Too Little, Too Late [WMC- Lindsay/Cindy]
DISCLAIMER: Women's Murder Club and its characters are the property of James Patterson, 20th Century Fox Television and ABC. No infringement intended.
BETA: Many thanks to my kick-ass beta, alexriley.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
Too Little, Too Late
Part IV
Immediately after the events of Best Laid Plans (Part III).Early Sunday morning.
It’s 6:24 AM, and the lights of the morgue are typical harsh, flourescent, precinct lights, but they seem especially harsh this early in the morning and given the urgency of the task at hand. I’m sure Claire really appreciates me badgering her to hurry up and give me something to work with.
“You know, you wearing a hole in my floor isn’t exactly speeding things up.”
I look over at her and grimace. “Claire, there’s three kids in the custody of child services and I’d really like to know if I need to be moving them into protective custody. You’re my only hope right now. We’ve tanked out everywhere else.”
I run through what we know in my head for the millionth time. Hispanic female, found floating in the bay and three Hispanic kids found hiding at the pier, ages ten, six, and three. The name they gave us for their mother didn’t check out at all, and they didn’t know much else. Jacobi and company are on their way to the only address the oldest boy remembered.
“You know I can run DNA tests,” Claire says suddenly, and I look up.
“A blood test?”
“Yeah, get me a blood sample for each of the kids and we can at least lay to rest whether or not those kids belong to her.”
I nod and start to walk out. “Lindsay?” Claire calls, and I turn back to face her, “Give me an hour on this one and you’ll have your answers.”
*~*~*
I’m heading upstairs to talk to Tom about getting blood tests done on the three kids without consent of a parental figure when my cell goes off. It’s Jacobi. “Linds, you’re not going to believe this,” he says, sounding strained.
I stop dead on the stairs. “Believe what?”
“The address that Mateo Gutierrez gave us isn’t leased to a woman.”
“Okay,” I say, trying hard not to let my irritation reach my voice, “And I care why?”
“It’s being subleased to a man by the name of Juan Carlos Escobeda.”
My eyes go wide and Jacobi continues speaking, even though I already know the name. “He’s one of the murdered dealers we were investigating last week.”
*~*~*
I don’t even go to see Tom. I head straight to my car in the parking garage, flipping open my cell phone and punching in his office number as I go. “Hogan,” he answers.
“Where are the kids?”
I can almost see the look on his face. “Lindsay?”
I yank open the door of my Jeep and climb inside. “No time, Tom. Where did you place those kids?”
The Jeep roars to life as I turn the key in the ignition. “The Hispanic kids from the dock?”
I put my SUV into reverse with a little too much force, venting my frustration on the vehicle. “Yes!”
He pauses and I can tell he’s looking it up. “Why do you want to know?”
“Because there’s a link between those kids and the execution style murders we were looking into last week. The address they gave took Jacobi to the apartment of one of those dealers.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line. Silence that speaks volumes. “They were split up. Mateo went to a group home in Inner Mission, and the little kids went to a foster home in… Miraloma Park.”
I am pulling out of the parking garage. Two directions to go and only one of me. I take a deep breath and turn south towards Inner Mission. “Tom, I need you to get me the address of the group home in Mission, and get a patrol car over to that address in addition to the foster home in Miraloma. We need to get these kids into protective custody. They may be witnesses to more than just our Jane Does’ murder.”
He agrees and gives me the address before hanging up to radio dispatch and get come patrol cars to these houses. I pull onto the James Lick, and ten minutes later, I pull up in front of a quiet, two story single home on the corner of 19th and York. The sign on the front lawn says “Zion Evengelist Group Home for Boys.” There’s a blue passenger van in the driveway. I check that my service weapon is secure in its holster and step out of my vehicle.
Hand on my gun, I walk up onto the front porch of the house and knock, loudly. I don’t hear anything. And on a Sunday, no less. Something is wrong here.
I walk around the side of the house towards the backyard, which is surrounded by a six foot high board fence. I push the gate open and it creaks a little on its hinges. In the backyard is an old, partly rusted swing set and a basketball hoop.
I turn my head to the right and see that the back door has a pane of glass broken out of it. “Shit,” I mutter, and draw my weapon, holding it in front of me at a slightly lowered angle as I walk up onto the porch. I use my foot to prod the back door open, and it reveals a fairly neat kitchen with a table for four. I let my gun precede me into the room, swinging left and right to check things out. “San Francisco Police!” I shout, “Is there anyone home?”
