Sullivan's Law (19 page)

“I
guess I'll have to reassign the Sandoval shooting,” Brad Preston said, leaning back in the black leather chair behind his desk. “This thing last night doesn't make sense, Carolyn. Your parolee was in the hospital, so why would someone try to run you off the road? Are you sure this wasn't a couple of crazy teenagers? Maybe they wanted to race you.”

“In a rented Camry?”

Brad flashed a smile. “Never know.”

“This isn't a game, asshole.”

Brad's assistant, Rachel, had taken the day off, so they knew they wouldn't be interrupted. They were killing time, waiting for Hank Sawyer to call. He sat upright. “Yesterday, you said I was a fantastic lover. Today I'm back to being an asshole. Why don't we compromise and consider ourselves friends? If that doesn't work, try remembering every now and then that I'm your supervisor.”

“I get mad when you don't take me seriously.” Reclining on the small sofa in his office, Carolyn was wearing black slacks and a blue cotton top. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail. Before taking Rebecca to the professor's, she'd darted into her house and changed clothes, then grabbed a clean shirt and pants for her daughter. “I figured out why you pulled me into the men's rest room the other day.”

“Oh you did, huh?” Brad said, a mischievous look in his eyes.

“I'd look like an idiot if I tried to report you for sexual harassment,” Carolyn told him, extending one of her legs in the air. “You could claim you were going about your business when I barged into the men's room and tried to entice you to have sex with me. We didn't have intercourse, so you didn't do anything out of order.”

“Forget about the other day, okay?” Brad said, eager to change the subject. “About last night—”

“Think about it,” Carolyn said. “Daniel Metroix was in jail when they smashed my car and left the threatening note. And these weren't kids trying to run me off the road last night. I'm almost certain they intended to shoot me like they did Metroix.”

“Did you see a gun?”

“I'm not really sure,” Carolyn answered. “Only seconds before I managed to turn off the road, the passenger in the Corvette rolled down the window. I remember seeing something protruding. It was dark, though. When you're traveling almost a hundred miles an hour in a residential neighborhood, you don't have a lot of time to do anything other than drive.”

“That's too bad about Rebecca's ankle,” Brad said. “She's a sweet kid.”

“Yeah,” Carolyn said, sitting up. “You don't have to reassign the Sandoval case. I dictated the report yesterday. All that's left is to proofread it and submit. Don't give me anything new, though.”

Brad rubbed the side of his neck. “We're up to our eyeballs right now. The stress is killing me. I think I've got another herniated disk. This thing with Eddie Downly has the whole city in an uproar.”

“I'd die if something happened to my children,” Carolyn told him. “This is too close to home. I'm scared, Brad.”

The call they'd been waiting for finally came through. Brad punched the button for the speaker phone, tossing his feet on top of the desk.

“Charles Harrison is dead,” Hank told them. “I just left Arden Brothers Funeral Home. They claim he was cremated early this morning.”

“When did he die?” Carolyn asked, moving closer in order to hear better.

“Last night,” Hank said in his gravel voice.

“Great,” Brad said. “Now it's too late to do an autopsy.”

“Don't you know how it works?” the detective asked, his tone bordering on sarcasm. “Because Harrison was under a doctor's care, all his housekeeper did was call the funeral home to pick up the body. I guess you guys in probation don't handle deaths.”

“Only murders,” Brad said, placing his palms on the desk.

“By law,” the detective continued, “no one outside of the funeral home is required to even
see
the body. The death certificate hasn't been signed yet. The mortuary is sending one of their people over to Harrison's doctor's office sometime this morning.”

Carolyn and Brad exchanged tense looks. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. It placed her speculations about the former police chief in a new light. “Charles Harrison is really dead?”

“That's what they say,” Hank replied. “Sounds a tad too convenient, if you ask me. Metroix is shot around two yesterday. Then, last night, someone comes after his parole officer. Metroix survives…Carolyn escapes. And don't forget the explosion at the Seagull. These people are batting zero.”

Carolyn placed a hand over her chest. “Are you implying that Harrison could have faked his own death?”

“I might fake my death too if I'd hired some goons and they botched things up this bad, leaving me wide open to take the heat.” He stopped to take a breath. “I'm certain Harrison was a sick man, okay. In reality, his health problems would give him even more of a reason to stage his own demise. Who wants to spend their last days in a cell?”

“Let's backtrack a minute,” Carolyn said, trying to get all the facts straight. “Even when they cremate someone, isn't there a way to identify them? We need a positive ID, Hank.”

