by Rick Mofina
Besides, if they find Amber, I could still fly back to L.A. God, please let them find her, safe and alive.
In between calls to patients, she double-checked her calendar for her next appointment for treatment with Dr. LaRoy.
It was in five days.
She could be back by then, but did she want to continue? Did it matter at this point? The other day amid the maelstrom of Amber’s disappearance, Robert had indicated that he’d reevaluated things about their future, about being a father, even selling the cabin.
But his change of heart did not suddenly erase her unease about him.
It left her torn.
At the same time Julie said she’d found information about Robert’s life with Cynthia in Alberta. Maybe it would lead to answers to help Claire make the right decision.
Julie had promised to tell her more, but so far Claire hadn’t heard a word.
What’s up with Julie?
Claire texted her and waited for a response.
When none came, she attempted to start packing as a distraction. She wanted Robert, the technical genius, to check her slow laptop and phone. Walking through the house, she was unable to find him until she heard the buzz of his saw and went to the garage.
To her surprise he was building another planter box.
“How many of those are you going to make?” she asked. “Didn’t you already take some up to the cabin?”
He lifted his safety goggles and shrugged.
“I don’t know. I like making them, gives me peace of mind at a time like this. I can always give them to the neighbors.”
“Have you got a minute? I need you to help me with something.”
“Sure.”
“I need you to look at my phone and laptop. They keep freezing up.”
“Now?”
He set down his power saw.
“As soon as you have time. I’m going to do what the detective suggested. After I finish postponing all therapy sessions at my office, I’m going to visit Martha Berman in Las Vegas for a few days, or until they arrest Eric and find Amber.”
Robert thought for a moment.
“Are you flying? I’ll go with you. Maybe we could see a show and take your mind off things a bit.”
“No, I don’t want to take my mind off things. I’m going to drive. I want the time alone to think. I’ll stay with Martha at her house.”
Robert let a few seconds pass.
“Forgive me, Claire, but I was hoping we could find a minute or two to talk about us, you know, about everything.”
“I’d like that, but this is a bad time. How about when I get back and we know how things are going to go?”
“Sure, if that’s what you want.”
“I think that’s the best way for now.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Might not be for a little while yet, I still haven’t reached everybody.”
He unplugged his power saw and dragged a forearm across his brow.
“Okay, let me take care of your computer and phone for you.”
55
Los Angeles, California
Later that day, LAPD Officer Will Tollson walked out of a little taco place on South Alvarado carrying two large take-out coffees to the parking lot.
His partner, Arnie Veck, had found a patch of shade big enough to swallow their new Chevy Caprice black-and-white.
Tollson passed him his coffee.
“Thanks.” Veck ceased scrutinizing the patrol car terminal to take the cup. Then he readjusted his seat behind the wheel. “You know, I prefer the Crown Vics.”
“Old dogs like you don’t like change,” Veck said, swiveling the terminal.
Veck studied the street as dispatches crackled over the radio.
“I’m thinking of dropping in on Bill Cruger’s retirement party tonight. Want to come meet some embittered old bulls?”
“Sure, all part of staff development.” Tollson tapped the monitor. “Look at this. We got to watch out for a gang funeral. Cruger’s retirement, gang funeral-the circle of life turns the right way for once.”
“Let’s head that way, fly our colors out of respect.”
Veck slid the transmission into Drive and they started patrolling. They’d turned down a local four-lane boulevard and were eastbound about a mile from the Staples Center. They were rolling by low-rise office buildings and fast-food outlets when they approached the Palms of Paradise Motor Inn, a two-story hellhole. Veck hit the turn signal.
“Let’s sweep the lot for BOLOs first,” he said.
“Roger that.” Tollson took a hit of coffee, then cued up the monitor for his notes from the rotator, looking for information on wanted suspects.
Veck slowed the car to a crawl through the lot, which by Tollson’s estimate, had some two dozen vehicles.
They had alerts for a 2009, possibly a 2010, blue Dodge Challenger with left rear taillight damage sought in the shooting of two gang members on Eighteenth Street’s Westside. They were also looking for a lime-green lowrider Civic with the last character a 9 in the tag. The Civic was wanted by L.A. County for an armed robbery.
“Hello.” Veck swept by a white 2012 Jeep Patriot, without stopping, reciting the seven-character California plate to Tollson for submission. “I think there’s a BOLO for a white Jeep Patriot.” Veck rolled out of the lot so that anyone watching them would assume they were done.
The terminal gave a soft ping.
“Bingo,” Tollson said. “That tag comes up with a big-time want by Alhambra P.D. The registered owner is Eric Larch, of Long Beach, wanted for breaching a protective order, now sought in the disappearance of his estranged wife, Amber Pratt. Christ, this is real bad. It just goes on. Hell, it looks like he’s a 187 suspect. He’s already had one assault on her. According to his bail terms, he’s not to set foot in the Southland.”
Both officers looked at Eric Larch’s recent arrest photo.
“Okay, call it in,” Veck, said. “We’ll swing back and block him. Odds are he dumped his SUV. When backup arrives, we’ll shake the building.”
