The Beast Page 10

  Marge nodded as she wrote. “How long did you talk to Mr. Penny?”

  “About ten minutes.”

  “Ever have any dealing with him again?”

  “Nope. I never saw him again. If the guy left the apartment, I never ran into him.”

  Marge said, “What about deliveries?”

  “Yeah, I saw people come to his door.”

  “From where?” Oliver asked.

  “Local markets mostly. FedEx came a couple of times. Once he got a delivery from the cleaners.” She shrugged. “It’s not like I was spying on him. It’s just that when you hear weird stuff coming out the door, you get curious.”

  “Any visitors ever come in?” Marge asked.

  “You mean the woman?”

  “Yeah,” Oliver said. “Tell me about her.”

  “I saw her two or three times. She had blond hair and wore stilettos.” Masey smiled. “She looked like a classy hooker. But then again, Penny was really old. But you never know. I read in the papers that he was a gazillionaire. Wow, that’s a shock. His apartment was like . . . nothing.”

  “What was in it?” Oliver asked.

  “It was practically bare: an old couch and a chair in the living room. He came to the door with a walker, so maybe he needed floor space so he could get around.”

  Marge nodded but was puzzled. Neither one of them had seen a walker when they surveyed the crime scene. It was clear that they had missed some things, including where the old man could hide a tiger. “Is there anything else you’d like to add?”

  Masey said, “When I stood up to leave, I asked him if he needed anything. He said thanks but no thanks. He said he was an old guy and that at this stage, he had everything he needed.” She paused. “It was weird. The way he said it—like he was just waiting to clock out.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A HALF MILE AWAY from Penny’s apartment, Marge found a local coffee shop, one of the valiant few left standing, where she and Oliver ordered burgers and coffee. Not much chitchat before the food arrived. Afterward, refreshed with protein and grease, Marge felt her brain cells bloom. She glanced at the wall clock. It was already past eight. “Long day.”

  “Yeah, I’m ready to pack it in, but I’m betting that you want to go over the tapes at the station house.”

  “I was thinking that we’ll view the tapes after we go over the crime scene.” Marge leaned forward. “Masey Roberts was in Penny’s apartment and didn’t see the tiger. You just can’t stow away a big cat like that. Plus, we didn’t find a cage or a walker. There has to be a hidden closet or a trapdoor—”

  “He was on the third floor, Marge.”

  “There must be a secret compartment somewhere.”

  “Probably.”

  “And this doesn’t intrigue you?”

  “Not after working for ten hours straight.” But Oliver’s mind was still reeling. “Even if there was a trapdoor or closet in the apartment, how do you get a tiger to refrain from roaring? Masey talked to Penny for a least a couple of minutes.”

  “Maybe the tiger was drugged. Didn’t Masey say that it took a while for him to answer the door?”

  “It takes more than a minute for a tranquilizer to kick in.”

  “That’s what I’m saying, Scott. There’s a hidden compartment and it’s probably soundproof.” Marge fiddled with a sugar package. “If I were him and wanted to hide a tiger, I’d rent one of the adjacent apartments and put a secret door between the two living spaces.”

  Oliver said, “Paxton never said anything about him renting two apartments.”

  “Maybe Paxton knew about the tiger and the second apartment, and Hobart was paying him off to keep his mouth shut. A second apartment would help explain a lot of things. And we were going to take a second look at the crime scene anyway.”

  “But I also remember saying that I’m not crossing the threshold unless the place has been cleaned up.”

  “If SID was there, I’m sure it’s not as bad as when we first saw it.” Marge finished her coffee and wiped her mouth on a napkin. “You don’t have to go but—”

  “I hate when you do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Say I don’t have to go. If you’re going, I have to go. Because if you find something important and I wasn’t there, I’ll look like a doofus.”

  “You know I always share the credit with you.”

  “I don’t care about the credit,” Oliver sulked.

  “Then why mention it?”

  “The truth is we still have a murderer on the loose. I wouldn’t want to be alone in that apartment in this situation. I don’t want you alone.”

