Kiss & Tell Page 12

  She turned off the engine, rolled down the window, and sat staring through the windshield. Except for the light exiting the back of the Chinese restaurant, the lot was quiet and empty. Charlene knew the restaurant had closed at midnight, and the night-timers—dishwashers, bus boys, and cleaners—were busy preparing the inside for another day of business.

  She stared around the alley and noticed that the darkest, most hidden part of the alleyway was to her left, in an unlit corner. That would have been the best place for a stalker to watch his unsuspecting target and be able to move in undetected.

  She looked at the passenger seat where two things rested—the case file and a new six-pack of Old Milwaukee. She grabbed the folder and had just opened it when a door slammed to her left. Charlene was so startled that she almost reached for her weapon, when she saw a short, older Asian man, with two black garbage bags slung over his shoulders, heave the sacks into the adjacent bins.

  “Hey, you!” Charlene called, opening the car door and stepping out.

  The man turned, so Charlene removed her badge and approached him.

  “I’m looking for Ren Cheung.”

  The man snickered, obviously at her pronunciation of the name.

  “Ren is in restaurant.”

  “Can you get him for me?”

  The man nodded and bowed slightly. He had small eyes and saggy jowls, and what little hair remained was parted to the side. He turned towards the opening and yelled something in Chinese. Words were exchanged before an extremely tall, thin Asian man, ducking through the doorway, exited the kitchen and joined Charlene.

  Since Asian men were known for their small stature, Charlene had to do a double take.

  Cheung had a face deeply pitted from acne, a silver stud in his chin, and thick lips. He was stoop-shouldered, maybe from the fact that he was a foot taller than his colleagues. Again, the man said something in Chinese to Cheung, before leaving them and rejoining the kitchen staff.

  “What did he say?” Charlene asked.

  “He say, ‘Don’t get pregnant. Have short kids’.” Ren smiled.

  “Funny. You’re the one who found the police officer?”

  He nodded. “Yes, Ma’am. I tell cops everyting I know.”

  Charlene nodded. “Yes, I read the report. Can you tell me again?”

  “I come out with garbage, see car. I go see, find dead guy. Call cops.”

  “You didn’t see anyone else?”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  “You didn’t hear any noise, like gunshots?”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  “Silencer,” Charlene whispered.

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing. You didn’t see any other vehicle around?”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  “How often do you come out here?”

  “On busy night, maybe every two hour with garbage.”

  “Any smokers?”

  “Oh yes, many.”

  “Do they smoke out here?”

  “Yes. They start at nine, and rotate every thirty minutes.”

  “So the killer must have known the schedule.”

  Cheung started to shift back and forth on his feet, with continuing glances towards the door. Charlene saw the older gentleman staring out at them, wondered if he was Cheung’s boss, and didn’t want to get the young man into trouble.

  “Was there anything different that night that sticks out in your mind?”

  “You mean other than dead guy?”

  She nodded. “Thank you, Ren.” She stuck out her hand but the man ignored it, instead bowing.

  As he turned to leave, Charlene said, “Can you do me one favor before heading back to the kitchen?”

  Cheung turned back around. “What’s that?”

  “Go sit in my car?”

  “Huh?”

  “Behind the wheel.”

  Cheung shrugged his slender shoulders and headed towards the parked Volvo. As he was moving back the seat, his back turned, Charlene slipped into the darkened, black-shadowed corner and watched him.

  Cheung sat down and shut the door. When he looked out, he panicked. He quickly twisted and turned his neck, intensely searching the alley for Charlene.

  “Detective?” he asked.

  Charlene stepped out of the shadow, and Cheung looked at her.

  “You couldn’t see me, could you?”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  “That’s all. Thanks.”

  Cheung didn’t question, he just nodded and headed back to the kitchen.

  When Cheung had disappeared, Charlene walked to the unlit corner, from where she suspected her father had been observed. Using her flashlight, she searched for any signs that someone had been there—cigarette butts, chewing gum, tread mark from a shoe, a piece of fingernail, piece of thread, used coffee cup or broken glass—but there was nothing.

  That would have been too easy.

  Trash littered the edge of the walls and around the dumpster. Charlene wondered how long it had been there.

  She walked over to the dumpster and lifted the lid. The odor stabbed her like a punch to the trachea. The dumpster was filled with bags that had been gutted—either animals or LA’s version of the homeless.

  There was no warrant needed for garbage-abandoned property, and she wondered if it had been checked. There was no point now, since it would have been emptied several times over since her father’s murder. She closed the lid and returned to her car.

  Chapter 13

  On Sunday morning, Charlene stood on the concrete steps of the Our Lady of Fatima Catholic Church on South Barrington Avenue. She had attended the morning service with her mother and sister, the first time she had been to church since she was old enough to make her own decisions.

  “I’m glad you came, Charlene. It means a lot to Mom,” Jane said, standing beside Charlene as they watched their mother outside the church, making the rounds to fellow worshippers and saying hello.

  “It feels weird being here. It’s been so long.” Charlene tugged at her clothes.

  “You need to come more often.”

