A/N1: It might be cool for Booker and Chen to look into ownership of Chuck. They are totally competent guys.
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Booker and Chen pulled paper booties over their shoes, gloves over their hands, and headed up the short flight of stairs into the house with the CSI crew right behind them.
The house itself was small and white with a half porch in front, leaving room for a couple of chairs beside the front door. Inside it was plain and tidy. There were no obvious signs of either wealth or deprivation. It just seemed sort of normal.
The office with the man's body was at the back of the first floor of the house. A desk dominated the room, the body almost hidden behind two large computer monitors. In front of the desk was a single guest chair. Along two walls were bookshelves overburdened by more books than they had been designed to hold. Behind the desk were windows and a door to the backyard, also composed of panes of glass. A middle pane in the door, right behind where the man's head would have been while sitting upright, was broken. As they came around to the other side of the desk, they saw pieces of glass on the floor, indicating it had been broken from the outside.
The body was of a man probably in his thirties or early forties, fit looking from the appearance of his waist and upper arms, with dark thick hair with no gray. He was wearing a tee shirt and gym shorts, with no shoes or socks. The sort of typical apparel for someone hanging around at home.
From the hole in the back of his head, it looked like the bullet had come through the broken window and hit him squarely in the center of the head, exiting in front and taking his face with it.
The computer screens were a mess with bone and brain tissue, the one on the right hand side was also shattered. Booker leaned over to look at the back of the monitor and saw a bulge. He gestured with a finger and said to Chen, "The spent round got stuck in the back of the monitor."
"Yeah," said Chen. "Why's the window broken?"
They were ignoring the crime scene guys who were measuring, photographing, and sampling everything.
"Bullet hole?" suggested Booker.
"No." He gestured to the back of the head of the victim. "That's the hole from a 45," referring to a 45-caliber round. "Even that size round would leave a bullet hole in the glass that's nice and round. This is smashed out, like a fist or a hammer."
He glanced down at the shards of glass remaining in the frame of the window, and motioned to get the attention of one of the crime scene investigators. "Raul, looks like a bit of blood on the point of this piece of glass."
"Ok, Alan. We'll take a look," said Raul.
Booker continued, "Smashed through the glass then fired? Makes sure the glass didn't deflect the round?"
"Nope. That doesn't fly. First off, that's a freight train of a round. Glass wouldn't mean shit to it. But more important, what's the first thing you do when you hear the glass break?" asked Chen.
Booker put himself in his mind at a desk with a sound behind him. Automatically his head turned to the side as he sought to understand the disturbance. "Yeah," he agreed with his partner. "The shot would have hit him in the side of the head, not the back. So, the kill shot came before the broken glass." Both men paused.
Then Booker continued, "Reach in to snag something after the shot?"
Chen studied the set up and said, "Nope. Too far. Not without gorilla arms he didn't."
"Not to open the door," said Booker, looking at the undisturbed carpet between the back of the desk chair and the door with the broken window.
"Accident? Tripped on something?" asked Chen.
Both men looked out the window to the ground on the other side. There was a smallish patio with a couple of chairs and a wrought iron table. They saw a smudge on one of the paving stones, but nothing to trip over or unbalance someone.
Looking at each other, they both shrugged. They didn't know.
"Raul," said Booker, "smudge on the paving stone outside. Something to check out."
Raul gave him a look that seemed to say, 'don't tell your mother how to have babies.'
"Right," said Booker. "I know you knew that. I was just trying to be helpful."
Under his breath, Chen said, "Now who's sucking up?"
"Leave me alone, dude," grumbled Booker.
Both men turned to look out at the backyard. About thirty yards to the back fence. Nothing but grass between the fence and the patio stones. They looked at the fence.
"Let's go outside," said Booker.
"Yeah," agreed Chen.
Giving Raul a pat on the shoulder, they left the room to head out the front door. Turning right, they found the driveway and headed to the garage. Opening the door to that building, they found a Honda CRV and noted the license plate number.
