Cut to the Quick (32 page)

TWENTY-NINE

“
I
’m detective
Nan Vining.”

She garnered the brightest spark of interest from Somerset that he’d shown since the interrogation had begun.

Taking latex gloves from her pocket, she put them on, then opened the envelope’s brass clasps. She tipped the contents onto the table. Out tumbled a small wicker box and several small manila envelopes. She moved the wicker box to the middle of the table.

Somerset glared at the box and the small envelopes. His face and shaved head grew pink.

Vining took the lid off the box. “We found this among your possessions at Oliver Mercer’s house. All these items were in it.”

Somerset said through gritted teeth, “Don’t touch that. That’s mine.”

“I know it’s yours,” Vining said.

Vining opened one of the envelopes and took out a white terrycloth headband. “What’s this, Dillon?”

“That’s Lauren’s. It’s mine.”

“Where did you get it?”

Somerset’s face grew more flushed and he didn’t answer.

Vining answered for him. “Lauren’s mother said that Lauren used to wear headbands like this at the gym. She probably dropped it on the way to her car.”

“Give it to me.” Somerset held out his hand.

“Sorry.” Vining set it inside the wicker box. She opened and upended another envelope, spilling the contents into her palm. She held up the stub of a movie ticket and read the information on it. “One ticket to an animated kids’ movie. Sunday matinee. You went by yourself to this, didn’t you, Dillon? You followed Lauren when she took her kids, didn’t you?”

“I don’t like you touching my things.” Somerset rubbed his hands over the top of his head.

Kissick silently slipped inside the room and stood near Somerset.

“Bet Lauren was real happy having you in the theater with her kids.” Vining put the ticket stub inside the box.

Still holding his head, his elbows on the table, Somerset said, “I watched over her. That’s mine. Don’t touch it.”

“Now, I’d really like to know what’s behind this.” Vining emptied a small envelope onto the large one. Tiny oval scraps of paper tumbled out. She began turning them over. They were the missing heads cut from the photos of Lauren they’d found in Somerset’s apartment.

Somerset bolted from his chair and began to lunge for the severed heads. “Those are mine!”

Kissick grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back down.

“She can’t touch those,” Somerset complained, pointing at Vining.

Kissick left his one hand on Somerset’s shoulder, reminding him that he was still there.

Vining left the severed heads where they were—tiny smiling Laurens, over and over. On top of them she poured out the contents of more envelopes. One held a brightly colored grosgrain ribbon. Another held a dried rosebud. Another held a ticket from a parking valet.

“What about this, Dillon?” she asked. “And this? And this?”

Somerset kept repeating, “It’s mine. It’s Lauren’s. It’s mine.”

Vining dumped out the last envelope. It held an acrylic fingernail, painted with coral-colored polish. She picked it up in her gloved hand. It had been torn off. A patch of the wearer’s real fingernail adhered to the glue.

“It’s mine, it’s Lauren’s, it’s—”

Vining held it toward Somerset. “This is not Lauren’s.”

“Yes, it is. It’s Lauren’s. It’s mine.”

Vining still held up the fingernail. “Where did you get this, Dillon?”

Somerset slid his hands toward his treasures.

Kissick again seized his shoulder. “Don’t move.”

Somerset looked at Vining. Tears were in his eyes. “They’re mine. They’re Lauren’s. They’re all I have left.”

“Tell me where you got this fingernail, Dillon, and you can have them.” She did not intend to return the items to him.

He blinked away tears. “In the house. I took it off Lauren’s body. I took it from her hand.”

“No you didn’t, Dillon. You didn’t take it from her hand. Lauren’s fingernails were short and had clear polish. Why are you pretending that you killed her?”

“Because I loved her. If anyone was going to kill her, it should have been me.”

“But it wasn’t you.”

He hung his head. “I wanted to protect her and make
life beautiful for her. If she had to be murdered, I should have done it, to protect her.”

Vining began picking up Somerset’s mementos and returning them to the small envelopes.

He didn’t protest. His terrible secret now out, he seemed broken. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Can I go now?”

Kissick had moved away from him. “No, you can’t go. You broke into Oliver Mercer’s house. You lied to us. That’s not trivial.”

