Last Breath

34

“Dead end.”

Cellini shook her head slowly as she switched off her cell phone. Walsh, standing in C.J. Osborn’s kitchen, lifted a quizzical eyebrow.

“The stuff in the garage,” she explained, sounding weary. “I thought for sure it would be a breakthrough. But this is one clever son of a bitch we’re up against.”

“The computer couldn’t be traced?”

“He filed off the serial number.”

“How about the cell phone? Couldn’t you track down the account?”

“Oh, I tracked it down, all right.” She gave a bitter laugh. “It’s registered to Pacific Bell. They’re paying the bills.”

Walsh looked at her blankly.

“Don’t you get it, Morrie? It’s a hacker’s joke. He tapped into the PacBell system and put the account in their name. He’s got the phone company paying his phone bill for him.”

“So,” Walsh said, “we’re no closer to ID’ing him than we were before.”

“That’s what ‘dead end’ means,” Cellini snapped, then apologized. “I’m sort of wrung out. I really thought we had him.”

“Maybe Sotheby’s gotten somewhere with the receipts.”

But he hadn’t, as he explained when Walsh and Cellini joined him in the laundry room, where C.J. Osborn kept her bank books, canceled checks, and receipts. “I’ve looked through everything,” he said. “She hasn’t had any work done on her house in the past six months-or if she has, she paid cash for it. No plumbers, no electricians. And no computer repair guys. Nothing.”

Gary Boyle stuck his head in the doorway. “I’m skeptical about the computer-repair angle anyway.”

“Why?” Cellini asked. It had been her idea. “It makes sense. He’s obviously into computers.”

“Yeah, but Nikki Carter didn’t own one. I just checked the inventory of her possessions to be sure. No computer on the list.”

“How about Martha Eversol?” Walsh asked.

“She owned a PC.”

“See if there’s any record of her getting it serviced-especially at-home service. What’s it called again?”

“On-site,” Cellini answered.

“Right. Check that out.”

Boyle disappeared from the doorway. Sotheby stared after him. “Even if she did get her computer repaired,” Sotheby said, “it won’t prove much.”

“Think positive,” Walsh told him, though his own thinking was pretty negative at the moment.

He left the laundry room and returned to the front of the house, where Boyle was flipping through the case file. Walsh saw his lips moving as he scanned the pages. A mouth reader.

“Okay, here’s something,” Boyle said.

Walsh looked over his shoulder. Boyle stabbed at an entry with a ragged fingernail.

“Eversol got a house call from an on-site computer repair service on November twenty-second, about five weeks before her abduction, and about one week before her image went online. The guy could’ve planted the camera when he fixed her PC.”

“We must have checked out the repairman,” Walsh said.

“We did. He’s William Bowden. Married, two kids. Lives in Reseda. West Valley interviewed him, said he seemed okay.”

“But that was before we knew about the Webcam,” Cellini pointed out.

Walsh nodded. “Donna, I want you to talk to Bowden. Call him, see if he’s home. Don’t identify yourself as a cop. Act like you’re selling something or soliciting for charity. Don’t spook him. If he’s there, you and Sotheby go see him with at least two West Valley patrol cops as backup. Ride him hard. I don’t know why, but I’ve got a feeling about this guy. I don’t trust these computer people.”

Cellini smiled. “You don’t trust any technology invented after the Eisenhower administration.”

“Just do it.”

“Shit, Morrie, you’re starting to sound like a TV commercial.” She jotted down Bowden’s phone number, listed in the case file, then pulled out her cell phone again.

Walsh told Boyle to search the LAPD’s database for other homicides and abductions with an Internet connection. “Get Lopez to help.”

“Local crimes only?” Boyle asked.

“No, statewide. Within the past five years. And-”

“Detective?” a voice interrupted.

Walsh glanced behind him and saw a uniformed cop standing there. “Yeah?”

“Watch commander at Wilshire says there’s a guy waiting for you at the station.”

“Name?” For a crazy moment Walsh imagined the patrol cop saying, William Bowden-he’s waiting to make a full confession.

But he answered, “Adam Nolan. I think he’s the victim’s ex-husband.”

“Hell.” Walsh had forgotten all about the man. “All right, I’ll head on over.”

