by Rick Mofina
LAPD Detective Art Lang peered over his bifocals from his notes.
“Where are we with physical evidence, starting with the killer’s letter to the reporter? We were awaiting further lab work?”
Eugene Rowe, a postal inspector with the U.S. Postal Inspection Service, had a status report.
“The envelope is a national federal eagle design, made exclusively and sold only by the U.S. Postal Service. Our forensic lab is working with the FBI lab. We’re analyzing the ink used via solubility testing and thin layer chromatography to give us more information on the felt-tip pen that was used. Neither the envelope or the letter exhibited watermarks, hair, latent fingerprints or any trace DNA.”
“So we’ve got nothing to run through CODIS,” Lang said, referring to the FBI’s national database, called the Combined DNA Index System. The network lets crime labs exchange and compare DNA profiles electronically, providing the ability to identify ties to crimes and convicted criminals.
“No, nothing so far,” Rowe said, and returned to his page of notes.
“As we all know, the letter bore an Alhambra, California postmark. It doesn’t mean our sender lives in Alhambra, but it’s a focal point for next steps,” Rowe said.
Tanner waited, tapping his pen against his pad, then turned to Knox.
“What do we have on our ViCAP submissions of the five cases in the wake of the letter and its contents?”
“Nothing,” Knox replied, shaking his head. “But the profilers updated their further analysis of the cold cases and the letter. They peg the likelihood that our guy will kill again at seventy-five percent. And if he does, he’ll gloat over it with a message to investigators and the press. He’s gaining what he needs, worldwide attention.”
Soft cursing rippled around the table as the meeting ended.
Tanner returned to his desk with images burning in his mind: Leeza Meadows, aged twenty-one, her body found by a birdwatcher at the edge of Santa Clarita. Tanner suddenly thought of Samantha and how he would feel if it were his daughter they’d found sexually assaulted, her naked body dumped. He knew the pain of losing his wife, but to lose your daughter-to evil, to darkness.
And this creep is still out there.
Time was slipping by them.
Why these five? Why did he select them?
Tanner echoed the question the reporter Mark Harding had asked: “What did a waitress, a hooker, an accountant, an actress and a writer, all have in common with their killer?”
Again, Tanner went back to the six-month rule. What had each woman done in the last six months of her life? Where had she gone? Who had she seen? What did she do? Was it something common in all five cases? He’d flipped through pages and pages of notes detectives had made in working with the family members and loved ones. Notes, journals and logs on routines, appointments and activities.
Then he cross-checked them through the database, searching for a common thread, almost willing one to appear.
Again, he found nothing.
All of the women had jobs, all had routines, friends, social circles that had been investigated extensively.
All had traveled in the last six months of their lives.
Traveled?
Tanner paused. Thinking.
Now that was an angle he hadn’t pursued deeply.
Where did they travel? He reached for the files. A charter group? That would be a common factor. Flipping through the files, he saw that Bonnie Bradford had made a few trips to New York to talk to a literary agent. Monique Wilson had visited Chicago, Houston and Philadelphia so many times for her accounting firm, she got to know some of the airline crew, her sister had noted. Then there was Fay Lynne Millwood; she’d gone to Denver for a conference. Esther Fatima Lopez had gone to Las Vegas and Atlantic City to work. Leeza Meadows had flown to Boston to visit a friend in college.
All had flown but not with a charter group. The common link couldn’t be travel, Tanner thought as his phone rang. The distraction caused him to pass over the name of the airline listed in each file and the fact that at one time or another, each of the women had flown with the same airline.
40
San Marino, California
Claire, I’m sorry for what happened last night. I felt horrible. I came to realize that you’re right, I’ve been ignoring you. Guess I’m still dealing with a little post-traumatic stress myself. The truth: it was Ruben’s retelling of the event that made me lose track and pause. Suddenly, all I saw was an inferno. I was trapped in it and it terrified me. Do not doubt for one second that I want to start a family with you. You’re my world, my life.
I need you more than you’ll ever know.
Claire stopped reading the note Robert had left on the kitchen table to brush away a tear before finishing.
I couldn’t sleep, so I worked a little on your planter boxes. The company texted me last night. One of our guys got sick so I had to go in early this morning to take his trip and then add it to mine. I tried not to wake you. I’ll call you. I hate leaving like this.
Forgive me.
Love,
Robert
Claire sat down as if winded and cupped her face in her hands.
At this moment she loved him.
At this moment she hated him.
What’s happening to us?
Claire looked through the glass of the patio doors to their backyard, her flower beds and the planter boxes. He’d moved them again. She half smiled at how he was so concerned about getting them just right for her. She loved them and he’d built more. They were beautiful.
We’ve both been through a lot lately. That’s what’s happened to us.
It was true, she admitted as she prepared a piece of whole-wheat toast with a peach for breakfast. But she had patients who needed her. She glanced at the time on the microwave. And she was running late.
In the shower, the hot water sharpened her concentration and she fell into the same old debate with herself over Robert that continued as she put on her makeup.
