"You seem to have worked through the five stages of grief pretty quickly. I'd say you jumped right to acceptance."
"Since you asked, I found out that I have colon cancer three days ago."
"I'm sorry," Paul said, not realizing the irony.
"Thanks," Marty said slowly, definitely seeing the irony. "Anyway, I won the case last month, added another pile of money to the coffers and - bam - they tell me I have five weeks left. Five fucking weeks," he said, starting to laugh.
"What's so funny?"
"I hate fucking doctors, too. The arrogant bastards. I guess they were wrong about the five weeks. What's next?"
"I've prepared a few words. I'd appreciate you reading them on camera."
"I'd guess that with the others, once you made it clear that death was near, they were happy to read your little speech."
"The mechanic wasn't at all cooperative, but the hippie was scared shitless. I don't seem to have the same leverage here, though."
"You see that, too. Yes, I don't really give a fuck what you do to me, though, I guess I'd rather not be tortured."
"Honestly, I'm not that excited about torturing you, either. The problem is, I have a point to make, and you're one of the stars of the show."
"One? Who else is in this episode?"
"Vicky and Terrance. I'm going there next."
Marty laughed. "That's fantastic. I don't think it would be violating attorney-client privilege to say I fucking hated those two morons."
"Did they set the whole thing up?"
"That, unfortunately, IS privileged."
"What happens if you break the sacred vow?"
"Fair point. Okay, you know what, let me see your little script."
Paul showed it to him. Marty read it and said, "It isn't very well written, and there are several punctuation and grammar issues. I think I'd rather give it a go freestyle."
"What errors?"
"You misspelled 'regret.'"
Paul looked at it. "That's a typo, but you're right. What did you have in mind?"
"Well, if I'm getting the theme of tonight's show, you think that frivolous lawsuits are a blight on society as are the people who bring them."
"That is my theme, yes."
"I tell you what, I'll put on a show, give you exactly what you want and then some if you could do me one favor."
"Anything you want, I mean, you've been astoundingly reasonable about the whole thing."
Marty told him the combination to the safe. There was a pile of cash, a small bag of diamonds, and a red leather journal. "There is one hundred and twenty five thousand in cash and about two million dollars in diamonds. I've been stealing from, well, everyone for a long time. A while back I had a fantastic weekend with a hooker in Vegas. She has a kid now. She came to me when he was five and asked for a little money. I've been blackmailed a time or two, and this seemed like the same old song and dance, but I decided to give her the thousand bucks anyway."
"Why?"
"Best tits and ass EVER."
"Fair enough. So what do you want me to do?"
"Actually, that's not it. She was a sweet kid, and I guess I'd like you to see that she gets the money. I mean, you don't need it."
"I really don't. I can do that. What's the journal about?"
"Her name is on the page with the turned down corner. Also, there is a fucking pile of assholes in there if you need any more actors."
"Isn't that breaking attorney-client privilege?"
"You haven't seen nothing yet."
"Okay, you have a deal."
"Oh, and one more thing, could I ask you to skip the torture?"
"How does a bullet to the head sound?"
"It sounds a fuck lot better than five weeks of cancer death."
Paul had been running the camera the entire time but paused it to set up some additional lighting. The two lamps from the outer office did the trick. He let Marty say his piece.
Marty covered the basics of the case. He went over how he thought the whole thing was bullshit from the beginning, like most of his cases, and admitted he had doubts about whether the fire had been staged. Then, he took a breath and started throwing people under the bus. There was an attorney at a firm in L.A. who was dealing the best cocaine he had ever used. A local judge had a thing for BDSM with young boys. He finished with a detailed description of a local, San Francisco politician who had rigged three elections. At the end, he paused, looked into the camera, and said simply, "To my wife, dear, you were a fucking whore the whole time we were married. I hope you rot in hell. To everyone else, I'm sorry."
Paul had duct-taped an empty two liter bottle of Mello Yellow around the barrel of the gun. It made a dull pop when he shot Marty in the head.
It had taken longer with Marty than he had planned, but it didn't matter. Vicky and Terrance were fast asleep. He had them ready for their close-up in no time.
He thought he might have given Vicky too much ether, but Terrance came out of it quickly and immediately took to swearing. "Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck are you doing in our house? You better untie me so I can kick the shit out of you, nigga."
"Why would I do that?"
"So I can fuck you up, you mother fucking..."
Paul hit him with the taser. He screamed, but, as soon as he could start swearing again, he started right back up. Paul took the softball bat that was leaning in the corner and shattered his knee.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck. What the fuck? What do you want? Fuck."
"I have a number of questions for you. Actually, more than I could possibly ask you in one sitting but let's get started. Why did you think I would untie you so you could, and I quote, "kick the shit out of me"?
Terrance didn't understand the question.
"That seems like a really stupid thing to do. I mean, why would someone untie a person so that they could be beaten. It just doesn't make any sense. Could you explain your reasoning, please?"
"I don't know what the fuck your game is, but..."
