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“You’ve got multiple killings here, but it doesn’t feel serial to me. In every case, effort was made to cast the deaths as suicides. Most serial killers delight in being blatant about their acts. So a woman could be our killer or an accomplice.”
“Motive?”
“Money.”
The Aston Martin was two cars and almost a block ahead of us as it rolled to the stop sign. Instead of taking a left toward Mize Fine Arts, the Aston Martin turned right and headed toward the ocean.
Drummond stayed well back now, unwilling to risk being noticed, while Johnson and I craned our necks to see the roadster take a left onto Ocean Boulevard just as the rain came on hard. When we turned after it, less than a minute later, we couldn’t see where Mize had gone.
Then Johnson saw brake lights in the shadows beyond a gate set in a wall that surrounded a two-story Mediterranean. The house was mostly shielded from the road by a riot of plants and towering palms. We circled the block to make sure Mize hadn’t gone somewhere else and returned feeling that he must have been allowed in by someone who lived or worked there. Edwin and Pauline Striker were listed as owners in the county records Johnson pulled up on his iPad.
“Is Pauline a candidate for Coco?” I said.
Johnson shook his head. “Both owners are in their late sixties. But maybe Coco’s a daughter or something.”
Drummond parked where we could see the gate and then drummed his fingers on the wheel. Even though his face remained expressionless, I was learning to read his other nonverbal cues. He was frustrated, and I sensed why.
The various links we’d established connecting the victims, Mize, and Coco were weak, at best, and some were unproven. We didn’t even know, for example, if the Coco who’d painted the portraits was the same woman who worked for Mize. And the only thing that tied Mize to any of it was the fact that he’d employed Francie Letourneau and had been called by the maid just before she’d been killed.
That certainly wasn’t enough to warrant us going into Mize’s home or even, for that matter, into the Strikers’ place. For all we knew, the Strikers were old and dear friends of the art dealer, and he was over for a late visit.
But what if—
Drummond said, “I’m sitting here wondering if Mize is in there alone with Pauline Striker.”
“Or with Coco and Pauline Striker.”
“Call the house,” I said. “Make it sound as if you’re checking in with people who used Francine Letourneau as a maid or a woman named Coco as a portrait painter. See if that flushes him out.”
Johnson looked up the number, called it, heard it ring into voice mail. He left a message identifying himself and asking that someone give him a call back on his cell phone regarding an ongoing investigation.
When he hung up, I doubted we’d get a call anytime soon and I yawned, glanced at my watch. It was nearly ten.
Then Johnson’s phone rang.
“The Strikers,” he said, and he put the phone on speaker and answered.
Chapter
70
In a hallway off the master suite upstairs, Jeffrey Mize became Coco. He got control of himself and affected a crotchety voice, saying, “This is Pauline Striker. I am looking for Detective Johnson.”
“You got him,” Johnson said. “Thanks for the quick callback.”
“What’s this about?” Coco said.
“An investigation I’m a part of,” Johnson said. “I’m trying to find out if you or your friends employed a Francine Letourneau as a maid in the past four or five years.”
“The answer for me is no,” Coco said. “We’ve been lucky and haven’t had a turnover in staff in ten years. Both our girls are part of the family. As far as the staff at other houses, I couldn’t say.”
“Right,” Johnson said.
“Is that all? My husband and I are entertaining.”
“Sorry to interrupt, but just one more question.”
“Go ahead.”
