The present
Wearing only boxer briefs, Jake leaned back in the leather chair Wednesday morning and stared at the computer screen. He’d been working since 4:00 a.m., thanks to the nightmare. Again.
His succinct summary of Angela’s life stared back at him.
Affluent, sophisticated, fiercely independent, well-educated.
Alienated from family. Not a positive fact, but definitely not unusual.
No enemies, few friends.
Twenty-nine years old, physically healthy.
Successful businesswoman.
Raped at age twenty-five.
The only significant black spot in her life was the rape. His analysis kept returning to that critical point.
Rape was horrendous in all cases, but something in Angela’s experience had been especially devastating. She’d fought valiantly to recover in every other aspect of her life, but the sexual consequences of the rape had still plagued her.
As the victim, she’d lived with an ongoing, unrealistic fear of men, but someone else might also have continued to live with fear. Not fear of assault, but fear of discovery. Angela’s rapist had never been identified. Would the bastard risk murder to silence his victim forever? Especially after four years of successful anonymity. Were his chances of being discovered now, after all this time, worth the risk of another heinous crime? A “yes” answer didn’t seem reasonable.
But the possibility had been needling Jake for days. Unfortunately, he knew little about the crime. Angela’s inability to discuss the rape had limited his knowledge of the facts, so his whole theory was a stretch. But it was the only theory he had to work with.
He was on his second pot of coffee when he phoned Detective Kent Smithson. It was a calculated gamble he chose to take. Getting arrested would put a serious kink in his plans.
“Morning, Smithson. It’s your prime suspect.” Hopefully, that was still only a joke. “Seriously, Kent, you got a minute?”
Smithson hesitated. “Yeah. You’re not leaving town, are you?” He chuckled under his breath.
“Not unless you’re after my ass.”
“Not yet, Stone. Still working on it. What do you want?”
“I need to get some information from LAPD about an incident involving Angela four years ago. Can you help me?”
Long pause. A door clicked shut. “You talking about the rape?”
Jake’s head jerked back in surprise. “Yeah. How’d you know—”
“I’m not stupid, Stone. I’ve been working this.”
“I thought there was no Reardon case,” he said mockingly.
“Shut up, asshole, and listen. The rape’s a cold case. No leads. Nothing. How much do you know about it?”
“Angela shared a few things the cops and doctors had told her, but not much. She could hardly talk about it.” He swallowed hard. “The rape left some damn serious psychological scars. I understand it’s a horrible thing for any woman to recover from, so this may sound cruel. But as strong as Angela was in so many other ways, it puzzled me that she had such a terrible time recovering sexually. After four years, she still couldn’t… She wasn’t…okay.”
Smithson cleared his throat. “When you hear the details, Stone, believe me, you’ll understand.”
“What do you mean?”
“Forget it. The guy you need to talk to is LAPD Detective Tim Olsen. He was the lead detective on the case. He’ll remember it like it was yesterday.”
“And you know all this how?”
“Because I talked to him yesterday.”
“Shit. Why didn’t you call me?”
“Because you’re a suspect.”
“Yeah, in a case that doesn’t exist.”
“That’s right.” Smithson read him Olsen’s phone number and then paused. “Tell him I sent you and…good luck, Stone.”
Jake stared at his suddenly silent cell. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
He tapped in the LAPD phone number. Within minutes, he was connected to the detective.
“Good morning, Detective Olsen. My name is Jake Stone. Coronado PD Detective Kent Smithson gave me your number and suggested I talk to you about the Angela Reardon rape case. Is this a good time?”
“No, actually, it’s not. I’m heading into an interrogation. What’s your connection to this?”
“What did Smithson tell you?”
“He told me about Ms. Reardon’s suicide. Nothing about you. Care to enlighten me, Mr. Stone?” Olsen replied testily.
“Sure. I’m a security expert and private investigator. I’ve worked cases with Smithson a few times. Angela and I were dating. I don’t think she committed suicide.”
“You’re thinking what? Murder?”
“Yeah. But I’m having a helluva time finding anyone with a motive.”
“An unidentified rapist would work.”
“Damn right. Can you help me?”
