A Quiet Neighbor (21 page)

“Sorry, Gramps. Sorry for missing our three
o’clock date.” Holding a thousand-yard stare, I squeeze his hands. “The house
is good, still holding on and all…just missing you and
Halmoni
.”

My exhaustion makes it hard to hold back the
lump nagging my throat, the burn behind my eyes. I feel alone and vulnerable
and I hate that. I crave to be held in arms that could warm my soul and ease
the pain I feel.

“I wish you were awake…I need your guidance…”

Leaning back against the chair, absently
lifting the front legs an inch off the ground before letting gravity pull it
back down, I sigh. The weight of the day has taken its toll. Pulling my
ponytail tighter against my head, I feel the inner dip just above the eye, just
under the brow ridge, start to twitch—my body’s way of telling me that if I
don’t get some sleep soon, my body is going to crash.

The meeting with Michael Cobb hadn’t gone as
well as I hoped. Even though I am not supposed to, even though my commanding
officer warned me during training that I might be tempted to target a culprit
solely on a gut feeling or personal vendetta—but shouldn’t—there is a large
part of me that wants Michael Cobb to be my UNSUB.

He was the last to make contact with the vic,
so it is understandable to presume there had been a lover’s spat and things got
out of hand. The jury would sympathize. He is a good kid; people love him, and
his dad is Nick Cobb, one of the best prosecutors in San Diego County. He’d
serve a reduced sentence in a minimum-security pen, that I am sure of…

Look at me, I’m trying to spin a story like one
a lawyer would spin to make a case, a story that sounds good to the ear but
doesn’t quite hit the mark on paper.

Deep down, I already knew by my first encounter
with Michael that he isn’t my guy. My gut feeling said Michael is innocent.
God, what am I doing? I shouldn’t even be assigned to this case.

If Pickering or Malone found out that I know
Brett—have a history with the guy—I would be thrown off the case, or worse, I’d
lose my job. Jeopardizing the case would attract negative media attention and
the public would have one more reason to distrust the authorities. Not
something the station wants or has time to deal with.

Why does the past still haunt me? Why can’t I
forget about Brett?

The problem is this: if Michael isn’t the UNSUB
then the man I know as Brett Ficks has little or no means of escape. Brett is
their number one suspect and it doesn’t look good. I am grasping at straws—bent
and whole—to get him off the hook. Why am I risking my career for a guy I
barely know?

There is no question that Michael’s grief is
real. No question that the tears and confusion were due to his overwhelming
love for the victim and his utter shock at the news of his then girlfriend’s
sudden death.

His parents, on the other hand, are sketchy.
Especially the mother. Vivien Cobb immediately went on the defensive and tried
covering for her son and family. Unfortunately, the mother’s alibi checks out.
Mr. and Mrs. Cobb were at a charity gala in Del Mar surrounded by hundreds of
the most affluent San Diegans—a solid half-hour drive away—only to return
around midnight to a quiet house with Michael in his room and his soft snores
playing accompaniment to the music pumping from his ear buds.

The fact Michael wasn’t able to provide a
decent alibi, the fact he voluntarily admitted that he did indeed see Loral the
night of the murder and had argued with her in the hours beforehand—these facts
got my detective juices flowing. Unfortunately, there is no evidence or link
tying him to the scene of the crime; everything is circumstantial.

Then there is his father, Nick Cobb, the
affluent prosecutor who is able to surround Michael with the best council a
suspect could have. I had the privilege of seeing Nick in action on previous
cases and he wasn’t given the name “Hangman” for nothing. Give an inch and he’d
have you escorted out by the Bailiff in cuffs by the end of the hearing,
whether you were on trial or not (he holds the informal State of California
record for incarcerating perjured witnesses, something he is proud of to no end
and will discuss readily after his third martini).

Although the prospect is unlikely, I am still keeping
Michael on my short list of suspects.

Chapter
Fifteen:

Wednesday,
June 20, 2012

9:30
P.M.

Detective Kylie Kang:

Upon entering my empty apartment, I decide it is
about time I get myself a cat or at least a goldfish to come home to. No dogs, though.
That would be too much of a time investment considering I barely have time to
grocery shop. Days like today make me wish I had a roommate, boyfriend, or
better yet, a family to call and rant to. I miss not being able to lay out on
the porch with my head on
Halmoni’s
lap, while I dish about my
exhausting day.

I could talk to
Halmoni
about anything.
I’d talk about a case that was bothering me, problems with the guys at work,
issues with men and horrible first dates, nightmares I had the night before—anything
and everything that needed soothing.
Halmoni
would always lend a patient
ear and a shoulder to cry on. She would never judge or criticize.
Halmoni
was the heart I need at times like these. And now, nearing the age of thirty,
the emptiness from being completely alone in the world is starting to be too
much.

I’m not one of those women who cry about a
white hair or a pre-wrinkle. I’m not one to worry about aging or looking ten
years younger. But I am scared about being destined to live the rest of my life
alone. I think I jinxed myself when it comes to men. I worry about sharing my
mom’s fate.

