Part 11: Building A Case
Steve opened his eyes. Though he knew, if only by the pattern of the ceiling, that he was home in his own bed, he felt out of time. It was as if he'd woken up in the middle of the action, but then when he lifted his lids, all was still.
His brain had that groggy, hung-over feeling that followed being dosed with strong medication. It was several moments before he pulled himself together enough to do more than blink at the aforementioned familiar expanse of off- white overhead.
The physical stuff came first. Of course, he was lying on his back, an impressive array of pillows behind him to ensure that his upper body remained somewhat elevated. The bed covers had long since worked their way down to about waist level. But even without that indicator, he knew he was wearing a nightshirt, or a pajama top of some kind - he vaguely remembered his father insisting upon it. His arms lay heavily at his sides, unwilling to do more than lay spread against the bedding.
Other things followed more sluggishly. Vague memories from the night. Snatches of disturbing dreams, thoughts of encroaching darkness, of being haunted by a shadowy figure. He released a careful sigh as he blinked, and noted the dimness brought on by the tightly drawn curtains. These days everything was a shadowy figure. He was hard pressed to think of something that wasn't looming over him. Like finding out the truth about who had killed Adam Michaels and his assistant. Maybe in between trying to keep up with his father who he was sure was investigating on the side, he could figure why someone had shot at him and Maeve. Certainly there would be time to deal with the situation with Fred Mancini, one time friend. After what had happened the day before, they definitely had to talk. And not just because of Stella. The deaths of two little girls also colored his relationship with the other detective, weighing heavily on his conscience.
A loud murmur of voices from upstairs interrupted his internal ruminations, before quickly dying down again, as if being stifled. He realized that was what must have awakened him in the first place. The voices were too muffled for him to properly identify them, but he couldn't imagine that his dad would be making that kind of noise while he knew that he was sleeping.
He turned his head to the side to look at the clock. A jolt of surprise hit him. It was approaching eleven A.M. That couldn't be right. Rolling to his side with the intention of reaching for his watch, he was reminded, in vivid Technicolor, that sharp, rapid motions were still a bad idea.
Cursing himself furiously when he could breathe again, he moved with much more caution and managed to slowly maneuver himself into a sitting position. The watch confirmed the message that he had received from the clock. He had overslept by several hours.
Meaning to find out at least what the noise was about, he eased himself stiffly into a standing position, and slipped his robe on over the pajamas. There were some slippers around somewhere, too. Thankfully, able to work them out from underneath the bed with his toes, he slipped his feet into them and after running a hand over his face, made his way toward the stairs.
As he reached the bottom of the steps, he heard the front door close much more firmly than his dad would have done, then the sound of low voices. One of them was definitely his father's. He reached the middle landing and headed up the remaining steps that lead to the upper section of the house. The voices stopped, and Mark and Cheryl appeared at the top of the flight.
"Steve . . . !" Mark looked as if he was ready to come down and help him the rest of the way up.
Steve waylaid him with a look. He didn't need the help. "Morning, Dad. Cheryl. Did I miss something?" If what he read in their body language was any indicator, something had definitely just happened.
"Maeve just left," Mark told him. "I tried to --"
Steve came to a stop mid-step. "What? Already?" He looked toward Cheryl. "What about protective custody? We were definitely shot at the other day."
--
Cheryl looked back at her partner as he continued stiffly up the few remaining steps. A blue robe was cinched loosely about his waist, his hair was all mussed, falling forward, and he looked as if a couple more hours of sleep would do him good. Though she had things she needed to talk to him about, her initial inclination was to tell him that she would come back later. But she had worked with him long enough to know that would never fly.
"We weren't left with a lot of choices, Steve," Mark said, attempting to finish his previous explanation while steering his son toward the den.
Cheryl followed, filling in. "I was talking to her when her father showed up, lawyer in tow. He suggested arresting her, or letting her be on her way."
"There's a killer on the loose. Doesn't he realize that?" Steve sighed in frustration.
"I've a feeling that he has plans of his own for keeping his daughter hidden away for the time being," Mark put in. "He was a very determined man."
Cheryl added, "I agree. And he did manage to show up with one of the best defense attorneys in LA on a Sunday morning. The man has definitely been planning. I think she'll be okay."