“Arden Brothers is a first-rate joint,” he said. “Mrs. Harrison is in a mental hospital. She probably wouldn't have been able to attend her husband's funeral even if he'd planned on having one. Do you think the hospital wants Arden Brothers to mail the poor woman her husband's ashes?”

“What's the point, Hank?”

“They got rid of them,” he said. “Most people don't want the ashes, or at least that's what Anthony Arden told me. They used to dump them in a bin out back. Now they have an arrangement with Ivy Lawn cemetery. They send whatever remains they have on hand to the cemetery and they bury them in a common grave. This morning happened to be their regular day to clean house. Morticians even have their own vocabulary. They refer to what's left as cremains.”

Carolyn recalled reading something in the newspaper. “Wasn't there a lawsuit several years ago about this type of thing?”

“You guys still don't understand,” Hank told them, becoming even more agitated. “The case you're talking about was a company that promised to scatter the remains at sea. I don't think they owned a boat or even a crematorium. They had bodies stashed all over the place. Arden Brothers didn't do anything wrong. When no one claims the cremains, and no specific arrangements have been made for some type of vault, urn, or any kind of service, the funeral home burns them and buries them in the common grave.”

“Seems like a good way to get away with murder,” Carolyn tossed out. “What about his teeth?”

“If you want to fish through that stuff and see if you can find a bridge or something that didn't disintegrate, be my guest. Our best bet is to try to track Harrison through doctors and hospitals. He'll need medical treatment if he's alive.”

“Why would he give his real name?” Carolyn asked, walking around the room. “Harrison was a deputy chief. He wouldn't be that stupid. He's either left the state or he's holed up somewhere in L.A. under an assumed name. You can certainly have your department check various doctors and hospitals. Personally, I think it's a waste of time.”

“Let's say Harrison did die.” Brad's expression hinted that he thought the situation might be as it appeared. “For all we know, he had nothing to do with the recent events. That means we have to consider other suspects. Did you come up with anything on either the Corvette or the SUV?”

“Not yet,” Hank said. “We're running the partial plate the woman witness gave us every way possible. Knowing the make of the car would have helped, know what I mean?”

“Both of the cars were probably stolen,” Carolyn told him, flicking the ends of her fingernails. “My bet is they've already dumped them. Are your people checking abandoned vehicles?”

“Sure,” the detective said. “You know how many vehicles are abandoned every year in this city? And what makes you think they ditched the cars in Ventura? Not only that, people who kill for money know the ropes. They leave cars in supermarket parking lots where weeks or even months can pass before anyone notices them. Either that, or they sell them to salvage yards. Those guys don't report half of the vehicles they strip. There's too much profit in stolen auto parts.”

“We may never catch these guys,” Brad said. “Isn't that what you're trying to tell us, Hank?”

“More or less.”

“What about Daniel?” Carolyn asked. “Has anyone spoken to him?”

“No,” Hank said. “White said he's been out cold all morning. I plan to go over there myself this afternoon.”

“Well,” Brad said, standing and stretching, “our agency has done all we can.”

Carolyn sat down on the sofa. “Why was I a target to begin with? I understand about Daniel.” Her voice elevated with excitement. “There're two men whose lives could be destroyed if the truth ever comes out about Tim Harrison. And since I'm the only one who's been trying to get the case reopened, getting rid of me would put an end to their problems.” She raised her arm in the direction of her supervisor. “Look how you're acting, Brad,” she said. “You think Daniel and I are no longer in danger, that we should forget about everything that's happened. Even if you remove Daniel and Harrison from the picture, it doesn't change the fact that someone may have tried to kill me on two separate occasions.”

“Calm down,” Brad said. “Anyway, you've lost me as to the two other men.”

“You haven't lost
me,”
Hank's voice boomed over the speaker phone. “Guess it's time we paid a visit to Liam Armstrong and Nolan Houston. Can we even prosecute these men, though? The statute of limitations on perjury expired years ago.”

“Perjury was the least of their crimes,” Carolyn told him. “I wouldn't worry about the statute of limitations. We're talking murder, Hank.”

“How do you get to murder?” the detective asked. “From what I know about the original crime, the Harrison boy's death may have been an accident.”

“Daniel Metroix went to prison for second degree murder,” Carolyn said, feeling certain they were on the right track. “If either Houston or Armstrong shoved Tim Harrison in front of that car, then they can be prosecuted for the same crime. There's no statute of limitations on murder. Don't you see? We've been coming at this from the wrong direction.”

