The Book Club Murders (6 page)

“I'll call him, I promise.”

“Now. This.” Bobby indicated the screen again. “Filth.” He pronounced it “furth,” but she got the point. She couldn't agree more.

“I'll call him now.” She sighed. Not really on her list of things to do tonight, but her father was right. She hoped there was a huge penalty for whoever posted it. How had he gotten in there to film it, anyway? Didn't the police secure crime scenes?

She considered briefly before punching in the number. This was, after all, official police business. She asked the dispatcher to connect her to Marc's voicemail. She left a hurried message and clicked off, relieved that she hadn't actually had to speak to him. Honestly, one encounter per day was all she could take.

Marc thrashed violently awake. He was bathed in sweat, legs tangled in the sheets, his heart pounding from a nightmare about unblinking gray eyes and a steaming, stinking jungle.

He swung his feet to the floor, struggling to regain his equilibrium. Jesus, he was shaking. He hadn't had a nightmare since he was a boy. Serena's murder must have rattled him more than he'd realized. Either that, or after eighteen months in this backwater he was losing his edge.

He staggered downstairs in his boxers, his lean, muscled body bathed in the thin blue light of daybreak. He stared blankly around his crappy kitchen in the crappy two-bedroom house he slept in when he wasn't working. To his left, the dining area was half full of boxes he'd never bothered to unpack. The living room contained a saltwater aquarium, his prized leather sofa from college, an impressive collection of classic rock vinyl LPs, and a brand-new 46-inch flat-screen TV. His 12-string acoustic guitar, untouched since his mother's death, collected dust in a corner.

A stingy window overlooked a neglected backyard and detached two-car garage. The garage had convinced him to buy this dump. That, and the fact that the house was “move-in ready.” Realtors. He certainly could have afforded better. Much, much better.

He wandered into the living room and picked up the file he'd brought home last night. Serena's autopsy results hadn't made very good bedtime reading.

No
wonder I'm
having nightmares
.

He'd practically memorized the contents, trying to make sense of the coroner's findings. Cause of death hadn't been suffocation, but poison. Labs confirmed a lethal dose of pentobarbital. Death would have occurred within minutes. Marc tried not to imagine Serena's final moments down on that trail.

Since she hadn't suffocated, why had the killer put that bag over her head?

One detail that actually answered more questions than it raised was the pair of tiny burn marks on the back of the neck. Serena had been zapped with some type of stunner.

The crime scene techs hadn't been able to find any blood trace from the wound on her temple at the underpass, along the trail, or anywhere around the lot that would help to pinpoint where she'd been attacked. The coroner confirmed that the wound was premortem, so Serena had bled
somewhere.
Thanks to Wednesday afternoon's torrential rain, the odds of finding the spot had shrunk from slim to none. It was possible the killer had forced her to march along that trail before taking her down, but Marc didn't think so.

Paul had agreed with him. “Too much risk of discovery. Nearly seventy people ate dinner there that night. That's a lot of foot traffic. All she had to do was scream.”

“The Serena I remember would never have gone quietly. Not if she had a choice,” Marc decided. “The killer used a stunner to subdue her first, then carried her down the trail.” What he didn't yet know was why.

Marc dropped the file on his coffee table. One thing was certain: He wouldn't catch Serena's killer by standing around in his underwear. He headed for the shower, taking the stairs two at a time.

Twenty minutes later he entered the squad room. Paul glanced up from his computer. “You look like crap.”

“Go to hell.” A light on his desk extension blinked, indicating voicemail. Marc punched the button, frowning as he listened to the message.

“Damn it. Paul, are you online?”

“Yup, why?”

“Go to YouTube. Search ‘Oakwood Murder Hot Stuff.' Somebody filmed our DB yesterday, right under our goddamn noses, and then posted it on the Internet.” He fumed. “Sometimes I hate technology.”

“Blame Al Gore. You ask me, we were doing just fine with stone tablets and candlelight.” Paul peered at his computer. “Hey, I look good. Now, you…Oh, hell, pard. Take a gander.”

Marc watched over Paul's shoulder as he hit the replay button.

The screen went black, and then the video opened with a shot of the group on the bridge, the camera work shaky. Marc watched in dismay as the scene panned across the face of the tunnel and down to the trail, focusing on the naked corpse at the bottom.

“Holy shit. Where was this guy? How come nobody saw him?”

