by phuc
He went back inside the house and checked on things real quick. Satisfied, he darted back out, got into the van, started it up and backed it down the driveway.
The drive to the dump spot took less than a minute.
The field was situated at the end of a lonely cul-de-sac, nestled in the valley right behind Dodger Stadium. The other side of the lot sat on a fairly busy intersection, but the back end of it rested against a lower class residential street. A quiet street. Nobody had seen him pull up and nobody would see him drive out. At one-thirty a.m., the area was dead quiet. He put the truck in park, rolled down the window, and began throwing Carmen and Miguel out the window as far as he could. Their various body parts landed well within the field, and that satisfied him just fine. The way people were so oblivious to things, that might go overlooked for quite some time.
When he finished he pulled away from the curb and drove away slowly. He couldn't attract unwanted attention.
It had been a hellish night. The urge to do another one had been so strong with him that he had succumbed to it earlier. But it was his decision to end it all tonight, which had prompted him to make some important decisions; he knew they would be investigating Carmen's disappearance more thoroughly very soon, and Miguel was starting to smell really rank. Besides, that old bitch would start getting suspicious with Miguel's stench seeping through the walls.
He had almost been derailed when that Rachael Pearce bitch starting nosing around. And look where that led to? He'd had to take extreme measures, but he did take care of the problem. He had even gotten rid of that old bitch, too; mother surely wouldn't be bugging him anymore.
He turned the radio on and turned it to a classic rock station. The Cars were singing about how they needed Candy-O. He hummed along as he drove home, pushing everything he had been worrying about out of his mind, knowing that he had gotten over the worst of it.
Besides, he had other matters to attend at home.
He smiled as he drew closer to home, the plan falling into place.
It was going to work just perfectly.
From now on, things were going to work out just fine.
Two a.m.
Daryl Garcia was worried.
He was sitting at the kitchen table nursing a cup of coffee. He had brewed a pot forty minutes ago to counter-affect the remaining fifth of bourbon he had killed. All the lights in the house were on, blazing bright in the stark white of the living room. Petey was sitting at Daryl's feet, looking up every once in a while with that sad-eyed look dogs sometimes get. Daryl wasn't paying attention to him. Today had been a tough day. He and Steve had been called in to participate in a raid in East Los Angeles on some gang members and he was still wearing the Level II Kevlar bullet-proof vest under his shirt. In fact, he'd only arrived home from the raid two hours ago. His eyes were red and his back hurt.
And he was worried sick because Rachael wasn't home yet.
He had tried calling her a hundred times on her cell phone but she never answered. He had just tried again fifteen minutes ago but all he got was the endless ringing. With rising dread he'd hung up the phone and sat at the kitchen table, staring out into the living room, wondering where the hell she was and coming up with all kinds of ways to verbally kick her ass when she walked in the door for worrying him so much.
She would have called me if she were going to be late, he thought. She would have called me if there had been a change of plans. If she decided to head by the office, if she had run into an accident, she would have found a way to call me. If she had been in an accident somebody would have called me—she keeps our phone numbers with her at all times and all one had to do would be to use the cell phone to alert me. But try as he might come up with different scenarios to explain why none of these things had happened, a small part of Daryl told him that something more ominous had taken place. That the reason he hadn't heard from Rachael yet was because she was—
No! Don't think that, don't even think that—
Fifteen minutes after getting her last phone call he had gotten a call from Bernie Haskins. Daryl had told Bernie what Rachael had just relayed to him—he could tell the agent this because Agent Haskins was the only investigator on the team that actually believed that Rachael helping out in the investigation through her research for the book was a good thing. Everybody else gave that sentiment lip service but they didn't mean it.
Bernie Haskins meant it. Bernie found the information interesting. “Highland Park, huh?
You know, she might be on to something there."
“I think she might be,” Daryl had agreed.
The signal on Bernie's cellular phone began to grow weak. Bernie told him he'd call him when he got home, and rang off.
Bernie called three and a half hours later.
“You're not going to believe this,” he'd said, sounding excited. “But I really think Rachael is on something."
“What?” Daryl had thought it had been Rachael calling, and that had been the beginning of his worry. Nevertheless, he listened to what Bernie had to say.
“I thought about what you told me, so I thought I would swing by the area our last victim was last seen,” Bernie said. “I headed out to Highland Park, did some poking around and guess what I found out?"
“What for Christsakes?” Bernie's excitement was getting on his nerves.
“Charley Glowacz,” Bernie said, letting the last name trill out of his tongue.
“Why's that name sound familiar?"
“Glowacz...” Daryl said, letting the name trip off his tongue. Where the hell was Rachael? “Fuck if I know."
“Charley Glowacz is Father John Glowacz's older brother,” Bernie said, a grin in his voice. “I had to do some real poking around to get a last name, but luckily one of the strip club owners I talked to knew Charley's last name. He and his mother both attend services at Our Lady of Guadalupe. Charley occasionally volunteers for church activities like coaching weekend basketball games with the youth groups at the church. It's a wonder he wasn't questioned, but I can see why he wasn't. While he attends Our Lady of Guadalupe, his input at volunteering is sporadic. He's a very invisible parishioner at that parish."
