Naked Addiction (16 page)

Chapter 24

Norman

N
orman Klein knew PB pretty well enough that he didn’t have much trouble finding the murder scene. It only took a little longer than it should have to get to the dead woman’s apartment because he stopped to get a pepperoni slice at Bronx Pizza in Hillcrest. He missed the pies from home.

Al, the dayside editor, had called him at home and told him to start his shift early to find a follow-up story on the Tania Marcus murder. By the time he got to work, Al had already heard a bunch of talk on the scanner about a second dead girl in PB. Sully, the regular cops reporter, was still out on medical leave and Charlie was still sick, which made it another lucky day for Norman Klein.

“Let’s see if you can improve on the other night, kid,” Al said, chortling. “Or we’ll fire your ass.”

Al was a wiry, no-nonsense guy who ate rocks for breakfast. Norman was sure of it. He felt very intimidated by Al and Big Ed, but didn’t know what to do about it other than dig in and hope for the best.

Norman scanned the crime scene for Detective Goode, but saw no sign of him. Most of the cops were the short-haired, uptight ones who hated talking to reporters. Goode was way cooler. Norman figured he got a lot of women. The good kind.

“Are you the officer in charge?” Norman asked a uniformed cop who had stripes on his sleeve and a no-nonsense attitude.

“Sergeant.”

“Oh, sorry. Sergeant. What’s going on?”

“Dead girl.”

“What happened to her?”

The sergeant was apparently too busy standing with his arms folded over his potbelly to answer. Norman struggled to remember all the questions Al told him to ask. “Any connection between this murder and the Tania Marcus case?”

That got the cops’ attention. He turned and looked at Norman. “Could be. Who are you with?”

“The
Sun-Dispatch
.”

The sergeant grimaced. “Are you the jerk who got my name wrong on that armed robbery last week?”

“Uh, no, I don’t think so,” Norman said, knowing full well that it was his story; he just didn’t know what he’d done wrong. “But while we’re at it, why don’t you spell it for me so it doesn’t happen this time.”

“It’s Love. That’s L-O-V-E, not L-I-V-E.”

Shit. A stupid typo spell-check couldn’t catch
.

“What’s your first name?”

“Sergeant.”

What is the deal with cops and these dumb stonewalling tactics? It must be in the training manual.

Norman had a lot riding on this story today and he wasn’t going to let some jerk-off dick him around. But he had to stay cool. Use the charm like Al told him.

“Come on. I have a police department roster back at the newsroom. I can just look it up. How ‘bout helping me out a little here?”

Sergeant Love looked Norman up and down. “All right, all right. It’s Mike. Screw it up again and this is our last conversation.”

The two of them stared at each other for a good thirty seconds until the sergeant finally cracked a smile. “So, what else you want to know, kid? She was a beauty school student just like that other girl. I saw you there the other day. I was on crowd control. A little late weren’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

The sergeant looked at his watch. “Speaking of the time, I’ve got to get going.” He turned and started to walk away.

“Wait,” Norman called after him. “I have a few more questions.”

Sergeant Love stopped, turned part way around, then spoke so fast Norman could hardly write fast enough to keep up. “You know, you’re lucky I’m in a good mood. Look, here it is, kid. We found a twenty-three-year-old white female dead in the apartment. Cause of death is pending. Could be a drug-related homicide. But don’t quote me. You’ve got to talk to Sergeant Stone from Homicide. I’m just helping to keep the lookie-loos like you out of the way. It’s Stone’s case and he’s not here yet. So no quotes. Got that?”

“Yeah, yeah, right. Autopsy today?”

“You’ll have to call the ME’s office.”

“What’s her name?”

“Can’t release that. Family hasn’t been notified. And by the way, kid, you’d better wipe that newsprint off your face. You look like you got in a fight with a bag of charcoal briquettes. And lost.”

Al’s voice echoed in his head:
Push the envelope
. “Can I see the body?” Norman asked.

The sergeant shook his head. “You’re really getting to be a pain in the ass, you know that?”

Norman just smiled.

“Sorry, kid. As much as I’d like to watch you lose your breakfast, we don’t want anyone contaminating the crime scene.”

Norman didn’t really want to see the body. He was just trying to test the boundaries. It was high time to head back to the office and start making calls anyway.

Norman walked to his car and started back to the newsroom. As he careened around corners, the newspapers he was saving to read later slid around in the back seat.

I really need to do something about those papers this weekend, especially if I want to ask Lulu out. She is one tasty waitress.

