The Last Weekend In October

Copyright Page

THE LAST WEEKEND IN OCTOBER

Second Edition: August 31, 2018.

Copyright © 2016 by R. Ann Siracusa.

Published United States of America

Written by R. Ann Siracusa.

Cover Artist: Gwen Phifer

––––––––

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval and storage system without permission of the publisher.

Ebooks are not transferrable, either in whole or in part. As the purchaser or otherwise lawful recipient of this ebook, you have the right to enjoy the novel on your own computer or other device. Further distribution, copying, sharing, gifting or uploading is illegal and violates United States Copyright laws.

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination, or are used in a fictitious situation. Any resemblances to actual events, locations, organizations, incidents or persons – living or dead – are coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

Also By R. Ann Siracusa

Tour Director Extraordinaire Series

Book One: All For A Dead Man's Leg

Book Two: All For A Fistful Of Ashes

Book Three: Destruction Of The Great Wall

Book Four: All For Spilled Blood

Book Five: All For A Blast Of Hot Air

Short Story One: First Date

Short Story Two: An Elf For Christmas

Short Story Three: Halloween In The Catacombs

––––––––

The Last Weekend in October

All in the Game

A Time for Melody

Family Secrets: A Vengeance of Tears

––––––––

Short Story: Tiffany

Shorty Story: Time In A Bottle

Dedication

This is dedicated to my critique group and to my friends in the Los Angeles Police Department.

Acknowledgment

This novel is set in 2005 because it was the last year Daylight Saving Time began on the last weekend in October before the Ambassador Hotel, the famous landmark on Los Angeles's Wilshire Boulevard, was demolished for the construction of a new high school.

The author took literary license in relation to the timing of the novel since the actual demolition began in late 2005 and extended into 2006.

The Ambassador Hotel, home of the famed Coconut Grove nightclub, was designed by Myron Hunt, one of Los Angeles's most prominent architects. It opened in 1921 and was frequented by many celebrities including Hollywood stars and famous politicians. It was the site of several Academy Awards ceremonies and the 1968 assassination of US Senator Robert F. Kennedy.

After that and subsequent changes in the neighborhood, the hotel fell into decline and was closed to guests in 1989. However, it was still available for private events—like the campaign dinner in this novel—and for filming movies. Today the twenty-four acre site houses the Robert F. Kennedy Community schools, attended by 4,000 students.

Prologue

Friday, October 28, 2005

Group Home For Convicted Teenage Sexual Abusers

City of Los Angeles

––––––––

Hollie Boots sucked in a gasp of surprise at the sight of her unexpected late-night visitor.

Come in. I was just about to make some coffee. What does he want at this hour? It's ten-thirty, for heaven's sake. She rubbed her suddenly damp hands on her jeans. Would you like a cup?

Yes, thank you.

She watched him pull off his gloves and put them in the pocket of his raincoat, then turned and went into the kitchen. After pausing to close the front door, he followed.

Hollie's heart pounded. She attempted to calm her quickened breathing and hoped he didn't detect her anxiety. At the sink, she turned on the cold water tap, reached for the coffee carafe, and filled the pot half way.

This will only take a few minutes, she said over her shoulder.

How could he possibly know? She hadn't told anyone—not yet. The call to work the night shift, after she'd already put in a nine-hour day, derailed her plan to talk to her brother over dinner and ask his advice. So she'd put their meeting off until breakfast. I am so tired.

Not a problem, he said.

Behind her she heard the grating of drawers and the thunk of cupboards being opened and closed, then the clink of glass and the rattle of cellophane.

God, he makes me nervous when he snoops around.

The crinkling sound continued, and she imagined him taking the wrapper off one of his favorite candies. Hollie glanced up to catch his reflection in the window above the sink, but the crisp white curtains were drawn. She shrugged. It didn't matter. Checking the drawers and cupboards was one of the strange irritating things he always did when he came there.

I'm surprised to see you here so late. She poured the water from the carafe into the coffee machine. Should I try to sound him out? Find out what he knows?

