Body on the Backlot Read online

  Carl waited for me, begging me with those eyes, to say more.

  I had to fight my instinct to hit him. At the same time, I wanted to go to him, hold him, comfort him. My chest could hardly contain my heart. I thought I was going to explode. People around us were politely ignoring our conversation while listening to every word. All eyes were averted, looking through files, anything but watching us.

  “Joanie,” Carl whispered, “I miss the curve of your waist, your voice, your laughter. I want to wake up with your ass to snuggle up against.”

  “Stop it, will you?” I whispered back.

  “It’s the truth. You were always big on us telling each other the truth. Being without you doesn’t work for me.”

  I felt my stomach wrench. Did he have to do this here?

  “I don’t know what to say, Carl.”

  “Say you’ll be with me.”

  I stepped back from him.

  “Okay, that’s too much,” he said. “Listen, I could use a business partner, if you ever want to…make a change?”

  “I don’t know…I just can’t think about that right now.” I could no longer be his lover, and I couldn’t be his partner, either.

  “I got one question for you, Joan.”

  “What?”

  “Do you love me?”

  The answer to his question was, Yes. Maybe more than I had ever loved anybody, but I couldn’t tell him that. Just because you love someone doesn’t mean you want to be with them. Truth was, I hated him, too. I loathed and despised him. It wasn’t just one thing that had happened between us, it was an attitude he had toward me. Like he owned me. Nobody owns me. There’s pluses and minuses to that, but it’s a true thing. I walked out without a word. I felt his eyes on me but I didn’t look back.

  I was grateful that the brown window shades were pulled down against the glaring sun in the squad room. The eggshell walls reflected a sepia tint that filled the scene, adding to the unreal feeling of the announcement.

  The detectives of our division gathered before my eyes in a soft blur. The Carl thing had me off balance. That was the problem—the guy made me crazy. I wished I were a nice normal person who could have a pleasant reassuring love. For a moment, I fantasized that one day I would marry, that my husband and I would sit in front of the television together every night eating ice cream, getting fat.

  How great that would be. I knew it was not my destiny. I was on another path. Though I might be able to pull off gaining weight, hanging around with my new partner, Gus. He loves chocolate. I spotted Gus in the room and he gave me an encouraging smile. He shared a joke with one of the other detectives and the two of them grinned at each other. I silently took it all in.

  A flyer was circulated around the room of men. Another missing girl, eighteen years old. I held it in my hand and zoomed in on the location she was last seen—Marina Del Rey. Her name was Paige.

  “How many does that make now?” I asked. Mark O’Malley, the one who circulated the flyer, was a detective that had turned away from a career in medicine to work in law enforcement. He was Irish and African American and had just the right amount of good looks. He also had an enormous amount of charm. People did things for him. But underneath all that I recognized the signs. If you got to know him well, you’d find that he was moody and temperamental, but mostly depressed.

  “It makes ten since February,” he said. “We’re thinking that maybe these young women are dead. If you come across any information, hear of a Jane Doe, anything, call me.”

  It was rumored that the case was driving Mark crazy, that he was losing sleep and had broken up with his girlfriend over it.

  “I’ve missed some of the previous flyers,” I said.

  “Don’t worry, I got you covered,” said Mark as he handed me several more flyers of missing young women, still girls really.

  My eyes took in bright, happy-looking young women caught in different moments of their lives. Mark was convinced the missing girls, possibly murdered, were related, and I could see why. At first glance, you could immediately see a quality of sincerity, the life energy of each missing woman.

  “I’ll keep an eye out,” I said. “There’s this guy, Mason Jones, a sex offender, working at Costco in Marina Del Rey, collecting carts. Could be your guy.”

  “What kind of sex offender?” asked Mark.

  “Violated little girls,” I said.

  “Ever kidnap one?”

  “Long enough to do the damage, but never overnight.” When I said it, I felt disconnected from my own voice. How callous, how glib. Murder investigation has made me hard.

  For a nanosecond, I wondered how I would ever heal from my work. Maybe I would end up all out of balance like Mark.

