Agnes Hahn Page 8

  He pulled a single flower from his fist and held it out to her.

  A smile puckered her cheeks. She gave his crotch a quick squeeze and sauntered down the hall. At the doorway, she spun around, reached into her front pocket, and pulled out two attached, wrapped condoms. She swung them back and forth, winked, then disappeared into the hallway.

  Jason looked down at the remaining four carnations and exhaled hard. Uh huh, it was.

  Ella looked nice in her blue flowered dress, none the worse for Uh huh’s tardiness. Uh huh wheeled her to the table and gave Jason a sloppy smile before slinking away to a far corner of the room.

  “Ella, I’m Jason Powers. We talked the other day.” He held out the bouquet of four carnations.

  She cradled them in her arms and inhaled deeply.

  “Are you visiting today, dear?”

  Jason watched as Ella finished the last mouthful of her dessert. He pushed his dishes closer to hers and adjusted the position of the carnations on the table, trying to shake a little scent from them.

  Ella reached for his stack of dishes and pulled them next to hers. Her expression seemed to change. It wasn’t fear he saw, but more like sadness, in stark contrast to her normal jovial disposition. Her shoulders seemed to slump forward. And she aged before his eyes.

  “Ella. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, dear. It’s time to clean up.”

  “I’m Jason Powers. I’m here to talk to you about Agnes.”

  “Is Agnes here? I’d like to see her.”

  “She couldn’t make it tonight. But I need to talk to you about her. About her past.”

  “Is she in trouble?”

  What made her say that? If Agnes was innocent, why would Ella’s first thought be that she was in trouble? “Yes.”

  “What’s wrong?” Her sad expression deepened.

  He looked across at the dapper gentleman, who leaned forward into the conversation. Jason lowered his voice. “She found out she has a sister.”

  “Oh, dear.” The creases surrounding Ella’s eyes turned downward.

  He waited for a few seconds. “I need to ask you about her sister, and about Edward Hahn.”

  Ella’s entire face tensed, and her eyebrows pinched the bridge of her nose. “Eddie.” She spat out the word and brought her fist down on the table. Her eyes flicked across the table, at the gentleman, then down to her lap.

  Jason looked across at the gentleman and frowned. The man didn’t raise his eyes from his plate.

  “Please tell me anything you can about Lilin and Edward Hahn. It’s important. For Agnes. Do you know where I can find them?”

  Her expression slipped and her eyes glazed. Tears welled. “Family secrets.” Her voice was soft, quiet. “Let them lie.”

  “What do you mean, family secrets?”

  Tears rolled down Ella’s cheeks, but her face dawned with a startling cheerfulness.

  “Are you visiting today, dear? It’s a nice day for a visit.”

  CHAPTER 13

  ON AN EMOTIONAL LEVEL, NOTHING ABOUT A MURDER scene made sense to Bransome. And yet, he was expected to make sense of it. It grated, the way everyone tiptoed around, taking photos, acting as if the body were diseased, toxic. It was a person, someone’s son, maybe someone’s father or brother.

  He turned from the motel room doorway and savored his last look at the Pacific before the sun extinguished into the liquid horizon. He’d probably see the light of tomorrow morning before he got home. A small bay to his left was partially hidden by a deep cliff, but he could hear the sound of the waves as they smashed into the rocky shoreline, sending salt spray skyward. The sound soothed him.

  A man in a khaki uniform stepped forward, pulling Bransome’s attention back to the room. The officer looked like he had graduated from the academy within the last week. He stopped and stood there, silent.

  “Detective Art Bransome, from Mendocino.” Bransome offered his hand.

  “Officer Frank Tatum. I thought Ukiah handled the county stuff. How’d you end up down here on this one?”

  Bransome tugged at his belt, but it slipped back down, under his belly. Cocky little rookie, probably his first assignment. He thought of a good way to cut him down to size, but that wouldn’t make the job any easier. Besides, green or grizzled, the uniforms stood for a member of the fraternity, the good guys. “I get the major cases along the coast. Ukiah picks up all the inland stuff.” Besides, this job would tear the rookie a new one soon enough.

