by Robin Mahle
Marshall followed, pulling on the jacket he’d tossed in the back seat.
They climbed the flight of stairs, the metal railing clattering in their wake. The complex was old and hadn’t been well cared for. Kempt had told the police she was staying with a cousin and, to their knowledge, she hadn’t known they’d taken Hudson in for questioning. Nor had she known that Branson had a woman tied up in his basement.
Marshall tapped his knuckles against the hollow front door that was painted green, although the color was faded and the paint peeled around the frame. A momentary shift of the cream curtains caught his eye, but when he turned, the fabric was released and swung back into its place. “Someone’s here.”
“San Diego Police. Open the door please,” Gibbons said, looking to Marshall.
The handle turned slowly and the door opened on hinges in need of oil. “Can I help you?” The woman behind the door held it open only a few inches, but it was not Laura.
“We’re here to speak with Laura Kempt. Is she available?” Marshall asked.
The woman’s eyes darted between Gibbons and Marshall. For a moment, Marshall thought she might slam the door in his face. Instead, the woman stepped back, opening the door further.
“Yes. Please come in.”
Marshall nodded to Gibbons as both stepped through the doorway.
“I’ll go and get her,” the woman said.
When the woman disappeared beyond the corridor, Marshall laid his hand over his .40 caliber Glock. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
“Yeah. Something’s not right.” Detective Gibbons released the flap from his holstered gun, ready to draw.
The small apartment was in disarray. Dishes piled in the sink, Chinese takeout boxes opened and scattered throughout, and it was in desperate need of a vacuum.
Marshall heard the faint sound of whispering voices traveling down the narrow hallway. He raised a finger to his lips and then pointed in the direction of the noise. A nod to Gibbons and they began moving slowly toward the back room, guns still holstered, but at the ready.
“Is everything all right?” Marshall asked, only steps from the room in which the women were speaking. “Laura Kempt? We’re with the police and we’d like to talk to you.” He turned the handle of the door. The voices silenced immediately. Marshall looked back to Gibbons as if ensuring he was prepared for whatever they might find behind the door.
It took a moment to register, but as soon as he saw the knife in her hands, Marshall knew what was about to happen. “Laura. Stop. Put the knife down.”
Laura Kempt was sitting on the edge of the bed. The knife, with a three-inch serrated blade that would likely be used to skin an animal, rested against her wrist, the pressure turning her skin white beneath it.
“Don’t come any closer.” Her pallid face glistened with perspiration.
The woman, her cousin, clutched the bedpost at the end. “Please, Laura. They’re here to help you.”
A brief glance was exchanged between Marshall and Detective Gibbons, who was standing next to him. It seemed to have occurred to both of them that the knife looked remarkably similar to the one the ME believed was used on Lindsay Brown. Short blade, serrated, leaving the skin torn and jagged.
“Laura, put the knife down so we can talk. I’m sure you’re frightened right now, but we are here to help.” Gibbons had been a negotiator with the SWAT team prior to moving to Homicide. Different scenario, but generally included the same principles: ensuring the suspect that the intention was to help, not harm; get them to let their guard down just long enough to move in and retake control of the situation.
But so far, Laura appeared unmoved. Her cousin was still shaking as she gripped the post.
“You think I don’t know why you’re here? You think I don’t know who you are, Detective Avery?” Laura pressed harder on the knife, forcing a drop of blood to spill from her wrist.
“We need to find out what you know about Edward Shalot and Lewis Branson. That’s why we’re here.” This time, it was Gibbons who replied. He saw Marshall flinch at the fact that she knew who he was. It had caught them both off guard, but Gibbons held firm.
Laura’s mouth upturned into the slightest knowing grin. “He was in love with Katie Reid. Well, what he thought was love. If you ask me, he was obsessed with her. And it was threatening to ruin everything.”
“Obsessed?” Marshall scoffed at the irony. “You’re the one threatening to end your life because of Shalot. You’re the one who planted his DNA on Lindsay’s body.”
