For some minutes he sat there, his eyes fixed on a photo across the room in a silver frame.
It was of him and Jake. Arms around each other. Smiles as wide as a freeway.
It had been taken by one of the crew at the end of a charity marathon and they both had copies of it.
They’d finished the run together, side by side, neither of them wanting to better the other. Brothers in arms.
Ruis lifted the carton to his old boss. “I’m gonna miss you, buddy. Miss you more than you’ll ever know.”
He took a swig of the OJ and put it down just as his cellphone rang.
One thing he knew even before he answered—it was too early for the call to be good news.
34
Shooter felt the cold steel of a handcuff ensnare his wrist. Pain blew up in his shoulder as the cop dragged his other arm into position and completed the cuffing.
The lawman rolled him.
Shooter stared up. He saw a guy his age but broader and a whole lifestyle more muscular.
“I’m arresting you for attempted burglary. You have the right to remain—”
“It’s my place!” protested Shooter. “I rent it.” He wriggled his legs. “The keys are in my pocket.”
The young cop stopped reading his rights and patted him down. “So what the fuck were you doing halfway up a wall if you’re a keyholder?”
“Someone cut the fence while I was out. I found wood against the wall and wanted to see if they were up on the roof.”
The rookie emptied a jumble of stuff out of Shooter’s pockets until he found the keys and a driver’s license. “Stay the fuck still while I find out if you’re who you say you are.”
Shooter caught his breath, then slowly sat up in the dirt and watched him walk away a few paces and talk into his radio. This was going to work out okay. He was sure it would. Things were nowhere near as bad as he’d first feared.
The cop took an age.
Finally, he turned around and came back. The look on his face told Shooter he could stop worrying.
“Your story checks out.” He pulled him to his feet and dusted him down. “I’m sorry I roughed you up. I’m Mike Hanrahan. I work this beat on my own and you can’t take risks these days.” He got out his handcuff keys and freed flesh from steel.
“I understand.” Shooter rubbed his wrists. “Better to say sorry than get yourself shot.”
“You got it.” Hanrahan stuck out a hand and hoped for a shake. “No hard feelings?”
Shooter took it. “None.”
“Thanks.” He silenced crackly chatter on his radio. “We had a report from a security guard a block down. He said he’d come back from picking up some late-night chow and had seen teenagers down the alley acting suspiciously. I mean, kids up at this time, that on its own is suspicious.” The big cop let his eyes roam all over the building. “So what do you do in here that warrants all the Colditz wire?”
Shooter stayed cool. “I’m starting to build computers. Buying in components from Asia, assembling them here and selling the completed units online.”
“Sounds cool.” A thought hit him. “How about this: in return for a deal on new PCs, I fix for a patrol car to prowl here every hour or so. What do you think?”
Unwanted as it was, Shooter didn’t see how he could refuse. “Sounds good.”
Hanrahan nodded to the door. “Shall we seal the deal with a cup of joe and I’ll check around inside for you? Make sure no one got in through a gap somewhere.”
“No can do.” Shooter had to think of something quick. “I don’t have any coffee. Nothing to drink. Not until I’ve been shopping, later.”
The cop gave him an awkward stare, then smiled. “Hey, no worries. I’ll still check the place out for you. Would be nice to see your stuff so I can tell the guys at the precinct what to expect.” He started toward the entrance door.
Shooter walked after him. “Truth is, I’m whacked and a little shaky after you scared the shit out of me. Really, I just want to hit the sack.”
Hanrahan finally took the hint and turned to the gates. “Okay. But if I were you, I’d get that fence mended quick as I can.”
“I will.” Shooter watched him turn his radio back up and kick dust all the way across the yard and out onto the sidewalk.
He sighed with relief.
A great day had almost finished terribly. He’d been sloppy. Careless.
It wouldn’t happen again.
The lesson had been learned.
35
Douglas Park, Santa Monica
Angie had fallen asleep at the table where she and Chips had been working.
He’d managed to sleepwalk her into the bedroom and get her to flop underneath her comforter; then he’d gone back to his MacBook and all her notes.
There were so many different victims, weapons, scenes and possible motives; he was going mad trying to figure things out.
Finally, he’d crashed out, just like his boss. When he came round, he had a pain in his neck and an old piece of advice in his head. One Angie had given him.
The first kill was always the most important.
It was true with all Serials and even most Sprees.
He got up and stretched. Through the cracked door he could see Angie was still asleep. He hoped she was finding some peace and strength.
Chips took his keys off the table and slipped out of the apartment. There was no way he was going back to sleep, so he figured he might as well do a little research.
The sky was still pink and raw as he drove across town to Tanya Murison’s house. She’d been the first victim shot at the mall and he’d seen dozens of crime scene photographs, but never any photographs of where she lived.
The neighborhood was run-down and the street filled with cheap, old cars. She and her husband had risen to the top of a very poor pile and had a town house opposite a big complex of ugly apartments.
Chips parked his six-year-old BMW and got out. He used his smartphone camera to snap wide shots of the Murisons’ house and surrounding buildings. Statistically, he knew, this was a hood that would be home to all manner of crooks.
