Rob Rasmussen took a step toward Delsey, only to have Griffin get in his face. “No, Mr. Rasmussen. Not now. Thank you for saving her, but I’m taking her home.”
Delsey stood beside her brother, her hand on his arm. “I told you, Rob, I don’t want to speak to you ever again and I meant it. From now on I’m avoiding men altogether. No more making bad decisions for me. Yes, Griffin, let’s go home. Thank you, Detective Raven, Captain Ramirez.”
They left Rob Rasmussen standing in the hall outside Captain Ramirez’s office, staring after Delsey.
48
* * *
CAU INTERVIEW ROOM
WASHINGTON, D.C.
THURSDAY EVENING
Savich and Sherlock sat across from Alexander in the same interview room they’d been in Tuesday, only two days before, but it seemed a lifetime ago. Alexander sat down, shot his cuffs, and said, “I don’t wish to begin until my lawyer arrives.” He looked down at his watch. “He said he was on his way. It appears he’d been waiting for Grandmother’s call.”
They waited in silence until R. D. Gardener, a formidable criminal attorney, strode into the room five minutes later. He stopped short, recognizing Savich. “Agent Savich, it’s been a while. May I ask why you have brought my client to the Hoover Building tonight? It couldn’t wait until tomorrow, this questioning he told me you demanded to conduct? You threatened to arrest him?”
“Hello, Mr. Gardener, let me introduce you to Agent Sherlock. I don’t believe you two have met.”
Gardener nodded at her, then his eyes widened. “Like most of America, I know your wife. The heroine of JFK. A pleasure, Agent Sherlock. Now, Agent Savich, you will tell me what evidence you have to support bringing my client in at this ungodly hour on a Thursday night.”
“Please sit down, Mr. Gardener, and I’ll lay it out for you and Alexander. On Monday, Venus gave us permission to search the house, after the attempt on her life. It required several days for the forensics team to process all they took from the mansion. They found nothing suspicious, except for traces of arsenic in your medicine cabinet, Alexander.” Savich added to Gardener, “As you may know, Mrs. Rasmussen was being systematically poisoned with arsenic. Why would you have traces of arsenic in your medicine cabinet, Alexander?”
Before Alexander could open his mouth, Gardener said, “You’re telling me you brought Mr. Rasmussen down here because of some traces of a substance in his medicine cabinet? Are you that desperate, Agent Savich?”
Savich continued, “I would certainly like to hear Alexander’s explanation for the arsenic.”
Gardener said, “You searched Mr. Rasmussen’s suite of rooms without his permission? Without a warrant?”
“As I said, Mrs. Rasmussen gave us permission and it is her house.”
“But his rooms are his alone. Your evidence will be inadmissible in court, Agent.”
Savich said, “I’m sure you will argue that point very well if we come to that, Mr. Gardener. Alexander, do you have an explanation?”
“No, I do not. Obviously anyone in the house could have put it there. Do you honestly believe I’m so stupid as to leave arsenic in my bathroom, Savich?”
“That remains to be seen, Alexander, but it’s only one of the reasons you are here. We found calls to a burner phone sold to Mr. Willig made from your cell phone, calls made on Sunday, one day before Willig tried to murder your grandmother on Monday afternoon. You said you didn’t know Vincent Willig. If that is true, then why did you call him?”
Alexander rose out of his chair, leaned close to Savich. “I don’t know the man, I told you that. I did not call him.”
“Doesn’t this all look highly suspicious to you, Agent Savich? As my client has said, how stupid would he have to be to not only leave traces of arsenic in his medicine cabinet but also to make calls that could be traced to the man he was hiring to kill his grandmother? I understand the man was a convicted felon who was murdered last night while in your custody?” He shook his head. “Unfortunate, and very prejudicial to any case you might wish to make.”
Alexander gave a sharp ugly laugh. “Excellent police work. Do you have anything else to ask me?”
