The First Cut (19 page)

Most of the crime scene tape that had encircled the area was gone. It was probably decorating some teenager’s bedroom now. Vining retraced Lolita’s and her partner’s movements, narrating the action that night as she embellished what she’d seen on the DVD.

“He came over the curb. His headlights were off. The streetlight and moon were enough to show him where the cliff began. He got out and opened the trunk. Made her get out. He said, ‘Grab her legs.’ You did what he wanted, Lolita. You helped him hoist Frankie, swinging her to get her rolling downhill. You couldn’t bear it. You tried to run, but he wouldn’t let you. How do you live with it, Lolita? How do you face each day, knowing what you did?”

They had searched this area before. It was a good ten yards from where the couple had rolled Frankie’s body, but the PPD team had cast a wide net. Vining needed to see the DVD again to be sure, but she thought Lolita had headed for a clump of low trees, maybe thinking she could hide inside them. Probably not thinking at all. Just running.

Vining headed toward the trees. The earth was bone dry, but softer here. The thick bushes, trees, and fallen leaves sheltered the ground from the relentless sun. The grasses weren’t forced to cling as tightly. It was more gently sloping and easier to traverse. Lolita was trying to escape, not kill herself by plunging headlong into the arroyo.

A small animal rustled through the undergrowth. Vining was mindful of snakes. Birds hidden in the tree branches sang.

Vining saw evidence of a struggle in the beam of her flashlight. Twigs on a bush were broken. Weeds were mashed and churned. The branch of a tree had been partially torn free, the wound fresh. Beneath the thatch of trees was a cache of empty beer cans. Bud Light. Crushed and tossed. The canopy of leaves insulated an aroma of dried sage, stale beer, and urine. The beer drinkers had likely sat with their case at the top of the slope, enjoying the view, and tossed their empties beneath the trees. It was a good spot as the trees would provide quick shelter should the cops cruise by.

This was where he had grabbed Lolita and dragged her back to the street. Fibers from their clothing had possibly become caught in the bushes and trees. She called Forensic Services. Tara Khorsandi said she’d head out right away.

Vining turned to head back and in doing so, saw a different view of the ground beneath the trees. She squinted and leaned forward. Her heart skipped a beat. She crept in to make sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her. There was a footprint in the dirt. It was a good, clear print, the sole markings consistent with an athletic shoe. It was small enough to have been made by a woman. The earth was dry but it looked as if it was likely moist when stepped on as the markings were well-defined. The beer drinkers had either spilled their brew or filtered it out through their kidneys. Someone had stepped in it.

She heard a vehicle approach and park. Car doors slammed. She stepped from beneath the trees and saw Tara Khorsandi and another Field I.D. tech looking around for her.

Kissick pulled up behind them.

When Khorsandi approached, she said, “You look happy.”

“This is a good day.”

Vining recalled something her mentor Bill Gavigan always said: Count your wins.

S
HE GAVE KISSICK THE DVD, TELLING HIM, “THIS WILL GIVE YOU CHILLS.”

“Be great if we can see faces.”

“I don’t know what magic they can do these days, but it is from a distance and was taken by a security camera.”

“I’m taking it to Sami. He’s done work for us before. Says he can lighten it, sharpen it. All that. He’s waiting for me. Where are you headed?”

“Huntington Hotel. Meeting with the manager about that luncheon. How was Frank Lynde? Have anything to add?”

Kissick’s expression darkened. “He’s suffering. A lot of regrets.”

“That’s tough.”

“He doesn’t know whether Frankie was dating someone. Didn’t know much about her personal life. They weren’t close. He blames himself for that. He withdrew after her mom’s murder. When he remarried, he focused on his new wife and her kids. Frankie was a difficult child. Not easy to love.”

Vining made a face. She had no tolerance for people who made excuses for not parenting their kids. She’d heard every excuse from the lips of her mother.

Kissick expressed her view. “That doesn’t make his behavior okay. I’ve got kids of my own. But Frank was proud when Frankie joined the LAPD. Felt as if he’d had a small positive influence on her. She started coming around more. They had the Job in common. Now he feels bad that she got into police work. Thinks she wasn’t mentally strong enough. It opened doors that should have stayed closed to her.

