23rd Midnight, page 11
part #23 of Women's Murder Club Series
“Didn’t like his looks? Were you working?”
“You mean …? No, no … What do you take me for? But he thought so. Actually, I’m in college but I have a part-time job at the diner. I just wanted a ride home, so then, I didn’t. I said ‘Sorry, I need to take a piss.’ I was backing out of the truck …”
“And then?”
“And then that whacko shot me. I don’t think the bullet hit the bone, but it hurts like hell.”
Blackout swung his head and looked at his passenger.
“Did you call the police?”
“No. I just ran. I didn’t want him to shoot me again. Thanks for the lift, man.”
Blackout’s view dropped to where the young man was holding his right arm with his left.
Cappy said, “He’s putting pressure on the wound.”
“There,” Alvarez said. “You can see blood seeping between his fingers.”
Blackout said, “How far to the hospital?”
“Five miles. Something like that. Go straight and I’ll tell you where to turn.”
“I’ve got an ace bandage in the glove box,” Blackout said. “Use your good arm. Be careful.”
The young man said, “Sure.”
He bent to the glove box and by the sound of the latch, he opened it. Alvarez shouted, “Noooo,” as Blackout’s gloved hand lifted off the steering wheel and came back into the frame holding a suppressed Ruger Mark IV.
“Aw, shit,” Brady said from behind me. A soft, muffled pop sounded from the speaker of my boxy old Dell. The passenger turned disbelieving eyes to Blackout. His face stretched in shock before going slack. His eyes closed and he slumped against his window.
“Not your lucky night, buddy,” Blackout said. He fired a second shot into the victim’s head, then, put the gun down on the seat and wrenched the steering wheel hard to the right. He pulled the car onto the disabled vehicle lane and braked. I heard the click of his seat belt separating from the latch, then, Blackout’s arm snaked out across the passenger’s body. He reached over and lifted up on the door handle.
I strained to see anything of our killer. A patch of skin above the cuff of his sleeve, a flash of his face in the rearview mirror, but that didn’t happen.
The vehicle was parked so that the passenger side was lower than the driver’s side. When the door swung open, the dead man rolled against the seat belt’s shoulder strap. Blackout unlatched the strap and started to drive. Momentum caused the body to fall out under its own weight.
Blackout braked the car again. We saw the victim’s clothes, a darkened view of the glove box, Blackout’s gloved hand pulling the passenger door shut. As he accelerated into driving speed, orchestral music came up and raindrops quickened, falling heavily on the windshield.
The piano notes were soft and slow.
“Satie,” said Alvarez.
“What? Who’s that?”
“Say-tee. That’s the name of the composer. Solo by Ciccolini.”
I was concerned by the increasing force of the rain. A downpour would cleanse the victim’s body of trace evidence, obscure tire tracks, and lessen the chances of anyone finding the body that night.
In the remaining seconds of the video, we stared at a blurry black road. As before, there were no landmarks, no other vehicles or crossroads. The syncopation of the windshield wipers crossing the glass in time with the music was almost hypnotic—and then the show was interrupted by the electronic voice.
“Sergeant Boxer. You have no jurisdiction here, so just call it a gift. You’re welcome. More and better to come.”
The music became louder just before the picture faded to black. Tears came into my eyes. I was wiping them away when Cappy handed me a paper napkin.
“He’s never going to stop,” I said.
No one contradicted me.
CHAPTER 46
IT WAS SATURDAY evening, and I was at my desk, tidying up my submission of Blackout’s criminal profile to ViCAP, the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program unit of the FBI.
I was suddenly aware that I hadn’t yet spoken with Joe and Julie today and that it was getting close to our call time, the heart of my day. So when my cell phone rang, I grabbed it.
“Joe?”
“Linds, it’s me.”
“Cindy? Are you okay? Where are you?”
“At McBain’s. Richie’s with me. Where are you?”
“At my desk.”
Rich got on the line. “Can you come over, Lindsay?”
“Is Cindy all right?”
