The First Cut (42 page)

Kissick was surveying the property through binoculars.

“There’s a car in the driveway,” he said. “I think it’s a Honda Civic. Beige. Home repair job on the left front fender. I can make out the license plate.”

Vining took out a notepad and pen. “Go.”

He read off the plate.

Vining pressed speed-dial numbers for PPD dispatch.

“This is Nan Vining on cell phone. Jim Kissick and I are code six at one-seven-two Encino Avenue in Encino. The property belongs to John Lesley. Mr. Lesley is not present but his wife and a housekeeper may be. Run this plate for me, please.”

Dispatch returned that the car was registered to a Mauricio and Dolores Nunez at a Pacoima address. After another minute, dispatch told her that the couple had no wants or warrants and no priors.

“You have a phone number at that address?”

She wrote it down. “Ten four.” She punched in the number on the phone keypad.

“Hello. This is Debby Selvig. I’m a high school friend of Pamela Lesley. You probably know her as Pussycat. May I speak with Mauricio or Lolly Nunez, please? Mr. Nunez, hello. Pussycat gave me your phone number. I’m waiting at the front gate of the Lesley’s home to see her and no one is answering. I’m visiting from out of town. I know Pussycat is sick in bed, but she said Lolly would let me in. Did Lolly come to work today? What time did she leave this morning? Does she drive the Lesleys’ cars to run errands? That’s probably where she is, at the grocery.”

While Vining made her call, Kissick speed-dialed Caspers’s cell phone. Caspers reported that Ruiz called him from inside the club. The bartender dialed an in-house extension to talk to Lesley, then told Ruiz to wait. That was forty minutes ago. Caspers was parked in the alley that ran behind the club and had a visual of Lesley’s Hummer. He contacted the watch commander at the sheriff’s West Hollywood substation, but only after a deputy sheriff on a motor had tapped the window of his unmarked car and asked what was up.

“Interesting timing,” Caspers commented.

“You haven’t seen Lesley yet?”

“Nope. Ruiz says he hasn’t come down. Don’t worry. Ruiz has the front and I’ve got the back. Unless Lesley’s walking to Encino, he won’t be coming up on you.”

“Keep me posted.”

“Keepin’ it real here in WeHo.”

Kissick then made a call to the local LAPD watch commander to let him know what was going on. He requested confidentiality.

He resumed surveying the property.

Vining continued her conversation with the housekeeper’s husband. “Is there anyone else usually in the house this time of day? Does Lolly keep the doors locked? Does she set the alarm when she’s working? How have things been for Lolly, working for Mr. and Mrs. Lesley? Has everything been going okay? I’m just wondering because when I spoke to Pussycat she said that Lolly seemed stressed out lately. Pussycat said her husband can be kind of demanding.”

Kissick noticed the archery range on the side lawn that lined the driveway. Arrows protruded from the bull’s-eye of a target supported on a stand.

Vining persisted. “Does your wife have a cell phone number? May I have that, please? I’ll call her and maybe she can hurry back from her errands so I can see Pussycat before I have to catch my plane. Thank you very much, Mr. Nunez. When I see Lolly, I’ll tell her to call you.”

She was distracted by Kissick’s frantic waving. “Mr. Nunez, can you hold on for a second, please?”

“Black limo,” Kissick said, peering through binoculars. “Lincoln limo in a turnabout in front of the garage.”

“Mr. Nunez, I see a black limousine parked in the driveway. Ahh…It belongs to your nephew.” She widened her eyes at Kissick. “Your nephew has a limo service and Mr. Lesley lets him park his car here. How nice for Mr. Lesley and Pussycat if they can drive it. Oh, they
do
drive it. Mr. Lesley pays him? Perfect for your nephew. He gets the money and he doesn’t have to work.”

Kissick clenched his fist.

“Thank you, Mr. Nunez. Good-bye.”

“Limo in his driveway,” Kissick said. “Smells like probable cause to me.” He climbed onto the car hood, clambered atop the stone wall, and jumped to the ground on the other side of the gate. He found the release to open the gate, then brushed off his clothes.

Vining drove the car inside and Kissick got in.

“Want to try Lolly’s cell for me?” She handed him the number.