He sketched a wave to Cellini, who was on the phone and barely acknowledged him.

The drive to Wilshire Station was short, but it gave Walsh sufficient time to consider his plan of attack. When interrogating a suspect, there must always be a plan of attack.

He decided to do his Peter Falk impression. That usually got results.

Most cops didn’t watch police shows, but Walsh liked them, and his favorite of all time was Columbo. Oh, sure, the show was totally unrealistic, but Walsh didn’t care about technical accuracy. He loved the show because Columbo was middle-aged and rumpled and eccentric, not unlike Walsh himself. Neither of them would ever be mistaken for Clint Eastwood. They both owned clunky old cars, although Columbo drove his when on-duty in contravention of LAPD policy, which required the use of a department-issue Caprice or Crown Victoria. They both came across as relics of an earlier, pretechnological age. They both loved their work and had little else in their lives.

At night Columbo went home to his invisible and presumably dowdy wife, and Walsh went home to a house that had been empty since his wife left him, to a phone that never rang because his three grown kids were always too busy to call, to bowls of microwaved chili and reruns of Columbo on cable TV.

He parked behind the Wilshire divisional station on Venice Boulevard and entered through the rear door, then quickly made his way through to the reception area in front, where he asked the desk officer for Adam Nolan. He was directed to an unused office on a side corridor. Good thing the watch commander had been smart enough not to put Nolan in an interrogation room. He didn’t want the man thinking of himself as a suspect.

He pushed open the office door and saw a man of about thirty seated in a metal chair, wearing dark chinos and a tan, zippered windbreaker.

“Mr. Nolan? I’m Detective Walsh, Robbery-Homicide.”

Walsh regretted the introduction as soon as he saw the look of cold dread pass over Nolan’s face at the mention of the word homicide . He held up a reassuring hand. “Your wife isn’t dead. That is, we believe she isn’t.”

“Ex-wife,” Nolan mumbled, rising from his chair.

“Sorry.”

“C.J.’s alive?”

“We think so, yes.”

“But you’re not sure?”

“She’s missing, Mr. Nolan.” Walsh closed the door, then took his time moving around the desk and seating himself behind it. “She’s been kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?” Nolan echoed. He sat down, facing the desk. “Who the hell would kidnap her? She hasn’t got any money. She’s not involved in anything political.” He blinked. “Is it-could it be somebody she arrested? A revenge thing?”

“Anything’s possible at this stage. The person responsible could be anyone.” Including you, Walsh added silently.

He didn’t think Adam Nolan was implicated in this crime, but until he had more facts, he wasn’t making any assumptions.

“When did this happen?” Nolan asked.

“We’re not sure.” Walsh leaned forward, asserting himself. “Mr. Nolan, I’m afraid you’ll have to let me ask the questions.”

“Right,” Nolan said. “Of course.” He ran a hand over his blond hair, mussing it distractedly. He was a good-looking guy, Walsh noted, with crisp, regular features, a light suntan, and smoky eyes tinged with blue. Women would go for him.

“When did you and C.J. get divorced?” Walsh asked.

“A year ago, approximately. Why is that relevant?”

“I’m just getting some background information,” Walsh answered vaguely. “Have you kept in touch with her?”

“As I said over the phone, I saw her just a few hours ago.”

“It wasn’t me you talked to on the phone. It was Detective Boyle.” Walsh spread his hands apologetically and cocked his head in ingenuous humility. “Sorry if I’m covering some of the same ground.”

Nolan seemed disarmed by these overtures. “It’s all right. Ask whatever you want.”

Walsh nodded. Thank you, Lieutenant Columbo. “You saw your ex-wife today?”

Nolan said yes. “At Newton Station. She was coming off duty. We went for coffee down the street.”

“Where?”

“I don’t remember the name of the place. It was run by a Filipino couple-she told me that.”

“Why did you see her?”

“To invite her out.”

“Tonight?”

“No, she does volunteer work tonight. I mean, normally she does. I mean-”

“I understand. Go on.”

“It was for Friday. I thought we might go to a club, hear some music.”

“You do that often? Get together with her?” He was fully absorbed in his Columbo persona now-polite, apologetic, gently probing.

