by Robert Ellis
The TV was switched to a cable news channel, which Matt found difficult to watch because of the subject matter.
As it turned out, Kate Brown’s take on Assistant US Attorney Ken Doyle didn’t work out as she had hoped. The federal prosecutor wasn’t going places, and probably would never become the nation’s next attorney general.
Instead, Ken Doyle had become the Department of Justice’s latest fall guy.
Matt watched the federal prosecutor trying to push his way through the media gathered on the sidewalk outside the Trump Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, DC. Most of the audio was garbled as microphones and cameras were knocked together or pushed away. It looked like Doyle was trying to exit the hotel and walk down the sidewalk to his office in the DOJ Building on the other side of Tenth Street. But he was on his own and seriously outnumbered.
Someone knocked on the door. Matt looked at the pack of cigarettes on the table and, without hesitating, tossed them into the trash—over and done. Then he crossed the room and opened the door. It was Special Agent in Charge Wes Rogers, wearing a grin on his face.
“This is the day I’ve been looking forward to since you first got here, Jones.”
Matt gave him a look and laughed. “You mean because you’re driving me to the airport.”
Rogers nodded and seemed delighted by the idea.
Matt walked back to the bed and finished packing up his clothing. Rogers had come through when he needed to come through, and Matt had decided that he liked him. The feeling was mutual, as Rogers had offered him a job twice since he returned to Philadelphia from Greenwich.
“You got any news?” Matt said.
Rogers’s eyes widened. “It’s not public yet, but the word from Justice is that if Doyle had done his job as a prosecutor and stayed out of our way, the road to Andrew Penchant would have been—look, she’s saying it for me.”
He stopped talking, and Matt followed his gaze over to the TV. A journalist had stepped away from the crowd and was using it as background for her update and summation of the story.
“According to three sources in the Department of Justice, Assistant US Attorney Ken Doyle stepped out of bounds and got in the way of the FBI’s investigation. One source close to the attorney general said, and this is a quote, ‘Mr. Doyle should have known that he was being paid as a prosecutor, not an investigator, and he ended up leading the task force off the cliff.’ Another source told me that the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit had offered a profile matching Andrew Penchant early in the game. If Mr. Doyle had let the FBI do their job, they told me, M. Trevor Jones, one of the most celebrated men in the world of finance and often regarded with affection as the King of Wall Street, would almost certainly be alive today. And so would his wife and two sons. The FBI has also confirmed through DNA analysis—the rumors now official—that LAPD Detective Matt Jones is indeed Mr. Jones’s firstborn son and only known survivor.”
Matt switched the power off and tossed the remote on the desk. It was all out in the open now. Out in the open and very hard to look at all at once, and in the light of day.
Rogers protested, but seemed amused. “Why did you shut it off?”
Matt didn’t say anything, and shrugged his shoulders like he’d had enough.
“I can guarantee you what her next sentence would have been, Jones.”
Matt zipped up his duffel bag. “Yeah, what’s that?”
Rogers laughed. “Have you looked outside? Do you see what’s going on out there?”
Matt knew what Rogers was talking about. Doyle may have had twenty-five cameras following him around in Washington. But since Matt’s new, ever-changing reality made another change and word got out on TV and the Internet, since the producers of Get Buzzed broke the story wide-open in Ryan Day’s name, hundreds of news outlets had begun assembling outside the Marriott Downtown in Philadelphia. Filbert Street had been shut down between Twelfth and Thirteenth Streets to accommodate the crowds.
They had their story finally. Matt was the firstborn son of the King of Wall Street, the only surviving member of the family, and, on his mother’s side, the nephew of Dr. George Baylor, a serial killer and a fiend still on the run and living in the free world. But even more, Matt was the grandson of Howard Stewart, who, until Bernie Madoff came along, was the biggest scoundrel Wall Street had ever known.
As if his bloodline wasn’t enough, the story had a finish.
Jones, a rookie homicide detective from Los Angeles, had come to Philadelphia to assist the FBI in the investigation of the Stratton murders, and then the Holloway murders. And he hadn’t just solved the case. He had tracked down the monsters, risked his life to go into battle with them, and, on his own, taken both of them out. Andrew Penchant and Avery Cooper would never hurt anyone again. Both of them were dead.
Matt’s new, ever-changing reality. It was all out in the open now. Out in the open and still very hard to look at.
He grabbed his bags and turned to Rogers. “Let’s get out of here.”
Two US marshals were waiting for them down the hall, the elevator doors open. They stepped in and rode down to the first floor. Once the doors opened in the lobby, hundreds of strobe lights started flashing and everything went electric. Ten more US marshals were here, ushering them through the sea of cameras to a black Chevy Suburban parked at the entrance. People were shouting questions at him. They were asking Matt to smile, give a high five or even a fist bump. People were cheering and clapping, some even holding signs. When Matt waved at the crowd, the intensity of light from the flash units almost blinded him. He climbed into the backseat behind Rogers. After shutting the door, he glanced at the driver and saw a familiar face.
It was the US marshal in the business suit. The man with no name who liked to drive fast. He had a smile on his face and he nodded.
“Looks like you’re goin’ to Disneyland, Jones.”
CHAPTER 70
Matt cracked open a beer and walked out onto the deck. It was Christmas Eve. The sun had set about an hour ago. It was a clear night, a quiet night, and he could see the entire basin from Venice Beach and Santa Monica to the tall buildings downtown.
He took a swig from the bottle. None of the homes on the south side of the canyon had survived the wildfire. In spite of the darkness, he counted fifteen black spots on the south rim. Fifteen families who had lost everything. He knew that there were five more, he just couldn’t see them in the night. He also knew that the wind had carried the firestorm over to the north side, but only two houses had burned down.
