Читать книгу Picture Me Dead - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 10

It had been one hell of a long weekend.

Jake had spent half of it doing research on the lives of the followers of Peter Bordon since the break-up of his cult and the other half getting settled after the move from one marina to another. As for the research, he had some of the information he wanted in his own files, and for follow-up, he had some really good assistance. Hank Anderson, one of the best men he had ever known for divining facts from a computer, had done a lot of delving for him, though a lot of the information duplicated what he already had. It had become something of a compulsion for him to keep up on the case. He had kept quiet about his persistence, since his fellow officers might consider him obsessive and think his determination not to let matters lie bordered on police harassment.

Captain Blake, head of homicide, had called him on Saturday afternoon, giving him a stern speech. Good detectives put in all kinds of hours. They worked way beyond their pay. But they learned how to stay sane, as well. They learned how to go home and how to have a life.

Jake agreed with his every word.

Their latest victim had been dead quite a while. Insanely rushing about could do nothing for her. Steady, dogged work to bring her killer to justice was the greatest service they could do for her.

That said, Blake reminded him, he was to remain rational, work hard—and make sure he took time off and kept his mind fresh. A cop who was overtired, overstressed and obsessive was no good to anyone.

Granted.

There was simply a lot Jake wanted to do himself.

First, the autopsy. Gannet, as promised, had gotten right on it, and Jake had been there.

Then Jake had gone in and spent hours with Hank while they went over the old cases and delved into what they could find on the new. Saturday evening, he and Marty made a few calls on past followers of Bordon’s cult. Interviewing them all was going to take time, and Saturday night was a washout. The first woman they interviewed was married now, with a three-year-old, and her association with the cult was a tremendous embarrassment; her husband knew nothing about it. Nor, she swore, had she even known the victims or been part of the hierarchy of the cult at all. They both sensed she was telling the truth.

Their second call bore no greater results. The young man had only attended a few of the sermons. He had since become a born-again Christian and spent most of his days working at a local homeless shelter, a story that checked out.

Sunday afternoon had traditionally been Jake’s kick-back time. It was when a lot of his friends and casual acquaintances went to a sports bar, sometimes to Nick’s, drank beer, told fish stories and watched football on television. Not that Sunday. He’d been too busy with electrical and water hookups. He hadn’t even crawled in to Nick’s at night; he had gone to see his father, who, though his mom had been gone for nearly two years, spent too much of his time sitting alone in the darkness, telling everyone he was doing just fine.

In a way, he’d done as ordered. The problem was that no command, no sense, no logic, could keep him from thinking, puzzling and planning.

Obsessing.

He had barely reached his desk on Monday morning when he received a call from Neil Austen in the forensics unit.

“I just wanted to let you know we’re doing what we can to get an I.D. on Friday’s Jane Doe. Our best bet is a dental match, but so far we’ve got nothing. I don’t think she was a local. If she was, no one reported her missing. Or else she never went to a dentist. And maybe she didn’t—the poor girl died with perfect teeth. Perfect. Her wisdom teeth came in without a hitch. She didn’t have a cavity. We have the information out, so hopefully someone out there will be able to get us a match. How many people reach their mid-twenties with perfect teeth?”

“Thanks for the effort and the information, Neil,” Jake told him.

“I wish I could give you more. Unfortunately, these things usually take time.” They both knew the sorry truth of that statement. There were many cases when just discovering the identity of a victim in such a condition could take weeks or months.

And there were times when bodies went unidentified forever. But thanks to forensics and computers, there were some occasions when identification came quickly.

“Can you give me anything else? Mid-twenties, perfect teeth…?”

“She probably stood about five foot six. Medium build. Never had a child. Gannet says it looks like a ritual murder.”

“Same as…?”

“Yeah, same as.” Neil gave a soft, regretful sigh. “She was probably a pretty young thing. The guys up here have given her a nickname. Cinderella. She’s not actually covered in ash, but the way she was found…Funny, you see case after case, and some are still especially hard. I’ll send you the reports on what we have. Oh, and Gannet says she’s been dead two to four months.”

“Thanks, Neil.”

“Yep. I’ll update you immediately on anything new we can come up with.”

“Great.”

