Sullivan's Justice (39 page)

Hank glanced at his watch; it was three-thirty. “The funeral should be over by now. Both of them probably turned their cell phones off. If you hurry, you should be able to catch them at the cemetery. If we get lucky and the Ferrari is there, stand guard over it until we can get some people over there.”

Hank headed down the corridor at a fast clip. He remembered something and turned around. “When you find Carolyn, don’t take no for an answer. This is too serious. If she gives you any trouble, just pick her up and deposit her in the back of your car.”

 

 

 

 

 

W
hile Mary stayed outside to make a few calls, Carolyn looked through the glass into the lobby of the men’s jail and saw Hank waiting. She marched straight up to him and whacked him across the chest. “Don’t trust me, huh?”

“God, woman!” the detective exclaimed. “Are you psychotic or something?”

“Mary brought me down here in her police unit. She wouldn’t let me drive my own car. If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have a chance to break Moreno. I suggest you use more tact the next time.”

Hank smiled. “I could have you arrested for assault on a police officer. Mind your manners or I’ll book you.”

“You wouldn’t dare arrest me,” Carolyn said, still fuming. “Remember that blond shoplifter with the big tits that you took to a hotel room instead of the jail? You’re bucking for lieutenant, aren’t you? How would that sit with the review board?”

Hank scowled. “Low blow, Carolyn. Since you never fail to rub my face in it, you should know that I was on the sauce back then. It’s the only time in my career I stepped out of line. All the girl lifted was a damn lipstick, for God’s sake. My shift was over, so I had her pay for what she’d taken, then asked her to have a drink with me at the Holiday Inn. One drink turned into six. I think I passed out as soon as we got to the room.”

Mary returned and took a seat in the interconnected row of plastic seats used by visitors. Hank was relieved that she hadn’t overheard what Carolyn had said. “Anyway, you’re here,” he said, sighing. “Where’s Neil and the Ferrari?”

“I don’t know,” she told him. “He probably hasn’t picked it up yet because of the funeral. They must have driven Melody’s Porsche.”

“We sent some of our people to the services,” he told her. “That’s why we couldn’t find him. They were looking for the Ferrari. Neil picked it up earlier today, Carolyn. Do you have Melody Asher’s cell phone number?”

“Only her home,” Carolyn said, massaging her temples. “Neil doesn’t turn his cell phone on. He just carries it to make outgoing calls. What’s going on, Hank?”

He filled her in on some of what had transpired since she’d last talked to him. He knew he was restricted from telling her what they feared might be hidden inside the Ferrari. “I’ll try to find Neil while you’re in with Moreno.”

“Neil said something about getting a drink after the funeral,” Carolyn said. “I don’t know if they planned on stopping at a place in Ventura or heading back to Brentwood.”

Hank called out for Mary, then tapped on the glass window for the jailer. After Bobby Kirsh buzzed them through the security doors, he told him, “Don’t transport Moreno to the interview room until I give the go-ahead.” He needed more time to explain things to Carolyn and he didn’t want Moreno waiting, for fear he would figure out it was a setup.

 

 

Neil was sitting at the bar at the Chart House restaurant waiting for Melody to return from the restroom. The funeral had sent him into a tailspin of self-analysis. Yesterday he’d almost committed the ultimate act of self-pity. Today he had said good-bye to his high-school sweetheart.

He had lived thirty-two years of selfishness. The material things of his life had only caused complications. He’d accomplished nothing worthwhile other than painting a few good pictures.

Laurel had deceived him.

With her soft voice and innocent smile, she had slipped into his life, pretending to be an angel, giving him hope in the midst of despair. A woman who cheated on her husband with a teenager and former student, then lied to the man who wanted to marry her, was most assuredly not an angel.

The burial of Laurel brought his own mortality to the surface. What would be his eulogy?

He could imagine Carolyn, Melody, and his family sitting in the Catholic church at his funeral. It was midnight. The cavernous building’s walls danced with the shadows of the flickering candlelight. The priest stood to speak, but no words came out. The last time Neil had stepped a foot inside a church was at his father’s funeral. His suicide had been concealed by another lie. This time, the demon came to Neil in the guise of his own mother.

