of Seville and Tosca (one of Glitsky’s older sons by his first marriage, Jacob, was a rising baritone in the opera world); the California Penal Code; and many other legal tomes.
But tonight, Glitsky saw none of it.
He’d already considered and rejected the idea of going directly to the night magistrate on duty somewhere down in the lower floors of this building and asking for a search warrant based on Ro’s obvious knowledge that today’s murder victim was female. Though Glitsky took some solace in the fact that if it ever came to trial, he would indeed be allowed to testify to the exchange and Ro’s slip of the tongue, for the moment, it was essentially nothing as far as evidence was concerned. It did, however, perhaps irrationally, remove all doubt in Glitsky’s mind that Ro had killed Nuñez.
Glitsky pulled over a legal pad and scribbled some notes: He had to find Gloria Gonzalvez, the last remaining witness in Ro’s trial, before the rapist-killer could get to her. He needed to assemble a couple of identification six-packs—mug shots of five other people and Ro—to show around.
Other notes: How had Ro found Nuñez? Had he made an appointment with her? Might he have conceivably phoned her? Had one of his lawyers? Had she lived in the same apartment the last time she’d testified against him?
Now, putting aside his legal pad, he checked his Rolodex, picked up the phone, and punched up Arnie Becker’s cell phone number. The arson inspector picked up on the second ring, in spite of the late hour, giving no sign that he was anywhere near turning in. He knew who was calling him and started right in. “Abe. You got something?”
“Couple of somethings, maybe. Including a suspect.”
“That was fast.”
“You still at the fire?”
“Just getting started, really. Your crime scene just left. I’ll be here all night.”
“So has anybody put together who Nuñez was?”
“No. Other than she’s dead.”
“She was also a witness in a murder trial and was going to be one again before too long for the same guy.”
“Who’s that?”
“Ro Curtlee.”
“The guy Farrell let out on bail?”
“Actually it was Baretto, but yeah, him.”
“Shit. And he went and killed her.”
“That’s my bet.”
A long sigh. Then, “Why do they let these fuckers out anyway?”
“That’s a great question, Arnie. Something to do with justice and the right to appeal. Ask your congressman or somebody.”
“Assholes.”
“Yeah, well, the point is he might have been driving a purple BMW Z-Four convertible and parked it somewhere nearby when he went upstairs. Somebody might have seen it. Also, I’m making up a six-pack you can show around the neighborhood tomorrow. Anybody saw him, we at least take him down here and grill him, maybe even get a warrant to take his house apart. You get anything at all down there?”
“Maybe.” Becker paused. “I don’t want to get your hopes up, but there might be a small something.”
“Go ahead, get my hopes up,” Glitsky said. “Small is good.”
Again, Becker hesitated. “Well, it might not be conclusive, and I don’t know what it means, if anything, but there were two almost identical burned-up pieces of what looks like rubber or plastic—I’ll know by tomorrow—down by her feet.”
Glitsky’s heart did a little flip in his chest. He’d already had one heart attack several years before, and though this didn’t feel the same at all, now he moved his hand over his chest and sucked in a quick breath. “She was wearing her shoes when he killed her,” he said. It was not a question.
“That’s what it looks like. Maybe. Does that mean anything to you?”
Glitsky still was finding it difficult to draw a breath. “That’s what Ro Curtlee did to his rape victims. He made sure they kept their shoes on.”
“Why?”
“God only knows, Arnie. Why anything?”
“Sorry about the time, Wes, but I wanted you to know first. I say they verify the shoes, we get a
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