Crosscut

by Meg Gardiner

  He logged out of the bank site and logged on to Expedia, searching for hotels. Tall ones, with a view of the Hollywood hills. The busboy approached the table, asking if he could clear it. Coyote stared at the computer screen.

  People grated on the nerves. On the skin. Civilians grated particularly. The unwashed. The untrained and unaware. The unworthy. Wanting their soft lives, their Prozac and bike paths and liposuction, never acknowledging the sacrifice and skill of the warriors who made their decadence possible.

  Never recognizing the solitary hunter in their midst.

  The busboy asked again. Without looking up, Coyote nudged the coffee mug across the table at him. It was merely a prop. Coyotes didn’t need caffeine. The busboy took it and went away.

  Expedia came back with a list of nearby hotels. Tall places. Good.

  Coyote felt the juices start to flow. Things were clicking into place. Everything was tying together like a skein, one to the next. The two women in China Lake had been more than an opportunity. They had been proof. They validated the mission. They testified, and pointed the way.

  Next.

  8

  I drove home at eight. Jesse followed in his truck, the slick black Toyota pickup he bought after I sweet-talked him into selling me the Mustang. He watched until I opened the garden gate, leaning an elbow on the window frame.

  “Come down to the office and work later. I’ll clear you a spot on my desk.”

  I waved good-bye.

  Inside, I checked my e-mail and glanced at the phone, willing Dad to call. Men’s voices came up the walk. It was my bathroom crew, Martinez and Sons. Mr. Martinez entered, his watermelon belly preceding the rest of him. Behind him Carlos and Miguel maneuvered through the door, carting the big box that contained my new sink.

  Miguel backed past me, smiling brilliantly. “Ready to rock? You’re going to love it when we get this thing in.”

  Carlos edged around the dining table. “Careful, bro.” He nodded to me. “Morning.”

  “Guys.” I followed them to the bathroom, making sure they had a clear path.

  Okay, no. Admiring. They were twins, hometown heroes, former baseball stars at Santa Barbara High. Fine, they were gods. Twenty-three, bronzed and honed, identical, beautiful, and as distinct as mercury and marble.

  They set down the box and ripped open the packaging. I saw spotless porcelain. And Miguel’s high-spirited smile. He called to his dad to turn on the boom box. Carlos ran his hand over the contours of the sink, checking the workmanship. He would have looked good carved in stone himself.

  A knock on the front door spoiled my reverie. I poked my head around the doorjamb.

  On the porch stood Tommy Chang. He was jingling coins in his pockets and working hard on a piece of gum. Next to him a sturdy man in a charcoal suit was examining the garden with an appraising eye.

  I opened the door. “Jeez, you must have been on the road since before sunup.”

  “If you like me even a little bit, there’ll be coffee,” Tommy said.

  I waved them in. “Black?”

  “Milk, sugar, any stimulants you got.” He gestured to his companion. “Special Agent Dan Heaney from the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

  Heaney had a calm face pitted with acne scars. He set a briefcase on the dining table while Tommy strolled around the living room, stretching after the drive. He nodded at one of my prints, El Capitan in winter.

  “Love this one. There’s some crazy dudes that climb that wall.”

  I poured them coffee. Tommy took his gratefully.

  “Awesome.”

  Heaney took the mug, thanking me. “To explain why I’m tagging along today, Detective Chang and his colleagues are running this investigation. The Bureau provides investigative and operational support. What my unit does is analyze crimes from a behavioral perspective and give him all the help we can.”

  I glanced at the briefcase. “Have you profiled the China Lake killer?”

  “I have.”

  Abruptly I felt seasick. In the back of the house the Martinez boys turned up the boom box and speed metal crashed out. The air felt close.

  “Let’s talk outside,” I said.

  We went out to the wooden patio table under the live oaks. Tommy pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket.

  “Evan, here’s the thing. The tip you gave us, the way it came in seems sketchy.”

  “A source contacting a journalist? That’s hardly strange,” I said.

  “Most folks who know about a murder call the police direct.”

  Heaney laced his fingers together. “Unless the tipster has an ulterior motive.”