Daryl was stunned. He couldn't focus on his thoughts. He was still worried about Rachael and getting more worried as the minutes ticked. The news that Charley was Father Glowacz's younger brother was a revelation.
“Like I said, I had a hunch,” Bernie continued. “So I went down to Highland Avenue, near Broadway and Fifty-fourth Street and I canvassed the strip area. I went into some of the bars there, the topless places, the X-rated video joints, and talked to as many of the proprietors and patrons that frequent the place that I could. I described Charley to them and asked if they had ever seen him around, and all of them unanimously said that he's a regular in the area. One of the people I questioned, a guy that runs Ken's Adult Video and Books Emporium, says that Charley comes in every other day. He looks through the magazines, buys a couple, then spends about twenty dollars or so in the coin operated video booths."
Daryl shrugged. “Nothing wrong to frequent an adult bookstore, Bernie."
“True. Only everybody I talked to that claimed they had seen Charley also told me they had funny feelings about him. That he was a weird character. The bouncers at the topless bars all said that they keep a close eye on him when he comes in; they say that he gives the girls the creeps."
Daryl was quiet for a moment. “Does anybody recall if they saw him around March 26 when Amanda Young was last seen in the area?"
“Absolutely,” Bernie said with bated breath. “Everybody I talked to at Ken's video, the guys that run it, the bouncers at the strip club across the street, even some of the hookers that work the area, all agreed that they saw Charley in the area earlier that evening.” He paused. “I think this is a fantastic lead, Daryl. All we need now is probable cause, an address where we can trace him to begin surveillance."
It was then that Daryl told Bernie that Rachael was following up on th
at now and that he was expecting her back any minute. He told him that as soon as he heard something he would call Bernie back. “I'll be home all night. Whatever time it is, I don't care if it's three in the morning, call me.” Daryl promised he would and hung up.
That had been two hours ago.
He picked up the phone again and dialed Rachael's cell phone number.
It rang fourteen times, fifteen, sixteen ... ?
After thirty rings he hung up.
The knot of tension in his stomach tightened. Something was very wrong.
He sat at the kitchen table in a dilemma, undecided at what to do. Part of him wanted to leave the house and look for her himself, start in Highland Park and drive around, hoping to find her somewhere. He could leave a note at the house in case she came home explaining where he went. He couldn't just sit here; he was edgy, his nerves demanding that he get up and do something. But the problem with that was that he had nowhere to go. It was two in the morning; Tops was closed, and most likely everything else. Without a lead to go by to find Charley Glowacz, he was at a dead end. He could go to headquarters and try typing Charley's name in the computers to see if a record popped up, but—
That's it! He rose from the table and headed for the living room for his shoes and socks. Petey rose to his feet and followed Daryl into the living room, whimpering. Daryl donned his socks and shoes quickly, his mind on overdrive. He would check the computers for a criminal record, and if Charley was in the computer he would head to the Glowacz residence. He didn't give a rat fuck if he woke the man and his mommy up or not. He was worried about Rachael, dammit, and he didn't give a fuck about department protocol now. If Glowacz's address wasn't in the computer system, he would try tapping into the DMV computer database. He didn't know if any of the department's computer gurus were in this late, but it was worth a try. Petey stayed at his side the whole time, still making those whining noises. Daryl paused and patted the dog. “Everything's going to be okay, boy,” he said. “I'll be right back.” Checking to make sure he had his wallet and keys, he scrawled a quite note for Rachael, left it on the kitchen table, retrieved his department issued Glock and shield, and let himself out of the house.
He entered the garage, his mind on one thing and one thing only. He was just reaching for the garage door opener when he heard a voice call out from the darkness in front of him. “Hey motherfucker, remember me?"
Everything happened so fast that he didn't have time to track it. He was able to make out a dim shadow popping out from behind the car fifteen feet in front of him and while it was hard in the darkness to make out discernable features for some reason he knew that it was Rudy Montego, the gang member he and Steve had busted almost two years ago for that cowardly attack in Echo Park. He heard the gunshot, then he felt the slug pound into his chest, knocking him back against the wall. He heard and felt two more shots plug into his abdomen and the last thing he remembered before the world went black was a sharp yell that abruptly cut off.
The next time Charley was aware of anything he was sitting on the floor in the first bedroom of his living quarters, rocking back and forth and cradling something in his lap.
His vision slowly came to focus and the first thing he saw was that his entertainment center was in shambles. Books and video-cassettes had been thrown to the floor. He felt something hard, round, and wet in his lap—the thing he was holding—and looked down at it.
Mother's head gazed up at him.
Charley screamed. He screamed and wailed, throwing his head back and closing his eyes to try to shut the ugly scene out of his mind. But when he opened his eyes again the image remained. Covered in blood, sitting on the floor in his room, cradling his mother's severed head in his lap.
