The Dark Halo, page 10
The killer was tall, about the same height he was.
He had no idea what he was going to tell the press, never mind how he was going to catch the killer. All they knew for sure was that he was a white male, between six two to six four with a muscular build that probably put him between 180 and 200 pounds. He’d additionally guess that the man was between 25 and 35 years old from the easy way he walked.
It was a profile that fitted him as well as it fit Jake Curtis.
14
Her name was Mary-Lou Daniels, and she had shoulder-length blonde hair and a flower print dress. She’d called the tip line to report that she’d been on Olive Street early Saturday morning, and that a large man in a hooded top had run past her.
Coombes smiled as he approached her, trying to look friendly.
She was small, less than five feet, which made him at least a foot and a half taller than her. Mary-Lou did not smile back at him, instead, her eyes widened in what appeared to be alarm and she glanced at the doors behind her. It wasn’t unusual for eyewitnesses to re-think their involvement, which could happen as late as the second they stepped into a courtroom to give evidence. People could become forgetful at the worst possible time.
“Miss Daniels, I’m Detective Coombes, thank you for coming in so quickly. If you’d like to come this way we can get started.”
She looked like a deer caught in headlights. He put the smile away and let his face relax. Sato would be better at this, he thought, a situation he intended to correct as soon as possible.
As they stepped onto the elevator, she shrank into the far corner away from him. He sighed. Being in a building full of cops wasn’t for everyone. The doors opened and he gave her plenty of space as he led her to Block’s office and got her seated. His captain was tied up elsewhere for the rest of the afternoon and the office was quiet with large windows. A good place to give her statement and work with a sketch artist.
“I think I might do this another time if that’s okay.”
Her voice was shaky, barely louder than the air conditioning.
“Best to do this while the details are still fresh.”
The door opened and a man called Gibson came in carrying a leather satchel. Coombes was pleased to see him; he wasn’t sure how long a wait Daniels could’ve taken. The sketch artist had a natural sympathetic way about him, and he launched immediately into a story about his sister-in-law’s pet poodle while he took out his drawing pad and charcoal pencils.
The tension disappeared from Mary-Lou’s face as the story unfolded, her shoulders relaxing. Gibson had been telling the story of his sister-in-law’s poodle for years and it seemed to get better with every telling. The basics were simple; a ladder had tipped over, covering the unfortunate dog in a gallon of blue paint. In a panic, it charged around inside a neighbor’s home leaving a trail of devastation.
Coombes stood and straightened his suit jacket. He knew the story well enough to know when it was time to leave.
“Can I get you anything to drink, Miss Daniels?”
“I’m okay, thanks.”
Her voice was louder now, less shaky. He nodded and left the room.
Sato was at her desk looking through transcripts from calls from the tip line. The line had been open for eight hours and had already received over two thousand calls. Aside from Mary-Lou’s call, they were all junk. Callers either demanding justice for Haylee, or else stating that she deserved it.
“Anything interesting?”
“Not so far. How’s the eyewitness?”
“Terrified. Any chance you could babysit and take her statement?”
Grace turned to face him, eyebrow raised. “Swap?”
“All right.”
He moved his chair over to her workstation and began to read the next transcript. It was easier than logging in and trying to move through the stack to where she’d got to. Four uniforms at Metro were answering the calls, and he didn’t envy them at all. After a couple of minutes, he got to the point where he was able to quickly scan text and assess if the caller had any information before moving on to the next. It was mind-numbing and time passed slowly.
His cell phone rang. “Coombes.”
“You’re a hard man to get hold of, Detective.”
Lieutenant Gale. He’d heard her whispery voice only once before but it was instantly recognizable. He sat back in his chair. It was 5 p.m., which made it 8 p.m. Miami time.
“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”
“Several things come to mind if I’m being honest.”
He laughed; not certain he was understanding her correctly. The reason why she was calling was easier to understand.
“I guess you saw the press conference.”
Coombes heard ice moving in a glass. She was drinking.
“Yeah, but I’m not calling about that. I have something that might interest you. Trent’s gone missing. His PO hasn’t seen him for six months, which means next time he pops up he’s headed back to Okeechobee to finish his sentence with interest on top.”
“Sorry, Trent?”
“Jake Curtis’ older brother. After we spoke before, I decided to check on his whereabouts. Everything came up dry. He’s used an alias in the past, but I’d still expect him to check-in with his parole officer. Not doing that is a big deal, there’s an arrest warrant out for him.”
“You think he’s in L.A.?”
“That thought did occur to me, yes.”
“What was Trent doing time for at Okeechobee?”
“He fire-bombed a loan shark’s SUV. The man was inside the vehicle with two of his associates at the time. They all survived, if that’s what you want to call it. Trent stood and watched as they tumbled out on fire and rolled around on the ground screaming.”
Model citizen.
“And he got paroled?”
“He claimed to have accepted Jesus into his life. The background is that there were some overcrowding issues in his unit and they were looking for prisoners they could kick loose. Him and fifty-four others walked.”
The justice system in action.
“You think Trent could be the guy we’re after?”
