Jaded (2 page)

“L
ooks like somebody didn’t like this guy much,” Jase Vaughn said, then sipped a fresh cup of coffee. He closed his eyes, savoring the rich taste of the brew. He didn’t know where Abu at the Drive By got his beans, and he didn’t really care. He was just grateful for the fact that every single time he walked into that dive of a gas station the coffee was hot and it was fresh.

“Ya think?” Vangie Duncan, the crime-scene tech assigned to the scene, said.

Jase opened his eyes and looked up from his squatting position next to the trussed-up body over to the little blonde tech. “I can see why you graduated top in your class.” He bestowed his most dazzling grin on her and watched the color rise in her cheeks. Maybe later he’d take her out for a beer and see what developed.

He looked around for a place to set his coffee cup but realized he couldn’t. Instead, he frowned. Fire had done their usual bang-up job decimating a crime scene. Jase took another sip of his coffee. Good thing rigor had set in; otherwise, they’d have left all their shit lying around after they ran a line, cluttering up his scene even more. As it was, they’d left enough debris on the blood-soaked asphalt to fill a small trash bag. Who the hell knew what evidence they’d tracked off.

He grinned. Payback was a beautiful bitch. Fire didn’t much like standing by for the techs to scrape their boot bottoms for trace evidence.

Jase looked over his shoulder to the beat cop who’d discovered the body, widening the perimeter. He was chatting with the watch commander, who’d gladly relinquished control of the scene to Jase, now the lead detective, when he’d arrived.

He’d get to questioning the uniform shortly. He glanced at his watch and noted the time. His partner would be arriving soon. He looked back at the stiff. It looked like they had their work cut out for them.

Jase took a closer look at the victim. White male, approximate age forty-five, naked, hog-tied—hands to feet behind his back—and recently entered the life, or as in this case, death, of a eunuch. Jase cringed. The guy’s balls had been whacked, and from what he could tell it looked like the killer used them to shut him up. From the bloodstain under the vic’s hips, it was obvious the mutilation happened on the spot. Whoever did it contained the scene, making it nice and neat.

A wad of clothes, the vic’s, he presumed, lay in a heap several feet from the body. The only other visible wound from Jase’s angle was a puncture wound under the rib cage on his right side. Maybe a little torture but probably not the wound that killed him. But until the ME had a chance to go over the body, they wouldn’t know for sure. The stiff’s dark eyes had the hard cloudy look of a marble, but even with the dullness of death, petechiae was evident. Jase’s guess was asphyxiation. He stood and shook his head. What a way to go, choking on your own balls. Dayum. Talk about payback.

He squinted at the late-morning sun, then back to the body, then across it to the tech. “We’ve let the heroes stew long enough. Go get what you can off of Fire’s boots, then get back here.”

Vangie nodded and stood.

“And be careful where you walk,” Jase instructed.

She gave him a look that said, “Do I have ‘stupid’ stamped on my forehead?”

Jase just grinned. He stood and stretched his long legs. It was near noon on this fine Sunday morning, and while he’d resented the initial phone call interrupting his gym time, now he was grateful. He glanced down at the poor slob trussed up like a holiday pig. Whoever did the guy had a grudge. Jase’s blood warmed to the challenge. He loved to put puzzle pieces together.

He glanced over at the uniform who was just finishing his admirable tape job. Several other cops milled along the perimeter, keeping the small crowd from the scene.

“Officer?” Jase called.

The kid looked over and hurried to him. “Yes, Sergeant?”

Jase stepped away from the body, set his cup on the top of the nearby Dumpster, and pulled his spiral notepad from the inside of his sports jacket. “Who called it in?”

“No one. I came across the body.”

“So you were first on scene?”

“Yes, sir, this is my beat.”

“Anyone loitering?”

“Nope, this part of town is quiet on Sunday mornings.”

“You’re day?”

“Yes, came on at eight, stumbled across the body at nine forty-five.”

Jase looked up and down the isolated alley. The Dumpster the body lay next to obscured its view from the street. Yet the body wasn’t concealed. “Looks to me like whoever did this wanted the body to be found fairly quickly.” He jotted notes down and looked over at the cop. “What made you come down this alley on such a fine Sunday morning?”

The color in the cop’s face rose just enough to be detected. “I was going to catch up on paper.” He looked over at the stiff. “Instead, I got more.”

Jase nodded. Couldn’t blame the guy for wanting to take what would normally be a slow time of day and catch up on reports. “Any heads-up in lineup? Any reports of abduction, screams, disturbances?”