Switching on the lights, I cross the entryway
to the living room and click on the air conditioner. Being closed up all day,
the room is stifling hot and stuffy as hell. Opening a window would just let in
smells from the busy city—smog, cigarettes, piss, and tar—or bugs. I hate bugs.
Lacking the energy to even take a nice cool shower, I settle for a glass of
wine, kick off my house slippers and slump into my comfy leather sofa.

My hectic day started at six this morning. I
received a call about a possible homicide at Patrick Henry High School. With
barely four hours of sleep under my belt I took a quick shower, brushed,
dressed and rushed out the door. My wet hair and the lingering morning chill
brought a shiver to my skin as I walked to the car. These early summer days can
be hot and oppressive in Southern California, but the pre-dawn fog still cools
the early morning hours considerably. The sun was just up, clocking in for
another scorcher of a day, blazing bright and slanted, cutting through the haze.
It still smelled early, like wet sidewalks, sprinklers, lawn and gro-mulch.

Arriving in forty minutes flat, I was last
on-scene. There were three black-and-whites and a crime lab van parked in the
Faculty Lot and two more cruisers blocking off the street entrance and exit.
After flashing my badge to the officer at the blockade, I was directed down the
small service road behind campus, toward what looked like the auto shop yard.
The hull of a rusted-out Camaro sat atop a lift, appearing to be more Bondo
than steel. An array of bumpers lined the back fence on an enormous rack. The
two roll-up doors connecting the yard to the classroom were closed tight. The
area was already taped and cordoned off, starting from the edge of the
classroom building, extending through the handball courts, and ending at the
top of the asphalt footpath where it met up with the road above.

Several officers stood along the sidewalk up
there, their heads bobbing in conversation, feet planted wide, hands on their
hips or folded across their chests as they chewed the fat. At the epicenter, a
small flower garden. Crime scene techs moved busily in the garden, snapping
photos and collecting evidence. At least I was ahead of the media. No white
vans with phallic antennae rising up, no choppers or camera crews could be seen
or heard.

I spotted Pickering awkwardly standing by a
tree, brushing crumbs off his shirt; possibly a bagel, more likely a doughnut.
Judging by his posture, he had only downed one cup of coffee and desperately
needed a second. Digging my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket, I
walked over for an update.

“Pickering, what have we got?”

“Kang. You don’t happen to have a nice hot cup of
java in that car of yours?”

“No, but I’ll be sure to call one in for you
when I get the chance.”

Grumbling, Pickering started filling me in as
we walked over to the area cordoned off by yellow tape. “Vic is female. Young,
between sixteen and twenty. Caucasian, blue eyes, brunette. Five-seven,
one-ten. No ID. Checking prints now. Bagged a cellphone, battery dead, so we
got one of the techs on that—cellphones are appendages for a teenager, may as
well be surgically attached. ME is on the scene, calls TOD between nine and
midnight. Janitor found her when he came in this morning.”

“Sounds pretty…is she?”

“I’m not even going to go there, but I see
where you’re going with this. Media?”

“They’re going to be all over this.”

“Which is why your little ME buddy is working
her little yoga’d ass off trying to clear the body out before a camera crew
catches wind. But being your buddy and all, Eve said she’d wait to remove the
body until after you see it. Glad you could finally join us so the show can go
on.”

“Hey, don’t give me that look.” Uncomfortable
with Pickering’s peculiar animosity regarding my close friendship with the ME,
I ducked under the barricade tape and smoothed the flyaways back from my face
as I walked. Without breaking stride, I pulled a pair of nitrile gloves out of
my pocket and began gloving up as I spoke. “So anyways, what was the vic doing
on school grounds? Isn’t school out?”

Pickering also fished out a pair of gloves and
sauntered beside me. “Getting ready for summer school, fooling around with her
gearhead boyfriend, meeting up with friends, who knows? You’re a girl. What
would you be doing?”

“I wasn’t
that
kind of girl.”

Pickering raised his brow, but got smart for
once and kept quiet.

“So we don’t know what the vic was doing. But
do we know what the janitor was doing?”

“Cleaning.”

“Funny.”

“I’m serious. He works year-round. The school
wants him to keep the area maintained even when school’s not in session.”

“Ah, a cheap look-out.”

“You got it. Makes sure he notifies the
district if there’s any hint of vandalism or foul play so it gets taken care of
lickety-split. Image is important in this close-knit community.”

“Isn’t it always?”

Up ahead lay the vic, pale and lifeless, fully clothed,
lying spread-eagle amidst a sea of poppies. The poppies were not yet opened to
the sun and rested in nodding, dewy-green drupes. And hovering over the body
was Eve, buzzing with focused excitement.

Eve gave a slight wave to acknowledge our
presence, obviously needing a moment before she answered any questions. At thirty
years of age, Dr. Eve Darling was also one of the youngest on the team, and as
such, one of my closest friends. I didn’t have many close friends. Pickering
and Eve were as close as I got to that moniker, and even then I thought of it
more as an “on-duty” friendship; sometimes they bickered in half-jest over who
was a better friend to whom, but I always steered clear of that debate. Sometimes
they roused up the team and went out for beers after their shift ended, but I
steered clear of that one, too.

