The Poisonous Ten, Page 2

  Don’t be doing this. Not today. Pull yourself together. He’s locked up where he belongs. He’s not coming after you, and what’s more important, the children are safe.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m sure Media Relations will have something for you all shortly.”

  He lifted the yellow caution tape and walked past two officers who held up their hands to stop the reporters. Parks wasn’t sure as he quickly walked by, but he could have almost sworn he saw judgment and anger in the eyes of the two patrolmen.

  “Detective!”

  Parks made his way between two of the black-and-whites to find Jake Fairmont, who at thirty-four was the youngest member of his team. Fairmont was holding two cups of coffee while he leaned up against a stone hedge that outlined the driveway leading to the crime scene.

  “Heya, boss,” Fairmont called out as he handed off one of the cups then ran a hand through his curly, sun-bleached hair. He turned around and stole another glance at the house behind the Prada sunglasses that were usually on his face or up on his head to hold his hair out of the way. He wore fitted Armani jeans and an equally expensive button-up shirt that was tailored to his lean, muscular body, contrasting nicely with his deep surfer’s tan. He also had on a navy blue jacket that Parks figured wouldn’t last long with the heat that was forecasted for the day. Thermometers were inching over ninety and it wasn’t even ten yet. The smog had already begun attacking Los Angeles, giving the city a broken-down automobile-and-gasoline smell that made it all the more difficult to breathe.

  “Morning, Jake. Good to see you. So what do we have?” Parks asked, assessing the situation, eyeing everything and everyone at once. Everything outside the house was neatly trimmed and in its proper place. The grass was evenly green, the flowers in full bloom, the house recently painted. All windows cleaned, brass knobs polished. A side gate leading to the back-yard was slightly ajar—something to check—and the flower garden under the front windows had been disturbed in some way, as if someone had been stepping in the area, spying in through the window.

  Another thing to check out.

  Everything else looked perfect. Pristine. And fake. As if the place was a movie set.

  “Not sure. I took overalls of the area and the house from outside, including onlookers,” Fairmont answered as he gestured at the house and the crowd building in the street, referring to the photos he had taken. Fairmont was stiff, uncomfortable, not sure how to behave himself. Parks had been worried about this but knew there was nothing to do but let it take its time and pass. Fairmont had been working for the LAPD’s Crime Scene Analysts division as their primary crime scene photographer and recorder for five years before becoming a detective and joining Parks’s team the year before. He’d originally dreamed of owning his own gallery and selling his photographs to rich patrons who wished to decorate their luxury office buildings with his exceptional black and whites, but had since moved on from that dream in these hard economic times and found a more profitable use for his degree in photography. Parks knew that Fairmont also used his photography skills to take headshots of actors and actresses looking to get a foot in the showbiz door. Luckily, in this city, he had a never-ending supply. Even though Fairmont would never admit it, he made more money snapping photos of kids who would never make it as background extras on the CW, let alone feature films, than he did taking pics of homicide victims.

  “But they haven’t even let us in to see the body yet.”

  “What do you mean? We got an active crime scene here. I was called. We’re in charge. What’s wrong?”

  “Not sure,” Fairmont answered. He reached into his pocket and took out a packet of Nicorette gum and popped a piece into his mouth. “We were ordered to stay out until the CDC clears the place. They’re in there now.” Fairmont nodded over to a white van with the words CENTER FOR DISEASE CONTROL on the side. “You ever try this shit?”

  It took Parks a second to realize he was being asked about the gum before he shook his head. He had never smoked other than the few cigarettes he’d tried back in high school. Unlike several other vices he indulged in, smoking hadn’t stuck with him.

  “Works for shit if you ask me,” Fairmont continued. “But who knows. Only my first week on it. Swear this stuff’s more expensive than cigarettes.”

  “CDC?” Parks said, interrupting Fairmont’s train of thought. “This is a homicide. What are they doing here? Other than contaminating my crime scene.”