He did then closed his phone and slipped it into his pocket. “No answer.”

“She was here when I called for Pussycat this morning. Her husband says she drives that Civic to run errands.”

“So where is she?”

“Good question. Lolly’s husband says she’s usually the only one home this time of day. The gardeners come on Tuesdays. When Lolly’s working, she locks the doors but doesn’t set the alarm. Did you contact West Valley watch commander?”

“Yep. I think I woke him up.”

Vining parked sideways, blocking the driveway.

Kissick grabbed a two-way radio and shoved it inside his jacket pocket. They both got out.

He tried the limo’s doors. They were locked.

The doors of the Civic weren’t. Vining found little. On the front passenger seat was a juice box pierced with a straw. On the backseat were an adult’s sweater and a brightly hued tank top from a high school athletic team. The glove compartment and trunk held the usual junk.

They crossed the grass and ascended flagstone front steps. A steel placard from a home security firm was in the flower bed. Vining flattened against the wall while Kissick pressed his ear against the door. Not hearing anything, he peered through a narrow paned window that ran the length of the door.

He shook his head at Vining, signaling he didn’t see or hear anyone.

He tried the brass door lever. It was locked. He glanced at Vining.

“Go for it.”

He pounded the heavy brass knocker. “Police. Lolly Nunez. Pussycat Lesley. Open the door.” He knocked again. “Police.” He again listened and heard nothing from inside.

Vining crept along a flagstone walkway across the front of the house, reaching a row of picture windows. She craned her neck to look inside, then again concealed herself, shaking her head at Kissick.

He drew his weapon and she did the same. He pointed toward the rear of the house. They crouched as they cleared the windows above the walkway. Reaching the detached garage, they flattened themselves against each side of the walk-through door. Kissick listened at the door before flinging it open. After a beat, he peered inside the dark interior. He ran his hand along the wall and flipped on a switch. Fluorescent lights flooded the room.

Guns front, they cleared the area. The garage had spaces for six cars. Parked there were a Mercedes S600 sedan, a 1965 Cadillac Coupe de Ville convertible, and a Ford F-150 truck.

They left the garage, turning off the lights and closing the door. They faced the patio and pool bounded by a lush lawn. Beyond the lawn, a citrus grove bordered the property, surrounded by a chain-link fence. The house was to their right. A short distance past the garage on their left was the clubhouse—a long, low structure with wood-framed sliding glass doors.

Kissick tipped his head in that direction, but Vining was looking elsewhere. He followed her gaze and saw that several windows near the rear of the house were covered with plywood on the inside.

They headed toward the clubhouse. They crossed the patio to stand on either side of the sliding doors. Vining held her gun in both hands against her chest while Kissick held up his thumb and two fingers and began counting down by folding each one. At “three” they pulled open the doors and swung inside the room with guns in front. Backs to the wall, they skirted the perimeter of the room, moving quickly, scanning right and left.

The large space was furnished with plump couches and chairs upholstered in Native American blankets and leather. Well-worn, heavy wood tables filled the spaces between. Navajo rugs and woven baskets were displayed along the walls. One wall was covered with bows and arrows in all shapes and forms, from simple wood versions to titanium crossbows. More Navajo rugs covered the broad-planked wood floor.

They were both briefly distracted by a photograph on the wall of an older bald man with Sylvester Stallone in his Rambo costume.

Vining cleared one side while Kissick worked the other. She was unpleasantly aware of her heart beating. Perspiration seeped through her shirt. She tightly grasped her weapon with both hands but couldn’t stop them from trembling.

I’m in control.

A pass-through off one end of the room allowed her to look inside a small kitchen. She sidestepped to enter the enclosure, stopping when she reached a doorway. She spun inside, gun first. It was a bathroom and it was empty. She made her way to a door on the opposite wall that looked like a supply closet or pantry.

She peeked into the pass-through to see Kissick across the room bending down to pick something off the porch outside. She resumed clearing the last of the kitchen. With her weapon in hand, she grasped the doorknob. The pantry in the El Alisal house flashed into her mind. She had crawled there, trailing blood, a knife embedded in her neck, in search of the word he’d left for her. The word he’d wanted her to see.

