by Stuart Woods
“I’ll remember.”
“I’ve got to go call this in,” Larsen said. “Will you wait here, and if any neighbors turn up, keep them away from Parker?”
“Sure,” Danny said, sitting down on a boulder. “You go ahead; Admirer and I will be just fine.”
Larsen took the gun from Danny’s hand and climbed back up the stairs. He went to Chris and took the pistol from her and put it in his pocket. “Parker’s dead,” he said. “It’s finally all over.” Then they were both startled by a man’s voice.
“Will somebody tell me what the hell is going on?”
Larsen turned and looked toward the living-room door. Mel Parker was standing there, leaning against the doorjamb and rubbing the back of his neck.
CHAPTER
60
The house was full of people again. The local cops had brought in everything they had, and there were flashbulbs popping, ambulance lights flashing, and, of course, the blue lights of the squad cars out front. The only furniture in the house was some chairs rented for the party, and Danny Devere, composed and relaxed, sat on one facing a homicide detective.
“Now let me get this straight,” the detective was saying.
“Would you like me to go through it again?”
“Please.”
“I came back into the house through the front door in time to see this guy stagger out onto the deck—the sliding doors were open. When he straightened up he had a knife in his hand, and he was moving toward Chris. I ran between them and fired three times at the guy.”
“How close to him were you?”
“I’m not sure; pretty close.” He shrugged. “It all happened so fast.”
“And where did you aim?”
“I didn’t aim, exactly; I just pointed the gun at him and pulled the trigger three times. He went backward through the railing and landed on the beach.”
Larsen broke off his conversation with another detective and approached. “I can confirm all that,” he said. “I was climbing up to the deck from the beach, and I got my head above deck level just as he fired.” He handed the detective Danny’s gun. “Have you found out who he is yet?”
“They’ll search the body for ID as soon as the medical examiner is finished with him.”
As if on cue a man carrying a black bag entered the room from the deck. “Okay, he’s all yours,” he said.
“Cause of death?” the detective asked.
“You’ve got your choice of two: either the three bullets in the head, or the smashed skull on the rocks. One eye was shot through, and the other was ruptured by some injury.”
“Which happened first?”
“Impossible to say; the head injury and the gunshots probably occurred within seconds of each other. The eye injury could have occurred either before or after.”
“Thanks, Doc.” The detective turned back to Larsen. “Okay, we’ve got the knife, and they’re taking prints from it, but as far as I can see this was a clean kill. I’ll file my report to state no further interest from this department.”
“Thanks,” Larsen said.
“By the way,” the detective said, pointing across the room. “we’ve got four small-caliber slugs in the wall over there.”
Larsen looked at the wall. He had forgotten about the shots he’d heard. “Miss Callaway has a small-caliber handgun,” he said.
“Nice grouping,” the detective replied.
Another detective entered the house from the deck, holding a plastic bag that contained a wallet, some change, and a large clump of keys.
The questioning detective removed the wallet from the bag, holding only its corners, opened it, and extracted a driver’s license. “James E. Carson,” he said, then turned the license so that Larsen could see the photograph.
Larsen looked at the picture. “Bud Carson,” he said. “He was the framing contractor on the house.”
The detective fished out a business card. “Frameworks Unlimited,” he said.
Larsen nodded. I had him down as Bud Carson Framers, he thought; that’s why the gray van didn’t show up under his name; it must be registered under his business.
“You look a little pale,” the detective said to him.
“I feel a little pale,” Larsen said, sinking into a chair next to Chris. “He wasn’t who I was expecting.”
“Who were you expecting?” the detective asked.
“That guy over there,” Larsen said, pointing at Mel Parker, who was being questioned by another detective. “I’ve been following him, thinking that he was the stalker in this case. Seems I was very, very wrong.”
“Don’t take it too hard,” the detective said. “It’s happened to everybody at one time or another.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Larsen said.
Al Martinez from Beverly Hills Homicide walked into the house. “Hi, Jon,” he said. “You rang?”
“Yeah,” Larsen replied. “We have a new suspect in the Helen Mendelssohn case. He’s out on the beach, dead.” He took the driver’s license from the Malibu detective, holding it by its edges. “A Benedict Canyon address.” He held the license so that Rivera could read it.
Rivera nodded. “Let’s go take a look at the address,” he said. “You can tell me what happened here on the way.”
“Give me a minute,” Larsen said. He turned to the Malibu detective. “You through with Mr. Devere and Ms. Callaway?”
“Yeah,” the detective replied, “they can go. As soon as the body’s off the beach we’ll clear out of here.”
As he spoke, two ambulance men came through the house carrying a stretcher holding a body bag.
Larsen turned to Danny. “Danny, will you take Chris back to my place and stay there with her until I get back?”