Paul clicked again, restarted the clip, and then hit the pause button. “Look at the angle. Whoever's holding that camera is below the guardrail.” He pushed play, and they watched the clip through to the end. “He had to be lying down next to the retaining wall, and just held the camera up and sorta pointed it around. Probably some kid with a cellphone.” He indicated a data block just below the video window. “One thousand, two hundred forty-two people have already viewed this thing. Isn't that just great.”

“I'm calling Zehring.” The video had to be pulled pronto. Command level and the lawyers handled this stuff, thank God. Criminal charges would likely be brought in the unlikely event they identified the culprit. Marc was no expert, but he figured that video probably violated half a dozen FCC regulations.

The Chief was supremely pissed, though fortunately not at him. He promised to handle it, then growled a reminder to keep him updated on the case. “Don't let this distract you, Detective,” he ordered. “It's unlikely your killer hung around until the cops showed up before filming his handiwork.”

Good point.
Marc hung up the phone, hesitated, then grabbed his cell and dialed. She answered on the third ring.

“Good morning, Charley. It's Marc,” he added unnecessarily.

“I know.” Her voice sounded small and tired.

“Are you okay? You sound…sort of down.” Marc paced over to the window. It provided a view of the Safety Building's front lawn, as well as the row of small businesses across Park Avenue. Paul began opening and closing desk drawers with gusto.

“I didn't sleep much last night. Did you get my message?”

“That's why I called. To say thank you, on behalf of the department”—Detective Trenault, Master of the Personal Touch—“and to tell you it's being taken care of.” Detective Trenault, Protector of the Innocent.

“When I saw…I mean, I didn't know. Did she, was she…raped?” The last word was a strained whisper.

He felt the familiar tightening in his chest. “No, Charley. The lab confirmed no sexual assault. I can see why you might think that.” He hesitated. “I'm so sorry you had to see it at all. The video will be removed, and whoever is responsible will be punished.”

“Oh, that's good. Not good, but—I guess even horrible things can always be worse.”

“Don't dwell on it,” Marc said firmly. “We're going to find whoever did this, I promise.” Another drawer slam boomed like a cannon.

“I suppose now you'll have to deal with the vultures, trying to sneak down there to take their own pictures and get their sick thrills. Like the police don't have enough to do.”

“They're free to go down there, but they won't see anything,” Marc said. “The scene has been released.”

“Really?” Silence. “How…efficient. Thanks for calling.” She clicked off.

Marc stared at his phone, wondering for the hundredth time why every conversation with Charley left him feeling like he'd just told her there was no Santa Claus.

He turned from the window to see Paul leaning back in his chair, hands folded over his belly, gazing thoughtfully at the acoustic ceiling tiles. “What?”

“You need to sort out your issues with that girl.”

“What issues?”

“Unfinished business, family drama, whatever. It's written all over your face whenever you talk to her. Focus, Grasshopper.”

“I am focused,” Marc protested as Paul led the way out of the squad room, shaking his head.
Crap.
Paul's insights could be annoyingly accurate. Fortunately, any peripheral involvement Charley Carpenter may have had with this case was now over.

“Tell me again why we're trespassing at a crime scene?” Frankie demanded.

“It's not trespassing. Marc says the police released it already.”

“Then why is the trail still taped off?”

“Wait here.” The easement started at the edge of the parking lot, plunging into a dense, green tunnel. Ducking under the yellow crime scene tape, Charley paced slowly down the trail. In four or five strides she was completely hidden from Frankie's line of sight where she stood in the middle of the lot.

“He didn't have to get her very far to be out of view of potential witnesses,” Charley mused as she made her way back to the trailhead.

Frankie huffed in resignation. “We are going to get arrested.” She walked over to Charley. “Her Miata was parked over there?” Together they stared across the parking lot toward the rear of Carmel's. At this mid-morning hour, besides Frankie's white BMW, there were only two other cars. They were both parked near the Dumpsters, probably belonging to employees.

“This place is packed seven nights a week. Why not grab a girl from a car closer to the trail? Why take someone who had to cross the entire lot, in full view of dozens of cars?”

Frankie said softly, “Because he didn't just want a girl. He wanted
Serena.
”

Charley nodded. “I'll bet she knew her killer. Serena was no fool. A woman alone in a dark parking lot? Someone she knew, or expected to see, lured her over here.” She started walking.

“Where are we going?” Frankie demanded nervously.

