Outside the Wire Page 7

  Her father pulled four bottles of tequila from the box, two in each hand, and resettled them on a wooden shelf bracketed to the wall. “Why do you want to look at Rob’s tags anyway?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe if I touch them I can get into Zeke’s head, get a sense of why he died.”

  “You’ve been watching too many episodes of L.A. Psychic.” He paused and looked at her. “Call your mother. If anybody has Rob’s dog tags, it would be her.”

  Davie studied the curled edges of the yellowed posters hanging on the walls, government rules about employee breaks and wages that Bear had probably never read. Nobody took a break at the Lucky Duck, at least that she’d ever seen.

  “The tags aren’t important to my case,” she said.

  “Look, Ace, I forgave your mother for cheating on me a long time ago. You should, too. She’s been married to that Cross guy for years. At some point you’ll have to rip the Band-Aid off and be friends again.”

  “We don’t have much in common and besides, she doesn’t seem interested.” Davie paused by the door before leaving. “Bear, I’ve been thinking. You’ve lived alone for a long time. Have you ever thought about getting a pet? Maybe a cat?”

  He bent over to open a box of Maker’s Mark. “No.”

  “They’re independent and they don’t need much care.”

  He opened the seam and pulled out a couple of bottles. “Like I said—no.”

  “Okay. Just though you’d enjoy the company.”

  He put the bottles on the shelf then moved his hands to his hips. “Let me guess. You found some stray and now you want to pawn it off on me?”

  “My victim had a cat. He’s a good-looking male with charcoal gray hair.”

  “Sounds just like what you’ve been looking for.”

  “I can’t keep a pet. I work all the time.”

  He gestured broadly to indicate the bar. “You think this is a hobby?”

  “Forget it. It was just an idea.”

  As she got into her car, her head felt like it was stuck in a vise. Most cases were solved through old-fashioned police work—interviewing people who saw or heard something and were willing to talk about it. She had to focus her energy on finding Harlan Cormack and Dag Lunds and forget about looking for a home for Hootch. Her plan was to get a couple hours of sleep and then go back to the station to continue tracking down leads.

  Twenty minutes later, she punched in the gate code and aimed her Camaro up the long driveway to the guest cottage she rented in the affluent neighborhood of Bel Air. The place would have been out of her price range if it hadn’t been for the largess of her landlord, Alex Camden.

  Alex was an international art dealer whose clientele included billionaires, politicians, and movie stars. He’d been instrumental in helping her solve a Grand Theft case in Southeast Division after she first made detective. Over the course of the investigation, they’d become friends. When he found out she was looking for a place to live, he offered her the furnished guesthouse adjacent to his mansion.

  The property was tranquil, secluded, and—best of all—it had a swimming pool. Alex liked having a cop around to guard the valuable antiques and art he parked in the house. The tradeoff for reduced rent was furnishings that changed periodically when he found buyers. It wasn’t a problem for her. It just made her life more interesting.

  She parked in the carport behind her cottage. The place had no back door. If she lived in any area other than behind fortress-like walls and a security gate she would have found the limited access a cause for concern, but she had long ago acclimated to any inconvenience.

  A wood and wrought-iron door opened to the living room. The cottage was small—581 square feet total, with 449 on the main floor and 132 on the upper floor loft, accessed by a spiral staircase. The place had only one bedroom and one bathroom, so adding a roommate wasn’t an option. Not that she cared about that. She liked living alone.

  The light from the lamp bathed the walls in muted colors that blended together like a spring bouquet. Alex called the shades wisteria, indigo, and sea-foam green. She called them comforting, so much that she could almost smell the fragrance of the lilac bush in the front yard of her grandparents’ old house.

  For the past few weeks, the walls had been covered with contemporary art, lots of bold lines and circles she found hard to appreciate. She couldn’t understand why anyone would pay twenty grand for a red line on a white canvas, but she didn’t judge how rich people spent their money.

  At first it had felt uncomfortable to settle in among Alex’s possessions. From the age of fifteen, she’d lived with her father in an apartment he’d rented after her parents’ divorce. Neither she nor Bear had the decorator gene, so the place had been a chaotic jumble of threadbare furniture, mismatched pots and pans, and stacks of crime novels he read to escape the real world. It was anything but posh, but at least nobody complained if her friends put their feet on the coffee table.

  Even after a year, she still worried about damaging the antique furniture and exotic rugs but she was grateful to learn about Alex’s gift for color and design. Maybe someday when she saved enough money she would buy her own house and have the skills to decorate it.

  She walked across the hardwood floor of the living room to the bedroom, where she sat in her grandmother’s old rocking chair and removed her Oakley boots. She’d rescued the rocker from a yard sale her mother staged after Grammy moved into assisted living. Davie called the chair Celeste because it was still draped in the original French silk upholstery dating back to the 1920s. Celeste’s arms were hand-carved in the shape of swans’ necks. At some point, the chair’s life made an awkward turn. The right arm was broken and pasted back together with a lack of finesse. There were other scars, covered by makeup that fooled no one. Davie had loved Celeste from the moment she saw the photo of Grammy rocking her in that chair as a newborn.