Jake hung up the phone and pulled out the file on the last of the victims who had been killed five years before. A picture of a young woman with a shy smile was clipped to the right of the page.

Dana Renaldo.

She, too, had been in her mid-twenties. Twenty-seven, actually, five foot six, one hundred and twenty pounds, an eager, attractive young woman. Her parents had been deceased. She had been reported missing by a cousin almost a year before her body had been discovered. She’d come from Clearwater. The police had investigated at the time but hadn’t followed up on the missing persons report because of the findings of their investigation. She had packed up her bags and cleaned out her bank accounts. Three months prior to her disappearance, she had gone through a messy divorce. There had been no children involved, so—until her body had been discovered in Miami-Dade—it had appeared to her local authorities that she had chosen to take off and start over again. It was legal for an adult to be missing if that person so chose. Prior to her disappearance, Dana had worked in real estate and insurance, and, immediately before she had left, she had been a paralegal at a law firm in Tampa. She had sent a letter of resignation and it was in her handwriting, according to the lawyer for whom she had been working.

Their Jane Doe—or Cinderella, as the forensics guys were calling her—sounded very similar in appearance.

He switched files.

Eleanore “Ellie” Thorn had been nothing like Dana Renaldo or their latest victim. She’d hailed from Omaha, and had failed to return home after a vacation in Fort Lauderdale. She hadn’t taken a job, had cleared out her bank account at a local branch, and had been seen now and then around town. She had attended Bordon’s prayer services. She had often stayed at the communal property. Nearly five feet ten, she had been blond and athletic. Like the others, she hadn’t been found until both time and the elements had wreaked havoc on her remains.

The first of the earlier three victims had earned a degree in architecture at Tulane. She had been bright and, according to friends, determined. She’d been an orphan, raised from an early age in foster homes. She’d gotten through school with hard work and scholarships. Twenty-six at the time of her death, she’d been petite, five foot two, and a bare hundred pounds. She’d been living on Miami Beach and had loved the architecture of the area. Deeply religious, in need of spiritual solace, she had probably been an easy mark for Peter Bordon, a.k.a. Papa Pierre.

As he hung up, Marty arrived in front of him, tossing a manila folder on his desk. “Peter Bordon is still very definitely locked up in the middle of the state.”

“Marty, I never suggested that he wasn’t.”

“But listen to this. He’s been a model prisoner. He’s due for release soon. Exemplary behavior. And, of course, he’s in there for a nonviolent crime. Everyone who’s worked with him there has found him courteous and polite. Read the report. No, maybe you shouldn’t—it’ll probably make you want to vomit. Well, hell, vomit or not, you’ve got to read it. There’s a section from the prison psychologist you’re really going to like. ‘Mr. Bordon is a man regretful of his assumption that his method of bookkeeping did society no harm. His manner is that of a person determined to pay his debts. He is certainly no danger to society. He is deeply religious, has been a friend to many in extreme circumstances, and is a favorite among his fellow inmates.’”

Jake just stared at Marty, feeling the muscles in his neck tighten as if he were being throttled. He sighed and picked up the file.

“Jake, he sure isn’t committing murder himself.”

“We know that.”

“He was definitely in prison when our newest Jane Doe was killed. According to what Gannet told us, she’s been dead two to four months.”

“I’ve spoken to forensics. I attended the autopsy. Jane Doe….” Jake murmured, irritated. He stared glumly at Marty. “They’re calling her Cinderella. Those guys see so much that’s so bad, and yet she seems to have gotten under everyone’s skin.”

“Like I said, Bordon was incarcerated all that time.”

Jake expelled a long breath. “And like I said, Marty, when you told me before you were certain Bordon was still in prison, I believed you. The point is, that doesn’t mean a damned thing. Wherever he was physically five years ago didn’t matter at the time. And it doesn’t matter now. We have another dead woman. And somehow, that asshole is involved.”

“We don’t know that, Jake.”

“Gut feeling.”

“Can’t give the D.A. a gut feeling, Jake.”

“Hell, Marty, I know that.”

Marty sat at his own desk, which faced Jake’s. “Another dead woman with slashed ears. Cinderella. They just had to give her a nickname. Man, these cases suck. And you know, it’s strange, isn’t it? We don’t even know her real name yet, but they go and give her a nickname, and it’s suddenly all personal, and that makes it all the harder.”