To the right of the garage they entered the grassed backyard of the house. Staying to the side, the least likely course for the killer to have approached, they got to the back fence. Nothing on the fence itself appeared unusual. Without approaching too closely, they looked at the ground at the base of the fence. If the killer came into the backyard that way, he (or she) might have left footprints from the climb over the fence. They didn't see anything, but that didn't mean there wasn't anything there.
Standing with their backs to the fence and looking at the back of the house and the broken window, Chen said, "He came in this way."
"Yeah," agreed Booker, taking out his phone to take a picture of the grass. From close to where they stood, the grass was a little lighter, indicating that someone had crossed it heading away from them. Almost parallel to the first line, was a second line, just a bit darker, indicating that someone had crossed the lawn heading towards them.
They looked more closely at the points at the base of the fence where both lines ended, but still saw nothing pertinent there.
Walking to the side of the garage, they hopped the fence and went to observe the neighbor's backyard. Another fifteen minutes walking around that area, still yielded nothing.
"He knew the layout of the house and when the vic would be sitting at his computer," observed Chen.
Heading back into the yard, Booker looked at the two chairs by the back door. "Could have sat and waited. If he was early."
"Risky, but yeah, I guess so. No lights back here. Dark enough not to be seen. And with the lights of the office on at night, the inside glass would just reflect back. He wouldn't be seen from inside while waiting for him to sit at the computer."
"Yeah," agreed Booker.
"Time to talk to the cleaning lady?" asked Chen.
"Yeah. Just let me make sure Raul and his guys will hit the backyard too."
The partners split, with Booker heading inside the house to talk to Raul, the CSI guy, and Chen heading to the front to talk with Pancho. Chen removed the booties and the gloves on his way.
"Looks like the hitter came in over the back fence and iced the vic through a window in the door to the patio," said Chen to Pancho.
"Ok," the older man replied.
"As your guys do the neighborhood canvas, send them around one street over too. See if anyone saw some kind of ninja or something crossing into the yard behind the house," suggested Chen.
"Yeah, good idea. I'll get some of the guys to swing out that way too. They're knocking on doors already, but at this hour hardly anyone's home. Working man's neighb, you know?" said Pancho.
"Yeah, figured as much. Probably get more responses after dinner tonight," said Chen.
"I'll get the next shift to assign some guys for then," said Pancho.
"Thanks. Have them ask about a big noise. Looks like a 45. Big bang."
"Right."
"How's the cleaning lady?"
"Sat her in the back of a car and someone got her a cup of tea. I think she's ready to talk to you guys," he said, just as Booker joined them.
"Thanks, Panch. Let's see what she has to say," said Chen as he and Booker headed towards the car with Ms. Fernandez. Booker stopped a minute and put a hand on Chen's shoulder for balance as he removed the paper booties with the other hand.
"ME is here and I talked to him inside. He pegs time of death between 8 and 10 last night," said Booker.
"We believe him?" asked Chen. Since the debacle with the homeless deaths a few months ago, the reputation of the ME within the LAPD had plummeted.
Booker shrugged and said, "Got nothing better at the moment."
"I hear that," agreed Chen. "It fits. Dark enough by then anyway."
"Yeah," said Booker.
The cleaning lady was sitting half in and half out of the back seat of a squad car with a woman officer speaking to her softly in Spanish. As the detectives arrived the officer nodded to them and departed to head back to her partner.
Chen began, speaking to the woman in Spanish, "Good morning. I'm Detective Chen. This is Detective Booker. What's your name, Ma'am?"
"I'm Irma Fernandez," she said, replying in the same language.
Chen was speaking to her gently and softly. He'd learned from experience to treat witnesses like her carefully. Not only would the interrogation go more smoothly the less upset she was, but her emotional turmoil could mess with her recall.
"Pleased to meet you, Ma'am. Just for the records and in case we have to ask you any more questions, can you please give us your address, phone number, and email addresses, if you have those?"
She did so.
"Thank you. Now as I understand it, you work here cleaning the house occasionally, is that right?" asked Chen.
"Yes, for the last three years. Once a week. Mr. and Mrs. Peralta work and need the help. I come on Tuesday mornings."
