by Tripp Ellis
He looked unsettled.
I don't think he liked having this investigation swirling around the establishment.
We moved across the bar and stepped onto the patio. I kept a ready hand on the grip of my pistol as it rested in its holster. I grimaced as soon as we set foot onto the outside deck.
The patio bar was empty.
Charlie Knox was gone. Someone had tipped him off.
My jaw tightened, and my eyes scanned the area, searching for Knox.
"Shit," JD grumbled. "Something tells me this is going to be a long night."
We dashed back into the club and marched to the main bar. I seethed, and my eyes blazed into Chip. "Where is he?"
"He's not outside?" Chip asked, innocently.
"No. He's not outside," I said, snarling at the man.
"He was here a minute ago. Maybe he went to take a leak?"
I nodded to JD to check out the bathroom. Jack marched across the club.
"Did you tell him we were coming?" I asked.
"No," Chip said. "I didn't say shit."
"If you did, that's aiding and abetting."
"I didn't aid or abet anything."
JD returned a few moments later from the restroom and shook his head.
"Any idea where he might have gone?" I asked Chip.
He shrugged.
"He shows up, you call me immediately. Got that?"
Chip nodded. With a snide tone he said, "Sure thing."
He was full of shit.
We left the bar and regrouped with Erickson and Faulkner in the parking lot.
"Any sign of him?" I asked.
"We got nothing out here," Erickson said.
Charlie's van wasn't in the parking lot. The muscles in my jaw flexed, and I grumbled under my breath. "Chip must have said something." I barked orders. "Call Daniels. Put out a BOLO on Knox."
Erickson nodded.
"He's probably heading up Highway 1, getting the hell out of Dodge," JD said.
"Let's go see," I said.
We raced back to the Porsche and hopped into the leather sport-seats. JD cranked up the flat six, and I buckled my safety belt. He dropped the car into gear, and the tires barked as he launched from the curb. We raced down the street, the wind swirling around the cabin with the top down as we twisted through the streets to the highway.
Jack hammered the gas pedal, and within a couple shifts, we were hitting triple digits.
In the side mirror, I saw Faulkner and Erickson far behind us in a patrol car, lights flashing. They couldn't keep up.
The exotic sports car felt planted and stable at high speed. This is what it was built for. The engine howled, the sublime exhaust note growling at high RPMs—a symphony in tribute to the combustion engine. In the coming era of four-cylinder turbo hybrids, this was the last of its breed.
The nose of the 911 sucked up the dotted white lines on the road like a coke fiend snorting rails. We blazed down the highway, catching Knox's van in no time.
JD rocketed past the van, pulled in front, and slowed down. A moment later, the patrol car, with its flashing lights and screeching siren, pulled up behind the van.
There was nowhere for Knox to go, and he knew he couldn't outrun the two of us. We forced the vehicle to the shoulder.
Knox killed the engine, and for a second I thought he would hop out of the van and run.
I bolted from the Porsche, drew my pistol, and advanced toward the front of the van.
Faulkner and Erickson closed in from behind on either side of the van.
Knox sat in the driver's seat with his hands in the air.
I pulled open the driver's-side door and shouted, "Out of the vehicle. Now!"
Cars zipped by on the highway, speeding faster than they should have been. With each vehicle, wind buffeted the van, rocking it slightly.
Knox cautiously exited with his hands in the air.
"Move," I shouted, motioning with the barrel of my pistol.
He crossed in front of the hood to the far shoulder, out of harm's way.
"Down on the ground!" I shouted. "Face down! Hands behind your head!"
He knelt down and complied.
Erickson slapped a cuff around one wrist, wrenched his arm behind his back, grabbed the other wrist, and latched the second cuff. He read Knox his rights as he yanked the perp to his feet and dragged him back to the patrol car. He pushed Knox's head down so he wouldn't hit his noggin as he entered the vehicle.