I was in the neighborhood on my way home, so I decided to drop in and see how things were going. The casualness of his tone matched hers. Actually, I've been thinking about what you said the other day... As he paused, somewhere in the house a door opened. What's that? His voice sounded suddenly anxious.

Hollie turned to look at him and wrinkled her nose.

Probably one of the boys going to the bathroom. She took out the coffee basket. I'll check on them when I'm done here.

Down the hall, the door closed softly.

You know, I'll have to pass on coffee, he announced abruptly. I just remembered something I have to do before it gets too late. We can talk another time.

Oh, well... okay. Hollie put the coffee basket on the sink and turned to walk him to the door.

Please, don't bother. I'll let myself out. He disappeared around the corner.

Hollie stared after him, her legs weak and rubbery. She ought to feel relieved and wondered why she didn't. When the front door opened and closed, she hurried down the hall and checked in each of the three bedrooms. The six teenage boys appeared to be asleep or pretended to be.

With a long sigh, she returned to the kitchen. Just my rotten luck, the darn night man getting sick. She needed caffeine to keep her awake.

As she popped the top off the can of regular coffee, the front door opened, allowing a whoosh of cold rainy air to sweep into the house, then closed again.

She grimaced, realizing now she hadn't heard the click of the dead bolt when he'd left. I knew I should have gone with him to the door. After dark the door was supposed to be locked.

Did you forget something? she called in a low voice. Losing things was another one of his irritating habits.

Hollie heard his footsteps as he returned to the kitchen, but resisted turning around. She didn't want to face him. What if he'd decided to confront her right now?

Oh, God! Her heart accelerated again. Sweat beaded on her forehead despite the chill in the air presaging the full blast of autumn.

Concentrating on measuring the coffee, she sensed his presence behind her. Too close. Cold icy fingers seemed to reach through her body and squeezed her heart.

As she started to turn, a hand grasped her ponytail and knotted in her hair.

Hey... agh! The sharp cry burst from her lips as the hand jerked her head back. A sharp blade sliced across her throat. Blood spattered over the sink and drenched the organdy curtains with red.

Chapter One

Sunday, October 29, 2005

At five minutes to six in the morning, Doctor Mark LeBonge pulled his black Porsche into the still-damp driveway of the halfway house and parked next to his sister's more conservative green Camry. He sat behind the wheel for a moment with his head against the seat, closed his eyes, and massaged his temples.

Thank God his shift was over. Saturday nights at St. John's Hospital always kept the staff busy, but sometimes the psychiatrist on call didn't have much to do. Last night proved an exception. A tough night, and he'd worked an extra hour, since it was the last weekend in October.

Rape cases took more out of him than anyone could imagine. Tension bunched his muscles and the weariness ached all the way through his bones. He wanted nothing more than to go straight home to bed, but his sister Hollie seemed upset when she'd called the day before. She insisted they have breakfast together as soon as she got off work.

He sighed. Whatever she wanted to discuss with him must be important.

Wearily, Mark got out of the car, stretching his long frame as he did so, then shot his cuffs and adjusted the tweed sports coat. Last night's rain storm left the morning air a tad cooler than brisk, chilling him even with the jacket on.

Why'd you have to park there, Mark? an irritable voice greeted him.

He glanced up. His sister's partner, Ron Philips, was climbing out of his old Honda Civic parked at the curb. Ron had worked the day shift with Hollie for the last four months. He looked his usual unkempt self in blue jeans, an old sweater with a hole in one elbow, and a day's growth of beard.

Good morning to you, too, Ron. Mark shot him an insincere smile. You're on time for a change.

He didn't care for Ron's lackadaisical attitude, particularly in a counselor for such disturbed youths as these teenage sexual offenders. Granted, the job didn't pay much, but the counselors were role models to these kids. They should at least take the position seriously for the short time they worked there.

What the... Ron swore as he stepped in a puddle by his car. He kicked at the rain water, splashing it onto his jeans.

Watch your language. Mark frowned at Ron as the younger man walked up the driveway cursing.

Ron glared at him, his hands dug into his pockets, and ignored the comment. "Your car is in my parking spot. You made me get my shoes muddy, and I'll have to take the time to move my car later."