Everyone was still asleep. No lights burned in any of the homes. The street was silent except for birds. He heard a diesel van struggling to start up a street away. Finally it chugged into life and drove off. Chips clicked more shots with his camera as he walked along the low privet hedge that skirted the front and side of the plot. It had been well clipped and he wondered if the old lady had been the gardener or her husband.
He pushed the gate and strolled down the side of the house. It would be good to get some shots at the back. See who overlooked the place. Angie’s encounter with the rapist flashed in his mind and he stopped. He had none of her fight training and began to imagine all manner of physical violence being inflicted upon him.
Finally, he found the courage to turn the corner.
“Holy fuck!” Chips put his hand to his thudding heart.
A woman’s body dangled from the wrought-iron bracket of a hanging basket over an open back door. A noose was around her neck. She was swinging gently.
“Jesus! Jesus! Jesus.” Chips started to panic. He dropped his phone. Bent quickly, grabbed it and stepped back.
When he looked again at the hanging corpse, he realized it wasn’t a body.
It was a dummy. Life-size.
Dressed in the clothes of an old woman. Black shoes had been fitted to tights, stuffed with what he guessed might be balled-up newspapers.
Chips stepped closer.
It was Tanya Murison.
Or at least a blown-up photograph of her face, stuck on a papier-mâché head. The mouth had been smeared with dark red lipstick. Mascara circled the eyes. Old broken spectacles had been glued in position. Black, African American hair had been stuck over the skull and a worn navy bonnet pinned in place.
Chips looked at the gloved hands. Fingernail clippings had been fitted on the ends of each gloved digit.
His stomach flipped
and he almost hurled. He looked away. Told himself to be professional. It was important he reacted properly. Captured the moment as quickly as possible.
He raised his smartphone and clicked off a shot. His hands were shaking but he was okay. He could get through this.
Chips stepped farther into the backyard and clicked again.
Something caught his eye.
Beyond the swinging dummy he’d pictured, through the open back door of the town house, flat out on the ground was another figure.
An unmistakable human one.
Motionless.
Part 5
Bloodlight
1
Watts, LA
Inside the house, beyond the slowly moving shadow caused by the swinging life-size effigy of Tanya Murison, a man’s body twitched and groaned.
Chips stood shaking from shock. He stared down at a black male in his late sixties, curled on his side, hand clutching his heart.
“I’m calling for help, sir. Don’t worry, you’re going to be all right.” It was a promise Chips wasn’t sure he could deliver as he hit the phone. First 911, then Angie and then, on her instruction, Ruis.
In between the calls he went back to the old man, comforted him and checked his pulse. The senior’s face was creased with pain. He was sweating and so short of breath he couldn’t speak.
Within ten minutes, sirens filled the early morning air. “I can hear the ambulance, hang in there.” Chips wiped the man’s glistening brow and held his free hand.
A male and female paramedic soon rounded the corner of the Murisons’ backyard, their eyes already scanning for the patient. They both did a double-take when they saw the swinging female dummy.
“Don’t ask.” Chips flashed his FBI ID at the nametags of Adam Miles and Sue Fenton. “The sick man is over there, inside the house.” He pointed into the kitchen beyond the open doorway. “I think he’s having some kind of heart attack.”
Miles ducked the dummy and made his way through.
Fenton, a brunette in her late twenties, hung back. “Do you know how long he’s been like that?”
“I don’t. I’ve been here less than fifteen minutes. Guy was already down when I arrived.”
“Can he talk?”
“No, he’s in too much pain, but he’s been conscious all the time.”
“Did you give him anything?”
“A little water, but he could hardly swallow. There are no pills in his pocket, or in the bathroom—I looked.”
“Thanks.” She rounded the dummy, knocked it spinning with her shoulder and joined Miles with the patient.
Chips paced nervously. He was beginning to wish he’d stayed at Angie’s place and stuck to pure theory. If this was fieldwork without the danger of an UNSUB shooting at you, then it was already too scary for him.
The paramedics grabbed a roll-along bed from the ambulance and started to move the senior to the vehicle.
“We think he’s having a myocardial infarction,” explained Fenton as she walked. “Pain’s all over his chest and his heartbeat’s irregular. We’ve given him oxygen and aspirin and it’s starting to help.”
Chips walked to the curb with them. “Is he going to be okay?”
She knew what he wanted to hear. “There’s a good chance he’ll be fine.”
Ruis Costas’s Jeep pulled up just as the ambulance left. The SKU agent was dressed casually in black jeans and white shirt. He dropped from the driver’s side to the blacktop and watched the ambulance disappear before joining Chips. “Is he alive?”
“Just about.” He looked at the neighbors gathering in their doorways. “Remind me to make a T saying how much I hate rubberneckers.” He led Ruis toward the house. “The sick guy is Harlan Murison, Tanya’s widower. I found his ID on a table in the kitchen.”
“Holy shit.” Ruis recoiled as he confronted the effigy. “I know you said there was an effigy swinging in the yard, but, man, that’s freaky.” He circled it. Stared at the photo-face of Tanya. Squeezed the legs and lumpy body. “There’s rolled-up paper inside these tights and clothes, to make a human shape.” He examined the black gloves tied to the ends of the arm stumps. “Fuck, have you seen this? These are real fingernails stuck to the end.”
