by Robin Mahle
Marc walked around the agents and met Sharpe behind his desk.
“You see that car off in the corner over there.”
“Yeah.”
“Does that look like Sanchez’ car?”
Marc leaned in and squinted his eyes. “Jesus. It’s hard as hell to see it at all.”
“Let me see if I can zoom it in a little and try to catch a glimpse of the hood.” Sharpe began to manipulate the image and managed to get it pulled in a little tighter. “What about now?”
“Well, I can’t see the emblem clearly, but I can tell by the shape of the front end, the headlights and grill, yeah, I think that could be it.”
“Marc, we need something more than that,” Kate said.
“I’m trying. It’s just hard to see. I can’t even tell what color it is.”
“What color is his car?” Sharpe asked.
“I’d say it’s a dark grey, charcoal, maybe.”
“Take another look. Here.” Sharpe stood up and stepped away from his desk. “Sit down. You can get a better view.”
Marc sat down and studied the image and began to shake his head. “Shit, I just don’t.” His brow furrowed and he tilted his head a fraction of an inch to the right. “Wait. Can you zoom in on the tires?”
Sharpe leaned over him and again altered the image. “How’s that?”
“Yeah. I think,” he studied it even more closely, “that is his car. Oh my God. The wheels. I remember seeing them on his car. They looked custom, high-end, you know? I’m sure of it. That’s Vince’s car.”
“Okay, we can’t jump to conclusions here,” Nick began. “First of all, we figured we had another watcher, or someone who was following this guy. I mean, shit, he posted all of his activity online. So Vince Sanchez could’ve been one of those people. There’s only one guy in that car.”
“Is there?” Sharpe reviewed the footage again; this time, more closely than before. “No.”
“What is it? What are you looking for?” Kate asked.
“I was hoping to see if anyone else got inside the car. But if they did, it was when the car was already out of view. Still, Agent Scarborough, I don’t see the harm in checking this out. What have we got to lose? We’re waiting for the killer to post his next moves. We don’t know when or where that will be. And now we have the possible owner of this vehicle. Now, whether or not he’s involved in this remains to be seen, but I’d say Aguilar has some very compelling evidence.”
“I got to agree with him, Nick,” Kate said. “Sanchez could be an accomplice. It sure as hell would explain why he was so anxious for Marc to reach out to me to get me involved in this investigation.”
“Was that how you ended up here?” Sharpe asked.
“Yes. Marc brought the story to my attention and asked that I offer assistance from the BAU.”
“Shit, all this time I thought it was the captain who insisted the feds get involved. Doesn’t matter now, but anyway, I’m glad as hell you all are here.”
“Sanchez wanted the story to go national,” Dwight said. “Why did he need Marc to do that?”
“Because he’s at a local station. To get his bosses to pitch it to the networks, cable, or otherwise would have been unlikely. Unless and until it became a larger story, which it has now, in my opinion,” Marc said.
“I’d like to make a visit to Sanchez.” Sharpe pulled his leather jacket off the back of his chair. “Agent Reid, I think it would be a good idea for you to come with me. This was your lead.”
“Marc’s lead, but I’ll go with you.”
“He’ll be at the station,” Marc began. “I can help you spot his car in the parking lot.”
Marc was working hard to stay relevant to the story, but Kate didn’t mind. He had the right to go, so long as he didn’t overstep his bounds. “Just remember, this is Sharpe’s investigation. You follow his rules.”
“Let me know what you find.” Nick said. “I’ll keep you posted on our end.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Sharpe pulled into the KTLA parking lot and began to drive through slowly. “Shout out when you see it, Aguilar.”
The daylight had broken through and was now shining well above the horizon. However, the shadow cast by the tall building gave off the appearance of a dusky early morning.
“We’re looking for a BMW, four-door sedan. Dark grey,” Marc said as he pulled himself forward between the headrests of the front seats.
“Right.” Kate peered through the windshield and her passenger side window, but nothing popped out. “And you’re sure he’s working today.”
“Pretty sure. He’s on the morning news program. Even if he’s in the field, his car should still be here.”
“Try pulling around to the back lot,” Marc said. “I bet most of the on-air talent park back there.”
Sharpe began to drive around to the back of the building. “There are some nicer cars over here. This might be the place.”
“I see it!” Marc pointed at Kate’s window. “Right over there. Go right, go right!”
“Okay, okay, hold your horses. I can’t exactly go barreling through here.”
“That’s the car. That row just ahead, fourth car in.”
“I see it too,” Kate said.
“I’m on it.” Sharpe continued until he pulled up just behind the vehicle in question. “BMW 535. Dark grey. Nice car.”
“Take a look at the wheels,” Marc said. “Those are what drew my attention.”
“Okay, so what now? We’ve found the car that was spotted at the scene of an attempted murder. How do you want to handle this, detective?” Kate said.
Sharpe kept his attention on the vehicle. “Son of a bitch. We gotta bring him in. He’s either a follower or he knows our killer. Let’s go inside and get it done.” He pulled into an empty spot and turned off the engine. “You want to come with us?” He looked to Marc. “He’s going to know it was you who gave him up one way or another.”
