by Rick Mofina
“Why? Police advised you to leave, if only temporarily.”
“But how can I leave when they’re still searching for Amber and there’s hope they’ll find her. Martha, if by some miracle they find her alive then she’s going to need me.”
“I understand, Claire, but a jet can take you to just about any point in this country in four or five hours. You could be with your patient in a short time.”
Claire’s silence confirmed Martha’s point.
“Dear, you’re one of the biggest factors in all of this. You have to be safe and you have to keep your mind clear. Otherwise you can’t help Amber and you can’t help your patients. Believe me, they need you now more than ever.”
Martha was right.
“Come stay with me in Las Vegas, I’ve got plenty of room you can work from here. Or go to your cabin, or go to Berkeley and catch up with old school friends. I think Michelle Baker and Val Cummings are practicing in the Bay Area.”
“I’ll think it over.”
“Whatever you decide, let me know. I’m praying they find Amber safe.”
“Thank you so much, Martha.”
Claire ended the call, cupped her hands over her face and let out a long, tense breath before getting to work with calls to her patients.
It took a few hours, but Claire got messages into most of her patients. She was determined to speak with each of them and had just finished talking to one when Alice knocked softly on her office door.
“It’s on the news now. Turn on your TV.”
Claire switched on the small flat-screen set on her credenza. She flipped through channels stopping at one of the big L.A. stations. It was running a Live Breaking News flag along the bottom. The screen was split. One half showed aerial footage of police vehicles and investigators at a roadside area, identified as Camarillo. There was a small map showing its proximity to L.A. The other half showed a podium with a police official identified with a graphic as Captain Martin Bronson of the L.A. County Sheriff’s Homicide Bureau.
He was taking questions from reporters.
“As we stated, we believe evidence found at Camarillo is linked to the case of Amber Pratt who has been reported missing from a residence in Alhambra.”
“And you say the evidence is connected to the Dark Wind Killer, already suspected in five murders?” a voice asked the captain.
“That’s correct.”
“Can you tell us how you made the link?”
“No, we’re not prepared to share that information at this time. All we’re prepared to release is that a person concerned about her whereabouts visited her residence and called police.”
Amber’s picture appeared on the screen.
“Sir, can you elaborate on her husband, Eric Larch? Is he the Dark Wind Killer?”
Eric’s photo appeared on the screen above his name.
“At this stage he is a person of interest, and we’d like to talk to him. We’re asking anyone who has any information on Amber Pratt’s whereabouts, or that of her estranged husband, Eric Larch, to call us.”
The words “Person of Interest in Dark Wind Killer Case. Wife Missing. Foul Play Involved” crawled along the screen under Eric’s face. Suddenly, another line of information zipped along the screen.
Eric Larch recently breached bail conditions after assaulting estranged wife, AllNews Press Agency, reporting.
“Captain Bronson, did the Dark Wind Killer leave police a message in Camarillo, or an item linked to Amber Pratt?”
The camera made a quick cut to other police officials lining the wall near the podium. Claire recognized Joe Tanner.
“I’m sorry,” the captain said. “That’s about all the information we can disclose at present. Thank you, we’ll wrap this up.”
The news conference ended and the station resumed regular broadcasting. Claire saw a cooking demonstration on an afternoon talk show before switching the set off.
She covered her face with her hands.
Her heart was racing.
“God, please find Amber. Please find her alive.”
52
San Marino, California
Robert Bowen paced in his home office.
Claire and Julie know. Damn it, they know. It can destroy everything.
The onset of panic rolled through him in waves as the words that had spilled from Claire’s cell phone earlier, now echoed in his brain.
“…The fact is we discovered more on Robert’s life in Alberta and we’re digging a little deeper…”
Discovered what? What the hell did Julie discover?
Stop and back it up, he told himself, making a quick assessment.
It all fit now.
It explains why Julie was so cold to me when I got home last night.
Fingers of pain clawed the inside of his skull.
What did that prying bitch find out, Robert?
I don’t know. I’ve got to remain calm, got to think clearly.
It was only through dumb luck with the phone that he’d learned Julie was nosing around his life for Claire. How could he have been so stupid about her? She was a private investigator and Claire’s best friend, yet he’d never considered her a factor. Never thought she’d intrude into his affairs.
He’d let his guard down.
He stopped at his window and gave a small wave, acknowledging the San Marino police car that had been parked in his driveway for the past thirty minutes. That Detective Tanner had told Claire he would move fast to get patrol units to her patients and put cars at her office and her home.
Bowen smirked.
The Blue Meanies.
The fools were his puppets. Police weren’t even close to the truth. A police car parked in his very driveway and they didn’t have a clue of the power they were dealing with.
They’re looking for Eric Larch.
A person of interest.
Everything on that front had played out beautifully in his favor.
Bowen had carefully planned the burglary of Claire’s office building for some time. He’d bought old sneakers, bulky sweatpants and an oversize navy hoodie at a flea market in Chicago. He’d strapped cushions to his body to alter his build and appearance in any security camera footage. He wore gloves, broke in and tore up the place.