“Ms. Kempt. You need to come with us now,” Gibbons said, shooting a concerned look to Marshall. He clearly wasn’t helping to calm the woman.
“What about the others? You know where they are? Shalot’s followers?” Marshall persisted. His tone turned deep, heavy with anger. He was losing control and he could feel it in his bones.
“Why should I help you, Detective Avery? You can’t help me. No one can.” Laura pulled the knife away from her wrist and jammed it into her thigh. Screaming, her face writhed in agony. She had hit her femoral artery. Blood spilled over her leg like oil spewing from the ground.
Her cousin screamed in horror, covering her mouth as she watched Laura crumple to the floor.
Detective Gibbons rushed to her side, laying her down and pressing against the wound, working to slow the blood loss, but he couldn’t dislodge the knife. “Call for help!” he shouted to Marshall.
Marshall pulled out his cell and called 911, identifying himself. “We need an ambulance at 475 Holston Avenue, apartment 2221. Suspect down.” He moved toward Gibbons. “We need to get that knife to forensics.”
“Jesus, Avery! Help me out here.” Gibbons’ hands were covered in blood. “Get me a fucking towel or something!”
He was numb, detached, but he did as Gibbons asked. “Where are the towels?”
The cousin pointed to a cabinet in the hall.
Marshall returned with a handful of dingy linens, but it was clear Laura was bleeding out. He handed one of them to Gibbons and moved behind the dying woman to elevate her head, placing another towel beneath for support. He leaned in. “What does he want with Katie?”
Laura Kempt was drained of color, but she managed to look up at Marshall. “He wants to take her from you.” Her eyes began to flutter. She was losing consciousness.
A few moments later, the sound of sirens wailed in the distance. The cousin was huddled in a corner, weeping. Marshall watched as Gibbons worked to save the life of this woman. A woman who had killed out of jealousy. And Marshall was left to deal with the aftermath: the knowledge of what Shalot and his followers were capable of doing and, if given the chance, might also do to Katie.
Shalot was still in custody, but with the knife in Laura’s possession and her admission of guilt, how long would it be before he would have to be released? They would need something more than the words of Lewis Branson and Shaun Hudson to keep him.
The viewing room at the FBI field office was much more sophisticated than the one at the station. Monitors were lined up on the desk. There must have been at least half a dozen, each displaying every possible angle of the room. The two-way mirror was large and allowed for unobstructed viewing.
Katie could see Edward Shalot on the other side of the mirror, shackled to the floor, hands cuffed to the table. It seemed the FBI was taking greater precautions now that they knew what they were dealing with. A man who was holding the strings, leading a handful of people under the façade of a religion whose intent was to restore order through chaos. He had convinced them that Branson wasn’t a true believer, convinced them to kill for their beliefs.
She knew why Scarborough wanted her there. He had hoped that Shalot would reveal the location of the missing woman to win Katie over. She shuddered at the thought and folded her arms as if protecting herself from the cold.
“You ready?” Nick placed a hand on her shoulder and walked out into the hallway.
She nodded and followed him. A few st
eps away was the door to the interrogation room where Shalot waited.
“His lawyer is being brought up now.” It seemed Nick could feel her anxiety. “You can do this, Katie. I know you can.”
Her mouth tightened into a thin, unconvincing smile when a man approached. It wasn’t Nathan Bender, Shalot’s previous attorney. She looked to Scarborough, ready to ask the question, but Nick preempted her.
“Shalot was assigned a federal public defender. His previous lawyer was assigned by the state,” Scarborough said.
“Mr. Trainor,” Nick extended a greeting. “Thank you for coming down. I assume you’ve had time to get acquainted with your new client?”
“Yes. Thank you, Agent Scarborough” he returned the greeting.
“I’d like to introduce you to Ms. Katie Reid. She works for San Diego police and has been an integral part of this investigation.”
“I am familiar with Ms. Reid. I understand she is an acquaintance of my client. But I’m not quite sure why she needs to be here, especially in light of the news.”