It’s just a space in a house.

Her right hand was shaking and she barely maintained her grip on her weapon. She reached for the door with her left. Something on the floor drew her attention.

A ribbon of blood oozed from beneath the door.

She blinked.

It’s an illusion. It’s not real.

She blinked again. It was still there. She touched it with the toe of her shoe and drew back a red smear.

“Jim, there’s something here.”

She flung the door open, jumping when a can of tomatoes rolled out. Canned goods and cartons knocked from the shelves were strewn about.

Crumpled on the floor was the body of a Latina. Her throat was slashed.

She heard Kissick shout followed by the retort of a gun. She instinctively knew it was his gun. She should take cover, get down, call out to him, but she stood mesmerized. The aroma of burnt gunpowder filled the air. Was he moaning? It might as well have been a television broadcast.

That familiar yet dreaded fluttering in her chest took over. There was no air. Surely it had been sucked from the room. Her ears buzzed, the noise building until it took over, drowning out Kissick’s agony and her pounding heart. Was that her bloody body lying there? No. She was standing here. Wasn’t she?

She grabbed the door frame as the room whirled. She squeezed her eyes shut to block at least that one sensory input. The snap of passing seconds slugged like hours.

“Nan…”

Kissick could barely get it out. She felt his distress.

Open your eyes,
she commanded herself.

She did. In the pantry was a dead woman lying in blood.

“I am
not
you.”

The declaration shook the demons from her. Her fear drained from her and oozed through the seams in the plank floor with the dead woman’s blood, a melding of essences. All the ghosts of her past and present. One by one, they left. She felt at once lighter and more solid. Just like that, her long hangover was finally cured.

Her mind was icily clear.

A window near her shattered and an arrow whizzed by her head, brushing her hair, embedding into the doorjamb.

She hit the floor as a second arrow hit where her head had been. She discharged her weapon at John Lesley standing in the window. She heard him cry out as he released another arrow from his crossbow.

T H I R T Y - E I G H T

V
INING LEANED AGAINST A CABINET ON THE KITCHENETTE FLOOR,
holding her Glock between both hands. She was sitting in broken glass and smeared blood. It only faintly repulsed her. She heard a moan and labored breathing.

“Jim?”

“Here.”

He struggled to voice that single word.

She threw herself against the wall beneath the window, crept up until she could glance outside and again concealed herself. Lesley was gone but she saw drops of blood along the patio.

Crouching low, she crossed the room. Another trail of blood led from the open sliding glass doors and disappeared behind a sofa.

“Jim,” she said again.

“Hhh…”

She followed the direction of his voice, darting past the open doors to the cluster of heavy furniture and found him on the floor leaning against a sofa. An arrow protruded from his chest. He managed to turn his grimace into a labored smile. The portable two-way radio on the floor was broadcasting three sharp tones as someone on the other end tried to raise him.

She squatted beside him. “Jim. My God.”

“Got…my lung, think.”

Vining picked up the two-way and radioed their location and circumstances.

“They’ll be here like five minutes ago.”

Looking at Kissick, she helplessly spread her hands.

“Looks worse…” he said, talking about the arrow.

He cradled his gun against his chest in one bloody hand, but had something else clutched in his other. She started to pry it from his fingers and he let go. It was a pink athletic shoe. The logo said New Balance. The lining told her the style was Wind Lass, size seven.

Picking up the shoe had distracted Kissick for the second it took Lesley to line him up between the sights of his crossbow.

Lesley took advantage of a new opportunity.

An arrow hit Vining in her left bicep.

She muffled her cry as she jerked out of view, falling over Kissick’s legs.

“Motherfu…” She rose up from behind the sofa and released a volley of gunshots at the receding figure.

“’Kay?” Kissick asked.

She pulled out the arrow and threw it across the room. She rose to head out, but Kissick latched onto her.

“Backup.”

“One minute is all the time he needs to escape. He’s not getting away. Not this time.”

Keeping low, she ran from the clubhouse and followed drops of blood that led through the open back door of the house.

She heard a noise that sounded like tapping against glass. She traced the sound to a row of small windows along the base of the house. They were blocked out on the inside. As she drew near, the tapping turned frantic.