L.A.P.D. Special Investigations Series, Boxed Set: The Deceived, The Taken & The Silent (57 page)

“Cait,” she called again, and when there was no answer, she passed it off as her imagination and went into the family room. She so rarely had time to herself that it felt eerie being alone. A house full of people generated a lot of noise, but now, in the quiet, every sound seemed magnified. The hum of the refrigerator, the fan clicking on and off, the wind rattling the windows as rain threatened again. She could almost smell the electricity in the air. A layer of thunder clouds had dropped like a thick gray blanket over the city and the charcoal sky made late afternoon seem like twilight. She hoped it wouldn’t rain before Cait came home.

She should call Shannon’s mother and tell her she’d bring an umbrella over for Caitlin. But it was only three houses away and Cait would be mortified.

It was hard always hiding her concern from Cait, but if she didn’t, she could make Cait afraid of her own shadow. The incongruous image made her smile. That would probably never happen. At seven, almost eight as Cait always insisted, her daughter was decidedly her own person. Laura felt a sense of achievement in that. She wanted Cait to be strong, to trust in herself and know she could accomplish anything she wanted if she worked hard enough.

Sitting on the chocolate brown sectional, another donation, along with all the furniture at the shelter, she picked up the television remote and flipped it on. An old Seinfeld rerun was playing. She rarely watched TV, preferring a good book when she had a moment to herself—but not this afternoon. She had other things to think about, questions to be answered. And Jordan St. James was at the heart of each and every one.

He seemed to be interested in her. But was he interested in her personally, or did he simply want to pump her for more information? She’d wanted to tell him more about Anna, but if she got into too much detail, her own tarnished past might be exposed.

Caitlin didn’t know about Laura’s days on the streets. No one knew—except a few people in her past she’d lost track of over the years. She saw no reason to make it an issue.

Her daughter knew Victory House was a shelter for troubled girls and the girls stayed there because they needed help and a place to live. The first rule for the residents was no discussion of street life except in counseling sessions. The shelter had a limit on the number of beds, so anyone who couldn’t live by the rules didn’t get to stay.

Just then, a bold headline scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Breaking News: Officer Involved Shooting, Hostage Situation In Progress. Laura perched on the edge of the couch, her heart suddenly in her throat. Did Jordan work in that part of the city?

“We have a hostage situation in progress,” a news reporter interrupted the program. “One officer down and one inside with the suspect. SWAT teams have surrounded the small home believed to be the target of a drug sting gone bad. Stay tuned for more on this event as it unfolds. KTTV. First with the news.”

She bolted to her feet. Stood directly in front of the TV as she clicked channels to hear more. Dammit. She didn’t want to wait. She wanted to know now. She didn’t want some sound bite to make her keep watching. Exactly why she didn’t watch news on TV. Everything that happened was entertainment, no matter how devastating.

Hearing an officer was involved suddenly made it personal. She had to know what happened. Who was hurt and who was in that house?

Biting her cuticle, eyes riveted on the screen, she just stood there waiting to hear more. It couldn’t be Jordan. It just couldn’t.

A deep rumble of thunder shook the sky, then there was a blinding flash, followed by a crack of acoustical energy that rattled the house. The lights dimmed, the TV fizzled to gray then black. The lights went out. Another release of thunder was quickly followed by more lightning and rain that pelted the windows so hard she thought the glass might break.

Laura hurried into the kitchen to call Shannon’s house and find a flashlight. As she picked up the phone, she felt a breeze and, turning, saw that the back door had blown open. Though she had enough light to see, she took out the flashlight and scanned the room. Everything looked okay. She walked to the door and pushed it shut. Nothing out of place that she could see. She was still looking around as she punched in Shannon’s number and lifted the phone to her ear.

Dead. And if her phone lines were out, all the lines in the neighborhood were probably out. She went back to the family room and fished her cell phone from her purse to try again. She didn’t care what Cait thought. If they were in the dark over there with a half-dozen eight-year-olds, they might need some help. She punched in the number again. Surprisingly the phone rang.

“Robin,” Laura said when a woman answered. “This is Laura. My electricity’s out and I wondered if yours is out, too?”

“No, it’s not,” Robin responded. “We’re fine here. We’re in the middle of a game. The storm is awful but the girls aren’t paying any attention. They’re having fun.”