He heard a pair of coyotes yipping and howling from the canyon floor and wondered if they’d climb the hill tonight to sleep underneath his deck. He’d seen them the day after his return, and somehow all four pups had survived.
His hand reached for his shirt pocket before he realized what was going on. It had been an automatic response to what he was thinking. He’d reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes.
He laughed and took another sip of beer. He’d tossed the pack out before leaving Philadelphia for a reason. He’d tossed the pack out because it was time.
His cell phone started vibrating. Digging it out of his pocket, he read the caller ID on the face and felt his stomach begin churning.
The caller was Ken Doyle.
Matt stared at the federal prosecutor’s name, letting the phone ring three more times before finally taking the call.
“This is Jones,” he said.
Doyle didn’t say anything, and Matt could hear him breathing.
“What is it, Doyle? Why the hell would you call me?”
“Hello, Matthew. Merry Christmas.”
Matt recoiled. It wasn’t the federal prosecutor. It was Dr. Baylor, using Doyle’s phone.
“What have you done, Doctor?”
“Nothing much,” Baylor said in a voice too casual to trust. “Just trying to get in a little R and R after a few hectic weeks. I’ve been reading the papers and watching the news. It seems you’re a conquering he
ro these days.”
“Until they check out the family tree.”
Baylor hesitated again, then came back. “You were, of course, hoping to bring levity to the conversation, and I was supposed to laugh, but didn’t. It must be difficult for you, Matthew. Dear old Dad didn’t make it, did he? The man who abandoned you and your mother is finally dead.”
Matt didn’t say anything, everything in his world turning bleak and ominous.
“It’s official,” the doctor went on. “The monkey’s off your back, but it means that you’re an orphan now, so I’ll bet it stings.”
Everything in his world was slipping back into the gloom. Matt didn’t take the bait and wasn’t thinking about his father or himself right now. He was thinking about Doyle’s caller ID.
“What have you done, Doctor?”
“Not much, really.”
“What have you done?”
“How should I put it? I’ve tidied up a few loose ends.”
Loose ends. Matt could picture the two loose ends as if he had been standing in the same room with Baylor.
“You’re in Doyle’s house in Washington, aren’t you?”
“I think I am, Matthew. I think I’m using his phone. You must have noticed the caller ID.”
Matt pricked up his ears, concentrating on what he was hearing in the background. There was a creaking noise, and it seemed to be repeating itself.
“Is Kate Brown there?” he said.
Baylor took another moment, almost as if he needed to think it over.
“Is she there, Doctor?”
“At some level, yes,” Baylor said. “Not in spirit anymore, but yes, she’s here.”
Matt’s heart skipped a beat and started pounding. “You cut her, didn’t you? The Glasgow smile. The Chelsea grin. You did it again. You couldn’t help yourself. You killed her.”
“She does look happy. I’d have to agree with you on that, Matthew. Good old Kate’s sporting one hell of a smile these days.”
Matt leaned forward and took the blow. He could see Kate’s face just as he could still see the faces of Baylor’s first three victims in Los Angeles—Millie Brown, Faith Novakoff, and Brooke Anderson. He could see the doctor drugging Kate and slicing her face from ear to lips and lips to ear. He could see him waiting for her to wake up and look at what he’d done to her. He could see the madman waiting for her to scream so that the cuts on her skin would break open and all the blood would flow.
He could hear her cry out. He could hear her weeping.
Several moments passed, the horrific images in Matt’s mind blowing through him in a series of hard and twisted waves.
He could see Kate’s hideous face. Her corpse.
He looked out at the sea of lights that helped make the City of Angels so peaceful. So beautiful. He looked up at the stars in the sky and a new moon.
“What about Doyle, Baylor?” he said quietly. “Has he got a smile on his face, too?”
“Actually, poor Ken here has had a couple of rough days watching his career go down the tubes. He got fired this afternoon, and he didn’t take it very well.”
Matt shivered, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. “What’s that noise, Doctor? That creaking sound?”
“Why that’s Ken, Matthew. Your good friend. The former prosecutor who’s been disgraced.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Not much, really. Just sort of . . . hanging around.”
New images surfaced before Matt’s eyes. One after the next.
Baylor cleared his throat. “Isn’t it wonderful that you solved your murder cases and I’m still a free man? A nephew and his uncle. A detective and a plastic surgeon. Isn’t it remarkable that the two of us can coexist in the same world, Matthew? That we can coexist and thrive in our professions?”
Matt stood up, turned to the east, and looked at the tall buildings downtown. “But we can’t coexist, Doctor.”
“And why is that?”
Matt couldn’t really find the words and settled for the obvious.
“Because you’re insane,” he said finally.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks go to my editors, Kjersti Egerdahl, Charlotte Herscher, and Jacque Ben-Zekry, and to the entire team at Thomas & Mercer. I’d also like to thank my agent, Scott Miller, and Charlotte Conway for their advice and support. This novel wouldn’t feel authentic and true without the help of many friends and professionals working in law enforcement. Any technical deviation from facts or procedures is my responsibility alone.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2015 Robert Ellis
Robert Ellis is the international bestselling author of Access to Power, The Dead Room, the critically acclaimed Lena Gamble novels—City of Fire, The Lost Witness, and Murder Season—and the Detective Matt Jones series, which includes City of Echoes and The Love Killings. His books have been translated into more than ten languages and selected as top reads by Booklist, Publishers Weekly, National Public Radio, the Chicago Tribune, the Toronto Sun, the Guardian (UK), People magazine, USA Today, and the New York Times. Born in Philadelphia, Ellis moved to Los Angeles to work as a writer, producer, and director in film, television, and advertising. For more information about the author, visit him online at www.robertellis.net.