Erickson slammed the door shut, then rejoined us. "Donkey Ballz, huh?" he said, teasing JD.
Jack's eyes narrowed at him. "Fuck you."
Erickson chuckled.
Faulkner called for a tow truck to impound the van.
We climbed into Jack's speedster and followed the patrol car back to the station.
Knox had been through this drill before with his previous conviction. He knew the system. He probably knew he should keep his mouth shut.
The evidence we had was circumstantial. It probably wouldn't give us a conviction by itself. Knox needed to slip up and say something stupid. Maybe even confess. But I wasn't sure how much we would get out of him.
21
We let Charlie Knox stew in the interrogation room a little while. I entered with a file folder that contained several photographs. On the table in front of Charlie, I set pictures of Reese Jordan, Lauren James, and Heather Newman—smiling headshots of the pretty girls in their full beauty.
Next to those images, I laid out contrasting pieces. Gruesome pics of their autopsy photos. Lifeless, decomposing remains, with deep bruises around their necks.
It was a gamble. Some serial killers would derive a sense of satisfaction seeing the grisly remains of their victims. I didn't want to give the perp any joy, but I needed to see his reaction to the photos.
Knox was a cool customer. He gave nothing away with his expression. He looked over the ghastly photos like they were pictures of flowers. His dark, brooding eyes gazed up at me after a moment of scanning the images. "What does this have to do with me?"
I stifled a scoff. My brow arched with incredulity. "You tell me."
"I already told you that I was with Heather the night she disappeared. She was in my van. We had sex. That's not a crime."
"Do you know the other two women?"
His calculating eyes stared me down for a long moment. "They look familiar."
"I bet they do." I was almost shocked he admitted to knowing the other two. Almost. He was trying to hedge his bets. It was a gamble. But he probably knew we had found something.
"Do you know their names?" I asked.
"If I recall correctly, her name is Lauren," he said, pointing to her picture.
"And what about this girl?" I asked, motioning to Reese Jordan, the first victim.
"I don't recall her name."
"But you knew her," I said.
"I didn't really know her. We met briefly. I meet a lot of people at the bar."
"Is that where you met her?"
"Yeah," he said.
"What was the extent of your relationship with Reese?"
"I wouldn't call it a relationship."
"What would you call it?"
"I meet a lot of girls in the bar. She came in one night and flirted with me. I thought she was pretty. I gave her free drinks all night. She met me after close, and we hooked up."
"So, you admit to having sex with her?" I asked.
"Yes, that's what I said."
"Then you strangled her and dumped her in the water. Or, maybe you strangled her, had sex with her, then dumped her in the water?"
An exasperated sigh escaped his lips, and he shook his head. "I had sex with her. That's all! I didn't strangle her!"
"What happened after you had sex with her?"
"She left. What she did after that, I don't know."
"She went her way, and you went yours?" I said.
"That's how hookups work."
"And you had no plans of ever seeing her again?" I
asked.
"Last I checked, that's not a crime."
"And what about Lauren James," I asked, pointing to her picture.
"I got off early one night. I decided to walk the strip and hit a few bars."
"You got off early during spring break?" I asked, skeptical.
"Yeah. I had been pulling doubles all week, and I was dead tired. I asked Chip if I could bail early, and he said yes."
"You were tired, but yet you had enough energy to go bar hopping?"
"I wanted to get a drink and blow off some steam before I went back to the van. I needed a little time to decompress. And you know how the island gets during spring break… It's jam-packed, loud, and the traffic sucks. I didn't want to drive to the Mega Mart, or risk trying to find a spot at the beach and get ticketed. I'd been keeping the van in the Hammerhead parking lot 24/7 so I wouldn't lose the parking space. That kind of monotony can take a toll on you."
"So, how did you meet Lauren?"
"She was in the alley behind Turtle Club. She was crying and looked really upset. I approached to check on her."
"Such a Good Samaritan," I snarked.
