Strip Search (23 page)

“Promise?”

“Swear to God and hope to die.”

“Could I—Can—Maybe—Can I wait outside in your car?”

“Oh…. I suppose. But keep your head down. Especially if your father shows up. As soon as I know something, I’ll come tell you.” And I meant it.

That’s what we keep hoping you’ll tell us.

But…first maybe I’d stop for gas, maybe a vanilla Coke. Anything to wash a pill down. No way I could face this without a triple dose. At least. And as I swallowed the pill, I tried not to think about the fact that I was getting dangerously near the bottom of Amelia’s bottle. I didn’t know how I could survive without this stuff.

“ALL TAKEN CARE OF?” Esther asked him, as she slid the key into the lock.

“Perfect. No problems. This was an easy one.”

“Thank goodness.”

“From now on, I think we should leave all the bodies at places that don’t have people swarmin’ around. Makes it a lot easier.”

“Unfortunately, that choice is not for us to make.”

She pushed open the door and entered the deserted office. The cluttered cubicles, the desks stacked high with paperwork, the flickering image of computer screen savers, all gave notice that this was a busy office during the day. But now, in the dead of the night, they had it to themselves.

“This computer seems to be operational,” Esther said, as she slid into one of the barely functional chairs in a tiny cubicle.

“Why do you use a different one each time?”

“Just to be cautious. Computers leave a trail that can be followed. If someone knows where to look.” She punched a few keys and brought up a large database formatted in Microsoft Excel with the speed of someone who had done this many times. “And now, to determine who comes next.”

“I brought the calculator,” Tucker said.

“You’re a dear. But let me see if I can do without.” She mentally processed the calculation, entered the variables. Once she had a list of names, she ran them through the numerology algorithm she had devised herself. And a few minutes later, she had a name.

“Did I get it right?” she asked.

Tucker had been using the calculator to check her work, hovering over her shoulder. “Perfectly. You’re a perfect woman. You make me wanna—”

“Yes, yes, we’ll talk about that later. For now, let’s keep our focus on the matter at hand. See who this person is.”

A few more keystrokes and she had a picture with a condensed biography.

She let out a slow whistle. “Tucker—do you know who that is?”

“Nah. Should I?”

She smiled to herself. “I suppose not. Joshua Brazee is one of the most successful performers in Vegas. He headlines at the Florence. I wonder what he did.” A few more keystrokes, then she scanned the screen that appeared. “It seems even fame and fortune cannot immunize you from…cruelty. The sin of ingratitude. This will be a pleasure. A difficult operation, to be sure. But a pleasure. I don’t know any situation that better could have served our purpose.” She blanked the screen, then turned to face her accomplice. “I know this must all seem random to you, Tucker, but I have a strong feeling that our destiny is somehow…being guided.”

“You’re my guide.”

“I know. But there’s more to it than that.”

“The numbers?”

“Indeed. The numbers. With a consciousness of their own.” She printed out the essential information, then tucked it into her pocket. “Come, Tucker. This will require a lot of preparation. The next prime is tomorrow.”

“Whatever you say. Whatever you say.” Like an obedient puppy, he followed her, careful not to make any unnecessary sound, as they left the office and closed the door behind them. The door that read, in large black stenciled letters: DEPARTMENT OF HUMAN SERVICES.

I DON’T KNOW—MAYBE I’ve watched too many episodes of
Boston Legal.
I just expected to find something a little snazzier when I stepped onto the sixteenth floor of one of the highest of high-rises in downtown Vegas and entered the front offices of Hucalak & Llewellyn, a top Vegas law firm. Instead, I found a lobby that looked as if Godzilla had used it for a piñata. The front window by the door had been smashed; shattered glass lay all over the floor. Chairs were upended; files were strewn everywhere. Almost every piece of furniture had been dented or damaged in one way or another. But the worst was the receptionist’s desk. It had a huge gash in the outside right corner; unless I was very much mistaken, the signature of the executioner’s axe. Attached to the leg of the desk, a dangling pair of handcuffs. And attached to the other end of the handcuffs—a severed arm, surrounded by a pool of blood.

