K is for Killer (3 page)

“I'm assuming the case was handled as a homicide.”

“Well, yes. Even with cause of death undetermined, it was considered suspicious. They investigated as a homicide, but then nothing turned up. Now it seems like they dropped it. You know how they do those things. Something else comes along, and they concentrate on that.”

“Sometimes there isn't sufficient information to make a finding in a situation like that. It doesn't mean they haven't worked hard.”

“Well, I understand, but I still can't accept it.”

I noticed that she had ceased to make eye contact, and I could feel the whisper of intuition crawling up along my spine. I found myself focusing on her face, wondering at her apparent uneasiness. “Janice, is there something you haven't told me?”

Her cheeks began to tint as if she were being overtaken by a hot flash. “I was just getting to that.”

S
he reached into the brown paper bag again and pulled out a videotape in an unmarked box that she placed on the edge of the desk. “About a month ago, someone sent us this tape,” she said. “I still don't know who, and I can't think why they'd do it except to cause us distress. Mace wasn't home. I found it in the mailbox in a plain brown wrapper with no return address. I opened the package because it had both our names on it. I went ahead and stuck it in the VCR. I don't know what I thought it was. A tape of some television show or somebody's wedding. I about died when I saw. Tape was pure smut, and there was
Lorna
, big as life. I just let out this shriek. I turned it off and threw it in the trash as fast as I could. It was like I'd been burned. I felt like I should go wash my hands in the sink. But then I had second thoughts. Because this tape could be evidence. It might tie in to the reason she was killed.”

I leaned forward. “Let me clarify one point before you go on. This was the first you'd heard of it? You had no idea she was involved in anything like this?”

“Absolutely not. I was floored. Pornography? There's no way. Of course, once I saw what it was, I began to wonder if somebody put her up to it.”

“Like what? I don't understand,” I said.

“She might have been blackmailed. She might have been coerced. For all we know, she was working undercover for the police, which they would never admit.”

“What makes you say that?” For the first time, she was sounding “off,” and I felt myself step back, viewing her with caution.

“Because we'd sue them, that's why. If she got killed in the line of duty? We'd go after them.”

I sat and stared at her. “Janice, I worked for the Santa Teresa Police Department myself for two years. They're serious professionals. They don't enlist the services of amateurs. In a vice investigation? I find that hard to believe.”

“I didn't say they
did
. I didn't accuse anyone because that would be slander or libel or one of them. I'm just telling you what's possible.”

“Such as?”

She seemed to hesitate, thinking about it. “Well. Maybe she was about to blow the whistle on whoever made the film.”

“To what end? It's not against the law to make a pornographic film these days.”

“But couldn't it be a cover for something else? Some other kind of crime?”

“Sure, it
could
, but let's back up a minute and let me play devil's advocate here. You told me the cause of death was undetermined, which means the coroner's office couldn't say with any certainty what she died of, right?”

Reluctantly. “That's right.”

“How do you know she didn't have an aneurysm or a
stroke or a heart attack? With all the allergies she suffered, she might have died from anaphylactic shock. I'm not saying you're wrong, but you're making a big leap here without a shred of proof.”

“I understand. I guess it sounds crazy to you, but I know what I know. She was murdered. I'm absolutely sure of it, but I can't get anyone to listen, and what am I supposed to do? I'll tell you something else. She had quite a lot of money at the time she died.”

“How much?”

“Close to five hundred thousand dollars' worth of stocks and bonds. She had some money in CDs, but the bulk was in securities. She had five or six different savings accounts, too. Now where'd she get that?”

“How do you think she acquired it?”

“Maybe somebody paid her off. To keep quiet about something.”

I studied the woman, trying to assess her powers of reasoning. First, she claimed her daughter was being blackmailed or coerced. Now she was suggesting she was guilty of extortion. I set the issue aside temporarily and shifted my focus. “How did the police react to the tape?”

Dead silence.

I said, “Janice?”

Her expression was stubborn. “I didn't take it to them. I wouldn't even show it to Mace, because he'd die of embarrassment. Lorna was his angel. He'd never be the same if he knew what she'd done.” She picked up the tape and put it back in the paper bag, folding the top down protectively.

“But why not show it to the cops? At least it would give them a fresh avenue . . .”

She was already shaking her head. “No, ma'am. No way. I'd never in this world turn it over to them. I know better.
That's the last we'd ever see of it. I know it sounds paranoid, but I've heard of cases like this. Evidence they don't like disappears into thin air. Get to court and it's mysteriously vanished. Period, end of paragraph. I don't trust police. That's the point.”

“Why trust me? How do you know I'm not in cahoots with them?”

“I have to trust someone. I want to know how she got into this . . . blue movie stuff . . . if it's why she was killed. But I'm not trained. I can't go back in time and figure out what happened. I have no way to do that.” She took a deep breath and changed gears. “Anyway, I decided if I hired an investigator, that's the person I'd give the tape to. I guess now I have to ask if you're willing to help, because if you're not, I'll have to find someone else.”

I thought about it briefly. Of course I was interested. I just wasn't sure about my chances of success. “An investigation like this is likely to be expensive. Are you prepared for that?”

“I wouldn't have come up if I wasn't.”

“And your husband's in agreement?”

“He's not wild about the idea, but he can see I'm determined.”

“All right. Let me nose around first before we sign any contracts. I want to make sure I can do you some good. Otherwise, it's a waste of my time and your money.”

“Are you going to talk to the police?”

“I'll have to do that,” I said. “Maybe unofficially at first. The point is, I need information, and if we can get their cooperation, it will save you some bucks.”

“I understand that,” she said, “but you have to understand one thing, too. I know you feel the police here are competent, and I'm sure that's true, but everybody makes
an occasional mistake, and it's just human nature to want to cover it up. I don't want you to decide whether or not you can help on the basis of their attitude. They probably think I'm crazy as a loon.”

