Diagnosis Murder 6 - The Dead Letter

by Lee Goldberg

  It took him longer to make the drive than it did to find Serena Cale. He found out all about her from the Web in about fifteen minutes and even managed to pull her picture off another kid's Web site.

  Randi Turner was the other kid, and she had a photo page on her site devoted to her and her friends at beach parties, school games, and hanging out. They were hanging out, all right, mostly in the skimpiest of bikinis.

  Serena was one of Randi's chums. They were both hot babes, and as Victor made the eight-hour drive, hyped up on X, he entertained himself by imagining the two girls were very, very good friends. It got him so excited that he was toying with the idea of coming back for Randi later, depending on how things worked out with Serena. He would show them both the glorious American eagle tattooed on his belly, its talons clinging to his hairy navel, and they would be overcome by patriotism and lust. They might even fight with each other over who got to have him first.

  He drove all night, stopping a couple of times along the way for hamburgers and beers and visits to the bathroom, where he liked to scrawl the phone numbers of ex-girlfriends on the wall. The ones he was kind enough to leave breathing and unmaimed, that is.

  Victor didn't look much like an ex-Marine, mainly be cause he wasn't one, even though he told everybody that he was. He stood five feet five, with a hairline that had receded clear back to the middle of his bullet head. The Do-er compensated by letting what hair he had grow down to his shoulders, where it tangled with the man fur on his back and chest that spilled out around his collar.

  All that body hair gave Victor a unique odor that complicated the more intimate aspects of his profession. On those occasions when he couldn't kill from afar using the rifle in his trunk, his victims usually smelled him before he could get close. If he tried to mask the smell with aftershave or de odorant, it only made things worse. This required Victor to hone his garroting and knifing skills to favor speed over accuracy or stealth.

  He got the close-up work done, but often left an unfortunate mess, which was why he preferred the sniper jobs.

  This gig, snatching a buxom beach babe, was a new challenge for him. And when he wasn't fantasizing about Serena and Randi together, he gave some thought to how he was going to make the grab.

  He settled on the old-fashioned way—soaking a rag with chloroform, following her to a secluded spot, and covering her face with the rag until she passed out. That was how he got most of his dates in the sack anyhow. Roofies were too much trouble and too expensive, especially once he factored in the drinks he had to buy, and all the effort he had to put into witty conversation, in order to drug the object of his affections.

  Serena Cale would probably catch a whiff of him before he got close, but he didn't expect that to be much trouble. The client wanted her unconscious most of the time anyway, particularly on arrival at the destination, because he didn't want her knowing where she'd been, in case Victor decided to leave her among the living.

  The client didn't have to worry about that. Once the client was done with her, she'd do some partying with the Do-er, then a quick tour of the Grand Canyon, from the top to the bottom.

  Victor arrived in Capitola a little after dawn. He parked the car, went out on the beach, and scoped out the place where the kid lived. He found her car, an old Toyota Corolla, parked near the pier and made a note of the Cabrillo College parking tag hanging from the rearview mirror.

  No one was up and about, and the only available restroom was at the gas station by the highway, so he urinated on her tire, like a dog marking his territory. This wasn't going to be a good spot to take her. He zipped up his fly, walked back down to the beach, and trudged across the sand to his car.

  Since he didn't know her schedule, he'd have to follow her and wait for the right moment. if worst came to worst, he would know where she parked at school. He could hide in the parking structure and take her when she came back from class.

  She made it easy for him.

  At eight thirty she emerged from the villa in shorts and a T-shirt and went out for a jog that took her through town, along the river, and under the train trestle.

  That was where he waited for her, in the dark of the tall wooden pilings that held up the aging structure. He backed his car up nearby, so he could heave her inert body into the trunk

  Victor the Do-er saw Serena Cale coming towards him, running up the dirt path between the ramshackle old houses and the riverbank. He soaked the rag in chloroform, moved behind the post, and waited to make his move.

  He could hear the steady, rhythmic clip-clop of her feet hitting the ground as she neared him. He felt his pulse quicken, as if to match the rhythm of her run.

