Living with the Dead (16 page)

FINN

Finn lost Adams and Marsten. He'd followed them to their hotel, waited, waited some more, then flashed his badge to the desk, and gotten a room number. He'd sent Damon up. He returned to say they weren't there.

Finn had been tempted to go up himself and verify this. But Damon was right: it wouldn't take more than a toe over the line for Marsten to scream harassment. If they were in their room, they obviously weren't meeting up with Peltier, which is why he'd followed them. If they'd snuck out again, then he'd lost them.

Back at the station, they looked at Peltier's cell phone. Her schedule was entirely business-related. Remembering that barren apartment, Finn wasn't surprised.

Robyn Peltier seemed to be all business these days. Finn knew what that was like. He'd been in L.A. six years and still didn't have what anyone would call a social life. He'd come here to start a new job, then built his life around it. Even the last woman he'd dated was a paramedic, and she'd asked
him
out. He wasn't ashamed of this. It was just that kind of job. If you wanted, you could make it your life. He had.

So Peltier's schedule revealed nothing. Same with her contact list. Every L.A. number had a business connection, neatly typed, no shorthand or code. Those that looked like friends and family were non-California area codes, most from Pennsylvania.

Hope Adams's cell phone number was there, and matched three entries on the log of calls received, all made Friday morning. Exactly as she'd said.

Before that, the last call Peltier received had been Thursday from Portia. Around midnight she'd placed the call to 911. Nothing after that until Adams the next morning. The next outgoing calls were long, four of them on Friday morning.

"I'll bet they're from the guy who found the phone," Damon said. "Calling everyone he knew out-of-state, getting a little added value before pawning it."

Finn suspected he was right.

"There should be a notes section." Damon settled onto the desk. "Bobby always keeps notes. I'd check the text message log, but you won't find much. She doesn't like texting."

There were notes, but all business, like the schedule. And she'd only used text messaging to reply to messages from Kane. He skimmed those. Some were business. Others more ambiguous, Kane wanting Peltier's opinion about this or that, like she was asking an older sister. Peltier's responses were diplomatic but personable, gently guiding Kane to make better choices.

The final text message, sent Thursday afternoon, read "Wait til tabs see this!!!" and had a photo attached. Finn opened it, but with the tiny screen, he could only make out a woman in a dress.

"Mail it to yourself," Damon said.

"Hmmm?"

"Forward it to your e-mail account and open it on your computer. That's what Robyn did." He pointed at the screen. "See that symbol? It means she forwarded it."

Finn nodded and did that, his thick fingers clumsy on the keys. How the hell did kids these days do this? They must all have the dexterity of spider monkeys –

Had he really just thought "kids these days"? He sounded like one of the old men in his apartment building who were always stopping him to complain about the college girls on the fourth floor. Some days it was hard to remember he was only thirty-four, especially when he hung around someone like Damon, so easy with a laugh, quick on his feet, full of...

Full of life? A cruel slip of the tongue. Dead at twenty-nine – the same age Finn had been when he'd come to L.A., when he'd felt like he was just starting his life, leaving home and heading out to the big city. What if, on that trip, he'd seen someone pulled to the side of the road? He would have stopped, like Damon. That was how he'd been raised. What might a woman like Damon's killer have thought, seeing a guy Finn's size bearing down on her on a dark, empty road?

"It should be there now."

"What?"

Damon pointed at the computer. "The file should have arrived by now."

"Right."

He spoke too loudly both times and the other detectives in the room – Vanderveer and Scala – looked over, then shared an eye roll.

"You okay, Finn?" called Vanderveer, a burly detective approaching retirement, his pitch-black hair screaming dye job.

"Yeah. Just trying to open a photo Portia Kane sent Robyn Peltier. Computers aren't my thing."

"The Kane murder?" Scala was around Finn's age, recently transferred from vice at the insistence of his third wife.

Both detectives rose from their desks. Neither was any more computer literate than Finn, but his task sounded more interesting than the paperwork they'd been trudging through.

"Holy Mother of God," Vanderveer said as Finn opened the photo. "Is that one of those altered pictures or did that girl's parents actually let her out of the house dressed like that?"

"That girl does what she wants, when she wants," Scala said. "And she can do it at my place anytime."

"You know her?" Finn asked.

"I wish. I'd give my right nut to enjoy what that girl's got."

Vanderveer shook his head. "Well, you can see it all in that picture."

"I meant her more liquid assets." He rubbed his fingers together.

"She's rich?"

"Wouldn't know it from that outfit. I've seen twenty-dollar whores with better fashion sense. But that's Jasmine Wills, your vic's frenemy."

"Her what?"

"They pretend to be friends but really they can't stand each other. Frenemy, get it?"

