The First Cut (9 page)

The realtor shook his head and smiled at something he saw there, as delighted as if he’d found an Easter egg in December.

This was officially creepy, Vining decided. She keyed her choker mike clipped to the front collar of her shirt and spoke quietly with her head bent close, broadcasting that she was okay, but to send nonemergency backup.

“One Lincoln twenty-one. I’m code four, but send me a back code two.”

With his thumb and forefinger, the realtor picked off a magnetized word and turned the printed side toward her. His eyes consumed her.

“Look.”

She couldn’t make out the word printed there. Her right hand was on the doorknob. She moved it to her sidearm.

“What do you want, sir?”

“Do you see this?” He was panting. Perspiration dotted his forehead and upper lip. “Officer Vining, I want you to see this.”

Hearing him say her name sent a chill down her spine. Her nametag was on her shirt. He must have read it, but she didn’t recall seeing him do that.

He walked toward her, holding out the magnet.

“Stay where you are.” She held her palm toward him and with her right hand pulled her Glock loose from its holster.

He complied.

Easy does it,
she thought.

The last time she was alone in a room with a man and had pulled her weapon, she’d shot that man to death. That was five years ago, but it seemed like yesterday. She had started this job wanting to help people. Most cops retire without ever firing their gun in the line of duty. She thought that would be her story. She already had the blood of one man on her hands. This was different, she told herself. He wasn’t dirty with weapons and his hands were in full view. Watch the hands. The hands could get you killed.

Easy does it. Everything’s fine.

A car that sounded like a PPD cruiser stopped in front of the house. By the slight incline of his head, Vining knew that the realtor had heard it, too.

He was ten feet away. The Police Academy instructors drilled in the twenty-foot rule, testing recruits by walking slightly within and beyond twenty feet of them, requiring salutes if closer than twenty and push-ups if the recruits misjudged. The size of the boundary became innate. It was critical. It could mean an officer’s life or death. The theory was that a suspect could run twenty feet and reach an officer by the time the officer could draw and use his weapon.

Without warning, the realtor ran toward her, yanking a six-inch utility knife from the wood block on the island. She pulled her gun. He slashed the back of her hand. She fired and missed. He jammed the knife into her neck. She discharged the gun again but he had his hand on the muzzle, directing it away from him.

Seconds passed. She felt each one. Her hand went to the knife in her neck. The heat of her blood startled her. While she wavered on her feet, he kept his hand on her gun. He looped the other around her waist, holding her up, pressing her against him. His face touched hers. He was breathing through his mouth. She felt his breath. It was fresh, smelling of mint. His eyes were bright, their pupils large. He didn’t move his intense gaze from her. He didn’t want to miss a thing. It was as if they were making love.

She heard the dispatcher nattering into her earphone. She dropped her hand to the choker mike but he pulled it away before she could key it.

Her earphone blasted three sharp tones. The sergeant had instructed dispatch to try to raise her.

There was knocking at the front door. A male voice yelled “Police!” Sirens approached.

The realtor blinked and sighed. Vining later decided he was wistful, as if taking leave of a lover whom he would never see again. She dropped to her knees, a posture of submission. At the sound of heavy, rapid footsteps across the hardwood floor, the realtor bolted away, tripping on her legs, then ran downstairs to the basement. They’d later learned he’d escaped through a basement door that led into the backyard, and then skirted through a hole he’d cut in the cedar plank fence that was hidden by thick shrubbery.

When the unwelcome image of his last longing look returned to her in nightmares, she felt she knew what he had been thinking. He was sad he wouldn’t be there to see her die.

There was shouting and cursing as officers overwhelmed the kitchen. They darted throughout the house and outside, lurching over her body that was facedown on the blood-slick floor. An officer kneeled beside her. She could tell he was trying to keep his panic under control as he gave instructions into his radio. His voice was familiar, but she couldn’t place it. Then she barely heard it. Then it didn’t matter. On the floor, her hand was near her neck. She opened her fingers to touch the steel blade jutting from her skin that seemed too accommodating of the intrusion. It was the most peculiar thing she’d ever felt.

Sergeant Early’s voice jolted her back to the present. “Nan, you’re entering this case with your objectivity already shot.”

