Scars (Nevada James #2) (Nevada James Mysteries)

by Matthew Storm

  I wondered how long it would be before the Laughing Man heard the news. I almost wished I could be there to see his reaction. He’d probably be apoplectic. It would give me something to chuckle about right before I put a bullet in his skull.

  Three months ago I’d been a drunk living in a rented house in Ocean Beach, a quiet suburb in the southwest part of San Diego. I’d have been content to live out the rest of my short life there, drinking myself to death as quickly as I could manage, but a local crime boss named Alan Davies had offered me a great deal of money to investigate the kidnapping of his wife and daughter. That had led to two people dying in my house in the span of a few days. The first had been the would-be assassin who had been sent to kill me. The second had been the man behind the abductions, a lawyer named Chandler Emerson. When I’d exposed him, he’d expressed his unhappiness by hitting me with a Taser and then duct-taping me to a chair. He would have tortured me to death but then, three years after our last meeting, the Laughing Man had returned. He’d been watching me the whole time, waiting to see what I’d do, but when he realized he was about to lose his playmate forever he’d struck, cutting Emerson’s throat and then creating a still life right there in my dining room. He’d set places for us at my table and then posed us, me still taped to a chair, like a happy couple sitting down to eat dinner.

  And then the Laughing Man had offered me a choice. I could either die right there, or he’d let me live and we’d play the game again. I’d spent the three years since our last meeting trying to kill myself with vodka, and I’d have been lying if I’d said dying right there hadn’t sounded like a relief after all that time. But I’d have been damned if he was going to be the one to kill me. I’d chosen to play the game again, and I’d told him so. I still remembered how happy he’d sounded at the time, even with his voice distorted through the Greek theatre mask he always wore when he was working.

  After that I hadn’t much wanted to live in that house anymore. Given that I knew the elderly couple I’d been renting it from would never be able to sell it after the killings, I’d taken some of the money I’d been paid for working the Davies kidnapping and bought it from them. Then I’d had the whole place torn to the ground. A new house was under construction for me there, but its completion was still a few months away. I’d been living in a small motel in Mission Valley since then. It was nothing fancy, offering little more than a queen size bed, a television, and a kitchenette, but it was all I needed, and the price was right. I’d been paid enough for that last job that I wasn’t going to need money anytime soon. And now that I wasn’t spending every dime that came my way on alcohol, I didn’t have a lot in the way of expenses.

  I drove one long loop around the motel before parking in the lot out front. I’d made it a point to check regularly for anything that looked out of place since the Laughing Man had come into my house. In the three years I’d been a drunk he’d checked in every now and then, sending greeting cards on my birthdays and holidays, and even had flowers delivered on rare occasions. Up until he’d cut Chandler Emerson’s throat in my dining room, though, I’d never realized the extent of his attentions. He’d been watching me up close and personal. There was little doubt he knew where I was staying now, and little doubt I’d seen him at least once in his civilian guise since then. I had no idea what he looked like under his mask, though. But if I saw the same guy loitering in a parked car more than once, I’d be stopping him to ask some questions.

  Once inside my room I turned on the television to a local news station and opened the dresser drawer where I had a bottle of vodka stashed. I poured half an inch into one of the cheap plastic cups the motel provided and sat down on the bed. The lead story on the news was the alley murder I’d just come back from. Sarah and Brad Ellis were wrapping up a press conference, stating flatly that this wasn’t a Laughing Man murder. Someone had obviously tipped the press off to the signature slicing on the victim’s face. The word copycat was being used. If the Laughing Man wasn’t also watching this right now, he’d see it soon enough.

  I raised the cup and sniffed the vodka as a wild-eyed reporter speculated on what all of this could mean, as if a dead man in an alley could carry subtext like something in one of Shakespeare’s plays. The smell of the alcohol made my stomach turn and I had to suppress my gag reflex as my mouth started to water. The urge to drink was never far away from me. I wasn’t sure why I tortured myself like this every night, except for that somehow not having the booze available would have been even worse. I hadn’t taken a sip in over three months, but I still had to have a bottle nearby. It was a kind of security blanket, as crazy as that sounded.

  I turned the television on to some mindless sitcom I didn’t know the name of and eyed the stack of file boxes I’d lined up against the wall near the bathroom. They contained the Laughing Man case files I’d put together while I’d been a cop; the ones I’d insisted Dan send over for me to review. He’d left the last one out, the case where I’d been too late to save the Laughing Man’s final victims, two little girls that he’d already killed and posed in a still life by the time I got to the scene. And then the Laughing Man had beaten me half to death, breaking my wrist and ribs with a crowbar before going to work on me with his hands. Dan probably hoped I’d forget about that case. I wouldn’t. I’d never forget about it.

  The smell of the vodka wafted up from the plastic cup as I swirled it around. I looked at it for another minute, then went to the sink and poured it down the drain. The bottle went back in the drawer. I’d do this ritual again tomorrow. I did it every night.

  My cell phone buzzed. The number on my caller ID was one I knew pretty well. I could ignore it, but I knew he’d just call back until he got an answer, so I picked it up. “Hi, Paul.”