“Probably. I’m free this afternoon.”
“What time should I call?”
Olsen hesitated. “You need to see this file, Mr. Stone, to really understand what happened to your girlfriend. It won’t be easy, but—”
“I can be there by two.”
“Fine.” Olsen provided his address, got Jake’s cell phone number, and then disconnected.
Jake was already frantically devising a plan. Before shutting down his laptop, he booked a hotel room for two nights. Logically, he knew not to get his hopes up, but his gut told him this was the break he’d been waiting for.
While throwing a few clothes into a duffel bag, he spotted Angela’s picture lying on the nightstand. He’d placed it there as a reminder on Friday night when he vowed he would find the person who wanted her dead. Gingerly, he lifted the small photo.
“God, you’re beautiful. I wish you’d worn that red dress for me,” he murmured and then cleared his throat. “I may be on to something. Could be a twofer: a rapist and a murderer. Wish me luck.”
He carefully slid the picture into his wallet and finished packing.
In the garage, he checked his box of “trade tools” before locking it in a hidden compartment in the Corvette’s trunk. From his earliest days as a SEAL, he had learned to always be well-prepared, since his life often depended on it. He carried all the standard security and PI equipment: high-tech audio and video recorders, digital cameras, binoculars, latex gloves, disguises, handcuffs, various guns, and plentiful ammo. The combination-locked steel box also stored special tools—some legal, some not—for his darker occupation: silencers, chloroform, Kevlar vest, syringes, and vials of various substances.
Two hours after talking to Smithson, Jake headed north to meet with Detective Olsen. The ominous warnings from both detectives about the details of the rape tamped down his enthusiasm, but he refused to let his mind conjure up possibilities. He would wait for the facts.
LA traffic and smog enveloped him, further dampening his mood. When he finally jetted down the exit ramp, he breathed a sigh of relief.
Hoping to avoid unwanted attention in a building full of cops, Jake locked his Glock and shoulder holster in the car’s custom-made, under-seat compartment. Before entering the LAPD offices, he assessed the area, activated the car alarm, and silently hoped the Corvette would still be there when he returned.
Inside, he surveyed the cluster of armed officers manning the security area. His throat tightened with a touch of uneasiness. During his years as a CIA assassin, he had served the citizens of America, too. His lethal services had filled his bank accounts but emptied his soul. Transformed him into an unlovable monster. His retirement from that heinous profession and the time spent reincarnating himself as a law-abiding security expert and private investigator had been tainted when he’d accepted the fraudulent Reardon contract.
Jake jammed his hands into the pockets of his sport coat and approached the security area. He breathed more easily when the process was completed without incident.
“Mr. Stone?” called a bear of a man standing off to one side as Jake stashed his wallet back into his pocket.
He glanced up. “Yes.”
“Detective Tim Olsen.”
The two men shook hands.
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Detective.”
“Sure. Follow me.”
They wound their way through the maze of hallways until they reached a small office.
“Grab a seat,” Olsen said, gesturing into the dreary room. “Coffee?”
“Thanks. Black.”
A few minutes later, the man returned with Styrofoam cups in both hands. After handing one to Jake, he set the other cup on the desk and dropped heavily into his chair. Detective Tim Olsen looked forty-something with graying temples and a beer belly. He pulled a small ring of keys from his shirt pocket, unlocked a drawer, and retrieved a folder. Sighing, he laid the file on the desk.
Jake waited patiently while Olsen drank a long swig of coffee and grimaced.
“Tastes like shit by this time of day,” he complained, placing the cup farther away. He eyed the folder as though dreading opening it. “If Detective Smithson hadn’t referred you, I wouldn’t be wasting my time with you, Mr. Stone.”
Jake swallowed a sarcastic response. “I know you’re busy, Detective. I appreciate any information you can give me. I understand Angela Reardon’s rape is an old case for you, but her disappearance occurred less than a week ago.”
“Disappearance? Smithson said suicide, and I thought you suspected homicide.”
“Well, that’s the rub. I’m convinced she didn’t commit suicide, but there’s no evidence of murder. Since there’s no body, who knows anything for sure.”
