Cut to the Quick (31 page)

Now he had to deal with Jack Jenkins. Or Jill … Whatever. There seemed to be no end of schoolyard dramas and the long reach of bullies in his life.

He finished the vodka in the coffee cup, chewing on the ice. Taking the empty bottle from his desk, he put it in his briefcase. He picked up the gun and set it inside too. He pushed his chair back and stood, too fast. He staggered and steadied himself against the desk. Regaining his balance, he took his briefcase and left.

At first Scoville thought he’d go home, but once on the road in his Porsche, home didn’t sound appealing. No place did. He felt rootless. Adrift. It was a feeling he’d never experienced before. There had never been a time when he hadn’t known where “home” was. For him, it had always been the big Tudor mansion in Hancock Park. Even during the years he’d run from it, it had always been home.

Dena had ruined it for him. Dena, Crowley, Jenkins, and even Mercer. Mercer had started it. His ambitions had planted the evil little seed that had led to where Scoville was right now. It was as if all of them were in a line, like the tail of the Big Dipper. At a stoplight, he looked up and saw the constellation, his head tilted
back. Not many stars shone through the city’s smog and lights, but those of the Big Dipper made it. That single star off to the side was Lauren Richards. She was part of it. All of them together. Bad stars casting him under a bad sign.

Agitated honking from the cars behind roused him. Apparently, the light had turned green some time ago. Scoville gunned the Porsche’s engine, the tires squealing, as he held his right arm aloft in the topless car, middle finger erect.

As he drove down the Strip, he passed billboard after billboard, most of them belonging to Marquis, all with photos of gorgeous thin models in Dolce & Gabbana, Armani, Chanel, or Prada. Or showing off their watches: Tag Heuer, Rolex, Baume & Mercier. The only relief was a billboard advertising a new animated film about farm animals. Even that had a vampish character—a slinky little filly. Scoville made his hand into a gun and shot all the pretty models in each of the billboards he passed, the women between the breasts, the men between the eyes. His signature kill.

Clack!

Turning onto a side street, he blew past the parking lot of a liquor store. The tires complained when he made a sharp right into the alley behind it, scraping the front fender against the thorny branches of a bougainvillea vine that had engulfed a fence. He stopped the car. A spray of blossoms on a potentially eye-obliterating woody stalk brushed his face and littered the car with magenta confetti.

Forgetting about his briefcase on the passenger seat but remembering to snatch the keys from the ignition, Scoville left his car and stumbled from the alley to the sidewalk and then to the liquor store.

Returning with a fifth of Grey Goose and a sack of ice,
he was startled to see someone sitting on the hood of the Porsche.

“Hey! What the fuck?”

The man slid off his big haunch and stood. “That’s what I was gonna ask you, pal.”

Scoville squinted through his vodka haze. He’d seen this man before. He thought back and remembered where he’d seen his fat, fleshy face, at Crowley’s book signing in Pasadena. Scoville clutched his purchases tightly to his chest. The plastic bag filled with ice felt like the cold embrace of a corpse.

The man lumbered toward him. “Bennie Lusk sent me. You owe him for that thing last week and the vig on top of it.”

Even though Scoville was drunk, he knew he was lighter on his feet than the overweight thug. He’d had it with people telling him what to do. “Fuck you.”

He darted past, lobbed his purchases into the Porsche, and got the driver’s door open.

“Fuck me? No, I’m gonna fuck
you
up.”

The guy came at Scoville, slugging him in the kidney and sending him sprawling onto the seat, crashing into the bottle and bag of ice, and slamming his head against the gearshift.

The thug was on top of Scoville, hitting him in the face.

Scoville was crushed beneath him, pinned by the steering wheel and the gearshift. He grabbed a handful of the thug’s oily hair and pulled hard enough to make the guy jerk back. It was enough for Scoville to slip out from under the steering wheel. The thug was on him again. Scoville could see that the guy was loving it. He felt himself losing consciousness. He blindly groped with his right hand, touching his briefcase and the bag of melting ice, but he couldn’t grab them. He then touched something
hard and solid that fit perfectly in his hand. He instinctively closed his fingers around it. As the thug drew back his hand for another punch, Scoville swung the vintage hood ornament, hitting him in the side of the head.

The thug reared back, blinking.

