With Wanton Disregard E-Book

Gwen Banta

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Tim Mulrooney is at a crossroads in his life when he meets Lauren: the beautiful wife of a prominent Long Beach physician who has been brutally murdered.

In spite of mounting evidence against Lauren, Tim is determined to prove her innocence. Soon, more savage murders occur in the exclusive Long Beach enclave of Belmont Shore.

Trying to piece together the evidence, Mulrooney makes a startling discovery about the murders. But is he willing to risk his shield - and his life - to solve the case?

Leseprobe

With Wanton Disregard

Gwen Banta

Copyright (C) 2018 Gwen Banta

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2020 by Next Chapter

Published 2020 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

In the California Penal System, California Penal Code # 187 states:

Murder is the unlawful killing of a human being, or a fetus, with malice aforethought.

Murder With Wanton Disregard:

In the Criminal Justice system, The Thomas Test states that when a person acts with a wanton disregard for human life, malice is implied.

Chapter 1

Long Beach, California Wednesday, 12:42 A.M.

Tim Mulrooney gripped the steering wheel of his unmarked Crown Vic as his excitement overcame his anxiety. The Belmont Shore area of Long Beach was the high-rent district—known as “The Shore” to the locals–a refuge of sunshine, bikinis, and trendy eateries. He couldn't help wondering what in the hell he was doing in beautiful Belmont Shore at 12:42 A.M. on a Wednesday morning chasing down a Code 187.

Mulrooney forced himself to relax and enjoy the welcome change of scenery. He liked his job, although lately the depravity he so often encountered had been burning a hole in his gut. In recent months he had found himself struggling with both self-doubt and a growing inability to dissociate from the horrors which were part of his daily routine. Mulrooney had long sensed that he was at some sort of crossroads in his life. But right now there was a corpse that needed his attention, so he stepped on the gas and cautioned himself to leave the self-analysis to the tofu eaters.

Barely twenty-four hours had passed since he had returned from his first vacation in four years–a jaunt to sunny Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. While south of the border Mulrooney had hit every fishing spot he could find and had consumed enough spicy food to make his stomach protest, in Spanish and in English. Now he was back–tan, attractive, and quite fit for his forty-eight years.

The vacation had been long overdue. His ex-wife, Isabella, had often complained that his work consumed him. It was something Mulrooney deeply regretted but never knew how to change. Mulrooney recalled a quote by Kipling that had always struck him as memorable: “More people are killed by overwork than the importance of the world justifies.” He tugged at his ear and grunted. Shoulda read Kipling before my heart attack. Nonetheless, Mulrooney knew he didn't have to justify his job dedication to Isabella anymore. She was gone. And Kipling was too dead to give a rat's ass. So Mulrooney shoved them both out of his mind and focused his attention back on the job.

After he turned onto Second Street, he lowered his car window and sucked in the sea air. I've gotta get me a little hacienda down here someday, he told himself. Mulrooney had long admired the mission-style architecture introduced by the Spanish friars who had come to California to spread the word of God among an increasingly hard-of-hearing populace. And the 1950's innocence and hospitality of the Belmont Shore area always plugged him into his youth with a soothing continuity. It was like watching an old commercial of a dancing Alka-Seltzer tablet. When Mulrooney realized he was grinning like the village idiot, he self-consciously instructed himself to close his yap.

After cutting down Glendora, Mulrooney then turned east and followed the moonlight to Alamitos Bay. When he arrived at the crime scene, he automatically appraised the area. Road barricades were already in place. On the small bridge that traversed the bay, a crowd of locals was gathered to watch the action. Several black-and-whites had blocked off the south end of Bay Shore Avenue and the Belmont Shore fire trucks had secured the north end. An Emergency Medical vehicle was parked at the scene in no apparent rush to go anywhere. Not a good sign, he concluded.

Another group of bystanders was gathered in front of a majestic Mediterranean-style villa that stood guard over the bay. The lights of at least ten squad cars illuminated the area like Cirque du Soleil while the onlookers watched expectantly as if waiting to witness a death-defying high-wire act.

Mulrooney recognized the pale officer handling crowd control. It was Officer Kate Axberg's new sidekick, Sanders. Sanders appeared to be about fifteen years old, which made Mulrooney feel older than mold. He had dubbed the new crop of recruits the “Embryo Patrol” for good reason. As he watched Sanders tentatively admonish a reporter who had slipped under the police tape, Mulrooney could see the tension pulling at the rookie's jaw. The veteran cop still remembered the stress of his first homicide case; and he knew Sanders would harden fast. The kid had no choice. Suck it up or fuck it up.

“Get statements from everyone, Sanders,” he directed as he exited his car and headed for the villa. Mulrooney pretended not to notice the beads of sweat that had collected above Sanders' furrowed brow. “You're doing just fine, Officer,” he shot back over his shoulder as he approached the door of the villa.

Mulrooney paused to look around and listen. From somewhere inside the residence, the moody notes of Gershwin's Summertime seeped out into the night air. The contrast between the soothing music and the ghoulish crowd made him feel as if he were in the middle of a Coppola film. Please, no horse head party gifts, he thought as he straightened himself up to his full height.

Mulrooney shoved open the door and stepped into a spectacular living room. Raising an eyebrow in admiration, he went to work, his photographic memory taking in every detail. There was a superb collection of original art including some aboriginal pieces and a Frederic Remington oil of the American Southwest. A bottle of Cristal champagne with balloons attached rested on a silver tray atop a Steinway.

While he was examining the champagne bottle, Officer Kate Axberg entered the room. Mulrooney noted the strained look that tugged at Kate's usually congenial face. Kate and Sanders had been first to arrive at the crime scene, and no 187 was ever pretty. It occurred to Mulrooney that Kate had probably never been first in on a homicide before. In Belmont Shore, a rainy day was a felony.

