"A smart one."
"One who's been caught before-or learned by doing," Landry mused.
"One who watches the Discovery Channel."
"One who knows there would have been evidence."
"Meaning she scratched him," Weiss said. "Did Van Zandt have any marks on him?"
"Not that I could see. He was wearing a turtleneck. I couldn't see anything on Jade either. We're not going to get a good look at either of them unless we have some pretty strong evidence to hold them on. Any word back on whether or not that was blood in the stall?"
Weiss shook his head and rolled his eyes. "It's Saturday night. If Dr. Felnick didn't have his in-laws staying at his house, we wouldn't have gotten the autopsy tonight."
"I think we would have," Landry said. "The management at the equestrian center have friends in high places. They want this thing solved and swept away ASAP. Murder is bad for morale among the patrons."
"People don't get murdered in Wellington."
"No. You have to come to West Palm for that."
"What about that assault the other night?" Weiss asked. "When the horses got turned loose. Think they're connected?"
Landry frowned, remembering the bruises on Estes' back that night, though at the time the bruises had hardly registered in his mind. He'd been too stunned by the old scars and lines of demarcation where skin had been grafted over tissue.
She had taken a beating Thursday night, but she hadn't said anything about a sex angle. She had surprised someone in the act of letting the horses loose. Wrong place, wrong time. Now he wondered if she'd come off lucky. Jill Morone had been in the wrong place at the wrong time too. Just two tents over.
"I don't know," he said. "What did the security people have to say?"
"Nothing. According to them, the place is virtually crime-free. The odd theft here and there. Nothing serious."
"Nothing serious. They've got serious now. Estes said she didn't like the guard she ran into that night. I spoke with him the next day. I didn't like him either. I meant to run a check on him, then-"
"Estes?" Weiss looked at him as if he was certain he had heard wrong.
"The vic," Landry qualified.
"What's her first name?"
"What's it matter?" Landry said defensively.
"Not Elena Estes?"
"What if it is?"
Weiss turned his head, and his thick neck made a sound like heavy boots on crushed shell. "She's a problem, that's what. Plenty of people would be happy if she was the one on that table in there," he said, looking at the door to the autopsy suite.
"Are you one of them?" Landry asked.
"Hector Ramirez was a hell of a guy. That bitch got his head blown off. I have a problem with that," Weiss said, puffing up, his arms raising another inch from his sides. "What's she doing in this? I heard she'd gone off and crawled into a bottle."
"I don't know anything about that," Landry snapped. "She's in the middle of this mess because she's helping somebody out."
"Yeah? Her kind of help I don't need," Weiss said. "Does the lieutenant know she's in it?"
"Oh, for Christ's sake. What is this, Weiss? Kindergarten? Are you gonna tell on her?" Landry said sarcastically. "She got the crap beat out of her Thursday. Be happy about that and get your head where it belongs. We've got a dead girl here and one kidnapped."
"Why are you defending her?" Weiss demanded. "Are you fucking her or something?"
"I'm not defending her. I barely know her, and what I do know, I don't like," Landry said. "I'm doing my job. Are we picking and choosing vics now? Did I miss that briefing? Can I just go sit on my boat every goddam day until we get a vic I feel is worthy of my services? I've gotta say that's going to cut my hours by a lot. No more crack whores, no more white trash-"
"I don't like that she's involved in this," Weiss declared.
"So? I don't like that I just watched a dead girl get carved up like a side of beef. If you don't like the job, go drive a cab," Landry said, turning away and starting down the hall. "If you don't think you can work this case, tell the boss and get the hell out of the way for someone who can."
His pager went off again. He swore, checked the display, then went back to the phone and dialed.
"Landry."
He listened as he was told about an anonymous tip stating the exact location of evidence in the murder of Jill Morone. A kitchen cupboard in a town house occupied by Tomas Van Zandt.
"Make up your mind, Weiss," he said as he hung up the phone. "I've got to go see about a search warrant."
I had no real way of knowing what happened to my 911 call. The operator had given me a hard time, clearly thinking I was trying to pull a hoax, and keeping me on the line so she could send a radio car to my location. I was as adamant as I could be that I knew Van Zandt had murdered "my friend" Jill Morone at the equestrian center, that Detective Landry could find Van Zandt's bloody shirt in the kitchen cupboard of the town house owned by Lorinda Carlton at the specific address on Sag Harbor Court. I described the shirt in as much detail as I could, then I hung up, wiped my prints off the phone, and went to sit on a bench outside the Chinese place. A deputy cruised by shortly after.
I hoped the message had gotten to Landry. But even if it had and he had decided to do something about it, a lot of time was going to pass before he made it to Van Zandt's.
A search warrant isn't something a detective can just run off his computer. He can't simply go to his boss and get one. He has to write an affidavit, substantiating the reasons for his request, specifying probable cause for the search, and specifying in detail what he intends to search for. If he wants to execute the search at night, he needs to make a convincing argument that there is imminent danger of evidence being destroyed or of another crime being committed, otherwise executing a search at night can be considered grounds for harassment charges. The affidavit has to go to a judge, who decides whether or not to issue the warrant.
It all takes time. And during that time the suspect might do anything-ditch evidence, bolt and run.
Had Van Zandt been in the car with the woman? I couldn't say. I knew the car was a dark color, but I hadn't taken the time to register make and model. It might have been the Mercedes Trey Hughes had given Van Zandt to use for the season, or not. I assumed the woman was Lorinda Carlton.
Whoever had seen me, if they had seen the shirt in my hands, I had to hope it would be assumed I had taken it with me.
I checked my watch and wondered if there were uniforms knocking on doors in the neighborhood around my car. If I nonchalantly showed up with the key to a BMW in my hand, would I be questioned? I walked to the Chevron station, used the bathroom and washed up, checked my watch again. More than an hour had passed since my escape.
I took the long way back to Sag Harbor Court. There were no cops, no searchlights. Van Zandt's black Mercedes was sitting in the drive at Lorinda Carlton's unit.
He did not come running down the street to accost me. Things seemed as quiet on Sag Harbor Court as they had when I had arrived. I wondered if Carlton had called in the break-in after all, or if the siren I had heard had gone elsewhere. I wondered where in that time frame Van Zandt had shown up, and if he might have dissuaded her from calling because he didn't want a bunch of deputies in the house.
Unable to get answers to those questions, still twitching with the idea of being found out, I drove out of Sag Harbor Court and headed toward home with a detour through Binks Forest.
There were a couple of cars parked on the street on the Seabrights' block. Probably surveillance from the SO. The house was lit up.
I wanted to be inside, assessing the level of strain among the natives. I wanted to see Molly, to let her know she wasn't all alone. She had me on her side.