“A few background points. Where can we meet?”
Instinct warned me to pick neutral territory. I didn’t want Carla nosing around my house for any reason. “There’s a café called Aroma on Tujunga Avenue south of Moorpark. I can meet you there at seven.”
She agreed and we hung up. As soon as I clicked off the call, I dialed Dave again.
When he answered I said, “Don’t you return your calls? Do you know what’s going on?”
“I return my calls in order of priority and, by the way, calls for the job come first. You’re third on my social list after Robin and the folks.”
“Good to hear I slipped in rank to number three. Doesn’t blood mean anything in this family?”
“Between my job and your friends, blood seems to be the family business. I assume you’re calling about the vic at Jarret’s house? Don’t you know anyone not connected to murder?”
“Funny. I’m amused. Did you talk to Nick today?”
“No, why?”
“Captain Eagleton called Nick in to examine a symbol the killer left on the body. He was at the scene this morning.” I perched at the edge of my desk, eyeing the muted TV for news updates.
“Why Nick? Are they thinking ritual killing?” Dave said. “Voodoo? A religious sacrifice?”
“Nick mentioned witchcraft or devil worship. He’s trying to track down more information this afternoon. I called you for details about the rest of the investigation. Jarret’s parents called me, worried.”
“Nick can tell you more than I can, if he was at the scene. I’m working my own cases down here.”
“Will you just tell me what might be happening at Jarret’s house? He doesn’t answer his phone. His parents are in distress. They think he’s locked up. I promised to call them back with information.”
“I only know what I heard on the news, Liz. Jarret would be interrogated on the scene and, depending on what the detectives have, what Jarret told them, and—if he lawyered up—they either let him go or arrested him. The only thing I can do for you is phone the West Valley homicide desk to find out who took the call. Maybe I know the detective.”
“Carla Pratt.”
“And you continue to know more than I do. Do you just miss me? Is that why you called? I heard Pratt transferred from Northeast. She’s good. I can’t bug her. She’ll be too busy securing evidence and talking to witnesses. Keep calling Jarret until he answers. You’re good at that.”
“Thank you. Dave, about talking to witnesses—Carla called me.”
“She did? That was fast. An ex-wife from years ago would be far down on my list of people to talk to. Maybe Pratt already has a case and she’s establishing the character angle. Hope Jarret has a good defense attor—”
“I’m not a character witness. I was at Jarret’s house this morning. I need to fill you in on a few details.”
He listened with his version of silence—grunts peppered with sighs and curses.
“Should I bring a lawyer to the meeting tonight?” I said.
“Damn it, Liz. Whose kid are you? A lawyer will tell you to keep your mouth shut. If you want to help the investigation, tell Pratt the truth. You’re a witness, not a suspect. Just remember, whether or not she chooses to tell you, she’ll tape your conversation. Remember what Dad used to say when we asked him what a homicide detective’s job was?”
“To catch people in lies.”
“Exactly. The first interview establishes your story. If Carla finds no reason to doubt you, there won’t be another. Do your interview and let it go. Let Jarret tell his parents what happened.” Before Dave ended the call he said, “Try to stay out of it as much as possible.”
I would. Right after I talked to Jarret.
Chapter Eight
I tried Jarret’s cell again. No answer. His voice mail prevented me from leaving word so I left Ira Ryback a message for him or Jarret to call Marion and Bud to let them know what was happening. Then I phoned Marion and apologized for having nothing to report. Marion did. She updated me on Bud’s latest bowling score, the upcoming county fair, and the birthday present Jarret bought her this year. Perceiving helpless anxiety behind her chatter, I listened until she ran out of topics. Marion and I were close before the divorce. I missed her, too.
The pounding, drilling, and banging upstairs ended at four-fifteen. Stan and Angel filed down the steps with their gear.
“Tomorrow at nine again?” Stan said as we walked out to the porch.
I nodded. “Are you any closer to finishing?”
“I think so. Any day now, you’ll be soaking in a lavender-scented bubble bath.”
“I’ll be satisfied with a shower in my own home,” I said.
“Soon.”