  The timing had to be perfect.

  When she was close enough for him to hear her heavy breathing, he stepped forward. She passed the post, and in the split second that she registered movement out of the corner of her eye, he reached out to cup her face from behind with the rag and drag her away.

  But before his rag could make contact, his arm was wrenched back, he was spun around, and a fist smashed into his face, sending him staggering backwards.

  He reached behind his back for the knife hidden under his shirt, and the fist smashed into his face again, his nose exploding in blood.

  Victor landed on his butt in a sitting position and stared up dizzily at a man pointing a very large gun in his eye.

  "If I were you, I'd sit still," the man said.

  "Who the hell are you?"

  "Lieutenant Steve Sloan, LAPD Homicide."

  Two uniformed police officers appeared out of hiding from the front yard of one of the river houses. They kicked his knife aside and yanked him to his feet. The sudden motion made him so dizzy he nearly puked. They pulled his arms behind his back and slapped handcuffs on his wrists, then patted him down. The urge to vomit passed.

  "What's this all about?" Victor asked, trying his best to sound righteously aggrieved. "Is it against the law to take a stroll along the river?"

  Steve holstered his gun. The officers tossed him Victor's wallet and car keys. The detective examined Victor's driver's license.

  "You're under arrest, Victor."

  "For what?" he asked with a snort, blood spilling onto his shirt

  "Urinating in public, for starters," Steve said, then motioned towards Victor's car. "Parking in a red zone for an other. My gosh, the charges are mounting every second."

  Steve started towards the car. Two Capitola police cruisers screeched up alongside Victor's Cougar, and a couple of plainclothes detectives got out. The police station was only half a block away—they could have walked over, but Victor supposed they didn't get much of a chance to screech anywhere.

  "Here's your search warrant," one of the detectives said to Steve, handing him a folded piece of blue paper. "You're clear to search the whole car."

  Victor glanced at Serena Cale. Her hands were on her hips, and she was glaring at him with pure hatred and not a trace of fear. He wanted to kiss her and smear her face with his blood.

  "Did my father send you to do this?" she hissed. "Is he really alive?"

  Victor didn't answer, mainly because he didn't know what the hell she was talking about. The officers shoved him towards his car. He stumbled, nearly losing his footing, and blew her a kiss. It would have to do.

  Steve used Victor's keys to open the trunk. It was filled with magazines, dirty clothes, six-packs of beer, and, underneath it all, a Remington sniper rifle.

  "Well, look at that," Steve said, turning to Victor with a smile. "I've got a feeling we're going to be adding a murder charge or two to your list of grievous offenses against society. What do you think, Victor?"

  He'd thought he would go down in a blaze of bullets, blood, and glory, holed up in some house surrounded by cops. This wasn't a climax befitting the Do-er, a man with an American Eagle on his stomach.

  Victor wished he could wipe his nose. "Let's talk about a deal."

  The Do-er told Steve the whole plan. Steve walked out of th
e interrogation room of the Capitola police station and into the observation room, where Dr. Jesse Travis and his girl friend, Susan Hilliard, were watching.

  "You get all that?" Steve asked Jesse.

  "Seems simple enough," Jesse said.

  "You better be sure," Steve said. "Mannering will be watching every move when you get there."

  "Good thing Mannering has never seen this guy," Jesse said.

  "You mean because the whole plan would go to hell?" Steve asked.

  "Because he'd be as disappointed as I am. C'mon, look at that guy. He's the Do-er? He doesn't look like a Do-er to me." Jesse glanced at Susan, whose arms were folded across her chest. "Does he look like a Do-er to you?"

  "He looks like scum to me," she said with a scowl.

  "Exactly," Jesse said. "Hit men are supposed to be smooth, slick, preferably European. I think Robin Mannering is going to be a lot happier when he sees me instead of him."

  "Because you're smooth, slick, and European," Steve said.

  "I can be," Jesse said.

  Steve handed Jesse the keys to Victor's car. "Don't try to act, okay? Just deliver Serena to Las Vegas and follow Mannering's orders." He turned to Susan. "Are you ready to be Serena Cale?"

