The First Cut (8 page)

Two years later, Vining was stabbed responding to a suspicious circumstances call reported by a man who identified himself as a realtor watching over 835 El Alisal Road while the owner was away.

A year after that, Officer Frankie Lynde was murdered.

And Vining had a panic attack at the scene.

She stood by the coffeemaker, sipping the burnt brew that powdered creamer and sugar did nothing to improve. She saw Lieutenant George Beltran in Early’s office. He glanced at her and she felt certain they were talking about her. Then Kissick joined them.

She downed the rest of the coffee, tossed the cup, and was returning to her desk when Beltran caught up with her on his way out.

He shook her hand. “Hey, Nan. How are you? Good to have you back.” Beltran had wavy dark hair and a thick mustache that were starting to show gray. He was medium height and naturally slender in a way that made him look taller than he was. He had a broad smile and an easy manner. He handled the media well and consequently served as the PPD’s liaison. He enjoyed the spotlight.

“I’m good, Lieutenant. Nice to be back. Thanks.”

It was a pleasant interchange but it put her on edge. Before she reached her desk, Kissick stuck his head out the door of Early’s office and asked her to come in.

“Have a seat,” Early said.

Kissick was leaning against the wall beside the windows.

Detective Sergeants Cho and Taylor weren’t there. Vining pulled a chair from in front of Taylor’s desk and sat.

“Coroner’s office called,” Early began. “It’s Frankie Lynde. Preliminary cause of death was the slit throat. She bled out someplace else before he dumped her in the arroyo.”

Vining took in the news and said nothing.

“Ruiz is on his way in,” Kissick said. “He told Frank Lynde the news. They’d gone for a drink and Ruiz had just brought him home when I called.”

As if on cue, Ruiz arrived. His jacket was off, his tie was loosened, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. He plopped into a chair, set his elbows against his knees, and rubbed his face with both hands. After a second, he sat up and laced his palms over his bald head.

“That was tough. I never want to do that again.”

“How’d he take it?” Kissick asked.

“How would you take it?” Ruiz gazed out the window at the bright glare reflecting off the haze. “I told him how you’ll never lose the one you love if you love the one you’ve lost. The usual shtick. I had always believed that was true, each time I made a notification call to a grieving next of kin. I thought I was giving them comfort. Today I realized it’s total bullshit. Empty words to fill the silence. There’s nothing but silence left. A big, gaping hole where a life used to be.”

Vining reflected that Ruiz was ever pompous. He had been working Homicide for barely a year and had worked just three cases on which Kissick had been the lead investigator. Still, his distress was real and touched her heart. She reached out and put her hand on his shoulder. He patted her fingertips and gave her a nod.

Early’s phone rang. “I’ll send someone down.” She looked at Kissick. “Detective Schuyler from LAPD is here. A lieutenant from their homicide desk is here, too.”

“You called Schuyler before you had a positive I.D.?” Ruiz’s moment had passed and his hard edges returned.

“We had a high degree of confidence it was Frankie Lynde,” Early said. “The clock’s ticking, Ruiz.”

“They sent a lieutenant from Homicide? They think the little-city cops need help from the big-city cops?” Kissick stood. “I’ll get them.”

Ruiz and Vining stood as well.

Early said, “Vining. Hold up a second. Shut the door. Sit down.”

S E V E N

V
INING SAT IN THE CHAIR SHE’D JUST VACATED.

Early got right to the point. “This case may be too close to home for you.”

“I disagree.” She knew her comeback was too fast. Kissick must have told Early about her episode at the arroyo. Now Lieutenant Beltran knew, too. She wondered what Kissick had seen. At worst, he saw her struggling to breathe. He might have deduced anxiety, even panic. Okay. But she’d overcome it.

“Here’s my dilemma.” Early folded her hands on the desk. “I’m seeing you on the witness stand, undergoing cross-examination, and I’m seeing the million ways a defense attorney could discredit your testimony.”

“Is this a preview of the rest of my career here, my colleagues treating me like damaged goods?”

“My number one concern is managing this case. A lot of attention will be focused on us. I have to look at the whole enchilada, from start to finish.”

