“There was a lag in the message going out, and a lag in me checking. I realize time was of the essence, but-”
“Never mind. We need to get people to that coffee shop right away.”
“I took the liberty of alerting some units. I sent a copy of the photo to Dispatch. I figured that’s what you’d want.”
“You figured right. I’m on my way.”
I put the shifter in drive and hit the gas. A car rushes past on the street-I didn’t see it-forcing me to mash down on the brake. Up ahead, the driver flicks on his headlights. No wonder I missed him. I take a deep breath, check the mirrors, and get going.
I take Kirby all the way to the right turn on Westheimer, making a mental note to get a warrant for David’s high-rise apartment. I turn on Dunlavy, parking behind a line of patrol cruisers on the curb. Nguyen is there, and just inside the patio I run into Sergeant Nixon himself, the shift supervisor. He smirks at me, palms up.
“Here for your coffee fix, Detective? Or are you having a late dinner with the missus?”
“None of the above. I take it he’s not here?”
He shakes his head. “But look around if you want.”
About half of the tables are packed and things seem busy at the bar. The pack of loners who infest such places during daytime, earbuds inserted, faces lit up by the glow of computer screens, has considerably thinned out. The patrons eye us with interest, sitting mostly in groups. Out on the town. Surprised at the sudden arrival of the police.
A couple of uniforms stroll through the tables, double-checking faces. I do likewise, determined to make the effort.
Nix is right, though. David has left the building.
I go back outside to my car, the uniforms coalescing in my wake. I grab my briefcase from the passenger seat, open the laptop right there on my hood. The Outlook software chugs along, filling my inbox with recent arrivals.
“You mind if I release these units?” Nix asks. “I guess I’ll write this one up as a wild goose chase.”
The banter irritates me. “That’s the nature of the game, except when it isn’t.”
He chuckles. “If the law enforcement thing doesn’t work out, you might have a bright future in the exciting world of fortune cookie writing.”
The message from Simone Walker’s email address is there, just as Hanford said. I glide the cursor over her name. I click. The pretense from before is dropped: he hasn’t bothered to pretend the message is from Simone. The strange chattiness is absent, too. There’s just a single veiled threat:
I GUESS THINGS ARE ABOUT TO HEAT UP
As the cruisers pull away, Nix returns to my side. With no subordinates to impress, he adopts a sober expression. We’ve known each other a long time. He leans over to squint at the screen, nodding as he reads the line of text. Then his eyes cut over and he recognizes the name.
“You been getting a lot of those?” he asks.
“Enough.”
“And the guy in the picture, he’s the one?”
I nod.
“All right, then,” he says, clapping my shoulder. “You look out for yourself, okay? Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t. And listen: I’m gonna need some more muscle from your shift. We’re not letting go of this guy. I need to round up my partner and my lieutenant, then we can all drop in on him at home. He’s got a place in that high-rise on Kirby.”
“Tell me where and when,” he says. “I’ll bring the chips and dip.”
I get back in the car, situating the open laptop on the passenger seat. The photo of Bayard is waiting in my inbox, too. He sits at a patio table with his chin cradled in the scarred hand. The image is fuzzy but unmistakably him. He stares just below the camera. His eyes are lucid and hard. Again, the pretense is gone, all the glancing away, all the awkwardness and evasion. Without the mask, I see him for the first time as he truly is.
Calculating. Intelligent. And all too normal. The serial killer whose existence I denied. The unifying intelligence behind the seemingly unconnected acts.
No, that’s not right.
I’m giving him too much credit. The connections were obvious. The crimes, actual and attempted, were clumsily executed. Only the cleanup showed the genius of evil. The rest was simple depravity.
The story Kristie told me, the girl from across the hall, provides a template for speculation. I can imagine how Simone’s murder must have gone down. She would have been surprised by his presence, perhaps. Or maybe she invited him in. Their relationship would have been like the one he’d developed with Kristie. She would have pitied him.
When he put his hands on her, when he began his pushing game, she might have sensed what was coming. But probably not. She’d have seen him as a big child-“emotionally stunted,” in Kristie’s words-nothing she couldn’t handle. Stop, she would have told him, and she’d turned her back on him. And in a flash he rushed up, knife in hand, closing his fingers over her lips as he inflicted the fatal wound. Then, crouched over her dead body, he’d begun the ritual stabbing. Clumsily again. Learning.
There must have been some contact before. She might have had emails from him. She might have had his name and number programmed in her phone. He’d known all along he’d have to take them.
With Agnieszka, everything must have been different. That was a rush job.
He’d watched her out by the pool, complaining to Jack Hill over the phone. He’d failed with Agnieszka before, but he wouldn’t this time. She had the power to connect him directly to the crime. So when she left, he followed. He learned where she lived, then positioned himself for an ambush when she arrived home. There was no question of coaxing her-she was on her guard-which explains why he resorted to the ligature, choking her first, and then stabbing her. Putting the blade in her hand before plunging it home.
That was personal, and it makes sense: she was the first real target. With Kristie, he was just feeling his way, discovering for the first time what was truly inside him. Watching Agnieszka, the fantasy must have taken root in him. He saw what he would do to her. He could stare the act in the face and recognize himself. But then she short-circuited the process and the obstructing trees went up. Only later, when the new tenant arrived, could he execute his plan.
