The Poisonous Ten (16 page)

“Sort of,” Tippin said. “But there’s more. Most of the pictures on this roll of film were of the Bollingers. A few were of you. Then there’s these three of some mysterious guy. Can’t tell who as they’re slightly out of focus.”

Everyone leaned in and looked at the three photos. They appeared to be of a young man, in his twenties or thirties, leaving an apartment. Parks would have guessed the area to be West Hollywood or around the UCLA campus. But there were no distinguishing landmarks in the picture to eliminate any of the possibilities.

“But we don’t know who this is or where this was taken,” Parks said.

“It’s Kyle Oni,” Tippin said.

“The baseball player?” Wilkes asked, leaning in closer to the photos. “Yeah, I guess it could be. It kinda looks like him.”

“Have you guys heard?” Tippin asked, looking around. “In the news this morning. About Kyle Oni?”

“We’ve kind of been focused on this,” Parks said, motioning to the murder board. “What happened?”

“Look,” Tippin said, punching away on his computer screen. Immediately the screen lit up with several online news blogs about Kyle Oni. Each one was accusing him of being caught with a gay lover.

“No, shit. He’s queer?” Wilkes asked.

“Hey,” Hardwick snapped. “What the hell does this have to do with anything? We don’t have time for gossip rags.”

“They’re accusing him of having stayed the night at a friend’s house several times over the past few weeks,” Tippin began explaining. “They have pictures—”

“What’s this have to do with us?” Parks said, interrupting him.

“Look,” Tippin said, pointing to the screen. He scrolled down and there were the pictures that were accusing baseball phenom Kyle Oni of having a gay lover. The same exact pictures that had been taken by Ian Harris. “You said this could all be about timing? What are the chances that the photos that were used to out Kyle Oni, and of a Palisades Poisoner victim, and of the lead investigator of the Palisades Poisoner case, all found together, taken by a victim of the Palisades Poisoner, is simply a coincidence?”

“Someone get a hold of Kyle Oni’s people,” Parks said. “We need to see him now. He either knows something, or he’s in danger.”

20

“Uh, sir,” Fairmont said, hovering near the hallway leading to the interview rooms. He had the look of both awe and tr
epidation upon his face. “They’re here.”

“Who?” Parks asked, looking up.

“Kyle Oni. And his manager and coach.”

“Where are they?”

“Interview room two.”

“Thanks,” Parks said, standing up and gathering his notes. He worked his way down the hallway, pausing at the door to interview room two then entered. 

“I hope you’ve found the son of a bitch who’s done this to my team,” shouted John Duran, coach of the Los Angeles Dodgers, as he walked right up and into Parks’s face. “Because if you haven’t and I do, then I swear to you—”

“Sir, let’s try and keep this as calm and civilized as poss
ible, okay?” Parks said looking from Duran to the other two men in the room.

“Kyle Oni is one of the hottest and most-sought-after players in the league,” began the other man who could only have been Oni’s manager. “He didn’t come cheap, but so far he’s paying off tenfold. Despite all of the off-field, behind-the-scenes, soap-opera drama occurring around the team for the past few seasons, attendance at Dodger stadium had risen
nine percent in Oni’s first year and another seven this past season. The owners are pleased with the numbers. As they should be. This is someone’s idea of a smear tactic, simply trying to ruin—”

Parks looked at the kid while his manager continued to ramble. The fact that Kyle Oni was only twenty-four, with model looks and a hard-toned physique that he didn’t mind showing off at the beaches for the paparazzi to snap photos of also didn’t hurt the press the team got. Nor did the fr
equent sightings of him at some of LA’s hippest new clubs and on the arms of Hollywood’s most-desired, up-and-coming actresses at their movie premieres. Oni had the makings of a superstar that was rarely seen in baseball players in this day and age.

“Again, I truly am sorry for what you’re going through right now,” Parks said, cutting the manager off. “Your life is your life. And it’s nobody else’s business. I wish I could do something about that for you but that’s not why I’ve called you in here.”

“What can we help you with?” Oni said, finally speaking. He had an innocent way about him. He was from a small town in northern Michigan and wasn’t yet used to all of the glitz and glamour of the big-city life, despite having lived here for two years already.

“There’s an ongoing investigation I’d like your help with. If you can. I have some photos I’d like you to take a look at,” Parks said, setting several photos down in front of Oni.
On each one was a different photo of a victim of the Palisades Poisoner. “Just let me know if you can identify any of these people.”

“I know this man,” Oni said pointing to the picture of Charles Wyler.

