Spree

by Michael Morley

  She pulled up behind the old ’58 Swept Wing he’d lovingly restored.

  There were cops all over the street, but no one stopped her unlocking it and sliding into the driver’s seat. Angie flipped open the glove box and found an old manual, five of his CDs and a notebook. She pulled the book and put it into her purse without even looking inside.

  Angie checked the door pockets and beneath the seats, painfully knocking her right elbow in the process. Down the side of the seat, as though dropped from a jacket, or maybe put down while driving and forgotten, was a cellphone. It wasn’t Jake’s. At least she’d never seen it. She pressed the on button but the battery was dead. Angie put it in her purse and wondered whose it was.

  She’d only just climbed out and taken a long reflective breath when O’Brien’s car pulled in behind her Camry.

  He looked even more ragged than usual. Tufts of uncombed hair signaled that he’d been called out in the early hours, and the facial stubble said he hadn’t managed to shave for quite a while.

  “How you doing?” He walked toward her.

  “Holding up.” She kept the reply deliberately short. Any further discussion could so easily result in her falling apart. She swung the car keys. “You need to check Jake’s vehicle?”

  O’Brien nodded and took the keys from her. “You want us to drive it over when we’re done?”

  “Yeah, that’d be a help.” She started toward Jake’s apartment. “You got an idea how it all went down?”

  He hesitated.

  “Come on. At least give me that.”

  He fell into step with her. As they got nearer, he pointed to the entrance doors at the foot of the stucco building. “Witnesses on first and second floors both heard two bursts of gunfire. A gap of a few seconds between them.”

  Angie knew what the timing and shot sequencing meant. “Let me guess. The first burst cut him down. Second finished him off. The second were the more tightly clustered chest shots.”

  “Are you okay talking about this? Really?”

  She opened up a little. “It’s what’s keeping me sane. The only positive I can focus on at the moment is catching this piece of shit.”

  He nodded. “I can understand that.”

  “Good, you may be the only one that does.” She pressed out a thin smile. “Any news on the weapon?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Can you tell me?”

  “Rounds were nine mill, from a G18.”

  Angie knew the Glock well. “Classic gun for three-round bursts when set on auto.”

  “So I’m told. Once the labs get into things, they should be able to calculate the exact distance it was fired from. Along with the angle of entry, we hope to work out the gunman’s height.”

  “I’m no medical examiner but I suspect the autopsy will say the second burst was fired at closer range. Given Jake was wounded and probably immobile from the first shots, it meant the UNSUB stepped closer, so we’re talking an execution here; executions mean premeditation, premed means grudges.”

  “I follow your logic. My initial thoughts are the same as yours, but we shouldn’t go jumping to conclusions.”

  They walked farther and now Angie could see where the blood stained the pathway. She stopped midstep. Her veneer of eerie calm shattered. This was the exact spot where the man she loved had been shot down and her whole world had been kicked off its axis.

  O’Brien saw she was struggling. He stepped slightly away and gave her some space. No amount of professional fatals prepared you for personal grief.

  Angie bent low and examined the smeared pathway. She wanted to dig it up and take it home. It wasn’t right that any part of Jake was washed away or walked on.

  Residents had already laid bunches of flowers with cards and messages around the spot. She was too raw to look at them. There was a job to do and she needed to focus. Jake had to become just another poor soul that she was seeking justice for if she was going to get through this without falling apart.

  Angie stood up and turned to the lieutenant. “The body wounds I saw at the hospital and the spatter here indicate he was hit by a gunman standing to the front and a little to the left.” A shadowy image formed in her mind. A disturbing vision of the killer catching Jake unprepared and opening up on him. She angled her head to the side. “Looking at where Jake’s vehicle is parked, what I just said would be consistent with the UNSUB tailing him, parking some distance behind, then running up and making the shots.”

  O’Brien weighed it up. “Why couldn’t he just have been lying in wait for him?”

  “Lots of reasons.” Angie paced as she talked. Her eyes flicked across the street, apartments and parked cars. “Let’s assume the killer knew Jake’s home address—which is a hell of an assumption—then the one thing he wouldn’t have had any idea about is the time he’d be home. Hell, I seldom knew that. So he would have needed to wait out here in a car for maybe hours. That posed a big risk of being seen and his plate remembered. The kind of guy with the balls to kill one of us doesn’t take risks like that. He looks to strike quickly and be gone before anyone realizes what’s gone down.”

  O’Brien connected the dots. “Jake was on TV earlier in the day, so it’s possible he was followed from the press conference. The UNSUB sat out on Wilshire and waited for him to come out, knowing he’d have to head home.”

  “Sounds plausible. My money is on the mall killer.”

  “All the smart bets are.”

  She got his drift. “Which means we have to be careful not to rule out someone else.” She walked to the front door. “Okay if we go inside?”

  “Sure.” He stopped after a pace. “Would you like me to give you a minute on your own?”

  “I’d appreciate that.” She slipped in a key and opened up.

