A Cold Day in Hell Page 6

  She had that desperate sound of someone who wanted to beg, right at the start, for an answer, any answer to the questions that have plagued them for their whole lives. “This is what we’re going to do, Carlita. I’m going to look up your mother’s case and read it over. If you give me a phone number, I’ll call you tomorrow and we’ll see where we’re at.”

  “That’s it?” she asked in surprise, like it should have been harder. Like she should have had to convince Lauren to take a look at it.

  We’re not the enemy here, Lauren thought. But for some people the police were, she knew. “That’s the start,” she reassured her. “I look up the case file, give it a read. See what’s been done, see what needs to be done, talk over what I’ve found, and then we discuss how to move forward from here, if we can.”

  “Move forward? Like make an arrest?”

  “I can’t answer that without reading the file. But this is how we start. Spell me your name and give me your number and I’ll start an active case file.”

  Her tone had changed from apprehension and disbelief to appreciation as she gave Lauren the information. “I can’t tell you what this means to me. The anniversary is coming up and every year it hurts worse. I have a daughter now and what can I tell her about her abuela? All these years, you know? And nobody cares. Nobody cares my mother was stabbed in the street and left to die.”

  “I care. I wouldn’t be here in this squad if I didn’t. And while I can’t promise you we’ll solve your mom’s case, I can promise you I’ll try.”

  “That’s all I want. I just want someone to try.”

  That’s what they all want, Lauren thought scribbling down Carlita’s information, just to know someone is trying.

  “I get choked up every time I hear you give that speech,” Reese commented when Lauren hung up. He’d been listening intently to the entire conversation, baseball hat backwards, face contorted in concentration.

  “This sounds like a good one. A woman stabbed in 1993.”

  “Before DNA, huh? Why haven’t we looked at this one before?”

  Lauren shrugged and dug a ring of keys out of her desk. “I’m about to find out.” DNA wasn’t widely used in courtrooms in Buffalo until 1996, and even then it was costly and severely limited. Cases that occurred prior to 1996 were often treasure troves of untouched evidence, left sitting in the storage lockup until someone from Cold Case had it brought up and tested, usually for the first time.

  Two doors down from her office was the file room. The department had actually spent some money to protect the precious paper files, installing a locked door, climate control, and a video camera so nothing went missing. She turned the key in the lock and inhaled the dusty, cool air that swirled inside the windowless room. Some of the oldest files were already turning to dust, the pages crumbling as you held them, or had become as delicate as tissue paper, see-through and finger-stained.

  Cabinet after cabinet filled every space in the room. Years were written in black magic marker on white copy paper and taped to the front of the cabinets. The newer years were up front, the oldest in the far back corner. 1993 would fall right in the middle. She’d looked up so many cases she knew where each year was housed. Some cabinets held more files than others. Some files were actually three, four, and five manila accordion folders overstuffed with paperwork, while others were thin as a church bulletin. It all depended on how much work went into the case. How much the detectives at the time had to work with. Sometimes it wasn’t much at all.

  She went through the files carefully, so as not to cause any paperwork to get displaced. The other detectives were sloppy with her files, stuffing everything back in and tossing them into their cabinets, most times out of order. Absently she refiled two cases into their proper spots before she came to ORTIZ, VINITA CD#93-82763589 HOMICIDE CASE #93-43.

  She pulled the slim file out and smoothed down the front with her palm. Her heart sank a little. Not much. She noticed the very next file spanned two thick folders. The date was the very next day, with the word ARREST stamped across the front in black block letters. The original detectives had caught Vinita’s case one night and the next night caught another murder that had yielded a suspect right away. 1993 had been the height of the crack epidemic in Buffalo. The detectives had been swamped with murders, shootings, and stabbings in a drug-fueled turf war. Low on manpower, cases got lost in the chaos. This looked like one of those to Lauren.

  She signed it out by case number in the log book next to the door, stopping to smile and wave at the camera to confirm it really was her taking the file. Their captain would probably tell her not to do that again, that it wasn’t a joke, but she had to have some fun in that dry, dusty mausoleum of a room, right?

  Laugh or you’ll cry, she thought as she relocked the door, once again dismayed at the thinness of the file she had in her hand. This job’ll break your heart.

  14

  By the end of the day, Lauren Riley was ready to go home, wrap herself in a blanket, and fall asleep on the couch. That extra ten grand in her bank account reminded her that she had another job to do. She had to mentally put away the new case she and Reese had opened and concentrate on David Spencer now. Instead of driving to her beautiful, cozy house in her gated section of the city, she hopped on the expressway and headed out to the southern suburbs.

  She had to remind herself as she fought the traffic on the thruway that being with Mark was a one-time thing. What else could it be besides a distraction from interviewing a seventeen-year-old named Amy Hooper?

  Amy Hooper lived in a large, cookie cutter home in a well-

  manicured subdivision. She was Lauren’s number-one stop on Violanti’s interview list.

  A chubby woman in her late forties with a ruddy complexion opened the door on the first ring. “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Hooper?”

