Текст книги "The Death Sculptor"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

Twelve

While the sun baked the day in a cloudless blue sky, the AC blasted cold air into the cockpit of the metallic silver Honda Civic that had just turned into Interstate 105, heading west. The trip shouldn’t have taken them more than twenty-five minutes, but Hunter and Garcia had been sitting in stop-and-start traffic for thirty-five minutes, and they were still at least another twenty away from their destination.

Amy Dawson, Derek Nicholson’s weekdays nurse, lived in a single-story, three-bedroom house with her husband, two teenage daughters, and a noisy little dog called Screamer. The house was tucked away in a quiet street behind a row of shops in Lennox, southwest Los Angeles.

Amy had been hired as Nicholson’s nurse just a few days after he was diagnosed with his illness.

As Garcia finally turned into Amy’s road, the dashboard thermometer showed the outside temperature to be at 88ºF. He parked his car across the road from her place and both detectives stepped out into a humid and stuffy day, the sun stinging their faces.

The house looked old. Rain and sunlight had caused the paint to fade and crack around the windowsills and the front door. The iron-mesh fence that surrounded the property was rusty and bent out of shape in places. The small front yard could certainly have used a little attention.

Hunter knocked three times and was immediately greeted by a barrage of barks coming from deep within the house. Not the strong, ferocious kind of barks that would scare away a burglar, but the squeaky, annoying kind that could give anyone a headache in minutes. And Hunter already had one.

‘Shut up, Screamer,’ a female voice called from inside. The dog reluctantly stopped barking. The door was opened by a black woman with a round face, cat-like eyes and cornrows on her head. She was around five foot five, and her plump figure overstretched the thin fabric of her summer dress. Amy was fifty-two, but her kind face bore the signs of someone who’d lived longer and seen more than her share of suffering.

‘Mrs. Dawson?’ Hunter asked.

‘Yes?’ Her eyes squinted behind thin reading glasses. ‘Oh, you must be the policeman who called earlier?’ Her voice was hoarse but delicate.

‘I’m Detective Hunter and this is Detective Garcia.’

She checked their credentials, smiled politely, and pulled the door fully open. ‘Please come in.’

As they did, Screamer started barking again from under a table. ‘I’m not gonna tell you again, Screamer. Shut up and go inside.’ Amy pointed to a door on the far end of the living room and the tiny dog dashed through it and disappeared down a small corridor. A freshly baked cake smell came from the kitchen and perfumed the entire house. ‘Please make yourselves at home.’ She gestured towards the small and dark living room. Hunter and Garcia had a seat in the mint green tufted sofa, while Amy took the armchair directly in front of them.

‘Would you care for some iced tea?’ she offered. ‘It’s mighty warm out there.’

‘That would be great,’ Hunter replied. ‘Thank you very much.’

Amy walked into the kitchen and moments later returned carrying a tray with an aluminum jug and three glasses.

‘I can’t believe anyone would want to harm Mr. Nicholson,’ she said as she served the drinks. Sadness coated her words.

‘We’re very sorry about what happened, Mrs. Dawson.’

‘Please call me Amy.’ She gave both detectives a feeble smile.

Hunter smiled back. ‘We appreciate you taking the time to talk to us, Amy.’

She stared down at her drink. ‘Who would want to hurt a terminal-cancer patient? It just makes no sense.’ Her eyes found Hunter’s. ‘I was told it wasn’t a burglary.’

‘It wasn’t,’ he replied.

‘He was such a nice and kind man, who I know is now in much better hands.’ She looked up towards the ceiling. ‘May he rest in peace.’

Hunter wasn’t surprised that Amy didn’t seem distraught. She hadn’t been told about the sordid details of the crime. Hunter had also checked her background. Amy had been a nurse for twenty-seven years, eighteen of those dedicated to helping patients with some form of terminal cancer. She did her job to the best of her abilities, but inevitably all of her patients passed away. She was used to dealing with death, and she had learned long ago to keep her emotions in check.

‘You were Mr. Nicholson’s nurse on weekdays, is that correct?’ Garcia asked.

‘Monday to Friday, that’s right.’

‘Did you use the same room as Melinda Wallis, the nurse that took over from you on weekends?’

Amy shook her head. ‘No, no. Mel used the guesthouse above the garage. I used the guestroom inside the house. Two doors from Mr. Nicholson’s room.’

‘We were told that Mr. Nicholson’s daughters visited him every day.’

‘That’s right, for at least a couple of hours. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon, sometimes in the evening.’

‘Did Mr. Nicholson have any other visitors recently?’