  “Lucky you,” Tatum said. He swept his arm in a wide arc. “It’s all yours. Mind if I watch? This might be number four. I’ve given it a quick look.”

  Bransome felt a twitch in his temple, followed by another in time with his heartbeat. “If you’re right, she’s moving up the coast. I hope she’s not after anyone in Mendocino.” He stepped close to the body. “Did you get the directive on what to look for?”

  “They read it over the radio after I called this in. Nothing this big’s ever happened around here before.”

  Bransome swung around. “A murder isn’t an opportunity. It’s not a blessing for a bored town.” Or for a rookie officer, he thought.

  Tatum stepped sideways. “Sorry, sir. That’s not what I meant.”

  Bransome turned back to the body. The room was tidy, like it hadn’t been occupied for more than a few minutes. Both lamps on either side of the bed were on, bathing the bed and the corpse in a bright wash of light. The bed was turned down on one side, but apparently not slept in, and the victim’s pants were folded on an adjacent chair, his shirt draped around the chair back, and his shoes and socks lined up on the floor, like the chair was a sitting human caricature.

  “Let’s do a check-off to see if you’re right,” Bransome said. He leaned in over the bed. “Clean cut across the neck. Towels to prevent blood spray. What’s that tell you, Tatum?”

  Tatum’s lips parted. “Um. I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

  Bransome glanced over his shoulder, then back at the body. “If someone took the time to press towels against a slit throat, the victim was either on the way to death or somehow incapacitated.” He glanced back again. “Right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Anything tell you which it might have been?”

  “No signs of a struggle. The vic’s clothing is folded on the chair.” Tatum stepped around and pointed at the victim’s chest. “And, two bruises, with small cuts in the middle.” He pointed to the right side of the victim’s midsection.

  “Did you look at his shirt?”

  “No, sir. Why?”

  Bransome snapped a photo of the clothed chair and jotted a few words in his notebook. “Hand it to me.”

  Bransome pulled on a pair of latex gloves and clicked the nearside lamp to the high beam. He held the shirt up in front of it. “See on the right, where the bruises would be? No holes. What’s that tell you?”

  Tatum smiled and nodded his head. “It happened after he was naked.”

  Bransome grinned back. “Or, at least after he had his shirt off.” He enjoyed working with young officers, as long as they didn’t get too enthusiastic. As close as he was to retirement, his job included as much teaching as crime scene workups. And Tatum seemed like a nice kid. “Here. Hold it up to the light. Please.” He clicked two more pictures.

  “So far, so good,” Bransome said. He took a step back, and Tatum followed suit. “What do you make of the penis?” He pointed to the severed organ, lying in the center of the victim’s chest.

  Tatum chuckled. “I don’t know. It’s not where it should be, I’ll tell you that.”

  Bransome let him have his laugh. “Let’s keep to the list. The cut is clean. Very little bleeding at the site. Tell you anything important?”

  Tatum nodded. “The neck was cut first. He bled out, then … the other cut.”

  Bransome spun around and nearly knocked into Tatum. “Did anyone use the sink?”

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “It’s on t
he list.”

  Tatum shrugged and stepped around so he could see into the bathroom. “It’s not wet, so no one used it recently. They didn’t read me anything about the sink.”

  Bransome waved Tatum back over. He wanted to keep his voice down. “If it’s like the others, the killer washed the organ before using it, so the blood on it won’t be the victim’s, it’ll be hers.”

  “Her blood?” Tatum looked like he was going to throw up. “They didn’t read that part, sir.”

  Bransome turned to face Tatum. “Are you okay?”

  Tatum took a deep breath. “Yeah.” He shook his head. “But one thing bothers me.”

  “Only one thing?” It was Bransome’s turn to chuckle.

  “Yes, sir. If the killer uses the … um … thing for pleasure, after she cuts it off … How? It’d be all floppy.”

  “Are you married, Tatum?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “Yes, sir. For a little over two months now.”