  She stored her gun and badge in the top drawer of the bedside table, as she always did, and checked the closet for her running shoes. They were serviceable but worn. If she were serious about training with Joss, she’d have to invest in a new pair.

  After a quick shower and an application of antibiotic cream to the cat scratches, she fell into bed, stretching her limbs across the polished cotton sheets, searching for the last patch of coolness.

  She tried to doze off, but her mind kept churning out thoughts and theories about Zeke Woodrow’s murder. She was still thinking of possible theories when she finally drifted off to sleep.

  12

  Davie didn’t awaken until six a.m. the following morning. She bolted out of bed, surprised that she’d slept so long. Maybe focusing on the case had distracted her from her ever-present feelings of guilt. She checked her cell. Vaughn had left three messages. She dressed, grabbed an apple, and darted out the door to her car. When she got to the station, a group of detectives were standing against the wall near the kit room, all wearing blue shirts.

  Joss held a camera ready to take the shot. “Davie, hurry. Get in the picture.”

  Davie had forgotten it was Blue Shirt Tuesday. She held up her hands, palms up. “Sorry.”

  Joss grabbed her elbow and guided her to the group. “Doesn’t matter. Just say cheese.”

  The camera flash was still blurring Davie’s vision as she entered the squad room and found Vaughn sitting at his desk.

  She threw the apple core into a wastebasket. “What’s up?”

  He made a drama of looking at his watch in a faux gesture of disapproval. “I found more information on TidePool Security Consultants. They have an office in Delaware, but it looks like the headquarters is in Fairfax County, Virginia.”

  She rolled a chair to her partner’s desk and sat. “Isn’t that where the CIA is?”

  “You got it.” He held up a set of car keys. “I put gas in the green Crown Vic and let Giordano know we’d be driving to Santa Barb
ara this morning. Ready for a road trip?”

  Giordano knew they planned to search Zeke Woodrow’s house with the consent of his daughter, but he was still obligated to notify the Detective Bureau at the Police Administration Building downtown that two of his detectives were leaving the county. Giordano was away from his desk. She and Vaughn signed out and left the station.

  Davie steered the car toward Santa Barbara along the coast highway, shifting her view from the ocean to her left and the bone-dry mountains to her right.

  “We’d get there in half the time if you took the freeway,” Vaughn said.

  Driving the 101 was tedious, so she always chose an alternate route if possible. She could have reminded Vaughn about her affinity for sand and sea air, but he already knew that. Instead, she said, “Relax. Enjoy the scenery.”

  Santa Barbara hugged the meandering Pacific Ocean coastline with the steep Santa Ynez Mountains as a backdrop. Every neighborhood they passed looked like a vintage postcard—blue skies, white Spanish-style buildings with terra cotta tile roofs, palm trees, and well-kept landscaping despite the drought.

  Zeke Woodrow’s cottage was no more than a thousand square feet nestled in a quiet, secluded neighborhood. It was the perfect location for somebody who valued his privacy. Two large windows, covered by shutters, flanked the entrance. A driveway on the left led to a one-car garage. Davie parked on the side of the road. She and Vaughn circled the property and found that the cottage was built on a small embankment just above the beach. To the right was a wooden staircase that descended to the sand below. The place was so close to the water she could smell the aroma of brine and decomposing kelp and hear the waves lashing the shore. Shannon said the property had been in the family for decades. It must be worth a fortune now.

  “You think Zeke chose this place because it has an escape route to the water?” Vaughn said.

  “Not likely. There’s no place down there to keep a boat.”

  “He was a Ranger. You don’t think the Army taught him how to swim?”

  He had a point, except the water was cold. Not even a former Ranger could survive for long without a wetsuit.

  Davie turned away from the shoreline. “Let’s check out the house.”

  They made their way through the gate of a white picket fence. The house had no alarm system. That seemed unusual for a security-minded guy like Zeke, even if he didn’t live in the place full-time. Once inside, she and Vaughn split up and checked each room until they’d cleared the house. Nothing looked disturbed. In any event, whoever had sanitized the Topanga Canyon place had not been here.

  The furniture in the living room had clean lines with accent colors that reminded Davie of Shannon’s Santa Monica condo. She figured the same decorator designed both places.

  “Let’s split up,” Vaughn said. “You search the house. I’ll take the garage and maybe talk to the neighbors. Somebody must have known Zeke.”

  After Vaughn left, Davie searched the living room but found nothing of evidentiary value, so she proceeded down a short hallway to the master bedroom. The bed was made with crisps folds and bed linens stretched taut. A small bookcase was positioned near the bed. Davie opened each volume but found no cryptic notes or telltale receipts. A wicker basket at the foot of the bed held only extra blankets.

  Davie pulled a chair over to the ceiling fan. She felt along the blades but found nothing taped to the surfaces and surprisingly little dust. Either he had a housekeeper or he was a neatnik. She searched all drawers in the bedroom and attached bathroom, as well as the closet. Zeke’s clothes were mostly jeans and polo shirts, but there were a few ties and a couple of dark suits. The pockets were empty. She also checked the toilet tank and under the mattress.

