A Dead Sister (Jessica Huntington Desert Cities Mystery) (34 page)

Before he took another step, Jessica whipped the car door open, and hopped out. In a flash she sent a stinging spray that blasted the still smiling young man right in the face. Thank God, and Peter, she had practiced for such an incident. She knew exactly how to direct the caustic droplets.

“I’ve got something for you too, Eminem,” Jessica shrieked, spraying him again. She had hit him squarely in his gaping grillwork. The scrawny gangsta wannabe was squealing. The sound was somewhere between a twelve-year-old girl at a Miley Cyrus concert and a greased pig at the county fair. He was doing some serious twerking, too. He spun around blindly, gasping for air and spitting. Off flew the sunglasses from atop his head. Out popped the gem-studded grillwork. The driver was shouting, dropping f-bombs and telling him to “do it,” “just do it, cocksucker.”

It was like listening to some demented, X-rated Nike pitch man. Jessica wasn’t sure what “do it” meant, but she did not intend to find out. She aimed and shot at the driver, who ducked even though he was behind the windshield. He finally shut up as a second spray, aimed higher,
shot up above the windshield, then, showered down on him. She took a step forward and let loose more sprays, saturating the head and neck area of the writhing young man still pulling at his hoodie. He yanked it off, exposing a lemon-colored buzz cut on his head, a concave chest and pale white, spindly arms. Red splotches were popping up here and there. As he spun back around, facing her, she let go more blasts at 20-second intervals. He shed the wife-beater t-shirt next. The young man was now half-naked as he hopped around on the side of the road. Items were falling from the clothes he discarded, or maybe from the pockets of his baggy pants. Among them was a gun.

Jessica made a mad dash for the gun before the half-blinded man, now flailing about on his knees, could locate it.

“Get in, you motherfucker. She’s got the gun,” the driver hollered. “I‘m gettin’ the fuck outta here wit’ or wit’out you, Gomer.” He gunned the engine of the car. The baggy-panted young man on the ground rose. He did a Frankenstein’s monster walk in the direction of those engine sounds. When he reached the car, he fell forward, tumbling head first into the passenger seat of the car. The driver revved the engine again and glared right at Jessica.

“Oh no you don’t, you bastard! Don’t even think about it!” she shouted, as she emptied the gun into the front
end of the car. With that, he took off. Steam was rising from under the hood. Two cars slammed on their brakes to avoid ramming the low rider as it burned rubber, leaving a trail of fluid from somewhere under the car. One of the two cars that had braked pulled off onto the shoulder of the road. It slid into the space vacated by the vintage Chevy.

“Don’t shoot, Jessica. It’s me, Dick Tatum.” Jessica dropped the gun and sat right down on her backside. Her legs no longer provided support. The sound of police sirens could be heard in the distance growing louder by the second. Dick Tatum was at her side a moment later, helping her get
to her feet.

“You need to ge
t out of the sun. I’ve got the air conditioner running in my car. Come on, you’re okay. It’s okay.”

“I’m probably going to need a lawyer.”

“That’s okay too, Jessica. You’ve got one.”

Dick Tatum guided her to the front seat of his rental as a patrol car pulled off the road behind him. Two minutes later, another marked car arrived, f
ollowed a few minutes later by the tow truck. The shoulder of the off ramp was now too crowded to accommodate the arrival of an ambulance and the EMTs. A passing motorist had apparently called 911 with information that there was an altercation taking place on the side of the road. A second caller had said there were shots fired. The first officer at the scene waved off the ambulance on assurances from Jessica that she was not injured.

One of the officers from the second patrol car was directing traffic. He tried to keep the looky-loos moving, while a third officer set up a perimeter and began taking photos of the scene. They set out markers next to the gun where Jessica had dropped it, and her now nearly empty pepper spray device near
by. The hoodie, t-shirt and grillwork left behind by her would-be assailant were also marked and photographed where they had fallen. There were dark streaks on the pavement left by the driver of the Chevy Impala. The quick-thinking Dick Tatum had noted what he could see of the license plate as the vehicle fled. It would not be too hard to find the decked out low rider painted in a bright yellow-sunburst pattern and riddled with bullet holes. Besides, how far could it get far in that condition?

