Happy that Daniel was okay, Malone flicked off the message and went to the coffee machine, filled it and switched it on.
While the filter machine did its thing, he showered. His back, ribs, and left eye felt bruised, and the small cut on his cheek stung as the soap reached it. Thinking about the Twins, he smiled for a couple of reasons. First, how quickly the big guy dropped with a swift kick to the balls, and second, he'd remembered a homework assignment Mary had done about twins. She'd been asked to write a short story and she'd started it with: 'The twins were identical in so far as they were completely different.'
She was quite young at the time, but it was immediately apparent she wasn't going to be a writer, or so Malone had thought. But her teacher had said quite the contrary; she'd told Mary it was a terrific opening line and that she showed great promise. Mary had gloated about this for weeks.
The steaming hot water felt good though, and he bent his head forward letting the needles of water hit the back of his neck. He towelled himself dry, put on a robe, and went back to the kitchen. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the room; he poured a large mug for himself and moved into the Headquarters room where he studied the whiteboard and the wall as he sipped his coffee. The threats from last night had added fuel to his fire; the links were all there, and today he'd find a way to prove it. He dressed and made his way back to Dale Galbraith's office.
Stating his intention directly, he said to the secretary, 'Good morning, I'd like to speak with Dale Galbraith, and no, I don't have an appointment.' Malone guessed the young girl was about to say Dale was busy or give him some other kind of brush-off, so he followed with, 'Either you tell him that Mr Malone is here to see him, or I will.' He was intentionally gruff and abrupt. The girl jumped up from her chair and disappeared through Dale's office door.
Malone let out his breath; he hadn't felt like being nasty to the girl, but under the circumstances he thought it the best approach. Dale followed his young secretary out of his office, and recoiled when he saw the damage to Malone's face. Malone noticed his look wasn't one of surprise — more one of shock.
'Come in, Mr Malone. Judy, would you get us both some coffee.' The girl stared at Malone. 'Now!' Dale snapped.
Malone took a seat before being invited, and pointed towards Dale's. 'I think you should take a seat, Mr Galbraith, and I hope for your sake that girl isn't off getting security.'
Dale went red at the accusation, but sat low in his seat. He wanted to take control of the meeting, but Malone wouldn't allow it.
'Now shut up and listen. I had a visit last night from two of your bruisers.'
Dale opened his mouth to speak.
'I said shut up!' Malone yelled. As if on cue, Judy came in with the coffee. She placed the drinks on the desk, and held Dale's gaze. He told her everything was fine and she left.
Malone composed himself. 'Like I said, I had a visit from your boys last night, and they asked me, not very politely I might add, to stop coming to see you. Now you told me you had nothing to tell me, so I wondered why they thought I would want to come back to see you?'
Malone stared at the lawyer, trying to read his body language. 'I figured we must have missed something on my last visit, so I'm back for you to fill me in; Mr Galbraith. I'm all ears,' he said with a menacing look.
Dale shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 'Mr Malone, I have no idea what you're talking about.'
Malone jumped up and grabbed Dale by the tie, pulling him across the desk; files, laptop, and a lamp all crashed to the floor. With his free hand, Malone yanked Dale's head up by his hair, and spoke into his face at close range. 'Now, I'm tired of playing games with you Galbraith. We both know you know something, and I intend to find out what it is. You have no idea what things I'm capable of doing to you in order to find out what you know, so I suggest you come clean.' He virtually spat out the last few words, and then let go.
Dale, red-faced, his tie askew, dropped back into his chair. He was scared. 'It wasn't supposed to . . .'
Suddenly the door burst open, and three security guards rushed in and grabbed Malone. Behind them was Judy, looking pleased with herself.
'Hold on,' Dale called to the guards. He suddenly felt brave. Standing up from behind his desk, he approached Malone. 'Who the hell do you think you are? Coming in here accusing me of things. I guess that's the outcome of the last visit you paid somebody,' he said, pointing at Malone's face. 'I was going to call you to tell you not to hang around my home like some kind of stalker, Mr Malone. But as for the rest of your ludicrous story . . . I'm a patent attorney, not a lawyer for the Mob! Now, get him out of here!'
