waiting.
“I was looking for Seth and I thought he might be there,” Keith said, his fingers tightening around the pen. “One of our clients was antsy to close a deal and Seth wasn’t answering his cell.”
“How would you know where Tania lived?”
“What do you mean?” Keith asked, chirping again.
“Well, unless you were both there Friday or Saturday night. Were you?”
Keith and Seth looked at each other, confused, both shaking their heads.
“Where did you get that idea?” Seth said, his brow furrowed.
Goode couldn’t see why they would hide a threesome thing, but how else would Keith know where Tania lived? Then he heard the fear creep into Keith’s voice.
“Seth was the one who hooked up with her, he just told you that,” he said.
“Okay. How about answering my first question?”
“Which one?” Keith asked, his hand shaking around the pen. “He was with me at the Pumphouse Saturday night like he said, then we went to that party.”
“Right. So maybe you both stopped over at her apartment on the way.”
“No,” they chorused.
“We’re good friends but we’re not into that kind of action,” Seth said.
“So maybe you went alone to her house after the party?” Goode said, hammering at Seth.
“No,” Seth said in a very measured tone, as if he were trying not to get angry. “Keith and I left the party together around one thirty. I dropped him off at his house and then went home.”
“Keith, I’m waiting. How did you know where Tania lived?”
Goode could tell that he had Keith in a precarious position, and he folded just as he’d expected. Only the answer wasn’t what Goode had anticipated.
“This is going to sound like I was spying, but I wasn’t,” Keith said. “I saw Seth pick up Tania in his car outside the bar Friday night so I followed them, just to see what was going on. Sorry, dude. I know that sounds weird. But you have such a way with women. I was trying to learn something.”
Goode decided to drop the issue, for the moment anyway, and tucked away the details of this strange relationship for more thought later. “Okay. Seth, let’s get back to the time you spent with Tania. Did you use a condom?”
“She said she was on the pill,” Seth said.
Goode wondered if he was the only man on the planet who wasn’t in denial about AIDS and STDs. Not that he had anything to worry about these days. He didn’t have sex with anyone but himself. However, unsafe sex by the suspects in this particular case was a good thing, at least in terms of facilitating DNA matches.
“I think we’d better take a trip to the station and take some samples,” Goode said, sighing, as if it were a big hassle.
“What kind of samples?” Seth asked quietly.
“Saliva for DNA testing. We’ll need to rule you out as suspects,” Goode said. “This appears to be a sexually-related crime.”
“You seem to be referring to both of us here,” Keith said.
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
Keith scrunched up his face and let out a whine. “Aw, man.”
“Why,” Goode asked, “is that a problem?”
“No, I’ve just got a couple big prospects today and I don’t have time for this,” Keith said. “I also don’t understand why you need a sample from me.”
“Yeah. Me neither,” Seth said. “I already told you I had sex with her. Of course you’re going to find traces of me, you know, wherever.”
“Standard procedure,” Goode said.
He didn’t tell them there was no such thing.
Chapter 14
Sgt. Stone
“W
hy don’t you two settle in and make yourselves comfortable here, and I’ll get us some coffee,” Sergeant Stone told Tony and Helen Marcus as he led them from the lobby into his office.
It was 11 A.M. and Stone was expecting a call any minute from Byron about the autopsy results. He was going to bring in Goode and make it a conference call—if he could remember how to do it on the phone system.
“Do you have anything yet on the bastard who killed my daughter?” Tony growled. “The memorial service is tomorrow in Beverly Hills and I’ll bet you he shows up.”
“No, sir, I’m sorry we don’t. But you might be right, so I’ll be sure to have one of my men there,” Stone said. “Detective Goode, whom I believe talked with both of you last night, will come up to do surveillance. I’ll be right back with the coffee.”
Stone went into the kitchenette across the hall, where he could watch them interact without them knowing and look for any suspicious behavior. As he observed them trying to hang their jackets on the backs of their chairs, the slippery material kept sliding onto the floor. Tony finally gave up and draped his blazer over his knees. Helen left hers on the floor, where it lay in a crumpled pile of cream-colored linen until Tony picked it up and put it in his lap.
