Burning Proof (2 page)

MONDAY MORNING
Detective Abby Hart filled her coffee cup as soon as the pot finished, then settled in at her desk and turned on the computer. She yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her hand, still a little foggy without caffeine. She’d participated in a beach volleyball tournament over the weekend. It’d been hard and tested her conditioning, but she and her beach partner had triumphed and taken home the trophy.

As she stretched and grimaced at the sore muscles that screamed, she was glad the office was quiet; she was first in and anticipating a court appearance later in the week. A reminder about her scheduled meeting with DA Drew in an hour popped up on her calendar. Homicide cases could take years to get to trial. When they did, she needed her head to be right back in the midst of the investigation as if it were fresh. She had several cases pending in various stages of the court process. The one Drew wanted to discuss was a gang shooting that occurred nearly a year ago. It was due to go to jury selection soon, so she planned to review all the pertinent details. A sharp pang of sadness sliced through her as she scanned the summary. She’d
consulted on the gang shooting with her first partner in homicide, her mentor, Asa Foster. He was retired at the time, but still a great resource. His death a few months ago still stung.

Shoving the sadness aside, she looked at the rest of her to-do list. She also wanted to review her most pressing open homicide case, spending her day after the meeting with the DA going over the Adonna Joiner homicide details. She heard footsteps but didn’t look up because it was bound to be just another office mate or her partner, Bill.

“Abby.”

The sharp, clear voice demanded her attention. Lieutenant Jacoby strode toward her desk. Something was in the works. The LT wasn’t usually in until later. He dropped a manila envelope in front of her. “Glad you’re here early. Just got this regarding the Joiner case.”

Abby reached for the envelope. “I planned on pulling that file and calling the lab for an update.”

The brutal rape and murder of a ten-year-old girl was a study in firsts: the first case she and her new partner, Bill Roper, had caught on their first on-call shift. Together they’d hit it hard for forty-eight hours and gotten nowhere. Then frustration set in. For the months since, it was their priority case. Evidence had been collected from the victim’s body, but there was no hit in CODIS, the national offender database. Abby and Bill had knocked on doors and collected voluntary DNA swabs from several persons of interest, only to be stymied by a backlog at the lab. She often called Clayton and Althea Joiner, the victim’s parents, to touch base. In fact, she planned to pay them a visit tomorrow.

She looked at the envelope and realized that it was from
the forensics lab. Her head snapped back and she stared at the lieutenant. “They got a match?” She undid the clasp and pulled the contents out, tense now and wide-awake.

“They did.” He pointed. “Halfway down. They got a match from one of the samples we took to exclude.”

Abby read the finding and was up out of her chair. “Unbelievable. It’s Curtis. I had a feeling.”

Javon Curtis, a single man, a loner living two doors away from the victim in a house he’d inherited from his mother, had been Abby’s number one suspect. He had no prior record and cooperated completely, even willingly providing the buccal swab that just implicated him, but her gut had told her something was off about the man.

“As soon as Bill gets in, go pick him up and bring him in for an interview. Hopefully he’ll open up.”

The adrenaline evaporated like smoke. “I have a meeting scheduled
 
—”

“DA Drew is in the loop on this. Knowing you, you’ll have a confession before noon.” Jacoby gave her a half salute and left the office.

Abby looked at the clock. Bill should be in any minute. She couldn’t sit back down. She did a happy dance all the way to the file cabinet to pull the Joiner file.

“Hallelujah!” she said to the empty office. “I knew it was him. I just wish we could have proved it two months ago.”

She wanted to call the young victim’s father. He’d been waiting to hear that his daughter’s killer had been identified, and Abby knew better than anyone what that kind of wait was like. But she decided it would make more sense to have the suspect in custody first and, as the LT had hopefully implied, have a
confession. The killing of Adonna Joiner had been horrific, and the close-knit neighborhood she’d lived in was volatile.

Abby sat at her desk with the file and remembered that the suspect, Javon Curtis, had stood next to the grieving parents at many of the numerous press conferences while they pleaded for any witnesses to come forward. What a Judas. She and Bill were the only ones who suspected him, but there was no evidence. When Curtis claimed to have been out of town at the time the murder occurred and provided his buccal swab for testing in order to exclude, she’d wondered then if her instincts had betrayed her.