Steve made a face, acknowledging his reluctant agreement as he settled carefully into a leather recliner. "Were you at least able to finish questioning her?" he wanted to know.
"Why don't I get us something to drink?" Mark said, unobtrusively ducking out of the room toward the kitchen.
Cheryl watched him go before turning back to Steve. She reflected on the conversation that she'd had with the woman before carefully wording her response. "I think I got enough," she said. She hoped that he got the message that she now understood all of the nuances of the case.
Steve looked distinctly uncomfortable, not meeting her eyes. "She told you everything?" At her murmured 'yes', he looked up tentatively. "Well, at least she was cooperating that far."
"Yes, she was," she offered a wry grin. "And speaking of cooperation, what did you say to Fred?" Her grin changed to a chuckle. The question had been designed to release some of his tension and discomfort. Instead he seemed even more pensive.
"What do you mean?"
Cheryl frowned in confusion, wondering if there was something that she had completely missed. She remembered how the two men had been found outside the precinct the day before, but Fred had been so different when she'd seen him just before coming out to the beach house.
"He brought me his notes," she told him. "All cleaned up and in order. He asked how you were doing."
Steve's brows rose slightly, but Cheryl could tell that he was trying to hide his surprise. "I'm fine," he said. "You can tell him that if you see him before I do."
"He's taking some time off. The captain divided out his cases this morning."
"Oh." Steve was silent for a beat. "Did you find anything interesting in his notes?"
"Well, he was waiting on follow ups on a few things to do with the Michaels' finances. But there was one thing that was a little odd. The place where Kevin Masterson, the across the street neighbor, said he was during the murders burned Friday night."
"Really?" Mark reappeared with a tray and three mugs. He handed them around and settled into a chair. "Any idea of the cause?"
Cheryl shook her head. "The preliminary findings are inconclusive."
Mark seemed to muse that point for several moments. "Were you able to find out anything about Jeff Johansen, the electrician?"
Steve turned sharply in his direction. "What electrician?"
"Oh, sorry, Steve," Mark apologized with one of his trademark grins. "Last night I spoke with Maeve, and she mentioned that Adam Michaels and Tessa Cohen weren't even supposed to be at the house that morning. They were supposed to be on their way to a convention up in Palmdale.
"Remember the post-it note I told you I saw on the refrigerator? Well, it turns out Jeff Johansen was the repairman in question. Their intercom was broken, it seems. But he was planning to bring back a part on Friday to complete the work. He called Maeve on Thursday night, and told her that he couldn't find the part. But she ran into him later that night at a club."
Cheryl watched as the implications occurred to Steve, and he asked the same ones that she had. "Who knew that this electrician wasn't going to be there?"
"Just her friend Carla, and the electrician himself, of course," Mark replied.
"Carla Rivers," Steve repeated the name. "Her name has come up again. Were you able to talk to her, Cheryl?"
Cheryl was distracted by Mark's sudden frown, but answered Steve's question. "Uh, yes, for a few minutes last night. She was able to confirm Maeve's alibi for the time of Jarvis' death." She continued speaking as Mark excused himself and vanished off into another part of the house. "I tried the electrician's number, but didn't get an answer. I'll try to get by his place this evening." She shot Steve a confused look at his father's behavior.
Steve merely shrugged. "He'll tell us when he's ready," he said, resignedly. Then, "Why don't you take Sternen with you when you go to see this Johansen guy? I'd go with you myself, but that might require knocking my father over the head."
Cheryl smiled at his obvious concern. "I'll be careful," she told him, not committing either way on who would be accompanying her. "I've asked Ballistics to put a rush on the bullets that were taken from Adam Michaels and Tessa Cohen, but you know how backed up they are on weekends."
Steve looked out the window. "What about the one from the beach?"
"CSU wasn't able to find it. They followed its trajectory, even found where they think it hit the sand, but it's gone, Steve. Probably washed out into the ocean. But on the bright side, they were very thorough otherwise. They hit the jackpot with your fence. Do you have parties back there or something? CSU pulled more than three dozen sets of prints."
