Beside the entrance to the
parking garage was the large growth of bougainvillea as well as some azaleas. Crouching behind the flowering plants was Malcolm
Rojas.
He had been hiding there for half an hour. It wasn’t a particularly hot summer evening, yet he was burning up. He felt feverish,
and as angry as he’d ever been in his life. He’d watched four other cars drive in during the past thirty minutes. One of them
was driven by a man, one by a young woman, one by a middle-aged woman who looked Hispanic. None of those had propelled Malcolm
Rojas into action. A stab of pain, sizzling and fizzing, began somewhere behind his eyes. He was in a rage.
A forty-seven-year-old Realtor named Sharon Gillespie drove the Pathfinder. She lived with a man who was also in real-estate
sales, and she was just coming home from her office. She parked in her usual space, number 33, at the south wall of the parking
garage. When she got out and was preparing to lock the SUV, a hand was clamped across her mouth, and another hand, this one
holding a box cutter, flashed before her eyes. She dropped her briefcase onto the garage floor but had no chance to scream.
The call to the apartment garage was given twenty-three minutes later to 6-X-76, the shop driven by Dana Vaughn, with Hollywood
Nate writing the reports, or, as the cops referred to it, “keeping books.” And 6-X-66, with Sheila Montez driving and Aaron
Sloane riding shotgun, arrived right behind them, all of them wanting to get more of a description. The radio call had only
given the sketchy description of a male in his twenties, possibly of Middle Eastern descent, and wearing a light blue T-shirt,
who’d fled on foot through a fire exit door that accessed the street, a door that was locked on the street side.
The apartment manager, a frightened woman in her sixties, was pacing in front of the building when the two patrol units parked
in front. It went without saying that the female officer would question the victim and take the crime report in this kind
of case, even though ordinarily that would be the passenger officer’s job. Dana grabbed the reports binder, and Hollywood
Nate tagged behind when his partner approached the security gate.
As Dana Vaughn put it, “If there’s a vagina involved, we women get the case.”
“How long ago did the suspect leave here?” Dana asked the apartment manager.
“About fifteen minutes, I think,” the woman said. “She’s up in apartment thirty-three, waiting for you. Sharon Gillespie is
her name. The poor woman!”
“Nobody saw a car?” Sheila said, entering through the walk-in security gate and following Dana.
The apartment manager shook her head, saying, “It’s the element that’s taking over. Arabs, Iranians, they’re everywhere around
here.”
A fifteen-minute head start in this most traffic-clogged city in North America might as well have been fifteen hours. As far
as the cops were concerned, the suspect was probably in a car and long gone.
Dana Vaughn said to Sheila, “How about you and your partner help Nate secure the crime scene. I’ll get a description out as
soon as I can.”
Sheila nodded and said to the manager, “Has anybody else touched anything in her vehicle or exited through the fire exit door
since it happened?”
The apartment manager shook her head, and Hollywood Nate said, “Good. Take us there and open the car gate. Some crime lab
people will be arriving soon. I hope.”
“Like
CSI
?” the woman said.
Aaron fought the urge to heave a sigh but only said, “Don’t expect their kind of results, but we’ll do our best.”
Matthew Harwood, a fifty-year-old real-estate broker who was the roommate and lover of Sharon Gillespie, admitted Dana to
apartment 33. He’d been crying with her and was wiping his eyes with his fingertips when Dana arrived. Sharon Gillespie was
sitting in a kitchen chair, holding a cup of coffee in her trembling hands, her
parking garage was the large growth of bougainvillea as well as some azaleas. Crouching behind the flowering plants was Malcolm
Rojas.
He had been hiding there for half an hour. It wasn’t a particularly hot summer evening, yet he was burning up. He felt feverish,
and as angry as he’d ever been in his life. He’d watched four other cars drive in during the past thirty minutes. One of them
was driven by a man, one by a young woman, one by a middle-aged woman who looked Hispanic. None of those had propelled Malcolm
Rojas into action. A stab of pain, sizzling and fizzing, began somewhere behind his eyes. He was in a rage.
A forty-seven-year-old Realtor named Sharon Gillespie drove the Pathfinder. She lived with a man who was also in real-estate
sales, and she was just coming home from her office. She parked in her usual space, number 33, at the south wall of the parking
garage. When she got out and was preparing to lock the SUV, a hand was clamped across her mouth, and another hand, this one
holding a box cutter, flashed before her eyes. She dropped her briefcase onto the garage floor but had no chance to scream.
The call to the apartment garage was given twenty-three minutes later to 6-X-76, the shop driven by Dana Vaughn, with Hollywood
Nate writing the reports, or, as the cops referred to it, “keeping books.” And 6-X-66, with Sheila Montez driving and Aaron
Sloane riding shotgun, arrived right behind them, all of them wanting to get more of a description. The radio call had only
given the sketchy description of a male in his twenties, possibly of Middle Eastern descent, and wearing a light blue T-shirt,
who’d fled on foot through a fire exit door that accessed the street, a door that was locked on the street side.
The apartment manager, a frightened woman in her sixties, was pacing in front of the building when the two patrol units parked
in front. It went without saying that the female officer would question the victim and take the crime report in this kind
of case, even though ordinarily that would be the passenger officer’s job. Dana grabbed the reports binder, and Hollywood
Nate tagged behind when his partner approached the security gate.
As Dana Vaughn put it, “If there’s a vagina involved, we women get the case.”
“How long ago did the suspect leave here?” Dana asked the apartment manager.
“About fifteen minutes, I think,” the woman said. “She’s up in apartment thirty-three, waiting for you. Sharon Gillespie is
her name. The poor woman!”
“Nobody saw a car?” Sheila said, entering through the walk-in security gate and following Dana.
The apartment manager shook her head, saying, “It’s the element that’s taking over. Arabs, Iranians, they’re everywhere around
here.”
A fifteen-minute head start in this most traffic-clogged city in North America might as well have been fifteen hours. As far
as the cops were concerned, the suspect was probably in a car and long gone.
Dana Vaughn said to Sheila, “How about you and your partner help Nate secure the crime scene. I’ll get a description out as
soon as I can.”
Sheila nodded and said to the manager, “Has anybody else touched anything in her vehicle or exited through the fire exit door
since it happened?”
The apartment manager shook her head, and Hollywood Nate said, “Good. Take us there and open the car gate. Some crime lab
people will be arriving soon. I hope.”
“Like
CSI
?” the woman said.
Aaron fought the urge to heave a sigh but only said, “Don’t expect their kind of results, but we’ll do our best.”
Matthew Harwood, a fifty-year-old real-estate broker who was the roommate and lover of Sharon Gillespie, admitted Dana to
apartment 33. He’d been crying with her and was wiping his eyes with his fingertips when Dana arrived. Sharon Gillespie was
sitting in a kitchen chair, holding a cup of coffee in her trembling hands, her
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