Killer Ambition

19

Hayley’s murder was the lead story on the evening news. Hairsprayed news anchors on every channel salivated as they blasted the headlines across the country. I knew it was a harbinger of things to come if the case ever went to trial. But I didn’t get time to worry about it.

Forty-eight miles northwest of downtown, the canyons and hills above Malibu, still only thinly covered by shallow-rooted grasses and young shrubs after the rampant wildfires of last summer, shed layers of earth under the pounding rain. Mudslides sent filthy rivers pouring across all four lanes of Pacific Coast Highway. At the end of the highway closest to Santa Monica, the ebbing ground dislodged rocks and heavy boulders, one of which hurtled off the California Incline with meteoric force and landed on the roof of a car, crushing the driver’s skull. The car spun sideways, forming a blockade, and four vehicles behind it piled into each other like dominoes.

Farther north, high up in the mountains above Mulholland Highway, where the rain fell as though the clouds had torn apart from the weight, the water found a barren stretch of an old sunbaked trail. Pounding down the newly formed channel with a mighty force, it tore through a small, incongruous mound of freshly turned soil. And exposed an outstretched hand.

The shallow grave was discovered by a biker, and the first responding officer, having heard about Hayley, had the good sense to call Bailey-a phone call that sent us screaming down the freeway and winding up the Santa Monica Mountains within the hour. Those steep, narrow roads would’ve made me nervous on a clear day, but on a day that was still dark with the threat of another downpour, and asphalt that was slick with rain and oil-not to mention the occasional patches of thick mud-my heart jackhammered so hard I had to remind myself to breathe. Each hairpin turn gave me a view of the thousands of feet I’d be falling to my death if Bailey made one wrong move. By the time she pulled in behind the patrol cars parked against the side of the mountain, my stomach was in my throat and I had to get out and take several deep breaths to keep from puking.

“Where the hell are we?” I asked when I felt like I could pass for normal.

A tall, dark-haired uni with a runner’s body who’d come out to escort us answered, “God’s Seat, on Boney Mountain.” He leaned down and peered at me. “You okay?”

Apparently I was wrong about passing for normal. “I’m fine.”

“It’s a tough ride. Especially for the passenger.”

And especially when the driver ignores the brake. I appreciated his kindness. And as we followed him down the trail, I also appreciated the fact that I’d been at home when Bailey called, which gave me the chance to change into jeans and hiking boots. We were easily two thousand feet up, and the torrential rain had left the path slippery as ice.

We paused at a split in the mountain that afforded a view stretching from the ocean to the valley. It was almost eight p.m., but there was still some daylight left and it was peeking through the heavy cloud bank. I could see why they called it God’s Seat. Even under dark, cloudy skies it was breathtakingly beautiful. After a few moments, our guide moved on and we eventually came to a small clearing encircled by crime scene tape. In the center of the taped-off area was a partially washed-out mound of dirt; the rain was still trickling across the path it had forged. Protruding from the earth was a waxy forehead and nose and an outstretched arm. But I couldn’t see enough to make out a face.

As I stood on my tiptoes to get a better look, a deep, gravelly voice that sounded vaguely familiar drew my attention.

“How long you gonna keep me here? You know, I got work to do, just like you guys.”

On the far side of the taped-off circle, I saw a big guy wearing a black bandanna around his head Hulk Hogan-style. Even from twenty feet away, I recognized Dominic Rostoni, highly successful custom motorcycle dealer and white supremacist gang leader. Bailey and I had run into him on our last case, and I knew he lived just off Mulholland in Calabasas-not all that far from this place. This mountain was probably a great ride for bikers.

Bailey was conferring with the officer who made the first response. I tapped her on the shoulder and pointed to Dominic.

“What’re the odds?” she asked.

“Pretty good, when you think about it.”

Bailey did, for about a second, then nodded. We made our way over to his side of the crime scene.

“Hey, Dominic,” I said. “Long time no see.” I didn’t offer to shake hands.