Jessica did her best to desc
ribe the incident to Riverside’s finest. She sipped from a bottle of water someone had handed her as she went through the now familiar routine. She answered an endless stream of questions as yet another police officer collected information for yet another police report. The whole scenario had played out in less than ten minutes. The telling and retelling of the story took much longer.

As she recounted events, an officer swabbed her hands for the presence of gunshot residue. The officer who had been taking her statement asked her to “hold on a sec.” Recognizing Dick Tatum’s name, he ran it, and quickly discovered that Dick Tatum had been involved in a car-bombing incident the night before. Did they think the two incidents were related?

Jessica wanted to shriek “hell yes” but let Dick Tatum responded with a more taciturn “most likely.” They were discussing what the two of them were up to, and how the incidents were “most likely” related, when the officer taking photographs asked if Jessica could join her where she was standing. Jessica walked a few feet and stood next to the police woman holding a camera.

“Any idea what th
ese might be? Did you have them with you, or did your gentlemen callers drop them?” Jessica was hit by a bout of nausea. On the ground was a pair of toddler panties, the print matched the top worn by that doll found outside her dad’s house. That sight was eerier to Jessica than being accosted by ruffians in a low rider. Creepier even than the mouth jewelry or seeing that gun fall out of the young thug’s pants. She knew who had sent them. It was one more way of saying “back off bitch.”

“They’re not mine. Maybe if you send them to the lab you can get fingerprints or something from them, but I wouldn’t count on it.” Jessica walked dejectedly back to the car. Any fingerprints w
ould no doubt belong to the lowlife in the low rider. They’d be no closer to Mr. P. Not unless they could catch up with the punk and get him to turn on the schemer who had sicced him on her.

As Jessica sat back down on the edge of the seat in Dick Tatum’s car, a call came in to the police. They had found the Chevy on a back street, not more than a mile away, abandoned and on fire. One of the officers pointed to a pillar of smoke rising into the sky just south of their location.

“There she goes,” he said, as a flash signaled that the car had exploded. Who knew what all was under the hood along with the hydraulics used to raise and lower the car on command? It was ablaze now.

Having finally finished collecting evidence, the police stopped traffic so the tow truck driver could move around in front of the BMW. The man had been waiting in his truck for nearly an hour. When he was finally able to inspect the car, he had another tidbit for those at the scene.

“Uh, Miss, did you notice that the gas tank access door is damaged? I’d say it’s been tampered with.” Jessica stepped over to the car and took a look. The panel was dented and scratched and no longer sat flush with the body of the well-crafted sedan.

“What does that mean?” Jessica asked, wearily.

“The way the car up and died on you, I’m guessing someone put something in the tank.”

“You mean like sugar?”

“Sugar and water, possibly, water’s harder on a car than sugar. At least you were close to town when it conked out on you. A damn shame, if you ask me. The mechanics will be able to tell you more after they look it over.”

The officer made another note in the record he was keeping, including the name and address of the dealer where the car was being towed. The shock of the ordeal was taking a toll on Jessica. Dick Tatum didn’t look so good, either. It was well past
lunch hour, and they were running on empty. They were both in for one more surprise as they heard another car drive up. Frank Fontana stepped out of a four-by-four, his personal car. A police beacon, attached to the top of the car, flashed.

“If he says I told you so, I’m going to get into the driver’s seat of your rental and run him over, two, maybe three times.”

“Nah, you don’t want to do that, Jessica,” Dick said softly. “That’s the kind of depravity that got us all in this mess in the first place.”

Frank did not say a word. Instead, he rushed to Jessica and s
wept her into his arms. “Damn hugs,” Jessica thought, as she hung on to him for dear life.

CHAPTER 29

When the phone rang Thursday morning, Jessica was still unpacking. It had been late by the time she arrived home the night before. Bernadette was waiting up, even though Jessica had called and told her not to do so. She took one look at Jessica and insisted on being told the whole story. It was midnight before Jessica rolled her suitcase into her room and fell into bed.

The discussion with Bernadette was a good thing, since it put them both back on high alert about using the security systems at home. Bernadette also insisted she call Peter and get him to put his guys back on the job. She would ask that they take up their post out in front of her house, as they had done when Jessica and her friends were being stalked by Roger Stone’s killer.