“Doesn’t matter. I brought this to your doorstep. I’m in it now.”
Sharpe stepped out of his car and waited for the others to emerge. “We’ll do this quietly. No sense in disrupting the entire studio.”
Kate fell in behind Sharpe as he led the way toward the building’s entrance. Once they were inside, a security officer quickly approached.
“Morning. Can I help you?”
Sharpe reached for his badge. “Detective Ray Sharpe, LAPD. These two are with me. We’d like to have a word with Vince Sanchez, please.”
“May I tell him what this is regarding?”
Sharpe looked to Kate.
“He might,” she answered, reading Sharpe’s concern that Sanchez might make a run for it. “Is he on-air right now?”
“No, ma’am.”
She turned back to Sharpe. “Then I think you should go back. No point in the three of us going. It’ll only make him jumpy.”
“I’d like to just go on back, if I could. It’s very important that I speak with him regarding an ongoing investigation.”
“Of course. I’ll take you back myself.”
Kate waited with Marc in the lobby while Sharpe disappeared with the security guard. “You think he’ll flip?”
“I don’t know. I guess that depends on how deeply he’s involved, if at all,” Marc replied.
“Are you second-guessing yourself?”
“No. No, I’m not. I guess it would be too much to assume his car being at Leimert Park and the hat I found in his house were a coincidence.”
“Yes, it would.”
Moments later, Sharpe returned with Sanchez walking next to him. He wasn’t cuffed and didn’t seem distressed at all. It wasn’t until he saw Marc that Sanchez’s face masked in worry.
“Oh shit,” Kate whispered. “If he didn’t know what was up, he does now.” She palmed her holstered gun and eyed Sharpe.
Sharpe quickly picked up on the signal and tried to grab Sanchez, but it was too late; he’d begun to sprint through the lobby.
> “He’s heading toward the door!” Kate withdrew her weapon. “FBI! Stop now or I’ll shoot!”
Sanchez continued to run and was nearing the exit.
Sharpe pulled out his weapon and sprinted after him but didn’t fire.
Sanchez pushed through the doors and stood outside, seemingly trying to decide which way to run, but the time he wasted with indecision was enough for Sharpe to catch up to him and tackle him to the ground.
Out of breath and surging with adrenaline, he pressed down on Sanchez’s arms. “Why you running, man? Why you running?” He cuffed him and soon pulled him back to his feet.
Kate and Marc reached the outside.
“What did you do, Vince?” Marc began. “What the hell did you do?”
CHAPTER 25
It was up to Detective Sharpe to keep Vince Sanchez’s arrest under wraps while they figured out what role he played in the killings. A task that was mounting in difficulty as they returned to the station and noted the slew of media vans fronting the building. He pulled into the parking garage and entered through a secure door, one which was used for the transfer of detainees to other facilities.
Sharpe opened the rear passenger door of his Tahoe where Kate watched over Sanchez. “Get out.”
The reporter shuffled out while Kate and Marc waited next to the vehicle.
“What’s going to happen now?” Marc asked her.
“Depends on what he’s done. How involved he is, but no doubt, he’ll be charged.”
“But what does it mean as to how we’re going to get the killer? We now have two people who’ve seen him, possibly even worked with him. He has to be able to give us something.”
“That’s something we need to find out.”
As they entered the rear of the building, Nick met them near the back. “Kate, are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Sharpe said you had to draw your sidearm.”
“I did, but I didn’t use it. Sharpe tackled him to the ground just as he made it outside.”
“Jesus. I can’t believe this shit. Only in LA.” Nick shook his head as they followed Sharpe once again through the halls and toward the interrogation rooms. “Sanchez lawyer up yet?”
“Not that I’m aware of, but I imagine it’ll only be a matter of time. So, nothing new posted from our unsub?”
“No. It’s still early, though. Now that we’ve got these two guys, maybe we won’t need to bait him any longer. I have to think Sanchez can give us something.”
“I hope so.” Kate continued walking alongside him. “My concern now is that he’s going to figure out we have Sanchez. He’ll either pull up roots and we’ll never hear from him again, or he’ll go all out, figuring he’s going to get caught anyway, so why not take down another victim or two before the inevitable.”
Nick stopped her in the hall. “I’ve underestimated your ability to get into their heads. I mean, I knew you were good, don’t get me wrong, but your assumptions have proven to be right. You know how I’ve always told you that you’ve got some sort of sixth sense when it comes to the minutia of a case? Never letting anything be overlooked, seeing what others have missed, including me? Well, I think that talent of yours has carried. You understand their motivations. More so than ever before. I think you would rival Georgia’s abilities and might even surpass them in years to come.”
“Thank you, Nick. I’m not sure if it’s a gift or not. Sometimes I see things in my sleep. I wouldn’t say nightmares. Not anymore. But more like ideas than clues. I don’t know. Most of my life, I’ve been affected in one way or another by men like him. Shaped by their actions. I guess they’ve rubbed off on me—in a manner of speaking.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Benjamin Patrick, the man behind the camera, sat down on his couch with a coffee in hand and pressed the remote to turn on the television. His favorite newscaster was on and he had to know what it was he would say, feeling fairly confident it would be business as usual. But as he watched, and the story cut back to the anchors, he realized his buddy wasn’t on air today.