“Believe me, I'm capable of making up my own mind about things.” I could feel a crick in my neck, and I took a look at my watch. Time to wind it up, I thought. I asked for her home address, her home phone, and the number at the coffee shop, making notes on my legal pad. “Let me see what I can find out,” I said. “In the meantime, can you leave that with me? I'd like to get myself up to speed. The meter won't actually start ticking until we have a signed contract.”

She glanced down at the paper sack beside her but made no move to lift it. “I guess so. I suppose. I wouldn't want anybody else to get their hands on the tape. It'd kill Mace and the girls if they knew what was in here.”

I crossed my heart and held my hand up. “I'll guard it with my life,” I said. I didn't think there was any point in reminding her that pornography is a commercial venture. There were probably thousands of copies of the tape in circulation. I tucked the notes in my briefcase and snapped the lid down. She stood up when I did, hefting the bag to one hip before she passed it over to me.

“Thanks,” I said. I picked up my jacket and my handbag, setting them on top of the bag, juggling the armload of items as I turned off lights. She followed me across the hall and watched me uneasily as I locked up. I glanced back at her. “You're going to have to trust me, you know. Without that, there's no point doing business together.”

She nodded, and I caught a glimpse of tears in her eyes.
“I hope you remember Lorna really wasn't like what you see.”

“I'll remember,” I said. “I'll get back to you as soon as I know anything, and we'll work out a game plan.”

“All right.”

“One more thing. You're going to have to tell Mace about the tape. He doesn't have to see it, but he should know it exists. I want complete honesty among the three of us.”

“All right. Anyway, I've never been good at keeping secrets from him.”

We parted company in the little twelve-car parking lot behind the building, after which I drove home.

Once in my neighborhood, I had to circle the block before I snagged a semilegal spot half a block away. I locked my car and walked to my place, toting the paper sack like a load of groceries. The night was downy and soft. The street was darkened by trees, the bare branches woven overhead in a loose canopy. The few stars I saw were as bright as ice chips flung across the sky. The ocean rumbled along the winter beach half a block away. I could smell salt, like woodsmoke, on the still night air. Ahead of me, a light glowed in the window of my second-story loft, and I could see the wind-tossed pine boughs tapping at the glass. A man on a bicycle passed me, dressed in dark clothes, moving quickly, the heels of his cycling shoes marked by strips of reflector tape. He made no sound except for the soft hum of air through his spokes. I found myself staring after him, as if he were an apparition.

I pushed through the gate, which swung shut behind me with a comforting squeak. When I reached the backyard, I glanced at my landlord's kitchen window automatically,
though I knew it would be dark. Henry had gone back to Michigan to see his family and wouldn't return for another couple of weeks. I was keeping an eye on his place, bringing in his newspaper and sorting through his mail, sending on anything that seemed critical.

As usual, I found myself surprised at how much I missed him. I'd first met Henry Pitts four years ago when I was looking for a studio apartment. I'd been raised primarily in trailer parks, where I lived with my maiden aunt after the death of my parents when I was five years old. In my twenties, two brief marriages did little to promote my sense of permanence. After Aunt Gin's death, I moved back into her rented trailer, retreating into the solace of that compact space. I had by then left the Santa Teresa Police Department, and I was working for the man who taught me much of what I know now about private investigation. Once I was licensed and had set up an office of my own, I occupied a series of single- and double-wides in various Santa Teresa trailer parks, the last of these being the Mountain View Mobile Home Estates out in the suburb of Colgate. I probably would have gone on living there indefinitely except that I'd been evicted along with a number of my neighbors. Several parks in the area, the Mountain View among them, had converted to “seniors, 55 and older only,” and the courts were in the process of reviewing all the discrimination suits that had been filed as a result. I didn't have the patience to wait for an outcome, so I began to make the rounds of the available studio rentals.

Armed with newspaper ads and a map of the city, I drove from one sorry listing to the next. The search was discouraging. Anything in my price range (which ran all the way from very cheap to extremely modest) was either badly located, filthy dirty, or in complete disrepair. Let's don't
even talk about the issues of charm or character. I chanced on Henry's ad posted at the Laundromat and checked it out only because I was in the area.

I can still remember the day I first parked my VW and pushed my way through Henry's squeaking gate. It was March, and a light rain had varnished the streets, perfuming the air with the smell of wet grass and narcissus. The flowering cherry trees were in bloom, pink blossoms littering the sidewalk out in front. The studio had been a single-car garage converted into a tiny “bachelorette,” which almost exactly duplicated the kind of quarters I was used to. From the outside the place was completely nondescript. The garage had been connected to the main house by means of an open breezeway that Henry had glassed in, most days using the space to proof mammoth batches of bread dough. He's a retired commercial baker and still rises early and bakes almost daily.

His kitchen window was open, and the smells of yeast, cinnamon, and simmering spaghetti sauce wafted out across the sill into the mild spring air. Before I knocked and introduced myself, I cupped my hands against the studio window and peered in at the space. At that time, there was really only one large room seventeen feet on a side, with a narrow bump-out for a small bath and a galley-style kitchenette. The space has been enlarged now to accommodate a sleeping loft and a second bathroom above. Even then, in its original state, one glance was all it took to know that I was home.

Henry had answered the door wearing a white T-shirt and shorts, flip-flops on his feet, a rag tied around his head. His hands were powdered with flour, and he had a smudge of white on his forehead. I took in the sight of his narrow, tanned face, his white hair, and his bright blue eyes,
wondering if I'd known him in a life before this one. He invited me in, and while we talked, he fed me the first of the countless homemade cinnamon rolls I've consumed in his kitchen since.