“Sarge, you know I’m one of the best you have. I’m a better interviewer, I work longer hours, and I’m more thorough than anyone else I’ve seen on the second floor other than Kissick. And I never complain.”

“What about when the media finds out you’re working the Lynde case? You’re a minor celebrity. Your fifteen minutes haven’t ended yet. They’ll land on it like a bad smell. We’re already going to have our hands full.”

This is what it’s come down to,
Vining thought.

She flashed back to that June afternoon nearly a year ago.

She had been on patrol in uniform, working the Sunday overtime gig she’d been lucky enough to land for the past few weeks. It worked out especially well on the weekends that Emily was with her dad. Vining was the only officer patrolling Section One, the lowest crime area of the city. The service calls usually involved dogs barking too long, stereos that were too loud, or burglar alarms accidentally set off by the household help. The residents there had no clue about what real crime was except for the often-told tale of the home invasion robbery some years ago that had degenerated into rape and murder.

Vining had spent an hour parked in the shade of a camphor tree near a four-way stop, handing out moving violations to drivers doing the California roll through the intersection. She was sweating beneath the Kevlar vest and regulation white, crew neck T-shirt she was wearing under her short-sleeved summer uniform shirt.

At five o’clock, a suspicious circumstances call came in. A realtor was checking on a house for the absent owner and found a window open that he was certain he’d left closed. The house was three blocks from Vining. The call would be her last for the day. Her shift ended in half an hour and then she had a couple of days off.

Vining broadcast, “One Lincoln twenty-one. I can respond from Fillmore and Los Robles.”

Residents in the city’s affluent neighborhoods were often looking out windows and finding suspicious goings-on. She didn’t fault them. But she’d responded to calls where the person who’d made them nervous was a caterer checking on a delivery for a backyard wedding or a couple of nonwhite, non-Asian kids sitting on a retaining wall, taking a break while walking from their public school to the bus stop.

The house at 835 El Alisal was a two-story colonial like many in the area, built early last century. It was an upscale, middle-American neighborhood where happy sitcom families lived. In the neighborhood was the house that Beaver Cleaver entered during the opening credits of
Leave It to Beaver.

The “For Sale” sign of Dale David, a busy realtor in town, was stuck into the sprawling front lawn at 835. A second placard that said “In Escrow” was perched on top. Not surprising. These homes never stayed on the market for long.

Vining radioed that she was on-scene and didn’t need further assistance. She got out of the car.

The front door was open. She rapped hard and noted the solid wood with a pang of envy. The doors in her house were hollow-core and she had always hated the flimsy sound and feel of them.

Standing on the threshold, she announced, “Police.” She knocked again and spoke louder.
“Police.”

Not stepping inside and with her hand on her sidearm, she looked around. The floor of narrow oak planks was polished to a high sheen and carpeted with an Oriental runner. Ornate crown and base moldings were throughout. An antique parlor bench was beside a staircase that curved to the right. An elaborate chest of drawers faced it across the entry hallway. To the left was a study or den. A large opening farther down may have led to a living room. At the end of the hall, French doors revealed a patio, a giant magnolia tree, and a pool with blue water. A door was to her immediate right.

Vining had always loved those old houses. They felt solid and dense with history. But that was before such history would torment her and threaten her downfall. That was before her world was turned inside out.

This was odd. Citizens who called the police were usually by the door, counting the minutes. She’d heard of female realtors raped and murdered in houses they were showing, but she’d never heard of a realtor luring a victim to an empty house.

At the sound of rapid footsteps, she pulled her Glock .40 free from its holster and was holding it in front of her when a man walked into the hallway from the dining room.

“Holy moly!” He reared back with his palms facing her.

“Who are you?”

“I called you. I’m…I’m Dale David. The realtor.” He chuckled amiably as he looked at her gun. “Is that necessary?”

She dropped her gun to her side but didn’t holster it, neither did she explain.

He had a pleasant, unremarkable face, with dark eyes and pale skin. It would later confirm for her that the worst monsters came in the most benign packages. His thick hair was raven black and looked dyed. He was tall. Vining estimated six feet. He was dressed in what passed for business casual—a pale yellow polo shirt belted into light green chinos. She would later learn the embroidered design on his shirt of a lamb dangling by a ribbon tied around its middle was the logo of Brooks Brothers.

