by Robert Ellis
Matt heard the woman begin speaking again and took a step closer to listen. According to the doctor, Day was a lucky man. The amount of pepper spray he’d endured could have killed him all by itself. The fact that her examination found no internal bleeding had to be considered remarkable. While he might be experiencing a great deal of pain, other than a broken nose, his injuries were limited to soft tissue, and she predicted that his recovery would be quick and certain.
Matt stepped over to the water fountain and waited until the doctor left. He watched her walk down the hall. She was Asian, probably in her late thirties, and appeared exceedingly gentle and easy to look at. When she vanished around the corner, Matt slipped into Day’s room.
Day gave him an even, almost helpless look. Matt moved closer, taking his hand as the reporter began weeping in silence. After several moments, Day pulled himself together.
“What are you doing here?” he said in a weak voice.
“I saw it on the news this morning. I overheard your doctor. She said you’ll be okay, but I’ve gotta tell you, Day. I wouldn’t spend too much time in front of a mirror. You really look like shit.”
Day started laughing, raising his hand and mouthing the words Stop, it hurts.
“The doctor called you lucky,” Matt said.
“Lucky that I don’t remember much, and somehow he didn’t knock out any teeth. What are you doing here?”
“How did you put it at the café?”
Day tossed it over, then found the memory. “We could help each other.”
“And I owe you one for giving me my mother’s real name.”
Matt could see the change in Day’s eyes—the glint sharpening like he was beginning to come back to life. Day checked the door, then turned back to Matt.
“What’s going on?”
“The guy with the wool cap. The guy who did this to you.”
Day nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Who is he?”
“The short answer is that he was following me last night, and I missed it. I was having a drink at another hotel, and he walked in and got himself tossed out. Somehow he picked up on you.”
Day shut his eyes for a moment. “The Ritz. I was in the lobby.”
“Doing what?”
He shook his head and sighed. “The usual,” he whispered. “I didn’t see him either. But when he stepped into the elevator, Jones, one look and I knew I was in trouble.”
A nurse walked into the room, surprised to find someone with her patient. “Visiting hours don’t start for another two hours,” she said. “Who are you?”
“His priest. I just need a few minutes.”
She crossed her arms over her chest like a traffic cop. “You don’t look like a priest.”
“Everybody says that. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
She thought it over for a while. Then without a word she walked out.
Matt glanced out the window at the city, then turned back and leaned against the sill. “What did he get?”
“What?”
“What was in your briefcase?”
Day shook his head. “Not much. When I’m done for the day, my laptop and everything else gets locked up in the hotel safe. I can’t afford to leave anything like that in my room.”
“But there was something in your briefcase,” Matt said.
“Files. Hard copies. Research.”
“Research on who?”
“The Strattons, the Holloways.”
“Who else?”
Day paused and suddenly appeared uneasy, then met his gaze. “You,” he said finally.
A moment passed, and it had a corrosive burn to it. Matt pushed a piece of nicotine gum through the foil and slid it against his cheek.
“How much about me?”
“Not a lot,” Day said. “Side-by-side pictures of you and the man you won’t admit is your father. A little background on him, but not much detail. Like I said, I keep everything on my computer. I had those files with me because you got me going the other day and I wanted to take another look.”
Matt didn’t say anything. He could feel the nicotine beginning to light up his body. His mind was becoming clearer, sharper. He saw Day staring at him as he adjusted his pillow. Then the reporter pushed the tray away and finally spoke.
“You know what, Jones?”
Matt nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“A few minutes ago I asked you who he was. You gave me the short answer and said that he followed you last night. I’ve been a reporter for a long time, Jones. A real long time. And so I’m gonna make a wild guess that the long answer has something to do with why he was following you.”
Matt gave Day a hard look, weighing how much it might cost him if he gave the gossip reporter a small piece of the truth.
CHAPTER 44
Matt entered the Crisis Room and did a double take as he walked over to his desk and glanced at Brown. The entire floor had been turned into a movie set. Two chairs were positioned in the center using the video wall as a background. Three different photographs of Dr. Baylor were up on the huge monitors. In front of the chairs were a pair of digital video cameras on tripods. Banks of movie lights on stands flanked the cameras and chairs on both sides as a handful of video and lighting techs made adjustments.
Matt turned to Brown. “What’s going on?”
“Doyle’s doing a series of interviews. He wants to talk to you.”
She didn’t take her eyes off her laptop as she spoke. It seemed odd.
“Where is he?”
“In the conference room, but don’t bother him right now. A girl’s doing his makeup.”
She still hadn’t glanced his way. Matt turned toward the conference room, but his view was blocked by a grip rigging a four-by-eight sheet of white foam core to a light stand. When the man finished up and walked the foam core onto the set, Matt got a look at the federal prosecutor. He was seated at the conference table while a young woman applied makeup and Rogers watched. Doyle seemed to be enjoying the attention and looked like he was in heaven. All three were laughing.
Something about seeing Doyle with his tail up and a big grin on his face knocked Matt down. He sat at his desk, eyeing the cameras and chairs and a video wall that pointed to Dr. Baylor and only Dr. Baylor.
Case closed.
