Free Capital Crimes by Jonathan Kellerman Page A

men?” Torres asked.
    Amanda said, “None so far, but Detective Don Newell from Sacramento PD is investigating.”
    Torres said, “Then maybe you should wait until Newell makes his report before I allocate the funds to send you down south.”
    “I have another reason for wanting to go to LA this week, sir,” Barnes said. “Detective Newell arrested two losers who were behind the assault on Davida Grayson last week.”
    “The egging.”
    Barnes nodded. “Coupla morons named Ray and Brent Nutterly from the White Tower boys. Their boss, Marshall Bledsoe, might be visiting LA.”
    “Bledsoe,” said Torres. “Suspected synagogue bomber but he was never charged. Egging seems lightweight for him.”
    “True, sir, but Newell is pretty sure the Nutterly boys wouldn’t have acted without Bledsoe’s go-ahead. In light of Grayson’s murder, we should question him. That’s two obvious reasons for going south.”
    “Obvious,” Torres repeated.
    Amanda said, “Bledsoe lives in Idaho but we’ve got a bench warrant for outstanding traffic violations. His mother lives in the San Fernando Valley and Thanksgiving’s coming up.”
    “Dropping in on Mommy,” said the captain. “You do any prep on this?”
    “We called LAPD West Valley Division and they called saying there’s a pickup with Idaho plates in Mom’s driveway. That was an hour ago.”
    Barnes said, “Four months ago, Modell moved about ten miles north of Bledsoe’s mother.”
    “Convenient,” said Torres. “Do the two of them know each other?”
    “Good question.”
    Torres glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s too late to put you two on a plane and get you back in time for town hall. If Bledsoe is visiting Mom for the holidays, he isn’t going anywhere. The community meeting’s been pushed back from seven to eight. Community affairs is making up a list of mock questions. Go over them so you’re prepared. I know I don’t have to tell you this but I will anyway. No mention of Modell or Bledsoe by name. If someone asks about suspects, tell them we’re focusing our attention on a few persons of interest. You do all that, you can book tickets to La La Land.”
    “Thanks, got it,” Barnes said.
    “Meanwhile,” said Torres, “go down to the morgue in Oakland and see what forensics you can get on Grayson. Coroner’s running a full toxicology screen. Given an overkill shotgun thing in the wee hours of the morning, I’m still seeing red flags for a dope deal gone sour. Her blood turns up dirty, we’ve got a new kind of complication. Afterward, grab some dinner and clean up before town hall. I want you both presentable.”
    “We’re not presentable?” Amanda asked.
    “You are,” Torres said. “Barnes looks a little wilted.”
    “I’ll unwilt, sir, maybe even shave. When should we leave for LA?”
    “Book a seven AM tomorrow. Call up Southwest and JetBlue. Go with whoever’s cheaper.”
             
    It took ten minutes for Amanda to connect with the deputy coroner in charge of Davida Grayson’s autopsy. Dr. Marv Williman was in his late sixties but had the voice of a much younger man. “Detective Isis. Well, this is kismet. I was just about to call you.”
    “And here I am,” Amanda answered. “Will Barnes and I are on our way to see you.”
    “I finished up the autopsy an hour ago. That means we can meet somewhere other than the crypt.”
    “That’s fine with me. I’m wearing a designer suit.”
    “Hoo hah,” said Williman. “Berkeley’s coming up in the world. I’m a little hungry. There’s a great Italian place named Costino’s about three blocks from my office, more trattoria than osteria.”
    “Sounds good.” Amanda secured the address. “We’ll see you in about thirty, forty minutes.”
    “What sounds good?” Will asked.
    “We’re meeting Dr. Williman at an Italian restaurant instead of the morgue.”
    “Pasta in place of pancreases, excellent. It’s been awhile since I ate something serious.”
    “What