Still on his back, Scoville thrust both feet against the guy’s belly.

The thug staggered backward, stumbled on the uneven asphalt, and fell to the ground.

Scoville could have gotten away, started his car and left, but something held him there. He got up and walked over.

Dazed, the thug couldn’t get to his feet. He kept rolling back onto his butt. He reminded Scoville of a turtle stranded on its back. Standing a few feet away, Scoville saw dark shiny blood running down the thug’s face. His own face felt wet and numb. He forgot about that as he watched the thug. Scoville laughed.

The thug slurred, “I’m gonna fuck you up.”

Scoville darted forward and kicked him onto his back. He straddled him, swinging the heavy hunk of metal, and laughing.

“Look at you now, asshole. Look at you now.”

He kept hitting and hitting and laughing until the man’s head was mush, the blows no longer creating a sharp retort, but making their mark like a fist against oatmeal. The man’s head now bloody pulp, Scoville roared as each blow struck home.

“Look at you now!”

TWENTY-EIGHT

D
illon Somerset’s
lanky form was hunched, his brow furrowed, his lips pursed beneath his toothbrush mustache. He leaned against the table with fingers interlaced, perfectly still but for his thumbs, which he ceaselessly tapped together. The fluorescent lights in the interview room reflected off his shaved head and black-framed glasses.

Kissick leaned against the wall, arms crossed. He sometimes used his height as an intimidation factor, but he had another reason for assuming that pose now: he’d spent most of the day sitting. His shirtsleeves on his periwinkle-blue shirt were rolled up but his tie was still snug around his neck.

Ruiz sat opposite Somerset. His tie was loose. His white shortsleeve shirt bloused over the top of his pants along with his waistline. His shirt hadn’t held up to the long day as well as Kissick’s. Ruiz’s wife laundered and ironed his shirts herself and had bought Costco’s Kirk-land brand for him for years. Bachelor Kissick sent his shirts out and didn’t scrimp on quality, shopping at Nordstrom—a habit he’d retained from his ex-wife.

Ruiz set glasses on his nose and began reading Somerset’s statement aloud. “Dillon, this is what you told us. ‘That Saturday night, I followed Lauren to Oliver Mercer’s house. I watched the gate open and after she drove in, I parked down the street and hopped the fence onto
Mercer’s property. I brought a knife with me. I rang the doorbell and when Mercer answered it, I stabbed him. He ran into the living room and I kept stabbing him. Lauren was screaming and I grabbed her and stabbed her too. When they were dead, I used their blood to write on the wall. Then I took a chain saw and cut Mercer into little pieces and put all his body parts into a big pile.’ ”

Taking off his glasses, Ruiz held them by an arm and tapped them against the report. “Dillon, this is bullshit. You need to tell us what really happened that night.”

Somerset’s voice was flat. “It’s not bullshit. That’s what happened. How many times are you going to ask me that?”

“As many times as it takes for you to tell us the truth.” Ruiz pushed back from the table.

Somerset continued tapping his thumbs together.

Kissick began. “Dillon, why did you confess to two murders you didn’t do?”

“I
did
murder them.” Somerset sat straight. His head looked big atop his skinny neck. He stared at Kissick, his eyes intense. “I’m responsible. It was me. I wanted to be close to her. To Lauren. She and I belong together, forever. He was no good for her, that Oliver Mercer. I tried to tell her.” The veins on his neck bulged as his voice became strident. “I warned her about him. Now that’s all I hear. All everyone talks about. Lauren and Oliver, Lauren and Oliver, Lauren and that …” Somerset pursed his lips, struggling for an apt description of Mercer. He spat it out. “That
idiot
.” His face was flushed and he was panting. He stroked his square mustache then continued tapping his thumbs.

Kissick looked at Somerset anew, intrigued by his lapse of control.

Ruiz tried to remain calm but didn’t make it. He jabbed his finger toward the suspect. “Dillon, I sense
you’re holding back. I sense you’re hiding something. Today is the day to tell the truth. The truth never hurt anyone.”

Somerset mumbled, “I have told the truth.”

“Dillon. Dillon, look at me.” Kissick held up two fingers and pointed at his own eyes.

Somerset stopped his thumb-tapping and became eerily still.

Kissick raised his voice. “You’re wasting our time with this bullshit.
Look at me
.”