Malone felt the men tighten their grip and start to pull him out. As he was leaving the room, Malone turned back to Dale, 'Okay, I'm going, but we both know you're lying. One more thing. I've left instructions with a good friend of mine; in the event I get any other painful visits — or even if I stub my toe under suspicious circumstances — you'll be getting a visit of your own, this time from the LAPD. Have I made myself perfectly clear?'
Dale waved him out and dropped his eyes to the desk.
Once outside, Malone raced to his car and got in. With the anger and pent-up aggression gone, his head had cleared and he felt good. He almost had him, Dale was going to talk, Malone just needed more time alone with him. He reclined the car seat and waited.
33
LOS ANGELES
Logan was trawling through computer files when the call came from the forensics lab. He had been matching the murder of Anita Bailey with similar MOs in California and the surrounding states when he came across the murder of a young mother, Sarah Delonzo, in San Francisco. It was another brutal home invasion/murder, but with one major difference — both the mother and the daughter had been abused and stabbed to death.
With every click of the mouse a different crime scene photo appeared on Logan's computer screen, each more violent than the one before. He studied each grotesque image: there was something familiar about them; they had a disturbingly similar feel to the Bailey case. Logan switched between the case notes and the pictures.
The Delonzo murders had taken place two and a half years ago. All the leads had dried up and the murder had remained unsolved and, for the best part of a year, unworked. Logan read through the list of suspects and their alibis, automatically double-checking and cross-referencing their stories. Once satisfied they seemed in order, he started looking through the witness statements but was interrupted by the ringing of his phone.
'Logan.'
'Hey, Logan, Merrick here from Forensics.'
'John — what have you got for me?'
'You really need to work on your manners, Logan.'
'I get that a lot,' Logan replied with a hint of humour in his voice. 'Now, do you have something for me or not?'
'Okay, that disk you gave me for the Bailey case — I got the data back from Acoustics. They told me to say that the guy you're looking for has really bad taste in music.' Merrick waited for Logan's laughter; with nothing forthcoming, he continued. 'Ahem. Their main point of focus was obviously the last track — the beautifully titled 'I'm gonna cut your head off'. They managed to filter out the mess of a tune and studied the less than creative lyrics. The singer is a male Caucasian, early forties. They are still working on more . . .'
'Is that it?' Logan jumped in. 'A border-line middle-aged white male?'
'If you'll let me finish!' Merrick snapped back.
Logan fell silent.
'Thank you. What many people don't know is that a rewritable CD disk has the same characteristics as a computer hard disk. Information written to it overwrites previously stored information. What I'm trying to say is, I managed to recover a document that had been stored on the disk earlier, and I've come up with the name Robert Richins. Now, if you can find this guy, Acoustics believes that by using voice printing they can tell you if he's the singer or not . . . Logan, are you there?'
Logan had tuned Merrick out the moment he heard the n
ame Robert Richins.
'John, I've gotta go. Richins is one of the witnesses in the Delonzo case.'
The information Merrick had given Logan was priceless. He had no idea that you could get so much data from one CD. Maybe technology does have its part to play in the future of law enforcement after all, he thought.
Ironically, tracking down Richins turned out to be easier than finding Anita Bailey's parents had been. For most of the past year, Richins had been living and working in Barstow, California. 'Seems killers don't travel much these days,' Logan muttered.
While the warrant was being prepared, Logan contacted the local sheriff and arranged to meet him at Richins' home.
Logan made good time to Barstow, arriving at Richins' street around midnight. With his lights off, he drove slowly past the house, swung a U-turn and parked behind the sheriff's car on the opposite side of the street. Richins' house was in darkness; what looked like a late model Chevrolet was sitting in the driveway. Happy that everything looked in order, Logan left his car and joined the sheriff in his wagon.