The kid shook his head. Jase pulled his radio from his belt. “Detective Seventeen to Dispatch.”

“Go ahead, Detective.”

“Any calls overnight in Boy beat? Loud noise, maybe screaming? Anything?”

“Stand by, Seventeen, while I check the mids’ log.”

Jase scanned the perimeter of the yellow crime-scene tape. Almost two dozen people had assembled, along with the usual vultures from the local news stations.

His gaze continued along the trendy buildings on Forty-eighth Street. Montrose, an upper-middle-class suburb of Silicon Valley, catered to the well-to-do. Mostly financial and high-tech, although it had its share of crime. But homicide, especially this type of homicide, was uncommon. It’s why he put in for this unit. For too many years, UC had taken too much away from him. He was ready to get back to basic police work.

“Detective Seventeen?”

“Go ahead.”

“The only thing I show is an anonymous call at oh three thirty-five regarding an injured party several blocks from there. However, the beat officer cleared it UTL.”

Unable to locate. “Dispatch, let me have that twenty, please.”

“5150 Thirty-ninth Street at Bayside. The caller indicated the parking lot in the back of the building.”

The uniform whistled as Jase jotted down the address.

“Ten-four.” He looked at the cop. “What’s so significant about this address?”

“Bayside and Thirty-ninth? The two-story white brick building? No street number, just a brass plaque that says ‘private’ on it at the front door?” The officer wagged his eyebrows. “Ring any bells?”

Jase scowled. “Cut to the chase.”

“Callahan’s. It’s some
shee-shee
men’s club.”

“‘Shee-shee’ as in high-priced call girls?”

“Yeah, something like that, but as long as I’ve worked this beat we haven’t had any trouble from them. We don’t bother them either. I’ve heard Congressman Kosa and even one or two police chiefs like to throw back a few there now and then.”

Jase wondered what else they threw back there. He made a note to go visit the lot, and of course the “men’s club.”

“So we get a call at almost four this morning, an anon saying someone was hurt in the private parking lot. Cops show up, can’t find a body, you show up six hours later and find a stiff less than a mile from where the caller said the body was?”

The uniform nodded. “That about sums it up.”

Jase’s eyes narrowed. “You could see rigor had set in, why’d you let Fire in?”

The uniform grinned and shook his head. “Sergeant, you’ve been undercover too long. In this town Fire comes through and does whatever the hell they want. I told them the stiff was stiff. They pushed past and started doing their thing until it occurred to them the guy had no line. But I got pictures of the original position before they came and fucked it up. They wanted to untruss him, but I convinced them not to.”

Jase nodded and addressed the officer by his name tag. “Good job, Martinez. I want those pics ASAP. Go ahead and take pictures of the alley and street, get pictures of the crowd. Have another uniform chat it up with the spectators. I want info cards on everyone here who isn’t a cop. My partner, Ricco Maza, should be on scene shortly, send him over to me, and if there’s anything the tech needs, help her out.”

Jase walked back to the body, careful not to step on any evidence. It would be hours before the coroner arrived and he didn’t have that kind of time to wait.

He caught Vangie’s eye as she finished up with the last fireman, and inclined his head toward the pile of clothes near the body.

As she approached he said, “See if there’s anything in his pockets.”

“Sir, we have to wait—”

“I’ll accept full responsibility.”

“But—”

Jase stuck out his hand, palm up and open. “Give me the damn gloves and I’ll do it myself!”

“I’ll do it.”

“Andrew Hard Townsend,” Vangie said, opening the wallet she’d pulled from the back pants pocket of what looked like tailored slacks. Being a man who appreciated nice threads, Jase recognized the scuffed loafers as custom Italian. If his wardrobe was any indicator, the guy was loaded. Wonder if he was married. Jase’s eyes returned to the body resting on its left side. “I bet he’s wearing a wedding band. Once you have enough pictures, let’s roll him over.”

Vangie gave him a sharp glare.

“Listen, Duncan, I’m in charge of the crime scene
and
this case. Either do what I tell you, or I’ll call in a tech who will.”

“It’s just, well, sir, protocol states—”

Again, Jase held out his hand impatiently for gloves. She sighed and handed him a pair, but said, “I’ll do it, but I’ll need help turning him over.”

Jase nodded and put the gloves on.

When they rolled the body slightly to the right to expose the left hand, Jase nodded, satisfied. “I guess Mrs. Townsend is as good a place to start as any.” He jotted down the address on the driver’s license. “See if there’s a cell phone.”

Vangie rummaged through the pile of garments, finally shaking her head no.