He’d intended for the burglary to deflect suspicion to an abusive ex-spouse of any of Claire’s patients once he launched Project Amber.
And it worked.
Enter Eric Larch.
Bowen never knew or met him, but Larch played the part of moron so well. The attack Larch had unleashed on Amber and Claire in the parking lot was an unexpected gift. As long as Tanner and his people were looking for the idiot, Bowen had no big police worries.
Julie Glidden.
Now she was his concern.
What had she found out about Alberta so far? What had she told Claire? He could not-would not-permit Julie to get in his way. He went to his laptop, clicked to his hidden folder and his video collection and images of women. Looking at one stunning image after another, his breathing picked up as adrenaline pumped through his veins, stirring him to arousal. He’d taken such loving care with the process and was on the cusp of a masterpiece. He would not allow that meddling bitch to get in his way.
What are we going to do about her, Robert?
I’m going to take action.
On the earlier call with Claire, Julie had said she wanted to talk again with Claire face-to-face, tonight or tomorrow.
This was his chance, his only chance. He had to roll the dice.
Bowen had an arsenal of resources he could use.
He navigated farther into his drives and reached for his cell phone. About a year ago, at a restaurant during a layover in Gander, Newfoundland, he had befriended a Russian pilot, Dmitri Morozov.
Dmitri claimed he had been a pilot for Russia’s Federal Security Service and that he was also an expert in counterintelligence and high-tech surveillance. Bowen had met him again in New York, where Dmitri sold hi
m black market state-of-the-art software. Bowen figured he might be able to use it at some point.
It was known as spyware and it gave him the ability to use his computer to record all emails, instant messages, track all downloaded files and every keystroke of any targeted computer he secretly installed it in. The user never knew the spyware was there. With the software, Bowen could also intercept, delete or respond to any emails by posing as the targeted user.
Bowen had similar software for cell phones. It involved advanced technology and allowed him to clone a target phone. He could secretly monitor, or hijack all activity on the target phone using his phone or laptop. He could intercept texts, voice messages and calls without the user knowing. Months ago, Bowen had installed the software in the phone and computers Claire used, but he’d never employed it.
He’d never really had reason to.
Until now.
He activated the technology on his devices. Now he could secretly monitor and intercept Claire’s communication without her ever knowing.
As for Julie Glidden….
Give her to me, Robert.
Bowen entertained the thought.
Shivers of pleasure ran up and down his spine.
53
Pincher Creek, Alberta, Canada
Driving south from Calgary along the rolling foothills at the eastern base of the Rockies, the mountains looked close enough to touch.
It was a breathtaking part of the world, Milt Thorsen thought, guiding his Ford pickup from Highway 2 to a western stretch of the Crowsnest Highway before leaving it for the road to Pincher Creek.
He was hopeful his drive to see a retired cop, a friend of a friend, would fill in a lot of blanks on this case for Julie Glidden.
Learning that Leon Richard Elliott had changed his name to Robert John Bowen was a big break. Thorsen had moved on it fast since it surfaced yesterday. But unlike TV, the movies or detective novels, real investigations seldom went smoothly.
Glancing to the passenger seat, at his worn leather briefcase with the broken strap that held his laptop and hard-copy folders on Elliott/Bowen, Thorsen assessed what he’d confirmed.
In 2008 Elliott had married Cynthia Marie Cote in Calgary in a small ceremony. So far, he was unable to locate Cynthia. A search of driver’s records across Canada had yielded nothing. A search through Alberta Court of Queen’s Bench archives revealed no divorce records.
A check of death records with Alberta Vital Statistics showed nothing.
He’d been unable to locate any relatives for Cynthia or Leon, but was reaching out for help from an expert genealogist he often worked with.
In 2008, the couple purchased a house in the southeast Calgary suburb of Lake Sundance, which was sold in 2010. Using property and tax records, Thorsen did some door-knocking but he could not find anyone who recalled Leon and Cynthia. The house had been resold twice and the current owners knew nothing of the couple.
Other aspects of Leon Elliott’s life remained a mystery.
Thorsen had not yet located a birth record. Nothing surfaced in Canadian military records, nothing in business and corporate affiliations, no lawsuits, judgments, liens or bankruptcies. A credit check showed no outstanding debt. And there was nothing in the way of criminal records.
As for employment, Thorsen was able to confirm that at the time Elliott was living in Calgary, he was a pilot with First Canadian Western, a national airline. Cynthia was a flight attendant with the same airline. But the company ceased operations in 2011. Getting further records or information on Elliott from a defunct airline was going to take more time.
Again, as with Bowen, a disturbing picture was forming.
There’s not a lot of data. It’s as if this guy was covering his tracks.
Fortunately, not long after Thorsen had put out a call for help to his network of confidential sources, he got a response. Ted Sedaynko, a former Mountie with Major Crimes South out of Calgary, called.
“Go see Keith Brophy, down in Pincher. He’s a retired member, lives like a hermit. A bit of a character. Keith will only talk face-to-face, but he’s got something for you on your guy. I’ll call him and set it up for you.”