Marie Sullivan had pushed him relentlessly as a child, constantly berating him over his poor grades and lack of interest in subjects that were central to her and her husband’s lives. At the same time, she’d ignored his talent as an artist and tossed his drawings in the trash. Becoming an artist was worthless, his mother had told him. It was a hobby, not a career. He would end up selling used cars for a living, struggling to support his family. Eventually his wife would get tired of her lazy and unrealistic husband and leave him. He brought forth an image of his mother shaking her finger at him, her face twisted in anger. “Go ahead, paint to your heart’s content, but don’t come running to me when you’re out of money and you can’t feed your kids.”

No matter how poorly she’d treated him, Neil had no choice but to respect the woman who had given him life. Like everyone else who had hurt him during his lifetime, his mother would survive him and sit silently with the others at his funeral.

He imagined his ceremony concluding without a single word being spoken. What could they say? There was nothing to say.

When Neil saw Melody walking toward him, his spirits lifted. He had not allowed himself to take Melody seriously because of her wealth. When a woman was that rich, a normal guy found it hard to see himself fitting into her life of luxury and privilege. Until five years ago, the highest price Neil had ever received for a canvas had been two thousand dollars. His price had skyrocketed when a rock star’s girlfriend convinced the singer to outbid another client. The star ended up dishing out fifty grand without figuring out the client he was bidding against was Neil’s agent.

Melody could spend ten grand during a few hours of shopping on Rodeo Drive. So what? he told himself. She probably squandered money for the same reason he’d allowed himself to become dependent on crystal meth. Her success and his weren’t on the same level, but they shared many things. Surrounded by people, they had both felt terribly alone.

Maybe his life was about to turn around. The police would catch the killer and he would be free to build a new life. No more mistakes, he told himself. No drugs, alcohol, nothing that could upset the delicate chemical balance inside his brain. He would eat right, get a decent night’s sleep, start exercising. If all that didn’t work, he would go on lithium.

Melody’s perfume teased his nostrils as she leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Let’s get a table,” she whispered. “I don’t feel like driving back to the city by myself right now.”

When they’d eaten lunch there earlier, Melody had insisted that Neil leave the Ferrari with the valet, telling him it was too ostentatious for a funeral.

They slid into a booth and sat side by side. Neil stood back up.

“What’s wrong?” Melody asked.

“I just need some space right now,” he said, taking a seat across from her. The floor-to-ceiling windows gave them a view of the ocean. The day was bright, with a sprinkling of clouds in front of the blue backdrop.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked.

“I’m okay,” he lied. It felt strange to be mourning Laurel while he was with Melody. She was almost too nice. Neil’s senses told him that in his weakened state she could manipulate him without her normally aggressive nature. The waitress arrived at the table.

“I’ll take an apple martini,” Melody told her. “Honey, what do you want?”

“Pellegrino with a lime, please.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked. “I’m not drinking alone. Bring him a slightly dirty martini with Grey Goose vodka.”

The waitress looked at Neil for approval.

“A drink will do you good,” Melody pressed. “It’ll take the edge off.”

“Okay, but things are going to change,” Neil said in a firm voice once the woman had left. If they were going to be together, he thought, he’d have to take more control in the relationship. It was embarrassing how she handled him. He was the man and it was time he acted like one. “I’m going to clean up my act. I don’t want to give up drugs and then become an alcoholic. That’s what they say happens. People trade one addiction for another. Maybe I need to go to those Narcotics Anonymous meetings for a while.”

“You’ll be fine,” Melody said, extending her hand to embrace his on the coarse surface of the white tablecloth. When the waitress came back with the drinks, they both took a sip. “I have to tell you something about myself.”

“What?”

She leaned forward and whispered, “I like to watch videos I recorded of us having sex.”

“What’s so earth-shattering about that?” Neil said, disinterested. “I know you taped us. You even called out that guy’s name to make me jealous.”

