Nine

36

Mulholland Highway

Santa Monica Mountains

Thursday, May 22, 12:24 A.M.

The Bora was bright red beneath the lights the crime lab had set up, a low, sleek streak of color in dark surroundings. If you ignored the two dead men, Alex thought, and the dark brown stains on the inside of the driver’s side window and elsewhere in the interior, you couldn’t help but appreciate it as a thing of beauty.

“Less than six hundred of them ever made,” Enrique Marquez said. “I couldn’t let them just haul it off on a standard tow truck. The flatbed should be here before too long.”

Alex had been in touch with Marquez through the task force, but this was the first scene they had worked together since Adrianos’s body was found. Recalling Ciara’s insults to the man, Alex was relieved she wasn’t here. He wouldn’t break any confidences about her sister, but he could still mend some fences.

“I’m with you,” he said. “Besides, we’ll want to go over every inch of it anyway.”

“You aren’t thinking of dismantling it?” Marquez asked in horror.

Alex smiled. “I doubt that will be necessary.”

“I hope not.”

“Any idea how long they’ve been up here?”

“The Malibu Station says they patrolled past here at about six o’clock and would have noticed it then-I’ve got to believe that’s true, because at six it wasn’t dark yet, I’m damned if I believe one of our guys could go past a red Bora in broad daylight without seeing it.”

“So who did see it first?”

“Malibu Station deputy taking that same routine ride between here and Kanan-Dume. He found them at about ten-forty-five. So we’re looking at sometime between six and ten-forty-five. Coroner thinks-unofficially-they’ve only been up here two to three hours. When you’re done looking them over, he’ll take them out of the car and be able to tell you more. It’s a little cramped trying to work in there now. But we’ve had a chance to take some photos, do a little fingerprint work, make some calls. My partner has been running his ass off down in Malibu and the Palisades, and I learned a few things from a deputy who has worked here for a while.”

“I’m glad you caught this case, Enrique. Anyone else might not have made the connection to Whitfield so quickly.”

“Your buddy from Channel Three beat you up here,” Marquez said. “I wish I knew who was tipping her off to everything.”

“You and me both. You’ve held her at bay?”

“You know I did.” He grinned. “Ontora and I have had a few run-ins. I think she was disappointed that I was here. Wouldn’t let them close enough for a shot, and at this turnout there are too many trees to let them get anything by helicopter. I loved it.”

“The deputy radioed it in and waited here, right? Maybe Ontora heard it on a scanner. Same thing just happened to us in Del Aire.”

“That’s possible, I suppose. Thank God the deputy stayed here, though, because between the money these two had on them and the car, these guys were like a hundred-thousand-dollar prize waiting to be claimed.”

“Not an easy car to unload, though,” Alex said, and frowned. He walked nearer to the Bora. “A little conspicuous for arranging murder, too, don’t you think? If they had pulled up in this thing in the Lakewood neighborhood where we found Adrianos, I think someone would have noticed it.”

“Sure, but you know these guys have more than one car. In fact, this one was in the shop until today.”

Alex stopped walking. “What?”

“No, wait, it’s after midnight isn’t it? Until yesterday morning-Wednesday.”

Alex frowned-something wasn’t right. “You’re sure he just got it back?”

“Yes-hang on a minute.” Marquez opened the file folder he had in his hand. “The driver is the registered owner of the vehicle. Morgan Addison.” He flipped through some department forms and came to a flat evidence envelope. He pulled out a yellow carbonless form and handed it to Alex.

The form was a receipt made out to Morgan Addison from Blackstone European Auto Repair and Restoration in Santa Monica, time-stamped at nine-fifteen on May 21. It appeared to be a routine maintenance check, but combined with the bill for washing and detailing the car, the total cost was more than Alex paid for a year of visits to a mechanic. “How many miles driven since it was in the shop?”

Marquez consulted his notes. “One hundred forty-six.”

“Then we’ll want to see what’s within that range and try to find out if anyone in those areas remembers seeing a red Bora. Maybe we’ll be able to fill in the gap between their victims-we’ve skipped from number six to number three.”

Enrique put a hand on his shoulder. “I feel for you, man. I’m glad they didn’t decide to go out in a hail of bullets or holding hostages, but this is lousy.”

“Yes.”

“And nothing but shitwork from now on, tying up all the loose ends. Just isn’t as rewarding as catching somebody.”

“I’m not so sure there’s no one left to catch.”

Marquez raised his brows.

“Why does someone who’s planning to kill himself take his car into the shop?” Alex asked, handing the receipt back to him.

“Wants to make sure he can get to the scenic location in style. You know how suicides are about staging things. Probably why he got it washed.”