The line fell silent, then, a few moments later, Hank began speaking again. “You might be right, Carolyn. You know what happens when you start looking under rocks.”

“I've already tracked down Houston and Armstrong,” she said, speaking rapidly. “Just their businesses, though. Their home numbers are unlisted, and I didn't have time to trace them. I want to be with you when you see them. It's harder to kill someone once you look them in the eye.”

“I don't want to interview them at their homes,” Hank told her. “It's doubtful if they'll tell us anything worthwhile with their wives and children around. Let's call it for today, and plan to pay Armstrong and Houston a visit Monday. Meet me at the PD around eight o'clock.”

Carolyn left Brad's office to get the information she'd compiled on the two men so she could go directly from her home.

“Smart lady,” Hank told her supervisor. “We could use a few like her at the PD. You're going to miss her when she gets her law degree.”

“Let's hope she lives long enough,” Brad Preston said, punching a button on the speaker phone to end the call.

A
rriving at her house at two-fifteen Friday afternoon, Carolyn staggered down the hall and fell face first on her bed. Knowing her children were safe, she could relax. Paul Leighton had been right. If she didn't get some sleep, she was going to end up hospitalized for exhaustion.

She awoke when she heard her son's voice.

“Where's Rebecca?” John asked, standing over his mother's bed. “I tried to call you about thirty minutes ago. No one answered the phone.”

“I guess I didn't hear it,” Carolyn said, feeling as if her eyes were glued together. She reached over and grabbed the clock on the end table, seeing that it was almost five o'clock. “Rebecca's at Paul's house. I had some important things to take care of at the office.”

John placed his hands on his hips. “What's more important than your kid? She breaks her ankle. She gets the crap scared out of her, and you run off and leave her with Paul. The man's trying to write a book. He's not running a babysitting service.”

Carolyn sat up on the edge of the bed, a sharp tone to her voice. “Are you criticizing me again?”

“All these terrible things have been happening,” the boy explained, punching the air for emphasis. “You make demands on me. Why can't I say anything when you—”

“Stop right there,” Carolyn told him. “I don't want to get into another argument. We're having dinner at the professor's house tonight. I thought you'd be pleased.”

Her son's frustrations seemed to vanish. “Really?” he asked. “How did that come about?”

Carolyn felt disgusting. She scratched her head. She hadn't washed her hair in several days, and she even caught a whiff of body odor. In her rush to get out of the house that morning, she'd forgotten to put on deodorant.

“Like most things,” she told him. “He asked and I accepted. I need to get cleaned up. I suggest you do the same.” She paused and then added, “Play your cards right and you might get a recommendation to MIT. Your judgment is pretty good when it comes to men. I like this one.”

“Wow,” John said, turning around in a small circle, his eyes bright with excitement. He started to dash out of the room, then stopped. “What should I wear? What are you wearing?”

“I can't believe you're concerned about your clothes,” his mother said, although she was wondering the same thing. “I'm sure as long as we're clean, we'll be acceptable. Wear jeans and something other than a tank top.”

“This is so great,” John said, placing his hand on his head. “I have so many things I want to ask him.”

“So do I,” Carolyn said, hoping the professor could give her some answers regarding Daniel's work. “We're supposed to be there at six. I suggest we get moving. The first shower is mine. I'll try not to use up all the hot water.”

“I already showered at Turner's this morning,” John said, grinning sheepishly. “Take as much time as you need. You want to look pretty, don't you?”

Carolyn walked over and threw her arms around his neck. “Don't get too carried away about me and this man. Because I find him interesting doesn't mean he feels the same. Nothing may come of it.” She didn't want to take away John's happiness by telling him that Paul might be too demanding for her. His friendly demeanor could mask a number of unpleasant traits. “Your professor friend may not be in the market for a girlfriend, anyway.”

John laced his fingers together, then lifted them into the air in a gesture of triumph. “You're wonderful,” he said. “You're beautiful, smart, strong, brave. Not only that, you're my mother! How could any man not go nuts over you?”

Carolyn felt a rush of pleasure. She reached up again and tenderly stroked the side of his face. “Those were awfully nice things you said,” she told him. “A few minutes ago, you accused me of neglecting your sister.”

“I didn't mean it that way,” John told her. “I've been worried this past week. Sometimes I feel like Becky and I don't have a father, that I have to take his place.”

