by Blake Pierce
“Where is he now?” Jessie asked.
“No idea,” Ryan said. “He dropped off the radar after leaving the hospital.”
“Maybe we should check in with Irina to see if she’s seen him or can give some insight into where he might hide out,” Jessie suggested, pulling up her contact information and calling her cell phone.
“Straight to voicemail,” she said, frustrated.
They all sat at their desks silently for a moment.
“Wait, I have an idea,” Jamil said suddenly, picking up his own phone.
“I kind of like this kid,” Ryan muttered to Jessie, who nodded in agreement.
“Hi, Nancy,” Jamil said, pausing briefly for a reply before continuing, “Yes, I’m sorry, I know it’s late. But you were so helpful with those folks from LAPD before that I was hoping to impose on you again.”
Another pause as the voice of Nancy from the MBSHOA could be heard on the other end of the line.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I was wondering if you could provide me with the emergency number for Irina Cunningham. She’s not answering her cell phone and I know all Strand residents are required to keep an emergency beacon on their person in case the HOA needs to quickly disseminate information to the community.”
After another pause, this one longer than the last, he thanked her and hung up.
“Well?” Ryan demanded.
“Nancy said she’d happily contact Mrs. Cunningham but that it wouldn’t do much good right now as Irina is currently on a red-eye flight to Paris, where she’ll be vacationing for the next few weeks. Apparently they go every year at this time and Irina decided not to cancel and let a little divorce ruin her summer. So we’ll have to wait a few hours to get hold of her.”
“No we won’t,” Jessie said excitedly as she stood up.
“Why not?” Jamil asked.
“Irina left today for a weeks’ long vacation, a vacation Pierce knew was happening. Her house, the house he used to live in, is empty. I think we can guess where he might be squatting tonight. What’s his address?”
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Pierce Cunningham knew he should leave.
He’d been sloppy with the second woman. Even though he was always careful to wipe down his prints when he stayed somewhere, he was sure that he’d made some mistake in his mad dash from Carl Landingham’s place.
Even if the cops didn’t nail him with DNA or something, they eventually would because of the stocking. Of course, he used one for the first murder of the nosy neighbor because he had it on him. He always carried the memento of his time as the celebrated designer of a beloved garment.
It just so happened that it was in his hand at the exact time the neighbor discovered him hiding in the corner of the living room. If he’d had a glass vase at his disposal, he might have used that after he chased her into the foyer. At least that’s what he told himself. But there was a poetic justice to taking a life with something he’d created. Birth, death, rebirth—something like that.
Using the stocking for the second murder had just been a crazy coincidence. The girl who fell down the stairs happened to be wearing them. Using it as a weapon of death had worked out well for him once before. It only made sense to use it again. Part of him thought it was meant to be. It couldn’t have just been an accident of luck that she was wearing the same brand of hose that had snuffed out the nosy neighbor’s life, the same brand that he designed with his own blood and sweat. It was a sign and he couldn’t ignore it.
All the same, those beautiful coincidences were sure to blow back on him when someone eventually figured out that the man who designed the stockings used to kill two women had been institutionalized not long after an incident involving violence toward another attractive young woman. He had little confidence that the details of the settlement he’d reached with that whiny bitch, Annie Cole, would stay secret forever. Even if it was in the interest of the jackals at OTB who’d forced him out to keep things quiet, tongues always wagged eventually.
But he couldn’t bring himself to leave. After all this was his house. Technically it now belonged exclusively to his cold shrew of an ex-wife, who’d had gotten it in the divorce after basically threatening to publicly reveal his drunken moment of poor judgment on New Year’s Eve and ruin what was left of his reputation.
But he had originally found the place. He had supervised the renovations that turned it from merely a large, two-story Spanish-style house into a full-on Mediterranean mansion with a third floor, a rooftop pool, and views that, on clear winter days, included snow-capped Mount Baldy over sixty miles to the northeast.
He wandered from room to room, aware that every minute he stayed here put him at risk. Still, he couldn’t help but let the memories wash over him: the first night he and Irina had slept here, the rainy morning when she’d told him she had no interest in children. He recalled the first time he’d slept here with someone other than Irina, not long after discovering the credit card statement, the one she thought he didn’t know about. It showed she’d spent a weekend at a Malibu bed & breakfast, not alone, when he was working in New York.
He remembered coming back here the first time after having spent a month at the Hazelden Treatment Center in Minnesota, where they tried to help him get a handle on his OCD, his proclivity to self-medicate, and what they politely referred to as his “impulse control issues.” He remembered one night when Irina was visiting her mother, sneaking back here with an OTB intern who had been more receptive to his overtures than Annie Cole was. All the memories faded in and out, sometimes twisting into each other.
He suspected the haziness might have something to do with vodka he’d been consuming almost nonstop since crawling through the window with the faulty latch once it got dark outside. Whatever the reason, he found himself in his former bedroom, rummaging through Irina’s clothes, the ones she kept in the walk-in closet he’d had built for her, which was bigger than his first apartment in Manhattan.