“I guess maybe I need an attorney.”

Vining looked at him. “Are you asking for an attorney?”

“Yes. And I need something to eat. I have low blood sugar issues.”

After a break during which Somerset had an organic fruit and nut bar, he had calmed down sufficiently to tell his story.

After a long negotiation, Vidal, Kissick, Ruiz, and a prosecutor from the D.A.’s Pasadena office reached an agreement. In exchange for Somerset’s complete and truthful account about how blood ended up on his Nike shoe and how he had come by the acrylic fingernail, the D.A. would not charge Dillon with burglary, usually filed as a felony, or the less-serious charges of making false statements to the police and vandalism. Somerset then detailed each occasion he’d entered Mercer’s house. There had been several.

The day the murders were discovered, the PPD had brought Somerset in for questioning, starting his downward spiral. In the wee hours of the next morning, he gave in to his impulse to again visit Mercer’s house—the scene of both Richards’s betrayal of him and her murder. The sprinklers had been on in Mercer’s yard. Somerset’s
damp tennis shoes on the bloody floor transferred blood to the sole of his Nike.

When he saw the crime scene, Somerset unraveled. He went home, gathered his camping gear, changed into hiking boots, leaving the bloody Nike beside the bed, and returned to Mercer’s with no plans for the future other than never leaving Richards’s side again.

Somerset had found the acrylic fingernail among sprays of white freesias in a vase on a sideboard in Mercer’s living room. When Somerset had pulled out the flowers to incorporate them into his shrine around the blood-soaked living room floor, the torn acrylic fingernail had fallen out. Somerset believed the nail was Richards’s, although he didn’t recall her using something so artificial to enhance her appearance. He saw it as the corrupting influence of Oliver Mercer.

Vidal and the D.A. finally agreed to charge Somerset only with trespassing, a misdemeanor. At arraignment, the D.A. would recommend that Somerset pay a nominal fine and be released.

As Vidal led her client from the interview room, Kissick remarked to Vining, “You said Bowie Crowley wasn’t your type. How about this guy? He’s single now.”

Vining looked deeply into his eyes. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but then turned away, saying nothing.

THIRTY

W
ith Somerset
no longer a suspect, the PPD turned its full attention to Jack Jenkins. Caspers, Ruiz, Jones, and Sproul set about following the paper trail and tracking down people who knew Jenkins. Vining and Kissick would return to the Salton Sea to surveil Jenkins’s Stop ’N Go Market, hoping Jack would show up. Ideally, they would pick up a discarded cigarette butt, coffee cup, or something else that might carry his DNA, preferably obtained legally. The torn acrylic fingernail with the patch of DNA-laden real nail attached was already on its way for DNA testing. With any luck, they would also find skin cells or blood from Mercer or Richards.

Kissick had finished arrangements to borrow a car from Narcotics/Vice to take to the Salton Sea when Caspers approached his cubicle.

“I have a piece of business with you, Corporal Kissick,” Caspers began.

“Shoot.”

“Squatting dog …” Caspers turned around and lifted his dress shirt and T-shirt, displaying the tattooed Chinese calligraphy on his back.

“Squatting dog?” Kissick repeated, seemingly perplexed.

“Don’t bullshit me, man.” Caspers tucked in his shirt.

Vining walked up and joined the exchange.

Kissick stifled a smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Look how he laughs,” said Caspers. “You
so
know what I’m talking about.”

Vining chuckled too. “What’s going on?”

Caspers continued riding Kissick. “I’ve asked two reliable sources about my tattoo. Both confirm that it says Crouching Tiger,
not
Squatting Dog.” He pointed accusingly at Kissick. “You got Cameron Lam to—”

“Is that what Lam told you your tattoo says?” Kissick asked. “Squatting Dog?”

Vining cracked up.

Caspers continued pointing at Kissick. “I’m gonna get you, but good.”

After shaking his finger one more time, Caspers left.

As soon as he did, Kissick wrestled harder with his laughter.

Still chuckling, Vining leaned in closer. “You had Cam Lam tell him his tattoo says Squatting Dog?”