“I’m afraid that’s not up to you, Mr. Trainor,” Nick replied. What did he mean, in light of the news? “Let’s get started. We don’t have time to mess around.”
Katie’s expression quickly shifted from delight at Scarborough’s tough position regarding her necessity to fear at the sight of Shalot when she walked into the room. His face was changed. It no longer seemed to profess innocence, but rather seemed to display an arrogance she hadn’t seen in him before.
His eyes were glued to her as she moved to the table, taking a seat across from him. Something was wrong, but she didn’t know what it was. Her gaze turned to Scarborough. He had picked up on it too. It seemed the only people who knew what was happening were Shalot and Trainor.
The agent guarding the door proceeded to close it as Trainor was the last to enter and take his seat next to his client.
“It seems there has been a recent development that has come to my attention,” Trainor began.
Katie’s heart sank. This was it. Something had happened and neither of them had known what it was. She looked to Scarborough.
“I’m afraid I’m not sure what you are referring to, Mr. Trainor. Would you care to elaborate?” Nick asked. His cell phone vibrated against his waist. On retrieving it, he noticed the call was coming in from Marshall. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to take this.” He had known Marshall and Detective Gibbons were tracking down Kempt and assumed they must have found her.
“Yes. Of course,” Trainor replied.
It was the phone call Laura made the moment she heard the police were at her door. A call she’d made to the FBI office where Shalot was being held. It seemed Laura had been keeping tabs on Shalot, as per Branson’s request. She knew he’d been transferred to their custody. She only needed to listen to the news for that information. And what Laura had relayed to them just before stabbing herself had quickly made its way through the field office and to Shalot’s attorney.
Scarborough had been in such a hurry to question Shalot, he brushed past everyone in the office to reach him. And as he now stood outside, prepared to answer Marshall’s call, ASAC Newland waited.
Katie didn’t want to be left in the room alone with these men. There were people in the viewing room – she was safe – but somehow, that didn’t seem to matter. Shalot cast his eyes on her, devouring her features. Trainor could have cared less as he scrolled through his cell phone, taking no notice of his client. But she had been here before. Now was her opportunity to be the one in control. She wasn’t the one in shackles.
“How did you come to know about me?” Katie leaned in, pressing her weight against her forearms. She looked directly into his eyes, mirroring no fear in her own.
Shalot cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. “I saw you once.” He turned his gaze to her short, brunette hair. “Your hair used to be long. I liked it better that way. Did he make you cut it short?”
Katie slammed her fist against the table, nearly cracking the half-inch thick acrylic that rested on top of the hardwood. “Where did you see me?”
Trainor suddenly perked up. “I think you’d better wait for the big boys to get back, little lady. You have no right asking my client anything.”
“Your face looked so beautiful, but I could see how much pain you were in. How much he had made you suffer.”
Katie began to rise and turned from Shalot, peering into the two-way mirror.
“You were being interviewed by a reporter shortly after you returned to San Diego. After you’d killed him—the man who took you, I mean. Well, I know you didn’t actually kill him. Your cop boyfriend came to the rescue, didn’t he? And then there was our friendly neighborhood FBI Agent Scarborough.” Shalot lowered his face toward his cuffed hands and scratched at the tip of his nose. “Funny how you and that agent have crossed each other’s paths once again.”
Before she could reply, Scarborough returned. He brushed past Katie without a glance and immediately approached Shalot. “Where’s that woman being held? The Sparks woman? Where the fuck is she?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Trainor stood up, thrusting his arm between the two men. “You better check yourself, agent. Now I see where Ms. Reid gets it from.”
“Your client has ordered the deaths of four women and now a fifth has gone missing. You better see to it that he starts to cooperate. We may no longer have proof that he killed Lindsay Brown, but if you don’t think Lewis Branson will sing like a fucking bird, you’re sadly mistaken.” Nick turned to the man in shackles. “He knows all about your little group, doesn’t he, Shalot?”