She was right, but Vining wasn’t giving up that easily. She spun it.

“Sarge, all of us bring our pasts and attitudes to the job. No one is truly objective. No one is clean. That’s reality.”

“Okay. Since we’re being real, Kissick told me he believes you had a panic attack this morning. What should I know about that?”

She’d wondered when it would come up. “That was a blip. It didn’t affect my work.”

“What if it does the next time?”

“There won’t be a next time.” She hoped.

“And if there is?”

All the what ifs, Vining thought. The world was wringing its hands with what ifs. Vining had experienced her what if and it had washed away the hesitation from her life, like the incoming tide eroding a sand castle. Because she hesitated, T. B. Mann was free.

They were distracted by Kissick accompanying two men into the department.

Vining summed up her position. “Sergeant Early, you need me and I need to work this case.” Her demeanor dared her to say otherwise.

The sergeant slowly exhaled. “Go ahead into the conference room. I’ll be in shortly.”

Vining nodded and left.

She didn’t breathe a sigh of relief. Early wasn’t going to pull her off the case. Vining just had to wait until Early arrived at that conclusion herself. It was a different approach from the old Nan. Before, she would have been quietly but decidedly contentious. Never back down. Never let them see you sweat. It was one of the ways she tried to be as tough as the men. To prove her mettle. Who’s the most macho? She was Quick Draw. Poison Ivy, creeping up on everything she touched. Scratch it and make it worse.
Before.
Now she wasn’t breaking a sweat. She felt as if she’d slipped into her own skin and found she was just the right size. A perfect fit.

She could give T. B. Mann credit for that. He’d torn her down and rebuilt her. But now he’d have to deal with it.

She flashed back to the kitchen floor at 835 El Alisal Road. While chaos reigned around her, she pulled herself along the floor with her forearms, trailing a slick of blood. The officer assisting her tried to get her to stay still. They later told her she crawled six feet, entering the pantry’s open door. Her last thought before she went out was not of her daughter. Her life did not pass before her eyes. Her final memory was of what she saw in front of her in black and white. There on the tile floor was the tiny magnet that had flown from The Bad Man’s hand when he’d rushed her. On it was printed a single word: “pearl.”

E I G H T

V
INING HEARD KISSICK ON THE PHONE IN HIS CUBICLE AND SAW
Early making a call in her office. She took the opportunity to make a quick call herself. Emily had a half-day at school and Vining’s mom was to take her to the dentist, but another voice answered the phone.

“Hi, Granny,” said Vining. “How come you’re there? Where’s my mom?”

“She went to meet that man she’s been seeing. The one who works for Lockheed. One of the ones she met over the Internet.”

Vining grimaced. Her mother had been inconsistent help ever since she’d discovered Internet dating. Patsy Brightly had just turned fifty-one and had leaped on the search for husband number five as if she was driving on reserve. Patsy had retained the surname of her fourth husband, which she loved while she despised the man.

“She’s gonna get herself killed is what she’s gonna do. Taking up with strangers like that.”

“Let’s hope not.” Vining glanced at her watch. “How did the dentist go?”

“Dentist canceled. Your daughter talked me into taking her to Forest Lawn instead. She’s in the darkroom, developing pictures she took at a funeral there.”

Vining closed her eyes.

“Maybe you should speak to somebody about this hobby of hers. When she asked me did I want to see her photographs, I thought they’d be of her school friends and such. But no. She’s got corpses, caskets, graveyards, haunted houses, things she calls swirls and orbs and I don’t know what all. Nanette, I tell you. It’s not healthy. When I was her age, I was at the soda shop flirting with the boys.”

Vining adored her grandmother, who had been her one source of stability when she had been growing up, but the old woman was a wellspring of advice that she freely distributed whether invited or not. “Emily’s fine, Granny. She’s just working out her fears about what happened to me.”

