Sullivan's Justice (35 page)

Neil stared at her, his face twisted in misery. His sister embraced him, then helped him to his feet.

“It’s okay now,” she said, placing her arm around his waist as they headed back to the parking lot. “Where did you get the gun?”

“At a pawnshop.”

“When?”

“Today.”

Now that Carolyn knew their father had killed himself, and after tonight, there was no doubt that Neil needed psychiatric treatment. But she couldn’t commit him against his will. If she did, when he got out, he might try to kill himself again. Eventually he would be successful. Maybe in the next few days she could talk to him, convince him that a short stint in a decent hospital would be better than the county jail. Then if the state followed through and prosecuted him, he could plead not guilty by reason of insanity.

Leaving the door open, Carolyn got in her car and called Melody, asking if Neil could stay with her for a few days. Until the warrant was issued, she couldn’t be charged with aiding and abetting a criminal. Carolyn had promised Hank she would bring Neil in, but her brother’s life was more important.

“I’m not in the greatest shape for company,” Melody said. “He can crash here, though. What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

Carolyn said they would explain everything when they got to her place. When she saw Neil getting into Paul’s BMW, she rushed over and angrily pounded on the glass. “Get out of the car.”

“I’m not going to leave Paul’s car here,” he protested, hitting the button for the automatic window. “Someone might steal it.”

“Follow me,” she said, too drained to argue. As long as he didn’t have the gun, she felt she could let him drive. Carolyn decided Melody owed her a few favors. Even if it had been important for her to see the sex video, which she wasn’t certain was true, sending it to her on Christmas Day had been cruel. “I’ll meet you at Melody’s place in Brentwood,” she told Neil. “If I don’t see your headlights in my rearview mirror, I’ll call the police, understand? What’s it going to be, Neil? Melody’s house or jail?”

Neil rolled up the window, waiting until his sister backed the Infiniti out of the parking lot, then pulled up behind her.

 

 

 

 

 

M
ary Stevens sat at her desk in the middle of the investigation unit. Taped to the board next to her was a picture of her father in full uniform at his graduation from the police academy. There was one of her bulldog, Hitchcock. She could smell the fresh coffee brewing in her personal coffeemaker. The chatting in the break room was too time consuming.

Lieutenant Commander Jordan Goodwin was in town for his wife’s funeral and could be reached on his cell phone. The navy had already confirmed he was at sea at the time of the crime, so he was officially no longer a suspect.

“I need to ask you some questions,” Mary said. “If this isn’t a good time, I understand.”

“I’ll do anything I can to help you find out who did this,” he said, his voice deep and authoritative. “I loved my wife very much. I was hoping we could patch things up when I came home on leave this time.”

Mary’s goal was to confirm Stanley Caplin’s statements about Laurel’s young lover. “You say you wanted to work things out with your wife,” she said. “What started the problems between you two? Why was it so hard to mend the relationship?”

“She was cheating on me with one of her former students,” he explained, his deep voice laced with tension. “I guess she got restless because I was traveling so much. Laurel was like the sea, constantly in motion. She wasn’t good with downtime.”

“Who would have wanted to kill her?”

“There’s no question in my mind . . . Ashton Sabatino.”

“What do you know about this person?”

“He’s the kid she was sleeping with,” he snapped. “This guy was a drug dealer. He stole both my wife’s mind and body from me.”

His statement corresponded with what she had learned earlier. As soon as she’d arrived at the office that morning, Mary did a search through the criminal database for Ashton Sabatino, discovering several arrests for possession, one of them for cocaine. Manny Gonzales said his intelligence sources described the boy as a low-level dealer, and he provided her with Sabatino’s most recent address. She turned her attention back to the young officer. “Did you see a change in your wife?”

“Yes,” he said. “In the old days when I would return from a long stint at sea, Laurel would be waiting for me with open arms. I knew something was wrong when I came home and she was gone. Our house looked like a category-five hurricane had swept through it.” He paused and then resumed speaking. “I couldn’t stand seeing our life fall apart like that without an explanation. I hired one of those fancy private investigators to follow her. When I saw the snapshots of Laurel with Sabatino, it was one of the worst days of my life. I loved her. I really loved her. Please catch this murdering bastard and put him behind bars.”