Bummer. Like I really care. The two of them walked up the path to the house together. Anyway, I'm not staying. As soon as Hollie's done, we're going to breakfast. You can move your car as soon as we leave.

Hollie? Ron stopped short. His eyebrows shot up, then collapsed into a puzzled frown. She's supposed to work with me today. I thought she just got here. He gestured toward her car.

Mark shook his head. She pulled an emergency shift last night. I'm surprised you didn't know. Something about the night man being sick.

Ron pulled out his keys, inserted one into the lock, and turned it. "Damn, she'll be in a charming mood. The dead bolt clicked. Or am I alone with these brats today? He turned the knob, but the door didn't open. Hey, what's going on?"

It must have been unlocked already, and you locked it.

At that moment, a twitch of anxiety rippled through Mark. A vague sense of unease settled over him like a black cloud. It wasn't like his sister to leave the door unlocked. She was meticulous about procedure, a residual habit from her three years as a Los Angeles City cop.

Ron turned the key in the opposite direction. Again, the dead bolt clicked, and this time the door opened. Ron stepped into the unlit entry hall.

Mark followed, his sense of unease building. The heavy air reeked with a strange metallic odor, hovering like a recent malignant presence. A shiver skittered up his spine. Something was wrong.

On the threshold, Ron paused and frowned at him, his face reflecting the premonition he felt. Do you smell something?

Hollie! Mark called.

A few paces ahead of him, Ron hurried through the living room to the kitchen, the preferred spot for the counselors on the night watch, and skidded to a stop. Holy shit!

Oh, my God!

Hollie's body lay on the floor, butchered in a waste of dark blood, her head twisted at an odd angle. Blood everywhere. A desperate coldness flooded Mark's body. His heart pounded against his ribcage, and his own blood drummed in his ears. Blood seemed to splash in bright globules against the retinas of his eyes.

As Ron tugged on his arm, urging him into the kitchen, he clamped his hand on Ron's wrist.

No. The calmness of his own voice surprised him. He felt anything but calm. His head spun, sending the room dancing. Don't go in there. Don't touch anything. We mustn't disturb any evidence. Stay here and don't move. If any of the boys get up, don't let them in here. I'll call the police from the other room.

He had to get out of there. Reeling with outrage and numb with shock, he groped his way to the family room. As consulting psychiatrist to the Community Children's Protective and Rehabilitation Services, CCPRS for short, he knew his way around the halfway house. He sank down on the sofa, unhooked his cell phone from its belt clip, and punched in 911.

Hello, this... is Doctor Mark LeBonge. His voice choked up. He could barely force out coherent sounds. There's been a murder at twelve fifty-eight South Park Street... yes, I'll wait.

Careful not to touch anything, he resorted to tapping his fingers nervously on his knee. Time stood still, the uncaring silence lasting forever.

God, this can't be happening. Not to Hollie—not my sister!

Everything seemed ethereal, unreal, as if he watched the action in a dream. At the same time his left brain reminded him victims and their families always thought it could never happen to them. He handled these kinds of cases all the time... but this was Hollie.

She must have known who it was or she wouldn't have let him in, or the murderer was already in the house.

One of the boys?

In the distance, he thought he heard sirens approaching the house, but it had to be his imagination. Sirens abounded in Los Angeles. The dispatcher hadn't even talked to him yet.

Damn 911. What's keeping them?

He wanted to get the report over with so he could check the front door for any evidence of forced entry. From where he sat, he couldn't see any obvious signs on the French doors, but he wanted a closer look.

Wiping perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand, he glanced at the small clock on the end table to see how long he'd been waiting and noticed a scrap of paper tucked under the telephone. Using his little finger he pulled out a yellow sticky note with a phone number scribbled on it.

The handwriting was Hollie's—no one else had such a distinctive backhand—but the number meant nothing. It could belong to anyone. The counselors routinely took ten or fifteen calls each shift. Most likely, the note had nothing to do with her murder, but it might be the last thing she ever wrote.

Oh, God, not my sister!