  Using the door as a shield, she half hid herself behind it. Lauren could only make contact with one gray eye. “Yes?”

  “My name is Lauren Riley and I’m a private detective. I was wondering if I could talk to your daughter about David Spencer.”

  “She already talked to Detective Wheeler.”

  “I’m a private detective with the defense.” She flipped open her identification.

  Mrs. Hooper opened the door a little wider and took it from Lauren’s hand, studying it carefully.

  “Amy doesn’t have to talk to me if she doesn’t want to, but we’re trying to get a full picture of the events of that night.”

  She handed Lauren back her credentials. “She doesn’t know anything.”

  “I have two daughters myself and I wouldn’t ask you to put your daughter into this if it wasn’t important.”

  Mrs. Hooper leaned against the doorframe and let out a heavy breath. “Do you think he did it?”

  “If it was your son, wouldn’t you want someone trying to answer that question?”

  Mrs. Hooper looked Lauren up and down. While Lauren was wearing sleek, black pants and a nicely tailored jacket, she stood with her arms crossed over an old sweatshirt with kittens on the front.

  Lauren tried one last time: “Please.”

  Mrs. Hooper turned her head and called behind her, “Amy! There’s someone here to talk to you!” She moved out of the way, motioning Lauren into the living room.

  It was one of those front rooms people decorate, but don’t actually use. Neat and sterile as a funeral home, the cream-colored couch may as well have had plastic over it. Lauren pictured the mom dusting it carefully once a week, making sure to get the porcelain kitten knick-knacks over the fireplace.

  Amy appeared at the top of the stairs that ran parallel to the living room. She stopped mid-step when she saw Lauren in the living room. Her mom spoke up, “This lady wants to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  Lauren chimed in, “I have a couple of questions about David Spencer
. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

  Amy came the rest of the way down and sat on the edge of the smaller couch, across from Lauren. She clasped her hands together so hard her knuckles turned white. She was a tiny girl with long brown hair and a pretty, narrow face. Amy wasn’t the homecoming queen, but the girl who was on the homecoming committee.

  “I’ll be in the kitchen,” her mother said and disappeared down the hall.

  “I already told that other detective everything,” Amy protested.

  “I work for David, not for the prosecution. Can you tell me what you know about the night the murder occurred?” She poised her pen over her notepad.

  “My parents were out of town, so I had a party in my garage. David told me at work that he was coming. I asked him myself, on my lunch break, and he said he was. Then he left through the loading docks, which was weird. He never came to the party. I kept having Jim Rensel text him, but he never answered.”

  “Does Jim work with you too?”

  “Yeah. Him and David are really good friends. They were on the football team together. Jim thought he was coming too. He was really mad that David didn’t show up.”

  “How long have you known David?”

  “We’ve gone to school together since I moved here in sixth grade. He’s a year older than me. He graduated on June 17th, and I’ll start my senior year in September.”

  “Did you ever see the lady that was murdered before?”

  She shook her head. “No, but they talked about her. She always bought two of the same game. Jim called her the cougar.”

  “When you asked about the party, how did David seem?”

  “He said he was going to meet Jim at my house. He seemed normal to me. He didn’t seem like he was in a hurry, or mad, or upset, or anything. There’s been a million graduation parties and house parties since school ended and he went to a lot of them.”

  Lauren studied Amy’s face. The poor girl looked on the verge of tears. “You liked him, didn’t you?”

  She pulled her hand across her eyes and tears fell down her cheeks. “He’s my friend. But I liked him more than he liked me. I can’t believe he killed that woman. I was so happy he was coming to my party. I can’t believe this happened.”

  Lauren tried to keep her on track, to focus. “Did David have a girlfriend?”

  Amy sniffed and tried to wipe her face with the back of her hand. “Not anymore. He used to go out with Amber Anderson until she ran away a few months ago.”

  “She ran away?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. I guess she was having problems with her dad.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “David. They went out for like, six months, and her dad didn’t like it. She ran away before, when we were freshmen. They found her in Atlanta, like, two months later. She was pretty, but she didn’t have the best reputation. The guys all thought she was a slut.”

  “Who were her friends?” Lauren prompted gently.

  “She didn’t really have any. She just went from guy to guy. Everyone was surprised when David started going out with her. He was too good for her. Dave could’ve had any girl in school he wanted. No one could figure out why he would date a skank like her.”

  “Is she still gone?”

  Amy nodded again, a tear sliding down her nose, dangling for an instant, then splashing on her couch. “She lived a couple of streets over, on Fairview Street, in the corner house. It has a big fence around it.”

  Lauren wrote that down. “Is there anything else you think I need to know?”

  “I just really thought … I mean, he was coming over, and the last party I had, he kissed me before he left. I thought he liked me too. Maybe a little.”

  Lauren reached over and patted her hand. Amy grabbed it, holding onto it.

  “Do you think he did it?” Amy asked, raising her red eyes to Lauren’s. All Lauren could do was tell her the truth.

  “I don’t know.”

