The Beast (40 page)

“Okay,” Decker said. “Fill me in.”

They did. As Marge and Oliver ran down the interview, Decker ate, nodded, and took notes. After answering all of Decker’s questions,
the recap took a half hour. When it was over, Decker had a monster headache. He popped another two Advil on top of the two that he had taken just two hours ago. He regarded his scribbles. “So . . . as far as the murder goes . . . we have a secondhand account of what happened and we don’t even know if it’s true or not.” He rubbed his forehead. “Do you two believe him?”

“We were just talking about that,” Oliver said. “Once we get him to L.A., we’ll ask him to take a polygraph. If he passes, maybe we can get the DA to reduce some charges.”

“You didn’t book him for murder, right?”

“Right.”

“So you have him on tampering with evidence, destroying evidence, mutilation of a corpse. That’s serious stuff, but he didn’t hurt anyone. Bail’s not going to be set that high without a murder charge.”

“He dismembered a body,” Marge said. “We’ve got the yuck factor working for us.”

“If he has any spare change, he’ll make bond and be out in twenty-four hours,” Decker said. “What about Randi Miller? Have we started looking for her?”

“She’s not listed in the Missoula directory,” Oliver said.

“She hasn’t lived there in about fifteen years,” Marge said. “Havert says she
might
be there.”

“Is Randi Miller even her real name?” When Oliver shrugged, Decker said, “So we don’t know that, either. What about parents?”

“We don’t know her mom’s name—first or last,” Marge said. “If her mother’s last name is Miller, it means calling up a lot of people. I say we wait until the county records open up tomorrow and look up Randi Miller’s birth certificate. If one exists, we can find out her mother’s name.”

“Okay,” Decker said. “If we find Mom, maybe we can find Randi. Havert pointed the finger at her. Let’s give her a chance to point the finger at him.”

Domani came out of the kitchen and looked Decker up and down. “So you’re the boss?”

“In title only.” Decker smiled. “Everything was great. Thank you.”

“Ready for rice pudding?”

“I’m full,” Marge said.

“For fifty bucks you get dessert.”

When she left, Decker smiled. “You tipped her a fifty?”

“Including the food,” Marge told him. “It’s better than flushing it down the slots.”

“I suppose that’s true. You never answered my question. Do you think Havert’s telling the truth?”

“Yes,” Marge said.

“Mostly yes,” Oliver said.

“I think his answers are plausible.” Decker dry-washed his face. “We’ve got a real problem with the victim. I’m not saying anyone has a right to pop another person, but our victim is uniquely reprehensible. This case, no matter who’s guilty of what, will never go to trial.”

“You found blood in that Sabrina’s house?” Marge asked.

“There was a room as well as a closet that glowed electric blue. Penny did bad things there and probably to multiple women. Will and I went over some cold cases, specifically missing person cases that went back thirty years ago: a twenty-two-year-old waitress and a twenty-year-old part-time student at a community college. Then, after that, we went to UCSB police and asked about missing coeds. It took a while, but they found two cold cases of missing girls—one was eighteen and the other was nineteen. I’m grateful that this mess belongs to Will and not me. But all of us realize that we might have matches for some of the frozen fingers. And that would explain the lack of blood in the tissue, sitting in the deep freeze for a very long time.”

The table went quiet. Marge said, “Is Sabrina involved?”

“She knew that he took girls into that room but claims that she didn’t know what went on.”

“Do you believe her?” Oliver asked.

“I do. In my mind, she was more than happy to foist her monster husband onto someone else. I don’t think she knew about the murders, but it was clear that she didn’t ask any questions.”

“In all fairness, no one expects her husband to be a serial killer,” Marge said.

“Of course,” Decker said. “She was distraught about it. But she didn’t delve too deeply.”

“So . . .” Oliver tapped the table. “Do you want us to soldier on with the current investigation? I mean, like you said, it’s never going to go to trial. From what you just said about Penny, it buttresses Randi’s claim that it was self-defense.”

Decker said, “We’ve come this far, we’re going to see it to the end.”

Marge’s cell rang. “Don’t recognize the number.” She connected the line. “This is Sergeant Dunn.”

“Hi, it’s Mindy.”

It took about ten seconds for the name to register. “Oh, Mindy Martin from Sunset Strip. How are you doing, Mindy? Are you keeping out of trouble?”

