“Jesus.”
“Either that or he could have gone through the store and out another door, which is what we’re looking for now.”
“Double Jesus.”
“We’ve made prints from the video footage and distributed them to all patrol cars within the LAPD area. If he’s slipped the mall, he won’t get far.”
“Man, don’t even think like that.” Ruis blew out an exasperated breath. “Yesterday we lost the UNSUB out at Strawberry Fields; today we lose a nutcase in one of the biggest malls in the world. Believe me, that’s not good. If he gets out of here untouched, we won’t. Our bosses are going to skin us and drag our bloody corpses all the way to Washington.”
20
News copters filled the fading light of the evening sky. Camera crews crowded the sidewalks. Most of the world was watching.
Jake desperately wanted to give them some good news at the end of a very bad day.
But it wasn’t to be.
Come 9:00 p.m., the LAPD pulled SWAT out of the mall.
Pryce knew what was coming just from the look on the SKU leader’s face. “Before you start, you need to know I’m just as unhappy about this as you are. I—”
“You’re not even close to how I feel, buddy.” Jake jabbed a finger in the cop’s chest. “What the fuck are you doing pulling your teams out?”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
“You do while I still have men risking their lives to find this sonofabitch.”
“I’m following orders and sticking to budgets, that’s what I’m doing.”
“You really are a useless fuck, aren’t you?” Jake stepped so close they bumped shoulders.
Pryce backed away. “Your UNSUB’s gone. We both know that. There’s no point staying here and wasting more manpower and money.”
“If he is gone, then that’s on you, too. You should have already been in the damned mall before I even got here.” Jake slapped Pryce’s chest. “That’s what this body armor and your balls are for. You do have balls, don’t you?”
“It would have been reckless to have gone in. Given that the shooting had stopped by the time we arrived, the correct tactic was to proceed with caution and not further endanger life.”
“Correct tactic? Buddy, you’ve got to forget the textbooks, or at least find some better ones. At the Observatory you went in too quick. Today you stood off and went in too late. Jeez, in a world where timing is everything, you keep scoring zero.”
Pryce finally stopped defending himself. He stood in silence and hoped Jake’s ranting was over.
It wasn’t.
“He got a-fucking-way. You know what that means, don’t you?”
“I do. It means we get a chance to use our intelligence, track him down and arrest him without having a gunfight in a shopping mall.”
“Sure. It either means that, or it could mean he pops up again out of nowhere and kills a whole bunch more people. Me—my money’s on the latter.”
“Jake.”
“Hey, don’t you fucking dare ‘Jake’ me. Three categories of people get to use my first name. Those who pay me. Those I call friends. And those I respect. You don’t qualify on any level.” He turned and headed to the SKU van.
“So where is he, Mr. Bright Guy?” Pryce hollered after him. “You’re the hotshot hero with all the answers. Give me his location and I’ll go lock him up myself.”
Jake wheeled round. His eyes were full of fury. He marched back and made camp deep in Pryce’s personal space. For a second he said nothing. He just stood there. Eyeball to eyeball, he gave him the kind of military stare a drill sergeant burned into a raw recruit. When Jake spoke, it was soft and slow. Little more than a whisper. “Way I remember things, the so-called rules of cooperation, SKU is required to support local SWAT, but—and this is a but as big as Kim Kardashian’s—we have the power to take over the investigation if we feel it’s in the immediate public interest for us to do so. So as soon as I get back to my office and file my report, consider that immediacy exercised. From now on, we run this show. No more SWAT. No more you. No more fuckups.” He slapped his hand so hard on Pryce’s chest it sent the cop staggering backward.
Jake was still fuming as he walked away. Still seething as he briefed Ruis and the rest of his squad on what was going to happen and what he wanted them to do. As they set about their tasks, he called Dixon and fessed up to his undiplomatic moment with Pryce.
“You want control, you’ve got it,” said his boss. “But before I make the big calls, tell me one more time, Jake. Is this really how you want to play things? Because believe me, a request like this is going to turn our lives into the season finale of Game of Thrones.”