In truth, Vining also didn’t care for her daughter’s new hobby, but she and Em always presented a united front to the world, especially to other family members. Emily’s fascination with the dead, dying, and paranormal began after Vining’s attack. It hadn’t abated. Vining felt responsible and regretted describing her near-death experience to her daughter. Vining didn’t think it was that big a deal, but for Emily, it had profound meaning. She claimed it confirmed the existence of a netherworld that sometimes pierces the veil of our everyday existence. The girl was convinced that if we paid close enough attention and had the right equipment, we could catch glimpses of it. She spent her allowance and the money she earned babysitting on materials to assist her in ghost hunting: electromagnetic detectors, black lights, audio equipment, cameras, and other paraphernalia. She belonged to a local ghost-hunting club, but had distanced herself from the group, feeling they patronized her.

Emily was a great kid. She was smart and kind. She didn’t drink, take drugs, or lie to her mother. She liked being one of the brainy students at school and had a small circle of close friends. As she was quick to point out, geeks had never been more fashionable. Other than anxiety about T. B. Mann, which Vining couldn’t fault because she shared it, Emily was a happy child and Vining was proud of her.

“Granny, can you stay with her until I get home? I might be late. Real late. I know Em can stay by herself, but…”

“You just found a murder victim.”

“Yeah. I’d feel better if Emily wasn’t alone.”

“Happy to do it. We’ll get Chinese takeout and I’ll watch my shows. When you’ve gotta work, you’ve gotta work.”

“Thanks.”

“Is it that policewoman who was missing? Guess you can’t talk about it.”

“That’s what they’re saying on the news?”

“It’s all over the news. Someone from the Pasadena Police came out and talked to the reporters on the front steps of the station. Dark hair. Handsome man.”

“Lieutenant Beltran. He handles the media. What did he say?”

“Buncha nothing.”

“Good.”

“Here’s our girl.”

Emily took the phone. “Hi, Mom. You found Frankie Lynde.”

“It’s not official.”

“After they clear the scene, can I check it out?”

“Emily, it’s a crime scene.”

“But after they clear it. You can’t keep people out of there forever. It’s in the open. Come on, Mom. Please. Before it gets ruined.”

Her daughter was as stubborn as Vining. “Em, a woman was murdered.”

“I’m not making fun. I’m doing serious work. If T. B. Mann killed her, I might find out something to help you.”

“There’s no relationship between the crimes.”

“You really don’t think so?”

Vining lied. “No.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Good, because it means he’s not around here.”

“Okay. So can I go there? Please.”

“I’ll take you if I don’t get home too late. You can look from the edge. Don’t even think about asking your grandmother to take you. You hear me?”

Vining saw Kissick and Early head for the conference room. “Gotta go. Don’t know when I’ll be home. I’ve got my cell on.”

“How are you, Mom?”

“I’m okay.”

“You sound tired.”

“I’m fine.”

Vining entered the conference room and sat in a chair near the head of a long table. Whiteboards and large maps of Pasadena and its environs were on the walls.

Kissick made the introductions. “Detective Sergeant Kendra Early, Corporal Nan Vining, Corporal Tony Ruiz, this is Detective Steve Schuyler. He’s been handling Frankie Lynde’s missing person case.”

Vining shook his hand. He was slightly overweight with thick blond hair and boyish looks. He didn’t give any indication that he remembered Vining’s phone call to him while she was on leave. A large cardboard box was on the table in front of him.

“And this is Lieutenant Kendall Moore from the Robbery Homicide Division.” Kissick let a hint of sarcasm creep into his voice. LAPD’s Robbery Homicide was the department’s elite investigative unit. The LAPD had dispatched one of their finest. It suggested that they didn’t think the Pasadena Police Department was up to investigating the murder of one of LAPD’s own.

Lieutenant Moore was in his forties, tall and lanky. He looked as if he’d played sports in school and still carried a jock’s chip on his shoulder, telegraphing to all that he could kick the butt of anyone in the house. He was handsome enough and could probably be charming enough to make it work for him. A spattering of old acne scars on his cheeks and dark circles beneath his eyes gave him a battle-worn, world-weary look that undercut the golden-boy aura. He reached to shake hands across the table.

Early began. “This is a sad day, especially for our family at the PPD.”

Moore leaned his forearms on the table and clasped his hands as if preparing to pray. “I stopped at the location by the bridge on the way over.” His voice was raspy. He lowered his eyes and exhaled. “Throwing her down the hill like that. Like a bag of garbage.”