Grave of Angels

by Michael Prescott

  They neared the motel. Kate looked at Skip, who had said nothing throughout the drive. “You’re quiet.”

  “Just thinking.”

  “About Chelsea?”

  “No. Well, yeah. I guess I am. What will happen to her?”

  “We’ll get her back.”

  “Yeah, but if we don’t…”

  “He’ll keep her doped up until he’s established full control over her. Once she’s thoroughly brainwashed, he’ll take her off the drugs. And she’ll be his slave.”

  “But she’s famous. It’s not like he can hide her anywhere.”

  “He’s got a place in mind. Even in today’s world, there are places where no one has heard of Chelsea Brewer.” She frowned. “What’s it to you, anyway? She’s just another contestant in the game you run. Just pixels on a screen.”

  “You’re doing your best to make me feel bad about myself, aren’t you?”

  “You bet.”

  “Good job,” Skip said softly.

  He pulled up at the motel and got out when Kate did.

  “So you think Swann was staying here?”

  Kate glanced at the billboard looming over the street, Chelsea’s face huge and luminous. The sign would be visible from any of the front rooms. “Yes.”

  “But he’s not here now?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Probably? I thought you said this wasn’t dangerous.”

  “I lied. Wait in the car if you’re scared.”

  “Didn’t say I was scared. I’d just appreciate a little heads-up, is all. So how are we going to know what room he was in?”

  “Bribery.” She entered the small, rancid office and rang the bell until a sleepy-eyed desk clerk stumbled out of a back room. His hair was matted and askew, and his breath was foul.

  “What can I do you for?” he asked with a yawn.

  “Have you seen this man?”

  Alan had transferred the memory card from her old phone to her new one. Swann’s photo was on it. She showed the clerk the picture. Skip took a look, too, craning his neck over her shoulder.

  The clerk’s face closed up. “Nope.”

  “He’s lying,” Skip said.

  Kate already knew that. “This man kidnapped a young woman earlier this evening. We believe he’s been staying at this motel. Now, take another look and tell me if you’ve seen him.”

  “You cops?”

  “We’re private security operatives,” Kate said, stretching the truth to include Skip.

  “Well, I don’t gotta cooperate with no private operatives.” He put a contemptuous emphasis on the last word.

  She flashed a fifty-dollar bill. “We can make it worth your while.”

  “Lady, I’m not for sale.”

  Sure he wasn’t. “How about if I double the price? A hundred bucks if you tell me what room he took.”

  “Make it two hundred.”

  She would have paid a thousand, but it seemed important to establish herself as a tough negotiator. “A hundred’s my top offer. I can pay you, or I can bring in the police and you’ll answer their questions for free.”

  “Okay. Lemme have it.”

  “First, give me his room number.”

  “He ain’t here no more. He checked out around eight. Start of my shift.”

  “You work all night?”

  “Twelve hours. Eight to eight.”

  Sleeping through most of it, Kate thought. “I still want to know which room he used. And I want to search it.”

  “It’s already occupied. By someone new.”

  “They paying by the day or by the hour?”

  “Hey, this ain’t that kind of establishment.”

  “When did the new people check in?”

  “Not long ago,” the clerk admitted.

  “After four in the morning? So it’s by the hour, then.”

  “I don’t ask questions.”

  “Just tell us the room number. We’ll handle the rest.”

  “The money.” He extended a hand.

  Kate lifted it almost within his reach but hung on to the cash. It was a childish contest of wills, but one she intended to win.

  “Oh, hell. It was room seventeen B. He had it for like a month, maybe more.”

  She gave up the money. He snatched it out of her hand and stuffed it into his pants pocket in guilty haste.

  Kate moved toward the office door, then stopped. “Did he ever give you a name?” Knowing his alias might be useful in tracking him down.

  “It’s not like we keep a registry.”

  “He didn’t use a credit card or write a check?”

