by Robert Ellis
It was all about greed. All about the predatory desire for wealth, status, and power. The seven Ps carved into Virgil’s forehead, each one removed by an angel as he passed through the seven terraces of the seven deadly sins. Matt turned to part two in the poem, Purgatorio, and began skimming through it as quickly as he could. He already knew what he was looking for. When he came to the passage, he read through it and stopped to think it over.
The penitents were bound and laid facedown on the ground for spending too much time pursuing material possessions. Too much time thinking earthly thoughts. Too much time chasing money and screwing everybody they could to get more. Too much time ignoring what little humanity they might possess in favor of the animal living beneath their soiled flesh . . .
A long moment passed. He noticed that his hands were trembling slightly. His fingers. The churning in his stomach was back. The dread.
He was staring at his first real piece of the puzzle, and everything about it felt dark and twisted and out of control. But even more, he knew in his gut that a critical error must have been made in the Millie Brown murder case. Grace wanted to believe that they were chasing a copycat. But Matt could see it now. Killers this vicious only come in ones.
CHAPTER 24
Matt saw them talking in the conference room. Cabrera was sitting in a chair at the table. Orlando and Plank stood over him with their hands on their hips. Everyone in the room looked agitated and pissed off.
When Matt opened the door, all three immediately stopped talking. In spite of the obvious bad vibes, he walked in and joined them at the table. The silence had a certain weight about it. After a while Orlando turned and gave him a hard look up and down.
“What are you holding in your hand?” he said.
Matt tossed two evidence bags onto the table. The first contained the wrapper from the Fifth Avenue candy bar. The second was filled with sections from the branches he suspected the killer might have touched. When he explained what they were, the anger and suspicion showing on Orlando’s face only seemed to intensify. Joey Orlando was a big man. A powerful man. And Edward Plank, no matter how much smaller in size, stood right beside him, scooping up the evidence bags and stuffing them into his pockets.
Orlando took a step forward and then another, until he was standing in Matt’s face. It looked like his goatee needed a trim. He was wearing a red tie, and Matt noticed a salsa stain on his shirt just above the pocket.
“You need to stand down, Jones. Way down. You need to work your own case.” He glanced over at Cabrera, then turned back. “And by the way,” he said, “the bullshit you’re trying to sell that says there’s something wrong with the case we made against Ron Harris—that’s not gonna go over very well around here. We don’t need dumb guys working at the homicide table, Jones. Mind your own fucking business and work your own shit and we’ll get along just fine. Keep sticking your nose in my shit, and nothing’s gonna work for anybody. Got it?”
Matt held the man’s gaze, which wasn’t easy. “Are you speaking for yourself, Orlando? Or is this coming from Grace?”
The big man seemed stunned that Matt had the audacity to say anything that wasn’t a direct reply.
“I just asked you a question, Jones. Do you understand what I’m saying or not?”
Matt paused to think it over, knowing that it would piss off Orlando. Pissing off Orlando seemed like the way of the future.
“I got it, Joey,” he said finally. “I got it good.”
“Then get the fuck out of my way.”
Orlando pushed him aside with a meaty hand and stomped out of the room. Plank followed him out, sporting a mean little sneer between those pockmarked cheeks. When Cabrera stood up and tried to make it to the door, Matt grabbed him and pushed him back into the chair.
“Who else have you told?” Matt said.
Cabrera shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He tried to get up, but Matt had him by the shoulders and pushed him down again. “You told those guys what we talked about last night, Cabrera. You broke a trust. As backstabbers go, you’re pretty fucking good at it, man. Now I want to know who else you’ve talked to. Did you tell Grace? Are you pimping for him? Tell me the truth, you shithead. I can tell when people lie. Who are you talking to?”
“You need to fuck off, Jones. And by the way, we’re partners. I don’t take orders from you.”
Matt gritted his teeth and pushed harder. “Who did you talk to?”
