Geography of Murder (28 page)

Hospitals all smell alike to me. I've been lucky in life, I've 271

Geography of Murder

by P. A. Brown

been in a few over the years, usually to interview strangers impacted by violence, never to face my own loss. But they all smelled like piss, strong cleaner and something that no chemical could remove from the air. I was glad when a tall, leggy woman in a severe navy blue suit and sensible two-inch heels walked briskly through the doors, and held out her hand.

"You've come all the way from Santa Barbara I understand," she said. "Pretty town. I attended a retreat there once, a few years ago."

"Detective Alexander Spider, Sister."

"Just call me Donna. Now, you had some sort of legal document for me?"

I held out the blue-backed warrant, signed by Judge Havram just yesterday. She scanned through the verbose legalese, reading passages aloud in a low voice then raised her eyes to meet mine.

"You need to see the birth records for a patient from several years ago."

"Yes. Three and a half years. I believe the date of birth is down there."

She frowned and nodded briskly. "Very well. If you'll follow me I can take you to our records office. I'm sure Sister Clarice can assist you."

Sister Clarice could and did. She pulled the records for Lucy Chavez and her short stay in the maternity ward, including the address of the person she had stayed with while in the city. I made a separate note of that name; I would run a background on them and with any luck meet with them 272

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before I headed home. There was no father's name mentioned. Another dead end, unless the person she had stayed with knew something.

I ate in the cafeteria, and sat alone picking at a plate full of food I really didn't want. After a while I gave up, dumped the food in the garbage and headed out to my car. I called Nancy up and asked her to do a records search of Colette Dane, the woman Lucy Chavez had stayed with following the birth of her daughter. She promised to get back to me ASAP.

She was true to her word.

"Now this is interesting," she said.

"What is?" I wasn't running on a whole lot of patience right now, but the last thing I wanted to do was alienate my partner. So I counted to ten and said, "What's interesting?"

"Colette Dane called the LAPD to report a rape right around the time of Lucy's stay with her. But I don't see anything else in the records. No follow up. What do you think that means?"

"No idea. Who was the officer of record?"

"Detective Rick Rodrigo, Rampart."

So, my first stop of the day: the Rampart Division. The modern, new look of the infamous Rampart Division didn't look like a police station under siege. It was a sleek white and buff structure, so common in what passed for Southern California architecture. I found the visitor's parking and stepped out of the unmarked I had signed out this morning. I had called ahead and knew Rodrigo was in today, but I didn't try to make an appointment. If he didn't want to talk to me, he could say so in person. I didn't have time to play phone 273

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tag. Making sure my badge was clearly visible—you try walking into a police station armed without one—I stepped into the reception area.

A Sergeant who looked like she'd weathered a few decades looked up at my approach. She saw the badge and my Beretta and leaned forward, peering down at me from her raised platform behind the bulletproof acrylic shield she worked behind. "Help you...?"

"Detective Alexander Spider, SBPD. I'm here to talk to Rick Rodrigo." Just to be sure she'd seen it I flipped my badge up so she could see it clearly.

She looked down at something on her desk. Then picked up a phone.

I cooled my heels in the lobby, watching the mass of Angelenos parade in and out. Los Angeles is, if nothing else, a hodgepodge of every ethnic group in the world. And I swear some representative of each of them was here today. I heard a dozen languages, all spoken at break-neck speed. I could understand even very little of the Spanish, though I considered myself pretty fluent in it.

Finally a round-bellied Hispanic man who looked nearly as old as the desk Sergeant came through a set of sealed doors and approached me. He looked wary, as though he didn't often receive visits he welcomed.

"Detective Rodrigo."

"Alex Spider, SBPD."

"Sure, I got that. How can I help you?"

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"Can we talk someplace more private?" I wasn't about to stand in this overcrowded room and try to make my questions understood over this mob.

He frowned but nodded. After I was signed in and received a visitor's badge, he led me through into the station proper to a door marked Interview #5, which had an 'unoccupied' sign on it. He pushed the door open and led me inside.

"What can I help you with?" He clearly didn't want to ask the question.

"You took a report from a woman called Colette Dane, three and a half years ago at Kent Street in Echo Park." I read off the information Nancy had given me. "She claimed her cousin Lucy Chavez had been raped."

"Sure, I may have. Three years is a long time. I'd have to look it up."

"I'll save you the trouble. Here's the report number," I slid it across the table at him. "My question is why was no follow up done? A woman reports rape, there should be some follow up. Medical report, a rape kit—"

Rodrigo stared down at the paper in front of him. I could see his gears turning. "I think I remember this." He straightened and tapped his finger on the paper. "Right. It was her cousin who was allegedly raped."

"So why no follow up?"

Rodrigo met my eyes and held them. "Because the rape, if it occurred, happened twelve years prior to the claim."

"Twelve years—so the daughter she had just given birth to wasn't the result of rape."

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"Not unless the devil was involved in that baby being born.

Sweet girl as I remember. Reminded me of my own little one at that age. They grow up so fast, don't they?"

"Yes, I'm sure they do. Did she ever mention who the father was?"

"Some con man who sweet talked her I gathered. I don't think the lady was very street smart, if you get my drift. Let some clown talk her pants off and the next thing, she's got one in the oven. How many times you hear that story? She never did give the guy's name. The cousin was thoroughly disgusted. She wanted the Chavez girl to tell her father, that he'd do something about it even if the cops wouldn't. I had to warn them both that they'd get into big trouble if they did that."

"She left it off the birth certificate, too. But no rape."

"No rape. But the cousin said one did happen. Years before. Trouble was, the statute of limitations had run out on that one long time ago. They only let you file on childhood rape for a few years after you reach the age of consent yourself."

