Speak No Evil (12 page)

FIFTEEN

W
ILL DROPPED THE PHONE
in the cradle and turned to Carina. “Masterson just got back to town. His neighbor called.”

“Let’s go.” Carina shoved her notes in the drawer and jumped up.

They were heading out the door when Nick Thomas walked in, looking a little worse for wear. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

He didn’t answer her question. “I set up the meeting. Steve will give a formal statement tomorrow morning and answer any questions.”

“You didn’t have to come all the way back downtown,” said Carina. “You could have called.”

“I didn’t have a choice. My brother kicked me out of his apartment. Know a decent hotel in the area?”

There was more to it than that, but Nick was a man of few words and Carina didn’t press.

Will spoke up. “Why don’t you ride with us? Masterson just got home. I’d sure like to know what he’s been doing since Friday night.”

“I appreciate it.”

The afternoon commute had just started and it took them thirty minutes to get out to the San Diego coastal community of La Jolla. Masterson lived in a small, poorly maintained house near the campus, about a mile from Steve, though he wasn’t a student.

“Easier to sell drugs if you’re close to the buyers,” Will mumbled.

Carina filled Nick in on Masterson’s criminal history as they approached his door. “He seemed to have skipped town with a girl Sunday night. Considering he’s Angie’s last-known boyfriend, his behavior raises serious questions.”

Carina fidgeted as Masterson took his sweet time answering the door. Will acted his usual casual self, though looks were deceptive: his hand was only inches from his gun. And Nick looked all cop, standing tall, face blank, a Stetson on his head. Must be part of the uniform in Montana.

She’d never realized a cop in a hat could look so sexy. She needed to get out of the city more.

Carina shook the errant thought from her mind and focused on the door.

Will rapped again. “Doug Masterson, Detectives Hooper and Kincaid with the San Diego Police Department.”

Finally, they heard a chain sliding open and Doug Masterson stood in the doorway, shirtless and in jeans, reeking of cigarette smoke. He was tall and lanky, with long blond hair and a deep dimple in his chin. He smiled when he saw Carina, sizing her up from head to toe, lingering too long at her breasts.

Jerk.

She flashed her badge. “Detective Kincaid with SDPD. Can we come in?”

She took his barely perceptible nod as a yes and walked through the door. Will and Nick followed.

The apartment was borderline filthy with overflowing ashtrays and dirty clothes tossed around. The fifty-inch flat-screen television took up half of one wall along with a deluxe stereo system that, if turned full-blast, Carina was certain she’d be able to hear down at the station.

The first thought that came to mind was that Masterson couldn’t be Angie’s murderer if Dillon’s analysis of a “tidy, immaculate” killer was accurate.

“Hello, officers of the law,” Masterson said condescendingly. “To what do I owe this pleasure? May I get you coffee? Doughnuts?”

“Cabrón,”
Carina mumbled, then asked, “When was the last time you saw Angela Vance?”

He blinked, the question obviously startling him. Or he was a good liar. “Angie? Why?”

“She’s dead,” Carina said flatly.

Masterson sat heavily in a chair and ran both hands through his long hair. He stared at Carina, all flirtatious behavior gone. “
Angie?
Angie Vance?”

“Yes. Your eighteen-year-old girlfriend, Angie Vance.”

He shook his head, mouth open. “Dead? How?”

“Let’s start with Friday and work our way to today,” Will said. “Where did you go Friday morning?”

“Friday. Um, I just hung out here most of the day. Went out about eight at night. Couple parties. Came back about four.”

“Alone?”

“Alone?” he repeated.

“Did you bring someone home with you?” Carina repeated slowly.

“Friday night?”

“It can’t be too hard to remember,” Will said. “Five days ago.”

“No, I came home alone.”

“When was the last time you saw Angie?”

Whether he seriously couldn’t remember, or he was just trying to come up with a viable lie, Carina didn’t know. “I think,” he began slowly, “it was Thursday night. It might have been Friday. At the Sand Shack. It was toward the end of her shift.”

That should be easy enough to verify, Carina thought.

“I really don’t remember,” he said. “Last time I saw her she gave me the cold shoulder.”

“Did you know she suspected you were seeing another woman?”