“It was more than that night, Neil. I . . . I set up video cameras in your house.”

“You what?” he said, raising his voice enough to get a look from the table next to them.

Melody began speaking fast. “They were in your bedroom, living room, in front of the house, overlooking the pool. It was for my own protection. You weren’t the only one. I filmed almost all of my lovers.”

“Your protection?” he said. “How could you invade my privacy like that?” His mouth twisted. “You know how sick that is, Melody?”

Her expression remained stoic. “That’s not why I’m bringing this up.”

Neil slouched low in his seat, refusing to look at her. Did the bottom have to constantly fall out of everything? He felt like buying another gun and returning to the sand dunes. “Okay, then why are you telling me this?”

“I have a tape of Laurel.”

He craned his neck around. “You mean you videotaped everything? Even when I was with Laurel?”

“Yes, I’m sorry,” she said, her voice trailing off.

“God, you’re the one who killed Laurel!” Neil said, almost knocking his drink over.

“I didn’t kill Laurel and I know you didn’t, either.” Melody sucked in a deep breath, then slowly let it out. “I recorded more than just sex, Neil. I recorded Laurel’s murder.”

 

 

 

 

 

“T
hanks for coming down,” Hank told Carolyn, talking in the locker area inside the jail. “I know this isn’t the best day to be interviewing a violent criminal.”

“You’ve got that right,” she said, locking up her gun.

“We have new information connecting Moreno to the Goodwin and Porter homicides,” he said, stopping to get her full attention. “We found trace elements of Moreno’s blood under the driver’s seat in Neil’s Ferrari.”

“That’s impossible!” Carolyn said, clutching at her chest. “Moreno’s blood couldn’t have been found inside Neil’s car. It has to be a mistake, Hank.”

“DNA is foolproof. Weren’t you listening before? Things are finally coming together. You have to get Moreno to spill his guts. He’s the missing piece of the puzzle.”

Just when she needed to be strong, Hank had delivered another blow. After the night before, she had to do everything possible to keep Neil from learning this shocking turn of events. “Wait,” she said, grabbing the detective’s sleeve, “Neil didn’t own the car at the time of the Hartfield murders. He got it around Thanksgiving. Then it got tied up in a lawsuit. The court filed an injunction and locked it up until they made a ruling.” She explained how her brother had traded the car for his paintings. “He got it back the day of Laurel’s murder. Moreno was in jail. That’s the same day I interviewed him the first time, remember? We talked on the phone and you invited me to a party.”

Hank grimaced, moving his feet around on the linoleum. “Who did Neil get the Ferrari from?”

“I don’t remember the woman’s name,” Carolyn told him. “I think they were a couple in their late forties or something. The man was cheating on the wife, so she traded the Ferrari to get back at him.”

“It’s urgent that we find out who these people are, Carolyn,” the detective said, his brow dampening with perspiration. “Are you saying Neil is the only person who knows?”

“I can’t help you there,” she said, not wanting to tell him what she had gone through the night before with her brother. In reality, she should have driven Neil straight to the police station. “You’ll have to ask Neil, Hank. It’s not like I haven’t been busy. Brad is out and I have cases stacked to the ceiling. Wilson almost had a stroke when he heard I was taking off today to interview Moreno again. Things are so bad, the asshole hasn’t been able to play golf. He’s furious that he might actually have to do some work.”

Hank erupted. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about Wilson or anyone else over there, understand? The interview with Moreno takes precedence over everything. If your boss doesn’t like it, I’ll get the chief to call him.”

“Does this mean Sabatino’s off the hook?”

“Not exactly,” Hank said, leaning against the row of lockers. “We’re not going to file against him until we’re absolutely certain. I spoke with Abby Walters, his probation officer, and she’s already slapped a hold on him until the new offense is adjudicated. I talked to him thirty minutes ago. He doesn’t come across as a murderer, especially when you consider the body count. Abby also informed me that he has an alibi for the night of the Goodwin murder. We’re running down the witnesses. He was supposedly at a Ventura High basketball game. Probably selling dope to the players.