Why did the man with blond cornrows make a return visit to the Strattons’ mansion? What was the real killer doing in the death house?
That’s all that really mattered, yet Matt had difficulty keeping his mind focused while a federal prosecutor and a special agent with the FBI flew at light speed into the void. Eventually they’d crash and burn, and like most weasels, run for cover by blaming somebody else.
It didn’t take a degree in screenwriting to understand that, most likely, Matt would be playing the role of somebody else.
Matt settled back in his chair to watch. He had given Ryan Day an unofficial rough sketch of what he was thinking and underlined the possibility that the FBI’s investigation was on the wrong track. He mentioned that Dr. Westbrook had been the profiler who helped hunt down the ET killer, Eddie Trisco, in Philadelphia fifteen years ago and that an alternate profile of the man who murdered the Strattons and Holloways had never been made public or even discussed. When Day asked why, Matt told him: the second profile pointed to someone younger than Dr. Baylor, someone who had been sexually abused. While Matt had no information on the man who attacked Day in the hotel, no knowledge of his background, he pointed out that there was only one connection between Day and himself. Only one line could be drawn from Matt to the celebrity reporter from Get Buzzed—a single thread that joined both of them to the mass killings of two families on the Main Line.
Matt heard Doyle call out his name and turned to the conference room. The federal prosecutor was marching across the floor with Rogers, the makeup artist, and a man Matt guessed was the producer in tow. Matt measured them as they gathered around his desk and Brown’s. Doyle wasn’t laughing anymore. But even worse, the ma
n had an audience.
“Listen here, Jones,” he said in a voice loud enough and self-righteous enough to be heard in a courtroom. “Brown told me about your meeting yesterday at the Strattons’. When all this is over, we need to talk.”
Matt searched for a calm voice and found one. “With all due respect, sir, don’t do these interviews. You’re making a mistake. A big one.”
The silence was stunning. The look on Doyle’s face worth whatever it might have cost.
The producer stepped closer, hitting Matt with a barrage of questions. “Are you Matt Jones?” he was saying. “Are you the detective from LA? Is there a problem here? Would you sit down with us after we interview the prosecutor?”
Doyle’s face had turned a bright red in spite of his makeup. And that vein in his neck had popped out again and looked like it might explode. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet and dead and hard as stone.
“The only one Detective Jones will be speaking with is me, and that’s an order.”
The producer didn’t get the vibe in the room and still seemed cheery and excited. “But it would be great,” he said. “Jones is the key to this story.”
The producer’s words settled into the room. No one said anything for a while. Matt stood up. After glancing at Rogers and ignoring his venom, he turned back to Doyle. He wanted Doyle to do the right thing. He didn’t want to watch the prosecutor do something that he would never be able to recover from.
Matt met his eyes. “You’re making a mistake, sir. Don’t do this.”
The words bounced off Doyle’s body armor, and he appeared to be seething and unable to think straight.
“Get out,” he said finally. “But make damn sure you’re back by one, Jones. Make damn sure you’re back by one.”
Doyle stormed off, heading for the conference room. Matt checked on Brown, realized that she was horrified, and headed for the door. As he ran down the hall, he could feel her giving chase. He hit the lobby and grabbed an open elevator. Just as the doors snapped shut, he heard her call out his name.
He didn’t want to talk to her. He needed a break. He needed to settle down.
The doors opened in the garage, and he breezed past security. As he hustled toward his car, he turned and saw Brown running toward him. He clicked open the locks, but not before Brown reached him. He turned and took a moment to size her up and reel in his emotions.
“What’s going on, Kate? Why the hell did you tell Doyle about Baylor?”
She shook her head, trying to catch her breath. “I had to, Jones. This is too big a case. You told me that you spent a half hour with Baylor. Doyle deserves to know what was said.”
“What part of ‘Baylor didn’t do it’ don’t you get, Kate? It’s a big case no matter who gets indicted.”
She gave him a nervous, uneasy look. Matt couldn’t believe how far down the rabbit hole these people were.
“You’re ruining your career,” she said. “You’re not a team player, Jones.”
“I guess it depends on the team you’re playing for.”
Her faced hardened. “You screw up here, and you’ll never bounce back,” she said. “Doyle’s going places.”
Matt stared at her for a long time.
Doyle’s going places.
He couldn’t believe that she’d said it. But even more, he couldn’t believe that she could think it. He couldn’t believe how far away she was from his first impression of her. It almost seemed like the water these people were drinking had become tainted with lead.
Matt glanced at his car and noticed a copy of the Daily News he’d picked up at the hospital. A large photo of the man with the wool cap was on the front page—a wide, blurry shot taken from a security camera in the lobby—along with the story of a celebrity gossip reporter who had been beaten and robbed in a Center City hotel last night. Matt yanked the door open, grabbed the paper, and pushed it in Brown’s face.
“Did you see this in the paper this morning, Kate? It was on TV as well. It’s the story of the day. Do you have any interest in it? Do you know anything about it?”
She gazed at the newspaper, but apparently didn’t like his tone of voice and remained silent.
“How about Doyle?” Matt went on. “He’s going places. You think he knows anything about it? Look at the goddamn picture.”
