A/N: Greetings from the frozen east coast of the United States, Maryland specifically. After being clobbered by what my husband called a $#% of snow and the accompanying digout, another chapter.
The apartment was a disaster area, not unlike Pam and Lizzy's domicile after the break-in. In addition to being searched, however, it smelled faintly like a campfire. Mike entered, careful to avoid the piles of rubbish liberally strewn in the living/studio space. He followed his nose to the kitchen and opened the oven. A large pile of ash and small scraps of charred paper were heaped on the floor of the oven.
Steve trailed Mike into the apartment. "Looks like somebody spent quite a bit of time destroying evidence. Please tell me the lab boys took a full set of photos when they were here before."
"The lab boys took a full set of photos when they were here before."
Steve smirked at Mike's parroted response, "Thanks Polly." He found the phone, picked up the receiver with the corner of his flannel shirt and set it back on the cradle, grateful when the dial tone returned. Pulling a pen from his pocket, he dialed the lab, surprised when Charlie answered on the first ring. After requesting a team, he walked over to Mike who was carefully sifting through the ashes with a kitchen spatula, looking for larger shards. "Lab will be here in about 30 minutes, what do you have?"
"Looks like more photos. And here," Mike pointed to a melted pool of brown plastic, "negatives maybe." He reached back with the spatula and found a chunk of charred wood, hooked it and dragged to the front of the oven, flipping it over.
Steve crouched down and looked more carefully. "Not much left, but I'll bet you a pizza at Mama's it's the stamp used on the corner of the pictures Pam found.
"No bet. Right now it's all hearsay and circumstantial, but once the lab finishes in here, I think it's about time to invite Mr. Walters down to Bryant Street."
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The lunch rush had come and gone. Lizzy sat by the payphone, flipping through her address book. She was three quarters through the alphabet and still hadn't found a place to stay for the next few nights; almost desperate enough to call her parents, almost, but not quite. She would rather tough it out at her place, or stay with Nonna until Vince got out on bail, than go home to Hillsborough.
A short term solution was only part of the problem. Once all this was settled she was either going to have to move or find a new roommate. An apartment on her own was out of the question. How had her life gotten so screwed up? Lizzy was tempted to feel sorry for herself, but then she thought about Pam, and to a lesser extent Gary, Anna and Ted.
Looking at her watch, she realized that her break was over. The restaurant was busy, even for a Sunday. Maybe she could pull in enough tips to call a locksmith, get her door secured and just go home. A mirthless laugh escaped her lips as she got up and retied her apron. Yeah and maybe she would win the Miss America Pageant in September. She wiped a few stray tears from her eyes and went back to work.
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"You are a genius," Steve said as Charlie handed him a folder containing crime scene photos and finger print cards.
"About time you realized it." Charlie replied as he led several techs into the apartment.
Mike cleared a space on the counter. Steve spread the 8x10 black and white photos across the surface.
"Looks like quite a few things are missing." Mike picked up one of the shots and compared it to the devastation currently decorating one side of the apartment. From his casual comparison, there were at least a dozen canvases missing from this view alone.
Charlie looked over Steve's shoulder. "Apparently, someone went shopping for oil paintings at discount prices."
Once they compared the entire apartment, there were at least 3 dozen works of art missing. Mike picked up the print cards. "Charlie please, find me one print that is the same as the ones from the van and Grisko's apartment. We could really use a break on this case." A lab tech was busy pulling prints from the door knob and oven handle.
"I always try Mike, but we still don't have anything to compare them to."
"With any luck, we will have something after we bring in Walters."
Steve leaned against the wall, out of the way of the techs, and closed his eyes. He was quite sure at this point he could have slept on his feet if he stayed in one position too long. He heard Mike clear his throat and opened his eyes. With print cards in hand, a broadly smiling Mike motioned to Steve. "Let's see if we can find the person who belongs to these."
Mike and Steve exited the apartment. Mike had observed Walters at the apartment building, so they had more than enough to bring him in. If they could tie these prints to him, they would have him for breaking and entering at the girl's apartment. They could also put him in the van that transported the bodies, as well as Pam's note. The match alone should be enough to get a search warrant for his house and studio. Things were finally coming together.
Steve shook his head. "I find it hard to believe that Walters would think he could get away with passing off someone else's work as his own."
"You said it yourself," Mike replied, thinking back to their original interaction with Walters and Steve assessment of him, "He thinks he's above it all and smarter than everyone else."
"I guess." Steve pulled his notebook from his pocket and handed over Walters' address. Mike recognized the Macondray Lane location as one of the nicer areas in Russian Hill. "No starving artist here," He said as they got into the car. The small street was decidedly upscale and walking distance from the institute.
"No, it's a pretty high end neighborhood," Steve agree. "I looked down here when I got my place," the alley was only 6 blocks from Steve's current address, "but not on a cop's salary. I just hope he doesn't try anything stupid, I'm not up for a footrace today."
