It had been a long, difficult trip. After arriving at the border and showing her ID, Lee had been arrested for impersonating a police officer and thrown in jail. More than twelve hours passed before the military police got around to contacting the LAPD. And when they did, one of the clerks in HR told them that the real Cassandra Lee was vacationing in the San Juan islands. Insofar as the army was concerned that raised the possibility that the woman who claimed to be Cassandra Lee had murdered the police officer and taken the woman’s ID. Never mind the fact that the person in custody looked exactly like the cop in question.
So another eight hours passed while Lee pleaded with them to call Deputy Chief Jenkins. Once they did so she was released. That was good except it meant Jenkins was going to be pissed. She had lied to him after all—and that was a definite no-no.
Such were Lee’s thoughts as she grabbed the suitcase, stood up, and exited the bus. It was 10:36 A.M., and the bright sunlight caused Lee to squint as she stepped down onto the ground.
From there it was a short walk through a mostly empty terminal and out onto the street, where two cabs were waiting. Both were decorated with murals, lots of chrome, and plenty of unnecessary accessories. Lee entered the first one and gave her address to the driver.
As the especiale pulled away from the curb Lee thought about how good it was to be back in the green zone—and wondered how her mother was doing. Did she know that James was dead? And that his killers worked for her husband? Maybe Heevy had told Alala so as to punish her for giving birth to James. Or maybe he was keeping the entire episode to himself. Not that it mattered. There weren’t many secrets in the Heevy mansion, and if Myra knew, then Alala knew. But Lee was determined to let the whole thing go. The Heevy family had created the mess—and they would have to sort it out. Her mother included.
“That’ll be ten nu,” the driver said as he brought the car to a stop in front of the apartment house. Lee was forced to pay with some badly crumpled ones and a handful of coins. She didn’t have enough money to give him a tip—and the driver muttered something as she got out.
After losing the truck, which Lee had come to appreciate, she’d been worried about the motorcycle. But the big Road King was right where it was supposed to be, hiding under its gray cover. Lee made a mental note to thank her downstairs neighbors for keeping an eye on the bike as she climbed the stairs to her apartment.
The door was intact, something most people would take for granted but something Lee had reason to worry about. The interior was a bit dusty, mostly dark because the curtains were pulled, and it felt like her father was still living there. It’s time to move, Lee told herself. It’s time to get a place of my own.
It was also time to dump the contents of the suitcase onto the bed and shed the dirty clothes. A few minutes later she was in the shower where she let the deliciously hot water pummel her skin before washing her hair. She was standing on the bath mat, using a towel, when the cell phone rang. It was outside the bathroom on the hallway table. “This is Cassandra Lee.”
“And this is your boss,” Jenkins replied. “We need to talk.”
“Yeah,” Lee said contritely. “We do. Thanks for bailing me out.”
“Be in my office at two,” Jenkins said. Lee winced as the line went dead.
After starting a load of laundry and getting dressed for work, Lee went down to the garage. The hog started right away, and Lee rode it downtown. The cops in the parking garage said, “Hi,” and welcomed her back as she passed through security.
Then began what could be a fateful trip upstairs. She was officially on administrative leave rather than vacation—and that meant she was supposed to be available to her superiors. So Jenkins could fire her if he chose to. Then what would she do? The thought caused her stomach to churn.
As Lee crossed the bull pen on the third floor there were some greetings but none of the friendly insults that she could normally expect. And there was something else as well . . . It seemed as though a pervasive feeling of gloom was hanging over the area. But why? Lee couldn’t stop to ask without being late. So she made a note to find out what the problem was as she continued on her way.
But when she arrived outside Jenkins’s office it was to discover that the chief had a visitor. So Lee was forced to sit and worry until the woman left, and Jenkins waved her in. The guest chair was still warm when she sat on it. There was a serious expression on the chief’s face. “How are you feeling?”
“Good,” Lee replied truthfully. “Very good. Listen, I want to apologize for . . .”
“Never mind that,” Jenkins said brusquely. “You didn’t watch the news this morning, did you?”