Not a sound. My stomach clenches as I recognize the implications of the silence. I walk through the kitchen and into the next room, which is a dining room. No one. A few more cautious steps puts me in the living room and it’s a good thing I didn’t eat anything yet this morning. A sudden pounding on the front door causes me to jump. “San Francisco Police!” I hear a mans voice shout.
I swallow the bile that his risen in my throat and step over the three prone bodies to unlock the front door, flashing my badge and letting in the two uniformed officers standing on the front porch. “Sweet Jesus…” the female office murmurs, her eyes going wide as her male partner crosses himself.
“We need to check upstairs,” I say, and the male officer, Stewart, according to his name badge, nods and draws his gun.
“I’ve got your back,” he says, as his female partner reaches for the radio on her collar and calls for backup and a bus for the victims.
We take the stairs two at a time, moving quietly. At the top of the stairs is a small bathroom. To the right along a narrow hallway are two bedrooms with a third at the end of the hallway. I motion towards the first bedroom and Officer Stewart nods and ducks inside while I take the second one. The second bedroom has a set of stacked bunk beds, neatly made. There are a few sports posters on the walls, and a baseball glove lying on the floor next to the beds, but there’s no one inside, and no sign of a struggle.
“No one in here,” I hear Stewart shout.
“Second room is clear too,” I say, moving back out and heading towards the third room, whose door is slightly ajar.
I use my foot again to push the door open and step into the third room. I can hear Stewart closing behind me. In this room, which is pretty big, are two sets of bunk beds. I grimace as I swing my gun arm to the left. Kneeling down, I check the pulse of the small body lying on the bloody carpet. Nothing. “We’ve got another vic,” Stewart says softly.
I glance up to where he is standing by one of the beds, looking down at the lone occupant of the lower bunk, his expression bleak. I stand up, forcing a level of control I really don’t feel. A few long strides puts me within range of the bed. I look down into the amazingly serene face of Mateo Gutierrez, and then my eyes travel down his body to the two bullet holes in the sheet where his chest is.
*~*~*
If there is anything to be thankful for at this moment, I think to myself, it’s that a patrol car just radioed in from Miraloma Park. When they arrived at the foster home where DCS placed the two youngest kids, they found the front door kicked in and the entire house in shambles. Fortunately, the middle aged foster parents who had taken the kids in last night were found unharmed at their church in Sunnyside. Both kids were with them and were unharmed. The entire group was placed into protective custody immediately, and, as of 8:23 AM, were safe and sound.
Jacobi had arrived moments previously to find me leaning against the bumper of my Jeep, head between my knees, struggling to not pass out. I managed to pull myself together enough to walk him through the basics. Five dead in the house-four boys, ages eight to fourteen and a fifty something male social worker who ran the facility. The three victims in the living room were lying face down and had each been shot once in the back of the head. Execution style, just like those two drug dealers we found in the Basin. Glass in the back door broken, but no prints, implying that this killer was careful and experienced. As if we didn’t already know that.
Claire had called me about fifteen minutes prior to tell me that she had the preliminary findings from the autopsy on Jane Doe. Jacobi kindly suggests to me that I head back to the Hall to get the results of the autopsy and to update Tom. I am normally not inclined to agree to something that is obviously meant to remove me from an emotionally trying situation, being the bad-ass super cop that I am, but today I take him up on his offer.
On the way back to the Hall I pick up my cell phone and dial Cindy’s number by memory. When I left her at my house this morning, she had mentioned heading to her office to check out some leads on a few stories she had going. I am actually surprised she hasn’t shown up at the scene of the latest murders in this increasingly complex case. Her phone rings twice before she picks it up. “Hey babe,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice.
“Where are you?” I ask, and I’m fairly alarmed at just how scratchy my voice sounds.
“I’m still at your house,” she says, her cheer fading quickly to alarm as she talks, “Why? What’s the matter?”
I sigh. “Nothing… just… a new development,” I mutter, knowing this is one development that’s going to hurt her bad, “Look, can you meet me at the Hall?”
“Now?”
“Yeah.”
“Give me fifteen minutes.”
I nod and then realize she can’t see that. God I am so fucked up right now. “Okay, that sounds good.”