“Relax,” Charley said with more confidence than she was feeling. “Marc says it's all cleaned up. And I just…I need to see it, okay? I need to exorcise that video. I didn't sleep a wink last night.”

“ ‘Marc says,' ‘Marc says,' ” Frankie muttered. “Fine. Let's get it over with.”

They reached the underpass in less than ten minutes. A car hissed by on the road above. Crime scene tape fluttered at the top of the slope and around the underpass. Both women gazed somberly at the spot where the mattress had lain in the video.

“Good thing they picked everything up before the rainstorm,” Charley observed. “Anything they didn't collect was probably washed away.”

“This trail hasn't looked this good since the last Boy Scout cleanup day.” The area was devoid of litter. Frankie scanned the hillside. “I guess the sick SOB who made that movie hid up there, behind that bush.”

“Wonder if they found her clothes down here.” Charley peeked inside the culvert. “Yuck. It smells like bat piss.”

“I will never, never, ever run down here again, my solemn oath.” Frankie shivered. “Can we go? All this nature is giving me the creeps.”

With the passing of the storm, the weather felt like autumn again. Thursday had dawned crisp and breezy, the sky a brilliant, cloudless blue. As they emerged into the sunlight, Charley breathed deeply. Frankie wasn't the only one feeling creeped out.

What the hell was she doing here? What had she hoped to find? Peace of mind? A clue to Serena's killer? What a joke. She wondered again how Marc could do this every day. Maybe it was different when it was someone you knew.

Maybe it was a hundred times worse.

“Hey!” Frankie pointed. “I know him! He's not supposed to be smoking. Hey! Mikey Pringle! I'm talking to you!”

Before Charley could react, Frankie broke into a run, her apparent destination a startled-looking youth in grubby kitchen whites. He hurriedly tossed something away, but he was already doomed.

“What the heck, Mikey? You're trashing everything you gain when you smoke. John's going to be royally pissed.”

As Charley hurried to catch up, Mikey's suspiciously bloodshot eyes went wide with alarm, and she got the distinct impression he'd been smoking more than tobacco. He stared down at the tiny woman reading him the riot act, hands fisted on her hips, her own eyes alight with indignation. Her curly dark head barely came up to the middle of his chest. He looked terrified.

“Please don't tell Mr. Bright! I hardly smoke at all, I swear!”

“Friend of yours?” Charley smiled pleasantly at the boy.

“Mikey is a student in John's martial arts class,” Frankie explained. John Bright was one-quarter Vietnamese and, despite his successful law career, still taught a weekly class in the art of
Vo Binh Dinh
at the Oakwood Community Center. “I didn't realize you worked here,
or
that you were polluting the temple.”

“Give the kid a break.” Charley smiled again. “What do you do, Mikey? Are you a cook?”

“Dishwasher,” he corrected, shooting her a grateful smile. “And some prep when they need extra help. Prep cook up and quit last night. I guess being questioned by the cops scared him off.” He lowered his voice, glancing around. “I think he's an illegal, but you didn't hear it from me.”

“The cops?” Charley's mystery radar went on full alert, her earlier misgivings forgotten. “Did they question you, too?”

“Sure did. They showed all of us a picture of that lady who got murdered.” Mikey jerked his chin in the direction of the easement. “I saw you come out of there. Ladies, that trail's bad news. Kids are always sneaking in there to party, break shit, looking for a place to fuck—oh, um, sorry.” He blushed deeply.

“And smoke a little pot? That's something you know about, isn't it?” His mouth dropped open, and Charley pressed on. “I know the difference between tobacco and a joint, pal. Getting high in broad daylight? Not smart.”

“Unbelievable.” Frankie glared.

“Did you see Serena Tuesday night?” Charley pursued. “The lady who was killed?”

Mikey glanced toward the back entrance as if gauging his chances of escape. “How would I? I never go out into the dining room.”

“But you come out here, right? To get high? You could have seen her out here when she parked her car, or when she walked over to the trail.”

“I don't think so,” he said sullenly. “I don't even know what she drives.”

“Bright red Mazda Miata,” Frankie supplied. “It was parked right here. If you came out here to
smoke—
and please do not insult me by denying it—you had to have seen her car.”

“Well, sure, I saw the Miata. Very sweet.”

Charley and Frankie exchanged excited glances. “Did you see the driver? Serena Wyndham?”

“Nope. She was blond, right? In the picture those detectives were waving around, she had blond hair. The lady I saw was a brunette.”