“Her name is Rebecca,” his mother reminded him.

“I'll never understand girls in a million years,” he said, shaking his head. “Whether your realize it or not, Mom, you and
Rebecca
are a lot alike. Big things zip right over your head, then you go through the roof over a stupid word or a name.”

“You might be right,” Carolyn said, never having thought of it that way. “We may have our differences now and then, honey, but I wouldn't trade you for the world. I'm proud to have you as my son.”

“Yes,” John said, turning his eyes toward the ceiling. “There must be a God, don't you see? Finally, something good might happen around here.”

 

At about the same time Carolyn, John, and Rebecca were about to sit down for dinner with Paul Leighton and his daughter, Hank Sawyer was standing at the bedside of Daniel Metroix. He'd been moved from intensive care to a regular room on the seventh floor of Methodist Hospital. Advising Trevor White's relief officer to take a break and get himself something to eat, he quietly entered the room.

An orderly brought in a dinner tray. Hank looked it over, seeing a cup of broth, milk, a container of juice, a single slice of bread, and some type of pudding. Although he couldn't recall much from the days directly following his own shooting, he seriously doubted if Daniel would be eating anything. If they'd brought something even moderately appealing, the detective would have helped himself. He'd skipped lunch and he was starving.

Daniel's skin was as pale as a corpse, his face knotted in agony. When the detective reached down and touched his shoulder, his body stiffened and his eyelids sprang open. “Are you the doctor?”

“No, pal,” he told him. “I'm Detective Sawyer, with the Ventura PD.”

Daniel's eyes closed again.

“I know how you feel,” Hank continued. “Hurts like a bitch, doesn't it? A murdering piece of shit put a slug in me a few years back, in about the same spot as you were hit.” Seeing that Daniel was now awake and listening, he added, “It's the cramping that gets you. That and the gas pains. Every day will get better. Hang in there. You know, try to ride it out. Nothing else you can do anyway.”

“Who shot me?”

“We were hoping you'd be able to answer that question,” Hank said. “Can you recall the make of the SUV or the license number?”

“No,” Daniel said, his right hand closing on the bedrail as a violent muscle spasm ripped through his abdomen.

“It helps if you breathe,” the detective said, grimacing as he waited for the spasm to pass. Once Daniel's head slumped back against the pillow, he started asking questions again. “What about a physical description? Did you see the shooter's face? Can you tell us his age, hair color, any distinguishing facial features?”

“He was white,” Daniel told him.

“That certainly narrows it down,” Hank said caustically. “Anything else? Like eyes, chin, mouth, teeth, scars. Since he was in a car, I don't expect you to describe his clothes or build.”

“Dark sunglasses,” he said, staring at the ceiling. “I think he had blond hair. Either that, or he was wearing some kind of light-colored cap. I'm not certain. Everything happened so fast.”

“Tell me about this desk clerk at the Seagull Motel,” Hank said. “You said a man on the bus from Chino wrote down the address and told you it was the best place to stay. Was he another parolee?”

“No,” Daniel answered. “At least, I don't think so. It wasn't a prison bus. A number of people were released the same day. I don't know where they went. One guy said he was going to try and stay in the area and get a job. Most of them wanted to find a bar and get drunk.”

“What did the man on the bus look like?”

“Older guy,” Daniel said. “I think he was in his forties. Seemed straight.”

“In what way?”

“I don't know,” he said, pressing the button on his morphine pump as another muscle spasm seized him. Once the drug reached his bloodstream, he added, “He acted sort of like you, or maybe some of the guards at prison. Tough guy, sure of himself, wearing one of those nice knit shirts.”

“Could he have been one of the guards?”

“If he was, I don't recall ever seeing him,” Daniel answered. “And what would a prison guard be doing on a Greyhound bus? All those guys have cars.”

The detective picked up the slice of bread off the tray, holding it so Daniel could see it. “You gonna eat this?” When the man shook his head, Hank tore the plastic and shoved the bread into his mouth. Then he pulled up a chair and took a seat. “I have an acidic stomach,” he explained. “Kicks up a fuss when I don't eat. What did the man who rented you the room at the Seagull Motel look like?”

Daniel remained silent a while, searching his memory. “Skinny, white,” he said. “Not too bright. Oh, and he had tattoos on his knuckles. I don't know what the letters were, so don't ask me. All I recall is that they were fancy writing, the same kind they use to write graffiti on walls.”