“No one, you jerk. Why would I? They might think I’m as crazy as you are. Now step back and get out of my face.”
“We need to find Jamie Taladyne.”
“Everybody around here’s looking for Jamie Taladyne.”
“Orlando said that?”
Cabrera nodded. “You need to listen to what he just told you, Jones. There was a message to it. Keep your ass out of his shit.”
Matt stepped back, leaning against the plate-glass window, his mind going at a hundred miles an hour. He had what felt like confirmation now. Something was wrong with the case against Ron Harris. Something big enough that Orlando felt the need to take him on even though two witnesses were in the room. It was the classic move of a bully, someone who expected his victim to stand down and stay down.
Cabrera leaned back in his chair, eyeing Matt for a few minutes with a counterfeit smile on his face.
“Like it or not, we’re partners, Jones. It’s like you said the other night in Grace’s office. It’s about trust and watching the other guy’s back. It’s about knowing when to take and when to give back. It’s about an understanding. How did you put it? I remember now. It’s about two becoming one.”
Cabrera’s insincerity—the words he used—settled into the room like nerve gas. Matt wanted to tell the prick to eat shit. Instead, he tried to reel in his emotions and asked about the license plate.
Cabrera laughed at him. “You said it was supposed to match up to a silver Nissan. According to the wife of the man who owns the car, that plate number goes with a Lincoln that’s parked in the long-term lot over at Burbank airport.”
Matt gave him a hard look. “Did you check to see if it’s still there?”
Cabrera shrugged without a reply.
“Thanks for doing me the favor, Denny. I appreciate the effort.”
“The way you say it, doesn’t sound like you mean it, Jones.”
Matt didn’t reply. Fearing that he might strike the man, that he might hurt him, he took a deep breath and walked out of the room. Their partnership still had some kinks to it. The dynamic duo still had a ways to go . . .
CHAPTER 25
Matt read the sign on the door. It turned out that Dr. George Baylor was a plastic surgeon with an office in a medical building a block away from the Los Angeles County + USC Medical Center and the coroner’s office. He wasn’t sure why Baylor being a plastic surgeon surprised him, but it did.
He tried to open the door but found it locked. When he noticed the buzzer, he pressed the button and reached for his ID. He guessed that the office was closed for lunch and just hoped that Baylor ate in.
After two or three minutes, the door popped open and a middle-aged woman with a young face and gray hair peeked out. Matt raised his ID and held it against his chest.
“I’m trying to reach Dr. Baylor,” he said. “It’s important.”
“Would he know what it’s about?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes went to his name on the ID, then flicked up to his face. “Let me see if he’s in.”
She pulled the door shut and turned the lock. She obviously knew whether Baylor was in or not, but Matt didn’t mind, because she seemed nice. After waiting another few minutes, the door opened to reveal Dr. Baylor himself.
“Come in,” he said with a broad smile. “Please, come in.”
Baylor shook his hand, then led him through the empty lobby and into his office. After offering him a chair, the doctor walked over to his desk and sat down.
&nbs
p; “How can I help you?” he said.
Matt wasn’t sure how to put it without admitting that he’d followed Grace over to the doctor’s house last night. He stalled for a moment, weighing the risks as he took in the office. Baylor’s various degrees and credentials were neatly framed on the far wall. Behind the desk stood a credenza and shelves filled with books and periodicals. To his left was a view of downtown LA so spectacular, Matt had no doubt that it was a major factor in the rent.
He cleared his throat and looked back at Baylor. “I guess the best way to put it is to come right out and ask.”
“Ask what?”
“You met with my supervisor last night, Lieutenant Grace. He showed you a series of photographs he took with his cell phone of a young woman who was murdered up by the Hollywood sign. I need to know what you spoke about. I need to know why my supervisor thought those pictures were so important for you to see that it couldn’t wait until morning.”
Baylor was measuring him. The smile was still there, but he was measuring him.