  Charlene nodded. “Sometimes, with the things I see on the job, it makes it hard to believe there’s a God.”

  “I guess so. You look great.” Jane smiled.

  “Thanks. Of course, you look stunning as usual.”

  Jane had always been a looker, and she had grown more beautiful with age. Her long brown hair was tied back and her perfect complexion lightly colored from blush. Four months pregnant with her first child and starting to show—the glow of pregnancy on her cheeks. She had on a new Bloomingdale’s pant suit, all black.

  “Thanks, but I feel fat.” She patted her tiny round lump of a belly. “Did the Dodgers win last night?”

  It was a failed but valiant attempt. Jane wasn’t the athletic type and had never liked sports. She was the older, critical sister. They were as different as night and day. Jane was the beautiful one, the responsible one, born to be a wife and mother.

  “They didn’t play.” Charlene smiled.

  “Oops.” Jane laughed. “How are things with you and Andy? Mom and I think he’s perfect for you.”

  Charlene bit her lip. “I’m not sure. I just don’t feel that spark with Andy. I can’t put my finger on it. Dad hated him.”

  Jane giggled. “But Dad hated everyone we dated.”

  “Not Richard,” Charlene reminded Jane.

  Richard was Jane’s husband. They had been married for four years and Richard was an architect in Colorado, where he was now awaiting Jane’s arrival.

  “That’s true.”

  “So when do you go back?” Charlene asked.

  “I fly out tonight.”

  “Look, Jane. There is something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

  “What is it, Charlene?” Jane looked worried.

  “I’m sorry”

  “For what?” Jane now looked confused.

  “Everything.” Charlene hesitated and then continued. “I haven’t been a
good sister. I haven’t been there for you when you needed me the most. We missed out on a lot of ‘sister’ experiences, things that we could have gone through together. I’ve been selfish and I’m trying my best to change. I want to be a better person for you and mom, make it as right as I possibly can.”

  Jane took Charlene by the hand. “None of us is perfect, Charlene. We can only do the best we can with the cards we’re dealt. I love you no matter what. You’re my sister, blood, and that’s more important than anything.”

  They stood and hugged, holding the embrace until Jane quickly pulled away.

  “Ooh,” she said, touching her belly. “I think we have a future soccer player on our hands.”

  Charlene placed her hand on Jane’s stomach and felt it too.

  Jane looked into Charlene’s eyes. “You have to promise to come to Colorado when the baby is born.”

  “I promise,” Charlene said. “Nothing would make me happier.”

  ~ * ~

  She called Larry from her car and told him she was going directly to the crime scene, and he said that he would try to meet her but was following up on some things they’d found in Anderson’s office.

  Charlene already had the SID reports from the scene, but she wanted to take everything in with her own eyes, get inside the mind of the killer. She still didn’t think that Jessica Philips was guilty of anything, other than falling for the wrong guy.

  After parking the Volvo, she removed her investigation kit from the trunk and followed the walk-way to the front door. Yellow plastic tape stretched across the doorframe still warned the area was a crime scene. Charlene blew into a latex glove and slipped it on, opened the door and stepped underneath the tape, checking the door handle and frame. No scratches, scuff marks, or damage—no signs of forced entry. The locks were fastened and secured.

  Charlene reached into her pocket and pulled out Anderson’s car keys. She’d brought them on a hunch. Trying several, one slipped into place and turned, springing the lock.

  “I knew it,” Charlene whispered.

  Anderson had a key. Of course he had. He’d been committing adultery with Jessica Philips. But just how many people knew about the affair?

  Since the LAPD Crime Scene Unit had already searched, swept, vacuumed, cast, excavated, and printed the entire house, Charlene focused her attention on the exact point where Anderson had been shot. She circled the large puddle of dried blood, which had darkened to almost black from the heat. Charlene stood three feet from the stain, facing the wall. With no sign of a blood trail and directed by the blood spatter, SID had determined the exact position where Anderson had been standing when he was shot.

  She heard a car door slam, and considered waiting for Larry to get inside. But when she went to the window, she didn’t see any vehicle other than her own.

  Charlene returned to her spot and closed her eyes to run through possible scenarios in her head, her lip lodged tightly between her teeth.

  “From where the body was discovered, and knowing the impact that a round from a nine-millimeter has, that would mean the killer was standing right about here,” she said aloud to herself.

  With her eyes still closed, Charlene took six steps forward and opened her eyes. She turned and stuck out her hand, as if holding an imaginary gun. She closed her eyes again, picturing the killer, faceless, standing with the gun drawn.

  Anderson was in good shape. He looked quick and agile. How could someone with a gun sneak up on him? He was highly intoxicated, and that would have slowed down his reaction time.

  Charlene looked around the room quickly, nothing looked out of place. She stood on the bloodstain and then worked in a spiral out from the body.

  Although everything had been done, and she was confident of the LAPD SID Team’s capabilities, Charlene reexamined the bookshelves and the front hallway. No signs of a struggle. She looked through day planners and phone messages, nothing from Anderson.

  She relaxed her eyes, unfocused, and let her head wander. It took her a couple of minutes to realize that her drifting eyes had picked up on something. She pulled out a tiny flashlight and got down on her knees.