S
he left Peter a message, making her request for help. When she hung up the phone, she noticed a voice mail of her own. Her father had called: “Hey, Jinx, it’s your dad. Sorry I missed your call. Thanks for the good wishes, sweetie. I’m going to be back in LA in a week, and I am looking forward to the exhibit. It’s great you’ll be at the reception opening night. Can you come into town the night before for dinner? Okay, well, see you soon. Love you.”

Jessica threw herself down on her bed and wept. “Sure thing, Dad,” Jessica said. “I’ll see you soon, if some maniac doesn’t mow me down like poor Kelly. Or have somebody do it for him.” Maybe she
was
a jinx
or
jinxed
or
both. Most dreadful was the prospect of becoming one more episode on one of those true crime shows. That doll-on-the-side-of-the-road thing would be too salacious to pass up along with the fact that the panties showed up at another crime scene later.  There was that shoot-out on the exit ramp, too, and cars being torched. Nancy Grace would have a field day with that.

She cried herself to sleep and
woke up still in her clothes. Things didn’t look quite so dire this morning, once she cleaned herself up. One of Peter’s guys was already on duty outside. Still, she flinched when her phone rang.

“Well, Ms. Huntington
-Harper, I hear you’re at it again.”

“At
what
again, Detective Hernandez? And, please, it’s Jessica Huntington, no more Harper.” She recognized the crusty detective’s sardonic tone of voice immediately. She knew exactly what he was getting at, but decided to play coy.

“Running law enforcement ragged, that’s what. I heard you were involved in another incident on El Paseo Monday. Apparently that’s becoming a favorite spot for Jessica Huntington-centered calamity
; Harper or no Harper! Word is you’re branching out and creating crime scenes elsewhere in our fair county. You and your colleagues made quite a stir with the Riverside County Sherriff’s department,
three
crime scenes in a twenty-four-hour period. As I recall, Ms. Huntington, that ties your previous record.”

“Yes, someone vandalized my car, Detective, two cars, actually. One on El Paseo and the other in LA that managed to get as far as Riverside before it gave up the ghost. And yes, after a couple of gangsta-wannabes finished terrorizing me, they torched their own car, creating another site for the police to clean up
in Riverside. Imagine that, lowlifes acting like lowlifes! It’s not my fault. Besides, I don’t know why it matters to you. None of the so-called Jessica-Huntington-centered calamities were in your jurisdiction.”

“That is true. But imagine my surprise when I get called out to investigate a shooting that
is
in my jurisdiction, and the dead man has your card in his pocket, Attorney Huntington. When I’m making arrangements with the county coroner to process the body, I do a little research about our dead guy. I come across not one but two reports of incidents involving Jessica Huntington and the Riverside County Sherriff’s department. No wait, there’s more. One of the reports indicates there
might
be a connection to yet another act of vandalism, involving the fire-bombing of a car. That car was owned by Richard Tatum, who just happens to be a lawyer. A friend of yours, I presume. You want to tell me what’s going on? Or am I just supposed to be grateful we actually had a few weeks there without running into you at a crime scene?”

Jessica sat down on the side of her bed. That “things-seem-less-dire in the morning” feeling fled. “Who’s dead?” She knew before he answered her question. There weren’t many people in the area with one of her brand new business cards in their possession.

“A parolee recently returned to the area Ms. Huntington, Robert Simmons. Does the name ring a bell?”

“Yes, Detective, sadly, it does. He was my best friend’s boyfriend at the time she was killed years ago. I can explain: my place or yours, Detective Hernandez?”

“Have you got coffee?”

“I can make some by the time you get here, no donuts, though.”

“Very funny, that’s stereotyping you know, and not very PC of you.”

“Touché,” she said, as she hung up the phone and hauled her weary carcass to the kitchen to make coffee. Maybe caffeine would help. She already had her usual “dose” with her morning swim. She was ready for more,
though, caffeine, that is, not more repartee with churlish detectives.

Frank Fontana’s face floated before her, as he had looked the day before when arriving at that scene in Riverside. Ragged with worry, his countenance was utterly transformed when he caught sight of Jessica. Rushing to embrace her, the relief was palpable.