Simone was his first. I’m certain of that. An experienced predator wouldn’t hunt so close to home. In time he’d gain a kind of trade craft, teaching himself how to commit his crimes while avoiding detection.
Now he will never have the chance. I can at least comfort myself with that.
Yes, things are going to heat up for you, David.
Just not the way you were expecting.
“Gina’s here with me,” Charlotte says, “but I couldn’t get Carter to listen. He said you’d understand. He said he wasn’t going to be a bystander.”
“Great. I’ll call him.”
“What about you? Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine.”
Aguilar taps on the window, motioning me to hurry up. He’s not too happy about being called out. Through the windshield I can see Bascombe slipping a vest over his head while Captain Hedges, already in body armor, rests the butt of a decorative shotgun on his hip, probably practicing for the cameras he expects after the fact. It wasn’t my idea to drag him out to the high-rise-and judging from the lieutenant’s tight features, it wasn’t his, either.
“Charlotte, I gotta go.”
“Be careful,” she says.
The tactical team, stacked up alongside their van, is ready to go. I get out of the car and vest up, press-checking my side arm one more time. So many officers, so many guns, it might seem like overkill to bring in a single knife-wielding nut job. But overkill is our specialty, the firstest with the mostest, overwhelming force applied to an enemy’s weakest point, nipping all opposition in the bud before it can materialize. Textbook blue.
I just wish I knew for certain Bayard was waiting in there. We haven’t done our strategic homework. We haven’t h
ad time.
“If he’s home, he knows we’re coming.”
“Let’s get in there, then,” Aguilar says.
We meet a concierge in the lobby, then travel up the elevators in groups, forming up in the hallway down from David’s apartment. When everyone’s ready, Hedges makes the call, trailing personally behind the tac team, leaving the rest of us to follow in his wake. At the door, the rammer sidesteps politely so the next man in line can insert the concierge’s key. We pause a few moments, breathing hard, keeping the muzzles of our shotguns and pistols and MP5 submachine guns aimed discreetly at the ground.
The lights are off inside the apartment. Our flashlights cut through the darkness, left and right, until someone gets the idea to flip the switch. A dozen policemen fan out through five hundred square feet, figuring out pretty quick that David isn’t here.
“The view of downtown is impressive,” I say.
Hedges glares at me.
There’s a stack of mover’s boxes in the bedroom, some clothes in the closet. Not much else. From the bathroom, Aguilar calls out. I push my way past the tac squad. The bottom of the tub is scorched. In the middle of the burn, a melted laptop computer. A charred brick that used to be Simone Walker’s cell phone.
“He’s covering his tracks,” Aguilar says.
“It’s too late for that.”
In the kitchen, tucked into the refrigerator door, another wine bottle filled with gasoline.
“So this is a bust,” Hedges says. “We’ll need to leave a team here, stake the place out. Bascombe, will you see to that?”
The lieutenant nods. After making a show of conferring with the rest of us, making sure the scene is secured, Hedges punches out. He lets us all know what a good job we’re doing and to keep it up. As he squeezes my shoulder and repeats the sentiment under his breath, I realize he’s been campaigning so long behind the scenes that now he’s wooing us, too.
As soon as he’s gone, I exchange a look with Bascombe.
“The promotion,” he says. “It’s not gonna be him and he knows it.”
“You sure? He was trying pretty hard just now.”
“Exactly.” He shakes his head in disgust. “If he switches it off now, it’s obvious to everyone what he’s been up to. So he’s gotta keep it up for a while.”
“It’s already obvious to everyone,” I say.
“And if he realized that, how do you think he’d feel?”
I look at my lieutenant with new eyes. He’s not commiserating with me. He’s sending a message. The captain went crazy on us, but he’s a good man. His head will be screwed back on in no time.
“Some people,” he says, “if they saw the emperor strutting around with no clothes, all they’d do is laugh. You and me, we’re not like that.”
“I hear you, sir. No, we’re not.”
He puts one of his big hands on my shoulder blade, resting it there a moment, then he goes to work rounding up all the stray officers.
Down the elevator and back on the pavement, Nix leans against the wheel well of a cruiser, arms crossed.
“You’re batting zero for two this evening, March.”
“At least I’m still swinging, right?”
Behind the wheel again, making my way north toward home. Carter Robb picks up the phone and gets an earful from me about not being a bystander. I don’t like my words being used against me.
“You should’ve listened to what Charlotte said. There’s a dangerous man out there, and he knows where we live. Until he’s in custody, I’d just as soon not have you playing the cowboy over there. He already cut you once.”
“Like I said, I’ve had worse. And if he does show up, somebody needs to be here to welcome him, right?”
“You mean you? What happened to turning the other cheek?”
“Jesus preached love,” he says, “not stupidity. You’re twisting that verse out of context.”
