City of Fire (5 page)

She looked back at the shelves, scanning the titles with surprise when she didn’t find a single work of fiction. At eye level every book was about business. At knee level the subject switched to art.

“We’re ready, Lena,” Novak said in low voice.

She turned to the door. He was entering the foyer with Rhodes. Lamar followed them in, along with Ed Gainer, an investigator from the coroner’s office Lena had met several times. Their preliminary sweep would remain small.

“Let’s do it,” Rhodes said.

They started down the hall. They moved slowly, without words, the only sound coming from the hardwood floor creaking beneath their feet. Closet doors and a laundry room filled out the left wall. They passed a bathroom on the right, halfway down, and didn’t stop until they reached the door at the end. The reason the case had been bumped up to them.

Rhodes gave her a look. She saw the deputy coroner flinch and thought she heard Lamar whisper, “Oh, shit.” She gritted her teeth and peered into the room.

The curtains were drawn, the handles tapping in the breeze. It took a moment for her to realize that the walls had once been painted white. That she wasn’t standing in a slaughter-house at the edge of civilization, but in someone’s home on a quiet street. She took a deep breath and exhaled. There was more blood than she had ever seen. The spatter fanned out from the middle of the room, blowing against the walls, dusting the vaulted ceiling, and splashing across the floor. Yet in the center of the room, the eye of the storm, there was a certain peace. A small body, seemingly at rest, was carefully posed beneath a clean white bedspread.

It wasn’t a murder room, she thought. It was a death chamber.

Lena’s eyes cut through the darkness, searching out the victim’s face. When she couldn’t find it, she realized that the young woman’s head was wrapped in a plastic grocery bag.

“Watch the steps,” Rhodes whispered under his breath.

Lena glanced down at her feet. Like the living room, the bedroom was three steps below the rest of the house. As she followed the crime scene tape, she wondered how Rhodes had managed to find a clean path to the body. The task seemed impossible, but somehow he had.

She needed a moment to collect herself. When the blue-shaded room lit up in a quick succession of white flashes, she stepped out of Lamar’s way and joined Novak and Rhodes at the foot of the bed. She noticed a photograph set beside the clock radio on the dresser. She glanced at the picture without touching the silver frame. Nikki and James Brant were sitting in a field of grass with their arms around each other. They seemed so innocent, so happy. Lost in their dreams and ready to face a future together that didn’t include this.

Lena shook it off and moved to the open window, parting the curtains and checking the floor and sill for blood. Next to the body itself, she knew the point of entry was the most likely place to find blood. She didn’t see any and wondered if the open window was in play. Moving closer, she drew fresh air into her lungs and studied the backyard. The fog had become more dense, lingering beneath the roofline and settling onto the ground. Still, she could make out the faint outline of a tennis court on the other side of the fence and knew that she was looking at Rustic Canyon Park.

She turned back to Lamar, watching him cover the body in wide shots and close-ups. After burning through a roll of film, he pulled the camera away from his eye and gave her a look. The department had upgraded to digital cameras a few years back but still relied on film to record crime scenes.

“Let’s pull the covers,” Novak said in a low voice.

Lena stepped out of the safe zone and worked her way around the spatter to the far side of the bed.

“I’m going to pull the spread off first,” she said. “There might be something underneath.”

Novak agreed. “Nice and slow,” he said.

She gripped the spread with both hands and pulled it away to reveal a white blanket. Two plumes of blood had risen from the body and were oozing through the fabric like
lamp oil working its way through a wick toward the flame. As Lamar popped in another roll of film and documented the bloodstains, Lena pointed to Nikki Brant’s neck, which had become more visible now. The plastic bag hadn’t been draped over the woman’s head, but was wrapped around her neck and carefully tied into a bow.

Lamar zeroed in on the knot from the other side of the bed. Lena looked back at the bag, trying to decipher the print through the spatter with the hope of identifying the grocery store. When she leaned in for a closer look, she flinched. She could see the young woman’s face through the opaque plastic. Every time Lamar’s camera flashed, the image became clearer and more eerie. Nikki Brant’s eyes were open. And it looked as if she were staring back at Lena through the smoky plastic—as if for a split second their eyes met.

An ice-cold chill ran up Lena’s spine. She took a deep breath.

Lamar lowered his camera. “Got it, Lena,” he said.

She nodded, ignoring the horror and struggling to keep it buried. Gripping the blanket, she pulled it away, carefully folding it over without touching the bedspread. The small body was beginning to take shape beneath the covers now, the two bloodstains more pronounced. When she noticed an extra blanket pushed against the foot of the bed, she pointed it out to Lamar. Once the image was recorded, she gripped the top sheet with both hands and peeled the final layer away to reveal Nikki Brant’s dead body.

A stillness permeated the room. No one moved or said anything for several moments as the weight of the horror nipped and pulled at them.

Dwarfed by the size of the bed, Nikki Brant looked like a child.

She was lying on her back with her legs spread open. Her hands had been placed beside her hips and, like her head, bound in plastic and tied around her wrists. Her body was soft and curvy. Her breasts small and round and tattooed with bruises. Semen stains dotted the sheet between her legs and appeared wet but smeared. But it was the two stab wounds
that played with Lena’s soul. The first was just below the collarbone. A through and through that looked clean but unusually wide, almost as if she had been speared. The second wound looked more jagged, the knife ripping upward through her belly. Based on the heavy amount of blood loss and the condition of the room, Lena had no doubt that the young woman was alive through most of the ordeal.

“We need to think about what we’re seeing,” Rhodes said in a voice that was barely audible. “Whether we’re looking at things the way they really are, or the way someone wants us to think they are.”

“We’ll talk about that later,” Novak said.

