“No go on the toothbrush, but she does have an old hairbrush,” Marge said.
“We need a hair with a root,” Decker said.
“Yes, that would help,” Oliver said. “But even if we don’t find a hair with a root, we can always do a mitochondrial DNA. If Shareen’s mitochondrial DNA a is perfect match to the mitochondrial DNA extracted from the blood, we can establish that the blood has to have come from a female progeny of Shareen. The woman doesn’t have any other daughters. I think the conclusion is obvious.”
“Can we extract mitochondrial DNA from the samples we have?”
“According to forensics, definitely,” Marge told him. “The samples are not that old and not that degraded. Plus they found what they think might be tissue.”
“Excellent.” Decker smoothed his mustache. “So if there’s a match, we can be almost certain that she was murdered in her car.”
“With that much fluorescence, it’s a safe bet,” Marge told him.
“Can we put Ivan at the scene?”
Marge said, “We found some latent bloody prints. Several partials on the dash and a lovely right thumbprint on the steering wheel itself.”
Oliver said, “Meaning that the prints were made at the time Roseanne was murdered in her car.”
“You’re hesitating. What is it? The prints aren’t Ivan’s?” Marge and Oliver shrugged. Decker swore. “Do you have anything that links Ivan to the bloody scene?”
Oliver said, “We have his prints all over the place, but since he’s been driving the car for over six months that proves nothing.”
“Damn!” Decker told himself to backtrack. Let the evidence point to the suspect and not the other way around. “Where is Ivan right now?”
Marge shrugged. “We have a warrant to search his car for blood, Loo, not one for his arrest.”
“We’re working on that,” Oliver told him. “As soon as the blood is determined to be Roseanne’s, we’ll get a warrant for his arrest.”
“In the meantime, he goes south of the border?” Decker said.
“Wanda Bontemps and Lee Wang are watching him.”
“Where is he?” Decker repeated. When the question was met with silence, Decker said, “Scott, call Wanda and find out where Mr. Dresden is currently parking his ass.”
Oliver left wordlessly. Decker looked at Marge. “I take it you’re running the prints through AFIS?”
Marge answered, “George Kasabian is on it, and he’ll call either way.”
“He’s good,” Decker said. “How long has he had the prints?”
“About an hour.”
“Let’s hope he’s contemplating something.” No one spoke for a moment. Then Decker said, “Do you have Kasabian’s number?”
Marge read it off of her cell. Decker put the phone line on speaker and punched in the number. George announced himself after picking up on the fourth ring.
“Hi, George, it’s Pete Decker from West Valley.”
“Welcome back, Lieutenant,” Kasabian told him. “I was just about to call you. Actually, I was just about to call Marge Dunn.”
“I’m right here, George,” Marge answered. “What’s the good word?”
“If you have a pencil, I have a name.”
Two shocked but spontaneous grins. Decker gave his hands a loud clap and said go into the speakerphone.
“The thumbprint belongs to Patricia Childress.” He spelled the last name and gave them Childress’s date of birth. “These particular prints were taken when she was arrested for prostitution seven years ago.”
“God bless vice.” Decker handed the information to Marge. “Dunn is going to feed her information into the computer. Thanks, George. You made my day.”
“I made my own day.”
Decker hung up and rushed over to the computer. Marge had inputted the data and the information on Patricia Childress popped up on the monitor. Two arrests for soliciting, two drunk-and-disorderlies, one misdemeanor drug possession, meaning less than an ounce of weed. At the time of her first arrest, she had been nineteen years of age, five six, 105 pounds, blue eyes, and dark brown hair. Her expression was fear masked by contempt.
“Her last known address isn’t too far from here,” Marge said. “I’ll get a warrant, and if she still lives there, we’ll pay her a visit and bring her in.” She pressed the print button to get copies of her mug shot. Decker picked up one of the sheets and stared at the face. “Who are you, Ms. Childress?”
Oliver walked over to where Marge was working. “According to Wanda Bontemps, Ivan Dresden is eating dinner at Sage with a couple of buddies.” He looked at the monitor and became excited. “George found a match to the bloody fingerprint?”
“He did.” Marge handed him the printed mug shot. “Meet the owner, Ms. Patricia Childress.”
Oliver snapped his head back when he saw the picture. “Patricia Childress?”
Decker said, “You’ve seen her before?”
“I’ve met her before. She was using the name of Marina Alfonse. She’s a lap dancer at Leather and Lace. More important, she’s Ivan Dresden’s girlfriend.”
45
O LIVER POINTED OUT a sleek blonde in pasties and a rhinestone-studded thong, grinding away at a customer. “That’s her.”
Marge nodded. “Let’s do it.”
The two of them walked over to Patricia Childress a.k.a. Marina Alfonse and pulled her off the lap of a sweaty bald man in his late fifties. He was incensed but not as mad as she was. “What the fuck?”
Marge flashed her badge. “Police, Ms. Childress. You need to come with us.”
“I’m clean!” she cried. “I swear I’m clean!”
“We believe you,” Marge said. “We’re not from narcotics.”
“Homicide,” Oliver answered.
The owner of the club came rushing over and asked what was going on. Oliver showed him the shield and said, “Hello, Mr. Michelli, nice to see you again. We have a warrant for the arrest of Marina Alfonse-whose real name is Patricia Childress-”
“You!” Recognition of Oliver’s face in the dancer’s eyes. She had turned ashen. “I had nothing to do with it. It was all Ivan’s idea!”
Michelli said, “Can we do this in a more private place?” He regarded the confused look on the customer’s face. “You’ll get every penny back, sir.” To the cops, Michelli said, “This way.”
The detectives followed Michelli, guiding a furious dancer between them, until they stepped into the common makeup and dressing room. The owner waited until after Marge had Mirandized his dancer. Then he said, “You’re fired, Marina. Pack up your things and go.”
“But I swear I didn’t do anything, Mr. Michelli!” Patricia cried out.
Michelli glared at the dancer. “Get her out of here!”
By now, Patricia was sobbing. Her makeup was smeared, black streaks of mascara running tracks down her cheeks. She moved slowly, taking off her thong and her pasties until she was stark naked. With effort, she poured herself into her street clothes-a low-cut pink T-shirt, skintight jeans, spike-heel sandals, and a hooded sweater jacket. Since she was still wearing loads of cheap rhinestone jewelry around her neck and arms, she looked like a streetwalker. Patricia had stuffed her working clothes into a giant handbag and looped it over her shoulder. Tears were still washing her face. “It was all his idea.”
“You can tell us all about it at the station house.” Oliver grabbed one of Patricia’s arms and Marge grabbed the other. They led her out the back door, into the parking lot, and toward the unmarked car. Oliver let go of her arm to pull out the handcuffs. As soon as he did this, Marge turned Patricia until she was looking at the dancer’s back, pulling one of her arms behind her in anticipation of snapping on cuffs. That’s when something metallic winked at her.
It could have been the jewelry, but Marge didn’t stop to figure out what it was. She threw the woman down to the ground and pounced on top of her.