“You okay, Kate?” he asked.

“Yes, but I'm glad you're back, Tim,” she nodded.

“Thanks. So, you want to break it down for me, my pretty?” he cackled in his best wicked-witch voice. Although Kate usually smiled when he did his impersonations for her, her mouth remained hard. Mulrooney loosened his tie. He knew this one was going to be ugly.

When he looked up again he saw his partner, Brian Clarke, stride into the house with Sanders trailing close behind like a uniformed cocker spaniel. “Hey, Smokey,” Mulrooney greeted his partner. Clarke's wife Karen had nicknamed Clarke “Smokey” because of his resemblance to Smokey Robinson. However, Mulrooney was the only other person allowed to use the moniker without incurring Clarke's wrath, which was never a wise choice.

“I can't believe the timing of your phone call, bro,” Clarke groused. “You interrupted the wife's lo-o-ve machine.”

“So your brother is visiting again?” Mulrooney baited. He laughed as Clarke scratched his brow with an erect middle finger. “Well let's just have Katie give us the tour so she can go home,” Mulrooney said, “and then you can drag your sorry ass old 'love machine' back to Karen.” Mulrooney then turned to Sanders. “Keep at it outside,” he directed.

Sanders obediently complied as Kate gestured for Mulrooney and Clarke to follow her. “One victim,” she pronounced as she led them through the hall. “Stabbing. No vitals upon arrival. Victim is Dr. Scott Connolly. Caucasian, forty-five. Wife, no kids.”

Mulrooney raised his brows when he heard the name. He had once seen an interview with the prominent Long Beach gynecologist on the local news. Connolly, dressed in Gatsby style, had oozed wealth and confidence, although he had appeared distracted during the interview. And Connolly's eyes had shown signs of stress, accented by inky depressions just below the rims. “Whoa,” Mulrooney whistled, “he's the safe-keeper of the Shore's finest resource!”

“Was,” Clarke corrected.

As they climbed the curved staircase, the hypnotic notes of Gershwin's I Love You, Porgy threw off Mulrooney's sense of the scene. Kate read his exasperated look. “The music was on when we arrived, Tim. I'll '86' it when Fingerprint wraps.”

When they reached the top of the stairs, Mulrooney made a mental note that the upstairs speakers were out of order; then he turned back to Kate as she continued her brief. “No weapon,” she reported, “and no signs of the assailant. We did the visual search, but Sanders got queasy so I had to send him outside.”

“That explains the barf in the bougainvillea,” Clarke muttered.

“Yeah,” she winced, “he was really embarrassed. I backed out last and secured the area. Two women are downstairs in the den, so you'll want to question them. They were in the house together when we arrived, but we took their explanations separately of course.”

As they reached the large master suite, Kate hesitated then turn away. Unlike her to do that, Mulrooney noted. He suddenly felt the familiar anxiety he had often felt as a kid when staring down the dark cellar stairs fearing some faceless intruder lying in wait. As he stepped into the bedroom, his eyes immediately lighted on the bed. “Jesus Frickin Christ!” he sputtered.

“Whoa, Mama!” Clarke yelped from behind.

The renowned Dr. Connolly lay completely naked on his back with his legs spread eagle. His eyes were open and his arms were outstretched as if nailed to a crucifix. Connolly's mouth was agape, as though the life in his body had crawled out the face hole, leaving nothing behind but a brutalized carcass. The victim had been slit from pelvis to sternum. But worst of all, his insides were no longer inside. He was gutted like a fish.

Most of the viscera lay next to the corpse. However, the intestines, still attached to Connolly like an umbilical cord, were strung across the bed, and bits of tissue and fecal matter were splattered about in an eruption of gore. The odor was sickening.

“Jesus!” Clarke groaned as he looked around for footprints. “There's gotta be a Bruno Magli print here somewhere.”

“His wife got into bed and found him like that,” Kate winced.

Clarke grimaced. “Christ-on-a-cracker! She crawled into bed with THAT?”

“Yep,” Kate nodded, “and in her hysteria she ran out of the house naked and screaming. Her best friend arrived immediately thereafter. Interesting timing.”

Mulrooney examined the blood splash patterns closely. A blood smear on the closet door intrigued him. The wood bore superficial scratches, and there were fingerprints near the top of the frame.

“What do you make of those prints?” Kate asked.

Mulrooney and Clarke exchanged glances. “Correct me if I'm wrong, Smokey,” Mulrooney answered, “but I'd say that's a nipple print.”

Clarke pursed his lips and nodded. “Looks like a terrified woman tried to exit straight through the closet door, Kate.”

“Do you need me up here anymore, guys?” Kate asked as she backed further away.

Mulrooney shook his head. “No, Katie, not unless you brought a bigass sewing kit.”

* * *

When forensics finally arrived, Mulrooney gave orders as he and Clarke inspected the crime scene meticulously, maneuvering around the pieces of corpse. There were no signs of forced entry. One wall was lined with cabinets that contained a television, a DVD, an old VCR, and a rare book collection. Nothing had been disturbed. A telephone, a lamp, a digital clock radio, and two remote controls lay atop the nightstand. Mulrooney, while mentally photographing every detail, noticed that the mattress had drawn most of the blood to the victim's side of the bed.

“Rest in pieces, Doc,” he whispered, giving in to his old habit of talking to the victims whenever he felt anxious. The sour taste in his throat indicated that his anxiety level was rising. Not a bad thing, he reminded himself. In Iraq he had learned that a healthy dose of anxiety kept one's senses on maximum alert. His sergeant had repeatedly cautioned his platoon, “A fool acts without fear, but a brave man acts in spite of it.” Semper Fi, Mulrooney mentally saluted, determined to be nobody's fool. As he stared at Dr. Connolly's gaping mouth, he took out a tube of Blistex and coated his sunburned lips before continuing.