  With all of the commotion in the house during the initial crime scene examination, with so many bodies milling about, details sometimes got overlooked.

  Tiny scratches on the hardwood floor led from the doorway to the living room. Scuff marks that could have been made from anything or anytime, but looked fresh. The marks were surrounded by what looked to be chalk dust. There was no mention of it in the reports.

  Charlene stood and looked at a wooden-framed chalkboard attached to the wall. It was meant to be a decoration, but there were phone messages written on the board, none of any significance. The chalk and brush had been neatly placed on the ledge.

  A struggle could have caused the chalk and brush to fall to the floor. If there had been a struggle that meant the killer could have been male because not many females, from the look of Anderson and the fact that he was a gym member, could have out-muscled Anderson, no matter how intoxicated he was. Also, the wounds on Anderson indicated he had been recently attacked.

  The bullet pattern in Anderson told her that the gun hadn’t accidentally gone off during a struggle. It was shot with precision.

  Charlene noted everything in her report. She knew she was reaching, but at this point, she was desperate.

  ~ * ~

  After another hour of exhaustive investigative research, with nothing added to her hard evidence but thoughts and theories, Charlene replaced the crime scene tape and locked the door.

  The sun made her eyes water as she scoped the neighborhood, following the cracked concrete path.

  As she reached the car, Charlene noticed a Caucasian man across the street walking a dog. There was no reason for Charlene’s internal alarm to sound, but for some reason the man gave her pause. She hesitated with her hand on the door handle.

  Was he staring at me? Had he been there when I got here?

  She couldn’t remember seeing him when she had first arrived, and waved it off as her paranoia since the Celebrity Slayer calls had started.

  She got in the car and was inserting the key when she spotted an unlabeled beige ten-by-thirteen manila envelope on the passenger seat. The hairs on the back of her neck sprang to attention and dread exploded up her spine.

  From the driver’s seat, she turned in all four directions and noticed the dog walker still in view, looking back in her direction. She looked around but saw no one else. Charlene caught her own reflection in the rear-view mirror and noticed she had paled.

  She knew protocol and knew what she was expected to do. There could be anything inside the envelope. A bomb. A note. A warning. Evidence.

  She withdrew the latex glove box from the slot on her door. She slid into a pair again and lifted the envelope from the seat. One word was written on the outside in neat handwriting, “Charlie”.

  Her skin prickled. Charlene noticed the envelope wasn’t sealed, which meant whoever had put it there hadn’t licked the edge—no DNA.

  She removed the contents, about a dozen black and white, eight-by-ten photographs, and a sheet of white printer paper. She pulled them out and sorted through. As she scanned the pictures, Charlene’s chest tightened.

  The first four were close-ups of the four Celebrity Slayer victims, their headshots. Then there were also pictures of the murder scenes, before the cops had shown up when the victims were still alive, and could have only been taken by one person…the killer. She mentally scanned the scenes from her own pictures, trying to make comparisons, but she couldn’t. She would have to take them home to be sure.

  The next set of pictures was of the same four women and looked like surveillance footage, as the predator stalked his prey. The women were stunning—beautiful actresses who had come to LA looking for a shot. Charlene knew that serial killers were always fantasy-motivated, and wondered if that was the reason the killer had chosen his victims.

  Did he fantasize abou
t making love to these women?

  But there was no evidence of penetration or sexual degradation of any of the women. Was the killer impotent?

  She looked at the computer print out. The words were written in the middle, in black, bold-face lettering. “I need you Charlie.”

  Charlene stared at the words, reading them over.

  She stuffed the menacing photos back into the envelope and scanned the neighborhood again, seeing the dog walker’s back as he made his way down the sidewalk. When she went to grab the door handle, she noticed that her fists were curled tight. She jumped from the car and took off in a sprint.

  “Excuse me, Sir?” Charlene called, but the man didn’t turn around.

  Is he speeding up?

  Charlene quickened her pace and called again, “Excuse me, Sir? LAPD.” She tucked her jacket inside her holster flap, giving her easy access to her gun.

  This time the man stopped, but didn’t turn around. Charlene had her badge out as she approached him. When he finally turned, Charlene came face to face with a middle-aged man about a foot taller than her. He had black arched eyebrows, pitted cheeks, and a heavy overbite. He was walking an overweight, brown and black pug that sniffed at Charlene’s feet and wagged its curly tail with enthusiasm. Charlene immediately thought this guy had the kind of looks that would make him uncomfortable and withdrawn around women.

  The man wore an all-weather jacket and Italian loafers. His tense, nervous expression could have been from anything, especially the sight of an LAPD detective’s badge.

  “LAPD.” Charlene flashed her badge. “I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “About what?”

  “Do you live around here?”

  He pointed with his index finger. “Three houses down. Number six-eleven.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Ted.”

  “Do you have a last name?”

  The man pursed his lips. “Elliot.”

  “Can I see some ID, Ted Elliot?”

  “I don’t have my wallet. I only brought Myles out for a walk.”

  At the sound of his name, the puppy started to whimper.