Carrie had the door open and she was tugging her suitcase out onto the steps. “What are you waiting for? Round two?”
Jeff set the skillet on the stove, clutched the handle of his suitcase, but felt too tired to lift it. He extended the handle, wheeled it to the doorway, and bumped it down the steps. He hurried to the car, wondering if he should have tied Roger up, or done something to prevent him from following.
Carrie was waiting, having put her suitcase in the back seat instead of waiting for him to open the trunk. He lifted his in too, got into the driver’s seat, and turned to her. “Are you leaving your car here?”
“Technically, it’s only my car because it’s the one he let me use. Don’t worry. I didn’t leave him any keys.” She gave him an appraising glance. “You want me to drive?”
“No, thanks.” He started the car and backed down the driveway, feeling relieved when he got past the door without having Roger burst out into his path. He hit the button to lock the doors, pulled into the street, shifted, and headed to the turn that would take him down the hill.
“Jeez,” she said. “I thought you were going to get us killed in there. Haven’t you been in a fight before?”
“What do you mean? Roger is a very big, strong guy, and he didn’t manage to hit me even once.”
“He was getting ready to, and it would have been awful. You can’t dance around like that and tap him. I could tell it was just pissing him off. That’s why I decided to make him freak out like that—so you would have to come to your senses to save me.”
“Come to my senses?”
“Yes. Before he killed you. We’re both very lucky that the place he was coming from was the airport. Anyplace else and he’d have had a gun.”
“Don’t you ever date anybody who’s not a criminal?”
She shrugged and smiled sweetly. “I guess all this time I’ve been searching for you.”
29
IT WAS HOT. Lieutenant Slosser’s office door was closed, and the three detectives were gathered in the room with their coats off, their shirtsleeves rolled up, and their ties loosened. Even Detective Louise Serra, who favored black suits with matador jackets, had hers off, so the gun in the small belt holster she wore was visible.
Slosser leaned back in his desk chair, masking the eagerness that he felt. “So who are they and where did you find them?”
“There are two of them,” said Timmons. “Both of them young, and would you say ‘attractive,’ Louise?”
“Probably not, but you can. You say young and attractive goes with it. They’re teenagers.”
“Right. Their names are Ariana Rodriguez, and Irena Estrada. The surnames may be fake, because the IDs are. The first names are probably real, because a lot of people know them under those names. They were picked up in Sunland in a BMW that was registered to Alvin Tatum.”
“The Alvin Tatum that got killed in the Malibu massacre?”
“The same. The car was parked on the street in Sunland near a corner where some coke dealers sell. At one, two A.M., this Beemer is not going to be noticed. At eight A.M., it kind of stands out. A patrol car comes by, the officer spots it, runs the tags, and it comes up stolen from a murder victim. They left it there and put it under surveillance for a couple of hours. Along come these two girls, Ariana and Irena, on foot. They unlock it with the remote on the key chain and get in. The chase cars roll in and block it, and they’re in custody.”
“What did they have on them?”
“The false IDs I mentioned. They each had a gun and a box of ammunition. If you unloaded the guns, the ammunition refilled the boxes. Both guns were new, probably never fired after the factory test firing. They both had the instruction booklets that came with them.”
“What did they have to say?” Slosser asked.
“Not much. Ariana said they had borrowed the car from a friend because they didn’t want to walk home in this heat.”
“Was Alvin Tatum the friend?”
“No. They didn’t know the friend’s real name. He calls himself Gordo—Fats.”
“So they claim to know nothing about anything.”
“Right.”
“How hard did you try?”
“Hard.”
“Then it’s my turn. How much time do I have?”
“They were brought in at ten. Nobody has asked for a lawyer or anything yet.”
“Good. I’ll see them in Room Three” He stood. “Tell me you’ve read them their rights.”
“We read them their rights,” Timmons said. “Here’s the file on what we’ve got so far.”
He took it. “Good. Serra, can you please bring them down? I’d like you there.” Slosser walked out the door and down the hall to the interrogation room. He sat in a chair he selected for himself at the end of the bare table. When the door opened, Detective Serra held it open for the two girls. They stood at the other end of the table looking around at the uncomfortable room. He said, “Have you been given the chance to use the bathroom?”
They looked at each other, then looked at him. The taller one, Ariana, said, “I’d like to go now.”
“Detective Serra, will you please take them there?”
“We know where it is,” said the shorter one, who was Irena.
“I know.”
While they were gone, he sat alone, thinking about his interrogation and studying the file. He knew where he wanted to go. It was only a question of getting them to take him there. His detectives would have kept them separated all this time, trying to keep them from concocting the same lies and to deprive each of the other’s support.
As they came in the door, he looked at them. They were both thin, both Hispanic, with long, dark brown hair that had been straightened with a flat iron so it hung straight down as though it were heavy. They both wore tank tops, short skirts, and flip-flops. He watched them sit down near the end on opposite sides of the table, then turn to him, their dark eyes wary.
He said, “I’m Lieutenant Nicholas Slosser. I’m the boss of the detectives you spoke with earlier. This is going to be your best chance to make the rest of this experience smooth and easy by answering my questions and telling me the truth.”
Their expressions didn’t mask the fact that they’d heard it all so many times that the actual words fell to the ground before they reached them. It was always about the choice between cooperation and suffering. He decided to start with the taller one, Ariana. She had a naive, earnest look, not hard-eyed yet like the other. “Ariana. Your fake ID says you’re twenty-two. How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
He examined the driver’s license from the file. “It’s a pretty good fake.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Why do you use it?”
“I like to go to clubs.”
He turned to the other girl. “It’s Irena, right?”
“Right.”
“Same question to you. I assume you like clubs too. How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Are you sure?”
“That’s what it says on my license.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Slosser. “As long as you’re over sixteen, it’s all the same. You’ll be charged as an adult.”
“At Disneyland they charge you as an adult when you’re ten.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It’s a lot too. Like a hundred bucks.”
“Let’s talk a little about why you’re here. Last night, there was a murder in Malibu, at the house of Manuel Rogoso. He and two men who worked for him, Alvin Tatum and Chuy Sanchez, were shot to death. The house was set on fire. At noon today, Alvin Tatum’s black BMW turned up in Sunland. Police officers watched the car, and then somebody came along, got in, and fired up the engine. You.” He looked at Ariana. “Help me out.”