While Clarke inspected the corpse, Mulrooney focused on a pile of clothes on the floor near the blood pool. In the pocket of a pair of Armani trousers, Mulrooney found Connolly's wallet with three hundred dollars hidden in the inside flap. An 18 karat gold money clip was empty. “See if you can lift a print off this money clip,” he directed a technician.

After further inspection Mulrooney discovered a small glass ampoule wrapped in cotton knitting in a back pocket of the trousers. He held it aloft for Clarke to see. “Lookee here, partner,” he said with a raised brow.

“Poppers!” Clarke exclaimed. “I haven't seen those in awhile. Either the doc had a heart problem, or a hard-on problem.”

“That's not his worst problem,” Mulrooney mumbled as he turned to inspect the blood on the dresser. Judging by the blank area in the pattern, the perp had taken much of the blood spatter. The blood pattern indicated the doctor had been lying on his right side when killed. The victim's body must have somehow been turned and the intestine yanked out afterward. But how…and why, he wondered?

Above the dresser was an etching of Duke Ellington at his piano. A drop of Dr. Scott Connolly's blood was still clinging to the flesh fold beneath the Duke's eye like a bloody tear. Mulrooney leaned closer to read the title of the etching: Mood Indigo, the name of a tune Ellington had composed for the film, Anatomy of a Murder. The irony didn't escape him.

“Hey, buddy,” Clarke called, interrupting Mulrooney's thoughts, “did you notice how the Duke's eyes follow you like the friggin' Mona Lisa?”

“So do the doc's,” Mulrooney grunted as he moved to the dressing table on the south wall. He gazed at an angora robe that was draped over the vanity chair. Several birthday cards were jammed in the edge of the mirror and a box of face powder rested on a silver tray. Mulrooney examined a pair of sheer panties and a bra that were in a pile on the table. When he looked up, he saw Clarke grinning.

“Don't you wear lingerie like that?” Clarke teased.

“Only when I'm on a date with your dad,” Mulrooney jabbed back. Mulrooney welcomed the easy repartee. Their sparring was a verbal barrier against the savagery. He was still staring at the vanity when something else caught his attention. Reaching down, he pried a photo out from under the opaque glass top. It was a snapshot of a man lounging near a hotel pool. The man had dark good looks and an easy smile. “MY LOVE ALWAYS, SAM” was written across the back of the photo in bold, assured handwriting. Mulrooney handed the snapshot to his partner. Clarke let out a low whistle as he bagged it into evidence.

Mulrooney then turned his gaze to a thin film of dust on one area of the vanity. It struck him as odd that the dust was much thicker around the area where the panties lay. He wondered if the perp had been looking for something specific. Or was it something very personal? “See what you can make of this, Smokey,” he said to Clarke.

He watched as Clarke snorted several times to clean his nasal passages before bending down to inhale the dust particles near the lingerie. Mulrooney waited expectantly, knowing his partner had the nose of a bloodhound. One time Clarke had even sniffed out a suspect because of the type of alcohol on his breath–Guinness.

“It's sure not the face powder,” Clarke pronounced. “It's drywall.”

“Drywall? Damn, you're good, Smokey!” Mulrooney said.

“That's what Karen tells me,” Clarke grinned as he checked his watch. “And she's keeping my spot warm. I'm going down to wrangle some witnesses. You ridin' shotgun?”

“In a minute,” Mulrooney answered. “I need some air.”

After Clarke left, Mulrooney stepped out onto the deck. He could see the Queen Mary, illuminated by lights from the offshore oil islands as she reclined majestically in the water. The ship was a tranquil contrast to the din of the police chopper hovering overhead like a mutant praying mantis. Viewing the surroundings, Mulrooney noted that the bungalow next door was too far away to make a safe jump, and the two-story Connolly home offered no footholds for climbing. The assailant must have left through the front door, balls to the wind, he figured…unless the killer had never left the premises at all.

Mulrooney sucked in the ocean air and tried to scrape the taste of death from his tongue with his teeth. He was craving a drink for the first time in ages, but he hadn't touched alcohol since his heart had given out on him. Thus, there would be no wasting away in Margaritaville tonight.

After unconsciously glancing over his shoulder into the shadows, Mulrooney took another look at the strewn remains of Doctor Scott Connolly. He sensed that the killer's intimate contact with the victim had been motivated by more than hatred or passion. The rage was almost palpable. As he headed down to the den to join Clarke, he once again felt like a kid descending the dark cellar stairs into the abyss.

Chapter 2

When Mulrooney strode into the den, he knew immediately which woman was the widow. Lauren Brandeis Connolly was sitting on a straight chair, leaning on its arms for support. There were streaks of blood on her face, and strands of her tawny shoulder-length hair were matted to the right side of her face. Her eyes were unfocused and her body shook uncontrollably. Lauren clutched an afghan that was draped around her back. Her bare feet grasped the floor as though attached by ground wires.

“Mrs. Connolly?” Mulrooney said as he walked slowly toward her. Lauren showed no sign of response other than to lick her lips as if tasting something unfamiliar.

Mulrooney glanced toward the door of the den to see if Clarke had come back in. Usually their routine was for Mulrooney to calmly question the suspects before Clarke came in to apply the thumbscrews. After seeing Lauren Connolly, Mulrooney knew Clarke would really have to muster up some attitude to follow up as the heavy on this one.

While he waited for Lauren to relax, Mulrooney studied a collection of photos of Lauren in some jungle outpost. In each image she looked strong and self-assured. Now it seemed that her stunned expression was the only thing holding her beautiful face together.

A striking woman sat next to Lauren clutching her hand. Mulrooney observed faint blood stains on the woman's jeans and on the front of her beige linen jacket. Her hair reminded Mulrooney of sunsets in Puerto Vallarta. Its fiery color contrasted with the serenity of her patrician features–regal nose, wide-set eyes and full lips.

