Later we would do a complete search of the house, the yard, and the adjacent street area. It was a laborious procedure that often entailed getting down on one’s hands and knees and using magnifying devices, cameras, even a vacuum. Although the results rarely helped, it had to be done. As I finished my inventory, I realized something was bothering me. Everyone in Los Angeles locks the front door at night.
Why had the Larsons left theirs open? Or had they?
I checked my watch. Thirty minutes had elapsed since I had first arrived at the scene. Glancing out a bedroom window, I noticed the SID crime wagon pulling to the curb. Down the street I could still see the Channel Two news van I had noticed earlier. With renewed exasperation, I also noticed that Lauren Van Owen, a reporter who’d made her mark by following the Los Angeles crime beat, had positioned herself outside the crime-scene tape. Although granting that the attractive reporter was a competent journalist, possibly one of the best, I objected to Ms. Van Owen’s penchant for taking liberal, and in my opinion, unwarranted journalistic swipes at the LAPD whenever she got the chance. She and I had locked horns more than once, with me usually winding up on the short end of the exchange-at least in the edited portion of her interviews that appeared on the five o’clock news.
After reentering the hall, I descended the stairs and stepped out the front door. The coastal fog had lowered even more, and a bone chilling mist now hung in the air. As I reached the walkway, Van Owen, microphone in hand and cameraman in tow, made a beeline in my direction.
“Detective Kane!”
Ignoring her, I strode down the flagstones toward a group of men gathered beside the SID crime wagon. As I drew nearer, I spotted the blocky outline of Frank Tremmel, the criminalist who would be responsible for the collection and preservation of all trace evidence taken from the scene. Nearby stood a slightly stooped Asian whom I recognized as a technician from latent prints, and a third officer from the photo section.
“Detective Kane!” shouted the newswoman again. “Give us a minute?”
“Not right now, Van Owen,” I said.
“How many people were murdered?” she called, shadowing me the length of the crime ribbon, cameraman trailing behind.
“No comment. We haven’t even notified the next of kin.”
“Is it true that the circumstances of the murders are identical to those of a family killed last month in Orange County?”
“No comment.”
“Is this the work of the Candlelight Killer?”
Annoyed by her persistence, I turned. Van Owen stood her ground, her blue eyes assaying me calmly, an amused smile playing across her lips. Even in the mist she looked good-long legs, trim calves, strong, square shoulders-her trademark natural blond hair worn shoulder length despite the current convention that newswomen coif their hair short. “What’re you doing out here with us peons, Van Owen?” I asked with exaggerated politeness. “I thought you were a hotshot news anchor now.”
Over the past year Lauren had increasingly substituted as co-anchor on the five o’clock news, and last September she’d permanently moved up to that position. “I still take the juicy ones,” she replied. “Come on, Kane. How many victims were-”
“Damn, Van Owen, can’t you take a hint? We’re going to be making a statement as soon as we’ve got the facts and notified relatives. In the meantime, why don’t you-”
“Everybody else will be here by then,” Lauren broke in. “C’mon, give me something. It’s the work of the candlelight guy, isn’t it?”
It has always irritated me that reporters routinely glorify killers by tagging them with pet names like the “Hillside Strangler,” or the “Midnight Stalker,” or apparently one last month in Orange County, the “Candlelight Killer.” As far as I’m concerned, they’re all scum. “I don’t know yet,” I said, recalling the candles in the Larson’s bedroom and hoping there was no connection. “Now, how about backing off and letting me do my job?”
“Of course, Detective,” said Lauren with a disarming smile. Then, turning toward the house but watching me from the corner of her eye, she lowered her microphone and unbuttoned her camel-colored jacket. “Think you’ll catch him?” she asked, taking a deep breath that caused her breasts to lift against the fabric of her blouse.
“Yeah. Sooner or later, we’ll get this maggot,” I answered. I turned on my heel and started walking. “I only wish we could close cases as fast as certain reporters find out about them.”
Lauren matched my steps. “Maggot,” she mused. “I like it.”
“Glad you approve,” I muttered under my breath, realizing with renewed irritation that the cameraman was still shooting.
Noticing my glance at the camera, Lauren signaled her associate to shut down. Then, “Hey, Kane? When you’re done here, how about giving me a couple minutes over a cup of coffee? There’re some things I want to run by you concerning the Orange County murders.”
“Sorry, Van Owen, I’m booked. Maybe I can squeeze you in later. Say, sometime in the next century.”
“Thanks,” Lauren laughed. “I look forward to it.”
Officer Morrison had just finished recording the SID team’s names and serial numbers when I walked up. Tremmel was the first to notice my arrival. “Hey, Dan,” he said. “You’re lookin’ uglier than ever. How’s Kate?”
“Fine, Frank. How ’bout Millie? Still hoping to wake up someday and find herself married to a skinny cop?”
“Yeah,” the stocky criminalist answered. “She’s got me on a new diet, one of those programs where they send you all your food. It’s only been a few months since I started, and I’ve already lost two hundred and ninety-one dollars.”
“Good work, Frank,” I said. “Keep it up.”
“Right,” he said. Then, indicating the technicians with him, “This is Ed Noda and Vern Harrison.”
After shaking hands with the other two members of the forensic unit, I gave them my initial assessment of the scene, indicating specific areas I wanted covered. Then, as the three-member team started toward the house, I called to Morrison. “Hey, kid. You get that info I wanted from DMV?”
“Yes, sir.” The young officer made his way over, referring to his notebook. “DMV has two vehicles registered to Charles Larson. A Jeep and an Infiniti.” He read the license numbers, noting that one of the neighbors had described the missing Infiniti as a persimmon-colored, four-door sedan.
“Persimmon? Is that red?”
“More like rust.”
“Rust, huh? Same as mine.”
Morrison eyed my battered Suburban. “Yes, sir,” he agreed.
“Any results on the neighborhood canvass?”
“Nobody’s back yet, but I’ll check.”
“Let me know right away if anything turns up. Meantime, I want an APB on the missing car. Do it now.”
“Yes, sir. By the way, when I saw the news van show up, I had somebody at the station start checking for next of kin. They located Mrs. Larson’s brother. He’s contacting the rest of the family. We advised him to tell everyone not to come down here yet.”
“Good work, kid,” I said, liking that he had shown initiative and deciding to make sure his sergeant heard about it.
On my way back to the house, I noticed a neighborhood dog inside the garage, licking the concrete floor beside the Jeep. “Hey!” I yelled at the Australian shepherd mix.
The dog glanced up, took another guilty lap with his tongue, and trotted out the open door. Curious, I reentered the garage and inspected the spot the dog had been licking. A faint green stain marked the concrete near the oil drips I had noted earlier. Radiator coolant, I thought, recognizing the fluorescent color and remembering that the yellowish-green fluid tasted sweet, resulting in numerous dog poisonings each year. Deciding to close the garage to prevent further intrusion, I again used my pen to push the garage-door button. After waiting for the motor to cycle and reconnect the manual release I’d disengaged, I tripped the button anew. The garage went dark as the door thumped shut. Stepping into the house through the laundry room door, I noted absently that the service light on the door-opener was out.