  15

  The house was just as Amy had described it. It could have been the same house as Amy Hooper’s, except for the huge white stockade fence around it. It looked odd and uninviting on the well-planned street. The metal mailbox on the curb announced The Andersons in black letters. Lauren parked her car and walked up to the gate. As soon as she got within four feet of it, a vicious barking started on the other side. It was followed up by the sounds of a large dog throwing itself against the fence.

  Lauren jumped back a foot or so. Her hand went unconsciously to her gun, hidden under her jacket, on her hip.

  “Bart! Bart! Come here, boy! Is someone out there?”

  “Hello? Mr. Anderson?”

  “Yeah. Whoa boy, I gotcha. Let me put my dog away,” the disembodied voice called from beyond the fence.

  “Okay. I’ll wait right here.” Lauren was convinced the smell of gunpowder drove dogs nuts. Every owner swore up and down their pet didn’t bite, but whenever a cop got near them, plainclothes or in uniform, they went into attack mode.

  Lauren heard the sound of a door opening, and a screen door slam shut. A couple moments later, the gate swung open revealing a large, sweaty man in paint-stained clothes. He leaned forward, holding onto the fence as if to steady himself.

  “Yeah?” His breath was hot and rotten on her face.

  “Mr. Anderson, my name is Lauren Riley, and I’d like to ask you some questions about your daughter, Amber.”

  “Isn’t it a little late for that? I filed that report months ago, and no one has bothered to ask anything, not in all these weeks.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, shaking one out.

  “I’m not with the Garden Valley Police. I’m a private investigator.”

  A lighter appeared from another pocket. “I can’t afford no private investigator.”

  “It’s okay. Someone else is paying for it.”

  Backing up, then heading down the walk, she followed him into the house. As he held the door open with one hand, he lit the cigarette dangling from his mouth with the other.

  The first thing that hit her was the smell. Dog urine and secondhand smoke. The house wasn’t old, but it wasn’t taken care of either. As she walked through a narrow hallway she saw a picture on the wall of a girl about sixteen. She had beautiful curly, ash blond hair and sad blue eyes with too much black makeup around them. She paused in front of it. “Is this Amber?”

  “Yeah, that’s her school picture. I gave one to the police.” He led her to the kitchen, where the smell seemed to be concentrated. She sat at the greasy kitchen table he must have been stationed at before she showed up. It was littered with empty beer cans and candy bar wrappers. A cold beer was cracked open, and sweating on the Formica. He sat, taking a slug of it. Behind her, a small television was mounted to the wall and a baseball game was playing. Grabbing the remote from the table, he clicked it off. Ashing his butt in one of the closest beer cans, he turned his attention to her.

  “My wife is out grocery shopping with the kids,” he explained, as if that would make sense of the utter disgusting nature of his house. “I put the dog in the basement.”

  She opened her notebook again, spreading it out on her lap instead of putting it on the sticky table, “I’m working for the defense team representing David Spencer—”

  “Ohhh. Hold up a minute now. I think you better leave.” He dropped the cigarette into the empty can and grabbed his full one.

  “What?”

  He stood up with the beer still in hand. “I told my daughter that kid was no good. Now she’s missing and that rich lady is dead.”

  “You think David Spencer had something to do with your daughter’s disappearance?”

  “Hell yes. But apparently, I’m the only one who thinks so. I told the cops when I filed the missing person report that he was the last person she was with. I told her David was no good. I’m glad my wife
isn’t here. You better get on out.” His grip tightened around his beer can.

  Lauren stood up. “I’ll just leave my card, Mr. Anderson—”

  He snatched the card from her hand and threw it at the garbage can in the corner. It missed and lay face-down on the dirty floor. “I hope that kid rots in jail. You better get on out of here.”

  The dog must have heard the tension in its owner’s voice because it started going crazy. Lauren could hear its frenzied barking as she quickly walked out of the house. He slammed the door behind her as she fumbled with the gate latch. Safely in her car, she pulled out her cell phone and called Violanti.

  “We have a problem.”

  16

  The next morning Lauren and Violanti sat across from David Spencer at the holding center. He could sense they weren’t happy as soon as he was brought in. “What?”

  “Why didn’t you tell us your girlfriend was missing?” Violanti demanded.

  He blinked in surprise. “What?” David repeated, looking from him to her.

  Lauren slid the missing person report across the table. “Amber Anderson?”

  He picked up the paper, glanced at it, then threw it back down. “She ran away. It says so right there.”

  Violanti took a deep breath to control himself. “The police listed her as a Possible Runaway. Detective Riley spoke to her father yesterday and he doesn’t think too highly of you.”

  “He’s a drunk,” David protested. “Amber said he used to do things to her. That was why she ran away the first time. He hated that she had a boyfriend. He hated me. The last time I saw her, she said he beat her up and she couldn’t take it anymore. I didn’t think she was going to run away, but obviously she did.”

  “Which begs the question, why wouldn’t you tell old Uncle Frank, ‘Hey, I know I’m in some serious shit here, maybe you should know my girlfriend is missing?’”