  “Hello, Nevada,” he said. Paul had been Sarah’s training officer back when she was a rookie. These days he was retired and ran an A.A. meeting for cops and ex-cops. He had a voice like some wise old grandfather figure. When I’d met him the first time I’d been half drunk and his kindly tone kind of made me want to punch him in the face. I’d gotten over that.

  “I wonder why you’re calling,” I said. “It’s almost as if you’re checking up on me, but I don’t know how that could be the case…”

  “I saw you on the news,” he said.

  I’d assumed he’d just seen the news, but I didn’t know I’d been on it. “They ran a shot of me?”

  “They had a loop of you getting into your car. They only repeated it thirty or forty times.”

  “Must be a slow news night,” I said.

  “Well, not really. I expected you to call. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Somehow I doubt that, Nevada.”

  “I’m not drinking, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “That’s part of it,” Paul said, “but the bigger issue is whether you’re okay.”

  I considered brushing him off, but experience had taught me that wasn’t going to get me very far with him. He’d just call back again and again until I’d told him something he felt was real. “It wasn’t the Laughing Man,” I said. “It’s just some asshole with a knife and delusions of grandeur. But yes, I’m okay. I’d be okay if it was the Laughing Man, too. I’d just be hunting tonight instead of standing on the sidelines watching…” I glanced at the television, “whatever the hell this is. Is there a sitcom about two guys who run an airline?”

  “I don’t know. Am I going to see you in group tomorrow?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I think you should come in.”

  “Let me check my calendar,” I said. I paused for a moment. “Nope, I’ve got some important staring at the ceiling to do. Can’t make it.”

  I could hear him restrain a chuckle before it made its way out of his mouth. “Don’t you think it would be good for you to talk, Nevada?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then don’t you think it would be good for you to listen?”

  I s
ighed. This was going nowhere. “Look, Paul, I appreciate the group. I really do. But I’m a big girl. I’m not going to run out and down a bottle every time I think about the Laughing Man. Because that would be every day. Tonight’s not different than any other night, except for the fact I had to get out of my room for an hour and go look at a dead guy. It was nice to break my routine up, really.”

  Paul was silent for a moment. “Well, you’re going to do whatever you’re going to do, Nevada. I do hope you’ll come to a group soon, though. If you can’t do it for yourself, then do it for the others.”

  “Oh, god, not this again. Please don’t start telling me how I help other people with their struggles, Paul. I can’t handle it.”

  “I’ll let it go for tonight,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong. Your being at group isn’t just about you, Nevada.”

  “So you’ve said before,” I told him. “I’m going to hang up on you now.”

  “You have my number. I want you to call me before you do anything you’re going to regret, though. Do you respect me enough that you can tell me you will?”

  I rolled my eyes, but then remembered he couldn’t actually see me. “You are the master of the guilt trip,” I said. “Lucky for me I’m immune to it.” He waited. “I’m not making any promises, Paul. I have your number, though.”

  “I’ll take that. Good night, Nevada.”

  “Good night.” I clicked the phone off.

  I thought about what Paul had said for a few minutes. I went to group once a week, most weeks, but I’d never felt like I was a part of it. Maybe I had a bit of the old unwillingness to join any group that would have me as a member. That had been Groucho Marx’s excuse. I’d gone in to get my three-month medallion, though, so it had to have meant something to me.

  And it wasn’t really like I had a lot else to do. Maybe I’d just show up because nobody expected me to. That would teach them a lesson. Or something.

  I took my gun out of its shoulder holster and held it in my hands for a minute. The urge I’d felt earlier, the one that told me to put the barrel in my mouth and pull the trigger, had faded. I sighed. It would come back. I probably wouldn’t do it the next time, either. I didn’t exactly have a lot to live for, but I really did want to put a bullet in the Laughing Man before I died myself.

  My phone buzzed again, a text message this time. It was Sarah. She’d typed ARE YOU OKAY??? in all caps and using three question marks so I’d know it was important, apparently. I’m fine, I sent back. I was beginning to think I’d need to shut my phone off if I was going to get any sleep tonight, but enough people knew where I was staying that I might risk being woken up by a frantic knock at the door if I stopped responding to messages. Having people care about you could be a real pain in the ass at times.

  I put my gun on the nightstand where it sat every night and watched part of another sitcom, and then the beginning of a late-night talk show. My heart wasn’t in either of them, though. In a way, I was disappointed that tonight’s murder hadn’t been the work of the Laughing Man, because at least it would have given me something to do. I knew that was a sick way to think, given that it meant he’d have begun a new killing spree, but it would also mean the game had started and I’d have new clues to work with. I’d caught up with him once, just over three years ago, but I hadn’t been ready for him then. I wouldn’t have lost our fight if I had been, and I certainly wouldn’t have had a breakdown and wound up in the psych ward. And maybe I wouldn’t have spent three years drinking myself into oblivion every day. This time I’d find him, kill him, and then I’d go to the cemetery in the middle of the night and dance on his grave. But to do any of that, I needed the game to start, and he was the only one of us who could say go. I’d been fooling myself thinking I’d find a clue that would lead me to him in my old case files. The Laughing Man didn’t like to repeat himself. When the game started, it would be with something new. He’d want to show me something I hadn’t seen before.