“Now you’re telling me you don’t think she’s dead?”
“I wish, but I’m a realist, Detective. And I intend to find the truth.”
Olsen grunted in disbelief—or amusement. He opened and leafed through the file. “And why do you think you know so much more than the Coronado PD?”
“Well, I definitely know more about Angela than they do. We were very close.”
The detective glanced up from the paperwork and smiled coldly. “Maybe you should be a suspect.”
He glared back. “I’d gladly offer myself up as one if it would convince CPD to investigate the case as a homicide. But they’re not interested. No, that’s not fair. Smithson is a good man, a good cop. If he had any evidence to start an official investigation, he would. At least he pointed me in your direction. What can you tell me, Detective?”
Olsen stared, seeming to size him up. His gaze dropped to the file before he asked, “Did your girlfriend ever tell you about the rape?”
Jake wondered if the question arose from a professional or a prurient interest, but he kept his distaste hidden. “After we’d been dating a while, she told me it had happened. It was difficult for her to talk about, and I had no interest in hearing the details. Why?”
“Well, even immediately after the rape, the victim was unable to provide the investigating officers with details. And I mean any details. All the physical evidence pointed to rape, but the vic didn’t have any memory of what had happened.”
“Aren’t rape victims often in shock?”
“Absolutely, and shock was considered. But a psychiatrist met with the vic several times and concluded she had event amnesia. I’m sure you know what that is.”
Jake nodded. “A person’s subconscious blocks the memory of a specific traumatic or unpleasant event. The few times Angela talked about the rape she sounded like it had happened to someone else, even though she got upset. It was objective, third-person, you know, not a first-person account.”
“So the vic’s memory never came back.”
“The vic’s name is Angela Reardon,” Jake reminded him roughly.
“Right. Sorry.” Stroking his chin, Olsen glanced back at the file. “Obviously, Ms. Reardon’s amnesia made the case extremely difficult for us to pursue, but we did try. We interrogated her boyfriend, neighbors, family, friends, clients, fellow employees, and the owner of an…” Olsen frowned and peered more closely at the paper.
“What?” he asked, leaning forward.
The phone on the desk rang.
“Olsen.” He listened. “Yeah, he’s with me. I heard you got tied up in court, but I knew you wanted to talk to him. I was going to arrest him for murder and hold him here until you got back.” He laughed at his joke and narrowed his eyes at Jake. “Okay, I’ll tell him.” Olsen hung up thoughtfully. “That was Detective Sean Burke. He was a patrol officer at the time and was one of the first at the crime scene. Shortly afterward, he was promoted to detective. I was the lead on the Reardon case, and he came to me and practically begged me to assign him to the investigation. Burke worked it longer, harder, deeper than anyone. He was a damn pit bull. Just wouldn’t let it go. I got worried he was too personally invested. Thought he might have a crush on Ms. Reardon, you know. Anyway, he’s the man on this one. He’s been in court testifying today, but I left him a message about you.” He jiggled the file. “You know how it is. The paperwork only tells you so much.”
“True. And thanks.”
Jake’s surprise that Olsen had bothered to contact the other detective must have shown on his face because the detective suddenly grinned. “You didn’t really think I was that much of an asshole, did you? Well, maybe you did.”
A knock on the door saved Jake from answering.
A red-haired cop poked his head into the office. “Hey, Olsen.”
“Come in. Burke, this is Jake Stone, the PI from San Diego.” The two men shook hands and exchanged nods. Olsen closed the folder, stood, and handed it to Burke. “Why don’t you go someplace private? Give Mr. Stone all the help you can.”
“Yes sir.”
Jake extended his hand across the desk. “Thanks for your help, Detective Olsen. If I come across any info that would help close this cold case for you, I’ll be in touch.”
“We’d appreciate it. Good luck, Mr. Stone. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
Jake followed Detective Burke down a narrow hallway to a conference room, which wasn’t much bigger than Olsen’s office. The metal folding chairs and table looked decades old. A huge whiteboard hung on the front wall. The room smelled like stale coffee and sweat.
The cop laid the file on the table and disappeared without a word. A few minutes later, he returned with two Styrofoam cups and a backpack.