Katie didn’t know who that call had been from, but someone must have found something to prove Shalot wasn’t the killer. Her legs were heavy, and the sensation that had just passed through her was something between vindication and terror at the fact that her assumption had been correct. Shalot may not have killed Lindsay, but he was the ringleader of a naïve and easily submissive group of people who hung onto his every word, willing to kill in the name of him and his beliefs.
But where the body could be weak, the mind could be strong, and so she forced herself nearer to him. Nearer to a man who wanted her for himself. “Tell me where she is, Edward. Tell me and you can have me.”
Nick whipped his head around as she said those words.
“How can I have you? You think I’m stupid enough to believe you would ever choose me?”
“Okay, I think we’re done here,” Trainor said.
“You found calm in the chaos. Acceptance. No pressures to conform to a puritanical society. That’s why you followed Branson to begin with. You didn’t like the rejection from women who you thought were trash. The group didn’t reject you though, did they? Not at first. Not until you started laying claim to Branson’s role as leader. Taking the message of the law of fives to its most literal meaning and bending it to suit your needs. The five cycles of humanity.” Katie softened her stance, her shoulders dropping, her face revealing concern. “I wouldn’t have rejected you. I understand that you thought you were doing the right thing. Showing the rest of society just how wrong they were and how they knew nothing of the true meaning of life.”
Trainor snapped his case shut. “If you’ll show us out, Agent Scarborough.”
Katie retreated, but did not break her stare. Edward believed her; she could see it in his eyes. Just wait.
Nick walked around the table, removing the cuffs from the table and the floor.
Shalot laced his fingers as he continued to hold Katie’s gaze.
Tell me, goddammit.
“Let’s go; we’re done here,” Nick said, taking her arm.
22
THE PARAMEDIC SEARCHED for a pulse, but there was no pulse left. He raised his head to Gibbons, who stood only feet away, as he watched the man do his job. The look on his face was enough. Laura Kempt was gone.
Her cousin was moved to the other room where she sat wrapped in a blanket, clearly suffering from shock. After some q
uestioning, it became clear that she had known nothing of Laura’s activities, nothing of the cult to which she belonged.
Marshall remained in the small dining area adjacent to the kitchen while several officers began collecting evidence and preparing the scene for the medical examiner’s office. They would remove the body.
They would be forced to let Shalot go. He didn’t kill Lindsay. The possible murder weapon still protruding from the leg of the now deceased Laura Kempt.
According to the call he had just made to Scarborough, all they had at the moment was a list of names and one other address. It would take too much time to find out where the fifth victim was being held and if she was still alive.
The best Marshal could hope for now was for them to tack a surveillance team on Shalot until they caught the remaining followers. Scarborough might be able to convince a judge to hang on to Shalot a while longer under suspicion of conspiracy to commit murder, but they needed one of the Brotherhood to offer up real evidence against Shalot. Until that happened, Shalot could very well be set free in a matter of hours and Marshall couldn’t accept that.
Shalot’s apartment building was about a twenty-minute drive from his current location. Marshall’s cell phone rang several times. At least two of the calls were from Katie, but there was no time. He had to do this before Shalot was set free, if it came to that, and he didn’t know when it would be, but it would be soon. It was the only way to keep her safe. She would only try to stop him.
Marshall climbed to the second-floor apartment. It was approaching midday on Friday and he expected most of the occupants of the building to be away. He cast a look left, then right. No one seemed to be around. He wrapped his fist with his jacket and punched a hole through the front glass window. The window remained intact and he was able to pull the sliding single pane open. Again, he turned to check his surroundings. The noise from the break echoed, but still no one emerged. He stepped inside.
Dust floated in the shafts of light that occupied the apartment. The blinds had been drawn, but the afternoon sun found its way inside, leaving a dusky glow in its wake. If Shalot was to be set free, even if only for a short time until the Feds could build a case against him, Marshall knew Katie wouldn’t be safe.