“What? No. Jake is the guy you’re after. I think Trent’s helping him.”
“As much as that works for me, Jake Curtis has a cast-iron alibi for more than one of the killings. We have him on video elsewhere at the exact time victims died.”
There was a long silence and he thought she’d disconnected when she spoke again.
“Dig deeper, Coombes. It’s him, trust me. His alibi is bullshit.”
Then she really was gone.
Gale had dropped the ball investigating the death of Jake’s father and had grown to regret it. Now, she hoped he would be able to correct her mistake and put him behind bars. He’d seen this before when detectives fixated on suspects they believed had escaped justice, and could understand why she could fall victim to the same thing.
Curtis’ alibi was bullshit.
Since he’d stopped work on the tip line transcripts anyway, he decided to call it a day. He’d gone through 382 calls for no reward, and the total number still to be processed had gone up, not down. People were still calling it in. He decided to check his emails before returning to Block’s office and was rewarded with an email from SID.
A partial fingerprint had been found on Haylee Jordan’s shower door.
Coombes smiled. Finally, a mistake.
The print was made from blood, so the chance it belonged to anyone but the killer was remote. Photographs were attached to the email; a wide shot of the bathroom, the shower door with a marker indicating where the print was found, then a shot through the glass door at the bloody print on the interior surface of the handle.
He could see why the killer had overlooked the print during his clean-up operation, it was hidden by the handle. The door was hinged, causing it to fold in on itself as it opened, further hiding the print. It occurred to him that the tech had to have climbed into the shower stall and closed the door on herself. It was a great catch.
Do I tell you how to kick down doors, Detective?
Coombes smiled again, thinking of her comeback. He looked for her name on the email and made a note of it. Carrie Dupont. He liked to know the names of people he could rely on to do a good job, and people to praise in his own reports.
There was no match in the fingerprint database.
He returned to Block’s office and found Mary-Lou Daniels gone. Sato and Gibson stood looking down at a charcoal drawing that lay on the table between them. Coombes moved over to join them. A dark figure with a hood pulled up, like a comic book character. The top half of the face was heavily shaded, the features above the eyebrows almost gone. Tufts of dark hair pushed out below the ears, held in place by the hood.
“That’s it?”
It was hard for him to keep the disappointment out his voice.
“Yeah, I hate the hooded ones. There’s so little to work with.”
Coombes studied the drawing again.
The man had a wide jaw covered with a coarse, dark stubble like grains of black pepper. Unkempt for sure, but by no means a beard. The mouth was slightly open, no doubt the result of the suspect running as he fled the crime scene. As always with a sketch, it lacked the spark of life that he could get excited about. The eyes dead, with nothing going on.
He looked back up at the artist.
“This could be a drawing of me.”
“Oh shit, you’re right. Could be she described you because you’d just met?”
“Maybe.”
“She really thought it was a good likeness.”
“Thanks, Gibson. Might still turn out to be something.”
He waited until the artist left before he turned to Sato.
“What do you think?”
“You’re better looking than that, Johnny. This guy’s a mess.”
“Grace-”
“Well, it’s true. What’s the cop-partner way to answer?”
“I was asking if you thought it could be Curtis.”
“You still like Curtis for this? What about his alibi?”
“That alibi stinks and you know it.”
“Don’t they always? Innocent people don’t know they’re going to need an alibi. If cops asked me to produce one it’s almost always going to be me sitting alone in front of a TV watching murder shows. Who’s that going to convince?”
“Nobody’s going to believe you were alone, Grace.”
She smiled and dimples appeared in her cheeks.
“Anyway, the witness said nothing about a beard.”
He had a theory about that, but he wasn’t ready to share it with Sato because he knew it sounded desperate. Ridiculous, even. That Jake Curtis’ beard was fake and always had been. No more than a prop he’d been using for years to make himself more memorable. Without it, the writer would all but disappear and became something close to invisible.
Coombes tapped the desk next to the drawing.
“Unless this isn’t our killer. It would explain why he let her live.”
“The clothing, the physical description, the location, the time frame…they all match our suspect. You might not think about this, Johnny, but lone women walking down a street after midnight do not make eye-contact with any man, never mind one with jacked-up muscles and a hooded top. Daniels probably glanced at him then focused really hard on the sidewalk, hoping he didn’t attack her. She didn’t need to know he was a serial killer to be afraid of him, she’s probably been afraid since she was 12 years old.”
“Damn, Grace.”
“Welcome to my world.”
15
Julie’s car wasn’t in front of his home when he got back and all the lights were off. He sighed. It was getting hard for him to remember what his wife looked like. He’d seen her only four times in the last two weeks and each time she’d been asleep. Coombes locked his car and walked to his front door, one hand getting his keys out, the other carrying a paper sack of Korean take-out. He dumped the food on the kitchen counter and separated the containers, sorting them into his and hers, then took his through into the living room. He watched TV while he ate, flicking through different news channels to catch coverage of the case.
After the press conference, Gantz had told him to smarten himself up. She was right. He looked like a hobo on camera and he resolved to do something about it. The public needed to have faith in his investigation and he was giving them no reason to have it.
