Sullivan's Justice (36 page)

He looked so innocent while he was sleeping on her pink Italian bed linens made by Claudio Rayes in Beverly Hills, surrounded by satin hand-embroidered floral pillowcases. That bed had a lot of mileage. She loved it. It was satisfying to see powerful men being forced to sleep under her white silk drapes in what was clearly a feminine setting.

“Neil, get up,” she said, poking his bare back. “Don’t expect to sleep all day like you do at your place. We’ve got things to do today.”

“All right, already,” Neil grumbled. “Cut me some slack.”

“Not while you’re in my house, understand?”

“Yes, master,” he said, his attitude turning playful. He reached up and pulled her back into the bed. “Why don’t you give me something to wake me up?”

“Down, boy, we’ll have time for that later,” Melody told him, picking his clothes off the chair and throwing them at him. “Get dressed, sleepyhead.”

The phone rang and Melody answered it. When she heard Carolyn’s voice, she handed the phone to Neil.

“Good news,” Carolyn told him. “The police arrested Ashton Sabatino. It looks like you’re off the hook.”

Neil sat up on the edge of the bed. “You’ve got to be kidding. That’s great.”

Melody dropped down beside him, whispering in his ear, “I’m going to put her on the speaker phone so I can hear.”

“Sure,” Neil told her, advising his sister that Melody would be listening. “Can you hear me, Carolyn?”

“Loud and clear.”

“But you told me the two murders were identical,” Neil said. “Why did Sabatino kill the other woman? It doesn’t make sense.”

“To trick the police into believing it was a serial killer,” his sister explained. “No one would suspect that a nineteen-year-old kid would murder two women. Looks like the underlying motive was narcotics. Did you know Laurel used drugs?”

“No,” Neil lied, having snorted lines with her. The fact that Laurel would occasionally get high with him was one of the things that had made her so desirable. Melody had a fit if he even brought drugs into her house. The night before, she’d made him choke down three glasses of a disgusting green concoction she’d made in the blender, swearing it would make him detox by morning. He’d gone to the bathroom six times, but he had to admit, he felt a hell of a lot better. “How did they put it together?”

“A neighbor at the Porter homicide witnessed a guy on a motorcycle around the time of the crime. The police went to talk to Sabatino and he fled on foot. When they caught him, they found a key to a Yamaha motorcycle in his pocket along with a Baggie filled with high-grade cocaine. As you know, Laurel was killed with a mixture of cocaine, heroin, strychnine, and some type of prescription medication. The police got a warrant this morning and searched Sabatino’s garage. They found a red-and-black Yamaha motorcycle that matched the witness’s description.”

Melody stood and paced. All she had to do was send the video of the Goodwin homicide to Detective Sawyer and the Sabatino kid would be toast. Then she and Neil could be together.

Neil asked, “Where did he get the strychnine?”

“At any hardware or garden store,” Melody interjected.

Carolyn continued, “And anyone in possession of cocaine can probably get their hands on heroin.”

“So what’s going to happen next?” Neil asked.

“Things have to run their course,” his sister told him. “You won’t be completely in the clear until Sabatino either confesses or the state convicts him. The police released the Ferrari this morning. I’d say that’s a good sign, wouldn’t you?”

“I guess,” Neil said, his face falling as he thought of the day that stretched before him. “Melody and I will pick up the car when we go to Ventura. She read in the paper that Laurel’s funeral is today. Tell Paul I’ll try to drop off his BMW tonight.”

“You shouldn’t go to the funeral, Neil,” Carolyn told him, agitated. “Just because Sabatino has been arrested doesn’t mean you won’t upset Laurel’s family if you show up. Her husband will be there as well. And after last night—”

Her brother cut her off. “I have a right to be there. I’ve known Laurel since high school. I want to pay my respects, okay. The service is being held at a church. I’m sure they’ll have a big turnout since Laurel was a local teacher. The family won’t even know I’m there.”

Melody walked over and draped her arm around Neil’s shoulder. He pulled her hand to his mouth and kissed it.