“Never was in any trouble.”

“Good to hear. What’s going on?”

“I seen her.” A pause. “The lady you were looking for with the glove.”

“Fantastic, Mindy, good job.” Marge pushed the button to be on speakerphone. “Thanks for calling and helping us out. Where did you see her?” There was a delay. “Hello?”

“Yeah, I’m still here. You promised to give me something for being helpful.”

“That can be arranged, depending on how accurate the information,” Marge said. “I’m not in town right now. How about if we meet tomorrow night somewhere—”

“I don’t know if she’ll be there tomorrow night or the next night or the next. But I can tell you where I seen her if you pay me something.”

Marge said, “Let’s set up a time to talk. How about if we meet in front of The Snake Pit?”

“I’m not meeting a cop in front of The Snake Pit.”

“So tell me where.” A long pause. Marge said, “Mindy, I’m going to have to meet you in person to hand over any money. Pick a place.”

“Not The Snake Pit. How about where you picked me up?”

“That was around Sunset and Genesee, right?” Marge said. “What time?”

“How about nine? That’s
when
I saw her. But I’m not telling you
where
until we have a deal. So bring the cash, okay.”

“I get it, Mindy. I’ll have cash. Sunset and Genesee around nine tomorrow evening, okay?” When the line disconnected, Marge shrugged. “Looks like I’ll be going home tomorrow.”

“The gloved woman is Shady Lady?” Decker asked.

“Hopefully,” Marge said.

Decker said, “I’ll book an afternoon flight for both of you back to L.A. If Bruce Havert needs to come back to L.A.—which I doubt, without a murder charge—I’ll go with him. Let’s pack it up for the evening. Tomorrow morning see if you can’t get a bead on Randi Miller. Missoula’s not a tiny place, but it’s small enough for the police to know locals. If Randi did murder Penny, I want to hear about it from her, even if it was self-defense.”

“Got it,” Marge said. “So how much should I give Mindy Martin?”

“Twenty bucks maybe.”

“That’s lowball, Deck,” Oliver said. “You can’t even get a
hand job
for a twenty.”

“You’re not asking for a sex act, just for some information,” Decker said. “Do what you think you can get away with.”

“I’ll do my best,” Marge said. “Poor Willy. He’s got a lot ahead of him.”

“Thirty-five-year-old cold cases,” Oliver said. “He’ll be busy for a while.”

“He’s done his fair share of homicides,” Decker said. “He should be used to it.”

“Yeah, but he came to Santa Barbara to get away from big city crap.”

“The life of a cop,” Decker said. “You can run, but you cannot hide.”

A
FTER THREE HOURS
of searching, Marge called it quits. It was one in the morning and Shady Lady remained elusive. With a long day behind her and an even longer day ahead of her, Marge could barely keep her eyes open. Driving on a stretch of monotonous freeway, she stayed awake on residual adrenaline. Then the Bluetooth kicked in with Decker’s cell number on the screen of her console. She pushed the button to accept the call. “Thank you for waking me up.”

“Sorry. Are you in bed already?”

“No, I wasn’t being sarcastic, I’m grateful. I’ve been cruising Sunset Boulevard, fruitlessly looking for Shady Lady. Your voice is a shot of espresso. What’s up?”

“Just checking in. So Mindy Martin’s tip was bogus?”

“Maybe yes, maybe no. When Shady didn’t show, I called Mindy and told her to call me the next time she sees her. She said she would and we left it at that.”

“You believe her?”

“I remain hopelessly optimistic. Even if I’m disappointed, I refuse
to live any other way. The bigger issue is why we’re justifying Havert’s self-defense story by gathering evidence that shows Penny as a knife-wielding psycho.”

“Because Penny is a psycho. And if it was self-defense, I’m happy to set this unsavory cast of characters free—which we’ve essentially done with Havert.”

“Meaning?”

“Bail was set on the high side because Havert left L.A. in a hurry. But when he agreed to wear an ankle bracelet, the judge reduced the amount significantly. He’s back at work.”

“When was he released?”

“About six hours ago.”

“So you’re back in L.A.?”

“No, I’m in Bozeman, Montana, freezing my butt off.”

“Montana?” Marge sat up. “You found Randi Miller?”

