Jonathan Kellerman - Capital Crimes

“Alone?”

“Yes, alone. Who else works at two in the morning?”

Davida had been at her desk at two in the morning. Barnes kept his thoughts to himself. “When did you leave the lab?”

“I didn’t. I slept here last night.”

“Where?”

“At my desk.”

And Barnes thought he had a lonely life. “Do you often sleep at your desk?”

“Not often. ” Alice shot him a cold stare. “Occasionally.”

“If I offended you,” Barnes said, “that wasn’t my intention. I have to ask sensitive questions, Doctor. Right now, I’m trying to piece together a time line. So you were here all night?”

Kurtag showed him her profile. Tight lips, squinty eyes. “All night,” she said softly.

“Alone.”

“I already told you that.”

“You’re sure no one saw you here?”

Kurtag’s smile came nowhere near mirth. “I suppose that means I have no alibi.”

“Would you mind if I gave you a gunshot residue test- just a swab of your hands?”

“I would mind because I resent the implication. But go ahead, do it anyway. Then you can leave.”

The Ronald Tsukamoto Public Safety Building housed both the fire and police departments of the city of Berkeley. The two-story entrance was shaped like a sewing spool with the bottom foot lopped off. It was Deco in style, each of the two semi-circular levels punched with large rectangular windows that sat atop each other with geometric precision. The paint job, however, was pure Victorian- ecru trimmed in robin’s eggshell blue and bright white.

Once inside, anyone having business with BPD waited in a rotunda with multi-colored abstract mobiles hanging from the ceiling. A spiral staircase with spaghetti-thin railings wound its way to the second story. The station was pleasant and clean, with checkerboard flooring and soft natural light filtering in from the generous windows.

The actual working interior was plain-wrap cop shop: windowless beige walls, fluorescent lighting, small cubicles with charmless but functional workstations. The equipment was often mismatched, and in the case of some of the computers, sorely outdated. The conference room furniture consisted of white plastic tables and black plastic chairs. Maps of the district, a calendar, a video screen and a chalkboard made up the wall decor. An American flag stood in one corner, the Golden Bear stood sentry in another.

It had been a hellish morning for Berkeley PD, but it was the captain on the hot seat. At six years away from retirement, Ramon Torres now had to explain to the mayor, the governor, and his highly vocal constituency how a beloved state representative had been nearly decapitated in her office and no one knew a damn thing about it.

The captain was short, stocky with leathery brown skin and piercing eyes one shade lighter. Each month expanded his bald spot; what little hair remained was black and that offered him some consolation. He winced as he read through the hate-spewing letters penned by Harry Modell, executive director of Families Under God.

Torres put the missives down and looked across the conference table at Isis and Barnes. Two of his best detectives and they’d learned nada.

“They’re obviously written by someone who’s bigoted and mean-spirited, but I don’t see enough actual threat for us to act. The First Amendment doesn’t discriminate between civil and barbaric.”

Barnes said, “I’m not recommending that we prosecute him, Cap, but both Amanda and I think it’d be negligent if we didn’t at least talk to him.”

Amanda said, “He’s written other poison-pen letters to female members of our state congress. If something happens to one of those ladies, we’ll be in deep waters.”

Headlines flashed in Torres’s head. Talking heads on the tube, his own name bandied about like a cussword. “How many women are we talking about?”

“At least two.”

“What about men?” Torres asked.

Amanda said, “None so far, but Detective Don Newell from Sacramento PD is investigating.”

Torres said, “Then maybe you should wait until Newell makes his report before I allocate the funds to send you down south.”

“I have another reason for wanting to go to LA this week, sir,” Barnes said. “Detective Newell arrested two losers who were behind the assault on Davida Grayson last week.”

“The egging.”

Barnes nodded. “Coupla morons named Ray and Brent Nutterly from the White Tower boys. Their boss, Marshall Bledsoe, might be visiting LA.”

“Bledsoe,” said Torres. “Suspected synagogue bomber but he was never charged. Egging seems lightweight for him.”

“True, sir, but Newell is pretty sure the Nutterly boys wouldn’t have acted without Bledsoe’s go-ahead. In light of Grayson’s murder, we should question him. That’s two obvious reasons for going south.”

“Obvious,” Torres repeated.

Amanda said, “Bledsoe lives in Idaho but we’ve got a bench warrant for outstanding traffic violations. His mother lives in the San Fernando Valley and Thanksgiving’s coming up.”

“Dropping in on Mommy,” said the captain. “You do any prep on this?”

“We called LAPD West Valley Division and they called saying there’s a pickup with Idaho plates in Mom’s driveway. That was an hour ago.”

Barnes said, “Four months ago, Modell moved about ten miles north of Bledsoe’s mother.”

“Convenient,” said Torres. “Do the two of them know each other?”

“Good question.”

Torres glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s too late to put you two on a plane and get you back in time for town hall. If Bledsoe is visiting Mom for the holidays, he isn’t going anywhere. The community meeting’s been pushed back from seven to eight. Community affairs is making up a list of mock questions. Go over them so you’re prepared. I know I don’t have to tell you this but I will anyway. No mention of Modell or Bledsoe by name. If someone asks about suspects, tell them we’re focusing our attention on a few persons of interest. You do all that, you can book tickets to La La Land.”

“Thanks, got it,” Barnes said.

“Meanwhile,” said Torres, “go down to the morgue in Oakland and see what forensics you can get on Grayson. Coroner’s running a full toxicology screen. Given an overkill shotgun thing in the wee hours of the morning, I’m still seeing red flags for a dope deal gone sour. Her blood turns up dirty, we’ve got a new kind of complication. Afterward, grab some dinner and clean up before town hall. I want you both presentable.”

“We’re not presentable?” Amanda asked.

“You are,” Torres said. “Barnes looks a little wilted.”

“I’ll unwilt, sir, maybe even shave. When should we leave for LA?”

“Book a seven AM tomorrow. Call up Southwest and JetBlue. Go with whoever’s cheaper.”

It took ten minutes for Amanda to connect with the deputy coroner in charge of Davida Grayson’s autopsy. Dr. Marv Williman was in his late sixties but had the voice of a much younger man. “Detective Isis. Well, this is kismet. I was just about to call you.”

“And here I am,” Amanda answered. “Will Barnes and I are on our way to see you.”

“I finished up the autopsy an hour ago. That means we can meet somewhere other than the crypt.”

“That’s fine with me. I’m wearing a designer suit.”

“Hoo hah,” said Williman. “ Berkeley ’s coming up in the world. I’m a little hungry. There’s a great Italian place named Costino’s about three blocks from my office, more trattoria than osteria.”

“Sounds good.” Amanda secured the address. “We’ll see you in about thirty, forty minutes.”