“Special LAPD coffee. If you can swallow this shit, it’s guaranteed to keep you awake until you pass out from exhaustion,” Burke said.
Jake cringed when the detective set a cup of the black sludge in front of him. He’d carefully avoided drinking any of the coffee offered by Olsen and hoped he was as lucky this time.
Burke’s expression turned grim as he opened the folder. “This was my first rape case and also my first case as a detective. Maybe that’s why I can’t forget it.” He sighed heavily. “What exactly are you looking for, Mr. Stone?”
“Can you drop the ‘mister’? Makes me feel real old.” The crack brought a faint smile to the man’s face, a face Jake judged to be only a few years younger than his. “I’m looking for a motive for murder. I’m sure Olsen told you the Coronado PD has ruled Angela’s death a suicide, but I’m not buying it. Angela wouldn’t commit suicide.”
“I agree.” Burke’s gaze fixed on the paperwork. “At least not the Angela I remember. She was a fighter. Before she…died, did she remember anything about the rape that might help us?”
“Not that she told me. But it was hell for her to talk about, so I barely know anything.”
When the detective’s eyes slid up to Jake’s, they reflected a myriad of emotions: sorrow, frustration, regret, helplessness. But anger was what resounded when he spoke. “I’d give my right nut to catch the bastard who did this to Angela.” He paused. “You don’t mind if I call her by her first name, do you? While I was working the case, she insisted on using first names.”
“I’m sure she would still prefer that.”
“Thanks.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe she’s dead. Suicide or murder, either one is unbelievable. It just doesn’t seem right for such bad shit to happen to such a nice lady.” He paused as if debating internally. “I never gave up on her case,” he said, pulling the backpack onto his lap. He extracted a large manila envelope and laid it on the table. “I’m not supposed to have this stuff, but I wanted my own copies so I could work it whenever I had some time. Never solved it, though, and now it doesn’t matter.” He ran a hand across his eyes.
Jake’s instincts registered sincerity and integrity as he listened to Burke’s lament. He could understand the man’s frustration. This cop had gone above and beyond the call of duty hoping to get justice for Angela. He would be a good ally.
“Detective—”
“Sean or Burke works better.”
“Okay, Burke. It may still matter. A rapist wanting to guarantee eternal anonymity is the only lead I have as a murder motive. I’ve got to work it, until I prove or eliminate it. How much can you help me?”
“I’ll do everything I can. I don’t mind bending a few rules, but nothing illegal. I hope to have a career here.”
“Understood. Now, can you start from the beginning? Angela told me so little, and she may have sugarcoated it.”
“All right, but brace yourself. I hope you have a strong stomach because it’s some pretty sick shit.”
Jake’s stomach knotted. “Just give it to me straight.”
Burke glanced briefly at the reports but then leaned back in the chair. “About ten thirty Sunday morning, LAPD got a call from Becky Smelter, one of the spinster ladies who lived in the other unit of the duplex. She and her sister, Mary Smelter, were worried for several reasons. Angela’s dog, Chelsea, had been barking all night. Also, the three ladies had a standing date for Sunday breakfast at nine thirty. When Angela didn’t come over for breakfast, Becky called but got no answer. They also tried her cell phone. No answer either.”
He spoke as if he had every word from the file memorized. Maybe he did.
“They thought they’d heard faint noises from Angela’s unit earlier in the morning so they put their ears against the adjoining walls in several places.” He smiled. “Can’t you just picture two old ladies with their ears glued to the walls? Anyway, thank God they did. Eventually, they heard moaning and crying through the bedroom wall. After knocking on Angela’s front door and getting no answer, they got spooked. They had a key but didn’t go in. They were convinced something was terribly wrong.”
Absently, he sipped his coffee and stared off into space as if he was seeing that distant morning unfold. Jake considered asking a question but decided to let Burke’s recollection flow naturally.
“My partner and I rolled in at about eleven. Still no answer at the door, so they let us in with their key. God, it was awful. We found Angela on the bed, totally naked, gagged, blindfolded, ears plugged, arms and legs tied down. Mary Smelter followed us in. She screamed and fainted. We called for two ambulances. Angela was out of her mind. When I removed the gag, she tried to bite me. After my partner and I untied her, we had to restrain her. She was fighting us like she thought we had raped her.”