  “Yeah, we better check him out,” said Mark, looking more depressed than ever. Not that you could blame him. “When did this Mason Jones get out?”

  “February, the same month your first girl disappeared.”

  Satch, our captain, cleared his throat. “And we have a good job done, a commendation for Ms. Lambert. Welcome her back,” said Satch, his voice sounding just like Louie Armstrong. He handed me a beige piece of paper.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’m not so sure I’m worthy of it.”

  I looked at the piece of paper with the signatures and my name in print. Everyone in the room was still. I looked into their expectant eyes and felt a responsibility to them. “In the face of much criticism,” I added, “perhaps some of it warranted, remember there are those who believe in us.”

  I couldn’t help it. I found myself searching the room for Carl during the applause and hoots. He nodded his approval. Satch, my boss, patted me on the back.

  “You know what, you sound just like a politician.”

  Right, like I had a clue. God, I am so pompous and boorish sometimes. I think it comes with being a cop. Or maybe I think I really can rid the world of all its evil, or some of it, and maybe that’s what draws one to Homicide.

  “Anyway, you’re back where you belong, doll.” I didn’t say anything more because I suddenly found I was so grateful to be there that no words would come out. Then everybody filed out, and I did the same. Carl caught me at the door.

  “I’m not going to call you anymore,” he said. “You want to talk, you call me.”

  “Okay.”

  “You promise?”

  What promise? I nodded. It was a lie.

  Satisfied with that, he left. I watched him walk out the door and away from me.

  Relieved to be back at my desk with its oversize black phone and wise quotes fading under the plastic desk cover, Gus and I went to work on the murder book. We filled out the information on the interviews, added our notes and the strangely glamorous crime photos of Autumn Riley.

  I signed receipts for the address book and a couple photos: one of Autumn, and one of the voodoo doll. The familiar rituals of routine procedure made for a comforting, soothing effect. “You gonna take a ride on the internet?” asked Gus.

  “You bet,” I said, and turned on the printer connected to my computer. In spite of what you see on television, we don’t have all the latest newfangled devices. I was always grateful just to get online. I typed in my code and waited. It was a fine feeling, plunking away on my familiar keyboard. I was still in mild shock that no one had confiscated my stuff. Even the pale blue walls in bad need of a paint job were a comfort. It was good to be back. Now, if only I could prove myself, then I’d be okay. I have a little problem with thinking myself worthy. Nobody knows that, of course. Most are of the opinion that I’m arrogant. What they don’t know is that the beast drives me. And the beast is everywhere, hiding in every crack, around every corner. The beast could be your own father, your lover, or a coworker. That’s not just my personal take on it either. Of course, working homicide confirms it in a big way. Those closest to the victim are our strongest suspects.

  The Carl thing was bugging me, and I couldn’t shake it.

  Back in the days Carl and I were partne
rs, we were unbeatable. Then we became lovers and it seemed we became even better detectives. It started going screwy when I took a punch off a suspect. The guy was an exec, a big CEO at Meteor Air Group, a company that serviced all the airports, even Air Force One. I was interviewing the CEO, when out of nowhere he punched me and ran. Carl beat the crap out of the guy. The CEO’s bruised and bloodied face made the front page of all the papers. Plus, after that, Carl fussed over me like a hen does a baby chick and everything thereafter was all terribly wrong. Finally, we solved the case—the guy had killed his wife and son by faking an accident on his yacht. But the downside was I had to do handstands to reassure Carl that I wasn’t in constant need of his protection and, needless to say, nothing was ever right again. One little incident was all it took. As if I couldn’t take a punch. Of course, it had been a bit riskier than a punch to get the goods on the CEO, and I had to do it all behind Carl’s back. It’s not an ideal situation to have to sneak around on your partner to get the job done. He felt betrayed, and maybe he was right. The worst of it was when Carl became jealous. It got to the point where he accused me of screwing my informant, some big mucketymuck. Everything else I forgave, but the jealousy, well, I couldn’t handle that. I had a bad reaction to his bad reaction. That’s when I decided to take some time off from the job until things cooled down. Now, I was back and Carl was leaving.