This time, the surprise on his face was genuine. “Hell, no! I-I-I’m not seeing anyone else,” he stammered.

“Your neighbor told us you went skiing in the mountains.”

“Big Bear. My folks have a cabin up there.”

“With whom?”

“Is that important?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To establish your alibi. With whom did you go to Big Bear?”

He glared at her. “Ellen.”

“Ellen what?”

“I don’t know her last name.”

“When did you leave?”

“Sunday night.”

“What time?”

“Ten, eleven. It was late.”

“And you don’t know her last name?”

He shrugged. “We met at a party Sunday, hit it off, and split.”

“Why did Angie think you were seeing another woman
last
week?”

“I don’t know. She’s the jealous type.”

“How so?”

“Look, she has this double standard. She’s been with a lot of guys, but says she’s loyal. I believed her, told her the same goes for me. Then she sees me talking—just
talking
—to my ex-girlfriend and she goes all frigid on me. So I think, okay, she’s having a bad day. I go down to the Sand Shack when I know she’s going to get off work, say hey, let’s go see a movie or something, and she blows me off. So I went out and partied all weekend. Met up with Ellen, she didn’t have those issues, and we had fun. I don’t need the drama, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” Carina said sarcastically, “relationships are hard work.”

“Exactly,” he said, oblivious to her jibe. “I’m sure you don’t have any relationship problems.” He licked his bottom lip and grinned at her.

She glared at him. A biting remark was on the tip of her tongue when Nick took a step forward.

“It’s not very smart to piss off a lady with a gun,” he said simply.

Nick’s hardened expression belied his light words. Once again, Carina suspected there was far more beneath the surface than Nick Thomas showed the world.

“Hey, no offense!” Masterson put up his hands. “Look, what happened to Angie? I mean, I saw her on Friday, okay, but I didn’t see her all weekend. Really, I didn’t see her.”

“Do you know where Ellen lives?” Nick asked.

Masterson rattled off the address where he’d dropped her off earlier.

“Be available for questions,” Will said.

“What happened to Angie?” Masterson repeated.

Carina had no desire to give him any of the details. “Go buy a newspaper,” she said and they left.

In the car, Will said, “I don’t think he has the guts to kill anyone.”

“Huevon,”
Carina said. “Too stupid to cover up the crime. Did you see anything in his apartment that looked out of place?”

“I don’t think he could find clean boxers, let alone glue.”

“How far is Big Bear?” Nick asked.

“About two, two-and-a-half-hours.”

“If his parents have a cabin up there, it would be a remote place where he could have kept Angie,” the sheriff suggested.

Carina and Will glanced at each other. “Go on.”

“He dumped the body Sunday night. Could he have dumped the body, then picked up this Ellen and taken her back there? Did anyone see him on Saturday?”

“We have a lot of work to do,” Will said. He glanced at Ellen’s address. “She’s out in Carlsbad. Up for a nice coastal drive?” he asked Nick.

“I have no other plans.”

Ellen Workman was a twenty-five-year-old college dropout who lived with her parents and worked part-time as a cocktail waitress. By the time they arrived in Carlsbad, she had already left for work. They stopped by her business and, while she was irritated at being pulled off the job, she was sharp and credible.

“Doug and I hung out from about three o’clock Sunday afternoon onward. When he suggested we go skiing, I was all for it, especially since he was paying. I work Wednesday through Saturday, so I told him I had to be back by five o’clock today. He brought me home, end of story.”

“What time did you leave for Big Bear?”

“Eleven. I wanted to pick up my stuff, so we drove here.”

Carina was confused. “You left La Jolla at eleven? I thought you said you were with him after three in the afternoon?”

She sighed heavily. “Okay, we met up at three at a friend’s house. Had a few beers. Dinner. Then he wanted to go skiing, so we left La Jolla about ten at night for my place, I packed a bag, and we left for Big Bear at eleven. Okay?”

“Did Doug leave you at any time between three and ten that day?”

“Maybe to take a piss. Look, what’s this about?”

“We’re just verifying information that he told us.”

“Whatever. Can I get back to work?”

Ellen walked away. Carina shook her head. “The time line doesn’t work for Masterson to be the killer.”