Lost in thought, he raised his cup but set it down without taking a drink. Still staring into space, he spoke quietly. “Angela was a mess. Bruises already darkening all over her body. Big red welts that looked like whip burns. And her eyes… God, I’ll always remember her eyes. I’ve never seen eyes as wild as hers. I thought the ambulance would never get there.”
Burke took a swig of coffee and shook his head, perhaps trying to erase the images that seemed too horrible even after four years.
Jake waited patiently for him to continue. Detective Olsen had been right. The young cop was obviously too emotionally involved in the case. Not good from a law enforcement point of view, but exactly what Jake needed to get the whole story.
“She was babbling nonsense. Couldn’t even tell us her name. The paramedics shot her up with a sedative. They don’t like to do that, but they were afraid she was going to hurt herself. Or one of them. When they were wrapping her in a sheet before lifting her onto the gurney, I noticed the cuts on her butt.”
“Cuts on her butt?” Jake asked, frowning. He leaned forward in his chair.
Burke exhaled loudly. “Shit yeah. It was sick, just sick. The perp had carved two checkmarks—each about an inch long—in her right butt cheek. I’ll tell you more about the cuts later.”
The cop set his cup on the table and stood. He cracked his knuckles and started pacing.
“They kept Angela in the hospital for a week, mostly on the psychiatrist’s orders. The medical report made me puke. The perp had worked her over bad. Even bruised her ribs. Blood and semen…everywhere…if ya know what I mean. He obviously wasn’t worried about a DNA match. He was right—we never got one. He lucked out in another way, too. Angela had event amnesia. The shrinks told her details about the nature of her injuries trying to trigger her memory.” Burke turned tortured eyes to meet Jake’s. “Can you imagine living through hell and then having someone tell you what you went through? She had to survive it twice.”
“No, I can’t imagine living through any of it. It’s amazing Angela recovered as much as she did. I knew she was brave, but this…this…” Jake cleared his throat and then looked away. “Didn’t the Smelter sisters hear anything during the night?”
Burke grabbed the nearest chair, swung it around, and straddled it. He gripped the back with one hand and ran the other through his short, wavy red hair. His hazel eyes focused hard on Jake. “Yeah, they did. This is where it started getting freaky. Remember I said Mary Smelter fainted?”
Jake nodded, straining to catch every word.
“We followed the ambulances to the hospital. After they checked Mary over, the ER doctor let my partner go in and question her. Meanwhile, I questioned Becky in the waiting area. Their stories were identical, practically used the same vocabulary. A little spooky, actually.”
He jumped up from the chair and paced rapidly, his hands gesturing constantly.
“They both reported hearing a lot of noise from Angela’s place until about three that morning. Said it kept them awake. And it was totally out of character for Angela, who was usually very quiet and considerate. When her front door slammed, they peeked out the upstairs windows. Angela was leaving with a tall, blond, medium-built white man wearing a suit and carrying a department store-type shopping bag. They claimed Angela was dressed in a tight, black mini-skirt, skimpy red halter-top, and high-heeled red boots. Becky Smelter said she distinctly remembered the outfit because Angela never dressed ‘like a slut.’ Her words, not mine. The couple walked down the block and drove off in a large black sedan. Mary thought it was a Benz; Becky wasn’t sure.”
“What happened when you interrogated the guy?” Jake asked.
The cop slammed his fist into the wall and then spun around, his eyes burning with pain and anger.
“Fucking nothing happened,” he snapped harshly. “Angela said she hadn’t been on a date. Said there was no guy. She denied having company, going out at all, or making a lot of noise. Even worse, she claimed she didn’t own those clothes. A search of her place didn’t turn up the outfit either.”
“Damn. Were the old ladies hallucinating?”
The detective stomped over to stand directly in front of him. “Hell if I know. They seemed to be very credible witnesses. They repeated the exact story several times.”