Relieved, Laura said, “Can you tell me what time you’ll be done? I’ll bring an umbrella over for Cait.”

“Don’t worry. My three older children will walk everyone home when it’s time.”

Laura hung up and took the phone with her into the living room. Out the window, she saw lights glowing in all the houses down the block. Had her home been the only one affected? A fuse, maybe? Or had something been struck by lightning?

Another crack of thunder shook the rafters. She jumped, then felt foolish for being so skittish. It was just rain, for God’s sake.

Still, there was no way to know how long the power would be out, and though it wasn’t too dark to see, she went in search of some candles and a sweater. As she walked toward her bedroom she heard a loud thud, and then another. Heart racing, she eased down the hall, her back against the wall. Reaching her bedroom, she slowly opened the door. A powerful gust of wind hit her. The French windows were open and banging in the wind. Rain blew in, soaking the chest of drawers under the window and the rug underneath.

She ran over and slammed the windows shut, getting soaked in the process. What the…? She’d secured the windows tightly last night and the locking handles were on the inside. The wind couldn’t possibly blow them open.

Maybe Caitlin had opened the window and forgot to close it tightly…. But why would she do that? It didn’t make sense. Uneasy, Laura crossed the hall to her daughter’s room. The old oak floor creaked as she stepped inside. The window, the kind that lifted from the bottom, was open, too.

Had Cait left it open?

Or had someone jimmied it from the outside?

Her heart lodged in her throat when she saw the cloisonné music box Eddie had given Cait on her second birthday scattered on the floor—in pieces. Laura knelt and picked up a shard of the delicate china. If Cait had accidentally broken it and didn’t want Laura to know, she’d have picked up the pieces.

More important, Cait didn’t lie or deceive her mother. She would’ve told her about it. Laura was as certain of that as she was of her ability to help the kids staying at the shelter.

Maybe the wind coming through the open window had blown it to the floor? No, it was too far from the window. Something else had happened here. But what? Quickly she picked up the pieces and dumped them into the wastebasket in the corner. Turning, she stopped cold. Her breath caught.

The quilt, the one Eddie’s mother had painstakingly made by hand for Cait, was sliced to shreds. A sickening knot formed in her stomach. Cait cherished the quilt, almost as much as the music box from her father.

The phone in Laura’s pocket chirped and she jumped. Nerves on edge, her hands trembled as she pulled out the cell. The numbers were lit, but she didn’t recognize them. “Hello.”

“Hey, it’s me,” Phoebe said, sounding far away. “We’re still at the mall. I don’t want to drive back in this rain, so we’re going to wait until it lets up a bit.”

Though she didn’t like to think it, the possibility that one of the girls had done this loomed in the back of Laura’s mind. She swallowed her concern and managed to say, “Okay. You know what’s best.”

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Thanks. Uh…I won’t.”

“How about you? Everything okay?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

But she wasn’t fine. Someone had destroyed Cait’s things. Someone had been in both of their rooms.

“Okay,” Phoebe said. “See you when we get there.”

Her mouth dry, Laura mumbled, “Okay. Bye.” She clicked off, then touched the torn fabric, a silky piece of taffeta that had come from one of Cait’s old dresses. As the fabric slipped through Laura’s fingers, the reality of the situation hit her square in her gut. If someone had come in while she was there, he could easily have come for her, too.

She took a step toward the bed, and reached out to steady herself against the wall. Why? Why would anyone do something like this?
Who
would do something like this? She felt violated. The act was vindictive, personal. They’d destroyed keepsakes. Whoever did this had an agenda….

She should call the police. But if it was one of the girls… No, she had to talk to them first. But what if it wasn’t? Moving like a zombie, she crossed the room, closed the window, and then took a towel from the bathroom and started wiping the wet floor. Just as she finished, she heard the front door open. Her heart stopped.

“Mom, it’s me. I’m back.”

Laura snatched the quilt off the bed, rolled it into a ball and held it in her arms along with the towel. She eyed the wastebasket, then grabbed it and set the quilt on top. Turning, she found Caitlin standing in the doorway, her expression bewildered.

“How come the lights are out?”

“The storm, I think. Maybe lightning. I don’t know. Good thing we have a couple of flashlights and candles if it gets too dark.”

“What are you doing?”

“Well, I’m just doing some…uh, cleaning.” Laura tightened her grip on the bundle in her hands. “The quilt needs to be washed. I’ll bring you another one.”

