“Wants to make sure he can get to the scenic location in style. You know how suicides are about staging things. Probably why he got it washed.”
“Yes, but that receipt isn’t for washing and repairs. He paid for oil and fluids, wiper blades, things like that.”
Marquez studied it again and said, “Okay, so on Tuesday, he didn’t know he was going to kill himself. On Tuesday, the brilliant Detective Brandon had not yet been visited by the tooth fairy at a press conference, and so he wasn’t naming Mr. Frederick Whitfield IV as one of the murderers yet.”
“Tooth fairy, huh? Well, maybe you’re right about the change in outlook. But it bothers me. He spent his last day or so driving the Bora over a hundred miles, only to take it up to a spot on the road this close to Malibu?”
“Like you said, maybe he had to leave a body somewhere.”
“And hauled it in this sports car?” Alex asked.
“So he used another vehicle for that, but this was going to be the one they made the exit in.”
“Maybe-but why this spot?”
“It’s pretty up here.”
“You’ve driven Mulholland. Is this the most scenic spot? Even at night, there are places with amazing views of city lights. This is a shallow turnout with no real view, even in daylight.”
Marquez gave him a scathing look of disbelief. “You think someone else is involved because these guys picked a lousy view?”
“No, it’s just-I don’t know, it feels wrong. If they’re from Malibu, why come here the long way?”
“What do you mean, the long way?”
“Look at the side of the road they’re on. They’re heading toward the ocean-toward Malibu. So where did they come from?”
“Maybe they headed up here, saw this turnout, and did a U-turn,” Marquez said.
Alex conceded that this might be true. “Any other tire prints?”
“Dozens of them. Nothing we can use.”
Alex couldn’t shake the feeling that something about this scene was wrong, though. “So talk to me about what else you’ve discovered.”
“Looks like they had a suicide pact. They’re apparently old friends-lived in Malibu, went to the same private school. We found them so late this evening, we weren’t able to learn a lot, but we got that much from a couple of people who knew them-one neighbor and a deputy that had dealings with them when they were juvenile delinquents.”
“So they have juvenile records?”
“Rumor has it they do. We’ll see what the courts will let us learn. Not in trouble much as adults. We’re just getting started on all of that.”
“Not complaining. You’ve already covered a lot of ground.”
“Morgan Addison was twenty-four years old last February. He owns a house on the beach in Malibu. Lives alone. Neighbor told us that Mr. Addison came into a trust fund when he turned twenty-one and spent most of his time surfing and polishing the Maserati, hanging out with friends, and so on. No employment ever. Parents live in the Palisades, but apparently they’re estranged from their son-that’s another story. Anyway, one of their neighbors said they’re on a cruise. Couldn’t remember where. We’re trying to get in touch with them, but that’s as far as we’ve gotten. The other one-”
“Wait, before we talk about the passenger, tell me a couple of other things about Morgan Addison. You said a deputy told you there had been trouble before now?”
“Speeding tickets in the Maserati, that’s all. But the guy from the Malibu Station who rode up here with me has worked there about twelve years, and he says the kid was a lifetime asshole and good riddance. Said that he was dumped in that private reform school up here-what’s it called?”
Alex suddenly felt a cold knot form in his stomach. “Sedgewick.”
“Yes, that’s the one. Guess Addison used to deal dope at the local high school before he was old enough to be in high school himself. Got caught at it twice, but they could never make the charges stick-parents bailed him out of every jam he ever got himself into. Then one day, he beat the crap out of his sister-broke her arm, knocked out a couple of teeth-’cause she borrowed his bike without asking. Mumsy and Daddy had apparently had enough at that point and sent him to Sedgewick. He boarded there and never went back home after that.”
Alex realized that Enrique and his partner must have been really pushing to learn this much so quickly. “Thanks, Enrique. Like I said, I’m glad you’re the one who caught this one.”
“Yeah, well, between you and me, I’m glad your partner isn’t here with you.”
Alex caught his look but decided to avoid the topic of Ciara. “Sorry I kept you waiting,” he said. “Guess I’d better not hold up everyone else any longer.”
He walked around to the passenger side of the car, bracing himself, as he found he must always do in suicide by gunshot cases. There had been enough of these over his years in homicide investigation to no longer make it as difficult as it had once been, and now only a case involving a man of about his father’s age would disturb him to any great degree.
He knew that he would always think of his father in these cases, would always recall finding him. But he had learned to concentrate on the cases of new victims by telling himself that their families deserved to have him do his job-without allowing his personal emotional reactions to interfere with it.
“A shame, with all they had going for them,” he heard Marquez say.
“A damned shame,” he agreed.
He sat on his haunches to lower himself to eye level with the occupants of the car. This was the less messy side-entrance wound side. Frederick Whitfield IV’s lifeless hand lay in his lap, his pale manicured fingers holding a gun.
“Both right-handed?” Alex asked.
“Apparently.”
Addison was slumped over the steering wheel. Alex noticed something odd. He moved around to the driver’s side and carefully opened the door. He studied Morgan Addison’s face and clothing. “Strange that they’re dressed so differently, isn’t it?”
“So one wants to look corporate, and the other like he’s too cool for words, that’s all.”
“You think they fought beforehand?” Alex asked.
“Why?”
“Addison’s nose is swollen-looks as if he was punched in the face. He’s got blood on the front of his shirt, too.”
“Sure it isn’t from-well, there’s a lot of blood in there.”
“Exit wound spatter, yes, but that’s not from his bullet wound. And not from Whitfield. Look at the driver’s side window and then at the windshield. The blood and tissue on the driver’s side window is more concentrated-I think Addison was looking straight ahead. The blood and tissue on the windshield couldn’t have come from his wound, especially not in the pattern they make. That must be Whitfield’s. Whitfield must not have been facing forward- maybe he was sitting at a slightly different angle. He must have turned away a little bit-maybe trying not to look at his friend’s body.”
“How do you know the driver was first?”
“I don’t know for sure, and won’t until the lab checks the inside of the car and tells us exactly whose blood is where. But there’s a misting of blood on this side and on the back of Addison’s suit, which is probably Whitfield’s blood-spraying out over the car’s interior after Addison was already slumped forward.”
“I’m going to make sure the techs got photos of all of that,” Marquez said.
Alex wrinkled his nose. For a moment, he thought the dog’s smell was embedded in his suit. But this was not quite the same.
Marquez saw the look and said, “The urine is on Addison’s suit.”
Alex looked over at him. “What do you mean, ‘on’ it?”
“Look at the stain. You think a guy can piss himself and miss his own crotch?”
“No.”
“I wonder if these two were lovers. You know, and old Frederick Whitfield IV here gave his beloved Addison a little golden shower as a going-away present.”