We hang up and I immediately feel more alone than I had ten seconds previously. I turn my car into the garage under the Hall, offering a distracted wave to the guy manning the gates. I let my feet carry me out of my car to the elevators, making my way to Tom’s office purely out of habit. He is sitting at his desk, phone pressed to his ear, his back to me. I knock softly and then lean against the door jamb, body so tired it can barely support me. He turns and sees me in the doorway, frowns and motions for me to take a seat which I decline to do, knowing that if I sit, I may never get up.
He finally finishes his conversation and hangs up, casting a worried glance my way. “You okay?” he asks and then backpedals, “I mean, I know you’re not okay, but damn, Linds, you look like hell.”
I offer up a small smile. “Always the flatterer.”
He smiles at this. “So what’re your thoughts on the connections here?”
I sigh, any hint of a smile falling away from my face. “I think these kids are definitely Jane Doe’s. I think the entire family is tied up in the murder of those two dealers last week. How? I’m not quite sure. But I think the kids saw the attack on their mother. I think the oldest could have given us an ID. The next oldest is six. That’s shakey ground.”
“Six year olds have made ID’s before.”
“Yeah, I know, and we can only hope….”
I let my voice trail off. Tom nods, understanding my implications. “Well for now, the youngest two are safe, as is their temporary family. Where was crime scene when you left?”
“The CSU had just gotten there. I’m guessing that that scene will be as tidy as the one where we found those two dealers.”
He shakes his head. “This guy has to make a mistake at some point. No one is perfect.”
“The only question is how many more bodies are going to rack up before he makes that mistake?”
He grimaces. “Yeah. So what’s next?”
I frown, run a hand through my hair. “Claire has the autopsy results on Jane Doe. Jacobi is finishing up at the group home. Then we wait on the crime scene unit to have some results we can compare to the two prior incidents.”
He nods. “Okay. Keep me posted.”
I agree to do so and turn to walk down the stairs out of his office. I look towards my desk and see Cindy sitting there, twirling one of my pencil’s nervously in her fingers. She tries a shaky smile when I walk over to her, and I make a lame attempt at one in response. “Why do I feel like I’m about to cry?”
At this I nearly break down, dropping my gaze away from her to the array of objects strewn across my desk. “Come on,” I say, indicating the doorway to the squad room, “Claire has autopsy results for me.”
She frowns, catching the implicit statement hidden behind this request-that there’s something bad I have to tell her, and I don’t want to tell her where everyone can see her cry.
*~*~*
Claire is working on paperwork as we come into the morgue. She looks up with a tired smile. “You here for the autopsy results on Jane Doe, or-?”
I cut her off before she can mention the incoming victims she’ll be spending all day with. “Yeah, Jane Doe first.”
She looks at me and then her eyes travel to Cindy, standing behind my right shoulder. If she’s wondering why I cut her off, she’s smart enough to know it has something to do with Cindy and she doesn’t mention it, instead plowing into the details of Jane Doe.
“She drowned. Plain and simple.”
“What about that blow to her head?”
“Enough to knock her unconscious, but not to kill her. She was dumped in the bay still alive, but unconscious, and ended up drowning because of it.”
“And the sexual assault?”
“She was raped. Unfortunately there were no fluids. Either the perp used a condom, or the she was in the water long enough for the evidence to deteriorate, but I’m leaning towards the former.”
“So you’ve got nothing for me?”
She smirks. “I never said that.”
She reaches over to the side of her desk and picks up a tiny plastic baggie. Inside are two tightly curled hairs. “Are those pubes?” I ask.
Claire nods. “Yep. Get me a suspect and we’ll yank some pubes off him, and I can match ‘em up.”
“Nice work, Claire,” I say, impressed.
“Lucky work. Those should have washed away. He must have used quite a lot of force to embed those so deeply into her. Poor girl.”
I grimace, and then turn to Cindy, who’s still standing there, unusually reticent. I glance back at Claire. “Claire, can we have a moment?”
“Sure,” she says, getting to her feet and walking to the door, “I’ve got incomings to prepare for.”
She pulls the door shut as she leaves and I walk towards her desk, turning to face Cindy. I open my arms and she looks at me, her eyes telling me she’s preparing herself for bad news. She sighs and walks into my open arms, burying her face in my coat and wrapping her arms around my back. “Just spit it out. I know it’s bad news.”
