Point of Betrayal (15 page)

She tapped the book and said, “I think this is the most important storyline, and I’m guessing this secret is the reason she was killed.”

“We don’t even know who these people are,” Jane said. “We’ve got five men and one woman.”

“Or that character could be a little girl in danger,” Ari suggested.

“Or it could be Nina,” Jane said. “But who are all the guys?”

“Well, remember that sometimes men and women were confused. Cesario is one of those characters. She’s actually a character named Viola who’s posing as a man.”

Ari looked at Rory. “How do you suggest we organize this?”

“I think we write out all the entries on these three sets of people and see if we can figure out who they are. That way we can watch all of our suspects at Nina’s funeral tomorrow.”

“
I
think this is impossible,” Jane said.

“It’ll be a little tricky, that’s for sure, but I’m rather certain I’ve got one story figured out already.”

“How so?” Ari asked, pouring herself a glass of wine from the box.

Rory chuckled. “Because I’m in it.”

Jack wiped his eyes, which were starting to cross from reading so many files. Pictures, index cards and sticky notes filled the makeshift collage he’d created against his closed vertical blinds. Margarita Escolido’s smiling face hung at the center.

He was starting to understand why Molly drew circles to nudge her thinking. This was a complicated case with many possible suspects, all of whom had been ruled out. Margarita had a large family, several close friends and dozens of co-workers, all of whom were investigated, but everyone had said the same thing—she was loved by all and had no enemies. No one had emerged as a viable suspect.

One fact bothered him: David Ruskin had supervised the detectives assigned to the case, and Jack had already caught a few minor procedural errors that would’ve spelled trouble for the prosecutor in the event a suspect was ever arrested, nothing huge, but he worried he’d find more mistakes the deeper he dug. As much as he hated Ruskin, he was past the point in his life where he desired confrontation. Or was he? If he was offered the promotion and accepted, he’d be working closely with Ruskin. He sighed. It would be worth it because he’d be in the same city as Ari.

He looked from the blinds to the corkboard that housed all of the notes on the Carnotti case and chuckled.

“Something funny, Adams?”

He looked up at Dylan Phillips, standing in the doorway with her purse and jacket over her shoulder. She was on her way out and she looked tired.

“I was thinking about life,” he said honestly.

She raised a sculpted eyebrow. “Oh? Reconsidering your choices?”

He shook his head. “You don’t understand my humor.”

“Perhaps you’ll have the opportunity to explain it to me some time. Your promotion is going through.”

He was marveling at the dimple that appeared on her chin when his phone rang. “Adams.”

“Jack, you gotta get over here right now!” Andre cried.

“Whoa, slow down. What happened? Is Ari okay?”

He glanced at Dylan, watching her smile and dimple morph into concern.

“I’m sure Ari’s fine, but you know our lead from the gym? She’s dead.”

* * *

The Arroyo apartment complex was well known by law enforcement. The beat cops fielded endless noise complaints, arrested drug dealers routinely and constantly fined minors for underage drinking at the legendary parties there. It was a meat market for the under-thirty crowd. As he passed the pool at nine forty-five, Jack wasn’t surprised to see two dozen men and women splashing in the water while a boom box blasted a rap backbeat that drowned out their laughter and playful screams.

He found Andre interviewing the neighbor who’d discovered the body. Andre motioned to his left, and he wandered down a sidewalk crowded with techs and uniformed officers. Her body laid on the concrete in a twisted sleep. He glanced up at the balconies filled with tenants and partiers staring down at the corpse until he found the one with a CSI officer working on it.

Andre joined him, pulling a folded paper from his pocket. It was a printout from Uptown Fitness that included her bio and a picture. “Her real name was Wanda Sells, a bank teller with Saguaro Credit Union. She was the one, Jack. After I sweet-talked the gym manager into pulling the possibles for me, I took them to Molly tonight and she ID’d Wanda.”

“I’m surprised she’s not with you now. How’d you keep her from tagging along?”

Andre shrugged. “It was weird.
She
was weird. It was almost like she was happy. Didn’t care about Wanda at all. Anyway, I came right over, and the uniforms had just gotten here to answer a call about a jumper.”