Before Savich could answer, Mr. Gardener said, “Look, Agent Savich, the phone calls and the traces of arsenic—hardly enough to get an indictment, I’m sure you’ll agree. Anyone could have planted the arsenic, and I’m sure Mr. Rasmussen doesn’t keep his cell phone on his person all the time. Again, anyone could have tampered with his cell phone.”
“Alexander,” Sherlock said, “where were you early Wednesday morning?”
“Oh, come on, Agent—”
“Where were you, Alexander?”
“I was at home asleep. Alone. Where do you think? At some nightclub drinking my brains out? I certainly wasn’t at the hospital disarming a guard and killing Willig. I’m sure there are cameras at the hospital. Look at them. You won’t see me.” He paused. “But you’ve already looked, haven’t you?”
“Yes, we looked, and no, we didn’t see you,” Savich said.
Alexander rose. “I want to go home.”
“Where were you this afternoon about four o’clock?”
“Why?” Gardener asked.
“Tell us where you were, Alexander,” Savich said.
“I was in my office at the Smithsonian, finishing the paperwork for the acquisition of one of Johnny Cash’s guitars. Would you like my secretary’s number?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Alexander recited the number. “What happened this afternoon?”
Savich stood. “A crime that might be related. You can go now, Alexander. Venus asked me to tell you that she believes it best for both of you if you stay at a hotel until this is cleared up. She’s booked you a suite at the Dupont Circle Hotel. Isabel is sending clothes over. You’re to call her if you need anything else.”
There was an instant of hot silence. Alexander half rose, leaning again toward Savich, this time nearly snarling. “You and I both know this banishment from my home is your doing, Savich. I won’t forget it.”
Gardener laid his hand on Alexander’s shoulder. “Let’s go, Alexander.”
Savich said, his voice matter-of-fact, even gentle, “Agent Hamish will escort both of you out of the building. Thank you for coming.”
Savich and Sherlock watched them walk down the long hall to the elevator. Sherlock said, “That went about as expected. He didn’t do it, Dillon. He’s perfect for it, from his supercilious nose down to his Gucci tassels. Makes you want to run with the evidence and try to nail him to the wall. But he’s not a moron. It’s all too pat, too convenient, and wheeled right up to our doorstep and dumped so we’d have to step in it. Makes me nuts.”
Savich cursed, nothing really nasty, but still, it surprised her. He was upset. “And someone went to a great deal of trouble to make us believe he’s guilty. So here we are, twisting in the wind. Sorry, sweetheart, I lost it.”
She hugged him. “I think I heard Sean say something like that under his breath just the other day. No worries.”
Savich lightly ran his fingertips down her cheek. “My heroine of JFK. It has a nice ring to it.”
“I sort of like it, too, but one has to be modest, you know?” She kissed him. “There are too many threads dangling to deal with tonight. Tomorrow morning we’ll have the videos. Maybe we’ll see who pushed Delsey into traffic.”
“If Delsey’s smart, she’ll go back to Stanislaus and put all of this behind her.”
Sherlock didn’t think she would and knew Dillon didn’t think so, either. The heart wants what the heart wants. All too true. She’d watched Delsey and Rob in Captain Ramirez’s office. Even though Delsey was furious with Rob, there was still something between them, something deep and urgent, maybe even something lasting. She said, “You know Sean’s over at Lily and Simon’s house for a sleepover. I always think the house feels different without him. I know I’ll keep listening for him—those little snorts he makes in his sleep, his bare
feet padding to the bathroom.”
“Tonight, Lily and Simon will hear the little snorts and the padding feet.” He pulled her against him, brought her close. Since they were alone, she leaned up and nibbled on his chin, then kissed him, whispered in his mouth, “Let’s go home, Dillon, and make everything right again with the world.”
He looked down at her beloved face. “What a nice idea,” he said.
49
* * *
SANTA MONICA
THURSDAY EVENING
Gloria Swanson knew if she ever got famous enough to write a memoir, this day would rank right up there with winning her first Oscar.
