Darkness & Shadows (19 page)

Detective Steve Pike did not return calls from the
Courier
requesting an update on the case.

Shocker.

The story didn’t exactly name Wesley Clark as a suspect, but it also left no doubt he was a distinct possibility, along with something else:

A source has told the
Courier
that investigators may be looking into marital infidelities in the relationship as a possible motive for Charlene Clark’s murder.

On its face, Patrick didn’t find that shocking—Lilliana had already told him about the alleged affair between Wesley and Jocelyn—but it did make him curious as to whether there was more to this story. The article hadn’t elaborated on which one of the Clarks might have been doing the cheating, and Patrick was well aware that the circumstances surrounding homicides could often become very complex. Lilliana hadn’t mentioned anything about it, but he had to wonder if Charlene’s disappearance was a by-product of marital retaliation after she was caught carrying on with someone herself. It certainly wasn’t an unrealistic possibility—after all, Patrick had solid evidence that Charlene was no longer feeling the love for Wesley.

But other than that, the rest of the article left Patrick feeling like he’d eaten a handful of Cheetos: nothing but empty calories and lots of air. Old facts, too many questions, and zero answers. Clearly, the paper hadn’t yet learned that Charlene Clark was living under an assumed name, which boosted Patrick’s confidence that he was miles ahead of them on the case. He was also confident that Pike knew about Charlene’s fake identity, but as usual, was keeping the flow of information blocked. He could only imagine what other evidence the detective had—there was likely plenty of it.

He glanced at his watch; it was five o’clock. The news was just starting. He reached for the remote and flicked the TV on to see if there were any new developments in the case.

Nothing. Just more depressing incidents. A man stabbed at a bar in City Heights. A missing kid. Crime rate up another two percent. The county Board of Supervisors deciding on whether to further slash funding to the sheriff’s department. Maybe they’d fire Pike, replace him with an actual human.

Patrick dragged his tired body off the couch, started pacing and thinking. Bullet watched him intently.

He stopped to glance at the dog. “Don’t worry. I’m not going crazy. I just look that way.” He resumed pacing.

Bullet sat straight up and barked, tail flipping in circles like the second hand on an overwound clock. It wasn’t concern he was expressing, Patrick realized; it was hunger. “Your love overwhelms me,” he said, heading for the kitchen. Bullet leaped from the couch and followed.

After feeding the dog, Patrick thought about feeding himself. It had been at least twelve hours since he’d last eaten. He stared into the fridge: nothing but greasy takeout leftovers from the past few days and a half-gallon of milk. He was scared to look at the expiration date. He closed the fridge door.

“We have breaking news in the case of a Rancho Santa Fe couple tonight. As you may recall, authorities believe Charlene Clark’s body was found in Tijuana more than a week ago, and her husband, Dr. Wesley Clark, is still missing.”

Patrick shot his attention to the TV.

“We’re going live now to Brad Fisher downtown, where it appears investigators have new evidence that might help crack the case wide open.”

Patrick bolted into the living room.

“Brad, what have you got for us?”

The video wiped from the studio to a reporter standing on the rooftop of a parking garage. He gave a solemn nod and said, “Sandra, I’m in the 2200 block of Kettner Boulevard, adjacent to the Park-a-lot.” The camera zoomed over the reporter’s shoulder to the other garage. “Now, we can’t see inside, but it appears detectives are very busy. They were called there this afternoon after a late-model Bentley Mulsanne was discovered abandoned. Sources close to
News Seven
tell us the car may belong to Dr. Wesley Clark. Authorities aren’t saying how they found…”

Patrick flipped the TV off, grabbed his jacket, and disappeared out the door.

Squad cars, flashing lights, and people everywhere, all in a heightened state of disarray, all wrapped around the garage like a skintight noose. A police officer stood on the street, directing traffic, waving off the curious. Patrick spotted a few TV news vans off to one side, their live equipment extended to full mast. He didn’t see many reporters outside or near their vehicles, so he assumed the cops were letting them onto the scene. Exactly how far, he wasn’t sure. He circled back a few blocks, found a parking spot.

Inside the garage, two uniformed officers stood before a yellow and black sawhorse blocking access to the upper levels—both with arms crossed, both wearing stoic,
don’t-even-try-it
expressions. The press was corralled off to one side looking none too happy.

Patrick allowed his eyes to wander through the crowd. This story was no longer a local matter: he caught a CNN logo on the side of a video camera. He perused the group some more and stopped dead at one of the faces—one he knew well.

There’s no way.

Erika Jeffries spun around just in time to see Patrick coming her way. She gave him a surprised smile, which instantly deflated when she realized he wasn’t returning the expression.

“Patrick. Hi… Who are you covering this story for?”

He clamped a hand to his hip, cocked his head. “I suppose I could ask you the same question.” At her confused look, he added, “Who sent you here?”

“Julia did,” she said, her confusion now transmuting into uneasiness.

“I knew it.”

She shook her head. “Patrick… What’s going on?”

“What’s going on is that I called Julia and pitched this story, told her I was working on it, and that I was making headway. I even gave her details on what I knew, and then she sends someone else.”

“Patrick, I’ve been on this since it started. I swear.”

