Palindrome

CHAPTER 33

Lee Williams was in his captain's office at nine sharp on Monday morning.

He watched as his boss hung up his coat, moved around his desk, and flopped into his chair. "So, how was your weekend?" Haynes asked.

"Could hardly have been better." Williams grinned.

"Tell me."

"I've got a witness who will place Bake Ramsey at the Beverly Hills Hotel, in the Polo Lounge at the same moment Schaefer was there, and who will testify that Ramsey had time to drown Schaefer in the pool, and that he returned to his table in the lounge wet."

"How good is your witness?"

"She's an LAPD cop who was Ramsey's date that night." Haynes smiled broadly.

"That's pretty good."

"It's gold plated. Not only that, but the headwaiter will testify that Ramsey left the lounge by the same route that Schaefer did."

"Even better. Did he sneak out of his hotel, past the staff?"

"He did. Guests can easily come and go through the garage without being seen."

"Good work. It's not good enough for an indictment, though, unless LA Homicide can tie in a witness at the pool or some physical evidence, and they're not going to get extradition without an indictment."

"That's okay with me; I want to bust him here, first."

"How you going to do that?"

"I think I can break his alibi for the Ferguson killings; it's just going to take me a little more time."

"What do you need?"

"I want the crime lab to go over the Ferguson residence one more time. I'm going to need a print, or some fibers, or something."

Haynes nodded. "I'll take care of that. Anything else?"

"Just the time to work on his girlfriend. She's his alibi. I want to find the ex-wife, too, the Barwick woman. I'm going to need her."

"You working on much else?"

"Nothing pressing."

"Okay, take all the time you need, just give me a good bust."

"Yes, sir!"

When Williams left the office, his lungs seemed too full of air. This was a glory bust; he'd nail Ramsey for the Fergusons and hand him to LAPD on a platter, and everybody in the city would know his name. It was a career-making case, and he wasn't going to blow it. He picked up the phone and called Mary Alice Taylor's home number. "This is Mary Alice," a honeyed voice said. "I'm not home, but you know I want to hear from you, so leave a message at the tone."

"Mary Alice, this is Lee Williams. It's important that you and I talk right away, so call me, please." He left all three numbers. "And, Mary Alice, it's important that you don't see Bake or talk to him before we get together. This is for your own good, believe me."

When by the end of the day she hadn't called, he waited until half past eight o'clock and went to Piedmont Hospital. When he got off the elevator on her floor, there was another nurse at Mary Alice's station.

"Excuse me," he said, "but is Mary Alice Taylor working another station tonight?"

"You'll have to see the supervisor," the woman said. "I'll call her for you."

Williams showed his badge to the supervisor. "She didn't turn up for work tonight," the nurse said, "and she wasn't at home when I called."

"Is that unusual for Mary Alice?" Williams asked.

"Yes, it is, but my assumption is that she probably went out of town for the weekend and didn't get back. I expect I'll hear from her in due course, and she'll certainly hear from me."

"I'd like to have her home address, please," he said. "It'll save tracking it down through the phone company." The nurse went to a card file and wrote down the address for him. "Do you know what kind of car she drives?"

"No."

"It's a Volkswagen," the substitute nurse said.

"A Rabbit?"

"No, a bigger one."

"Jetta?"

"That's right. A white one. She bought it new this summer."

Williams thanked her and left. Mary Alice Taylor lived in a large, attractive apartment development in the northwest quadrant of the city.

Williams flashed his badge to the security guard at the gate and asked directions to her apartment. It was a ground-floor one-bedroomer on a nice street, and the living-room lights were on. He rang the bell, and, when there was no answer, he walked through a flower bed and looked through the window into the lighted room. Nothing seemed out of order. He returned to the guardhouse and asked for the head of security; shortly, a black woman in uniform turned up. He showed his badge. "I'm looking for Mary Alice Taylor in 198. She hasn't turned up at work, and there's reason to be worried about her."

"You'll need a warrant, if you want to go into her place," the woman said.

"Listen, lady, this is a serious matter, and I don't need a warrant if you'll let me in. I'm not going to disturb the place, I just need to look inside."

"Oh, all right, but I'll have to go with you."

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

The door yielded to a pass key, and Williams was inside. The apartment was well furnished-it looked as though she'd lived there for a long time, had bought things for the place. In the kitchen there was an open jar of spaghetti sauce on the counter with a film of mold over it, and a pan waiting on the stove. He explored further, not knowing what he might find. The bedroom door was closed. Williams turned the knob by grasping it close to the door. It was dark inside; he felt for a switch, and an overhead light came on. The bedspread and top sheet were on the floor, and there was a spot of dried blood in the middle of the bed. Not enough for a shooting or stabbing, he reckoned. He looked more closely and saw something else. The blood was from sex, he was sure, and the other thing looked like semen. He could see three pubic hairs on the sheet. He had a quick look around the room, then checked the bathroom.

There was a used hand towel on the sink, and it was bloody. He went back into the living room, took out his notebook, and rewound her answering machine. "Hey, sugar," Bake Ramsey's voice said. "It's Friday about noon. We're off to Miami this afternoon, so I don't guess I'll see you until the first of the week. I'm sorry about last night; I'll make it up to you."

"Miss Taylor, this is Tiffany's; your wristwatch is ready, if you'd like to call for it."

"Hi, it's Bake. It's Saturday morning, and I thought I'd catch you at home. I hope you're not still mad. I'm in Miami; please call me." He left a number. The next message was William's own. Then: "Miss Taylor, it's the duty supervisor at Piedmont Hospital. It's eight-twenty Monday night, and you were due here at eight. Please call in as soon as possible."

Williams turned off the machine, sat down, picked up the phone gingerly, with two fingers, and dialed. "Who's this? Okay, this is Lee Williams; I have a possible crime scene, and I want a team out here right away-everything-the works, except no meat wagon; there's no corpse." He gave the address. "Also, I want a plate number for a new Volkswagen Jetta, white, registered to Mary Alice Taylor at this address, and I want an APB out on it right away. Ce the responsibility. If the car is found parked, I don't want it touched until I get there. I want to know if the Bobcats played Miami this past weekend, and if they did, how and when they traveled, coming and going. I want to know if Bake Ramsey was with them, coming and going. I'll be at this number if you need to reach me." He gave the number, then hung up and dialed again. "Hello?"

"Captain, it's Lee. I'm afraid I've lost my witness."

The doorbell to Mary Alice Taylor's apartment rang.

"Hang on, Captain." Williams got up and opened the door.

Bake Ramsey was standing on the doorstep; he looked puzzled. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asked.