He snowed everyone with his easy compliance
 
—tried to throw us off.
Abby’s annoyance was tempered by the knowledge that he couldn’t fool the science of an exact match. But match notwithstanding, she wanted a confession. Abby hated relying solely on DNA in court. As strong as a DNA match like this was, she wanted an admission and, if possible, a little contrition. She rarely got the contrition; usually criminals only felt bad about getting caught. But a case where someone actually expressed remorse always made her feel a little better.

Abby had kept tabs on Curtis and a finger on the pulse of the neighborhood in the months since the murder. There had been understandable anger over the lab situation. But the Joiners were patient, churchgoing people. They had faith they’d get their answers, and Abby was overjoyed that it appeared their faith would be rewarded today.

Bill walked in, and Abby hit him with the news before he could fill up his coffee mug.

It was just before 9 a.m. when they arrived in the quiet neighborhood and knocked on the front door of the suspect’s
residence. The only precaution they’d taken was having a black-and-white cruise the alley to be certain the man didn’t flee. But neither Abby nor Bill expected the suspect would give them any trouble.

He didn’t. Javon Curtis invited them inside his house and then quietly accepted being handcuffed after they informed him that DNA identified him as at least a rapist and at most a killer.

Then everything went sideways.

Abby stepped out of the house onto the porch, Bill and Javon behind her. Bill pulled the door closed, and Abby turned to take the first step down. She snatched her weapon from its holster as training kicked in.

There was a man on the lawn pointing a gun at them.

From the corner of her eye she saw Javon try to bolt left. Bill grabbed at him while conflicting emotions swirled through Abby’s insides like a debris-filled tornado. The man with the gun was her victim’s father, Clayton Joiner.

“Put the gun down now!” she ordered, reflexively shifting left to shield Bill and Javon.

Joiner ignored her, also stepping to the left. “He murdered my baby!”

“Please, Clayton.” Abby’s gun was up and on target. A thousand questions begging
 
—most of all:
How did Clayton know?

“He’ll be charged; he’ll pay. Put the gun down.”

Something like a sob and a groan escaped his lips. He raised his gun and fired.

So did Abby.

“I USED TO LIKE
Hee Haw
.”

Luke cast a sideways glance toward Woody in the passenger seat. “What? Was that a show or a catcall?” His truck bounced down the rough dirt road, on the way to check on an address in rural Riverside County. Robert “Woody” Woods had come along for the ride, and they’d been chatting about a lot of things, eventually getting to TV shows.

“Ha. It was a music show, and funny, a comedy. Wholesome, too. Nowadays you turn on the TV and all you see are people playing musical beds.”

“Yeah, I can’t argue with you there. I’m very careful about what my daughter watches. Seems like I have to say no more than I can say yes. . . . Looks like we’re here.”

Luke Murphy pulled his truck to the side of the dusty dirt road and turned off the ignition. He looked around at the bleak, dry landscape and wondered if they were on a wild-goose chase. Rural Riverside County was a world away from his normal stomping grounds in Long Beach. They’d stopped at the local sheriff’s substation for directions since his GPS didn’t seem
to recognize the address he was looking for. The deputies had told him it was in a dead zone, and even with their guidance, he wondered if perhaps he’d taken a wrong turn. But this was a neighborhood of sorts. The lots were large and the structures far apart, but the presence of mailboxes told him the area was not too remote for mail delivery.

“It’s a perfect hiding place, if this is your guy,” Woody said.

Luke agreed but said nothing. He really didn’t think they’d find the fugitive he was looking for here. Together they climbed out of the truck and met at the tailgate.

Deciding to work this like a training exercise, Luke turned to Woody. “If you were still in uniform, how would you handle this?”

“Well . . .” Woody rubbed his chin and did a slow 360, taking in the whole area. “Once you’re certain this is the place, I’ll follow the fence toward the rear of the house, keep an eye on things there. Fugitives have been known to make backdoor getaways. If he does split, I’ll try to get a plate for you. If not, just pick me up after you talk to the guy.”

