'Maybe it was a fuck-you to the kid,' Denley called out from his desk. 'His condition's wearing her down or something.'
'Like that metalhead in Calabasas,' Bear added. 'Shot himself in front of the Christmas tree.'
'That's right-more male,' Dray said. 'Females tend more passive-aggressive and considerate. They prefer the rented motel room, the laid-down shower curtain, even, so no one has to clean up after them.'
Tyler started fussing, straddling Tim's thigh and sliding around like a boneless chicken. Tim set him down. 'Was the gun she used registered to her?'
'I'm not done counting yet,' Dray said. 'Three: slightly odd angle for the shot. Judging from the spatter and the drainage, her head had to have been turned so her chin was parallel to her shoulder. Not impossible certainly, but why?' Tyler squirmed on the floor, babbling something, and she replied, 'I know, baby, I'm hungry, too. We'll have some Goldfishies in a minute. Four: The detective found a red smudge at the curb outside her house above a sewer grate. Bright red.' She moved some stacks to the floor, clearing space on the workstation, and then set down the investigation file and produced a few crime-scene photos. A splotch of vivid red stood out against the white concrete. Perspective shots located the mark at the curbside edge of the neighbor's house, in front of a stand of juniper. A good lurking site.
'Looks like model paint, almost,' Tim said.
'They took it to the lab on the off chance it proved to be blood. The results were weird. It contained, among other things, food ingredients'-biting her lip, she flipped through some pages, using her leg to shield Tyler from crawling under her chair-'sweetener and gelatin. It was still wet the night of. The detective thought whatever it was, it might have come from the shooter's vehicle. The neighbor remembered a car parked there, but nothing more. She just saw shadows and a big hood ornament.'
'A Rolls?' Tim offered. 'Jag, maybe? What?'
'Dunno. She said bigger than normal ornaments, like the size of a bowling ball. But she's about a hundred and eighteen years old, so I'm not too excited about her account.'
'Where's the evidence?'
'In the storage locker at the lab.'
'We'll get Aaronson on the stain, see if he can pull a rabbit for us. Now, the gun-'
'Yes, it was registered to her. A Glock 19.'
'I'd expect her to have a revolver. Easier.'
Bear nodded at Tim's Smith amp; Wesson wheel gun, snug in the holster. 'Not everyone's stuck in the 1860s, Rack.'
'She's a gun gal,' Dray said. 'Which means the gunshot-residue analysis on her hand is inconclusive. She had an ammo card for the Littlerock Canyon Gun Club, which showed she'd shot there just the day before. In his statement the range operator there said she's pretty good, learned from her brother in the marines.'
Guerrera finished with the autopsy glossies and passed them to Tim. A pale version of the face Tim had first seen gummed to the wall of Walker's cell. Strong residual powder burns and a star-shaped hole at the left temple indicated that the muzzle had been touching the flesh. Her features had been pressed out of shape by the explosion-nothing obvious, but a subtle shifting of the position of the nose, the levelness of the eyes, the cant of the mouth-a minuscule yet grotesque reskewing that spoke to the destruction beneath.
Tim set down the close-up of the entry wound as if dealing a card. ''The left side.''
Bear shrugged, unimpressed. 'Maybe. What would that tell Walker, though?'
Tim flashed on Tess's Swatch in her photo, ringing her right wrist. The smudged handwriting on the letter she'd sent to Walker. The criminalist had confirmed that she was left-handed, the entry wound unremarkable in that regard. 'Nothing, I guess.'
Tess's voice had come through in her letter to her brother; she'd impressed Tim as a decent, struggling woman saddled with responsibilities and trying to carve out a niche for her son and herself. He felt a welling of sadness as he studied the close-ups, the tiny details that composed her. Hair died in a streak pattern, amber against chestnut. Dark roots. Gray threads at the hairline. Slender nose, slightly concave on either side. The fingernail of her right index finger was shorter than the others, a break that she'd taken care to file the edge off. Bare feet. A varicose vein touching the ankle.