'Hi, I'm Detective Logan,' he said as he shook the sheriff's hand.
'Grainger,' the sheriff replied. 'Got my boys parked round the back like you said. They're ready to go when you say the word.'
Logan nodded. 'Let's go get him.'
Bursting through the door, Logan went in first with his gun drawn. It was sitting solidly on top of the torch he held in his other hand. 'Robert Richins — LAPD!' he yelled as he slammed his way from room to room, the bright, white light from his torch cutting its way through the darkness ahead of him. In the last room he checked, Logan found Richins rousing himself from sleep.
'Hands behind your head where I can see them — NOW!' he screamed. Logan jumped on top of Richins on the bed and secured him with cuffs. Within seconds, lights were on and the room was filled with officers. Unfortunately for Logan, Richins didn't resist arrest.
Back at the station, Logan wasted no time before questioning his suspect. Putting him in the interrogation room, he read Richins his rights and immediately set about goading him. 'So, Mr Richins, are you sitting comfortably? Can I get you anything? A coffee, a sandwich, a sharp knife to cut it with?'
Richins eyed Logan as he moved around the room.
'Now, you understand your rights don't you, Mr Richins? You understand that you're allowed a lawyer, and you know that you do not have to say anything, nothing at all . . . But most of all, Mr Richins, I want you to understand that I am here to help you get things off your chest. I'm here for you to talk to, for you to let go of all those little secrets that you keep inside. Those inner voices that are singing out . . .'
The word singing seemed to grab Richins' attention.
'Ah yes, Robert, I know about your obsession with music . . . What, can't you get it up without a song? Need a little whistle for your flute?'
'You have no fucking idea about me,' Richins yelled. 'You think you know it all, but you know nothing, you hear me. Nothing!'
'Well, why don't you set me straight?'
Richins looked directly at Logan, and he began to confess. Little did Logan know what an appalling confession it would be . . .
34
LOS ANGELES
Dale sat at his desk, his head in his hands. Malone had been dragged from the office, but he still felt shaken up. His secretary came in to see if he was okay and Dale told her he was fine. He also thanked her for calling security.
'That man didn't look right from the moment he came in, and when I heard some crashing noises coming from your office . . . what did he want anyway?'
Dale knew she had his best intentions at heart, but he also knew she was a gossip. 'A case of mistaken identity, I'm afraid. He's a very confused man.'
Judy nodded and waited for more of the story. When nothing was forthcoming, she told him the other partners wanted a word with him when he got a chance. Dale nodded and Judy left him alone.
Why the hell did the Twins go so far? he asked himself. They were just supposed to scare the man. The thought of the police getting involved, and the partners wanting to see him, made his stomach churn. He needed to speak to Travis. He picked up the phone and after exchanging a few forced pleasantries with Taylor, he was put through to Travis.
'We need to meet, but not at either of our offices.' Dale's voice was on the verge of frantic.
'Calm down, what's the matter?' Travis, on the other hand, sounded relaxed.
'I don't want to talk about it on the phone. Where can we meet?
'Outside the Page Museum at La Brea Tar Pits, in an hour.'
Ending the call, Dale buzzed Judy to tell her he needed to get some fresh air, and would speak to the partners when he returned. He left the office and hailed a cab.
***
Malone started his car and followed as closely as he could. They headed northwest, the cab shifting from lane to lane as it weaved through the traffic. Taking a left onto Wilshire Boulevard, they arrived at the La Brea Tar Pits. Malone felt for sure he'd be spotted when Dale jumped out of the cab and crossed in front of his car, but Dale's mind was obviously elsewhere as he just stared right through him and carried on across the street.
Malone found a parking spot and raced after Dale, wondering what the attorney could possibly be doing here and at the same time feeling good about his first successful tail. As he rounded the corner, he saw Dale leaning against the wall of the museum's entrance. Malone joined a tour group and, keeping his head down, went inside. He found an information plaque and stood in front of, appearing to read it but keeping one eye on Dale.