Impulsively, he slipped the paper, a pathetic memento of Hollie's last day, into his pocket with a shaking hand. He'd give it to the police if it turned out to be important. For now, he wanted it near him.

Finally a different voice came on the line, demanding his name and the circumstances.

Doctor Mark LeBonge, he repeated. "Yes... of course I'm sure the victim is dead. Trust me. I'm a doctor, and the victim is dead. Her throat's cut."

After answering what seemed like an endless stream of questions and promising not to leave the scene, he was able to hang up. He immediately punched in another number.

It took a while for someone to answer, and waiting made his hand shake and his nausea worse.

Dammit, Fletcher, answer the phone.

Finally there was a sleepy, Hullo.

Fletcher? Mark LeBonge here. I... I'm at the Park Street house. You need to get over here right away.

What's the matter? Is there a problem? What are you doing there?

You've got big trouble down here. Mark's voice cracked. Make it fast. He hung up, not trusting himself to say more.

On his way to the kitchen, he stopped in the foyer to check the front door, but there were no marks he could see with the naked eye. If there had been any footprints on the floor, he and Ron had compromised them.

As he stepped from the entry into the living-dining room, he noticed Ron leaning over the half-wall separating the eating area from the kitchen, fiddling with something. A faint click, like a key turning in a lock, caught his attention.

What the hell is Ron doing? Mark almost voiced the question out loud then choked back the words when he realized the counselor was tampering with a locked cupboard. The cupboard where the house kept the sharp knives, scissors, medications, everything one of the boys might use to hurt himself or others. It was always locked. The counselors on duty had the key and allowed nothing taken from inside without supervision.

He held his breath. He didn't particularly like Ron, but he couldn't imagine him having the balls to murder anyone. Was he locking it or checking to see if it was locked? Looking for a murder weapon, perhaps? They hadn't seen anything when they discovered Hollie.

Mark stepped back into the entry hall and made noise coming into the living room. Hey, Ron. He spoke loudly and took his time moving into eyeshot. You'd better get the boys up and dressed. Keep them in their rooms until the police get here and don't tell them anything. Shut the door to the hall behind you.

Ron started to say something, but pounding on the front door interrupted him.

The police had arrived.

*****

Dark blue uniforms flooded the house, each member of Los Angeles' finest going about his or her duty, without hesitation, to secure the crime scene.

One of the policemen approached Mark. I'm Sergeant Wilson. He flashed his credentials. Are you Doctor LeBonge?

Mark didn't bother to look carefully at the badge. Yes, I am. He had to fight his mental state to keep his tone even and his words slow. He wanted to blurt out everything, but knew he should answer only the questions asked in as few words as possible. He knew the drill.

As far as the police were concerned, he would be a suspect. Besides, this officer wasn't the person he needed to talk to. The primary on the case who handled the real questioning, had yet to arrive.

You reported finding the body. Is that correct, Doctor?

Yes. I telephoned 911 a few minutes after six o'clock. Ron Philips and I found the body just before that. Ron's one of the counselors here.

The sergeant made notes on a pad of paper. You were together?

We arrived here in separate cars, but we walked to the front door together. We were together when we found the body.

I see. Where is Mr. Philips now?

Mark motioned to the hall. I sent him to the other end of the house to get the boys up and dressed and keep them in their rooms until we got instructions.

Without any change in his expression, Sergeant Wilson hailed a fellow officer. Johnson, join Mr. Philips while he gets the house residents up. Make sure they disturb as little as possible.

Yes, sir. Officer Johnson strode off in the direction indicated.

Wilson turned back to Mark. All right. Was the front door locked when you arrived together?

Leave me alone. Can't you see how I feel? Mark wanted to yell at him as the anger grew inside. Then he chided himself for letting his control slip. Get a grip on yourself, man. Physician, heal thyself.

He closed his eyes and jammed his shaking hands into his pockets. No, he replied in measured tones. We both expected it would be, but it wasn't. He stifled the urge to tell the officer his opinion.

Did both of you touch the doorknob?

How was he supposed to remember something like that when it was his sister in there on the floor?

My sister! His knees wavered like seaweed. Does the guy want to know the color of my jockey shorts, too?

