Robert Ellis - The Dead Room

The medical examiner tapped on the driver’s side window. Vega turned and lowered the glass.

“Some asshole’s got a camera on the roof,” the ME said. “I wanna get the body out of here. You got a problem with that?”

They looked out the windshield, scanning the roof lines and spotting the video camera on top of a townhouse on the corner. One of the local TV stations must have paid off the owner in spite of the hour. The camera operator had a bird’s-eye view of the entire crime scene.

Vega nodded at the ME, then raised the window slightly and lit a cigarette. He leaned against the door, examining the letter and envelope Teddy had received from Colt 45 on Somebody Street. After a moment, he passed it over to Powell without showing any emotion. He was mulling it all over, the glint in his eyes moving like the runner lights on a plane sweeping across a midnight sky.

Teddy’s cell phone rang. It was Nash, calling from his office with news from the FBI. When Teddy hung up, he pushed his briefcase aside and sat back in the seat.

“The plate on Trisco’s car was stolen from the long-term parking lot at the airport.”

“So what else is new,” Ellwood said.

Teddy shot a look at Powell and held it.

“The car they found parked beside it,” he said. “It belongs to Rosemary Gibb.”

As they swept up the long drive, the Trisco estate came into view through the leafless oak and maple trees. It was a large Tudor-styled mansion in Radnor, just a few miles from Teddy’s house, and he remembered reading about the place in the magazine section of the Sunday Inquirer as a boy. It was more of a building than a house, set on fifty acres of undeveloped land in the woods. In spite of all the cars parked before the entrance, the place looked closed.

It was six-thirty in the morning. Vega had picked the time wanting to cause as much disruption as he could. Ellwood had stayed behind at the crime scene, asking for the keys to Teddy’s car. The detective wanted to shepherd the evidence back to the lab at the roundhouse, coordinate their effort to find Trisco with the FBI, and review the evidence against Holmes in light of Teddy’s story. Everything would be done on the QT, and Vega agreed. Apparently both detectives had a thing for Andrews that began with their inherent distrust of Michael Jackson, the detective assigned to the DA’s office. Still, they were a long way off from reaching a conclusion on Alan Andrews, or even thinking about their approach to the problem if what Teddy said was true.

Teddy wasn’t angry that the detectives or even Powell hadn’t bought his story at face value. They were acting on hunches, but grounded in the methodical world of what they could see and touch with their own eyes and hands. And the situation was delicate. Tedious. Edward Trisco had attacked Teddy and was the prime suspect in the disappearance of Rosemary Gibb and the tortured murder of Harris Carmichael. Although there was good reason to believe Trisco was involved in the murders of Darlene Lewis and the others, Teddy hadn’t given them anything tangible to work with. There wasn’t a hard link, a piece of physical evidence, threading its way between Trisco and the serial murders. Not yet anyway.

Still, there was a certain thrill to the investigation now. And Teddy had to admit that he was surprised by their reaction to his story and how far he’d gotten. Even when he recounted firing the shotgun into Trisco’s car at point-blank range, they seemed more excited than phased.

“That was close,” was all Vega said. “He went at you with the knife. I might’ve done the same fucking thing.”

Powell was speechless and just looked at him with those eyes of hers.

They parked beside a Mercedes and got out of the car. Teddy followed Vega and Powell up the steps, leaving his ripped up jacket behind. The feel of the place and deep sound of the bell reminded him of an old black-and-white film from the 1930s. A place entrenched in the past. When Trisco’s mother answered the door herself, the whole thing seemed too up close, even strange. He knew it was Trisco’s mother. In spite of the gray hair, there was a harshness to her face that she’d passed on to her son. The same hollow eyes.

Vega flipped open his badge. “Mrs. Trisco?”

She was staring at it. She was stunned, but trying not to show it.

“Yes,” she said with hesitation.

“We’re investigating a missing persons case. We’re hoping you might be able to help. We’re trying to locate your son.”

“Do you have a warrant?” she asked Vega as if offering him more tea.

Vega smiled politely. “No, ma’am, I don’t. But I can get one if you like in about half an hour. Unfortunately, my cell phone’s dead. I’ll have to call it in over the radio. Every newsroom in the city will be listening.”

Her eyes flipped up from the badge and stayed on his face. After a while, she looked at Powell, then settled on Teddy.

“Who are these nice people?” she asked Vega.

“Attorneys. Carolyn Powell from the district attorney’s office, and Teddy Mack.”

She looked them over, considering her options. Then she stepped aside finally and let them in.

It wasn’t a house or a building. It was a museum. Mrs. Trisco showed them down the long hallway, pressing forward in short, choppy steps as if marching in a military parade behind a tank. Her posture was agonizingly perfect, her back as stiff and straight as a flagpole. Teddy glanced at the rooms they were passing-the staircase, the ornate moldings he knew were hand carved, the oriental carpets lining the floors, the furniture that must have been in the family’s possession for more than a hundred years, the art collection from the nineteenth century, mostly religious and each painting worth more than he could hope to earn in his entire career. The place was dark, the smell of fresh wax in the air. Small lamps lit the way. When he saw the array of Sterling silver pieces filling out the shadows, his eyes rolled over the room searching for a collection of antique shot glasses like the one he’d found the night Barnett had been run over. He didn’t see any, but gave Powell a nudge. She took the silver in and nodded.

They finally reached the end of the hall and stepped into a large sitting room off the rear terrace of the house. It was brighter here, the furniture more modern. Windows lined the wall from floor to ceiling in one-foot squares set in iron frames. French doors with polished brass handles led outside, and Teddy could see an Olympic-sized swimming pool beyond the stone wall of the terrace just this side of the tennis courts. Mrs. Trisco asked them to sit down, then excused herself. It was more of an order than a request. She wouldn’t speak to them without her husband, she said. Vega nodded, flashed an affable smile at her and didn’t seem to mind. When she left the room, the detective raised his brow and grimaced.

But they didn’t sit down.

The stern-looking woman was demonstrating her knowledge in her very being, Teddy figured. No one would act this way if they were ignorant of the situation. She knew exactly why they were here.

A door was cracked open beside the fireplace. Teddy watched Vega give it a slight push with his elbow and moved closer. The room gave way to a short set of steps leading down to an outside door on the back of the house. Boxes were stacked along the wall. Through the window they could see a van parked in the driveway. A man got behind the wheel and drove off. Teddy looked at the floor, noting it was wet from melting snow.

“It’s a little early for deliveries,” Powell said.

Vega nodded. “Maybe their carting the stuff away,” he said. “Maybe we’re interrupting something.”