  A second bedroom had been converted into an office. There was a desk that held a laptop computer. She tried to boot it up but was stymied when a login box appeared on the screen, asking for a password. Since she had no idea how to get into Zeke’s files, she would book the laptop as evidence at SID. If Shannon didn’t know the code, the computer specialists would be able to figure it out.

  Davie looked through the desk drawers and the closet but found no utility bills or mortgage statements. Zeke might have used online billing, but his cell phone hadn’t been found on his body and the information on the laptop was inaccessible at the moment.

  French doors led from the office to a patio, which was blocked off from the neighbor’s yard by a high fence. Someone had added an additional two feet of wood lattice pieces for privacy. There was nothing in the yard except for two empty trash bins so she returned to the office and closed the door. She sat at the desk for a few minutes, wondering where Zeke Woodrow kept his personal information. Most people banked online, so she was unlikely to find cancelled checks or statements. But employment records were different. Those had to be somewhere. It was possible he scanned the paper forms onto a computer file and shredded the paper.

  Next she went to the kitchen. The cupboards were old but well preserved. The rest of the room didn’t appear to have been updated since the house was built. The windows were all locked. The lights weren’t turned on. There was no food prepared and waiting on the table that might indicate Zeke had left in a hurry.

  She thought of all the hiding places she’d uncovered while serving search warrants. Most people weren’t all that original. She herself had once hidden a stash of emergency earthquake money in a sack of peas in the freezer. Zeke worked for a security contractor, so maybe he’d be cleverer. Just to make sure, she checked the refrigerator. It was mostly empty except for several bottles of cola and enough mustard to throw a hot dog party for the entire city.

  It was clear that a man lived here alone. There were no cosmetics in the bathroom, no matching table linens, and no leftover canapés in the refrigerator from last evening’s cocktail party with the neighbors. Other than one placemat left on the kitchen table, the house was organized with military precision. Zeke lived a solitary life but in a peaceful place with a cat he loved. At least he had a daughter and three friends who cared about him. It seemed like a good life until it ended in violence.

  She was about to rummage through the pots and pans when she noticed the adjacent laundry room. A cat box and a sack of food confirmed this had been Hootch’s home as well. Hootch’s microchip had led Davie to his daughter. Maybe Zeke had hidden something in the cat food. She found a pot in one of the kitchen cupboards and emptied the kibble into it but was disappointed to find nothing. She stared at the litter box. A moment later, she lifted the lid. It looked clean. There were diagonal slash marks through the surface, somebody’s attempt at a Zen garden.

  She pulled a vinyl glove from her pocket and squatted next to the box. The litter was the consistency of sand. Her hand sifted through it until the hash marks were obliterated. There was something small and hard in one corner of the box, maybe a parting gift from Hootch. She removed the object and brushed it off. It was a USB drive.

  Her heart hammered with the discovery. She had intended to run outside to look for her partner but as she pivoted, she knocked over a can of cola that sat opened on the counter next to a laundry basket. She flinched at the sound of the metal hitting the tile floor. Zeke had likely set it there and forgot about it.

  Davie stared at the brown bubbles, wondering where Zeke kept his paper towels. That’s when she felt a jolt of electricity moving down her spine. Bubbles. She bent over, stripped off the gloves, and touched the liquid. It was cold. Zeke had been murdered yesterday morning. If this had been his cola it would have been flat and warm by now. Somebody else had been in the house. Maybe was still in the house.

  She heard the creaking of hinges. It wasn’t her partner making that noise. Vaughn was out interviewing neighbors. She slid the USB drive into her pocket and slowly, silently removed her gun from its holster.

  Davie checked the kitchen. No one there. She peered around the corner to the hallway bu
t saw no movement. The rubber soles of her boots were silent as she inched down the hall, keeping her body close to the wall. When she got to the master bedroom, she stopped. Looked inside. Empty.

  She continued down the hall to the office. With her back pressed to the wall she turned her head just enough to look inside the room. The French doors were wide open, not closed as she had left them. She stepped over the threshold and swept the aim of her weapon from wall to wall, looking for an intruder. That’s when she saw the laptop was gone.

  Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Her heart pounded as she moved into a shooting position, her gun trained toward the threat. As the footsteps came closer, she slid her finger from the barrel to the trigger, ready to shoot.

  “Davie, you in there?”

  Her hands trembled as her finger slid back to the barrel. Her breathing was labored. Fear and guilt washed over her. She didn’t want to think about how close she’d come to shooting her partner. Vaughn stepped into the office just as Davie bolted out the French doors.

  “What’s going on?” he shouted.

  “Somebody was just in the house. Zeke’s computer is gone.”

  He broke leather and followed her out the door.

  Davie heard a car engine start and tires squeal. She ran toward the sound but by the time she got there, the car had disappeared. She kept running through the streets of the neighborhood, hoping to catch a glimpse of the suspect, while Vaughn jogged back to the house for the car. She was out of breath when her partner finally pulled up next to her.

  “Get in,” he yelled. “He may still be in the area.”

  She shook her head. “It’s no use. I heard the engine start, but I didn’t see the car. I don’t know the make or model or even the color.”

  “You want to call Santa Barbara PD or should I?”