A Beeline to Murder (2 page)

Kat leaned in for a closer look.

“I’ve come through that door many a morning while his ovens were still on and the smell of freshly baked dough permeated the place,” said Abby. “People would line up outside, all the way down to the antique store. Well, you know, he always had free coffee and fresh pastries for us cops. He liked having law enforcement around.”

“For being in such a small space and open for only two and a half years, his business seemed to be booming.”

“True, but you and I both know that things aren’t always as they appear.”

“Uh-huh.” Kat walked toward the restroom, which was tucked off the kitchen, and flicked on the overhead light to look around.

“Is his apron in there?” Abby asked. “He never worked without one.”

“You don’t say. Now, what made you think of a detail like that?”

“Lest you forget, I notice little things like that.”

“Does anything else come to mind?”

“Not really. I just remember how he always tucked a towel into his apron strings. Makes sense if you’re wiping your hands often. You’ll notice he doesn’t have dough or icing or flour on his clothes, so he must have worn an apron if he worked all night in the kitchen. And I don’t see it.”

Kat looked behind the restroom door. “Not here.” She walked back to the body, where she halted, finger against her radio call button. She pushed the button, and dispatch answered. “We’ve got a DOA at number three Lemon Lane. Notify the coroner and get me backup.”

“Need help documenting this?” Abby asked.

“I ain’t sayin’ no. Just me and Otto working the streets this week.”

“I thought Chief Bob Allen had hired some new recruits.”

“Yeah, but three are in San Francisco for defensive tactics training, two are getting recertified at the firearm range, and our crime-scene photographer is in L.A. all week.”

Abby winced. She knew working short staffed could be grueling, what with patrol work, traffic stops, ticket and report writing, court appearances, and the like. God forbid anything more serious, like a robbery or a murder, should happen. When she and Kat had worked together, their beat was the downtown district. They had worked mostly petty crimes, which ranged from the occasional burglary to high school pranks and shoplifting.

Las Flores was ethnically mixed, mirroring Northern California’s Bay Area and wine country towns, and without much crime. The outskirts and rural areas were populated by farmers, ranchers, and young, upwardly mobile urbanites who favored family-friendly businesses and all things organic. Like any other town in America, Las Flores had its share of hotheads, rednecks, gangbangers, and retirees. But the vast majority of folks were decent and hardworking. Abby knew that the largest number of traffic tickets went mainly to nonresidents of Las Flores who used Main Street as a shortcut from the cities in the valley to the beach towns on the other side of the coastal mountains. But with a state prison only twenty-five miles to the north of town, just outside the county, Las Flores also got its share of shady characters passing through—convicted felons, parolees, and gang members, who frequented the local watering hole, the Black Witch Bar. Anything could happen on any day, but especially over the weekends, when out-of-towners cruised through.

Abby and Kat had witnessed plenty of public drunkenness and brawls at the bar, a favorite of bikers, who frequently stopped in for one last cool drink after a long day of riding in the mountains or visiting wineries. The bar and the dead chef’s pastry shop shared space in the same building that also housed Cineflicks, the local theater. Occasionally, the business owners along Main Street would complain of the stench of urine, sure that the culprits were bar patrons. Having worked the streets for years, Abby had seen many crimes and criminals during her tenure in the downtown, but homicides—those were few and far between in Las Flores.

Abby sighed, “What about the county sheriff? Couldn’t Chief Bob Allen request some extra officers from him?”

Kat shot an incredulous look at her. “Are you kidding? Chief Bob Allen threatened to withhold our uniform-cleaning allowance to reduce departmental spending. That is, until the comptroller told him he couldn’t do that. Ask for outside help? No way.”

Abby frowned. “Well, what if I take the crime-scene pictures for you . . . ? I’ve got my camera in the Jeep.”

Kat rubbed an earlobe between her thumb and finger as she weighed Abby’s offer. “You know the rules. I’m supposed to say no. But seeing as how it’s you, I don’t think the chief could get too flipped out.”

“Just trying to help,” Abby said. “I’ve got to deliver a file to the DA’s office by noon and head back to the farmette. If I don’t rescue my bee swarm, they’ll take off for parts unknown. So if you want pictures, speak up, or I’m out of here.”

