Reilly 13 - Dreams of the Dead (19 page)

“Hmm.”

“The little boy came to her funeral with his dad,” Michelle went
on. “I couldn’t stand to see him cry. I had to leave. Paul, it’s not business or Prize’s reputation Steve and I feel so bad about. We just hate what happened on our watch, and we want to put it right. We feel hurt by it, you know? The hotel feels, I don’t know—”

“Sullied?”

“Good word, yeah.” She drank from her cup. “I told Brenda how sorry I was that she had discovered the dead woman in the bed.”

There it was again, the quick look away.

“I asked if she needed anything. She said she needed her husband and that she wanted to go home.”

“She said something else, though, something that put you on edge.”

“No, nothing.”

“What happened that you’re not telling me, then?”

“Nothing!”

“You can keep saying that,” Paul said mildly. “But when you don’t tell somebody else, it festers and creeps under your covers at night and bites you. You know all that. About secrets.”

Now she was frankly disturbed. She was the metaphorical type, always had been, symbols became symptoms with her. Shame about the lip she was testing with her teeth, though. Paul sat there like a neutral, harmless, receptive lump, a stubborn lump that wouldn’t move on without an answer.

Eventually, Michelle covered her mouth with her hand and said through the hand, “Paul—can you help me with something?”

“I’ll try.”

“Do you think Brenda’s murder is connected to the corpse she found on the bed?”

Paul nodded. “Can’t prove it yet, though.”

“Hell.” The hand went down and Michelle licked her fantabulous lips. She was ready to speak.

“You can trust me with it, honey,” Paul said.

Her exquisitely sculpted shoulders slumped. “I’m that obvious?
Ugh. Brenda’s dead and I have two little kids and he may have seen her, but he didn’t see me, and I don’t want to put them at risk.”

“Who didn’t see you?”

She looked around. “I went out back to the parking lot to get something from a friend’s car. This was right before I went to Steve’s office, at about ten past one. I stopped by the ice machine to adjust the package I was carrying and saw Brenda ahead of me at the corner of the building, looking away from me. I’m sure she had no idea I was there. I stepped back into a doorway. I don’t know why. I stopped to watch her and see what she was watching.”

Paul folded his arms. “At one ten? Well, I’ll be. You’re a witness.”

“Just my luck.”

“She didn’t see you?”

“She never looked back. She was looking so intently down the walkway. You know, people’s body language says things. She was busy watching for something. If I made a noise, even dropped a vase, I don’t think she would have noticed. I watched her for a couple of minutes.”

“Why would you do that?”

Michelle frowned. “That’s a hard question. Hm. I knew right away that something was wrong and that I should stay very quiet. That’s all I can tell you. Something was off-key, maybe something management should know about.”

“Okay.”

“And so I watched.”

“What happened next?”

“She stood there on the walkway completely unmoving for what seemed like a long time. The longer she stood, the more concerned I got. Then, when I thought I was going to cough or do something else that would ruin everything, a man came out of the room toward the end of the hallway she was watching—102.”

“How did you know it was a man?”

Michelle’s clear blue eyes glazed as she thought back to the moment. “I don’t know, he moved, he swung his shoulders and moved like a guy, deliberately. He was dressed in black. Black pants even.”

“Go on.”

“He turned our way for a sec. Bundled up, baseball cap, shades, moving fast.”

Paul waited for her to say more.

“I won’t make my children targets, Paul.”

“Ah. Okay, tell me about it. We’ll get back to that in a minute.”

She drank a deep breath. “I can’t say anything else about him. He was down the hall. He looked our way and saw Brenda, then turned and moved really fast down the hall in the other direction, and then practically ran out into the parking lot.”

“Did Brenda tell you that he saw her?”

“She wasn’t sure, but I am. She shrugged when I told her to be careful. I suppose that’s why she went on with her life, was trying to get her bus to work the next morning.”

“When you spoke with her in the hall, did you two talk about this guy?”

“She thought he was trying to cover up. You couldn’t see his hair under the cap. He was in a parka. She told me he was fast on his feet. She shook her head when I asked her other questions. I don’t think she got that good a look at him. If she was killed for seeing him, it’s a horrible waste of a life.”