Kissick succumbed, laughing as quietly as he could manage. Tears sprang into his eyes.

Vining raised her palm and Kissick high-fived her. Her cell phone began ringing. She took it from her pocket and looked at the display. She didn’t recognize the number, but her interest was piqued by the area code: 213. Downtown L.A.

“This is Nan Vining.”

“This is Leo Chapel. The psych tech down at County Hospital.”

He didn’t need to explain who he was.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Your guy was released.”

“What?”
Vining felt the air sucked out of her.

“About two this afternoon.”

Vining looked at her watch. It was after 9:00 at night.
Mindful of Kissick nearby, she walked away from the cubicles. “You said you’d call me.”

“I just started my shift. I didn’t think they’d cut him loose so soon.”

“Why did they?”

“He started talking. From what I’ve been told, when the psychiatrist on duty was making his rounds, he stopped by Nitro’s bed and asked how he was doing. Nitro said, ‘I’m fine.’ The doctor pulled over a chair and they had a chat.”

“Did Nitro say why he wouldn’t talk before?”

“I read the doctor’s notes in Nitro’s chart. He wrote that the patient reported suffering from personal problems, was upset, and just didn’t care about anything, so he stopped talking. He was sorry for the trouble he caused and wants to go home.”

“What name did he sign on the release papers?”

“Nitro.”

Vining closed her eyes. “Do you know if anybody picked him up?”

“My buddy who was here said he made a call from the phone in the ward, but didn’t think anyone came inside to get him. He walked out and that was that.”

“Thanks for calling,” Vining said flatly.

“Not so fast. What about the hundred you’d said you’d give me?”

“You were supposed to call me when he was going to be released, not seven hours later.”

“I told you he was gone by the time my shift started. I got all this information for you. That ought to be worth something.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Look, bitch. There’s something here you’ll want. We found it after Nitro left. Turned up at the reception desk.”

“What is it?”

“An envelope that looks like it has a card in it, like an invitation. Handwriting on it says: ‘Please deliver to Officer Vining, Pasadena Police Department.’ ”

Officer Vining
. That’s what T. B. Mann called her.

“If you want it, it’ll be two hundred bucks.”

“Excuse me?”

“I was going to give it to you when you came to pay me the hundred, but since you’ve been such a bitch … Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll be right down.”

“I’ll meet you in the parking lot in front of the E.R.”

Kissick caught up with Vining while she was grabbing her purse from her locked desk drawer.

“I’m good to drive out to the Salton Sea whenever,” he said. “If we went now, we’d beat the traffic. Get a couple of rooms nearby for the night. Something wrong?”

She slipped the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “Nitro was released at two o’clock this afternoon.”

“They cut him loose? Why?”

She told him what the psych tech had said.

“So Nitro
was
faking,” Kissick said. “What was that all about?”

“Who knows?”

“Why did this psych tech bother to call you?”

“Because someone left a letter for me down at the Big G.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know, Jim. I have to go down and find out.”

“You going now?”

“Yes.” She started walking toward the door.

He grabbed his jacket and followed. “Not alone.”

“Jim, it’s not a problem. I’ll just pick up the letter and leave.” She saw where this was heading. She didn’t want
him to go with her and stumble upon the true extent of her dealings with Chapel. Specifically, how she had confiscated Nitro’s pearl necklace.

She continued walking.

He put his hand on her shoulder.

She turned, glaring first at his hand on her, then at him.

“Nan, I can’t let you go down there and meet this guy in a dark alley. You’re the one who’s all about officer safety. You told me not to go around Niland by myself and you were right.”

She didn’t say anything at first. She knew there was no getting around him going with her, plus he was right. She had no business going there alone. She had no business taking Nitro’s necklace and threatening him either, but there she was. Trapped.

“I’ll drive,” she said.

“That’s all right. I’ll drive.”

Kissick parked the Crown Vic near the Big G’s emergency room doors.

“There he is.” Vining said. She started to get out of the car and he began to open his door.

“I don’t think we should both go,” she said. “One of us should stay and observe.”

“Why?”

“Two of us showing up might spook him.”

“Nan, you’re here to pick up something that belongs to you. We’re not doing a drug deal.”