Stone had seen many parents who had lost a child. It was never pretty. The Marcuses both looked exhausted and hungover, their eyes bloodshot and red around the rims. Stone, who’d been sober for ten years now, thought he’d detected that sweet smell of scotch on Helen. It could have been some bad perfume, but that seemed unlikely given that she was carrying a Fendi purse. She sat stiffly in her chair and kept snapping and unsnapping the thing, open and closed, while Tony rubbed his hands over each other. It seemed they were doing everything possible to avoid breaking a composure that could crack any minute like ice dropped into a cold drink. Stone wasn’t eager to see the raw emotions that lay underneath the façade, unless, of course, they had something to do with their daughter’s murder.
“How do you like your coffee?” Stone called from the hallway.
“Black,” Tony said.
“Just cream for me,” Helen said hoarsely. “With Sweet ‘N Low if you have it.”
“I’ll check around, ma’am.”
Those closest to the victim were always suspects, and although it was highly unusual for a parent to kill his or her own child, Tania’s seemed awfully anxious. Before they’d arrived that morning, Stone had told Slausson and Fletcher to do background checks on them just in case, and nothing came up but a few speeding tickets. They also had been victims of a recent car burglary in their driveway.
Stone filled three Styrofoam cups with fresh brew from the coffeemaker, which he balanced on his binder, and walked them slowly and carefully into his office. He’d almost made it to the desk when one of the cups fell, splashing its contents on the floor in front of Helen.
“Oh, God, look what I did,” Stone said. “Did I get any on you?”
He reluctantly looked up from the floor to see a tie-dyed pattern of brown stains on her linen suit. “Oh, geez, look at your skirt. I’m so sorry,” he said. “Let me run and get some napkins.”
The sound of Helen cackling followed him into the hallway and into the kitchen, where he searched frantically through the kitchen cupboards for paper towels, napkins, or anything absorbent.
Oh, no. What did I do? Now she’s lost control.
Stone poured a new cup of coffee for Helen. When he returned to his office with it and a handful of napkins, she was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. She’d been crying, not laughing. Apparently, his were not the only raw nerves in the room. He handed her the coffee and some fresh tissues from the box on his desk, then used the napkins to mop up the brown puddle at her feet.
“I’m so sorry about your suit,” he said, embarrassed. “Please send me the dry cleaning bill.”
“That’s all right,” she croaked. “It’s par for the course, I guess.”
The phone rang. It was Byron. “Yeah, hold on,” Stone told him. “I’ve got to figure out this conference call thing in the office next door.”
He excused himself, went into the neighboring office and closed the door. He didn’t want the Marcuses to hear any graphic details in case they told the media something that could harm the investigation. Those goddamned reporters were always pushing that “right to know” crap on innocent people.
Stone fiddled with the phone until he had Byron and Goode patched in on the call before filling them in on the new high-priority status of the case.
“You guys aren’t going to believe this,” Byron said.
“Okay, shoot,” Goode said.
“There were two areas of semen deposits.”
“What do you mean?” Goode and Stone said simultaneously.
“Well,
in
and
on
her body, if you know what I’m saying.”
“Not exactly,” Goode said.
“Well, there was some crusty semen on her stomach and there also was some left in her vagina, so we took samples of both and we’ll have them tested for DNA—ASAP,” Byron said.
“Really?” Goode asked, his mind racing with possibilities, one of which was to outlaw all acronyms.
“So you know what that sounds like, right?”
“I’m not sure,” Goode said, “What?”
“Sounds like a threesome to me. Unless it was one guy who missed the target the first time.”
“Could be,” Stone said.
“Byron might be right,” Goode said. “That fits with my line of thinking after interviewing my two witnesses this morning. They were acting suspiciously like suspects. Coincidentally, they both denied the ménage-a-trois theory, but I got them to give voluntary saliva samples down at the station. Talk about dumb luck.”
“Maybe not so dumb,” Stone said. “Good work, Goode.” He made use of the stupid pun on the detective’s name as often as possible. He knew it was childish, but he figured what the hell.