“I heard the dispatcher mention your name, and something about ‘shots fired.’ Jessica, I know you’re not ready for a relationship.  Please, you’ve got to promise me you’ll live long enough to give me a chance when the time comes!”

Not only had he refrained from chastising her after that, but Frank actually apologized for being so pig-headed about the situation they were in. He conceded that what she and
the others had done was pretty basic investigative work. In fact, it was at his urging that she was involved in this mess at all. Jessica acknowledged that, while she was already on the psychopath’s radar, she had aggravated the situation by walking into Mr. P’s office. Confronting him point blank about a situation that could put him behind bars was like tugging on Superman’s cape. A deranged, self-designated Superman, with a depraved prescription-wielding hulk at his side.

Frank did not back down about the need to stop and let the professionals take over. Dick Tatum had jumped in to back him up. He was at least as horrified as Frank by Jessica’s decision to
go into the lion’s den alone. Not only was it risky, but her confrontation had been rather pointless, given how little tangible evidence they had.

Even if they could not hold Mr. P responsible for Kelly’s murder, Frank hoped they might be able to make a connection between him and Chester Davis’ death. It now looked more like homicide than an accident. Someone had been with Chester at the time of his death. That someone was Arnold Dunne, the guy who put up the money to spring Chester Davis from jail.
He had left his fingerprints at the scene and on Chester Davis’ body.

They now had the rogue in custody. Using the GPS on his cell phone, they located him at a sleazy motel near the border with Mexico. At Tecate, not Tijuana, a smaller, less-traveled entry port. If he had crossed the border, they might have lost him for good. Instead, he had stopped and holed up for several nights. It wasn’t clear why. Perhaps he was trying to figure out how to get across the border with his stash of drugs. He may have been overcome by the urge to party, since he had been doing plenty of that during his three-day layover at motel hell.

In any case, the local police had nabbed Arnold Dunne. He had nearly fifty thousand dollars in cash and a variety of drugs with him at the time of his arrest. Plus a suitcase full of illegal porn in both print and video formats. Found in a semi-comatose state, Arnold Dunne had been taken to the forensic ward at a hospital in San Diego. He would be transferred to the county jail when he had recovered from his binge. Frank and his partner planned to make the hundred-mile journey to interview Mr. Dunne about his connection to Chester Davis. They were waiting for word that he was alert enough to speak to them.

Mr. Dunne was lucky to be alive. Included in his stash were several syringes loaded with heroin
and fentanyl. Some contained large quantities of fentanyl; when he got around to partying with one of them, it would have been his last hurrah.

Dick Tatum was totally blown away by Frank’s news, and by all Jessica and her friends had uncovered in so short a time about Kelly and Mr. P. Especially the similarity between the hypodermic foun
d with Mr. Dunne and the one in Kelly’s possession so long ago. It was another of those maddeningly elusive links that suggested, but did not confirm, that both Chester and Kelly had met with foul play. Nor did it provide any direct evidence about the malefactor responsible for the deeds.

Making
headway on unraveling the mystery of Chester Davis’ death made it worth a drive from Riverside to San Diego to interview Arnold Dunne. There was no guarantee, of course, that he wouldn’t clam up or lawyer up, but he was in a world of trouble. Given all the charges piling up, there might be a deal to be made. Especially if they could get him to understand that he was under investigation for the murder of Chester Davis. The flophouse was a forensic investigator’s nightmare. Prints, bodily fluids and trace of all kinds were everywhere in the house. It would take days to sort out and catalogue, much less process, all the evidence recovered at the scene.

Even though
Arnold Dunne’s fingerprints weren’t the only ones found at the scene, they were notable because they were found on Chester Davis’ person. Dunne had rolled Chester Davis over. Perhaps checking to see if he was still alive or, more likely, making sure that he was dead. His fingerprints were found in the vomit trailing down Chester Davis’s sleeve.

“I’m counting on getting to the bottom of this whole sorry tale by having that heart-to-heart with Arnold Dunne. Once he’s able to think clearly,
Dunne has got to figure his best chance is to cut a deal given all the trouble he’s in with the law.”

“Yeah, but does he realize
it might also be his best chance to stay alive?” Jessica asked.