Every Move She Makes (15 page)

"I think we should run the John Doe case by Bettencourt," he said.

"I'll let you handle that." "Thought you two were working on a
reconciliation." He pulled out his cellular and punched in a number.

"Where'd you hear that?" I asked, surprised. I wasn't sure that I liked
my private business made public, even if there wasn't any truth to it,
and wondered how much of that Torrance had dug up as an IA investigator.

"Your ex told me," he said, then talked into the hone. "Bettencourt."

"Mike Torrance here." While he spoke to Reid via cellular, I drove down
the street and turned right, past the entrance to Hilliard
Pharmaceutical. A gray pickup with HILLIARD PHARMACEUTICAL. A COMPANY

YOU CAN rrust emblazoned on the door panels was parked out in front.

Dexter Kermgard. "I can't imagine they were too thrilled to find a
corpse in their backyard," I said, nodding at the pickup. Torrance
covered the receiver. "I'm sorry. What did you say?" From my rearview
mirror, I saw Dex, wearing a white lab coat, step out the door carrying
a file box. I pulled to the curb and parked. "Nothing. I need to talk to
this guy." If Torrance heard me, he gave no indication. I left him in
the car and strode up the street. "Dex?" He put the file box in the back
of his pickup, looked up, smiled. "Kate. What can I do for you?" "I'm in
somewhat of a bind. I'm sure you heard about my partner." His smile
faded. He said nothing. "'the DNS requested that I reinvestigate each of
my homicides. "I'o preserve the integrity of the cases." Not yet, but no
need to let Dex know. "I'd like to see where the power cord was
attached." He hesitated, his jaw clenched. "Sure." He pulled out the
keys and unlocked the door. We hadn't taken two steps within when I
heard a car screech to a halt outside. He eyed the white Lincoln angled
against the curb out front.

"Someone you know?" I asked.

"That would be Josephine Hilliard. I wasn't expecting her." He moved on,
but I hesitated, catching a glimpse of a woman exiting the car. She
walked into the building, her high heels clicking on the cement floor. I
put her in her late thirties, tall, thin, and as cultured and commanding
as her voice. Her entire being, from the top of her blond French twist
to her woolen cream-colored swing coat and matching boots, spoke money.

Lots of it. She was just as I remembered, though our contact had been
brief. She'd been the hostess of the fundraiser put on by Paolini to
save the rain forests. I recalled her standing at the door, saying to
everyone who entered, "How do you do? A pleasure to meet you," as she
clasped their hand. I was one of several hundred guests that night to
receive her plastic greeting.

"Dexter? "What are you doing here?" The woman held him in her cool gaze.

Dex returned her stare, not backing down an iota. "This is Inspector
Gillespie. Her father and I were on the force together."

"Inspector," she said, sparing me a glance.

"Inspector Gillespie would like to take a look at the dividing wall. For
her investigation." She sized me up. I met her gaze, never allowing her
the chance to dismiss me, something at which she was practiced, I knew,
from experience. Finally I said, "Undoubtedly you're aware of my
investigation." "Of course. Dexter informed me the moment he learned of
it. It is his job, after all." "Then you are aware I need to look in
your building." "I've been advised not to allow that." She brushed a
speck from the sleeve of her impeccable coat.

"By whom?"

"Our legal department. You need a search warrant, I believe they said."

"Only if you refuse. I was hoping we could do this peaceably."

"Be that as it may, Inspector. You will leave the building at once. We
will be more than happy to cooperate. Once you have obtained a search
warrant. We have a reputation to protect." "Gillespie." I looked beyond
her to see Torrance in the doorway, a determined expression on his face.

I ignored him. I was mad, at a dead end, and needing to score a point,
despite Josephine Hilliard's momentary triumph. I advanced on her until
I stood inches away. "I'd think because of your company's reputation,
you'd want to cooperate. But I'll be more than happy to get a warrant."

I moved past her until I reached Torrance and the door. Then I turned.

"Oh, yes. There is one thing. I'll need to interview you. At my office.

This afternoon." She opened her mouth, undoubtedly to object, but I
hurried on. "Your husband owns this building. The entire building, from
what I understand. Our department is investigating the death of a man
found in the vacant side. I'm sure you understand why it's important
that we get a statement from you?"

"I'll speak to our attorneys. I'm not sure if they'll allow it."

"Feel free, Mrs. Hilliard. But think about this. Everything I do is a
matter of public record. All my conversations will be documented, and
notes made on who does and does not cooperate. The press eats up little
details like that." Apparently I caught a chord. She clenched her
delicate fists. "I'm afraid I can't. I'm under heavy medication. I
shouldn't be driving." Judging from her parking job, she could very well
have been telling me the truth. "Have your attorneys drive you. This
afternoon, Mrs. Hilliard. Before five." At that, I exited the building.

Dex followed me out. He glanced back in at Mrs. Hilliard, then closed
the door to keep her from hearing. "Let me see if I can talk to her for
you, Inspector." His words took me by surprise. "Thank you." Torrance
took my arm and led me to the car. I had to double my pace to keep up
with him. "What the hell was that about?" he asked. "Attitude
adjustment?" "I find it odd that a company that allegedly has no
connection to a homicide wouldn't cooperate in the investigation."