“I don’t want to put you in jeopardy.”

Woody frowned and gave a dismissive wave. “I’m old and retired but not feeble, and I am armed.” He tapped the fanny pack that Luke knew held a small .380 automatic. Woody had applied for and received a concealed carry weapon permit.

Luke chuckled and walked to one of the bent, dented, and aged mailboxes and double-checked the number he’d written down. “Yep, this is the right spot. You want me to give you a few minutes?”

The lot looked to be fenced all the way around. Woody started to walk to the corner of the enclosure. “Just a couple. It
looks like when I reach the third fence post, I’ll be out of sight of the front door. If he hasn’t seen us already, I’ll be fine.”

“10-4.”

As a private investigator, Luke specialized in finding missing people. This particular case was not his. He’d said yes as a favor to a PI from Arizona who’d called and asked if he could check out this address. Luke didn’t normally do work for other PIs; he had enough of his own. But the Arizona PI’s story was compelling, so he agreed to help. She’d admitted it was a long shot, one in a million, but she wanted him to look for a convicted murderer who’d absconded from parole. The provocative thing about her case was that the guy had been on the lam for thirty years.

Luke was intrigued when the Arizona PI told him the story of Oscar Cardoza, how he’d been hitchhiking in Montana in 1975. He shot and killed the man who picked him up, then stole the victim’s car. Eventually apprehended, tried, convicted, Oscar spent several years in prison before becoming eligible for parole in 1984. He was paroled to California because he had family here, and that was when he disappeared.

Since the state of Montana didn’t seem to be in a hurry to find the man, the grandson of the murdered man, who now lived in Arizona, had hired her, hoping she’d pick up a thirty-year cold trail. The first thing she’d found out was that the family member Oscar had been paroled to, his brother, was long dead, but he had lived in Riverside. She then uncovered a couple of aliases Oscar had used over the years. One, Dan Parker, was the name that led the PI to this address, the name of the owner on record. And that was why Luke was with Woody in the middle of nowhere, standing at a battered mailbox looking for any signs of life in a run-down double-wide trailer.

Oscar would be in his sixties now. Luke had a copy of the wanted bulletin with a picture of the man at twenty-five upon conviction, and an age-enhanced photo of what he could look like now. The age-enhanced photo didn’t impress him. It could never account for what a person might go through over the years that could age them. But Oscar did have a couple of distinguishing marks. He had prison tattoos on his knuckles and a large tattoo of a woman on his left arm. Unless the man had spent money to have the tats professionally and cleanly removed, Luke was certain he’d know right away if he’d found the fugitive or not.

This search, with all its uncertainty, was a welcome break for Luke. He and Woody were in the process of interviewing and testing for a task force job with the federal government, investigating cold cases. But things had stalled in the process. Since Woody had retired after thirty-four years as a police officer, he’d taken to working with Luke, even considered getting his own PI license. In the last three months, together they’d found two girls who were just eighteen and who didn’t want to go home, but at least now their folks knew they were okay. Their most satisfying find was a war veteran suffering from PTSD who went off his meds and disappeared. Luke and Woody found the poor kid living under a bridge in Pasadena. It did Luke’s heart good to reunite the young man with his mother and mental health professionals who could help him.

Woody seemed to like the work, and while Luke’s old partner was still going through therapy to rehab a badly broken ankle and was not even certain she wanted to come back to the PI business, Luke was happy for the company and the help. They’d be partners if and when the cold case squad ever got up
and running. In the meantime it was nice to know they worked well together.

Woody was well along the side fence line as Luke approached the gravel driveway leading to the manufactured home. There was a padlocked gate across the drive, and No Trespassing and No Soliciting signs were posted. Luke walked to the lock and studied the structure, trying to ascertain whether anyone was home. All the blinds in front were drawn, so it was a good bet they had not been seen yet if someone was there. There was a bit of landscaping in front of the tired, bleak structure
 
—pots and containers with plants and flowers that were green and colorful, indicating that someone was watering and caring for them. There was also an old car off to the side, a minivan Luke guessed was from the eighties, but it didn’t look broken-down. In fact, the driveway and area in front of the house were free of weeds. Someone moved the van and drove it in and out with some regularity.