"I know." One of the tragic flaws of a system that still didn't take rape all that seriously."She say who the 'alleged'

rapist was?"

Rodrigo searched his memory, staring down at the paper listing the meager details he had put in a report that essentially went unexplored over three years ago. Finally his face cleared. "Yeah," he said, looking relieved that his memory still worked. "George."

I went perfectly still and waited for him to finish.

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"George Blunt."

"Who was the girl's father who was going to make things right for her?" A dam of ice broke in my chest, freezing my heart. I'd known. Somehow I'd known all along what Rodrigo was going to say next.

"Oh that one. Get this, his name was Phil Collins, like the singer. Thought that was kind of funny. Guess that's why I remembered him. It's a hell of a thing when you have to tell a lady that there's nothing you can do for her. That the guy who did that is untouchable."

"Yes," I said hollowly. "Hell of a thing."

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The day held, crisp clear and chilly, but so bright I
had to put shades on when I came back on deck after
an hour fine tuning the radar unit. I was satisfied it
was functioning properly and joined Phil on deck.

Phil wasn't at the wheel. I wandered over to where he had a sea chart laid out. I was familiar with them. Phil did most of the piloting but I still liked being familiar with the waters I worked on.

Phil emerged from the head and nodded at me. He went into the tiny galley, coming out moments later with two drinks in plastic cups. He handed me one. The strong smell of Scotch wafted to me.

"Top shelf shit. Laphroaig. Straight from the royal distilleries of Scotland," Phil said, raising his cup. "Got it off a man owed me money. Thought we could have a snoot while our tourist buddies are out there playing Crusoe."

I raised the drink to my lips. I wasn't used to hard liquor. I was surprised at how smooth it went down.

It was tempting to guzzle it. I could find oblivion in a bottle of high-end Scotch. It had a certain decadent appeal.

But that couldn't happen right now. I was responsible for getting those people back to the boat and shore safely.

I'd have to seek forgetfulness later. Maybe a trip to the Vault. I'm sure I could find someone more than willing to help me forget. It wouldn't be the same as Alex. I doubted it ever 278

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would be again. But enough blow could make anyone palatable.

I set the drink down beside the open chart and leaned down to peer at it again. I traced a line that showed a nearby current that, if you followed it, would take you out into the mid-Pacific and eventually the Gulf of Alaska, maybe even the Bering Sea if you were really intrepid or lost.

"Taking a trip?" I looked over my shoulder and felt the deck sway. I grabbed the back of the Captain's chair to steady myself. "Whoa, now where'd that come from? It was as calm as a mill pond earlier."

I took another sip of Scotch and it tasted just as fine the second time.

Phil came up to stand beside me. "Not me," he said.

I tried to focus my eyes on him, but he was standing too close. So I leaned back to put him in view and everything blurred and the room spun. I had to sit down.

I missed the chair, knocking the chart and drink onto the deck. Alcohol sprayed over me as I hit the deck on my ass. I blinked stupidly up at the blurred figure standing in front of me. It seemed to be receding.

"Sorry you had to get into this. But that's twice you showed up when you shouldn't have. What were you thinking bringing that faggot to the
Cutting Edge?
Did you think I didn't know you were bringing tricks back here? I finally get that sick kiddie-rapist to meet me and you show up. You were going to ruin everything. I couldn't allow that. Not when I was so close to making him pay."

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There
had
been someone else there. But Alex said he couldn't find anyone. Through the haze of what I now realized were drugs, probably the same ones he had used on me the first time, I felt terror. What had he done to Roger? Said he was new in town, from Bakersfield, making a pit stop before he hit Castro.

"What did you do to him?"

"Who—oh, your trick? Nothin'. He was practically pissing his pants when I come through the galley. He's probably still running with his tail between his legs. Leaving you behind.

Good friend, huh? That would have worked out for me if your cop friend hadn't saved your ass the first time, you'd have taken the fall like you were supposed to and no one would be looking for me or your little blond buddy."

I heard his words but they didn't make any sense. Was he saying he killed Roger? Or did he just run? I shook my head trying to clear it, but it only made my dizziness worse. I realized Phil was leaning over me and his lips were moving.

"He should have let it alone. What did anyone care if that old depraved fool died? He deserved it."

His words finally penetrated my fogged in mind. "You ...

you mean Blunt?" It was getting harder and harder to speak.

My thoughts wouldn't focus and my vision was fading in and out behind splashes of light.

"Bastard raped my little girl. Destroyed her as good as if he killed her. The cops wouldn't stop him—that was bad enough. Then he shows up at my granddaughter's school.

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the bastard changed his name. He would have done her like he did my little girl."

His voice was fading. I tried to sit up. The look he gave me was full of pity.

"Sorry you got unlucky. It won't be so bad. I'll put you to sea. It'll get cold enough tonight you'll go to sleep and won't know a thing. By the time they find you I'll be long gone.

Guess those touristas are on their own. I'm sure someone will find them sooner or later. Donny can take care of them until then."

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I almost ran out in mid-laugh. Then sanity returned long enough to yell over my shoulder to Rodrigo, "Call Nancy Richards at SBPD. Tell her it's Collins. He's got a boat and he's out there." My voice broke. I didn't have time to wonder what Rodrigo must think. "He's out there with another victim.

Jay—Jason. He's got Jason Zachary with him and he's going to kill him. She needs to get harbor patrol out there. Call the Coast Guard."

Rodrigo was a solid professional. He had his cell out and was punching in numbers as I flew out the door.

I hit the 101 going eighty. Slapped my cherry on and booted it north. It wasn't yet noon. Traffic was a bitch. I wove in and out of slower moving cars, one eye on the road, the other on the clock as the minutes crept by and the miles between Jason and I stretched to infinity.