He tossed dress-adorned hangers onto the floor, trying to keep track of how many of her outfits he’d designed. He opened her dresser drawer, the one that held all the OTB stockings. There were dozens—some sheer, some in colors—all created by him. Even now, though she despised him, Irina couldn’t get rid of these.
She loved them too much. Just as so many other women did. Stockings weren’t especially popular in Southern California these days. But his creation still held cachet, even if he no longer did. He’d never met a woman who’d worn them who had a critical word to say. They were his gift to the world. He wondered if that would be taken into consideration when he was finally held to account for his sins. The thought made him laugh out loud.
Your honor, my client may have strangled the life out of two innocent women. But he knew how to make a gorgeous pair of hose, don’t you think?
He laughed again, even louder this time.
*
Officer Carrie Shaw was ready to go home.
She didn’t have that much longer until her shift ended at midnight and she could feel her concentration fading in and out as she walked the length of the Manhattan Beach section of the Strand, keeping an eye out for anything out of the ordinary.
It had been an unordinary week in town and it was still only Wednesday. Already, three murders had been committed along this very stretch of homes, one a resident, one the mistress of a resident, and one a celebrated LAPD criminal profiler.
Carrie would have liked to have been involved in any of those investigations. But as the newest member of the department, she wasn’t even considered experienced enough to stand guard outside the homes that were now crime scenes. She suspected that it was her physical bearing as much as her inexperience which put her at a disadvantage. Though she was athletic and wiry, a former gymnast, she was also petite, five foot two and 110 pounds soaking wet—not exactly an intimidating presence.
So instead of guarding a crime scene or going out on calls, she was stuck walking up and down the two-mile stretch o
f walking path that constituted the Manhattan Beach Strand. She estimated that in the last three hours, she walked close to eight miles. She didn’t even get to take advantage of the magnificent view of the Santa Monica Bay. By the time she took over Strand Patrol from the officer one rung up above her on the seniority ladder, it was already too dark to see the ocean.
Besides, she was supposed to be looking in the other direction, at the houses of people richer than she could ever dream of being. Sometimes she felt like a bit of pervert, peeking into people’s homes, spying on private, personal moments, looking for any behavior that might seem suspect.
Just then, and seemingly in a direct rebuke to her, a woman in the house she was passing scowled down at her and dropped her blinds emphatically. Carrie shook her head with a mix of shame and annoyance.
I’m just trying to do my job, lady.
She knew she wouldn’t get any dirty looks from the next house. According to her call sheet, the homeowner was out of town for at least the next two weeks.
That must be nice.
She was about to move on when she noticed a light on in a room on the third floor, casting a dull spotlight onto the section of the walking path just ahead of her. That wasn’t terribly unusual. Lots of residents set lighting timers when they were out of town to fool potential thieves into thinking someone was home. She started to look ahead to the next house when something that she did consider unusual caught her eye.
The first floor facing the ocean was enclosed entirely in glass. Some of it was comprised of floor to ceiling panes. Other sections were populated by multiple, smaller windows. One of those windows, in the farthest corner of the deck, mostly hidden behind a lounge chair, appeared to be open.
She walked over to get a better look. Sure enough, it was open, if only slightly. She also noticed what looked like fresh footprints on the damp wood deck flooring just outside the window. She pulled out her flashlight and shined it on the panel of window glass, where she was greeted by several handprints.
She took a step back and got out her radio. Considering recent events, it seemed wiser to call it in and be accused of overreacting rather than assume it was the work of a forgetful resident and end up missing the chance to apprehend a potential killer.
She lifted the radio to her mouth and was about to start talking when she heard it. The sound was hard to identify definitively. It was somewhere between a screech and…a laugh? She couldn’t decide whether she was hearing someone cackling in pleasure or shrieking in pain. Either way, somebody was in a home that was supposed to be unoccupied.
“This is Officer Shaw on Strand Patrol. I’m hearing potential sounds of distress coming from the residence of Irina Cunningham, between Second and Third streets. My call sheet indicates she is out of town, but there’s an open window on the first floor and a light on the third floor. I’m going in. Send backup.”
She turned down her radio so as not to alert the potential intruder and scrambled through the window. Once inside, she unholstered her gun and headed for the stairs that led to the third floor, following the sound of those nearly inhuman squeals. She was halfway between the first and second floors when she lost her footing and landed hard, with a thud that echoed through the house.
*
Pierce stopped laughing.
He needed to catch his breath. But seconds later, he felt the start of another giggle fit coming on at the notion of being the first defendant ever to use the “I’m a fashion genius” defense against a double murder charge. That’s when he heard the loud thumping noise, like someone had dropped a big bag of fertilizer down the stairs.
He fell silent and waited for any other sound. The ones that followed—two consecutive creaking noises—got him moving. After years of living in this house, he knew that two stairs going from the first to the second floor were notorious for their loud groans. He and Irina had learned to step on the outer edges of those stairs to avoid them. But a stranger to the home would have no idea. And that was clearly what he was dealing with.