“No,” Lee confessed. “I didn’t.”
Jenkins nodded. “Yeah . . . Well, the Bonebreaker struck again. The victim was a patrolman named Rudy Vasquez. A kid really, only a year out of the academy. A road crew came across his body this morning.”
Now Lee understood the black cloud that hung over the bull pen. Another cop had been murdered. “Was the body found on the Hollywood Freeway?”
“Yes. Which means that traffic has been backed up all day, and the mayor is pissed.” Jenkins scowled. “I wonder which she cares about most . . . Vasquez or the traffic. No, strike that, she has a city to run.”
Lee nodded. She understood how Jenkins felt. How all cops felt. “Had the body been dismembered?”
Jenkins made a face. “Yes.”
Lee remembered the video of her father’s death. “Shit.”
“Yeah. So Lieutenant Wolfe is working the case along with your guys. And she wants you back on the team if you’re up for it.”
Lee frowned. “Why? Because she could use another detective? Or because my involvement will make the Bonebreaker even crazier?”
“For both reasons,” Jenkins answered. “Do you have a problem with that?”
“No. I would do anything to bring that sick son of a bitch in. So I’m back on duty?”
“Yes.”
“And Dr. Kane agrees?”
“He will.”
Lee smiled. “Good.” She was looking forward to seeing Kane again.
“So,” Jenkins said. “How did it go with your mother?”
The question came as a shock. Jenkins knew! But how? Lee frowned. “You left cameras in my apartment?”
Jenkins nodded. “Yes. For your own good. And we may have to install more.”
“And you read the letter my mother sent me?”
“A copy . . . Yes.”
Lee stared at him. “So you knew where I was going and why.”
“No,” Jenkins said. “I didn’t know. Not for sure. Had I known, I would have had to take disciplinary action against you.”
Lee couldn’t help but smile. “You are a grade-A son of a bitch.”
“And you are an insubordinate pain in the ass.” Both of them laughed.
Jenkins stood. “Come on . . . The right-hand lane of the Hollywood Freeway is still closed—and I promised the mayor that our people would pull out before rush hour. I want to see the scene firsthand—and I imagine you would as well.”
Lee felt mixed emotions as she followed Jenkins out of the office, through the bull pen, and toward the elevators. It was good to be back. But another policeman had been murdered. And by returning to active duty she was about to remind the killer that she was still alive. Would that stir him up? Definitely. The reality of that frightened her.
Most of the department’s “unmarked” cars had been tagged by members of LA’s graffiti underground who, having done so, liked to post photos of their “kills” on the Internet. And the sedan that had been assigned to Jenkins was no exception. In fact the letters TIACC, (This is a cop car,) had been scrawled across the trunk in bright pink paint.
It took less than five minutes to merge onto U.S. 101 northbound—a road also known as the Hollywood Freeway. The right lane and the shoulder next to it had been coned off and closed to regular motorists. That slowed traffic to a crawl but allowed the po
lice car to make good time. It wasn’t long before flashing lights appeared ahead, and Jenkins had to pull over.
As they made their way along the line of cruisers and “creepers,” Lee knew that the passing motorists were staring at her and the cops processing the crime scene. It wasn’t the first time since she’d been a street cop and worked lots of accidents. The army of looky loos, gawkers, and bloodthirsty ghouls were part of the job. And that was one aspect of what the Bonebreaker wanted . . . lots and lots of attention.
There were five lanes and a narrow shoulder on the right. It was hot, and Lee enjoyed a brief respite from the sun as they passed under a bridge. She turned to look back over her shoulder as they emerged and saw that at least four TV cameras had been set up on the overpass. All of which had a perfect view of the crime scene up ahead. Was Carla Zumin looking down at her? Probably. Although panels of blue fabric had been set up to protect the crime scene from prying eyes.
With the exception of some patrol officers and the CHP personnel, Lee and Jenkins knew all of the people who were working the scene. So there was no need for introductions. Lieutenant Wolfe was standing next to one of the department’s Incident Command Post units. The vehicle was roughly the size of a bus—and equipped to provide a variety of support services. Wolfe wiped the sweat off her forehead. She had to raise her voice to make herself heard over the roar of traffic. “Chief, Detective Lee, welcome to the frying pan . . . We’re almost finished. We’ll pull out by five thirty.”