Veck and Tollson T-boned Larch’s Patriot. A quick visual of the interior indicated no one was inside. Within minutes, two additional units arrived. The officers got out and used earpieces to mute their radios as two took the back and one each took the side of the motel.
Tollson and Veck entered the small office.
It was cramped with plants and wired carousel trees filled with tourist brochures about L.A., Hollywood and the sights. The clerk, a soft-spoken slim man in his forties, cooperated fully, checking his registration records and tapping his finger in his record for Room 134.
“That is the one with the white Jeep,” the clerk said. “It’s on the ground floor, near the pool breezeway. Here it is on the map.”
“No back entrance? No adjoining room entrance?” Veck asked.
“None, sir, only one door.”
“Are there people, guests, in the adjoining rooms or above?”
The clerk studied his records.
“None. They are vacant.”
Veck turned and whispered into his radio before he and Tollson headed to Room 134. Two more officers joined them. The pool was empty. The courtyard showed no signs of life and the upper level balcony appeared quiet. Paint blistered on the door, which rattled when Tollson banged on it. The other officers kept to the side, each had a hand on the grip of their holstered sidearm.
Nothing.
Tollson banged again, harder.
Movement on the inside.
“Los Angeles Police, step outside with your hands on your head!”
Locks clicked, the chain jangled, the handle turned and Eric Larch opened the door. He stood there bewildered, wearing only boxer shorts.
Tollson, Veck and the others charged in, put Eric down on his stomach and began placing his wrists in handcuffs behind his back.
“Hey! What the hell is this?”
“You’re under arrest.” Tollson snapped the first cuff.
“What for- Fuck, hey that hurts!”
“Violation of the protection order.”
“What? No way, I’m keeping my distance. I’m in L.A., not Alhambra.”
The other cuff snapped.
“You’re not supposed to be here at all, asshole,” Veck said. “Let’s go.”
The other supporting officers checked the bathroom. It was clear. Veck told them to sit on the room.
“The techs are going to want to process this and his SUV.”
As they escorted Eric to their patrol car, Veck read Larch his rights.
“Want to tell us where Amber is?”
Larch remained silent.
As Veck and Tollson approached their car in the rear parking lot, the two officers posted there had taken serious interest in the back of Larch’s Patriot.
“Hey, Arnie, come over here and take a look,” one of them said.
He pointed to an area on the rear gate and some rusty-red smears.
“Does that look like blood to you?”
56
Commerce and Alhambra, California
Joe Tanner studied the files on his desk.
Since yesterday a puzzling ping of recognition had been sounding in his brain but he didn’t know why. He couldn’t put his finger on it. He’d been searching reports, exhibits, handwritten notes, photos, records and statements from the five cold cases and the new one for Amber Pratt.
For much of the morning the task force had been following tips from the news conference. But Tanner was dogged by a persistent niggling in the back of his mind since meeting Robert Bowen.
The reason eluded him.
“Why is Bowen familiar to me? The answer’s got to be in here.”
“I told you,” Zurn said, setting down a clipping from the Los Angeles Times. “Look at the headlines. Robert Bowen is the hero pilot who rescued a mother and her baby from their burning car.”
“I don’t think that’s it.”
“That’s it, Joe. You’re overthinking this. Now get moving on some of these new tips. We may find a lead there.”
Tanner couldn’t shift his focus. He continued scanning the documents, until he heard his name shouted by a detective across the office.
“Hey, Joe, call coming for you!”
Tanner grabbed his line.
“Joe, this is Belinski in Alhambra. The LAPD just picked up Eric Larch. We’re setting up to let you talk to him.”
“You find anything about the girl?”
“Nothing. How soon can you get here?”
“On our way.” Tanner hung up and pulled on his jacket. “Let’s go Harvey, Alhambra’s got our suspect.”
Some twenty-five minutes later Tanner and Zurn were in Alhambra police headquarters standing on the dark side of the one-way glass looking into the Alhambra Police Department’s interview room. It had dull white walls, an acoustic-tiled ceiling, fluorescent lighting, a plain table with two empty hard-back chairs on one side.
Eric Larch was alone in a chair at the table, facing the one-way glass with his arms folded over his chest-the embodiment of anger.
Is this the Dark Wind Killer?
Since his arrest by the LAPD, he’d been transferred to Alhambra where he’d been jailed in a holding cell while awaiting a court appearance for violation of his bail and the protection order.
“What do you think, Joe?” Ed Belinski stood next to him and Zurn.
Without taking his attention from Larch, Tanner tapped his file folders against his leg. He had studied Larch’s history and was concerned with several aspects.
Throughout his life Larch was obsessed with true-crime shows and had aspirations of being more than what he was, “being famous for something,” “being a somebody with power,” according to psych reports filed with the court after he’d assaulted Amber.
He was an expert at bypassing security and surveillance systems.
He’d lived in cities tied to two of the five murdered women at the time they were killed.
All of these points raised red flags for Tanner.
“So what do you think?” Belinski repeated, eager to help the task force. “He looks pretty good for Amber Pratt and your cold cases.”
“That’s what we’re here to find out.”