  “Cash only. That’s how he paid. Regular as clockwork. Scared the shit outta me,” he added as an afterthought.

  “Did he? Why?”

  His thin shoulders lifted. “Some guys, they just give off that vibe, you know. That stone-cold killer vibe.”

  “Yes,” Kate said. “I know.”

  She left with Skip and hurried down the outside walkway. Along the way, Skip asked what was the point of entering the room when Swann was already gone.

  “People leave things behind,” Kate said. “People make mistakes.”

  “Not this guy.”

  “Yes. Even him.”

  Through the thin door of 17B, groans and laughter could be heard—a man’s groans, a woman’s laughter. Kate banged on the door and kept pounding until it eased open, a pale man in disheveled clothes glaring out. “What the fuck’s going on out here?”

  “You need to vacate the premises.”

  “I paid for this room.”

  “It’s a crime scene. I was sent ahead to secure it. In about five minutes SID is going to be here along with two dozen officers. If you’re still hanging around, they’ll have questions for you. And”—Kate glanced past him at a naked brunette who appeared to be fifteen years old—“for your wife.”

  The man swallowed. “I don’t think we want to get involved in that.”

  “Then clear out.”

  The two of them were gone within thirty seconds, leaving Skip and Kate alone in the room.

  “That was awesome,” Skip said. “You totally socially engineered his ass.”

  “Search the drawers, the closet, and wastebaskets. Look for anything Swann might have left behind.”

  “You don’t think the maid would have cleaned it up?”

  “I’m guessing this place doesn’t put a high priority on maid service.”

  She pulled open the drawers of a bureau, starting with the bottom drawer and working upward, the most efficient approach. One of many things Barney had taught her.

  There was nothing in the bureau or in the nightstand. She checked the pad by the phone, hoping to find a note left by Swann, or even an impression of his handwriting on the paper, but the pad was brand new and unused. She thought about trying redial on the phone, but the line was dead.

  “Anything?” she asked Skip.

  “Not even a Gideon Bible.”

  “Wastebaskets?”

  “Empty except for a condom wrapper. The bathroom looks pretty spic ’n’ span. Unless Swann is the ultimate neat freak, I think a maid was here.”

  Kate glanced into the bathroom and saw that the sink and toilet had been wiped down.

  “You’re right. The maid came in after Swann checked out. She gave the place a once-over and emptied the wastebaskets.” Bending, she picked up a hank of hair under the sink. “Must have swept up, too. Swann shaved himself bald and probably left hair all over the floor, so they had to clean the room.”

  “Then we’re shit out of luck.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  Kate left the room and went around to the trash bins at the back of the motel.

  “Dumpster diving?” Skip said dubiously. “Really?”

  “It might be our only shot.”

  “How will we even know which trash is from seventeen B?”

  “We won’t. We’ll have to look through it all.”

  She was about to
hoist herself into the nearest bin when a small voice said, “Excuse me.”

  Kate looked over and saw a slender, dark-haired figure at the entrance to the alley. The underage hooker from the motel room. Her face was scared and serious, and her small hands fidgeted with her oversized handbag.

  “Yes?” Kate said, her voice gentle, as if she were facing a frightened fawn and didn’t want to scare it away.

  “You’re the policia, no?”

  “That’s right.” Kate hoped the girl wouldn’t ask to see her ID.

  “You’re here about the man who was in there.”

  “Yes.” Kate showed her the photo. “This man.”

  The girl drew back with a flinch of recognition. “I knew it must be about him. That one, he is crazy. He made me…do things.”

  “What things?”

  “He made me cut him. He had this razor blade. He has scars all over. He likes to be cut. He likes the blood.”

  “Shit,” Skip murmured.

  “When was this?” Kate asked.

  “About…um…six o’clock. He scared me. When I tried to leave, he stopped me and I thought he would cut me then. But he only wanted to pay me extra. He said I was a good girl and I helped him stay awake.”

