Students, Yuppies, senior citizens, and a few Venice Beach hippie-freak types. An officer reported to her that they had all been searched and no weapons were found. Not that it meant anything. For now, they were all suspects by default.
The manager was a very nervous young guy in horn-rims who didn’t look old enough to drink, and who had the worst case of acne Galletta had seen since her high school days in the Valley. A mini CD-ROM pinned to his chest said BRETT in red Magic Marker. He showed Galletta to one of the computer carrels near the back.
“This is where we found it,” he said.
“Is there an exit that way?” Galletta asked, pointing down a narrow hallway to her left.
The manager nodded. “The police are already back there. They sealed it off.”
“And do you keep some record of who uses the machines?”
He pointed to a credit-card swiping device. “They had to use that. I don’t really know how to get the info out, but I can find out for you.”
“We’ll take care
of it,” Galletta told him. “Here’s what I want you to do, though. Keep everyone in here as comfortable as you can. To be honest, it’s going to be a while. And if anyone wants anything, make it a decaf.”
She gave him a wink and a grin that she didn’t feel, but it seemed to calm the poor guy down some.
“And ask Officer Hatfield over there to come see me.” She had met Officer Bobby Hatfield briefly once before, and she always remembered his name because it was the same as one of the Righteous Brothers.
She sat at the computer and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. “What do you know so far?” she asked when Hatfield came over.
“Same kind of message, written to the same guy at the Times. Arnold Griner. It’s possible someone got hold of those other e-mails, but this feels like her to me. You’ve heard of Carmen D’Abruzzi, right?”
“The chef? Of course. She’s got her own show. I watch it occasionally; I just don’t cook.”
Trattoria D’Abruzzi was a flavor-of-the-month restaurant in Hollywood, an A-list dinner and after-hours place. More important, Galletta knew, Carmen D’Abruzzi had a very popular syndicated show in which she cooked for her beautiful husband and her two perfect children. Everything was a little too perfect for Galletta’s taste, but she did watch the show sometimes.
Galletta shook her head. “Goddammit. D’Abruzzi’s just this killer’s type. Have you found her yet?”
“That’s the kicker,” Hatfield told her. “She’s fine, no problem. A little freaked out maybe, but okay. Same with her family. We’ve got a unit at her house already. Check it out—whoever wrote that e-mail never sent it or even finished it.”
Jeanne Galletta’s head bobbed again. “What the hell? She didn’t send it?”
“Maybe she got spooked for whatever reason, wasn’t thinking clearly, and just left. Maybe she didn’t like the coffee here. I sure don’t.”
Galletta stood up and looked over the assembled customers and staff again. “Or maybe she’s still here.”
“You really think so?”
“Actually, no fucking way. She’s not dumb. Still, I want to talk to every one of these dinks. This place is a closed box until further notice. Do some initial screening, but no one leaves without going through me personally. Understand? No one. Not for any reason. Not even if they have a note from their mom.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Hatfield answered. “I got it.”
As Hatfield walked away, Jeanne Galletta heard him mutter something like “calm down” under his breath. Typical. Male cops tended to respond one way to a man’s orders and another to a woman’s. She shrugged it off and turned her attention to the half-finished e-mail on the screen.
Half-finished? What the hell was that all about?
Chapter 39
To: [email protected]
From: Mary Smith
To: Carmen D’Abruzzi:
You worked at your restaurant until three in the morning last night, didn’t you? Busy, busy girl! Then you walked two long blocks by yourself to your car. That’s what you thought, isn’t it? That you were all alone?