Cool it, Mark.

Ron did, for sure, but I don't recall if I did. I went in after him so... I probably closed it.

Hmm. Were there any lights on when you arrived?

Mark visualized the house as he had approached. The porch light was on, but it's the usual practice to leave it on all night. The foyer was dark. Only the kitchen light was on.

His heart thudded painfully as he recalled the harsh glare of the fluorescent light shining over Hollie's body, her head nearly severed. He saw again the blood vessels sticking out like pipes from the clotted blood. His stomach turned over. He raised his hand to cover his mouth then rubbed his chin instead.

Did either of you enter the kitchen?

He shook his head with weak little jerks. His vision blurred. No. Dizzy and disoriented, he leaned against the wall to steady himself. He consciously worked at slowing his breathing.

Are you all right? Sergeant Wilson asked. Did you know the victim?

Y... yes. Her name's Hollie Boots. He could barely choke out the words. She's... she was... my sister.

Wilson's mouth thinned. Sympathy gleamed in his eyes, but the officer didn't offer any condolences.

Thank you for your cooperation, Doctor. Despite his kind voice, Wilson remained all business. Please wait in the family room until the detectives arrive. They'll take official statements from everyone. I'll have someone bring you some coffee. In the mean time, please don't speak to anyone.

Mark headed slowly for the other room, then paused and turned back to Sergeant Wilson. I called the program director right after I called the police. I didn't tell him anything except to get down here fast, but he'll probably take his time, as usual. His name's Fletcher Houston.

The officer's eyes widened for an instant, long enough for Mark to read recognition in them, which didn't surprise him. Fletcher Houston, the wealthy founder of this program and a well known philanthropist in the community, hob-knobbed with the mayor, played golf with the police chief, and doled out favors to member of the Republican Central Committee on a routine basis. A big cheese who never lost a photo opportunity. That was Fletcher.

Mark thrust his hands in his pockets and retreated to the other room where he sat on the couch and tried not to think.

*****

Lieutenant Arthur Krantz turned onto South Park Street in an unmarked police car at approximately six-thirty in the morning with the required search warrant tucked in the inside pocket of his sports jacket. Waiting so long to obtain it miffed him. Usually the fact that a crime had been committed and the police needed to search for evidence satisfied the probable cause requirement. Unfortunately, judges were notoriously unpredictable.

His keen policeman's eyes took in the surrounding area at a glance, sizing up the well-heeled middle-income neighborhood. This section of Park Street terminated in a cul-de-sac with twelve lots, each sporting a large sprawling ranch-style home and manicured landscape. The wasteful design and size dated them as products of the sixties.

Art shook his head and smiled wryly, wondering if any of the neighbors suspected what kind of tenants resided in this particular halfway house. Surely they recognized it as some sort of residential care home, but they couldn't know the boys who lived there were convicted sexual abusers.

They probably thought the boys were drug addicts, which wasn't much better. If neighbors had anything to say about it, not a single residential care facility would exist in the city. He sighed. Not in the whole state, no doubt. That's why the legislature preempted the zoning regulations.

The halfway house stood at the top of the cul-de-sac, at the summit of a gentle hill, set back from the street on a pie-shaped lot. The homes on both sides had shallower setbacks, leaving a fair distance between the residences and the halfway house. Dense screens of trees along the property lines created a visual separation. A good location for such a facility, except for the limited parking, always a problem on dead-end streets.

He noted only three cars he didn't recognize. Fletcher Houston must be taking his time. He expelled a deep sigh. He, like every other police officer on the force, knew about the illustrious philanthropist and kept their distance when they could.

No such luck, this time. He patted his jacket pocket. Whether or not Houston gave permission for a search, he had what he needed.

The rest of the vehicles parked around the cul-de-sac were squad cars and the private cars of the other detectives assigned to take photographs and search for latent fingerprints. Undoubtedly, the forensic pathologist and the coroner would be along in due time.

Hopefully, the press wouldn't get wind of the homicide for a while, but with Houston involved, he expected the worst. Houston always managed to turn everything into a media circus.