“No, not really. We try to keep in touch. But it’s a strain, you know. The divorce wasn’t entirely amicable.”

“I guess they never are,” Walsh said, thinking of his own divorce ten years ago. “Can I ask why you split up?”

“We were just going in different directions. She became a cop. I became a lawyer.”

“Criminal law?”

“Corporate.”

“Good money in that.”

“So they tell me.” A brief, forced laugh.

“Did C.J. express any concerns about her safety?”

“Today?”

“Ever.”

Nolan thought about it. “No, I’m sure I’d remember if she had.”

“Did she mention an e-mail she’d received?”

“E-mail?”

Walsh waved off the issue. “Never mind.”

“Did someone send her-”

“I can’t go into it.” Another Columbo moment. “I’m sorry. Really.” He let his sympathy mollify Nolan, then continued. “Did you leave the coffee shop together?”

“We parted outside. She walked back to the station for her car.”

“What did you do?”

“Drove to the office. It’s Brigham and Garner in Century City.”

“What time did you leave her?”

“Four-fifteen, four-thirty.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“Home, I assumed. She’d worked a full shift, or watch-whatever you call it. She’d nearly gotten herself killed. I think she was ready to chill out.”

“What do you mean, nearly got killed?”

“She told me she handled a hostage situation all by herself. Resolved it successfully. I have a feeling she was breaking a few rules-not to mention risking her neck.”

Walsh hadn’t heard about this. “You don’t seem too surprised by her heroics.”

“Why would I be? That’s C.J. I guess that’s why they gave her that nickname.”

“What nickname?”

“You don’t know? Killer. That’s what the other cops call her.”

“Killer? Why? Any special reason?”

“Oh, it’s quite a story.” Walsh heard a note of pride in Nolan’s voice. “Happened when she was new to the street-back when she was a rookie working Harbor Division. One night, on only her third week on the job, she and her training officer get a report of loud music coming from an apartment. Doesn’t seem like anything serious, so the training officer lets C.J. handle it. They go up to the apartment, and there’s rap music blasting from inside. C.J. bangs on the door, yells, ‘Police!’ And guess what happens?”

“Tell me.”

“The guy inside the apartment starts firing through the door. If he’d been using a shotgun, C.J. and her partner would’ve been killed. But it’s a handgun, and the shots miss.”

“Christ,” Walsh said. It was rare for any cop to be fired on, and rarer still for a boot fresh out of the Academy.

“The training officer pulls C.J. to cover and calls for backup, but then they hear somebody screaming for help. C.J. says they’ve got to go in. Her partner doesn’t want to. She goes in anyway-and he follows. She shamed him into it, I guess.

“They kick down the door and enter, and the guy with the gun starts firing from the bedroom, and they’re returning fire. It’s a real shootout. C.J. told me she emptied one clip and put in another. Her partner did the same. That’s, what, thirty rounds?”

“Something like that.”

“Finally the guy stops shooting. They got him. He’s been hit twice in the abdomen, and he’s lost consciousness. C.J. goes past him into the bedroom and finds another guy in there, next to the stereo, which is still booming out the rap music. This guy is tied to a chair. He was being tortured-tortured to death. The music was turned up loud to cover his screams.”

Walsh shook his head. “Why was the victim being tortured?”

“Drug dealer thing. The one guy decided to eliminate his competition.”

“Did the gunman die?”

“No, he pulled through. So C.J.’s not really a killer. But they started calling her by that name anyway. Because she had the killer instinct.”

Walsh took this in. “What’s it like, being married to a woman with a killer instinct?”

“She didn’t display it with me. I think the other cops misinterpreted it anyway. It’s not that she wants to be Dirty Harry. It’s just-well, something happened to her when she was a kid.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, exactly. She never talks about it much. But something scared her. I think she became a cop to deal with that fear. I think she went into that apartment for the same reason. She’s lived with fear for a long time, and I think this is her way of dealing with it.” Nolan shifted in his chair. “I’m not sure how helpful any of this is.”

“Let me just clear up a few more little things. You said you left C.J. between four-fifteen and four-thirty this afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“And went back to your office?”

“Yes.”

“When did you get there?”

