Fixed in Blood (10 page)

Lydia welcomed Roz and Bud Jensen into her office. She saw Delbe in her mother. They shared the same red hair and amber eyes. Both had freckled skin and an anxious way of carrying themselves. Bud had contributed his body type to his daughter. Where Roz was short and bulky, Bud had the same long-legged, broad-shouldered presence as his daughter.

“Thank you for coming.” Lydia offered them coffee or tea, which both refused. “I asked Delbe to take this slot when she called last night.”

“Let me apologize for that straight off.” Roz sat on the edge of the sofa opposite Lydia’s chair. She held her purse on her knees, shaking her head in disapproval. “She was raised better than to call in the middle of the night. I can’t blame you for being so upset you needed to wake us up. Of course, we packed and left the hotel as soon as we hung up from you.” She looked over to her husband, who had taken his place at the other end of the sofa. “Even though we still had another night paid for. But we’re used to throwing good money after bad where Delbe’s concerned.”

“You haven’t heard from her, then?”

This time Bud spoke. “She doesn’t share much with us. She comes and goes as she pleases. Works down at the Pancake House. You probably already know that.”

“She could have had her pick of jobs if she’d gone to college,” Roz interrupted. “My side of the family has always been the best students.” Her smile was sheepish. “I graduated from Washington State. Secondary Education. Taught four years before Delbe was born. We thought it best for me to stay home to raise her. She was smart as the dickens, that one. I always said she took after my Uncle Davis. Didn’t I always say that, Bud?”

He nodded. “I guess you know she dropped out of high school her junior year. Ran off to California to hit it big. We told her it was foolishness, but you know kids.”

“She’s always been headstrong,” Roz added. “Gets herself in trouble with her fancy ideas. When she was nine, she saw some show on TV and decided she wanted to be a journalist. Started her own neighborhood paper. We had Axel Stone pounding on our door one morning before I even had my shower. He lives three doors down and was mad as a maniac, wanting to know where Delbe got off talking about how his secretary visited him at home every Wednesday while his wife was out getting her hair and nails done. Remember that one, Bud?”

Lydia needed to keep them focused. “Was she home when you got there?”

“No,” Bud said. “Her bed was made. I figured she’d taken an extra shift at work. She was always looking to work more hours.”

“I tried to tell her working more at minimum wage isn’t the way,” Roz said. “It’s better she spend her time getting her GED and heading off to college. But she wouldn’t listen. I think she was intimidated by my education. I tell her, ‘Your dad’s got just a technical school degree and it hasn’t hurt him any.’ No need for her to shoot as high as I got.”

Lydia was beginning to understand Delbe’s marijuana use. “Did you call the Pancake House?”

Bud nodded. “Manager said she called and told him to take her off the schedule for the week. He wasn’t too pleased.”

“She’ll lose that job and we’ll be stuck paying her bills again,” Roz clucked.

Bud ignored his wife. “I’m worried, Dr. Corriger. Delbe’s never done anything like this. We were disappointed and angry when she lit off to California, but she always kept in touch. This isn’t like her.”

“Did she take any clothing with her?”

Roz huffed her disgust. “Who can tell? That girl’s got more clothes than Princess Di. I went in there about a month ago, trying to clean up that pigsty she calls a room. Do you know I pulled thirty pairs of shoes out of her stacks? Thirty! And that wasn’t the half of them. I walked out and left the mess where it sat. That’s where she spent all her money. That and guitar lessons.”

“Now, hon, you know she hasn’t bought anything new in a long time.”

“She doesn’t need to,” Roz snapped. “She’s got enough to last ten lives. So much I can’t even answer the doctor’s question here. How do you think that makes me look? She could have packed five suitcases for all I know.”

Lydia shifted topics. “You said you’d be stuck paying her bills. Does she have many?”

