Still Life: The Randi Lassiter Series, Book 1 (22 page)

Chapter Fifty-Four

Jon, Becca, and Terri worked through the morning, going first over Larissa’s case file and then Becca’s serial investigation, hoping to find a connection that would tie them together or point to Truman Perry.

The big conference table was covered in paperwork at first, then in nothing but crime scene photos. Ostlund, Erland, and Walberg would stop by now and then to offer fresh eyes and opinions. Trujillo only stopped by once, just inside the door, then left on a call. Jon noticed he’d avoided looking at the table of photos.

Terri spent hours online, calling up galleries and following up on sales of Perry’s art hoping to match something up to Becca’s crime scenes. Everything they found was grisly carnage, but they hadn’t found a single match in MO to her victims. At noon, Terri took a break and offered to do a lunch run for everyone.

Finally alone, Becca spoke to Jon across the table. “I’m sorry about the other night. The kiss. I don’t know why…” Her voice trailed off as she avoided direct eye contact.

Jon put a hand up. “Look, Bex, I get it. We all second-guess ourselves. It isn’t easy to know what’s right when you’re pulled in different directions. All you can do is go with the best decision at the time. You did that. It’s done. I don’t feel the same anymore—so there isn’t going to be a future there.” He laughed weakly. “Not like there was anyway. I mean, think about it. You’re all about your career. I’m at a point in my life that I want to settle down, have a family.”

She sat back in her chair and looked down at her hands in her lap.

He waited for her to raise her head and look at him. “That’s not you. Not really.”

“I know.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. Hell, I’ve managed to get through it—you will too.”

Becca lifted her head and met his eye. “Thanks. I just hope I didn’t screw things up for you and Randi.”

Jon shrugged. “Time will tell.”

A smile split her face. “Geez, I don’t know what they put in the water around here, but you are much more mellow than you used to be.”

“Sure as shit isn’t the low-level crime.”

Becca’s cell phone rang, interrupting them. She’d barely said hello before she shot to her feet. “Where?” She gathered up some of her files, stuffing them into her satchel. “Okay, on my way.” She hung up as Terri returned with a stack of Styrofoam containers. “I’ll have to take mine to go, thanks.” She finished packing and grabbed one of the boxes.

Jon was on his feet now, his hands on his hips watching Becca getting ready to run out on them. “What’s happening?”

“There’s been another killing—up in Ripon. It’s got to be our guy—vic’s got an ear missing.” She looked at Jon and Terri. “You had someone on Truman Perry, right?”

Jon’s brows knit together. “Yeah, Stanton’s been on him.” He tried to make sense of how Perry could have lost the tail and made it all the way to Ripon. He couldn’t have. Stanton would have called it in.

“Maybe you should check in, find out where he’s been the last twenty-four hours. Maybe hold him until I can get back.”

Jon nodded, and began calling Stanton on his cell when the front desk dispatcher poked her head in the room. “You need to call Trujillo right away.”

“What’s up?”

“He’s out at the landfill. Says they have another body.”

“What the hell?” Jon and Terri said in unison.

“Something else. He says he thinks the victim is that artist—Truman Perry.”

Jon, Becca, and Terri stood there exchanging looks, then all at once started speaking over one another.

“I need to get to Ripon.”

“I’ll call you when we get to the landfill.”

“I’ll get the other guys and call the chief.”

Chapter Fifty-Five

Randi called Tangles—the salon where Flip worked—as she drank Kona coffee in her room the next morning. When Flip came on the line, Randi explained how she came across her name and that it was urgent to speak with her regarding Larissa’s death.

“I tried to book a cut and color online, so I know how busy you are. Is there any way you could make time to meet me? I’m only in town today and I just have a few questions.” She crossed her fingers as Flip checked her schedule.

“Can you come at one o’clock? I always build a cushion into my schedule. I don’t mind talking over lunch while your color processes. I can do your roots and we can chat.”

“Great. Since you’re the one doing me a favor, what do you want to eat? My treat.”