Ben, as he preferred to be called, began to consider that he’d been too hard on his companion. That his threats had been taken too close to heart. It left him to ponder, though, could there be another reason for his absence? Vince Sanchez never missed an opportunity to be on TV and unless he was ill, which Ben was certain he was not, then there had to be another explanation.
If Sanchez had talked to the police, chances were better than fair that Ben wouldn’t be sitting here right now. While Sanchez couldn’t lead them directly to Ben’s home, he could lead them to his former place of employment and it wouldn’t be a difficult leap from there.
Ben Patrick, a master in his field, had once been a name with which to be reckoned. The top makeup artist in Hollywood, he’d been admired and even coveted by some of his colleagues. But that was a long time ago. His reputation began to get in his way. His demands, his vision for the films he worked on interfered with others who had far more pull. Soon, Ben found himself without work or taking jobs far beneath his standards.
Now he found himself living in a one-bed in Burbank, working on off-off-Broadway shows, where he could get it. That was when Ben’s visions became his desires. He didn’t need Hollywood or those who pulled the strings. He could bring to life the characters in his head, their beauty, as he designed their faces to perfection. Ben could again be a force, only this time, he pulled the strings; he decided when and to whom his performances would be shown.
And for the past few months, he worked to plan all the necessary arrangements. But it wasn’t until after his first work of art that he happened to cross paths with Vince Sanchez. He’d watched the coverage of the story and admired Sanchez’s artful delivery. His feigned sympathy, his tragic expression. Ben knew then that Sanchez could be an ally. He’d seen through the falsehood and needed him to help bring his art to the masses.
The website was only the first step in his plan and, much to his surprise, the site had grown exponentially. He’d underestimated the depravity of these creatures called human beings. Their desire to consume the pain of others, watch as if they themselves were participants in the brutal freak show. And once Ben realized this, his audience behaviors, the way they fed into his own needs, the more he posted, the more they commented, the more praise he received. That same praise was what he needed from the reports Sanchez had delivered. But somehow, he hadn’t yet seen the same impact as his followers on his website. People were repulsed, but there was a beauty in that too.
Ben saw beauty in death and destruction and that very same depravity. He’d left a message for Vince Sanchez before the next art piece. And Sanchez responded with an enthusiasm Ben hadn’t expected.
But now Sanchez was gone. He had to fear Sanchez no longer had the stomach to continue. And could now bring about his downfall.
The time had come for him to go into hiding, exile himself as many great artists before him had done. The work must continue, though, with or without the support of Sanchez. Time, however, was running out because if Sanchez had turned against him, his discovery was inevitable.
“Where are you, Vince? I thought you had the balls to handle this, but it seems you don’t.” Ben stood from his sofa and switched off the television. “The show must still go on, with or without your help.”
♦ ♦ ♦
With a feverish stride, Dwight entered the interrogation room where Sharpe and the others had begun talking to Vince Sanchez. “He posted an update.”
Kate pushed up from her chair, almost knocking it over. “I’ll go,” she said to Nick and followed Dwight back out into the hall.
“You can help us put an end to this, Vince,” Sharpe said. “They were talking about a post your friend made on his website. You knew about the website, right?”
“I told you, I have nothing to do with this.”
“Then why did you run from Detective Sharpe?” Nick asked.
“I don’t know. I was scare
d, I guess.”
“If you didn’t do anything, then there’s nothing for you to run from,” Sharpe replied. “Now I’m going to ask you again, why was your car there the other night at Leimert Park? Did you know that was where he was going to be? Do you know where he’s at now?”
“Mr. Sanchez, you’re a public personality. Cooperating with us now will go a long way, especially if it leads to the capture of a killer the people of LA have been in fear of for almost a month,” Nick said.
“It was a tip. That’s all it was. Just a tip from an anonymous source. That’s why I was there at the park.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?” Sharpe asked.
“Because I wanted to keep running on the story. And how the hell did I know the guy would follow through? I wanted to get it on CBN and Marc Aguilar said he would help because he wanted the story too.”
“Are you saying Marc Aguilar suggested you not contact the police when you received this tip?”
“No. He—he didn’t know about it. I was going to send him the video.”
“Wait,” Sharpe began. “You have video of the crime?”
Sanchez was quiet as his head sank to his chest.
“Holy shit. You have video.” Sharpe pressed hard against the table and took to his feet. “You captured this son of a bitch on tape. Now we can confirm, unequivocally, what he looks like.” He turned his attention to Nick. “We can run it through recognition software to see if we get a positive ID.”
Nick regarded Sanchez before answering. “I think he has more than video. I think he knows how to find him. Don’t you, Mr. Sanchez?”
“I don’t know where he lives, if that’s what you think.”
“But you know something. You know how we can track him down,” Nick pressed on.
“I know where he works—worked. I don’t think he’s done anything for them for a while, but he used to do make-up for a small theater on Vine Street in Hollywood.”