“Just the one from when she headed out to California and found out living on her own wasn’t cheap. She started borrowing and one thing led to another.” Roz opened her purse, pulled out a checkbook, and started leafing through it. She read from her register. “I sent two hundred to her loan last week.” She shuffled back a page. “Two weeks before that it was a hundred fifty.” Roz looked up at Lydia. “We pay her cellphone, like I told you. And we give her a tank of gas every month for her car.”

“You pay those bills yourself?” Lydia wondered if Bauer was right. Had Delbe gotten herself in deep with a payday loan scheme?

Roz tossed her checkbook back in her purse. “Delbe gives me the cash and I write the check out for her. No bank would trust her with an account of her own. These are the sum total of her bills. I know what she makes. Yet she never has money for anything. Always hitting us up for ten dollars here, twenty dollars there.” Roz shot a look at her husband. “I keep a strict line. She got herself into this mess, she doesn’t need to come looking to me to bail her out. But she’s got her dad wrapped around her little finger. Always has. He thinks I don’t know he’s slippin’ her cash all the time, but I see everything. I can do the math. She ought to have plenty from her waitressing job. Where’s that money go?” Roz took a sharp inhale and reached over to grab her husband’s arm. “Oh, my Lord. You’re not telling us she’s a drug junkie, are you?”

Delbe’s frantic call replayed in Lydia’s mind.
I have debts…No more sheets to sign…No more promises I can’t keep…There’s a new plan…They’re shipping me off to market…

“Where did you send those checks, Mrs. Jensen?”

Roz looked confused. “What’s that got to do with Delbe being a junkie?”

Lydia shook her head. “I have no reason to believe your daughter’s addicted to drugs. Would you mind telling me to whom she owed the money?”

Now Roz looked indignant. “I don’t see where that’s any of your concern. I’ve known people who’ve gone to psychologists and they never have to discuss personal things like—”

Bud leaned forward and interrupted his wife. “It’s Rite Now Finance. That’s who she borrowed money from and that’s where Roz sends the checks. One of those scalping outfits. You probably seen the ads with that guy Charlie Fellow tellin’ you how he’s gonna fix your financial worries.”

Lydia sat back. “Yes. I’ve heard.”

Mort looked down at another body and wondered just how hot this summer was going to get. Seattle had weathered three dark and rainy months without a single homicide. Now the sun was poking through the cloud cover on a semi-regular basis and here he was, supervising his second crime scene in less than ten days. He nodded toward a woman talking with Micki fifteen feet away.

“She called it in?”

Jim DeVilla pulled Mort back a step, allowing his officer access to photograph the corpse from another angle. “Yeah. That’s Louise Ennis. Big-time commercial real estate mogul, from what I’m told. Says she was scheduled to meet with a prospective client this morning. This place has been vacant seven months. She came by early. You know, turn on the lights, brush away cobwebs. Let herself in the front, says she heard nothing. Walked through the two front rooms, claims to have touched nothing but doorknobs and light switches. Heads into this back office, turns on the overhead, and sees this. Gotta hand it to her, she didn’t lose her breakfast. Stepped back into the hallway and called it in. Says she walked back to the front door, stood in one place, and waited for the patrol car.”

Mort looked around the windowless room. “Knew not to disturb the scene.”

“God bless TV.” Jimmy directed the photographer toward the rear door. “That’s how they got in. Make sure you get shots of the entire alley.” He turned back to Mort. “Coroner should be here any minute, but to my eye it doesn’t look like she’s been here long.” He looked around the vacant room. “Place is clean enough. No worries about rats getting in and gnawing away clues.”

“Maybe a little too clean.” Mort pointed toward the walls and floors. “This storefront’s been vacant seven months? I’d expect more dust. This place is showroom ready.”

“That’s what Micki thought. According to Louise over there, a cleaning crew keeps the front rooms nice. The ones facing Western Avenue and any prospective renter who might press a nose against the glass. They don’t bother cleaning back here, since it’s typical for interior walls to be ripped out and reconfigured to the new customer’s needs.”

“So good luck finding any prints is what you’re telling me.”