“He was dressed to avoid being recognized to start with. So you didn’t tell Brenda that you were watching her and that you saw the man?”

Michelle looked down. “No. I didn’t—I hadn’t made up my mind what to do. I was afraid.”

“And you haven’t talked to the police about what you saw?”

“I haven’t even told Steve.”

Paul said, “Here’s what you need to do, honey. I’m going to take
you over to see Sergeant Cheney right now and you’re going to give a statement.”

“But—”

“Then you’re going to pack up and get your kids and take a vacation until this is resolved. Right away.”

“B—but I’m needed here! It could take months!”

“Steve’s gonna say the same thing, once you tell him the whole story. Which you’re going to do right now.” Paul got out his cell phone.

For a moment Michelle looked at it. Then she took it, said, “Phooey,” and called her husband.

Paul moved away to give her some space. He looked out the big plate-glass window and thought about what she had told him. This was supposed to have been a side gig. Tahoe was becoming monstrously complicated.

Like it always does.

Michelle beckoned. “Okay. Let’s go see Cheney. Steve’s booking the babies and me and my mother on a flight to Honolulu for a week. We leave tonight.”

“Wise decision,” Paul said.

“I hate leaving Steve in this turmoil.”

“Your kids’ safety is more important.”

“You’re right.”

She let him take her in the Mustang. She was a king-hell high-school date, and he enjoyed every second of having her sit next to him, sunk into the low seat, her earrings jingling slightly as he bumped over the road. She smelled like soap.

The lake sparkled like a vacationer’s dream as Paul drove them back into town. The ski slopes loomed above the town, still with thirty-five-foot base depths. The storm had frittered itself and winter away, and spring brightened the snow more than a hint of the warmth that made summer here so pleasant, but on a weekday nobody was around because it was only April and people have to earn the money for their vacations sometime.

Not that anybody had much money this year to drop into slot machines or for ski tickets. Several of the small souvenir shops lining the road were already out of business. Several more had just opened. Tahoe was a dream, a place where anything could happen, and everything did.

C
heney wouldn’t let him join the fun. He had Michelle brought in and told Paul to wait.

Stomach rumbling, Paul played back bits of the tape while he sat in the front room, a model of plain efficiency, observed by the officer of the day through his bulletproof window.

Michelle came through the door about one o’clock, smelling fresh as a baby’s breath.

“Steve’s coming to pick me up,” she said. “The sergeant is ready to talk to you.”

“Have a great trip. Tell Shanti in Reception I’ll come by later to see the room.” Paul stood.

“Thanks for helping us, and for making me do this. I feel better already. Tell Nina I’ll see her soon, okay? I’m grateful to her. I don’t think she’s met our kids.”

Paul nodded.

Michelle gave him a little wave. The outer door buzzed and she flitted off to pack for the land of aloha.

F
red Cheney’s office, near the back of the South Lake Tahoe Police Department, which sat beside the courthouse, which sat beside the jail, had an awesome view of a grove of tall pines. No other building or human could be seen out the window, just nature. Must be good for staying calm, because Fred was the calmest man
Paul knew. Pictures on his desk confirmed that Cheney had a much younger wife, a vigorous visage, and muscles where no man his age deserved muscles. His hair, crinkly gray, was abundant, almost qualifying as a modern Afro.

“Hey, there he is,” Cheney said, and came around his desk. They shook hands. “Been working out?”

“Some. You?”

“Keeps me sane. Sit down, Paul.” They talked about Carmel, and Clint Eastwood, who kept putting out a good movie every time somebody said he was too old. Cheney held his calls and treated Paul as a colleague. Paul found Cheney’s attention refreshing. Since Paul had left law enforcement after getting kicked off the police force in San Francisco several years before, he’d noticed some cops thought it a betrayal. In law enforcement, as with gangs, you were part of the brotherhood or you were nobody.

It was worth being an outsider for the freedom, though. Paul could still do what he loved best—right imbalances, fix things—and make better money at it, too.

“So. Speak of the devil,” Cheney went on.

“Oh,” Paul said. “Always great to be remembered. But why might you speak of me in any way at all?”

Cheney cleared his throat. “A few things have come up, including your name.”

