Lynne Heitman - First Class Killing

I pulled one of Robin’s pictures back in front of me. “What’s the story with this? I thought it was a homeless man.”

“The official story was that Robin Sevitch went out for a long walk, roamed too close to a dangerous area, and was beaten to death by this homeless man. He was convicted.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “There are doubts in some quarters, however, that he was, indeed, the guilty party.”

“Really?” I put my feet down on the floor and sat up straight. “What did you find out?”

“I told you I had a hard time getting anyone to talk to me.”

“Right, right. Civic black eye and all that. How did you get the file?”

“The gentleman who was the lead detective on the case is now a private investigator. He kept his own file. He suspected Miss Sevitch was murdered by someone she knew. He thinks it was a trick, but he was pressured heavily to go with the homeless theory, and ultimately the man confessed.”

“Who pressured him?”

“It was never clear to him where it came from. He went to great lengths to impress upon me that the Omaha PD is a conscientious and professional organization. This was not a case of incompetence.”

“Was she robbed?”

“All of her money and identification was in her hotel room.”

“Was she raped?”

“It did not appear so.”

“This homeless man, what was supposed to be his motive?”

“He is a man with a low IQ, borderline schizophrenic. He had no motive, none that he could give, anyway.”

I flipped through the pictures. It was certainly possible one person could beat a perfect stranger that savagely for no good reason. “Did this homeless man have a history of violence?”

“No.”

“Okay, so that makes no sense at all. Let’s try the trick theory. Was there any sign of struggle in her hotel room?”

“No.”

“So maybe she went with this person voluntarily. Was she killed in the ditch?”

“Yes.”

“These hookers are high-class. They don’t typically have dates in drainage canals. She wasn’t raped, but had she had sex?”

“She had had sex recently, but she was a prostitute. There was no semen. The former detective believes the man wore a condom.”

“What about trace evidence and all that good stuff? Fibers and blood evidence.”

“You need something to compare to. If it was a trick, he could have boarded a plane and flown away. If he had no police record and no connection to the victim, it would be very difficult ever to find him.”

“This detective didn’t buy the homeless theory, either?”

“His biggest concern was the lack of motive.”

There was a motive. It just wasn’t his. “Was Angel in the area?”

“Unclear. If she was, she was never questioned. There was not a broad investigation. The man confessed, and that was that.”

“According to Tristan, Angel had reason to get rid of Robin Sevitch. Was it possible she could have hired this man?”

“No. There was no indication of anything like that.”

“She could have hired some pros to kill her.”

“Professionals,” he said, quite reasonably, “do not linger at the crime scene to beat their victims.”

“Is the homeless man in jail for this?”

He blew out a long and heavy sigh. “He is homeless no more. For life.”

I collected all the pictures into one pile. As I looked at them, it was hard not to feel the beating Robin had taken in my own face, in the fragile bones that would break, in the soft tissue that would bruise and swell under the pounding. Beaten to death connoted suffering. It was a brutality far more intimate than could come from the cold disgorgement of a bullet from a gun, or even from the ripping of a knife through flesh. A knife still separated killer from victim, if only by the length of its blade. Whoever murdered Robin Sevitch had walked away with blood on his hands.

Or hers.

“Can I keep these, Harvey?”

“Certainly. The photos must be returned.”

“So, where are we?” I asked. “We have less than a week before the review. We have one dead hooker, one live hooker who is possibly a blackmailer and possibly in hiding. We have a bunch of surveillance photos that prove very little. And we have Angel, who may or may not have gotten away with murder and may or may not call back, depending on whether I passed her test.”

“That is not all.” He gave me a tight little smile. “We have top swappers.”

“We do?”

“Indeed, we do. Would you care to see them?”

“Indeed, I would.”

He moved a large stack of files and reports from the corner of his desk to the middle of what was now his clean desk. He went through the stack like a blackjack dealer, laying exhibits and printouts and reports on the desk one by one. “This is a copy of the as-bid schedules for the Boston base over the past six months.” That was a particularly fat document. “This is the as-flown schedule.” Equally fat.

“You got those from Carl Wolff?”

“He had someone send them.” He put down a third document that was slender compared with the others. “This is the list of all the trips that were traded over the past six months, and these”-he laid down a single page-“are your so-called top swappers.”

“Cool.” I reached for it. “So, these are our hookers?”

He pulled it back. “These are flight attendants who do a high level of swapping during the month on average. I would hesitate to label them all prostitutes, primarily because you are on the list.”

“I am?” That was a surprise, although not really when I thought it through. It stood to reason that if I were following swappers around, I would have to do a high level of swapping myself.

“Step two, as you will recall, was to overlay the swap list with anyone who appeared to have more assets in her name than could be reasonably supported by her reported income. I used their W-2 salaries, which include all premiums.”

“That step would definitely eliminate me.”

“As it did several.” He pulled another single sheet from the file and dangled it in front of me. “This is the subset of names that resulted.”

“Thenthese are our hookers.” I snatched the page from him. There were thirty-five names on the list. Some of the names were surprises. Some weren’t. Most surprising of all were the names that weren’t there.

“Where’s Angel? Where are Sally and Ava and Claudia and Charlotte? None of them is on this list.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, why?”

“Their names come up in the financial filter, but they do not qualify on the swapper criteria. They fly the schedule, for the most part, as they bid it.”

“Why would that be?” I put the page back on the desk-it suddenly represented a major disappointment-and got up to stretch out stiff muscles and wander a bit. I ended up at Harvey ’s bookshelves, staring blankly at some of the titles. Mostly he read biographies, history, and business books, but he did have a weakness for good science fiction. I liked looking at those best, because it was a part of him that was unexpected. Also because of the cool titles.

“Maybe the top women have regulars,” I said, trying the best explanation that came to me. That didn’t mean it was a good one. “Maybe they can plan their liaisons further in advance. But they would still have to do some swapping. Where do they fall on your list?”

“Who am I looking for, exactly?”

“Just look for Angel and Sally. Velesco and Prentiss.”

He took his glasses off and held his list of swappers at arm’s length. Every once in a while, he’d put it flat on the table and check something from another pile. Eventually, he had his answer. “In the top one hundred.”