Carnal Sin

“Everyone loved George! He’s the nicest guy on the planet. He makes me laugh, which is why I married him. We have a good time. We like each other. The sex is good. We’re happy. People love him at work. He’s a lawyer-not stuffy and stuck-up, but a good lawyer.”

“Criminal defense?”

She blinked, not expecting the question. “No. Copyright law. He works for musicians and indie labels, to protect artists from piracy. He loves music. That’s why he goes to-”

She stopped, and Jeff prompted. “Goes where, Mrs. Erickson?”

“Velocity. A club in Westwood that has up-and-coming bands playing Thursday nights. I usually go with him, it’s our night out, but my ex-husband came to town unexpectedly and George told me to go out with Adam.”

Tears fell. They seemed real, but Grant was cynical-he couldn’t rule out Pamela Erickson as a suspect until he verified her statement and alibi. “George never brought anyone home before. This was our place. Adam and I went back to his hotel. If I had been with George instead, he would still be alive.” She sobbed. “I’m going to miss him so much.”

Grant abruptly walked out while Jeff gave the standard thanks, got her contact information, and followed him.

Velocity.

Shit.

“What’s going on, Grant?” Jeff’s posture was casual, but his eyes were all cop and looking closely at Grant. Was he acting that guilty? And hell, what was he guilty of? He was single and he had been off duty last night. And just because he went to the club didn’t mean he had gone there to get laid. Even if he did get laid.

“Hell if I know,” Grant said. “Could be just what it looks like.” But something seemed … not what it looked like.

“You’re thinking something.”

“Did you hear about that college kid who died half-naked in the alley behind Velocity Wednesday night?”

“The case Cole Pierce pulled?”

“Yeah. I’ll call Pierce, see if there are other similarities. Two deaths in two nights? Both patrons of the same club?”

“But that was a frat boy; this guy’s a respected lawyer.”

Grant stared at the wall without seeing anything. Just a week ago Velocity’s owner, Kent Galion, had been pumped up on something unidentifiable and died after attacking a waitress.

“Do you think there’s a connection?” Jeff asked. It made no sense, but damn it was a strange coincidence. “Maybe they knew each other.”

It was something to consider, but from what Grant remembered hearing from the night watch was that there was nothing unusual about the college student’s death. It was being looked at as an OD … yet that’s exactly what Grant was thinking about Erickson. OD or heart attack. What if someone was dealing bad drugs out of Velocity? Julie was going to have a shit fit, but Grant realized he couldn’t tell her about it. He’d have to talk to Narcotics, see if they were looking into something-and push the damn coroner’s office off their asses and give him the tox screen on the frat boy. Pierce would be happy to share with Grant-anything to get out from under their towering workload.

Grant said, “I was at Velocity last night. I didn’t see anything and don’t recognize the victim. I got there late and walked Julie out. After Galion lost his head last week, I’ve been worried about her safety.”

“I thought you and Julie broke up.”

He shrugged, avoiding looking his partner in the eye. “We’re friendly. She might know who Erickson went off with-she has a good eye, but if there’s a connection, we need to keep Julie out of it. If this is a drug case, we’ll need to bring in the narcs.”

“What if the motive is financial?” Jeff looked around the house and whistled. “Erickson was loaded.”

“We’ll talk to the widow, make sure nothing is missing, check into his finances. I’ll talk to Pierce, get him to bump the other case to us, and you can follow up on the money angle. I’ll talk to Narcotics. And it might help our case if we go down to the morgue and put some pressure on whoever is doing the autopsy on our stiff. See if I can rush both reports and expand the drug and tox screenings.”

If there was a connection, the coroner could prioritize the bloodwork and additional tests. If the cases were drug related, they could get the DEA or FBI involved, get them to pay some of the lab costs. And the FBI lab had greater capabilities than Los Angeles.

Jeff looked at his notes. “Wife says Erickson left the house just before eight to catch the first set of a new band, told her to enjoy herself with her ex-husband and he’d see her in the morning. That told her, according to Mrs. Erickson, that either he expected her to screw her ex or he would be out screwing.”

“She said that?”

“Not in so many words,” Jeff said. “I read between the lines.”

“You don’t approve.”

“It’s not my job to approve or disapprove.”

“But?” Grant prompted.

“I don’t get them.” Jeff glanced over his shoulder to make sure the wife couldn’t hear him, and said in a low voice, “She never said she loved him. She liked him. She respected him. He made her laugh. But everyone else loved George Erickson. No one would want to kill him. Why get married?”

Grant didn’t want to tread into that territory. Jeff was still new to the Pacific Division; he probably didn’t know Grant’s reputation, however deserved it was … or wasn’t.

Why did he care what the big black ex-jock thought of him? They didn’t have to be friends. Jeff was a decent cop, with sharp instincts; Grant liked working with him because he appeared to be a dumb jock, and the appearance loosened people-especially suspects-into talking. It helped. But Jeff was anything but a dumb cop, and Grant didn’t want anyone scrutinizing his life. Maybe because he didn’t like looking too closely at it himself.

“I did marriage once,” Grant said, trying to lighten the conversation, though he felt as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders and he didn’t know why. “Didn’t work out. I’m through.”

“Cynical much?” Jeff joked.

“You got a few years under your belt answering domestic calls. Is there any such thing as a perfect marriage?”

“Doubt it,” Jeff said, “but my parents have been married for forty-two years and I still catch them copping a feel when they don’t think anyone’s looking.”

“Too much, Johnston.” They walked out front where the deputy coroner pushed George Erickson’s body, tucked and zipped into a black body bag, to the meat wagon.

What happened last night, George? Too much fun for the ticker?

“Hey, Nelson!” Timmons approached. “Just got a call in from Glendale PD wanting to talk to you.”

“About what?” He didn’t have any active cases that crossed into Glendale’s jurisdiction.

“A stiff found in some dude’s freezer. The detective in charge said you might want to come over-the house is Kent Galion’s and the dead woman is Stephanie Frazier, a waitress from Velocity.”

If people had told a younger Fern Archer that she’d not only work at the morgue but like her job, she’d have laughed them right out the door, telling them to sober up. She was going to be a photographer, thank you very much, and she didn’t like dead things.

Shows what you really know about yourself when you’re a kid.

Ironically, it was her love of photography that had landed her in the morgue in the first place, when she trailed a pathologist for an assignment called “Day in the Life.” Don Takasugi hadn’t wanted a smart-ass black girl with a nose ring in his lab, regardless of the coroner’s agreement with Pierce College, and he’d gone out of his way to shock her.

Instead, Fern had found her true calling. For all of Don’s antics that day, when she saw the compassion and respect he showed for the dead, it reminded her of her Grandpa T-Rex-nicknamed such because of his temper and build-who was as mean as a pit bull, except when he cared for her dying grandmother.