“Interesting, the killer leaves everything but the cell phone.”

“How do you know he had a cell phone?”

Jase shrugged and jotted notes down as he spoke. “The wallet has over seven hundred cash in it, all of his credit cards seem to be there, no empty slots, and his ID. What person under the age of sixty do you know who doesn’t have a cell phone on them at all times?” Jase bent down and turned the slacks over. “See? An empty clip on the belt.”

Vangie nodded. “I would have caught that.”

His mood tightened. “Sure you would.” He stood, and just as quickly his mood lightened. Montrose’s rendition of Hollywood Cop came striding on scene. Vangie followed Jase’s gaze and he heard her breath catch.

Jase grinned as he caught the stares of every female in sight, as well as several males behind the yellow tape. Despite Ricco’s swagger, dark good looks, designer threads, and million-dollar smile, he was a damn good cop.

“Jase,
amigo, qué pasa?
”

Vangie popped up from her position near the body and extended her hand. “I’m Evangeline.”

Ricco stopped in his long stride and bestowed a smile on the little tech that almost made Jase gag. “Forgive me,
precia,
I didn’t see you. How could I miss such a beautiful lady?”

He took her hand and instead of shaking it like a normal man, he brought it to his lips and kissed it. Vangie looked like she was ready to swoon.

“Knock it off, Maza. We have a homicide, in case you haven’t noticed.”

A
s Jase pulled up in front of the multistory mock-Italian villa he shook his head. He wasn’t loaded but he’d been smart with his investments and had used his hazard pay on some fairly risky business ventures, and despite the rocky market he’d done well,
really
well. Even with his small fortune he would never dump it all into such a behemoth of a place as this. It stood out like a bald man at a wig convention. The new-money stench hit him at the curb. The Atherton neighborhood was old money, so the neighbors must have cringed when Townsend moved in.

The only thing missing was pink flamingos. He pulled up into the wide circular drive, the one with several fountains of naked women, as well as men at full mast.

He sighed and glanced at his watch. It was nearly two. He’d never liked giving a death notice, and liked it less now. The guy probably had kids. He knocked on the door. A voice called out from deep inside the house. The sound of a child’s laughter, then a high-pitched scream, followed by more laughter drifted through the door to Jase. Shit, at least two kids.

“Ingrid,
la puerta!”

The door suddenly opened and a round ruffled Latina in her late fifties gasped as she looked up at him.

“Buenos tardes,
señorita.”

She blushed and giggled. “Señor.”

Jase laid on the charm.
“Soy
Sergeant Vaughn,
con
Montrose
policía.
Is Mrs. Townsend available?”

Ingrid’s eyes widened. “Señora!” she called, then backed into the vast entryway, motioning him inside. Two little girls poked their heads out from around a large urn, their brown eyes bright, mischief dancing in them.

Ingrid shooed them away. “Ingrid, who is—” Mrs. Townsend, he presumed, as the voice materialized into a person. Younger than he thought, midthirties, trim, dressed to the nines on a Sunday afternoon.

“El policía,
señora,” Ingrid said, doom lacing her tone.

Mrs. Townsend cocked her head and half smiled. She knew—something.

“What did he do?”

“Mrs. Townsend, I’m Jason Vaughn, Sergeant Vaughn, Montrose PD. Is there somewhere we can go and speak privately?”

The sudden set of her jaw spoke volumes. She shooed the kids away and waved Ingrid to take them.

Jase followed her into a large overappointed room. The heavy brocades and ornate furniture did not complement the architecture of the house. After giving the room a cursory look, he gestured to the chair. “Please, sit down, Mrs. Townsend.”

“My name is Natalie and I’d prefer to stand. What has my husband done?”

“Mrs. Townsend—” She opened her mouth to protest. “Ah, Natalie, I’m afraid I have bad news.”

“
What
did he do?”

“Earlier this morning your husband’s body was found—”

Her face paled and she reached back for the arm of the chair. Jase moved to her and gently guided her into the seat.

“‘Body found’? Is he—okay?”

“No, ma’am, he’s dead. The apparent victim of a homicide.”

“Oh my god!” She crumpled into the chair.

“I’m sorry, is there something I can get you or someone I can call for you?”

“No, no, I—he—I don’t believe you!”

“I’m very sorry, I know this is a shock to you, but I need to ask you a couple of questions.”

Stunned, she just stared at him.

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Townsend?”

“He, oh my god, the girls,
the girls.”

“Mrs. Townsend, please, I know this is a shock, but the sooner you can give me information, the sooner we can find out who killed him.”