Hank leapt to his feet. Eddie Downly had the same type of tattoos on his knuckles. Of course, so did hundreds of other thugs and gangsters. Carolyn's suspicion that Fast Eddie might have been involved, though, had became more believable. The office at the Seagull Motel had been wiped clean prior to the explosion. The crime lab wasn't able to retrieve a single print.

“How many times did you see this man?” Hank asked. “You know, the clerk, the guy with the tattoos on his knuckles?”

“Twice, I think,” Daniel told him. “I checked in Monday about four. The guy was real antsy. I thought he might be on speed or something. He also had sores on his arms and face.”

Certainly sounded like a speed freak, the detective thought. When a person used amphetamines over a long period of time, the toxic chemical practically oozed out of their pores. Damn, he thought, Carolyn wouldn't know if Fast Eddie had been a serious drug user; she hadn't seen him for twelve months. A year in the life of a criminal wasn't the same as that of a normal person. For all they knew, Eddie could have killed someone, raped numerous young girls, and robbed a dozen liquor stores.

Hank asked, “When did you see him again? You said you saw him twice.”

“The hot water didn't work,” he told him. “I went down to the office to ask them to give me another room. The clerk claimed they were booked. He told me I'd have to wait for their repairman. I knew the motel couldn't be full, as there were hardly any cars in the parking lot.” He stopped and pushed the button for more morphine, then closed his eyes to fight the pain.

“I wouldn't be pressing you if it wasn't for your own protection,” Hank said. “The captain wants me to pull the guard off your door. I need to know everything you can tell me about this room clerk.”

“He started yelling at me,” Daniel said, speaking with his eyes closed. “I decided taking a shower wasn't important, so I left. There's nothing more to tell. I never saw the guy after that.”

The detective stepped out of the room, called dispatch, and advised them to have a patrol unit get the photo lineup they'd shown to the girl Eddie Downly had raped over to the hospital right away. The problem was, Metroix was so heavily drugged that any identification he made wouldn't carry much weight. All Hank wanted to do was make certain they weren't wasting their time trying to tie Downly into the incident at the Seagull. Every law enforcement agency in the country had already been alerted that a dangerous criminal had escaped.

On the Metroix case, however, they were all over the map. Hank knew they had to somehow pull everything together.

“Let's talk about Chino,” the detective said. “Charles Harrison's dead, by the way. That doesn't mean he didn't hire someone to take you out. He only croaked last night. We need to consider other suspects. Did someone have it in for you at the prison?”

“Not that I know of,” Daniel told him, more alert now. “I can't believe Charles Harrison is dead. The way that man felt about me, I thought the hate alone was going to kill me. I never thought I'd outlive him.”

“You almost didn't,” the detective pointed out. He tossed the plastic bread wrapper into the trash, then reached in his pocket for a toothpick. “You've got to be honest with me if you want us to arrest the person who shot you. Everyone makes enemies inside prison. Were you affiliated with any type of group or prison gang?”

“No.”

“Did you have a lover?”

Daniel looked shocked. “You mean a man?”

“Yeah,” Hank told him. “Not a lot of girls at Chino. First, let's get something straight. If you got your jollies off with a man means nothing right now. I might bang a guy too if I'd been locked up as long as you were. No one's going to put it in the newspaper. We don't have one solid lead on this case. Zilch, understand? The shooters are well aware of this fact.”

“How?”

“No one's knocking on their door. Since they got away clean, they may come back to finish what they've been paid to do. My job is to keep that from happening.”

Daniel suddenly became animated. “Carolyn? Is she all right?”

Carolyn, huh? Hank thought, rocking his chair back on its hind legs. Daniel had placed his parole officer on a first-name basis. Of course, after Metroix's experience at the Seagull, Hank could see how he might feel their relationship extended beyond the normal professional boundaries. For all practical purposes, Carolyn Sullivan had saved his life.

“Forget about
Officer Sullivan
for the time being,” Hank said. “You didn't answer my question. Did you have a lover inside prison?”

“No,” Daniel said, looking the detective straight in the eye. “I've never had a lover, male or female.”

Hank brought his chair to an upright position. For a long time, he gazed down at the floor. How many forty-one-year-old virgins were there? More important, how many men would admit such a thing? And sex was only one aspect of life that Metroix had never been given a chance to experience. He wasn't a bad-looking man. He could have married, had a few kids, got himself a first-class education, even sold all those inventions. Carolyn thought his work was valuable, and he respected her opinion. The woman had the brains to know.