“My condolences for your loss,” Mary said, “but why do you think Ashton Sabatino killed her?” Vernon Edgewell came up behind her, trying to swipe a cup of coffee. She swatted him away.

“Sabatino must have been insanely jealous,” Goodwin said. “Once Laurel started seeing that artist, the guy went nuts. He even came to my house and spray-painted the exterior with obscenities. One said, ‘Die Bitch.’ Laurel had already moved back in with her parents. I didn’t say anything because I thought the guy was just an immature prick. I mean, people who write graffiti on walls are a nuisance, but it’s hard to see them as dangerous. Now if he’d riddled the house with bullets, that would be something to worry about. He was a kid, you know. That’s how I saw him . . . just a snot-nosed kid.”

“Are you aware another woman was killed only a few blocks away from the house where Laurel died? We have reason to believe the two murders may be connected.”

“Hey,” he said, “I don’t know what to tell you about that. Sabatino has the hots for older women. Maybe he was dealing drugs to this woman and screwing her like he did my wife. He could be the serial killer they’ve been writing about in the papers. Kids his age think life’s like it is on TV and in the movies. Those Hollywood people think it’s not enough to have one murderer these days, it’s always a serial killer. Are those kind of maniacs really that common?”

“No,” Mary said, having noticed the same phenomena in the entertainment industry. Violence had become like a drug, and the public had developed a tolerance for it. The only way to keep their attention was to ratchet it up several more levels. They could watch murders play out on television. Hollywood had turned serial killers into stars. As long as they sold tickets, nothing would change. “In reality, Commander Goodwin,” she said, “serial killers are extremely rare. That doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Can we contact you at this number if we need to ask you more questions? How long will you be home on leave?”

“Two months,” he said, choking up. “This afternoon I’m burying my wife, Detective. After that, feel free to call me anytime you wish.”

Mary dialed Hank’s number and got his voice mail. After the beep, she said, “I’ve got an address on Ashton Sabatino. I’m heading over there now. Guess where he’s living? Ocean View Estates. This might be our man, Hank. Call me and I’ll give you the details.”

The unmarked car sped toward the address Manny Gonzales had given her. She’d checked the county recorder’s office and discovered that the house was owned by Arthur and Constance Sabatino, presumably the boy’s parents. When she arrived, she saw a guest house in the rear of the property and wondered if that’s where he stayed.

She approached the front door cautiously and knocked. Hearing a sound of scraping feet on the pavement, she turned to her right and saw a figure running toward the street. Adrenaline flushed through her body as her muscles responded with a burst of speed.

Looking over his shoulder at the person giving chase caused the fleeing man to miss a step. At that moment, Mary dived. She grabbed his legs, sending him tumbling to the ground. She rolled aside, pulling out her service weapon and training it on the suspect. Looking down into the eyes of a young man, she saw that his pupils were dilated and she suspected he was planning to run again.

“Don’t get any ideas, Ashton,” she said. “Turn around and lay flat on the ground.” As soon as he was facedown on the pavement, she shouted, “Put your hands behind your head.” She planted her shoe in the middle of his back. Multiple clicks of the handcuffs were heard as she adjusted them to fit his wrists.

“You’re hurting me,” Sabatino whined.

“Don’t be a baby,” she responded, pulling her cell phone out and calling for backup.

“I didn’t do anything!” the boy yelled.

“We’ll have to see about that,” Mary said. “I’ve been doing this long enough to know when someone runs, they’re running for a reason. What are you running from, Ashton?”

“Nothing,” he said, looking away. “I just don’t like people sneaking around my parents’ house.”

“Are you sure you don’t have something to hide?”

“No, damn it,” he snarled. “Get off me.”

The police car screeched to a halt at the curb, angled sideways in the middle of the residential street. The officers emerged with guns drawn. “You okay, Stevens?”

