MOSAICS: A Thriller (2 page)

The next page offered m
ore photos of the victim sprawled on her back in a red tube dress. No gunshot or defense wounds, no slashes across her body, no blood pooling on the floor—just the eerie mask of her non-face. A close-up of the back of her head showed the area where the killer had carved a flap of skin and hair—a four-inch long triangle cut out of her scalp. I wondered about the possible meaning of removing scalp from the victim—I’d never seen it before.

A black, U-shaped indentation scarred the neck from side to side
. A ruler held next to it marked the distance from the jaw.

Except
for Satish sitting at the desk across from mine, the squad room was deserted. All its old smells were still there, though—mold, rust, a banana peel left in one of the trashcans to rot, the infectious odor of old office furniture.

It was late June
, and the Glass House—the old LAPD headquarters—was already a boiling cauldron. The building was so old the AC had become a historic relic that served a purely decorative function. Two fans swooshed quietly from the ceiling, pointlessly blowing hot air against the dusty Venetian blinds. Honking and gas exhaust from Los Angeles Street leaked from a window left ajar. And yet, as my eyes skimmed the crammed desks—some clean and tidy like Satish’s, others strewn with piles of blue murder books, crime scene sketches, and smiling pictures of spouses and children—I felt a little something tighten up in my throat.

A squad room is like a woman you’ve slept with too many times. The excitement is all gone, yet you always end up coming back.

I returned my attention to the murder book. The next photo showed the vic’s naked feet, a pair of black thigh-high stockings neatly folded next to the body. Nice lace garters, the kind you’d want to peel off a nice pair of legs. The killer left the stockings but took something else—skin, again, judging from the lesions at the base of the victim’s toes and down the sole of the foot: two wide incisions to remove a flap of skin, five millimeters deep according to the notes typed on the side, and several other small cuts all around. No apparent pattern. Failed attempts to make the proper incision? It seemed improbable. 

“
Was there anything missing? Belongings, clothing—”

Satish left his chair and came
over to lean against my desk. “None that we could tell. We did a walk-through with the victim’s mother, and she didn’t notice anything missing from the house. Except for the stockings, the victim was fully clothed. No apparent sexual activity in, out, or around. Whatever this loon had in mind, it wasn’t sexual.”

“What about the acid?”

Satish crossed his arms. “Acid is a powerful weapon and relatively easy to find. You can buy either the muriatic or the sulfuric kind at any hardware store. Sulfuric acid is found in lead-acid batteries, liquid drain openers, household cleaners, pool chemicals—the list goes on.”

I closed the murder book. The clean surface of my desk looked as desolate as an empty fridge on a Friday evening. I opened the first drawer and a small paperclip rattled inside—
a last remnant of my presence there. I picked it up and stuck it between my teeth. “Nobody’s claimed this spot yet?”

Satish smiled. “It’s
your
desk, Track. Besides, we’ll all be moving soon.”

I propped up my feet and grinned
. “It’s finally happening, huh? The new Parker Center, all shiny and sleek.”

They had promised us a new Police Administration Building for years, as the current one was outdated and didn’t even comply with seismic regulations. They finally approved the p
roject in 2006 and broke ground on First Street in 2007, right across from the City Hall. I hadn’t been inside yet, but old owls like Detective Oscar Guerra claimed it was as beautiful and new as a first wife. Since he’d been married five times, I figured he would know.

Satish cocked his head to the side. “How would you like to clutter
up one of those brand new desks, Track? You’ll even get your own overhead cabinet.”

“Nah, not for me. Got my PI license and everything. I’m the Glendale Philip Marlowe now. Lotsa perks. Gotta try Armenian food, Satish.”

I kept my grin up for as long as I could until it miserably dissolved under Satish’s hard stare. Who the hell was I lying to? I missed my job. Hell, I even missed
him
, my partner. I missed his old man’s stories he’d drop whenever I needed them the least, only to wake up the next morning slapping my forehead and thinking, “That’s what the hell it meant!”

Satish
wobbled his head, an Indian custom carved on African American features. He looked thinner than I remembered, his temples whiter. Other than that, he was just the same, his part Indian part African American heritage well mingled in his gestures and inflection. The bullet that skewered his right lung last fall had dented his reflexes, not his wordiness. I hated to admit, but my days felt empty without his stories.

“
We’re swimming in hot water again, Track.”

I made a face. “Sat. That Lazarus woman will be on trial, not the LAPD. This ain’t another Rampart. She
screwed up and she’s gonna pay for it.”

“That Lazarus
detective
, Track. A
seasoned
detective, one of our own. This ain’t another Rampart, and yet the names Javier Ovando and Suzie Peña are coming up all over again. People are throwing pitchforks at us. This is a test case.”

I shrugged, feigning indifference.

He tilted his head and stared at me. “Come on, Track. You know you want to nail the bastard. Look at what he did to her.”

I pushed the murder book away. “Not my problem.”

I dropped my feet to the floor and stood up. I adjusted the holster hooked on my waistband and for once felt cocky in my shorts and T-shirt. To hell with the LAPD monkey suits.

I patted my partner
on the shoulder and walked off.

I expected another couple of words. None came.

I slowed the pace.

He still said nothing.

Come on, was he giving up so easily? What happened to all the prep talks about us being the good guys, getting paid to play cops and robbers with real robbers, and making the world a safer place?

I got to the door, wrapped a hand around the jamb, and turned around. “Okay, Sat. What
aren’t you telling me now?”

He smiled, the Indian way, his profile outlined by a shaft of sun poking through the blinds. “Why, Track. I thought you’d never ask.”