  “Rumor has it the two responding officers who found the body collapsed at the scene and barely made it out alive.” Parks turned at the words and saw his assistant supervisor and new lead detective, Rachel Moore, approaching. He welcomed the woman who would most likely have information for him. He could tell everyone was anxious to be on a case and working like they did before the Peter Kozlov fiasco. He could see it on their faces. They wanted to prove their loyalty—not just to the force, but to him.

  “What’s that?” Parks had only partially heard Moore’s explanation.

  “No one’s sure why, so they’re being checked. They say there’s a possibility of contagion and we’re not to go in until the area’s been cleared.”

  Rachel Moore was dressed for business and always ready for it. Wearing a slick, gun metal-grey pantsuit that nicely complemented her figure, she appeared a full decade younger than her forty-eight years. Her Gucci sunglasses hid her almond-colored eyes, which were graced with a light touch of eye shadow that was almost unnecessary with her facial structure and skin tone. Her jet-black hair was currently tied back away from her face so as to not leave behind any strands at the crime scene. She had her equipment case at her side, ready to barge into the house upon Parks’s command.

  “Who says?” Parks looked from Moore to Fairmont and back again, squinting as he studied their reactions, wishing he’d remembered sunglasses like both of his co-workers. Even if his were the cheap ten-dollar drug store brand and not name ones like his employees’.

  “It’s okay, sir,” Fairmont said, catching Parks’s eye line. “Maybe it’s for the best you don’t have them. You know . . . out in public.”

  “What? My sunglasses? What’s wrong with my sunglasses?”

  “Nothing, sir. I’m sure whatever pair you bought at the gas station on the way here would totally elevate your cool status by a whole half a point.”

  “Rachel?”

  “Yes, sir?” she replied still staring at the house.

  “It sounds like Jake is harassing me on our first day back on the job. Is that what it sounds like to you?”

  “I wouldn’t think that would be the wisest move for him to make on our first day back, sir,” Moore said, holding back a smile and eyeing Jake with a slight shake of her head.

  “I can have him transferred, you know. Is he aware of that? I hold that power over him. I hear Watts needs a new photographer.”

  “I’ll have the paperwork drawn up and ready for your signature as soon as we get back to the office,” Moore said.

  “You know, I’m surprised they haven’t created an app for that yet.”

  “What’s that, sir?” Fairmont asked.

  “Transferring unruly help. Just press a button on my phone and—bam. New location. New photographer.” Parks was smiling. They were getting their groove back.

  “Wait, you got an iPhone? Really? That seems like an awful lot of power for someone like you to have control of. Sure it isn’t just a cutout of an iPhone. From like an ad?”

  “Someone like me? What’s that supposed to mean?” Parks turned to Moore who shrugged.

  “You hired him,” Moore mumbled.

  “What? I did no such—”

  “Where’s C.C.?” Fairmont asked out of nowhere. “She still on her way?”

  Parks sucked in a deep breath then slowly let it out through his nose. “Miss Cain is no longer a member of our team.”

  “She what?” Fairmont asked looking from Parks to Moore. It was obvious from the look on Rachel Moore’s face that she had anticipat
ed this, and Parks couldn’t say he was much surprised by the fact either. Chyna Cain—commonly referred to as C.C. by her peers on the force—had been part of the fallout from the Kozlov/Levinson debacle.

  “Wait,” Fairmont said, still not buying this. “She doubts you? She thinks you’re just like Levinson? She doesn’t really doubt you, does she?”

  “You’re each adults,” Parks said. “You’re free to make up your own minds and decide what to do with your lives. I can’t tell you what to say or think.”

  “What did she say at the inquiry?”

  “Was I there for yours?” Parks asked, looking to Fairmont. He hadn’t been. They had all been one-on-one interviews as they always were. They each knew that.

  “But she left because she thinks you’re just like Levinson, didn’t she?”