“I’m confused about the timeline,” Jake said, rubbing his temples. “The noise lasted until three o’clock. After that, the Smelters saw Angela leave with a man. I take it she didn’t look beat up then. So the rape occurred later when Angela returned, with or without the same guy. Right?”
“Right.”
“What time did she come home?”
“The Smelters went to bed. Never heard Angela return.”
“Did they hear any noise later during the rape?”
“Nope. Nothing until they heard the faint noises after they got up in the morning.”
Scowling, Jake threaded his fingers through his hair. “Strange. Forced entry?”
“No. No scratches on the locks, no damage to the doorjamb. When we got there, the front door was locked. Patio door was locked. No broken windows, all closed and latched. Weird, huh? Angela opened the door to someone, and he was polite enough to lock up when he left after raping her. Bastard.”
“Prints?”
“Must’ve worn gloves. Funny thing. Didn’t give a damn about leaving his DNA everywhere but wore gloves the whole night.”
“His prints must be on file somewhere, and he knew it.”
“Good guess. All kinds of organizations, schools, and businesses require a fingerprint check, though. Who knows where his prints could be recorded. Anyway, we don’t have a single print from the perp to run against any database.”
“What about the cuts on her butt?”
Burke dropped back into his chair and scooted it nearer to Jake. “Those were freaky, too. A Vice detective heard about them and offered an explanation. They weren’t checkmarks. They were J’s. There’s this pimp—goes by J.J.—who runs a high-priced escort service for a very select clientele. Supposedly, the johns—er, the clients—are an elite bunch: politicians, corporate execs, Hollywood big shots, religious muckety-mucks. You get the idea. There’s so much pressure from city hall because of the political connections of these assholes that LAPD is forced to keep its distance from J.J.’s escort service. Pisses us all off big time.” He shook his head with disgust. “Anyway, the story goes that, before this pimp signs up a new girl, he has to fuck her. Then he cuts two J’s into her ass to show she’s been approved. Kinda like J.J.’s Good Fucking Seal of Approval.”
“Holy shit. Did you question the pimp?”
“Of course. He had an ironclad alibi. At least two dozen witnesses confirmed he was at a private party on Sunset until three. Then he went home with two bimbos and his girlfriend, who all vouched for him. Besides, he’s a short, fat, black dude. Doesn’t fit the Smelters’ description.”
“But their tall, white mystery man might not be the perp if he didn’t come back with Angela later.”
“True. But J.J. wasn’t a DNA match to the fluids left at the scene. And neither Angela nor the sisters recognized him from mug shots.” Burke paused. “You knew Angela. Do you think she was auditioning to be a hooker?”
“Good God, no.”
“Well, neither do I.”
“What else do you have?”
“Nothing, really. The shrink worked with Angela until she couldn’t take it anymore. I think she moved to San Diego to get away from us. We kept trying to make her remember something so painful her brain had blocked it out.” Burke pressed both hands against his temples. “Sometimes I felt like we were torturing her. I hated it.”
“I’m sure she understood and appreciated what you were trying to do.”
“God, I hope so. It tore me up when she left. Part of me wanted to, you know, help her heal. Protect her. Take care of her. Maybe I scared her away.”
“Hey, don’t beat yourself up over it. Even after all this time, it was hard for me to get close to her.”
“Hard? But you did get close.” Burke’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if seeing Jake in a new light. “How long were you two together?”
“We dated for only three months. But we were serious.”
“As ‘serious’ as you wanted, or did you want more than Angela was willing to give?” the detective asked with more than a hint of suspicion.
“Shit. Not you, too.” Jake’s eyes turned to flint, ready to spark a full-blown blaze in a heartbeat. “I’m sick and tired of you cops looking at me like I’m a suspect.”
Burke returned a red-hot glare. “Has anyone checked your alibi?”
“I don’t need a goddamn alibi. Coronado PD already took my statement. But for your fucking information, I was with Angela earlier that night. She was perfectly fine when I left her condo about midnight. Ask yourself this: Would I be stirring up all this shit if I’d killed her?”
Tension crackled between them as Burke considered Jake’s argument. Finally, he eased back. “Sorry, man. The closest male is often the guilty male. I just can’t believe…” He sighed.
