Deadly Production (Mapleton Mystery Book 4) (18 page)

“You’re sure?” Gordon said. “Yolanda was given a clean bill of health from the doctors, and they discharged her last evening.”

“You doubting my powers of observation, Hepler? It’s not like I was running security at a Broncos game. There weren’t that many people at the meeting. Don’t suppose you tried her cell phone?”

Crap. “Hang on.” Gordon searched for her number, punched it in, and the call went straight to voicemail.

Where would Yolanda have gone? She didn’t live around here, did she? He’d assumed—stupid thing to do—she’d have gone to the hotel and rejoined the production people.

“I’m on my way. I want to talk to Dawson,” Gordon said.

But before he left he called the hotel. They should be able to tell if she’d used her room key. It took some schmoozing before the desk clerk was willing to agree, but when Gordon suggested she might be unconscious—or worse—in her room, they checked.

“No, sir, the key card hasn’t been used since yesterday morning.”

Great. Gordon let Laurie know where to reach him and hiked the short distance to the site. Easier than finding a place to park what with all the blocked streets and production paraphernalia.

He found Dawson shouting orders, pointing, and striding back and forth as the crew set up lights and cameras. Gordon approached. Dawson acknowledged his presence, but held up a hand.

Out of the corner of his eye, Gordon caught Colfax walking over. Did he think Gordon needed his help? Damn. The man was still pushing his buttons. Gordon ignored Dawson’s unspoken request to wait, and interrupted. “Mr. Dawson, I need to know the whereabouts of Yolanda Orozco. She was discharged from the hospital last evening, but according to the hotel, she didn’t use her key. Did she get on the bus this morning?”

Dawson scowled and hollered for someone to get one of the security clowns to report to him.

“I’m staying in Mapleton at a Bed and Breakfast,” Dawson said, “in case you weren’t aware. I don’t know who was at the hotel last night. Or whose room they stayed in. All I care about is the people I need are where I need them when I need them.”

“Understood. But since Yolanda is in charge of wardrobe, isn’t she one of the people you need?”

“Maybe you don’t remember we can’t get into Wardrobe yet. Maybe she knew that and decided to take the morning off. Maybe she went somewhere else last night. Given we’re working a contemporary setting with current weather conditions, this street scene will work with people wearing their own clothes. The two actors still have what they were wearing yesterday.”

A security guard came running up to join them—the porky one. Colfax stood, arms crossed, eyes scanning the scene, but not inserting himself into the conversation.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Dawson?” the security guard asked, puffing out the words like a steam engine.

“Where is Yolanda Orozco?” Dawson demanded.

The guard looked around, as if he expected to see her, as if Dawson were testing him. “I don’t know, sir.” He straightened. “But she’s not in the Village. The police van just showed up and we’re keeping the area clear as the other cop instructed.”

So, the crime scene unit was here. Good. Gordon said, “Please inform me when Ms. Orozco shows up,” to the guard and Dawson, and headed for the Village.

Colfax, he noted, was about twenty yards ahead of him. Must have gotten the word the techs had arrived. Gordon pushed aside the
why wasn’t
I
in the loop?
thought and lengthened his stride.

When Gordon hit the Village, Colfax was talking with the techs. Giving them instructions or shooting the breeze?

Why the attitude change? A little while ago, Gordon had accepted that Colfax, despite his pain in the ass way of jerking Gordon around, wasn’t competing with him, and he could learn from the man’s vast wealth of experience. Gordon paused, took a deep breath, and joined them. “Morning,” he said.

Xander nodded and addressed Gordon. “What do you need?”

Gordon felt foolish for his previous thoughts about Colfax. At least he hadn’t said anything stupid and defensive. Or confrontational. He explained there was a possibility the coffee had been drugged. “Since no one was allowed into the trailers after we discovered the body and the break-in, if there’s any coffee in any of the units, it should be tested. The wrinkle is the studio wants things sent to a private lab with less of a backlog.”

“Not a problem. I’ll make sure we collect enough to share.”

The techs, Colfax, and Gordon went through the trailers collecting samples of the coffee, abandoned cups, and any other beverages.

“The studio’s paying, let them get their money’s worth,” Colfax said.

“Don’t you mean let them pay through the nose for things that might not have any bearing on the case?” Gordon said.

Colfax shrugged. “Being thorough.”

“You sure nobody’s been through here?” the tech said when they entered one of the lounge trailers.

