The Poisonous Ten (5 page)

“That would be great,” Parks said. “Any friends?”

“Yeah, a few. A Candace something. And a Melissa and Natalie. I’m not sure about last names. I know them, but I can’t think—”

“It’s okay.”

“You can check her iPhone. Everything’s in that. Schedule. Appointments. People’s information. The names will all be in there.”

“Mr. Tisdale, we didn’t find an iPhone or purse or wallet or any identification of any kind on your wife’s person,” Parks explained. “Could she have left them here?”

“Not possible. She had her phone attached to her twenty-four seven. And leave without her purse or wallet? No. She had all her cards in there. She left with them. I remember that.”

“Okay, so—”

“Then how did you know it was Allison?” Mr. Tisdale asked. Parks could tell that for a second the man had hopes that maybe the police had identified the wrong woman and that his wife was and could possibly still be alive.

“One of my men identified her from her realtor sign in the front yard,” Parks said. He let the explanation hang in the silence for a moment, and when he was sure it had been a
ccepted, he continued. “How did your wife get to Mulholland from here?”

“She drove,” Mr. Tisdale said. “You found her car, right? Maybe that’s where her personal stuff is. She drives a silver BMW convertible.”    

“We’ll get an APB out on the vehicle and try and locate it,” Parks said, trying to reassure the man, who was starting to get worked up.

“We’ve got BMW Assist,” Mr. Tisdale continued. “Call them and they can activate the GPS tracker on the car. They’ll tell you where it is.”

Moore made her way back into the front room and handed Mr. Tisdale a glass with a brownish liquid in it.

“Thought you might like something a little stronger,” Moore said, smiling.

Tisdale simply held the glass, staring at it as if it was a foreign object he had no idea what to do with.

“We’ll do that, Mr. Tisdale,” Parks continued. “Thanks.”

Parks caught Moore’s eyes as she slightly shook her head from side to side.

“Anything else you can tell us?”

“I don’t think so. Like I said, nothing special or out of the ordinary with us. I have no idea why someone would do this to her.”

6

I
t was seven o’clock that evening as Parks and his team assembled around a table in the downtown LA conference room of the Detective Bureau of the Office of Special Operations. The Special Operations building was only a few years old, the result of the city finally agreeing to spend some money on the department, hoping to give the LAPD a major facelift in the eyes of the public. It was also built in hopes of ridding the communication barriers between divisions and eliminating some of the overlap that occurred when it came to certain duties. This late in the day there wasn’t a lot going on in the office as the other detectives had mostly finished their shifts and were already headed home. The detectives generally worked nine to five, but their schedules were adjusted frequently according to each case’s requirements. Detectives tried to be accommodating to people’s personal time and schedules when interviewing witnesses, neighbors, work associates, and the like. But that didn’t always work.

Every now and again Parks would catch one of the r
emaining stragglers staring at him, shake their heads or even flip him off, then go back about their business.   

Parks sat at the head of the table; to his left sat Rachel Moore and Jake Fairmont, while opposite them on his right
was Jackie Isley and Milo Tippin. Assistant Chief Hardwick entered the room and stood near the doorway to observe and find out where the team was on the case.

Various wrappers from vending machine junk food and half empty cups of coffee were spread atop the table as most of the team tried their hardest to stay awake and focused. Everyone was stressed out and tired from a day of reading, studying, squinting, and focusing on every minute detail of Allison Tisdale’s life. The day had been humid and the sun had drained the team of energy, making everyone sticky and smelly. Files were spread out in front of the group, along with notepads of scribbled notes and Milo’s MacBook. Up on the wall, behind Parks, was a murder board with a picture of Allison Tisdale near the middle and various notes written to the right and left of her picture.

Parks threw away an empty chocolate bar wrapper and picked up a fresh mug of coffee, finishing half of it before he addressed the team.

“So what do we have?” he asked, breaking the silence. “Let’s start with the crime scene.”

“No forced entry from what we can tell. But we didn’t find a key to the place anywhere on the victim’s person or on the grounds. All windows, doors, and locks were intact and working,” Fairmont said, reaching into his pocket for another piece of Nicorette.  

“What about the house alarm?” Parks asked.

“From the time the alarm went off to when the responding officers first arrived at the scene of the crime was less than ten minutes,” Moore responded.

“Ten minutes?”

“Yes. The neighborhood is gated and has its own security,” Moore continued. “It’s a private company that does security for several gated communities. The officers on duty were in a neighboring community responding to a B and E or else they would have been there. But since they were delayed, the LAPD was dispatched to the address.”