He backed down from his anger some—what she was saying rang true. The story had been gaining momentum for weeks. It was naïve of him to think they weren’t already on it. Humiliation slid in and replaced his fury. He shook his head, flicked his gaze to the barricade. “I’m sorry, Erika. I had no right to—”

“It’s fine, Patrick, really. You had no way of knowing. Julia had told me you might be on this. I just figured you were covering it for someone else.”

“I was trying to cover it for
National Monthly
, but it’s pretty clear that’s no longer an option.”

She started to say something, then stopped, instead letting out a sigh of resignation.

“It’s fine,” he said, then changed the subject to cover his disappointment. “So, what’s going on with the blockade?”

She crossed her arms, looked at the barrier. “Nothing so far. We’ve been camped out here since this afternoon.”

“Any word from Pike?”

She looked back at him, rolled her eyes.

“Same old, same old,” he said.

“Same old asshat is more like it.”

He nodded. “Any theories floating around?”

“Lindbergh Field’s just a few blocks away. He could have dumped the car here and hopped a flight to anywhere by now.”

“And it’s Clark’s car for sure, right?”

She shrugged. “Seems to be the word.”

“Weird, though.”

“What?”

“A Bentley? Pretty high profile. A hard car to hide.”

“Apparently not too hard. Look how long it sat before anyone actually noticed.”

Patrick gazed up at the ceilings: surveillance cameras were sparse—just one at the entrance to each level. A low-rent facility. Low rent meant low security. It would be easy to drive in without being recognized—a simple matter of pulling a sun visor down or lowering a ball cap, then exiting through one of the stairwells. Still, Patrick was sure investigators had the video and would be taking notes.

A woman let out a piercing scream.

Patrick and Erika both jerked their heads around to find the source, then made tracks with the rest of the reporters toward the far corner. Sobs and chatter filtered through the garage. Patrick shouldered through an opening in the crowd and saw a woman standing beside her car, which was pulled back about four feet from its space. The woman, in her twenties, had her hands pressed against her cheeks, mouth hanging open. Brunette and attractive. Driver’s door wide open. And on the ground, in front of the car, was what looked to be a diamond earring, more than a carat.

Still attached to an earlobe.

C
hapter
T
hirty
-T
wo

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-T
WO

Patrick eyed the car, then the nearby exit door that led to the upper levels. Reporters were talking, and he was listening, the gears in his head turning.

Erika pushed her way through and to his side, and they watched while a detective bagged the evidence.

“What’s that?” she asked.

He told her.

“Ew.” Erika brushed the hair from her eyes, looked at the car. “Cops didn’t search the area beforehand?”

“They did, but with more than five hundred spaces, somehow they managed to miss it.”

“Or someone was lazy.”

“There’s always that,” he said. “After they initially cleared the ground floor for clues, they opened it to people needing to pick up their cars.”

“Good thing for the cops—they almost missed a decent piece of evidence.” Erika stole a glance at detectives, now busy at work cordoning off the vehicle. “Certainly makes things interesting.”

“I’m guessing we have an idea who that earring might belong to.”

“I’m guessing chances are pretty damned good you’re right.”

Steve Pike rushed out of the stairwell door, looking irritated for a change, and headed right for the reporters. “All right, everybody,” he said, his pissed-off tone matching his pissed-off scowl. “This is a crime scene now. Clear the area.
Move!
”

The group let out a collective grumble, a few shouting out questions, which Pike handily ignored; shortly after, Patrick and Erika were standing outside on the street with everyone else.

“It’s going to be a long night,” Erika said, glancing down at her watch. Patrick looked at his, too. It was almost eight.

An officer came outside and shouted, “All right, folks, chances are slim to none you’ll be able to get inside to see the crime scene, even slimmer we’ll have something for you before morning. Be my guest if you want to stick around, but you’ll have to loiter in a place that doesn’t get in our way. I need you to clear the area.”

“And it just got longer,” Patrick added, watching the crowd disperse, reporters leisurely migrating toward their vehicles.

“’Fraid so,” she said. “Hey, I know you’re probably headed for the competition—where you’ll probably kick our ass—but I think we trust each other enough not to worry about one-upmanship. Want to go somewhere and talk? Maybe compare notes?”

He studied her for a moment, considering it, and then with a shrug, “I don’t see why not.”

They found a coffee shop a few blocks away and settled into a booth. For the first five minutes or so, both were silent, Patrick running the sequence of events through his mind, playing a mental shell game with facts, and trying to figure out how everything fit together. He assumed Erika was doing the same, because she appeared to be just as deep in thought.

“The earring thing,” she finally said. “It’s creepy.”

“It is.”

A lot of blood. A lot of pain. She never stood a chance.

Erika added, “So do we agree that the earring may have been deposited on the way out after hubby’s car got dumped?”

“We do.”

“So the next logical question would be, how?”

Patrick sipped his coffee, thought, and then, “Maybe the earring got caught on the suspect’s clothes while he was assaulting Charlene, and it eventually fell off in the garage.”

“But here’s what I don’t get: the Clarks disappeared more than two weeks ago. How is it that nobody managed to see a ginormous diamond—attached to a bloody earlobe, no less—until now?”