Something flickered across Steve's face at the mention of fingerprints. "Could you get them to put a rush on the north corner?"
"Sure." Cheryl frowned. "Why?"
Steve shook his head. "It's probably nothing," he said dismissively.
Cheryl tilted her head slightly. There was something that Steve wasn't telling her. Mark's abrupt entrance halted any additional questions she might have formulated.
"I knew that name was familiar!" Mark exclaimed. He entered the room with a white envelope and something that looked suspiciously like a business card in hand. He pointed out the name embossed across the face of the card beneath the business logo of River's End design firm. "She's an interior designer. Carla F. Rivers. Does great work, by the way."
Cheryl looked at him in askance. She wasn't sure she understood what that had to do with anything.
"It's an odd coincidence, don't you think?" Mark looked between the two of them.
"What are you getting at, Dad?" Steve spoke up. Apparently he was just as confused as Cheryl was.
"She did the offices of Findley's Lawn Service. The same firm that did the Michaels' yard, the same one that the neighbor across the street, Kevin Masterson, hates. There's a connection there."
Something clicked in Cheryl's mind and she pulled out her notebook and flipped through it. "Well, Carla's middle name is Findley, so maybe she and the guy who owns the lawn service are related. Since Carla Rivers and Maeve Michaels seem to be close friends, it would stand to reason that they would have friends in common."
"Yeah, maybe," Mark murmured as he settled thoughtfully back into his chair. Cheryl's phone rang at that point, so she withdrew from the conversation.
Mark turned back to Steve. "This Jarvis thing bothers me," he said. There was a pensive look about him that Steve was well familiar with. It meant that Mark had stumbled across something and he was mentally trying to piece it in with the facts that he already had.
"Why does it bother you?" Steve asked. Though he couldn't always follow his father's logic, he'd learned from experience that his insights were most often valid. Talking them out tended to help the both of them.
"Well, for one thing, he was killed on Tuesday night, right?"
"Right," Steve agreed. "Shot at about 8 p.m."
"He'd been abusive toward Maeve. A possible motive could be that he'd been abusive to someone else, and they were out for a little revenge. But then, on Friday, Adam Michaels and Tessa Cohen are killed. But now we learn that they weren't supposed to have been where they were at the time. I can't help but think that the murders are connected, but there is a big piece missing. Can I see that file again?"
Steve frowned as he handed over the folder that was still on the table beside the chair. "Yeah, there is definitely something wrong with the picture. And I wonder if Maeve and her friend the electrician weren't supposed to be there together, instead."
"Mmmm." Mark considered that bit of information as he began to flip through the photographs. "You think she was dating him, too?"
Steve shrugged. "Why not? She was dating everyone else."
"Change of plan," Cheryl spoke as she clicked off her cellular. "Just got the ballistics report on Sam Jarvis. It's confirmed. The same type of gun was used to kill him as was used during the Michaels and Cohen murders. A .30 caliber that matches to a Winchester Sharpshooter rifle. Ballistics says that it's a custom weapon."
"Using a custom rifle is pretty stupid unless you want to be found," Steve said. "But we sort of figured that there would be a match on the bullets."
"Yes, but we didn't figure that Sam Jarvis is a divorce attorney, or that the phone number for Adam Michaels' private line would be found in his effects."
"You're kidding." Steve didn't like the way this new twist was making things appear. He might not like the way she lived her life, but he couldn't believe that Maeve would have killed her husband. "Maybe Jarvis didn't like the fact that she broke it off with him, so he wanted to taunt the husband a little."
"Maybe," Cheryl agreed. "But did you know that Adam Michaels came into a very lucrative inheritance on his thirty-fifth birthday?"
"How lucrative?" Mark asked.
"Four million dollars worth," Cheryl informed him.
Mark whistled.
Steve felt a sinking sensation. "When did he turn thirty-five?"
"Two weeks ago, Friday. Guess who inherits, now. And guess who have hand guns registered in their names?"
"Who?"
"Both Maeve and Carla. They registered on the same day. I think it's time I go have another talk with Ms. Rivers. I think I'll swing by the Fairfield Apartments to see if I can reach our electrician friend. I've a feeling we're going to need to hear from him to confirm or deny their alibi during the time of the murder."
