'Can't stay away from the cameras on this one forever,' Alan says.
'I guess not.' I sigh. 'Let's just find whoever's in charge, see what we need to see, and get out of here.'
We exit the car and head up the walk. I try and keep my face turned away from the cameras, but give up when I remember they'll just catch me coming out. We reach the door and are stopped by a cop in uniform.
Older, I think, more experienced. They want someone who can think on his feet standing post here.
'What's up, Alan?' the cop asks, unsmiling.
He's a big guy. Not as big as Alan, but broad. He has white hair and a rough, heavy face. I'd peg him as a meathead if not for the eyes. They're sharp, intelligent, and unfriendly.
'Need to see whoever's running the show, Ron,' Alan replies. The cop sneers a little. 'What does the FBI want with this scene?
Isn't this a little beneath you now?'
Alan smiles. It's as unfriendly as Ron's eyes. 'Still an asshole, I see. And still blaming me for getting you busted back to uniform.'
The sneer threatens to become a snarl. I decide it's time for me to step in.
'Hey--Ron, is it? You know who I am?'
He tears his eyes away from Alan with some reluctance. He examines my face, nods.
'I know you.'
'Then you know there's only one reason I'm here. That dead little girl. Can you help me out, and maybe pick this up with Alan at a later date?'
His eyes flick back and forth between us. He gives off a grumbling sigh. 'Hang on.' He unholsters his radio and presses the transmit button. 'Detective Alvarez?'
A moment's pause and a reply comes back. 'Go.'
'I got two feebs out here. Alan Washington and Smoky Barrett. They're asking for access.'
A longer pause this time. 'Let 'em in.'
'Roger that.'
Ron reholsters his radio and opens the door to the home without another word. Those hostile eyes follow Alan all the way in.
'What was that about?' I ask once we're inside the foyer.
'Short version? Ron Briscoe was a homicide detective. Pretty good one. He ran a case where a guy was strangling little girls. He knew who the guy was, but couldn't get the evidence he needed. So he cut corners. Planted evidence. I found out about it and spoke up. The guy walked and Briscoe got busted back to uniform.'
'What happened to the bad guy?'
'The father of one of the victims blew the perp's brains out. Father's in prison now.'
I stare at my friend, fascinated and aghast at this revelation. He'd said it all so matter-of-factly, but I know it has to be a burden for him.
'Here comes a suit,' Alan murmurs to me. 'Police Commissioner Daniels himself.'
Fred Daniels has been the LAPD commissioner for over ten years now. He's in his late fifties, but remains more vital than men younger than him. He's tall and thin, with a grizzled, military haircut and the hard face of a drill sergeant. He's reputed to walk the line between fair and ruthless, with ruthless winning more often than not. He approaches us and puts out a hand to shake mine.
'Agent Barrett,' he says.
'Commissioner.'
He shakes Alan's hand as well.
'You used to be LAPD, Agent Washington, is that right?'
'Ten years in homicide, Commissioner.'
'Nice to know some of the people at the FBI come from the streets. No offense, Agent Barrett.'
'None taken.'
'You're here because you think this is connected with the Preacher?'
Straight to business.
'We're examining the possibility,' I reply.
'Crime scene is upstairs,' he says, pointing to the staircase.
'Alvarez is a good detective. Don't step on his toes.' He'd been holding his police cap under his arm. He pulls it out and fits it onto his head. 'I'm going to go feed all the piranhas with cameras.'
He heads out the door, almost running into Callie as he leaves.
'Wooo, the commissioner,' she breathes, batting her eyes in fauxgroupie fashion. 'I feel special to be here already.'
'Do you know Alvarez?' I ask Alan.
'Only his name.'
I sigh. 'There's no use in putting this off. Let's go find him and see the scene.'
RAYMOND ALVAREZ IS A SHORT man, no more than five-five. He's handsome enough, and I see a wedding band through the latex glove covering his left hand. He's full of energy and he talks with his hands, pointing and gesturing.
'Dad's with Mom at the hospital. She freaked out. Started destroying the kitchen. Like, throwing chairs through the windows, smashing dishes. She cut up her hands pretty bad, bleeding all over the place, they had to forcibly sedate her.'
'You see it?'
'Her? Yeah. Seemed real.'
Sometimes the guilty feign hysteria to throw us off. It's difficult to do well. Real grief, the kind that comes from finding out that a loved one has been killed, is spontaneous and anything but rote. Some people scream, some wail, some go wooden, some faint dead away.
'Can we see Valerie?' I ask.
'This way,' he says.
He doesn't ask why. There simply is no substitute for seeing the corpse at the scene of the crime. He leads us down the hall, past a master bedroom with beige carpet and white walls. The carpet continues everywhere, as do the walls; safe, unimaginative California at its best. We pass photos hung on the walls, every frame black, each one the same style. The Cavanaughs are a handsome couple, he with the short blond hair, she with the long blonde hair, both with the whitest teeth I've ever seen. They smile and show all those teeth in every photo. Beautiful people. A girl I assume to be Valerie appears in a number of them, also blonde and smiling with the white teeth passed down to her by her parents.
I catch my own cynicism and try to rein it in. There's nothing in any of these photos or those smiles that says their happiness was ungenuine or that the people themselves are shallow. They're not smiling now, I think. It occurs to me that Alexa was ten when she died, that Bonnie was ten when she came into my life. A magic number.
'Here we go. Glove up and put on the paper booties,' Alvarez says, pointing to the boxes placed outside the room.
We each comply, and I smell that smell now, the singular mix of latex and blood.
We enter the room. It's pink everywhere, little princess to the max. The walls are pink, the bed is a canopy with frilly pink bedsheets and comforter. Various stuffed animals decorate both bed and floor. There's a small desk--pink--with a computer set up on it. The monitor, I note, is on. Valerie is what commands our attention, the attention of everyone in this room. She is lying on her back, arms folded across her chest. Her eyes are open wide. Her blonde hair fans out around her head. Blood has run from the hole in her side to soak the pink bedding and the beige carpet with a bright contrast of burgundy. Her mouth is closed, the white teeth not in evidence here.
'She's naked,' Alan observes.
'The posing is still not sexual,' I point out. 'It's more like he's sending them out as they came in.'
'Yeah.'
I turn to Alvarez. 'Who found her?'
'The dad. She didn't come downstairs for breakfast, he came up to check on her, found her this way.'
'The father didn't touch her,' Callie says. 'Strange.'