Jake inhaled deeply and blew some tension out along with the air. “I understand. I’m barely holding it together myself.”
“So, what do you think?”
“Possible motive. The rapist could’ve been afraid all this time that Angela would eventually identify him. Chances are he wouldn’t have known about her amnesia,” Jake speculated.
“Workable theory, although rapists who murder their vics tend to kill them at the time of the rape, not years later.”
“Agreed. Maybe something happened recently that triggered a renewed threat of identification.”
“True. If he tracked her all the way to Coronado, he must’ve known who she was,” Burke said.
“Not necessarily. I’m sure the rape made the news.”
“Yeah, the rape did, but not the vic’s name.”
“Really?” Jake’s tone was skeptical.
“Yeah. No leaks. I think everyone connected with the case felt like she’d been through such hell they were especially careful to protect her identity.”
“Okay. That means the guy knew who Angela was when he raped her and has kept tabs on her for the last four years.”
“Without her knowing, obviously,” Burke said.
“Right. You know, I’m still confused about the Smelters seeing Angela leaving with the guy. And the missing clothes.”
“I lost a lot of sleep over it, too.”
“Remember anything else that might help me?”
“Wish I did. Damn, I’d love to solve this one.” Burke paused. “Even though she’s gone.”
“Well, I’m focused on what just happened, and this rape is the only potential lead I have. Maybe we can get a twofer. I really appreciate your help.” His gaze shifted to the official LAPD file. “I sure hope I can remember everything you told me.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’ll be a problem.” Burke stared at the large manila envelope he’d taken out of his backpack earlier. He pushed it over to Jake. “Put it to good use. I need it all back if you don’t solve this. But honestly, I hope I never have to look at it again. Now that Angela’s at peace, I’d kinda like some myself.”
* * *
Jake’s brain was firing on all cylinders during the drive from the LAPD building to the Doubletree Hotel where he’d made a reservation. He glanced repeatedly at the envelope lying on the passenger seat. Burke’s information was a gold mine, and he couldn’t wait to start digging. Finally, something concrete to work with.
Out of habit, Jake patted his Glock in the shoulder holster under his sport coat as he climbed from the Corvette. Comforting familiarity. He scanned the area, taking inventory of vehicles, people, and landmarks before retrieving the computer case and duffel bag from the trunk. While checking in, he added five nights to his reservation. He had a lot of work to do and people to find.
Antsy with anticipation, he settled into the two-room suite quickly. With his gun and bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the table, he sat down to work.
Jake switched on his laptop and dumped the contents of Burke’s envelope on the table. Since his first action item was to find the Smelter sisters, he snagged the contact information sheet. Older people didn’t generally move often so he hoped they would still be living in the duplex.
He spotted their phone number on the list and called.
“Hello,” answered a woman with a raspy voice.
“Hello. I’m trying to reach Mary and Becky Smelter.”
“I’m not buying anything,” she said loudly and hung up.
Jake pulled the phone away from his ear. “Damn.” He redialed. This time, he said, “Hi, my name is Jake Sto—”
The phone went dead. He laughed, sipped his J.D., and thought a few moments before a third try.
“I’m a friend of Angela Reardon,” he said quickly when she answered. He held his breath, waiting to see if she was going to hang up. Again.
After a long pause, the woman said, “Angela doesn’t live here anymore.”
Jake released his breath. “I know. I’m actually trying to reach former neighbors of hers, Mary and Becky Smelter.”
Another long pause. “What do you want?”
“Is this Becky or Mary Smelter?”
“Yes.”
Jake arched his eyebrows. “Ma’am, which Smelter sister are you?”
She cleared her throat. An avalanche of words followed. “I’m Becky. My dear sister passed away two years ago. I wrote Angela all about it. How Mary had a heart attack and lingered for weeks until the big one hit her and took her home. Angela called, very upset. She sent flowers to the funeral home for Mary and flowers here for me. So sweet. Just the way she always was. We missed her terribly when she moved, but we understood why she had to leave. I haven’t heard from her in a long time. If you’re a friend of Angela’s, how come you don’t know Mary’s gone?”
