The Poisonous Ten (4 page)

4

“I want to know everything there is to know about Allison Tisdale by the end of the day,” Parks ordered. “I want her background. Family. Work. We obviously know who her employer was, and judging by the kinds of places she was selling”—he waived his arms at the luxury of the house surrounding them—“she must have done fairly well for herself. But we need info on coworkers, her history with the company, where her office was . . . everything. Fairmont, I want you and Tippin to dig into her life. Find out what you can.”

“Wait, so who was she?” Tanaka asked, examining the body’s scalp.

“She’s the realtor for this residence,” Parks answered, removing his jacket.

“So that’s how the killer got access to the house,” Fai
rmont surmised.

“I would think so,” Parks agreed as he found a nearby o
fficer standing guard outside the room and tried to hand off his coat to be taken care of. The officer simply stared at Parks and refused to move. Parks stared back when the officer finally took the coat. Parks had a feeling he might never see the article of clothing again. “We find keys or anything on the body?”

“No keys. No wallet. No purse or any other forms of
identification,” Moore answered. “She’s wearing the dress, the shoes, and the necklace. That’s it. Nothing else.”

“But I did find these,” Tanaka said, holding up two small, plastic baggies, each one with a different pill in them. “Little yellow one is Percodan, and the white one is codeine.”

“Where were they?”

“She’s got two pockets on that dress. One on each side below where the purple marks are, almost as if they were leading to them.”

“Rachel,” Parks said. “Let’s find out if she was prescribed those medications. It’s odd that there would be one pill in each pocket.”

“I’ll run a tox on her blood to see if either is in her sy
stem,” Tanaka said as she put the pills away and went back to the body.

“I want to know when she was last seen and by whom. I want to know her every move up until she disappeared. And I want to know how long she’s been missing, if she’s been missing, and why no one reported it. Unless someone has.”

“On it,” Fairmont said.

“I want to know where she lived. If she lived with an
yone.” Parks knew most of his team was aware of what he wanted, but he wanted Tippin to know what was going on and what was coming next.  

“She worked out of an office on Wilshire in Beverly Hills,” Tippin called out.

Parks turned, somewhat surprised, to see his newest team member standing with an iPad that he had been using since he came back into the room.

“You got an address?” Parks asked, rolling back his sleeves.

“Yes,” Tippin answered. “And I pulled her DMV records too. Got her home address. She has a house in Beverly Hills not far from her office. And she’s . . . she’s married.”

Tippin looked up, suddenly concerned. They were going to have to do a next-of-kin notification.

“Go on,” Parks nudged.

He wouldn’t have Tippin anywhere near a NOK notific
ation on his first day. He hated them himself, an unfortunate part of the job, but a requirement none the less. And one that he preferred to take on himself as much as possible, sparing the members of his team the reactions that came with such an announcement. You never knew how someone would take the news concerning the loss of a loved one. Some cried. Some went into hysterics, going public with their turmoil, while others hid it for more private moments. Some masked the pain. Some tried and failed. Some didn’t know how to behave, as if years of watching scripted reactions on Law & Order had stilted their ability to react appropriately. Some were angry. Others relieved. Some even joyful. But no matter the relationship, everyone felt something.   

“Been married for about five years,” Tippin said as he went back to his computer and began punching at the screen. “Husband’s name is Douglas Tisdale. He’s a professor at
UCLA. Nothing stands out on his record. Few parking tickets, but that’s all. No complaints or reports filed against him. They make a decent living. Mostly from what she brings in.”

“How much?”

“I’ll have to pull records to know for sure, but based on an agent’s fee . . .” Tippin effortlessly moved his fingers around on his device. “The last three houses she sold were each worth five million. And seven mil. Three point two. Six point five. And so on.”

“Damn.” Fairmont whistled.

“Okay, good,” Parks said. “Rachel? Whadaya got?”

“So far? Nothing,” Moore said. “No trace evidence. No prints. Fibers. Hairs. Nothing.”

An officer stuck his head in the doorway to the room, looking as if he had something important to relay without wanting to become infected by whatever deadly contagion had been unleashed within the space.

“What is it, officer?” Parks asked.

“Did the door-to-door with all the neighbors. So far nobody’s seen anything of worth. Want us to give it a second try?”

“That’s okay. Wrap it up. We’ll come back to them if something comes up. Thanks.” The officer nodded and di
sappeared quicker than he had shown up. Parks signaled Tanaka and Jackie. “Is it okay if I leave you two ladies to keep at the body?”