Steve opened his eyes. Though he knew, if only by the pattern of the ceiling, that he was home in his own bed, he felt out of time. It was as if he'd woken up in the middle of the action, but then when he lifted his lids, all was still.
His brain had that groggy, hung-over feeling that followed being dosed with strong medication. It was several moments before he pulled himself together enough to do more than blink at the aforementioned familiar expanse of off- white overhead.
The physical stuff came first. Of course, he was lying on his back, an impressive array of pillows behind him to ensure that his upper body remained somewhat elevated. The bed covers had long since worked their way down to about waist level. But even without that indicator, he knew he was wearing a nightshirt, or a pajama top of some kind - he vaguely remembered his father insisting upon it. His arms lay heavily at his sides, unwilling to do more than lay spread against the bedding.
Other things followed more sluggishly. Vague memories from the night. Snatches of disturbing dreams, thoughts of encroaching darkness, of being haunted by a shadowy figure. He released a careful sigh as he blinked, and noted the dimness brought on by the tightly drawn curtains. These days everything was a shadowy figure. He was hard pressed to think of something that wasn't looming over him. Like finding out the truth about who had killed Adam Michaels and his assistant. Maybe in between trying to keep up with his father who he was sure was investigating on the side, he could figure why someone had shot at him and Maeve. Certainly there would be time to deal with the situation with Fred Mancini, one time friend. After what had happened the day before, they definitely had to talk. And not just because of Stella. The deaths of two little girls also colored his relationship with the other detective, weighing heavily on his conscience.
A loud murmur of voices from upstairs interrupted his internal ruminations, before quickly dying down again, as if being stifled. He realized that was what must have awakened him in the first place. The voices were too muffled for him to properly identify them, but he couldn't imagine that his dad would be making that kind of noise while he knew that he was sleeping.
He turned his head to the side to look at the clock. A jolt of surprise hit him. It was approaching eleven A.M. That couldn't be right. Rolling to his side with the intention of reaching for his watch, he was reminded, in vivid Technicolor, that sharp, rapid motions were still a bad idea.
Cursing himself furiously when he could breathe again, he moved with much more caution and managed to slowly maneuver himself into a sitting position. The watch confirmed the message that he had received from the clock. He had overslept by several hours.
Meaning to find out at least what the noise was about, he eased himself stiffly into a standing position, and slipped his robe on over the pajamas. There were some slippers around somewhere, too. Thankfully, able to work them out from underneath the bed with his toes, he slipped his feet into them and after running a hand over his face, made his way toward the stairs.
As he reached the bottom of the steps, he heard the front door close much more firmly than his dad would have done, then the sound of low voices. One of them was definitely his father's. He reached the middle landing and headed up the remaining steps that lead to the upper section of the house. The voices stopped, and Mark and Cheryl appeared at the top of the flight.
"Steve . . . !" Mark looked as if he was ready to come down and help him the rest of the way up.
Steve waylaid him with a look. He didn't need the help. "Morning, Dad. Cheryl. Did I miss something?" If what he read in their body language was any indicator, something had definitely just happened.
"Maeve just left," Mark told him. "I tried to --"
Steve came to a stop mid-step. "What? Already?" He looked toward Cheryl. "What about protective custody? We were definitely shot at the other day."
--
Cheryl looked back at her partner as he continued stiffly up the few remaining steps. A blue robe was cinched loosely about his waist, his hair was all mussed, falling forward, and he looked as if a couple more hours of sleep would do him good. Though she had things she needed to talk to him about, her initial inclination was to tell him that she would come back later. But she had worked with him long enough to know that would never fly.
"We weren't left with a lot of choices, Steve," Mark said, attempting to finish his previous explanation while steering his son toward the den.
Cheryl followed, filling in. "I was talking to her when her father showed up, lawyer in tow. He suggested arresting her, or letting her be on her way."
"There's a killer on the loose. Doesn't he realize that?" Steve sighed in frustration.
"I've a feeling that he has plans of his own for keeping his daughter hidden away for the time being," Mark put in. "He was a very determined man."
Cheryl added, "I agree. And he did manage to show up with one of the best defense attorneys in LA on a Sunday morning. The man has definitely been planning. I think she'll be okay."