“You mean professionally?”

“Yes. I’ve never had personal contact with him, if that’s what you’re asking. Never had any professional contact with him either. Guy seemed like a snake.”

“No comment there. Thank you. Anyone else?”

“I’m sorry,” Oni said, shaking his head, seriously stud
ying the photos. The kid was still of a small town mind where the law was final and one did their civic when asked upon to do so. “None of them look remotely familiar. I’m sorry.”

“What’s this about?” Duran said, interrupting. “This should be about the man who’s ruined this young kid’s life. What are you going to do about that, huh? What’s all this bullshit matter? You should be out there trying to locate the man who—”

“While I personally find the events surrounding your client to be . . . disgusting, that’s not a legal matter I can deal with. I work homicide. But the man who took the photos we believe were used to out Mr. Oni is in fact dead,” Parks said, bluntly, nodding toward the photo of Ian Harris.

Parks stared at the kid, into his deep, lime-colored, cat-like eyes as he swiped a lock of midnight-black hair out of his face. The kid had clean, clear skin the likes of which
even Photoshop couldn’t improve upon for a magazine cover. Parks felt bad for him, but knew he had nothing to do with the Palisades Poisoner.

“What . . . what happ—” Oni said, barely audible.

“It’s still an ongoing investigation. I can’t go into details right now. I just needed to know if you knew any of these people. Had any association with any of them. The man’s name is Ian Harris. He at all remotely familiar to you?”

“If I’ve seen or met him before I have no honest recolle
ction of it,” Oni said. “I’m sorry.”

“No need, son.”

Oni continued to stare at the pictures, moving them about, studying them, putting the pieces together.

“You don’t suspect Kyle in that man’s murder do you?” Oni’s manager interrupted.

“No,” Parks admitted. “I should. He would be our prime suspect. But no I don’t believe he had anything to do with this man’s murder. Of course I can’t simply dismiss him because of my gut feeling. But he’s a pretty public figure. I’ve got my people searching into his whereabouts over the last few weeks. I’m sure they’ll have an alibi built for him by the end of the day. If not sooner.”

“How dare you!” shouted Oni’s manager as he jumped to his feet. “You have no right ambushing my client like that. This is a violation of privacy. We’re out of here.”

“We’ll sue if we have to,” Duran threatened. “This is on you guys. You think you can ambush us like this? Is that how the LAPD gets things done?”

“That is not what this is about,” Parks said, getting defe
nsive.

“Are all of these people dead?” Oni asked, looking at the rest of the pictures displayed out in front of him.

“They are.” Parks nodded. “This is a serious situation, Mr. Oni. I don’t believe you had anything to do with these people’s deaths. But if you’re not a suspect, then I am afraid it’s possible you might be a target.”              

Oni’s eyes widened in fear and he quickly looked to his manager and coach.

“This is outrageous,” Duran shouted. “How dare you? First you scare us with false allegations, then you threaten us? We will sue. We’ll take this whole damn department down, do you hear me? Come on, Kyle.” Duran got Oni to his feet and started for the door. “Do you hear me? You stay the hell away from our client.”

“We don’t know what the hell is going on around here,” Oni’s manager hissed, stopping Parks by the doorway. “But don’t think you’ve heard the last from us. You can expect to hear from our lawyers later today.”

“We can offer protection,” Parks offered.

“Stay the hell away from us,” Duran shouted over his shoulder, mumbling and cursing the entire way out of the station.

“Well that didn’t go so well,” Moore said, sneaking up behind Parks. “You want us to keep an eye on him?”

“There’s no real reason to,” Parks admitted.

“Other than your gut?”

“Yeah,” Parks said with a sigh. “Other than that.”

“And when has your gut ever led you astray?”

“They refused police protection,” Parks said. “There’s nothing we can do about Oni for now. Let’s just hope Oni isn’t next and catch this guy before he gets to anyone else.”

*                            *                            *

“Guess who has a brother?” Hardwick said, rather excitedly and almost sing-songy as she entered Parks’s office.  

“What is this? A new game?” Parks put down his phone, which he had been playing a game of some sort involving popping rows of bubbles and looked up at Hardwick. “Who?”

“Kozlov,” Hardwick said matter-of-factly. “Our favorite razor-wielding psychopath.”

“And?”

“And guess who was snuck into the country, illegally?” Parks stared at her, holding back a smile. “One Victor Ko
zlov.”

“Do we know where he is?”