Jimmy shrugged. “There are other ways to catch bad guys.”

Two uniformed officers stepped into the room, one holding a plastic evidence bag.

“We found this out in the alley.” Mort knew this guy. David Guilfoose. He was part of the rookie class two years ago. “Some mud on it, but this mud’s fresher than the rest of the garbage back there.”

Mort slipped on a pair of latex gloves, pulled a black vinyl purse out of the evidence pouch, and sifted through the contents. A comb, a tube of lipstick, two five-dollar bills, a crumpled business-size envelope, and a key. He unzipped a small compartment on the back wall of the purse. “Bingo.” He pulled out a small plastic wallet. One side held a driver’s license. The other a photo of two girls posing in front of a Ferris wheel. Mort knelt down beside the corpse and compared the photo to the dead girl lying at his feet.

“She’s Francie Michael.” Mort read off the license. “Nineteen years old. Five foot five, 145 pounds.” He scanned the body. “Age seems right. She might have fudged a few pounds. Tacoma address.” He looked up at the officers. “Good job. I won’t forget it.”

Guilfoose and his partner nodded and stepped clear of the door to allow Tyler Conner and his assistant entrance to the room. Dr. Conner took a long look at the corpse. “First thing that jumps out is that ligature mark.” He glanced overhead. “No rafters. I’m assuming your crew didn’t remove a rope from around her neck.”

“They did not,” Mort said.

“So we can rule out suicide and therefore justify the presence of Washington State’s finest homicide team.” Dr. Conner knelt, placed two gloved fingers under the corpse’s chin, shifted the head, and raised the eyelids. “Vessel burst consistent with death by asphyxiation.” He traced his fingers along the purple bruise on the neck. “Something wide. A belt maybe. Irregular bruising. Indicative of a start-stop tightening.” He looked up at Mort and Jimmy. “This woman did not die quickly.”

“My team took scrapings from under her nails,” Jimmy said.

The coroner shook his head. “No fighting. Her hands were bound, too. Blood pooling around the wrists.” He looked to her ankles. “Legs, too. I’ll know better once I get her to the lab, but I’m willing to bet this woman died slow.” He picked up her arm for closer inspection. That’s when Mort saw it.

“Hold it.” He bent down. There, on the upper inside. He hadn’t noticed it before Doc Conner moved her arm. A small red tattoo. Round. Like a family crest or an official emblem. Maybe a bird with two heads.

Mort checked the clock. It had been three hours since they left the crime scene, each with assigned tasks. Now they were in his office. Mort at the whiteboard, Micki with her open laptop on her knees, and Jimmy passing out slices of chicken-and-garlic pizza while Bruiser sat sentry at the door, too proud to beg but ready to catch.

Jimmy settled into his chair with two slices on his plate. “I can sum up what I got before my pizza gets cold. My team processed the whole scene. Building and alley. Not one useable print. No fibers either. Nothing beyond that purse the uniforms found. Whoever did this has a retirement career in cleaning waiting. We canvassed the area. That part of downtown gets quiet after ten. It’s all retail shops and small businesses on the lower two floors of the buildings. Whoever broke in came in through the alley. No security cameras. Neighbors live three floors up. No one saw anything suspicious.”

“But the murder happened there.” Mort’s stomach was tightening. “Doc Conner’s positive she wasn’t moved postmortem. Francie didn’t die fast or easy. No one heard a scream?”

“Those walls are two feet of brick and concrete.” Jimmy looked as frustrated as Mort felt. “Coroner said she probably died around three in the morning. With the nearest pair of ears sleeping two stories above? It would have taken a bomb blast to wake anybody.”

Mort hated what he was hearing. “Micki, that leaves you to save the day. Give us something.”