“But wait. I’m not done. There’s another weird thing,” Byron said, pausing for effect.
“Well, don’t keep us in suspense,” Goode said.
“She wasn’t strangled to death.”
“What do you mean?” Goode said. “Those were some nasty marks on her neck.”
“Well, the pathologist said there were no pinpoint hemorrhages in the whites of her eyes and no internal bruising or bleeding under the ligature marks,” Byron said. “That means her heart had already stopped when someone tied something around her neck and pulled until they broke the skin.”
“So—” Stone said, “where that does leave us?”
“It means at this point they can’t say what killed her.”
“You’re kidding me,” Goode said. “That’s never good.”
“No, it isn’t. But hopefully, we’ll know more when the tox results come back,” Byron said, referring to the toxicology tests, which would show what, if any, drugs were in Tania’s system when she was killed.
The last time Goode had asked why those tests always seemed to take so many weeks to come back from the ME’s office, his buddy, investigator Artie Hayes, explained that they took time, and with all the death going around, the lab was pretty backed up. But now that their case had been put on the fast track, they would get a quicker turnaround.
“Wow. That’s a lot to digest,” Goode said. “Thanks. I think.”
“So what was the time of death?” Stone said.
“Saturday between 9 and 10:30 P.M.”
Stone told the detectives he had to cut the small talk short because Tania’s parents were waiting next door. Byron signed off after saying he planned to head over to the crime lab to make personal contact with the techs and go over what tests they were doing, but Stone said he’d already gone down there first thing after the chief’s visit, so they’d already been forewarned.
“Goode, Tania’s parents said the memorial service is tomorrow morning at ten in Beverly Hills, so you’ll need to drive up for that,” Stone said. “You have anything to add?”
“I just had a thought.”
“Don’t hurt yourself,” the sergeant said, chuckling.
“Now that we have this double-semen theory, I’ll be very curious to see those DNA results. I sent Seth and Keith on their way and suggested they might want to stay in town. I’ll check out their timeline for Saturday night with the bartender and we should have Slausson or Fletcher talk to whoever threw that party at SDSU. For all I know the bartender is playing CYA along with these two. I also think I ought to head up to LA early to check out some of her ex-boyfriends and other folks I found in the diary. What do you think?”
“Sounds promising.”
“You think the RCFL will have those emails ready for us yet?”
“You’re feeling awfully optimistic, today, Goode. You know they don’t get things done overnight.”
“Yeah, well, I have a feeling there will be some juicy stuff there. Especially after reading her diary. London said he’d have the phone contact list for me this morning, so I’ll stop by his office right now and see where we are.”
“Not a bad idea, but be nice, Goode. I heard London is new, just in from Washington, DC. I don’t know anything about him.”
“You know me, chief. Charm’s the word.”
“So what’s your gut so far?”
“Well, based on her lifestyle, it could easily be a case of Mr. Goodbar. But it could just as easily be someone she already knew. The short-term problem is that it’s going to take some time to weed through the chaff before we can see who’s important. I’m betting there’s some drug tie-in, possibly through the beauty school, or maybe through the Pumphouse. Something hinky is definitely going on with Seth Kennedy and Keith Warner, but I’m not sure what their deal is yet. We’ll have a better idea once we get the DNA tests. I’m guessing they’ll show proof of the threesome. You sent over the cigarette butts for DNA tests, too, right?”
“Absolutely. George, down at the crime lab, is on top of all of that. Anything you’re not telling me?”
“No, nothing solid, really. I’ll fill you in as soon as I get a better handle on things. And don’t worry. It’s all good.”
Chapter 15
Goode
S
o Tania wasn’t strangled to death, but she probably was gang-banged
, Goode thought as he was driving east on the freeway.
Not a pretty picture
.
When Goode arrived at the RCFL office, John London came right out after the receptionist buzzed him. He was a young, stern-looking guy, with very closely cropped hair, and all business.
“Come on back,” London said. “I’ve found some interesting stuff for you.”
Pleased to hear this after his rough morning at the beach, Goode was determined to be optimistic that his day was turning around. “Well that’s a nice surprise, Mr. London,” he said. “We’re going to get along just fine.”