“Oh, no. What will we ever do without a big, strong man
here to help us? Oh, maybe there’s a jar of pickles in the kitchen you can open for us or a car that needs its oil—We’ll be fine,” Tanaka said without looking up from the corpse in front of her. “We’ll be at least another half hour here. Then I’ll have the body moved. Luckily for you, with a poisonous agent introduced to the body—and therefore possibly to the rest of the city—it gets a high priority. City will push aside all other autopsies for this one. I’ll personally handle it myself. You should have a report on your desk by the end of the day. And that’s rushing it.”

“Pickles? Really? You better not be getting pregnant on me, Tanaka. Fairmont? You and Tippin go and check out Tisdale’s office. See what her co-workers have to say about her.”

“Will do, boss.” Fairmont nodded.

“Rachel, get Allison’s home address from Tippin and we’ll go notify the husband. Tippin? You wouldn’t happen to be able to see if the husband has classes today or if he might be at home?”

Tippin played around on his computer for a few more seconds.

“Fall quarter doesn’t begin until September sixteenth and classes don’t start up until the nineteenth. He might be at the school planning for the fall quarter, but there’s nothing sch
eduled.”

“Okay. We’ll go check for him at home. If he’s not there . . .” Parks looked to Fairmont and Tippin. “Just keep your
phones on. I’ll contact you if I need anything else. You work ten times faster than anything I could get from our own people back at the station.”

Fairmont winked at Tippin, who smiled back, having made a good impression.

“Oh, and speaking of which, pull phone records for them as well. Home. Cells. Everything.”

“Will do.” Tippin nodded.

“Any other questions?” Parks asked to no reply. “All right then, people. Let’s get going.”

5

Parks pulled up in front of the Tisdale’s house on Crescent Drive just below Sunset and put the car in park. He glanced down the street, away from his intended target, willing himself the strength to knock on the front door and change a man’s life forever. He wished he had had his pills that morning. If ever there was a part of the job that he hated, this was it.

“You’re grinding your teeth,” Moore said from the pa
ssenger seat.

“Sorry,” Parks said, stopping the tic.

“Sooner we do this the sooner it’s over.”

Moore had spent the drive in silence, re-reading her notes, so as to let Parks mentally prepare for the task at hand.

“I know,” Parks replied. He sounded calm but could feel his heart beating. This was the part the movies and TV shows rarely got right. The suffering that was about to be inflicted on the living. Death always left an echoing mark throughout the lives of those who remained.

“Just ignore all the bullshit and focus on the job you know how to do.”

“Huh?” Parks turned to Moore.

“I see the way they’ve been looking at you. The other o
fficers. And I see you noticing them. Letting it get to you. Don’t. They don’t hate you. They don’t know what to feel. Half of them think Levinson did the right thing. It led to you being able to stop Kozlov. They know it was wrong, but Kozlov was the greater of two evils. They want to congratulate you and pat you on the back. But they know it was wrong. So they’re conflicted. Plus you’re one of the most moral people on the force. How much did you know? Did you let it happen? If so, was that your call to make? Are you so moral you can stand in judgment over others about things like that? And if so what’s to stop you from doing it to anyone else you deem fit to judge?”

“You know we never talked about what all really ha
ppened.”

“And we don’t need to,” Moore said. “We’ve worked t
ogether for almost ten years. In one way or another. I know you Dave Parks. I know what you go through. How you think. Why do you think I’m still standing here beside you? Despite all the whispers and gossip, which will die out, I’m still here and I’ll continue to be so. Overall, you’re a good man. A good detective. People know it. Your pros will outweigh this one con. Besides, I don’t care what others think. We don’t need to have a talk because I know what I need to know. The rest doesn’t matter. So how about we go in and notify Mr. Tisdale about his wife.”

“Okay. Let’s do this.”

Both detectives got out of the car and made their way up the walkway through the neatly manicured front lawn, matching perfectly with the neighbors’ on both sides. The lawn was cut short and evenly green with flowers lining the walkway. It was a double-story house, with a box-like shape to it that gave it a picturesque look and homey feel. The fresh paint job had to have been applied within the last year, with a matching trim that helped keep the house in symmetry with the rest of the street, which had a fake, movie-set feel to it.