Her voice is muffled against my body. I hold her tightly. “Mateo Gutierrez was shot to death this morning around seven.”
Her body tenses in my arms and I can feel her struggling for control. “What about Angel and Maria?”
“They were at church with their foster parents. They’re safe.”
There’s a long moment of silence. “Did he suffer?” she whispers, so softly I can barely hear her.
I shake my head even though she cannot see. “No. I don’t think he ever woke up.”
The warmth of tears soaking through my shirt are my only indication that she is crying. No hysterics… just quiet grief. That’s my girl, I think to myself, my brave girl. I rub my hand along her back in consoling circles, and bury my face in her hair, whispering over and over again how very sorry I am.
Before I can stop myself, I feel tears of my own flowing down my face and into her hair. Suddenly the roles change and I am left clinging to her, willing her to keep me upright through the haze of pain and guilt and frustration. “It wasn’t your fault,” she whispers, and I feel her stir as she lifts her head to look at me.
I losen my grip on her to swipe at my eyes, and when I look at Cindy, her own eyes are red-rimmed and bright with unshed tears. “I know.”
She reaches up to stroke my cheek. “You say you know, but you don’t let yourself believe it. You think if you had only put them into protective custody last night, then Mateo would still be alive. But you followed procedures, Linds. You did your job to the best of your ability. This isn’t your fault.”
I swallow hard and nod. “How is it you’re standing here and making me feel better?” I whisper, my eyes meeting hers, “I should be doing that for you.”
She offers up a small smile and leans up to press a kiss to my lips. “Reciprocity, Lindsay. I give, you give.”
At that I kiss her once more, a little longer this time, before wrapping my arms even more tightly around her and laying my cheek against her hair. I close my eyes, breathing in the smell of her shampoo and body spray… all the unique odors that make Cindy… Cindy. It’s the most amazing combination I’ve ever had the pleasure to inhale, I think to myself.
“What’s going on with the case?”
I should have known the silence would never last. I pull away reluctantly and lean back against the desk, letting my hands settle to her waist. “Not a whole lot, other than we’re starting to realize that these killings are all connected. Claire will be able to do a DNA test now to see if Jane Doe is… the children’s mother.”
I stop short of mentioning Mateo by name again, and Cindy looks relieved. “Gang related, you think?”
I shrug, running a hand through my hair out of habit. “I wouldn’t discount the possibility.”
“But….?”
I smile. “You know me too well. But… it seems too personal for me. We know that Jane Doe shared a residence with one of the murdered dealers.”
I pause, considering. “I am going to ask Claire to look at his DNA as well. Maybe he is the father. Anyway… Jane Doe and Escobeda shared an apartment for at least a short period of time. I think the kids belonged to Jane Doe. It’s one thing for a rival gang to target a dealer, but to go after the dealers woman is, again, more personal. And then to go after the kids of said woman… I dunno. There’s something more there.”
Cindy nods, chews her lip thoughtfully. “I wonder which rival gangs have had run ins with Escobeda’s crew in the past few months? That might be somewhere to start. I’ll run a check through the archives at the Register for rival gangs and known associates. Maybe we can generate a list of people to start checking out.”
I raise my hands to her upper arms. “Cindy,” I say, staring hard into her face, “This is not a situation I want you involved in. We’re talking about a total of eight dead bodies at this point, four of whom were children. This person is serious about whatever agenda they are working towards. Serious and deadly. Stay out of this.”
She looks up at me, her expression vascillatin between taken aback and humored. “Is that an order, Inspector?”
I sigh and look down briefly, before raising my eyes back to hers. “No,” I say softly, letting my fingers trace across her lips, “It’s a request. From your very worried girlfriend.”
I press a kiss to her lips, quick and chaste. “Please, baby,” I murmur against her mouth, “Let me do my job. I can’t do that without knowing you’re safe.”
She sighs heavily. “Fine.”
“Fine what?”
“Fine, I’ll stay out of it,” she says quickly, kicking the toe of her shoe against the linoleum tile floor, leaving a mark, “But I’m still going to run a check of the archives.”
I nod. “Okay, I’d appreciate that.”
I take a step towards the door and hold out my hand. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride to the Register,” I say, with a small smile.
Matching mine, she reaches out and takes my offered hand. Crisis averted, for now, I think to myself as we leave the morgue.