“Even though they have their own security?” Parks asked, somewhat confused. 

“When they can’t be reached immediately LAPD gets called. Quickly. Rich people.”

“Any way to tell if the B and E was related?” Parks asked. “Like as a distraction.”

“No reason to think that’s the case.” Fairmont shrugged as he leaned forward in his chair and scribbled some notes on his pad. “But we can look into it.”

“So the killer didn’t trip the alarm until after he had left. No time to set the alarm and do the murder,” Parks said, more to himself. “Any prints?”

“We checked the alarm pad. There were no prints on it. We checked with the security company, and they confirmed that the alarm went off when the PANIC button was pressed on the keypad. So it was done intentionally. Plus, the reason we didn’t find a phone in the house was the key-pad has a direct line in it to call 911. We think the killer placed the 911 call then disabled the line somehow so no calls could be made or received from the key pad.”

“Any other prints?”

“No,” Moore continued. “Nothing. No prints in the room or near the front entrance or at any of the doors or windows. We’ve collected a few fibers and hairs from the kill room, but they’re being tested and so far nothing.”

“Speaking of which . . . what about the flowers?”

Fairmont sat up. “We checked Allison Tisdale’s credit cards and there’s no evidence that she bought and brought the flowers herself, so unless she paid with cash, we’re under the assumption that the killer brought them with him.”

“Though we did find one connection to them,” Moore said. “Apparently her husband used to buy them for her a few years ago. Weekly, according to her co-workers. But that only lasted a few months then stopped.”

“The husband?” Parks said. “Anything significant about these flowers in particular?”

“Not really. They consist of a dozen lavender roses with purple statice and Israeli ruscus. It’s commonly called a Pa
ssion for Purple Rose Bouquet and can be obtained from most every flower shop, in person or online. Costs about fifty dollars. We’ve checked and found that within the LA area there were about two dozen of them ordered within the past week. We checked every online order and in-store purchase paid with a credit card and found none of them to be missing, so they’ve all been ruled out. That only leaves the paid-in-cash purchases, of which there are eight. So far it’s been a dead end. Shoddy bookkeeping, and cash doesn’t leave much of a trail.”

“Keep checking. They had to mean something to the kil
ler if he brought them himself. We’re sure Allison Tisdale didn’t pay cash for them herself?”

“Why would she?” Moore asked. “If she bought them for the open house then wouldn’t she want a record of them? Write-offs and all that?”

“Agreed, but make sure. Show her picture at the local flower shops. What about the honey?”

“Nothing special there either,” Moore continued. “Reg
ular store-bought, every-day household honey. Nothing added to it. We’re running tests to see if we can track where it came from or where it was sold, but I’ve a feeling it’s so ordinary that we won’t get any help from that angle.”

“Any guesses as to why it was there in the first place?”

Moore motioned at Tippin from across the table for him to continue.

“Um, uh . . . There’s nothing really all that special about honey, but . . .”

“Go on,” Parks encouraged.

“There are a few things. It’s a symbol of sweetness. We use it here in America as a term of endearment. Hey, honey. Hon. Et cetera. Um, in ancient Egypt and some Middle Eas
tern cultures, it was used as a way to embalm the dead.” Tippin looked up and shrugged. Parks was impressed. The kid was doing a good job so far. Tippin looked back down to his computer screen and continued. “Min, the fertility god of Egypt, was offered honey.”

“Make a note to ask Tanaka about that,” Parks said to Moore. “Please, God, don’t tell me she was pregnant. An
ything else?”

“The Mayans regard the bee as sacred.”

“Noted. Next?”

“It’s a symbol for the new year in Jewish traditions.”

“Noted.”

“The Christians have several mentions of it. ‘Land of milk and honey.’ Stuff like that.”

“Okay,” Parks said as he looked at his empty mug, which he didn’t recall finishing. “I think we have all we’re going to get out of this topic. Rachel, make sure we run all the tests and get me the results when they come in.”

“Will do.” Moore nodded.

“And, Tippin, good job. Get your findings and add them to the murder book. Not sure there’s anything of note there, but you never know. What about the pills found on the body?”

“Tanaka was right,” Moore began. “One tablet of Perc
odan and one of codeine. From what we could determine, Allison Tisdale wasn’t taking either. Neither she nor her husband has ever been prescribed either pill by any of their doctors, and Tanaka said she didn’t find any trace amounts in the victim’s bloodstream.”

“So it could be assumed they were left there by the killer. On purpose.”

“It’s a good assumption. But why?” Moore asked.

“That is one of the many million-dollar questions about this case. We’ll make a note of it. What about the house i
tself?”

