The driver stopped me. “That’ll throw off my count,” he said. “It’s got to be exact change.”
“Let’s go!” someone shouted from the back.
“If you don’t have exact change, you’ll have to get off the bus,” the driver said. “Another one will be along in thirty minutes.”
I crouched in the aisle, aware that I was visible to anybody watching from the street.
“Does anyone have change for a five?” I said.
Nobody moved.
I held up the bill. “I’ll pay five dollars for two-twenty-five.”
Three people lunged, each offering coins.
I stuffed the five into the closest hand and took the change.
Still crouching, I inserted the $2.25 into the fare machine. I took a seat near a man who sat in a wheelchair.
I leaned over and tied my shoe as the bus drove by the library.
The bus headed south on Ingraham at a crawl. It stopped every two blocks and caught every red light.
I thought of getting off and running, but I was still too far away.
When the bus finally reached Midway, the man in the wheelchair signaled the driver to stop. He wheeled down the aisle, beating me to the door.
The driver pressed the button to lower the handicap ramp. The ramp began to lower slowly. There was no room to squeeze by the man in the wheelchair.
I put one hand on the door and the other on the wheelchair handle. I lifted myself up and over the man and jumped onto the sidewalk.
“Hey!” said the driver.
“Asshole,” muttered the man in the wheelchair.
“Sorry!” I called as I tore down the street.
I ran up Kemper to Poinsettia. It was a hot day and the sweat poured off me. By the time I reached Voltaire, my lungs burned.
I bounded the steps of the Point Loma library three at a time. I tripped on the top stair and nearly crashed into the glass window of the front door.
I rushed through the door and slammed through the turnstile.
“Slow down!” a librarian said.
I found the aisle with books in the 230s.
As I scanned the numbers on the book spines, I hoped this was the last stop. Perhaps Friar Tom now saw that I was alone and felt safe to lead me to Jordan.
I wasn’t up for another stop on this treasure hunt. I didn’t have a car, or the energy to run again. It had taken nearly an hour to get here. Jordan might not survive another bus trip.
The book shelved under 234.785/MARTIN had to hold a note from Friar Tom with directions to Jordan. It had to.
I reached the end of the aisle. The 230s continued in the next stack. I rounded the aisle.
My eyes locked on the books that began with 234. I saw 234.782…234.783…234.784. I did a double take when the next book in line was 234.786. I didn’t see 234.785/MARTIN.
It was gone.
CHAPTER 74
It couldn’t be!
I scanned the entire row of books, reading the call number on each spine. The book I was to find—234.785/MARTIN—wasn’t where it should be.
It had to be misplaced.
I searched the adjacent shelves. It wasn’t anywhere.
A cart with books to be re-shelved stood at the end of the aisle. I quickly scanned the spines. There were no 234s.
I raced to the reading area. People sat at tables with stacks of books.
I rushed around the room, lifting books from the tables and checking the call numbers. I grabbed books from people’s hands.
“Back the fuck off!” an unshaved man in torn, greasy jeans yelled at me.
I ran to the circulation desk.
“I need to find a book,” I told the librarian who had scolded me earlier.
“Sir, there are people waiting,” she said, nodding at the line. “Please wait your turn.”
I took my place at the end of the line as the four people in front of me checked out their books. When I finally reached the front, the librarian said, “Now, what book are you looking for?”
“The call number is 234.785/MARTIN,” I said. “It’s not on the shelf.”
She repeated the call number as she entered it on her keyboard. “Yes, here it is, A History of the Spanish Inquisition, by Jonathan P. Martin.”
“That’s it,” I said.
“I’m afraid that book has been checked out,” she said.
“No, that can’t be!”
“I’m sorry, it was checked out this morning. It’s not due back for three weeks. If you like, I can place a hold on it, and we’ll notify you when it’s returned.”
“I can’t wait. I need that book now.”
The librarian clicked a few keys on her computer. She smiled. “There’s a copy at the Ocean Beach branch. I’ll call and have them hold it for you.”
“No, I need this particular book.”
“It’s the same book, and it’s only a five-minute drive from here.”
“You don’t understand,” I said. “I have to find the exact book that belongs to this library. Tell me who checked it out, and I can ask the person to let me see it.”
“I can’t give out that information.”
“But it’s a matter of life and death,” I pleaded.
“Now you’re being silly. If you don’t want me to place a hold on the book, please step aside. There are other people waiting.”
I had to tell her, even though it would put Jordan in greater danger.
I leaned over the counter. “I’m Tyler West,” I whispered. “Friar Tom left me a note in that book. If I don’t find it, he’ll kill my wife.”
Recognition registered on her face, and she grew flustered. “Wait here. I’ll speak to Mrs. Petrocelli. She’s the head librarian.”
She disappeared into the office.
What if Mrs. Petrocelli didn’t authorize her to tell me who had the book? Or worse, what if she called the police?
I jumped the counter.
The computer screen showed the circulation history for A History of the Spanish Inquisition. A column of fourteen-digit numbers ran down the right. They had to be the library card numbers of patrons who had borrowed the book.