London’s serious expression gave way to a slight smile. “Since this is my first case here in San Diego, I wanted to start off right so I worked straight through the night,” he said.
First, he explained, he copied the contents of Tania’s hard drive and cell phone so as not to disturb the originals. Then he started searching her texts and emails for any mention of cocaine, methamphetamine or other recreational drug use. He, too, had seen the white powder on the tabletop when he’d come to collect his hardware. Unfortunately, though, that was a dead end. So, he printed out all the incoming and outgoing emails for the past year, and put them in a thick binder for Goode. He had just started searching her Internet browser history, and most of what had come up so far were porno sites. As he handed Goode the phone contact list as promised, he said he hadn’t gotten to everything else she’d stored on her cell, like photos, calendar, schedule, and such.
“Damn, she sure knew a lot of men,” London said. “I’m not sure how she had enough time to do everything she was doing professionally and still collect so many of them. You might be interested in the emails from the past couple of weeks, where she’s talking about setting up an escort service with this other woman.”
Escort service?
That would explain all the equipment in her bedroom—and Goode figured it also fit with his drug ring theory, because prostitution and stimulants often went hand in hand. Tania was a smart cookie. Why not make some profit from all of her contacts? Of course, it could be a legitimate escort service, with no illicit drugs and no sex, but that was unlikely.
“What was the name of the woman she was discussing the escort service with?” Goode asked.
“The sign-on name was M-S-M-O-N-I-C-A, Ms. Monica,” London said, smiling a little wider now as he spelled it out. “I’m assuming it was a woman, although the messages were rather suggestive in nature.”
London said that only somewhat professionally, but Goode wanted to cut that particular topic short before it got disrespectful to his victim. “‘Nough said, Mr. London,” Goode said. “I’ll check it out.”
London handed him the binder and said he’d call once he searched the other materials.
“Go ahead and call if you think of any other keywords you want me to search for,” he said.
“Will do,” Goode said. “Carry on.”
Carrying the binder to his van with enthusiasm, he decided to read a few emails to get the flavor of them and see if they were significantly different from the diary entries. He scanned through the most recent ones, including those referring to the escort service.
As he had suspected, Tania was bringing her long list of men to the negotiating table—and some girlfriends she thought would be eager and willing to make some good money. This was going to be a coed service, it seemed, where single rich women would be looking for arm candy as well. La Jolla was certainly a good place to find both genders. Ms. Monica said she would supply some of the Johns, but her main contribution was going to be her years of business experience, most of which came from selling real estate. The messages continued right up until Friday, the day before Tania was murdered.
All of this sounds good, Ms. Tania. Let’s meet for dinner to talk more on Monday
, Ms. Monica wrote in the last incoming message in Goode’s binder.
I think we’re going to have a very profitable future together, not to mention a little more fun on the side as well. Cheers.
Goode felt a little overloaded with leads, but he was on a high like he hadn’t felt in years. This case was really hitting his buttons, but in a good way. He decided to read more of the emails somewhere more private so he could concentrate, perhaps after he got to his hotel in LA.
His immediate question was whether the drug ring and escort service could be tied back to the Head Forward School of Hair Design. Since it was also a business school, Goode thought it likely that Tania had met Ms. Monica there. His obvious next step would be to head over to Nona’s, his hair stylist, to get the scoop on the place from her because her shop was right down the street in Bird Rock. The neighborhood, which was on the southern outskirts of La Jolla, had been undergoing a facelift in recent years, with more boutiques, coffee houses and wine shops moving in. It was a ways from the Village of La Jolla, but was becoming more upscale.
Making the most of his visit, Goode asked Nona for a trim, but not too much. He felt naked with his ears showing, but it would be good to have the hair out of his eyes.
The subject of beauty school must’ve brought back some bad memories for her. Waving the scissors around as she talked, she told Goode about everything she’d hated about the experience, particularly the lazy women who assumed they’d “do hair” for a living.
The idea seemed simple enough: Earn a certificate in a year and the money would flow in fast and easy after that. Wrong.