It was ironic. By murdering young women, some sick bastard was creating an opportunity for him to get on the front page. He felt bad for thinking something so cold, but it was the truth. And he was all about the truth.

Norman hoped he would have as much luck reaching this girl’s parents as he had reaching Tania Marcus’. He’d felt like he might have taken advantage of Helen Marcus a bit in her intoxicated state, but he also knew he had to be tough or he’d never get assigned another big story. So he kept going.

She’d sounded like she wanted someone to talk to, so it couldn’t have been all that wrong. Right?

As he approached the freeway exit for the paper in Mission Valley, Norman changed his mind and decided to reverse course. If he went to the beauty school, maybe he could get the name of the dead girl without having to wait a day for the ME to release it. Besides, he was still looking for ways to follow up on the first murder, because he was convinced that the two cases were related.

Norman sang along to the radio, letting the wind whip through his hair. This was what Southern California was all about. Warm breezes and hot babes in dental floss bikinis, their long hair flowing down their backs and their tight abs glistening with oil as they flounced down the beach. It was a far cry from the lake in New Jersey, where he went with his family in the summers as a kid.

Norman headed north on the 5 freeway, then west on Grand Avenue toward the beach, the same way he’d come, but this time, he hit one red light after another. If he’d thought of this an hour ago, he’d be back at the paper writing already. He was turning right onto Mission Boulevard when his car began to sputter, even with the accelerator to the floor. Then he noticed that the gas gauge was on the big red E. He’d forgotten to fill her up that morning.

“Dammit,” he yelled. “Why didn’t I stop last night?” 

Luckily, no cars were coming the other way and he was able to guide his car across the street into a supermarket parking lot. He’d seen the yellow and red of a Shell station sign about five blocks back. He may have been stupid enough not to fill the tank, but at least he had that empty gas can in the trunk.

Norman eased the car into a parking space and came to a stop, then sat there for a few seconds, shaking his head. “Get over yourself,” he said. “Everything will work out.”

Then Norman opened the trunk, saw there was no gas can.

“Shit!” he said, accentuating the t for emphasis. He’d forgotten that he’d loaned the can to Lulu the other night at the Tavern when her car wouldn’t start. He’d offered to take her to the gas station, but then Big Ed beeped him and told him to run on that armed robbery, so he left the can with Lulu and she got some prison guard to take her to a station nearby.

He took off on foot, hoping that the Shell attendant would loan him some kind of container. He was not going to lose this story—no way, no how. He hadn’t gotten this far without knowing the meaning of intrepid. He was determined to get a Page One story and a date with the fabulous Lulu, all in one day.

Ten minutes later, as he approached the yellow and red sign, he saw that a chain-link fence had been erected around the perimeter of a vacant lot, which was piled high with chunks of torn-up asphalt. There were deep holes in the earth where the underground tanks had been removed. A cardboard sign said a Fresh-Mex restaurant would be opening soon.

Norman began to panic. What should he do now? He needed to clear his head and come up with a game plan.

This, he decided, called for a cheeseburger, a chocolate shake, fries, and a bottomless cup of coffee. He retraced his steps and headed for Denny’s.

Chapter 25

Goode

G
oode was really worried about his sister, especially now that he’d learned she had dated Keith and hung out in the same bar as this group of friends who were doing drugs and getting murdered. He knew he needed to get over to the latest murder scene, but he felt compelled to check Maureen’s house one more time first.

As he drove up Turquoise Street, he visualized her Red Honda CRV in her driveway.
Be home, be home,
he chanted silently as he approached. But her driveway was empty. Neither of her roommates’ trucks was there either, although their pool cleaning supplies were scattered all over the lawn. The neighbors couldn’t be too happy about that.

Goode parked down the street and went into stealth mode as he approached her house. Going from one open window to another, a burglar’s fantasy, he peered inside for signs of life. But he saw no shadows moving, heard no music playing or water running, and smelled no food cooking.

He snuck around back and saw the birthday surfboard he’d bought her a few years ago leaning against the wall. Custom-made by a friend in Cardiff, the board was silk-screened with a dark-haired woman coming out of an aquamarine tube. This was not a good sign because it ruled out the possibility that Maureen was surfing in Baja. Goode walked sullenly back to his van and gunned the engine hard, just to hear it roar.

Where the hell could she be?

Sharona Glass lived less than a mile from Maureen. As much as he wished he could dismiss his big-brother worries as needless, he couldn’t ignore the fact that these murders seemed to be the work of one killer still on the loose in his sister’s neighborhood.

