A Trace of Murder

“What was yesterday again?” Ray interrupted. “The pain meds have me a little loopy when it comes to, you know, days of the week.”

“Yesterday was Monday, Sherlock,” Keri said snarkily. “Her husband says he last saw her at six forty-five a.m. before he went to San Diego to supervise a surgery. It’s currently two forty on Tuesday afternoon, so that’s about thirty-two hours missing.”

“Assuming the husband’s telling the truth. You know the first rule when it comes to missing wives—the husband did it.”

Keri was annoyed that everyone, including her seemingly enlightened partner, seemed to constantly remind her of that. When she responded, she couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

“Really, Ray, is that the first rule? Let me write that one down because this is the first time I’ve heard it. Any other pearls of wisdom you care to offer, oh wise one? Maybe that the sun is hot? Or that kale tastes like aluminum foil?”

“I’m just saying—”

“Believe me, Ray, I know. And the guy is currently suspect number one. But she could have just run off too. I think that as a law enforcement professional, it might be worthwhile pursuing other leads, don’t you?”

“I do. That way, you have a leg to stand on when you arrest him.”

“Nice to see you using your keen investigative skills rather than just jumping to unfounded conclusions,” Keri said mockingly, trying not to smile.

“That’s how I roll. So what’s next on the agenda?”

“I’m going to see Kendra’s best friend when I leave here. Her place is just around the corner. The husband said Kendra was acting funny after the two of them returned from a high school reunion.”

“Is anyone checking on the doctor’s trip to San Diego?”

“Brody’s headed down there now.”

“You got partnered with Frank Brody on this?” Ray said, trying not to laugh. “No wonder you’d rather spend time with an invalid. How’s that going?”

“Why do you think I didn’t object when he offered to go to San Diego? The local guys down there could have just as easily followed up but he insisted and I figured it would keep him and his maroon atrocity of a car out of my way for a while. Besides, I’d rather spend time in the company of a worn-out, weak-muscled, bed-ridden sad sack like yourself than Brody any day.”

All the banter had lulled Keri into a sense of comfort and she realized, too late, that her last comment had sent them right back to the awkward place. Ray was silent for a moment, then opened his mouth to speak but Keri got there first.

“Anyway, I should be heading out. I was supposed to be meeting Kendra’s friend right about now. I’ll check in with you later. Take it slow, okay?”

She left without waiting for a response. As she rushed down the hall to catch the elevator, she kept repeating one word over and over again.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

CHAPTER SIX

Still feeling flushed with embarrassment, Keri drove the short distance to Becky Sampson’s house. She caught sight of her blushing face in the rearview mirror and looked away quickly, trying to think of anything other than how she’d left things with Ray. It occurred to her that she’d rushed out so quickly, she forgot to tell him about the anonymous call regarding Evie and her trip to the abandoned warehouse.

This case, Keri. Keep your mind on this case.

She considered calling Detective Kevin Edgerton, the tech expert who was tracing Kendra’s last known GPS location, to see if he’d had any luck.

Part of her was annoyed that having Edgerton work on this was taking him away from trying to break the code on Alan Pachanga’s laptop. Again, frustration coursed through her as she remembered how they had initially thought they’d accessed an entire network of abductors, only to hit wall after wall.

Keri was certain that the cipher she needed was somewhere in the files of Pachanga’s lawyer, Jackson Cave. She resolved that she was going to pay Cave a visit today, case or not.

As she made that pledge, she pulled up to Becky Sampson’s place.

Time to set Cave aside for now. Kendra Burlingame needs my help. Stay focused.

She got out of her car and took in the neighborhood as she walked up to the main door of the apartment complex. Becky Sampson lived in a three-story Tudor-style building. The entire street, North Stanley Drive, was lined with similarly faux-ornate complexes.

This part of Beverly Hills, just south of Cedars-Sinai and Burton Way and west of Robertson Boulevard, was technically within the city limits. But as it was surrounded by commercial districts and abutting the city of Los Angeles, rent was significantly lower than in other sections of town. Still, the mailing address said Beverly Hills and that had its perks.

Keri buzzed Becky’s unit and was let in right away. Once she was inside, it became apparent that the zip code was the major selling point of the place. It certainly wasn’t the actual building. As she walked down the hall to the elevator, Keri took in the peeling light pink paint on the walls and the thick, mottled carpeting. Everything smelled moldy.

The elevator smelled even worse, like it had suffered through multiple vomit-related incidents over the years and could no longer hide the scent. It jerked unsteadily up until it reached the third floor and the doors rattled open. Keri stepped out, deciding to take the stairs on the way down, even if her ribs and shoulder would hate her for it.

She knocked on the door to unit 323, undid the clasp on her weapon, rested her hand over it unobtrusively, and waited. The sound of dishes being dumped unceremoniously in a sink was easy to identify, as was the thud as whatever had been lying on the floor was tossed in a closet.

Now she’s checking herself in a mirror near the front door. There’s the shadow across the peephole as she checks me out and the door should open in three, two…

Keri heard a lock turn and the door opened to reveal a thin, harried-looking woman. She must have been about the same age as Kendra if they’d gone to a reunion together but she looked much older, closer to fifty than forty. Her hair was a mousy brown, clearly dyed, and her brown eyes were as bloodshot as Keri’s usually were. The word that immediately came to mind to describe her was jumpy.

“Becky Sampson?” she asked by way of protocol, although the driver’s license photo she’d been sent en route clearly matched. Her right hand continued to rest on the butt of her gun.

“Yes. Detective Locke? Come on in.”

Keri stepped inside, keeping some distance between her and Becky. Even rail-thin Beverly Hills wannabes could do damage if you let your guard down. She tried not to scrunch her nose up at the musty scent that dominated the place.

“Can I offer you anything?” Becky asked.

“I’d love a glass of water,” Keri answered, less because she wanted one than because it allowed her to more fully take in the apartment while her hostess was in the kitchen.

With windows closed and the blinds drawn, the unit felt suffocating. Everything seemed to have a layer of dust on it, from the end tables to the bookshelves to the couch. Keri stepped into the living room and noticed that she was mistaken.

One part of the coffee table was shiny, as if it was in constant use. On the floor in front of that spot, Keri noticed several specks of what looked like white powder. She knelt down, ignoring the screaming pain in her ribs, and glanced under the table. She could see a partially rolled up one-dollar bill, covered in whitish residue. She heard the water faucet turn off and stood up before Becky reentered the room with two glasses of water.

Clearly surprised to see her guest so far away from the front door, Becky gave her a suspicious look before involuntarily glancing down at the clear spot on the table.

“You mind if I sit down?” Keri asked casually. “I’ve got a broken rib and it hurts to stand for too long.”

“Sure,” Becky said, seemingly placated. “How did that happen?”

“A child kidnapper beat me up.”

Becky’s eyes widened in shock.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Keri reassured her. “I shot him to death after that.”

Sufficiently confident that she had Becky off guard, she dove in.

“So I told you over the phone that I needed to talk to you about Kendra Burlingame. She’s gone missing. Any idea where she might be?”

If possible, Becky’s eyes widened even more than before.