Torrance never slowed his pace.

"What's the hurry?" I asked.

"Get in the car." His tone was all business, his mouth set in a firm
line. "We need to get to the morgue. Code Two and a Half " "Seriously?"

Code Two and a Half was lights, no siren-something that most agencies
frowned on. We got in, I started the engine. "Move it." The all too
familiar prick of adrenaline shot to my hands as I flicked a switch on
the dash, activating the emergency lights in the front grill of my car.

It was a dangerous way to drive, without a siren on, but I figured if an
IA investigator wanted me to break the rules, then he had damn good
reason for it. At the bottom of the hill, I came to a stop sign. The
intersection was clear. I rolled through it.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"Your partner's at the morgue." panicked at his words. Doctor
Mead-Scolari's face burned across my vision. In her Range Rover, her
head hanging at an odd tilt against the bloody glass, her throat slit.

Like a movie reel, the next scene flashed before me. In Property, Smith
slumped over the counter, his life dripping onto the dirty concrete. And
Martin ... Martin staring at the ceiling ... Images. Images I wanted
to forget.

Images I'd remember forever.

My pulse drummed in my ears. I rolled down my window, took a deep breath
against the nausea. I didn't want Scolari to end up that way, to see him
that way.

"What do you mean, at the morgue?" I forced myself to ask- "Is he dead?"

"No." Torrance's firm, quiet voice brought sanity with it. I took
another deep breath and concentrated on my driving. "Dr. Mead-Scolarl's
secretary said she saw him in his wife's office. She called 911, then
left the building. SWAT's setting up a perimeter."

"He's going to get himself killed."

"Not if he gives up." I stopped for a red light, made a right turn
instead, then went down an alley. I knew several shortcuts to the
morgue, back streets that would avoid the congestion of city traffic. "I
can't believe he killed those guys," I said, thinking of the times we
were down in Property booking items from various cases we'd worked. "A
man doesn't joke around with guys, ask about their wives, how their
grandkids are doing, only to kill them. That's something Paolini would
do."

"And Paolini's still a viable suspect," Torrance replied.

"In that homicide." "But not in the doctor's homicide," I said,
finishing for him. "Do you think Scolari did it?" Silence. I stole a
glance, saw his dark, unfathomable gaze. Finally he said, "He's left me
no choice." "Is that the depart mentally correct answer?" I regretted
the question as soon as I said it, the attack on his integrity, but it
was too late. The words were out, and I wanted to hear the answer. "You
mean, why didn't I come out and say yes, I think he's guilty?" His voice
nearly frosted my windshield. "Unlike the opinion you and the rest of
the department have about IA, our sole purpose in life is not to screw
you over."

"I never said it was."

"Maybe not directly, but can you tell me you've never thought that?"

Having been at the forefront of two IA investigations myself-nothing as
serious as this, and exonerated in both-I clearly recalled thinking that
very thing. It occurred to me then that because of his position, the way
he was treated by others, we were in a sense really more alike than I'd
realized. Those in IA were looked upon by many officers as pariahs.

Women officers were about one step below that. "Look," I said, evading
the issue, "I'm just worried about my partner."

"Do you think he did it?"

"I can't think that."

"But do you?"

My grip on the steering wheel tightened, my knucides white. Damn you,
Scolari. How could you do this? How could you let me down, not give up,
and let all this happen? "I don't know," I said. We neared the Hall of
Justice and the morgue, and I stopped at the outer perimeter a block
away, our progress impeded by a patrol car in the road, its
three-sixties flashing. Torrance showed his star to the officer nearby,
who then waved us through. I didn't want Scolari to die. As I drove
around the patrol car toward the inner perimeter, I could see SWAT

personnel running from a van, carrying their high-powered weapons like
commandos in a war zone. Ninja turtles, Scolari always called them.

"Park here," Torrance said, indicating a spot on the north side of the
jail near a different van used by the Hostage Negotiation Team. At least
that was a good sign, that they were willing to try to talk him from the
building before sending in the heavy artillery. We got out, and Torrance
went off to talk with the Incident Commander. I saw Patricia's secretary
sitting at the command post. Her hand shook as she lifted a Styrofoam
cup to her mouth.

"Hey, Mary," I said, taking a seat beside her.

"Honey, you better tell me you didn't send him here," she said, shocking
me.

"No. Why would I?"

"He came looking for that file you asked about this morning."

"Which file?"

"John Doe." She rattled off the number.

The Ice Man? This case was popping up far too often
for my comfort, and I wondered why. Suddenly I remembered the
conversation Mary and I had had about Scolari's marriage. I worried that
if Mary believed I had something to do with Scolari's appearance in her
office, she'd refuse to tell me whatever it was she'd started to
divulge. "I have no idea why he showed up here." Mary regarded me
thoroughly. Apparently satisfied of my innocence, she said, "Can't
imagine why he came, either. Not when the whole damn force is looking
for him." Unless there's something about that case I was missing. Was it
related to the Soma Slasher? Paolini? Had Patricia somehow made a
connection? I didn't know where to find the answers, but figured her
death was a good place to start. "Mary? I was wondering ... ' I stopped
upon seeing the direction of her fixed gaze: the SWAT van, the snipers
jumping from the back, a man handing out AK 47s to his team.