Klinger shook his head. “Barrera already briefed the chief on a possible connection with the hospital. That the man we’re looking for has a medical background. The chief wants to handle this on his own. That means any mention of the medical center never leaves this room.”
Lena and Rhodes exchanged another look. But this time she agreed with Klinger and understood the chief’s motive. The doer’s only connection with the medical center would have been through a program sponsored by the Department of Defense. There was no reason to jeopardize the hospital’s reputation just because someone may or may not have spent a few months working in the emergency room. The situation could be handled quietly, detached from the homicide, and achieve the same result.
Lena turned back to the forensic analyst. “Is there anything more you can pull out of this original,” she said. “Anything that would help point us to its location?”
Rollins grinned. Then he grabbed the mouse and zoomed in on a large white spot in the blue-black sky over the building.
“I’ve been working on it all morning. This spot is actually a jet making an approach with its landing gear down. When I reconstructed the shadow and counted the number of wheels, I realized that it’s a big plane. The only airport that can handle something this size is LAX. So this place has to be somewhere directly east of the airport. Somewhere within a mile or two of LAX.”
“It’s the Cock-a-doodle-do,” Klinger said.
Everyone turned to the chief’s adjutant. His eyes were riveted to the photo.
“It’s the Cock-a-doodle-do,” he repeated with certainty. “The best chicken pieces in LA. It’s east of LAX and right under the flight path just off the one-oh-five on Prairie Avenue. Internal Affairs has been watching the place for two years. Cops go there for takeout.”
Lena shot Klinger a look. “Why is Internal Affairs so interested in where cops go for takeout?”
“Because it’s a whorehouse,” he said.
18
The murder of Jane Doe was suddenly more complex.
Lena may have been green, but she had enough experience to know that the art of closing any case was to keep things simple. To let her imagination and gut instincts light the way, but only move forward with what she knew.
Dr. Joseph Fontaine was trying to hide the fact that he knew the victim. When questioned about the murder, he lied, threatened to hire an attorney, and rented two bodyguards. Jane Doe had stolen an identity and deposited fifty thousand dollars into her checking account six days before her murder. The source of the money had been intentionally hidden, pointing to blackmail. Based on a series of computer-generated images, the man who abducted her from the parking lot didn’t necessarily resemble Fontaine. Yet, the man who actually committed the murder and cut up the woman’s body shared Fontaine’s medical background and military experience.
Lena spotted the neon rooster on the roof as she swept around the exit ramp. After getting an update from his partner, Rhodes closed his cell phone and leaned against the passenger door.
“Tito just left Fontaine’s house. The doctor refused to talk.”
“Did he see him?”
Rhodes shook his head. “Fontaine wouldn’t let him on the property. He didn’t get past the front gate.”
“How did he think Fontaine sounded?”
“He couldn’t get a read. Fontaine’s neighbors told him that they used to be friends, but something happened a couple years back. He got weird and dumped everybody. The wife next door remembers walking into the kitchen at a party. Fontaine was having a full-blown conversation with himself. Tito says she used the words, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”
“Then everybody in the neighborhood thinks he’s crazy.”
“Sounds like it,” Rhodes said. “Have you thought about what could happen when Klinger releases that photo of our witness and the TV stations pick it up?”
He didn’t need to ask. It had been on her mind ever since they left Parker Center and she still felt uneasy about it. They were giving the killer a heads-up. Once the photograph of the witness was made public, the kid’s life would be in jeopardy. It was unintentional, of course. The only real way of locating him unless they got lucky and either caught him using the ATM card again or driving the victim’s car, which remained unaccounted for.
“He’s not coming in on his own,” she said.
“No, he’s not. There’s too much money in that bank account.”
She could hear the worry in Rhodes’s voice, but tried to ignore it. They were passing the Cock-a-doodle-do on the other side of the street. She drove down to the end of the lane divider, then made a U-turn and floored it back up the block. The property was hidden away from the world, nestled in between Prairie Avenue and the 105 Freeway. As she pulled into the entrance and glided down the hill, the place seemed more like a family restaurant than a brothel. It wasn’t until she pulled forward and noticed a second building behind the restaurant that she realized Klinger had been right. It looked like a low-end motel without a triple-A rating. And the girl leading a man into a room on the second floor wearing stiletto heels and a sheer top didn’t appear to have luggage or a maid cart.
“The best chicken pieces in LA.,” Rhodes whispered.
He wasn’t watching the couple enter the room. He was reading the words on the neon sign over the restaurant. But she caught the smile and laughed, guessing that he was trying to make her feel better. Then she turned and spotted the Dumpster underneath the trees at the rear of the parking lot. Her file was on the seat between them, and she pulled a copy of the still photograph taken from the witness’s video clip. Glancing at the image, she measured the angle and passed it to Rhodes as they got out.
The lot was nearly empty. The air, cool and breezy. She looked up into the sky and saw a jet trying to find its balance in the wind. Its wheels were down, the airport just a few miles west. As she moved around the car and gazed back at the buildings, she had all the verification she needed.
This was the site of the abduction. All the pieces were in the right place. Everything was in focus now.
Rhodes passed the photograph back, reaching for his cell phone. “Looks like we need SID.”
She didn’t say anything. While he made the call, she walked over to the Dumpster. The lids were open, the container empty. Taking a step back, she calculated the approximate location of Jane Doe’s body. She knelt down and examined the broken asphalt, the patches of weeds and dead grass. The trash had probably been picked up every day since the abduction and murder, but the ground could still yield enough trace evidence to confirm that the crime started here.
“They’re on their way,” Rhodes said.
She looked up and saw the detective standing in the sunlight.
“Klinger was right,” she said quietly.
“I guess everybody gets it right once in a while.”
The door to the restaurant opened. When they turned, a young waitress was staring at them from the top of the steps and appeared concerned.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” she said. “There’s no loitering here, and we’re not really open yet. This is private property.”
“This is a crime scene,” Lena said.
“It’s a what?”
She stood up and called out, “A crime scene. We need to talk to you.”
The waitress’s face changed. Even from across the lot, Lena could see her body freeze up. Returning to the car for her file, she slipped the photograph inside and joined Rhodes and the girl at the top of the steps.
“I’m only a waitress,” she said in a shaky voice. “That’s all I do. Just wait on tables.”
Rhodes glanced at Lena, then back at the girl, everything nice and easy.