Wounds (14 page)

“Yep. I have more questions. Thinking of asking him to come down.”

“May I ask if he's a suspect?”

Odd question. Carmen tried not to sound puzzled. “We're taught to wonder about everyone, especially those who discover the body. Sometimes they're the one we're looking for.” She let that hang in the air before continuing. “But he's not high on the list. Too small to have pounded the life out of a man. Of course, he could have hired someone. Is there a problem?”

“No, not a problem, it's just that this is Passover week and it's also the Sabbath. If he's not a suspect, you might get a little further by waiting until after sundown. Of course, it's your call. I'm jus' sayin'.”

Bud's brows arched. “You're Jewish?”

“No, sir. I just read a lot.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” Carmen said. “What about seminary professors?”

“You're good to go on that, Detective. Unless it's a Jewish seminary.” Heywood grinned, revealing Hollywood-grade teeth. He gave a nod and started to turn. Bud stopped him.

“I assume you had other plans for the weekend. What'd we pull you from?”

“I was getting ready to head to the racquetball court. No problem though. I always lose.”

Carmen tipped her head. Heywood didn't look like the kind of guy that lost any sport. “You're opponent that good, or are you that bad?”

The comment made him smile. “He's pretty good. Especially for a ten-year-old.”

“Wait,” Bud said. “You let a ten-year-old beat you at racquetball?”

Heywood shrugged and his chest expanded a few inches. “He's my son.”

Carmen's eyes hurt. Yesterday, she had obtained a search warrant to look at bank records for her two victims. If the banks felt they were somehow a victim in a crime, they could voluntarily provide the information, but Carmen couldn't make that case. The banks were neutral and therefore required a legal instrument to pry open the databanks. The search warrant came with a nondisclosure directive.

Usually, a bank was under obligation to inform its account holder that it has received a warrant for records. Bank records could be instrumental in outlining the last days of a person's life, especially when there were large withdrawals or atypical deposits. Debit cards left a trail. If a man used a debit card to buy a gun, it might indicate he planned to break the law or was fearful and wanted to defend himself or his family. If someone made fifty thousand a year but deposited twice that in a short period of time, it might indicate a crime. Consistent ATM withdrawals of, say, a thousand dollars might mean a person was being blackmailed. If a victim kept a checking account secret from his or her spouse, then it might lead to motive for murder.

Carmen came up empty on all counts.

She sighed.

“I heard that.” Bud had spent the morning reviewing phone records.

“Expect more. I got zilch here.”

Bud pushed from his desk and moved his chair across the narrow space that separated their workspace. “Show me.”

“You just want to take a break from scouring phone records.”

“You got that right. Talk to me. I need the break.”

Carmen understood. “Like I said, I got nuthin'.” She pointed at the screen. This is Doug Lindsey's bank account. He has only one.”

“What do you mean
only one?
I only have one checking account. How many do you have?”

“Are we counting offshore banks?” Carmen tried to keep a straight face.

“Cute. Carry on, moneybags.”

Carmen returned her attention to the screen. “It's what you'd expect from a grad student. Very little money, and what little he had he spent on gas, pizza, books, and the occasional movie. He deposited $600 a month for the last two years. When we interviewed his parents, they said he had no job and that they gave him a monthly stipend. I'm guessing the $600 comes from them. We need to confirm that.”

“Sounds logical. I don't see a payment to a cell phone company. He has an AT&T account. I know that much.”

“No doubt his parents pay some—probably most—of his bills. It looked to me like they made pretty good money.” She grabbed the computer mouse and gave it a click. “Okay, Cohen's situation is a little more complex. There are three checking accounts and three savings accounts. First the checking accounts: one is the house account, one is a business account, and one looks like a small account for his wife. Her name is over his on the statements.”

“Pin money.”

“What?” Carmen turned. Bud had moved closer to the computer and therefore closer to her.

“Pin money. It's an old term. Men used to give money to their wives for pins, clothing, and woman stuff. Not done a lot these days.”

“Wow, I wonder why.”

“Don't get snippy about it, Carmen. I didn't invent the practice. I'm just saying that Mrs. Cohen may have had a mad money account. Anything interesting?”

Carmen shook her head. “She wasn't a big spender. She gave money to Jewish Family Services. The rest is money spent on the kids, books, and—lady things.”

Bud ignored the dig. “What about the business account?”

“No flags. He has some big deposits, but the man was a real-estate developer. He spent money like water then raked it in. The amounts are all different and unevenly spaced. I'll need access to his books to know who was paying him for what, and I doubt I can get a search warrant for that. He's the victim after all; no criminal record.”

“Expenditures?”

“All to reputable businesses, best I can tell. Of course, one of them could be dirty. Cash withdrawals are small both for home and business. They seemed to live a simple life.”

“The savings accounts?”

“One for vacations, one for taxes, and one for savings. The last one has almost $200,000. They're not millionaires, but they're not hurting.”

Bud rubbed his chin. “His phone records look typical. The most frequently called numbers were his wife's cell phone and the synagogue. There are a good number of calls to Rabbi Singer, but that's to be expected.”