Chips cringed with revulsion. “The hair strands?”
Ruis peered at them. “Real as well. And the lipstick and mascara smeared on the face.” He stepped away from the thing. “You think some local kids did this? Maybe the old man made himself unpopular with a gang?”
Chips pulled a sour face. “No, I think the killer did this. I’m willing to bet that he made this out of Tanya’s old clothes and stuff she’d thrown away and he hung it here to shock the husband and get more attention for himself.”
Ruis stared up at the noose around the effigy’s neck. “When CSIs are done, I’m gonna ask them for that rope, so when we catch this fucker I can string him up with it.”
2
Skid Row, LA
The music Shooter chose for the video edit was Marilyn Manson’s “Death Song.” The lyrics were fittingly full of cops, priests, candles and injustice. But what nailed it for him was the rapid cymbal slaps in the opening section. They were delicious reminders of the noise the G18 made when he’d shot the Fed.
The killing was on the news now, playing low on the TV while he labored over the computer and to his great enjoyment made Jake’s lifeless body jump from frame to frame. It fascinated him how, with the power of rewind, he could bring the big man back to life, empty him of lead, then shoot and kill him over and over again. When he grew bored, his eyes slid to the TV. Apparently, the husband of Sun Western Mall victim Tanya Murison had suffered a heart attack but was recovering well in the hospital. That was good. He hadn’t wanted old Harlan to die. Not yet. The old bastard had to suffer a lot more first. And Shooter was most amused to find the studio anchor mentioning that police investigating the shooting of Sean Thornton at a bankers’ convention in LA were now following leads that connected him to a Sicilian investment group prosecuted for money laundering. That came as a pleasant surprise. He hoped it would mean even more grief for his widow, Mary.
There had been no mention of Januk Dudek. Not that he’d expected any. He suspected that he spent more time thinking about the missing Polack than anyone else did. Nor was there so much as a passing reference to the Strawberry Fields massacre. It was amazing how quickly the press had grown bored with what had been front-page news only days ago.
Just after eleven, a police cruiser slow-circled his sanctuary.
Shooter watched it crawl from one security monitor to the other. Mike Hanrahan had been as good as his word. Which meant at some point, the cop was likely to park and come knocking, either for a favor or just to escape the sun and boredom of his job. Either way, he was going to be trouble.
Shooter watched the black-and-white disappear, then went about his business. Today was a two-bag day. One for cleans and one for dirties.
And in a little over an hour, things were going to get very dirty.
3
Douglas Park, Santa Monica
Angie had intended to drive to Tanya Murison’s house to be with Chips.
While telling him to call Ruis, she’d struggled out of bed and made her way to the bathroom. Despite being exhausted and her injured arm hurting like hell, she’d had the shower running before she’d even hung up.
Then she’d seen it.
The reminder that had popped up on the smartphone. A note to herself that a week today was the anniversary of when she and Jake had first met.
It felt a lifetime ago.
Jake’s lifetime.
But she still had the photo from that first night. The crazy loon had insisted on a waiter taking it at dinner; clinking wineglasses and smiling fresh faces over a white linen cloth centered with a red and yellow rose. He’d told her that in ten years’ time they’d come back to the same restaurant and take a picture sitting at the same table. Back then, Angie had thought it was just a line. Now
it was what she wanted most in the world.
She wished the reminder had never come. Wished she didn’t feel compelled to open the media gallery on her phone and look at the thumbprints of memories that spanned the past three years. Dozens upon dozens of pictures of her and Jake. She’d snapped him a thousand times. Shots in MacArthur Park, blossoms behind his head, looking as soft as a puppy. Coming out of the ocean, tanned and ripped like an action movie star. Head back and snoring like an old man in the rear of a cab after a late party out at Venice Beach. And there were videos, too. Not that she was strong enough to look at any of them. The bravest and saddest thing she could face was replaying his last voice message to her.
“Sorry. When you’re done being mad at me, remember, I love you.”
The words tore her apart.
And then there was that picture. The one the waiter had taken. She opened the file and felt an awful pain. They looked so good together. Eyes bright with lust and hope. All the future to look forward to. True love still a thousand steamy sex sessions away. Arguments and breakups unimaginable. Pregnancy and marriage unthinkable.
She kissed the small frame of the phone. Kissed Jake. Kissed the whole damned restaurant, the moment and the memory.
The shower steamed behind her, but she couldn’t stand, let alone step into it. She slid to the floor, back against the glass, phone to her aching chest, and felt wiped out. Empty. Hollow.
So this was grief.
It had come with stealth and hurt even more than she’d ever imagined. It went beyond wet eyes and unstoppable sobs, beyond regret, unfairness and injustice.
Angie snaked a left hand up to the rail by her side and pulled down a large, thick towel. She wrapped it around her shoulders and lay flat on the tiled floor. Her eyes were open but she wasn’t seeing anything. Her mind was processing a million thoughts but none was in focus.
She had to ride out an emotional storm. Wait for a break in the thunder and lightning.
Spree Page 34