  Just walking through the door sent her heartbeat haywire. Jake’s giant shoes lay in the hall. His jackets and coats dangled from pegs. Angie pressed herself between two of them and remembered leaning against him as they walked and talked, holding hands or with arms around each other. A whole relationship worth of memories swelled in her mind and she had to remind herself to ignore them and stay professional. There would be time for grieving later. Much later.

  She went into the bathroom. It was full of his soaps and aftershaves. Jake had always smelled of pine and mint, as fresh as wind through a forest. She looked down at the floor where they’d made love, wrapped in white towels as thick as sheepskin.

  The bedroom threatened to derail her all over again. A wall of mirrored robes had often shown tantalizing flashes of their unions. The bed slats had broken during one wild session. The dressing table still contained a bangle she’d left behind months ago and he’d asked to keep because it always made him think of her.

  Angie sat on the edge of the bed and almost choked. There was so much Jake in here she could barely breathe. His clothes and character were all over the place. His atoms still moved in the air.

  Finally she gave in and lay down. Let her face rest on his pillow. Allowed her soul the reconnection it craved.

  The moment was piercingly painful. But addictive. Like the self-harming cuts on her wrists as a child.

  Tears flowed through her closed eyes and she let them. At first because they couldn’t be stopped. And then because she wanted them gone. Didn’t want to get caught like this again. She needed to purge them. It felt as if she was wringing vulnerability from every fabric of her being.

  Almost breathless, she sat up and pulled tissues from the nightstand to wipe her eyes. Then she got herself together and resumed the search.

  She went through all his drawers. There wasn’t much. Most of it had found its way to her apartment. There were odd socks. Underwear that had grown tatty and should have been thrown out. Shirts she’d never seen him wear.

  The closets bulged with unfashionable jackets and sweaters that she’d stopped him wearing. The pockets produced a few dollars, tickets from football and baseball games, receipts from restaurants visited years ag
o.

  At the back of the last closet, she discovered two metal gun boxes. One made for a rifle. The other big enough for handguns and ammunition. She examined the key ring Ruis had given her inside the bag of personal belongings and found two that fit.

  The big box didn’t contain a rifle, but was stacked with three pistols and enough rounds to start a war. The smaller one held photographs and letters.

  She’d never seen any of them.

  Like it or not, Jake Mottram had kept things from her. Maybe something that had gotten him killed.

  19

  Cal O’Brien was talking to a couple of neighbors when Angie reappeared. She’d filled a recyclable shopping bag with the smaller metal box she’d found plus some framed photographs and a handful of bills that were due.

  The lieutenant finished up and wandered over. His gaze panned from what was in her hands to her tear-reddened eyes. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m done.” She lifted the bag to show him. “I’ve taken some photographs, letters and bills.”

  “For personal or professional reasons?”

  She thought about lying. “Both.”

  He studied her face again. “Let me know if there’s something in the letters.”

  “You don’t mind me taking them first?”

  “Let’s be honest, you’re probably the only person who can spot anything significant in them.”

  “I’ll let you know. And thanks again for coming over and playing it straight.”

  “Stay in touch.”

  “You too.”

  The only thing she could think of as she drove back was the metal box. It was filled with his past. The years before they’d known each other. Pictures from his days in the Marines. Men she’d never seen or heard of.

  And women.

  Photographs of beautiful women.

  And letters.

  Letters he’d kept.

  Angie parked outside her apartment and for a while just sat there with the engine off and the dull hum of traffic rubbing against the glass of the Toyota. Twenty-four hours ago, life had been so different. So certain. Now every hour threw a new punch.

  She closed her eyes and put her head back. But there was to be no respite. Brutal images crowded her inner blackness. Jake in a pool of blood, unable to move or speak, neighbors standing over him calling 911. The shadowy figure of the killer turning away, smoking gun dangling from his hand.

  Angie vanquished the demons and forced herself to think beyond the emotion.

  Six shots in two bursts. The second three fatal. Several seconds between those and the first burst. It meant the killer wasn’t a pro. Not military. Nor was he a trigger-happy spray-and-pray gangsta. He’d fired only body shots—big target hits—but he’d shown a certain calmness.

  He wasn’t fleet of foot, experienced in covert strikes. Jake had heard him. Turned from the door he was about to open.

  She pictured the love of her life catching the first burst and going down.

  The gunman hadn’t seen exactly where he’d hit him but he’d known it was bad. It had given him the confidence to move in for the kill. But he needed to be up close because he’d been afraid of bungling it. Either that or he’d wanted to see Jake’s reaction as he finished him. Beat him. Maybe settled a grudge.

  Angie opened her eyes.

  Danielle Goodman had been right. The words she’d put in Jake’s mouth had been arrows that wounded the Sun Western slayer. They found his Achilles’ heel and enraged him. Only way beyond what she’d expected. It had sent him over the edge. The big question was—why? Exactly which part of Jake’s speech had touched a nerve so sensitive that the UNSUB had risked everything to kill him?

  20

  Things went better than Shooter planned.