Parks knocked twice and rang the doorbell. The door opened to a man in his mid-forties who would have blended in with the usual Hollywood crowd, no one giving him a second glance as his good looks were a dime a dozen in this town. He wore a faded-blue, button-up shirt that had the top two buttons undone to reveal a recently acquired pinkish tan. His face was reddened, showing signs of being in the sun, and highlighting the few crow’s feet around his eyes.

“Are you Douglas Tisdale?”

“I . . . who are you?” the man asked in reply.

“I’m sorry,” Parks apologized, retrieving his identification from his jacket pocket. “I’m Detective Dave Parks and this is Detective Rachel Moore. Are you Douglas Tisdale?”

“Yes, I am,” Mr. Tisdale answered, turning pale. “What’s wrong? What happened? Is Allison okay?”

“Is Allison Tisdale your wife?”

“She is. What’s wrong? Oh my God. What happened? What—”

“May we come in?” Parks asked as he glanced around behind him. “It might be better if we take this inside.”

“What’s happened to my wife?”

“Her body was found up at a house up on Mulholland Drive. Please, Mr. Tisdale. May we take this inside?”

Mr. Tisdale began to shake and stepped aside to allow the detectives entrance into his house. He closed the door behind them and made his way into the neighboring living room where he pointed to a couch and collapsed in a
nearby sofa-chair. He tried to catch his breath in between the tears and dry heaving that seemed to control his body.

Parks glanced around and took in the surroundings of the room. It was quaint, with nothing too expensive, while gi
ving an air of sophistication. Pictures of the couple were spread throughout the room and hallways. Pictures of vacations to beaches and other tropical places showed the couple had a happy relationship. At least on the surface. There was a beauty to the Allison Tisdale in the pictures that hadn’t been evident from the pasty corpse that had been poked and prodded by his team that morning. But there were no children. No pets. No family members, at least in any of the pictures. Just the couple.  

“We’re sorry to have to do this right now, Mr. Tisdale, but we need to ask you a few questions,” Parks said as he waited for the man to compose himself. The husband glanced around the room, avoiding eye contact with the d
etectives as if this made the news they had delivered not true somehow, as if he could outrun it in some way and thereby make it not so.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Tisdale finally said. There was a som
ewhat gravely, calming sound to the man’s voice, which probably helped keep the attention of his students when he was lecturing. “Yes. Of course. How . . . how can I help?”

“As you know—”

“Did she suffer?”

Parks stared at the grieving man. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have all the details just yet.”

Mr. Tisdale nodded to show he understood.

“We found your wife’s body up in a house on Mulho
lland.” Dave paused, hoping the man would pick up and add whatever knowledge he had. Most people did that, anything to avoid the silence. Especially in a time like this when all that was probably going through his head was his wife’s death. It was manipulative but effective for rooting out the hidden truths.

“How did she die?” Mr. Tisdale asked as if he hadn’t heard what Parks had said.

“I’m sorry, but we’re not at liberty to discuss the details of the investigation at this time,” Parks answered, hoping he didn’t sound as cold as he felt. He tried to keep his voice calm, soothing, yet forceful enough to invoke reassurance that everything was being done that could be. “It’s still an ongoing investigation—”

“Because I’m a suspect,” Mr. Tisdale said, more as a statement than a question.

Parks remained quiet, neither confirming nor denying. Mr. Tisdale still seemed out of it. His whole body shook. Parks sat patiently until Tisdale finally continued. It wasn’t like in the movies where the detectives were racing against a clock. And a movie or TV show’s run time. Parks could wait all day if it helped make the person interviewing more at ease. He had patience. It was one thing he was good at. Frustratingly so, according to his former partner. 

“She was showing a house up on Mulholland. She’s a realtor. She had an open house that started today. So that’s probably where you found her.”

Parks nodded. “When was the last time you saw your wife?”

“Um, this, um, morning. This morning. She left early to get the, uh, the set-up done. About seven-thirty. Quarter to eight. I was still in bed.” He paused as if recalling a thought. “She kissed me good-bye. I offered to come with her and help her, but she told me to catch up on my sleep and keep organizing for the upcoming semester. I’m a professor.”

“What do you teach?” Parks asked, sounding interested. He already knew the answer but hoped the question would divert the man’s focus from his wife’s death onto something else. Distractions often worked. As long as they weren’t too obvious. Then all one did was focus on the matter at hand.  

“Biochemistry and molecular biology,” Mr. Tisdale an
swered. “I took the last two years off from teaching classes to focus on research. I start up with courses again this semester. I’ve been working on my semester syllabus, which is why Allison told me to stay home. I’ve been having some difficulty with it.”