“He confirmed the text messaging she was doing at the luncheon. As he put it, she was fooling around, typing things into her cell phone. She seemed troubled that day. Barely touched her food. He asked what was wrong. She shrugged and said, ‘Man problems.’ At one point, when everyone was eating, she bolted from the table. Said she was going outside for a smoke. She was gone fifteen, twenty minutes. Got up again later. After the luncheon was over, she said a quick good-bye. Slipped away. It was the last time Frank saw her.”

“Does he know about Moore?”

“Doesn’t know his name. Asked us, but there’s no benefit to the investigation to reveal that.”

“Sounds like he’s primed for a breakdown. Ruiz said he was divorced recently. Think Lynde’s capable of hurting himself?”

“Who knows?” Kissick closed his eyes, not wanting to speak of it anymore. “I hope not.”

“Yeah.”

“You want to nine-eleven at the hotel bar later?”

He was asking her in police jargon if she wanted to meet. She didn’t answer right away.

“We had a good day, Nan. Let’s celebrate.”

“I need to get home. Emily’s by herself.”

“I’m sure she’s set the alarm on your fortress on the hill. We won’t be late.” He gave her a playful shove. “I’m not asking again, you hard-ass. Relax. Live a little. I don’t bite.” He added under his breath. “Much.”

“Excuse me?”

He had a big grin on his face. “What?”

She narrowed her eyes at him and jabbed his ribs. He laughed.

She said, “Call me when you’re heading over.”

V
INING CALLED EMILY ON HER WAY TO THE HOTEL. SHE WAS FINE, WORKING ON
her computer with the photographs and audio recording she’d made the previous night by the bridge. Her homework was finished, of course, and she’d secured the house.

Vining took a detour by the house on El Alisal Road, pausing in the street in front. The lawn was dug up. People in that neighborhood were always doing something to their homes. She’d heard a young family lived there now. The neighborhood was turning over as the older residents, children gone, sold to downsize.

Today, in the kitchen at 835 El Alisal Road, a young family had cereal and orange juice. Later would be cold cuts and soft drinks. Tonight, cheese and wine with friends who preferred to congregate there rather than in the formal rooms. Close friends always hung out in the kitchen. There would be the shrieking of children and laughter at the buddy who always had an off-color joke. Smells of cooking. Everyone oblivious to the ghost of Vining’s former self that she’d left there. Vining’s well-being had seeped onto that floor along with her blood. The doctors had replaced her blood.

Did the new owners ever think of her? Was there time in their whirl of social and school events to devote a moment to the police officer who had nearly died there?

The panic attack she’d had at Iris Thorne’s house was a rude wakeup call. This thing had shown its mettle. It was bigger than her. The time had come for her to accept that and make a decision about what to do.

E I G H T E E N

S
HE DROVE DOWN OAK KNOLL AVENUE, PAST LARGE MANSIONS SET BACK
on sprawling lawns and turned onto the Huntington Hotel’s long drive. The median was planted with colorful flowers that changed with the seasons. At the drive’s end, valets attended to expensive foreign cars at the entrance of the sprawling, Mission Revival–style building.

Most of the hotel had been reconstructed in the 1990s. The original 1906 structure, one of several grand Pasadena hotels popular with wealthy Easterners, was shuttered in the 1980s because of earthquake damage. It fell into disrepair and part of it had been set ablaze by transients. Two of the original grand ballrooms and a wooden bridge painted with murals of California scenes were all that had been saved and restored.

The only time Vining had been there off-duty was when she’d attended a wedding in the Japanese garden. It was too pricey for her. She found it cloying when the staff responded to every thank you with “My pleasure.” Still it was far superior to the flippant “No problem” she had pounded out of Emily’s speech.

A young man dressed in pressed chinos and a polo shirt approached her car. Vining showed him her badge and he directed her where to park.

The hotel manager gave Vining the unfortunate news that the security tapes from the luncheon had been reused. He had put together a list of employees who worked the banquet. There were a dozen waiters, a dozen busboys, and an assistant banquet manager, Tricia Durwin.

