City of Fire (22 page)

Once he blocked out the user names, he moved the cursor to the menu at the top of the screen and clicked on the word
CREATE
, then
ACCOUNT
. A new window appeared on the monitor and another spreadsheet opened. Lena moved in for a closer look. Beside the time was a name and an address for every user name highlighted on the log. As her eyes rolled down the list, she recognized three names and gave Novak a quick nudge. Then she checked the duration of their stay recorded in the last two columns of the spreadsheet. None of the three had spent more than fifteen minutes at the site and probably had no relevance to the case. Still, seeing them listed as members of Burell’s porno site was enough to give her pause.

They were lifelong members of the holier-than-thou club. A senator from Pennsylvania. A radio talk-show host who talked about morality from his front-row seat somewhere to the right of Neptune. And that weird guy on God TV who
thought he was Jesus and dispensed miracles to the little people if they sent him big enough checks.

The Holy Trinity.

She shook it off. “The list is bigger than your screen,” she said. “Can you sort it by city and state?”

“Of course I can. I wrote the fucking program.”

Within a few seconds, the list reappeared on the screen. As he paged down, Lena was surprised by how many members were from Asia and the Middle East. Burell stopped when he reached California. Of the fifty-seven names, only three were from the Pacific time zone. She found Los Angeles on the list, then compared the log-off time with the one she’d written down in her notebook that the Web provider had given them.

The times were an exact match and she read the name.

But it took a moment to register. It wasn’t a man’s name. It was a woman, and Lena copied the information into her notepad. According to the address, Avis Payton lived in Marina Del Rey.

THE carpet was threadbare, the grimy walls, in need of a double-coat paint job. Legging their way down the hall, they followed the muffled sound of a canned laugh track from a TV sitcom directly to Avis Payton’s front door. Novak tried the bell. When that didn’t work, he knocked with an open fist. A minute or two later the peephole darkened as someone pressed their eye to the lens.

“Who is it?”

“Police, Ms. Payton,” Novak said. “We’d like to have a word with you.”

“You got ID?”

Novak held his badge up to the peephole. After another long moment, they heard the dead bolt disengage and the door swung open to reveal Avis Payton dressed in a heavy pair of sweats.

“How’d you get into the building?”

“Someone was walking out,” Lena said.

“Well, it’s your lucky day,” Payton said. “Enter at your own risk. I’m only home from work because I’m sick and can’t hold my food down.”

Without asking why they were here, the young woman stepped away from the door and headed for the blanket on the couch. Lena followed Novak into the living room, noting the balcony and second-story view of the marina on the other side of the bike path.

Payton grabbed the remote and switched the TV off. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask you guys why you’re here. I’m really
out of it. I’ve got some kind of flu bug. Have a seat. If I’ve gotta make a run for the bathroom, I’ll let you know.”

From the background check they’d run on the way over, Lena knew Payton’s age and that she didn’t have a record. At a glance, the woman appeared innocent. From the way she spoke, educated. Her hair was short and tinted in an unnatural shade of red that bordered on metallic maroon. Her body was on the small side without being girlish. In spite of the black circles beneath her eyes, her face radiated a certain glow. But what struck Lena most about the woman was her composure. Most people were uncomfortable when the police showed up at their door. Avis Payton appeared relieved.

Why?

Lena looked about the apartment. It was a small one-bedroom, sparsely furnished but clean. As Lena turned, she saw Novak reach down for his pager and check the LCD screen.

“It’s Barrera,” he said. “I’ve gotta return the call.”

A security bar was attached to the slider. Novak released the device, slid the door open, and stepped out onto the balcony. When he flipped open his cell, Lena turned back to Payton.

“Have you missed much work?”

“I got sick over the weekend. Hopefully I’ll be okay by tomorrow. I’m an account rep for MBC advertising. We do print work for newspapers and magazines. Tuesdays are always a big day because we have to get ready for the Sunday papers. I’ll have to go in no matter what.”

“May I call you by your first name?”

“Sure.”

“Do you have a boyfriend, Avis?”

The woman flashed a crooked smile. “What’s this about?”

Lena didn’t really want to say. At least not for now. Not until she had a better feel for who the woman actually was.

“I’m just asking. It looks like you live alone.”

Payton seemed to relax, wrapping herself up in the blanket. “I haven’t seen anyone since I moved to California.”

“How long ago was that?”

“It’s kind of embarrassing.”

“I’m okay with embarrassing,” Lena said.

Payton smiled again, then lowered her voice. “It’s been more than a year.”

She turned toward the balcony. Lena followed her gaze over to Novak. He was staring at the boats lashed to the docks and tapping his foot as if someone had put him on hold. When Payton began fidgeting on the couch, Lena thought she might lose the woman’s goodwill and decided to keep going on her own.

“We stopped by because we’re investigating an unrelated crime and your credit card number came up.”

“Is that what this is about? But that was almost a month ago.”

The woman’s face burgeoned with surprise, but more of that free-flowing relief as well. Lena nodded slowly, disappointed that what had looked like a fertile lead was falling apart.

“What happened a month ago?”

“My purse was stolen. I left it in the car when I ran into the post office. I was only gone for maybe a minute or two. When I got back, it was gone.”