“Don’t worry, Carolyn,” Melody said. “I’ll wait for him in the car. He needs this for closure. Your brother is going to be back on his feet in no time. I’m taking him to the Chart House for lunch so he can get some decent food. Do you want to join us?”

“I’m sorry, I’ve got too much to do.”

After concluding the call, Melody brushed her hair and put on her makeup while Neil went down the hall to take a shower. After she dressed, she went to the kitchen to grab some breakfast. From the granite counter she picked up the piece of paper with the phone number to her father’s hotel. She hadn’t decided yet if she was going to call him. The paper felt strange in her hands, almost as if a part of him had been imprinted on it. Then she realized it was his handwriting. Unlike most doctors, it had always been so perfect. They no longer taught children to write that way. She remembered how she had tried to copy her father’s handwriting as a child. Seeing his disfigured hand had disturbed her, but it was his left, and he was right-handed.

Before the incident on the third floor of her home in Tuxedo Park, Melody had adored him. She’d been daddy’s darling, and he had lavished her with attention and gifts. Afterward, their relationship had been tempered by fear. If what he had told her was true, his rough treatment of her that day when he was having sex with the woman may have caused her to tell the police he was the one who’d pulled the trigger. Parents had no idea how their actions affected their children. Memories from the night Jeremy and her mother died were stalking her. Details she must have suppressed were resurfacing. Neil showing up as he did, regardless of the circumstances, had provided her with a much-needed distraction.

Neil was hers now. The best part was that Carolyn had handed him to her. This had given her the upper hand with both of them. Carolyn and Neil needed her in multiple ways, the most important they would never know about, the footage of the murder. Need was a powerful tool in the hands of a user. Melody had also discovered a new weakness in Neil—his suicidal tendencies. She could use this to her advantage.

So much had happened during the last twenty-four hours. Today would be another bitch of a day, but she would muscle through it. She poured two bowls of cereal, setting them on the table, then filled two glasses with orange juice.

“You’re getting your Ferrari back,” she said when Neil came and sat down beside her. “Aren’t you excited?”

“No,” Neil said flatly. “Once everything is over, I’m going to sell it.”

It was obvious by the look on his face that mentioning the car triggered negative memories. Today was Laurel’s funeral. He’d driven her to his house in the Ferrari the day she’d been murdered. By the time they got to Ventura, picked up the car, and had lunch, it would be time to go to the church. Soon Laurel Goodwin would be nothing more than a memory.

The ninety-minute drive to Ventura was filled with light conversation and long moments of silence. Melody knew that Neil needed time to sort through his feelings about Laurel.

The Ferrari wasn’t parked at the regular police impound lot. Because of its value, it had been placed inside a secured building owned by the city. She dropped Neil off, reminding him to meet her at the Chart House restaurant as soon as he was done.

Melody parked down the street from the Ventura Police Department and exited her Porsche. She was dressed in a gray business suit, a black blouse with the top three buttons undone, and low-heeled black leather shoes, with a matching inexpensive shoulder purse. She could have e-mailed the video from a library or some other publicly used computer, but what she was about to do was far more challenging. Showing the police she could step into their world and do anything she wanted made her feel powerful.

She opened the trunk and removed a manila file folder and a black wig. The file was empty, yet it served its purpose as a prop. Reentering the car, Melody slipped on the wig, then secured it with a clasp at the base of her neck. She removed a badge that said FBI, which she’d purchased the day before at a costume store, clipping it onto her belt. Looking in the mirror, she purred, “Perfect.”

Once inside the building, she stopped at the reception desk. “I’m Agent Rodriguez with the FBI. I have a conference scheduled with Detective Sawyer at eleven-thirty. I’m a few minutes early. Is he in?”

“No,” Desk Officer Carl Duval said. “He’s with the mayor right now. Is this an emergency?”

“No,” Melody said, smiling as she pressed her chest against the counter. “Can you direct me to his office? I have some paperwork to catch up on while I’m waiting.”

The officer handed Melody a clipboard to sign. She quickly wrote the name Samantha Rodriguez, then was buzzed through the security doors. The officer seemed to be more interested in her breasts than her credentials. Typical.