“Bottom line: we got nuthin' on nobody.” Carmen rubbed her face. The lack of sleep, the shocking nature of the killings, the lack of any real leads wore on her.

“Hang in there, partner. We'll get this guy.”

Carmen stood suddenly, sending Bud backpedaling. “I need to get some fresh air. Let's go for a drive.”

“Where?”

“Let's roust the professor. I want to know if he knows David Cohen or Rabbi Singer. He might give us some info on religious hatred. This has something to do with religion. One Christian, one Jew. What's next, a Buddhist?”

16

N
o need, Professor, we'll come to you.”

Carmen's voice came over the cell phone calm, professional, polite. Nonetheless, a phone call from a homicide detective could upset anyone.

It certainly did Ellis.

“Well—”

“We show that you live in Escondido.” She rattled off an address.

So much for privacy. “That's my home, but I'm not there. I'm in Coronado.” Ellis heard muttered curses, then a whispered, “Flip it around, Bud. We're going the wrong way.”

“Would you like me to meet you halfway?” Ellis had no idea where that would be.

“No, Professor. Where are you in Coronado?”

“Glorietta Bay. Do you know it?”

“Yes. You have an apartment nearby?”

“Um, no. There are several coffee shops and restaurants nearby. We could—”

“We need something a little more private. Are you staying in one of the hotels or did you just drive over for the day?”

“Neither, Detective. I have a boat here, but it's not big enough for us to meet.” He paused. “I don't think you want to talk while sitting on someone's lap.” He meant it as a joke but no laugh came. She was probably thinking where to meet. “There's a park here. Would that be private enough?”

“Okay. Yes. We can try that. We'll be there in . . .”

Ellis heard a male voice mumble something.

“We'll be there in about twenty minutes.”

The black Crown Vic pulled into the parking lot of Glorietta Bay Park. Carmen slipped from the passenger side of the car and searched the small park for Dr. Ellis Poe. The park was an expanse of grass with a copse of trees just off Mullinex Drive. A small, narrow beach abutted the bay. Just to the north of the circular parking lot were several round concrete tables with arched benches. At one of them, a man stood and waved.

Ellis Poe.

When she first met him in his office at the seminary, he wore a suit. Here he wore well-worn jeans and a plain T-shirt. Few people wore T-shirts that had no message or product emblazoned on them.

As she approached, she could see the tan on the man's thin arms. Apparently he traded his dark office for sunlight enough to fire up the melanin in his skin. His face was less tanned, perhaps protected by sunscreen. His thin frame was a testimony that the only working out he did was hoisting books now and again.

“Detectives.”

Ellis sounded nervous. Not all that unusual. The gun, the badge, the title “detective” tended to unsettle people—a fact she used to her advantage. A badge makes a person look bigger and badder than they are. Toss in a little attitude, and most people begin to feel guilty about things they've never done. “Sorry if you had to drive farther than you intended.”

“No problem, Dr. Poe. Blue sky, ocean breeze, the smell of fresh-cut grass . . . Much better than the office.” Carmen unleashed her best “I'm-your-buddy” smile.

“I think so,” Ellis said. “I like to spend my weekends here.”

“You own a yacht? I didn't know college professors made that kind of money.” Bud Tock, ever the bull in the China shop.

Ellis motioned to the curved benches around the picnic table. The sound of children playing fifty yards away rode the salty air currents. On the water, sailboats plied the boating lanes. Across the bay, Carmen could see several moored navy vessels. This was the place to retire.

Once seated, Ellis studied them. “We don't—well, I don't. I make enough to get by, but I couldn't buy a boat without a mountain of debts.”

“But . . .” Bud let the question hang.

“First, I inherited it from an uncle. Second, calling it a yacht is like calling a shed a mansion. Two people can live on it if they really like each other. I live in a condo—well, I guess you know that. It's okay and close to the seminary, but on weekends it can get a little noisy. I don't like noise.”

Carmen kept her smile in place. “It must be nice to have a boat you can bring friends to.”

“No one else has been on the
Blushing
—”

Carmen cocked her head. Why had Ellis stopped like that?

Ellis started again. “Like I said, it's very small. I don't take guests out to it.” He turned and pointed at the small Sailcraft bobbing in the harbor among the larger, more majestic vessels. It looked out of place. “That's it there. The one with the purple trim.”

“I can't make out the name on her hull.” Carmen said. Ellis had looked embarrassed when he started to share the name.

Ellis face tinted pink. “My uncle christened her the
Blushing Bride.
I can't bring myself to change the name, so I just live with it.”

“But only on weekends,” Bud said.

“And some holidays. It has a small galley, but I eat most of my meals in town. Coronado has some good places to eat. There's also a Christian drama troupe. They have their own theater.
Lamb's Players.
I go there sometimes.” He paused. “But you didn't drive all the way down here to hear about my boat. How can I help you?”

Carmen had brought a large black purse. She didn't like purses, but this one was large enough to hold the two files containing information copied from the official documents. The files were thin and she used them for effect. They had
SDPD Homicide
printed on the cover, another useful intimidation tool, but she wasn't here to intimidate. Just to uncover connections.