Now this is intriguing, Milt thought. Why would the Royal Canadian Mounted Police be familiar with Leon Richard Elliott?
Thorsen set out on the two-and-a-half-hour drive over two hours ago.
He searched the foothills flowing by his window and consulted his GPS as he rolled up to a dead and twisted tree, the landmark for Brophy’s property just northwest of Pincher Creek.
Brophy had a log home on three acres tucked in a rugged foothills valley that had a small waterfall. A forest nearby ascended the mountains. A man, who must be Brophy, was out front chopping wood when he greeted Thorsen.
He had thick white hair and a barrel chest that stretched his T-shirt. He patted his whiskered face and moist brow with a towel, then invited Thorsen inside.
“Don’t like to waste time, seeing how you drove all this way,” Brophy said. “Ted Sedaynko told me to give you a hand on this business with Leon Elliott. I got everything set up there. Coffee?”
He pointed to the kitchen table where he had some files and a shoe box filled with worn notebooks, which made Thorsen smile. Old cops, he thought, we’re all the same. Brophy had been with the RCMP posted in British Columbia. He was a major crimes investigator.
“Sure. Thanks, Keith. Black is fine.”
After pouring two cups, Brophy joined Thorsen at the table.
“So Leon Elliott changed his name and is now living in California?” Brophy said.
“Yes and his wife’s friend, the P.I. in Los Angeles, has asked for some background on him.”
“I see. Well, I’m happy to help.”
Brophy slid on his bifocals, wet his forefinger and began slowly flipping through the pages of a notebook.
“I interviewed Leon Elliott a few times in 2010. I’ll say this-the guy’s bad news. But I had nothing to prove it. Nothing. I’m going to tell you what the official report says happened. Then I’m going to tell you, confidentially, cop to cop, what I believe really happened with Leon Elliott and his wife, Cynthia.”
Brophy lifted his ice-blue eyes over his bifocals to meet Thorsen’s.
“It was my case, Milt, and it haunts me.”
54
San Marino, California
“Help me! God, please help me!” Amber’s screaming…then…Claire’s father is yelling, “I’m gonna kill all of you fuckers for dragging me down!” “No, Daddy!” Claire’s baby brother, Luke, is crying. Claire’s mother is shouting for her to “Get out of the house! Go next door! Call the police!”
Claire woke, her chest heaving.
Robert sat up with her.
“Are you all right?”
She covered her face with shaking hands.
“A nightmare, I’ll be okay.”
It was 7:30 a.m.
Claire had taken a pill to help her sleep and had slept in.
She got up and went to the kitchen and started brewing coffee. She was still rattled and consumed with worry for Amber. Yesterday’s news conference, and suspicions that Eric was the monster who’d already murdered five women, was overwhelming. Claire was thankful police didn’t reveal that Amber was a patient, allowing her to privately prepare the others for this whirlwind of horror.
Please find Amber. Please.
Claire checked her landline home phone for any updates from Tanner or Belinski.
There were none.
She checked her cell phone, but it took longer than usual. What’s wrong with this thing? It started acting up last night. Finally, it cooperated. She had messages from Alice related to office matters, but Claire had received nothing new from Tanner or Belinski.
Claire logged on to her laptop for emails and was frustrated again. It froze several times before finally allowing her access to her account.
Again, nothing.
Very quickly she searched online news sites, nearly al
l were reports on Amber and Eric, stemming from the press conference. No new developments had surfaced. She switched on her TV for local news reports then checked the newspapers.
Nothing.
When the coffee was ready, she prepared a mug, taking it outside to the patrol car in her driveway. She offered the fresh coffee to the officer who’d drawn the early shift. Williams, his name tag said.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
His police radio crackled with muted dispatches.
“Is there any news on Amber or Eric since yesterday?”
“No, ma’am, I’m afraid there’s nothing to report from overnight. You’ve got to figure the task force will advise you if anything breaks.”
Claire nodded her thanks, squinting in the morning sun.
“I’ll be taking Detective Tanner’s advice and leaving L.A. soon. I appreciate having you here but police won’t need to watch over me much longer.”
“Let us know when you plan to depart. Don’t forget to give the task force your new contact info. Thanks again for the coffee.”
When Claire returned to the house, Robert had showered and was standing at the window, staring at the patrol car.
“Did the cop say if they found Amber or Eric?”
“No, there’s nothing new.”
Claire had work to do.
After a breakfast of fruit and whole-wheat toast, she showered, got dressed, went to her home office and got busy. There were more calls to make. She hadn’t reached all of her patients yesterday, and was determined to talk with each one before she left.
Claire had already taken most of the steps Martha had urged her to take. She’d advised her malpractice insurance provider of the situation and she’d arranged referrals. She’d taken all the right precautions.
Claire decided she would leave L.A. and stay with Martha in Las Vegas for a few days. She would put in short telephone sessions with her most troubled patients from there. If things went right, they would all get through this. She wanted to drive to Nevada, to be in control. She would risk a few extra hours on the road for not having to face airport delays and cancelations.