  “Like having something to hide,” Tommy said.

  I didn’t comment on Jakarta Ulterior-Motive Rivera. “I’ve told you everything I can.”

  “No, you told us everything you want to.”

  “Start with his name,” Heaney said.

  “Anonymous means anonymous. It’s privileged information,” I said.

  His tie was stained with egg. I stared. I didn’t think FBI agents made sartorial gaffes.

  Tommy tapped a cigarette out of the pack. “Reporters’ privilege doesn’t apply here. Journalists’ shield law, either.”

  Good one, Chang. The shield law protected journalists, though not necessarily freelancers like me, from disclosing the name of a source. But not unless they were threatened with contempt of court.

  Heaney noticed me staring at the egg. Embarrassed, he tried to wipe it off.

  “I believe you want to be helpful,” he said. “But you should be aware that serial killers often insinuate themselves into the investigation of their crimes.”

  Tommy held the unlit cigarette between his fingers. “They hang with cops at bars, pumping them for information. Get themselves interviewed on the local news. And they dig on the media attention their crimes get.”

  Heaney said, “A lot of them are police wannabes. Security guards, night watchmen, academy washouts. They’re ineffectual losers who fantasize about domination and control.”

  My limbs felt heavy. My head was beginning to throb.

  “My source isn’t the killer,” I said.

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.” A killer, but not the killer.

  Tommy ran the cigarette under his nose, sniffing it, and then distractedly shoved it behind his ear. On the inside of his wrist I saw a nicotine patch.

  “How about some pretzel sticks?” I said.

  Jagged smile. “Yeah, that’d be good.”

  I brought him the bag. He rustled a handful out and stuck one between his teeth. I think if he could have, he would have sucked the salt into his lungs.

  He looked at Heaney. “Want to run her through the profile?”

  Heaney nodded. “We’re looking for a white man in his thirties, possibly early forties. He’s socially sophisticated. Confident, persuasive, and convincing.”

  “This is an ineffectual loser?”

  “Some killers are socially adept. Guys with minimal social skills, your neighborhood weirdo, they can’t charm their way into a victim’s trust even for a second, so they blitz. Attack from the rear without warning. But this killer—Coyote, you called him—he talked his way in to see Ceci Lezak. He gets his victims where he wants using words, not brute force.”

  I nodded.

  “He has above-average intelligence and he’s orderly and clean, almost regimented. He has a military background. And he keeps lists, writes journals, compulsively documents everything,” he said. “Killing gives him such an ego boost that he may keep a diary or scrapbook of the media coverage.”

  The scent of star jasmine hung on the air, sickeningly sweet. Heaney leaned over the table with his fingers laced together, like a mild-mannered pastor discussing plans for the church picnic.

  “And Coyote is viscerally angry at women. He’s sadistic and he’s killing for one reason. To inflict pain.”

  The breeze, flicking my hair across my face, felt like steel w
ool. Heaney’s church-picnic placidity disturbed me.

  “His intent is to murder and to inflict as much pain and terror beforehand as possible. The sexual component to the attack on Mrs. Colfax indicates—”

  “Dan.” Tommy eyed him.

  My palms tingled. “Sexual component?”

  Tommy was sending Heaney a zip-it vibe.

  My throat was tightening. “He tortured her sexually?”

  Tommy put a hand on my forearm. Heaney leaned back. I wanted to hear, but I didn’t want to hear. I rubbed my eyes.

  “Why did he choose two women from our class?” I said.

  “Serial killers feed on the thrill of the hunt. And if they can’t find a victim who’s in the wrong place at the wrong time, they’ll go back to a location where they’ve been successful. It helps them relive the thrill.”

  Tommy ran a palm over his head. “He may have been lurking nearby when Ceci found Kelly’s body. He could have drawn a bead on her because of that.”

  My throat was still dry. “I thought these killers picked victims at random.”

  Heaney said, “There’s always a victimology. Something draws the killer to the victim. Something he’s seeking—brunettes, teenagers. Hitchhikers. Prostitutes.”

  “Have you uncovered other victims?”

  Tommy said, “Looks like one up near Seattle last year. Whidbey Island, a woman named Carla Dearing. There were similarities.”