“Did anyone
see
her jump?”

“No, I think they just assumed, though apparently more than a few drunks have fallen over these balconies, if you can believe it.”

“I can. Do we know if she was drinking?”

“Yeah.”

They walked several feet past the body to a spray of glass shards glistening in the moonlight. Jack found a larger chunk and surmised it was a highball glass. He sniffed it.

“Vodka.”

“Yup. According to the neighbors Wanda had a reputation for guzzling vodka on her balcony every night. She’s lived here for more than a year and nearly every tenant in her building knows her habits. The guy who discovered the body was out power walking, making his laps around the complex. He says he does it three times every night. Second time he came by everything was normal, but on the third lap, which was about ten minutes later, she was on the ground. Whipped out his cell phone and called nine-one-one.”

“So she wasn’t dead very long before she was discovered. That’s good,” he said. He glanced up at the balcony. “That’s a hell of a fall. Let’s go upstairs and check out her apartment.”

“So I guess this is our case, huh?” Andre asked eagerly. “Do you think the chief will give us more time since our best lead is dead?”

“Hard to say.”

A uniformed officer guarded the door; they passed him with a nod. The place was a mess, but there was no sign of foul play. They went to the balcony, where a crime tech was just finishing up.

“Just her prints,” he said as he left.

Jack took a deep breath. “Do you smell it?”

Andre shook his head. “No.”

“Pot. Just faint traces, so either her neighbor is toking up or she was.” He leaned on the railing and was surprised when it jiggled. “What the hell? Check the other side,” he told Andre.

He squatted and examined the screws. The plaster around each one was worn down and they floated in the holes.

“Same thing over here,” Andre said, wiping his hands on his handkerchief. “That railing was about to go.”

“Or went,” he muttered.

He peered over the railing and noticed fresh-looking drag marks moving toward the edge of the building, as if the railing had come out and been pulled back into place.

“What do you think?”

“I’m thinking this is fishy. How tall was she?”

“Five-five.”

“And this railing is four feet tall. For her to fall over the railing and not catch herself is somewhat implausible. And look at this.” He pointed to the drag marks. “At some point the screws popped out, probably as her body went over.”

“That makes sense,” Andre agreed.

“So why are they back in the holes? She was flying through the air. How did the screws go back?”

“Maybe they popped back in?”

He pushed the railing and the screws popped out again, but when he let go, the railing didn’t move.

“So you’re suggesting that somebody pulled the railing back?”

He nodded. “Maybe it was one of the techs. We’ll need to check.” He pointed to the ground where the broken glass glistened in the moonlight. “That makes me uncomfortable too. If you’re falling over a railing accidentally, you’re going to fall straight down. You don’t project out, and the fact that her drink is so far away from her body suggests she was still holding it when she fell—or flew—over the railing.”

“So somebody pushed her.”

“It would make sense. Let’s see what else there is to find.”

They wandered through the bedroom and noticed the unmade bed and clothes strewn everywhere. Wanda’s life seemed to revolve around work and the gym. Silk blouses were heaped in piles with running shorts and exercise bras.

Foraging through the medicine cabinet yielded prescriptions for Vicodin and Zoloft amid the typical over-the-counter drugs for colds and allergies. “It’s gotta be somewhere,” he said.

He went to the corner of her living room she used for a home office and studied the small bookshelf above the desk. He opened a few trinket containers and found the usual mementos—movie ticket stubs, change and discarded keys. He pulled out each of the books while Andre went to the kitchen.

In the middle of the second row he found an old dictionary. Most young people didn’t bother with them anymore because of smartphones. He opened the book and chuckled. The center of the pages had been carved out, creating a great hiding place—for her pot, cocaine and Ecstasy.

He carried three baggies into the kitchen and waved them at Andre. “Oh, my,” Andre said, pulling his head from the refrigerator. “Apparently Wanda enjoyed many recreational activities.” He opened the cabinet under the sink and revealed an empty vodka bottle in the trash can. “I’d say Wanda loved to drink.”

“Let’s look at the rest of the trash,” Jack said.

