So he knew he’d done the right thing – stuffed the fabric into his inside jacket pocket and got the hell out of there. It was a bit trickier convincing Truesdale to file a request for a search warrant, finally having to lie and tell her he’d seen but not touched the evidence they were seeking that would hook up this pervert for good.
How could he have known that Nolent’s housekeeper had seen him remove the fabric from the pots and then replace it hours later when they officially searched the premises? Or that Michelle Dunn would hire a private investigator to dig into his background, dredging up the ten-year-old sexual-harassment beef brought by those bitches he worked with in RHD, or that the stories would surface of how he’d tried to get them both out of the way when things got a little messy? And if he’d set up his own partners, Dunn’s argument had gone, what would he do to show up the department that had dumped him all those years ago?
It was gone now – his reputation, his chance of a promotion, maybe even his job with the Simi PD – all because some trust- fund baby knew the right attorney to hire. He was just about to call his second ex-wife when Michelle Dunn emerged from the jail, a black leather sketchbook clutched in her hand. “Where you headed now?” she asked.
“To a bar somewhere to drown my troubles. Or at least teach them how to swim.”
“That’s a good one.” She dropped the sketchbook she was holding at Steve’s feet as she opened her umbrella against the intensifying rain. “Oops! Menopause can make a woman as clumsy and forgetful as a teenage girl. Here I was, opening my umbrella, and I dropped one of the sketchbooks Christophe doodled in during the trial.”
Steve stared at her for just a moment before scooping it up. Ornate three-color ink drawings seemed to spill from its pages, scenes from the courtroom, Truesdale defiant and Steve sitting stone-eyed under cross-examination. Little dresses danced across the next two pages, and square bottles spilled drops of what looked like blood. He flipped to another page to find mountain peaks rising above a Japanese inn, the lake beside it offering up sushi from the bodies of fish and mermaidlike creatures that looked disturbingly like Yustina Flores and Tiffany Rutherford.
“The DA did the right thing, going after my client for two of the eight murders,” she whispered. “They were the strongest cases, but they weren’t the only ones.”
“What are you suggesting?”
She pointed at the sketchbook. “Maybe you can make it right with this.”
“Why would you do this?” he said softly. “You could get disbarred!”
“As I said, I’m getting out of the game. You, on the other hand, are still in it. You still care.” She gave his arm a friendly squeeze. “And if this doesn’t help, you can always waylay him at Urasawa for a little talk. A little birdie told me he’ll be there celebrating later tonight.”
“Thanks, Ms. Dunn.”
“Michelle.”
“Okay, Michelle. I don’t know what to say.”
“Just get him off the streets.”
Serial Killer by Jon L. Breen
Parking the unmarked squad car in a space reserved for the president of North End Community College, Detective Berwanger said to his partner, “I always wanted to do this.” Detective Foley resisted pointing out that it was an empty gesture: they knew the president was on vacation in Hawaii.
It was a cool early-fall evening, half an hour before night classes were scheduled to begin, and the campus was relatively quiet. Entering the administration building, the two plainclothesmen reported to the evening director’s office, where a pretty Latina student assistant sat behind the counter. She looked up from what appeared to be a math textbook and smiled. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”
Berwanger showed his identification. “Yes, ma’am. I’m Detective Berwanger, city police. This is my partner, Detective Foley.”
Her eyes widened. “I’ve heard of you.”
“Yes, ma’am. Lots of people have. I wonder if you could help us find someone.”
“A suspect, Detective?”
The two cops exchanged poker-faced glances. “For now, ma’am, let’s just say somebody we need to find. It’s just routine. Nothing to be alarmed about.”
“Of course I’d like to help you,” the student said. “Can you describe this person?”
“Yes, ma’am. He’s a male Caucasian, about six-four, weighs maybe two eighty. Looks like an interior lineman that’s let himself go a bit, but still not someone you’d want to mess with. He commonly has what I can only call a menacing demeanor. Usually shabbily dressed, maybe in an old sweatshirt and jeans. If he’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt, you’ll notice some elaborate tattoos on his biceps. Marine Corps haircut, stubbly unshaven look, just about always has an unfriendly scowl on his face.”
The young woman shivered. “Sounds scary.”
“Yes, ma’am. Have you seen him?”
“He’s standing right behind you.”
Berwanger turned to see Foley shaking hands with Moe Gustavson, who had briefly shed his scowl for a wide smile.
“How do you put up with this guy?” Gustavson demanded of Foley. “Detective Berwanger, you’re going to get in trouble one of these days, harassing female students.”
Looking hurt, Berwanger asked, “Was I harassing you, ma’am?”
“No, Detective,” she said. “Are you under arrest, Mr. Gustavson? Should I postpone your class?”
Gustavson threw up his hands in mock exasperation. “Very funny. And here I was, trying to protect your honor. Can’t I get any respect in this place at all? Fellas, this young woman is Lourdes Ramirez, one of my most promising students. She’ll make a writer if she can learn to write dialogue and set a scene in less than ten pages. If her desk relief shows up, you’ll see her in the front row in half an hour.”
“I’m glad I came, then,” said Foley.
“Quit harassing female students, Foley,” his partner grumbled. “So you want to be a mystery writer, Ms. Ramirez?”
“I hope to, yes.”
“Just like your teacher here, huh?”
She grinned impishly. “Well, maybe not just like him, no.”
“She’s a little too violent and profane for my taste,” Gustavson explained. “And I think she writes her, uh, romantic scenes the way she does just to make me blush.” Under a feminine pseudonym, Gustavson wrote cozy mysteries, with a caterer and her cat in featured roles.
Berwanger and Foley had been visiting Gustavson’s mystery- writing class for several years. It was one of their favorite stops on a demanding schedule of appearances before community groups.
As they walked with Gustavson down the corridor to the classroom, Berwanger asked, “Anybody repeating the course?” Creative-writing classes could be taken more than once for credit.
“A few familiar faces, sure. So you’ll have to come up with some fresh material.”
“That’s no problem,” Foley said.
“We’re still working cops, you know,” Berwanger said. They were in such demand as speakers, it was a struggle to resist a fulltime public-relations assignment.