“It’s worth seven point three million,” said Tippin, once again taking the reins in the conversation as he began to type away on his computer, clearing the screen of the honey i
nformation and bringing up a new file. “It’s been on the market for five months, though the previous owners haven’t lived in it for six. They’re currently down in San Diego, something to do with the owner’s job. They haven’t been back since they turned the house over to Allison Tisdale to sell. She had it overhauled and fixed up—painted, fumigated, cleaned, et cetera—back when she first inherited it, but otherwise there have been no worker-type people anywhere around the house for three months.”

“What about gardeners?” Parks asked. “That yard was maintained. You can’t tell me Allison Tisdale was out there every week mowing the lawn in her pearls and high heels.”

“No,” Fairmont interjected. “There’s a yard service that takes care of most of the houses within the gated community. We’re going to go interview the workers and the company tomorrow. We don’t think it will turn up much—they only get to that yard every Friday—but they’re always in the area so maybe they saw someone or something suspicious.”

“Good,” Parks commented. “Stay on it. What did you guys learn about her job?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Fairmont said, digging through his notes. “Works for herself. Used to work for Coldwell Banker but broke off and started her own real estate group about three years ago. She has two other agents who work under her. They do fairly well considering the current real estate climate. Mostly up-scale homes and mansions. Beverly Hills, Bel Air, and Hollywood Hills areas. Everyone gets paid. And on time. No outstanding debts or creditors or anything of the like. Had to take out a small business loan to get started, but it’s been paid back in full.”

Fairmont looked to Tippin, who continued with what he had been able to dig up online.

“There are no outstanding personal debts that the Tisdales owe, either her or him,” Tippin explained. “They have the house, pay the mortgage on time. Both have good credit. The most expensive thing they have is her car, but that’s a lease and she has another thirty months on it. That seems a little pricey for the rest of their lifestyle, but it might make a difference to the clientele she’s trying to bring in so that’s probably the reason for the car.”

“Did we find the car?”

“We contacted BMW and had them activate the GPS tracker, and so far, nothing. They’re assuming it was disabled,” Fairmont said. “We have a BOLO for the vehicle and Highway Patrol’s been notified.”

“All right. Anything else?”

“Other than that, no children, no pets, no outstanding debts, nothing. No major financial changes or withdrawals within the last six months.”

“Interesting,” Parks said. “So n
othing in their financials sticks out?”

“We only made it back as far as six months,” Moore an
swered. “But we’ll stay with it tomorrow if you want us to keep digging.”

“Yeah, do that. Go back a year, maybe two.”

“What about the husband?” Hardwick interjected from the back of the room.

“The husband’s got no solid alibi. Then again, we haven’t been able to find a motive for him either.”

“He’s a man and he’s married to a woman. I’ve learned sometimes that’s enough.”

“That and he lied,” Parks said.

“Oh?” Hardwick said as she looked to Moore, who shrugged, not knowing what Parks was talking about. “What about?”

“He got short when I brought up their sex life.”

“So. Most people do. That’s private.”

“True. But I think he was holding something back. He got flustered when I mentioned an affair.”

“So he was stepping out on his wife,” Hardwick said, nodding.

“I don’t think so,” Parks disagreed.

“You think she was?” Fairmont asked.

“I believe so. It was the way he handled the questions. He said he loves his wife. He never cheated. But . . . something happened. I don’t think it was him, though. His rea
ctions—”

“Well, then maybe it was him that killed her,” Hardwick suggested. “She was sleeping around and he lost it.”

“No,” Parks disagreed. “This so-called, alleged affair, if there was one, happened a while ago. It was as if they had reconciled and he had forgiven her. Almost forgot about it until I brought it up. It wasn’t how he wanted to remember his dead wife.”

“But if she did it once,” Hardwick said not dropping the subject. “Old habits and all that.”

“True. Whatever the case, right now he’s our prime suspect. Our best shot. But his grief struck me as genuine when we broke the news of his wife. I’m not saying we’re writing him off—like I said, he’s our best bet—but I don’t think it’s him. Pull his history, financials, co-workers, family, the works. Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe it is him. Rachel and myself will handle the Mr. Tisdale angle. The rest of you go at this murder as if it isn’t him. If it’s not him then there has to be a reason our killer picked Allison Tisdale as his victim. Some reason he knew her. A client maybe? The man who sells her her coffee. Her car lease agent. Someone. Somehow, he knew her. He was able to abduct her from her regular daily life and kill her without anyone knowing she was gone for two hours. How was that possible? He had to know her schedule.”