‘Not recently.’

‘At any time?’ Garcia pushed.

Amy looked pensive for a moment. ‘When I first started, yes. I remember only two separate visitors during my first few weeks in the house. But as soon as the most severe symptoms began to manifest themselves, then he had no more visitors. Mainly because Mr. Nicholson himself didn’t want to see anyone. He also didn’t want anyone to see him looking the way he did. He was a very proud man.’

‘These visitors, can you tell us any more about them?’ Garcia asked. ‘Do you know who they were?’

‘No. But they looked like lawyers, you know, very nice suits and all. Probably work colleagues.’

‘Do you remember what they talked about?’

Amy looked at Garcia with a touch of indignation. ‘I wasn’t in the room, and I don’t listen to other people’s conversations.’

‘I apologize, that wasn’t what I meant at all,’ Garcia backpedaled as fast as he could. ‘I was just wondering if maybe Mr. Nicholson mentioned anything.’

Amy offered Garcia a feeble smile, accepting his apology. ‘The truth is, not very much is ever said when visitors come around to see cancer patients. No matter how talkative people are, they tend to lose their ability to make conversation when they see what the disease has done to their friend, or family member. People usually just stand there, mostly in silence, trying their best to appear strong. When you know someone is dying, it’s hard to find words.’

Hunter said nothing but he knew exactly what Amy Dawson meant. He was only seven when his mother was diagnosed with glioblastoma multiforme, the most aggressive type of primary brain cancer. By the time her doctors discovered it, the tumor was already too advanced. Within weeks she went from being a smiling, full-of-life mother, to an unrecognizable, skin-and-bones person. Hunter would never forget the image of his father standing by her bed with tears in his eyes, but unable to utter a single word. There was nothing he could say.

‘Do you remember their names?’ Garcia pushed.

Amy thought about it for a long, hard moment. ‘My memory isn’t very good anymore, you know? But I remember thinking that the one who came first must’ve been a really important man. He came in a very large Mercedes with a driver and all.’

‘Could you describe him?’

She tilted her head from side to side. ‘Older, chunky fellow with chubby cheeks. He wasn’t very tall, either, but he was very well dressed. Liked to move his arms around a lot.’

‘DA Bradley?’ Garcia suggested, looking at Hunter who gave him a ‘probably’ nod.

‘Yes,’ Amy said with a hint of a smile. ‘I think that was his name, Bradley.’

‘How about the second visitor, can you remember anything?’

Amy searched her memory. ‘Slimmer and taller.’ She looked at Hunter. ‘I’d say he was about your height, could’ve been around the same age too. He was quite attractive. Nice dark-brown eyes.’

Garcia took notes. ‘Anything else you can remember about him.’

‘I think he had a short name. Something like Ben, Dan, or Tom, maybe.’ She hesitated, taking a breath. ‘Yeah, something like that, but I can’t be sure.’

‘Amy,’ Hunter said, leaning forward and placing his empty iced-tea glass on the coffee table between them. ‘I’m sure you and Mr. Nicholson had several conversations, especially given that you spent so much time with him.’

‘Sometimes, at the beginning,’ Amy admitted. ‘But as the weeks went by, his breathing worsened. Talking was an effort. We talked very little.’

Hunter nodded. ‘Did he tell you anything that you think can help us? Anything about his life? Anything about one of his cases? Anything about someone in particular?’

Amy frowned and shook her head. ‘I was just his nurse. Why would he confide in me of all people?’

‘In the last few weeks you spent more time with him than anyone else. Even his daughters. Nothing at all comes to mind?’

Hunter understood the intrinsic need human beings have to talk to each other. Talking has a psychological soul-cleansing effect, and that need is heightened exponentially when someone is certain of his or her death. Because she spent so much time alone with him and was caretaker to Derek Nicholson, Amy Dawson would’ve seemed like the oldest and best of friends. Someone he could talk to. Someone he could confide in.

Amy looked away for a moment, focusing her stare on the window to Hunter’s right. ‘Once he said something that got me wondering.’

‘And what was that?’

Her eyes stayed on the window. ‘He said that life was a funny thing. It doesn’t matter how much good you’ve done throughout it, or how many people you’ve helped. Your mistakes are what haunt you until your dying days.’

Neither Hunter nor Garcia replied.

‘I told him that no one was free from mistakes. He smiled and said he knew that. And then he said something about making his peace with God, and telling someone the truth.’

‘The truth about what?’ Garcia asked, scooting to the edge of his seat.

‘He didn’t say. I never asked. It wasn’t my place. But it was certainly something that was eating him inside. He wanted to clear his conscience before it was too late.’