Why am I rationalizing every negative to convince myself that this is just a “rough patch” and everything’s going to be fine? I’m such a stupid, stupid woman. Every one of my instincts is telling me, screaming at me, that something’s terribly wrong between Robert and me.
Being honest about the problem was a start, she thought as she dressed, but she couldn’t deal with it any further at the moment. She was late and had a ton of work waiting for her at the office. Amber was her first patient this morning and Claire was hopeful that she was building on her progress and decision not to return to Eric.
Adjusting her necklace, Claire entered her home office to collect her USB flash drive. Then she disconnected her phone from the charger and, as if on cue, it rang.
“Hey, Claire, it’s me,” Julie said.
“Hi.”
“Did I get you at a bad time? Can you talk right now?”
“Sure, but I’m late and on my way out the door.”
“So how’d it go last night?”
“Overall, it went really well, very emotional and touching, I was proud of him but there were some strange moments.”
“Strange, how?”
“I don’t know, he seemed kind of touchy-feely with a couple of young women who had their picture taken with him.”
“What do you mean?” Julie asked.
“When he put his arms around them to pose, his hands just seemed to wander in a way that made me uneasy.”
“What about the women? Did they mind?”
“They didn’t care. If they did, they didn’t show it.”
“And he knew you were watching?”
“Yes.”
“That is strange. Where was it again?”
“Maywood.” Claire got into her car.
“Did you find out any more information for me?”
“I did, and that was one of the odd things. I didn’t need to ask-it came up randomly in conversation. Robert said that he and Cynthia had lived in Canada when the
y were married.”
“Canada? That explains why I couldn’t find anything. You know where in Canada?”
“No, it was a surprise to me and it made me angry and we got into it on the way home. He said he’d told me when we first met, but I swear he didn’t.” Claire pushed the button on her remote garage door opener. The door rose with a groan, light flooded the garage and she started her car.
“Okay, Canada,” Julie said. “That’s helpful. Our agency has subs there.”
“Subs?”
“Subcontractors. We have contacts to help us. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Thanks, gotta go.”
During her drive to work Claire tried to focus on her practice, but it was futile. She was anxious. When she stopped at a long red light her mind swirled with images that pulled her back to her childhood home and…
…Her mother’s fingers desperately clawing at her father’s hand that gripped the gun… Suddenly Claire is a woman slammed with fury against a column in the airport and Cliff is crushing his forearm against her throat… Cliff raises his fist to smash her face when Robert seizes it, saving her… Robert last night…“I’ve always been there for you…you don’t know how lucky you are.”
The light changed and Claire resumed driving to her office.
She was not too late when she arrived. Alice was on the phone, her face creased with concern. Without disturbing her, Claire got a coffee and left reception but her attention lingered on Alice, curious about her demeanor and why no one was seated in the lobby.
Amber should have been in the reception area by this time, Claire thought, settling in at her desk, turning her computer on and waiting for Alice to bring her the agenda and patient list. Claire took her first sip of coffee when she heard Alice hang up and enter with the day’s list. Amber’s name had been crossed off. Claire looked at her for an answer.
“She didn’t confirm,” Alice said. “I just tried reaching her at home and on her cell and work numbers.”
“That’s unusual. Amber never cancels without telling us.”
“I know. What should we do?”
Claire tapped her pen to her chin.
“Let’s play it safe.” Claire got her wallet and a business card. “I’ll give Officer Freeman a call and let her know, just as a precaution.”
Claire got Freeman’s voice mail and left a message, but it was enough to put her and Alice somewhat at ease as they carried on with the morning.
Throughout the day, Claire’s concern grew as the Amber question remained unresolved. They’d heard nothing from her and, after a few hours with no response from Officer Freeman, Claire called San Marino P.D. She was put through to a duty sergeant and explained her unease.
“Freeman’s on a course in San Diego, but let me look up that case file.” Claire heard the sergeant typing on his keyboard, taking a moment to read the most recent summary. “All right, I’m up to speed. So basically given her circumstances and because she’s missed an appointment, you’re requesting we check on her welfare?”
“Right.”
“Okay, that address is in Alhambra, I’ll flag this with the Alhambra P.D., but I have to tell you, they’ve got a major apartment complex fire going. They’ve put a lot of traffic units on it. In fact, we’re supporting with some of our units. So it might be a while.”
In the back of her mind Claire clung to the hope that Amber would return Alice’s messages. At least the police had been alerted, Claire assured herself throughout the afternoon. After her last patient session of the day had ended, Claire gathered her things, instructed Alice to call her with any word on Amber, then headed home.
Claire got as far as the parking lot when she remembered she had to pick up a lamp. The antiques shop was in Alhambra and not far from her office. After paying for her lamp and putting it in her car, Claire’s thoughts returned to Amber.
Since she was in Alhambra, she should go to Amber’s house.