I aimed the cursor at the top number and clicked the mouse. A name, address and phone number flashed on the screen.
CHAPTER 75
A History of the Spanish Inquisition was checked out to Mada, T.K., 2768 Brandywine St.
I could call and ask the person to search the book and read me the letter. But if he or she panicked and phoned the police, Jordan would die.
The address was in Clairemont, five miles away. My car was in Pacific Beach. There was no time to take another bus.
A bike rack stood in front of the library. I grabbed an unlocked bike and rode off.
“Hey, that’s mine!” someone called after me.
I pedaled harder. With every cop looking for Friar Tom, I hoped they wouldn’t have time to respond to a stolen bike report.
The seat was so low my knees banged my arms as I pedaled. There was no time to stop and raise the seat, but I’d make it to Clairemont faster if I did. When I crested the top of a hill, I stood on the pedals and coasted. I reached down and unlocked the seat’s quick-release and raised the stem about four inches.
I rode down Nimitz to the bike path along Sea World Drive. It was a flat ride to Morena Boulevard, where I pedaled north into Clairemont.
I reached 2768 Brandywine Street in less than twenty minutes.
I dropped the bike and ran to the front porch of the ranch-style house. I started to ring the doorbell, then stopped when I looked down at my feet. The custom-made doormat read: THE JOHNSONS.
Letters poked from the mailbox. I pulled the mail out far enough to read the names of the recipients. Everything was addressed to a Scott Johnson or a Linda Johnson.
I checked the slip of paper with the address for T. K. Mada that I’d jotted down at the library. I was at the right address.
Maybe T.K. Mada rented a room from the Johnsons.
<
br /> I pressed the doorbell.
There was no answer.
I knocked.
No answer.
I held my ear to the door but didn’t hear anything. I peered in the front window. Nothing.
It was a workday. No surprise that nobody was home. Then again, the librarian had said that the book was checked out that morning. Maybe T.K. Mada had the day off. Perhaps he or she was running errands and would return soon.
A scary thought hit me. What if T.K. Mada had checked the book out on the way to work? My last link to Jordan might be resting in an unknown car in some unknown parking lot in San Diego.
I checked my watch. It had been ninety minutes since I’d found Friar Tom’s last note at the Pacific Beach library. If he wasn’t following me, he wouldn’t know that the book he wanted me to find at the Point Loma library was missing. He’d be growing impatient. He might think I’d chickened out and wasn’t coming. He could already be breaking Jordan with the wheel.
Damn him! Why hadn’t he considered the possibility that one of the books would be gone?
I had to break into the Johnsons’. Maybe I could discover where T.K. Mada worked.
I ran along the side of the house. I made sure there were no dogs in the back yard and opened the redwood gate. I glanced at the other nearby houses and was satisfied nobody was watching.
I stepped onto the back deck.
There was a sliding glass door. The curtain was slightly parted. I shaded my eyes with my hands and looked inside.
I saw a recliner chair and a TV. I could also see the end of a coffee table. A few magazines and books rested on it.
I squinted. One of the books had a white label with library call numbers on its spine. I couldn’t see the title or the numbers, but it had to be A History of the Spanish Inquisition.
I knew a note from Friar Tom was tucked inside.
A Weber gas grill on wheels stood on the deck. I backed the barbecue up and ran it into the sliding glass door. There was a great crashing of glass, followed by a shrill alarm. Dogs in the neighborhood howled and barked.
I rolled the barbecue back and forth until I had cleared out enough glass. I stepped through the jagged hole and flung the curtain out of my way.
I went for the book, but something in the corner of the room caught my eye.
A woman lay in a crumpled heap on the floor.
I instantly recognized the blue sweater Jordan had worn the night Friar Tom snatched her from my car.
She didn’t move. I knew she was dead.
My knees buckled and I fell to the floor.
“Oh, Jordan,” I bawled. “Jordan, I’m so sorry.”
I crawled across the carpeted floor. Bits of broken glass cut my hands. I reached out and placed a bloody hand on her shoulder.
“Please forgive me, Jordan,” I sobbed.
I turned her over.
It was Darcy McLaren.
CHAPTER 76
An hour later, the crime techs had wrapped up their work.
I parted the front curtain with a finger and peered out. Someone from the medical examiner’s pushed the bagged body on a gurney through the media mob.
Friar Tom had transformed Darcy into the puppet of shapeless flesh that I had read about. He had stopped short of braiding her crushed limbs through the wheel’s spokes. He needed to keep his wheel—to use on Jordan.
Channel 2’s Bobby Nguyen spotted me through the window and shouted, “Ty, is it Jordan?”
I shook my head and let the curtain close. Wait until they find out. Friar Tom will get more than he asked for. Reporters will take it personally when they learn that he’d killed one of their own.
Walton stood next to me, gazing at the portrait on the dog-eared page of the library book. “Friar Tomás de Torquemada,” he said, reading the caption below the picture of the Dominican monk. “Grand Inquisitor of the Spanish Inquisition, killer of one hundred thousand.”
“Mada, T.K.,” I said. “Torquemada. Friar Tom.”
