Truth was, Sherwood sighed, stepping out of his car, he didn’t buy a word of what the doc had told him.
He didn’t believe the murdered ex-detective and boy who jumped off that rock had even the slightest connection. He didn’t believe this Miguel Estrada kid was on the level. Or that he had ever even seen the two of them together.
Not for a second.
What he did believe was that it was far more likely Miguel had something to do with Walter Zorn’s death.
And since one of the cases he was handling happened to be from Santa Maria, fifteen miles down the freeway, he had a perfectly valid reason to stop in at the local police station there.
So after meeting with the grief-stricken family of the sixteen-year-old Pequillos member who’d been tossed in the woods behind the Grover Beach tracks, he made the drive and parked in the lot on Cook Street.
Larry Velez was one of the two homicide detectives stationed there.
“Keeping busy?” Sherwood knocked on the door. He and Larry had worked together at times over the years. Velez had started out as a detective in Pismo before moving down the freeway.
“Never the problem.” Velez sighed. Santa Maria was a town of only ten thousand, but the total lack of jobs there, the shit-ass education system, and the control of the local gangs gave it the highest rate of violent crime in the area.
“Don’t say I never gave you anything . . .” Sherwood dropped his findings on the Pequillos killing on the detective’s desk. “Surprise—coroner’s ruling it a homicide. I passed it over to McWilliams.” Dave McWilliams was head of the homicide detail in Pismo Beach.
Velez put the file on top of three others. “Nice of you to bring it down.”
“So how’s it going on that retired detective?” Sherwood took a chair and asked. “What was his name, Zorn? Anything further?”
Velez shrugged. “Only prints we found were from him and a housekeeper who came once a week. A neighbor saw a dark van parked on the street that night and heard some noises inside. Word is, the guy kept a bunch of money in the house. We found a desk rifled through. A metal lockbox opened. We’re checking any day laborers in the area who didn’t show up for work today.”
Sherwood nodded. “I didn’t catch a COD on the news.” Cause of death.
“Not a coincidence,” the Santa Maria detective said. “The guy was strangled.”
“Strangled?”
“With an asterisk,” Larry Velez added.
Sherwood looked at him, a little confused, and pulled his chair closer. “Listen, Larry, I know this isn’t procedure, but you mind if I take a quick look?”
The homicide detective hesitated. He and Sherwood were friends and all, but they generally didn’t open their cases like that. His chief wouldn’t go for it. Velez scrunched his brow. “And what’s the reason, Don?”
“A case I’m working on. Kind of a long shot. There’s a chance this might tie in. You remember that jumper in Morro Bay?”
Velez chuckled. “I heard there was someone stirring things up on that. That they even got one of the TV stations involved. Perokis down your throat on this?”
Perokis was Sherwood’s boss.
Sherwood shook his head. “Just so I can cross it off my list. C’mon, Larry, what do you say you just go grab yourself a coffee, and I’ll just wait for you here?”
Velez seemed to ponder it a second and then stood up. He pulled a blue folder from his slotted file and dropped it in front of Sherwood. “Light or dark?”
“Dark,” Sherwood said with an appreciative smile. “Thanks, partner.”
“Be back in five . . .” Velez left, shutting the office door. Sherwood took out his reading glasses and picked up the blue file.
Walter Zorn. A series of crime scene photos. The white hair, the red blotchy birthmark the doc had mentioned.
The first document he found was the 10-05, the report filed by the responding officers at the scene.
There were signs of a struggle. The lamp cord wrapped around his neck. Body found at the couch in front of the TV. Apparently the old guy stuck mostly to himself. Before moving up, he’d spent twenty years on the Santa Barbara force. Worked a couple of high-profile cases back in the day. Retired with the rank of inspector, senior grade.
It was a small community and Sherwood had never seen him around at any of the bars or cafés where cops generally hung out.
What the hell would Zorn possibly have wanted with Evan?
Sherwood leafed through the crime scene photos. The victim’s eyes were bulging. He looked like he’d put up quite a fight. Just run out of strength. Zorn was a big guy and not one who would go down easy.
Robbery did seem likely.
Satisfied, Sherwood tapped the photos back into a pile. He’d done what he’d promised. He told the doc he’d take a look, and he had. He saw nothing that connected the old cop to Evan. This kid Miguel was probably just trying to make some hay. To be safe, he’d mention to Velez he ought to run Estrada’s prints anyway.
And that if Evan’s name ever happened to come up to let him know.
As he was putting the crime scene photos back in the file, another dropped out. It had been taken during Zorn’s autopsy.
Sherwood picked it up and looked at it, almost randomly. It was a close-up of what appeared to be cut marks on the victim.
Cut marks, Sherwood saw, staring closer, on what appeared to be the underside of the dead detective’s tongue.
An asterisk, Velez had mentioned.
It appeared to be kind of a circle with a red dot in the center of it, enclosed in two irregular curved lines.
Even a traffic cop knew no burglar left a mark like that.
Suddenly his heart came to a stop. He adjusted his glasses and looked closer.
No fucking way, Sherwood said to himself. Can’t be . . .
He blinked, bringing the photograph close to his eyes. Looking at it one way, it appeared to be nothing—simply random, unconnected cut marks.
But if you turned it another way, and he did—and stared at it from another angle—there it was, plain as fucking day. Staring right back at him.
An eye.
“Sonovafuckingbitch,” Sherwood muttered, taking off his glasses.
An open eye.