Into the Dark

by Rick Mofina

  J

  After sending the text, Julie touched her phone to her chin andsaid a prayer while still processing the new information. She’d tell Claire tostay with her tonight. That would be best.

  Before she could form another thought her phone pinged.

  Claire had responded.

  Are youstill at your office, Julie?

  Yes.

  Can youcome to my house now?

  Yes, on myway.

  59

  Los Angeles, California

  Julie gathered her documents and her bag.

  As she prepared to leave for Claire’s house, she hesitated before shutting off her computer. She sat back down and searched online news sites for updates on Amber’s case.

  She was still missing and police hadn’t found her husband.

  Damn, what’s happening with that task force investigation?

  Julie picked up her office phone and called her friend in the D.A.’s office. After three rings the line was answered.

  “Bartley Green.”

  “Bart, it’s Julie, I need a minute.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Friend to friend, what’re you hearing on the Dark Wind Killer?”

  “Well…” Green exhaled. “They still haven’t found Amber, but-” he dropped his voice “-this will be made public soon. The LAPD in Rampart grabbed the husband, took him to Alhambra where the task force questioned him.”

  “Good.”

  “Not good. They’ve ruled him out.”

  “They don’t have him for the five unsolveds and his wife?”

  “Nope, they’ve got no hard evidence. He’s not the guy, which means the killer is still out there.”

  Julie considered the situation.

  “Are they looking at anyone else specifically?”

  “If they are, we’re not hearing anything. We know they’re chasing a number of tips.”

  She shot an uneasy glance at her pages of new information she had on Robert Bowen, a.k.a. Leon Richard Elliott. Her mind was racing. She was angry at him. She’d never really liked him. And she was angry at herself for not watching out for Claire when she’d first met Mr. Community Hero.

  Am I wrong for thinking what I’m thinking?

  Before Julie knew it, she’d wedged her phone between her shoulder and ear and started typing on her keyboard.

  “You’ve got friends on that task force, right?” she asked.

  “A couple.”

  “And you protect your sources, a lawyer-client privilege thing, right?”

  “What are you getting at, Julie?”

  Her conscience cautioned her about ethics, about revealing confidential information relating to a client’s case, unless it concerned a crime or public safety.

  This damn well does, she told herself.

  “I’m going to send you some information right now, several attachments. It’s on its way to you. It all deals with some questionable history of the husband of Amber Pratt’s psychologist.”

  “Are you suggesting they take a look at him? On what basis?”

  “You’ll know when you see the material. This is likely nothing. It’ll likely dead-end. Still, under the circumstances, I think you should pass it to the task force and let them assess it quietly. That’s all I’m suggesting, Bart.”

  “All right.”

  “And remember you didn’t get it from me. I trust you on this.”

  “You know I’m bound, Julie.”

  “Okay, gotta go.”

  Once again, she got ready to depart. After sending the information to her friend in the D.A.’s office, Julie held off sending it to Claire. She thought it best to first talk to her face-to-face about Robert. She picked up her cell phone and texted Claire, hoping she would keep responding.

  Is Robert with you now?

  No, we’ll be able to talk. What did you find out?

  I’ll show you some documents when I get there.

  OK.

  Any word on Amber?

  Nothing. I’m going out of my mind.

  Be there soon.

  After sending the text Julie bit her bottom lip; she considered her gun locked in the office safe.

  Should she take it?

  No, she thought, she was visiting Claire at home to talk and convince her to stay with her for a couple of nights. In gathering her things and hurrying to the elevator, Julie was stung by second thoughts over what she’d done, and what she may have set in motion.

  As Julie’s elevator descended, Leonard Fitzhugh, the guard at the main concourse security desk, set his comic aside and unwrapped his Tex-Mex submarine sandwich. He’d been looking forward to this moment for the past few hours, since he’d picked up his dinner on his way to his late shift.

  As Fitzhugh lined it up for that first joyous bite, there was a flash on the console bank of twenty-four security camera monitors. Three cameras for Level Four in the underground parking garage went out.

  They were showing a static snowstorm.

  “Crap,” Fitzhugh whispered.

  He set his sandwich down, flipped through the laminated binder for a number and then called the dispatcher for the surveillance company that maintained the cameras. This was the fourth time this year they’d had a problem. He wrote up the issue in his log. It would be about an hour before a tech showed up.

  Fitzhugh returned to more important matters, opening a bag of potato chips and soda, before picking up that glorious sandwich.

  He’d eat first, then go down to Level Four and take a look.

  Julie’s elevator went directly to the underground garage.

  As she walked to her car, which was parked on Level Four among the sprinkling of vehicles that remained at the far end of the lot, she continued grappling with the action she’d taken.

  Given the situation, she hadn’t overcompensated by alerting the task force. She doubted much would come of that, but she needed to help Claire get some distance from Robert, Leon, whoever the hell he was.

  On top of all else that was happening, this was going to crush Claire. She’d need some time and space to think and Julie would be there for her.