Tanner and Zurn entered the interview room. Larch’s head snapped up.
“Eric, I’m Detective Joe Tanner, this is my partner, Harvey Zurn. We’re with L.A. County and we’d like to talk with you.”
Chairs scraped as they seated themselves.
Tanner pulled a photocopied document from the file and slid it to Larch.
“Before we can help you, we need to confirm that you’ve been read your rights and that this is your signature confirming that you waived your right to a lawyer.”
Larch glanced at it.
“Yeah, my lawyer’s useless. I got nothing to do with all this bullshit on the news about Amber missing. Christ! She told me on the phone that she wanted to talk about getting back together, so I came down here to see her, to work things out. I told Belinski I wish to hell I knew where she was!”
“Don’t lie to us, Eric. You know what this is about. You violated the order and your bail conditions. Your brother stands to lose the money he put up for you.”
“He knows I’ll pay him back.”
“Where’s Amber?”
Larch tightened his arms over his chest. His right leg started bouncing.
“Eric.” Tanner exhaled. “You’ve been down here for two days. What were you doing? You couldn’t miss the news reports of Amber’s disappearance. Where is she?”
“I don’t know.” Eric shook his head. “That’s what I want you to tell me.”
“What were your activities here for the last two days?” Tanner asked.
“When she called me and said she wanted to talk, I came down here.”
“We got that, asshole,” Zurn said. “What were you doing in L.A. for two days?”
“She wasn’t home when I rang the bell. I couldn’t find her. Then I saw on the news that she was missing and I freaked out. I was already messed up, you know, trying to fix things with her. I didn’t know what to think.”
“So what did you do?” Tanner said.
“All of a sudden I got real scared. I thought maybe this was some sort of elaborate trap to nail me, put me back in jail, you know, something cooked up with her shrink and that bitch cop that arrested me. So I pretty much kept a low profile.”
“Were you not concerned for your wife, seeing how she vanished?” Tanner said.
“Yes, absolutely. But I was screwed up, I couldn’t think straight. We were going through what we’re going through, then she goes missing. I was freaking right out, and between driving around looking for Amber by her house, her job, her shrink’s office and our old place in Long Beach, I stayed in my motel room and got drunk.”
Zurn’s jaw muscles began pulsating as he eyeballed Larch.
“You’re a three-coil piece of shit. You know that, don’t you?” Zurn said.
“The court ordered you to stay away from Amber,” Tanner said. “Why did you violate the order?”
“I’m still her husband. She’s confused by lawyers, by judges, by her shrink. All this crap. I’m doing my part. I’m taking counseling.”
“It’s not working out so well. Is it, all-star?” Zurn’s gaze burned into Larch. “Seeing how you attacked Amber and her shrink on the street. You disgust me.”
Larch glared at Zurn. “This good cop, bad cop?”
“Why did you violate the order, Eric?” Tanner asked.
“Amber told me she wants to reconcile. She called me and I drove down here to talk to her. Where is she?”
Tanner opened a folder and showed Larch a colored photograph of a reddish smear on the tailgate of Larch’s Jeep. “You know what that is?”
Larch studied the photo.
“That’s blood, my blood.”
Larch held up his right fist, displaying scraped knuckles.
/> “I banged up my hand fixing a loose battery cable. What’s going on?”
“Not long ago there was a burglary at your wife’s therapist’s office in San Marino. Someone defeated the security system and attempted to look through confidential files. You’re an expert at security systems, aren’t you? And you’re familiar with that office. You were arrested there.”
“What the hell is this?”
“Tell us where Amber is, Eric. Cooperate so we can help you.”
Larch said nothing.
“Eric, we know you wrote to her, we know you called her and left a threatening message on her machine the night she was last seen. We know you drove to Alhambra. Your credit card was used to buy gas there. We found blood in her residence and blood on your Jeep.”
Larch said nothing.
For the next thirty minutes Tanner hammered Larch with the same questions before he changed the subject and placed a photo of a pretty smiling woman before him.
“Ever meet Esther Fatima Lopez, Eric?”
He looked at her face and shook his head.
“Her body was found in Topanga in 2004, the same year you lived there.”
Tanner let the minutes pass by before he set another picture of another woman before Larch.
“You also lived in Temple City, in 2007-” Tanner tapped the photo “-that’s the same year Bonnie Bradford lived there. Her home had a security system that was expertly disarmed.”
“What’s this got to do with me?” Larch asked.
“Both of these women were murdered by the same killer.”
“Why are you telling me this? You think I killed somebody? You’re fucking crazy.”
“You have a serious interest in true-crime cases-legendary murder cases like Jack the Ripper, Son of Sam, the Zodiac Killer, Green River, Ted Bundy, that sort of thing?”
“So do millions of other people, so what?”
“According to a psychiatric assessment filed with the court after you smashed your fist into Amber’s face a few times, didn’t you say you fantasized about being famous, about having power over people, especially ‘bitches who didn’t know their place’? Isn’t that right, Eric?” Tanner tapped the files.
Larch blinked like a man who didn’t trust the ground under his feet as Tanner placed photocopies of newspaper articles about the Dark Wind Killer in front of him.