“Oooh, I accept! Chinese okay?”

“Sure.”

“You could pick up Moo Goo Gai Pan. The Lucky Dragon is right around the corner from the salon.”

Randi finished her coffee and planned to shower after her massage. She arrived at the spa ten minutes early but had nothing to do except let her mind wander. It went right to Jon Bricksen and the riptide she felt whenever she thought of him.

Her mind did battle over memories of the pleasure they’d shared—their physical attraction was magnetic and the sex had been explosive. Then there was his confession of wanting a future with her—a discussion she was certain they’d never had. Was that another lie he told just to have his way with her one more time?

Her head spun with second guesses, mostly about herself. Had she put herself out there as some cheap piece of goods—an easily manipulated woman for an easy lay? No! No way—she was better than that.

Seeing him kiss Becca at the restaurant only confirmed what she thought about them when she was at the police department. They were a couple and he’d gotten caught in the middle of the two women he was deceiving. She wanted desperately to believe and trust him. But she had to remind herself that she barely knew him. And the arrogant way he’d come across the first couple of times… She should put more trust in her instincts—perhaps her first impression was the right one.

The more she thought about it, the more confused she became. Finally she thrust it all from her mind as she was escorted to the massage table. As the masseuse kneaded the knots in her shoulders, her mind was bombarded instead with thoughts of Larissa’s case. Thankfully, Randi had to endure only a few fragmentary visions of artists, twin-like sisters, and vile performance art before she faded into a blissful place.

Afterwards, she felt remarkably invigorated and energetic, like she could conquer the world. She showered, drove to the trendy Uptown area, picked up the Chinese food and made it to her appointment on time.

Tangles was a modern salon stylized in earth tones of the seventies with brown, avocado, mustard, and orange on the walls and furnishings, but in a contemporary, upscale way.

Randi noted the youthful staff with fantastically wild elements to their hairstyles—like some sort of unspoken hairdresser’s competition. A gaunt young man dressed all in white, his hair shaved on the side with black and white-blond spikes on top. A Latino woman, barely five feet tall with maroon hair ratted into a foot high beehive. She bit her lip as the receptionist, a heavyset gal with black and blue corkscrew curls, showed her to Flip’s station.

CJ would fit right in around here—the avant-garde style was right up her alley. She was certain she wouldn’t see anyone get an old-fashioned roller set done here.

Phyllis Lippart—Flip—was part owner in the business. In her mid-thirties, tall, and an extreme redhead, her flaming hair had been styled into a pageboy bob. She greeted Randi with a smile and a firm handshake, then conducted a quick evaluation of Randi’s blonde tresses. Flip mixed and applied some color and then brought them into a cozy break room to share lunch. Randi set tubs of Chinese down amongst a scattering of tattle magazines, Bruce Jenner’s personal life choices featured on many of the covers.

“Oh my Lord, I had no idea it was so ghastly. I heard she was mugged. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that people around here got it wrong. I don’t do the news and thankfully nobody put those grisly details on Facebook. I’ve become dependent on gossip and you know what they say about that—it travels at the speed of curiosity.”

The women ate in silence for a moment as Randi let Flip process the news.

“Oh my God, is this related to Liv’s death?” Flip asked.

There was something odd about that question. Liv died in a car accident. “You mean because they were so young?”

“No. I mean because they were both murdered.”

It dawned on Randi that was what Flip meant on Facebook when she said at least Larissa won’t have to worry about her sister’s death anymore.

Flip put down her chopsticks and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Larissa believed her sister Liv was murdered. She’d become obsessed with trying to prove it. What if she was right and got too close to the truth?”

Randi had stopped eating too and now they were just staring at each other.

“Murdered? Here I thought she was killed in a freaking car accident.” Randi’s mind spun over the implications.

“Larissa told me several times that Liv was working on a high-profile story at the time. Liv was worried she’d put herself in danger. Larissa updated us every time she came in. We all thought the whole thing sounded like an HBO series—pretty unbelievable. We couldn’t wait for her to book an appointment so we could get the latest episode. But Larissa said Liv wasn’t prone to exaggeration. She told her that she was worried about being followed. That had been a week before the accident.”