“Unless she’s an accomplice,” Nick said.

“Why would she?”

No one had an answer. Their one other lead had dried up. Masterson wasn’t guilty, and Carina looked at Nick. She saw in his eyes what she was thinking.

All eyes would now be on Steve.

With good reason. Police didn’t like it when suspects lied.

Nick knew that as well as she did.

Her heart went out to him. He was going to have a rough time of it tomorrow if his brother incriminated himself. While Carina hoped Steve gave himself up so she could close the case, find justice for Angie’s family, and stop another brutal murder, she couldn’t help but feel for Nick and what he would go through knowing his brother was a murderer.

Rope.
Check.

Glue.
Check.

Plastic wrap.
Check.

Garbage bags.
Check.

He went through the supplies in his mind as he watched the webcam he’d set up earlier that day in Jodi’s apartment.

It would be more difficult this time because he wouldn’t be able to lure Jodi out like he’d done Angie. Angie knew him well, so she hadn’t thought anything was wrong even when he tapped on her window in the middle of the night.

“Angie? Angie? Can we talk?”

She’d been so trusting. Came right out, got in his car, and
wham!
He had her.

Jodi knew him, of course, but not as well. And with Angie dead he wasn’t so naive as to think Jodi wouldn’t be at least somewhat on alert. It was better to assume than to screw up, right?

So he’d set up the webcam and drugged the two-liter bottle of diet Coke, the milk, the orange juice, the bottle of white wine. Every open container in the refrigerator. He’d watch the kitchen, see when she poured herself something to drink, and wait.

The anticipation was almost as good as the real thing. He wished he could have gone home to watch, but the library was only a couple blocks from Jodi’s apartment, and he didn’t want to risk taking too long or getting stuck in traffic before he was able to get to her apartment. And he had his own private nook here. No one could see what he was working on. He used his own laptop, not the library’s computer, and he could see everything.

As soon as Jodi drank what he’d drugged, he’d leave. The few minutes it would take to get to her apartment would be just enough time for the sleeping pills to make her drowsy.

Abby had a late class every Wednesday. While she usually went out after her class, he couldn’t count on it tonight. Not when Angie’s funeral was tomorrow night and Jodi was home. Alone.

Come on, Jodi! Don’t fuck this up. Don’t mess with me. I’m going to have you no matter what.

Another lying bitch, acting like a sweet, nice girl and nothing but a slut like Angie.

Jodi came on-screen, the cheap webcam distorting her image. But he knew it was her. She opened the refrigerator and he held his breath.

She retrieved a bottle of beer, twisted off the cap.

No!

He couldn’t drug the beer. It wasn’t fair, it fucking wasn’t fair. How dare she screw up his entire plan! He’d been waiting for tonight, planning for tonight, had everything ready.

He slammed down the top of his laptop.

“Is everything okay?”

He jumped, turned, and saw that Becca had walked over to him. He’d been so focused on watching Jodi that he hadn’t noticed her standing right there, at the side of the table. Had she seen his screen? What if she knew what he had planned?

Her face didn’t give anything away, but she was a liar. All women were liars. Her tits were right at eye level, her low-cut blouse hinting at the flesh beneath.

“Yes. I’m sorry.” He glanced away from her, pulse racing.

“What’s wrong?” She sat down in the chair next to him, put a hand on his arm. He looked at her small, slender fingers and the pink nail polish with tiny white flowers glued on. And he knew this was a sign, an omen. Becca didn’t normally work on Wednesdays, but she was here tonight.

Becca was his.

He looked back up at her, his face long and sad. “It’s my cat, Felix. He died today.”

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. How did he die? Was he old?”

He shook his head. “I found him on the front porch. He was bleeding.”

“Hit by a car?”

He began to get into the story he was creating, based in part on a long-ago truth. “That’s what I thought at first, then I took him to the vet. The vet said someone shot him with a BB gun. He found sixteen pellets in Felix.” He looked at her with dry eyes. “How could someone do that?”

She hugged him. “I’m so sorry. Do you know who did it?”

“I can’t prove it, but I think my brother did it. He always hated Felix.” He didn’t know why he said that, but it worked. She squeezed his arm, her eyes full of compassion. Her fingers were so soft . . .