  Her steps echoed as she neared her car, parked near a column and whitewashed wall under a fluorescent light. She reached into her bag for her remote key lock. It beeped twice when she unlocked her doors. Reaching for the door handle, she gave the area a quick scan.

  As she opened her door Julie caught her breath.

  The security camera on the pillar above her car had been smashed from its mounting and was dangling by its wires. A sudden rush of movement caused her to turn at the moment she felt metal prongs pressed into the flesh of her neck. Her body was paralyzed with a million-volt jolt of tingling burning electricity and she dropped.

  Just like the cows at the slaughterhouse.

  60

  Greater Los Angeles, California

  The tear tracks had dried on Claire’s face miles ago.

  She’d set the radio on her Toyota Corolla to scan am stations so she could monitor news reports on Amber’s case.

  There was nothing.

  It seemed like an eternity since she’d left her home in San Marino for Las Vegas. Traffic had backed up in stretches along the 210 as it wove through the eastern sprawl, taking her through a gamut of emotions.

  All she knew was that they still hadn’t found Amber, or Eric.

  She’d heard nothing from the detectives or Julie, and the horror that Eric Larch was suspected in the murders of five other women continued exacerbating Claire’s guilt over the tragedy.

  She couldn’t escape it.

  She’d tried to find solace in Martha Berman’s comforting words, that it wasn’t her fault. And in the aftermath, she’d done all she could for her patients. Some were so supportive and concerned for her but now, as miles rolled by, Claire felt as if she were running away.

  Like I’ve been running all my life.

  As the road flowed under her, Claire saw herself at eight, running from
her home carrying her baby brother, Luke, before he died in her arms. Her heart was breaking. Then she saw herself pinned by Cliff as he raised his fist to hit her before Robert saved her. Then she saw her dream of a family with Robert coming true before it began crumbling when she’d sensed he didn’t want one with her because he was still in love with his first wife.

  Should I continue my treatments with Dr. LaRoy?

  She didn’t know.

  Julie had said she’d found more information on Robert’s past but Claire hadn’t heard any more from her. Suddenly Claire had to brake to let a van in ahead of her.

  Catching her breath, she went back to her thoughts.

  What should I do about Robert?

  She was confused. He’d seemed to have a change of heart about selling the cabin.

  Claire thought of their honeymoon, the happy time they had together at the cabin and how she’d wished she’d had more chances to get out to it.

  As she approached the exit for 15 North and Las Vegas, she came upon an idea: I could go to the cabin now. I could work there instead and be back in L.A. in two hours if I needed to be. Martha will understand.

  She checked her rearview mirror and adjusted her grip on the wheel. She didn’t take the exit for Las Vegas. Instead she continued east.

  Claire always loved how this leg of the drive transported her from the metropolis as it climbed into the San Bernardino Mountains.

  Rolling through the small mountain towns and the ribbon of highway that connected them was good therapy. She dropped the windows to inhale the cool, sweet pine-scented air.

  She took in the stunning lake views as she traveled along the north shore before stopping a few miles from the cabin at the tiny Lone Post Store and Gas Bar.

  “Could you fill it up, please?” Claire asked the lanky teenaged attendant before she went to the store.

  A Lab napping on the store porch greeted her by lifting an eyebrow. Transom bells rang when she entered. Claire smiled at the woman at the counter before browsing the well-stocked aisles. The wooden floor creaked and the air smelled of suntan lotion and baked bread.

  Unsure of what Robert had in the cabin fridge, she picked up a shopping basket and got some milk, lettuce, tomatoes, fruit, yogurt, bread, salad dressing and a box of granola cereal. When she put it all on the counter to pay, Claire followed the woman’s attention through the window to the pumps.

  “Looks like you got some trouble.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The front end of Claire’s car had sagged. The boy was crouched, running his hand over the tire.

  “Oh, no,” Claire said.

  “Bobby will change it for you if you let him get to your spare.”

  “Thank you, yes.” Claire went to the car.

  After they’d emptied her trunk and Bobby got to the mini-spare he shook his head.

  “It’s gone, too. The stem’s shot.”

  “Oh, no, I was heading to my cabin, but I’m on call and may need to get back to L.A. in a hurry. Is there anything you can do? Can you sell me a tire or something? What about this can of tire sealant?”

  “We don’t carry tires and sealant’s not going to work. The flat’s too damaged.” Bobby made note of the tire’s specs on a grease-stained pad. “We can make some calls about getting a tire for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Bobby and the woman, who it turned out was his mom, Flo, called garages in the lake area using the phone at the counter.

  Claire used the time to call people in L.A. on her cell phone but her attempts were futile because it kept freezing, even though it was fully charged. Frustrated, she resorted to using her credit card and the store’s public pay phone near the door.

  While the dog ambled inside to yawn at her, Claire called Robert but got voice mail, then Julie and left a message. Then she tried reaching Tanner, leaving a message on his cell phone. Then she tried his office line, but he was out and the person who took the call wouldn’t discuss a word of the investigation. Finally, Claire called Martha and left her a message.

  “Good news and bad news on the tire,” Bobby said. “Pixely’s in Victorville has one but Donny won’t be able to get it here until the morning.”