  Management asked him to supervise the local depot that night, then come see them when he finished his shift. It was no big surprise. They ran the whole outfit on basic minimum-waged staff and simply had no cover to send over.

  None of his coworkers were sad that Januk wasn’t around. No one seemed to mind Shooter stepping into his shoes. Especially given the fact that he was hardly a kickass kind of guy who was going to crack the whip and make them work harder.

  By 1:00 a.m. he’d found an open gate at the Puente dump and by one-thirty he’d scattered Januk’s bagged body parts far and wide. He hadn’t tried to get to the center of the dumpsite. It was too far away and too high up the pyramid-like terraces. At its peak, Puente reached something like five hundred feet, and he wasn’t about to scale it in the dark. Instead, he’d just spaded open a few old dump areas that had been grassed and covered with trees and flowers. Only the torso had taken any rigorous burying. The rest popped in, sweet as peas in a pod.

  Shooter dropped the rusty old station wagon far away from the sanctuary in a place that suited him very well. Then he drove the van back to work. He waited until the day supervisor arrived and used it again to cross town and meet with senior management. Apparently, they’d called Januk at his home and on his cell but without answer. They believed the Pole would turn up tomorrow, but would be grateful if Shooter would be prepared to step in if he didn’t.

  Shooter told them he was always prepared.

  By the time he dropped the van and headed out of the gates, he hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. Soon he’d be resting up, but not at the sanctuary.

  He needed to make an early start tomorrow. Needed to be close to his prey.

  21

  Douglas Park, Santa Monica

  It was 5:00 a.m. when Angie woke.

  For a split second, she’d thought everything had been as it was.

  Almost perfect.

  Then she had seen Chips lying on the sofa, his head tilted back on a cushion, mouth open, loud snores rattling as if some small creature had crawled inside his throat and was cawing to get out.

  The floor was littered with files. Both their laptops were open and cables snaked toward power sockets. The table was still stacked with stuff from the dinner that Chips had made—Caesar salad with salmon and glasses of beetroot juice, which he insisted were good for her blood pressure.

  Angie yawned and stretched. She scraped fingers through a scrub of hair and the greasy feel made her realize it had been more than a day since she’d stepped into a shower. As she stood, she noticed a wad of drawings and notes piled around the foot of Chips’s sofa. He’d clearly carried on working long after she’d crashed out, not that she could remember when that was. Her brain had just shut down, as if someone had pulled a plug and all power had gone off.

  Angie tiptoed to her bedroom and saw the bag of stuff she’d brought from Jake’s place. Last night, she’d been unable to go through it. Now she knew she had no choice, especially if she wanted the complete picture of Jake, his final movements, and maybe even some personal things about him that he hadn’t shared.

  She climbed onto the king-size bed and took out the metal box she’d found in his closet. It reminded her of Pandora’s box.

  The one that was never meant to be opened. But of course it was, and out flew envy, hate, and every form of badness imaginable. But the worst of all was hope. Because once let out, it was lost forever.

  Angie felt she had no choice but to take the same risk. She flipped the lid and poured the contents onto the quilt. First, she separated pictures of men and women. The men were soldiers. All in uniform or standard white T-shirts. She didn’t know any of them.

  Next she assembled the women. Two blondes and two brunettes. Two photographs were single headshots, very old by the look of the hairstyles and quality of the prints. The other two were wider shots with men in them—not Jake, but maybe friends of his.

  Angie turned over the head and shoulders of the blonde.

  On the back was the faded word MOM.

  It took her by surprise.

  She turned it and looked again. The woman was pretty, and now Angie could see Jake’s pale-blue eyes staring out at her. He’d never spoken of his parents, except to say he�
��d understood from the children’s home that his mom had died early. Angie guessed the picture had traveled with him when his father had given him up.

  She picked up the shot of the brunette and now realized it was the same woman. Dark was her natural color. She flipped it and saw Jake’s faded writing again.

  MOM.

  The lady with Jake’s eyes was in the other pictures, too. And even though they’d been taken a good five years apart, the man with her was the same.

  Angie turned them over and read the inscriptions.

  MOM—& DAD?

  It saddened her that Jake hadn’t been sure about the man’s identity and had died not knowing.

  She stacked the pictures, put them to one side and lifted out a bunch of letters and postcards. They were mainly from army friends and spanned the first three years of his life as a teenage recruit. Tough years. Lonely years, by the nature of what she read.

  Most of the messages were the same. They asked about how he was settling in, who he was hanging with, places he and other squaddies went drinking. Some girls’ names came up, but only in connection with other guys. This was Shy Jake. A Jake she’d seen glimpses of but barely knew.

  Angie found a note without an envelope. It had been curved by wear in a pocket and was worn and frayed, filthy in parts and splitting at the creases. She unfolded it. On the top was a date she knew well. August 1. The day Jake joined up. It was in his best handwriting, not the fast scribble of many of the other letters. She shuffled up the bed, so her back was on the headboard, and read:

  To whomever finds this…

  The phrase made her smile. It was so un-Jake. He must have copied it from a formal English document.

  As she read through the immature, stilted language she realized what it was.