“She’s fine but she has a lot to say. Dinner, beer, and chocolate mud pie is on me.”
“I need ten minutes.”
I called Joe to tell him I was running late, made a similar call to Mrs. Rose, and five minutes later, I was wading through the boozy crowd at McBain’s Bar and Grill. I was shown to a table at the back of the restaurant. Cindy and Conklin stood up. Cindy reached out her arms and Rich pulled out a chair for me between them.
“Tell me everything,” I said, hugging Cindy.
“Beer?” Richie asked.
“Bring it on,” I said. “I have to order at the same time.”
We ordered the specials and gave Cindy the floor.
I leaned in to hear her say, “Before flying to Vegas, I stopped off at my office to check my mail, grab a couple of things. As I was walking out the door, I found this in my inbox.”
Cindy held out an opened white envelope with her name printed on the front.
“Read it,” she said, handing it to me.
I glanced at Conklin. He looked bummed.
I upended Cindy’s envelope and a slim strip of paper fluttered into my hand. It appeared to be a receipt for food and soda from the San Quentin commissary. I turned the receipt over and saw a handwritten note to Cindy from Evan Burke about a book he was going to write.
“Burke says there’s going to be a killer ending?” I said. “And you’re going to be part of it?”
Cindy said, “I don’t know if that’s the point. I think he just wants me to know that he’s writing a book on his own. That doesn’t exactly stir me up, Linds. I wouldn’t work with him again for—anything.”
Rich said, “So, Cindy leaves the office and flies to Vegas as planned.”
I looked back to Cindy.
“The Writer’s Block and Artificial Bird Sanctuary.”
“What did you say?”
“That’s the name of the bookstore. They have an ‘artificial bird sanctuary’ with cute fake birds hanging from the ceiling. Never mind. The reading went great. No one hassled me. My driver came into the store and watched out for me. There was extra security, and get this: Adam Levine—yes, that Adam Levine—asked me to sign his book. He said that he loved Fish’s Girl. Couldn’t wait to read about Burke.”
“What fun,” I said.
“I got applause and whistles,” said Cindy. “Then I got into the car, spent the night at the hotel, and did not order room service. Lights out at around nine thirty or so and then I wake up. There’s a knock-knock at the door. Lindsay. I was scared.”
“I carry a gun,” Rich said.
“You went to Vegas?” I laughed at the thought of it.
Cindy said, “The rest is off the record.”
“I swear I won’t tell,” I said, mimicking Cindy.
She gave me a little punch to the arm.
“Anyway, I felt great about the reading.”
Suddenly, I was worried again. What now, Cindy? No more suspense, please.
She went on. “In the morning, Rich and I get into the limo and the driver is kind of upset. He tells me that a dead body was found on a back road. The dead guy was shot to death.”
I felt faint. There were spots before my eyes. The waitress served dinner, and the smell of food brought me halfway back to myself. And now I knew why Richie had been looking like this was his last meal. Another person had been killed after Cindy had done her reading.
Rich said, “I checked out the driver,” he said. “Michael Brill. He’s been with First Call Limos for ten years. Maybe he’s the doer. Maybe not. I ran his name through everything. He got three traffic tickets. Two for speeding. One for a busted taillight. I’ll check his trip ledger with his boss tomorrow.”
Cindy said, “I’ve made Rich paranoid.”
“Me, too. Cindy, tell me every word your driver said.”
“He only knew what he heard on the radio,” Cindy said. “We just need to do a little police work to find out about the victim: who, what, when, where, and why.”
She was using the “we” word because Brady had invited her in. I’d just watched Blackout shoot a man to death inside a Ford on a secondary road, apparently outside Vegas.
Blackout knew Cindy’s schedule. He’d been within shooting range of her last night. He was making little films and to me, the shooting in Las Vegas felt like the middle of the second act.
I called Brady between the burger and the mud pie.
CHAPTER 47
I COULDN’T JUST sit home on Sunday while Blackout had taken possession of my mind, so I drove to the Hall.