“That won’t be good enough for the mayor,” Jenkins predicted gloomily. “But nothing is. Can you give us a walk-through? Lee’s going to rejoin your unit and, given her media profile, will have to share the shitstorm with us. Which reminds me . . . Molly has a press conference scheduled for six thirty, and all three of us are supposed to be there.”
Wolfe made a face. “Oh, goody. Yeah, let’s take a stroll. There were three black garbage bags,” she said, as they walked north. “They were removed a couple of hours ago but cones mark where they were found.”
Lee could see that technicians were still on the scene, still taking measurements, and still snapping photos. She stopped next to the first marker and eyed the others. It looked as though the cones were roughly thirty feet apart. “The bags were spread out?” she inquired. “They weren’t in a single pile?”
“Correct,” Wolfe replied. “And I know what you’re thinking. Prior to this murder, the Bonebreaker always left the bags in a pile. So this represents a deviation from his past MO.”
Lee nodded. “There’s something else as well . . . If I remember correctly, the Bonebreaker used to dump bodies next to the southbound lanes of the freeway.”
“That’s right,” Wolfe said. “Plus, he dumped the bags under the bridge where the traffic cameras couldn’t see him. So, thanks to the switch, we can look at the footage from the nearest cameras and who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Jenkins frowned. “You’re sure it’s him?”
“Hell no,” Wolfe answered. “We’re not sure of anything at this point. But the odds are pretty good. After all, if it is him, this wouldn’t be the first time he made changes to his MO. Sometimes he contacts us—and sometimes he doesn’t. And he sent a drone after Lee . . . But the general location is consistent with his MO—as is the fact that the body was dismembered.”
“It will be interesting to read the autopsy report,” Lee said, as they arrived at the third cone. “He used a chain saw on my father. We know that for a fact. So we’ll find out if he’s still using that methodology.”
Lee was surprised by the cool, emotion-free way in which she was able to talk about it. And, judging from their expressions, the others were as well. “Right,” Wolfe said. “Assuming the chief agrees, I’d like you and your team to work on Vasquez. Who was he really? What, if anything, did he have in common with previous victims? And what was he doing the night he disappeared?”
Lee nodded. “Got it. We’ll get to work.”
“One more thing,” Wolfe said. “The fact that you are working on the case could provoke another attack. So I’m going to reactivate the shadow team. Your bathroom will be safe—but don’t parade around the apartment naked.”
After looking at the crime scene, Lee and Jenkins returned to LAPD headquarters, where they met with the department’s public-affairs rep and Wolfe prior to reporting to the plaza for the press conference. It was late afternoon by that time, and the light was starting to fade as Jenkins stepped up to a portable podium, and read a prepared statement.
“At approximately 5:30 A.M., a state highway crew found what appeared to be three bags of human remains next to northbound SR 101. Patrol cars were dispatched to secure the scene and worked with units from the California Highway Patrol and the highway department to shut down the right lane of the Hollywood Freeway.
“Shortly thereafter, members of the LAPD’s Robbery-Homicide Division arrived on scene and began their investigation. Later it was determined that the remains were those of LAPD Patrol Officer Rudy Vasquez, who had been reported missing three days earlier. Officer Vasquez’s family was notified early this afternoon and requests that the media respect their privacy during this difficult time. A memorial service will be held on a date to be announced later in the week.”
Jenkins paused to survey the faces in front of him. “Many of you are aware that certain aspects of this murder are reminiscent of the murders committed by an individual who calls him or herself ‘the Bonebreaker.’ And while we acknowledge there are some similarities, we urge you not to make assumptions regarding this murder. It may or may not be connected to the previous killings. Once an autopsy has been performed, and various test results are back, we’ll let you know if we think there’s a connection.