He looked up with a frown, then his expression cleared. “Yeah, I remember you. Hey, can you tell these guys to let me go? You know where to find me.”

“You found the body?” I replied.

“Yeah. Came up for a smoke.”

I further assumed he didn’t mean cigarettes. Just the thought of navigating these roads on a motorcycle while high on…anything, gave me vertigo.

“You touch anything?” I asked.

He looked offended. “What you take me for? An idiot?”

The true answer was “Yes, you neo-Nazi asshole.” But sometimes the truth does not set you free. I did believe he was smart enough not to mess with a dead body unless he was the reason it was in that condition. And, obviously, he must’ve called the cops as soon as he found it, because I doubted they’d be doing routine patrol here in this weather.

“What were you really doing out here, Dominic?”

“Really, I was just out for a ride.”

“Right after a storm like this.” I raised an eyebrow.

Dominic sighed and looked away for a moment. “Wife and I had a fight. I needed some cooling-off time. Soon as the rain stopped, I went out for a ride. Didn’t expect to wind up here, tell you the truth…”

“And you called the cops?”

He nodded and glanced toward the mound of dirt. “Poor kid. Got one of my own, you know.”

I didn’t know. And I wasn’t thrilled to hear that these cretins procreated. I restrained the impulse to ask what his kid was doing with his life. I didn’t want to hear he’d joined the “club.”

“You come here pretty often?”

“Maybe once a month.”

“You happen to notice anything else unusual?”

Dominic shook his head. “Even if there was, with this weather it’d be long gone anyways.”

Anyways. Didn’t he say that last time too? This stuff made me nuts. “Anyway, Dominic. There’s only one. Right?”

He snickered briefly. Guess I had mentioned it last time.

“Yeah. Anyway, I didn’t see nothin’ out of the norm.”

I wondered if he was smart enough to use the double negative on purpose, just to mess with me, but decided that was probably giving him too much credit. Besides, bad grammar was the least of his deficits. I looked at Bailey, who was suppressing a smile with only partial success.

“Your information still the same?” she asked him.

“Yeah. ’Course.”

Bailey gave the officer next to Dominic the high sign. “You can let him go. And thanks.”

The coroner’s wagon pulled up as Dominic’s bike gave a throaty growl. He steered out to the road and touched two fingers to his forehead in a salute, then roared off. I didn’t recognize the coroner’s investigator who jumped out of the wagon. He was a smallish black man with a neat mustache and goatee.

Bailey and I introduced ourselves as he stood outside the tape and gloved up.

“George Harrison.”

I wanted to say “You’re kidding, right?” but his serious expression gave me the answer. Without another word, he ducked under the tape, and Bailey and I followed him. He immediately turned back and frowned at us.

“I’m going to have to ask you to stay back until I’m done.”

“Mr. Harrison, how long have you been with the coroner’s office?” Bailey asked, her tone on the borderline between irritation and genuine pissitivity.

“With this office, four months. In Seattle for five years, and in New York for ten.” He said it without a hint of self-importance; it was just a statement of fact. That itinerary explained his accent-as in, he had none whatsoever. That was a lot of years on the job for someone who looked like he was in his twenties. Our skepticism must’ve shown, because he added, “Black don’t crack.”

The slang was so out of place in his King’s English voice, I chuckled in spite of myself and I saw that Bailey did too. George gave us a little smile and unwound a bit. “You can watch from over there right now. When I get ready to wrap him up, I’ll let you in for a closer look.”

Bailey and I stood back and watched. George was one hell of a thorough worker-calm, careful, slow, and steady. After what felt like hours, he gestured to us. “Take a look, but stay back.” He left to get the body bag and gurney.

I scanned the area around us briefly and imagined what it would be like to be alone up here in the dead of night. Scary, desolate…and worst of all, isolated. No one would ever hear you scream. Bailey and I picked our way carefully across the river of loose rocks and mud that had streamed from the grave. As our steps brought us closer, I steeled myself for a sight that was likely to be gruesome. But nothing could have prepared me for what lay inside the crime scene tape. The body of Brian Shandling, né Maher.