“Sure, Jon.”
He gave Chris a little hug. “Go on home with Danny; there’s nothing to worry about anymore. I just have to clean up some details.”
“Jon,” Chris said, “was Bud Carson Admirer?”
“Yes,” Larsen said. “I expect to be able to prove it before morning.” He looked across the room and saw that Mel Parker, holding an icepack against the back of his neck, had finished talking to the detective. Larsen crossed the room. “How’re you feeling?” he asked.
“I’m okay,” Parker replied, “just a little sore.”
He pulled Parker away from the others. “Listen, I owe you an apology; I thought you were mixed up in something you weren’t.”
“Is that why you’ve been following me?” Parker asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, you’re not very good at it. Were you in my backyard, too?”
Larsen blushed. “I haven’t got time to talk right now, but during this investigation it’s been uncovered that you’ve started a security business under a false name. I won’t even ask how you got by the fingerprinting, but the point is, it’s known to the police who you are.”
“Are you going to arrest me?”
Larsen shook his head. “It’s only a misdemeanor, and I’m not inclined to press it—if you get out of the business.”
“You mean shut it down?”
“I should think what you’ve built up is valuable enough to sell to another security business. Do that inside of, say, three months, and I don’t think you’ll hear from the police.”
Parker shrugged. “Okay, that’s fair.”
“I’m sorry you got slugged; believe me, it could have been worse.” He went back to the Malibu detective. “I’d like to borrow Carson’s keys,” he said. “We need to have a look at his home; he’s a suspect in a Beverly Hills homicide.”
“Okay,” the detective said, handing Larsen the large key ring.
“I’ll get them back to you tomorrow.” He turned to Martinez. “Let’s go,” he said.
Larsen followed Martinez’s car back to Beverly Hills and up Benedict Canyon. Martinez slowed to look at numbers, then turned into a driveway. Larsen pulled up beside him and switched off his engine, then both men got out of their cars. Th
e house had a single light burning inside.
“This is an old place,” Martinez said. “I’ll bet it goes back to the twenties, when there weren’t many houses up here.”
“I’ll be interested to know how a subcontractor in the construction business, and one as young as Carson, could afford it.”
“I’m betting on inheritance,” Martinez said. “Come on.”
They rang the doorbell, but no one answered. While Martinez held a flashlight, Larsen matched a key from the ring to the front, door lock, and in a moment they were inside.
“Not bad,” Martinez said. The house was nicely furnished, and it looked freshly painted. The two detectives walked through the house, careful not to disturb any evidence it might contain.
“It looks to me as though the place has recently been remodeled,” Larsen said, pointing to some paint spatters on the newly refinished floor. “That could explain why Carson rented the Millman guest house for a while.”
“Could be,” Martinez agreed.
They continued their search of the house, finding nothing until they came to the large country kitchen. On the floor of a seating area was an Indian rug.
“I’ve got a photograph of this back at the office,” Larsen said, fingering the rug. He walked to a bookcase in the room and found a volume of medical photographs, and when he leafed through it, he found the photograph he was looking for. “This is my man,” he said.
“I hope the hell he’s mine,” Martinez replied. “Let’s keep looking.”
They combed the guest rooms, the basement, and the attic, and found nothing more.
“I wonder what’s out back,” Larsen said. “Let’s take a look.”
At the back door he flipped some switches and floodlights came on behind the house.
“Stables,” Martinez said, pointing at the building behind the house. “I guess you used to be able to ride up here without worrying about traffic.”
The two detectives got the door unlocked and entered the building, turning on lights as they went. The stalls were still there, but the rest of the place was an extensive workshop, with power tools and a workbench with many electrical tools. Larsen saw the briefcase toolbox that he had seen in the Millman guest house, and his police radio was lying on the workbench. His pistol would turn up, too, he was sure. While he looked through the circuit boards and switches, Martinez looked elsewhere.
“Uh, oh,” Martinez said. “Come take a look at this.” He was looking into one of the stalls.
Larsen walked over and looked. At the rear of the stall stood a large commercial-grade stainless-steel refrigerator. It was padlocked.
Larsen compared the lock to the keys, selected one, and turned it in the lock, which snapped open. He stepped back. “I think I’m going to let you open it,” he said.
Martinez nodded and stepped forward. He lifted the lock off the hasp and set it on the floor, then took hold of the handles and opened both doors wide.
Larsen forced himself to look. The frozen faces of two women stared out at the detectives, their dead eyes still open, the heads sitting neatly on a steel shelf. The matching torsos were arranged on the floor of the freezer, along with the headless bodies of two dogs.
“For Christ’s sake, close it,” Larsen said.