“Let’s just say that Peter was the one with the brains. Victor’s been using his brother’s credit card to live on. Apparently he’s never heard of this thing called cash.” Parks stood abruptly. “Whoa there, cowboy. Remember, you are to have nothing to do with any of the Kozlovs. Peter. Victor. Natalie. Any of them. Alive or dead. We need this to go through.”

Parks stared at her, knowing she was right, and slowly, and against his wishes, sat back down.

“So what’s the plan?”

“The plan? The plan is to pick up Dumb Ass Number Two and hope he really is as stupid as he appears. We can then hope to either use him to convict his brother. Or if need be play brother against brother. Offer deals, see who wants to spend less time in prison, yadda, yadda.”

“You’d really offer up a deal to Peter Kozlov?”

“Fuck no,” Hardwick said, scrunching up her face in di
sgust. “But for starters it’s not my choice. The DA’s the man in charge of this one. And hell no, he has no desire in letting either of those two walk. Especially the child killer. How would that look to the voters? But neither Dumb Ass Number One or Dumb Ass Number Two need to know about that, now do they?”

“I suppose not,” Parks said, genuinely happy about the situation. They were finally closing in. He just wanted to be done with this whole mess.

“Besides, from what little we can tell, it seems Older Kozlov is somewhat protective of Younger Kozlov. Part of the reason he got him shipped over here to the good ol’ U.S. of A. was to both keep an eye on him and keep him away from the less desirables in Russia.”

“There are less desirables than Kozlov?”

Hardwick shrugged. “The world’s filled with all types. So, anyways, we’ll see what he has to say when we threaten to charge his brother as a co-conspirator in the death of children. Something tells me he won’t go for that. Might just break down and confess to everything. And if not, we can always threaten to deport his brother. If he wanted him over here bad enough we can hope he doesn’t want him over there even more. One can hope, right?”

“One can hope.” Parks doubted that would happen, but he had seen people in the same situation do stupider things for lesser reasons. You never did know. “You’ll keep me in the loop? As to what’s going on?”

“Like they could stop me if they tried,” Hardwick said with a wink as she left the room.

Parks could have sworn he saw a bounce in the woman’s step. Hell. He knew how she felt. And he couldn’t blame her.

21

It was the morning of the fifteenth, the third Thursday of September, and Parks and his team were no closer to finding their so-called poisoner than they’d been on the first day a
fter Allison Tisdale’s murder. Parks stood in front of the murder board, writing down information that he was sure led to nowhere and didn’t help them one little bit. They had added a second board, and at the rate they were going, he would soon need to add another one and move the whole case out onto the main floor. The problem right now was that he didn’t know what else to write. He tried to focus on what was important. His mind was sharp and clear, most likely thanks to the seven miles he had run that morning before arriving at the station. He had also managed to get in three cups of coffee and thirty minutes on the Babel puzzle that he was close to finishing. His mind felt clear and ready to absorb anything.

“What about the symbol?” Wilkes asked from his pos
ition on the edge of a desk.

“What about it?” Parks asked, somewhat frustrated.

“Do we know anything else about it? Was it found on Charles Wyler’s body? I mean, how could it be? He died in our custody. It isn’t like the killer could have snuck in there and carved it on him.”

“Best as we can tell, it’s still just the number ten.
We think it’s our best explanation—though we don’t know why. And no, it wasn’t carved into his body, but when we went through his personal effects, inside his wallet we found . . .” Parks pulled a plastic baggie with a business card in it off the murder board. Printed on the card was the symbol that had been found on each of the other bodies. “No prints on it. Professionally printed. The card itself and the ink are both being analyzed to see if we can track the job or purchaser, but so far nothing.”

“What about the location of the mark on the bodies? Does that have any significant meaning?”

“It might. Probably does since it’s been found in a different place on each victim. But as to what? So far we’ve got nothing. Still working on that.”

Jackie walked into the room with Tippin at her side, the two having just finished another checklist run through un
iversities and businesses that may have missing quantities of poisons reported.

“Find anything?” Parks asked.

“Nothing,” Jackie said. “No schools up and down the west coast or any businesses that may be housing any of the poisons used so far are reporting anything missing or stolen. But with the toxins being used to kill people, no one’s willing to admit they’re actually missing anything. Go figure.”

“Great,” Parks sighed. 

“But we got Milo here doing a little under-the-radar sneaking through online corporate files.” Jackie winked. “Maybe he’ll come up with something.”

Parks shook his head and held back a smile as Lewis Hayward and Cal Ramirez arrived to take over the next shift of mindless paper chasing from Rachel Moore and Jake Fairmont. All four sat at the table, each one surrounded by stacks of various papers.