  “A signature,” Heaney said. “Cuttings. Almost like claw marks.”

  “God.”

  My eyes felt gritty. I knew that Heaney was basing his assessment on facts he hadn’t revealed to me. Crime scene analysis, autopsy results, beastly acts inflicted on Kelly, degradation and mutilation and pain.

  Sexual component. Holy God.

  “This killer isn’t typical, is he?” I said.

  “Coyote fits what we call the assassin profile,” Heaney said.

  The breeze sent the hairs creeping on the back of my neck. “What’s that mean?”

  “Loner. Emotionally undemonstrative. Nocturnal, and into obsessive journal writing.” He hunched forward. “This personality is more dangerous than most serial killers.”

  “More?” Shit, just what we needed. “How?”

  “Most serial killers pick victims they know they can handle, and they go to great lengths to keep from being caught. But assassins view their murders as a mission. They’ll do anything to complete that mission. Even die.”

  I breathed. “Have you traced Coyote’s code name back to Project South Star?”

  “No comment.”

  “My source asked me to pass this information along specifically so you’d get involved and bust through the national security thicket. Have you?”

  Given the FBI’s notorious rivalry with the intelligence agencies, I presumed Heaney would find satisfaction at catching them in a screwup.

  “Not yet,” he said. “Coyote is a convenient shorthand right now. And whether or not it proves to be the code name for an operative trained by some defunct military program, it’s accurate. Coyotes are solitary hunters. Night after night, same as serial killers.”

  His demeanor didn’t change, but his eyes were now anything but placid. They reflected the controlled calm of someone who had lifted the lid off hell and heard the howling.

  Tommy said, “Have you considered that there’s another reason this source came to you, aside from your being a journalist?”

  “I’m from China Lake. The victims were my classmates.”

  “No. South Star, this supersecret project. Is it possible your dad worked on it?”

  I really wasn’t feeling well, I realized. My head was pounding, my limbs ached, and my stomach felt uncertain.

  “Dad was NAVAIR. That was his life, U.S. air superiority. Keeping our guys alive up there. My source said South Star was not navy, and that means Dad wasn’t involved.”

  They didn’t respond.

  “You’re alleging that my father was a spook,” I said. “He wasn’t. But even if he was, I’d never know and neither would you.”

  Tommy held a handful of pretzel sticks tight in his fingers. “Is your dad the source, Evan?”

  That was why they were here. That was why they’d driven a hundred miles before sunrise.

  “No.” I held his gaze. “He’s not, Tommy.”

  Whether he saw it in my eyes, my demeanor, or my tone of voice, he seemed to accept that. His shoulders relaxed a notch.

  “In that case,” he said, “you think he could provide some background to help us with the investigation?”

  “Believe me, I’ve asked and he’s looking.”

  “Good. We need every ounce of help we can get,” he said. “Because Coyote isn’t finished. He’s going to kill again.”

  Ninety seconds after they left I was on the phone, calling my dad. He didn’t answer. I left a message asking him to call back.

  He was going to tell me what was at the bottom of this, but I wasn’t going to wait for him. I had to take an alternate, intersecting route. I double-checked my calendar. Friday I was scheduled to argue motions in court for Sanchez Marks, Jesse’s firm. The rest of the week was flexible enough for me to scramble. I phoned Jesse and told him I wouldn’t be sleeping at his place tonight.

  “Give me forty-five minutes,” he said. “I’ll drive you to the airport.”

  Still feeling crappy, I took two Tylenol, stuffed clean socks and underwear and a toothbrush in a backpack, grabbed my keys and computer case, headed across the lawn, and knocked on Nikki Vincent’s kitchen door.

  She answered with the phone pressed between her ear and shoulder, carrying Thea on her hip. I followed her inside.

  “Tell him the lighting’s fine,” she said.

  Play-Doh was blobbed on the butcher block table. And mushed in Thea’s fingers and caught, bright blue, in Nikki’s hair. Something creole was bubbling on the stove. Nikki set Thea in her high chair.

  “Wine, yes. Vodka, in his dreams.”