Zimmer's voice broke him out of his reverie. 'I got you that address for Kaitlin Jameson.' He slid a piece of notebook paper over Tim's shoulder.
Tim glanced at it. The background noise dimmed, crowded out by his sudden focus. He set the notebook sheet down beside the top page of Tess's investigation file, looked from one to the other, then turned them to face Dray and Bear.
The address in Zimmer's hand was identical to the one on the crime-scene report.
Chapter 32
Wearing a light cotton Tommy Bahama camp shirt against the balmy August night and a pair of leather slide huaraches, Ted Sands whistled through his teeth as he strolled from his Cheviot Hills house en route to his eight o'clock poker game. His third child, an '88 Bronco geared for off-roading and rock crawling, waited in the driveway. With its custom geared-down axles, widened rims kicking out the tread a few inches on either side, hybrid suspension with three inches of lift, and flared wheel wells accommodating thirty-five-inch Mud Terrain tires, the Bronco was too wide to fit in the garage with his wife's Chrysler Pacifica.
Stopping on the walk, Ted picked up a melted army man and a discarded Barbie sundress and tossed them back at the front step. He had the type of gym-enhanced build common in L.A., heavy on biceps and quads, with more muscle definition than could be achieved without kidney-straining supplements. As a third-string quarterback at a Division One college, he'd learned the art of physical upkeep without having to endure the rigors of injury. The sole nondoctor, — lawyer, or — studio exec on his tree-lined block, he moved across his front lawn with confidence, the erect stride of the proud homeowner.
He pressed the 'unlock' button on his key chain, and the Bronco greeted him with a friendly chirp. Spinning the keys around his finger, he paused a few feet from the truck. A folded note fluttered from the tinted driver's window, Scotch-taped, his name rendered in red ink.
He turned a quick circle, laughing in anticipation of a practical joke, but his front yard and the street were empty. A neighbor passed in a Lexus with a tooted greeting, and he waved before returning his attention to the note. He took a step forward, plucked it from the window, and opened it.
Puzzled, he stared down at the blank interior.
A pair of hands shot out from beneath the truck, the left clamping over the top of his foot, the right, which held an unfolded knife, hooking around the heel. Before Ted could move, the blade drew back toward the undercarriage shadows, carving around the rear of his ankle and severing the Achilles tendon. Spurting blood made a soft tapping noise against the driveway. Ted bent, hands shoved to his thighs, emitting a breathy, incredulous moan. The blank note fluttered to the concrete, blood soaking through it in spots. Ted turned to run toward the house, but his right leg didn't respond, and he fell flat on his chest, still unable to find his voice. The hands seized him around both calves, dragging him beneath the Bronco. Limbs rattled against the oil pan.
The brief struggle ended with a thud.
Propped in an uncomfortable sitting position, a cramp vise-gripping his lower back, Ted came to in a dank room. A thickness had seized his legs, which were extended before him, and his head throbbed. He groaned and struggled to move his arms. A lamp hooked to a workbench ten feet away provided meager lighting. Scattered tools, a bundle of antique rifles, a few powdery bags of rapid-set concrete. He strained to look behind him; his body wouldn't obey, but he managed to twist his neck. A roll-up door had been raised, revealing the silhouette of his beloved Bronco outside. The spare tire swing-arm carrier had been released, the tailgate laid open. Two strips of aluminum formed a loading ramp, extending down from the truck's well-advertised cargo space.
A clicking jerked him back around. A form crouched just past his feet, where moments before there had been mere darkness. His night vision was starting to kick in, enough for him to make out the glint of a knife. With a thumb and forefinger, the figure raised the folding steel blade from its handle, then let it snap back into place. The knife, a wicked-looking compression-lock Spyderco, featured a hollow-ground blade, hump-spined with a thumb