  “And that’s precisely why I always say you don’t have to go with me to the crime scene, Oliver. It makes me feel self-righteous, but I know the truth. You’re too good a cop to ever take me up on it.”

  GEORGE PAXTON, THE apartment manager, had gone AWOL. He was not answering his phone, so Oliver left names and numbers on the voice mail. Since they had legal access only to Penny’s apartment, the two detectives had no choice but to revisit the grisly scenario. Yellow tape was still in place across the door. Marge peeled off the tape at one end, opened the door, and then replaced it back across the doorframe.

  The fecal matter had been removed, but the stench lingered on. The furniture and appliances had been rerighted, and someone had cleaned up the decaying meat and food. There was more room to walk, but garbage still littered the floor. Fingerprint dust had darkened the walls slate gray. Neat little squares of bloodstained material had been taken from the couch and the chair. There was also fabric excised from the blood-soaked mattress in the bedroom. The electricity was still on, but who knew how long that would last?

  Marge fished out her tablet from her oversize bag and pulled up a grid of ghastly pictures from the original crime scene. “Okay, the fridge was here when we came in . . .” She pointed to a spot. “And the table was here . . . the chairs were there.”

  Oliver looked over her shoulder. “Wow, what a mess! You know it still stinks in here. Like they forgot a pile somewhere.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty rank.” She turned to him. “I’ll take the living room, you can take the bedroom.”

  “Thanks. Maybe the bedroom will smell better.” Oliver looked around. “Can I see the pictures from the original scene?”

  “Yeah, sure.” She showed them to him. “You can see here that Penny’s head was on the pillow, canted to the left side.”

  “But he had a bullet wound in the back.”

  “Maybe it was a two-person attack—one basher, one shooter.” Marge thought a moment. “Definitely a lot of force to take an old man out.”

  “Yeah, but it isn’t overkill,” Oliver said. “Just one shot and a bash to the head.”

  “I agree. It wasn’t a rage killing.”

  “The bash came first. The guy was still moving, so someone shot him in the back.”

  “If you bash the front of the head first, the guy falls backward, which was how we found him. But then how do you pull off the shot in the back?” Marge shrugged. “I’d say it’s two people going at it at the same time. Sounds like the motive was a robbery rather than someone wanting the old man out of the way.” Marge looked around. “And for the umpteenth time, where was the tiger?”

  Oliver said, “This isn’t a corner unit. Our secret door could be in the bedroom or the living room connecting to a unit on either side. And it’s possible that he rented the apartment under or over him. We could be looking for a trapdoor or something in the ceiling, although it would be hard for an old man to lead an animal up and down a ladder.”

  “Not hard for a tiger to climb, Oliver. They’re cats. How many times as a patrol officer were you called down to get kitty out of a tree?”

  “Those are house cats. Tigers are big guys.”

  “That’s how big cats kill, Scotty. They sit in a tree and jump on your back and bite your neck until you bleed out.”

  “Lovely. Thanks for sharing.”
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  “That’s why I don’t go biking in the Santa Monica Hills anymore. I once had a personal encounter with a mountain lion. He looked at me and I looked at him and we both decided to leave it for another day.”

  “You never told me that.”

  “It was traumatic. I put it in the back of my mind and forgot about it. Except obviously I didn’t.”

  Oliver took out a face mask. “That must have been scary . . . meeting a mountain lion like that.”

  “That it was. Mountain lions love to chase bicycles, so as soon as I saw him, I stopped dead in my tracks and pulled out my gun. Then I quietly backed away, and as soon as he was out of sight, I took off as fast as I could. I’ve gone dead heat with many a bad guy, Oliver, but Mr. Puma by far had the biggest teeth . . . that is, until I met Tiki. I have nothing against wild cats. It’s just that I like to have a considerable distance between us.” She slipped on her face mask. “Ready to do this?”

  Oliver rolled his eyes. “Let’s.”