“What the hell happened in here?” I asked Granger, who as usual, was standing around the crime scene “supervising.” I guess once you’re promoted to head of the detective squad you can let your minions do all the work.

“That’s what we were hoping—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” I scanned the room, standing on tiptoes so I could see over the heads of all the criminalists buzzing around the premises. “Cause of death?”

“No official word. But look.” He pointed to the immense stain on the carpet. “Rennard tells me there’s maybe seven pints of blood on the floor. And the average joe only has ten to twelve.”

He bled to death. Swell. “When did it happen?”

“Last night.”

“I saw a security desk downstairs. Have you checked the Admit list?”

“We will. But it looks as if the perp broke in.” He pointed to the glass shards by the door. “Shoved his hand through the tinted glass then opened the front door from the inside.”

I nodded. “Is there a head somewhere that goes with this arm?”

“Yes. But it isn’t here.”

“Then where—”

“Still attached to its neck. Got a call a minute ago, while we were waiting for you to show up. Found the body in a rock quarry about ten miles north of here.”

“And you’re sure it’s the right one?”

“Unless there are multiple corpses lying around town missing their left arm, yes. Think it’s the same killer?”

“Hard to say. The
modus operandi
—or rather—the
murderus operandi
—is somewhat different, cutting off an arm instead of the head or the face, but…” I paused. “Heave you heard whether the body was branded?”

Granger nodded. “Letter
C.
”

“Then it’s the same creep.”

I closed my eyes and let it all soak in. I didn’t know why the killer had taken the chance of coming to a high glitz palace like this, or why he took an arm instead of a head, or why he branded them, or really, anything else. But just the same…

“Any witnesses?”

“Sort of. A secretary was here. Karen Dutoi. Tried to shove him out of the way and make a run for it. He was too strong for her. She only saw him for an instant before he chloroformed her. Her description matches what we got from the parking lot attendant.” His eyes got all squinty, which I knew meant he was thinking, always a dangerous prospect. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What do you mean?” I said, arms akimbo. The best defense is a strong offense, right? So I tried to be seriously offensive. “There’s not a damn thing wrong with me, except that there’s some maniac running around hacking off people’s body parts for no apparent reason.”

“You sound…funny.”

“Are you going to start that crap again? Because I’ve had it up to here with these false accusations.”

“Did you hear that? ’Cause if you didn’t, I did.”

“Hear what?”

“There’s only one
s
in the middle of accusations. But you made it sound as if there were ten.”

“You’re full of it.”

“It’s not as if you don’t have a history.”

“I haven’t had a drink in months, asshole. This is just your way of trying to get me off the case.”

“No. This is just my way of protecting my investigation. But since I can’t fire you—not at this moment, anyway—why don’t you get to work?”

With pleasure. I pushed past him and scanned the room, trying to decide who I wanted to tackle first. I saw a sketch artist working with an elderly man—probably last night’s security man describing everyone he saw come into the building at or around the time of death. Kestner, the department’s accountant, was going over some ledgers; Granger was probably chasing the angle that the murder might relate to some financial impropriety. It didn’t. Crenshaw and a chemist I didn’t know were working over the glass shards by the front door while someone else sprayed for fingerprints. Spotted a CSI geologist scrutinizing a brownish stain on the floor; my guess was our killer still had mud on his shoes. Rennard, the serologist, was working on the copious bloodstain on the beige carpet. Everyone seemed to have something to do—everyone but me. My specialty was supposed to be the criminal’s mind. Pity he didn’t leave it behind for me to examine.

I decided to start with Crenshaw. He’d never failed me in the past. “Anything of interest, Tony?”

“What have I taught you, Susan? At a crime scene, everything is of interest.”

“Yeah, yeah, but—”

“Have you met Sean Latham? He’s a chemist. Specializes in glass.”

He was a short man, bespectacled, slightly balding, toothy smile. Reminded me of Wally Cox. “Nice to meet you, Sean. What can you tell me about the glass?”

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. Did I make him nervous? I seemed to have that effect on people sometimes. I have no idea why. “Glass is actually not a solid but a liquid that has been cooled to such a degree that it solidifies and is held together between two outer layers. That’s why it breaks so easily.”