“So Larissa thought someone orchestrated a car accident?”

Flip shook her head. “Worse. She thought someone killed Liv, placed her in the car and made it
look
like an accident.”

Randi halted, chopsticks midway to her mouth. It took her a minute to process that.

“What made her think it was more than an accident?”

“Larissa said Liv always wore a seatbelt—even if she was running down the block to get milk. They found her car at the bottom of a ravine. The police report stated she wasn’t wearing her seatbelt.” Flip got up, walked behind Randi and checked the timer she’d set.

“If they were both murdered…one after the other...do you know if Larissa brought her theory to the police?” Randi asked as Flip unfolded a foil in her hair to check the progression of her highlights.

Flip gave a halfhearted laugh. “She said she tried. Larissa wasn’t able to get the officials to believe Liv was murdered to begin with.”

“Did Larissa ever mention who she suspected?”

“No. But it had to do with the story Liv was working on at the time, something to do with the artist troop Larissa became fanatical about. I suspect she was trying to dig up some clue to convince the police to look into it. But she never mentioned any specifics. I only saw her every four weeks. I remember because it was so much more out-there than the usual client gossip. Beats the hell out of cheating boyfriends, am I right?”

The timer rang. They tossed their trash and headed to the shampoo bowl.

“But you said the police are working on an arrest in Larissa’s case, right?”

Randi nodded, then relaxed to let Flip rinse. “Yeah, but even if it’s the same person, the Mt. Ouisco police aren’t aware that their suspect could be connected to Liv’s death. If he killed Liv, he’d had every reason to kill Larissa if she were hot on his trail.” The thought sent chills up Randi’s spine.

“Oh my God.” Flip toweled Randi’s hair and they moved to her station to cut and finish. “You know, you need to contact Liv’s employer and find out what she was working on. That will tell you what the hell put her in danger in the first place.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

Chapter Fifty-Six

When the sanitation employee showed up for his shift and rolled back the massive entrance gate, he was almost scared to death when one of the big rubber guide tires ran over a corpse. Calling the police had been as much about keeping himself from passing out as it had been about civic duty.

The landfill was located at the end of a long stretch of rustic road on the extreme west edge of city property. Because of trickle-down budgetary cuts, not only was it not properly graveled, it was only open weekdays from noon to six.

Jon and Terri arrived in a flurry of road dirt as the Jeep bounced along the rutted sway, and came to an abrupt halt twenty feet from the gate. The sanitation worker, Dave Berndt, gripped his ball cap with one hand as he ran up to meet them, Trujillo at his heels trying to rein him in. A city squad car pulled up right behind Jon’s Jeep and Ostlund, Erland and Walberg were out before the dust had time to settle.

They all stood back as the lead detectives followed Dave’s directions to the body. He refused to go back and show them personally.

No doubt about it, Truman Perry lay dead just this side of the gravel shoulder, in line with the support wheel on the gate. There was a broad indentation on his left calf where Dave had pushed the gate hard enough to force it over the obstruction. Dave had been on his cell phone to his girlfriend as he opened the gate—apparently an argument that was so heated that it stole Dave’s focus as well as his common sense.

Identification was easy; the man was on his back with his eyes wide open, like he’d been stargazing and died peacefully with the rising of the sun. There wasn’t a mark on him. Unlike his alleged victims, Perry appeared to have died a nonviolent death.

“What do you make of this?” Terri noted the same aspects as Jon—no blood, no wounds and no weapon.

They were both careful as they approached the body, looking over the area for evidence of shoe prints, blood splatter, or any other trace evidence. Jon looked at the ground around the body. Other than Dave’s, the only footprints around seemed to belong to Truman.