  Bransome held back an all-out laugh. “I’m going to do you a favor here. Ask your girlfriend to explain that part to you. You can’t give her any of the other information on the list, that’s for police eyes only. But I give you permission to reveal this one thing to her. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tatum’s vacant stare told Bransome to get back to the evidence. A loud rap on the open door startled him.

  “Hey, Art. Is the party in here?”

  Bransome’s partner, Quint Saroyan, filled the doorway.

  Saroyan stepped into the room, and Bransome saw Officer Tatum move back a step. It was fun to watch people’s reactions to Saroyan when the quarters were tight. He was a shade over six-foot-five, with a bespectacled face that screamed pocket protectors and a belt-holstered cell phone. Below the neck, he could pass for a World Wrestling Federation bad boy. He was the rankler of midthirties men everywhere. Rather than a spreading waistline, he still sported a twenty-nine-inch waist that ballooned to thighs that challenged the fabric of even the baggiest of pant legs, and a V-shaped torso that defeated the back pleats of every button-up shirt.

  “Looks like everything’s under control,” Saroyan said. “Shall I start dusting?” He glanced at Tatum. “Who’s the uniform?”

  “Officer Tatum. Local.”

  Saroyan offered a massive hand and Tatum shook it and let go like it was hot.

  “I’m Quint. Second-in-command from Mendocino.

  Good to meet you.”

  Tatum nodded. “I guess I’ll be going.” He sidestepped around the bed.

  “Don’t forget the question you have for your girlfriend.”

  Tatum’s response, “I won’t,” came from beyond the doorway.

  “What was that about?” Saroyan said.

  “Just a little rookie education. Public service.” He focused the camera and snapped a shot. “Looks like we have another one here.”

  CHAPTER 14

  JASON PEERED THROUGH THE PEEPHOLE IN THE DOOR. Why was she running away? And why had she rung the doorbell? She hated doorbells. Always someone you don’t know, she had explained to him. Either bad news or, worse, a salesman.

  She jumped into a BMW two-seater, the top down. The echo of the slammed door stabbed right through him.

  The car spun its wheels and lurched. Who was driving? A man? In slow motion, the driver’s arm reached out and surrounded her shoulders. His laugh pounded the door with another aural impact.

  Jason yanked the apartment door open, but his acuity didn’t change. It was cloudy around the edges, like he was still looking through the peephole.

  A patch of bright white caught his attention. An envelope covered the WEL of the welcome mat. He picked it up and ripped it open.

  The single page glared at him, so bright he had to squint. No salutation, just four bold sentences. And no signature. But the writing was familiar. The wide loops of each L, the small circles dotting each i.

  He heard the slam of the car door again, and its echoes nearly jarred the note from his hands. He looked up but the car wasn’t there.

  As he read the words they echoed in his mind. “I can’t do this anymore … do this anymore … do this anymore. You haven’t been there for me … been there for me … been there for me. I’ve met someone else … someone else … someone else. Tell everyone it’s off.” The last sentence didn’t echo.

  The slam of the car door reverberated again, and Jason’s full body twitch opened his eyes to a dark room. Where was he? His apartment in Santa Rosa or the weekly rate dive in Mendocino? The banging rattled the door, once, twice, three more times. A few sniffs told him he was in the motel.

  More banging.

  “Powers. Open up.”

  Bransome? What was he doing here? Jason glanced at his alarm clock. The red numerals glared a five and two threes.

  “Open up or I’ll break it down.”

  Jason swiveled out of bed and stumbled to the door, clad only in his boxers. He opened the door to the limit of the chain and peered out at Bransome and another man.

  “Open it.” Bransome took a step back.

  The command floated in Jason’s semi-awake mind. “Hold on. I’m not dressed.”

  A loud smack popped the chain anchor from the door frame, and the edge of the door slammed into Jason’s forehead, knocking him backward onto the bed. He lay dazed as a warm trickle coursed down his temple and into his ear. A searing pain spun circles through his head.

  Bransome was on top of him, lifting his shoulder, turning him over on the bed. He felt the click of the handcuffs before he heard it. Then the second click. He was yanked to his feet and spun around.

