Spree

by Michael Morley

  It was a long time coming.

  The doorbell rang twice and she didn’t even blink, let alone get up and try to answer it. The hurt was everywhere. In her bones. In her blood. In her soul.

  Gradually, she raised herself from the tiles, put down the cellphone and towel and slipped into the shower. The water felt like a thousand pins being stuck in her skull. She soaped and soaped. Tried to distract herself with the sharp smell of lemons and limes. Tried to wash away the sadness that was stuck to her.

  Angie tilted her face into the spray and ran the shower hot.

  She changed the pressure. Let it fall like soft summer rain before turning it into driving hail. She felt cells being stripped from her skin. Felt blood pump through her arteries.

  Angie stayed there until she was dizzy from the heat, until she was so wet the skin on her fingers wrinkled and puckered. She shut off the tap and wiped her hands over her body to sluice off the water. Her palms found her tummy. Fingers gently circled the secret space where hope grew, where the baby slept.

  Jake’s baby.

  Her baby.

  Their child.

  She stepped from the shower and toweled dry. Gently rubbed moisturizer on the slight curve of her stomach that cradled her reason to live. The clothes she picked for the day were loose and practical. Black leggings and a pink silk shirt with rolled cuffs.

  She towel-dried her hair and decided against makeup, in case she had another emotional moment and it got messed. From the fridge she grabbed OJ and a tub of plain yogurt. Chips could cope on his own. Ruis would be there to help him. There was no need to rush.

  She peeled the top off the yogurt tub and looked at the mass of photographs and profiles plastered across the living room wall. None of it seemed to make any sense. Her gaze slid to the power socket beneath the scribblings. Plugged in was the pay-as-you-go phone she’d found in Jake’s car. It had been flat. Only late last night had she dug through a drawer of old cables and found a charger that fit it.

  Now it was fully powered. The display showed it had last been called on the morning of Jake’s death. The very time she’d been with him in the hospital. The moment when he was dying.

  There were three missed calls and one new message.

  Angie played it.

  A man’s voice boomed out, “Call me. You were right. I have what you want.”

  She played it again to see if she’d missed a name. She hadn’t. Nor did she recognize the voice. She flicked through the phone’s directory. It was empty. No names or numbers listed. Nor had the caller used his own or Jake’s name. The message was a mystery. It could refer to anything. Some goods he’d ordered. A part for his car. Maybe a present for her.

  But then why use a burner?

  And what had Jake been right about?

  It had to be something sensitive. Something that couldn’t be said on a traceable line or jotted down in an email.

  She racked her brain but couldn’t remember him mentioning a case that was highly confidential or unusually dangerous. For several minutes she fumbled with the phone’s buttons and then found the text message function. There were none in the received or sent folders. She checked the deleted folder and found two.

  One from Jake: ANY NEWS? JM

  And a reply: BPATIENT. JL

  JL.

  The initials meant nothing to her. There was a John Lindsay who worked in HR at the Bureau. But there’d be no reason for Jake to make secret calls to him. And a Jenny Lovett in payroll, who was a year off retirement.

  JL?

  She hadn’t got a clue. But she knew how to search for one. Cal O’Brien had Jake’s FBI cellphone; it was possible there’d be a JL listed on that. And Chips would be able to use satellite triangulation to at least find the place where the missed calls had been made from.

  She was about to dial O’Brien when her own phone rang. The display showed a familiar FBI number. “Hello.”

  “Angie, it’s Sandra McDonald.”

  Her spirits sank.

  The AD cut to the point. “Where is your research assistant and why have you been digging around Jason Rawlings?”

  Angie took a slow breath and bent the truth. “I asked Chips to help me with something personal, and with regard to Rawlings, I thought that given his very public differences with his father and the chief’s profile, he might be a suspect—”

  “Jesus, Angie.” She tried not to snap. “I’ve had his old man on the phone for ten minutes all but ripping my head off. Now I understand why.”

  “I’m sorry, but it—”

  “Please don’t ‘but’ me.” McDonald barely managed to hold back her anger. “Everyone knows what a terrible time you’re going through, but you have to stop interfering in cases. I told you not to get involved and I expect you to respect that instruction.”