Steve made a face, acknowledging his reluctant agreement as he settled carefully into a leather recliner. "Were you at least able to finish questioning her?" he wanted to know.
"Why don't I get us something to drink?" Mark said, unobtrusively ducking out of the room toward the kitchen.
Cheryl watched him go before turning back to Steve. She reflected on the conversation that she'd had with the woman before carefully wording her response. "I think I got enough," she said. She hoped that he got the message that she now understood all of the nuances of the case.
Steve looked distinctly uncomfortable, not meeting her eyes. "She told you everything?" At her murmured 'yes', he looked up tentatively. "Well, at least she was cooperating that far."
"Yes, she was," she offered a wry grin. "And speaking of cooperation, what did you say to Fred?" Her grin changed to a chuckle. The question had been designed to release some of his tension and discomfort. Instead he seemed even more pensive.
"What do you mean?"
Cheryl frowned in confusion, wondering if there was something that she had completely missed. She remembered how the two men had been found outside the precinct the day before, but Fred had been so different when she'd seen him just before coming out to the beach house.
"He brought me his notes," she told him. "All cleaned up and in order. He asked how you were doing."
Steve's brows rose slightly, but Cheryl could tell that he was trying to hide his surprise. "I'm fine," he said. "You can tell him that if you see him before I do."
"He's taking some time off. The captain divided out his cases this morning."
"Oh." Steve was silent for a beat. "Did you find anything interesting in his notes?"
"Well, he was waiting on follow ups on a few things to do with the Michaels' finances. But there was one thing that was a little odd. The place where Kevin Masterson, the across the street neighbor, said he was during the murders burned Friday night."
"Really?" Mark reappeared with a tray and three mugs. He handed them around and settled into a chair. "Any idea of the cause?"
Cheryl shook her head. "The preliminary findings are inconclusive."
Mark seemed to muse that point for several moments. "Were you able to find out anything about Jeff Johansen, the electrician?"
Steve turned sharply in his direction. "What electrician?"
"Oh, sorry, Steve," Mark apologized with one of his trademark grins. "Last night I spoke with Maeve, and she mentioned that Adam Michaels and Tessa Cohen weren't even supposed to be at the house that morning. They were supposed to be on their way to a convention up in Palmdale.
"Remember the post-it note I told you I saw on the refrigerator? Well, it turns out Jeff Johansen was the repairman in question. Their intercom was broken, it seems. But he was planning to bring back a part on Friday to complete the work. He called Maeve on Thursday night, and told her that he couldn't find the part. But she ran into him later that night at a club."
Cheryl watched as the implications occurred to Steve, and he asked the same ones that she had. "Who knew that this electrician wasn't going to be there?"
"Just her friend Carla, and the electrician himself, of course," Mark replied.
"Carla Rivers," Steve repeated the name. "Her name has come up again. Were you able to talk to her, Cheryl?"
Cheryl was distracted by Mark's sudden frown, but answered Steve's question. "Uh, yes, for a few minutes last night. She was able to confirm Maeve's alibi for the time of Jarvis' death." She continued speaking as Mark excused himself and vanished off into another part of the house. "I tried the electrician's number, but didn't get an answer. I'll try to get by his place this evening." She shot Steve a confused look at his father's behavior.
Steve merely shrugged. "He'll tell us when he's ready," he said, resignedly. Then, "Why don't you take Sternen with you when you go to see this Johansen guy? I'd go with you myself, but that might require knocking my father over the head."
Cheryl smiled at his obvious concern. "I'll be careful," she told him, not committing either way on who would be accompanying her. "I've asked Ballistics to put a rush on the bullets that were taken from Adam Michaels and Tessa Cohen, but you know how backed up they are on weekends."
Steve looked out the window. "What about the one from the beach?"
"CSU wasn't able to find it. They followed its trajectory, even found where they think it hit the sand, but it's gone, Steve. Probably washed out into the ocean. But on the bright side, they were very thorough otherwise. They hit the jackpot with your fence. Do you have parties back there or something? CSU pulled more than three dozen sets of prints."
Something flickered across Steve's face at the mention of fingerprints. "Could you get them to put a rush on the north corner?"