“I’m good. Thanks, Perna. Is that Briggs with you?” She reached down and grabbed the handcuffs, then jerked the boy to his feet. The officers patted him down, searching for weapons. When they reached in his front pocket, they found a plastic bag filled with white powder.

“Yo, Mary,” Briggs announced, holding up the suspicious substance. “Looks like your boy liked to party.”

“Nothing to hide, huh,” the detective said with sarcasm, waving the bag inches from his nose.

“Shit . . . this is bullshit.”

“Anything else we should know about, Ashton?”

“No,” he said in a firm tone. “One of your goons planted that stuff on me.”

“Keys,” the officer said. “Other than the Baggie, that’s all we found on his person.”

“Let me see them,” Mary asked. Briggs handed them over. The first thing she noticed was the leather key fob, which displayed the Yamaha emblem. Attached to it was what appeared to be a motorcycle key.

 

 

Mary sat in her cubicle, anxiously waiting for Hank. He was going to join her as soon as he could break free from a phone call. She could see how Laurel Goodwin could have been seduced by Sabatino. He was a striking young man. His hair was a spiky-dusty brown with lighter highlights on top. He stood about six feet tall and had strong facial features.

As Jordan Goodwin had told her, Sabatino was trouble. After his most recent arrest, he’d been placed on probation. Being in possession of a controlled substance violated the terms of his probation. This meant they could keep him locked up until the present offense was adjudicated, which would give the DA time to build a case against him for the murders of Suzanne Porter and Laurel Goodwin.

“What you got, Mary?” Hank asked, strolling into the detective bay.

“Possibly our murderer,” Mary said, exhilarated. “Drugs in his possession, Yamaha in the garage, and a former lover of Laurel Goodwin. Also, he lives in Ocean View Estates, where Porter and Goodwin were murdered. Looks like we might put these two homicides to bed before New Year’s Eve, Sarge. Then we’d really have something to celebrate.”

“Nothing’s that easy,” he told her, picking up Sabatino’s file from her desk.

“I know, but this is the closest we’ve been,” she said. “Can’t I enjoy the possibility before you shoot me down? I even got in a foot pursuit with the little shit.”

“Interesting,” Hank said, ignoring her comment as he reviewed the file. “He has a record . . . a drug-related record. Did you tell the lab to compare the substance found in Sabatino’s possession against the drugs in the syringe used to kill the Goodwin woman?”

“All over it,” Mary said, kicking off her heels and staring at a blister on her right toe. “I’m going to wear tennis shoes from now on. I thought when I graduated to homicide, I wouldn’t have to chase these guys anymore. Anyway, trace elements of strychnine would cut Sabatino’s career as a killer short, don’t you think?”

“We’ll know more when we have the lab reports,” Hank told her, placing the file back on her desk. “With these new developments, I’m not sure we can justify filing against Neil Sullivan.”

“That should make Carolyn’s day.”

“I’m going to call her,” he said. “I need her to put forth her best effort this afternoon. She’s going to interview Moreno again at four-thirty in the jail. We’re erecting a prefabricated room and bringing in the SWAT team.”

Mary’s jaw dropped. “Jesus, Hank, why are you messing with that guy again? I mean, especially when it looks like we’ve got our man. Moreno was in jail when Porter and Goodwin were killed. How could he possibly have been involved?”

The detective rubbed his fingers over his chin. “This address thing is driving me crazy, Mary. I don’t care what Kevin Thomas says, it’s too big a coincidence that every person who’s been murdered in this city in the past two months has had the numbers ‘1003’ and the word ‘Sea’ in their address.”

“You’re the boss,” Mary said, turning to her computer to start writing her arrest report on Sabatino.

“Oh,” Hank said before leaving, “I have to go to the mayor’s monthly luncheon. Call me on my cell, but only if it’s an emergency. Otherwise, I’ll see you at the jail at four-thirty for the interview with Moreno.”

 

 

 

 

 

M
elody had awakened with Neil beside her. It would have been great if she’d been sober and he hadn’t been teetering on the edge of sanity. After a cold shower and a pot of coffee, she’d played psychologist, lover, and co-conspirator, nothing she hadn’t done before.