"No," Vanderveer said. "We don't. But
we
don't read the tabs."

"You just chat with their reporters, huh, Finn? So how'd that go? Did that
True News
chick promise you an exclusive? Hell, if she'd promise
me
an exclusive, I'd put on fangs and go bite a neck. Preferably hers. She was one sweet little – "

Vanderveer waved the younger detective to silence. "So what's Portia Kane doing with that picture?"

"She wanted her PR rep to send it to the tabloids."

"Seems the tabs are right – that frenemy thing had slid into full-blown enemy." Scala slapped Finn on the shoulder. "Well, the good news is we just solved your case. Jasmine Wills killed Kane to keep that photo out of the papers. I know I would." He started back to his desk, then stopped. "Oh, could you pass a copy my way? For safekeeping?"

"Sounds nuts, but maybe what started as a simple catfight turned lethal," Damon said as Vanderveer returned to his paperwork. "If people carry guns, it becomes too easy to use them. I know all about that."

Before Finn could respond, the phone rang.

"Detective Findlay?" a man's voice said. "This is, uh, Officer Alec Weston. My, uh, sergeant wanted me to, call you. I'm sure it's nothing, but he, uh, insisted..."

A recent recruit. Finn could tell by the hesitation. Still new enough to view the homicide squad the way freshmen did the senior class. Finn encouraged him with an "um-hmm."

"I think I might have, uh, seen that woman you're looking for. From the Kane case. Robyn Peltier."

Finn's gaze shot to Damon. "You saw – "

"I'm probably wrong," Weston hurried on. "But my sergeant insisted I call."

"Where'd you see her?"

"Well, that's the thing that doesn't make sense, sir. She was in the coffee shop across from our station."

ROBYN

Miss? You wanted out here?"

"J-just a sec," Robyn said.

She stared at the police station steps. Another precinct, ten miles from the last, chosen at random from a phone book when she stopped to catch her breath, certain she'd finally lost Adele.

As it turned out, she'd only temporarily misplaced her. When Robyn tried to hail a cab, she'd seen Adele step from a side street. She'd changed course then, taking another route into a busier commercial area, cutting through such a crowd she even stopped saying "excuse me" as she shouldered her way past people.

She'd lost Adele then. She was certain of it. There'd been no sign of her for two blocks. Then, seeing people pouring from a matinee, she'd merged with the crowd and jumped into one of the cabs waiting at the curb.

It was then, after she'd given the police station address to the cabbie, that she'd finally relaxed, resting her cheek against the cool window and closing her eyes as her heart slowed.

Adele Morrissey, at the police station, asking to use her cell phone. The cell phone with the photo Hope thought was responsible for Portia's murder. A photo of Adele Morrissey.

How had Adele found her at the station, when no one knew she'd been going to that one? Impossible... and therefore the first sign of Robyn's mental collapse. The second had been Adele Morrissey, paparazzo, chasing her with a gun. Both, however, paled in comparison to this – absolute proof that she had gone mad.

After losing Adele in the crowd, after watching for anyone following the cab, after sending the poor driver on a roundabout route, who was standing there on the steps of the police station even before she got there?

Adele Morrissey.

Robyn squeezed her eyes shut and prayed she'd open them to see only a young blond woman who resembled Adele Morrissey by a trick of the light and a panicked mind.

A bang on the window sent Robyn jumping, bills falling from her fingers. There stood Adele, reaching for the handle.

Robyn smacked the lock shut and dropped two twenties over the seat. "Drive. Please, just drive."

He looked at her in the mirror. Then his gaze lifted to the rearview mirror as Adele circled behind the car.

"Please. She's got a gun. Drive!"

He spun from the curb.

While the cabbie had been quite willing to take her away from the armed girl yanking on his car door, his sympathy meter expired after a couple of blocks. He pulled to the curb with, "You get out now," and jabbed his finger at the sidewalk, to which Robyn had responded by reaching over the seat and taking back one of the twenties.

"Crazy bitch," were his parting words as she closed the door.

There had to be a logical explanation for what had happened. She hadn't imagined Adele – the cabbie had seen her, too.

Obviously Adele had been following Robyn to get that photo. She'd killed Portia for her phone. Then she'd discovered Portia had sent the picture to Robyn... and Robyn took another photo of her near the murder scene. So she'd followed Robyn to Judd's house. As for how she'd found Robyn today, obviously it had something to do with that young man who'd hurt Karl. A partner, maybe Judd's killer.

As for how
he'd
found Robyn, she wasn't dwelling on that, no more than she'd dwelled on how Karl found her the day before. It happened.

Adele and her partner must have seen Robyn get into the cab and Adele followed her. After the incident at the first police station, Adele figured out that Robyn was trying to turn herself in. Once she'd realized which precinct Robyn was heading to, she'd gotten there first to stop Robyn from surrendering while she still had that cell phone.

