LITMIR.BIZ

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Brandon Grolsch would have helped a lot right now, especially since Jenny Foyle, the Medical Examiner, had texted Johnson earlier to confirm that two hairs found embedded in one of Trey Raymond’s many wounds was a DNA match for Grolsch. The way Johnson saw it, that meant either the kid was alive after all; or – more disturbingly, but a closer fit to the evidence – whoever murdered Lisa Flannagan and Trey Raymond had also handled Brandon Grolsch’s corpse.

      ‘Thank you for your help anyway, Doctor,’ said Goodman. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

      Nikki had left the building and was halfway across the parking lot when she heard Detective Johnson call breathlessly after her.

      ‘Wait!’ he panted.

      Nikki stopped and turned, trying to quell the unpleasant pounding sensation in her chest. What now?

      ‘Your coat.’ Johnson gestured at the classic, sand-colored raincoat Nikki was wearing.

      ‘What about it?’ Nikki asked.

      ‘Isn’t that the coat you told us you loaned to Lisa Flannagan?’ Johnson wheezed. ‘The night she was killed?’

      Nikki looked at him curiously.

      ‘You described it exactly in your statement,’ Johnson went on. ‘Full-length raincoat, waterproof canvas, sand-colored, buckled belt. That’s it.’ He nodded at the coat again.

      Nikki allowed her gaze to linger for a moment on this obnoxious, rude, sweating, accusatory pig of a man. Clearly he believed he was catching her out at something, that he’d outsmarted her in some way. As if that could ever happen. Smiling, she said simply, ‘That’s right, Mr. Johnson. I have two.’

      ‘“That’s right, Mr Johnson. I have two.” Patronizing bitch.’

      Johnson’s impression of Dr Roberts, complete with exaggerated, hip-swaying walk and nonchalant flick of the hair, had not been improved by his third tequila shot.

      He and Goodman were at Rico’s, a dive off Sunset popular with the homicide division. Rico Hernandez, the eponymous owner, was ex LAPD himself and enjoyed hosting his former colleagues for their game nights and late-drinking sessions. Tonight Goodman and Johnson were at a table with two other teams, Hammond and Rae, aka Laurel and Hardy, the division jokers; and Sanchez and Baines, one of the few male–female pairings in the department. Although Johnson questioned whether you could call Anna Baines a woman.

      ‘I’m telling you, Lou,’ Johnson groused, ‘the good doctor’s in this shit up to her pretty little neck!’

      Goodman rolled his eyes. ‘No, she isn’t.’

      ‘You don’t think the therapist lady could be involved, Lou?’ Bobby Hammond asked, taking a contemplative sip of his Corona. ‘I mean, Mick does have a point.’

      ‘And what point is that?’ Goodman demanded.

      Bobby shrugged. ‘A lot of people close to her do seem to be droppin’ dead.’

      ‘Starting with her husband,’ Davey Rae chimed in. ‘Let’s not forget him.’

      ‘That was an accident!’ Goodman almost shouted. What was this, the conspiracy theorists’ association annual drinks party?

      The fact was that, ever since the ME found those bizarre ‘dead cells’ under Lisa Flannagan’s fingernails, the entire homicide department had become hooked on the ‘Zombie Killings’. Most of these detectives’ regular cases involved either gang shootings or over-zealous domestic battery, or drug deals turned sour. Few if any had the glamour of this one: a beautiful shrink-to-the-stars, her young black protégé, and her patient – a billionaire’s model mistress. Add to that the mysterious zombie DNA found on the first victim, and you had a full-on thriller on your hands. It wasn’t right for Goodman and Johnson to keep the thing solely for themselves.

      ‘I hate to be the boring grown-up here and rain on your parade with the cold hard facts,’ Goodman drawled. ‘But the facts are: a) Nikki Roberts had no motive for either murder. None whatsoever. And b) she’s five foot three and can’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds. Treyvon Raymond was six two and a hundred eighty-six pounds of solid muscle. You’re telling me she overpowered, kidnapped, stabbed and dumped that boy? I don’t think so.’

      ‘Maybe she had help,’ said Johnson. ‘Maybe she hired someone.’

      ‘Yeah, and maybe Angelina Jolie’s about to walk in and ask you out on a date, Mick,’ Anna Baines observed wryly as she drained her beer. ‘Theoretically possible, but not exactly likely.’

      There were snorts of laughter all round.

      ‘Lou’s right,’ Anna added. ‘You got nothing on this shrink woman.’

      Johnson stood up, pushing his chair back with an angry clatter.

      ‘Not yet I don’t,’ he snapped at Anna. ‘But I will. She’s got no alibi, and I think she’s lying through her straight white teeth. So you can all go screw yourselves.’ And with that he stormed out.

      ‘Jeesh.’ Anna turned to Goodman, open-mouthed. ‘What’s with him?’

      ‘I was hoping you guys could tell me,’ Goodman sighed. ‘You’ve all known him longer than I have. Mick’s obsessed with Dr Roberts. He hates the woman’s guts, but he won’t tell me why.’

      ‘I might have an idea,’ Pedro Sanchez said quietly.

      Sanchez was a man of few words, unlike his partner Anna Baines. He rarely offered an opinion, but when he did it was usually worth listening to.

      ‘The Roberts woman used to get called as an expert witness from time to time.’

      ‘She gave psychiatric evaluations, you mean?’ asked Goodman.

      ‘Right. Usually on narcotics cases,’ said Sanchez. ‘She and her husband were involved with the junkies downtown – needle exchanges, counseling, all that shit. They were big-time bleeding-heart liberals.’

      Mick is ex drug squad, Goodman thought. ‘Did she testify in any of Johnson’s old cases?’ he asked Sanchez.

      ‘I don’t know. You’d have to ask him. But I do know the lady wasn’t a big fan of the force in general, which wouldn’t have endeared her to Mick. You know what he’s like with holding grudges.’

      Without another word, Goodman left a twenty on the table and ran outside after Johnson. What Sanchez had told him was interesting, but it was another thought entirely that had just occurred to him.

      ‘Mick!’ he called into the darkness.

      Johnson turned around. Thankfully, he’d got no farther than the parking lot, where he was swaying drunkenly in the breeze, waiting for his Uber.

      Goodman cut straight to the chase. ‘Let’s say Dr Roberts is involved.’

      ‘She is,’ Johnson slurred. ‘I’m sure of it.’

      ‘But what if it’s not in the way you think. What if the Doc was the intended victim?’

      Johnson rolled his eyes. ‘Not this again. We’ve been over this.’

      ‘Lisa Flannagan was wearing her coat when she left the office that night.’

      ‘According to her,’ muttered Johnson. ‘Look, I was excited as you about that raincoat being a lead, but we’ve found nothing. All we have is Dr Roberts’ word for it.’

      ‘Yes, and why would she lie about something like that? Admit it, you can’t think of a reason.’

      Johnson grunted. It was true, he couldn’t. Yet.

      ‘It was dark. It was raining. Lisa was leaving Dr Roberts’ office, wearing her coat. They’re the same height. Same hairstyle. If the killer approached from behind …’

      ‘OK,

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