Yeah, no matter what, it got harder with every little nuance that brought a victim’s life more clearly into focus. Jake remembered standing at the table during the autopsy finding a renewed respect for Gannet. Their victim had been badly decomposed, but there had still been those little things that made her an individual. The tiny tattoo, just visible at her ankle. The mole that could still be seen on what was left of her shoulder. Even the color of her hair, a lock of it slipping from the table and looking like…a lock of hair that might fall across the pillow when a girl was just sleeping the night away. But then the whole picture came into focus. The chill of the autopsy room. The scent that always seemed to linger in the morgue, real or imagined. The body…the entire length of the naked body…so sadly decomposed. First mutilated, then gnawed by animals. A home to nature. Part of Gannet’s determination on time of death had been due to the incubation period of flies and the stages of larvae. When Jake had seen the last victim from five years ago, Dana, on the autopsy table, it was as if her humanity had been stripped away. She looked like a creature made in a special effects lab for a horror film. Gannet was one good man, though. Determined that he would do his best to find out all he could. To return her soul, at the very least. To speak for her, help fight those who had so brutally stolen her young life.

Jane Doe/Cinderella. Mid-twenties. A lifetime ahead of her.

What had brought her to such a brutal death in South Florida?

Anything was possible. Maybe she’d been killed by a boyfriend who had struck the mortal blows in passion, realized his act and been smart enough to know that—despite a lot of fiction to the contrary—the police weren’t complete assholes and might well follow a trail of clues to him. Maybe the guy had read about the cases involving members of Peter Bordon’s cult.

Maybe.

Or maybe someone was taking up where Bordon had left off.

Or maybe…

He was back to the possibility that Bordon himself was involved.

There was no reason why he couldn’t be calling the shots from prison.

“Who was she? Where did she come from? Why did she die?” Marty murmured, thinking aloud. “A young woman, just trying to live her life, making a wrong turn in the road somewhere.”

Marty’s words made Jake wince inwardly. This was business, his job; he wasn’t a rookie. He was a seasoned homicide cop, who—if he hadn’t seen it all—had certainly seen enough. The world, hell, the county, had enough homicides to keep cops moving.

And it was what he had wanted. From the time he had joined the force, he had wanted to go into homicide.

He’d always wanted to be a cop. Not because he’d grown up in a family where joining the force had been tradition, because he hadn’t. His father and grandfather had both been attorneys.

He’d wanted to be a cop because the guy who had become one of his best friends in life had been a cop. The guy who had shown up when, at the age of eighteen, Jake had wrapped his graduation gift, a brand-new Firebird, around a tree in Coconut Grove.

He’d been driving under the influence.

Too many times, his dad had gotten him off on speeding tickets. Of course, his father never knew he got behind the wheel while drinking. When he drank with his buds, he usually stayed out. That night, however…

He’d decided to drive. To show off. His family had been thinking about buying a house at the end of the street. He’d wanted to show it to a girl. He could race his Firebird around a few blocks without any damage being done.

Like hell.

He was supposedly a pretty tough kid. Football, soccer, baseball, a star player on every team. Grades high enough to see that he got into the right college. He usually knew when to play and when to keep himself straight as an arrow. But not that night. That night he was exactly what the cop called him when he reached the accident. A snot-nosed rich kid, thinking he could buy his way out of everything.

Carlos Mendez had been a police officer for nearly twenty-five years the night he had come upon Jake in his folded-up Firebird. He could have taken him in for DUI. But he didn’t. He told him off—and when Jake tried to tell him that he wanted to call his father, an attorney, Carlos had said that he’d get his every right, his phone call, his attorney, the whole nine yards—when the time was right. He’d told him what he thought of him—and where he was going to wind up. And that however rich he might be, he was going to spend one night in jail.

He hadn’t been mean, hadn’t raised his voice. But something about the way he’d spoken, so soft and so sure, had scared the hell out of Jake. He’d realized he could have killed not only himself but his date.

“You know, kid, you’re in trouble. But you ought to be on your knees, thanking God. You slaughtered a palm tree. That was it—the only fatality. You could be in a morgue now. Or you could have killed that pretty young girl you were with. So be thankful, accept what you get and try to make it mean something,” Carlos had told him.