“You can lecture me on the fine points later. Right now I’d appreciate it if you’d get in your car and go. Ann would be more than happy to have you over there. Just don’t try any public prayer or she’ll call the ACLU. Hey, better yet, maybe you can convert her. If anybody needs it-”
“Roland,” he says. “You wanna cut it out. When you start up like this, I do have to turn the other cheek. But I don’t have to like it.”
“Then do what I say. I’m serious, son. This is no joke.”
I cross under the Southwest Freeway, retracing my route from an hour before. I roll to a stop at the light on Richmond. A guy in a Santa suit stands on the corner with a restaurant sandwich board over his shoulders.
“I’m not afraid,” Carter tells me. “And anyway, we do have one thing in common. I’m not gonna stand by and let bad things happen. How did you put it? I’m one of the braves.”
The edge in his voice is enough to cut. Hearing that term on his lips. The two of us are always locking horns, always picking up on the same unfinished conversation.
“Sure you are,” I say. “You don’t have to prove it, either. You already have. Now get over there, all right? While you’re standing on principle, Charlotte and Gina are all on their own, with nothing but a chain-smoking pathologist to protect them. Bridger’s got no cardio. Are you really gonna put your trust in him?”
He laughs, but it’s not the easygoing humor of earlier days. We were on a roll for a while when they first moved in, glossing over our differences, and I’m afraid we’ll never get that back. For one thing, he’s always pulling stuff like this, second-guessing when it’s clear I know better. Barking back at the alpha dog.
“Carter,” I say. “Please do this.”
A pause. “I’ll tell you something. Maybe you were right the other night, when we were driving back from dinner. All that stuff about evil and free will. I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said. That’s what I do when we have our little talks: think a lot. I get the feeling you don’t. I think you forget as soon as they’re done. But what you said stuck with me, and I feel like I gave you talking points instead of what I really think.”
“Carter-”
“What I really think,” he says, “is that I don’t know why there’s evil in the world. I believe God is loving, and I believe nothing can happen without his say-so. But there’s more to him than those two things. He has reasons for what he does, and for what he allows.”
“I’m sure he does.”
“Impenetrable reasons,” he says. “For evil and suffering. All I know is, those things don’t mean to him what they mean to us. Not that he doesn’t care, but for him, just staying alive isn’t the highest good. There are things more important than living, more important than being happy, more important than never feeling pain.”
In the rearview mirror, a pair of headlights dip. I glance back. I’m passing the Huntington on my right, approaching the intersection of San Felipe. The car behind me looks familiar.
“Let’s continue this another time,” I say.
“Like always. Listen, I’m staying.”
“I’ve gotta go, Carter. I’ll talk to you later.”
He’s already off the line. I look in my mirror again to be sure. I only got a flash of it before, when I had to slam on the brakes to keep from getting hit. On the curb in front of Mainz’s house, just down the street from the Bayards’. Is it the same car? I think so. I slow down a little, hoping to close the distance. The driver adjusts for my speed. I accelerate quickly, not wanting to let on I’ve spotted him.
Nix said 0 for 2, and I’m reluctant to make it 0 for 3.
But I remember Ann’s throwaway question: Would it be so hard to tail you around? Yeah, it would. At least that’s what I’ve always assumed. Why should it be any harder for Bayard to follow me, though, than it was for me and Aguilar to tail Jason Young. Surveillance works not because it’s impossible to detect but because most people aren’t even looking for it.
A memory flashes. This happened before. I was pulling out with Carter in the passenger seat, and a car whi
zzed around me, like it had to veer to keep from hitting me. Just like what happened in front of Mainz’s house. That’s no coincidence. It was David Bayard. Trying to work up the nerve for a confrontation.
I call Bascombe, keeping an eye on the lights in my rearview.
“Are you positive?” he says.
“I’m not a hundred percent. I think it’s the same car, and if it is, then it makes sense it would be him. That’s probably how he found my house in the first place. I led him there.”
“So what do you want to do?”
“I want to bushwhack him.”
A pause. “Keep him busy, and I’ll call you right back.”
The gas station Bascombe chooses occupies the block between Shepherd and Durham, across from a fried chicken joint and a barbed-wired used car lot. All I have to do is turn into the parking lot and roll up to one of the gas pumps, like I’m filling my tank before heading home. Bascombe will be there in his black Ford Expedition. Some officers from the tac team in an unmarked van. Aguilar too, in his pickup. An ad hoc welcoming committee assembled from the leftovers of our last gig, sketchily briefed by phone, armed with my description of the car. I’ve called the plates in and had them run. The car is registered to David Bayard Sr.
His father pays for everything.
He tags along a few car lengths behind me, still taking pains not to be seen. That’s a good sign. The ambush will catch him by surprise.
No traffic. Just a few cars on the road. We move from the orbit of one streetlight to another, getting closer and closer to the end of the road.
If I kept traveling along this route, I’d reach the church where I rousted Jason Young the morning after Simone Walker’s murder. It’s too bad we couldn’t arrest Bayard there.
Poetic justice.
But driving into a gas station full of cars is one thing. He won’t suspect a trap. A church parking lot at ten o’clock would look a little suspicious.
I cross the intersection and see the gas station up ahead. I drift over into the left-hand lane to make the turn. In my rearview I see him moving over.
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