a picture of the cage being carted out of the apartment building. When he was done, he started sorting through the pile of pink phone slips that had amassed during his three-hour absence. He had finished the majority of the callbacks when Marge and Oliver knocked on his open office door. The clock read one in the afternoon.
“That was just about the worst crime scene I’ve ever been to from a forensics’ point of view,” Oliver groused. “It was so contaminated by animal blood and shit that it was impossible to tell what I was looking at.”
Marge said, “The good news is we found another twenty-two bullet and a couple of casings … I won’t tell you where. Okay, I will tell you where.” When she did, Decker made a face.
Oliver said, “I also bagged a couple of tools that might have made the depression in the skull, but I’m not loving any of them.”
“Like what?” Decker asked.
“A broom handle, a soup ladle, the back of a cleaver.” A pause. “I’m thinking what’s an old guy doing with a cleaver? Then I’m thinking that someone had to cut up the meat for kitty.”
Marge was paging through her notes. “Okay, from the canvassing, we didn’t get too much. Hardly anyone remembers seeing the old man.”
“What about noises coming from his apartment?”
“Yeah, we got a few of ‘I might have heard something’ or ‘I thought I heard something.’ The people I spoke to didn’t call it in. He did get a lot of deliveries. Not unusual for a shut-in.”
“Meat for the cat?” Decker asked.
“Deliveries from the local Albertsons and Ralphs. I’ll find out the specifics,” Marge said. “As far as phone records, he had a landline but no cell phone. That’s pretty much in keeping for a recluse and a guy his age. Did you by any chance receive a phone call from Ryan Wilner?”
“Regarding?”
“I wanted to find out where they took the tiger and if she was shot. It might make a difference in how we approach the case if she was harmed. If she wasn’t, maybe the perpetrator knew the beast.”
“I’ll call him,” Decker said. “But who uses a twenty-two to take out a tiger.”
“Not on her skull, but soft tissue is soft tissue.”
Decker acknowledged the point.
Marge said, “What about Penny’s kin?”
“The rich ones are always protected, but using charm, the Internet, and a phone book, I did get some numbers.” Decker flipped his phone messages. “Here’s a contact for the daughter: Baroness Graciela Johannesbourgh. When you call up, ask for Hollie Hanson. I believe she is the executive secretary of the baroness’s foundation.” He handed Marge a piece of paper with the information.
“Foundation for what?”
“Cervical dystonia,” Decker said. “I looked it up. It’s when your head rotates to the side of your neck and freezes in that position. The medical name is torticollis. It’s treated with botulinum toxin to relax the muscles. It can be genetic. I have no idea if the foundation is a personal thing or just the goodness of her heart.”
Decker rifled through more papers.
“Here we go. This is a contact number for Darius Penny at Klineman, Barrows, Purchas and Penny. Darius’s secretary is named Kevin.” That pink slip with the information went to Oliver.
“Did you tell them what it was about?” Scott asked.
“Just that it concerned Hobart Penny,” Decker said. “No details. I’m sure they both assume that it has to do with his death—the man was old—but I told them nothing about the murder. Both numbers are two-one-two area code: Manhattan. Whatever you do, be cautious. These types lawyer up when you ask them about the weather.”
“What do you know about their respective financial situations?” Oliver asked.
“Nothing.”
“Okay. I’ll do some digging.”
Marge said, “What about the ex-wife?”
Decker said, “Sabrina Talbot lives in Montecito in Santa Barbara County. I Google-mapped the residence and plot. The house is one of those huge Mediterranean things set on lots of acreage. I suppose that you wouldn’t mind driving up to talk to her.”
“I can handle that.” Marge smiled. “Might you want me to call Will or anyone in SBPD who knows anything about her?”
“Now there’s a fine idea,” Decker said. “What’s your schedule like tomorrow?”
“I can leave around eleven.”
“I’m free,” Oliver said. “I’ll come with you.”
“Will you now?”
“I’m good on a road trip.”
“Oliver, haven’t you heard the old saying about two people versus three.”
“That is the old saying. The new one goes, two is company, three’s a party.”
“I’m taking this from a guy who thinks Facebook is a collection of mug shots.”
“True, I’m old-fashioned when it comes to social networking,” Oliver said. “But when it comes to just plain social, I’m always game.”
The call came in a few hours later. “This is Lieutenant Decker.”
“Ryan Wilner.”
“Hello, Agent Wilner, how’s our baby doing?”
“It was a long night for her. She’s disoriented, but Vignette told me she’s starting to feed, which is a very good sign.”
“Vignette?”
“She’s the director of the sanctuary. She wants to talk to you.”
“Okay.” A momentary pause. “Do you know what it’s about?”
“Just that she was upset about the old man’s death. Apparently he was a big supporter of the sanctuary, so she knew him well.”
Decker’s ears perked up. “I’ll give her a call. Do you have her number?”
Wilner read the digits over the phone. “You should visit the place. She and her staff do a great job.”
“I just might do that.” He hung up and immediately punched in Vignette’s numbers. It rang twice before it was picked up. There was a lot of static on the line.
“Global Earth Sanctuary.” The voice was female.
“Yes, this is Lieutenant Decker from Los Angeles Police. May I please talk to Vignette?”
“This is Vignette. Thanks for calling me, Lieutenant.” The