  “Stay awake?”

  “That’s what he said. It was a funny thing to say because it was still early. Nobody gets sleepy at six o’clock at night.”

  “So he paid you extra?”

  She nodded. “He pulled on his pants and grabbed some money out of the pocket and put it into my hand.” She reached into her handbag. “Mixed in with the money…I found this.”

  She took out a small, creased scrap of paper, worn and curling at the edges. A telephone number with a 213 code was written in pencil in a neat, careful hand.

  “He didn’t mean to give it to me. Maybe it can help you?”

  “Maybe it can. Thank you.”

  “This man—he should not be on the street. He should be locked up. Like an animal.”

  “We’ll see that he is,” Kate promised.

  She called Alan and had him run the number through an online reverse directory. “Will do, chief,” he said in a low voice.

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “Because the police are here.”

  “What?”

  “They pegged you as the owner of a smashed-up Jaguar involved in a hit-and-run. Guess they found the car at the diner where you dumped it. They linked it to the crash somehow. They know you were here at the Brewer house earlier, because those other cops saw you and filed a report. Now there’s a bunch of new guys here, plainclothes and uniform, and they are very eager to talk to you.”

  “I don’t have time to talk.”

  “Mrs. Brewer’s got them distracted, but I don’t know how long she can keep it up. We haven’t told them what’s going on, but I think they’re starting to figure it out. They’re talking about putting out a BOLO or an APB or whatever it is.”

  “On me?”

  “You fled the scene. That’s a crime. One guy was shot in his apartment and another guy was shot in the street. It’s kind of a big deal.”

  “What’s the condition of the victims?”

  “The carjack vic is dead. The apartment guy is expected to pull through. What do I say to the police?”

  “Hell, just stall them. You have no idea where I am or how to reach me.”

  “I told them that. They’re not buying it.”

  “Then tell them I went to the motel. I won’t be here much longer, and they won’t be able to trace me from this location.”

  “That could buy some time, but…you’re getting in pretty deep, chief.”

  “I was already in deep. Have you run the number?”

  “Yeah, it comes back to Giovanni’s Trattoria. Italian restaurant downtown. Maybe Swann just liked the food there.”

  Kate shook her head. “Sam said one of their former associates was named Giovanni. Give me the address.”

  Alan rattled it off. The restaurant was on Crocker in downtown LA, south of Little Tokyo. “If you think Swann’s holed up there,” Alan said, “you can’t go in alone.”

  “I’m not alone. I’m with Mr. Slater.”

  “That doesn’t count.”

  “Point taken. But if Swann was ever there, he’s probably not hanging around now. Anyway, I’ve got to check it out. Any word from the chase car?”

  “They’re still looking. Uh-oh, the cops are coming my way. Gotta go.”

  Kate ran for the car, Skip jogging after her. “So now we’re breaking into some restaurant?” he asked when she filled him in.

  “Just me. I’ll go in, and you wait outside in the car and watch the place.”

  “Sounds kind of pussy.”

  “I’ll need a lookout. If Swann ever was using this location, he might come back.”

  “Okay.” He slipped behind the wheel. “Do I understand the police are after you? So, basically, we’re on the run from the law?”

  She slid in beside him. “As an anarchist, you should have no problem with that.”

  “Anarcho-libertarian,” Skip said morosely as he shifted the Mazda into drive and tore away from the curb.

  SWANN sped east on the Antelope Valley Freeway, the valise on the Ford’s passenger seat rattling softly. It was the sound of money, and he liked it.

  He’d given Sam Brewer a good death. The injuries sustained in the collision had killed him a little faster than Swann had hoped, but not before the nail went into his temple, shorting out whatever part of the brain was hooked up to the optic nerves. Sam died blind, his eyes rolling in panic, his hands waving at the darkness around him.

  To make his last moments extra special, Swann broke his fingers one at a time and snapped his wrists. He was setting to work on Sam’s privates when the man expired with a moan.