She’d been called back that morning for a second audition for the role of Detective Belle DeWitt in Hard Line, a new HBO cop series, slated for release in January. It was the part she’d been waiting for since she’d moved to L.A. two years ago, and she knew she’d nailed it. She kept staring at her cell phone, willing it to ring. Euphoria didn’t come close to how she felt, until she took that call from Detective Arturo Loomis of the Santa Monica police warning her she was on a list and could be the Starlet Slasher’s next victim. He told her the smart thing to do was to leave town for a while. Like that would ever happen, not when the gold ring was nearly on her finger. Besides, she wasn’t the kind to run away.
She cursed herself for not getting a gun when she’d first arrived in L.A., but thanks to Detective Loomis, she’d get one now. She drove her Toyota to East L.A. and bought a .22 revolver from a street kid who’d knocked a hundred bucks off the price for the butt-ugly little gun because she was so beautiful.
One of her long-ago boyfriends in Toledo, a bad boy her parents knew nothing about, had taught her how to ride a hog, roll a joint, and how to aim and shoot a pistol. No way was she going to be number seven on that madman’s hit list.
She’d known Deborah Connelly, sure, she lived only two streets away, but not much more than to say hello. She hadn’t particularly liked Deborah, a holier-than-thou sort of girl, playing the good girl in a town where it paid to know when to accept an offer and to know who was doing the offering. She had to admit she’d been surprised when Deborah got her role in The Crown Prince. Well, she hadn’t finished it, had she? Gloria felt a stab of guilt and said a prayer for Deborah. It was too bad no one had warned her.
Her cell played the theme from Happy Days. It was her agent, Austin DeLone. Casting had called to offer her the part. He was as euphoric as she was, as her parents would be when she called them with the news. She bought a bottle of good champagne, opened it in her living room, drank deeply, and let emotion wash over her. She turned on some music and drank as she danced, right out of the bottle.
Finally, she was on her way to being a star. The part of Detective Belle DeWitt was perfect for her. She was hot and smart and street savvy. So what if Gloria was sleeping with the producer? He was easy enough to please, the old horndog. And he hadn’t been toying with her, he’d gotten her the audition, probably thrown in a good word for her. It was the way of the show-business world, something her parents couldn’t begin to understand or accept. Her agent hadn’t believed they’d even let her in the door, but they’d ushered her in, openly admired what they saw—a caramel-skinned, six-foot gorgeous Amazon with perfect white teeth, thanks to her dentist mom.
It was her first big break. Sure, she’d scored some small roles, mainly because she was so striking, but nothing that put her in the lights. She got a waitressing job at Burgundy’s, the current “in” café in Beverly Hills, fully aware that every important producer dropped in for lunch at one time or another. She was careful about who she went out with, who she slept with. She was sure the men realized she was using them as much as they were using her. It didn’t matter, everyone was happy, especially Gloria, especially now. She was about to be Detective Belle DeWitt, a badass cop in Baltimore. Was Belle short for something else? She’d have to ask.
Would Detective Belle DeWitt be her breakout role? They’d even asked her if she liked her character’s name when she’d done her second audition, and that had made her glow.
An old geezer on the showrunner’s team, a genius with a camera, she’d been told, claimed he’d filmed the original Gloria Swanson when she’d roared through Hollywood back in the day. He asked if she was related, since she looked so much like her, and he’d laughed and laughed at his own joke.
She drank more champagne from the bottle, rubbed her mouth. She wasn’t hungry, her stomach was too jumpy.
She thought again of Deborah and wondered if she should make an appearance at her funeral. It meant she’d have to be nice to Doc, that boring stick-in-the-mud doctor Deborah had been practically engaged to, who’d hated that Deborah was an actress. If he had such a burr up his butt about it, why had he wanted to marry her? Yes, she’d go. She owed Deborah that.
She was pretty buzzed when she started her nightly ritual. She closed all the draperies, checked every window, dead-bolted the door, and set the burglar alarm, installed thanks to her parents.
When she was finally in bed, the AC set on high and her new .22 beside her on the bedside table, she settled in and picked up the latest copy of Vanity Fair and tried to concentrate, but all she could see was a future photo of herself, proudly holding up her Baltimore PD badge. Looking hot, of course.