Mike looked over at his weary partner, "Speak for yourself, hotshot. If he takes off, it's one more piece of evidence we can bring to the Judge when we ask for a warrant to search his place." Mike honestly didn't want to be chasing a suspect through the wooded neighborhood, even though he prided himself on his ability to run down a perp. "I tell you what, if he runs, you can call for backup and I'll go after him."
Steve rolled his eyes at Mike's last statement as he got out on the Taylor Street side of the lane. He looked at the tall twisting wooden staircase with disgust. The house in question, number 15, was only a few doors from where he stood, but significantly higher in elevation. Mike pulled the car around the block to the Jones Street side; Macondray Lane was only accessible by foot. The narrow slash was deeply shaded by large trees and undergrowth. It wasn't only dark; the vegetation also effectively muffled the normal background hum of the city. By entering from opposing sides, they had effective boxed in their suspect.
Mike parked at the mouth of the alley, which on Jones was at street level, radioed in their location and got out of the car. He had always marveled at this sliver of green on Russian Hill, but today was no time for sightseeing. He walked briskly toward the opening of the verdant enclave. In the hush created by greenery, there was the sound of approaching footfalls. Knowing it wasn't Steve, who was closer to the address, he unclipped his .38 and walked forward, entering the alley.
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Todd Walters finished his beer and crushed the can, adding it to quite a few more in the trash. He looked around his apartment. Now everything was finally under control. It had taken him a while, but he was pretty sure he'd removed any trace of Pam Woodward. He'd disposed of her clothes and hand bag and wiped the blood off the stairs where she had fallen. Stupid kid, why didn't she just tell him where the pictures were.
He couldn't figure out how she'd even gotten the photos in the first place. Sure, she was there when Gary came by and he supposed she had heard the argument. Gary had acted like a fool, bringing those pictures. He could have never gotten a show at the Campbell Gallery under his name, he didn't have the connections. With what Todd had paid him, at least he could support himself. Todd really didn't see Kohler's problem with the arrangement.
At some point, things had gone off the rails. He'd brought Pam to his place late on Friday afternoon before the opening, thinking she would be more pliable to his scheme after a little chemical recreation and some fun in the bedroom. They would have had plenty of dough and a wild ride for the near future. She had instead gone all noble on him. Dumb broad, she got what she deserved for crossing him.
He had to admit, she'd made the perfect Venus and the sight of her displayed in the fountain had taken his breath away. Either that or the effort to haul her ass to the van and up that blasted ladder, she sure didn't look that heavy.
Laughing a little at his own joke, he got up and looked at the pile of paintings needing transport to the van. He had been surprised when he went to borrow the Beluga and it wasn't there. Forced to rent a U-Haul van to move the remaining canvases five blocks to the Campbell Gallery, it was an expense he could ill-afford at the moment. He brushed it off. After the show, money would not be a problem. Gary Kohler's death had given him free access to large number of unknown paintings. Unfortunately, it was a finite supply.
A slightly buzzed Walters walked towards Jones Street carrying several large canvases, now confident he had it all covered. Nothing was left to tie him to Kohler at the Tenderloin apartment. He'd seen to that. Pam was dead and the secret in the photos had apparently died with her. They weren't in her apartment, he'd made sure of it when he used her keys. He was confident the cops had no idea what was going on. Even if they did, they were idiots anyhow. At least that's what Todd thought, until he saw Mike Stone at the mouth of the alley.
Raising his voice, Mike called for Walters to stop. Todd flung the canvasses to the ground, blocking the path and took off in the opposite direction. Mike shoved the obstruction off to the side and chased after him, losing sight of the fleeing suspect in the overgrown lane.
Mike continued his pursuit, carefully pick his way across the uneven paving. He could hear Walters in front of him, closer now than before, and hope he could overtake him before he reach the end of the alley. When that became unlikely, he shouted for Steve, hoping to alert him to the fleeing suspect.
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Steve slowly climbed the stairs, each hour of missed sleep making the job more problematic than it would normally be. He paused at the top and looked at his watch, waiting the agreed-upon five minutes. Hearing the echo of footsteps on flagstone, he decided Mike was in position. He thought he heard shouting and instinctively unclipped his holster as he left the landing, walking toward the entrance to the shadowy lane.
Todd Walters barreled out of the alley, running headlong into the unsuspecting detective. Steve attempted to side step and immobilize the fleeing Walters in rapid succession. He was only partially successful. They tumbled down the first set of stairs as Mike broke clear of the alley. Steve gave up on Todd, desperately grabbing for the post where the steps changed direction. Walters continued rolling down the steps, finally coming to a sudden stop on the concrete ten feet below.
Mike ran down the steps. Steve, laying on his back breathing heavily, waved Mike down the stairs to the suspect. Mike jogged down the remaining 10 steps to the unmoving Todd Walters. He reached down, searching for a pulse, knowing the action was unnecessary from the unnatural position of Todd Walters' neck.