21
Douglas Park, Santa Monica
Angie had just gotten out of the shower when the doorbell rang.
She pulled on her white terry robe and went to the videophone on the wall. Jake was standing outside the apartment block, looking beat. He had a key but apparently hadn’t been comfortable about using it.
She felt sad that such distance was growing between them.
For three years they’d been gradually getting closer, and then in two days they’d gone back to bell ringing and waiting to be asked in.
“Let yourself in,” she shouted through the intercom. It would have been easier for her to buzz him through but there was a point to be made.
She watched the door and waited for it to open.
He looked awful. His shoulders were hunched and his eyes showed all the strain of the day.
“I hope you don’t mind me coming by.” He shut the door behind him.
“Don’t be stupid. I want you here.”
“That’s great, because you have no idea how much I want to be here.” He moved toward her. “I need you, Angie. I need you tonight and I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”
She closed the last of the distance between them. “Nor can I.”
She kissed him. Lightly at first. A deliberate echo of their moment in the office.
The touch of her wet hair on his face sent shivers of pleasure through his tensed body.
Angie put her hands around his broad neck and squeezed him close.
The smell of fresh oils and scents on her soft, warm skin overwhelmed him. His hands found the belt of the robe and unfastened it.
She kept her mouth to his and felt his hands find her breasts.
Jake slipped a hand around her waist and let his fingers glide over her buttocks.
Angie grabbed his wrists and pulled his hands away. “Take me to bed and remind me of what I’ve been missing.”
22
California
For the past hour, Shooter had sat silently in the darkness of his sanctuary.
He’d come in, stripped to his boxers and sunk cross-legged into the silence of a soundproofed room.
Eyes closed, his brain burst with colors and noises, sensory fireworks in his endless internal blackness. On the big screen behind shuttered lids, highlights of the momentous movie he’d just starred in played in fast cuts, like a Hollywood trailer.
SCENE ONE: Hero walks into mall off the street.
SCENE TWO: Unsuspecting shoppers gather in store. Cue laughter, joking and idiots squandering their last moments of life.
SCENE THREE: Close-up of hero’s face. Determined look. Shifts bag on shoulder. Camera tilts down to show outline of deadly weapon. Shot widens and hero strides like a crusading knight toward the battlefield.
SCENE FOUR: Hero enters shop. Hidden gun spits death. Enemy scatters but realizes there’s no escape. Hero hunts them down.
SCENE FIVE: Close-up of old woman’s face, cheek pressed to cold floor. Blood dribbles from corner of her mouth.
SCENE SIX: Hero vanishes into the sunset.
Shooter loved Hollywood endings.
All the anxiety he’d felt while leaving the mall had gone, but he knew the next forty-eight hours would be critical. Cops always made the most effort in the first
two days. Clues were hottest. People’s memories clearest.
Minds fogged over and trails went cold after the first forty-eight hours.
He sat in meditative silence and enjoyed the cool, damp darkness. His gray shadowy outline was statue-still but his brain was buzzing, checking he’d done everything correctly.
He’d never produced the machine pistol and he was sure the bag had caught all the cartridges.
Nevertheless, from the bullets in the bodies, the CSIs would know he’d used a MAC-10. It didn’t matter. He hadn’t touched the rounds without wearing gloves. They wouldn’t find his prints or DNA on there.
In a service elevator, he’d pulled on the heavily stained painter’s overalls he’d packed in the sports bag and placed beneath the weapon. He’d turned the bag inside out so it had become a workman’s gray bag with handles rather than a bag with a shoulder strap. He’d stuffed the camera cap in there. Taken out a couple of old paintbrushes he’d brought along and carried them in his hand as he’d walked away from the mall into the street.
From the opposite side of Santa Monica Boulevard, Shooter had watched as shrill alarms cut the soft summer air and triggered bedlam. He’d drifted away before the streets began to fill up and the cops even got there.
He presumed that around about now they would be focusing on the CCTV footage of him approaching and leaving the kill zone.
Idiots.