Jake had listened. And at some point, he wasn’t sure when, Carlos Mendez had realized he’d had a real effect on the snot-nosed rich kid. He hadn’t charged him with DUI, only with the lesser charge of failure to have his vehicle under control. His leniency had come with strings—promises Jake made that night to Carlos. Of course, Carlos had no guarantees that Jake would abide by his promises. He later told Jake that he had gone on gut instinct—the most important tool a cop could have, no matter what technology offered.

Jake kept all his promises, grateful not to have had to spend a night in jail. He’d even been sober and somewhat cleaned up before he reached his parents’ house, before his mother cried and his father yelled. He’d promised Carlos Mendez an afternoon at the station and fifty hours of community service. He’d put in the hours working for Habitat for Humanity and in downtown Miami at a soup kitchen for the homeless. He’d seen some of the worst the city had to offer there, men and women so strung out on drugs that life had lost all meaning, and the kids who paid the real price for their parents’ addictions. Toddlers with no futures because they’d been born with AIDS. He saw, as well, those few whose lives were changed by others. The junkie thief who’d gone straight because of a decent cop and opened a home for abused children. The prostitute who had changed her ways because of a down-to-earth priest. Even the crooked accountant who had gotten out of jail to do tax forms and apply for assistance for the elderly.

And down at the station, with Carlos, he’d seen videos more horrible than anything ever concocted by the minds of filmmakers. Photos taken after traffic fatalities. Most of them accidents caused by alcohol.

In the process of it all, he met others Carlos could have arrested and sent to prison for long years of their lives but hadn’t.

He’d gambled.

And his bet had paid off.

Jake had been about to leave, having earned the grades good enough to get him into almost any college in the country. He’d been accepted to his father’s alma mater, Harvard.

He hadn’t gone.

Once again, his mother had cried and his father had yelled. But he’d loved his parents, and they’d loved him. In the end, they’d accepted his decision to stay home, take criminology at the local college and apply to the force.

He’d never regretted it, not once. And even his father had been proud of him. No one had been more congratulatory when he had been promoted to detective. He’d known he’d wanted to work homicide because of Carlos. Not because Carlos had worked homicide, but because, while still in college, he’d been with Carlos one day when he had suddenly veered over to the side of the road. He’d spotted a body in a field.

“Shouldn’t you call it in?” Jake had asked. “You’re off duty.”

“I’ll be calling it in, as soon as I know what we’ve got, and as soon as I’ve secured the scene. And a cop is never really off duty, Jake. You know that.”

Carlos was pretty damned amazing, and that was something Jake did know. He wouldn’t ever have noticed the prone figure, inert and shielded by long grass and carelessly tossed garbage, soda cans and beer bottles.

Carlos had an eye. He assured Jake that, with a little experience, he would have that eye himself.

That afternoon, Carlos had called in the information as soon as he had determined that the victim was stone cold, beyond help.

The guy had looked like an old itinerant or a drunk. At the time, Jake had seen nothing to suggest foul play. Of course, he’d kept his distance, too, because Carlos hadn’t been about to let anyone taint what might be a crime scene.

Later, when the detectives and crime scene people had arrived, Jake and Carlos watched them work. Carlos had remarked quietly then that he’d been certain right away—gut instinct—that the man had met with foul play. He was dead, silenced, no longer able to speak for himself. And yet, always, the dead, in that terrible silence, cried out for justice. Their fellow men owed them that justice. The cops and the medical examiners were all they had left. And even if the victim had been an old drunk, he deserved the same attention as any other human being.

It turned out that he had been a migrant worker and that he had been murdered. The detective on the case had it solved within a matter of weeks—mainly because Carlos had been so careful at the scene of the crime. His yellow tape had preserved footprints that had led to the arrest of a middle-aged thug who had killed the old man for the fifty dollars in his pockets.

Since that day, Jake had wanted to be in homicide. It had seemed like an important role in life—being the champion of the dead.

His decision, and his effort to reach his goal, had drawn him closer than ever to his father, who had always played the devil’s advocate, telling him how a good attorney could make mincemeat out of evidence if it wasn’t collected properly.