Thirteen

Hunter had arranged to meet both of Mr. Nicholson’s daughters that afternoon. Olivia, the older of the two, whom he’d met in Mr. Nicholson’s house, had asked him to come over to her place in Westwood. Her sister, Allison, would meet them there.

Hunter and Garcia arrived at 4:35 p.m. The two-story house was modest by Westwood standards, but still, larger and more expensive-looking than most Angelinos could ever hope to afford. They climbed the few redbrick steps in front of the house and followed the short pathway through a well-kept front yard where summer flowers were already blooming. There were two cars parked in front of the two-car garage, a red BMW 3-series, and a brand-new-looking tuxedo-black Ford Edge.

Hunter rang the doorbell. They waited almost a minute before Olivia herself opened the door. She was wearing a black sleeveless knee-length dress and black shoes. Her hair was tied back into a neat and conservative ponytail. Her face was hidden behind heavy makeup, but even so, the signs of a sleepless night spent crying were clear.

At the sight of Hunter and Garcia, her eyes filled with tears again, but with some effort she held them there.

‘Thank you for agreeing to see us so soon, Ms. Nicholson,’ Hunter said.

‘I told you,’ she replied, putting on a brave smile. ‘Call me Olivia. Please come in.’

They followed her into an anteroom decorated with a lot of taste and elegance. Vases, flowers and furniture came together to create a comfortable greeting space. Olivia guided them into the first room on the right – her study. The room was spacious, with the entire south wall taken by a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. The decoration was just as elegant as the anteroom, but unlike outside, where the clear skies and the sun drew a smile on everyone’s faces, the mood inside was solemn. The place was dark and suffocating, helped by the shut windows and drawn curtains. The only light came from a pedestal lamp in one of the corners.

Standing by an imposing partner’s desk was a woman in her late twenties. She was also dressed all in black. As both detectives entered the room, she turned and faced them.

Allison Nicholson was striking, though skinny. She had straight black hair that came down to the top of her shoulders and very dark, soulful eyes that were far more knowing then they ought to have been at her age. Hers, too, were red from crying.

‘This is my sister, Allison,’ Olivia said.

Allison’s eyes moved from Hunter to Garcia, but she stood still. No offer of a handshake.

‘These are Detectives Hunter and Garcia, Ally,’ Olivia said, moving closer to her sister.

‘We’re very sorry for your loss,’ Hunter said. ‘We know how difficult this is for both of you and we appreciate your time. We won’t take much of it.’ He reached inside his pocket for his black notebook. ‘If we could ask you just a few quick questions?’

Their silence prompted Hunter to continue.

‘You both visited your father on Saturday last, is that correct?’

‘Yes,’ Olivia answered.

‘Can you remember what time you got there and what time you left?’

‘I got there before Ally,’ Olivia said. ‘I had a few things to do in the afternoon. We’re opening a new store.’

Hunter knew Olivia owned Healthy Eats, a chain of healthy-food stores with several shops downtown and around greater Los Angeles. Allison on the other hand had followed in her father’s footsteps. She was a prosecutor.

‘I got there at around four-thirty or five o’clock,’ Olivia continued. ‘Ally . . .’

‘I got there at around five-fifteen,’ Allison took over.

Hunter waited.

‘We sat around with Dad as we usually do, chatting, or trying to,’ Allison continued. ‘On the weekends Levy usually cooks.’ She nodded at her sister. ‘I sometimes help.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not very good in the kitchen.’

‘Did you cook on Saturday?’ Hunter asked Olivia.

‘Yes. Then we all ate together.’

‘How about Melinda Wallis, the nurse?’ Garcia asked.

‘Mel always ate with us. She’s a lovely person, very caring.’

‘What time did you leave?’

‘Levy left a couple of minutes before me,’ Allison said. ‘I left around nine o’clock.’

Olivia nodded.

‘Do any of you remember seeing anyone in the street, around your father’s house? Anyone or anything that caught your attention?’

‘I don’t remember seeing anything,’ Allison replied first.

‘Neither do I,’ Olivia agreed.

‘We talked to Amy Dawson this afternoon. She mentioned something about your father having two visitors about three-and-a-half months back. Did your father mention anything about that? Do you know who they were?’

Olivia and Allison looked at each other for a moment.

‘I know that DA Bradley visited Dad at the house when he first fell ill,’ Allison said.

‘Yes, we figured that,’ Garcia commented. ‘But apparently there was someone else.’ He quickly checked his notes. ‘Slim, about six foot tall, same age as your father, brown eyes, does it ring any bells?’