Her brown eyes turned up to his and narrowed, her shock momentarily evaporating. “How did he die?”

The question shouldn’t have caught him off guard, but it did. The vision of Townsend trussed up like a pig with his shaved-off balls shoved down his throat flashed before him.

“I’m sorry, I won’t know that until I read the coroner’s report.” Even if he did, the details would be something only he and the killer would know.

She sunk her face in her hands and shook her head. As shocked as she was, there were no tears. She looked up at him. “Hazard a guess?”

Jase’s eyes widened. “Come again?”

She stood and walked over to an inlaid box sitting on a table. She flipped the lid and picked up a cigarette, grabbed the crystal lighter that looked like a mini sculpture of David, and lit up. Blowing a long stream of blue smoke his way, Natalie Townsend faced Jase with her free hand on her hip. “Well, let me guess. Did some irate husband shoot his dick off?”

Jase started taking copious notes. “Why do you ask that?”

“Because my husband was as addicted to sex as I am to these damn cigarettes!” She poked it at him in accusation.

“Do you know any of these men by name?”

“I can give you a list as long as your arm.”

“I’d appreciate that. Can you tell me when you last saw your husband?”

She took a long drag of the cigarette, then blew out a longer stream of smoke. “Friday night, he was off to his ‘club,’ he said he’d be home, but called me later that night and said he was going to head down to Pebble with a few of the guys for the weekend.”

“Did he come home for his clubs?”

Her head shot up and her eyes narrowed. “My husband has everything he needs here and at his office in San Jose. One stash for each of his lives.”

“What is this ‘club’ he belongs to?”

“I’m not sure. He never talked about it, but Sissy Trianfo, of Trianfo Vineyards, told me about it. Her husband, Eddie, belongs. I don’t know what it’s called or where it is, but he had a woman there. Hell, he had them everywhere.”

“Mrs. Townsend, where were you last night?”

She laughed, viciously ground the cigarette out in the crystal ashtray, then pulled another from the box and lit it in an irritated gesture. “Home. Here with my children. Ingrid will vouch for me.”

“I’d like your husband’s cell phone number.”

“Which one?”

“All of them.”

She took a piece of paper from the desk drawer, along with a pen, and wrote them down. She handed Jase the paper.

“Mrs. Townsend, if you have immediate plans for travel outside of the state, please cancel them.”

“Am I a suspect, Detective?”

Jase smiled. “You are a person of interest in that you have intimate knowledge of the deceased.” He looked around. “I’d like to speak to Ingrid.”

“She only speaks Spanish.”

Jase smiled again. “No problem.”

She frowned, but went to the intercom on the wall and pressed a button to call Ingrid.

Several minutes later the chubby maid walked into the room, her eyes downcast. She gave her employer a quick nervous glance, but Natalie nodded.

“Por favor,
Ingrid
el
detective wishes to speak with you. Tell him I—”

“Thank you, Mrs. Townsend, I can speak for myself,” he interrupted. Then added, “Please, leave us alone.” Natalie scowled, shot Ingrid a glare, then exited the room.

Jase gestured to the chair.
“Siéntese, por favor.”
Wide-eyed, Ingrid sat on the edge of the chair. He wondered if it was because she was nervous or because she’d get drilled for sitting on the missus’s furniture. Probably both.

“Where were you last night?”

“Aqui.”

Jase smiled. “Now that I know you understand English, señora, let’s stop playing ignorant illegal. Okay?”

Ingrid gasped, putting both of her hands to her mouth. Her big brown eyes widened and instantly tears welled. Jase fought the urge to roll his eyes.

“I’m not
la migra,
I’m a detective investigating Mr. Townsend’s death. Help me; I help you.”

Ingrid stared down at her shoes.

“Señora?” he prodded.

Hesitantly, Ingrid looked up at Jase and nodded. “Okay, Señor Detective.”

Jase gave her a reassuring smile. “Where were you last night?”

“I am here.”

“All night?”

She bobbed her head.
“Si, con las
—with the little girls.”

“And where was Señora Townsend?”

“Here also.”

“For how long?”

“I think she here all night.”

“Do you live here?”

“Sí,
Detective.”

“Does Señora Townsend ever leave the house at night when everyone is asleep?”

Ingrid looked up, and Jase saw the fear in her eyes. “The truth, Ingrid.”

“I do not know. At eleben,
la
señora likes to watch the news in her room. Ebery night, I say good night to her and go to my room.”

“Where is your room in proximity to hers?”

