‘Maybe our killer’s a zombie.’ Mick Johnson nudged the ME playfully in the ribs. ‘The living dead are among us!’
Jenny laughed. ‘I’d say you’re proof of that, Mickey. I’ll let you know when I have any more, but that’s all she wrote for the moment, boys. You take care now.’
Standing outside the Boyle Heights Coroner’s Office, the two detectives digested the ME’s bizarre findings in silence. Johnson’s zombie comment was obviously a joke. But exactly how had Lisa Flannagan wound up with a corpse’s flesh under her fingernails?
Realizing someone had to say something, Goodman tried to focus on the facts.
‘So, we’re looking for three sites,’ he observed. ‘Torture. Murder. Disposal.’
‘Uh huh,’ Johnson nodded. ‘Three sites.’
‘I guess we focus on that first.’
‘I guess we do,’ Johnson agreed.
There were a whole bunch of things that irritated him about his slick, young, ambitious partner. But Mick Johnson had to give Lou Goodman credit for an ordered mind, even in the craziest of circumstances.
They were back in their car and about to drive away when Jenny Foyle came rushing out the building towards them, flapping her arms like a lunatic.
Johnson wound down his window. ‘Did you forget something? What else you got for us, Jenny? Vampire teeth-marks on her neck?’ he quipped.
‘Ha ha.’ Panting from exertion, the ME shoved a single sheet of paper into Johnson’s hand. ‘Looks like you got lucky, Mick. DNA results just came back. Turns out your zombie has a name.’
Lou Goodman drove alone to Pacific Palisades. He and Johnson had agreed long ago to divide and conquer on their homicide cases. Goodman always handled the rich, high-class, educated types, while Johnson bonded with the ‘great unwashed’, as Lou only half-jokingly called the blue-collar witnesses. The system didn’t work perfectly. Johnson was great with low-income whites, and over his years in the drug squad had developed a decent working relationship in some of the rougher Latino communities. But he was old school LAPD when it came to black neighborhoods. He didn’t like them and they didn’t like him.
It was a problem.
But not today’s problem.
Today’s call was up in the wonder-bread-white community of Pacific Palisades. The wide streets and multimillion-dollar mansions were very much Lou Goodman’s territory. He was in his element.
‘Turn right on Capri Drive,’ Google Maps commanded. Goodman obeyed, cruising past homes so opulent it beggared belief. ‘Estate’ was an overused word among LA real estate brokers, but these houses were the real deal: ten-, fifteen-, twenty-bedroom palaces with sweeping driveways and idyllically manicured grounds. Uniformed maids, all of them Latina, darted in and out of side gates, some walking dogs, others taking out trash or directing deliveries. Goodman saw a bouquet of flowers as big as he was being delivered to one house, and to another an entire van’s worth of helium balloons emblazoned with the words ‘Ryan is 9!’
Lucky Ryan. Goodman thought back to his own ninth birthday, a trip to the ice rink in White Plains with his buddy Marco. What a great day that had been. One of the last completely happy days of his childhood, before his father went bankrupt and the Goodman family’s rapid descent into poverty, misery and loss began. By Lou Goodman’s tenth birthday, his father was dead. But he never thought about that any more. He’d trained himself only to remember the good times, the happy times. He’d also learned young that while money couldn’t always buy you happiness, a lack of money always brought anguish. Lou’s father barely understood what real wealth was. Greg Goodman had felt rich when he owned a business and a house with a garage and a big backyard. Losing those modest successes had destroyed him.
His son was different. Lou Goodman knew very well what real wealth was, and the terrible things men would do to obtain it and maintain it.
‘Your destination is ahead,’ Google informed him cheerfully. ‘You have arrived!’
Someone’s certainly arrived, thought Goodman, staring up at the vast, Greek classical mansion that was 19772 Capri Drive, aka the Grolsch Residence.
He’d skim-read the family information in the car on the long drive over from Boyle Heights: Nathan Grolsch had made a fortune in waste disposal way back in the 1980s. Dumped his first wife and two daughters and married again in his fifties to a barely legal beauty queen named Frances Denton. Nathan and Frances had one son together, Brandon. According to the file, the kid had turned nineteen three days ago, the same day Lisa Flannagan was murdered.
If Jenny Foyle’s DNA results were to be believed, Brandon Grolsch had spent his big day slashing Lisa Flannagan to death before tossing her corpse onto the side of the freeway like a bag of trash. Either that or someone else had managed to insert tiny traces of Brandon’s flesh under Lisa’s fingernails, an unlikely scenario, however Goodman looked at it.
Goodman hit the call button on the enormous front gates. Two stone lions gazed impassively down at him from marble pillars to his right and left.
‘Yes?’ a woman’s voice crackled over the speaker.
‘Good afternoon.’ Goodman cleared his throat. ‘I’m Detective Louis Goodman from the LA Police Department. I’m here concerning Brandon Grolsch.’
‘Jus’ a moment please.’ The woman had a Mexican accent. Probably the housekeeper. Goodman heard a crackle of static, then a long silence. He was about to ring again when the gates suddenly whirred into life, swinging open to reveal the house and gardens in all their glory.
Making his way up the bluestone driveway, past a lavish marble fountain, Goodman climbed the formal steps up to the front door. Potted olive trees flanked the entrance, and an antique bronze lamp gleamed above the portico. The place looked more like a fancy hotel than a private residence, a small Ritz Carlton perhaps, or a Four Seasons.
‘Come in, please.’
The housekeeper, indeed Mexican, led him through a light-filled foyer into a small sitting room. Goodman took in his surroundings. The furnishings were overtly feminine – white sofas, pale pink drapes, floral cushions and cream, fringed cashmere throws. A large vase of fresh peonies graced an otherwise bare coffee table, and a candle had been lit that smelled of something cloying and sweet. Maybe figs?
‘Mrs Grolsch will be coming in a minute. Can I get you some tea?’
‘No, gracias.’ Goodman smiled. He was about to arrest this family’s son on suspicion of murder. It didn’t seem right to be drinking their tea at the same time. ‘Is Brandon at home?’
The housekeeper looked down nervously. ‘Mrs Grolsch is coming,’ she mumbled, leaving the room before Goodman could ask her anything else. A few minutes later, the door opened again.
‘Detective? Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Fran Grolsch.’
The woman in front of him was not at all what Goodman had expected. Chubby and out of shape, with the bloated face and puffy eyes typical of pain-pill addicts, Frances Grolsch was unrecognizable as the attractive former beauty queen from her Google Image pictures. This afternoon she was wearing a stained pink Juicy Couture tracksuit that sagged around her backside, and wore her thinning, greasy hair tied up in a cheap elastic. If Goodman had to use one word to describe her, that word would be defeated. Even her voice sounded exhausted, each word elongated – ‘I’m Fraaaaan’ – as if the effort of moving on to the next one was too much to bear.
‘You’re here about Braaaaandon?’ She slumped down onto one of the couches.