“Oh, what the heck! Let me grab the crime-scene tape from my cruiser.” Kat turned and walked to the back door.

Following her to the parking lot, Abby opened the door of her Jeep and rummaged through the glove compartment until she located her digital camera. She slammed shut the door and, with camera in hand, said, “Just like old times.”

“Yep,” Kat replied. “Let’s start inside and work our way out. I’ll bag and tag everything on the countertop.”

“I suppose you’ll want me to get some shots of the scene, the body, and close-ups of the ligature mark on his neck.”

“Uh-huh.” Kat’s gaze swept the room, as though she was searching for something, anything that could help her understand what had happened here that had resulted in the death of the town’s award-winning chef. Once the crime-scene tape had been strung, and evidence collected and labeled, Abby pulled the camera from her shirt pocket. “Besides the interior photos and the body, anything else you want me to shoot?”

Kat motioned toward the kitchen’s back door. “In the café, get some shots of the baker’s rack and close-ups of items on the shelves like the recipe binders and that box up there, but don’t remove anything.”

“Okay,” Abby replied.

Kat looked around. “I want images of the blue metal Dumpster between the pastry shop and the theater, a shot of the back door of the pastry shop all the way to the biker bar, and a panorama shot of the back of the building, since those two other businesses share common walls with the pastry shop.”

“You got it. Are you thinking that somebody from the theater or the bar might have had a run-in with our chef?”

“We can’t rule out anything at this point,” Kat said. “I think a Dumpster search for a rope or the apron might be in order. The murderer could have tossed them, unless, of course, the chef hung himself, which I’m not buying.”

Abby walked across the alley and turned to face the building’s back side. She took several shots of the weather-beaten, stucco-covered grand ole lady, which the townsfolk considered a landmark of sorts. Built in the 1930s, it had remained unchanged as businesses emerged and closed while the town evolved into a chic little enclave of stylish shops and restaurants. The old building had endured the October 17, 1989, earthquake in the Bay Area, with only a few horizontal fissures to prove it, but the city engineers had found it stable enough to leave it standing.

Other buildings in town had not been so lucky. Bright red
CONDEMNED
notices had been tacked or taped to them, indicating they were to be torn down. The replacements, such as the row of small office buildings on the opposite side of the Lemon Lane alleyway behind the pastry shop, provided commercial tenants more functionality, but without any of the charm or character of the older buildings, which reflected the pre–and post–World War II architecture of Las Flores.

Returning to the chef’s kitchen, Abby determined the best angles for her shots. She wanted clear and focused images for the investigation. Police chief Bob Allen didn’t need another reason to be angry or upset with Kat . . . or her.

To establish the distance and relationship of the back door to the island and the restroom, she positioned herself at the back entrance to the kitchen. Later, she shot images from the opposite direction. Then, climbing on a chair next to a tall wire baker’s rack, Abby clicked off a couple more photos. When she leaned into the last one, she nearly lost her balance. Grabbing the top of the baker’s rack to steady herself, she knocked over a basket of dusty faux ivy that concealed a small security camera. Dismounting from the chair, she sidestepped the camera until Kat could bag and tag it, tugged a pencil from her pocket, and used it to pick up a plastic cup that had tumbled to the floor. Before setting it aside for Kat, Abby sniffed it and made a mental note to tell Kat about the booze smell in the cup.

Working the room, Abby photographed from every conceivable direction and angle. As she zeroed in on the area occupied by the body, Abby recalled the first homicide she and Kat had worked together. The victim had been a local divorcée who had met a man for drinks at the Black Witch. The man had driven the woman home. The next morning, the woman’s boyfriend had found her on the floor of her cottage. She had been strangled and sexually assaulted.

The victim’s boyfriend had called police. When his alibi had checked out, he’d been eliminated as a suspect. Strangely, it was the boyfriend who had noticed the woman’s colorful patterned rug had gone missing. He gave a description of it to police. Then Kat, a flea market addict, spotted the rug a month later. Las Flores cops began surveillance of their new suspect, a Turkish immigrant whose family had ties to carpet weaving in the old country. He had a good eye and had, apparently, recognized the rug as a Ladik prayer rug from central Anatolia. Abby and Kat arrested him for selling stolen property and, after having the rug tested for trace evidence relating to the homicide, charged him with the woman’s murder.