  “You could do with the help. Arresting and charging Bolt was a mistake, and in career terms for some people it could turn out to be a costly one.”

  McDonald rode the verbal punch. “There were sufficient grounds for Bolt’s arrest, not that we need to debate the issue with you. Just so there’s no mistake between you and me, listen carefully: stay out of this case, Angela. Otherwise I’ll have Chips suspended and sent home.”

  “Hey, that’s unfair; none of this is his fault.”

  “Of course it is.” Her voice gave away her rising annoyance. “He’s been like a mole on acid, digging around all over the place for you. Sure, he’s a smart guy and can hide his online investigations well enough, but when he goes calling precincts, then he stirs up trouble.”

  “Why are you so sure Jason Rawlings has no connection to the killings?”

  “Because he’s got a cast-iron alibi.” She sounded infuriated. “He has been more than a hundred miles away in a residential addiction center for the past month. And before you dare ask, yes, I have checked personally and he hasn’t for one minute left the premises.”

  4

  Watts, LA

  The LAPD and CSIs were all over the Murison place. Ruis figured he’d take Chips for coffee and breakfast before the kid turned any paler and fainted.

  They drove to a place just around the corner from the FBI offices, an Italian joint that made cappuccino thicker than clotted cream. Ruis went to the counter and ordered for them both—pancake stacks with sides of bacon and sausage.

  “They didn’t have croissants?” asked Chips when the food came.

  “Breakfast like a king,” quipped Ruis. “Enjoy.” He picked up bottles of maple syrup and honey and made to uncap them.

  “King Cholesterol.” Chips rolled his eyes. “Tell me that you are not going to put syrup and honey on that, Agent Costas.”

  “I am. Start the day sweet and it stays that way.” Ruis squeezed both bottles at once and zigzagged drizzles across his food.

  Chips looked mortified. “Think of the fat. Your waistline. Your heart.”

  “They all love it. Those body parts are just squealing with excitement over what’s coming their way.” He took a long and satisfying chew, swallowed, then asked, “So tell me, how’s Angie doing? Real answer, no bullshit.”

  Chips sipped his coffee. “Not so good. She’s tensed up all the time. Won’t relax and let everything out. She thinks it’s weak to cry. Beats herself up if her eyes get more than moist.”

  Ruis nodded as he chewed. Wiped his mouth on a white paper napkin. “Angie Holmes certainly has a tough rep. Tough and smart. If she didn’t argue with her boss and punch coworkers, she’d be a shoe-in for a promotion.”

  “That’s just Angie. She has no censor button.”

  “Jake was almost as bad. Two peas in a pod.” Ruis replayed a couple of instances in his head. People Jake had defended when others wouldn’t. Risks he’d taken that no one would have expected him to.

  Chips saw he was struggling. “I guess you miss him both professionally and personally.”

  “I can’t tell you how much. Jake Mottram was like a role model for me. A real tough mother with a big,
soft heart. Would kick your ass one minute, then defend your life with his the next. Man, he was pretty special.” Ruis tapped his head with a stubby finger. “In here, he’s still alive. I can’t actually believe he’s dead.”

  “I know, it doesn’t feel real.”

  “Not at all. It’s like he’s gone away on vacation.” Ruis laughed. “Or one of those damned management courses he hated. He always said they seemed to go on for weeks.”

  “How long had you known each other?”

  “Let me think. About four years. I met the boss around six months before he got together with Angie. Hell, he was a real hard-ass back then. There was no softness at all to him until she came along. She did the whole unit a favor by taking his edge off.”

  “That wasn’t in SKU, was it?”

  “No. We were in a kind of rapid response pool back then. Deployed on”—Ruis shrugged—“well, you know.”

  Chips understood. Agent Costas meant the kind of jobs that didn’t get spoken about. Black ops. Wet squads. Off-the-book assassinations. “Coffee’s good,” he said, picking up his skinny cap, eager to move the conversation on.