“Maybe quarter of five.”

“People saw you return?”

“Sure. The receptionist, Anna. Some of my colleagues. A client

…” His words trailed off. He seemed bewildered by this line of questioning.

Walsh pressed on, aware that his Columbo act was about to run out of steam. “What kind of vehicle do you drive?”

“BMW 325 coupe.”

“Is that it? No other car?” Or a white van, he added wordlessly.

“I’m one person. How many cars do I need?”

“Did you have any further contact with C.J. today?”

“No.”

“Didn’t call her this evening?”

“No. I worked at the office until six, then went home.”

“Home is where?”

“Brentwood.”

“Anyone see you arrive home?”

Nolan stiffened. “What’s this about?”

“I’m just asking-”

“You’re trying to verify my movements-is that it?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Nolan,” Walsh said in his best Peter Falk voice. “It’s routine, that’s all.”

“Routine. Right.” Nolan seethed for a moment, then said reluctantly, “Hell, I don’t know if any of my neighbors saw me get in. Probably not. I didn’t see any of them.”

“And then?”

“Made dinner, turned on the TV-want to know what I watched?” he asked with sarcasm.

“Okay,” Walsh said.

“The news. The local news. Channel Four. Then a movie on HBO. Field of Dreams, the baseball thing. Around eight o’clock I got a phone call from Detective Boyle. Now I’m here.” He lifted his arms and let them fall limply in his lap. “That’s it.”

“All right, Mr. Nolan.”

“You through asking questions? Can I talk now?”

“Go ahead.”

“Good. Because I’ve got something to say.” There was no expression on his face, only a deadly stillness. “This is bullshit. You start this interview by telling me you need some background information, and you end up treating me like a goddamned suspect.”

“I’m sorry,” Walsh began, but Nolan wouldn’t let him be Columbo anymore.

“I don’t want to hear it. You drag me in here and waste my time, and what’s more important, you waste your time. Are you running this investigation?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Then what the hell are you doing here with me? How does this help you to get C.J. back?”

“It’s impossible at this stage of the investigation to say what will be helpful-”

“Cut the crap. You’re here so you can say you followed procedure, so you can make a check-off mark in your notebook. ‘Talked to ex-husband,’ check. And meanwhile somebody’s got C.J., and for all we know she could be dying right now.”

“Mr. Nolan-”

“Quit talking to me, and get off your ass and find her, God damn it! Just find her… find…” Abruptly he slumped forward in his chair, all the anger hissing out of him. “Oh, shit.”

He cradled his head in his hands, rocking back and forth.

“We’re doing everything we can,” Walsh said.

Nolan just shook his head.

Walsh was almost sure this wasn’t the guy. But he reminded himself that Adam Nolan was a lawyer, and every lawyer he’d ever met had been skilled at deception. He’d better ask for the names of those witnesses who saw Nolan return to work. Then maybe send someone from West LA Division to talk to Nolan’s neighbors His desk phone rang. He picked it up. “Walsh.”

“Morrie?” It was Donna Cellini, breathless and tense. “We’ve got a suspect.”

He sat up straight. “You serious?”

“No, I’m joking around. Of course I’m serious. Look, I can’t go into it now. We’re setting up a command post in Hacienda Heights. Corner of Hacienda Boulevard and Newton Street.”

He’d expected her to say Reseda, where William Bowden lived. Hacienda Heights was in the opposite direction, an unincorporated district in the southeast corner of LA County. “That’s Sheriff’s jurisdiction,” Walsh said.

“Right. They’re handling it, and we’re along for the ride. Get over here fast.”

“I’m on my way.”

Walsh hung up and glanced at Adam Nolan across the desk. “Sorry, Mr. Nolan. I need to get moving.”

“What is it? Did something happen?”

“I can’t talk about it now.”

“Do you know where C.J. is?”

“I’m not sure what we know. We have your phone number. Go home and wait. When there’s news, you’ll be the first to hear it.”

“Tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t tell you anything. Look, you said you wanted us to make progress. So don’t stand in our way. Let us do our jobs.”

Nolan hesitated, then stood up. “Just get her back, all right?”

Walsh wanted to say something reassuring, but there was no time. “We’ll do everything we can.”