The bullpen was teeming with the swing shift. I greeted old friends and moved my laptop to the war room. There, I ran a new ViCAP search for a strangler who sometimes used a Ruger Mark IV who seemed to have a high IQ, video glasses, and a cloak of invisibility. I was awash in serial killer profiles when Brady found me in the corner office.
I’d told Brady about the homicide in outer Las Vegas and he’d forwarded my screenshots to Chief Belinky of the LVMPD. And now Brady had an idea that might lead us to the killer. He leaned against the windowsill and laid it out for me. I felt conflicted about his plan, but it would be good to partner again with my friend Jackson Brady.
I said, “Count me in.”
I left the Hall before six and picked up noodle soup and a pickled radish salad at the Chinese restaurant two blocks from home sweet home. I took the elevator and when I got to our floor, I rang Mrs. Rose’s bell. Her door opened, Martha yipped happily, and Mrs. Rose’s smile spread extra wide. I handed her the noodle dinner, her favorite TV meal.
“You didn’t have to do this, Lindsay.”
“Thank you, Gloria. For everything.”
Martha and I took a nice long walk to the park and with her leash looped around my hand I sat for a while on a bench with a view of the lake. I thought of the many times Joe and I had occupied this very bench, his arm around my shoulders, Martha pulling against the leash, Julie naming the ducks and making up songs.
In twenty-four hours or so, my family would be home and life would be in balance again. Or would it? How would I ever scrub my mind of Blackout’s close-up, eyeball view of cold-blooded murder? I couldn’t shake it but was saved by the bell.
I answered my phone. It was Claire.
“Is this a good time?” she asked me.
“Totally. You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. I want to release the bodies of Catherine and Josie Fleet to Brad Fleet before he drives me to suicide.”
“Tell me what you found,” I said to my best friend.
“Very little news in the autopsy reports, Lindsay. Both were dead when they were dumped into the bay. Catherine was choked out. She had pepper spray in her eyes and on her face, so I think that’s how her killer got control. Josephina was smothered. Hand over her nose and mouth. I found finger marks on the left side of her face.”
“Toxicology?”
“Nothing there.”
“Let them go with Brad,” I said. “I’ll tell Brady.”
“Good. How’re you doing, girlfriend?”
“Never better,” I chirped.
Claire laughed. “Liar. When’s Joe coming back?”
“This time on Monday. I hope to God.”
“Oh, damn,” said Claire. “I’m getting a call. Gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Once the sun had fully set, Martha and I went home to 23 Lake Street.
I made dinners for the two of us and after I’d showered and changed, the phone rang.
Yes, dear God, it was him.
CHAPTER 48
I PICTURED JOE on his mother’s flowered sectional, Julie charming Grandma while eating cookie dough in her large prewar kitchen. I heard Joe’s brothers laughing and a ball game on a TV in the background. I wished I was there.
Joe said, “How’s it going, sweetie?”
I said, “On a scale of one to ten, ten being horrible—”
“Nine,” he guessed.
“Twenty,” I said. “How’re you and Jules?”
Joe told me that Julie was starting to get homesick—for Martha. I got a laugh out of that and told Joe to tell Julie that Martha had put on a couple of pounds since Mrs. Rose was pretty much cooking for her all day long.
Joe swore to tell her.
Then, he asked, “What news on Blackout?”
“Same and worse,” I told him, then, filled him in on the latest video by Blackout.
“He shot the new victim in Las Vegas, where, by the way, Cindy was continuing her book tour. She’s okay, thank God. Glowing a little, to tell the truth. But this killing in Vegas isn’t a coincidence. You’re a psychology pro. Cindy is doing another book signing next week in Scottsdale. Why is she doing this? Is she sticking her tongue out at Blackout?”
“I’m not a real shrink, you know.”
“What’s she doing, Joe?”
“Ahh, wild guess. She’s restoring her self-esteem. That year with Burke would have depressed anyone. I think despite the murders, she’s getting back up on the horse.”