  AT TEN IN the evening, Marge was surprised to see that Decker’s office door was still open. She knocked on the frame. Decker looked up and motioned them in.

  “Got a moment?” Oliver asked.

  “Just finishing up my calls,” Decker said. “What do you have?”

  Marge said, “Some security camera tapes from businesses across the street from Penny’s apartment. I doubt if they’ll show something, but it wouldn’t hurt to take a peek.”

  Decker checked his watch. “It’s a little late to start watching hours of video.”

  “Yeah, it’ll hold until morning.”

  Oliver whipped his head around. “Did I hear right?” He stuck his index finger in his ear and moved it around, as if something were blocked. “Did you actually say it’ll hold until morning?”

  Marge smiled. “I’ll lock up the tapes and we’ll view them tomorrow morning with fresh eyes.”

  “Sounds good,” Decker said. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, there is,” Marge said. “Scott and I had a chance to interview a few people from the area.” She sat down and gave him a brief recap. “It got us both to thinking. How do you hide a tiger in plain sight? The answer is you don’t. So we started looking for hidden doors and compartments. We found a ceiling panel that leads to the apartment directly above Penny’s place.”

  Oliver said, “We didn’t go inside the space without authorization because we didn’t know if all the apartments in the building were interconnected. There could have been someone living above Penny who might not take kindly to cops popping out their floorboards.”

  Marge said, “We tried calling the manager again to see if he’d let us inside or at least tell us that Penny didn’t rent the apartment. Paxton is not answering his phone these days.”

  “Refresh my memory. Does Paxton live in the apartment complex?”

  “No he does not. I’ll find out where he lives tomorrow. What do you want us to do with that ceiling panel? We could knock it in and gain entry to the apartment above.”

  “Not without permission or a warrant,” Decker said. “Did you find anything that would connect the two apartments—like a drop-down ladder or a rope ladder?”

  “Nope,” Oliver said.

  “Could you see inside the above apartment once you took off the ceiling panel?”

  “No,” Marge said. “If Penny had a ladder to lead the tiger up and down, it might have come from above. I did push on the panel, and it definitely wasn’t nailed down. Still, I didn’t want to displace it without an official okay.”

  “If we can’t track down the manager and we’re still not getting an answer by knocking on the door, we’ll pull paper tomorrow and get inside.”

  “I think we’re on to something,” Marge said. “First of all, that would explain why people kept saying that the sounds jumped around. Maybe the tiger was living in more than one apartment. Secondly, the crime scene still smells. Both Scott and I felt that the odor was coming downward. Who knows what else was up there?”

  “Or is still up there,” Decker said. “Before we go opening panels, we should make sure that Penny wasn’t also harboring other exotics.”

  “I’m with you on that one,” Oliver said.

  Decker said, “First, find out which apartments Penny was renting. If he was renting only his own, then we’re back to square one. But if he was actually renting other apartments, then you’re onto something. Then we’ll have to call up Ryan Wilner and his crew. I want them to be with you before you open anything up.”

  Marge nodded solemnly. “For sure. I wouldn’t like to open something up and have a Gaboon viper drop onto my face.”

  “You know that the stench could also be coming from something other than a wild animal,” Oliver said.

  “Another body?” Marge said.

  “Why not?” Oliver said.

  “The man was a recluse.”

  “Someone got to him, Margie,” Decker said. “We all know that once you kill, it’s a lot easier the second time around.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  FIRST TAPE IS from the security camera in front of the Korean market.”

  Oliver placed the cassette in the machine. He, Marge, and Decker stared at the TV monitor. Within seconds, a static and a grainy black-and-white scene appeared, the shot extending from the doorway of the grocery store to the curb. A sedan was parked in front—that much they could make out—but it was impossible to see the front or the back of any license plates. The cars also blocked the view into the street.

  “What’s this going to tell us?” Decker said. “You can’t see the apartment building from the angle of the camera.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty useless.” Oliver had taken off his suit jacket. His shirt was bright orange. It almost glowed in the dark.

