Chapter 40
AT JUST AFTER FOUR, the sun was a dull white disk glowing in a pewter gray sky. The reservoir was covered with algae, and the trees were large humps, massed like woolly mammoths, making the whole place seem prehistoric.
If you squinted, you couldn’t see the city of Los Angeles at all. You could pretend the rush of traffic on Rowena was just a bitter wind.
Justine Smith’s heels sank into the ground as she walked down the slope toward the cordon of crime scene tape that stretched from tree to tree, a bright yellow ring in the smog and the gloom.
Lieutenant Nora Cronin lifted the tape for Justine, but instead of making a snarky remark, she just said hi. Something had changed, and Justine had an idea what it might be. Cronin now felt so desperate about the case, she would accept any help.
Even from Private. Even from Justine.
“Chief Fescoe has been looking for you,” Cronin said. “He’s here.”
Justine nodded, then continued on toward the scrum of cops huddled around the body. At six-foot-three, Mickey Fescoe stood a bit above the others. It was rare to see the chief of police at a crime scene, but she guessed that Fescoe too was feeling the heat.
Thirteen girls had died in just over two years. Fescoe had been promoted in the middle of this murder spree, but now the bad news had caught up with him and threatened to swamp him. The parents of the murdered girls had formed an action committee and were on the television news every night. The public was scared and inflamed.
Justine put her hand on the police chief’s arm.
Fescoe turned and said, “Justine. I’m glad you’re here. Take a look.” He handed her a pair of latex gloves. “It’s escalating, getting worse.”
Justine stooped beside the body of Marguerite Esperanza. There was an extension cord knotted into a noose and pulled tightly around the seventeen-year-old girl’s neck.
The loose end of the cord was taped to her left hand, which was positioned at an odd angle above her head. The really weird part was that the girl had been shot at least twice—in the chest and in the face.
The scene had been made to look as though the girl had hanged herself. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Once again, this felt like a different killer.
Justine asked, “Any witnesses? Any anything?”
“It looks like she was killed right here,” Fescoe told her. “The ground is all chewed up, like there was some kind of scuffle. We found blood on a pile of leaves. Hers or her killer’s. Maybe she managed to rake the scum with her fingernails. Let’s hope so. Give the good guys a break for a change.”
“What about her handbag? Was it found?”
“No, it’s gone, along with her shoes. So there’s your signature. A couple of kids found her and called it in. They said the place was empty when they got here almost an hour ago.”
Justine touched the girl’s cold cheek. Marguerite had been pretty, and more than that, she looked strong. There were bruises on her arms and face. She’d taken an awful beating before she’d gone down.
“The pose is obviously theatrical,” Justine said to Fescoe. “This MO is different than the other kills, which, unfortunately, is the hallmark of this string of killings. I wonder why was she killed so soon after Connie Yu? And why shoot her, then pose her as if she had been hanged?”