She raised her hands to her face and appeared to shudder. “Why are you taking this so personally?”
He let out a sarcastic laugh that faded sharply and shook his head. “Why am I taking this so personally?” He paused a moment, reflecting. “A reporter was beaten up and robbed last night. Are you following the story or not, Kate?”
“No,” she said. “Why should I?”
Matt could feel a river of pain flowing through his body. He stabbed the photo with his index finger. He looked at her in utter disbelief and grimaced. He’d lost his patience and was drowning in disappointment.
“Because he’s the one, Kate. He’s the killer. He’s the one who murdered the Strattons. He’s the one who killed the Holloways. Now go upstairs and stick your head up Doyle’s ass. The two of you deserve each other. You’re going places, all right. The first stop’s a town called nowhere.”
She didn’t move, and she didn’t say anything.
He tossed the newspaper into the car, then climbed in behind the wheel. When the engine flooded and the Crown Vic wouldn’t start, he punched the dashboard with his fists and swore. He was enraged and incensed and electrified with fury. The engine finally lit up, and he could hear the tires screeching on the concrete floor as he sped off. When he hit the exit ramp and checked the rearview mirror, Kate Brown was still standing there. She hadn’t moved. He punched the dashboard again, then hit the street and sped off.
CHAPTER 45
Andrew Penchant unlocked the front door, walked into the kitchen, and found Reggie Cook sitting at the breakfast table in his boxer shorts. He had another one of those shit-eating, I-just-fucked-your-mother kind of grins seared onto his stupid face. And he was sipping a glass of Southern Comfort on the rocks at 11:00 a.m., the bottle on the table.
“What are you doing home this early?” Cook asked, still grinning. “It’s not even lunchtime.”
Andrew didn’t say anything, noting the man’s body hair on his chest and back, even his arms and legs. The hair was so thick that it looked more like fur—the kind of fur you might find on a hoofed animal.
He crossed the room, digging two steaks and a bag of frozen french fries out of his jacket pocket and tossing them into the refrigerator and freezer. Cook smacked his hand on the table and laughed.
“Thanks for bringing home dinner, devil child. But what are you gonna eat? I’m staying over tonight. I’m bedding down with Mommy.”
Andrew tried to bury the anxious feeling in his gut. He tried to override it, but he could feel the slob’s eyes on him. After a few moments, he turned and gave his mother’s hairy lover a careful look.
“Where’s your car?” he said. “I didn’t see it in the driveway.”
“I took the bus, devil child. You really need to do something about your eyes, kid.”
“What’s wrong with my eyes?”
“They’re weird, just like you’re weird. You’re an oddball. A freak of nature. A rape baby born with horns and a tail.”
“I don’t have to talk to you. And I don’t have to listen to you either.”
Cook winked at him and grinned again. “I know your secret, devil child. I know what you do with your mother. You’re a pervert, kid. That’s why she called and wanted me to come over. That’s why she wants me to stay. I did her three times this morning. I did her hard. Once in a while she needs to know what it’s like to get laid by a real man, and not her fucked-up little boy. I’ll bet you don’t even have a cock, oddball. Sounds to me like your little-boy noodle gets lost in there, and you’ve got no idea what to even do.”
He slapped the table again, laughing so hard that he began coughing when he took a sip of Southern
Comfort from his glass.
Andrew felt the dam break inside his head, the rush of anger flooding over the banks and out of control. He started shaking and bolted out of the room. He could hear Cook taunting him and insulting him as he fled upstairs to his bedroom. He couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t hold it all in.
He needed it to be over. He needed it to end.
He reached under the bed for his Glock 22, a .40 caliber semiautomatic that carried fifteen rounds in the mag. The pistol was lighter than a .45, but still packed a heavyweight punch. Andrew liked the way it felt in his hand. He also really liked the way it scared people when he turned his G-22 into Dirty Diane.
He slid the top drawer open beneath his worktable, fingered through a tray of spare change and paper clips until he found the adapter and screwed it onto the muzzle of his pistol. It was a small round metal disk he’d bought from a gun manufacturer on the Internet that allowed him to attach an STP oil filter to the barrel of his handgun. For seventy-five dollars plus ten dollars shipping, and another two hundred dollars to register the adapter with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives, it all seemed worth it. His G-22 no longer made any noise when he fired the weapon. His .40 caliber semiautomatic was transformed into Dirty Diane, and when she sang, the only words she knew were click, click, click.
Andrew opened his closet, grabbed a fresh oil filter—the one he’d used at the Holloways’ had caught fire—and screwed it onto the adapter. It wasn’t easy, because of all the raw energy coursing through his being. He could feel himself coming apart at the seams, his fingers trembling. But after a couple of tries, he felt the oil filter mate with his pistol and reached for his spy glasses. He switched on the wireless camera set in the frames. Fitting them carefully over his ears and nose, he ran out of the room.
This was another moment worth recording for later viewing. Another memorable moment like so many he had experienced in recent weeks.
Reggie Cook was still sitting at the breakfast table, drinking Southern Comfort at just after eleven in the morning. Still wearing the scent of his mother’s perfume on his hairy skin.