There was a beat of stunned silence. “
What
lady?”

He shrugged. “Some lady was sitting in the Miata, messing with the glove box. That's why I noticed her. The light was on.”

Charley gaped at him. “What time was this? Did you see her face? Are you sure she had dark hair? What was she doing?”

“Whoa.” Mikey held up his hands. “One question at a time. I didn't see her face. She was leaning down, looking in the glove box. It's dark back here, so with that light on, yeah, definitely a brunette. She had a kind of straight thing going, you know? Straight bangs, straight dark haircut, like, straight across.” He drew a finger across his shoulder to indicate length.

“What time did you see her?” Charley asked again. Her pulse was racing.

“Maybe…nine? Nine-thirty?” Mikey considered. “Yeah, about then. It was after the dinner rush. I always grab a smoke before—uh, um.” He shot a guilty look at Frankie, who shook her head.

“Did you tell any of this to the police?”

“Nah. I didn't know that was her car until you told me.” He looked worried. “Am I in trouble? For, like, withholding evidence?”

“Did you do it deliberately?” Charley's cellphone rang. “I'm sure they'll—” She checked the display. “Crap. It's Deirdre.” There was only one reason her part-time clerk would call five minutes before she was supposed to open. Not for the first time, Charley wondered if hiring her hadn't created more problems than it solved.

“When are you going to dump that girl?” Frankie wondered. “She's such a load. Heddy thinks so, too.”

“But it wasn't deliberate,” Mikey said with a note of desperation. “I guess I could tell them now. What if I did that? Tried to explain? Asked for mercy?”

“What do you mean, tell them now?” Charley followed Mikey's gaze toward the entrance of the parking lot. An unmarked Ford was pulling in. Marc was behind the wheel, Paul Brixton seated beside him.
“Shit!”

She crouched swiftly behind Frankie's car, pulling her friend down beside her. She let Deirdre's call go to voicemail. “Not good, not good, not good,” she muttered.

Mikey dropped to his knees. “I'm going to jail,” he moaned.

“Shut up,” Frankie hissed. “No one's going to jail. We haven't done anything wrong.” She met Charley's gaze and nodded. Message sent and received. “Or, not very wrong. At least, not compared to a misdemeanor possession charge.” His eyes, already glassy with fear, nearly bugged out of his head.

“But it probably wouldn't look too good if the police knew you'd withheld vital evidence.” Charley kept her voice low. What a nightmare. She could only imagine Marc's reaction if he discovered her here. He'd practically had kittens when she'd merely driven through the parking lot yesterday. “You should let us pass the information along. Keep your name out of it. Like an anonymous tip.”

She peeked over the hood of Frankie's car and saw Marc standing just where she'd stood minutes before. Hands on hips, he stared toward the restaurant just as she'd done, measuring, considering. Even when it wasn't being directed at her, she felt his gaze like a physical force. Her face grew warm and she held her breath until he turned and disappeared into the trees, Paul trotting behind.

“You'd do that? Keep me out of it?” Mikey almost fainted with relief.

“Promise to quit smoking pot?” Frankie asked severely.

“Time to go,” Charley said. She hurried around to the passenger side while Frankie yanked the driver's door open.

“Promise. And you won't tell Mr. Bright?” He was so hopeful. It was cute.

“If I ever smell even a
trace
—”

“You won't!”

“All right, then. Our little secret.” Frankie closed the car door and threw the BMW into reverse.

Charley didn't relax until they were safely a few blocks away. “Haven't lost our touch.”

“We are ninjas.” The women bumped fists.

“Thank God Marc doesn't know what you drive. I wonder what they were doing.” Charley took out her cellphone to read an incoming text message.

“Probably the same thing we were doing.” Frankie glanced over. “You have to tell him, Charley.”

“I knew it.” Disgusted, Charley dropped her phone into her purse. “She's calling in sick. I can't open looking like this.” She sighed. “Opening late. I hate that.” She brightened. “Guess I'll have to postpone the thrill of having my head ripped off.”

“I don't think you should put off calling him. That woman probably had something to do with the murder. Just because you're afraid Marc's going to be pissed—”

“Screw you.” Charley flushed.
That's not what I'm afraid of.
“And for all we know, that woman has nothing to do with Serena's murder. We don't know when Serena died. Maybe she met her mystery date for drinks and got grabbed afterward.”

“Maybe.” Frankie didn't sound convinced.

Truth be told, Charley wasn't convinced either.