“Shouldn’t have been,” Gordon said. The aroma of coffee hit him. “But—damn it to hell.” He glanced across the room to a coffee pot. Almost full. With a red light glowing from the base. “That doesn’t smell like it’s been on a burner since yesterday morning.”

Colfax stepped closer. “I know that model. It has an auto shutoff, which makes sense if there might be long periods of time with nobody in here.”

“And it reduces the fire hazard element,” Gordon added. “I’ll bet their insurance stipulates things like that.”

“All that notwithstanding,” the tech said, “there’s a coffee pot that appears to have fresh, hot coffee in it.”

Gordon walked over to one of the nearby tables. “Here’s a cardboard cup. With coffee. Still warm. I think I know one security guard who’s definitely finished working this gig.”

“Should I print the cup?” the tech asked. “Have your pricey private lab run DNA?”

“I think that might be overkill.” Gordon pulled out his phone and punched in Dawson’s number. “Will you send me the security guard we were talking to. Immediately.”

After Dawson said the man was on his way, Gordon turned to the tech. “Hang tight.”

Within a minute, the door burst open. “You wanted to see me?” the porky security guard said, more belligerent than defensive.

Gordon schooled his expression into the one he used when he caught high school kids testing the limits, usually after their team had won a football game.
I’m bigger than you, I’m smarter than you, and I know what you’ve been doing.
He pointed to the cup on the table. “That yours?” He read the man’s name tag. “Walt?”

The hint of belligerence disappeared, replaced by an attempt at innocence. “Yes. Is there a problem? I left it when I got the message to report to the diner.”

“You brew the pot, too?” Gordon asked.

“Yes. Since we have to stay here, we can’t get to the place where they said everyone could go to get food, coffee, whatever.”

“So you brewed this for yourself and your two partners?”

The man nodded. “We’re back and forth all day. You must know what it’s like—like patrolling a beat.”

Did this jerk really think they had anything in common? “Well, I do have one question for you, Walt. Was your assignment to make sure nobody came into the trailers because we were going to collect evidence?”

The man nodded, almost proudly. As if he finally knew the answer to a question posed by his teacher. “Yes, sir, and nobody’s come in here. I can guarantee that.”

“Nobody except you, you mean. What about your two partners? Were they here?”

“No, sir.”

“What about any of the other trailers? Did you or any of your partners go into any one of them? Or the RVs?” Gordon added, afraid the man might take
trailer
literally.

Gordon could almost see the light bulb illuminating above the man’s head as it dawned on him what Gordon was driving at. “None of the others, sir. Just this one. I was—”

“You were what?” Gordon asked. “Taking a break?”

“Well, we do get them, you know. It’s the law.”

Gordon could see Colfax and the tech trying hard not to burst into laughter. Where had Walt been when they were handing out IQ points? “So, Walt, let’s get this straight. You were here to make sure nobody got into the trailer in case there was evidence we needed for our job, which happens to be
real
police work. But it never occurred to you that
you
were one of those people who wasn’t supposed to enter the trailer, and
you
might have compromised evidence?”

“Me? I didn’t touch nothing. Except to make a pot of coffee.”

“And you washed the pot before you brewed it, didn’t you? Dumped whatever coffee was in it?”

Walt nodded. “You’re saying the coffee might have been evidence?”

“Yes, that’s what I’m saying. You watch television, Walt?”

The man shook his head. Stood tall. “No. Don’t have one. Waste of time, you ask me.”

What did he have here? Instead of a person who watched too many cop shows on television and assumed real life was like that, had Gordon run across the one man on the planet who didn’t watch T.V.?

“Let me explain. Anything in here might be evidence. That’s why we have crime scene techs come examine everything.” Gordon gestured toward the men. “There might have been fingerprints on the coffee pot. Or poison in the coffee. Or shoe prints on the floor. All of which are compromised because you wanted a lousy cup of coffee.”

“Lousy?” Walt bristled. “Hey. I make
good
coffee. You can try a cup, since you said it’s not evidence anymore.”

Gordon gave up. “You can report to Mr. Dawson now.”

The man scurried away. Colfax let out the laugh he’d obviously been stifling. “You going to call him back, tell him he forgot his coffee?”

“How did a man that clueless ever land a job with a security company?” the tech asked. “Don’t they have to pass basic entry-level testing?”