Abby knelt and took some shots of the chef’s body. She noticed tiny particles of dough on the cuticles of the first and second fingers on his right hand. She also noted the lividity, or discoloration, from blood pooling in the parts of the body touching the floor. Pressing a gloved finger against the chef’s right hand where it rested upon the tile, Abby realized that although the chef’s body was not yet cold, it was stiff. She surmised that the corpse was in the early stages of rigor mortis. Abby knew that blanching would not occur after four hours from the time of death, so she deduced that Jean-Louis was probably killed sometime within the past few hours or just before dawn. Her estimate, she knew, was rough; the coroner would give a more accurate time of death.

Putting the camera back into her shirt pocket and removing the gloves, Abby walked outside, to where Kat was leaning against the wall, jotting notes in a spiral notebook. A white van pulled in and stopped just behind the flares. The van sported the blue coroner’s department logo and insignia—stalks of wheat curved into a half circle.

“She’s new,” said Kat as she watched the young woman, in her late twenties and wearing her chestnut hair pulled back in a short ponytail, hop out of the driver’s side.

“What happened to Millie?” asked Abby.

“Maternity leave.”

“Oh, gotcha.” Abby recalled Millie, with whom she had worked over the years. Her chirpy voice and quick smile for first responders—regardless of how grisly the scene was—somehow made the scenes of death more bearable.

“Millie married the son of the fire chief, didn’t she?”

“Yep.”

“Liked her.”

“Me, too,” Kat replied. “Dunno about this one.”

The young woman slammed the van door and introduced herself in a loud voice. “Dr. Greta Figelson, assistant investigator with the coroner’s office.” She flipped her hand in a backward motion over her shoulder to a young black man with an Afro, who seemed hesitant to exit the van. “My driver, Virgil . . .” She couldn’t seem to recall the rest of the man’s name.

“Smith,” the driver called out through his open window to finish her sentence.

Abby looked down and suppressed a smile.
Yeah, Smith’s so darn hard to remember.
Kat jotted their names in her notebook.

Dr. Figelson marched over. Abby wondered why the coroner’s assistant had even bothered to come with such an attitude. Two workers were needed to handle the gurney, although Abby recalled that the newer gurneys had electric controls and could be operated by one person. Maybe one of the workers had called in sick and the doc had to fill in, doing grunt work along with her regular duties today.

“So, where’s the body?” Dr. Figelson asked, pulling a yellow mask with white ties from her khaki pants pocket. “I’m just here to pronounce him. Don’t have all day.”

Kat jerked her thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “In there.” She stepped aside to allow Dr. Figelson to pass.

Dr. Figelson disappeared inside the pastry shop.

Finally, Kat’s backup arrived. The second cruiser, red light flashing and siren screaming, wheeled into the empty parking space next to Kat’s police car.

Kat called out, “Really, Otto? You needed lights and siren? Seriously?”

Otto Nowicki, a hefty, balding man with skin the color of an unbaked pie crust, hoisted himself out of the seat. Once upright, he spent two minutes adjusting and readjusting his gear, guns, and nightstick on his duty belt. Abby knew Otto was always talking about becoming police chief one day. He had a thing about looking and acting official. Both she and Kat believed it was unlikely, since Chief Bob Allen had no plans to leave and would never be pushed out, but Otto kept on acting like
he
was in charge.

“Ya thinkin’ pastry shop . . . doughnuts?” Kat winked at Abby.

“Uh,
no,
” Otto replied, running his hand across his spare tire of a belly. “I’m on a diet. Wife says I gotta eat more like a caveman and stay away from sugar.”

“That right?” Kat quipped. “Does your wife know about the four teaspoons in your coffee at roll call every morning?”

Otto grinned sheepishly. “Jeez, the station’s coffee is like drinking turpentine. I’ve got to put something in it, or it doesn’t go down.” He hooked his thumbs into his duty belt, sucked in his belly, and stood a little straighter.