“What most students don’t know,” she said, “is that doing hair does not turn out to be a huge money-making career for most of us.” This was something Nona said to him every time she gave him a haircut, but he figured she was just trying to get a bigger tip because she never quit the salon. He’d nicknamed her Nona the Cat because she could be catty, but she was also wily, as cats can be.
“But this new school is a whole different ball game,” she said, explaining that it attracted a much more educated and affluent group of students than your average cosmetology joint. “These are career girls, and most seem to have family money.”
Apparently, the school taught students how to run a salon. Nona heard it was almost like getting a master’s degree in business administration right along with the regular beauty stuff. From what she said, it sounded like the perfect front for an escort service, not to mention a sales operation for illicit stimulants. The school gave out a few scholarships, but otherwise tuition was pretty steep. It had only just opened, and Nona was already worried.
“I heard they’re going to start practicing on people soon and that’s going to hurt my business even more,” she said. “Just my luck, I’ll probably have to move.”
After his trim, Goode took a walk over there. As he approached the building, he watched himself in the façade of black tinted glass. It reminded him of the windows of a drug dealer’s BMW. He felt an immediate sense of distrust, especially because he suspected criminal doings inside.
He half-expected to see what Nona described of her own school experience: A fog of aerosol toxins, women squealing with petty chit-chat about soap operas as they sat around pulling, brushing and spraying the nylon hair of doll heads, or, if they were daring or stupid, each other’s. Instead, Goode saw that it was, as advertised, a different kind of beauty school. Once the heavy glass door had whooshed shut behind him, he was engulfed by an unexpected quiet. The air smacked of ambition and promise.
A few seconds later, a woman in a periwinkle silk suit and a freshwater pearl necklace emerged from an office at the end of the hall and started walking toward him. As her heels clicked on the green marble floor, she swung her hips provocatively, as if she were modeling high fashion on the runway, although she was a bit too old for that. Her blond hair was cut in that same calculatedly haphazard style as the actresses on nighttime TV, framing one of the most symmetrical faces Goode had ever seen. As she came closer, he could see that her skin was smooth and her tiny nose was a little too straight and pointy to be natural. She looked like she’d had some work done, too much for his taste, in fact. Perfection was overrated. He liked women with a few flaws.
“Hello, I’m Samantha Williams, the CEO of Head Forward School of Hair Design,” she purred in a voice like a late-night DJ. “We’re closed.”
“Detective Ken Goode, San Diego Homicide,” he said, pulling out his badge.
Samantha seemed surprised for a second, but quickly regained her composure as she gave him a soft, feminine handshake that ended in a slow slide across his flesh. Her skin was cold, hard and soft, all at the same time. Her nails looked as if they could inflict pain, if you liked that sort of thing. Goode didn’t.
He found it hard to keep a straight face as he connected the dots. This had to be Ms. Monica, or Mistress Monica, businesswoman extraordinaire. The question was, could she also be Ms. X in the diary? Is that what Ms. Monica meant by “a little more fun on the side”?
Samantha wasted no time in taking him by the arm and leading him into her office. Before he could ask a question, she launched into an explanation of “the goals and purposes of the operation” while preparing two double cappuccinos with chocolate sprinkles. As she handed him a white cup and saucer with gilt edges, he caught her staring at the opening of his shirt collar. She did it in a way that wasn’t offensive, but he felt a bit like tuna tartare on toast nonetheless. She was most definitely comfortable with her sexuality.
“Here,” she said, continuing her spiel, “ambitious men and women are taught how to launch designer salons. They not only learn the basics about cutting hair, setting perms and doing nails, but they study the economics of the industry and draft a complete business plan. The tuition is too high for students who aren’t serious about their futures.”
Samantha then led Goode on a brief tour of the facility, starting with the foyer, where the black marble walls merged with an arched ceiling, softly lit by white track lights above and purple footlights below. Art prints and small bronze statuettes gave the place a feminine touch, not to mention a pretentiousness Goode’s cottage would never know.
