rotting in the area and walked up to the driver’s side window. A white leather purse was tossed casually into the backseat. The keys were in the ignition.
I tried the doors, but they were locked. The stench was smothering me, and I couldn’t ignore the fact that it was coming from the trunk. I pulled the tire iron from the rear of my Jeep and wedged it into the space between the trunk door and the body of the car. I jimmied the iron up and down for a minute before I heard the lock snap. I pushed up on it. The lid creaked slightly as it rose.
The odor emerged like a nuclear cloud, and I took a step back, the muscles in my throat convulsing. I held my forearm in front of my nose and mouth and looked reluctantly into the trunk.
Kate Crier’s face stared back at me, the life in it long gone.
7
The cops were unrolling yellow crime-scene tape like birthday streamers when Detective Liz Santangelo arrived just before eleven. She wore a white blouse under a black leather jacket, black jeans shimmying up her long legs, and open-heel sandals on her feet. The jacket was gathered at her waist, accentuating her figure, and more than a few of the twenty or so cops now on the scene tried to eye her inconspicuously as she strode in my direction.
Since I’d seen her naked a couple of years ago, the thrill was gone for me.
She strode right up to me and spread her hands out in front of her, palms up, and said, “You opened the trunk. Why?”
In my head, I kept replaying the moment I’d opened the trunk. I couldn’t make it stop. “I didn’t know she was in there, Liz.”
She narrowed her blue eyes beneath her jet-black hair. “You thought the smell was what, an old sandwich?”
Liz’s beauty was matched only by her sarcasm. “Gimme a break, Liz.”
She shook her head and folded her arms across her chest, disappointing much of the crowd. Her hair was pulled back away from her face, a small silver hoop in each earlobe. Her thin, pink lips were somewhere between a frown and a snarl. And her eyes could be hypnotizing, particularly when they were rolling.
“Noah, you know better,” she said, shaking her head. “This is junior varsity stuff.” She stared at me for a moment and her expression changed. “You know her?”
I nodded. “Kate Crier.”
Liz’s eyes blinked, she stood up a little straighter, and she glanced at the car. “Kate?”
I nodded and Liz frowned, her chin dropping slightly. Liz had been two years ahead of Kate and me in school. It occurred to me that they might’ve played volleyball together, but I wasn’t sure.
“Shit,” Liz said quietly. “Why are you here?”
I let out a deep breath. “Her mother hired me to find her.”
“They thought she was missing?”
“Yeah, I don’t think anyone knew she was in the trunk,” I said sharply, irritated by everything.
She stared at me with a hard look I’d become all too familiar with during our six-month relationship two years ago. The look was a mixture of condescension, disgust, and confusion. I always bring out the best in women.
“Be right back,” she said.
She walked over to the cops stringing the tape, pointing at several spots that she wanted secured. She then made her way over to the medical examiner’s people. Beneath the bright police lights that bit into the darkness, they were taking Kate’s body from the car. I turned away. I knew that I would never be able to remember Kate as the gorgeous eighteen-year-old high school senior again. She would always be looking at me from the inside of that trunk.
“Noah,” Liz said, back at my side. “What else do you know?”
I shook my head. “Not much. I talked to her mother and her husband earlier tonight.”
She nodded and watched over my shoulder at what I assumed to be the removal of the corpse. I closed my eyes and tried to flush the image of Kate’s dead face from my memory.
“I’m gonna need you to make a statement,” Liz said, as I opened my eyes.
“Tomorrow,” I said, exhausted. “I’ll come down in the morning.”
“Tonight,” she said, the hard cop look returning to her face. “You’ll make the statement tonight. I don’t want to miss anything.”
I had never appreciated the fact that Liz could turn her cop behavior off and on so easily. More often than not, it was the cop behavior that I had to deal with in our relationship, and that had never worked for me.
I stared at her for a moment, and she held my gaze. Then I said, “Now I remember.”
The corners of her mouth twitched. “Remember?”
“Why we broke up. I remember why now.”
Her eyes went flat, and she glanced over my shoulder again. “Really. Why’s that?”
“Because I decided you were a bitch,” I said, and walked away.
8
I gave my statement and left without speaking to Liz again. I knew I’d been out of line but I wasn’t quite ready to apologize yet. I figured there would be another opportunity in the too near future.
I drove away from downtown and headed north toward La Jolla, to Marilyn Crier’s house. I had found Kate, and I figured I should let her know, if the police hadn’t already beaten me to it. I wasn’t looking forward to the conversation, but I owed her that much.
Mount Soledad has two sides. The south side is considered Pacific Beach, the homes looking back at Mission Bay. Once you passed the giant cross that emerged from the top of the hill, you were in La Jolla. The mansions jutted out from the side of the mountain with views that spanned the coastline. You could almost smell the money.
The Criers’ home rested just below the cross, a gated enclave that laughed at everything below it. The gate was open as I approached the drive, a police car turning out of the property and passing me in the opposite direction.
Marilyn was standing in front of the giant oak doors of her house between two huge white pillars, illuminated by the coach lights. Her arms were crossed tightly across her chest, and her chin was tucked down. Ken Crier, her husband and Kate’s father, stood next to her, his face as white as a sheet.
I stopped my car in the circular drive and got out.
Marilyn looked up as I approached. “Noah.” Her voice was hoarse and disjointed.
I held up my hand, an awkward attempt at a greeting. “The police were just here?”
She nodded slightly. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry, Marilyn.”
Marilyn’s lips puckered, and her eyes filled with tears. She turned and disappeared through the massive doors into the house.
Ken Crier walked down the stone steps. He cleared his throat and extended his hand. “Noah. It’s been a long time.”
Ken was a small, compact man with thinning brown hair. His eyes were small, his mouth perpetually tightened into what looked like an uncomfortable grimace. Large forearms extended from the sleeves of his white golf shirt, which was tucked tightly into a pair of immaculate khakis. In eleven years, he’d aged about an hour.
I shook his hand. “Yeah. I wish I were here for a different reason.”
He cleared his throat again, his eyes unsteady. “You spoke with Marilyn earlier?”
“Yes.”
He nodded and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Did the police tell you anything?”
