Thin air, p.9
Thin Air, page 9
part #1 of Jessica Shaw Series
“I told you I don’t know her.”
Medina sighed. “Mr. Sherman, we have an eyewitness who says a man matching your description checked into the Dreamz Motel on La Brea last Saturday night with Amy Ong.”
“Yeah? Well, this eyewitness must be mistaken. Must be plenty of guys out there who look like me. I was at home last Saturday night. All night.”
“Anyone who can verify that was the case?”
Sherman hesitated. “Yeah, my wife.”
Medina raised his eyebrows. “Your wife? Is Mrs. Sherman in the habit of covering for you when you’re out meeting with prostitutes?”
Sherman glared at him. “What the hell are you talking about?” He lifted the plastic cup in front of him, which had been filled with water. Realizing it was now empty, he scrunched the cup in his fist. Neither Pryce nor Medina offered to get him a refill.
“Do you use prostitutes regularly, Mr. Sherman?” Pryce asked.
Sherman’s little eyes blinked furiously, and his double chin wobbled like a plate of Jell-O. “You’ve got the wrong guy. I’d like to leave now.” He started to rise with some difficulty from the plastic seat he was wedged into.
“Sit back down, Mr. Sherman,” Pryce said firmly. “We’re not done yet.”
Sherman sat back down.
Pryce continued. “You were arrested for driving under the influence of alcohol after being pulled over during a routine traffic stop in Hollywood three years ago. Is that correct?”
Sherman nodded.
The insurance salesman had pleaded guilty to the offense, paid almost $2,000 in court fines, and had his license suspended for 120 days. The DUI arrest now looked like it could cost him a hell of a lot more than a couple grand and several months of inconvenience while off the road.
“The prints you provided at the time of the DUI arrest were matched to prints lifted from the motel room where Amy Ong’s body was found.”
Pryce looked at Sherman. Waited. The man took his time answering.
Finally, he said, “Uh, yeah, now that I think about it, maybe I have rented a room at that motel in the past. But definitely not Saturday night.”
“I’m talking specifically about prints lifted from a whiskey bottle that also had prints matching those of the victim. Likewise, plastic cups used to consume the liquor. We also matched a thumbprint from a twenty-dollar bill found in the victim’s wallet to the prints we have on file from your arrest. Why don’t you cut the bullshit, Mr. Sherman? What were you doing in a motel room with Amy Ong the night she was murdered?”
Sherman ran his hands through his hair and looked around the room frantically, as though searching for an escape route. “Fuck!” He banged his fists on the table, then buried his face in his hands.
Pryce and Medina waited silently.
After a couple of minutes, Sherman looked up at them, his eyes wet with tears. Beads of sweat ran down his temples; his hair was soaked. “Okay, I was with the girl last Saturday night. It was our usual agreement. We met in a bar, had a couple of drinks. Then we stopped at a liquor store for the booze and went to the motel. I paid her the cash up front, we had sex, and then I left. That’s it—I swear.”
“Your usual agreement?” Pryce asked. “This wasn’t the first time you paid Amy Ong for sex?”
Sherman shook his head. “We’ve hooked up maybe a half dozen times over the last few months.”
“How did you first meet her?”
“Online.” He gave them the name of a website specializing in call girls of Asian appearance. “She called herself Cindy. I never knew her as Amy.”
“Have you met other women through these call girl websites?” Pryce asked.
Sherman dropped his eyes. He nodded.
“All Asian?”
He shook his head. “Sometimes Latinas.” He gave them the name of another website he frequently used.
“Were you the father?”
“Come again?”
“Were you the father of Amy Ong’s baby? She was pregnant.”
Sherman shrugged. “Nothing to do with me.”
“You sure about that?” Pryce pressed.
“She always insisted on using a condom. Usually brought her own. If she got herself knocked up, it was some other guy’s problem. You don’t believe me, do some tests or whatever.”
“We will. Does your wife know you use prostitutes?”
He shook his head. “Christ, no.”