  “I don’t know why she left and it doesn’t matter. She’s gone and it’s not my job to get her back. Actually it’s my job to solve his murder. So how about it?”

  Fairmont looked too Moore, obviously wanting to discuss this further but knowing it wasn’t worth the fight. That was just life. Maybe C.C. did think Parks was just as guilty. Maybe she simply didn’t want to be part of a scandal. Maybe she couldn’t handle the looks and whispers. All were possible, and none of them mattered. They still had a job to do.

  Moore nodded off toward the two patrol officers who guarded the walkway to the house. Fairmont snapped his gum as Parks left him and Moore and approached the two guards.

  “Sorry, sir,” said the guard on the right. “No one’s allowed in until the scene’s been cleared.”

  “Cleared by whom?” Parks asked. “I’m the lead detective in charge here.”

  “Just following orders, sir.”

  “Whose orders?” Parks asked impatiently.

  “Mine,” came a female voice from behind the guards.

  “And who are you?” Parks asked as he looked past the two men at a woman approaching him. She should have been on a runway or in the movies, and he figured that’s what had originally brought her to Los Angeles like so many others who ended up here. It was as she got closer that he saw how her height might have hindered her career aspirations, barely standing at five feet five. Her hair, a brilliant blaze of orange and amber, was tied back and out of her way so that she could work unobstructed.

  “I’m Doctor Jacqueline Isley,” the woman replied, making her way to Parks. The woman removed a face mask to reveal a small, pointed nose, covered with a light, almost unnoticeable smattering of freckles, and a thin-lipped mouth with a strong jaw that added to her commanding appearance. Her face was all business-like, controlling and attentive, almost as if she should have been a nun, ready to disburse disapproval. She snapped off one of her latex gloves and offered a hand, all business-like and professional, to shake. “But you can call me Jackie.”

  2

  “Doctor?” Parks asked.

  “Yes. But like I said, you can call me Jackie. I’m a forensic toxicologist with the county coroner’s lab. Poisons are my specialty. So you’re the detective in charge?” Her words were rapid, precise, and to the point. She had a job to do and didn’t want to waste any time getting to it.

  “I should be,” Parks said as he sized the woman up. She was in a white biological hazard suit, which she now unzipped and worked her way out of to reveal a light green blouse and matching skirt that revealed just enough legs—shapely and strong. He could tell she was athletic, a runner or swimmer, though knowing women nowadays she most likely did kickboxing or yoga. Parks got the slightest scent of jasmine, not overpowering, just potent enough to hide her natural scent without being distracting. “But to be honest with you, I’m not sure what’s going on around here.”

  “It’s all right,” Jackie said, addressing the two guards. “The area’s been cleared. Assume regular protocol. Detective . . . ?”

  “Parks,” Parks answered. “Dave Parks.”

  “Detective Parks is in charge here,” Jackie confirmed, nodding just once to let them know that she was giving them permission to follow him.

  “And why was I ever not in charge of a case I was called in on?” Parks asked as Jackie turned and led him down the cement walkway toward the front door of the house. Parks nodded to his team and started after the woman who he felt was still in charge, despite what she said. So far he was wishing he had stayed home with the puzzle.

  “This morning a 911 call was placed from this address,” Jackie explained. “Two officers answered the call to find the house abandoned.”

  Parks stepped into the home with its sixteen-foot ceilings and admired the exposed wood beams that held it up. Below him were walnut floors that had been glazed over to appear darker than their natural color. Each window was covered in white gossamer drapes that floated into the rooms as a slight summer breeze blew through the house.

  “Abandoned?”

  “Yes. Except for this room,” Jackie said, leading him into the room with the single chair containing the dead woman within the painted, purple circle.

  “Then what happened?” Parks asked, standing in the doorway, not entering the room.

  “One of the two officers approached the victim.”

  “All the windows were open like this when they got here?”

