Bergen turned to the lieutenant again. “How is this supposed to square someone else’s story? I think it sounds like you’re trying to pin something on me.”
“Knowing if a particular someone was with you will be important to that other person,” Dawes explained. It was a lie, of course, but that didn’t matter. They were under no obligation to tell the truth during the course of an interview; only the interviewee risked a penalty for lying.
Bergen narrowed his eyes. “Who?”
Dumb as a post, this kid, Kovac thought. Good thing for him he had other talents.
“We can’t tell you that, Donny,” Kovac said. “If we tell you, you’ll decide what story you want to tell, depending if you like this person or hate them.”
Bergen turned that puzzle over and over in his narrow little head.
“That means you have to tell us the truth,” Dawes said.
He frowned at that, clearly thinking he was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.
“What’s the matter?” Kovac asked. “Did you have some underage girl there with you?”
“No! I don’t need to do underage girls.”
Kovac gave his crocodile smile. “That’s not about need, though, is it, Junior?”
“I was alone.”
“Between six and seven,” Dawes specified. “You were home alone.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Did anybody see you leave the building?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“You live in California,” Kovac said, “but you keep an apartment here. You must be here a lot.”
“My manager says it’s a good investment.”
“What do you do with it when you’re not around? Rent it out?”
“What’s the difference?”
Kovac shrugged. “Just curious.”
“Did you speak with your sister on the phone Friday afternoon?” Dawes asked.
“Yeah. Three, three-thirty. She asked me if I wanted to stop by the hotel for a drink.”
“Do you happen to know if David Moore was with her at the time?”
“I guess he was.”
“How well do you know him?” Kovac asked.
“We don’t hang out. Except for the fact this one has bucks, I usually don’t like my sister’s taste in men.”
“How did you meet him?”
“Through Eddie. A year, year and a half ago.”
“Eddie?” Dawes asked.
“Yeah. Eddie Ivors. I know Eddie through the business. He introduced me to Dave.”
“Through the triple-X movie business?” Kovac said.
“Yeah.” Bergen gave a little laugh and a smirk. “Everybody thinks Eddie made his money with theaters. Eddie made his money in porn and used the money to buy the theaters. Mr. Respectable Businessman.”
“And David Moore? How was he connected to Ivors?” Kovac asked, his blood pressure rising again. David Moore, the critically acclaimed documentary filmmaker. Kovac knew what Bergen was going to say before he said it.
“He’s into it. He’s directed some stuff for Eddie. Hard-core.”
Kovac shoved his chair back from the table so fast, it tipped over as he stood up. Donny Bergen cringed and cowered. Lieutenant Dawes jumped and twisted around to give him her full attention. Kovac was barely aware of either of them.
That piece-of-shit, rat bastard.
He could see David Moore’s photograph from his Web site, the smug, superior artiste. He wasn’t any better than a pimp, no, worse than a pimp. He sopped up money making filth, and still lived off his wife.
That meant he had bank accounts no one knew about. Greedy fool. He had money of his own, but he paid for his mistress out of the family funds. Un-fucking-believable.
Kovac started to rub his temples and pace back and forth in front of the door.
Dawes looked at him cautiously. “Are you all right, Detective? Do you need to step out?”
Before Kovac could answer, someone banged on the door. Elwood stuck his head into the room.
He directed himself to Kovac in a hushed voice. “I think I might have found Stan Dempsey’s hidey-hole.”
56
THE BOTTOM DROPPED out of Carey’s stomach. She felt the blood drain from her head to her feet.
Lucy’s baby photo in the silver frame. The black-and-white picture of Carey’s graduation from law school, her father gazing at her with unmistakable pride. These were the photographs she kept on the nightstand beside her bed at home.
She looked around the room again, slowly, recognition dawning with a sickening surety. Her champagne bucket. Her wineglasses. Her pillows. Her blankets. Karl Dahl had looted her home, taking things he thought she might want to have with her.
God help me.
“I even brung you some clothes,” Karl said, pointing to where he had hung them on an old hook sticking out of a crumbling wall. Dresses. Lingerie.
He meant for her to stay. He seemed to think she should be happy and grateful for the honor.
“You’re cold,” Karl said. “You should have a wrap.”
The perfect host. The scene was so incredibly surreal, it was difficult to believe it was really happening. Karl Dahl stood before her, blood all over the left side of his face and neck, bald-headed, wearing women’s makeup, wearing women’s clothes. He hadn’t said one word about what she had done to his face. It was almost as if he didn’t notice it.
The gold chenille throw had come from the love seat in her den. David had used it for a blanket Friday night. It smelled like cigar smoke and gin and a woman’s cloying perfume. Carey wanted to throw it away from her as if it were a snake, but Karl wrapped it carefully around her shoulders.
“Please, sit down,” he said, guiding her toward the only chair in the room, a cheap plastic lawn chair that had seen better days a decade past.
The chair was rusted and filthy; it was difficult to tell what color the plastic tubing might have been back when. It was the kind of chair she remembered from her teen years. She and all her girlfriends had had the lounge version, because you could make it lie completely flat, making it perfect for sunbathing.
In a brief flash she saw herself and Sandy Butler flat on their bellies on the chairs in her backyard, the radio blasting. They had been so innocent.
“I really should go, Karl,” she said. “Not that I don’t appreciate all you’ve done, but I need to go home for my daughter. She’ll be afraid, wondering where I’ve gone.”
Karl frowned at that, but he didn’t say anything as he dug through a couple of grocery bags, pulling out food that had probably come from Carey’s kitchen.
“She’s all right, isn’t she, Karl?” Carey asked, almost more afraid of knowing than not knowing.
He didn’t answer. His brow furrowed as he opened a box of Triscuits.
“Please, tell me she’s all right, Karl.”
Without even glancing at her, he got out a summer sausage that already had a third of it missing, and a knife that had come from the block on the counter just to the right of her stove.
The sense of dread in Carey’s chest was so heavy she could hardly breathe.
“Please, Karl…” she said, unable to keep the anxiety from her voice.
Karl stood suddenly and pointed at her with the knife. “You don’t have her no more,” he said angrily. “You’re with me now.”
Carey felt everything crumble inside her. She put her hands over her face and began to cry as silently as she could. He had killed her daughter. Her sweet, innocent child, who would never have been able to identify him even if she had seen him.
What had he done to her?
Again the Haas murder scene flashed through her memory.
It was too much. She rested her elbows on her thighs and rocked herself as she began to sob.
Her daughter was dead because of her, because of this lunatic killer who believed she had championed his cause. She wanted to die. She wanted Karl Dahl to come to her and slit her throat and be done with it. She rocked herself harder, keening.