"Sure." Cheryl frowned. "Why?"
Steve shook his head. "It's probably nothing," he said dismissively.
Cheryl tilted her head slightly. There was something that Steve wasn't telling her. Mark's abrupt entrance halted any additional questions she might have formulated.
"I knew that name was familiar!" Mark exclaimed. He entered the room with a white envelope and something that looked suspiciously like a business card in hand. He pointed out the name embossed across the face of the card beneath the business logo of River's End design firm. "She's an interior designer. Carla F. Rivers. Does great work, by the way."
Cheryl looked at him in askance. She wasn't sure she understood what that had to do with anything.
"It's an odd coincidence, don't you think?" Mark looked between the two of them.
"What are you getting at, Dad?" Steve spoke up. Apparently he was just as confused as Cheryl was.
"She did the offices of Findley's Lawn Service. The same firm that did the Michaels' yard, the same one that the neighbor across the street, Kevin Masterson, hates. There's a connection there."
Something clicked in Cheryl's mind and she pulled out her notebook and flipped through it. "Well, Carla's middle name is Findley, so maybe she and the guy who owns the lawn service are related. Since Carla Rivers and Maeve Michaels seem to be close friends, it would stand to reason that they would have friends in common."
"Yeah, maybe," Mark murmured as he settled thoughtfully back into his chair. Cheryl's phone rang at that point, so she withdrew from the conversation.
Mark turned back to Steve. "This Jarvis thing bothers me," he said. There was a pensive look about him that Steve was well familiar with. It meant that Mark had stumbled across something and he was mentally trying to piece it in with the facts that he already had.
"Why does it bother you?" Steve asked. Though he couldn't always follow his father's logic, he'd learned from experience that his insights were most often valid. Talking them out tended to help the both of them.
"Well, for one thing, he was killed on Tuesday night, right?"
"Right," Steve agreed. "Shot at about 8 p.m."
"He'd been abusive toward Maeve. A possible motive could be that he'd been abusive to someone else, and they were out for a little revenge. But then, on Friday, Adam Michaels and Tessa Cohen are killed. But now we learn that they weren't supposed to have been where they were at the time. I can't help but think that the murders are connected, but there is a big piece missing. Can I see that file again?"
Steve frowned as he handed over the folder that was still on the table beside the chair. "Yeah, there is definitely something wrong with the picture. And I wonder if Maeve and her friend the electrician weren't supposed to be there together, instead."
"Mmmm." Mark considered that bit of information as he began to flip through the photographs. "You think she was dating him, too?"
Steve shrugged. "Why not? She was dating everyone else."
"Change of plan," Cheryl spoke as she clicked off her cellular. "Just got the ballistics report on Sam Jarvis. It's confirmed. The same type of gun was used to kill him as was used during the Michaels and Cohen murders. A .30 caliber that matches to a Winchester Sharpshooter rifle. Ballistics says that it's a custom weapon."
"Using a custom rifle is pretty stupid unless you want to be found," Steve said. "But we sort of figured that there would be a match on the bullets."
"Yes, but we didn't figure that Sam Jarvis is a divorce attorney, or that the phone number for Adam Michaels' private line would be found in his effects."
"You're kidding." Steve didn't like the way this new twist was making things appear. He might not like the way she lived her life, but he couldn't believe that Maeve would have killed her husband. "Maybe Jarvis didn't like the fact that she broke it off with him, so he wanted to taunt the husband a little."
"Maybe," Cheryl agreed. "But did you know that Adam Michaels came into a very lucrative inheritance on his thirty-fifth birthday?"
"How lucrative?" Mark asked.
"Four million dollars worth," Cheryl informed him.
Mark whistled.
Steve felt a sinking sensation. "When did he turn thirty-five?"
"Two weeks ago, Friday. Guess who inherits, now. And guess who have hand guns registered in their names?"
"Who?"
"Both Maeve and Carla. They registered on the same day. I think it's time I go have another talk with Ms. Rivers. I think I'll swing by the Fairfield Apartments to see if I can reach our electrician friend. I've a feeling we're going to need to hear from him to confirm or deny their alibi during the time of the murder."