Sherman pulled at the knot on his tie until it was loose and then opened the top two buttons of the shirt. Pryce wondered if his wife ironed those shirts for him each night before work, if she helped him pick out which tie to wear to the office each morning. If Mrs. Sherman had any idea how her husband was spending his time and money.
“Let me guess?” Medina said. “Your wife doesn’t understand you, but the young girls you pay for sex do, right?”
Sherman glared at him. “Look, I like screwing hot young women, okay? It’s not a crime, is it?”
“Actually, engaging in a sexual act or lewd conduct with another person in exchange for money is a crime, Mr. Sherman.” Medina pointed to the camera. “A crime you have admitted to committing during this interview, which, as you have already been advised, is being recorded.”
Sherman’s eyes widened. “Christ, my wife doesn’t need to know about this, does she? You don’t understand—she’ll leave me for good this time. What with the drinking and the DUI—”
Pryce interrupted. “No, Mr. Sherman, you’re the one who doesn’t understand. Right now, any charges in relation to your use of prostitutes is the least of your problems.”
Pryce glanced at the other detective. “Detective Medina?”
Medina opened the file again and withdrew another photograph of Amy Ong. This one was a close-up shot taken by the police photographer after her death and showed her badly beaten face. The broken nose, bruised cheekbone, and dried blood spatter on her pale skin were all clearly visible. Sherman stared at the photograph for a long time. Then choked back a sob. He reached out a hand toward the picture, his trembling fingers hovering just above Amy Ong’s face but not quite touching the glossy paper.
“Cindy,” he whispered.
“Did you kill Amy Ong?” Pryce asked calmly.
Sherman pushed the photo away. “No! I never touched her. Not like that. I would never hurt Cindy. Never in a million years. Fuck! You’ve got to believe me.”
“So who did kill her?”
“How the hell should I know?” he yelled. “She was fine when I walked out of that room. She must’ve had another john lined up after I left. I’m telling you someone else did this to her. I’m being set up. I’m innocent.”
“Why didn’t you leave the motel room together?” Pryce asked. “Offer her a ride back to campus?”
“She said she wanted to take a shower, freshen up. She had her own car. Said she was parked near the bar on Las Palmas.”
Amy Ong’s car hadn’t yet been accounted for. Pryce would put out a BOLO for the 2004 Mini in the vicinity of Las Palmas as soon as the interview was over.
“Did you kill Amy Ong?” Pryce repeated.
“No, I did not kill her. Get me my fucking lawyer right now. I’m not saying another word until he gets here.”
The prints on the whiskey bottle, plastic cups, and twenty-dollar bill were compelling evidence supporting the theory Sherman had been in contact with Amy Ong shortly before her death—but they didn’t necessarily put him in the motel room with her. Forensics had been unable to lift usable prints from the room itself due to multiple prints belonging to previous guests and members of staff. But Sherman had put himself in the room the night Amy Ong died, and that was good enough for Pryce.
He turned to Medina. “You want to do the honors, partner?”
“With pleasure, partner.”
Medina looked at Sherman. “Francis Sherman, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Amy Ong.”
The man’s expression changed instantly from rage to one of pure panic. His beady eyes widened. “You can’t do this. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Medina shifted in the chair and produced a small white plastic card, the size of an ATM card, from the back pocket of his jeans and began to read the Miranda warning printed on it. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law . . .”
Pryce placed the two photos of Amy Ong back in the file and tucked it under his arm. He stood and walked to the door, leaving Medina to continue reading Sherman his rights.
He strolled slowly down the corridor toward the squad room, thinking about what Frank Sherman had told them during the interview. He knew he should be thrilled. They had just made an arrest in a high-profile murder case a little over twenty-four hours after the body had been found. It would ease the intense media pressure weighing heavily on them to find the killer and give the Ongs some hope of seeing justice served for their daughter.
But something just felt off to Pryce.