It took Jake a second to realize Becky had come up for air and asked him a question.
“Huh? Well, you see Angela doesn’t like to talk about living in LA because of what happened to her.”
Becky’s breath caught. “You know about that?”
“Yes. And it’s why I need to talk to you. I’m working with Detective Burke, trying to finally solve the case.”
“Oh my. Sean is such a sweet boy. He was so kind when he interviewed Mary and me all those times. Not like the other detective who treated us like we’d lost our minds. Mary’s mind was sharp as a tack until the day she died, I’ll have you know. And my mind is better than many young people’s minds today. So many of them have fried their brains with drugs. It’s a wonder they can even think at all. Sean was so broken-hearted when he couldn’t find the…the jerk who hurt Angela. It was all so mysterious. But Sean kept working and working. He had a crush on her, you know. Even after Angela moved, he’d call us to see if we’d remembered anything—”
“Yes, Sean told me you and Mary were terrific witnesses. May I come talk to you tomorrow?”
“I suppose so. You know it’s been four years, but I remember it like it was yesterday. And to think that awful, awful crime occurred right next door. It was the most horrible thing that ever happened to anyone we knew. Other than dying, of course. And at our age, many of our friends have been dying lately. Just last week, Shelly—”
“Would nine tomorrow morning be okay with you, Ms. Smelter?”
“It’s Miss Smelter, but I may let you call me Becky after I meet you. I’ll have to wait and see if I like you. I can’t stand the way perfect strangers get too familiar these days.”
“May I come see you tomorrow morning at nine?” Jake asked again.
“Fine. Bring donuts.” She hung up.
Chuckling, Jake drained his glass and closed his eyes. His stomach growled, reminding him it was after 6:00 p.m. He grabbed the room service menu and ordered a full steak dinner and a bottle of pinot noir. It was going to be a long night.
While waiting for dinner to arrive, he began to organize the pile of documents from Burke’s envelope. He forced himself into objective work mode, keeping himself detached from the subject.
Scanning the contact sheet, he found addresses and phone numbers for everyone he could think of, including the infamous J.J. and his girlfriend. He leafed through the stack of reports, thinking how the officers and detectives had probably hated doing the paperwork. He arranged the reports in chronological order for more understandable reading. Next came dozens of pages of interrogations—old, but required, reading. Several sheets were lab reports. Jake already knew there hadn’t been a DNA match and no prints belonging to the perp had been found at the scene. But Burke had never given up. The last DNA test had been run only six months ago. No match with any database. Again. The perp still wasn’t in the system.
The last item was an envelope labeled “Photographs.” Jake was holding it, staring at it, when a loud knock announced the arrival of his dinner.
He switched on the television and tried to watch the news while he ate, but none of the stories held any interest for him. The only thing in the world that mattered to Jake Stone at that moment was finding who had paid to have Angela Reardon killed.
After moving his dinner to the table, he grabbed the pile of reports. The first one was written by Burke’s partner. Despite the poor writing and sketchy details, the crime scene materialized inside Jake’s head. He finished reading, drained his wine, and poured another glass.
Burke’s report of that morning was next. Jake’s stomach clenched as he laid it next to his plate and stabbed another bite of steak. He ate slowly, distractedly. Burke’s words painted a heartbreaking, gut-wrenching picture of a brutal, sadistic rape. Jake stopped chewing and pushed the plate away. The words on the paper came alive with the agony of the victim, the sympathy of the young cop, and the unimaginable evil of the rape.
Suddenly, Jake lunged from the chair and raced to the bathroom.
After puking his dinner into the toilet, he sat on the bathroom floor for a long time. His arms were draped over his bent knees, and his head rested back against the cool, ceramic tile wall. He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth against the pain. But the burning was not the need to vomit again.
It was guilt. Pure, unadulterated guilt. Guilt like he’d never experienced.
The pain swelled inside his chest until he thought he would explode. Still it didn’t stop. The pressure swept up his neck into his head, a pounding crescendo climbing to a climax.
He ripped a towel from the rack and buried his face in it.
The thick terrycloth muffled his anguished cry.