Every Move She Makes (27 page)

Sounded good to me. "What's got your goose?" I held up the McAllen
report. "I need to go out on some contacts."

"Not without permission from Torrance, you don't.

And I doubt he'll be available for the next hour or so.

You're on light duty, that means you stay inside."

"Where's his meeting at?"

"Down the hall," he said, nodding at a conference room.

"Come on." Mathis hurried after me, but hesitated at the entrance. "You
sure you want to interrupt this?" I opened the door and peeked in to see
Torrance, my ex, our current DA, Lieutenant Andrews, and some of the
heavy department brass in deep conference apparently plotting the best
way to bring in Scolari. After reading what little I had out of the
Mead-Scolari homicide file, I couldn't blame them. "No need to interrupt
them, if you're going to take me," I whispered over his shoulder. "Not
unless Mike gives the okay." Finally Torrance looked up, saw me. I waved
the

report slightly, but he shook his head as though to say,

"Not now, later." Good enough. At least I tried.

Backing out, I closed the door. "Okay. We got our permission."

"I don't know..

"You can take me or I can ditch you."

"Mike's my boss." I patted him on the shoulder. "He'll get over it."

Mathis rolled his eyes, muttered something about women, then followed me
to the elevator and the garage. We sat in his car while I scanned the
report, immediately discovering why the McAllen case hadn't been looked
upon as a potential Slasher case. McAllen hadn't died right away.

And she knew her attacker.

orrance might end up being ticked off at Mathis, but The was going to
murder me. It couldn't be helped, and at least I was taking my bodyguard
with me, though I doubted Torrance would see it that way. McAllen had
been dead over a year-she could wait a couple of hours more, at least
till Torrance got out of his meeting. There was also the matter that
Scolari was following this same trail, and that being so, we stood a
chance of running into each other. While I took that as a sign of his
innocence-he was trying to prove he wasn't the Soma Slasher-I was pretty
certain Torrance wouldn't. "Can you give me a hint on what we're doing?"

Mathis asked, fingertips drumming the steering wheel. "As soon as I
figure it out myself." Scanning the list of witnesses, I picked the
first name. Thomas Sherwood. "Great," he muttered, signaling for a turn
onto Seventh. "For the record, I'm doing this under duress." Reading in
the car usually made me sick, as it was doing now, but time was of the
essence. Torrance would undoubtedly figure out what had happened and
call us back. I wanted to be well away from here when that happened-the
better to convince Mathis that we shouldn't return-so I rolled down the
window, took in the fresh air, and concentrated on the report. According
to the case file, Christy Tanya McAllen, age 22, had lived a few blocks
from the Soma area with a roommate, Trish Tilden, also 22. Neither
showed an address at the Twin Palms. Tilden had found McAllen in a
parking lot a few blocks away from the Gold Ox bar. Someone heard her
screaming hysterically and placed an anonymous 911 call. The responding
officer reported that McAllen was still alive at his arrival. When he
asked, "Who did this to you? Do you know who did this to you?" McAllen
indicated yes, but the officer couldn't understand the name. Tilden,
however, told the officer that McAllen's boyfriend, Thomas "Spider"

Sherwood, was 11 really creepy," and she suspected him since they'd just
had a fight. Spider Sherwood's address was listed at the Twin Palms.

From my visit there earlier in the week, I knew he no longer lived
there. I ran a check on him, got his current address, and gave it to
Mathis. I went through the report again. Allison had included the
supplemental report from Zimmerman as well. In it was his interview with
Sherwood, and the supposed airtight alibi Zim had told me about.

Sherwood was allegedly playing in a band at the Gold Ox bar at the time.

In my opinion, when it came to homicide there was no such thing as an
airtight alibi. "Here it is," Mathis said, pulling in front of a mom and
pop store. The apartment entrance was around the back. The place wasn't
as seedy as the Twin Palms, but it ran a close second. I climbed the
stairs to the second floor and knocked on Sherwood's door at the end of
the hall. The man who answered looked like he just woke up, even though
he was dressed in Levi's, worn at the knees, dingy T-shirt, and black
leather vest. If I had to hazard a guess, he changed his clothes about
as often as he washed his hair, which at the moment was pulled back in a
ponytail.

"Thomas Sherwood?"

"Yeah," he said, tucking his T-shirt into his jeans.

There was a black widow spider tattooed on his neck.

"Inspector Gillespie," I said, showing him my star. "And this is
Sergeant Mathis. We would like to speak to you about Christy McAllen?"

"Shit." Shit? There's a response I'd expect after a year of no contacts
in his girlfriend's death. "Mind if we come in?" "Uh," he looked over
his shoulder as if assessing what he might have left out that would be
incriminating.

"We're only interested in speaking to you about Christy. Nothing else."

"Uh, yeah, okay. Let me just clear off the table. I had a little company
last night." He made a beeline for the coffee table, a piece of plywood
mounted on cinder blocks. He lifted a mirror covered with white filmy
powder, razor blade, and a straw, which Mathis and I chose to ignore. My
old lady's asleep in the bedroom," he said, nodding toward a mattress on
the floor situated on one side of the room. A tapestry hung from the
ceiling, one corner flung over a chair, allowing us to see into the
"bedroom." He deposited the mirror on the chair, then lowered the
tapestry, blocking our view of his contraband and his bed mate. I was
curious as to how long he'd grieved, if at all, before acquiring his
latest love. "You can sit down, if you want." Mathis and I glanced
around, and both shook our heads. The couch, when new, might have been
off-white, but now was mottled more shades of gray than I knew existed.

