Buried Evidence (15 page)

“Make some phone calls,” Osborne said, his footsteps clanking on the linoleum flooring. “A killing that occurred six years ago can’t be classified as top priority right now. Besides, the crime didn’t occur under our jurisdiction. Before you do anything, though, call both the coroner’s office and the lab and read them the riot act. I expect the autopsy on Vasquez to be completed by tomorrow, the forensic work by the end of next week, so don’t let them give you any bullshit about how backed up they are. Right now that boy’s parents are about to board a plane from Argentina. I hate long plane rides, don’t you?”

They took off in different directions. When Hope had first
begun working with the detective, she’d had trouble deciphering some of his offhand comments. This time, however, she knew precisely what he meant. Spending hours inside a cramped airplane was never pleasant, even when a person was embarking on a vacation. Mr. and Mrs. Vasquez were traveling to the United States for one reason—to claim the body of their deceased son.

R
ICHARD FOWLER’S
office was located in a two-story building on Victoria Boulevard across from the Ventura County government center. Although he owned both the building and the land, he leased out the top floor, providing him with an additional source of revenue. His associate, Martin Schwartz, walked over to him in the parking lot.

“I just got out of court,” Schwartz said, shielding his eyes from the midday sun. At forty-five, he was a mellow man with bushy brown hair and a barrel-shaped body. “Want to have lunch?” he asked. “I was thinking of walking down to Marie Callender’s for a bowl of soup.”

“I’m going to have to catch a bite later,” Richard told him. “I’m on my way to the P.D. to speak with Fred Jameson regarding the Pierson matter.”

“The security guard who accidentally shot his wife?”

“You got it,” Richard said, unlocking the door to his car. “Thanks for the invite, Marty.” He turned the key in the ignition in order to bring the conversation to a close.

Approximately fifteen minutes later, Richard was sitting in a chair in the detective bay at the Ventura Police Department. Twenty detectives all worked in the same space, their offices consisting of small partitioned cubicles. He had no idea how they could concentrate. A cacophony of voices filled the air, phones jangled, and officers and support personnel roamed up and down the aisles. He was reminded of his days at the district attorney’s office, but unlike the detectives, each of the prosecutors had their own private office.

With a thick head of silver hair and pale green eyes, Detective Jameson stood just under six feet. A ruggedly handsome man, he
was dressed in a white shirt, a striped tie, and dark slacks, and the butt of his service revolver was protruding from his shoulder holster. The silver hair was deceptive, a genetically inherited characteristic passed down from his mother. At thirty-eight, Jameson had been with the department for five years, having transferred from the sheriff’s office in San Francisco. He was a high-energy type of guy, likable, yet sometimes unpredictable when it came to temperament. Over the years he’d had several run-ins with the D.A.’s office, and had no qualms about speaking his mind. Now that Richard was on the opposite side of the fence, a diehard like Jameson considered him persona non grata.

“I filed a discovery motion thirty days ago,” Richard said, studying crime-scene photographs of the Pierson shooting. “I should have received copies of these weeks ago.”

Jameson put his feet on top of his desk. “Your client might skate,” he told him, unconcerned with Richard’s implication that he was in violation of a court order. He enjoyed his work, but he’d always rebelled against rules. Joining the police department fresh out of college, he’d been lured by the power of the badge. His career in law enforcement had not met his expectations, though. He possessed the education and drive to rise to the top, but a few years back someone had slammed him with a bad rap, and he was now bucking the stigma. “Too bad Pierson’s wife wasn’t able to verify his story. Then we wouldn’t have wasted our time.”

According to her physicians, Mrs. Pierson would eventually recover. It was doubtful, however, if she would ever remember the events of that evening. “Let’s face it,” Richard told him. “Kenny Pierson is a cop, or you wouldn’t be talking to me.”

The detective stuck a toothpick in his mouth, a sour look on his face. “Pierson is a rent-a-cop, Fowler. That’s not the same as being a member of the force. What have you got to complain about, anyway? You should be thrilled that we would even make an attempt to prove this crime was an accident. Most men who shoot a woman in the head go to prison, regardless of the circumstances.”