  “I told you if anything happened, I’d be on you.”

  Blood leaked into Jason’s eye. He tried to blink through it. “What are you talking about?”

  “Nice act. She’s only been out four days. Don’t try to convince me you don’t know.”

  Dizziness drained his head and settled in his knees. He went down, crumpled facedown on the worn carpet.

  “I think he’s hurt.”

  The voice came from near the door, behind Bransome.

  “Get up.” A hand pulled on his elbow.

  Jason struggled to his feet. His legs wobbled. He felt like he was going to throw up. Bransome pushed him back on the bed, in a sitting position. “Get a towel.”

  Jason thought he saw a crew cut. Bransome’s partner?

  Bransome grabbed Jason’s shoulders and shook them. “You’re coming down to the station for some questions.”

  Jason squinted at the detective. The station? “What’s going on?”

  Two hands grabbed his upper arms and pulled him forward. The hot, sour breath was close, panting. He blinked, and squinted through the blood. Bransome’s face was inches from his.

  “I’ve been waiting two years for this day, Powers.” His fingers dug into Jason’s arms.

  The answer was rehearsed so often, it was automatic. “Did what was right. Ramirez was innocent.”

  Bransome moved back and Jason shook his head to clear the view. Then he saw it. A huge fist cocked in the air. It crashed against his chest sending him backward on the bed. The next breath wasn’t there. Or the next one. He strained to pull air into his lungs, but his chest muscles fought against one another. The room went dark.

  Expanding light brought the familiar features into focus, again inches from his face. He heard his name. It echoed.

  His chest ached, but air once again flowed in with each breath. He heard another voice, from behind Bransome, but he couldn’t make out the words.

  Then everything came back into perfect focus, including the pain. His chest dueled his forehead.

  Bransome shook him.

  The sneer on Bransome’s face cleared his head. Where was the fist? Bransome’s voice hit him just as hard.

  “Ramirez was innocent.”

  Jason could feel Bransome’s hands squeezing the blood from his arms.

  “What about
the other two? Did you do fucking stories on them?”

  Jason felt a violent shake.

  “Art. Calm down,” the voice from behind Bransome again.

  Another shake.

  “Let me give you an update, asshole. Mullins moved down south, to Irvine. Three college girls were raped down there in a period of six months, all with his DNA. Clean DNA this time. They finally caught him on the third one. He won’t get off this time. And Warne. He did himself proud. Pulled another armed robbery, but this time he killed the clerk.”

  The fist knocked Jason back on the bed again, but this time he could breathe. The pain was off center, higher on his chest. He was yanked upward again.

  “Art. Don’t.”

  Bransome’s face was close again, his voice a low growl.

  “The clerk had a family. Wife and two small kids. This is for them, and for the college girls.”

  The fist raised in the air again, and Jason closed his eyes tight. Go ahead, he thought. I know it’ll make you

  feel better. Maybe it will make me feel better, too.

  Nothing happened.

  Jason opened his eyes to a squint. Bransome was frozen, his arm raised, the fist poised. But he looked different. Jason blinked to a better focus. Bransome’s fist fell to his side. Anger no longer stained his face.

  Bransome spun around and walked to the far side of the room. He flopped into the 1960s-style chair and leaned forward so his arms and forehead rested on his knees. “Get him dressed.”

  A huge man obliterated his view, and he felt hands pulling on his arms, releasing one of the cuffs, pulling a shirt over his head. He tried to focus on the man, but all he could make out were glasses and a crew cut. After a few minutes, the man snapped the handcuff closed and stepped back into the background.

  Jason watched Bransome pull himself from the chair.

  “We’d like you to come with us to the station for questioning. Your cooperation is strictly voluntary.”

  Jason yanked his wrists, pulling the cuffs taut. Voluntary, my ass. “And if I decline?”

  Bransome leaned close to his face. He spoke slowly, letting each word hover for an instant. “Your cooperation would be greatly appreciated. If not …” He looked over at his partner and drew his face closer. His breath was hotagainst Jason’s cheek, his voice low. “You may want to cooperate.”