I saw Tony behind him, grinning. “That’s fascinating, but what I really meant was—what can you tell me about the glass in this room?”

“I am telling you about the glass in this room. Like all glass, it breaks in a predictable manner. Every shard from a broken pane will have the same intrinsic properties as every other piece.”

“I still don’t see—”

Tony decided to be merciful. “Tell her about the hackle and rib marks,” he said, cutting in.

“Oh, that.” Latham cleared his throat again. “Those are the fracture marks—envision them as strands in a spider’s web, if you will. By studying them, we can tell whether the glass was broken from the inside or the outside.”

“And here?”

“The glass was broken from the inside.”

“The inside? But then shouldn’t the glass shards be on the outside?”

“Yes. And since they aren’t—”

“We know our killer isn’t an idiot. He moved them.”

“Bingo.”

“But how does that help us?”

“Two ways. We can dust the glass shards for prints—although I’ll admit that’s a long shot. More important, if you bring us a subject, and we find a trace of glass caught in the cuff of his pant or the sleeve of his shirt—”

“We can prove he’s the one who broke the window! Because every shard of glass from a broken pane has the same properties as all the others.”

Latham glanced at Crenshaw. “You were right. She is smarter than Granger gives her credit for.”

“What?”

IN THE MANY YEARS I’ve worked with the LVPD, I’ve seen a lot of strange stuff. Worse, I’ve seen my friend Amelia do a lot of strange stuff. Hunched on all fours over tire tracks. Testing a footprint for silica content with her tongue. And most recently, trying to lift a mathematical equation off a cookstove. But somehow, none of that prepared me for finding her spread-eagled and pressed flat against the wall, her head turned to one side. Like she was listening to the walls. While under arrest.

“Please tell me you don’t hear rats,” I said. “Because, tough girl though I am, if this place has rats, I’m outta here.”

I saw Amelia smile—okay, it was more like a twitch, because her face was pressed up against the wall so she had the look of an astronaut traveling at several Gs, but still, I felt certain she appreciated my humor. “I’m not listening,” she said, out of the corner of her mouth. “I’m experimenting.”

Okay, I’ll bite. “You’re…trying to find out if hugging a wall can substitute for hugging a man.”

“No fair bringing my abysmal love life into this.” She stepped away from the wall, then shined an infrared spectrometer on the spot where the side of her face had been. “Voilà!”

“Should I be impressed?”

“No. My ear is impressed.”

“Your…Okay, like, I have a master’s degree, but I’m just going to be bold and admit that I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“My ear left an impression. And it only took about a minute. See?” She pointed to a spot on the wall about five feet up and, sure enough, under the glow of the light, I could see faint traces of the outline of Amelia’s ear. “The skin covering the cartilage of the ear secretes just like fingertips. And the shape of each person’s ear is distinctive.”

“You’re making this up.”

“I’m not. In 1999, a Washington State D.A. got a conviction based on an earprint. I’m not saying they’re as good as dactylograms—” She hesitated. “—that means fingerprints—”

“I know what dactylograms are!” But only because Tony frequently reminds me.

“—but they’re more than good enough to confirm a potential suspect’s identity.”

“If you have an earprint. So I’m hoping we do.”

“We do.” She walked me around to the wall on the opposite side of the dividing corridor. It was basically the same as the other—same surface, same paint. She shined her little light and, sure enough: earprint. “It’s going to be tricky lifting this off the wall. There’s a conflict among authorities as to the best procedure. But I’ll get it for you.”

“It’s probably the victim.”

“I think not. One of the officers who found the body photographed the ear and faxed it to me. They look very different. Doesn’t match the secretary, either. I believe we have the killer’s ear.”

“But why would the killer press his ear against the wall?”

“He wouldn’t. My guess is it happened when the secretary gave him a shove and made a break for it. Bad guy gets flung against the wall, leaves aural impression.”

“But he wouldn’t have been there for a full minute.”

“No, but he would’ve hit the wall with great force. That makes the difference. Look.” She pointed toward the earprint. “You can even see a slight depression in the wall. He hit it hard.”