“Yes, but that receipt isn’t for washing and repairs. He paid for oil and fluids, wiper blades, things like that.”

Marquez studied it again and said, “Okay, so on Tuesday, he didn’t know he was going to kill himself. On Tuesday, the brilliant Detective Brandon had not yet been visited by the tooth fairy at a press conference, and so he wasn’t naming Mr. Frederick Whitfield IV as one of the murderers yet.”

“Tooth fairy, huh? Well, maybe you’re right about the change in outlook. But it bothers me. He spent his last day or so driving the Bora over a hundred miles, only to take it up to a spot on the road this close to Malibu?”

“Like you said, maybe he had to leave a body somewhere.”

“And hauled it in this sports car?” Alex asked.

“So he used another vehicle for that, but this was going to be the one they made the exit in.”

“Maybe-but why this spot?”

“It’s pretty up here.”

“You’ve driven Mulholland. Is this the most scenic spot? Even at night, there are places with amazing views of city lights. This is a shallow turnout with no real view, even in daylight.”

Marquez gave him a scathing look of disbelief. “You think someone else is involved because these guys picked a lousy view?”

“No, it’s just-I don’t know, it feels wrong. If they’re from Malibu, why come here the long way?”

“What do you mean, the long way?”

“Look at the side of the road they’re on. They’re heading toward the ocean-toward Malibu. So where did they come from?”

“Maybe they headed up here, saw this turnout, and did a U-turn,” Marquez said.

Alex conceded that this might be true. “Any other tire prints?”

“Dozens of them. Nothing we can use.”

Alex couldn’t shake the feeling that something about this scene was wrong, though. “So talk to me about what else you’ve discovered.”

“Looks like they had a suicide pact. They’re apparently old friends-lived in Malibu, went to the same private school. We found them so late this evening, we weren’t able to learn a lot, but we got that much from a couple of people who knew them-one neighbor and a deputy that had dealings with them when they were juvenile delinquents.”

“So they have juvenile records?”

“Rumor has it they do. We’ll see what the courts will let us learn. Not in trouble much as adults. We’re just getting started on all of that.”

“Not complaining. You’ve already covered a lot of ground.”

“Morgan Addison was twenty-four years old last February. He owns a house on the beach in Malibu. Lives alone. Neighbor told us that Mr. Addison came into a trust fund when he turned twenty-one and spent most of his time surfing and polishing the Maserati, hanging out with friends, and so on. No employment ever. Parents live in the Palisades, but apparently they’re estranged from their son-that’s another story. Anyway, one of their neighbors said they’re on a cruise. Couldn’t remember where. We’re trying to get in touch with them, but that’s as far as we’ve gotten. The other one-”

“Wait, before we talk about the passenger, tell me a couple of other things about Morgan Addison. You said a deputy told you there had been trouble before now?”

“Speeding tickets in the Maserati, that’s all. But the guy from the Malibu Station who rode up here with me has worked there about twelve years, and he says the kid was a lifetime asshole and good riddance. Said that he was dumped in that private reform school up here-what’s it called?”

Alex suddenly felt a cold knot form in his stomach. “Sedgewick.”

“Yes, that’s the one. Guess Addison used to deal dope at the local high school before he was old enough to be in high school himself. Got caught at it twice, but they could never make the charges stick-parents bailed him out of every jam he ever got himself into. Then one day, he beat the crap out of his sister-broke her arm, knocked out a couple of teeth-’cause she borrowed his bike without asking. Mumsy and Daddy had apparently had enough at that point and sent him to Sedgewick. He boarded there and never went back home after that.”

Alex realized that Enrique and his partner must have been really pushing to learn this much so quickly. “Thanks, Enrique. Like I said, I’m glad you’re the one who caught this one.”

“Yeah, well, between you and me, I’m glad your partner isn’t here with you.”

Alex caught his look but decided to avoid the topic of Ciara. “Sorry I kept you waiting,” he said. “Guess I’d better not hold up everyone else any longer.”

He walked around to the passenger side of the car, bracing himself, as he found he must always do in suicide by gunshot cases. There had been enough of these over his years in homicide investigation to no longer make it as difficult as it had once been, and now only a case involving a man of about his father’s age would disturb him to any great degree.

He knew that he would always think of his father in these cases, would always recall finding him. But he had learned to concentrate on the cases of new victims by telling himself that their families deserved to have him do his job-without allowing his personal emotional reactions to interfere with it.

“A shame, with all they had going for them,” he heard Marquez say.

“A damned shame,” he agreed.