Eve was five-two, short and petite with an
elfin face the color of powder, framed by a short crop of sable brown hair and
enormous, deep-set brown eyes. Always with a cheery disposition, Eve came to
work with a go-get-‘em attitude and left each shift feeling fulfilled and
satisfied. She loved her job nearly as much as her two Golden Retrievers, Toki
and Lulu, her husband, and shopping—in that order. Anyone who spent much time
with Eve could see she loved her husband very much, but in her heart’s core the
dogs always came first.

It was Eve’s love of shopping that started our
friendship (she noticed my Giove perforated ankle boots in brown leather) and
convinced me to purchase my leather jacket.

Today Eve was sporting dark grey jeggings,
black camisole, cream blazer, and colorblock ballet flats. Even with the
billowy white ME coat and green booties covering her ensemble, how Eve kept her
outfits free of dirt, grass stains, blood and brains for an entire shift was
beyond me.

Peering over Eve’s hunched petite frame, I
noticed that the vic was far too young and far too pretty to be dead. Wondering
if the vic went to this school, I turned and asked Pickering.

“We’re already checking the school’s directory
against a photo of the vic. The principal is prepping for the impending media
circus and should be rolling in within the next half hour. He may recognize
her.”

Nodding, I carefully walked around the body to
get a better visual of the vic’s face and noticed both eyes were closed. “Did
anyone close the girl’s eyes? Or move the body?”

“No, she was like that when the janitor found
her. As for what was found on or beside her, there was a notebook filled with
poems and short stories. Looks like the girl was aspiring to be a young
Dickinson or Plath. With her ending here, maybe it was a touch more toward
Plath.”

I stared, unimpressed.

“Sorry, bad joke. Also a thin blanket was laid
on top of her. We already bagged both objects and got them sent over to the lab
for trace, but unfortunately the sprinklers had been on for twenty minutes
before she was found.”

“Yeah, I noticed the wet grass and soil before
I came over here.” Frowning, I said, “The way she is positioned…this doesn’t
look like a random killing. Perhaps not even an intentional one. Maybe there is
some killer’s remorse at play here. You think the UNSUB was a loving relative?
Like the mother?”

Pickering shrugged. “Considering we don’t have
much to go on, that’d be a good place to start.”

“When we ID the girl we’ll stop by her house
and check out the family before they have a chance to dot their i’s and cross
their t’s. Hopefully there are still some useful hairs or prints that can be
salvaged. You said there was a cell. What about a purse, keys, jewelry, car?”

“Nada. Just the cell and notebook.”

“Hmm.” Why would a girl have her cell and
notebook but no keys or wallet? “That would mean the vic probably lived in this
area and walked here. No wallet means she either wasn’t thinking about
traveling far, wasn’t buying anything, or she was robbed.”

“Alright Detectives, I’m ready for you.” Eve
looked up.

“Thanks for holding off on the body removal.”

Eve shrugged her shoulders. “What are friends
for? Sean doesn’t seem to understand that.” Before Pickering could argue, she
continued, “I’m just wrapping things up here, but from everything I’ve looked
at so far, there is only one thing I wanted to show you. Look at this.” Eve
tilted the girl’s neck to the side so I could see the deep purple bruising at
the base of the neck.

“What caused that?”

“Best guess? I’d say pressure point strike.”

“Like acupuncture?”

“More like martial arts.”

“Huh. Is that what killed her?”

“Seems to be COD. There’s no other apparent
bruising or point of injury anywhere else on the body, but we need to wait for
the autopsy to be sure.” Eve stood up and rolled the kinks out of her back and
shoulders. “Once the team finishes with the pictures, we’ll wrap her up and
take her back to the lab so I can do a more thorough inspection.”

“I guess we’ll be heading to the dungeon later
today then.”

Eve grinned. “You’re the only one that calls my
lab a dungeon.”

I shrugged. “Maybe not to your face. It’s cold,
dank, and dark. Dead bodies are frozen and locked up in refrigerated lockers
and the minute you step into your office it smells like formalin and death.
It’s a dungeon. What else can you call it?”

“My home away from home.”

“I know the feeling. Anyways, do you think you
can get to her by this afternoon?”

“I have to check in with Sammy but I think I’m
clear to make this girl my priority for the day.”

“Great. If we aren’t available, just start
without us. But call if there’s any sign of rape or recent sexual activity, although
by the looks of it, it doesn’t seem like her clothes have been touched except
in movement.”

“I already did a cursory check. I’d probably
rule out that motive.” Eve’s critical eye looked me over and frowned. “Hey, you
don’t look so good. You okay?”

I grimaced and let out a dry laugh. “Thanks. I
appreciate the observation.”

“No really. You need to take better care of
yourself before you become an Old Hag. Remember, Vaseline works miracles.”

“Right now I’m just worried about the vic and
why she’s not out enjoying her summer break. Then I’ll worry about my face.”