Somerset defiantly swung his head to face him. He sniffed.

“Dillon, we know you’re not telling the truth.”

Somerset swallowed, and then darted out his hand to snatch a plastic bottle of water from the table. He unscrewed the sealed cap and guzzled most of it down. Finishing, he brushed his fingers against his lips and set the bottle back on the table but still held the cap.

Kissick loomed over him. “Okay, Dillon, this is what’s going to happen. You’ll go to trial and you’ll be convicted. Your attorney will make a lot of money, but you’ll go to prison. They’ll put you on a train and take you to San Quentin and put you on death row. When you’re laying on that table waiting for the needle, Detective Ruiz and I won’t be there. Your parents will be there, outside the window, but you’ll be on that table alone. Is that what you want?”

Somerset tightly squeezed the bottle cap between his fingers, bending the hard plastic.

“We’re trying to help you out, Dillon,” Ruiz said. “Tell us why you confessed.”

“Are you dense?” Somerset said. “I confessed because I did it.”

“I need to take a break.” Kissick left the room.

Ruiz followed.

*   *   *

In the adjoining room, crowded around the two-way glass, were Sergeant Early, Lieutenant Beltran, and Vining.

“What do you think, guys?” Beltran asked Ruiz and Kissick.

Ruiz took a handkerchief from his back pocket and used it to blot his nearly bald head. “After a couple of hours of working on him, he won’t retract his confession. That tells me all I need to know. That tells me he’s our guy.”

“I can’t get past his problem with the facts,” Kissick said.

“He talked about using a chain saw to dismember Mercer,” Ruiz protested. “That’s factual.”

“He could have figured that out,” Kissick argued. “He saw the little bits of flesh all over the room and the blood splatter pattern. What about Mercer’s body parts? He said he stacked them. They weren’t arbitrarily stacked. They were carefully arranged. What about Mercer’s face being painted with blood? And how about the bloody footprint made by a size eleven high heel?”

Ruiz folded the handkerchief and shoved it back inside his pocket. “But he said he only dismembered Mercer and not Richards, which
is
accurate.”

“I attribute that to him not being able to imagine her body being desecrated,” Kissick said. “His description of what happened to Richards is wrong. That’s what tells me he’s lying.”

“He was in some sort of a psychotic state when he did it,” Ruiz said. “In his mind, that’s how it happened.”

“I agree,” Beltran said.

“He’s a nut,” Kissick said. “But he’s not our nut.”

“Jim, how do you explain finding a key piece of evidence in his closet?” Beltran asked. “If the blood on that
athletic shoe matches one of the victim’s, that proves this isn’t a false confession.”

Early added, “It shows he was in the murder house before he set up his shrine there.”

“How long are we going to keep working him?” Ruiz asked. “Let’s charge him with the murders.”

“I was just talking to Carmen Vidal,” Beltran said. “She’s madder than hell, having to sit in the lobby.” He laughed. “I don’t know what she has to complain about. It looks like she’s opened up an office. Got her papers spread out, her Blackberry and everything.”

“I don’t know what she has to complain about either,” Early said. “She’s probably being paid six hundred dollars an hour to sit there.”

Kissick let his eyes light upon Vining’s.

She guessed what he was thinking. They could both see Lieutenant Beltran planning the press conference over which he’d preside like a conquering hero. One of the commanders was retiring and everyone knew that Beltran considered himself the heir apparent.

Vining turned and left without explanation.

“Somerset is hiding something, but he’s not our killer. I’m not ready to charge him with the murders yet.” Kissick stepped away from the group, as if anticipating the onslaught that was about to be directed at him. He wished Vining would return to help back him up and wondered why she’d abandoned him.

Beltran was first, keeping his voice low. “All due respect, Corporal, but why would he confess to two murders he didn’t commit and not retract the confession after hours of being grilled?”

“Lieutenant, I don’t know.”

Vining returned carrying a large, manila evidence envelope. “I had a thought. Mind if I take a turn with Somerset?”

Ruiz didn’t immediately respond, not wanting to cede any potential advantage to Vining. When Kissick said, “Be our guest,” and Beltran said, “Give it a shot, Corporal,” Ruiz climbed on board. “Go ahead.”

Vining carried the envelope into the interview room.