“Maybe he’s got a family connection,” Colfax said. “Nepotism trumps intelligence every time.”

“Might as well move on to the other lounge,” Gordon said.

Apparently Walt the security guard had been telling the truth about not entering. The trailer looked as if it had been abandoned when any occupants had been asked to leave. A scorched coffee odor permeated the air, and a half-empty pot sat on the cold burner of the coffee maker. Five cardboard cups lay on the tables. A quick inspection revealed three held coffee, two were leftover hot chocolate. Three had lipstick prints in varying shades on the rim, two on coffee cups, one on hot chocolate.

“These appear to be partially drunk,” Colfax said. “Did anyone else display any symptoms of being drugged?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Gordon said. “But the doc at the clinic said if it was an antidepressant, it would take a lot to kill someone, assuming there weren’t other drugs being taken at the same time. Or alcohol.”

“Between six and eight in the morning is early to be drinking unless you’ve got a problem,” Colfax said. “And from what I read, no alcohol showed up in the preliminary screening.” He turned to the tech. “Bag ’em all.”

“We already know who was in here yesterday after the body was discovered,” Gordon said. “I put
my
officers on that detail.”

Gordon’s radio squawked. “Go.”

Connie’s voice came through. “Chief, we have the victim’s purse.”

“Marianna’s purse? Great. Where?” Gordon asked. “I’ve got the crime scene tech here. I’ll send him over.”

Colfax and Xander were listening in as Connie gave him the address. “It’s the vacant lot about two blocks from Mr. Johnson’s place.”

Gordon cut her short. “You can fill me in on the details later. Have whoever found it meet me there.”

“It’s Jost, sir, and he’s waiting at the scene.”

“Good man.”

Gordon hitched a ride with Colfax and within ten minutes, they and Xander pulled into the vacant lot. Jost waved them over to a pile of tree branches and garbage.

“I noticed this on my route,” Jost said. “Figured someone was trying to avoid paying for garbage pickup and brush removal. I came over to see if I could determine who it was, and noticed something rooting around. It was a raccoon, sir. Biggest one I’ve ever seen.”

Gordon wondered if the critter Animal Control had relocated from Mr. Johnson’s yard preferred living the good life in Mapleton where people left useful animal food and convenient bits and pieces of critter shelter lying around. Illegally, but what did a raccoon know?

Xander was already snapping pictures. “You move the purse?” he asked.

“I saw the strap behind the pile. I did pull it out, moved a little trash to get a better visual. It looked enough like the picture to call it in.” He pulled out his cell phone. “I took a picture first, of course.”

“Good job,” Gordon said.

Jost smiled. “Hey, I’m glad it didn’t turn out to be a body. Purses and raccoons, I can deal with.”

Once Xander had finished taking his photos, he jogged to his van and returned with a large evidence bag. “I’ll go through the rest of this pile. The purse is open, so things might have fallen out.”

“How can you tell what’s garbage and what was in the purse?” Gordon asked.

“I can’t, although a lot of this is in plastic bags—trashcan liners. Anything loose that looks more purse-like than garbage-like, I’ll collect.” He pointed a gloved finger at a blackened banana peel. “I’d say anyone carrying an expensive bag like this one isn’t going to use it for trash.”

“You can tell it’s expensive?” Colfax said.

Xander pointed to the logo on the purse. “My sister’s a clothes horse. You should see her Christmas list. Always includes the brand names. I’m familiar with Coach.” He pursed his lips. “I wonder if she’d like this one. Might be a conversation piece, what with the tooth marks and all. None of her friends will have one like it.”

“Can I take it to the station? Speed things along?” Gordon asked. “Inventory the contents there?”

“Yes and no,” Xander said. “Leather’s tricky when it comes to getting prints, and you might end up having trouble getting the ID—assuming you get an ID—to stand up in court. If you’ll wait for me to finish up, I can do most of the printing at your station.”

Gordon deemed that acceptable. The last thing he needed was to have evidence thrown out of court for any reason, particularly evidence associated with him. “Okay if I bring it with me and wait for you there?”

Xander gave him a sidelong glance. Gordon held up his hands. “I’ll sign it into evidence. No peeking, no touching until you get there.” He made an X motion across his chest. “Cross my heart.”

“If I can’t trust the Chief of Police, who can I trust?” Xander said. “I won’t be long.”