She’d seen Dale David’s placards around town, but had never seen the man. The real Dale David later sent a large basket of indoor plants to Vining’s hospital room. He had been a suspect for less than five minutes, having quickly proved he’d spent the entire day showing properties to a couple who were relocating to the area from Michigan.

When Vining later reflected on that incident, as she would do a million times until she felt she had wrung from it all the substance she could, she realized it was all there in his body language. Most people would be terrified to have a gun aimed at them. This man seemed nervous, but he was acting. Instead of fear at the sight of her weapon, his eyes flashed with excitement. In her probably enhanced memory, Vining saw his pupils dilate.

“Here’s my card.” He indicated that he was going to put his hand into his pocket.

“Hold it right there. I’ll get it. Turn around please.” She began patting him down.

“You’re searching me?”

“The front door was wide open and you weren’t waiting.”

“I was in the bathroom.”

In his front pocket, she found several business cards from Dale David Realty, but nothing else. No wallet. No I.D. She didn’t make much of that. Her ex-husband didn’t always carry his wallet, depending upon the pants he was wearing.

She pocketed a card.

“I only called because I found a window open in the kitchen. It’s this way.” He turned and started quickly walking.

“Hold up. What’s behind here? Could you open this door, please?”

She pointed to the closed door to her right.

“That’s the powder room. In these old houses, they put them right off the front door like that for travelers passing by who might need to use the facilities.”

“Open it, please.” She stepped back, turning to have a look around the den and the living room next to it. Across the foyer was the dining room, which was also empty. She came up behind him as he opened the closed door. She also had him open the door of a closet that was tucked inside.

She holstered her weapon. She freely admitted she’d earned her other station moniker of Quick Draw. Her rationale was simple. Better to be safe than not go home at the end of watch. This guy struck her as strange, but she felt more annoyed than at risk. She put him in the category of people who were only friendly to the police when they wanted an officer to do something for them. When the tables were turned and an officer was doing his job in pulling one of them over for reckless driving or DUI, forget about it. She’d look at his open kitchen window, call in that the case was closed, and head home to barbecue steaks for her and Emily.

She closed the front door. “How much of the house did you search?”

“All of it. Even the attic and basement. Like I said, I just called the police to CYA in case the house is broken into later.”

“Isn’t this house alarmed? Why didn’t the alarm go off when the window was opened?”

“My assistant was the last one here. The display on the alarm panel indicated a window was open when I got here today. She must have set the alarm anyway when she left. I’m getting on her about that, trust me.”

He pointed in the direction of the dining room. “Should you take a look?”

She followed him across the dining room and through a butler’s pantry. Glass-fronted cabinets there were loaded with barware and stemware. They entered a large, sunny kitchen. An island with a cooktop and sink was flanked by bar stools. A wood block on the stone counter was crammed with expensive cutlery. A window behind the sink was open.

The realtor spread his arms wide in a mockery of product demonstration. “Here’s the updated gourmet kitchen. No expense spared. Granite and stainless steel. Top of the line. Destined to look as out-of-date in ten years as avocado-colored appliances.”

His voice became conspiratorial. “Do you know what the buyers are paying for this place?”

Vining again got the feeling that something was amiss.

She moved to the back door, passing on the inside of the island, opposite where he was standing. She looked out the door window at a driveway that led to a detached garage. She flipped open the bolt lock and put her hand on the doorknob.

“I’ll take a look around outside.”

He had moved to stand in front of the refrigerator.

The refrigerator door was covered with photos, invitations, calendars, and notes held with cute magnets—central command for a busy life. The owners hadn’t bothered to clear them away to show the house. Maybe they thought it looked homey. Descending one side were dozens of tiny magnets. Vining recognized them as poetry magnets comprised of words in black type on a white background that one formed into sentences. She and Emily had a set then and used to have fun taking turns being creative. When Vining later threw them out, the reason she’d given Emily was that she was tired of the refrigerator looking cluttered.