  Probably all for the best.

  I logged in online and typed in the word “voodoo” to see what came up. There was plenty of information on voodoo politics, and a case where a man claimed he was innocent because someone had put him under a curse. I didn’t really know what I was looking for until I came upon a Dr. Sheffield at a local branch of the Institute of Organic Chemistry and Biochemistry who had some new analogues. I clicked on that. The institute was located in the Santa Monica mountains. I sent an email to set up a meeting.

  I called the coroner’s office to hurry up the autopsy, and the first run of defense gave me a sad song about it. Normal procedures meant Autumn Riley would have to wait in a long line of dead bodies due for toxicology exams.

  I knew the guy who heads Public Information in the coroner’s office. Ray Tanning. I decided to give him a ring. He’s in his early fifties, energetic, rough around the edges. Don’t get on his bad side. I dialed his number…

  “Hey, Ray! It’s me, Joan, calling about Autumn Riley.”

  “Oh, you’re back, huh?”

  “I’m back, Ray. Now, about the post for Riley…”

  “Don’t start with me, Joan,” he said. “You people in S Section are always puttin’ the hurt on me. Do you know how backed up we are here?”

  “She just came in. You can’t miss her. She’s got red hair. Her name’s Autumn Riley, I need the cut today.”

  “Today? You’re crazy. And forget tomorrow, too. Why should she be more important than the cocaine whore who was murdered in South Central last Friday night? They were both somebody’s daughter. First day, and you’re already pulling this shit with me. Normally, we’d do her next week. Next week, ya hear me?”

  He always did that, always made some statement regarding inequality among the dead. Like it’s any different in death from when people are alive.

  “I need you to think about who will be the one held responsible if her parents hire some big-time lawyers and sue us. Okay? ’Cuz that’s what’ll happen, Ray. They’re angry and frustrated because there’s nothing they can do. It’s all out of their hands, but they have money.”

  “They’ll lose because I am right about this.”

  “It doesn’t matter if they lose, and you know that. Besides, what if it’s a murder? Then we’re all screwed. The Rileys will point at you and say you held up the investigation. Then you’ll get to say that bit about her not being more important than a coke whore to a judge in court. See how that flies.”

  “I don’t think I can cut her any sooner. I’m telling you we’re backed up. I haven’t even had lunch yet and I’ve been here since six-thirty this morning. Let me check it out, I’ll see what I can do.”

  Ray hung up. He definitely needed me to take him out to lunch. Today. He’d brushed me off way too easily. How busy could it be over there?

  “Hey, Gus. You wanna go with me, take Ray Tanning to lunch?” I looked at the clock on the wall since I’d forgotten my watch. It was one thirty. “He’s giving me the blues, thought I’d chum him up.”

  “Okay, sounds good. Let’s listen to the tape first, then we’ll go.”

  Dispatch had sent over the 911 tape and we sat around the Homicide Special Section table, which is essentially my desk and Gus’s desk lined up side by side. We listened to an overly twangy Southern accent. A couple of the other detectives stood around and listened in.

  “Autumn Riley’s been murdered! She’s here at the beach house. That’s all I can say.”

  The connection was broken before the dispatcher could ask anything further. Venice Police Station had located the address through the computer link-up of the phone system. Autumn’s bungalow.

  “Sound Texan to you?” asked Gus.

  I shrugged. “More like Australian.”

  “Why would he try to make it sound Texan?” asked Gus.

  “A person could have a million reasons for disguising their voice,” I offered.

  “But it’s someone who knows her.”

  “They as much said so.”

  The other detectives peeled off, more interested in their own assignments.

  “Record the voiceprint!” yelled Satch.

  Nothing gets by the captain. I mean, the ears on that guy. He was right, of course. A voiceprint would be definitive in a court of law. It’s similar to a fingerprint in that no two are exactly alike. That way we could absolutely verify identity should we come across someone we believed made the phone call.