Gordon helped Xander load the purse into the bag. “Jost, give me a lift to the station.”

He followed the officer to his patrol car. Jost unlocked the vehicle and opened the passenger door. “Let me move this stuff,” he said, hastily dealing with a coffee cup, water bottle, and an assortment of food wrappers. He shoved everything into a plastic grocery bag and squished it down, then put it in the backseat. “I’ll dump it at the station. Guess I got behind in cleaning the vehicle.”

“I’ve seen worse. My own included.”

Jost dropped Gordon off at his office door and returned to his patrol duties. Gordon took the purse straight to their small evidence room and made sure everything was signed in properly. Tempted as he was to look through it, he wasn’t going to jeopardize the case—if it even turned out to be a case. Trouble was, if it
was
a case, it would be a big one, and he could already feel the eyes of the mayor burning down the back of his neck, wanting to know Mapleton’s reputation wasn’t going to be sullied. Or that Gordon hadn’t screwed anything up. Damn, he wished the mayor would stop hinting and come out and say it if Gordon’s job was in jeopardy.

He locked the door and returned to his office. Might as well try to deal with a little Chief Stuff while he waited for Xander.

He listened to his voice mail. All the messages revolved around the movie and the death of Marianna Spellman. He scanned the pink message slips Laurie had left, the few calls Laurie hadn’t been able to hand off. He had no answers, so he ignored them all for the time being.

Since Solomon hadn’t called, Gordon assumed he was still involved with the autopsy. Ian Patrick hadn’t returned his call yet, either. He felt strangely connected to the movie industry. Hurry up and wait. Checking the time, he decided it was a decent enough hour to call Avis Fontenot.

She seemed much as he’d expected after the chaplain’s description. When Avis had gone through the papers Marianna had left with her, she found the name of an attorney. “He might have a copy of a will, assuming she had one,” Avis said.

Gordon took down the name and phone number. “Do you know of a woman named Edna Mae Withers?”

A pause. Gordon wished he could see Avis’s expression. Was she thinking or formulating a lie? Too bad his phone didn’t have a voice stress analysis option. But when she came back on the line, it was with an apology for taking so long. “I was going through Marianna’s funeral notes, to see if she named the woman, but no, I didn’t find it. And the name is unfamiliar to me.”

“She’s from Riverside, if that jogs your memory.”

“Riverside? I can’t say I’ve ever been there. I’m sorry. I do wish I could be of more help.”

“The lawyer’s name is a big help,” Gordon said. At a tap on his door jamb, he saw Xander waiting. He motioned the tech inside, thanked Avis, and disconnected.

“You ready?” Xander said.

Gordon shoved away from his desk and stood. “More than.” He grabbed his camera and escorted Xander to their evidence lockup and went through the formalities of signing out the bag he’d put in there. By the book all the way. He carried it, along with an evidence box, a batch of evidence envelopes, and his camera, to the war room. Both men snapped on gloves.

Xander opened his kit, revealing an assortment of brushes and containers of powder. He selected a container. “Metallic powders work best on leather. But you do realize you’re not going to get any answers here, even if we have usable prints. We have to run them through AFIS to see if we get any hits.”

Gordon stopped him before the tech went on to explain what AFIS was. “I’m well aware of how things work. What I want to see is what’s inside the purse. And, in case there are clues in there, I want to make sure you’re collecting prints.”

Xander used his own camera to photograph the purse before he did anything else. Then he set to work, twirling his brush, humming what sounded like the theme from James Bond under his breath. After a few minutes, he set the brush down, held up the purse and frowned. “A couple of partials, but nothing usable. Mostly smudges. Sorry.”

The way things had been going, Gordon had expected that. “If you need to get back, I can inventory what’s inside, bag it all, and send it to the lab for printing. If you’re concerned, I’ll wait for Ed Solomon. He’s the one who does most of our evidence collection.”

Xander looked skeptical, but packed his powders and brushes. “I guess so. I’ve got plenty of other work waiting for me.”

Gordon held up his gloved hands, pointed to the collection envelopes, tape and the box. He raised his camera. “Don’t worry. I do know how to handle evidence.”

“Sorry. I get tunnel vision sometimes.” Xander headed for the door.

“I’d walk you out, but I can’t leave this unattended. Call if you get anything from the rest of the evidence.”

“You got it.”

Gordon stared at the purse. “All right, Marianna. Let’s see what you carried around with you.”