“I understand your name is Anya Gallien?” he asked Lauren's friend, unconsciously running one hand through his dark curly hair.

“Yes, I am Anya Gallien,” she said quietly.

“And you were the first to arrive to assist Mrs. Connolly?”

“That's right, I was here. I just happened to be in the neighborhood.” Mulrooney caught a hint of irony in her voice. Before he could reply, Anya cut him off. “And you want to know why I was in the neighborhood at 12:30 A.M., no?”

Mulrooney noted her odd word placement. Was that a slight accent he detected? He said nothing, knowing his silence would provoke her to continue. Anya played neatly into his hand.

“Around midnight I drove through the parking area at Alamitos Bay and I saw Lauren on her boat at the dock. She was working… she's a writer, you know. I didn't want to disturb her, so I decided to drop by here a bit later because I wanted to be the first to wish her Happy Birthday. It's today.” Anya placed her hand against her chest and took a deep breath. “She was running out just as I arrived, and she was hysterical. After she told me what had happened, I brought her inside and called the police.”

“So she wasn't expecting you?” he asked. While Mulrooney stared at Anya, he eyed a birthday card sticking out of a flap in the purse at her feet. There were three balloons hand-drawn on the envelope.

“No, I've been in Mexico. I got back around seven o'clock, and I wanted to surprise her. That's why I brought the card I assume you have already noticed,” she replied without averting her eyes, “and the bag of confetti.”

“Mexico? I just got back from Mexico myself,” Mulrooney responded in his most pleasant party voice. “Nice, huh?” When he saw Anya let down her guard a bit, he fired another question at her. “If you weren't planning a little get-together, why do you suppose the stereo was on when she went to bed? I'm just trying to understand the sequence of events, Ms. Gallien.”

“Obviously she must have forgotten to turn it off,” Anya responded. “She loves music, especially Gershwin. May I put on another CD to calm her?” She glanced at Lauren, who sat motionless.

“I'd prefer that you not touch anything else, Ms. Gallien,” Mulrooney firmly instructed.

He then squatted to face Lauren and spoke very quietly. “Mrs. Connolly, I'm Detective Tim Mulrooney.” When he held forth his hand, she tentatively offered hers. He noticed that Lauren's teeth had punctured her lower lip, which was now beginning to swell. Dry blood discolored her broken fingernails; and her left arm, which protruded limply from under the afghan, was coated with blood. When he shook her hand, he stroked her palm with his fingertips. No signs of abrasions or indentation from force.

“Before I get a complete statement from you, Mrs. Connolly, I need to know if you saw anything that might help us with our investigation.”

Lauren abruptly pulled her hands back under the afghan just as the L.B.P.D. helicopters passed overhead. The noise from their engines jolted Lauren's body like artillery blasts. Anya took Lauren in her arms, shielding her from the racket as the chopper lights pummeled the windows with a strobe-like effect.

Lauren suddenly startled them both by speaking. “I didn't see anything. It all happened before I got home,” she said in a voice that sounded like radio static.

As Mulrooney leaned in, he smelled wine on her breath. “Were you drinking tonight, Mrs. Connolly? I know it's your birthday.”

“I had some wine on the boat…not much,” she whispered.

“How much would you estimate you had?”

Anya held up her hand and interrupted, “Detective-”.

“I'm not addressing you,” Mulrooney snapped, rendering Anya silent. “Mrs. Connolly how much alcohol did you drink?”

“Just a little. I had to drive home.”

“What time did you get home?”

“Shortly after midnight,” she replied mechanically. “I went upstairs and undressed in the bathroom. Then I showered.”

“Did you enter the bedroom prior to that?”

“No.”

“So you left your clothes in the bathroom?”

“Yes,” she stammered, “and when I stepped into the bedroom for the first time… I… I got into bed in the dark-”

Mulrooney waited as her voice trailed off. “And you didn't turn on the light?”

Lauren hesitated then shook her head.

“You're sure?”

Lauren nodded and stared straight ahead, now engrossed in her own silent horror movie.

“If you had not yet entered the bedroom and you undressed in the bathroom, then how did your underwear get to the vanity?”

Lauren continued to stare without focus. Finally she whispered, “They were already there. I wasn't wearing panties this evening.”

While he plastered a professional look of disinterest across his face, Mulrooney's mind drifted to places he knew he shouldn't go. He buried himself in the notes Kate had given him before he continued. When he looked up, Anya was pressing a cup of water into Lauren's hand. Both were right-handed, he noted.

Suddenly the cup slipped from Lauren's grasp and spilled down Anya's leg. While Anya dried herself with her sleeve, Lauren sank back into the safety of her chair, completely unaware that the afghan had slipped off one shoulder, exposing her naked body.

Mulrooney made a mental note of the blood stains on her body while trying not to stare at her firm figure and long legs. At ease, Marine, he admonished himself as he looked away. If nothing else, Mulrooney was still an officer and a gentleman.

He could feel the perspiration rush to his temples as Lauren made no attempt to cover her exposed body. She remained completely still like a delicate wax figure. Anya's attention was still elsewhere, so Mulrooney respectfully averted his eyes and reached out to wrap the afghan tightly around Lauren.

“Thank you very much, Detective Mulrooney,” Lauren whispered softly. “You're a kind man.”

Just as his breath caught in the back of his throat his defense system kicked in. Mulrooney quickly turned his attention back to Anya, who was rubbing her fingertips together as if saying an invisible rosary. “May I take Lauren to my home now?” Anya asked. “She needs rest.”

Before Mulrooney could respond, Clarke strode into the room and called Mulrooney aside. As Mulrooney listened intently to Clarke's report, he studied Anya's face. He abruptly changed demeanor and turned back to the women. “Ladies, if you don't mind, we'd like to take you to the station for further questioning.”