Art pulled into the driveway behind the green Camry, leaving his car protruding half into the street. As he approached the house on foot, he noted the yard was cordoned off and officers seemed to be strategically located around the premises, many of them carefully searching the grounds.

Good morning, sir, Sergeant Wilson greeted him at the door.

Good job, Wilson. It looks like things are well in hand here, at least outside. Let's have a look inside.

Without a word, Wilson led him into the kitchen. Detective Fleming, with his hands ensconced in latex gloves, was already hard at work dusting for prints with an ostrich feather duster. Rollings had his lights and photographic equipment in place. Art surveyed the men critically as they worked. The LAPD had already mucked up royally mishandling evidence on some other important homicides. Not going to happen on any of my cases. Promotions were coming up, and he needed a perfect record.

He watched until Fleming became aware of his presence. Hi, Krantz. Pretty grim, isn't it? No traces of blood outside the kitchen yet. I'm going to have to use luminol to find any on the carpets. We'll need to dismantle the sink drain as well.

Art nodded as he studied the stiff ungainly body of a young woman clad in blue jeans and a tee shirt. Looks like she was facing the sink making coffee and was taken by surprise from behind. The band around her dark hair seemed to have been yanked almost off. No evidence of a struggle. Just blood and coffee grounds everywhere.

Looks like it, Fleming agreed.

Art slipped on crime scene booties and walked to the corpse, taking care where he placed his feet. He crouched down, and gingerly lifted the woman's chin, tipping the head back without disturbing the awkward position. A single slash across the throat slicing through the trachea nearly to the vertebrae. Skin's cold to the touch.

As the men around him grunted, Art imagined he could smell the sweet sour odor of decay. Already the victim was dehumanized, no longer a person.

From all appearances, the perp must have slashed from right to left, he commented, looking up at the photographer. Did you get this?

Yeah, I got it. So you think we're looking for a leftie?

Art agreed, but didn't say so. It's too soon to speculate about anything. We'll have to wait for the lab report and autopsy. He wondered if all the blood belonged to the victim or the murderer had left some evidence behind as well. He'd have to wait for the analysis, and he chaffed at the thought of it taking three days. Any sign of the murder weapon? He studied the room without rising from his crouch.

Nothing on the scene, Rollings replied. We haven't found anything in the kitchen cabinets that could have been used for this. There's one locked cupboard, though.

Art grimaced. We'll find someone who has the key and unlock it later. He returned his attention to the dead girl, lowering her head back into its original position and taking a final look.

Hollie's dead glassy eyes, sunken into their sockets, stared into his.

Jesus Christ! Shocked, Art almost fell over backwards.

Not Hollie. It couldn't be Hollie. A paralyzing chill penetrated the marrows of his bones and settled there. His hand shook as he reached down to balance himself.

Surprised by his reaction, everyone in the room turned their gazes on him.

Fleming paused in his work. What's the matter, Krantz? You're absolutely white. Is it someone you know... ah, knew?

It took Art only a second or two to regain his equilibrium and wits. He straightened up and brushed his ruffled hair off his forehead.

I didn't even look at her face at first. Actually, yes. We were acquainted. His answer, flat and monotone, carried none of the emotions tearing him apart. Haven't seen her for a year or two, though.

Just because he knew her didn't mean he couldn't handle her case. The Department didn't know about them. I'm a professional cop. This is a murder investigation like any other. I need this case. Sergeant Wilson, may I please have the report from the preliminary questioning.

Wilson handed over his notes. Art scanned them quickly, forcing his hand to steady by the sheer force of his will. Where are the two who found the body... let's see, LeBonge and Philips?

Doctor LeBonge is in the family room waiting for you. The sergeant motioned toward the den. He seems to be the one in charge so far, but he's already called the program director, Mr. Houston, to come down. He should be arriving any time. Mr. Philips is getting the boys up and dressed so we can take them out of here with the minimum of disruption after you've questioned them.

Art met his gaze. Your idea?

"No, Lieutenant. LeBonge told him to do it before we got here. It seemed like a good way to handle the kids, so I sent Johnson in there with him to keep an