“Yep. Your idea about locating her via county records was a good one. We located a birth certificate for Randela McMillan, who would be about thirty-two. We found the Social Security number, and once they matched, we made contact with the woman who was listed as Randela’s mom, who still lives in Missoula. Randi Miller is seventy-five miles southwest of Bozeman, closer to Yellowstone on the Montana side.”

“Here’s your chance to slip in a little R and R,” Marge said. “I, for one, have always wanted to see Old Faithful.”

“You and Rina both. But probably not in these precipitously low temperatures. I remember a friend of mine saying that Yellowstone has three seasons: July, August, and winter. You might want to wait until there is ground covering other than white.”

“When are you interviewing her?”

“I’m hitting the road at six to make it to her house at around eight. It’s highway driving, but because of all the snow and ice, I’ll allow a little more time.”

“And she agreed to talk to you?”

“I’m not going away, and she realizes that. If it was self-defense, she might want to tell her side of the story.”

“At least the air is good out there.”

“The air is cold, Margie. Very, very cold. But the elk aren’t complaining, so why should I?”

WITH SUNRISE STILL
an hour away, it was dark and the air was bitter. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to move, it hurt to sip coffee, which went from hot to tepid in a couple of toe taps. Decker had left L.A. without good cold weather gear. He had on several layers, including his bomber jacket, but he was sans gloves and hat. Every inch of exposed skin felt the burn. When he got into the rental, he turned on the motor and headlights and cranked up the heat and fan to the max: a big mistake, since the vents poured out frigid air, but within a few minutes, Decker was able to warm his stiff fingers.

A half hour later, the sky started to lighten until it burst with a dazzling display of pinks and violets and oranges that surged over the mountaintops and surrounded him like a ring of fire. In the daylight, everything seemed more positive. The empty roads and a white landscape were no longer foreboding. Instead, the stark beauty allowed a man to think.

Was Havert’s claim of self-defense valid and would forensics back it up?

Even if it wasn’t self-defense, what kind of convictions were they going to get on Havert and Miller if Penny was a serial killer?

Then again, what kind of guy would dismember another human being?

If Georgina was sliced up in that apartment, her DNA had to be somewhere. But there had been so much mess and blood that it had been impossible to know what samples to take.

And where was Georgie’s body?

Havert agreed to help officials look, but he wasn’t sure where they had buried her. Was it all a ruse?

Also, why didn’t any of the neighbors in the apartments surrounding Penny’s apartment hear gunshots? They needed to be reinterviewed.

And where were the weapons? No gun was found. And there was no good candidate for the blunt force object. If Randi Miller didn’t have the weapons, all sorts of possibilities opened up. If she did, and her story matched Havert’s rendition, then self-defense it was, and the case was closed.

Maybe.

THE BOUDOIR PICTURES
on the networking sites had showed a glamorous woman. Devoid of makeup and styled hair, and dressed in baggy jeans and a sweatshirt, Randi Miller looked plain with a hard-worn face. Blond hair was giving way to dark roots, her eyes were milky blue, and her pale lips had been stretched into a tight smile. Her sleeves were pushed up past her elbows, and her arms and wrists were straggly thin. She had tattoos on her neck and forearms. She offered him coffee. They both took it black. She cupped her hands around the mug for warmth. It wasn’t cold inside, but it was far from toasty.

The house was prefab—a trailer without the wheels—with a living room holding a single couch, a bunk bed tucked into a corner, and a kitchenette. The bathroom was behind a door. There was a propane heater doing its best against the outside elements.

“I wasn’t really running away.” Her voice was nasal and harkened Scandinavia. “I just needed to decompress. I woulda contacted the police eventually.”

Decker nodded.

She shook her head. “Asshole.”

“Who’s an asshole?” Decker asked.

“Penny. He was mean, but stupid mean. We woulda done anything he wanted, and he always had enough money to pay for whatever he wanted. It was like he
wanted
to shoot someone.”

Decker put his coffee cup down and took out a notepad. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

“I probably shouldn’t talk to you without a lawyer.”

“That’s certainly your right.”

“Am I under arrest?”

Decker sidestepped the question. “Bruce Havert told me some disturbing things, Randi. I’d like to hear what happened from your side before I do anything.”