CHAPTER
61
Larsen and Chris walked along Malibu Beach, hand in hand, the following afternoon. Danny was back at the house, unpacking boxes that had been delivered from stores that morning.
“So you see,” Larsen was saying, “you are involved with one of the more stupid police detectives in the western hemisphere.” He had told her everything, but only because he knew she would find out anyway.
“I’m glad you told me all of this, but it doesn’t change my opinion of you in the least. I think it was most logical of you to suspect Mel Parker; after all, he did fit the bill. As far as I’m concerned, you saved my life.”
“No,” he said firmly, “I put your life in jeopardy; a half-pint gay hairdresser saved it.”
“You did it together; Carson might never have been caught if it hadn’t been for your trap. It worked, even if not exactly as you’d planned. Why are you beating up on yourself like this? You’ve solved not only your stalking case, but a triple homicide as well—a serial murderer, for God’s sake. You should be very proud of yourself; I’m certainly proud of you.”
They stopped at the bottom of the stairs to the deck, and he took her in his arms.
“I’ve been thinking about your very kind proposition,” he said, “and I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline.”
“I thought it was a pretty good offer,” she said.
He shook his head. “If you want me, you’re going to have to make an honest man of me.”
“What if I become an honest-to-God movie star; can you live with that?”
“I’ll force myself.”
“Are we going to argue about money?”
“Probably, but hell, it’s the nineties, isn’t it? I guess I can learn to be a nineties man.”
She put her hands on his cheeks. “I can nearly see you now,” she said, “but I want a good clear look at you before I commit. After all, I can’t be expected to marry a man I’ve never seen.”
He kissed her. “Get well soon,” he said.
Danny leaned over the patched deck railing. “Will you people stop fucking around and get up here? You expect me to do this all by myself?”
Chris laughed. “Be nice, or I won’t let you be my maid of honor.”
Danny smiled broadly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she replied.
“You can be the best man, too,” Larsen said.
Danny affected a lisp. “Gee, that’s always been my dream.”
THE END
Santa Fe, New Mexico, March 22, 1993
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am grateful to Detective Alejandro Valedez of the Threat Assessment Group of the Los Angeles Police Department, which is commanded by Captain Robert Martin and Lieutenant John Lane, for information about the stalker phenomenon; and to Dr. Robert Spector of Atlanta, Georgia, for information about trauma-induced blindness. If I got anything wrong, it is my fault, not theirs.
I am grateful to my editor, Gladys Justin Carr, HarperCollins Vice President and Associate Publisher, for her sharp eye and fine work on this manuscript, and to all the people at HarperCollins who helped publish the book.
Once again, I am grateful to my agent, Morton L. Janklow, his principal associate, Anne Sibbald, and to everyone at Janklow & Nesbit for their enthusiasm and hard work on behalf of my career.
About the Author
STUART WOODS is the author of fifteen novels, including Chiefs, Grass Roots, Santa Fe Rules, L.A. Times, Dead Eyes, Heat, Imperfect Strangers, and Dirt. He lives in Key West, Florida, and Litchfield, Connecticut.
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Praise
CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR STUART WOODS
“[Heat is an] artfully plotted thriller…high melodrama and unexpected twists.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Dead Eyes is a masterfully paced thriller, from the author of Palindrome, Santa Fe Rules, etc…. Woods is a pro at turning up the suspense.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Dead Eyes keeps you reading.”
—Cosmopolitan
“Relentlessly paced…Pulse pounding…Vinnie Callabrese [in L.A. Times] is…the most fascinating protagonist Woods has yet created in his long string of highly successful and imaginative thrillers.”
—Washington Post
“[Stuart Woods] is a no-nonsense, slam-bang story-teller.”
—Chicago Tribune
“[L.A. Times is] a slick, fast, often caustically funny tale.”
—Los Angeles Times
“Stuart Woods is a wonderful storyteller who could teach Robert Ludlum and Tom Clancy a thing or two.”
—The St
ate
“In Santa Fe Rules Woods takes you through a wonderful, dark maze of dicey characters and subplots…. A must read for thriller fans.”
—Cleveland Plain Dealer
“New York Dead will keep you riveted.”
—USA Today
Other Books by
Stuart Woods
GRASS ROOTS
WHITE CARGO
THE RUN
WORST FEARS REALIZED
ORCHID BEACH
UNDER THE LAKE
RUN BEFORE THE WIND
CHIEFS
SWIMMING TO CATALINA
DEEP LIE
DEAD IN THE WATER
DIRT
CHOKE
IMPERFECT STRANGERS
HEAT
DEAD EYES
L. A. TIMES
SANTA FE RULES
NEW YORK DEAD
PALINDROME
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEAD EYES. Copyright © 1994 by Stuart Woods. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © NOVEMBER 2007 ISBN: 9780061828768
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