“You’re supposed to be relaxing.” Cait sounded like a mother reprimanding her child. “That’s what you said you were going to do.”

Laura forced a thready laugh. “Well, you know me. I like to keep busy.”

“You weren’t snooping, were you?”

The question caught Laura by surprise. “Snooping? What do you mean?”

A strange look of defiance glittered in Caitlin’s eyes. “You know. Looking at my stuff. My private stuff.”

The question was almost laughable. What kind of private stuff could a seven-year-old have? Laura tried to look serious. “Of course not. I wouldn’t do that anymore than you’d go looking through my things.” She studied Cait’s face for a reaction, to see if she’d gone into Laura’s room and opened the window. But Cait’s expression was innocent.

“I am upset that you left your window open.”

Cait looked up. “I didn’t open it. It’s too cold outside.”

Laura felt a chill and it wasn’t coming from outside.

“I’m going to find the candles.”

Cait’s eyes lit up. “Can I help? Then I can tell you about the party and we can pretend we’re camping and roast marshmallows on the stove.”

They could do it since the stove was natural gas…and it would take her mind off other things. “You bet,” Laura said, hoping her voice didn’t give away her fear.

CHAPTER EIGHT

JORDAN SHRUGGED OFF
his
suit jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. He pulled out the Kolnikov case file, surreptitiously taking note of anyone looking his way.

Tex was on a call out along with his new partner, Simon McIntyre. Jordan didn’t know Simon at all, but Tex seemed to think he was okay. Apparently Simon had a few run-ins with a couple of uniforms in his last job and had a reputation for being a troublemaker. Rico wasn’t due back for another week and Howie Ralston, who’d only been on the team for a year, was eyeing Jordan from the captain’s office. Who was the mole? One of them? Or someone who had access to the office but only came in occasionally?

That would cover a lot of people, including the mayor and his staff.

Rico and Luke, he’d trust with his life. Tex, too, though he didn’t know him as well as the others. The rest of the unit was fair game. Even Mary Beth, the admin assistant. Okay, now he was losing it. Mary Beth had been the one person most willing to help on every case they had. She’d helped Rico a lot in the Ray case. He crossed Mary Beth off his list.

He glanced at the file, searching once again for something he might’ve missed…any mention that Kolnikov had had a new boyfriend. Nothing. He flipped pages, searching for Anna Kolnikov’s death certificate, something he’d looked at more than once. While he’d scoured the file, he hadn’t paid particular attention to the woman’s place of birth.

He found the certificate, but it was of no help. She was from Poughkeepsie, New York. Her DOB and parents’ names were listed as unknown. Hadn’t anyone bothered to find out if she had a family to notify?

The thought disturbed him. If she had a family…and she must’ve had one at one time…did they even know she was dead? Did they know about her life? He dismissed the thought. Anybody in L.A. would know she’d died. Four years ago, the media had gorged themselves on speculation about Kolnikov’s clients, making thinly disguised references to particular California politicians. Kolnikov’s name made the front page of the L.A. Times for longer than most people cared to read about it. It was probably on the national news, as well. If she had family somewhere, how could they not know?

Checking again, he saw zero notations about anyone contacting the LAPD about her death. Her body had remained at the morgue for days after the autopsy. There’d been no memorial service and no visitors. Kolnikov was subsequently buried in Los Angeles’ equivalent of Potters Field. Alone.

What puzzled him was that no one had even acknowledged her existence. Both Laura Gianni and her ex knew Kolnikov. Why didn’t they make an appearance? If the woman who’d sent the birthday card, Rita Valdez, was such good friends with Kolnikov, why didn’t she pay her respects?

But then, what difference did it make? Kolnikov belonged to the dark underbelly of society. People who exploited other people. Like DeMatta. The world was better off without them.

“St. James.” The gravelly voice came from behind him.

The scent of cheap cologne and stale tobacco preceded Ralston as he rounded the desk. “Captain wants to see you.”

A conversation with the captain wasn’t first on Jordan’s list this morning. With all the flack from the mayor’s office, Jordan knew it was only a matter of time before Carlyle put the kibosh on the Kolnikov investigation.

Engrossed in some papers on his desk, the captain didn’t look up when Jordan entered. “Have a seat.”