He’d seen the cameras on the escalators and all along the marbled shopping avenues. They were sunk high in the ceilings and set snug against the walls. He’d seen them and given them their fill. Full body shots. Head and shoulders. A feast of angles to gorge themselves on.
Shooter guessed they’d already copied the security tapes, printed off blowups of him and sent them to every police patrol and media outlet in the country.
That was fine. It would do them no good. He gazed across the darkened room at the shadowy heap of clothes he’d taken off on an area of plastic sheeting by the door. Garments he would never wear again. Items he would burn in a few minutes, along with the height lifts in the oversized sneakers, the reversible canvas bag and the fake hair he’d sewn into the edge of his cap.
He thought about the LAPD’s stupidity as he headed into the tiny shower cubicle in an adjoining room and began washing. He had to be at work soon and Shooter always liked to look smart for work.
As he scrubbed the blood spatter from under his fingernails, he remembered an old saying: Cleanliness is next to godliness.
He was still laughing when he got out and toweled dry.
23
Douglas Park, Santa Monica
The alarm went off at six-thirty.
Jake hit it before it could wake Angie.
She didn’t even murmur.
He creaked his way to the bathroom and took a leak. When he returned, she was still lying in the same position, arms up like she was diving, head tilted left. He sat on the bed and moved a strand of hair so he could see the full beauty of her face.
They’d work things out.
What they had was so precious, they had to find a way through it all.
He picked up his phone from the nightstand, switched it off mute, and saw a missed call. He swore softly and walked back to the bathroom to listen to the message.
It was from Connor Pryce.
“It’s ten p.m., so you don’t have to call me back unless you want to. I just learned you spoke to your boss and he spoke to my boss and as you know there’s now this joint case conference planned at our place in the morning. Congratulations, you’re gonna get the control you wanted. Best of luck to you. FYI, we’re both gonna catch some heat for not playing nicely, so thanks for that. Anyway, if you want to swing by my office beforehand, I’ll have coffee brewing. We have to work together, so I’m reaching out here, trying to fix things. Good night.”
Jake killed the call and put the phone down. Pryce sure was smooth.
He ran the shower and stepped in.
Maybe he had been rough on the cop. One thing for sure, they did have to work together. Even if it was only to minimize the heat from their brass.
The cubicle door slid open.
Angie slipped in.
“Morning.” Her voice was husky and drowsy. She stuck her head under the waterfall jet, tilted it back and leaned against him. “I’m exhausted, wash me.”
“Oh, I so wish I had time to do that.” He lifted strands of wet hair from her face and kissed her neck. “I was going to bring you breakfast before I left.”
“I’ve gotta get up anyway. May as well have you help me start the day.” She turned and pressed against him.
Jake let out a soft moan as she swayed against him.
His soapy hands slipped around her waist and his fingers slid down the insides of her thighs. He kissed her and whispered, “I’ve got a case conference to go to.”
Her mouth found his and stopped him saying anything else.
Soon they were going to have to talk things through.
But not yet.
Not right now.
24
California
The early morning sun was low but already hot when Shooter finished his overnight shift.
He loved this slice of day.
The world was off-balance.
Anyone out and about this early wasn’t part of the norm. Night workers and early-shift workers, they were like him. They didn’t feel right during the day. They were night people. They sucked energy from the darkness and lived on its vibe. They were at the edge of society.
The edge of life.
There was a bus that ran close to his place, and Lopez, one of his coworkers, drove his way, but he always walked. The distance from work to bed gave him the chance to exercise his thoughts. Today, he dragged them along the sidewalk like a pack of twelve snapping dogs.
One for each of the people he’d killed.
He owned them all now. Kept them on choker chains in his mind.
Shooter entered the four square miles of downtown that was officially known as Central City East, not that anyone in LA called it that. To the locals it was Skid Row. Home to the homeless. This was the patch of dirt that Tinseltown swept under Hollywood’s red carpet, jumped on and hoped no one would notice. It was where the down-and-outs, drunks, druggies, no-marks and no-hopers settled.
