Chapter 67

Morris and the rest of the team had a busy morning. The police sketch brought in ninety-seven calls from concerned citizens who thought they recognized the human Ken doll, and caused eighteen blond thirty-something guys to voluntarily show up at the Wilcox Avenue precinct to claim they weren’t the person in the sketch. Jamie Siegel agreed to come in, and Franklin Strong and Ray Vestra picked her up and brought her to the precinct so she could look at potential suspects through a one-way glass. While this was happening Morris and the rest of the team tracked down potential suspects from the hotline calls. Some could prove they weren’t at Petit Bistro, others had their pictures taken or, if they acted suspiciously, were brought to the precinct. By three o’clock the team had eliminated these potential suspects, and Morris, Bogle, and a still grumpy Parker were in MBI’s conference room eating lunch.

Morris asked Bogle, “You know what I’m thinking?”

“That you should’ve gotten yourself prosciutto and mozzarella instead of tuna fish?”

“That too,” Morris agreed. “But I keep thinking that there’s a connection between the two victims and if we dig deep enough we’ll find it.”

“Like what?”

“I’m not sure exactly.” Morris took another bite of sandwich. “Maybe they frequented the same bar or restaurant or spa or whatever, and that’s where this guy found them.”

Parker had gotten under the conference table and made a demanding grunt. Morris ordered the bull terrier to get out from under there. Parker made several more unhappy grunts before complying.

“He’s been in a pissy mood all day,” Bogle remarked. “What’s gotten into him?”

“I couldn’t tell you.”

Lemmon and Walsh joined them. They had done what they could to trace back Joplin Cole’s movements and had gotten nowhere. Morris told them his thoughts about trying to find a link between Fletcher and Cole. He added, “It would help if we had their credit card statements.”

Walsh showed a helpless gesture. “The request has been put in,” she said. “I’m still waiting, just like I’m still waiting for the FBI to unlock Cole’s phone. What’s up with your dog? Every time I’ve seen him today he’s been moping around.”

“It’s a mystery.”

They decided to split up the calls. Lemmon and Walsh would focus on bars and restaurants, and Morris and Bogle would cover everything else. Twenty minutes later while Morris was on hold with a nail salon, his cell phone rang. Roger Smichen.

“I’ve got good news and good news,” Smichen said. “Which do you want to hear first.”

“You sound as punch drunk as I feel,” Morris said.

“No doubt. It’s what can happen when you spend a day chasing after a seventeen-year-old coroner’s report. So I’ll give you the good news first. You can’t do an exhumation. Smalley’s remains were cremated.”

“How is that good news?”

“Because an exhumation isn’t needed. The coroner, bless him, was exceedingly thorough and took dental X-rays and included Smalley’s dental records in the report. The X-rays match up. Travis Smalley was killed in that alley. No other possibility.”

“Okay. Thanks, Roger, and sorry for having you spend your Saturday on that goose chase.”

“It happens.”

Morris was still on hold with the nail salon. He called Polk to tell him he could drop the tail.

“Thank God,” Polk said in a hushed voice. “I followed her into a movie theater where she’s watching the sappiest chick flick imaginable. Another minute of this and I might’ve gone blind.”

“If you want to wait until the movie’s over before heading back, feel free.”

Polk chuckled at that. “I don’t think so. Assuming traffic’s not a bear, I’ll be there in ten.”

The owner of the nail salon finally came on, and like the other calls Morris had made, it was a dead end. Two hours later he had finished calling all of the West Hollywood nail and hair salons and was feeling as grumpy as Parker was acting when Bogle entered the office with a hard grin etched on his face. “Bingo,” he said.

“Sure, go ahead. Keep me in suspense.”

“They were both members of the same West Hollywood gym. A place called Muscles Incorporated.”

Morris frowned hearing that. Neither woman had gym membership cards in their pocketbooks. The killer must’ve taken them.

“Do you know by any chance whether they give you keys for a locker or if you need to supply your own lock?”

“I asked that exact question,” Bogle said, his grin hardening. “They give you a key to a locker. And yes, they have duplicates for every locker in case a key is lost. Or in case a psycho serial killer working there needs access to a locker so he can make a silicone putty impression of a person’s apartment key.”

A grimness tightened Morris’s features. Lori Fletcher and Joplin Cole never had a chance.

“Let’s get the hell over there,” he said.