Back at his workstation, he removed the photographs from the file and returned them to a plastic wallet inside the murder book. He picked up a stack of telephone messages that had been left on his desk and rifled through them. Most were crank callers claiming to know who had killed Amy Ong or “Confessing Sams” insisting they had committed the crime themselves. A frustrating part of the job with cases with a lot of media interest, like the Amy Ong murder, and a huge drain on police resources checking them out.
Pryce looked up as Medina appeared in the squad room with a big grin on his face.
“Now, that is what you call a slam dunk.” Medina jumped in the air and mimicked dropping a shot into a basketball hoop. Then he walked over to the workstation area and raised his hand for a high five. Pryce ignored it.
“Is Sherman being booked?” he asked.
“As we speak,” Medina said, lowering his hand.
“Slam dunk, huh?” Pryce rubbed at his temples with his thumb and forefinger and sighed heavily. “I don’t know, Vic. It all just feels a bit too . . . easy. You know what I mean? The whiskey bottle, the cash, the prints all being left behind at the scene. Why didn’t this guy get rid of anything that would tie him to the vic? Especially when he has a record and knew he would be in the system.”
Medina frowned. “What, you wanting the perps to make it hard for you now, Jase? He panicked is all. Sure, he’s got plenty of priors when it comes to screwing whores, but I’m betting a kill like this was his first time. Got out of there without stopping to think it through first. Trust me, man—Sherman’s our guy.”
“What about his theory about another john showing up at the motel after he left? It’s possible, right?”
Medina shook his head. “No way. You could smell the guilt on that fat fucker like cheap cologne.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Pryce picked up the pile of telephone messages again and continued sifting through them.
“Hey, why don’t we go grab a couple of beers?” Medina said. “Celebrate making an arrest.”
Pryce didn’t answer him. He was staring at a slip of paper he held in his hand. A name was scribbled next to a cell phone number, and the word urgent was underlined twice.
The message hadn’t been left by a crank caller.
The name belonged to someone who had drifted in and out of his thoughts many times over the years. Someone he had hoped never to lay eyes on again. Someone he could not allow back into his life under any circumstances. He looked at the next slip of paper. Another message from the same woman. He thought of the heavy, gut-wrenching feeling of dread that had kept him awake for most of the previous night and knew he had been right to be worried.
“Problem?” Medina’s voice broke into his thoughts.
Pryce balled the two messages in his fist and tossed them into the trash can under his desk. He shook his head.
“No problem,” he said. “It’s nothing important.”
13
JESSICA
Jessica was about to ask Freeman for more information on Rob Young when the door opened, and Jack Holliday walked into the bar.
Once again, he looked like a guy who could give a GQ model an inferiority complex. His long legs were wrapped in black denim, and a gray athletic T-shirt showed off tanned arms and hinted at rock-hard abs underneath. His hair was still wet from the shower. He wasn’t wearing the messenger bag.
“Customer,” Freeman said, smiling apologetically. He slid across the leather seat and out of the booth, standing up with an exaggerated groan, hand pressed to the small of his back. He picked up his empty beer bottle, pointed to her own Bud Light. “You want another?”
Jessica had barely touched the drink during their conversation. “No thanks. This one’s still pretty full.”
“No problem. It’s on the house.”
“Cool, thanks.”
Holliday caught her eye and smiled as he walked over to the bar. Jessica’s cheeks burned, and she looked down and studied the label on the beer bottle like it was the most interesting thing she’d ever read. She took a long drink. Sneaked another look at Holliday while he placed his order.
Black jeans, gray tee, damp hair. No messenger bag.
Jessica took one last slug from the bottle, grabbed her own bag, and made her way quickly to the exit. As she passed him, Holliday grabbed her arm softly. “Hey, you’re not leaving already, are you? I just bought you a drink.”
Two beers sat on the counter, looking almost as tempting as Jack Holliday did himself.
Jessica shook her arm free. “Sorry, I gotta go.”
He looked disappointed, and her stomach did a weird little flip, but she knew any interest Holliday had in her was purely about the case. She pushed open the door. The night air felt good on her flushed face as she walked briskly along York toward the motel.