Anya bolted upright, “I certainly DO mind! Can't this wait?” she glared.

From what Mulrooney could see, Anya Gallien was one tight coil. “It would be much easier for us all, Ms. Gallien,” he condescended. “You see, my partner was outside, and he found some witnesses who saw you run down here from Division Street just as Mrs. Connolly exited the house. However, your car is parked right out front. Apparently you had been in the neighborhood for a while prior to coming to her aid.” He raised one brow and added, “…No?”

Anya flushed at his direct attack. She unconsciously rubbed a spot behind her left ear. “So am I under arrest?”

“At this point we only wish to question you further,” Clarke said tersely.

“Does Lauren have to go, too?”

“Yes,” Clarke said. “Officer Axberg will help Mrs. Connolly dress.” He signaled to Kate before turning to Lauren. “Can you manage, Mrs. Connolly?”

Lauren nodded, but continued to sit.

“Officer Axberg,” Mulrooney said formally as he pulled Kate aside, “please call for a female photographer to get photos of Mrs. Connolly first. And we'll need close-ups of her breasts.”

“Yes, sir, breast shots.”

When he caught Kate's sardonic smile, he made a face then looked away. “Purely professional, I assure you,” he whispered.

Mulrooney watched Anya with interest as she helped Lauren stand up. Anya's willingness to confront him suggested a sense of fearlessness. Or was it recklessness? When she tossed her mane of red hair, she reminded him of Ginger on the old TV show, “Gilligan's Island.”

But it was Lauren Connolly who intrigued him most. Even in shock, she moved with the grace of a deer. There was something warm and solid about her, something that intrigued him. He quickly checked himself. “Wait for the photographer and then please dress,” he directed.

As Anya guided Lauren toward a downstairs guest room, Lauren stopped to adjust the afghan over her bare shoulder. She sighed before looking back at Mulrooney. Suddenly Lauren dropped the afghan to the floor. She stood with her naked back to him and lifted her arms away from her body as if to be free of the blood-stained cover. Anya noted Mulrooney's stunned expression before leading her friend into the bedroom. Kate hustled in behind them and closed the door.

Mulrooney stood for a moment, staring at the door, knowing that on the other side was a woman - a potential suspect - who had gotten under his skin. He shook his head and then focused on his work.

Sanders had returned and was standing near the doorway next to Clarke. “Sanders, please find out the asking price on the bungalow next door with the For Sale sign,” Mulrooney directed. Sanders shot him a puzzled look then dutifully retreated.

“A house in this 'hood?” Clarke snorted, “are you on the take?”

“A guy can dream, can't he?”

“Gotta sleep first. Let's ride, pal.”

As they exited, Mulrooney noticed the balloons in the living room had worked loose from the bottle of Cristal. They were now hugging the ceiling, trying vainly to escape. “Happy Birthday, Lauren Connolly,” he said grimly. “Some sick bastard threw you one helluva surprise party!”

Chapter 3

Mulrooney's eyes were burning. He knew he was getting too old to pull all-nighters. He seldom drank caffeine, but he knew he could use a double espresso today. After he and Clarke had extensively questioned Lauren Connolly and Anya Gallien, the two detectives has combed the area for witnesses. When he had finally arrived back at his small clapboard bungalow near Cal State twenty hours later, he had lain awake mulling over the case before he met Clarke again at the autopsy of Dr. Connolly at 8:00 A.M.

The prompt autopsy was unexpected, but there had been no back-up of corpses at the coroner's office to delay attention to the late doctor. The timing was unusual for a place that Mulrooney often credited for hosting more stiff bodies than an Irish Pub on payday.

As a result of his nonstop movement, Mulrooney was now too wired to sleep, so he headed back to Belmont Shore. When he veered off on Livingston to Second Street, he noticed the familiar road sign, “Belmont Shore Welcomes You.” An imaginative street artist had already tagged it with a neon-colored skull and knife-like crossbones. Obviously, the grim news had already hit the streets.

Mulrooney parked in front of Surf's Up and went inside. The restaurant always cheered him with its decor of old surfboards and fixtures the colors of beach umbrellas. On one wall was a huge mural of Belmont Shore in the 1950's, replete with grinning Texaco servicemen. Was there ever a time that carefree he wondered. Suspended overhead was a stuffed shark with painted bloody teeth. That shark had better have a solid alibi he mused as he took a counter seat.

After Mulrooney nodded to several locals, he pulled out his folders to discourage conversation. He wanted time alone to relax and to organize the thoughts that ricocheted like buckshot through his sleep-deprived brain.

“Well, it's Tim-sum-and-then-some,” the waitress called as she sauntered up with a coffee cup and a pot of decaf.

“Good morning, Sophie,” Mulrooney smiled.

“How's my favorite hunka dick?” Sophie laughed bawdily as she leaned her ample frame on the counter, flashing her assets like a midshipman's ring. She loved to flirt shamelessly, but all her customers knew the ol' girl was a devoted wife. Five times over.

“The paper says you and Clarke got yourselves a grisly case,” she said as she pulled a chewed pencil out of her upswept straw-gray hair as if plucking a feather.

“Yep. I'm gonna need the high octane brew today,” Mulrooney grunted as he waved away the decaf, “and a breakfast burrito.”

“Maybe I should leave you the pot,” she laughed as she reached for a pot of regular. “You look like you've been partying with the Stones. You better get yourself some sleep before I trade you in for something that's still breathing - not that that's a requirement.” She shot him a devilish grin before strolling off.

Mulrooney looked at himself in the mirror above the service bar. He had often been told he looked like Harrison Ford. More like a rehab drop-out he thought. He took a large swig of coffee and laid out the preliminary autopsy report.