Problem was, Robyn didn't have the phone. Otherwise, she'd have tossed it to Adele, gotten to the police safely and told her story. Somehow she doubted telling Adele she'd lost the phone would solve the problem.

As for why Adele was willing to kill for a photo, Damon would say that motive wasn't important. The important thing now was to get the hell away from her.

You're pretty damned pleased
with yourself, aren't you, Bobby?

Robyn hadn't heard Damon's voice since she'd seen Adele at the first police station. Now she'd finally relaxed enough to imagine what he would have said.

She
was
pleased with herself. She'd called for a cab, requesting pickup a block over. She'd ordered the taxi to a cluster of hotels where she used to visit Portia for lunch. When it had dropped her off at one, she'd gone inside and taken the walkway to a second hotel. Out the lobby doors, into a new cab and off again.

Now she was walking toward music and the hum of voices. Some sort of street concert, she presumed. Where there's a concert, there are police. If Adele wasn't going to let her get to a police station, she'd find another way to turn herself in.

But, as people always said, there was never a cop around when you needed one. The concert turned out to be a small street festival on a road lined with shops boasting free hearing tests, Alaskan cruises and the lowest pharmacy dispensing fees in town. The music she'd heard? A live polka band. A seniors' fair, with a shocking lack of police presence.

Seemed she'd need to hail another cab. It was a good thing she was turning herself in because, at this rate, she'd run out of cash. L.A. cabs were not cheap.

Her chances of getting one on this street were nil. It was blocked off for the festival. So she set out in search of the nearest busy road or pay phone, and walked two blocks, finding neither. Then, as she glanced down a quiet side street, she laughed. There was an LAPD bike patrol officer stopped in front of a parked car as he drank from a water bottle. Another bike was propped against the mailbox behind him. Twenty feet away a second officer was walking into a restaurant.

Apparently she'd just needed to stop looking for a cop and they'd be everywhere.

She took a deep breath, then strode toward the drinking cop, his helmet swaying on the bike handles. He was in his thirties, light haired, with ears that would favor a longer haircut.

"Officer?"

He capped his bottle.

Robyn waited until she was close enough to speak without shouting, and said, "I'm Robyn Peltier."

His thick lips pursed. He pulled off his sunglasses, but his eyes remained as blank as the dark lenses. Great. Even with an introduction she couldn't get recognized.

"Detective Findlay is looking for me," she said as she stopped in front of him. "He wants to talk to me about Portia Kane's murder."

With
that
name, recognition hit. He glanced past her, as if looking for his partner, one hand sneaking toward his gun belt.

"Can you take me to Detective Findlay? Or call a car?" A weak smile. "I guess that bike isn't built for two. I know this isn't the best way to turn myself in but... it's a long story."

His hand moved away from the gun, taking his radio instead. He lifted it to his lips, then motioned for her to wait, as if she might wander off. Again he glanced behind her, still hoping for his partner. She thought of suggesting he handcuff her to the signpost, but from his expression, he might take her up on it.

He made the call. On reflex, Robyn glanced away to give him privacy, feigning great interest in the nearest closed store. The officer asked for Detective Findlay, giving the precinct, explaining that he had –

A blow hit Robyn in the shoulder, knocking her off balance. She recovered, twisting to see the officer standing there, mouth open, her shock reflected back in his face. Why had he hit her? His hand rose to his chest and she followed it to see a dark stain spreading across his breast. His eyes met hers, then his knees gave way.

As Robyn reached to catch him, a figure stepped from behind a parked car, gun rising. Adele Morrissey.

Robyn dove as the gun went off. An awkward drop, more of a fall, and she hit the pavement hard, skidding hands out, skin peeling from her palms, pain disappearing under a burst of agony from her shoulder. She saw blood spreading across her sweatshirt. Shot. Oh God, she'd been shot. That's what she'd felt, the bullet passing through the officer and hitting her.

Another explosion of pain, this one in her side. She rolled as Adele slammed her foot into Robyn's ribs again. Robyn tried to jump up. Then she saw the gun, pointed at her head.

"All you had to do was give me your cell phone, Robyn," Adele said, her voice as high and light as a child's. "How tough was – ?"

Robyn grabbed Adele's pant leg and yanked. As Adele staggered back, Robyn flew to her feet, her shoulder flaring again, the pain excruciating. Adele regained her footing, gun going up –

Robyn slammed her fist into Adele's arm. Not much of a hit, but the movement startled Adele. She released the gun and it fell, skidding across the pavement.

Robyn started to run for the gun, but Adele was closer. She looked around, hoping to see the other officer. No sign of him. Seeing the alley Adele must have come out from, she raced toward it.