  The game would start, though. I was willing to bet it would start soon. And I’d be ready for it.

  Chapter 3

  The local news was running a story on the Laughing Man copycat when I turned on the television the next morning. This time I caught the clip of myself getting into my car. It only ran once, fortunately. Hopefully that meant the media had accepted the idea that this wasn’t a real Laughing Man case, which should cause interest in me to drop like a stone. I watched the rest of the story and shut the television off. I’d need to make a note to do a better job brushing my hair the next time there was a chance I might wind up on television. I didn’t look like the wreck I’d been back when I was drinking, but I didn’t look especially good, either.

  I’d slept through two text messages, both of them from Dan Evans asking whether I was all right. I dashed off a quick reply that everything was fine. Knowing Dan, he was going to want to check in with me when he got back from Santa Fe. I didn’t mind. It would give me a chance to pester him about the case files he hadn’t given me.

  Being unemployed and having very few friends and nothing to do gave my days a certain empty flexibility that was both good and bad. While I had no responsibilities and nowhere I needed to be, I also tended to get extremely bored. I had considered trying to get a job, but my name carried a certain notoriety that made that difficult. Ever wondered what happened to Nevada James, the famous detective who lost her mind after the Laughing Man beat her half to death? She works at Macy’s now. Let’s go stare at her. There was also the fact that I hadn’t exactly quit my last job; the SDPD had fired me. Not that I’d given them much of a choice. I’d tried going back after I’d gotten out of the hospital three years ago, but the phrase bull in a china shop came to mind. If the bull was rabid, anyway.

  I spent a few minutes looking through the motel window for anything suspicious, then drove to the Denny’s down the street for eggs and hash browns. I had simple tastes. On a day I was feeling really wild I might add some pancakes to the mix, but that was about all I ever did for breakfast.

  My phone buzzed again as I was heading back to the motel. It was Jason London, a cop from Narcotics I knew from A.A. Narcotics guys didn’t always get out clean, and Jason had been one of the unlucky ones. Percocet and cheap whiskey had been his thing. Busy? the text read.

  I pulled the Mustang over so I could type without crashing into the back of another car. You all right? I didn’t particularly enjoy it, but swapping phone numbers was part of what the group did. If someone had to make a choice between using and calling someone else for help, calling was always better. Even if it meant calling me, which I doubted was anyone’s idea of a good time.

  Fine. Friend asked to meet with you.

  I frowned. That wasn’t normal, and the timing couldn’t have been a coincidence. Reporter?

  No. Old friend needs some help. Will you meet?

  Why?

  Favor.

  Don’t recall owing you favor.

  Please?

  I thought it over. I wasn’t a social person, and the only helping people I’d done recently was slipping homeless people twenty-dollar bills when they weren’t looking. Then again, all I had to look forward to today was going back to my room and watching daytime television. Getting out for a little while would probably be good for me. It wasn’t like I’d be too polite to get up and walk away if I got bored with the conversation.

  Fine, I sent back. When?

  Lunch?

  Where?

  Contradino’s. 1:00 okay?

  Done.

  I put my phone back in my jacket pocket. Maybe I needed to change my number. I’d done more talking and texting in the last few months than I had in the entire three years previously. Then again, for a lot of that three years I hadn’t even known where my cell phone was, and I’d been too drunk to care. Living in the 21st century wasn’t going to kill me.

  Contradino’s was an Italian place in Point Loma, a neighborhood in the southwest tip of the city. It wasn’t far fro
m the house I’d been renting in Ocean Beach, and it was easy enough to find. As usual, I checked the rearview mirror more often than I needed to as I was driving, looking for any cars that might be following me. If I’d been doing that a year ago I’d have thought I was being paranoid, but that was before the Laughing Man had walked into my house seconds before Chandler Emerson started torturing me to death. He was out there, somewhere, and even if he wasn’t watching me every day, I was sure he was never very far. Maybe one of these days I’d be able to make him. If I saw the same man too many times in one day in a city of over a million people…well, that might be a very interesting day. It was why my Glock was never more than an arm’s length away.

  Jason London was sitting in a booth near the door when I walked inside the restaurant. He was in his mid-forties but looked older. Substance abuse had done a number on his skin. He looked better than he had been when he was using, but had developed salt-and-pepper hair since then that wasn’t doing him any favors. Some people just couldn’t win.

  Next to him sat a woman I guessed was in her sixties in a dark, three-button pantsuit. She was overdressed for Contradino’s, which was more of a plastic tablecloth kind of place. She’d have stood out in a crowd regardless, though. About a third of the left side of her face had been badly burned at some point, probably at least a decade ago. The scars had healed well, and it looked like she’d had a world of expensive plastic surgery done, but there was a point with burns where all the skin grafts in the world were never going to make you look normal again. Whatever had happened to her, she’d never had a chance.

  They stood up as I neared their table. “Nevada,” Jason said. “Thank you for coming.”