There had been more to the idea of moving into homicide. Not just to weep for the dead, or even to be their spokesman. With every year of experience, he realized that his most important role was to stop a killer before he or she could claim more victims. He and his fellow officers worked many cases that turned out to be domestic—husbands, ex-husbands, wives, lovers, killing in passion. Guns and knives were the prevalent weapons in cases like that. Then, of course, there were the little ones, kids brutalized by their parents or trusted caregivers. Those were hard to deal with. He’d never met a cop who could just blink and call it business when he or she was called to handle the death of a child.

But there were also cases that weren’t crimes of passion, anger or jealousy. There were psychopaths in the world who killed because it gave them a rush. And there were also those who killed because they thought themselves superior, who appeared to be totally sane, to whom murder was a calculated risk. There were those who killed for pleasure, for sport and for personal gain.

He had handled many of those, as well. He’d done so professionally, not letting anger, pain, pity or disgust get in the way of his sworn duty.

This particular case, though, was so damned acrid he could taste it on his tongue.

So damned painful and bitter.

He inhaled deeply, gaining control.

He knew damned well that he couldn’t let his emotions get out of control, nor could he visibly display them in any way—he would even have to be careful with Marty. He didn’t want to be pulled from this case.

“Did you finish up the paperwork on the Trena case?” Marty asked.

“There, on top of the out box.”

“I’ll send it on over to the D.A. with my report. Seems Trena’s lawyer told him to plea-bargain after he saw the evidence against him.”

Jake looked at Marty, then paused to thank the officer who stopped by with the envelope that contained the information on the girl they were calling Cinderella. There was other business to finish up.

“Trena was smart to plea-bargain,” he said, unwinding the string securing the envelope. “His gun, his fingerprints, bullets charged on his credit card in his wife’s head—I think a plea bargain would be a hell of a lot better than a death sentence.”

Marty smiled without humor. “Well, remember the guy who put five bullets into his buddy’s stomach? His attorney got the jury to believe his gun just went off accidentally—five times.”

“True. I’m still glad to hear Trena is going with a plea bargain. Hopefully he’ll be locked up for a while.”

Marty started to collect papers and folders while Jake opened the envelope he’d been given. He scanned the information. Without looking up, he told Marty, “Let’s follow up on the rest of Bordon’s known followers, find out what they’re doing these days, check into their activities. We can work the door-to-door angle, as well, but I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere. We don’t have a lot to work with right now. If we can just get an I.D. on the victim, it will give us more to go on.” He paused, then said softly, “I think I’m going to take a ride up to the middle of the state this week.”

“You want company, or you think I should stay here?”

“I think one of us should be here.”

“You’d be happier if you were the one here, interviewing Bordon’s old people. You like to be hands-on, Jake, and you know it. Sure you don’t want me to be the one to take the drive up?”

Jake shook his head. “No, but thanks. I want to talk to Bordon myself.”

Marty shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “You’ve talked to Bordon before.”

He had. And if it hadn’t been for Marty, he might have blown his entire career. He had almost gone for the man’s throat. Marty and a uniformed officer had pulled him back. Marty knew how deep his feelings ran against Bordon, even if he didn’t personally believe that Nancy’s death had anything to do with the case. He felt the same pain. On duty with a fellow officer in the area, he had been one of the first people on the scene when Nancy’s car had been found.

“I’ll be all right.”

“If that kid hadn’t been a weight lifter, I might not have kept you from strangling the man.”

“Marty, I was wrong. I was overemotional, but I swear to you, I’m in control now. I can’t kill Bordon.”

“What do you mean, you can’t kill him? I’m willing to bet you can. He isn’t short, and he isn’t a skinny wimp, but you’ve got a few pounds on him—all muscle—and the adrenaline rush you had going that day was frightening. You sure as hell can kill him, and I’m not so sure you can control your temper.”

“I can and I will.”

“But—”

“I can’t kill him, Marty. I really can’t. I need him alive.”

“You need him alive? We both think he’s a killer, even if he never dirties his hands himself. So why is it that you need him alive?”