Back in her office, he sat on a suede lavender sofa to conduct his brief interview. The cushion was unusually hard. He much preferred his beat-up leather couch and recliner, with its lower-back massager, to this hip furniture that would make his ass fall asleep in no time. But he wasn’t planning to stay long. Mostly, he had come on a reconnaissance mission—to gather some info and to observe.
“What was your impression of Tania Marcus?” Goode asked Samantha, who was pacing around her desk, nervously rearranging books and papers.
“Well,” she said, “the program lasts two years and we’re only a month or so into it. I haven’t really gotten to know the girls all that well yet.”
“How about a general impression then?”
Samantha came around the desk to pat his forearm. Her touch was firm, not impersonal, yet not too personal either. She gave him a seductive smile.
She’s good
, he thought, feeling himself respond a little. He also felt the flush of embarrassment from his body’s apparent lack of self-control.
“Tania, Tania,” she said.
The back of the sofa sloped down diagonally, so Goode could either rest his head to one side or get whiplash as he tried to look up at her. He rubbed the back of his neck. What he really felt like doing was putting on a wetsuit and going surfing.
“Hmmm,” she purred. “Let me see what I can remember off the top of my head.” She let go of his arm and walked back behind the desk. “Oh, yes, she was the dark-haired beauty.”
Goode nodded for her to continue. Her uncertainty about Tania seemed feigned. Samantha sat down in a rather plush desk chair, facing him.
“Well, Detective Goode,” she said, pausing and turning her head down slightly so that she could look up at him coyly. “I heard that she had a lot of boyfriends. I think one of them may have killed her, don’t you? Or is it too early to discuss that sort of thing?”
Samantha, the escort service entrepreneur pretending to be armchair-detective, was laying it on thick. Goode hated it when salespeople used his name in a sentence. As if that was really going to make him feel more like buying whatever it was they were selling. For now, he would play along with her, and wait to see if she would trip over herself.
“It’s still early in the investigation, but yes, it may have been someone she had been intimate with,” he said. “Do you remember seeing her acting edgy or upset lately?”
“No, now that I think about it, she seemed happy to be here. She was very focused, more so than most of the other girls. She told me on the first day that she wanted to make a lot of money. Her goal was to be first in her graduating class. She paid her fees up front for the entire year, and always looked exceptionally well put-together, which, as you might understand, is very important for those of us in this business.”
“Did you ever see any men come to pick her up?” Goode asked. He shifted around on the sofa, trying desperately to find a comfortable position.
“Her father came down once to take her to dinner, but no one else.”
“What about drugs? Have you ever caught any of your students with cocaine, meth or any other substances?”
Samantha’s eyes flashed with irritation. Her seductive act sank into her like a tropical flower closing at nightfall. “We don’t attract that kind of girl here, detective. Does it look like that sort of place to you?”
The lady was getting a tad defensive. He pressed on. “Now why would that question offend you?” he asked.
Samantha, clearly uncomfortable, abruptly stood up, and went back to shuffling papers on her desk. “I’m not offended,” she said, forcing a smile. “Why would you say that?”
“Well, we have a feeling that her death may have been drug-related.”
Samantha raised her eyebrows, sighed, and sat down again. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just upset that this could happen to one of my girls. I know this may sound selfish, but I really don’t want this incident to reflect badly on my school. Appearances are so important in this town, and we only just opened.”
“So I take it the answer is ‘No’ to drugs?”
“Yes, I mean, no, I haven’t seen any around. We don’t search the girls’ purses though, and I can’t control what they do outside this building. I have to tell you, detective, I find the whole drug scenario highly unlikely and rather unseemly for one of my girls.”
Goode smiled, noting her use of the phrase “my girls.”
“These young women come from solid backgrounds,” she continued, “and most have quite affluent parents, many of whom own their own businesses. This is the only school of its kind in the country, you know.”
I’ll bet it is
, Goode thought, as he sucked down the rest of his cappuccino and briefly revisited his vow to consume less caffeine.
“Have you crossed paths with a guy named Seth Kennedy?”
“No, that name isn’t familiar,” she said.
“How about Keith Warner or Jack O’Mallory?”
“Sorry, no.”
“I understand you have a student named Clover here, is that correct?”