The tension in the air was so thick it was almost palpable. Just as Jordan was about to ask Carlyle what he wanted, the captain looked up.

“You better have something for me,” he said. “Something worth all this crap I’m getting from the mayor’s office.”

Jordan cleared his throat. “It’s not huge, but it’s a lead. A boyfriend who seemed to have been overlooked before.” Or ignored.

“Where’d you get the information?”

“From a woman who, while she wouldn’t admit to working for Kolnikov, did admit to being a friend. Another lead left hanging.”

“Who screwed up?”

“I don’t know anyone did. It’s not documented.”

The captain leaned back in his chair and scrubbed a hand over his chin. “Anything to implicate DeMatta?”

“Not yet.”

“What about the Gianni woman?”

Jordan’s gut twisted. What about the Gianni woman? He’d asked himself the same question more than once. “She’s got a tough job.”

Carlyle frowned. “I’ve got a tough job. You’ve got a tough job. Lots of people have tough jobs. Does she know anything or not?”

Jordan thought she did—was almost certain. But he had no proof and the captain wanted evidence, not speculation. “She said she met Kolnikov a couple of times. But there was no documentation in the file.”

The captain slammed a hand on the desk and bolted to his feet. “Dammit. I’ve got the mayor’s office breathing down my neck on the Matthews case, there’s a serial killer roaming the streets, and now I find out I’ve got a bunch of incompetents working for me.”

The Studio Killer. So named because his victims were all porn actresses and had been killed near or at the setting of their movies, which was usually a third-rate motel.

“Luke’s on the Matthews case.” Jordan didn’t have to say that Luke was the best detective they had.

Carlyle clenched his teeth. His right eye twitched. It was obvious he was under a lot of pressure. “Yeah, well, Coltrane worked the whore’s case, too.”

The hair on the back of Jordan’s neck bristled. “Briefly,” he added. “Luke uncovered one of the leads before he got transferred. Ralston and Vargas finished it up.”

Carlyle glanced toward where Ralston was sitting at a computer. Vargas had been transferred out a year ago. “Right. And we can’t change what they didn’t do. But if something doesn’t happen soon, we’re going to quit wasting time. We’ve got other priorities.”

“What’s more important than taking down DeMatta?”

“The good citizens of our thriving community get freaked out when a cold-blooded killer is on the loose. They call the mayor’s office, he calls the chief, and he calls me.”

Yeah. Jordan rubbed the back of his neck. He knew the captain’s dilemma, appreciated the leeway he’d been given already.“I know you’ve gone the distance for me on this one, chief. But I’m close. I just need a little more time to finish it.” He had to. And he didn’t need to remind the captain that some of their own had gone down at the hands of DeMatta. The lives the mob boss had destroyed, the number of people he’d hooked on drugs and then exploited for prostitution couldn’t even be counted.

Carlyle became pensive. “Okay,” he finally said. “What’s the plan?”

“I’m going to lean on DeMatta.”

The captain chewed on the inside of his cheek. “That’s a dangerous proposition.”

“I know. But he knows what I’m doing, anyway.”

Carlyle looked surprised. “You know that?”

Jordan nodded.

The phone rang and Carlyle picked up. Listening, he silently indicated Jordan could leave. But before Jordan got to the door, the captain said, “Hold it.”

Carlyle covered the phone. “Rita Valdez?”

Jordan tensed. “She gave me a lead on Kolnikov’s case.”

“You got her address?”

He nodded.

“Get out there. We’ve got another homicide.”

***

Laura was still reeling when the sharp ring of the phone startled her. But she couldn’t bring herself to answer it.

“Mommy?”

“Uh…it’s probably just a phone solicitor, honey. They kept calling the whole time you were at the party and I’m tired of them.”

The electricity had miraculously come back on, the rain had stopped, and sitting with Caitlin in the family room watching an old Disney DVD as they waited for the rest of the group to come home had a calming effect.

Keeping her cell phone at the ready, she thought about what had happened and always came back to the same thing. If the intruder had wanted to hurt her, he could easily have done it when she was there alone. And if he didn’t want to hurt her, the destruction had to be meant as a warning. For her? Caitlin? One of the residents? Realistically, it could be anyone at the shelter. She needed to talk to the girls—without Cait around.

“Shannon’s mom is getting married,” Cait said out of the blue.

“Really. How wonderful.”