  Marge put on her glasses. Today she had dressed for comfort—wool slacks and a brown cashmere sweater that had begun to pill. “The start date is two days before we got the call about Penny, so we’re in the right time frame.”

  The scene on the monitor appeared frozen. Decker said, “Why don’t you advance it and see what pops?”

  “No problem,” Oliver said,

  Marge said, “Once the car drives off, we should get a better view of the street.”

  Eventually they started seeing figures in the frames: a woman walking a dog passed by, two teenage boys going in and out of the store, three more people entering the market and coming back out. Pedestrians on the sidewalk. Two hours into the tape, a man in his thirties got into the sedan that was blocking the view of the street and drove away. The space was taken up immediately by a Volvo station wagon. A middle-aged woman came around the car and went inside the market. A moment later, she was out again, carrying a paper cup with a lid. She drove off.

  More people in and out of the market, more cars in and out of the parking space.

  Nightfall came. All was quiet. All was blurred. Without daylight, it was impossible to make out anything.

  Day two at dawn: a day before the body was discovered.

  The curb was devoid of cars, which allowed them to see vehicles passing by on the street. At 8:16, a Honda Accord parked in front of the camera.

  More people.

  More cars.

  A whole lot of nothing.

  At two-thirty in the afternoon, a red Ford Escort drove away from the spot, and thirty seconds later, the space was taken by a two-year-old light-colored Prius. Then a female figure appeared on the sidewalk in front of the market. She was garbed in a tight, dark sweater, skinny jeans, and fashion boots with stiletto heels. She was holding a duffel bag. She walked a few steps until she was out of the camera’s range.

  “Freeze,” Decker said. “Did either of you notice a gym in the area?”

  When both Marge and Oliver shook their heads, Decker said, “Is there a gym in any of the apartments nearby?”

  Marge said, “Not in the complexes, no. They’re pretty basic. It could be she has a treadmill in her apartment.”

 
“Then why carry a duffel bag? C’mon, people. Does she look like she dressed for the gym?”

  “I’ll go backward and see if we can get a license plate off the Prius.” Oliver reversed the tape frame by frame.

  “Stop . . . right . . . there.” Decker squinted, took his glasses off, put his glasses back on, then squinted again. “You can see the front of the car, and the frame for the license plate, but I can’t make out the numbers.”

  Marge looked closely. “Five-T-Y . . . R or A . . . this could be enhanced if you think it’s worth it. Or maybe the license will show better in the computer store’s security tape.”

  “Just mark down the time and date of this frame so we can go back to it. Now forward it frame by frame. I want to get a good look at the girl.”

  Oliver complied. In slo-mo, the girl had light hair—assumedly blond—and was very curvy. Her age was impossible to tell—anywhere from twenties to fifties. “Masey Roberts remembers a blonde in stilettos of dubious intention going in and out of Penny’s apartment. Don’t you think the boots are a little S and M?”

  “Definitely.” Marge made a face. “But even if she is our service girl, she could be servicing anyone in the area.”

  Decker said, “See if you can get a copy of her face and take it to Masey Roberts. Maybe she can identify her as the blonde visiting Penny.”

  “Will do.” Marge chuckled. “Wow. Eighty-nine. I guess everything’s possible with Viagra.”

  Decker said, “When you called me on the squawk box yesterday, Gabe could hear everything . . . which wasn’t discreet, I admit. He told me his father’s brothels patronized all sorts of men. Penny was definitely wealthy enough to afford home visits.”

  Marge said, “It could be nothing more than a sexy woman with a duffel bag, but if we can get a face ID on her, why not?”

  Oliver said, “Maybe we can get a closer look at the license plate when she pulls the car away from the curb.”

  The tape kept rolling: more people in and out of the framework, but no one beyond the woman with the duffel caught Decker’s attention. Two hours later, the blonde in the boots came back. Her hair was disheveled and she looked rushed and harried. She was dressed in exactly the same clothes, and she was carrying what looked like a foldable massage table, along with her purse. Oliver stopped the machine. “Where’s the duffel?”