  "As long as I don't have to ride in the trunk the whole way," Susan said.

  Steve looked at Jesse, who was now squinting, Eastwood like, at his reflection in the glass.

  "They call me the Do-er. One bullet from now and they're going to call you the Done. Or the Did." Jesse frowned and turned to face everyone in the room. "Which would it be, the Done or the Did?"

  "I don't know, Jesse." Steve motioned to Victor on the other side of the glass. "Why don't you go in and ask him?"

  "Okay." Jesse started for the door and Steve grabbed him.

  "Tell me you weren't actually going to ask him," Steve said.

  Susan sighed. "Maybe the trunk isn't such a bad idea."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Robin Mannering had thought the Do-er would be a lot taller, a lot more imposing, than the short man who stepped out of the Cougar at the service entrance of the Côte d'Azur hotel.

  Perhaps it was because he was watching it all on the security monitor in Nate Grumbo's office.

  "Does the security camera make everybody look so small?" Mannering asked.

  Grumbo shrugged. "Everyone looks small to me."

  Mannering could believe that. He watched two of Grumbo's security men push a wheelchair out to the car. The Do-er popped the trunk and lifted a woman out. She was blond and unconscious, her long hair swept across her face. She was Mannering's daughter, but he felt as much of an emotional connection to her as he did to Grumbo's desk. The Do-er set her down in the wheelchair and the security men pushed her into the building. The Do-er got back into his car and drove off.

  "She'll be taken to a room in the clinic," Grumbo said. 'When she wakes up, we'll call Dr. Ross to begin his tests. What can we expect from her?"

  "Complete compliance," Mannering said. She'd been told that if she asked for help, made any attempt to escape, or refused to cooperate in any way, her mother would be raped, tortured, and killed. "But if there's a problem, can Dr. Ross be counted on for discretion?"

  "The doctor's patients have included dictators and despots," Grumbo said. "I'm sure he's been involved in less pleasant situations."

  It was welcome reassurance.

  As soon as he got word that Serena was conscious, Mannering went to his room at the Côte d'Azur medical center to await the results. He was confident that she would be a perfect match.

  He was also pleased that he'd been able to work out a solution to his problem so quickly. It was a tricky situation, but he'd handled it with his usual brilliance and aplomb.

  The hardest part would come later, when he had to systematically silence all the people who knew too much. Certainly Dr. Ross and all the medical personnel involved in his treatment would have to go, as well as the two security guards who had brought Serena in. He would eventually have to find someone to do the Do-er as well.

  Unfortunately, he'd probably have to live with Standiford and Grumbo, but he wouldn't like it.

  There was a knock on the door.

  "Come in," Mannering said. He was sitting on the edge of the exam table.

  Dr. Ross bounded in, looking very pleased with himself. "Good news. She's compatible."

  "That's good to know," Mannering said.

  "You must have been certain," Dr. Ross said. "After all, she's your daughter."

  Mannering's face flushed with anger. How could Dr. Ross have known?

  "Did she tell you that?" Mannering asked, knowing full well that she couldn't have.

  "The DNA test did, of course."

  "You never said anything about a DNA test," Mannering said, getting to his feet. "What DNA test are you talking about?"

  "The one that proves without a doubt that you're Jimmy Cale," Dr. Ross said.

  Mannering felt as if he'd taken a fist in his stomach. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't swallow. All his fears about submitting to a medical exam had come true. Roger Standiford had used his vulnerability as an excuse to unlock the secrets of his blood and use it for blackmail.

  But how had Standiford found out who he was? Mannering paid an LAPD file clerk to destroy the DNA evidence and make sure it never entered the national database. There should have been no trace of Jimmy Cale left anywhere.

  Mannering managed to find his voice and enough air in his lungs to spit out one question.

  "Is this some kind of shakedown?" he asked, taking a seat again on the edge of the exam table.

  "No," Dr. Ross said and opened the door of the exam room. A man walked in, an LAPD badge clipped to his belt. "It's an arrest."

