Her Sister's Keeper. Julia Penney

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ hotel was a longtime meeting place of the famous. It was where the rich came to play, to see and to be seen. As such, it was a popular spot for tourists and paparazzi ever on the prowl for celebrity sightings. Melanie had often dined at the formal Green Palms Restaurant or lunched at the trendy Brick Oven Cafe. Part hotel, part spa, part culinary destination, the “Beverly,” as the locals called it, was always crowded, so a packed driveway was to be expected. But as she turned off Wilshire Boulevard, Melanie wasn’t prepared for the sight of dozens of police cars, emergency vehicles, satellite trucks and television vans parked haphazardly on the driveway and even on the hotel’s prized gardens. When she slowed to a stop at the entrance, a squad car was blocking the way. She turned to her passenger, who was already holding out an official ID card for the uniformed officer, who waved them through. Melanie drove slowly between the police cars while Dr. Mattson scanned the scene.

      “Park there,” he said, pointing to a slot between two police cruisers scarcely wider than her own car.

      She barely managed to squeeze into the space and wondered how she’d ever get her car out of this chaotic maze. A tall black woman with close- cropped hair was coming out of the Beverly’s front doors and scanning the crowds. She spotted Dr. Mattson climbing out of the car and strode over.

      “Hey, Murph,” Dr. Mattson said. He reached back into the car to collect his battered leather briefcase.

      The handsome, well-dressed woman was obviously in no mood to exchange pleasantries. “Follow me, Kent,” she said, turning and striding briskly back toward the main doors.

      Dr. Mattson left without so much as a goodbye, a thank-you or a backward glance. Melanie watched until they both disappeared into the building. In her rearview mirror she spied another cruiser, lights flashing, parking directly behind her and blocking her exit. She sat for a few moments as the engine idled, then switched off the ignition and blew out a breath.

      “Now what?” she said.

      KENT HAD WORKED with Carolyn Murphy for five years, and the two had become almost instant friends. Together, they had worked on numerous cases, and while Murphy at times had displayed disgust, frustration, anger and sadness at the varied degrees of human degradation they had come across, she always took it in stride, keeping her “eyes on the prize—catching the bad guys.”

      A good team, they’d caught a lot of bad guys. Murphy had the hard, no-nonsense approach of a career cop. She gave no quarter and asked for none. A crack shot, she held a black belt in karate, was fluent in several languages and was the product of the meanest streets of South Central L.A. When necessary she could schmooze with the lackeys at Police Central, but she much preferred working in the trenches with her squad of detectives. For a grandmother of two, Kent had discovered early on, she was one hot-shit woman.

      As they crossed the lobby toward the bank of elevators, Murphy glanced at him. “Your car. Did I hear over the radio that it had been stolen?”

      Kent had been hoping to keep the information from her, but the garage attendant must have called it in. Too bad he hadn’t been that on the ball before the Audi had been stolen. “Yeah, they took it right out of the parking garage. Imagine that.”

      He waited for her to chide him, but her grim expression never altered as she hit the elevator button, an indication to Kent that she was preoccupied. Otherwise she would most definitely have rubbed his nose in I-told-you-so’s. Murphy was the one who had cheerfully read him chapter and verse of the California crime stats on the Audi as soon as she learned he’d purchased one.

      “The Audi TT convertible?” she’d said, arching her eyebrows with wicked intent. “Nice car. Do you know how many stolen cars were reported to the LAPD last year? One thousand, one hundred and fifty-two. Know how many were sports cars? Eight hundred twelve. I predict your fancy little set of wheels will last two weeks, max.”

      Kent had managed to keep it for three whole months. Small consolation, he thought as he stepped into the elevator. If Murphy’s behavior was any indication, Kent had a pretty good hunch his missing car would be the least of his worries by the day’s end.

      “So, do we have a name?” Kent asked as the elevator climbed.

      “As a matter of fact we have two,” Murphy said. “Does the name Ariel Moore mean anything to you?”

      “Should it?”

      “Just what rock were you hiding under this week, cowboy?” Murphy asked.

      Kent just looked at her, waiting.

      “If you paid attention at the supermarket checkout line, you’d know Ariel Moore is the hottest rising star in town.”

      “And you know this how?”

      “I know this because my grandson has her poster pinned up above his desk. That, and the hotel manager filled me in. Apparently she stays here frequently in this same two-bedroom suite. The reservation was made under Ariel Harris, which is her real name. But,” she added, “here’s the interesting twist. The dead woman is Stephanie Hawke, and no one has seen Ariel Harris, aka Moore, or knows what happened to the baby that checked in with Ms. Hawke. We assume the baby was Ariel’s, since she gave birth only a week ago. Which you’d also know if you paid attention to the supermarket tabloids.”

      Their arrival at the eleventh floor halted any further conversation and they exited the elevator. The hallway was silent. As Murphy strode briskly down the carpeted corridor, she told him that all the guests on that floor had been escorted into a large conference room soon after the police had arrived. When Murphy stopped to speak to a group of uniformed officers, Kent continued to the suite.

      He was glad to see a minimal number of people in the room itself. His captain had done a good job of keeping the scene clear of extraneous badges, not always an easy task. This suspicious death had all the indications of becoming a high-profile case and Kent knew high-profile cases brought the promotion and publicity seekers out of the woodwork. He hesitated at the door of the suite and paused for a moment to clear his mind and center his focus.

      Kent had once had a university professor tell him that crimes and crime scenes were all about patterns. Find the pattern, and the answer would naturally follow. From his own experience, Kent knew that could take skill and patience. By their very nature, crime scenes were chaotic. Trying to take one in all at once would be overwhelming, so Kent liked to break it up into manageable chunks. First, he eyeballed the entire scene, committing everything to memory. These first impressions would later be compared alongside the official crime-scene photos, police logs, investigating officer notes, forensic notes, medical examiner reports and his own written log.

      Much of the official information and reports would arrive via fax or computer to his office at Chimeya. It was there, notes and photos spread around his desk, a fire blazing, Loki curled up on his favorite rug next to the hearth, that he would start the detailed and painstaking review and let the patterns emerge. When he hit an impasse, and it happened from time to time, then he talked to Susan. He was too much the scientist to believe in ghosts, spirits or the hereafter, but that never stopped him from posing questions to the one woman he had loved and who had been taken from him seven years ago. Now, as then, she could still guide him to the answers, but before there could be any answers, he had to collect the information necessary to pose the questions.

      Kent drew a deep breath and stepped into the suite, crossing to the bedroom. There was the bed, СКАЧАТЬ