He hopped off my desk, hooked his jacket over his shoulder and walked with me to the elevator lobby. “We think he tossed the acid while she was still alive this time. No sign of forced entry. He probably attacked her as she opened the door. Oh, and you’ll love what he left behind.”

“Did you say, ‘T
his time’?” I said as the elevator doors closed on us. “Was there
another
time?”

*  *  *

The sun was setting when Satish parked in the driveway of 453 Santa Fe Terrace. The first city lights blinked through the sunset, a loud Latino pop song poured down the valley.

I got out of the car and studied the neighborhood. Montecito Heights was an oasis of green rising above the expanse of suburban L.A. Purple jacaranda trees, frazzled palm tops, and red roofs speckled the wavy profile of the hills. The air was cool and it bore the scents of early
summer: wisteria, freshly mowed grass, and barbecues.

Across the street, still wounded from last spring’s heavy rains, the hillside
spilled over a row of shattered wood planks and into the curb. A dog barked in the distance. A pick-up truck rattled by, spilling out the fragment of an old rock-and-roll tune. All around, homes were nestled in the folds of the landscape, hidden by firs, oaks, and evergreens.

Blooming rosebushes crawl
ed along the yellow walls of Amy Liu’s house, a one-story ranch-style faced in red brick. A magnolia tree shaded its east side. Flanked by birds-of-paradise flowers, redwood stairs climbed up to the front door. It was all very peaceful and cozy, had it not been for the yellow crime scene tape crossing the garden gate. Satish lifted it and motioned toward the back of the house. “Let me show it to you now, before it gets too dark.”

The
backyard consisted of a nicely sized lawn hemmed in by a metal chain-link fence.

I donned a pair of gloves, smacking the latex against my wrist. “Any wits?”

“Only if you count the nine-one-one caller. Some joe who didn’t ID himself. He must’ve had some really good reason to be in her house at one a.m. and
not
be the killer.”

“Some killers are nice enough to call nine-one-one.”

Satish shrugged. “That’ll soften the prosecutor once we catch him.” He pointed to the patio, a square of gray paving stones set around a circular mosaic pattern. Concentric rows of blue and aquamarine tiles framed a red and yellow sun, its jagged rays cut out of stained glass. Satish pulled a transparent evidence bag out of his pocket, crouched, and dropped it next to the sun pattern.

“He left them by the body,” he said, tilting his chin
toward the bag.

I crouched opposite to him and emptied the content of the bag in my hand: four small glass tiles,
each half an inch in size. Except for the green one, the other three colors—red, orange and aquamarine—matched the ones in the sun pattern. Not the shapes, though. The tiles in my hand were regular squares, all identical. The sun mosaic instead was made of unevenly cut bits and pieces with jagged edges.

I aligned the squares in two rows, orange and green at the top, and red and aquamarine at the bottom. “That how you guys found them?”

Sat nodded. “They’re called tesserae. Square glass tiles used for decorations. Most common in patios, decorative benches, bistro tables, swimming pools—anything with a mosaic pattern. As you can see.”

“Maybe some kind of artist?”

Satish gave me a lopsided smile. “Crime’s an art, Track. I thought you’d come to appreciate that.”

“Yeah. And crime fighting is the shit that happens after that.”

Satish sighed, his smile gone. “No tiles missing here, and the shapes are all irregular. Turns out, they all come in squares. They’re cut on the spot as needed. Vic’s mom told us she had this done pretty recently—couple of months ago.”

I raised a brow. “Do we know by whom?”

“Katie’s been looking into that.”

I picked up the green tile, stood up, brought it to my nose.

Tesserae.

Aluminum dust was the first thing my nostrils detected
. The forensic team had left it, attempting to catch the faintest smudge of a fingerprint. Their effort had not been rewarded—the tiles were clean. There were other smells, mingled, vaguely sweet, and vaguely acidic, a distant memory of being sick, the foul taste of medicine in my mouth—

Satish squeezed my shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go take a look inside.”

We walked back to the front. Satish unlocked the door and pushed it open. It had a peephole.

She stares through
the hole, recognizes the face—familiar enough to feel safe. She opens the door. Does she smile, murmur a greeting? A moment of disbelief and then the agonizing pain, flesh burning off her face. She tries to scream, blinded, but acid is scorching her from the inside, seeping down her throat…

I waved away
the crime scene sketches Satish offered, stepped inside and inhaled.

The olfactory landscape changed abruptly. The plac
e was cold, the air stale. Summer evening smells gave way to ninhydrin and fingerprint powder. New scents enveloped me—alcohol, food, expensive perfumes—all fading, swallowed by the sting of death and abandonment.

I paced into the open-space area. Right off the foyer,
fluorescent cards had been taped to the floor to mark where the body—and the rug she’d been lying on—had been found. 

The kitchen was
straight ahead, with its lingering scent of fried foods and Asian spices, separated from the living area by a long, curving breakfast counter. The sink was cluttered with dirty dishes and trays, the counter crowded with cocktail glasses. A trash bin under the sink had been emptied.

“Dirty plastic cups and plates from the party,” Satish said. “Trace Unit tested everything. Plenty of DNA and fingerprints—enough work for a year. All prints analyzed so far go back to either the victim or her guests. No extraneous set
s found.”

I opened the fridge,
took a peek inside, inhaled, closed it back. “How many people?”

“Six, all co-workers from UTech. Last ones to leave the scene swear she was alive and well when they drove off.”

I smelled the cabinet doors and knobs. “Do we have statements from all of them?”

“We do
. A few agreed to be polygraphed, too.”

“And
I bet all the polys were inconclusive.” I’ve never been fond of polygraphs. I trust my nose better. “You said the other one—the man found in Silver Lake—he’d been strangled first,
then
scarred with acid?”