Olivia shook her head.

‘Half of the male prosecutors in the DA’s office could fit that description,’ Allison noted.

‘Your father didn’t mention anything about having someone visit him a few weeks ago?’

‘Not to me,’ Allison said.

‘Me neither,’ Olivia tagged. ‘And that’s strange, because Dad did mention when DA Bradley went over to visit him.’

Hunter returned his notebook to his pocket. ‘Mrs. Dawson also told us that your father said something about making peace with someone, telling someone the truth about something.’

Both women frowned.

‘Do you know anything about that?’

‘Truth about what?’ Allison asked.

Garcia shrugged. ‘That’s what we’d like to find out.’

‘About a case he prosecuted?’

‘We don’t know. That’s all the information we have.’

Silence took over for several seconds.

‘I don’t remember Father saying anything about making peace with anyone,’ Olivia said. ‘Is Amy sure that’s what he said?’

Hunter and Garcia nodded.

Olivia looked at Allison.

‘Dad never said anything to me either.’

There was one more question Hunter wanted to ask them, but he needed to choose his words carefully. He tried to sound casual. ‘Was your father into modern art?’

By the look on their faces, Hunter couldn’t have asked a more surprising question.

‘Like sculptures, for example,’ he added.

Their confused looks intensified.

‘No,’ Olivia said before looking at Allison. Then they both said in unison.

‘Mom was.’

Fourteen

If Hunter’s question had surprised Allison and Olivia, their answer had certainly had the same effect on him.

‘Why do you ask?’ Olivia enquired, her eyes squinting a fraction.

Hunter held her gaze. He had to come up with something good. Neither of Mr. Nicholson’s daughters knew about the sculpture left behind by the killer, and the psychological trauma that that knowledge would bring would haunt them forever.

‘Something we found in your father’s room,’ he replied matter-of-factly. ‘We think it might be a piece of a broken sculpture or something like that.’

‘In my father’s room?’

Hunter nodded. ‘It might’ve been left there on purpose.’

Those words seemed to suck the oxygen out of the room. Both women tensed.

‘Left there by the killer?’ Allison asked.

‘Yes.’

Olivia’s eyes filled up with tears once again.

‘What is it?’ Allison pushed. ‘Can we see it?’

‘The forensics lab has it. They’re running it through a few tests,’ Hunter replied calmly and with conviction. ‘But you said your mother liked sculptures. Modern art sculptures?’ He swiftly steered the subject back to where he wanted it.

‘Yes,’ Olivia replied, wiping a tear from her cheek. ‘I guess you can say that. Mom loved pottery. A hobby she picked up in her later years.’ She indicated a medium-sized vase on the coffee table, holding a bouquet of yellow-and-white flowers. ‘That’s one of hers, and so are the ones in my entrance room.’

Both detectives acknowledged it.

‘But Mom also liked creating sculptures.’ Allison this time. She turned and pointed to a piece sitting on one of the bookshelves. It was about ten inches high and it portrayed two androgynous-looking figures. The first was standing with its legs apart. Both of its arms were stretched out in front of its body pointing down. The second figure, identical in shape to the first one, was directly in front of it, but it looked as if it was falling backward. Its stiff body reclined at forty-five degrees. Its arms also stretched out in front of its body, holding on to the arms of the first figure.

‘Do you mind if we have a look at it?’ Hunter asked.

‘Please do.’

Hunter picked it up and studied the piece for a moment. It was made out of clay, with a wooden base.

‘Trust,’ he whispered.

‘What?’ Garcia’s eyes moved from the piece to Hunter.

‘Trust,’ he said again. ‘I’ll catch you if you fall.’

Olivia and Allison looked at him surprised. ‘That’s exactly right,’ Allison said. ‘Mom made me one just like it. Dad has one too. It means that we could always trust each other. That we’d always be there for each other, no matter what.’

‘It’s a very nice sculpture.’ Hunter placed it back on the shelf.

‘This piece you found in Dad’s room,’ Olivia said. ‘What was it made of?’

‘Some kind of thin metal alloy,’ Hunter lied again. ‘Could be mainly bronze.’

Garcia bit his lip.

‘So it wasn’t from one of Mom’s sculptures. She only used clay.’

‘Did she create many pieces?’

‘Vases – a few. Sculptures – only six, I think.’ Olivia looked at Allison for confirmation. She nodded. ‘As Ally said, she’s got one the same as mine in her apartment. The other four are in Dad’s study.’