Micki swallowed the last bite of her first slice before reading off her computer screen. “Francie Michael, age nineteen. Five foot five inches tall, 163 pounds. No history of arrests or traffic stops. No pending legal action. Current address is a one-room apartment in the Tacoma flats. Shares it with her boyfriend, one Miguel Hernandez, also aged nineteen. He goes by the name Chippy. He has one prior arrest for loud and disorderly, another for public drunkenness, and seventeen speeding tickets, six of which are outstanding. He and Francie both work part-time at Low Dollar Rent-a-Cars on the SeaTac strip. Vacuuming and washing the cars when they return. According to Chippy he’s been there nearly two years. Met Francie when she started about six months later. He says they’ve been living together for about a year.”

“What’s he got to say about Francie’s murder?” Jimmy asked.

“He’s shook up,” Micki said. “According to him he was out with his buddies last night. Gave me the names of four of ’em and they all tell the same story. Met at one of their houses, ate takeout barbeque and drank a few beers while watching the Mariners. Then they headed down to a neighborhood bar until closing time. Bartender and two waitresses verify. According to Chippy, Francie wasn’t home when he staggered in around two forty-five this morning. He thought she was pissed at him and went to her mother’s house. Said he was too drunk to do anything but fall into bed. He tried to text her when he woke up, but her phone was sitting on the kitchen table.”

“What about the mother?” Mort asked.

“That would be Gigi. She lives in the SkyVue trailer community in Federal Way. I went to see her after I left Chippy. She hadn’t yet been notified of her daughter’s death.”

“Sorry that fell to you.” Mort had no doubts Micki had found gentle words for a stunned mother. “Was she able to give you anything?”

Micki shook her head. “Gigi’s pretty much housebound. I wouldn’t be surprised if she weighed four hundred pounds. Lost one foot to diabetes. No car. Makes do on disability. Says the last time she saw Francie was about two weeks ago when she dropped off some groceries. A couple of neighbors came by when they heard her crying after I broke the news. She seemed glad to have them there.”

“What about that ink?” Crystal Tillwater and Francie Michael sported an identical tattoo. Mort needed a thread to tug on.

“Chippy said Francie came home with it a couple of weeks ago. Said he was angry she’d done it without his approval.”

“Bit your tongue on that one, huh, Mick?” Jimmy tossed his uneaten crust over his shoulder. Bruiser made one elegant leap and caught it midair.

Mort ignored Jim’s attempt to get a rise out of Micki. “Did she give him any explanation? Maybe it’s a club insignia? Her favorite band’s logo? Anything?”

“Quite the opposite,” Micki said. “I guess he went into a tirade about it, demanding an explanation, but she refused to talk about it. He said she kept it covered with sleeves or bandages.”

“That’s weird,” Jimmy said. “Most folks can’t wait to show off a new tat.”

“Not Francie. Gigi told me I must be mistaken when I asked her about it. Said her daughter hated tattoos. Thought they looked dirty. I showed her a picture of it. Not only did the design mean nothing to her, she said her daughter was deathly afraid of needles. Swore that if Francie had gotten a tattoo, Chippy forced her to.”

Mort drew a circle around the photo of the odd emblem taped to the whiteboard. Two birds in a circle. “Heard anything from any Seattle parlor?”

“Nothing.”

“Francie’s from Tacoma,” Mort said. “Get photos to the shops down there, too. Let’s see what the artist has to say.”

“Already on it.” Micki scrolled down her screen. “I followed on the contents of her purse. The lipstick’s available at any drugstore. Nothing special about the comb, and the key is to her apartment.”

Jimmy pulled another slice of pizza from the box. “Why can’t we just once have someone scribble their murderer’s name with their dying move? It happens in the movies all the time.”

“Well…”

Mort knew Micki’s instincts were solid. “What is it?”

Micki closed her computer. “That purse of Francie’s. Small, carrying the bare essentials for a night out.”

“She probably left the mother ship at home,” Jimmy offered. “I’m amazed at the gear women lug around in those bags. Like you’re afraid you’re gonna need a manicure or the address of your long-lost Aunt Hattie at a moment’s notice.”

Micki bit. “Maybe we need to keep it heavy so we can swing it upside some guy’s head if the situation warrants.”

