“It’s a lead,” Cruz said. “The escort services are a lead, not a coincidence. Maybe a hooker with a thrill for the kill is moving from one place to the other.”
Del Rio could see how the next few days were going to go: interviewing prostitutes and johns and widows. He turned off his computer and threw the pizza box into the trash. He put on his jacket.
A list of escort service names and numbers chugged out into the printer tray.
Del Rio said, “Get the lights, will you, Emilio? I’ll meet you here tomorrow morning at eight. We’ll stop first for coffee.”
CHAPTER 51
MITCH TANDY WAS poking around the side of the house, looking for anything out of place. He wanted to find something tangible that could link Jack Morgan to the Molloy murder.
He thought about the glove in the O. J. Simpson investigation, found near Simpson’s property line. The glove was conclusive evidence, but through a freak of prosecutorial incompetence, it had ended up helping the defense.
If it doesn’t fit, you must acquit.
The Simpson investigation had been the shame of the LAPD.
Never mind. This was today.
Ten guys from the crime unit were out on the beach. Divers were doing their thing in the shallows, looking for metal. Inside, CSIs were going over the house again.
Jack Morgan was smart, but he wasn’t perfect. And if he’d overlooked anything in his cleanup of the crime scene, Tandy was sure something that could indict him would be found.
Tandy heard Ziegler call out to him.
“I’m over here,” he answered.
Ziegler joined Tandy where he stood inside the stucco fence that separated Jack Morgan’s house from the raging river that was the Pacific Coast Highway.
Tandy asked, “Find anything?”
“No.”
Tandy said, “He leaves his spunk in her. Doesn’t even use a rubber. That’s risky behavior. Like suicidal.”
“Or it’s his brother’s spooge.”
They’d been over this before. The complication of twin brothers with identical DNA. The kind of thing that could introduce “reasonable doubt” into a jury deliberation. When they’d interviewed Tommy, he’d had an alibi for the time of the murder. His wife said he was home. Swore it. Unshakably.
Still, she could have been lying.
“Tommy or Jack. It was one of them. And only Jack has a motive.”
Ziegler said, “What’s that over there?”
“What?”
Ziegler pointed at a disturbance in the mulch at the base of a bougainvillea vine, hidden in the shade of the fence.
Tandy used his foot to push away the pine bark.
For a long moment, they both stared.
“I’ll get the camera,” Ziegler said.
Tandy nodded, stooped down, and continued to stare. This was the evidence they needed. The rush was indescribable. It was why, with all the endless footwork, dead ends, and bureaucratic hassles, he just loved being a cop.
Moments like this one.
The idiot had left the smoking gun behind.
CHAPTER 52
I HEADED INTO my office at eight the next morning, still with a headache pounding like a jackhammer into a spot directly behind my right eye.
Cody was on the phone, but when I passed his desk, he held up his hand, signaling me to wait. He said into his headset mic, “Yes, sir. I’ll see if he’s in.”
He scribbled on the back of an envelope, “Chf Fescoe.”
“I’ll take it,” I said.
I went to my desk, snatched the phone off the hook, and said, “Mick?”
“Jack. This is a heads-up. Call your lawyer.”
“What happened?”
“Tandy and Ziegler found your gun.”
His words were like a fastball to the gut. I felt sick. I lost focus. My mind skipped over the events of the past three days as I tried to make sense of what he was saying.
Words came out of my mouth. “Found it where?”
“In your front yard. Buried under a vine.”
“Planted, you mean. I reported it missing the night Colleen was killed.”
“I understand that, Jack. Fact is, it’s your gun, a custom Kimber, registered to you. Your prints are on it.”
“Only my prints?”
“Yes.”
I sat down. Cody brought in my Red Bull, set it down on a coaster that he positioned just so. It took him a little too long to leave. I stared at him until he exited and closed the door behind him.
“Jack?”
“I’m still here, Mickey. Say again. Where exactly did they find the gun?”
“Under some mulch, just inside your gate. Your Kimber is a .45, same caliber as the slugs that killed Colleen Molloy.”
“The killer used gloves,” I said. “That’s why only my prints are on the gun. He left it where the