“What the hell are they doing?” Wilkes asked, staring at his two men settling in.

“Going through phone calls we’ve been getting ever since Wyler’s death on Saturday,” Parks explained. “People are claiming to have seen the killer. To know the killer. To be the killer. People who claim they know something about the murders and whatnot. Mostly just rubbish.”

“Exactly. Sometimes it’s just people claiming to be the killer, even though they don’t know who the victims are or how many people have been killed,” Moore explained. “Luckily, for as much as the public is aware of what’s going on, they really don’t know anything. It’s making it that much easier to determine who’s full of it.”

“Right,” Fairmont added. “And sometimes it really is just rubbish. One guy called in, we think, to confess to killing another person then halfway through the recording just started spouting gibberish that made no sense about taking shits in May and whatnot.”

“Shits in May?” Wilkes practically groaned.

“May poop,” Fairmont said with a smile, looking back to
his papers, trying to hold back a laugh. “Or maybe it’s fly turds. Isn’t that a type of fly? The mayfly?”

“You’re an ass,” Moore said with a roll of her eyes.

“Wait,” Jackie shouted, causing most around her to jump. “What did he say exactly? May poop or maypop?

Fairmont made a face at Jackie as if she had lost her san
ity then began digging through his papers for the phone call. 

“Oh, uh . . . maypop, I guess.”

“Anything else besides maypop? What exactly did he say?” 

“He said . . . hold on, ‘I’ve gone and done it again.’ ‘Excuse me, sir?’ ‘I poisoned him.’ ‘Where are you calling from, sir?’ ‘Maracujo.’ ‘Excuse me?’ ‘Maypop.’ ‘I’m sorry, sir, but this is a police line. This is not the place for prank calls.’ ‘I’ve gone and done it again.’ ‘Done what, sir?’ And that’s it.”

“That’s it?” Parks asked.

“That’s it,” Fairmont confirmed.

“For starters, you said it wrong. It’s Maracuja. That’s our guy,” Jackie said. “When did that call come in?”

“About an hour or so ago,” Fairmont, said looking to Parks, confused.

“Why is that our guy?” Parks asked.

“Maypop. Maracuja.”

“What about them?”

“There’s also passion vine and apricot vine.”

“What are those?” 

“They’re all names for the passionflower.”

“What’s that?”

“A very deadly plant. I’m telling you, that’s our guy.”

“Where did that call originate from?”

Fairmont flipped the paper over and looked again. 

“Hollywood. The Roosevelt Hotel.”

*
                            *                            *

“We don’t even know who we’re looking for,” Fairmont said.

Parks ignored Fairmont and pulled off Hollywood Boulevard, south of the Hollywood and Highland shopping center, and up to the valet area of the Roosevelt Hotel.

“Checking out a 911 call,” Parks said to the valet, flas
hing his badge. He was immediately waved on to an area where he could temporarily leave his vehicle.

The Roosevelt Hotel was a twelve-story, Spanish-style hotel in the heart of Hollywood, built in the 1920s and named for the president. Famous for hosting the first Aca
demy Awards, it also housed several Hollywood stars, including Marilyn Monroe back when her career was just taking off. Though often just seen as an historic building, since its renovations in 2005 it had become more of a hot spot for the younger crowd. 

“There’s a callboard for the hotel,” Parks said to Fairmont as they exited the car. Wilkes and his two men pulled up and parked behind them. “Every call that’s placed from the hotel has to go through a switchboard. They can dial straight out,
but the hotel keeps track. I have Tippin trying to find out who placed a call at 9:33 a.m., the time our call was received.”

“Got it,” Tippin called out, trying to keep up with the rest of the team with his face down in his portable computer. Jackie kept pace with him, one hand on his shoulder, guiding him where to go so he wouldn’t have to stop researching. “Call came from Room 928.”

“Who’s it registered to?”

“A . . . uh . . . shit. It’s register to a Roy Hobbs.”

“Who’s that?” Fairmont asked.

“That means nothing to me,” Parks said. “Let’s get going.”

The group B-lined it for the front desk and Parks retrieved his identification and addressed the man behind the front counter.

“Can I help you, sir?” the man asked with a rather peppy smile. His nametag read Justin. He was in his early thirties, thin with sharp, angular features and a recently shaved head of reddish-brown hair that did nothing for his complexion. In a town so focused on looks and appearances, Parks wo
ndered how the kid had gotten a job that required him to be the face of a major hotel.   

