No crime scene tape that I could see, no uniforms on watch.
I said, “When was she found?”
“Last night by her boyfriend. He says he talked to her on the phone three days ago but after that, she stopped returning his calls. A forty-eight-hour time frame fits the coroner’s TOD guesstimate. Probably at the tail end—early morning. Apparently, dry ice doesn’t melt, it sublimates—goes straight into the atmosphere—so there’s no water residue for estimating degradation. In an ice chest, the rate of sublimation is five to ten pounds every twenty-four hours, but it’s faster under normal room temperature.”
“Any empty ice bags left behind?”
“Nope. Exactly.”
Someone had cleaned up.
“The scene’s still intact?”
He scowled. “I never got a chance to see the scene because my involvement began at five thirty a.m. today when Deputy Chief Weinberg woke me from a rare good dream. The DVD, the key to the house, and what’s passing for a file were messengered to my house ten minutes later.”
“High intrigue and an egregious break in procedure,” I said. “Sounds like orders from on high.”
He continued slowly up the drive, checking out the surroundings. Layers of greenery to the left, a two-story Colonial mansion to the right. The big house was wood-sided like the bungalow, but what I could see of it was painted white and adorned with black shutters. It sat on a generous lot partitioned from Freeman’s skimpy ribbon of real estate by a ten-foot stucco fence topped with used brick. Bougainvillea topped areas of brick, amping up the privacy quotient on both sides.
The smaller structure might’ve begun life as an outbuilding of the manse, back when multi-acre estates spread across Valley hillsides. A guesthouse, servant’s quarters, maybe tack storage for one of the cowboy actors wanting proximity to the Burbank film-lots that passed for Wild West badlands.
Milo rolled to a stop inches from the Crown Vic. No one at the wheel, but a man in a cream-colored suit emerged from behind the bungalow.
A hair over Milo’s six three, he was broad, black, bespectacled. The suit was double-breasted and tailored to nearly conceal a gun bulge.
He gave a cursory nod. “Milo.”
“Stan.”
“And this is…”
“Dr. Delaware.”
“Your psychologist.”
“That makes it sound like I’m in therapy, Stan.”
“Therapy’s in fashion now, Milo. The department looks kindly on self-awareness and insight.”
“Must have missed that memo.”
A big hand extended. “Stanley Creighton, Doctor.”
We shook.
Milo said, “What brings you down from Olympus, Stan?”
“More like Bunker Hill,” said Creighton. “I’m here to keep an eye out.”
“New clause in the captain’s job description?”
Creighton said, “One does what one is told.” He turned to me. “Speaking of which, Doctor, I appreciate what you do but you shouldn’t be here.”
“He’s cleared for takeoff, Stan.”
Creighton frowned. Cool morning but the back of his neck was moist ebony. “I must’ve missed
“Probably buried under a pile of wisdom from His Munificence.”
Creighton flashed beautiful teeth. “Why don’t you call him that to his face? Doctor, you really need to absent yourself.”
“Stan, he really doesn’t.”
Creighton’s smile degraded to something cold and menacing. “You’re telling me you got papal dispensation for his presence at this specific crime scene?”
“Why would I improvise about that, Stan?”
“Why indeed,” said Creighton. “Except for the fact that rationality doesn’t always figure into human behavior. Which is why my wife, who has an M.D., still smokes a pack and a half a day.”
“Feel free to call the Vatican to verify, Stan.”
Creighton studied me. “Can I assume that Lieutenant Sturgis has informed you of the need for exceptional discretion here, Doctor?”
“Absolutely.”
“Exceptional,” he repeated.
“I love exceptions,” I said.
“Why’s that, Doctor?”
“They’re a lot more interesting than rules.”
Creighton tried to smile again. The result fit him like panty hose on a mastiff. “I respect what you do, Doctor. My wife’s a neurologist, works with psychologists all the time. But now I’m wondering if Lieutenant Sturgis relies on you so not because of your professional skills, maybe it’s more of a personality thing.” Expanding his chest. “As in wiseass loves company.”
Before I could answer he wheeled on Milo. “How much time are you going to need here?”
“Hard to say.”
“I’m after a little more precision.”
“C’mon, Stan—”
“You’ve already seen the crime scene pix, the body’s long gone, the prints and fluid swabs are at the lab, and your vic’s computer was lifted, so what do you expect to accomplish?”
No mention of the DVD.
Milo said, “Hell, Stan, why even bother to work when we can go on detective.com?”
“Yuk yuk yuk, ka-ching, rim shot,” said Creighton. “Bottom line: There’s nothing this place can tell you. Unless you’re one of those paranormals, think you can feel vibrations.”
“You were in my place you wouldn’t do a walk-through?”
“Sure, cover your ass. But walk quickly. I’ve been here since six a.m., which is an hour after Weinberg woke me up and gave me my orders. Morning’s aren’t my fun time. This particular morning, my knee’s being a nasty bitch. So what I’m gonna do right now is go for a nice, loose walk and when I get back, I strongly prefer to see you the hell out of here so
Favoring me with a contemptuous glance. “Be careful, Doctor.”
We watched him stride off, limping slightly.
I said, “Who’d he play for?”
“U. Nevada, didn’t make the big-time.”
“What do they officially pay him for?”
“He used to work Sex Crimes. Now he pushes paper and attends meetings.”
“And occasionally plays watchman.”
“Funny ’bout that.”
We continued toward the green house.
I said, “If it’s all so hush-hush how’d you get the chief to approve me?”
“I’ll answer that once you’re approved.”
The bungalow’s front porch creaked under our weight. A hummingbird feeder dangling from the overhang was empty and dry. Milo pulled out a tagged key and unlocked the door and we stepped into a small, dim living room. Blank space atop a TV table.
I said, “Her video gear’s at the lab?”
Nod.