Some of the staff who had worked the banquet was available for Vining to interview now. The hotel manager would arrange for her to speak to the rest tomorrow. A waiter she was able to speak with had worked the table where Frankie Lynde sat with her father. He didn’t recall anything unusual, but he’d worked thirty luncheon banquets since and barely remembered the police service awards, other than the mistress of ceremonies, the local news anchor, who’d autographed his program.

Vining walked through the ballroom and located Frankie’s table and the guests with assigned seating nearby. She imagined Frankie going outside for a smoke—that surprised her as she hadn’t thought of physically fit Frankie as a smoker—and found a likely path outside. The closest route would have taken her to a café overlooking the pool. It had been lunchtime on an April afternoon. She’d have to check the weather that day. She’d ask the manager about speaking with the waiters at the poolside café.

This was all hunches and circumstance. She was starting to believe that maybe Kissick was right about this luncheon issue being a wild-goose chase. Still it nagged her. Something had happened around the time Frankie was here that sent her life veering sideways.

A waiter passed, carrying a tray weighted with platters of hamburgers and French fries and a large salad, heading for a table of teenagers supervised by one mom. The aroma made Vining realize how hungry she was. However, she refused to pay the fifteen dollars for a hamburger they probably charged here.

She walked to a short wall that separated the café from the pool area. A man was swimming laps. As the swimmer churned the water, the ripples shimmered in the pool lights. The body cutting through the water made her recall the man’s face she’d seen in the blue gemstone. The face was distorted as if underwater, but it was becoming clearer. Just coming here had made it clearer.

He was here.

Her phone rang. It was Kissick.

“Meet me in the bar.”

She spent several minutes wandering a thickly carpeted corridor lined with arched windows overlooking a garden. She was asking an employee where she could find the bar when she felt a hand on her upper arm turning her in a different direction.

“Mrs. Vining,” Kissick said. “Cocktails will be in the library tonight.”

“Divine,” she deadpanned. She said “Thank you” over her shoulder to the man who’d given her directions. He responded with a cheery, “My pleasure.”

“That ‘my pleasure’ thing. Whatever happened to ‘You’re welcome’?”

“It’s their style. Obsequious, but I like it. This is a great hotel. Have you ever stayed here?”

“No. I guess you have.”

“I take all my women here.”

“I see.”

He laughed. “Nan, we’ve got to inject some humor into you. You’re turning into stone right before my eyes.”

She laughed, but his comment hurt. Her life was awry and everybody saw it.

She heard a piano tinkling and exaggerated party voices well before they walked through the bar entrance. It was a dimly lit, dark wood, plush couches, oil paintings, lit-fireplace-in-June sort of place.

Kissick guided her to a small table and chairs for two in a quiet corner.

She was glad he hadn’t opted for one of the couches. She wasn’t sure where this chummy “Let’s have a drink” invitation might be headed. But he was right. She needed to lighten up. They had been lovers once, but he’d remained her friend. And she needed a friend.

She pulled out the chair but didn’t sit. “I must look a sight. Tromping around in the arroyo. Let me…fix myself.”

“I think you look great. But go ahead. What would you like to drink?”

She didn’t know. She rarely went anyplace where she ordered alcohol, other than an occasional dinner with her extended family at a local Mexican restaurant where her mother always ordered pitchers of margaritas for the table.

“A piña colada. Not too strong.”

In the restroom, she combed her hair and freshened her lip gloss. She enjoyed the extravagance of the cloth hand towel that she flung into a basket when she’d finished. She didn’t enjoy the way the fluorescent lights turned her scar a garish purple. She thought the woman fixing her lipstick beside her was staring at it, but realized she was looking at her shoulder holster visible as her jacket gapped open.

Women and guns. The public still couldn’t wrap their minds around it.

Kissick embarrassed her by standing when she approached. He was smiling.

“Now what?”

“You look good,” he said. “Nice to be with you.”

She picked up her drink and tapped it against the glass of red wine he raised. “Nice to be here.” She took a sip and snatched mixed nuts from a bowl on the table.

He picked up a little sandwich board that listed the bar menu offerings. “Let’s get some munchies. What looks good?”

She started in on the shelled pistachios and peered at the prices. “Jeesh…They sure gouge you here.”