Read Geography of Murder Online
Authors: P. A. Brown
Geography of Murder (24 page)
Kia. En route home she had stopped at another school, a pre-school and came out with a young girl the uni guessed was around four. They then proceeded to a grocery store and home.
A child? A daughter? Except Chavez had said she'd never been married and from her self-protective stance she struck me as the last person I would peg as sexually active. Which raised a chilling prospect.
I gave Tender his instructions. "Leave Sanchez to watch the apartment. I want you to go back to the pre-school and find out who she is. Discreetly. Tell them it's an ongoing investigation, then let them know the girl's not involved, so there's no cause for alarm. Try to minimize the risk they'll call the mother—assuming Chavez is the mother."
"Aye, sir."
"Let me know what you find out ASAP."
I hung up and grimaced at Nancy.
"I think our recluse has some secrets she forgot to mention." I told her about the girl.
"She has children?"
"Looks that way. Tender's going to get back to me once he talks to the school administration."
"Maybe we're wrong about the abuse occurring as a child.
Maybe she was an adult and the child resulted. Religious woman, abortion wouldn't be an option."
"Traumatic rape. Forced pregnancy. Gotta traumatize anyone."
"You realize we have to go back and talk to her again."
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"Let's make sure the kid is hers first and she's not just babysitting someone else's."
So we waited, doing busy work. Ten minutes past four Tender called back.
"The girl's mother is Lucy Chavez. She's three and a half and has attended the school for the last eight months. Her name is Michelle Chavez. The school has no record of a father beyond the surname. You'd have to access hospital records to get more on him."
With HIPAA that could be a nightmare. How much did we need them? What would it prove if we could name the father?
That rape had occurred? I'd already checked and there was no record of a reported rape anywhere in Santa Barbara, Ventura or Los Angeles counties under Lucy Chavez's name four or five years ago.
"Let's go talk to mommy," she said.
We rolled. It promised to be another late night.
But before we could even sign a car out, Tender called back.
"Lucy Chavez has left the premises with the girl. I'm following her as we speak."
She drove for ten minutes then stopped in front of a house on the west side. A woman came to the door when Chavez emerged from the car with the child and a suitcase in tow.
She entered the house and came back out by herself fifteen minutes later. At that time she got back into her vehicle with more luggage and drove to the airport where she presumably caught a flight.
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Tender's efforts to find out where were stymied by his having no warrant to get the information. They'd have to wait until she returned to Santa Barbara.
I ground my teeth in frustration and swore under my breath. So damn close. "Keep tabs on the house she dropped the girl off at. She'll no doubt go there first when she gets back."
"Yes, sir."
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I put the Stroganoff in the slow cooker at three.
Stroganoff had one advantage. It could be kept warm
or reheated easily, something I was finding was as
important as the quality of the food. I'm a fast learner.
I figured by the time Alex got tired of me I could get a
job in a diner.
I'd cleaned every surface that was cleanable, done all the laundry. Hell, I'd even rearranged the fridge and freezer and was considering doing the same to the cupboards. I was seriously bored. I needed to push Phil into giving me more hours or look for another job. I didn't feel brave enough to venture out again. I would have loved to take that drive to Solvang, to see that quaint town, but memories of the gay-bashers intruded. Alex's house had become my refuge and I'm not sure that was a good thing.
Maybe I needed to go home for a while. Think this over. I sure as hell couldn't think clearly here. Not if the smell of the man who lived here could turn me to jelly.
A desperate need for human company drove me out of the house at four-thirty. Maybe I couldn't go back into the mountains, but I could go to the Vault. Alex had already said he would be late again. I couldn't stand another evening like last night. I needed more. I needed—
Hell, I knew what I needed. I still had the coke I'd scored yesterday. I hadn't felt comfortable doing it in Alex's house.
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I'd hidden it in my wallet and retrieved both, as well as my jacket. An hour, two at most and I would take the edge off.
It was still early and the Vault was quiet. Rafe the bartender, who had bragged about being fucked by my Alex, was behind the bar. I got a beer from him and went to sit at a far table, my back to him. From where I sat I could see one of the screens showing an endless porn loop. Black, brown, yellow-skinned bodies, all naked except for fetish gear, all hard and glistening from cum and lube filled the screen. I drank my beer without tasting it and watched, getting a low-level hard-on that chafed my jeans. I squirmed in the hard chair, trying to relieve the pressure. Someone appeared at my elbow. I looked up to find Rafe standing over me, staring at my crotch.
"I can make that better," he said.
"Go away."
"You're just pissed 'cause I screwed him before you did.
You really think he didn't come in all the time and fuck anyone who'd spread their cheeks for him? I know he likes it rough, too. Everyone knows it. The cop who's into whips and chains—"
I grabbed his T-shirt and hauled him down in front of me, spilling the remnants of my beer all over the table and my legs. "One more word, asshole and I tear you a new one. See who wants to use that."
I released him with a shove. He staggered back, almost went down on his ass and would have come after me if a voice hadn't barked at him to cool it and get back to work.
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Sullenly he left, after glaring at me and staring down at my wet crotch. He smirked. "Told you I could take care of it."
"Asshole," I muttered.
Two minutes later the bartender who had called Rafe off came over carrying a beer. He wiped the table down and set the new beer down in front of me.
"He didn't mean to upset you," the guy said. He was dark, black hair, black eyes and a heavy covering of black hair on every square inch of visible skin. He had tattoos up and down his arms and more on his neck that descended down under the black T-shirt he wore. Marcus, one of the Vault's owners.
I'd never met him before, though I had a nodding acquaintance with him.
"Thanks. He always that much of a jerk to his competition?"