By the time he got to Sharona’s apartment, Stone and Byron were huddled up outside and the ME investigator was preparing her body for transport to the morgue. Since Byron was the lead on the crime scene investigation, Stone told Goode not to go inside until Byron and the evidence tech had cleared it.

Goode peeked in and saw Sharona’s body lying on the living room carpet, just short of the bar counter that bordered the kitchen. Her arms were sprawled out as if she had fallen backwards unexpectedly or was pulled down from behind. The tech was dusting the bar counter and stools for fingerprints. Goode looked around for Norman Klein, but didn’t see him around. He still needed to talk to him about that “off the record” problem.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky again and find a journal,” Goode said.

A minute later, Byron came back with a calendar that had been tacked on the refrigerator with a magnet, featuring the ass of a different male college student each month.

“Here, check this out,” he said.

Goode could barely read the numbers on the days because of all the red pen marks. Most were men’s names with notations such as “Dinner,” “A movie,” and sometimes, just “Wow.” He wondered if she, too, was a potential escort service babe given that the only male name he recognized from the case was Seth’s. The two of them apparently had a lunch date in between two nights when Sharona had dinner and then drinks with Clover.

This is no coincidence. They’re all in this together somehow.

Goode watched the tech go through the kitchen cabinets, which were filled mostly with diet food like canned tuna in water, though he did find a stash of chocolate bars. In the end, however, there was nothing more inflammatory than a box of birthday candles.

“We found a mirror on the bar counter next to her, with some white powder and a rolled up dollar bill,” Byron said, handing the mirror to Goode in an evidence bag. “Looks like coke to me.”

“Aha,” Goode said, reveling privately in the fact that he’d finally been able to say it. “Could be meth, though. We’ll have to test it to find out.”

Now all he had to figure out was who was supplying Sharona, Tania, Clover and Seth. If Goode had to guess, Seth was not just a recreational user, as Keith had claimed, but a dealer, maybe even a successful one. And despite Keith’s innocent act, Goode thought he was probably involved as well. It was possible that Keith had been trying to frame Clover as the mastermind behind their drug operation. If that was the case, it wasn’t going to work.

“How’s it going?” Lieutenant Wilson asked, appearing at his side out of nowhere.

Now with multiple victims, this was starting to look like a possible serial killer case, so the stakes were getting higher. Stone had said earlier that Wilson didn’t often come to crime scenes unless they were big. The chief probably had Wilson show up to put some pressure on the investigative team and put up a good face for the cameras.

Goode made his way into the bedroom and studied the magazine cutouts of super-models that consumed an entire wall over the bed. But he was more interested in the framed photos on top of her bureau. The blonde fit the description of Clover Ziegler. She was definitely attractive, but he picked up some of the personality traits on her face that Keith had described. He took one of the photos and put it in his pocket to show Alison.

Slausson showed up, headed straight for Sharona’s bureau, and wasted no time before fingering her silk panties. He practically dove into her nightstand, looking for another “goodie” drawer.

“That’s her, the redhead,” he said, pointing at a photo of Sharona in a bikini. “You know about redheads, right?”

“A little respect here, okay?” Goode said. Slausson was definitely a pervert with too much of the asshole gene. And Goode had been so hoping he wasn’t.

In several of the photos, taken at varying ages, Sharona had her arm around Clover. Both women were tall and athletic looking.

“Hey, did you ever get an interview with Clover Ziegler?” Goode asked.

“No, I went by her house at that address you gave me, but no one answered the door,” Slausson said.

Goode sorted through the piles of envelopes and other papers on Sharona’s desk. They were mostly junk mail and unpaid bills, some several months old. He also didn’t see the same expensive clothing, furniture, and other household items he’d seen in Tania’s apartment, so joining the escort service would probably have been an attractive opportunity for Sharona.

Looking through the victim’s purse for her phone, Goode searched through the contacts under G and found her family members, presumably—Patricia, Jason and Melissa Glass. He wrote down the numbers and addresses before handing the phone to the tech to log into evidence before she gave it to London from the RCFL, whom Stone said was on his way. Goode knew he was going to have to start asking Alison some hard questions about the escort service. He just hoped that she wasn’t involved.

By the time he was done at the crime scene that night it was too late to go talk to Alison, so he went home to catch a few hours sleep. But before he hit the hay, he reread Tania’s diary entries, looking for some mention of Sharona Glass.

He tried to reach his sister one more time just before lights out. Still no answer.