One channel had a section where they asked Angelenos on the street what they thought about the killings. Predictably, Haylee Jordan was the only victim anyone cared about. Two interviewees believed that there was no killer, that they were just suicides. This was a theory he’d seen trending online and it seemed to be gaining traction. Because only the rich were being targeted, there was no fear or demand for justice from anyone being interviewed.
When they cut back to the studio, the news anchor spoke with a tone normally reserved for feel-good stories about surfing piglets or skateboarding dogs. The murders were being viewed as a form of entertainment, he thought. The killer had tapped into something big. If they didn’t solve it soon, it could be the start of something far larger.
The next story about a flu outbreak in China didn’t much hold his interest, so he shut off the TV and stared for a moment at the black rectangle.
Jake Curtis’ smirking face came to him again.
Coombes wanted the writer for this, he wanted it in his bones.
It was 10:30 and Julie still wasn’t home. He got up and walked into the kitchen and looked at the front of the fridge. They used to leave each other notes there when they first got married. Sometimes they were funny, but mostly not. Now all they said was we’re out of milk, or recycling tomorrow. Not new notes, the same two over and over. There were no notes. He walked over to the wall calendar and found the right day.
Spin class. Drinks with R.
Coombes looked out the window into the dark rectangle of dust that was his back yard. Seeing the worst in everyone was essentially his job, he couldn’t turn it off when he got home. He pulled out his cell phone. They had an app that allowed them to track each other. Julie had insisted he install it, suggesting it somehow made him safer on the job. He selected the app and it showed two round markers for him and Julie.
According to the app, she was inside the house.
He walked through to the bedroom and turned on the light. The bed covers were all rucked up. A mess. He walked around to Julie’s side and flattened the cover. Her cell was on her nightstand behind it, charging. A twitch started in his face, like a string was pulling just under the skin. Julie took her cell phone everywhere with her. At any given moment, it was normally in her hand, whether she was using it or not.
He sat on the bed and leaned over near her pillow.
He could smell her perfume and the musk of her naked body. Coombes felt a slight breeze on his face and glanced to his right. She’d left the bedroom window locked part open, something she used to do after they’d had sex.
He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing.
It was just a window; it didn’t mean anything.
Who was R?
Coombes went back through to the kitchen, and the wall calendar. He looked at the other entries. All of them were Julie’s, he never wrote on the calendar. Either he was working, or he was here. A lot of the time when he was here, he was also working. He supposed he didn’t have a lot going on. There were four other entries that included R that month. No name other than the letter.
He took out his cell phone again and opened Facebook. He found Julie’s profile and scrolled down her page. Julie posted constantly, about everything and anything. Eventually he got to the day of the previous meeting with R and was rewarded with a photograph of his wife standing next to another woman in a bar laughing. Coombes recognized her as an old friend of Julie’s called Rebecca.
He felt some of the tension go out of his chest.
He’d never heard Julie call her anything but Becca, but he supposed it was possible she’d still shorten it to R. The other woman was tagged in the picture, so he clicked on her name, taking him to her profile. Rebecca had posted less than twenty minutes earlier, a photograph of her and her husband at a casino in Vegas. Their fifth wedding anniversary. Coombes closed his eyes for a beat and swore, a bubble of angry energy inflating in his chest. He grabbed his keys off the kitchen counter and headed for the door. Walking back through the living room, he decided to leave his cell phone down the side of his chair. Two could play that game. He didn’t know what he was doing, but he couldn’t stay in the house and he couldn’t do nothing. It was better to be moving, even if it got him nowhere.
Someone was following him. Twenty-five, maybe thirty feet back. Coombes kept walking at the same pace, resisting the urge to turn around. Since the parking garage, he thought. He walked on a couple of seconds more. Steady footsteps, followed by a burst of quick steps close together. No, not the parking garage, he thought. Someone had followed him there first in a vehicle, then been forced to continue on foot when he got out his car. He approached the glass walls of Julie’s gymnasium. Anyone on the sidewalk could look right in at the people exercising, like animals at a zoo.
He heard the quick steps behind him again, someone struggling to keep up. Someone not as tall as he was, with shorter legs.
Julie liked to spin, so he walked around to where bikes were set up. His eyes scanned the room as he walked and he knew before he got to the bikes that she wasn’t there. Not on the bikes, not on the rowing machines, not anywhere.
He turned his head, looking along the glass at the figure behind him. A woman. She had shoulder length brown hair and his sudden interest in the gym had caught her by surprise and she’d frozen up, not wanting to get too close.
He walked on. She was familiar, but he couldn’t place her.
Why would anyone be following him?
Coombes thought instinctively of Internal Affairs. He figured that any number of people from the Chief down might have concerns about his ability to handle a case of this size and have IA audit his personal life. Looking for potential problems, areas where they could experience personal blowback. He came to a crosswalk and got straight across, stranding the brunette on the other side. He realized it was the wrong play, he needed to confront the woman now, or he’d waste time thinking about her and who she might represent.