All five thousand of them.
He picked his way past the pitched tents and the lines of down-and-outers in sleeping bags. They looked like multicolored earthworms. He felt for all of them. A life with no purpose was a terrible thing. He’d been there. He understood.
Shooter looked back along the street. It was impossible to see where blown trash ended and human life began. Every few days the cops moved people on and pretended to clean up. They would tear down the tents in the morning, but by nightfall, when the cruisers were busy chasing down the gang boys and the stickup merchants, canvas city got pitched again, more often than not in exactly the same place.
The rising sun flared on the roof of the old factory that had become Shooter’s sanctuary. He deactivated the alarms and let himself in to the shade and cool.
From the moment the door clicked behind him, everything was a ritual. There were rooms for work clothes and work activity. And rooms for his mission. His killings. He was careful things didn’t overlap. Contamination could be disastrous.
He shed his overalls and walked into the first of what used to be workers’ restrooms.
Shooter showered, dried himself and walked barefoot to his main living and sleeping space. He grabbed two remote controls, lay down on a mattress, then powered up a digital recorder-player and the flat-screen monitor chained above his head.
He turned out the lights and watched the massive screen fizz gray and black. Finally, it burst into full color. Shooter picked up his 3-D glasses and stared at the covert pictures taken from the tiny minicams on the Lakers cap.
The background of the mall was flat and dull, but there hanging down in the dusty space above him
was Bloomingdale’s window and a wonderful reflection of himself.
Shooter reached out and touched his own hand. He caressed the sports bag dangling from his shoulder. Marveled as it swayed with the weight of the hidden gun.
His eyes were tired and he could feel the leaden lids shutting down but he was determined to stay awake. He had to see the killings in all their glory.
Then and only then would he surrender to sleep.
25
LAPD HQ, LA
Jake had to bust the speed limit to make the case conference. Fortunately, the night before he’d entrusted Ruis with all the prep and had checked in with him on the cellphone while driving over.
As he slid into his seat, he saw Connor Pryce and realized the cop thought he’d snubbed his offer of coffee. The doors closed and Crawford Dixon shot him a look that said he didn’t appreciate the late arrival.
Twenty seats had been filled with a mixture of senior LAPD and FBI personnel. In front of the early risers were briefing packs containing a factual summary of the crime, close-ups of the victims and a layout of the mall marked with the kill sites.
LA’s chief of police, John Rawlings, stood in front of a giant pull-down projector screen. He was a fifty-two-year-old boulder of a man, wrapped in a corporate black suit that no longer fastened because he’d spent too long driving desks and lunching politicians. His tabloid claim to fame was that when he found his teenage son smoking pot he hauled him down to the local precinct and had him charged.
“You all look dreadful,” he boomed to get their attention. “There are clearly no beauty pageant winners here this morning.” Like any good comic, he waited for the laughs. “That’s because, like me, you should still be in bed, stoking up on some shut-eye.” He paced as he talked. “This meeting shouldn’t even be taking place. But it is.” He changed his tone and got to his point. “And it is, because yesterday and the day before, in two entirely unconnected cases, the finest men and women of the FBI and LAPD screwed up. Out at Strawberry Fields, a scumbag with a gun shot teachers and children and got away. God bless the sheriff’s department for now wanting to take that one on their slate and we wish them the best of luck with it. We, meanwhile, have to cope with an even more headline-grabbing clusterfuck. A lone gunman slipped through our fingers after he shot more than a dozen people in a city center mall. Not one of our proudest moments.” He took another couple of steps. “There’s no point playing the blame game on this one. Not now. But there will be a time when we need to.” He gestured toward the FBI contingent seated to his left. “In the wake of events, it’s been mutually decided that the FBI’s Spree Killer Unit will from here on in take operational lead on this inquiry. It’s what I want. It’s what the mayor wants and what the Bureau wants. But to be clear, that doesn’t mean the LAPD doesn’t pull its weight or have its say. We’re in this together. We solve it together and we do it quickly.”
Spree Page 12