After replacing the crime-scene photos back in the file,
Jameson stood to walk him out. “We’re waiting for ballistics to officially confirm that the trigger mechanism was defective,” he added as they were buzzed through the security doors into the lobby. “As soon as we get their report in writing, I’ll contact Paul Sullivan at the D.A.’s office and request that they drop the charges.”

“Thanks,” Richard told him, shaking his hand. “Oh, there’s another matter I’d like to discuss with you if you have the time.”

“I’m listening,” Jameson said reluctantly. He was edgy and overloaded with work, to the point where he would have preferred putting an end to the conversation. His son had a baseball game that afternoon, and he had been planning on slipping out a few hours early.

“Does the name Marco Curazon ring a bell?”

Jameson rested his back against the wall. Above his head was a row of framed portraits of former police chiefs, along with several plaques honoring officers who had been injured or killed in the line of duty. “Wasn’t he the guy who was convicted of raping Lily Forrester and her daughter?”

“Yes,” Richard said. “He’s been paroled.”

“Hey,” Jameson said, “we only arrest them. You got any complaints, take them up with the parole board.”

“I’ve already spoken to his parole agent,” Richard told him. “The man’s dangerous, Fred. He’s carrying what appear to be pictures of Shana Forrester in his wallet. Not only that, from what I hear, they could be recent.”

Jameson’s eyes flashed with interest. “How did this come to light?”

“One of my clients hung out with Curazon before he got busted again,” the attorney said. “Curazon showed him pictures of an attractive redhead, claiming she was his girlfriend. I know you didn’t handle the rape itself, so you’ve probably never seen Lily’s daughter. You know Lily, though, and her daughter looks exactly like her.”

“There’s a lot of redheads, pal,” Jameson said acerbically, walking over and spitting the toothpick out in a trash can. The most disturbing crime he had ever investigated had been overturned
on appeal. Lily Forrester had been partially responsible; therefore she wasn’t one of his favorite people. Several years back, Walter Evans, a retired city councilman, had been shot and killed during a car jacking. Evans’ brother, Alan, was a prominent local judge. During her employment with the appellate court in Los Angeles, Lily had reviewed the case and arrived at the conclusion that Jameson might have falsified evidence to ensure a conviction. This, coupled with errors made by the presiding judge during the trial, had ultimately resulted in the reversal. Walter Evans had been a close friend of Jameson’s father, a man the detective had known and admired. He felt bad that Forrester and her daughter had gone through such a terrible ordeal, but at least they had come out of it alive. He might have made a few mistakes in the Evans investigation due to his relationship with the victim, but the accusations that he had intentionally falsified evidence had been devastating. Allegations of this nature, even when unsubstantiated, seriously jeopardized a police officer’s chance for advancement.

“It’s more than just the fact that the girl in the photo was a redhead,” Richard told him. “Curazon told him she went to college at UCLA, the same school Shana Forrester attends.”

“What do you want us to do?” Jameson said, disgruntled. “Curazon’s parole agent has the authority to search his property, his house, even ship his ass back to prison.”

“He’s absconded,” Richard told him. “I’ve already contacted his parole agent. Curazon’s been out of pocket for several months. His agent has a hearing scheduled next week to have his parole revoked. They have to find him, though, before they can send him back to prison.”

“Now I know where you fit into this picture,” Jameson said, a sly smile on his face. “You and Lily Forrester had something going on, right?”

Richard flushed, pulling his collar away from his neck. “We worked together. I consider her a friend, just like you do the officers in your department.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Jameson said. “Rumor has it you guys were lovers.”

“My relationship with Lily Forrester is none of your business,” Richard barked, wishing he had approached someone else within the department. “I came here because I know how the system works, okay? Whether a person is wanted for a parole violation, a kidnapping, even a murder, unless the crime just occurred or the media jumps on it, they become nothing more than a set of statistics in a computer. I want your men to try and find this guy.”

“Have you told Forrester that Curazon is carrying around pictures of her daughter?”

