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“Hell yes. Let me get Sade—she’s been chomping at the bit to get over there.”
“Give Vernon PD a courtesy call. Let them know we’ll be conducting an interview.”
“On it.”
“Meet you outside in five.”
As Mani hurries out, taking his manic energy with him, I push to my feet and begin gathering my things. My mind, never resting, makes lists of everything to do. We need to close the loop on Lyla Kaspar’s alibi and move her to the back of the file with Antoinette Rupetta and Juliette Dorn. And Catherine…
As the information that Mani gathered on Catherine Beauchamp flits through my mind, I try to remind myself that the woman who sat on the porch swing with me is the same one I saw in the LAPD headshots. Over the years, she’s been arrested for solicitation, possession, and possession with intent to distribute. While none of the charges stuck, I meant what I said when I told her it’s hard for me to reconcile her past with who she is today.
Still, if I’m going to do my job and do it properly, it would serve me well to remember that Catherine Beauchamp is paid to tell people,men, what they want to hear. And, while she may not have any reason to lie to me about her whereabouts, until there’s proof that she was home alone that night, she can’t be eradicated as a suspect—irrespective of my gut feeling that she couldn’t kill in cold blood.
There is so much to do, so many potential avenues to go down. So, it’s strange that once Catherine Beauchamp has slipped into my thoughts, she stays there. She stays there for far too long.
***
Vernon.The little industrial city sits almost adjacent to downtown Los Angeles, and, while it’s its own jurisdiction with its own police department, I can’t imagine much crime occurring here. Driving through it feels like eavesdropping on a conversation where someone is describing it—flat. There’s no life. Just various industrial buildings, packed together by roads and bisected by the railroad tracks. A few people loiter on the sidewalks, but compared to DTLA just next door, it’s a ghost town.
“What’s the population here?” From the back seat of the cruiser, Detective Candace Sade—or, Sade, as she prefers—looks out at the city as we drive. At five-foot-ten and one-sixty, with ebony hair and brown eyes, Sade looks more like one of Toni’s girls than a street-hardened LAPD detective. But it would be a mistake to assume she’s not dangerous. Sade is the domesticated panther of the department. Her appearance and disposition make a person relax, but her instincts are there, waiting for the right opportunity to pounce.
“Residential population is one hundred and ten civilians,” Mani supplies. “But there are nearly two thousand industrial and commercial businesses, so the daily transient population fluctuates every day.”
“One-ten?” I ask from the driver’s seat. “That’s it? There areone hundred and tenpeople who live in this city?”
“There’s no housing,” Mani explains. “The city was founded in nineteen o’ five as an exclusively industrial city.”
“Mhnn.” The sound I make as we pull up to the listed address for the Dressmaker is noncommittal.
The building Suzanne O’Neill owns is small compared to the midrise industrial warehouses surrounding it. It’s a short, squat two-story commercial structure with a red brick façade and tired-looking brown tile roof. The bright red door is recessed into the frame so that it’s not visible from the road unless you’re directly opposite it. But it’s the only piece of color on the entire street. Everything else is muted.
There is no sign above the door.
There is no knocker or doorbell.
Just the bright red door, standing out on the otherwise sepia street.
I hang back, letting Mani and Sade take charge.
As Lieutenant One, my job will involve less and less of this, the grunt work, the long, irregular hours and follow-ups. But there’s a large part of me that will miss the chaos. Administration just isn’t the same.
Mani knocks loudly, using the side of his fisted hand, and identifies himself. “Hello! This is the LAPD!” He takes a step back, waits for thirty seconds, and then repeats the process.
The second time he steps back, the door flings open. My first thought is:Thisis Suzanne O’Neill? She’s not the middle-aged, Irish woman with six grandchildren and a penchant for cussing that my imagination had conjured. (The good son in me makes a note to call my mom.)
This Suzanne O’Neill, if it is her standing in front of me, is young, maybe in her late twenties, and black. She’s dressed in a purple, leather corset-like top and a high-waisted, pink tutu skirt that falls to her knees at the front and to the floor at the back. Black Converse shoes tie the ensemble together. Her hair is cut short to her scalp, exposing a face that is as flawless as it is frustrated. Like Retro Tinkerbell. And judging by the look she’s giving ourtrio, her penchant for cussing might match an Irish mama’s.
She sizes us up quickly and, if I could hazard a guess, efficiently. “May I help you?” When she speaks, her voice has the faint inflection of the south.
Mani leads. “Ms. O’Neill? Suzanne O’Neill?”
Suzanne raises her eyebrows. “In the flesh.”
“My name is Detective Immanuel Sanchez. This is Detective Candace Sade and Lieutenant Aiden Flint,” he indicates to each of us. “LAPD. We’d like to ask you some questions about a dress you made.”
Suzanne doesn’t reply.
Mani awkwardly adds, “If you have a moment?”
