And I had just made the fuckup of the century, compromised my cover, and compromised evidence that might have linked Van Zandt to a murder.
Yeah. That would be a comfort to her. Me on her side.
Depressed and upset, I went home to regroup and wait for the worst to happen.
T his is an outrage!" Van Zandt ranted. "Is this now a police state?"
"I don't think so," Landry said, opening a cupboard door and peering in. "If the police ran the state, I'm pretty sure I'd be making more money."
"I can't believe anyone would think Tommy could do such a horrible thing!"
Lorinda Carlton had that look of someone who wished she had been a hippy once, but had probably gone to boarding school. She was forty-something with long dark hair in braids, and she wore a T-shirt with some kind of New Age bullshit saying on it. She would probably claim to be descended from Indian shamans or reincarnated from the ancient Egyptians.
She stood beside Van Zandt, trying to cling to him. He shrugged her off. Tommy.
"This is not even my home," Van Zandt said. "How can you come into Lorinda's house this way?"
Weiss showed him the warrant again, tipping his head back so he could manage to look down his nose at a man half a foot taller than he was. "Can you read English? It has her name and address right on it."
"He lives here, right?" Landry said to the woman.
"He's my friend," she said dramatically.
"Yeah. You might want to rethink that."
"He's the kindest, most honest man I know."
Landry rolled his eyes. This one needed "Victim" tattooed on her forehead. Her rotten little shit-ass dog circled her feet, growling and barking. He was built like a little torpedo with hair and teeth. No question he'd bite if he got the chance.
"I don't know what you think you are going to find," Van Zandt said.
Weiss looked under the sink. "Bloody shirt. Torn, bloody shirt."
"Why would I have such a thing? And why would I keep it in a kitchen cupboard? It's ridiculous. Do you think I am stupid?"
Neither detective answered.
Landry reached up to move a stack of phone books off the refrigerator, and dust rained down in a thick cloud. The tip had specified the shirt was in a cupboard, but he had expanded the scope of the warrant to include the entire property, on the chance that Van Zandt had moved it. It was looking like he had. They had been through all the kitchen cupboards. A deputy was upstairs going through the cabinets and dresser drawers.
"On what grounds did you get this warrant?" Van Zandt asked. "Or are you allowed to persecute just anyone who is not a citizen?"
"A judge determined we have probable cause to believe this item is in your possession, Mr. Van Zandt," Landry said. "We have a witness. How's that for grounds?"
"Lies. You have no witness."
Landry arched a brow. "And how would you know that if you weren't there and didn't kill that girl?"
"I haven't killed anyone. And who could know what I have in this house? I have had no one here but a burglar. I'm sure you don't care about that."
"When did you have a burglar?" Landry asked casually as he looked in the closet that housed the washer and dryer.
"Tonight," Lorinda said. "Just as I got here from the airport. There was someone in the garage. Cricket chased him through the house, but he got away."
The dog started barking again at the mention of his name.
"Was anything taken?"
"Not that we've been able to see. But that doesn't change the fact that someone broke in."
"Was there a sign of forced entry?"
Carlton frowned.
"Did you call nine-one-one?"
Van Zandt pulled a face. "What would you have done? Nothing. Nothing was taken. You would say to be more careful locking the doors. A waste of time. I told Lorinda not to bother."
"You'd had your fill of law enforcement for one evening?" Landry said. "That's great. For all you know, this person killed someone last week, and now they're still running around loose thanks to you."
"Then you should have caught that person when they killed someone," Van Zandt pronounced.
"Yeah. We're working on that," Weiss said, bumping Van Zandt as he passed him to go into the living room.
"Did you get a good look at this person, Ms. Carlton?" Landry asked, thinking he was going to have to lock Estes in a cell for the duration of this mess. And if Lorinda Carlton had called 911, that job might already have been taken care of.
"Not really," she said, squatting down to catch hold of her dog. "It was dark."
"Man? Woman? White? Hispanic? Black?"
She shook her head. "I couldn't say. White, I think. Maybe Hispanic. I'm not sure. Slight build. Dark clothes."
"Nnn," Landry said, chewing his lip. Jesus Christ. What had Estes been thinking?
That she might find a bloody shirt. But she'd gotten caught in the act, and Van Zandt had ditched the evidence in the time it had taken to get the warrant.
"Do you want to file a report?" Weiss asked.
Carlton kind of shrugged, kind of shook her head, her attention on her dog. "Well… nothing was taken…"
And Van Zandt didn't want the cops going over the place with a fine-tooth comb. That was why they hadn't called it in. And what the hell was this woman thinking? How could she listen to him tell her not to call the cops after a break-in and not think he had something to hide?
The rationale of the serial victim never ceased to amaze him. He was willing to bet Lorinda had a rotten ex-husband or two in her background, and this asshole had somehow managed to convince her he was a good guy-while he lived off her largesse.
"That person might have been here planting evidence," she said. And now Landry knew how Van Zandt had explained away a bloody shirt.
"The evidence we're not finding?" Weiss asked.
"We can dust the place for prints, see if we get a hit on a known criminal," Landry said, looking at Van Zandt. "Of course, we'd have to fingerprint both of you for elimination purposes. You know, the guy might have been a serial killer or something. Wanted all over the world."
Van Zandt's eyes were narrow and hard as flint. "Fucking assholes," he muttered. "I'm calling my attorney."
"You do that, Mr. Van Zandt," Landry said, moving past him to go into the garage. "Waste your money-or the money of whatever sucker you've got supplying you with a lawyer like Bert Shapiro. There's nothing he can do about us searching this house. And you know, even if you've gotten rid of that shirt, we have blood evidence from the stall where Jill Morone died. Not her blood. Yours. We'll nail you on it eventually."
"Not mine," Van Zandt declared. "I wasn't there."
Landry stopped with his hand on the doorknob. "Then you would be willing to submit to a physical exam to prove your innocence?"
"This is harassment. I'm calling Shapiro."
"Like I said"-Landry smiled a nasty smile-"it's a free country. You know what's funny about this murder, though? It looked like a rape, but there wasn't any semen. The ME didn't find any semen. What happened, Van Zandt? You didn't want to do her after she suffocated? You like 'em kicking and screaming? Or could you just not get it up?"
Van Zandt looked like his head would explode. He grabbed at the phone on the wall and knocked the receiver on the floor. He was shaking with anger.
Landry went out the door. At least he'd gotten in a shot.
They searched the premises for another forty minutes-and ten of those were just to annoy Van Zandt. If there had been a bloody shirt, it was gone. All they found was a video porn collection and that no one in the house ever bothered to clean. Landry was certain he could feel fleas biting his ankles through his socks.