“How do I know the girl in these snapshots is really Shana Forrester?” Richard said. “The guy my client spoke to may not even be Marco Curazon. The man didn’t show him a picture ID. Maybe his name just sounded similar. We’re talking ex-cons, Jameson, not brain surgeons. I refuse to panic Lily and her daughter until I have some kind of verification.”

“I thought you said Curazon had absconded.”

“He hasn’t left the area,” Richard told him. “He just decided not to report to his parole officer. And you know why, Jameson?”

Without realizing it, Richard had become so agitated he was standing only inches from the detective’s face. In most instances Jameson would never tolerate someone encroaching on his personal space. He knew from experience, however, that it was sometimes the soft-spoken, controlled types like Fowler who could snap and do something crazy. Deciding not to antagonize him and end up in a fistfight, he took several steps backward.

“I’ll tell you why,” Richard said, jabbing his finger at him repeatedly. “Curazon is about to commit another crime, that’s why. He’s going to rape either Shana Forrester or her mother. I don’t know when and I don’t know how, but I want you to find this crazy fucker before he gets a chance to carry out his plan.”

R
ichard walked out of the police department, heading to his car in the parking lot. As soon as he started the car, his cell phone rang. “Richard Fowler,” he said into the microphone mounted above the visor.

“Where have you been?” June Overland asked in her nasal twang.

His office manager was either hyperactive or obsessive compulsive. Without her, his law practice would disintegrate. “Start acting like a wife, and I’ll have to divorce you.”

“Fine with me,” she said. “Judge McKinley called regarding your lunch date next Thursday. Javal Thornton claims they’re abusing him in jail. Seems he’s developed an allergy to the meat loaf, or at least to the tomato sauce. He demanded that you file a grievance. I told him for the money he’s paying us, he’ll have to file his own grievances. Kenny Pierson’s mother also called. She inquired about the lab reports on the gun. I told her we wouldn’t know anything until the end of the week.”

Richard felt a headache coming on. Talking to June was draining. He steered the Lexus out of the parking lot. Thus far he hadn’t heard anything that couldn’t have waited until he returned to the office. The woman had worked for attorneys for over twenty years. Her excess energy was generally channeled into the kind of tasks most employees avoided like a bad case of the flu. Wanting to bring her up to date on the latest computer technology, Richard had paid for her to take courses at the community college. She not only talked ninety words per minute, she typed just as fast, her fingers flying over the keyboard with the precision of a concert pianist. Now that the fifty-nine-year-old woman had mastered the computer, there was hardly a scrap of paper left in his office. June had scanned in every client file, then
rushed out and purchased a CD-ROM that contained an entire law library. Finishing the paperwork by the time he arrived at the office, she spent the rest of the day collecting overdue bills, counseling clients and their families, even rearranging the office furniture.

“Is that all?”

“No,” June continued. “A strange women called three times during the past hour. She refused to identify herself. You must know her, though, because she referred to you by your first name.”

“Didn’t you check the caller ID?”

“The call came through the main switchboard for the county of Santa Barbara.”

Richard failed to notice that the BMW in front of him had stalled. He slammed on his brakes, narrowly avoiding a collision. He started to ask June to give him the number, then decided to wait and call from the privacy of his office. Although there was a small chance that the female caller was related to Rob Whittier, the man he’d represented on the drug case and the individual who had provided him with the information on Curazon, his gut instinct told him it was Lily. “I’ll be back in the office in ten minutes,” he said, hitting the off button on the phone.

Navigating around the stalled vehicle, he found it hard to stomach that a man like Curazon could be back on the street after only six years in prison. The criminal justice system had more than a few dirty secrets that it kept hidden from the general public. The fact that prisoners were released prior to completing their terms occurred as a result of overcrowding, yet in the majority of instances, prison officials were merely following the law. When a judge imposed a sentence, victims and their families left the courtroom believing that the offender would spend whatever term they were given behind bars. Sadly, this was seldom the case. The courts never mentioned the bonus points handed out for what was classified as good time and work time, cutting inmate sentences by almost fifty percent.