  “Yeah, it is.” Ruis took a hit of his. “You looked kind of gray back there. For a desk jockey, I thought you did good.”

  “Thanks.” Chips felt his face redden. “I don’t normally venture out in the field. You know, when I came round the corner into the yard and saw that ‘thing’ dangling there, my heart was in my mouth.”

  “You thought it was a person?”

  “Yes, I did.” He took another hit of coffee.

  Ruis forked some sausage and dabbed it in syrup. “So, exactly why were you there? I mean, given that Angie isn’t supposed to be working any cases at the moment.” He chewed the meat while he waited for the answer.

  Chips’s face completed the transition to a deep claret color. “Er—well—let’s say I was tidying up some loose ends and I, er—”

  Ruis waved him to be quiet. “Listen, Angie Holmes is a big girl. I think it’s right that she got sent home on compassionate leave and given the chance to recover without the pressure of work. But hell, if work is what helps her recover, then that’s fine by me.” He wagged an empty fork. “Just don’t tell McDonald or Crawford I said that.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I know you’re a good guy, Chips. You’re looking out for Angie and that’s great. If she needs help and is afraid to ask, you call me, right? I’m looking out for her as well, even though she might not fully believe that.”

  Chips took a long look at Ruis.

  The SKU agent stared back quizzically. “What?”

  “I’m just wondering—do you think Jake’s killer will be caught? Honest answer, not a bullshit one.”

  Ruis took a sip of his coffee, then placed the mug on the table. “No. No, I don’t. But hell, that won’t stop us all trying our best to prove me wrong.”

  5

  Downtown, LA

  Jerry Zander had opened a restaurant on South Spring Street six months ago. He’d gotten a good deal on the rental, but launching in tough times had scared the crap out of him.

  Jerry needn’t have sweated.

  JZ’s Saloon had opened strong and today it had been busting at the seams from the moment its doors opened for lunch.

  Themed as a Wild West eatery, it was full of dark woods and warm lights, with cowboys drawing drinks behind the bar, Indian squaw waitresses working tables, bows and arrows strung on the walls and a menu offering cheap food and all kinds of “moonshine.”

  From the get-go, Jerry understood that locals wanted to have fun, but they didn’t have a whole lot of money to spend. By giving them good-value burgers, steaks, fish and fries plus some free entertainment in the form of gunfights and Indian magic tricks, he’d started to clean up.

  Right now, there were two kids’ birthday parties in full swing and tonight there would be a twenty-first and several bachelor parties.

  Jerry was in his late thirties and a little on the heavy side but reckoned he was tall and handsome enough to carry it. He swaggered in front of the long mirror behind the bar and adjusted the big silver star on his Stetson emblazoned with the word “SHERIFF.” He stood statue-still. Snatched his guns. Leveled them waist high. Twirled them in sync. Dropped them back in their holsters and winked at the man in the mirror.

  Pitchers of lemonade were on their way to the kids’ tables. Two of the waiters staged a mock gunfight with cap guns. The bad guy in black lurched left and right, then staggered backward. It took him thirty seconds and most of the restaurant floor to finally die. The other cowpoke blew the barrel of his pretend gun and the diners cheered.

  A squaw waitress made sure the youngsters got all the Stetsons and headdresses they wanted. Girls always went for the feathered golden bands and boys snapped up the sheriff hats.

  “Howdy, pardners,” Jerry hollered across the long table. “You all having a good time down here?”

  “YES, SHERIFF,” shouted moms and kids together.

  “Glad to hear it. Y’all let me know if the chow’s not to your likin’. Have a good day now.” Jerry politely tilted his hat and his eyes fell on a pretty mom in her midthirties. He was pleased to see her hold his gaze and smile back. He’d make a point of moseying on down to her end of the table once the burgers and fries had been served.

  Two squaws rain-danced out of the kitchen in leather miniskirts and put bottles of ketchup, mayo and mustard down on the tables. Then the restroom door opened and a masked cowboy trotted out on an imaginary horse and shouted, “Hi-ho, Silver!”

  The kids cheered.