"Ms. Fernandez, I'm going to ask you something that might upset you, but I promise I mean no harm. Are here legally? Are you working legally? I only ask because we keep your information confidential if you are not. California is a sanctuary state. You will not have a problem either way you answer the question. It's just for the way we keep our own notes."
"I'm legal here. I have my green card and pay taxes. No question. My husband is a citizen and I'm waiting for my citizenship." She didn't seem especially upset by the question, probably having heard it before.
"Thank you. I appreciate your understanding. Now, can you please tell us about your morning? I know you've told the other policemen several times and I would appreciate you patience with me to relate it to us again," said Chen.
"I got to work on time, maybe a little early," she began.
"What time was that, please?" he asked.
"About 8, I guess. I'm supposed to come at around 9, but they don't really care too much. If I can get in a bit early, it makes it easier to get to my next job."
"Ok. What did you do?"
"Umm...I called out, to make sure no one was there. To make sure I was alone. I made myself a cup of tea. Then I started cleaning. I always do the hard places first. Kitchen and bathrooms."
"Did you find anything unusual while you did that work?" asked Booker.
She paused and wrinkled her brow a bit, thinking back. "No. Everything was normal."
"Ok, go on please," said Chen.
"Then I began to dust and vacuum. When I got to Mr. Peralta's office, I saw him. Saw his body, I mean. At the desk." She began to sob quietly. "He had no face." Her crying intensified to the point where they could not understand her. Chen put a gentle hand on her forearm, but otherwise refrained from touching her.
"Mr. Peralta?" asked Chen. "He's the man you found this morning?"
"Yes," she said, taking a hiccup to try to cut off a sob.
"What was his first name?" asked Chen.
"Vinnie. Vincent. Vincent Perlata. And his wife is Daphne Peralta. They were very good clients of mine. Who will call her? She's going to be crushed. Who will tell her?"
"We will, Ms. Fernandez. My partner and I."
Soon, her crying eased and she was able to resume her narrative. "When I found him, I fainted. I don't know for how long, and then I woke up and called the police. You know the rest."
"Good, thank you. Mr. Peralta, was he dressed normally?"
"Yeah. Shorts and a tee shirt. Barefoot. That was normal. I mean, mostly I don't see him. Mostly, he's at work when I come, but when I did see him at home, that was normal."
"Ok. Have you noticed anything else at the house over the last few weeks? Any strangers? Anyone outside? Odd deliveries? Mrs. and Mr. Peralta fighting with each other? Anything out of the ordinary?"
"No. Nothing. Nothing strange. Until today, the Peraltas were boring. Believe me, I have some clients with much more crazy stuff. One family has a son who's a heroin addict. Now that's insane," she said, shaking her head.
"Can you tell us how to get in touch with Mrs. Peralta?"
"She runs an event planning company. She's at work. She's got a huge thing coming up soon. Double wedding. She's working her butt off," Ms. Fernandez looked at her phone and gave the policemen the contact information for Daphne Peralta.
"Ok. How about Mr. Peralta? What did he do for a living?" asked Booker.
"He's a newspaperman. He writes for the Herald Examiner. You'd have to ask them what he does. I don't read that paper. It supports the capitalist classes."
Both men were making notes in their notebooks as Ms. Fernandez spoke.
"Mrs. Peralta doesn't seem to have been home last night. Any idea where she might have been?" asked Chen.
"Probably at the hotel, the Hotel San Mateo, where the weddings are going to be," she said. "She said she's so busy that she's been sleeping there a couple of nights last week. She said it makes it easier to make the morning meetings she's got with the hotel staff."
Something niggled at the back of Booker's mind. He glanced at his partner and said, "Ms. Fernandez, what are the names of the people getting married?"
"Bartowski. She called them the Bartowski weddings," said Ms. Fernandez.
Booker and Chen caught each other's gaze and seemed to telepathically come to the same conclusion. Once again, they had stumbled upon another spy operation. Both men sighed. Oh, boy. Here we go again.
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A/N2: Well, we did know that we'd tie back into our usual heroes before too much time passed, right? Anyone think Vinnie Peralta died as part of a Team B spy operation? Answers coming up soon. Let me know what you guys are thinking, please.