Filling her lungs with a deep breath and pushing her shoulders back, she entered a door marked HOMICIDE. The detectives must be out on cases as no one was around. Ten workstations were separated with half-height walls and had chipped blue Formica tops. Prominently displayed over each desk were gold nameplates. To the left, she saw an enclosed office with a window looking out into the open space. Hank Sawyer’s name was on the door. What a slob, she thought, entering. No wonder he had trouble doing his job. A disorganized desk was reflective of a disorganized mind.

Digging into her purse, she pulled on a pair of latex gloves and sat down behind Hank’s desk, inserting a DVD into his computer.

“Oh, hello,” a voice said, breaking the silence.

Melody placed her hands in her lap, quickly removing the gloves and depositing them in the trash can.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Standing there was a fresh-faced young man, wearing a white shirt, a tie, and slacks. He ran his hands through his tousled brown hair. Not a problem, Melody thought. This wimp was no threat. She wasn’t even sure he was a man. He looked about sixteen. “No, that’s fine,” she said, turning back to the computer. A window opened on the computer screen asking if she wanted to play the video or save it to a file. Noticing the man’s eyes track to the screen, she stood and walked toward him, extending her hand.

Fortunately, she distracted him from the monitor. “I’m Samantha Rodriguez,” she told him, closing her jacket so he didn’t see the phony FBI badge. “I’m from tech support. Detective Sawyer notified us he was having problems with his computer.”

“I’m Chris Alabanie,” he said, blushing. “I’m a police cadet. Most of the time, I end up making phone calls or filing. These guys are always chasing after one murderer or the other. I guess one day, they’ll get around to training me to do something else. You know, this computer I’m using is running out of memory. It would be great if you—”

Melody cut him off, “I’m sorry, but I have to get this taken care of before Detective Sawyer comes back. Call tech support and see if they can send someone else.”

Once he wandered off, she retrieved the gloves and clicked on the Lotus Notes icon. Hank’s e-mail program filled the screen. She typed out “Hank S” and his full e-mail address filled out the box. Then she attached the video file from the DVD and pressed send. A window appeared signaling that a new e-mail had arrived. Mission accomplished. Wearing a disguise had been warranted, she told herself, grabbing the DVD and shoving it into her purse.

Melody rushed to get out before the wannabe cop returned. Sawyer may have busted Sabatino, but as Carolyn had pointed out, these idiots needed proof. The video should seal Sabatino’s fate. Neil was innocent. That didn’t mean innocent people weren’t sent to prison due to incompetent law enforcement officials. Her father had been wrongly convicted, or so he claimed. The cops and their investigative units were pressured by the victims to get results. It was just like a slogan her stockbroker always used, “Churn and burn.” The police had to make cases quickly and move on to the next. She knew what the word “make” meant. Take any evidence collected and either add to or modify it to make a conviction. Right or wrong, the police felt they’d done their job.

Nobody was taking Neil away from her.

 

 

 

 

 

H
ank burst into the detective bay, rubbing his eyebrows. What a waste of time, he thought. An hour and a half listening to the mayor speak on how to reduce crime in the city. Hank was convinced that the best way to reduce crime was to stop having stupid luncheons with the mayor.

His IN tray was filled with new yellow and blue files. Yellow meant faxes and blue signified an internal communication. The color-coding system was supposed to help him get organized. His desk now looked like a circus tent.

He decided to dig into the pile before his phone started ringing. Picking up one of the blue files, he found the forensic report on the Ferrari. CSI had certainly taken their time, he thought. He looked at the signature. Who was Alex Pauldine? He remembered a message from someone named Alex with a last name he couldn’t make out, advising him that they were releasing Neil Sullivan’s Ferrari. What did he care if they released the car? They’d done a complete workup and Sullivan didn’t appear to be their primary suspect at the moment.

The report was dated yesterday, December 27. His eyes locked on the name Raphael Moreno on the second page. Blood! Raphael Moreno’s blood inside Neil Sullivan’s Ferrari! What in the hell is this all about? He picked up the phone and called Alex Pauldine at the lab.