It was a quarter to one in the morning when she finally closed her eyes.
WAKE UP, GLORIA.
Her eyes flew open and she was fully alert. Her heart was pounding, the covers tangled around her legs. That voice, it was loud and clear. It was Deborah’s voice shouting at her to wake up, but Gloria knew that wasn’t possible. She shook her head. A dream? Sure, she’d been thinking about Deborah and she’d dreamed about her, that made sense, but she was wide-awake now, her champagne buzz gone, and she was scared. She looked at her bedside clock. 1:59.
She grabbed her .22 off the bedside table, felt the cold steel against her fingers, her palm. And waited, listening for all she was worth. She heard something. No, her brain was playing tricks on her because she was scared. She hadn’t heard anything, it wasn’t possible. But she clutched the gun to her chest, not moving. You have a gun; he can’t kill you. Don’t make a sound, just breathe, listen, focus.
And then she heard it, the sound of the window slowly sliding up in her second bedroom, nearly noiseless, but she knew the sound. Why hadn’t her state-of-the-art alarm gone off?
She hadn’t actually believed the serial killer would come, even after Detective Loomis’s call. How many hundreds of wannabe young actresses were there in L.A.? And how could she have gotten on that madman’s hit parade? At least she wasn’t asleep, and she had a gun. No way was he going to slash her throat, no way was she going to be his seventh victim.
Gloria slipped out of bed, molded her pillows into her shape and covered them with lots of blankets, and that made sense since the room was cold from the full blast of the air-conditioning. She backed away and slipped down to her knees behind her ancient red velvet chair, a present her grandmother had given her for luck in LaLa Land. She concentrated on stilling her breathing, slowing the wild pounding of her heart. She was used to doing that each time she performed, but this was real and it wasn’t the same. She realized she’d forgotten her cell and ran on bare feet to the bedside table, pulled her cell out of its charger, fell to her knees and crawled back behind the big chair. She fumbled, finally managed to press 911. She heard the operator’s calm voice asking what was her emergency and she whispered, “The Starlet Slasher is in my house. Hurry, please hurry.” She punched off, not wanting him to hear her, knowing her address would show up on the operator’s screen.
Would the cops get there before he walked into her bedroom? Her heart was still beating so loud she wondered if he’d hear it as he came closer. She heard a board creak. He was in the hallway, outside the bathroom. Would he hear her breathing? Would he smell her fear and know she was awake? He could have a gun as well as a knife. Would the lump in her bed fool him at all or would
he start shooting?
He was outside her bedroom door. She heard his breathing, slow and easy, as he pushed on the partly opened door. She felt the air change as the door swung inward, though she hardly saw it because it was very dark. She knew he was looking into her bedroom, toward her bed. He stepped into the room. She saw the brief flicker of a small flashlight, aimed directly at her bed, at the lump beneath the covers, then it was dark again. He didn’t want to take the chance of waking her up.
Gloria kept swallowing bile she was so scared. She could barely see him in the narrow shaft of moonlight coming in through the small opening in the drapes. He was tall and thin, but that was all she could see. He was wearing a cap pulled down low and something covered his face. Goggles? To hide his face? That wasn’t in any of the news reports. And then she realized it was to keep from being blinded by blood. Her blood.
He walked very quietly toward the bed. If she’d been asleep, she’d never have heard him. When he stood beside the bed, he bent forward, reached out his left hand toward the pillow where her head would be, and he raised his knife, ready to slice it across her throat.
Sirens shrieked in the distance. Her breath whooshed out. She jumped to her feet and fired, and she kept firing, staring right at him, focused, as she’d been taught, pulling the trigger slowly, steadily, though she was nearly blind now with fear and shaking form the adrenaline pumping through her. She fired until the revolver was empty, and she kept firing, and the small .22 clicked and clicked.
50
* * *
“I’m Detective Arturo Loomis, Santa Monica Police Department. I called you today to warn you about the killer and to suggest you might want to leave town for a while.” He showed her his badge.