Lena took a step closer, eyeing the wounds carefully. She had seen them once before, but never in this context.

“It’s called the juke,” she said. “I saw it working a dope deal with South L.A.”

“Gangs do it for the effect,” Novak said. “They think the brutality impresses their friends.”

Lena stepped away from the bed as Lamar moved in with his camera, her mind rattling through possible motives. Nothing she saw so far indicated a robbery. There wasn’t anything in the house worth stealing other than Nikki Brant.

Parting the curtains, she took another look at the park beyond the fence and wondered what the view would be like on a clear day. The view from a car parked in the lot at night. This was about anger, she thought. A six-pack of anger. Somebody overdosing on rage.

When she turned back to the room, Gainer had approached the bed and was examining the body. The sheet was still partially covering the young woman’s left foot, and he pulled it away, then jerked his hand up. No one said anything, eye-balling the foot and doing the math. Nikki Brant’s second toe was missing. Something had been taken from the house after all.

Gainer shrugged off the horror as best he could, his face pale, his eyes rising up the body until they reached the plastic bag over the victim’s head.

“I don’t think we should pull this thing,” he said. “Not
here anyway. There might be something inside worth preserving. What do you guys think?”

“We need a picture of her face,” Rhodes said. “A Polaroid to show the husband. And we’re gonna need a rape kit.”

“I understand,” Gainer said. “But if we pull the bag at the autopsy, we’ll have more control.”

Novak thought it over, his eyes on Gainer. “You got any idea how fast we can get her in?”

“We’re backed up two or three days, Hank. But under the circumstances, I’ll bet we could bump her to the top of the list. If you want, I’ll make sure it happens. We’ll schedule the cut for late this afternoon.”

Rhodes stepped across the safe zone to the other side of the bed. “What about slicing the bag open for the picture?”

Gainer nodded in agreement. “Seems like the way to go.”

“Then let’s do it,” Novak said.

Gainer pulled a razor-sharp scalpel from his kit and drew the blade down the center of the bag. As he pulled the plastic away from Nikki Brant’s face, everyone stepped closer.

“There’s moisture,” he whispered. “She was breathing when the bag went over her head. We need to get a shot of this before it dries.”

Gainer leaned out of the way to give Lamar room. After a Polaroid was taken, Lamar switched back to his Nikon, the camera eating up another roll of film. As the strobe light started flashing again, Lena stared at Nikki Brant’s face and tangled black hair. Even with her eyes open, her gaze just off-center and lost in a thousand-yard stare, Lena could tell that the victim had been a beautiful woman. Before last night anyway. There was a certain innocence about her. A certain something Lena couldn’t really put into words.

“Did anyone talk to the husband about notifying her family?” she asked.

Novak couldn’t meet her eyes right away. An awkward moment passed.

“She’s an orphan,” he finally said. “Other than us, he’s the only one she’s got.”

The room fell silent, lost in the metallic rhythm of the
camera’s motor drive. Lena knew that Novak had hesitated because she was an orphan, too. About the same age as Nikki Brant. As she turned back to the corpse, a deep feeling of loneliness welled up inside her, mixed with an overwhelming sense of compassion.

And then the room appeared to shake.

For a split second Lena thought it might be an earthquake. She felt her chest tighten. She saw Rhodes flinch. Novak reached for the wall and Gainer dropped his scalpel.

But it wasn’t an earthquake at all. It was music, blaring from the clock radio. Everyone turned toward the dresser and glared at the fucking thing.

Lena grabbed it, fumbling with the dials until she found the right switch. As the music bounced off the bloodstained walls and finally dissipated into the gloom, everyone turned back to the dead body with the severed toe and checked their watches. Their nerves.

The alarm had been set for 7:30 a.m. Time for Nikki Brant to wake up.

IT was part of the job, but that didn’t make it any easier. They needed to place the victim at the crime scene and ID the body. They needed James Brant to say that the picture of the corpse Lena held in her jacket pocket was his wife.

Brant leaned against the open car door, burying his head in his arms. Lena stood beside Novak facing Brant on the other side.

“Where’s Tito going?” Brant asked in a shaky voice.

“The Red Cross is here,” Lena said. “He’s getting you a cup of coffee.”

Brant looked up, his curly brown hair dusted with droplets of rain. Lena followed his gaze to Sanchez, strolling across the lawn toward a pickup truck parked in front of the next house. The Red Cross would provide food and drinks to the neighborhood until the street was reopened. And Sanchez would take his time bringing back the coffee. It had been a group decision. No one wanted to crowd Brant. Lena and Novak would make the identification with him on their own. Because of her easy manner, Lena would take the lead. Because of Novak’s trained eye and experience, he would observe.

“I want to go in,” Brant said to her. “I want to see Nikki. I need to hold her.”

“We’re sorry for your loss, Mr. Brant. But your house is a crime scene now. People are working. We’re trying to find out what happened.”

“I want to see her.” Brant’s voice rose from his gut as he lowered his head and stared at the pavement. He clenched
his fist, then punched the inside door panel and stood up. Lena suddenly realized why the books about business were at eye level and the art books filled out the lower shelves in the study. James Brant was well over six feet tall. His wife was easily a foot shorter and by any standard would have been considered petite. The books had been placed on the shelves as a matter of convenience.

“She’s all alone. I should be with her. She didn’t deserve this.”

“No, she didn’t,” Lena said. “And I agree with you that this is total bullshit.”

Whether it was the tone of her voice or the words she used, Brant turned from the house and looked straight at her. His eyes sharpened and the muscles in his face and neck began to twitch. In spite of his wrinkled suit, Lena could tell that Brant was powerfully built and wired tight as a drum. He had obviously been an athlete in school, probably football or soccer, and still worked out.