Since the moment Mulrooney had begun the investigation, everything felt out of sync to him, like when the dialogue in a film didn't match the characters' movements. That always pissed him off. This was pissing him off, too.

Currently Anya Gallien and Lauren Connolly were the only people under suspicion, but he and Clarke had barely begun the investigation. Unfortunately, the bonehead mayor and the chief were already pressing them to make a fast arrest.

Mulrooney winced as he thought of the meeting he had with the chief and Mayor Charles Howe directly following Connolly's autopsy. Mulrooney and the mayor had been at odds since Detective Carlos Atilla had publicly accused Mulrooney of being a racist, the flavor-of-the-month tactic used to call another officer's integrity into question. Everyone who had been familiar with the situation knew the bogus allegations were motivated by Atilla's personal animosity toward Mulrooney. Mayor Howe had inflamed the situation by pontificating about Mulrooney to the press in order to flaunt his politically correct image. It was also no coincidence that Detective Atilla's brother had been a major contributor to Howe's mayoral campaign. Since the incident Mulrooney could barely sit in the same room with Howe. Or Atilla.

While he sipped his coffee, Mulrooney became even more agitated as he thought about the racism accusations. Hell, Clarke was his partner and also his best friend. And Clarke was black. Mulrooney didn't hate Latinos either…just Atilla. Atilla was a mean cop. He was known to fire his weapon with as little provocation as he fired off his big mouth, which is why Mulrooney had nicknamed him “Atilla-the-Gun.” Now Atilla was trying desperately to move in on Mulrooney's territory, and Mulrooney wanted to send Atilla packing back to his former division, or back under whatever rock the slime bag called mi casa.

Mulrooney sighed and tried to concentrate on his notes. As he gnawed on a calloused knuckle, he reviewed the facts: After the coroner's investigator had taken the doc's liver temperature reading at the crime scene he had set the time of death between 11:15 P.M. and 12:15 A.M. Earlier that evening, a witness had overheard the couple arguing at 7:30 P.M., at which time Lauren had left the house. She went to her boat at the Alamitos Bay Marina, a refuge she used as an office to do her freelance writing.

Mulrooney recalled the slow, almost robotic way in which Lauren had related the evening's events when she gave her detailed statement at the station. She claimed she had called home at 11:55 P.M. to smooth things over with her husband and to let him know she was coming home. Scott had sounded groggy, but at least he did answer the phone. Mulrooney concluded that if her recall of the events was accurate, then the estimated time of death had definitely been narrowed.

Anya Gallien had confirmed Lauren's alibi, swearing again that she had seen her friend on the boat around midnight. Mulrooney had maintained a necessary degree of skepticism until an investigation at the marina turned up a corroborating witness. Mr. Armstrong, a colorful, lascivious old duffer living on a boat in a slip adjacent to Lauren's, had reluctantly admitted to Clarke that he had continually “glanced at” Lauren Connolly most of the evening from his boat. He confirmed that she had left at midnight and she had appeared to be sober.

According to Lauren's account, she then returned home, poured another glass of wine, and showered. She finished her wine as she dried her hair. After she returned the glass to the kitchen, she went upstairs and crawled into bed to discover her slaughtered husband.

Anya, however, had experienced a sudden shift in recall. She claimed she had left the marina and arrived at the crime scene just past midnight. Although she knew Lauren was not there, she had decided to wait around to wish Lauren a Happy Birthday. She finally remembered some forgotten details: Having already parked, she had decided to walk to Midnight Espresso for a cappuccino at approximately 12:05 A.M. When she returned some twenty minutes later to Lauren's house, she walked into a horror show.

Mulrooney figured it was definitely possible to walk from the Connolly home to the coffee house in seven to eight minutes. Anya said she had a habit of scalloping Styrofoam cups with her thumbnail. She also recalled having tossed her cup into the trash, where it was later located. Interestingly enough, one possible witness had also been found.

However, Mulrooney was still bothered by several details. Of at least twenty people at the coffee house that night, only one person remembered seeing Anya–at around 12:15 A.M. But the male witness admitted he had been trashed ever since the basketball game earlier in the evening and couldn't even remember who had won the game.

Mulrooney circled 12:15 A.M. on his pad and did some mental calculations. Anya could be telling the truth. It would be tough to off a guy, get home, clean up, return to the scene and park, then walk down for a soothing cup of java in just twenty minutes, which was the amount of time that would have passed since Lauren allegedly last spoke to her husband. And thus far, Anya's prints had not been found anywhere in the house other than where she remembered being after bringing Lauren back inside.

Mulrooney recalled Anya's frank response when Clarke had asked her why she had taken Lauren back into the house, considering that a brutal assailant might still be on the premises. “The murderer had left,” Anya explained matter-of-factly, “or Lauren would not have gotten out alive, would she?”

Nonetheless, something told Mulrooney that Anya knew more than she was letting on. He rubbed his brow and reached for his coffee just as Sophie set his breakfast in front of him.

Mulrooney had been ravenously hungry but was now feeling nauseous. He couldn't get the smell of death out of his sinuses, and his body wasn't used to the caffeine rush. “Better switch me back to decaf, Sophie,” he said. “I feel like a herd of ponies took a dump in my stomach.”

“Ah, I remember when detectives were real men,” she teased.

“And now waitresses are,” he shot back.

As Sophie made a face, Mulrooney flipped to his autopsy notes. There had been one wound, entrance point midline at the base of the sternum. The weapon had entered the xiphoid process then extended downward. It severed the abdominal aorta before exiting two inches right of the midline. According to the coroner, who had about as much spark as his clients, death probably occurred within minutes of the assault due to exsanguination. Mulrooney thought about the curve of the wound relative to the position of the body. He jotted in the margin: Left-handed assailant.