  The big LAPD machine got to work doing the paperwork for the voiceprint. Gus filled out the form, wrapped it around the tape, popped a rubber band on it, and dropped it in the basket on the voiceprint desk. Then he got on the phone, fast-talking one of his buddies in the film business.

  I called Crime Lab and waited for Rose Torres to answer.

  “Yes, detective?” said Rose Torres in an impatient voice. “Anything on the doll?”

  “We’re working on it now; let me finish and then I’ll call you.”

  “Okay, you can call Gus on his cell phone. You got that number?”

  “Memorized. Later.”

  The Women’s and Children’s Hospital houses the coroner’s office. It’s a sprawling piss-yellow building. You can get depressed just looking at the outside, never mind once you get a load of the tragedies within. For a homicide detective, it’s a bittersweet relationship. Some of the worst truths are discovered here and some of the best clues as well. Gus and I parked, entered, and were buzzed through. We walked down the administrative hallway past glass and wood and serious-looking secretaries to knock on Ray Tanning’s door. I couldn’t hear him in there on the phone like I usually do. In fact, it was dead quiet in there.

  Fast-moving steps came down the hall. It was a driver, Joseph Carrillo. I was surprised to see him. He’s a close bud of some people I know, and I thought he’d quit to open a Cuban restaurant over on Washington Boulevard. His usually serene face looked frustrated.

  “Hey, Joseph. Que hondas?” I asked, meaning How are the waves? in Cubanese.

  “Hi, Joan, Gus. How’re you?”

  His manner was more serious than usual.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Gus. “Thought you were in the restaurant business.”

  “That’s right. This is my last week here and it’s crazy as hell. Gotta go.”

  “Where’s Ray?” asked Gus.

  “Downstairs.”

  Downstairs is where they take care of real coroner business. “Where downstairs?” I asked.

  “I couldn’t tell you.”

  Joseph shot out the swinging doors at the end of the hall.

  Every once i
n a while there’s a strange incident in the world of the coroner. The most publicized fiasco was when the wrong body was sent to a grieving mother in Mexico.

  Chaos in the morgue always throws them way behind, and I assumed that’s why Ray was giving me the run around. I felt sure I could convince him to squeeze in Autumn’s autopsy.

  Gus and I took the elevator down to the basement to find Ray. They keep the bodies down there in a cold room. The temperature stays around forty-two degrees. They were bringing in a small elderly man on a gurney. He was naked, and I averted my eyes out of respect. Gus and I put paper baggies on our feet and paper masks over our faces. I glanced over at the other bodies, a bloated black man with half his head caved in, a tiny older lady and a heavyset Hispanic youth with tattoos and gunshot wounds. I didn’t see Autumn anywhere. We looked for Ray in several rooms. He wasn’t in Photos, not in Toxicology, and he wasn’t out back with the drivers waiting to come in.

  We entered the room that held the largest supply of corpses. They were wrapped in soft plastic, as if they were alien pods in some sci-fi movie. Ray Tanning hadn’t lied when he said they were backed up. It was wall-to-wall bodies in there. When we found Ray, he was moving a body from a gurney. This is not usual for him. He’s the guy on the phone schmoozing councilmen, stuff like that. He’s a short spry older man with thin black hair and a thick mustache. He wore the same baggies and mask as me and Gus, but he also had on an apron and safety glasses. The body he was moving wasn’t Autumn Riley, and I was disappointed. He saw us and gestured for us to grab some latex gloves from the dispenser and give him a hand.

  I wanted to refuse, but we were trying to get on his good side. The gloves lined with talcum powder slipped on easily. The fragrance was a brief relief. Things had to be super bad if Ray was rustling bodies.

  This one was a white male in his late thirties and had to have weighed in at 250 pounds. Couldn’t blame Ray for having trouble with it. If the face is the landscape owned by the geology of the soul, this dead man had been wretched in life and mean as hell. I pulled in my stomach and centered my weight as I grabbed the feet, Gus supported the weight in the middle, and Ray took the shoulders.