He turned off the closet light, hurried across the master bedroom, and flicked off the switch for that light too. Then he peeked out in the hall and, seeing no one, prepared to dash into the guest bedroom across the way. But just before he did, an idea sprang into his head. He turned the bedroom light back on and left the door half open, then moved across the hall to the guest room.
About ten seconds later he heard another familiar groan, which indicated that his unwelcome visitor had reached the top of the third floor stairs, where he was. He was positive the person wasn’t Irina, who, after years of living here, managed to avoid every creaky spot instinctively.
He heard the soft footsteps of someone who was clearly trying to tiptoe on the carpeted floor. The sound he expected—the squeak as the master bedroom door was pushed open— should be coming soon. Then he’d have to make his choice. Would he hurry along the hall to the stairs and try to escape the house before others, likely an army of police, arrived? Or would he go the other way, toward the intruder?
Just then, the master bedroom door’s hinges howled in protest as the door was opened. Pierce opened his own door. Without even thinking about it, he made his choice.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Jessie and Ryan were already in his car and halfway to the Cunningham residence when the call came in.
They’d considered going on foot, but the house was at the southern end of the Strand, almost half a mile away from the station. Besides, their bullet-proof vests were in the car. They were tearing down Manhattan Avenue, just crossing over 9th Street, when Carrie Shaw’s radio call came in.
Jessie looked over at Ryan and could tell that they were thinking the same thing. Part of her wanted to warn Shaw to hold off on entering alone. But if someone was screaming in distress in the home, every second might be the difference between saving a life and losing one.
Ryan pulled the car over at the corner of Ocean Drive and 3rd Place, the closest that vehicles could get to the Strand on that block, where they both hopped out. Jessie ignored the sting in her back as she pushed herself out of the seat. They strapped on their vests as they ran to the address.
“Should we try to enter through the window she mentioned?” Jessie asked.
“No time to look for it,” Ryan said. “We just have to get in there.”
They arrived at a side door and he kicked it, hoping it would fly open. It didn’t budge.
“Backup plan,” Ryan said, pulling out his gun and taking aim at the knob.
He fired, sending a deafening echo throughout the quiet neighborhood. Then he kicked again. This time the door offered no resistance. He led the way in, gun in one hand, flashlight in the other. Jessie followed close behind, assuming the same posture.
“Shaw said the light was on the third floor,” Jessie reminded Ryan, even as he made his way to the stairs.
They moved up quickly, trying to stay quiet enough to pick up the sound of voices or a physical struggle. To Jessie’s dismay, they heard nothing. Occasionally they stepped on a creaky step and hoped it wasn’t audible upstairs. When they got to the third floor, they inadvertently made even more noise when they reached the top of the landing. Their weight made the floor below them groan softly. They looked down both ends of the hallway but didn’t find any lights on.
“You want to go left?” Ryan whispered. “I’ll check out the rooms on the right.”
Jessie nodded and began moving down the hall. The fact that Officer Shaw was nowhere to be seen or heard was deeply unsettling. She tried to force that concern from her head and just focus on the path in front of her.
She flashed her light into the first bedroom she came to but saw nothing out of order. She was just approaching a second open door when she heard what she thought was a grunt from the last darkened room at the end of the hall. She turned back to alert Ryan by waving her flashlight. But his head was turned away as he stepped into a bedroom, disappearing from sight.
She thought of going after h
im but a second grunt told her there wasn’t time. Instead, she moved toward the sound as quietly as she could. When she reached the open door, she took a deep breath and slid into the room, shining her flashlight.
Lying on the ground, conscious but clearly in bad shape, was a young woman in a police uniform who Jessie assumed was Officer Shaw. Jessie moved the light around the room, looking for anyone else, but found no one. She moved deliberately over to Shaw, who was looking up at her and seemed to be saying something in a raspy, nearly unintelligible voice.
“Bind doe.”
Jessie kept moving, even as she tried to process the woman’s words. She was almost to her when she figured it out.
Bind doe. Behind door.
She spun around just as the shadow of someone appeared on the wall, swinging something downward toward her. Jessie managed to get her arms up over her head, blocking the worst of the blow as what appeared to be a golf club came crashing down.
Unfortunately, the club did manage to come down forcefully on her right forearm, knocking the gun from her hand. The figure swung at her again. This time she jumped back, avoiding it. But she didn’t avoid Officer Shaw, who was right behind her. Stumbling over her, she fell backward onto the floor.
Jessie scrambled to her feet, anticipating another swing of the club. In the distance, she heard Ryan calling out to her. The man, who she could now more clearly identify as Pierce Cunningham, paused on his upswing and dashed over to the bedroom door, which he locked. Then he turned back around, an expression of twisted rage on his face.
“End of the hall!” Jessie shouted as loud as she could. Her words seemed to jumpstart Cunningham, who ran toward her.
She didn’t hesitate, stepping over Officer Shaw and rushing to meet him. He was just raising the club again when she lifted her small flashlight and shined it in his face. It had at least part of the desired effect as he squinted and turned his head away. But he didn’t stop moving. Before Jessie could dodge him, they collided hard.