“Now I would like to introduce Lieutenant Brianna Wolfe, who is leading this investigation with assistance from Detective Cassandra Lee. They will answer your questions to the extent that they can—remembering that there are topics we can’t discuss at this time.”
Lee had to give Wolfe credit. She handled the barrage of questions with considerable finesse. Yes, there were three black garbage bags. No, she wouldn’t comment on the contents of the bags. Yes, there was a message from a person claiming to be the killer. No, she wouldn’t say what was in the message, or whether it was from the Bonebreaker.
And so it went. In fact, the whole thing was so smooth that Lee thought she was going to skate until Carla Zumin called her name. “Detective Lee! You’ve been working on the Bonebreaker killings for a long time now—and he tried to kill you. Do you have a message for him?”
Lee felt a surge of anger, opened her mouth, and heard herself speak. “Yes, I have a message for the bastard . . . No matter where you are, no matter what hole you live in, we will find you.” And that, needless to say, was the sound pop that all of the TV stations led with.
* * *
The Bonebreaker’s work was done for the day. The current task was to inscribe the words from Matthew 25:46 onto Chief McGinty’s femur. After many hours of painstaking work using an air-powered engraving tool, the phrase, “Then they will go away to eternal punishment,” had been successfully inscribed onto the bone. He planned to finish the job soon. The full inscription, the one the Bonebreaker would send to McGinty’s whore, was going to read: “Then they will go away to eternal punishment, but the righteous to eternal life.” The “righteous” being those who had suffered at McGinty’s hands.
It was 10:42 P.M. by then, although time had very little meaning in the ossuary, and the Bonebreaker was hungry. The camp stove was located on a counter next to an improvised sink. Fixing dinner was a simple matter of dumping a can of chicken noodle soup into a pan and lighting a burner. That, plus a piece of Melba toast, was the Bonebreaker’s idea of a hearty meal.
Once the soup came to a boil, the Bonebreaker took it and the piece of toast over to the stainless-steel worktable, where he put both items down next to McGinty’s femur. Having worked through the 5:00 P.M. newscas
t, the Bonebreaker wanted to watch Channel 7’s 11:00 P.M. News-Wrap while he ate.
He was slurping soup out of a large spoon as the anchors appeared. The Bonebreaker knew both of them well, or felt that he did, and liked square-jawed Weston Smiley the best. It was blue-eyed Mary Rollit who read the first story, however. “I’m sorry to say that another Los Angeles police officer has been murdered. And, based on preliminary evidence, the killing may be the work of the notorious Bonebreaker.”
The real Bonebreaker stopped eating as Rollit described the black trash bags, where they had been found, and the miles-long traffic jam that resulted from the discovery. The Bonebreaker felt a rising sense of rage. He was innocent! Of that murder anyway . . . And had never heard of Officer Vasquez before.
So he was already upset when the press-conference footage appeared. A police official was speaking, but the Bonebreaker had very little interest in what the man had to say. His eyes were on Cassandra Lee! The bitch had returned from wherever she’d been hiding. He called upon God to strike Lee dead. No, the voice in his head said. You are my servant on Earth . . . It is your task to punish the evildoers.
Lee took a question from one of the reporters as the press conference began to wind down. “Detective Lee! You’ve been working on the Bonebreaker killings for a long time now—and he tried to kill you. Do you have a message for him?”
“Yes,” Lee said. “I have a message for the bastard. No matter where you are, no matter what hole you live in, we will find you.”
The Bonebreaker uttered a scream of rage and threw his spoon at the TV set. It hit, bounced off, and clattered to the floor. “I didn’t do it!” he shouted. But no one heard him other than a hungry rat—and it wasn’t impressed.
* * *
Lee had no difficulty waking up on the morning after the press conference. That had a lot to do with the fact that there were cameras in her home including the bedroom.
The first thing Lee did as she rolled out of bed was to give the people who were watching her the finger as she left for the bathroom. The one place where she could be sure of some privacy. After completing her morning routines Lee left the apartment, went down to the street, and performed a 360 on the sedan. The lack of response from the handheld detector suggested that the vehicle was clean, except for the police department’s tracker, that is.
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