He reached across the desk. “Let me see your ID,” he said in an even but still pleasant voice.
Matt passed it across the desk and watched Baylor roll his chair closer to the lamp on the credenza. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt, a blue silk tie that almost matched the color of his eyes, and a pair of gray slacks that were well tailored and probably handmade. And while his brown hair had lightened from the sun and appeared spiked, his grooming was meticulous. Matt could sense a certain energy, a certain enthusiasm, radiating from the man’s being. He never would have guessed that he was fifty-five. Baylor looked and seemed ten years younger.
“Matthew Trevor Jones,” Baylor said, thinking it over. “I know that name, but I don’t know you. Tell me how I know that name?”
Dr. Baylor’s smile was back. There was a gentleness to the man. A certain kindness in his demeanor, his presence, even if it felt like he might be playing him.
“I don’t know,” Matt said. “Jones is a pretty common name.”
He laughed. “It is. But not when you add a Matthew Trevor to it. Matthew Trevor Jones. See what I mean?”
Matt nodded.
“What’s your father’s name?”
Matt gave the doctor a long look. “Exactly what you think it is, Doctor.”
“And your father is exactly who I think he is, isn’t he? I read something about him in the business section of the Times a few days ago. I remember seeing his picture. You look just like him.”
Matt had never spoken about his father with anyone other than Hughes. Dr. Baylor’s questions made him feel uncomfortable. All he could manage was another uneasy nod.
Baylor leaned forward, returning Matt’s ID. “What’s he think of you being a homicide detective way out here in Los Angeles?”
“My guess is that he doesn’t know.”
“Ah,” Dr. Baylor said. “Of course.”
Something changed after that. The warmth and kindness showing on Baylor’s face moved into his eyes. If the doctor had been playing him, the game was over.
“So you want to know why Bob Grace came to my house last night,” he said. “Why? It seems like such a trivial detail.”
“There’s the chance that two cases that seem unrelated might not be, Doctor.”
“Other than the girl, which case are you talking about?”
“A detective from North Hollywood was shot the other night. He was killed.”
“If it’s that important, why didn’t you just ask Grace?”
Matt couldn’t answer the question. He was on dangerous ground just being here. He had no doubt that Baylor would call Grace as soon as he left.
Baylor studied him for a moment, then shrugged. “Grace wants me to attend Jane Doe’s autopsy and compare the results with the murders of Faith Novakoff and Millie Brown. The autopsy was originally scheduled for this morning but got pushed back to this afternoon. The delay has something to do with Jane Doe’s dental records.”
“So Grace brought the pictures over just in case you needed to be convinced?”
“Something like that, but I didn’t need to be convinced. He’s worried.”
“He thinks maybe Ron Harris wasn’t good for Millie Brown’s murder? He thinks maybe they got it wrong?”
Baylor’s eyes narrowed and that smile was back, all the curiosity. “He didn’t say that, Matthew. The evidence against Harris was overwhelming. He thinks it’s a copycat. He wants to find Jamie Taladyne and speak with him. But that’s not what’s on your mind, is it? You’re thinking somehow something went wrong. Something catastrophic. That’s why you took the chance and came here instead of talking to Grace. What is it?”
Matt got up and walked over to the window as he thought it through. After a few moments, Baylor joined him and leaned against the sill.
“What is it?” he repeated.
“Have you ever read The Divine Comedy, Doctor?”
The expression on Baylor’s face froze like he’d been stunned by the question. Matt could see his wheels turning, almost as if the doctor had a memory so extraordinary that he might have been reading the epic poem in his mind as they stood there. After several moments, Dr. Baylor’s face lit up, as if he’d just experienced a revelation of some kind. When he finally surfaced and looked back at Matt, there was something new in his eyes and he appeared genuinely impressed.
“The seven terraces of the seven deadly sins,” he said in a quiet voice. “But we’re only concerned about one of them, aren’t we? They were bound and laid facedown. When did you see it? When did you figure it out?”