"No." He gave a ghost of a smile. "I think this one was special. I guess he thought it could be more."
I wanted to say 'Tell the guy hands off,' but I think they both already got the message. It pissed me off that I felt so defensive—my jealousy had been totally unexpected. One more reason I needed to put space between Alex and me. I was losing it if I was willing to duke it out with Alex's sex partners.
I gulped beer, signaling for another one. When that was done I'd have to cool it or not be able to drive home. Home?
Home in Goleta? Or home in my dump here in town?
I finished my second beer, wiped my sleeve over my mouth, and headed for the bathroom. After pissing I 237
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sectioned out the remaining coke and snorted one line, then the other.
My spirits immediately lifted. I might not have floated back to my table, but it felt that way.
There was a new bartender on. I waved for another beer and he strolled over, hips swinging enticingly. He stood over me, his basket right at eye level. I didn't intend to do anything with it, but I had to touch. He was so close I could smell him. He didn't smell anywhere near as intoxicating as Alex.
Face it, he wasn't Alex. None of them were. I turned away and lifted the new beer to my mouth. A hand came down on my wrist, slamming it down on the table. Foam spilled over the mouth of the bottle, all over my hand. I tried to jerk away, thinking Rafe had come back for more.
I looked up, ready to give him a piece of my mind and found myself looking into Alex's cold, gray eyes.
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Reports. Endless fucking reports. I must have carpal
tunnel with all the keyboarding I'd done lately. Hell
isn't fire and brimstone, it's being buried alive in
paperwork.
Coffee and Red Bull were my last line of defense. I felt wired and hot. I was thoroughly strung out.
I ran searches on Lucy Chavez, Lucille Chavez, and L.
Chavez. None yielded any results beyond her DMV records.
No wants, no warrants, not even a parking ticket. She had never interacted with the legal system. She had always lived in Southern California, filed taxes starting twelve years ago, every year, regular as clockwork. I'd bet my pension she'd never been audited either.
She rented the apartment, had never owned more than her car and the clothes on her back. Her daughter Michelle was born in St. Ann's in Los Angeles three and a half years ago, had been enrolled in the pre-school last year. Chavez had been employed at St. Adolphus for six years and had remained there through her pregnancy, only leaving for six months to give birth in L.A. Had she stayed with family? I'd have to find out.
So damn pedestrian. So damn normal. Not the profile of a savage lust killer who could murder two men with the rage I had seen. She was a pint-sized wisp of a woman who probably wouldn't kill flies. I've seen sweet-faced killers 239
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commit the most heinous killers, but they usually had a vibe.
A tell.
Chavez was lying about something, but it wasn't killing anyone.
I went round and round in circles. How long would Chavez be gone? Couldn't move forward, couldn't go back without her. She held the key, or at least one key, I just had no idea what it was. The whole thing felt stalled by her absence. I was stuck with two dead bodies and a stuffed bird. Hitchcock would have loved it. It was not a fun place to be.
At least I had the warrant for Blunt's place. I had been going to wait for Nancy, but we needed to get rolling on this.
We'd already waited too long. I took my own vehicle. Once I was done I could head for home from his place. Of course, if I found the bird I'd have to log it in to evidence, but that was a risk I was willing to take.
I took my time at his place, a surprisingly neat one-bedroom apartment in an older part of town that hovered between genteel slum and retro. There was a computer with an Internet connection on the dining room table and I knew I'd have to come back with a warrant for that later. We weren't really trying to find Blunt guilty of the crimes we knew he had committed, but the cop in me wouldn't let a piece of evidence go. I'd be back.
I found the bird in the back of his bedroom closet, in a shoebox almost identical to the one that had been delivered to Dutton. No address, it must have been dropped off, too.
The bird looked like a twin to Dutton's. Same glossy black feathers and glass eyes. I didn't need to have our taxidermist 240
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examine it to know it was the bird he had the receipt for, but I would, just for evidentiary reasons. So Lucy, or whoever had done this in her name, had targeted both pedophiles.
Why? We seriously needed to interview her again, but for that, I had to wait for Nancy. Maybe tomorrow.
Nancy was long gone when I stopped back in the station to log the bird into evidence, home to a husband who might be off again at a moment's notice. Everyone was gone except the night shift. All the radio cars were out, a lone detective sat at his desk reading a paperback, waiting for a call out.
I stood up. I had to get out of here. I glanced at my watch.
It wasn't as late as I'd expected, but then I thought I'd be interviewing Chavez tonight. So, go home, or go for a drink?
The drink won by a short margin.
I saw the Honda in the parking lot the minute I swung off Bath Street into the half-filled Vault parking lot. I climbed out of my truck and approached the vehicle, peered inside.
Chocolate bar and fast food wrappers littered the back seat. It was Jason's car all right. I felt the hood. Cool. It had been here a while.
I strode across the lot, into the dim bar without breaking stride, barely flashing my membership. Eyes swept the whole length and instantly spotted him, leaning toward a tall, dark man I thought I recognized but didn't take the time to identify. All I saw were Jason's eyes riveted on the guy's bulging jeans, all but crawling inside them. He turned away only to get a drink. I pinned his arm to the table and gave tall dark a look that made him retreat fast. I turned back in time to find Jason's eyes settling on me. His mouth came open and 241
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his pupils widened. In fear? Guilt? Just what had he been doing here?
As if I didn't know.
I jerked him out of the chair. When he protested I hauled him against me. "You are coming with me. If you argue I will carry you out in cuffs. Got that?"
He squeaked something that I took for assent and hustled him outside, past a line of gaping men. Someone laughed.
Outside I took a deep breath and almost gave it to him there.
Then I stopped. I had a better idea. I was going to take him home and teach him once and for all that he was mine.