“What kind of research?” Parks asked, appearing indiff
erent though feeling the opposite. From what Tippin had found, they were well aware of what kind of studies he conducted, which was what had piqued their interest in him even more than usual.

“Cancer,” Mr. Tisdale said. “Allison’s sister passed away from breast cancer about two years ago, and my father had pancreatic cancer. So it’s . . .”

Mr. Tisdale broke off and stared into space.

“So you were here all morning?”

“Yes, I was,” Mr. Tisdale continued. “I was alone. Just me and the TV while I worked in my office.” Mr. Tisdale gestured across the hallway to a neighboring room with the door ajar. “No one can vouch for me. I’m sorry. But I swear to you I didn’t kill my wife.”

“How would you describe your marriage?”

Mr. Tisdale paused, not as if he was trying to think of what to say but rather as if he was getting caught up in past memories. Parks stared at the man’s reaction but didn’t feel he was hiding something, only that he was shocked by the question and knowing he was about to forfeit personal information that he might otherwise not want out.              

“It was good.” Mr. Tisdale smiled and wiped his face, his tears and nose running together. “But I’m sure everyone says
that. We travel. Love to travel. We’re good. We enjoy each other’s company. Hang with friends. Don’t fight. I mean nothing physical. We’ve had little tiffs here and there. But who doesn’t?”

“Sex?”

“Excuse me?” Mr. Tisdale shot out, taken aback.

“You two still sleep together? Same bed? Separate beds? With other people? Open marriage? Into anything . . . diffe
rent? I know I’m getting personal here, but we need to explore all avenues. If there might be a third party involved, then—”

“No,” Mr. Tisdale interrupted impatiently. He had begun fidgeting, and his eyes were no longer leaking. They had clearly touched a sore subject with the man. “No, nothing like that. It’s just the two of us. We still sleep—
slept
—in the same bed. Only us. No one else. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just plain, good, old-fashioned sex. And yes, we still . . . did it.”

“No affairs?”

“I love my wife,” Mr. Tisdale reassured him. “I have never.”

Parks stared at the man, taking in the wording that had been chosen.

“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm your wife?” Moore asked, taking over the interrogation. Parks had done his job and now he was viewed as the bad cop. Tisdale wouldn’t trust him anymore. Time for her to step in. “Any enemies? Recent events that might need to be brought to our attention? Anything that might help us.”

“Nothing that I’m aware of,” Mr. Tisdale said. “She worked. But I don’t know of anything or anyone causing any problems there. You’d have to talk to her people at the o
ffice.”

“We will, Mr. Tisdale.”

“I know there are people who are pissed to be out of their homes. I mean, the economy’s hurting people right now. Houses get foreclosed on, and Allison picked them up. Turned them around and sold them. Or there were people who hired her to sell their houses and might have thought she sold them too cheap. For less than what they were worth. But I don’t know of any specific instances. Nothing that bothered her enough to tell me about it. Other than that, we mostly keep to ourselves. We do wine tasting. We started taking a few cooking classes at a place at the Grove. Just to try and get out more. During the summer at least. I’m too busy during the school year. But nothing to take note of. No threats. No fights. Nothing bad with the neighbors. Most of the neighbors are . . .”

“Yes, Mr. Tisdale?”

“We’ve had no problems with them. No one I could think would do this. We had no problems with anyone. Sorry. I’m sorry I can’t be of any more help. So you have no idea who did this to my wife?”

“Would you like me to get you some water?” Moore said,
leaning forward in her seat, glancing from Parks to Mr. Tisdale.

Mr. Tisdale nodded and remained seated as Moore got up and made her way out of the room. This was a tactic that Parks used to perform with Detective Levinson. It was the first time he had done it with Moore, but she was on top of it. True, she was getting the distraught Mr. Tisdale a glass of water to help him cope, but she was also taking a quick look around the house to see if anything
jumped out at her that would tell her something was wrong with the otherwise picturesque image of the Tisdales’s lives.

Other than the dead wife. 

“Oh, the kitchen is—”

“I’m sure she can find it,” Parks interrupted, trying to keep Mr. Tisdale’s focus. “Does Allison have any family in the area? Friends?”

“No family here,” Mr. Tisdale answered. “She’s from Florida. Her father’s deceased, but her mother and one of two sisters still live there. I can get you names and numbers if you want.”