“Some role model,” Walton said. “The letter?”
I passed him Friar Tom’s latest note, and he studied the mangled handwriting.
Friar Tom demanded that I step up my coverage of his personal Inquisition. I was to be his biographer. We are both storytellers, he had written. You write your stories on a computer screen, I write mine on the human body. He wanted bigger headlines. Jordan was his insurance.
It was a backhanded complement. But Darcy had proved the better investigative journalist. She had found Friar Tom. But how?
“This guy’s getting reckless,” Walton said.
“Maybe,” I said, “but he’s staying one step ahead of the law.”
Walton let it pass.
“I spoke to the owners,” he said. “The Johnsons both work for the city water department. Their latest Visa bill had nine fraudulent charges. All from the Marquis de Sade, Ltd., some S&M shop in New York.”
“So Friar Tom has been outfitting his torture chamber on the Johnsons’ credit card?”
“Looks that way. He probably cased the house, got their schedules down, then pulled the credit card number from an earlier Visa bill in the mailbox.”
“When was the latest transaction?” I said.
“There were three last Monday. It was the last day of the billing cycle. He knew his gravy train was about to end.”
“So how did he get the packages?”
“He took delivery here. He gave the S&M store this address, knowing it had to match the billing address for the credit card. He paid extra for FedEx delivery. Regular mail delivery can be erratic, but with FedEx, he’d know the delivery time within a range of a couple hours. That would limit his exposure here.”
“But FedEx requires a signature,” I said.
“Who’s to say he didn’t sign? He could have waited in back, out of sight. When he heard the FedEx guy ring the doorbell, he probably walked from around the house, pretending he had been doing some yard work, then signed for the packages.”
“The FedEx driver might recognize him.”
“We’re already on that. I’ve got men tracking down the driver for this route. When they find him, they’ll get a description of whoever signed for those packages.”
My pulse quickened. The police finally had a solid lead in the case. But they weren’t doing enough.
“Detective,” I said, “Friar Tom had to watch this house to get the Johnsons’ hours down.”
“What’s your point?”
“This is a quiet residential street. Not a lot of traffic. Some lurking stranger would stick out. Friar Tom is someone who could blend in.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“So why aren’t you conducting a door-to-door?” I said, my voice rising in anger. “He probably lives in this neighborhood, maybe even on this street.”
“Hold on. We just can’t go busting down people’s doors.”
I thought of Jordan, locked in some nearby basement-turned-dungeon, maybe even next door.
“Walton!” I snapped, “you’ve bungled this case from the start. Now you’ve got your first big break, and you’re dragging your feet. Why?”
“Look, West, my disdain for you isn’t affecting this investigation. What you do sickens me. You play fast and loose with the facts, and you got my partner killed. But how you do your job doesn’t change the way I do mine. I told you before, I’m going to do everything in my power to get Jordan Sinclair back alive. Don’t think that I’d give you the payback you deserve by playing games with someone else’s life. Unlike you, I’ve got some integrity.”
“Danny Miller was dirty, Detective.”
“I’ll never believe that, no way.”
I had proof that Miller had sold drugs out of the police property room, but I could never show it to Walton. It had come from my SDPD source. I couldn’t betray that confidence. I’d have to let Walton think I made up stories.
We stood toe to toe.
Walton exhaled. “You’re right, t
he killer is probably someone who can blend into this neighborhood. But that doesn’t mean he lives here. Think of all the people who wouldn’t stick out—the gas meter reader, the cable TV man, a gardener.”
He watched me let it sink in.
“He says she’s safe so long as you write about him,” Walton said, thumping Friar Tom’s letter. “Go play journalist, let me play detective.”
CHAPTER 77
I picked up my car at the library and headed for home.
As I drove, I replayed the night of Jordan’s abduction in my mind. I saw Friar Tom leaning through my car window, wearing a patrolman’s hat and a black leather executioner’s mask.
Of course!
When Friar Tom pulled us over, I was so stunned he wasn’t a black man that I failed to make the connection.
I phoned the museum. Merrill Addison’s secretary said he was on another line.
“Who catered the gala?” I asked her.
“Pacific Catering,” she said.
“Did they happen to use the basement storeroom that night?”
“No,” she said. “Not after they retrieved the champagne.”
“The champagne?”
“It was briefly stored down there.”
“I can’t believe Addison didn’t mention this.”
“He didn’t know. The champagne arrived while he went home to change. I needed to keep it somewhere cool. When the waiters got here, they carried it upstairs.”
“Would you remember the waiters?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
“No,” she said, “they were wearing masks.”
Friar Tom was one of the many waiters who reported for work that night wearing a black leather executioner’s mask. He found the Iron Maiden’s triggering springs in the storeroom, then killed Mayor Stanton.
I hung up and dialed Pacific Catering. They would know Friar Tom’s identity.
The owner refused to tell me which employees worked the party.
“That’s confidential,” she said. “I could get sued.”
Great, I thought, a serial killer can blaze a bloody trail through San Diego, but everyone’s privacy rights will be safe.
The Scavenger's Daughter: A Tyler West Mystery Page 17