There was no kitchen, or bathroom, merely a sink in one corner next to
the window that overlooked a neon sign for the market below. "Can we
interest you in some coffee?" I asked instead, envisioning the clean
Formica tabletop of a coffee shop as far from this apartment as
possible. "Actually, I just made a pot." He laughed, a sound reminding
me more of a burned-out surfer than a rocker with the moniker of
"Spider." I recalled Zimmerman saying something about the guy being
stupid, and figured he was right. He nodded toward the pot. "You want
some?" Eyeing the dishes in the sink and the cockroaches on the wall
behind it, I decided to risk offending him, even though I doubted he was
sharp enough to be offended. "No, you go ahead," I said. "I'm not sure
we'll be here that long." He poured his coffee into a Styrofoam cup.

Maybe he was sharper than he looked.

"Mr. Sherwood-"

"You can call me Spider." "I realize it's been a while, but we really
need to ask you about Christy." "Yeah," he said, with that laugh. "I was
wondering if you guys were ever going to get around to it."

"You seemed a bit put off," I said. He looked blank.

"Upset at our arrival?" "Oh," he said, sinking into the couch and
propping his feet on the table. "I guess I'd kinda forgotten about her.

Sort of a downer to be reminded first thing in the morning of your dead
girlfriend." "Isn't it, though." Having forgotten a notebook, I folded
my report and turned it over to write on the back. Mathis fell into the
role of casual observer, and I hoped if there was anything to be
discovered on the walls or tables that might help us, he'd discover it.

Had Scolari been here with me, I wouldn't have given it a second
thought. When we left, he would have come out with information on the
guy's Social Security status, any unborn children, and a complete
medical history. "Can you tell me anything about that night? Anything
that might help at all?"

"No. I wasn't there. I was playing in a band. I'm a drummers ya know."

"Really? Where at?" "Well, right now, nowhere, but then, I was playing
in a band at this bar. The Gold Ox."

"Do you remember what time?"

"Yeah . We had a pretty long gig there-well, till that night." He
laughed again. I wanted to shake him. "Three sets a night. First one
started at nine. We played till closing with a half-hour break at eleven
and twelve-thirty." "You go anywhere during your second break?" I asked,
noting that McAllen's roommate had called 911 around twelve forty-five.

That would certainly give him time and opportunity. "Not that night. I
met this chick. We, uh, did it in my car." I'd heard that story before.

Was this the airtight alibi Zim had reported? "Anyone see you?" "Yeah,
her boyfriend. He broke my nose. You shoulda seen the owner. He was
pissed 'cause his bartender left." He grinned. "We, uh, sort of turned
it into a barroom brawl, 'cause the guy followed me in. Broke a table
after we went inside. The owner called the police.

That was our last gig there."

I hated to think Zim was right. Not too many holes in that alibi. Still
... "You remember the girl's name?" "Yeah. She's sleeping in my bed.

You want me to get her?" I turned to the list of witnesses. Tory Greene.

"Yes," I said. "Do that." It took him a while to wake her. Tory looked
like a cranker, the sort that would hang out with a rock and roll
guy--overly thin, jeans that fit like a second skin, croptopped tee, and
no bra. At least her wavy blond hair was clean. After the cursory
questions, she verified the report she'd given Zimmerman, and there was
little else I could ask her. I left them my card, telling them if they
thought of anything to call me. As Mathis and I were leaving, I paused.

I had almost forgotten to ask the magic question. "Either of you have
any idea who might have killed Christy?" Sherwood shook his head. Tory,
whom I'd dismissed as being clueless, said, "If anyone knows, her
roommate does."

"Why do you say that?"

"'Cause she quit working at the Ox right after the murder. Said she
didn't want to be the next victim." Her statement hit me like a ton of
bricks. In the car, I looked for any reference in the report that might
confirm this. Everything alluded to her believing that the killer was
the victim's boyfriend, Spider, yet it was quite apparent that he
couldn't be the suspect. Even Zimmerman would have picked up on
something like that. I read the roommate's statement again, and saw that
she had in fact told the officer that other than Spider Sherwood, she
didn't know who might have killed McAllen. "You see anything in there
that might lead to something?" I asked Mathis. "Not unless you can get
roaches to talk. And we need to check in with Torrance." "We need to
find the roommate." Before he could protest, my pager went off. I knew
when I picked it up who it was from. Pressing the button, I read, RETURN

TO BRYANR STREET CODE TWO. I knew better than to ignore Torrance's page,
but wasn't about to return to the Hall of Justice. I told Mathis to
drive to McAllen's old address, then pulled out my cellular and called
Torrance. "Where are you?" Torrance answered sharply. I was glad I was
on the phone, blocks away from the PD. "What's up?" I asked in as
neutral a voice as I could manage. "I got a page, but it didn't come
through all the way. I think my battery's going dead."