  “Where’s your place?” Flo asked.

  “Vista Lane.”

  “That’s not far,” Flo said. “We’ll load up your stuff in our truck. Bobby can drive you to your place. After we fix your car in the morning, I’ll send Bobby out to bring you back here. How’s that sound?”

  “Overly generous,” Claire said. “Thank you.”

  61

  Commerce, California

  Joe Tanner stood at the windows of the Cold Case Unit of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department, his cell phone pressed to his ear.

  With his free hand, he kneaded the tension in his neck while clarifying the wording of the press release before it went out the door.

  “No, Mindy,” he said. “We’re only saying that Eric Larch has been arrested for bail and protection-order violations and he’s cooperating in the investigation into the disappearance of his wife, Amber Pratt.”

  He waited as the wording was read back to him.

  “Estranged wife, fine,” he agreed. “That’s it. That’s all we’ll say. We know the people downtown want it out now, so let it go.”

  The press release wording was crucial to buy time and ensure the real killer believed Eric Larch was their suspect.

  Finished with the call, Tanner returned to his desk, hopeful that his instincts were right. All he needed were those manifests. He had hoped to have them by now. His line rang. It was Shirley, out front.

  “Joe, you got a message from Bartley Green with the D.A.’s office. He says it’s important you call him back ASAP.”

  Tanner took down the numbers. Green’s name was not familiar and he figured it was a status check. It happened with high-profile cases. He’d get back to him as soon as he could.

  “That it?”

  “And you got a call from Claire Bowen. She wanted an update and to inform you she’d left town. She’s in Big Bear Lake and left contact info.”

  “Good, thanks.”

  It was getting late in the day.

  Tanner downed the last of his cold coffee. Before returning calls he checked his email just as the first of several attachments arrived in his box from Knox at the FBI bearing the StarBest flight crew and passenger manifests covering the flights for the period in question.

  Tanner printed them off and looked over to Zurn, thinking he’d ask his partner to help study the manifests, but he’d just taken a call.

  “Bartley Green?” Zurn leaned forward at his desk. “With the D.A.’s office? Put him through.”

  Tanner held his tongue. Whoever Bartley Green was, he was persistent. Let Harvey deal with him, Tanner thought, collecting his pages.

  He started with Leeza Meadows, who’d only flown once in the time period before her death. It was to Boston. The captain listed for her flight was Leon Elliott. Tanner then went to the list for Fay Millwood. She’d flown once to Denver in the period. The captain for her flight was listed as Leon Elliott. Tanner thought, fine, Elliott was a pilot for StarBest. But the name Robert Bowen hadn’t surfaced at all so far.

  So much for instincts and hunches.

  Shuffling through the pages, he went to the flight for Bonnie Bradford to New York. The captain was Leon Elliott.

  This Leon Elliott was everywhere.

  Esther Lopez had gone to Las Vegas and Atlantic City to work. Leon Elliott was captain for one of her flights. Tanner flipped to the pages for the most frequent flyer of all five women, Monique Wilson. She’d flown to Chicago, Houston and Philadelphia. According to a note in the file, Wilson’s sister had said that Monique flew often enough to get to know some of the airline crews. On two of her flights, Houston and Philadelphia, Leon Elliott was her captain.

  What the hell?

  “Hey, Joe.” Zurn had finished his call. “You’re not going to believe this.”r />
  Still contending with the flight lists, Tanner turned to Zurn.

  “We got a tip from a source with the D.A.’s office to check out Robert Bowen,” Zurn said. “You know, the husband of Amber Pratt’s psychologist, the guy we met in her office? The freeway hero pilot. Turns out he changed his name in Canada after his wife died in a wilderness accident a few years back. She fell while they were hiking in the mountains. The Mounties up there had nothing to charge him with, but got a bad read on the guy.”

  “Robert Bowen changed his name?” Tanner asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “From what?”

  Zurn looked at his notes.

  “Used to be Leon Richard Elliott. We’re going to get some paper on him and a Mountie contact in British Columbia- What is it, Joe?”

  “It’s him.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Robert Bowen.”

  “How do we know that?” Zurn asked.

  Tanner stapled the flight manifests together and tossed them to Zurn.

  “Go through those flight lists where I highlighted. I don’t know how it happened-if he fell through the cracks or what, because I thought the TSA vetted pilots and that the airlines helped screen them with security checks and deep background. Look, Elliott is the common denominator. He was captain of the flight for each victim. He must’ve selected and stalked them.”

  As Zurn raced through the pages, he started shaking his head.

  “And now,” Zurn said, “he’s back, stalking his wife’s patients.”

  Tanner grabbed his jacket.

  “We need to get warrants now.”

  62

  Big Bear Lake, California

  Stones pelted the floorboards of Bobby’s old Dodge pickup as he and Claire bumped along the gravel road that was Vista Lane.

  “Thanks again for all your help,” Claire said.

  “No problem.”

  “I meant to ask, how’s the wireless reception out here? I’ve been having trouble with my cell phone and need to work on my computer.”