body out of the way and didn’t stick around to get involved. Any number of things could’ve happened.”
“And you won’t know until you investigate,” Wade said. “Isn’t that what you do?”
“A lot of people get themselves killed in this city in all kinds of ways, not all of them criminal. We have limited resources. We’ve been told to prioritize.”
“You’d be all over her case if her body was found in Meston Heights.”
“But it’s not,” Shrake said.
“What happened to you, Harry?” Wade asked. “You used to be a cop.”
“I still am,” Shrake said. “And unlike you, I’d like to remain one.”
Shrake hung up.
Wade called the medical examiner’s office and asked the man who answered when they were coming.
“We can’t make it,” the medical examiner said. “Have the body transported to the morgue by ambulance when the detectives are done and I’ll get to it when I can.”
The ME hung up.
Wade stood there, shaking with rage.
It had been more than two hours since the body was discovered. It was clear now that the homicide detectives weren’t coming. The medical examiner wasn’t coming. And Wade assumed the forensics unit wasn’t going to show up, either.
It would be dark soon.
Enough was enough.
Wade marched over to Billy. “Go back to the station. I bought some plastic sheeting. Bring me a roll, some more evidence bags, some empty moving boxes, and a box cutter.”
Billy drove off. Wade went to the trunk of his car and took out his camera and a large case containing his evidence collection kit.
He began by photographing everything within the perimeter of the police tape from a variety of angles. He’d moved on to photographing the corpse when Billy returned.
Wade turned as Billy approached and he saw that the crowd had swelled even more, people arriving in cars to catch the show. One of the cars was Fallon’s Mercedes, parking on a side street, giving whoever was behind the tinted glass a clear view of the crime scene.
But Wade couldn’t worry about getting shot right now. There was too much he had to do and not enough time to do it.
“Billy, I want you to position your car so the headlights and spots are aimed on the scene-we’ll be losing the light soon,” he said. “Then I want you to start bagging and tagging whatever you see on the ground. Photograph everything before you pick it up.”
“Isn’t that what the forensics guys are supposed to do?”
“Yes, it is,” Wade said and began dusting for fingerprints on the gate.
For the next forty minutes, the two officers silently and methodically gathered evidence, working quickly against the clock and the setting sun. Wade dusted for prints on the car carcass until the only illumination he had left came from the headlights on the squad car.
It was dark. It was time to give up.
In a little over an hour, they’d managed to take a couple hundred photographs and fill two moving boxes with bagged items and dozens of fingerprint slides.
They put the boxes in the trunk of Wade’s squad car and pulled down the yellow tape around the crime scene.
All that was left now was the woman’s body.
Wade picked up the roll of plastic sheeting. He’d bought it to protect the floors while he painted the station walls. But the sheeting had other purposes too. He unfurled it over the backseat of his squad car and cut the sheet from the roll with a box cutter. Then he walked over to the junked car and rolled out another sheet of plastic beside it, Billy watching him as he worked.
“I need you to give me a hand,” Wade said.
“With what?”
“We’re going to lift the body out of the car and place it on the plastic sheet on the ground.”
“This isn’t right, Sarge,” Billy said.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Wade said, angling himself into the car.
The woman’s body reeked, not so much from early decomposition as from the postmortem evacuation of her bladder and bowels. Her body was stiff with rigor mortis.
Wade placed his hands under her shoulders, Billy took her legs, and they eased her out onto the plastic sheet.
“Now what?” Billy asked.
“I want you to go back to the station,” Wade said. “Before you send the photos to headquarters, make copies for us and print them out. Stay put with Charlie until I get back. If anything comes up, you go with her. I don’t want either one of you going out alone.”
“Where are you going?”
Wade bent down, slid his hands under the plastic, and lifted the body up in his arms.
“I’m delivering the body,” he said.
Illuminated by Billy’s spotlights, Wade faced the crowd on the street like an actor on a stage as he carried the corpse to his car and laid her down gently on the backseat.
When he rose again, he looked at the crowd. Everybody he’d met so far was there. Claggett, Terrill, Friar Ted, and Mrs. Copeland. Timo and the crew who’d trashed his Mustang. Mandy and her father.
And Duke Fallon, the window rolled down in his Mercedes so Wade would see him and know that he was there.
Friar Ted, clutching a tattered Bible, crossed the street and approached Wade.
“May I?”
Wade nodded. Friar Ted peered into the backseat, swallowed hard, then recited a blessing, the Lord’s Prayer, and a psalm, then leaned forward to make a cross on her forehead, but Wade stopped him before he could touch the corpse.
“Thank you, Padre,” Wade said.
“No, thank you, Sergeant.” There were tears in Friar Ted’s eyes.
Wade got into his car and drove away.
There were no hills in Meston Heights. The only elevation was a social one, an aura of wealth and power the developer had conjured up in 1910 as an advertising ploy to add prestige to what otherwise would have been just one more tract of subdivided ranchland.
As a marquee, and to bestow class on the patch of dry dirt, the developer built an outrageously ostentatious gateway modeled after the Arc de Triomphe, only on a much smaller scale, and stuck a big fountain with a marble nymph in front of it.
The initial homes behind the gateway were architecturally diverse but uniformly grandiose in square footage and pomposity, establishing a template that still endured to this day.
The Spanish Colonial home on Mantley Drive evoked the style of an old California mission, with its red?tiled roof and towers, monumental wood door, and the arched, covered balcony that ran along one side of the house.
Wade laid the woman’s body on a plastic sheet on the front doorstep and placed the boxes of evidence down beside it.
And then he got back into his squad car and called Police Chief Gavin Reardon on his private office line.
“Yes?” the chief answered.
“Good evening, Chief,” Wade said. He could hear the hum of conversation, some piano music, and the clatter of dishes. The chief was at a restaurant or perhaps attending a party. “It’s Tom Wade.”
“How did you get this number?”
“Roger gave it to me,” Wade said. “For emergencies.”
“You’re on your own down there,” the chief said. “I thought I made that very clear.”