He pulled out the liner and inspected the contents of the partially filled bag. In addition to the vodka bottle, he found the recent edition of
People,
a Lean Cuisine TV dinner box and several pieces of junk mail.

“There’s only trash from a single meal in the can, suggesting that she was rather particular about removing garbage. I’d say this is from today, meaning that unless she spent the entire day getting snockered, it’s highly unlikely she drank the whole bottle by herself.”

“She might’ve been finishing it,” Andre said.

“True,” he conceded, “but did we find another glass?”

Andre went to the cabinet where glassware was stored. “It looks like she bought a standard set with highballs, tumblers and fruit juice glasses.”

“How many tumblers do you see?”

“Eight.”

“How many juice glasses?”

“Five, but…” He opened the nearly empty dishwasher and found three more. “There’s eight total.”

Jack felt a familiar rush of energy. “How many highball glasses?”

Andre paused and looked around the kitchen before he answered. “Six.”

“Let’s go through the house again,” he said.

They scanned all the rooms but found no additional glasses and nothing to suggest Wanda had entertained anyone.

“So if she was pushed off, then the killer took the extra glass. Six plus the shattered one on the concrete equals seven. But she could’ve broken one before today.”

“That’s certainly possible. People do it all the time.”

“But you don’t think so.”

“Those glasses look pretty new. They don’t have any dishwasher stains or filmy bottoms, you know, the stuff that happens eventually to your glasses after you’ve sent them through the dishwasher a hundred times.”

“Yeah, so it’s a little less likely that she broke a new one.”

“Possibly.”

He went to the coffee table. A single glass coaster with a visible ring confirmed it had been recently used. It rested near the edge, suggesting Wanda and her guest—if she’d had one—had sat on the couch, talking and sipping drinks. He glanced at the coaster stand on the nearby end table. Each coaster had its own little compartment, and one was empty, which accounted for Wanda’s. He pulled the rest of them out and set them on the table. All of them were dry except one. Droplets of moisture remained on it, even after someone had hastily wiped it off.

“Here’s our evidence.”

He motioned to a tech with a camera. The guy took pictures of the coasters while he pulled out his cell phone. “You asked if Chief Phillips might give us some more time. Since our only lead in the investigation of Vince Carnotti was just murdered, I’d say she might.”

Biz glanced at her watch under the hazy glow of the fluorescent lights illuminating the ten gas pumps. Although it was two in the morning, the Quik Mart was busy, filled with night owls who needed smokes or alcohol. She was still an hour outside of Laguna Beach, and although the Harley had a half tank of gas, she’d stopped to acquire some insurance, carefully scoping out the Quik Mart as her best option.

She casually picked through one of the nearby trash cans. Not finding what she needed, she headed to another one and resumed her search. Still nothing. She shook her head. It should be easier than this. She noticed a can over by the bathrooms outside the front door of the shop. A young Hispanic man pushed through the door, discarded his receipt in the trash and headed for his car.

She smiled.

She walked around the building so no one from the store would see her pass directly in front of the windows and quickly thumbed through the trash, knowing she’d need to burrow toward the bottom.

“Excuse me. Are you okay?” a voice said.

The woman had clearly been clubbing all night, judging from the alcohol on her breath and her glassy eyes. She wore tight jeans and a black jacket with a tank top on underneath, but what Biz noticed was her sparkling turquoise lipstick. Definitely L.A.

“I’m fine. I walked out of the store and accidentally threw away my receipt
and
I dropped my bike keys in here too.”

“I could help you look?” the clubber asked in a very friendly tone.

“No, I got it. Thanks.”

The woman shrugged at the dismissal and walked into the store. Biz searched faster. The idea was to be invisible, not have conversations with people.
Yes
! Nestled against some used paper towels and an empty cigarette pack was a white slip of paper. She grabbed it and searched some more, until she found two more slips.

She quickly pocketed them, jumped on the Harley and zoomed away. She turned into the next gas station and pulled up next to the air and water station. She pulled out the receipts, praying one of them would serve her purpose. She grinned when she scanned the second one. It had been generated at ten eighteen p.m., just a few hours ago. The customer had bought ten gallons of gas, a Diet Coke and a bag of Doritos—and paid with cash.