“What caught your attention?” Mort loved their banter, but not now.

“That envelope. It was a bill from Rite Now Finance.”

“What about it?” Mort asked.

“It wasn’t stamped and ready to go, like she planned to drop it in the mail,” Micki said. “It was just the bill. Postmarked ten days ago.”

“What’s your point?” Jimmy asked.

“Evening purses are small. Women take only what we’ll need for the date. Lipstick, keys, comb, a few bucks in case we need to call a cab.”

Mort nodded. “So why did Francie put a bill she’d had for more than a week in her purse?”

“Exactly,” Micki said. “On a hunch I called the Rite Now Finance store listed on the bill. The manager’s hesitation to discuss customer details disappeared when I told her I was investigating a murder. She morphed into Super Citizen right away. Guess who else has an account? Crystal Tillwater.”

Jimmy leaned back and smiled. “Payday loan stores. Leeches of working folks everywhere.”

The irritating Rite Now jingle followed by Charlie Fellow’s goofball promises played in Mort’s head. It was a long shot. Their stores were all over western Washington, probably with tens of thousands of customers. But right now a long shot seemed worth the time. He grabbed his keys.

“Micki, you and me.”

Staz walked into the office, closed the door, walked up to the desk, and punched the man who sat there. Hard. In the face. Then he yanked the man’s arms behind his chair and cuffed them together. The man squirmed, swore, and spit blood through his teeth. Staz pulled a hammer out of his jacket. The man fell silent, holding his breath. When Staz proceeded to nail the man’s pant legs to the floor, he seemed to relax.

The man sounded like he was trying to be friendly. “A simple ‘Can I have a moment of your time’ would have worked.”

When the man was completely secured, Staz stood and pressed a button on the phone hanging around his neck.

The woman’s voice came from the speaker. “Francie Michael is dead.”

The man’s eyes grew wide. Staz watched the color drain from his face. “Dead? Our Francie?”

Staz stood in front of him, watching the performance.

“This is terrible. When? How?”

Her voice was clear and direct. “Do you expect me to believe I learned of our employee’s death before you?”

The man turned pleading eyes toward Staz. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.” He shook his head. “Our little Francie. Dead. This is horrible.”

“Stop!” Staz felt the vibration of her voice against his chest. “Only one of two scenarios can be true. Either you knew of Francie’s death and made the decision not to tell me; or you were truly unaware, which means you’ve lost control over your employees and customers. Don’t bother trying to choose which option you think will bring the easier consequence.”

“Let me look into it,” the man begged. “Like you said, I’m here, you’re there. I got people. Connections. Let me find out and get back to you.”

“Do you think your connections are better than mine?” Staz knew the answer. He wondered if this man did.

“Tell me what you want,” the man said. “I’ll do it. For you. For Francie.”

“The last woman has died in our employ. Do you understand?” the woman asked.

The man nodded like a jackhammer. Staz thought of a dog he had years ago. That dog used to shake his head so hard he’d bruise his ears.

“I do. I’ll do better. I’ve been so stressed running both businesses. I know it shouldn’t get in my way, but sometimes it does.”

“Our employees leave of their own accord,” she continued. “With money in their pockets and a place to go. Their lives are better because they’ve been with us. You will make sure of it.”

“I will. I been thinking about ways. Give me three months. I’ll be the example you show off to your whole organization.”

Staz knew she’d be unmoved by his promises.

“Crystal’s death cost you thousands of dollars,” she said. “Yet that wasn’t enough to remind you how seriously I take the well-being of the employees I entrust to your management. Perhaps pain serves as a better reminder. Staz?” Her voice was directed to him now. “Don’t hang up. I want to hear this.”

He nodded as though she was in the room. He hefted his hammer and hoped she was enjoying the man’s stuttered pleas. He reared back and took a pounding swing at the man’s right foot. He wondered if the phone’s technology was good enough to pick up the sound of cracking bones.

Then he reared back and delivered his second blow.