No Place Like Hell (7 page)

On the other hand, it looked like everyone had already gone home for the day. His senses found no souls working late in any of the nearby buildings. Once everyone was gone from Decker Industries, he could have a look around to see what Decker had been up to before he died. With luck, he'd find something to point him towards Holmes.

He took a noisy pull on the straw of his Coke cup, sucking up the last of the melting ice. The Oracle had been right about the dehydration. Too bad the rest of what he'd said was gibberish. Goats! Why had he been so frightened of a middle-aged, overweight shopkeeper?

The soul of a woman paced around the sixth floor. Two male souls were coming down in the building's elevator. The men came into view at a side door and walked to the cop car. They lugged double-stacked file boxes, which they put in the trunk before they pulled away.

Carbuncles and covens!
The pigs were already carting away all of Decker's valuable information? Now how would he track down Holmes?

A beat-up green Dodge Dart coupe sat alone in the parking lot. The woman who remained in the building wasn't a cop then. Decker's secretary?

Kasker tossed his empty cup in the gutter and trotted to the Dart. The woman was coming down in the elevator. He fished a penknife from his jeans, unscrewed the valve cap on a rear tire, and let the air out. He hurried from the lot to the doorway of the next building.

Her high heels clicked across the hot asphalt. A blonde beehive topped her head. Her white cotton blouse stretched tight across her buxom breasts and plump torso. A wide floral print skirt swirled around heavy legs. She carried a huge white purse, large enough to hold a week's shopping, slung on her shoulder.

Kasker waited.

She got in her car, backed from her place, and gunned toward the exit. For a minute, Kasker thought she might drive home without noticing the flat.

At the exit, she stopped, got out, walked to the rear of the car. She smacked a fist on the rear panel above the deflated tire. Her tirade of cussing carried to him through the hot air.

He wiped the smile from his face, stepped out of the doorway, and sauntered down the street until he reached her. Close up, she had a plain face, buck teeth, and way too much blue eye shadow. She gave him a ferocious glare, hands on ample hips. He looked at the flat.

"Man, that sucks," he said.

"Tell me about it. First my boss, then the cops. Now this."

Kasker ambled closer. "I could change that for you."

She twisted toward him, and her eyebrows rose. "You'd do that?"

He shaded his eyes and peered at the sun dropping slowly behind Decker Industries.

"Bitchin' hot out here. Why don't we get a drink somewhere and come back when it's cooler? You look like you could use one. My car's just around the corner."

"I don't generally get in cars with men I don't know," she said, eyes full of suspicion.

"Kasker Sleeth." He held out a hand. "We're neighbors. I work next door."

She reluctantly took his hand and glanced over his shoulder to the building he'd come from. When her attention returned to him, her eyes swept him up and down.

"Susan Brown. Friends call me Susie."

Kasker smiled and took her elbow. "What's this about your boss and the cops, Susie?"

"The bastard got himself killed." She sucked in a squeaky breath. "Sorry. I shouldn't speak ill of the dead."

"It's cool. The guy musta been a real spaz to get you riled up so bad."

She ranted all the way to the car, about how Decker was a miser and wouldn't pay her a living wage, how he made lewd remarks and ogled her, how he gave her ridiculous tasks to complete on impossible deadlines.

Kasker tore his eyes from her generous breasts, which had already caused the first stirring in the flesh. On the way to the bar, he tried to turn the conversation to Decker's business, but each time he did, she changed the subject. She must have some moral objection to spilling her boss's secrets even though he was a lecher and dead.

Two beers later, she admitted she'd had sex with Decker. She'd done it because she thought he was about to fire her. What had it gotten her? She had no job now. Kasker consoled her with an arm around her shoulders and comments about how Decker was a jerk.

He wanted to touch more than her shoulders but practiced restraint while chafing at the passing time. If he spooked her, he'd get no information. There must be a way to speed up her seduction. The hippie girls he screwed were so much more willing. But Susie seemed inhibited.

"You know, I've always wanted a family," he said. "I thought I'd found the perfect woman. We were high school sweethearts. Then, while I was in 'Nam, she sent me a Dear John letter."

He cleared his throat and brushed a hand over his eyes. Her lips parted, and she put a hand on his thigh. He congratulated himself on a smart move.

"Kasker, that's horrible! How could she do that to someone as gentle and considerate as you?"

"I've been so lonely. I thought I'd be married by now, with my first child in my arms." He tucked his chin, cleared his throat again, and looked around as though embarrassed to have made this admission in such a public place. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be prattling on to you about my problems. Not with the kind of day you've had. It's just—well, I miss having someone to hold."

She pushed a stray strand of his hair away from his face. "It's too noisy here. Why don't you come back to my place? We can talk over a glass of wine."

11

Between the shoplifter, a kid spray painting graffiti on a train trestle, and a drunk urinating in public, we had no time to check the bars, restaurants, and theaters near Tad's car. They were all locked up tight when our shift ended. Our relief had rolled onto the streets, our co-workers had headed home, and the station was dead quiet.

Days like this left me frustrated and empty. I'd joined the force to catch bad guys, to protect citizens from mayhem and murder, rapists and robbers. Instead, I spent my time swimming against an endless tide of drunks and delinquents, paperwork and sexist attitudes that left me disappointed in my fellow man.

I dropped our final report in the night-shift basket and trailed Dave to the back stairs. Our path took us by the incident room. The door stood ajar, the lights off. I ached to peek inside.

"What should I tell Cindy? You coming to dinner tonight?"

We trotted down together. I'd been so absorbed with my lunch date that I'd forgotten Dave's invitation to join him at the christening party for his sister's baby. Too late to come up with an excuse.