  The Lone Ranger turned to the table where the pretty blonde sat and pulled his guns. Kid sheriffs reached for their weapons.

  The Lone Ranger opened fire.

  Blood spattered the windows. Not pretend goo but shocking suck-all-noise-out-of-the-room real blood.

  The masked man fired indiscriminately. Pretty women became faceless corpses. Shouting children fell silent.

  The outlaw lawman, champion of justice, turned and sprayed automatic gunfire at the screaming diners across the restaurant.

  Jerry felt fire break out in his stomach and chest. By the time he fully realized what had happened, he was dead.

  6

  Shooter kept the black mask on for half a block. He ducked into a gap behind a billboard that fronted the junction of South Main and West Third and unlocked his bicycle from the iron post he’d chained it to.

  Half an hour earlier, he’d walked into the restaurant in jeans and a T-shirt and had gone straight to the restroom. In there, he’d stripped naked and put on painter’s overalls and then added the cowboy costume, plus boots with lifts.

  Now he removed the Lone Ranger outfit and was left looking like a decorator. He rolled the jeans, T-shirt and guns into his canvas shoulder bag and covered everything else with gasoline from plastic bottles he’d brought. Once he’d set them ablaze, he mounted his bicycle and rode off.

  With any luck, he’d be back at his sanctuary in time to see the first of the news bulletins.

  It would be interesting to discover how many he’d killed—in addition to the one that really mattered, the pretty blond mom sitting at the head of the table.

  7

  FBI Field Office, LA

  Chips was relieved to be back in the office and safely behind a desk. What wasn’t so satisfying was that when he called Angie and updated her, she sounded really down. Sadder than he’d ever known her. He guessed it was natural. Part of the process of getting over having your life torn apart.

  He spent the rest of the morning doing things Angie couldn’t and shouldn’t, namely tracing and tagging all the crap that had been written about Jake’s death on the social media platforms.

  Ninety-nine percent of what had been posted had been kind and sympathetic. The remainder seemed to be from cranks and anarchists.

  Both Chips and Angie figured the killer wouldn’t be stupid enough to blog or even send a message, but there was no d
oubt that he’d be avidly reading about himself and maybe even downloading pictures and articles.

  Chips called the Bureau’s Cyber Intelligence Unit and found no shortage of analysts ready to help. They told him they had a disinfected and isolated server in a “dead house” in Watts that would look like an unprotected IP address and lure in predatory users by exposing itself.

  As well as running search and trace programs on all the questionable sites, Chips intended to create more than a dozen social media memberships under the identity Judgelysia. On top of that, he wanted to add years of back postings and have some of her mails and accounts blocked in case it was scrutinized. Finally, he needed to ping it all from the “dead house” out in Watts.

  If the UNSUB became interested in Judgelysia, he’d find on her Facebook profile that she described herself as the Fourth Judge of the Underworld, the only female to sit in power in the afterlife and decide the fate of souls that Cerberus allowed through. The Elysia part of her name was an allusion to the Elysian Fields, the blessed place that sprang from Greek mythology. Judgelysia would be discovered to have sent tweets about all manner of spiritual and paranormal stuff, and on her own blog ranted about injustices in modern society and how the government used poverty to control the masses.

  Both he and Angie knew it was a wild shot in the dark. But for now, the darkness was all they had to shoot at.

  8

  Douglas Park, Santa Monica

  Angie saw the South Spring Street killings on TV and left her apartment so fast she didn’t even turn the set off.

  She flicked on the siren in her Toyota and ran the lights all the way across town. Ambulances passed her in both directions. Reports on the radio said more than a dozen were dead and even more injured. Eyewitnesses mentioned guns being fired by a single male, dressed as the Lone Ranger.

  Angie instinctively felt it was their UNSUB. The cowboy costume was as much a disguise as the rapper boy clothes and Lakers cap in the mall. Up above her, police copters swept the sky; cameras and desperate eyes scanned the blocks below. In a city of four million people they had almost no chance of spotting the guy. He was a chameleon, a shape-shifting sonofabitch who was getting bolder and better with each kill.