“Because we need to find out what really went on back then, and if it’s recurring now. We were missing something—I mean, it seemed obvious that Bordon was calling the shots, and that there were more people involved in the deaths. Hell, maybe Harry Tennant was in on the murders, but I don’t believe for a second that he committed them alone. Marty, we’ve got to find out the truth, or we’re never going to be free of this case.” He was silent for a minute; then he grimaced and spoke flatly, with an open honesty his partner could well understand. “I need the truth. Or I’ll never be free of this.”

After a moment, Marty nodded. “Yeah, I understand. But you’re sure you’ll be all right going up alone? Captain Blake will be setting up a task force again—reinvigorating it, since we never officially closed the inquiry down. There will be other officers down here getting moving on research, questioning, digging, legwork. I can come upstate with you if you want.”

“I want one of us here. Paying attention to everything, to little details that might slip by someone else. We need to get every piece of information we’ve got on file and to keep digging up everything new we can find on Bordon’s old followers, everything we’ve got on his hierarchy—the names of everyone involved in the cult, and a bio on what they’ve been doing since Bordon went to jail.”

Jake’s desk phone rang. He picked up.

It was Captain Blake, head of homicide, on the other end.

“I understand you’ve been busy this weekend.”

“I took Sunday off.”

“To read files all day?”

“I went to see my dad.”

“Good. All right. I’ve seen the forensic reports on the girl that jogger found Friday. And yes, it’s similar to the murders five years ago. And yes, we’ll reinvigorate the task force. And if you can swear you’ll keep a level head and unproven speculations to yourself, you’ll head it again, Detective.”

“I can keep a level head.” He hesitated. “Thanks.”

“No one knew what was going on back then the way you did. It’s always been your case, and it only makes sense to keep it that way. Of course, this whole thing could be some kind of a—”

“Copycat killing? Yes, sir, we all know that.”

“And you’re not the Lone Ranger, Jake. We solve things by being a team.”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, then. Meeting at ten-thirty, my office.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Franklin will be in from the FBI. You have a problem with that?”

“No, sir.” He did, but he wasn’t about to tell that to Blake. And he was damned determined that he wasn’t going to tell Franklin, either.

“Belk, Rosario, MacDonald and Rizzo will round out the group. You can always call in whatever uniformed personnel you need.”

“Sounds like we’ve got a good team and good backup.”

“Ten-thirty,” Captain Blake repeated.

“Yes, sir, we’ll be there.”

He hung up, staring thoughtfully at the receiver.

“Well?” Marty said.

Jake shrugged. Marty was a big fan of Sir Conan Doyle.

“As your Victorian super sleuth liked to say, Marty, the game is afoot.” He added, “Ten-thirty, Captain Blake’s office. He’s called in the other shifts for a meeting. We’re reinvigorating the old task force, using the same crew. We’ve got Belk and Rosario, MacDonald and Rizzo. Oh, and Franklin from the FBI.”

“Franklin?” Marty said with dismay.

“You got a problem with that?” Jake said.

“Problem? Me? Hell, no,” Marty said, starting around from Jake’s desk to take a seat at his own.

“Yep, hell no, no problem,” Jake said.

“Fuck,” Marty moaned.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Fuck,” Marty repeated. He shook his head. “Franklin,” he said. He looked bleakly at Jake. “We got a problem.”

“We’ll get past it.”

“Yeah, sure,” Marty said. He punched information into his computer, ready to search the available records. He was still shaking his head.

“Fuck. Franklin,” he repeated.

“I hear you, Marty,” Jake assured him.

“We’ll get past it,” Marty aped.

“We’ll get past it, because nothing, nothing, is going to take us off this case. Nothing—and no one.”

“Right. Nothing and no one,” Marty agreed.

Later, after they’d both spent the early morning reviewing reports and researching the records, Jake rose to tell Marty it was time for the task force meeting.

He was still shaking his head. And when he rose, reached for his jacket, and joined Jake for the walk to the captain’s office, he said again, “Fuck. Franklin.”

Jake stared at him.

“Last time. That was it,” Marty swore.

“You sure? ’Cause if not, get it out—now.”

“Fucking Franklin?” he said vehemently. Then he grinned. “All right. I got it out.” He shrugged. “The guy is efficient. He’s just such a…prick. He even walks like he’s got a broom up his ass. But he is good with a computer.”

“Right. Ten-twenty-eight. Let’s get in there.”

“Fucking Franklin.”