Paul hit him with the bat again. "Please only answer the question that I've asked you."
"It was just some shit that I said. I didn't use no reasoning."
"Okay, next question, why are you talking all ghetto? You're white."
"That's so fucking racist. Fuck you. You never heard of Eminem?"
"You look more like a skate punk than a rapper."
"Fuck you."
"Okay, next question. Are you stupid?"
"I'm not fucking stupid, you asshole," Terrance said and stopped when Paul reared the bat back for another swing. "Stop, I'm sorry. What do you want...sir?"
"Do you know who I am?"
"No, who the fuck are you?"
"That's too bad. If you did, you might have foregone all of the verbal abuse but no matter. Let's get down to why I'm here."
"What's the camera for?"
"Oh, you're the star of my latest episode of...'Eliminate the Stupid.'" Paul smiled to himself. He hadn't thought about a title yet, and it sort of just came to him. He could worry about it in post-production, though. He turned his attention back to Terrance. "I want to talk with you about your lawsuit."
"I ain't got nuttin' to say about it. You need to talk to my attorney."
"It's funny you mention old Marty - I've just come from his place," Paul said as he pulled out his first camera and hit play. As Terrance watched the unedited conversation with Marty, Vicky started to come to. Paul made sure he was out of the shot and brought the bat down squarely on the top of her head.
Terrance swore and seemed to lose interest in the video of his attorney. Since a good portion of his wife's brain had splattered onto his face, Paul felt that the reaction was warranted. It was obvious they needed to take five. Terrance was in no way ready to read his lines.
Paul walked down to their family room and was pleased to hear little out of Terrance. The house was well designed with thick walls. They had absolutely horrible taste in furniture, though. The amount of chrome was un
acceptable. Maybe a tasteless interior designer should be added to Paul's list?
Then he saw it on the fire place mantle: a can of the adhesive in question was on a small wooden base with a gold name plate that read "Five Million Dollars, Bitches." He yelled, "Are you fucking kidding me, Terrance?"
Paul grabbed it and went back upstairs. Terrance was in a bad way. He might not have been a rocket scientist, but he knew he was in tight spot. Paul asked, "What's this?"
"My homie made it for me. Sort of a joke."
"He used a full can."
"So what of it?"
"You put it over your gas-powered fireplace."
The blank look on Terrance's face sent Paul into his own rage. "What the fuck?!"
"It was just a stupid joke."
Paul screamed, "Did you put the original can next to the heater on purpose?"
"No!"
Paul believed him but still couldn't believe how stupid he was. "Why the fuck did you put the can by a heater? It says right on the can that it is flammable."
"I don't know, but it wasn't my fault."
"Are you saying Vicky put the can there?"
"No, I'm saying the company that makes it should have done something to prevent it from blowing up."
"They did, you fucking moron. They wrote it in big, fucking red letters."
"It doesn't matter. We won."
"You are the stupidest, fucking person on the planet, but I'm going to ask you just one more question. What do you think would happen to this can when you turned on your fireplace?"
Terrance struggled. He looked confused but suddenly figured it out. "Oh, shit, we almost blew up our new crib."
Paul was relieved and clapped lightly. "Well done. Your parents must be so proud of your mental acumen."
"You calling me mental?"
"It's going to take me a long time to edit all of this footage, but you've demonstrated why no amount of warning labels can cure stupid. Now, let's get ready for the grand finale," Paul said as he took the top off the trophy and poured it over Terrance's head.
Just to be safe, he moved the camera back to the edge of the bedroom, filmed thirty seconds of Terrance pleading for his life, and tossed a match at the feet of the plaintiff. It was his best work yet.
#
Three days had passed since the last victim. Chavez had returned to DC. The morning consisted of two meetings and a lap around the office to talk with all the analysts working on either case just to make sure nothing was slipping through the cracks.
One theory had been bandied that it was a bike messenger because they found a guy who had been in at the workplaces of all seven victims within a week of their murders. He was cleared when they learned he had been on vacation in Florida during the week of the killings.
Granville came running down the hall holding her laptop. "We have three more victims."
"Are they all in the same area?"
"They are in Oakland."
"Oakland?"
"It is the Video Killer. A new video was posted on the YouTube account of an attorney in Oakland."
"Why would an attorney have a YouTube account?"
"Everyone has a YouTube account. Don't you?"
"Okay, I'm old," he said as he waved her to follow him into the conference room. "Go round up everyone working on this."
The first time through the video nobody talked. They played it again then one more time. Notes were taken, ideas were floated, and, when there finally weren't any more ideas to have, Chavez told everyone but Nancy to leave.
"What do you want me to do?"
"You didn't say anything during the video, but I could tell you were thinking."
"One is always thinking. It is impossible to stop thinking completely."
"Being technically accurate is sometimes annoying. I know because the Director tells me all the time. Only I now understand his point. What's on your mind, Granville?"
"It is probably just as dumb as the whole no car thing, but I couldn't help but think how nice it was to not have our two serial killers' cases overlap."