Most of the shops and cafés were closed, but there were still folks around. A couple strolled arm in arm across the street. Some teenage kids careered past on skateboards. Twilight had claimed the day, but it wasn’t full dark just yet, and Jessica glanced back every few yards just to be sure she wasn’t being tailed by anyone on foot or by car. But she didn’t have the same feeling of being watched as she’d had the night before, and she saw no one hiding in the shadows or any sign of a black SUV with tinted windows.
When Jessica reached the Blue Moon Inn, the lights in the lobby were blazing brightly, and she could see Hopper behind the desk flicking through a magazine. He looked up as she passed the window and smiled and gave her a friendly wave. She returned the gesture and made a mental note to speak to him tomorrow about Eleanor Lavelle’s stay at the motel and the rumors about their relationship.
Right now, she had more pressing business to take care of.
She loped past rooms 1 through 4, and when she reached her own, she kept walking. She stopped outside room 6 and glanced around in what she hoped was a casual sort of way. Like she was a guest about to turn in for the night, instead of someone about to commit a felony.
The neon light from the roof cast a ghostly blue glow over her hands and arms, giving her skin the deathly pallor of a days-dead corpse. It was the only real light source this far back from the office, which was good news for her attempts to remain unnoticed but not so good for the job at hand.
Jessica rummaged in her bag until she found a mini Maglite flashlight and flicked the switch a couple times to make sure the batteries still worked. They did. She switched it off again and pulled a small black leather case from the bag that looked similar to the manicure sets that well-groomed, image-conscious women might carry. Inside were a dozen tiny tools held in place by strips of black elastic, but none of them were emery boards or cuticle shapers.
She considered the options for a second or two, then selected the size and style of pick best suited to the old-fashioned lock on the door in front of her. She looked around again. Satisfied there was no one watching, Jessica switched on the flashlight, inserted the pick in the lock, and within seconds heard a satisfying click.
She was both impressed and disturbed by how quick and easy access to the room had been. Her own accommodation, right next door, would be no more secure and just as easily breached by anyone with half a clue about what they were doing. Jessica decided she would sleep a lot easier with the security chain fastened in place from now on while staying in town.
Still satisfied there were no onlookers, Jessica crossed the threshold into Holliday’s room and quickly and quietly closed the door behind her. Aided by the light of the flashlight and a streak of cool silver moonlight through the small window, she assessed her surroundings.
The setup was identical to her own room on the other side of the wall. A queen bed, a nightstand, a desk with an old-fashioned TV on top, and an uncomfortable chair pushed under the desktop. A coffee maker, still unused, on the top shelf of an open closet with four wire hangers on the rail. Holliday had put the hangers to good use, each one doubled up with jeans and shirts and all evenly spaced. Unlike Jessica’s own room, where one of her suitcases lay open on the floor, spewing pants, T-shirts, and underwear.
The unintentional retro styling of the motel room met modern-day technology thanks to a small sleek laptop, a digital camera, and tiny white earbuds next to a pile of paperwork on the desk. Work stuff. The items on the nightstand were more personal and told Jessica a little more about the journalist.
Holliday was a man who wore expensive French aftershave, who read action thrillers by American authors, and who drank bourbon from Kentucky. He slipped his sneakers off without untying the laces first and needed glasses for reading the paperbacks by the bed. He drove a Ford, which would be the dark-green pickup truck parked in the lot outside. He took multivitamins and snacked on Snyder’s mini pretzels.
And Jack Holliday had case files Jessica fully intended getting her hands on.
She swept the flashlight in a wide arc around the cramped space and spotted the messenger bag under the desk. The buckles were undone, and she threw back the flap and pulled out the folder. There was nothing else inside the bag. Pushing the rest of the paperwork on the desk to one side, she opened the folder and quickly rifled through the contents. What Holliday had in his possession clearly wasn’t the original case file. Instead, the folder contained color copies of the contents of the murder book and missing person report.