"She seemed disoriented, like she might've been on some kind of drug. I didn't feel comfortable leaving her like that in the alley. She mentioned something about some guy leaving her there. I helped her back to the van and let her sleep it off."
"Did you have sex with her?"
He was silent for a long moment. "Yeah."
"Consensual?"
His eyes narrowed at me. "Of course."
"But you just said she needed to sleep it off."
"We got back to the van, and I gave her something to eat and made some coffee. We stayed up talking, and that seemed to bring her around. She thanked me for coming to her rescue. One thing led to another, and we hooked up."
"You get a lot of ass for a homeless bartender living in a van," JD said.
Knox shrugged. "What can I say? Some chicks dig the bohemian lifestyle. It's dangerous and adventurous."
"It's dangerous, all right. All three of these girls are dead… within hours of having sex with you. How do you explain that?"
Knox shrugged. "Bad luck? Beats the shit out of me."
"We know Lauren left Turtle Club with a man named Jasper Perry. She was given Rohypnol, and Jasper Perry essentially raped her in the alley. You want me to believe she had consensual sex with you mere hours afterward?"
"I don't care what you believe. It's the truth. And from what she told me, the sex between her and that dude was consensual. She was pissed about him being a dickhead and leaving her in the ally, intoxicated."
"Why don't you go ahead and admit to the murders," I said.
Knox scoffed. "Why the hell would I do that?"
I set an evidence bag with nylon rope on the table. "That rope was found in your van. It's the same type of rope that was used to bind Lauren James."
"So?"
"Why did you have the nylon rope in your van?" I asked.
"Because I needed to tie shit down," Knox said, flatly.
"You mean, you needed to tie your victims down," I replied, snidely.
Knox rolled his eyes. "You guys are grasping at straws. You don't have shit. So, I had rope in my van. So what?"
"What about the duct tape?"
Knox laughed. "Are you kidding me? Anybody who lives in a van has rope, duct tape, tools, knives, you name it. Those are necessities. Get the fuck out of here with that bullshit."
"DNA evidence connects you to Heather Newman and Lauren James."
"It should. I had sex with them. That's what I would expect. Doesn't prove anything other than that."
The muscles in my jaw flexed.
Knox knew what he was doing, and he knew exactly what to say.
"If you're not guilty, why did you run?"
"I didn't run. My grandmother fell and broke her hip. She's in the hospital in Miami. I was going to see her. Check it out."
"I will."
We stared at each other for a long moment.
"You know what? Fuck you guys. I want a lawyer."
"Can you afford one?" I asked.
Knox smiled. "That's the beauty of this. You have to provide one for me. Such a good use of taxpayer funds, don't you think?"
22
"This is a tragedy of epic proportions," JD said.
"What?" I asked.
We had left the station. Knox could percolate in a jail cell for the evening, but he wouldn't be there long if we didn't come up with something more conclusive.
"Londyn and Summer aren't texting me back." He frowned. "You can't blow off supermodels, dude. They have too many options."
"You win some, you lose some."
"Yeah, but I'm not real thrilled about losing out on these two. I say we go console ourselves at Tide Pool."
We drove to Oyster Avenue, parked on a side street, walked a few blocks to the strip, and found our way to Tide Pool. We ordered a drink from Harper at the Tiki hut, then mingled around the outdoor pool, taking in the sumptuous eye candy.
Jack texted Londyn and Summer one more time to see if they would respond. He told them where we were and to join us if they wanted.
"How many times have you texted them?" I asked.
Jack shrugged. "A few."
I shook my head.
"You know the rules. More than 2 contacts without a return text and you start to look like a chump."
"I am no chump."
"The law of scarcity, my friend. Don't be too available."
"Being unavailable is what got us into this mess in the first place. Excuse me if I'm a little obsessed, but did you see how those girls filled out their bikinis?"
I had to admit, spending the day on the boat with five bikini-clad beauties didn't suck.
"Thought so," Jack said.