"What do you mean?"
"ATM starts killing in Italy, stops for a few weeks, then shows up in NYC. Bodies are coming in faster than we can process them and then it stops. Just as we're thinking the Video Killer has gotten spooked by all the media attention, he starts back up."
"He or she."
"You're right; being technically accurate is annoying. I'll work on it."
"You make an interesting point. You think it is possible we have only one killer working two MOs?"
"I thought it was possible we had a deranged DMV employee back from a vacation in Italy who might have snapped. Possible and likely are miles apart, but, if I had to choose, I'd say it is more possible than the no car idea."
"Why would the killer need two different signatures?"
"Maybe they are trying to make the serial killer hall of fame?"
"The way they are going, I think the chances are good. I think we should keep this theory to ourselves and continue to run two teams."
"I agree. If we combine the data points and variables, it makes this already unmanageable data a worse mess than it is."
"How is your video analysis program doing?"
"It is slowing down. The more candidates it finds, the longer the analysis takes."
"Fair enough. Let's get going; we can talk more on the plane."
#
The dozen or so days since S.' email Mitch had been, for lack of a better word, calm. He didn't think about her every waking moment and went about his life as he had before that first lunch in San Francisco. The only difference was a contentment that was nice but still didn't seem entirely natural.
He had spent a small measure of time considering how it might be to live every day like before but realized that it was that type of thinking that would make such a fanciful dream impossible, so he ordered another espresso and let the thought die.
Three, long neglected travel posts were written and a novel started. He read an Elmore Leonard book and lunched with Kate. She scheduled another speaking engagement and made mention of his reasonable mood several times.
S. called him or he called her every few days, and they would talk. It was easy, comfortable, and exactly what he wanted. If she had a bad day, she told him. If he was thrilled about a clever phrase, he would share it, and she would appreciate it the way he had. Mitch didn't find a single reason to obsess or look for disaster where none existed.
Mitch heard his boarding call and for the first time wondered what she might have planned.
#
"Alexis, this is Chavez."
"What's up?"
"What are your thoughts about three days without a new body?"
"It doesn't seem right. I'm wondering if our perp has been picked up for something else and is rotting in the tombs."
"It's worth checking out."
"I've asked Jamal to look into it. He's pretty good with computers and data."
"When do you expect him to be done?"
"No idea. Why?"
"I've told you about Agent Granville."
"Yes."
"She's pretty good with data, too. We've got another video - just went up about forty minutes ago. We're heading to Oakland. I'd like to swing by and pick you and Jamal up."
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Paul watched them hold hands. It sickened him. For the three days since his talk with Marty the lawyer, he had thought of nothing but Mitch. He knew his nemesis was coming to San Francisco because of his flight reservation but didn't have any idea what was planned.
The week spent in Manhattan had been great practice for shadowing his prey. Now Mitch was on his turf, making the surveillance even easier. He watched him stroll from cafe to gallery with her by his side. They didn't have a care in the world. Their happiness was balanced by Paul's equal measure of disgust.
The first day, Mitch selected five promising targets, but, that ni
ght, Paul realized a problem with his plan: she was always by his side. When the killing hours came, she was in his bed.
He tried to come up with a plausible scenario in which Mitch might sneak out and take another victim, but they all fell apart because he had no idea what was going on up in that hotel suite. He had acquired components to make listening and video devices but then had bought the ranch and never got back to it.
The second night of Mitch's visit, Paul returned home and made a nice selection of toys for their room. When they headed out in the morning, he needed less than five minutes to wire the room. That third night, he monitored them from home.
Now Mitch had one more day before his flight back, and it seemed they were going to be inseparable. Paul ordered another cup of coffee as it seemed it was all he could do.
A young woman joined them. Paul recognized her as Anne Marie. She was one of the people who seemed to pay a lot of attention to Mitch's Facebook page. Mitch shook her hand and gave her a big hug. Anne Marie seemed almost giddy to meet him. She took a seat.
Another man, much older, approached the table. Mitch almost knocked over his chair in standing up to greet him. Paul had no idea who the man was, but it appeared Mitch considered him to be someone significant. It was the first time his prey had turned his focus from the woman. The look on her face was one of sheer delight at seeing his joy.
They ate lunch and talked. Mitch and the old man laughed and told stories. Paul wished he could hear what they were saying, but they were too far away. It was an hour before the man finally stood to leave. Mitch shook his hand. The woman and Anne Marie gave the man a hug, and he walked away.
Paul pretended to read his paper but wanted nothing more than to walk across the street and gun all three of them down. The pressure of his plan and the anticipation of the day Mitch would be exposed as a monster was just too much. Mitch had been right here in his town, and Paul had been able to do nothing. Paul was sure a single ATM killing in San Francisco would be all the FBI needed to put Mitch on their radar.
Across the street, the woman picked up the check. The three of them stood, but Mitch didn't leave with Anne Marie and the woman. He went the other way towards their hotel. This might be his chance, Paul thought.
A Touch to Die For Page 15