A muffled noise caught his attention and he turned to the right. The bathroom door was closed and something pounded on the door from the other side. A trail of blood led to the closed bathroom door and Charley noticed with growing horror that a large, bloodstained butcher knife lay on the floor. The muffled thumping sounds came from the closed bathroom door again, followed by a scream. “No, nonononononoooo!"
Rachael Pearce.
“Stay away from me! Stay the fuck away from me!"
Charley didn't remember chasing Rachael into the bathroom. He didn't remember killing mother. He didn't remember trying to kill Rachael, either, but he must have as evident from the trail of blood that led to the now locked bathroom door where she had barred herself. But he must have. All he remembered was his fight with Rachael in his bedroom, then the flash of the knife and then his mind went blank. The next thing he remembered was sitting on the floor with mother's head in his lap.
Charley started crying. It was worse then he thought. He had been bottling up the hateful feelings toward mother for a long time now, and he seriously thought he had solved the problem tonight. He was going to take Rachael, take some of his stuff, and get the hell out of here. He had decided that the minute Rachael sat down on his sofa. She was the answer to his problems. If he could only have her she would help him. He had no intention of harming her; he just wanted to take her, take them both away from the pressures of the city, from the world. She would be his completely.
But something must have happened to set him off.
Charley closed his eyes, trying to remember what happened.
He and Rachael struggling.
The flash of the blade as it entered flesh....
Oh my God!
Realization set in. It rocked Charley hard. He gasped, broke into a sob.
His mind went blank.
He rocked back and forth, sitting cross-legged on the floor, cradling mother's head in his lap.
His eyes were fixed straight ahead. They saw nothing.
He rocked back and forth.
Back and forth ... ?
...back and forth ... ?
...back and ... ?
Chapter 27
Henry Watson was taking a shortcut through the vacant lot that bordered Highland Avenue and Fifty-first Street when he noticed the smell.
It was barely eight-thirty in the morning and Henry could tell that today was going to be a scorcher. He had slept behind a garbage dumpster last night and it had been so warm that he had actually taken his shirt and shoes off. He had tried to position himself behind the dumpster so that he could catch the slight breeze that occasionally blew through the alley to cool his sweat-drenched body, but was barely rewarded for the effort.
As a result, he slept fitfully and was awakened by the warm sun at seven o'clock. He put his shirt and shoes back on and staggered into Yong's donuts for a breakfast of a chocolate donut and some coffee, paying for it from the change he had panhandled last night. The Korean merchant who waited on him was a familiar sight. He smiled gap toothed at Henry as he took his order. “Warm last night,” the merchant said.
“It sho’ was,” Henry said, smiling back, hoping he didn't smell. He really liked the guy who ran this store and didn't like to offend people that he liked with his body odor.
“It was hard to sleep last night."
“It was seventy-nine degrees last night,” the merchant said, pouring his coffee.
“Weatherman said it supposed to be one hundred and three today. That's hot!"
“You bet yo ass that's hot!"
Christ, a hundred and three? And the Bible described Hell as unbearable. If that was true, hell must definitely be on earth here and now.
After breakfast, Henry trudged through the alley, knapsack slung over his shoulder, and found some more bottles and cans. He emerged at the north end and looked across the street at the Bank of America sign across the street. The building had a digital thermometer that informed passing motorists and pedestrians that it was already eighty-five degrees. God wasn't wastin’ time today! No siree.
He trudged up Brand Avenue and turned left, heading toward the vacant lot he planned to cross to reach Baker and Main. It was then that he noticed the smell.
He stopped in mid-stride and s
niffed the air. He lifted his arms and sniffed his armpits. He smelled there, sure enough, but that wasn't the smell that was currently invading his olfactory nerves. Henry hadn't bathed in three days, and the clothes he wore on his skinny black frame were probably soiled as well—the garbage bin he had slept behind last night had contained Chinese food leftovers and stale milk cartons and he'd carried that scent on his clothes all morning. But the scent he was catching now didn't resemble any of those. It was a dead smell.
Henry Watson hefted the knapsack that contained the junk he had scavenged yesterday. Currently nestled inside the sack was the hollowed out remains of an old Technics audio receiver, two cardboard manila file folders, a bunch of returnable can and soda bottles, and a couple of comic books. He knew a second-hand thrift store that might be interested in some of the junk, and the recycling plant on Forty-fourth Street would take the cans and bottles. He should be able to get enough to at least buy himself some dinner.
Part of his reason for cutting through the vacant lot on his way to the recycling plant was in the hopes of finding some more junk to scavenge. He had gotten lucky in this lot before. Once he had come across an old file cabinet that had contained nothing but a bunch of useless business correspondence ... but at the bottom of the drawer was a forgotten box that contained an envelope full of old coins. He had taken the coins over to Carl's Rare Coin's and Jewelry over in Echo Park and been awarded one hundred and thirty five dollars and eighty-five cents for his find. A number of the coins were dated pre-world War I, and a handful of the bills were even older. There were also a number of German coins that were issued during Nazi Germany, all of them bearing the swastika of the Third Reich. Henry had thought the swastika-adjourned coins would be worth some money, but he didn't think the other stuff would be, too.