“Yes,” Parks began. “I’m Detective Dave Parks. We have it under good authority that someone staying in this hotel may be in danger or possibly worse. We need to be taken to his room immediately.”

“Are you sure, sir? Nothing’s been reported.”

“Would you mind calling the room?”

“Not at all, sir. What room?”

“Nine twenty-eight.”

The desk clerk paused for a moment then picked up the phone and dialed the room number. Parks wondered about the man’s reaction to the room number. Who was Roy Hobbs? The name was familiar.

“There’s no answer,” the desk clerk replied hanging up the phone. “Would you like me to take you up there?”

“No,” Parks said. “Just the key. Thanks.”

The man was miffed but searched for a room key and handed it over.

“You don’t want me in that room,” Parks said, stopping the desk clerk. “Who is Roy Hobbs?”

The man paused, wondering how much he should say.

“Some of our clientele like to remain anonymous,” the desk clerk answered. “They use aliases.”

“So Roy Hobbs isn’t a real name? Who’s really staying in that room?”

“You have to realize we’re under the strictest of confidentiality—”

“Uh, Parks,” Tippin interrupted.

“—and that forbids us from simply giving out names—”

“What is it, Milo?” Parks asked.

“Roy Hobbs.”

“What about it?”

“It’s Robert Redford’s character’s name from
The Natural
. He’s a baseball player.”

“
Shit, you were right,” Wilkes hissed.

Parks spun on the desk clerk. “Is Kyle Oni in that room?”

“We’d lose business if we told people every person who stays here,” the desk clerk said, trying to stand his ground. 

“On second thought,” Parks added, “I don’t need you calling anyone about this. Come with us. Show us where this room is.” As they started for the elevators, Parks stopped Wilkes. “Two of you stay here in the lobby and keep an eye out. If for some reason this guy is still here, we need to make sure we have every angle covered.”

“I’ll stay with Ramirez. Take Hayward,” Wilkes agreed. “We know what to do.”

“Perfect. Thanks.”

The desk clerk led the group to the elevators, where a bell hop was waiting with the doors open to one of the cars. The entire team piled in, each appearing nervous and agitated.

“When did he check in?” Parks asked.

“Monday afternoon,” the clerk replied. “Said he couldn’t go home. What with what all happened to him in the news. Are you aware of what they’re saying?”

“So he checked in Monday afternoon?” Parks wasn’t i
nterested in answering any questions or letting any information the department may have had out into the world.

“Just after two in the afternoon actually.”

“Any complaints or visitors to his room since then?”

“No complaints. Just ordered room service. Other than that, only his agent and lawyer have been here to see him. No one else. There’s no one in any of the neighboring rooms either. He was specific about wanting privacy, and since we’re not overbooked . . .”

“All right,” Parks said as the doors chimed and opened up. “Where is it?”

“Down the hall,” the clerk pointed. “Near the end. On the right.”

“Okay. Hayward, stay here with him.” Parks nodded toward the desk clerk. “Keep him back. Make sure if anyone else pops out of their rooms to keep them inside. We don’t know what we’re dealing with. Guy may still be there, may be gone. We’re not sure what kind of poison we’re dealing with here either.”

“Yes, we are,” Jackie corrected him. “If he did use the passionflower, then we’ll all be fine. Just so long as we don’t touch it.”

“All right.” Parks said. “You hear that, everyone? Don’t touch anything. Everyone make sure you’re wearing gloves no matter what.”

Parks checked each member of his team to make sure they were all wearing their latex gloves, as he wanted no one to take any chances with this case.

“It might not even be our guy,” Moore whispered next to Parks.

“We had him in our interview room on Monday,” Parks
said, referring to Oni as if that said it all.

“Trust me,” Jackie said, shaking her head. “It’s him.”

“Let’s just check it out.” Parks reached for the door and knocked on it three times. “Kyle Oni? LAPD. Please open up.” After thirty seconds without a reply and hearing no movement, Parks knocked again, even louder, and stated his identity once more.

“All right,” Parks said, looking back at his team. “We’re going in. Everyone be ready. Hayward, notify me if you see anything suspicious.”

“Will do,” Hayward replied, wiping the sweat off his brow.

“You stay out here until we stabilize the room, unde
rstand?” Parks said, looking to Jackie. She was disappointed but understood and nodded. “Milo? You ready?”

Tippin nodded, somewhat shaken up but with his co
mputer put away and his gun drawn. To Parks he was like a kid with a water pistol. He wondered if it was the wisest choice to let him follow but knew this was what the kid was trained for.