Something crossed the woman’s mind and she got off the couch, heading for the pile of mail on the dining room table. As she sifted through the envelopes, Lena sized her up. Payton was going out of her way to please them. Her easy manner stood out.

“What’s your father do?” Lena finally asked.

Payton smiled and her eyes got big. “He’s a cop. Salt Lake City, Utah.”

It had been obvious. Out in the open all along. She was comfortable around cops because she’d grown up with one.

Payton returned to the couch clutching an envelope, then passed it over. “And he keeps calling me. He wants to know if I’m ever moving back. Go head and open it. The account should’ve been closed.”

Lena checked the return address from the bank, tore open
the envelope, and read the statement. The account had been closed two weeks ago. A charge of $19.95 from Charles Burell Enterprises had been included, then credited to the account. Below the charge was a note indicating that a new card and account number would be issued sometime within the next ten days. Their lead was no longer a lead and had officially burned out. Avis Payton was not a suspect but the victim of a theft.

“Was there just the one charge?”

“I called the bank as soon as I realized what was missing. You seem disappointed. Is there a problem?”

Lena’s eyes moved back to the security bar on the slider. The device looked new and she was glad that it was there.

“Was your license in your purse?” she asked.

Payton nodded, acknowledging the balcony and that whoever stole her wallet knew where she lived. Her voice became more subdued. “I’ll be okay. I haven’t told my dad about it because all I’d hear is I told you so. Either that or he’d do something stupid.”

“He worries about you living here.”

“And he’s real good at it. That’s why I haven’t said anything. He’d go crazy.”

“Then you never filed a report?”

She shook her head. “There was only fifteen dollars in my wallet. It didn’t seem worth it.”

Although Payton’s story seemed righteous, Lena wrote down the account number so that she could verify it with the bank. Setting the statement on the coffee table, she glanced at Payton as she thought it over. She didn’t feel the need to tell Payton who they thought had been using her credit card. It had been a month since the theft. Nothing had happened thus far, and their suspicions would only terrify the young woman. Instead, Lena decided to make a call from the car and bring Pacific Division up to speed on the case. Patrols would be stepped up, the building and neighborhood watched more carefully.

“We’ve gotta go,” Novak said.

Lena looked up. Her partner had been standing in the
doorway watching them. His cell phone was back on his belt beside his badge. From the look on his face, he’d heard enough of the conversation and was anxious to leave.

Lena left a business card on the table and they let themselves out. But once the front door closed, Novak started rushing for the stairway down to the lobby. When he turned back, his eyes sparkled with excitement.

“The science is in,” he said. “We got a hit.”

THE press conference couldn’t be avoided because an innocent man was about to be released from Men’s Central Jail.

The preliminary DNA results proved that the seminal fluid found inside Teresa Lopez’s body matched the samples found inside Nikki Brant, on the sheet between her legs, and on the floor of the Brants’ den. Romeo had raped and murdered both women, and Jose Lopez and James Brant were clear.

The new chief was standing at the mike with Deputy Chief Albert Ramsey, fielding questions from an energized press core who wanted to know why Lopez confessed to a crime he couldn’t possibly have committed. Even though Lena was forced to attend the press conference and stood behind the podium with the rest of the team, she couldn’t help but admire the new chief for his ability to take a punch and remain unfazed.

What the press was implying seemed obvious. But when a reporter from Channel 2 finally got the nod, the question was out in the open.

Did LAPD detectives beat a false confession out of Jose Lopez?

Lena looked through the bright camera lights into the audience as the chief took a moment to consider the question. She couldn’t find DDA Roy Wemer or Lopez’s attorney, but a beaming Buddy Paladino was sitting in the last row flashing those teeth.

“I’m not sure how much you know about modern methods
of interrogation,” the chief was saying to the reporter. “But what you’re alluding to isn’t in our playbook for many reasons, the first being that it doesn’t work. No one from this department ever touched Jose Lopez. Mr. Lopez confessed to his wife’s homicide of his own free will. I’d say that’s a question you might ask Mr. Lopez when he’s released. If I were a reporter, I’d give his attorney a chance to answer the question, too. He was in the room with both detectives when his client confessed.”

Lena wondered if the chief would mention what she’d heard an hour ago on the bureau floor. That despite the evidence clearing Lopez, the man had barricaded himself in his cell, refusing to come out and shouting that he couldn’t live without his wife, Teresa, even if she was a no-good whore. Lopez wanted a guilty verdict and the needle to kill the pain. Or even worse, it sounded as if he wanted to end it all tonight by baiting a guard into pulling the trigger.

She waited for the chief to mention it, but he never did. Instead, he spoke about the role forensic science played in uncovering the man’s innocence and moved on. When he was asked to describe how Nikki Brant was murdered, he told the reporter that the investigation was less than a week old and left every detail out except for the DNA report linking the two crimes.

The give-and-take went on for another ten minutes before the chief finally walked off. Then Lena followed Novak through the crowd, ignoring stray questions thrown their way, until they reached the elevator behind Sanchez and Rhodes.

Novak glanced at his watch and turned to Sanchez. “How’d you make out on the computer?”

“You wanted every sexual assault from sixteen on up. I’m just getting started.”