Terri looked over the remote area with its hills and thick foliage masking the heaps of garbage and junk. The turnoff to the dump was on the other side of a hill, so even if someone had driven past the turnoff they wouldn’t have seen a thing this far up the road. Not only was the landfill off the beaten path, but with its odd hours, most people tended to use the county dump, not the city landfill—so the chance that anyone saw anything was slimmer still.

“Where’s his car?” Terri asked.

Jon shook his head. “According to Stanton nobody left Walnut Ridge last night. He’s been parked down at the entrance the whole time. I can’t imagine he walked out here.” He turned to the rest of the team assembled back at the cars. Walberg was already taking Dave’s statement as the others unpacked the field kits. He nodded for Terri to go back and supervise the team while he dialed Becca on his cell phone. Got her voicemail.

“Hey. So, it’s Truman Perry all right.” Jon returned to his Jeep as Terri and the others handled the crime scene. “Right now it’s looking like he came out to the landfill, laid down and died. We’ll let you know more when we figure it all out. Call me when you get a look at your crime scene. If we have to shift direction on this…” Jon felt a tap on his shoulder. Terri motioned for him to follow her. “Got to go.” He clicked off. “What?”

“Trujillo found Perry’s car.”

The ivory Escalade was parked on a pull off along the main road just past the landfill entry. Truman had apparently pulled in far enough to be hidden then walked the rest of the way to the landfill gate. It still didn’t make sense how he’d gotten past Stanton. The kid assured him he was awake all night and that no one had left. “There must be a back road out of Walnut Ridge that we’re not aware of,” he said aloud. Trujillo held up a baggie with an empty prescription bottle inside. He handed it to Jon. The label was missing.

Jon noted a stained Styrofoam cup in the center console and pulled it out with a gloved hand. He held it up, examining it in the light. The purple liquid at the bottom had all but dried up. Jon stuck his nose to the edge and sniffed. “What the…” Jon tilted his head. “This is Purple Drank.” He thrust it at the confused Trujillo. “Bag it.” Terri shot Jon a puzzled look.

“It’s a party drink, favored by certain gangs, sometimes college kids ‘thinkin’ they down.’” He said mimicking an Eminem song. “Rappers, some sports players use it. I haven’t seen it in a while, let alone being used to overdose an aging artist in an obscure community. It’s a combination of soda, Jolly Ranchers and prescription-strength cough syrup.” He shook his head. “Tox screen will show for codeine if I’m right.”

“So you can OD on this?” She sounded unconvinced.

“It’s possible. The cough syrup is prescription strength, which can result in an opiate overdose, and if it was mixed with whatever was in the pill bottle… Well, I’m not ruling it out.”

Terri stood with her hands on her hips. “So let me get this straight… This guy offed himself with pills and a gangland party punch?”

Her skepticism wasn’t lost on Jon. “Who am I to judge the method some slimeball uses to save John Q Public a lot of money on room and board for twenty-five-to-life?”

The debate regarding quality suicide was interrupted by a call from the rest of the team. “Hey, over here.”

They headed back to where Erland and Ostlund were processing the body. Truman was beginning to bloat in the heat and they needed to get him into a cooler ASAP.

Erland handed Jon a small envelope. He opened it and tipped out the contents into his gloved hand. A Polaroid of a murder scene and a folded piece of paper.

Terri crowded in next to him. The vic was female and there were some words carved into her stomach. It was hard to make out because the photo wasn’t a close up but it looked like
“Fin”
was cut into her flesh. Jon unfolded the paper. Inside was a pencil sketch matching the photo along with a sentence written beneath it, the sweeping strokes penned in black ink:

The struggle for the purity of art cannot compare to the struggle for its inspiration.

“Fin? What the fuck is that?”

“It means the end,” said Terri. “Think French artsy films.”

“First you’re the rookie whisperer, now you’re bilingual?”

“
Please
. Carrie Ann and I happen to like foreign movies.”

So this was how Truman Perry said farewell?

It looked like Perry killed himself to avoid having to go to trial. And as nice as it would be to have their only suspect deliver himself gift wrapped, Jon had a feeling this was too good to be true.