I was quiet, thinking about that, Cindy getting her courage on. And I thought about the dark street all around my empty apartment. I wished that Joe was here in his big chair wearing his blue striped pajamas, that Julie was in her big-girl bed with Martha, and that Team Blackout held the key to his identity.
That’s when a thought I’d been hiding from myself jumped out and said “Boo.”
Blackout was making plans for Phoenix.
An incoming call beeped. It was Brady.
I thanked my husband for his input, told him I loved him, and missed him. We exchanged I love yous and after confirmation of flight details tomorrow, I switched over to my incoming call.
Brady’s sober voice was in my ear. Tomorrow, Monday morning, we’d be surrounded by razor wire and tiers of concrete cells meeting with a convicted killer imprisoned for six life sentences, a man who hates me for what I’d done to put him there.
CHAPTER 49
BRADY AND I were in the maximum-security wing of San Quentin State Prison. We sat together outside a wire mesh cell the size of a shower stall. Inside the cell was the notorious Ghost of Catalina, Evan Burke, who claimed to hold the record for most kills of anyone in the last hundred years. That was his ego speaking. I could name two other psycho-killers, Pedro Lopez and Harold Shipman, who topped his number, but Brady and I hadn’t arranged this meeting to debunk Burke’s tally. We’d come prepared to deal for information: a lead, a hint, a clue that would throw light on Blackout’s ID and with extreme luck, his contact information.
Burke sat in a metal chair bolted to the floor of his cage. His hands were cuffed and he’d lost a few pounds since I’d seen him last. His hair was now shoulder-length, the salt outweighed the pepper, he had a two-day beard and the lenses in his glasses had an amber tint used principally to block blue rays from the computer screen Burke had been granted as one of his prison privileges. Burke smiled when he saw us take seats across from him, outside the wire-mesh walls.
Cocking his head he asked me, “Do I know you?”
It was a put-down. I’d arrested him and testified against him. If not for me, Burke would be haunting dark places from California to Nevada and adding to his body count.
Burke knew me but he didn’t know Brady.
I introduced them, and Brady said to Burke, “Have you heard you have a copycat?”
“Really? You see, chief, I don’t watch the news. I like reality shows. The Bachelor. The Real Housewives of Orange County.”
He grinned. He had that serial-killer charm. That psychopathy.
I said, “Do you know Ralph Hammer?”
“Nope. Cool name, though.”
“A week and a half ago, he was in the driver seat of his parked car when he was garroted from behind. Then he was shot through the back of his head.”
Burke mused, “I don’t like the garrote much. I like a straight-edge razor. Well, you know that, don’t you, Sergeant Boxer? Your girlfriend, Cindy, right? She did an in-depth study of my MO. How is she, by the way? She doesn’t call. Doesn’t write.”
Brady removed an envelope from his breast pocket, opened it and one by one pressed a few 4″ × 6″ photos against the wire cage wall. Burke leaned closer and asked, “Got any more?”
“Tell me what you think of these,” Brady said. “I might leave them for you.”
“Is that supposed to be Tara and Lorrie on the beach?”
I said, “What do you think?”
Burke said, “I think someone is trying to give me a shout-out. Is that what you mean? Because I don’t know that girl. Or her babe. How were they killed?”
I said, “Have you heard from a fan bragging about kills, or asking for advice, or anyone trying to copy you? Is someone outside trying to compete with your record? Have any thoughts that would help us?”
“And what’s in it for me?”
Brady said, “Let’s hear what you’ve got.”
I was thinking, God, if you’re listening, let this human waste of oxygen lead us to Blackout.
“I’ve got nothing,” Burke said, grinning, showing me his big yellow teeth. A violent thought came into my mind and evaporated before Burke saw that murderous impulse on my face.
Brady said, “Nice meeting you, Burke. Let’s go, Sergeant. The warden is waiting for us.”
“Wait,” said Burke, getting to his feet, still safely locked behind the walls of his narrow interview cell.
Brady and I turned to face him.
“Speak,” said Brady, as if he were addressing a dog.