He sat on his haunches to lower himself to eye level with the occupants of the car. This was the less messy side-entrance wound side. Frederick Whitfield IV’s lifeless hand lay in his lap, his pale manicured fingers holding a gun.

“Both right-handed?” Alex asked.

“Apparently.”

Addison was slumped over the steering wheel. Alex noticed something odd. He moved around to the driver’s side and carefully opened the door. He studied Morgan Addison’s face and clothing. “Strange that they’re dressed so differently, isn’t it?”

“So one wants to look corporate, and the other like he’s too cool for words, that’s all.”

“You think they fought beforehand?” Alex asked.

“Why?”

“Addison’s nose is swollen-looks as if he was punched in the face. He’s got blood on the front of his shirt, too.”

“Sure it isn’t from-well, there’s a lot of blood in there.”

“Exit wound spatter, yes, but that’s not from his bullet wound. And not from Whitfield. Look at the driver’s side window and then at the windshield. The blood and tissue on the driver’s side window is more concentrated-I think Addison was looking straight ahead. The blood and tissue on the windshield couldn’t have come from his wound, especially not in the pattern they make. That must be Whitfield’s. Whitfield must not have been facing forward-maybe he was sitting at a slightly different angle. He must have turned away a little bit-maybe trying not to look at his friend’s body.”

“How do you know the driver was first?”

“I don’t know for sure, and won’t until the lab checks the inside of the car and tells us exactly whose blood is where. But there’s a misting of blood on this side and on the back of Addison’s suit, which is probably Whitfield’s blood-spraying out over the car’s interior after Addison was already slumped forward.”

“I’m going to make sure the techs got photos of all of that,” Marquez said.

Alex wrinkled his nose. For a moment, he thought the dog’s smell was embedded in his suit. But this was not quite the same.

Marquez saw the look and said, “The urine is on Addison’s suit.”

Alex looked over at him. “What do you mean, ‘on’ it?”

“Look at the stain. You think a guy can piss himself and miss his own crotch?”

“No.”

“I wonder if these two were lovers. You know, and old Frederick Whitfield IV here gave his beloved Addison a little golden shower as a going-away present.”

“On his clothes?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“My uncle once told me this saying-‘If you hear hoofbeats, don’t first look for a zebra.’”

Marquez laughed. “I get your point. We’ve already got a promise from the lab to try to figure out who peed on whom.”

Alex looked at the positions of the bodies and how their hands held the guns. Something about Whitfield’s arm position didn’t seem quite right, but he couldn’t say why. “Has Whitfield been moved at all?”

“Not that I know of. Crime lab took photos, though, so you can double check that. Something bothering you?”

“I don’t know.” He tried for a few minutes more to figure out what didn’t seem to fit. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the Bora was just an expensive dustbin, into which someone had swept two people who were proving to be problems. But if this was murder and not suicide, was it because the media had learned that they were seeking Whitfield? Had Whitfield been killed because the LASD knew his name? But then why kill Addison, too? And who could get close enough to these two to kill them in the car like this?

Sedgewick. Another school chum?

He shivered. The night air was cold, but he knew the chill he felt had nothing to do with the weather. Admit that these might be suicides and nothing more, he told himself. Maybe you can’t be objective after all.

He stood up and stretched. He looked back through the bloodstained windshield, unable to prevent the memory of his father’s death from intruding on his thoughts. But his father had been wracked by guilt-deeply depressed, penniless, and ashamed. What would have made these young men feel so hopeless?

“Damn, I’m tired,” he said, then saw that Enrique was watching him closely. They had known each other for a long time, and he wondered how much the other man was guessing about his mood.

“You just need some sleep, Alex, that’s all.”

“Yeah. Listen-thanks again for holding things up for me, Enrique. We’ll call a meeting of the task force for late tomorrow morning and see what we have then, all right?”

“Okay. I’m with you. No use trying to think things through on three hours of sleep. These guys aren’t going anywhere.”

Alex got back in his car and rolled down the windows, but the stench of Chase’s new friend was pervasive. He wondered what the hell had possessed him to tell that kid to go ahead and bring that stinking mutt home with him. A drive of ten minutes had been enough to make his car reek like the bottom of a Dumpster. Maybe Chase had a problem with his sense of smell.

Then he thought of Chase borrowing crime scene tape to make a leash and his excitement as they rode back to the house. Kid could have just about any material thing he desired, and he was crazy over a skinny stray.

He laughed out loud when he recalled the look on John’s face.

A little later, two questions began to nag at him.

Why had the guy in the Jeep, the reporter that Chase had waved to, been hanging around in an alley near the crime scene?

And why hadn’t Hamilton shown up on Mulholland?