He took a sip of his drink, then spotted something distressing across the patio. "That bitch-ass mother fucker!" He handed me his beverage. "Hold this!"
Jack stormed around the pool, rage twisting on his face.
I knew this wasn't going to be good. I set the drinks down on a nearby table and chased after him.
Steam practically billowed from his ears. His long hair flowed in the breeze as he marched with his head tilted down in attack mode, a scowl on his face. His hands clenched into fists.
Rip held court by the side of the pool, talking to a few bikini-clad girls. He flipped his hair and pretended to be cool.
He was anything but.
He rambled on about his band's accomplishments in a laconic tone. It was probably all bullshit.
His eyes were narrow red slits—he was clearly stoned. He reminded me of a surfer from the Valley. "Yeah, we're headlining at Stage Left tomorrow night. You girls should come by, check out the show. I can put you on the guest list, get you backstage."
The girls seemed like they were sitting on the fence about it.
"Donkey Ballz, huh?!" Jack growled. He cocked his fist back, ready to swing.
I grabbed his arm and held him back just as he tried to launch a right cross at Rip's jaw.
Rip backed away and cowered. "What the fuck, man?"
I did my best to restrain Jack. He was like a rabid dog, practically frothing at the mouth.
"I told you to stay away from my car!" Jack shouted.
"Ease up," I said, trying to settle him down.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Rip said.
"I know you spray-painted that shit on my car!"
"What shit?" Rip asked, seeming genuinely confused.
"You suck donkey balls," Jack said.
"Fuck you. You're the one who licks balls."
Jack charged toward him, and I struggled to hold him back.
"Stand down," I shouted.
"You spray-painted that bullshit on my car!"
"I didn't do anything, man. You need to step off. First, you take my spot in the band, then you accuse me of vandalizing your car. What's your problem?"
"I'll t
ell you what my problem is," Jack said. "You're my problem!"
"You know what, this is harassment. I don't need to take this crap. I'm gonna file a report against you. You're a cop, right? You can’t act like this!"
"Oh, I'll show you what I can act like," JD retorted.
"You're acting like an asshole,” I muttered. “Settle down.”
"My car gets vandalized, and I'm the asshole?" Jack said, incredulous.
I pulled Jack away and shoved him a few steps back. "I'll take care of this. Go talk to Harper. Do something. Anything. But back off!"
Jack's face was beet red, and his nostrils flared as he breathed heavy.
"Go! Get another drink." I pulled out my money clip and ripped off a $20 and handed it to him. "I'm buying."
"I can buy my own drinks."
JD frowned at me.
"Go!"
Jack cursed under his breath, then backed away. He moved around the pool, back to the Tiki hut, shooting angry glances at Rip.
"Your friend has mental problems," Rip said.
I took a deep breath and tried to contain my anger. I didn't like people talking shit about my friends. Jack could be a loose cannon at times, and he could be a tad emotional, but if you were outside our circle, you couldn't talk shit. "Look, man, if you are messing with his car, I suggest you stop."
"I swear to God. I haven't done anything to his car. What's with you guys?"
"I'm serious. Back off. Otherwise, things are going to get ugly."
Rip raised his hands in surrender. "I'm not gonna go near his car. You guys need to chill out."
23
"When I catch him, and I will catch him, he's going to wish he'd never been born," Jack warned.
He leaned against the Tiki hut and sipped a glass of whiskey. He had one waiting for me as well.
"What's going on?" Harper asked. "You look really upset."
"I am really upset," JD muttered.
"Take a deep breath. Relax. Holding all that tension is not good."
Jack took a long slow breath, held it, closed his eyes, then exhaled.
Harper and I watched as he tried to calm himself down.
His eyes opened abruptly. "Nope. Didn't work. I'm still pissed off."
Harper rolled her eyes. "It doesn't work like that. Take another deep breath, hold it, exhale. Repeat. Do that 100 times. You'll feel better. Trust me."