  It sounded like she was talking to her assistant. Nikki ran an art gallery but stayed home two mornings a week. She grabbed a dish towel and ran it over Thea’s hands and face. Held up a finger, indicating just a minute.

  Nikki had been my college roommate, and living next door to her continued to anchor me. She was compact and voluptuous, African-American, and today she was wearing shorts and a UCSB Volleyball T-shirt along with reams of silver jewelry. Her bracelets sang as she wiped her little girl’s face. Thea squirmed, and the phone squirted out from under Nikki’s chin and fell to the floor.

  “Sorry,” she shouted.

  I took the dish towel and finished wiping Thea’s fingers. She was eighteen months old, sunny and curious and sturdy as a fence post. Coming into this homey chaos gave me a feeling of both longing and belonging, and I felt myself unwind. Even the smell of jambalaya on the stove didn’t bother my stomach.

  Nikki hung up. “Sorry, the new exhibition. Temperamental artist, imagine that. What’s up?”

  “Road trip. I’ll be back tomorrow. Will you lock up after the workmen and set the alarm for me?”

  “No problem.”

  “And if my cousin Taylor shows up, hit her with a rake.”

  “With pleasure. Where are you off to?”

  “Palo Alto.” I ruffled Thea’s hair. “Paying my mom a surprise visit.”

  “You never pay your mom a surprise visit.”

  Not since college, when I drove home and heard her down the hall in the bedroom, whooping, “Phil, you dog!”

  “I need to pick her memory about the bad old days in China Lake,” I said.

  She shook her head and rolled her eyes.

  “What’s that for?” I said.

  “You, Miss Military Industrial Complex. Your childhood on the dark side is going to catch up with you.”

  “Pinko.”

  “Warmonger.”

  She hugged me and kissed my cheek. “Safe trip.”

  Jesse stopped the truck in front of th
e terminal. “You know what your father will say about this. You’re not lying low.”

  I grabbed my things from the backseat. “Visiting Mom is lying low. I’m spending the afternoon airside past security, then airborne, then sequestered at a house only you and Nikki know about.”

  “I can’t take you to the firing range if you’re in Palo Alto.”

  Leaning across the cab, I hooked his red tie, pulled him to me, and kissed him. “Your ammo will keep for twenty-four hours. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  I schlepped my things up the walk, past flower beds, and inside to the ticket desk, all of fifty feet. The Santa Barbara terminal is less an airport than a hacienda plucked from Man of La Mancha, designed to show the happy tourist he has arrived in Fiesta Land. I showed my ID and paid the tax for the flight. This was the big perk in my life. As the daughter of an airline employee I essentially flew free, worldwide. The agent handed me my ticket and I hiked toward the metal detector.

  An hour and a half later the small jet swooped off the runway and headed north. I leaned against the window and watched California scroll by. Special Agent Heaney’s profile of Coyote hung in my mind, deeply unsettling.

  Coyote, Heaney predicted, kept notes. A journal. Compulsively. It reminded me of Jax and Tim. In my safe-deposit box I had twenty years of their notes and diaries and memos. Detailing, sometimes excruciatingly, covert ops they had run. Wet work, in the jargon of the trade.

  I dismissed the possibility that either of them was Coyote. But I didn’t dismiss the possibility that they were tasked with eliminating Coyote. Their masters at the CIA or NSA or Hits “R” Us may have assigned them to kill this killer. If so, they might be using me to flush Coyote out of hiding. By pressuring me to pressure the cops and the feds, they could scare Coyote into making a mistake, and they could catch him. Sweat broke out on my forehead.

  Forty minutes later we banked past the green coastal mountains and snarled freeways of Silicon Valley and bumped down onto the runway at San Jose, thrust reversers roaring. I caught the Super Shuttle to Mom’s house, fifteen miles up the 101.

  Arriving in Palo Alto, cruising along tree-lined Embarcadero Road, was like coming home. I went to law school at the sprawling campus up ahead, with its sandstone courtyards and red tile roofs. I’d loved it here, felt challenged by my classmates and professors, and coming back to this town made me feel sharper, prouder, and bigger, if not younger.