last thing I see over my shoulder is Ruiz shaking his head, muffling his ears with his hands as the two guards pull them down and cuff them behind his back; he looks at me, wondering, I am sure, if and when he will see us again. Harry and I, my briefcase half open with papers sticking out, are hustled down the hall to the elevator.
CHAPTER FOUR
“ Q uestion is, how did the killer know where to find the gun?”
I’m looking at Harry over the conference table in our office. The contents of two cardboard file boxes, documents and photographs, evidence reports and copies of investigative notes obtained by a notice for discovery served on the cops, are spread out in front of us.
Our office has expanded so that we now occupy an entire wing of low-slung buildings under the jungle canopy of banana trees and palms in the courtyard behind Miguel’s Cantina just off of Orange Grove, across from the Del Coronado.
“It is possible,” says Harry, “the killer just stumbled onto the gun. Could happen.”
“I don’t think so. Look at the photos of the house, the floor plan produced by the cops.” We have several eight-by-tens, interior shots of the victim’s home as well as an overhead aerial shot probably taken from a police helicopter.
“The place is over seven thousand square feet. Nooks and crannies everywhere, drawers galore, to say nothing of all those display cases housing Chapman’s glass menagerie.”
“Your point is?” says Harry.
“My point is nothing else was touched. According to the police report nothing tossed, no open drawers except for the one where the gun was stored, nothing dropped on the floor, no latent prints, nothing. The place was cleaner than your average autoclave. Only the gun and this . . . this one piece of art—what was it called?”
Harry thumbs through his notes.
We have each gone through the materials, Harry taking the time for notes. I have scanned the high points, leaving Harry to fill me in on details.
“Here it is: glass artwork, blue in color, called the
Orb at the Edge
. Got a picture out of a catalog here someplace.”
“It’s all right. I saw it going through the photos. It’s the only item known to be missing from the victim’s house. Is that right?”
“At least according to the cops,” says Harry. “Could be whoever did it just panicked. Think about it: You just get in the place, getting ready to do your burglary. She walks in. You freak out. You pop her. It’s happened before.”
“Hell of a shooter for a panicky burglar.” I am talking about the two shots to the head. “Less than an inch apart.”
“Could just be luck,” says Harry.
According to the state’s ballistics expert, all this fine shooting took place at a distance of at least thirty feet, standing on an interior balcony above the main entrance to the victim’s home.
“So maybe it cooks the theory of a teenage burglary gone awry,” says Harry.
“Unless she’s fifteen and her name is Annie Oakley. And it still doesn’t explain how the killer found the gun.”
Chapman’s house was large, with six bedrooms spread out on two floors, each one with its own adjoining bath.
“Unless you knew your way around, you would need a map,” I tell him.
“Yeah.” Harry is stumped.
“Do they say how the killer got in?”
“According to the cops, he popped a downstairs screen and came in through a window. One of the bedrooms on the bottom floor on the ocean side.”
“Makes sense. Nobody could see him. Was there a security system?”
“Oh, yeah. Top end. All the bells and whistles, window sensors, doors, motion detectors, glass-break sensors, twenty-four–seven monitoring, eye in the sky, cameras front and back, everything wired up the ass. Chapman paid sixty grand for the system. Only problem was she never turned it on. According to Chapman’s secretary, the hired help was always setting it off, the gardeners, the maid, the FedEx man, the hummingbird that ate out of the feeder on
CHAPTER FOUR
“ Q uestion is, how did the killer know where to find the gun?”
I’m looking at Harry over the conference table in our office. The contents of two cardboard file boxes, documents and photographs, evidence reports and copies of investigative notes obtained by a notice for discovery served on the cops, are spread out in front of us.
Our office has expanded so that we now occupy an entire wing of low-slung buildings under the jungle canopy of banana trees and palms in the courtyard behind Miguel’s Cantina just off of Orange Grove, across from the Del Coronado.
“It is possible,” says Harry, “the killer just stumbled onto the gun. Could happen.”
“I don’t think so. Look at the photos of the house, the floor plan produced by the cops.” We have several eight-by-tens, interior shots of the victim’s home as well as an overhead aerial shot probably taken from a police helicopter.
“The place is over seven thousand square feet. Nooks and crannies everywhere, drawers galore, to say nothing of all those display cases housing Chapman’s glass menagerie.”
“Your point is?” says Harry.
“My point is nothing else was touched. According to the police report nothing tossed, no open drawers except for the one where the gun was stored, nothing dropped on the floor, no latent prints, nothing. The place was cleaner than your average autoclave. Only the gun and this . . . this one piece of art—what was it called?”
Harry thumbs through his notes.
We have each gone through the materials, Harry taking the time for notes. I have scanned the high points, leaving Harry to fill me in on details.
“Here it is: glass artwork, blue in color, called the
Orb at the Edge
. Got a picture out of a catalog here someplace.”
“It’s all right. I saw it going through the photos. It’s the only item known to be missing from the victim’s house. Is that right?”
“At least according to the cops,” says Harry. “Could be whoever did it just panicked. Think about it: You just get in the place, getting ready to do your burglary. She walks in. You freak out. You pop her. It’s happened before.”
“Hell of a shooter for a panicky burglar.” I am talking about the two shots to the head. “Less than an inch apart.”
“Could just be luck,” says Harry.
According to the state’s ballistics expert, all this fine shooting took place at a distance of at least thirty feet, standing on an interior balcony above the main entrance to the victim’s home.
“So maybe it cooks the theory of a teenage burglary gone awry,” says Harry.
“Unless she’s fifteen and her name is Annie Oakley. And it still doesn’t explain how the killer found the gun.”
Chapman’s house was large, with six bedrooms spread out on two floors, each one with its own adjoining bath.
“Unless you knew your way around, you would need a map,” I tell him.
“Yeah.” Harry is stumped.
“Do they say how the killer got in?”
“According to the cops, he popped a downstairs screen and came in through a window. One of the bedrooms on the bottom floor on the ocean side.”
“Makes sense. Nobody could see him. Was there a security system?”
“Oh, yeah. Top end. All the bells and whistles, window sensors, doors, motion detectors, glass-break sensors, twenty-four–seven monitoring, eye in the sky, cameras front and back, everything wired up the ass. Chapman paid sixty grand for the system. Only problem was she never turned it on. According to Chapman’s secretary, the hired help was always setting it off, the gardeners, the maid, the FedEx man, the hummingbird that ate out of the feeder on
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