  He lay there now on the side of the road, near the abandoned Hyundai. The Ford was safer to drive. There was probably an APB out on the Hyundai, but no one would be looking for the Ford except Kate Malick’s people, and Swann would soon be far outside their range.

  He was smarter than the nun. He was smarter than everybody. He had no problem acknowledging it. Humility was for sheep, not wolves.

  His strategy, multilayered and complex, had come off with barely a hitch. He had worked it all out like a chess match. People were easy to manipulate, as easy to move as pawns on a board.

  Chelsea’s life wasn’t the only one he held in his hands. He was God. He had the whole world in his hands.

  From Sierra Highway, he had cut east, hooking up with the freeway, which would take him to Palmdale. There, he would shoot due east, eventually connecting with Interstate 15, which would take him south to San Diego. He would cross the border off-road in the desert, and then he would be in Mexico.

  With the girl.

  He glanced behind him at the Ford’s backseat, where she lay unconscious. He had transferred her from the Hyundai to the Ford before taking off.

  He worried about the girl. Her condition remained dicey. In the restaurant, he’d given her some of the GHB antagonist, and it had roused her a little, but maybe not enough. He was reluctant to give her more. He couldn’t have her fully awake, or she would be too hard to control. Her stunt with the kitchen knife had proved that much.

  It was a balancing act—he wanted her alive but not alert, unconscious but not comatose. He would have to monitor her throughout the drive.

  She was causing him a lot of trouble, more than he’d anticipated, but he wasn’t giving up on her. He wanted her to live. He had plans for her. In the small town in Mexico where no one would know them, she would become his bride. They would spend months together, even years. And when he tired of her—he always tired of women, eventually—then he would market her to the highest bidder. A movie star would be worth big bucks to qualified buyers. The price he’d get would ensure a pleasant retirement.

  Meanwhile, they would have good times, the two of them. She would serve him, slave for him, cook
and clean and tend to his physical needs. And sing. Yes.

  He liked to hear her sing…

  Swann grinned, contemplating his future, but the grin faded when he caught headlights in his rearview mirror, closing fast.

  ——

  Grange and Di Milo had spent the past half hour prowling the roads that branched out from Solemint Junction. Now they were eastbound on the Antelope Valley Freeway, bearing down on a Ford Mustang.

  “Think it’s him?” Grange asked, holding the Glock that belonged to his boss.

  Di Milo, economical with speech as always, merely shrugged.

  If it was Sam Brewer, he hadn’t made very good time. He should have been miles farther away. But things could happen. Car trouble, second thoughts, or simply getting lost on unfamiliar roads.

  “It could be him,” Grange said. “Fucking asshole abandons his own kid.”

  Di Milo still had no comment. He kept his foot on the gas, the Skylark narrowing the distance to its quarry.

  “He won’t want to pull over.” Grange rolled down his window, letting in the cool predawn air. “We may have to persuade him.”

  Di Milo drew his weapon.

  “He was armed when he went to the drop-off,” Grange added. Kate had told him so.

  Di Milo nodded.

  Grange leaned forward as the Skylark eased into the fast lane, pulling up on the driver’s side of the Ford. He strained for a view of the figure behind the wheel.

  Then the two cars were side by side, and the man in the Ford turned to them, a bald man with a hard face, the man who’d taunted Grange at the bar and beaten him unconscious in the restroom.

  “It’s Swann!” Grange shouted, and purple muzzle flashes flared as the Ford’s driver opened fire.

  Grange took a round in the face and felt the sting in his cheek and grinding pain in the jaw. He shot back wildly, unable to aim because his vision had gone double.

  Di Milo shoved him back against the headrest, out of the way, and squeezed off four rounds in quick succession, and the Ford slewed, the driver hit but not killed, still firing back, a drumroll of bullets punching through the Skylark’s door, crumbling the windshield, blowing the side mirror apart.