The robotic coroner had estimated the knife blade to be 5” long. Entrance and exit points indicated a serrated tip, double-edged blade, extremely sharp, such as a skinning knife. Bone fragments from a chipped rib indicated some strength behind the thrust. The wound was clean and expertly executed. There was no indication of struggle, probably due to the victim's altered state. The M.O. was an interesting choice. A slash across the throat would have been just as effective. And infinitely easier. It was apparent that this killer really enjoyed his work. Or was it her work?

The toxicology report would take some time, but the coroner was sure four partially dissolved pills in the doctor's stomach were Percodan. The intact state of two of the pills indicated ingestion very close to time of death. The lab had already identified the tobacco residue from the doc's shirt pocket as reefer. But the most interesting find in what was left of the doctor's stomach was an undissolved worm, bitten in half. Mulrooney had immediately recognized the hapless agave worm. He had swallowed a few too many in his day from the bottom of a tequila bottle.

The doctor had obviously found some time to party on his last night alive. The lab was running D.N.A. tests on several black hairs found on his clothes which suggested companionship beyond that of tequila and the assorted pharmaceuticals. Connolly was so medicated he probably never knew what hit him. However, Mulrooney knew that Lauren would never be able to forget the horror she found in bed that night. He remembered Lauren's vacant account of how she crawled into bed in the dark, reached for Scott, and unwittingly thrust her hand inside his gut pulling his viscera on top of her. Mulrooney shuddered involuntarily.

He examined the police photos of Lauren. There was a heavy blood coating on her left arm. No spatter pattern. As he studied a close-up of her breasts, he wondered if a nipple had specific I.D. markers. Mulrooney scribbled a note for Annette in Fingerprint to lift a print of Lauren's nipple to run a match with prints from the closet door. He also imagined how in a parallel universe Annette would need his attentive assistance on breast detail.

He abruptly shoved Lauren's photos back in the file. As he pushed his partially eaten burrito aside, a familiar voice boomed in his ear. “Mulrooney, shouldn't you be out humpin'?”

Fuck me, Mulrooney thought. He knew without looking up that the voice was Atilla's. Atilla spoke with the hit-and-run emphasis of a sports announcer. The solid, ruddy-skinned detective plopped down on a counter seat and whistled to Sophie as if calling a dog. While Mulrooney pulled out his wallet he avoided looking at Atilla, who always looked like he was sweating Vaseline.

“Sophie, can I get a check, please?” Mulrooney pleaded as she approached.

“Of course. And what can I get you today, Detective Atilla?” Sophie asked in a saccharin voice.

“Coffee, lotsa cream, and a sticky bun to go,” Atilla ordered curtly before turning his charm on Mulrooney. “You and Clarke better solve the Connolly case fast. This one's hotter than a jalapeno Pop Tart. The doc was very well-known.”

“Tell me something I don't know, Atilla,” Mulrooney snapped. It was all he could do to be civil to Atilla. Besides accusing Mulrooney of racism, Atilla had mouthed off to the media about Mulrooney “crossing boundaries with broads” after Atilla had witnessed an embarrassing incident outside the station involving Mulrooney and a woman. The prick had then spread the gossip without knowing any of the details. Mulrooney had never set the matter straight because the situation was very private. And very painful. It would have required more conversation than he ever wished to have with Atilla, or with the media.

Sophie brought Atilla his food and left two checks. When Atilla put down the exact change, leaving no tip, Mulrooney pulled out an extra bill and slammed it onto the counter.

Atilla shrugged and stood up to leave. “I've been talking to Chief Clemente about me coming in on your case,” he announced.

Mulrooney glared at him. “I'd chew the hair off an orangutan's ass before I'd let that happen, Atilla,” he snapped.

“You might want to re-think that. Another fuck-up could cost you your shield.” Atilla picked up his food and turned to leave.

Mulrooney's face was burning, but he watched in silent anger as Atilla sauntered out. “Fuckin' gargoyle!” he mumbled as the door slammed behind Atilla.

Sophie shook her head as she scooped the money off the counter. “Everyone says you're the best detective L.B.P.D. has ever had. So why do you put up with his crap, Tim?”

“He'll get his due, Sophie. All in good time.”

“That would be a good time,” she smiled. “Before you go, I've got somethin' to tell you that you may find of interest. I saw Doc Connolly in here last fall. He was with his wife's girlfriend. You know, that sexy redhead, Anya Gallien. They all used to come in here a lot, but that night it was just him and her. No wifey.

“Did you see or hear anything?”

“That's why I'm talkin' to ya, boy genius. I wasn't waitin' on them that night, but at one point in the evening Anya nearly mowed me down when she suddenly jumped up from the doc's booth. She was glaring at him. I heard her say, 'I'll kill you if you go back to Lauren after this.' She sure had a bee up her butt.”

“You're positive she said that, Sophie?”

“You'd question my memory? When was the last time I screwed up your order?” Sophie fluffed her hair for emphasis then continued. “And I've got more for you, doll. Several months after that, I was loading some goodies onto the pastry racks when I noticed Dr. and Mrs. Connolly sitting on the bench up front waiting for a table. I got a creepy feeling like I sometimes get. I looked out the window and I saw Anya standing there, purple in the neon light. She stared at the Connollys for the longest time, like some kind of stalker. It gave me the willies. That's it, but it stayed in my mind.”

Mulrooney leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “Sophie, you're just what I needed today.”

“I'm what every man needs every day,” she grinned. “Gotta go. I've got an order up. Take care, doll.”

Mulrooney grabbed his papers and walked out into the sunlight. He breathed deeply but even the sea air couldn't lift the weight that was pressing down on his chest.

Chapter 4

Trenton, New Jersey Same Day

Clarence Smolley wadded the greasy C-notes into a large ball. “Money well spent, my man,” he told his buyer. “This thumb drive is the hottest thing I've ever scored. You ain't never seen me though, man, or you're history. I'm talking PAST TENSE. You got it?”