After a few minutes, another man joined Dale. Malone recognized him immediately — Simon Travis. The two men shook hands, and although he couldn't hear them, they seemed to go straight into a heated conversation.
***
'What's so urgent and so secret?' Travis sounded irritated.
'That Malone guy came in to see me again. He looked pretty beaten up, but all the Twins' visit seemed to do was get him riled. He talked about the police and . . .'
Travis put his finger to his mouth to quiet Dale; he pointed towards the pits and suggested they take a walk around.
***
At this point Malone had read the museum's sign so many times that, even with his bad memory, he figured he'd be able to get a job as a tour guide. As he followed the two men around the pits, he stopped at each of the information signs doing his best impression of a tourist.
When the two men split up, Malone followed Travis to the road and watched as he slipped into a jet-black Aston Martin. The registration plate was personalized: SPACE, with The Final Frontier written in the plate's surround. Struck by the car's magnificence, Malone almost forgot that he needed to follow him. He quickly rushed across the road and into his rental. As it pulled away, the Aston's wheels spun a little, making a tiny screech. Travis loved to turn heads with his car.
Malone followed the Aston several miles towards the city, passing intersections and suburbs he'd never seen before, and some he'd never even heard of. The traffic was noticeably light for the time of day — Malone guessed it must be school holidays — so that even with the Aston's rapid acceleration, Malone found it easy to follow. They got to the Travicom building and the Aston went straight into the underground parking lot. Malone found a park on the street, and he got out of his car. He stared up at the building in front of him, its sheer size making him feel the way he did when he looked at the stars — insignificant.
The whole drive there, he'd been racking his brain. What did Simon Travis or Travicom have to do with all of this? It could just be that Dale Galbraith was meeting his client as scheduled, but he doubted it. Galbraith was spooked — he knew that much for sure — and then he went running to Travis. That alone convinced Malone that Travis was a part of this mess too.
'Can I help you, sir?' A man dressed in a doorman's suit broke into Malone's thoughts.
'Uh, not really, I'm just admiring the view.' It was the truth; Malone was takin
g in the size of the mammoth building.
'Then may I ask you to move your car please sir? You're parked in our designated valet spot.'
Malone apologized and got back into his car. His head was still aching from the bruising he'd received from the Twins, and his second-guessing was compounding the pain. It was time to go back to Headquarters.
Tentatively opening his front door, Malone slipped quietly in, the visit of the night before still vivid in his mind. As he walked past the office he heard the rustle of paper. He crept to his bedroom and picked up the baseball bat he'd hidden there earlier. Standing outside the office door, with his heart pounding louder than his head, he took a deep breath and rushed through the doorway, swinging the bat and yelling at the top of his voice. Daniel almost shat himself as he ducked below the bat's swinging arc. He felt the breeze as it missed his head, but the whooshing sound was masked by the maniacal screams from Malone's mouth.
'Malone, stop — it's me!' Daniel yelled, trying to make himself heard. Malone at last registered who was cowering in front of him and he dropped the bat.
'Wha-what the fuck!' Daniel gasped, his voice wobbling.
'Sorry, sorry! I didn't realize it was you.'
'Who the hell else did you think . . . ?' Daniel's voice trailed off as he saw the state of Malone's face. 'What happened to you . . . your face?' he asked, concern quickly replacing fright.
Malone proceeded to tell him about the events of the past twelve hours.
'Wow. I can't leave you alone for five minutes.'
Malone smiled, and then winced as the pain returned to his face. 'Who's place did you stay at last night? You'd better not be up to your old tricks again.' Daniel looked hurt. 'I'm just kidding, you're allowed to have friends! Just let me know if you're going to be out all night again — in case Logan calls round unexpectedly.' Malone had added the last bit to cover for his concern. 'What did you manage to find out?' he asked, changing the subject.
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