  Mannering gripped the table. The revelations were hitting him like a beating, each word a savage blow with brass knuckles to tender parts of his anatomy.

  He knew now he didn't have leukemia. It was all an elaborate con. But he took no solace in the fact that he wasn't going to die. If anything, he felt even more anxiety than he had before.

  "Who are you?" Mannering asked Dr. Ross. "Are you even a doctor?"

  "I'm Dr. Mark Sloan, chief of internal medicine at Community General Hospital, and this is my son, Lieutenant Steve Sloan, LAPD Homicide."

  Mannering knew who Steve Sloan was—the detective who'd put Bert Yankton away. The name Mark Sloan sounded familiar, too.

  "There are some other law enforcement types from the FBI and Las Vegas police that you'll be meeting in a moment," Mark said. "But first, let me introduce you to the cast."

  "The cast?" Mannering said.

  The Do-er, his daughter, and Nurse Cleo Jones came into the room and, as if they were onstage, took their bows.

  "The Do-er is Dr. Jesse Travis. He's also the one who took the blood sample from your daughter a few days ago that we used to compare with your DNA."

  So his DNA never did get into the system, Mannering realized. This was all a con to get from him what he'd so carefully erased from existence.

  "Technically, we could have arrested you as soon as we had those results, but we wanted to flush out your hired assassin and tie him to you," Steve said. "By the way, he agreed to testify against you after we matched the rifle in his car to the bullet that killed Sanford Pelz."

  Mannering closed his eyes. This couldn't be happening. Mark Sloan went on, clearly enjoying every second.

  "The lovely lady to Jesse's left is Susan Hilliard, who kindly took the place of Serena so that your daughter would never be in any danger."

  "Not that you gave a damn about her," Susan said, practically spitting on him. "The hit man told us that you said he could have her when you were through with her. What kind of monster are you?"

  A very rich one, he thought. But he didn't say anything. He shifted his gaze to Mark, who continued with his introductions.

  "And finally," Mark said, "the woman you know as my nurse, Cleo Jones."

  "That's Cleopatra Jo
nes, sugar." Amanda said with a smile. "I always wanted to be her."

  "You called yourself Cleopatra Jones? I remember her. She was like the black female version of Shaft," Steve said. "Shouldn't you be wearing an afro and a mink coat?"

  "Mark wouldn't let me," Amanda said, jauntily adding with plenty of seventies jive-talking sassiness: "He said it might spook the honky sucker."

  "This is Dr. Amanda Bentley, a Los Angeles County medical examiner and chief pathologist at Community General Hospital," Mark said. "She conducted the DNA tests that confirmed your identity."

  Mannering felt his breath coming back, his heart rate returning to normal. During the course of Mark's blathering, he had begun to see a way out. But there was a little more he needed to know. He applauded, a smirk on his face.

  "Very nice, ladies and gentlemen. A grand performance. But what about my symptoms? How did you manage that?"

  "We've been drugging your food and beverages here at the resort and at your home with Propanolol, a beta blocker usually prescribed for high blood pressure, angina, and cardiac arrhythmias," Mark said. "The side effects match the symptoms of leukemia."

  So that was why his food had begun to taste like chemicals, Mannering thought. He was actually tasting the drugs they were giving him.

  How could he have been so stupid?

  "I suppose Grumbo was the one who broke into my house and spiked my food and drinks?"

  Mark nodded. "Roger Standiford and his staff have been an enormous help."

  Perfect, Mannering thought. That was his escape.

  "I'll be sure to remember them in my lawsuit, Mannering said, puffing out his chest with bravado. "You've gone to an awful lot of effort for nothing. There is no case here. Any competent lawyer can get the DNA evidence thrown out. It was taken against my will using fraudulent means."

  "You asked us to take it" Mark showed Mannering the clipboard and the release he'd signed. "You even acknowledged that the symptoms you were suffering might be fraudulently induced by drugs you unknowingly ingested. You absolved us of that and a myriad of other liberties we took with your privacy. We even have a security video of you signing the document to prove you did so without coercion."