“He’s got lots of money, too.”

Laura glanced at Cait, who’d pulled her legs to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She rested her chin on top of her knees. Cait had never mentioned money before. But the child was aware they didn’t have much. “Well, money doesn’t make a person happy, sweetheart.”

“Shannon gets lots of presents and she’s happy.”

Laura frowned. “You’re happy, aren’t you?”

“Yes…but presents would make me happier.” Her little girl grinned, eyes sparkling mischievously.

Laura laughed, giving Cait a noogie. “Well, you’ll get presents on your birthday and that’s not too far away. In the meantime, you’ll just have to suffer.”

Just then, a car door slammed outside. Then another and another.

“Oh, I hear them,” Cait shouted, jumping up. “They’re home.”

Laura heard a cacophony of female voices as the women came inside.

“I’m starved,” Brandy said. “Who’s got dinner tonight?”

“How can you be hungry with all you ate at the mall?” Claire demanded.

“It’s no one’s turn for dinner,” Laura said. “It’s pizza night. I’ve already ordered.”

After the girls went to their respective rooms, including Cait, who wanted to play with her prizes from the birthday party, Laura pulled Phoebe and Rose aside. “We have a situation. After you left, we had a power outage and someone broke into the house.”

Phoebe’s eyes grew big and Rose looked aghast.

“When you were here?” Rose asked.

“I don’t know who it was and yes I was here. I heard a noise early on, but ignored it. Later when I went into my bedroom and Cait’s, both windows were open. Someone had slashed Cait’s quilt and smashed her music box.”

Both women stood there, speechless. Finally Phoebe said, “Why would anyone do something like that?”

“We’ll know the answer if we find out who it was. Do either of you know anyone who might have a grudge against you or any of the girls?”

Rose shook her head, but Phoebe’s eyes lit up. “There’s that wacko guy I dated. The one who kept calling and told me I’d be sorry I didn’t go out with him anymore. He sent me a dozen rambling letters, but then he quit. I thought it had ended. Only if it was him, he’d probably destroy things in my office.”

“Maybe. But if he didn’t know whose room it was—and he knew I was in the house and he’d have to pass me to go upstairs…” She shrugged.

“Brandy had an argument with her old boyfriend a week or so ago,” Rose injected. “She said it was nothing and assured me he was harmless.”

Laura remembered the incident.

“What about Cait? Does she have any friends who’re jealous of her? Kids can get really nasty sometimes.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. But I also can’t think of anyone who doesn’t like Cait. Besides, I doubt any seven-year-old could’ve opened those windows and come in.”

“And then the electricity just came back on?” Phoebe asked.

“It does seem coincidental, doesn’t it?” Laura frowned.

“Yes,” Rose said. “But it’s not the first time the power has gone out in a storm. We all know the old wiring needs to be replaced.”

“We should call the police,” Phoebe said.

The doorbell rang. “It’s the pizza, and no, I don’t want to call them yet. I want to talk to each of the girls first. In the meantime, keep an eye out and your ears open.”

***

Once he got on the freeway, Jordan floored the gas. Six o’clock and it was getting dark. He hated California winters. It was dark when he got up and dark when he went home. He swerved to avoid a vehicle going so slowly the car was a danger to others. The rain had stopped, but the roads were still slick.

Jordan reached the crime scene as quickly as possible, arriving in concert with three squad cars, the scream of overhead sirens and blue-and-red flashing strobes lighting up the graffiti on the outside of the building. The entry to the place was cordoned off and a couple of uniforms held the gawkers at bay. There were always gawkers. People whose morbid curiosity couldn’t be contained.

“Detective St. James,” Jordan said to one of the officers, flashing his shield. “First officer on scene?”

“Officer Hansen. He’s upstairs.”

Jordan took the stairs two at a time, clipping his badge on the pocket of his suit jacket as he went. The closer he got to the top, the worse he felt. His heart hammered in his throat and he started to sweat. Fifty freaking degrees and he was sweating. More than a hundred homicides and his reaction was always the same. Whoever said you got used to seeing a DB was crazy.

Upstairs, crime-scene tape surrounded Rita Valdez’s apartment, but the door was open. A couple of techs from the Scientific Investigation Division followed directly behind him. The SID was alternately referred to by detectives as the CSU or CSI because of the television show—a joke the techs didn’t appreciate.