Fifteen

Hunter saw no use in taking up any more of Olivia and Allison’s grieving time. But their revelation aroused his curiosity, and before the day was over, he wanted to go back to Derek Nicholson’s house and have a look in the study and at the four other sculptures by Lindsay Nicholson, Derek’s deceased wife.

‘Your poker face in there was impressive,’ Garcia said as they got back into his car. ‘A piece of thin metal left behind by the killer that could’ve come from some sort of sculpture? Inventive. I was starting to believe it. But tell me something, what if their mother had created metal sculptures as well?’

‘Chances were that she wouldn’t have,’ Hunter replied, buckling up.

‘How do you know?’

‘Most sculptors, especially amateur ones, like to stick to the same material for their pieces. Something that they’re comfortable with. The few who move from one substance to another very rarely go from a malleable one like clay to something as hard as metal. It requires a different sculpturing technique.’

Garcia looked at his partner and pulled a surprised face. ‘I never took you for an art buff.’

‘I’m not. I just read a lot.’

Hunter had only gone into Derek Nicholson’s study very briefly. That was the room Melinda Wallis was sitting in when he got to the house for the first time yesterday morning. In the evening, when he revisited the crime scene, he would focus all his attention on the room upstairs.

It took them only ten minutes to drive to Cheviot Hills from Olivia’s place in Westwood. They unlocked the door and stepped into a house that Hunter was sure one day had been home to a happy family. Now, that building was forever tainted with the stains of a brutal homicide. Every single happy memory that those walls once held completely erased by one act of unthinkable evil.

The air inside the house was warm and stale, and it carried a distinct mixture of unpleasant smells. Garcia rubbed his nose, cleared his throat a couple of times and allowed his partner to lead the way.

Hunter opened the door to a long, wood-paneled room where bookshelves lined two of the walls. The space was reminiscent of a court-of-law judge’s chambers, with a large twin desk, comfortable armchairs and the musty odor of old, leather-bound books. They spotted the four sculptures Olivia had mentioned straight away. Two were on the bookshelves, one was on Derek Nicholson’s desk, and one was on a side table next to a whisky-colored leather armchair. Unconventional-looking as they were, however, none of them even remotely resembled the grotesque piece left behind by the killer.

‘Well, at least we know that the killer wasn’t trying to mimic any of these,’ Garcia said, placing the sculpture he was holding back down on the side table. ‘God knows what he was trying to do or mimic.’

Hunter had looked at all the sculptures and was now studying some of the books on the shelves. Almost all of them were criminal-law related, but a handful were about pottery and ceramics. Two of them were about modern sculpture. Hunter pulled one out of the shelf and flipped through its first few pages.

‘Do you think his murder could really be related to what he said to his nurse?’ Garcia asked. ‘Something about making his peace with someone and telling them the truth about something?’

‘I’m not sure. But I know we all have secrets, some more important than others. One of Derek Nicholson’s secrets was so important to him . . . it bothered him so much, that he didn’t want to leave this life without clearing things up, without “making his peace”.’ Hunter used his fingers to draw quotation marks in the air.

‘And that’s gotta mean something, right?’ Garcia said.

‘It’s gotta mean something,’ Hunter agreed. ‘But we don’t know if he did or not. Make his peace, that is.’

‘According to his nurse, he told her about this making his peace business sometime between her first and second week here. Since then, other than the weekend nurse and his two daughters, it looks like he’d only talked to two other people.’

Hunter nodded. ‘DA Bradley and our mysterious, six foot tall, brown-eyed visitor.’ He replaced the book on the shelf and reached for the second volume on sculpture. ‘Maybe the DA knows who he is. I’ll try to talk to him tomorrow.’

‘The weekdays nurse used the room upstairs,’ Garcia commented. ‘But Melinda had the one above the garage outside. It’s no coincidence the killer picked a weekend night for the murder, is it?’

‘No.’ For no reason Hunter’s eyes darted towards the ceiling and then the walls. ‘Somehow the killer knew the habits of this house. He knew when people came and went. He knew Derek Nicholson’s daughters would visit him for a few hours every day and then leave. He knew when he would be alone and the best time to strike. He might’ve even known that the burglar alarm wasn’t usually engaged, or that Derek Nicholson didn’t like air conditioning and the balcony door that led into his room would probably have been unlocked at this time of year.’

‘So that means that the killer staked out the house,’ Garcia said. ‘And not for just a day.’

Hunter moved his head as if pondering Garcia’s words.

‘You think it’s more than that, don’t you?’ Garcia asked.

Hunter nodded. ‘I think the killer has been in here before. I think the killer knew the family.’