"Okay, but only if you promise Cindy didn't arrange a blind date for me."

"Would I do that? Let Cindy set you up, I mean." Dave grinned and opened the station door.

My ache for a peek at the incident room blossomed into an itch I had to scratch. I had to know about the Slasher case.

"Damn! Left my keys upstairs," I said. "You go ahead."

Dave waved his goodbye as he pushed out. I waited for the door to slam and took the stairs two at a time.

The hallway was empty. I placed my hand on the door and stopped. I shouldn't go in. This wasn't my case. I stepped back. If I got caught inside, I'd be kicked off the force.

But the murder pulled at me. I was the first to discover the body. I'd seen Sleeth. I knew what he was capable of. Someone had to stop him before he did it again, and it wouldn't be Lt. Mack.

Besides, I needed a way to show the higher-ups what a woman could do. Given Lenny Greene's attitude, I'd have to do something spectacular to overcome his objections to female officers. Busting a brutal killer was just the ticket, something that couldn't be ignored.

I slipped into the incident room, closed the door, and switched on the light.

The place looked like a bomb went off. A mobile blackboard at the far end had photos taped to it, with illegible scrawls between them. Six desks were littered with file folders, empty coffee cups, and overflowing ashtrays. The place reeked of cigarettes and the moldy remains of sandwiches tossed in the trash.

I walked to the blackboard. No need to look at the crime scene photos. I saw the bookstore every time I closed my eyes. There was a picture of Decker pre-slice-and-dice: dark hair going prematurely gray at the temples, low forehead, flat cheekbones, bulbous nose, staring eyes. He didn't look much better alive than dead.

Sleeth's photo was taped below Decker's. It looked like some movie studio publicity shot. Jeez, didn't he ever have a bad hair day? The scrawl beside it read
Suspect.

So they were still interested in him. Knowing that went some distance toward restoring my faith in the Solaris Homicide department. But they were moving too slowly. Every moment he walked the streets increased the chance he'd kill again.

To the left of Sleeth's photo was a picture of Solaris' mob boss, Seve Calderon. What was his picture doing on the board? Vice and Narcotics were both after him. As an equal opportunity employer, he was the first to hire across racial lines and recruited the worst from the Los Angeles gangs. No one knew how he got them to work together without going at it chain and switchblade.

Someone had drawn an arrow from Calderon's picture to Decker's and written
Doing business
. Another arrow connected Sleeth and Calderon. The label on it read
Associates.

"Associates?" I breathed. Was Sleeth Calderon's hit man? I wanted details.

I turned to the file folders on the desk. A bit of pawing netted me Sleeth's jacket. He was a California native, born and raised in Solaris in a middle-class family. He'd enrolled at UCLA, probably to avoid the draft. By his sophomore year, his grades were in the crapper even though he was an acting major. Acting. With his looks, how hard could it be?

He'd gotten in hot water for a drugs-related incident on campus, and UCLA had given him the boot. He'd held a number of menial jobs since, none for more than a month or two, and mooched off friends for a place to live.

By all accounts, he spent any money he earned on drugs. He'd been picked up a couple of times for possession or drunk and disorderly, but he always talked his way out of charges.

Three months ago, everything changed. He'd moved into a swank apartment building and registered that sweet little Mustang in his name. He still didn't have a job, but he wasn't short on cash. His only contact with law enforcement had been over complaints that he played his stereo too loud.

Noise complaints? No arrests for assault and battery? Not the description of a killer. More like a pantywaist.

I set his jacket aside and picked up Calderon's thick file. The mob boss was careful. Narcotics and Vice had followed him for a year without a result. Last month they got permission to tap his phones. They couldn't get a snitch inside his organization; everyone was too afraid of him.

The file included pictures of people who came and went from his restaurant, the Luna Azul. Decker had dropped by once. Sleeth hit the place weekly, mostly when the restaurant was closed. He never stayed long.

The fat jacket included a lengthy list of property owned by Calderon. He had his fingers in a lot of pies. Someone had circled the name and address of Sleeth's apartment building.

In my book, the evidence made Sleeth and Calderon more than associates. The mob boss was looking out for the hippie punk. Hell, if I'd been running the investigation, Sleeth would be clapped in irons.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. I held my breath. If anyone found me in here, my career was done.

The clip-clop of feet continued past the incident room to the squad room. It must be a late-returning patrol unit. A hiss of relief escaped me. I'd wait until they left, and then I'd slip out.

The footsteps came back. They stopped outside the incident room door. My teeth clamped so tight I thought they'd break. The doorknob rattled. No time to hide. The door swung open.

"Dang it, Nicky, do you know what will happen if Mack catches you in here?"

Dave pushed the door closed behind him.

Escaping air whistled from me. "Jesus Christ, Dave, give me a heart attack."

I picked up Decker's file.

Dave snatched it from my hand and waved it in my face. "You want to get suspended?"

"I want to catch a killer." I picked up Sleeth's file and swapped it for Decker's. "Read this. Sleeth's in bed with Seve Calderon."

"I don't care if he's in bed with John, Paul, George, and Ringo all at the same time. You can't come in here and snoop." He put the folder on the desk.

I flipped open Decker's file. He had some Better Business Bureau complaints for delivering dodgy goods and three outstanding parking tickets. Otherwise, he wasn't any more crooked than most of the business owners in Solaris.

"Look at this," I told Dave. "Those clowns Stutzman and Arndt questioned Decker's secretary, and she refused to cooperate. No surprise there. They probably started the conversation by treating her like a ninny."

Dave snatched the file from my hands and slapped it on the pile tottering on the desk. "Don't talk about your fellow officers that way."