“She is upstairs. I am downstairs and in de back. I hab two rooms. A bedroom and my own little libing room.”

“Did she leave after you went to bed?”

“I don’t know. I watch
las dibas.
I fall asleep.”

“So if she left the house, you wouldn’t know it?”

Ingrid nodded, and he knew it cost her to admit the truth.

“Pero,
Señor Detective,
la
señora? She would neber leave
las hijas.
Neber! She would wake me up if she leabes the house.”

“Maybe, Ingrid.” But what if she were out to kill? Natalie Townsend didn’t strike him as dumb. Knowing her kids were safely tucked in and their nanny only one floor down, even the most ardent of mothers could leave the house feeling confident their children were in good hands. Especially if one were only going to be gone for an hour or two in the middle of the night.

It was almost a half-hour drive from the Townsends’ front door to the crime scene. Take twenty minutes or so to whack the old man, jump back into the car, and presto, you’re home and in bed before one of the kids has a chance to wake up.

Jase nodded to himself and made notes.

Satisfied, for now, he didn’t push. If he needed more info he had his trump card, and Ingrid knew it.

As the nanny exited the room, Natalie Townsend breezed in but not before she bestowed a huge smile on Ingrid. Completely recovered from the “shock” of her husband’s death, the formidable widow faced Jase and handed him a piece of paper. “The names you requested. Now, if there isn’t anything else, Detective, please see your way out.”

“I’d like to speak to your children.”

“Not on your life.”

He snapped his notebook shut. “As I said, don’t leave the state.”

As Jase drove around the circular drive, he called Ricco and gave him the cell phone numbers. They’d have info in a matter of hours.

“What’s your read on the wealthy widow?” Ricco asked.

“Genuinely shocked and after that wore off, genuinely glad to be rid of the bastard. Apparently, Andrew Townsend had a hard time keeping it in his pants.”

Ricco chuckled. “An even harder time now.”

“No shit. Whoever killed him had a grudge. It doesn’t get more personal than chopping a guy’s balls off and stuffing them down his throat, then watching him choke to death.”

“I’d think that would put the widow at the top of the list, especially if she knew about his dog tendencies.”

“Normally I would, too, but she was genuinely shocked. That said, she’s definitely in the suspect pool. I may have just witnessed an Oscar-winning performance. I’m going over to the parking lot where the anon caller said there was an injured person, see if I can find anything.”

Twenty minutes later Jase stood at the far end of the back parking lot of Callahan’s. He called dispatch and had them replay the recording:

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

“I—there’s a man, he’s hurt in the parking lot behind Callahan’s,” a husky female voice said. It was obvious the owner of the voice was trying to alter it. There was a faint accent, one he couldn’t quite put his finger on. She seemed rushed, out of breath. Afraid.

“Ma’am, what is—” The line went dead.

Jase asked dispatch to play it again, then again, each time hoping to pick something up. Each time it was the same: a rushed female voice, the call from a telephone booth three miles away. If the person was so concerned, why not use her cell phone? Or a closer pay phone? He deduced the reason for that was the person who did the crime didn’t want to do the time. Most criminals didn’t.

Despite the sunny late afternoon, Jase pulled a flashlight from the trunk of his car and turned it on. He wanted maximum visibility. From the back door, methodically he walked every inch of the lot, his light to the ground, cutting slowly back and forth. After almost thirty minutes he stopped. There on the freshly painted traffic paint designating the parking stalls—one dark drop with slight splatter around it. He squatted down and resisted the urge to touch it.

Definitely blood splatter. He set the flashlight down a foot away and pulled out the gloves he’d taken from Vangie’s box, along with an evidence bag. He pulled the swab from the bag and dabbed at the spot. Dry. He took what he could of the sample and slid the swab in the bag and sealed it.

He looked up and squinted in the afternoon sunlight. On a plaque on the privacy fence in front of the stall were the initials
JD.
It was the only designated spot in the parking lot. He looked up at the ten-foot fence line and smiled. A camera.

Jase pulled his cell out and dialed Ricco.

“Maza.”

“You still on scene?”

“Just getting ready to go.”

“Get over to the phone booth at the Quick Stop at Diles and Essanay Boulevard. It’s where the nine-one-one came from this morning. Look for cameras. I want Duncan to dust for prints over there but I want her over here first. I’m at the back lot on Thirty-ninth, Callahan’s. We might get real lucky, Ricco my man. There’s a camera mounted on the fence. Let’s hope it has film. And, I have blood.”

“You’re a good man.”

“As soon as Duncan gets here, I’m going to pay the infamous club a visit.”