“About two hours ago,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t think we’re looking for a copycat, Doctor.”
“But why young women? If it’s about greed, why kill a girl who’s still in school? They’re innocents.”
“I haven’t gotten that far yet.”
“But there’s an answer, isn’t there? There would have to be.”
Matt gave Dr. Baylor a look. “May I ask you a question?”
“Anything.”
“Why did Grace want your help? Is it about the wounds to their faces?”
Baylor nodded. “I’m a reconstructive surgeon. So, yes, I became involved because of what was done to Millie Brown’s face.”
“You mean because she was slashed.”
“She wasn’t slashed. I don’t know what happened to Faith Novakoff just yet. But from the pictures of Jane Doe I saw last night, I don’t think she was slashed either.”
“But their faces were cut. They were mutilated. They looked swollen and deformed.”
Baylor walked over to his bookcase. “The wounds they received actually have a name. Nothing about them was haphazard. Nothing about them was random.”
The doctor found the book he was looking for and leafed through it as he returned to the window. After a few moments, he laid the book down on the windowsill and pointed to a photograph. It was a young woman’s face, and while she hadn’t been killed, Matt found the photograph extremely difficult to look at. Dr. Baylor pointed to the girl’s wounds.
“You see it, Matthew? She’s been cut from the edges of her mouth to her ears on both sides. The scars the cuts left extend across her entire face in what looks like a hideous smile. Something out of a horror movie. The Joker maybe, but even more grotesque. The cut originated in Glasgow, Scotland, and was named the ‘Glasgow smile.’ When it became popular in Chelsea, people called it the ‘Chelsea grin.’”
“Became popular?”
Dr. Baylor nodded again. “Gangs hoping to send a message to other gangs.”
An image of Jane Doe’s face surfaced in Matt’s mind. The torrent of blood masking the wound in real life but also hiding the wounds in the crime-scene photos Matt had seen in the two murder books. He thought about what the last ten minutes of Jane Doe’s life must have been like. He thought about the kind of man who could do something like this to a girl, a woman, or any living thing.
Not a copy, but the One.
He looked back at the photograph of the girl in the book. “You’re a plastic surgeon. Could you make those scars go away?”
Baylor shook his head. “No one could. Not even an undertaker.”
“But how do you think she survived?”
The doctor eyed the photograph for a moment, then met Matt’s gaze and lowered his voice. “She didn’t scream,” he said. “When they want to kill someone, they make the cut with a box cutter or a piece of broken glass and then start kicking the victim until he or she screams. The act of screaming rips the wounds apart, and the victim bleeds to death.”
Matt looked away and took a deep breath. It was almost as if Baylor had given him another piece of the puzzle, too horrific in size and scope to comprehend. Too hot to touch. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to get rid of Jane Doe’s image in his head. When he opened them, the image was still there and seemed even more gruesome, even more grim.
CHAPTER 26
He needed a cigarette. A Marlboro. He stood by his car, trying to slow down his heart rate. When he popped another piece of nicotine gum into his mouth, he could feel a stomachache coming on.
The déjà vu was back. Hard.
He could see Jane Doe’s face. He could smell the shampoo in her hair and the scent of her clean skin. But now everything was even more real because the image came with a soundtrack. Now he could hear the girl screaming.
He climbed into the car, found a news station on the radio, and started heading back to Hollywood. In need of a major distraction, he tried to focus on what the reporter was saying.
Something about something being something, or was it nothing?
It didn’t work. He could see Jane Doe’s murder going down so clearly that he might have been standing right beside her. He could see her nude body staked to the ground, her full breasts in the gravel and dirt. He could see a shadowy figure making the cuts on both sides of the girl’s face. And then that scream. The full-blown sound of terror. He could hear it. He could see it. The wounds bursting open and the river of blood flowing down onto a sheet of mirrored glass.