In the car she turned on her laptop and inserted her flash drive to review the file for Amber’s address. Was she crossing an ethical line? Visiting patients outside of the office was frowned upon. Claire stared at the address.
Am I going too far?
She reached for her cell phone and tried Amber’s numbers without reaching her.
Claire then tried the San Marino P.D. again and got a different sergeant this time. Like the previous one, he had to look up the status.
“No, apparently Alhambra P.D. did not get to it yet,” the sergeant said, “but they indicate here that it’s moved up the call list. I know they’ve had their hands full all day with the fire, and now they’ve had a bomb scare at a school. Meantime, maybe you could have a friend or relative check?”
Claire thanked the sergeant and hung up.
She had to make a decision.
Given everything that had happened with Amber’s case: Eric’s attack, the rage in his face, his attempt to drag Amber back into the relationship, the fact she was considering it-and now I can’t reach her-it was time to do something.
Claire keyed Amber’s address into her GPS, then started her car.
41
Alhambra, California
As Claire guided her Corolla onto Amber’s street, reality eclipsed her reasoning for being there.
This could be a dumb thing to do.
Battling her growing embarrassment, Claire challenged her instincts, asking herself over and over with each house number she counted: Was coming here the right thing to do?
Yes, damn it, yes!
It was the only thing to do to allay the fears that were twisting in her stomach. Those images from the worst times of her life that had recently flashed in her mind were like harbingers. She knew what happened when people did nothing in the face of looming trouble.
My mother, brother and father died because no one got involved. I can’t let this go. I can’t ignore everything that’s happened with Amber.
She stopped in front of Amber’s address, shifted into Park, turned off the engine, got out and took a quick read of the house.
It was a sprawling ranch-style bungalow that sat back from the street on a large lot. The lush landscaping with shade trees and thriving flower beds gave the property the sedate air of a well-maintained park, she thought as she took the winding cobblestone walk. Noting the small yard sign for the security company she came to the door and rang the bell.
Claire remembered how Amber had said she was fortunate to be house-sitting for friends, the generous owners of such a beautiful home.
A long moment passed without a response.
She rang the bell again, then knocked, hard.
Nothing.
A neglected newspaper jutting from the mailbox offered her a glimpse of the headline about the Dark Wind Killer stalking L.A. The reality of a monster out there pricked at her anxiety.
Claire took out her cell phone and called Amber’s number. She heard it ringing inside before it went to voice mail. Claire hung up, stepped carefully into the shrubs under the nearest window, pressed her face to the glass, cupped her hands near her eyes and looked into the house. She saw the dim forms of a sofa, a table, a chair, then heard a soft noise from inside.
Oh, no, I could have triggered the alarm system or something. Goodness, if someone reports me, I’ll be arrested.
Claire stepped out of the shrub and pressed her ear to the door and held her breath.
She heard voices inside.
Someone’s in there. Why won’t they answer?
She knocked hard on the door but no one responded.
She went around to the side of the house, along the knee-high hedge that bordered the driveway where Amber’s small Chevy was parked. As she neared the back of the house she saw a metal gate with a lockbox.
“Hello!” she called.
Nothing. No dog, no movement of any sort.
She tested the latch, and to her surprise the steel door swung open. She walked along the patio stones and knocked on the back door. No r
esponse, yet she heard voices.
Someone’s in there.
Once more, Claire peered through a window that gave her a clear view. She saw the tiled floor of the kitchen, the granite counters, wood cabinets, a cooktop, but no people. Yet she heard sounds and they were louder now. Frustrated, she knocked again and tried the door handle.
It was unlocked.
This is weird.
Claire inched inside, her eyes scanning the kitchen. The mild, pleasant smell of dish soap lingered.
“Hello, Amber! It’s Claire Bowen!”
“…I wouldn’t do that if I were you…” A man’s deep voice stopped Claire’s pulse for the seconds it took her to realize his voice and the voices she’d been hearing were coming from the radio on the kitchen counter. It was tuned to a talk radio show. “…damn straight I’d tell those fat cats in Sacramento that I would not even consider a tax for…”
Claire took a small breath.
The kitchen table was clear, the counters gleamed, the sink held one glass that had been rinsed. Otherwise, it was empty of dishes, and tea towels were hung neatly. Nothing seemed amiss as she moved to the living room.
“Hello, Amber, it’s Claire Bowen. Are you home?”
On one end table the red light of a message machine blinked like a panicked heart. Claire did not think it was her place to listen to Amber’s messages.
Right, and here I am standing in the middle of her home.
Claire continued checking the rest of the house.
In the study, files were stacked neatly on the desk. Claire thought they looked like court and divorce records, causing her to wonder if Amber had been talking to Eric again.
The laundry room, pantry and family room were fine. The smaller bedrooms and bathrooms were empty with nothing out of the ordinary. The bed was also made in the largest bedroom, although it looked a bit sloppy, as if done in a rush. On the nightstand she saw a paperback copy of Madame Bovary and a business card for Officer Les Campbell of the Alhambra Police Department.