Taking a chance, Luke cupped his hands in front of his mouth. “Hello! Is anyone home?”

Woody was out of sight behind the house now, but Luke was sure he’d heard.

He repeated the question a couple of times and waited. Just as he was about to give up, the door to the home opened and an old man stepped out. A jolt of fear spiked in Luke. He thought the man had a gun, but as the man moved forward, he could see that it was a cane.

“What do you want?” the man hollered in a strong voice that belied his appearance.

“I’m looking for someone. I wonder if you can help me.”

The man cursed, and Luke feared he’d disappear back into the house and that would be the end of the inquiry.

But he seemed to reconsider and made his way down the stairs. He walked okay, just slowly, and it appeared that he needed the cane only for balance. Luke sized him up. While he knew you couldn’t judge a book by its cover
 
—or a fugitive by his wrinkles
 
—he didn’t get any dangerous vibes from the guy.

“Who do you want?” the man asked when he reached the gate.

“I’m a private investigator and
 
—”

“A private investigator?” He frowned and Luke studied him. He could be the face in the age-enhanced photo, but this guy looked to be in his eighties, not his sixties. Was that the result of a hard life on the run? He was about four inches shorter than Luke and thin. His skin was tan, creased, and leathery, like someone who spent a lot of time in the sun. From his sharp jawline to his thin frame, there was nothing soft about him; he was all hard angles. His bald head sported a couple of scars and a clean Band-Aid on the right side.

“Yes, here’s my identification.” Luke pulled out his ID and handed it to the man, reaching over the gate, hoping he’d take it. That would give Luke the opportunity to look at his hands.

The old man did what Luke hoped: reached out and took the ID. Luke saw faded ink splotches on the man’s knuckles. He’d read that the tattoos originally spelled
HATE
on the right and
COPS
on the left. A blurry
H
was all Luke could make out for certain. Further up on the left arm was another tat. It could have been a woman, but on the old, wrinkled arm, it was just a blotchy mess.

Luke had his man. His pulse jumped, not with fear, but with satisfaction that this trip had been a success, in spite of his doubts. He and Woody had discussed the possibility and planned
to return to the sheriff’s office, tell them what they’d found, and let law enforcement proceed with the arrest. Montana would extradite, so Luke knew the sheriff would make an arrest.

All I have to do is ask a couple of inane questions, say good-bye, pick Woody up, and head back to the sheriff.

“And what do you want with me, Mr. Murphy?” The old guy looked up at him and handed back the ID.

“I’m looking for Dan Parker. Does he live here?”

“Dan Parker?” The man chuckled. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.”

“Do you know him?”

Something in the man’s demeanor changed
 
—it was subtle, but Luke caught it and it made his guard go up. He wished he’d parked his truck closer. There was no cover out here if this leathery fugitive got contentious. It was not Luke’s job to get into a confrontation, especially out here in the middle of nowhere. If the man had a weapon, elderly or not, he was dangerous.

The deputy’s voice saying, “Dead zone” rang in Luke’s ears.
Yeah,
he thought,
and a great place to hide bodies.
His and Woody’s.

“I used to know him. What’s he done? What do you want him for?”

“I don’t want him at all. Someone in Arizona is looking for him. I’m just doing an Arizona PI a favor.” He gave a generic explanation about the woman’s call and professional courtesy.

The man took a step back and rubbed his chin. “Do you want to come in the yard and look around?”

“No,” Luke said, “I’ll take your word on it. You have an honest face. Is Parker here?”

The man seemed to think about it, leaning on his cane and
studying Luke. For his part Luke watched as conflicting emotions crossed the man’s face. An angry frown gave way to resignation, he thought.

“What took you so long?” he asked after a long minute.

“You’re Oscar, aren’t you?” Luke asked by reflex, hands at his sides, balanced stance, bracing himself for whatever might come next.

Nodding, the man leaned his left hand on the cane and reached into his pocket with his right. Out came a small handgun
 
—a .22, Luke guessed as he stared down the barrel.