Free CHIMERAS (Track Presius) by E.E. Giorgi Page B

other certainty the camera granted me: by eleven thirteen the perp was out, and both husband and wife were dead, according to the M.E.’s preliminary findings. I closed the laptop.
    Nelson sat on an upholstered armchair across from me, a cell phone glued to her ear as she interviewed one of the Tarantinos’ friends whose number she’d found in the planner. Two men from the coroner’s office carried the first body down the stairs. The blue shroud jolted and waggled, until it was flopped on a stretcher at the bottom of the stairs and wheeled away.
    “This one didn’t know anything about it,” Nelson concluded, terminating the call. She slouched back in the chair and stared vacantly at the daily planner on her lap. The two pages covering the week of October 5 were scribbled with tiny notes in black ink: one-line reminders, a name, a book title to check out at the library, plenty of doodles and exclamation points. A single entry in a slanted handwriting filled the line under Saturday, October 11: “Horowitz BDay Party,” it read. No phone number was listed under Horowitz, not in the planner, not in the mobile.
    “We could search in the database under Horowitz and DOB October 11,” Nelson offered.
    “Birthday parties are not always timely.” I got up and paced around the living room. Nelson sighed and dialed another number. A cold fireplace sported several picture frames on its mantel: two men in fishing gear embracing one another and proudly showing a two-foot long salmon; a freckled girl with a braced smile posing in a cheerleader uniform; a teenager too unhappy about the huge pimple on her forehead to smile at the camera.
    “Hello, this is Officer Kimberly Nelson from the LAPD.”
    Glass doors to the back yard framed the blue outline of the Santa Monica Mountains. I stepped closer, pulled away the sheer curtains and stared outside. Or such were my intentions.
    I sensed a lingering presence, feminine, one hand clasping the curtain. Did she look into the darkness outside? What drew her here—fear maybe? Or doubt? I inhaled. Feminine scents are elusive. Women don’t always stick to one fragrance like most men do, and their secretions change from day to day with their hormones. I can get a global picture of a feminine smell, but if I want to break it apart, get into the components of it, one woman alone is a maze of scents.
    I let my hand slide down the curtain, perusing its folds and billows, searching.
    “Nelson.”
    “Shit! They hung up on me.”
    “Nelson!”
    “What?”
    “Go get Diane.”
     
    *  *  *
     
    The afternoon glare made me squint. I reached for my sunglasses, inhaling. The air was crisp and alive. Clean murder , I thought. The killer comes, fires, leaves. Not much to start off: a doubtful note and a plate number, the vehicle missing, together with its owner.
    I leaned against the portico railing and checked my phone. It was three fifteen. The field unit guys were packing up their tools and loading the van. In the distance, the Mediterranean colors of the Californian scrubland weaved with the profile of the hills. Trimmed shrubs of oleanders bobbed in the breeze, their elongated leaves drooping and whispering. A row of garden lights followed the edge of the lawn. A flock of birds-of-paradise flowers guarded the east wall of the house.
    The black sedan parked next to the Field Unit van blinked, and its door locks popped up. In his dark suit and gray tie, the deputy district attorney ambled out of the house, swinging his tattered briefcase in one hand. “Still here, Track?” he said, dispensing a broad smile. No crime scene could ever affect Mr. Udall’s ethereal serenity, no matter how gory the details. His jaws were stuck together in a dolphin smirk, which came with the complimentary small eyes—eerily split by thick bifocals—and matching under-bite. Worked miracles in the courtroom. He stopped at the bottom of the patio stairs, slid a hand in his pants pocket, and said, “October seems