  “Unfortunately not. My people had to open them,” Jackie said with regret on her face. “Sorry about your crime scene, but we had to be sure. We laid plastic down for the pathway we took to the body and windows. I hope that helps. One of the officers collapsed in the doorway and blacked out. By the time his partner made it from the victim, over there, back here, he also collapsed. Luckily he was able to give off an officer-in-distress alert before he did. Otherwise, these two men would be just like our victim there.” She was curt, professional, and uncaring, simply laying out the facts for him to evaluate.

  “And how is our victim?”

  “Dead,” Jackie replied matter-of-factly.

  “I can see that.”

  “From all the way over there? You sure? She won’t bite, you know?”

  “Well, I’m not wearing my doctor-prescribed glasses but I’m pretty sure the woman in that chair isn’t going to be moving again. If she is, she’s gonna have one hell of a crick in her neck. Maybe you should have called a chiropractor instead of us.”

  “We did. But he doesn’t do house calls,” Jackie said. “Plus, you’re cheaper.”

  “I—” Parks paused a moment. He hadn’t been expecting her to match him beat-for-beat. She had been professional so far, almost cold. Maybe this was an olive branch for having his leadership challenged. “I bet. So how did the vic die?”

  “Poisoned.”

  “Some bio-chemical—”

  “Cyanide. Good, old-fashioned cyanide.” Jackie threw on a smile but quickly replaced it with a look of sadness. She was giddy about what she was doing. Not about the fact that there was a dead body to investigate, but the hows and whys of it. She liked her job and it showed. Parks made a mental note that though his puzzle might have been easier, this was becoming more fascinating.

  “Cyanide, huh? You have some kind of expensive breathalyzer that you can hook up to the victim and out pops your poison of choice?”

  Jackie smiled and Parks could see he was chipping away at her cold exterior.

  “The team who responded to the officers’ distress call realized there might be poison in the room and quickly dragged the two men out and called the CDC, who dispatched a vehicle and gave me a ring. An Officer Hernandez lost consciousness before I arrived, but one of the responding officers said he mentioned something about almonds.”

  “Almonds?” Parks sniffed the room and got nothing then looked back at the windows and realized that if he had been able to smell the scent that he’d most likely be seconds away from hitting the floor.

  “Don’t look so displeased. The almond scent isn’t a tell-tale sign of cyanide. There’s a genetic trait that allows very few to be able to smell a faint, bitter, almond scent. We’re lucky Officer
Hernandez was one of those few, or else we might not have been able to determine the poison in time to save them.”

  “So they’ll be okay?”

  “They’ve each been given an injection of sodium thiosulfate to counteract the cyanide’s effects. We’ll keep a close watch on them for the next couple of hours, but I’m hopeful.”

  “And you think this is our actual murder scene.”

  “I do.”

  “Why?”

  “The cyanide gas,” Jackie explained. “It was concentrated mostly in this room. I believe the victim was posed in this chair post-mortem. There appear to be light ligature marks on the wrists and ankles—”

  “So she was tied to the chair?”

  “It appears so. I’d say she was tied to the chair when the gas was released. She died and the killer reentered and cut her loose then drew this circle around her on the ground and left.”

  “Why come back to draw a circle? Why not just do it before and be done? Why risk the poison affecting him as well?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t get into the minds of killers. You think I’m wrong?”

  “No. Not necessarily. I’m just talking the scene out. That’s what I do. The ligature marks. What held her to the chair? Where are the bindings? And why is she still holding onto the flowers?” Parks surveyed the room again, purposefully avoiding eye contact with Isley. She was attentive. The evidence was saying she was right. But why? He looked back to the body then turned to Fairmont.

  “Start taking mid-range shots and close-ups of the vic. We need to process this room.”

  Fairmont took a step into the room and stopped.

  “It’s safe,” Parks said with a roll of his eyes.

  “You sure?” Fairmont asked, eyeing the room. “You know the state doesn’t exactly provide the most beneficial medical coverage. I’m not sure what their policy on toxi—”