“Oh? What things?”

Cheney closed the door to his office.

“You probably realize the Bee murder is a current and active investigation,” Cheney said in his deep voice. “Not something we go around sharing with PIs from other areas without cause.”

“So it is your case?”

“I’m handling the California investigation. Cyndi Amore was a resident of South Lake Tahoe. Douglas County Sheriffs has primary jurisdiction. Brenda Bee was killed in Nevada, but this is being treated as a double murder, because of the proximity in time of the two deaths and the probable motive for killing the housekeeper.”

“You mean, because Brenda Bee saw him. Got a quick look, I mean.”

“He thought she saw more than she did. That’s the theory at the moment, based on the husband’s statement.”

“Let me help, Fred,” Paul said. “I won’t get in the way.”

“So the Rossmoors hired you.”

“That’s right.”

“A while back, wasn’t it, Michelle’s case?”

“Nina Reilly’s first murder case,” Paul said. “She had barely unpacked her shoes.”

“They must have liked the work you did. Is Nina part of this?”

“No. She’s got another whale to fry.”

“I heard.” Paul saw Cheney’s thoughtful fingers tapping, then:

“I’ve got some police reports you can copy.”

“Thanks. Really, thanks.”

“Ditto. You’ve already helped,” Cheney said, “getting Mrs. Rossmoor in for a statement.”

Paul took the file. “Read it and weep,” Cheney said. “The first murder, the one at Prize’s, doesn’t look like a robbery. As for the death on the bus stop in Minden, Brenda’s murder, nobody witnessed it or the perp. Whole thing went down in two minutes. No screaming, no signs of struggle. Her husband had just driven off. Our man snuck up on her from behind like the bastard he was. She ran, but he caught her, slit her throat from left to right. Nevada State Police did a good fast initial investigation. Some lab and toxicology reports to come, of course.”

“Suspects?”

“Whoever killed Cyndi Backus, stage name Amore, that’s our only person of interest at the moment.”

“According to Michelle, Cyndi led a bit of a double life,” Paul said.

“Even stripping ain’t what it used to be in this recession. She had picked up this straight job as a receptionist six months before, and she was a model employee. Never the twain occupations mixed. Or something.”

“Her weekend work might lead to more unsavory types with violent hands.”

“I know, it’s a consideration. She was married. I talked to the husband.” Cheney picked up one of the reports and scanned it. “Johnny Castro. He has the marriage certificate but she never changed her birth name of Backus. She seems to have had a problem figuring out who she was. She wanted a straight life, the trips to Costco and the kiddies in footy pajamas, but then again she’d get bored, and her weekend job was pulling her back to her old bad habits.”

“Drugs?”

“No, she had never done drugs but she liked whiskey. And she liked men. Johnny thinks she was having an affair. He thinks he knows who with, too, only I don’t have a confirmation on that. The purported boyfriend is a mechanic down the highway by the Y. We talked to him, and he says the husband’s wrong, that he was only helping her change her oil. Lubing her, ah, vehicle.” Cheney gave Paul a couple of phone numbers. “You learn anything to the contrary, I expect to hear it.”

“I guess my main question now is, was Cyndi Backus sexually assaulted before or after she was strangled? Or did she have consensual sex?”

Cheney held out open hands. “Wait for the lab reports, but it looked like signs of recent sex to the forensics team. A few bruises on her arms from being held down. Some blood on her teeth. A rape, or rough sex. It’s possible we’ll have both a semen sample and a blood sample. That’ll help a lot. Bruise on her chin. Looks like he had sex with her, knocked her out, strangled her, and then fixed her up a little like maybe he was sorry. Sometimes I’m disgusted with the whole human race, Paul. I get from the husband that she really was moving into an ordinary life, about to retire completely from that world she had gotten sucked into as a teenager. She had a husband and a father and mother. The parents own a trailer park. They live in Arizona and they’re on the phone with me every day.
The mother’s the hard part. She keeps talking about when Cyndi was a little kid. She says she warned her, told her she’d get hurt. I’ve been a cop too long. I’ve got kids, Paul. I lie awake on this one. The son of a bitch killed two women and I bet he sleeps like a baby.”