Clarence waited for the fat man named Scab to nod before he continued. “Somebody big at the top is makin' a lotta noise. I'm told the chick they got on camera is some fat-cat dude's private property. So I suspect this is really worth something.”

“So this comes from Long Beach like the others?” Scab asked.

“Yeah. It came from my man, Flint, but now his connection is tryin' to recall these babies. They're hot motherfuckers.”

Scab picked his nose then wiped his hand on his pants. “Righteous, man,” he grunted. “You gonna take time to check out one of the girls in the back before you head back to Cali-hornya?” Scab laughed at his own joke.

“I ain't got time to burn in this fuckin' dump.”

“Jus' thought you might want to see the new girl. Goes by Rikki,” Scab said, licking his lips for effect. “She's hot. Room four.”

“Ummm, Rikki-Licky. That name does have promise.” Clarence checked his Rolex. “What the fuck, I got time. Gimme some fives.”

While Scab opened the money box, Clarence thought about Flint, his Long Beach friend who had followed through on his promise to set Clarence up for a rosy-assed future by letting him distribute porn for him on the East coast. But apparently Flint had pissed off his connection, and now he was desperate to get the merchandise back. But there was no way Clarence was giving the zip drives back now, no matter who was bent out of shape. In two hours he'd be off to Florida with a suitcase full of cash. He grinned. Scorin' in the free world, Clarence my man.

After Clarence accepted a stack of bills from Scab, he turned and walked down the dimly lit passageway to the back. The light from the bare yellow bulb overhead cast ominous shadows on the dark paneled walls. He could smell booze and sweat and semen. He sucked in the smell through wide nostrils savoring its pungency.

Clarence slowed his pace in an effort to prolong his arousal. While he stood outside booth number four, he relished the growing pressure in his groin. When he felt as though he might explode, he stepped inside the small booth.

The seedy room was dimly lit, but as his eyes adjusted to the darkness he spotted a bench with a box of tissues and a plastic waste basket nearby. He closed the door behind him and paused for a moment before unzipping his pants. He was going to enjoy this bigtime.

When he began pumping bills into the machine in the booth, lights came up behind a glass partition. He could see into the cage, which was bare except for the worn leopard-print carpet and the shiny pole in the center. He ran his tongue under his lip. Come on, sweet thing…come to Clarence.

After several seconds, Rikki entered through a small door in the back of the cage. Her long bleached hair caressed her breasts as she walked toward the pole and squinted out toward Clarence. He backed into the shadows where he couldn't be seen.

“Whatdaya like?” she purred into the darkness.

“Don't talk,” he said while she adjusted her G-string. “Just dance, Rikki. And pleasure yourself while you dance.”

“That'll be extra,” she cooed. “Put twenty bucks through the slot if you want it, hon. I'll make it real nice for you.”

“Show me what you can do, Rikki. Maybe I got even more than that for ya, baby.”

An old Donna Summer tune suddenly throbbed from the speaker mounted over the door. Rikki aimed a crooked smile into the darkness, and then she began to move slowly, sensually. She draped one long leg around the pole and arched her back as her body fell backward like a rag doll. Then with one movement of her pelvis she pulled slowly upright while grasping the pole with her thighs. She writhed against the pole and swung her hair as she felt the pole between her legs. Finally she thrust her bare buttocks toward the glass.

Clarence licked his lips. Bull's-eye, babe! Ahhh, an ass I could grease and ride.

Rikki grasped the pole with her hard thighs and began a rocking motion. She closed her eyes and let the friction lead her slowly into her own world of pleasure.

Clarence groaned as he stroked himself. Don't rush it, man. She's fuckin' juicy. He loved the way her crimson pasties with the black tassels shimmered in the light. They reminded him of Shriner hats, the way they swayed and bobbled. Dance, Rikki-Licky, dance. Dance for Clarence.

Rikki was really getting into her performance now. She slipped her hand inside her G-string. Her lips parted while her eyes remained tightly closed. Her face was flushed and the sweat on her forehead glistened in the pink light of the booth.

Clarence was hip to the routine. Don't quit on me now, Rikki. He quickly reached into his pocket for his roll of bills and pulled a C-note out from under the rubber band. “Keep going, baby,” he said, shoving the bill through the slot. “Don't stop.”

Outside the booth, footsteps silently approached. In the shadows of the hallway a grisly heap of carved flesh lay on the floor in a pool of blood. Scab lay on his back, struggling in vain to hold his guts in. He could smell his own viscera. His vacant eyes watched in horror as the intruder's feet moved slowly toward Rikki's cubicle. Scab's assailant stopped to twist the light bulb overhead, plunging the hall into near darkness. As Scab struggled for his last breath his killer turned back to observe him. He smiled at the grisly carnage with satisfaction. Then the stranger quietly turned the knob on door number four.

In the cubicle, the pressure Clarence was feeling was delicious, overwhelming. His stroked himself and closed his eyes as the sensation crawled over him covering all his senses with steel wool. Now, Rikki-Licky. Now, baby.

He didn't see the reflection in the glass as the intruder soundlessly entered the booth. The cold eyes watched as Clarence writhed in ecstasy.

Here it comes, Rikki. Clarence resumed his stroking motion slowly, deliberately, his closed lids forever sealing the image of Rikki into his catalogue of erotic fantasies.

The steel-like eyes watched Clarence from the shadows. Slowly the gloved hand moved toward Clarence's throat.

“Here it comes, honey,” Clarence panted. “I'm the pole between your hot thighs.”

“What you are is a dead man, Clarence,” the voice whispered in his ear. The quick hand yanked Clarence's neck back, stretching his esophagus like an accordion. “You and your friend Flint shouldn't have fucked with us.”