Текст книги "The Executioner"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Seventy-Two

Garcia quickly checked his watch as he parked in front of the old apartment block in Montebello, east LA. He rested his head on his seat’s headrest and looked up at the many flickering Christmas lights hanging from several windows. They certainly added a lively touch to the otherwise nondescript brick building. Anna had decorated their first-floor apartment window with fake snow, glowing blue lights and an old Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer stuffed toy whose nose was more pale pink than red. But it was her favorite childhood memento. She’d had it since she was four.

Garcia had called her from the office to let her know he’d be home in time for dinner tonight, something that’d become a luxury lately. They’ve been together since their senior year in high school, and Garcia couldn’t have asked for a more supportive wife. She knew how much he loved being a detective. She’d seen how hard he’d worked for it and how dedicated he was. She understood the commitment and the sacrifices that came with the job, and she’d accepted them as if they were her own. But despite her strength and everything Garcia had told her, Anna sometimes felt scared. Scared that one day she’d get that phone call in the middle of the night telling her that her husband wouldn’t be coming home. Scared that the things Garcia saw on a day-to-day basis were changing him inside. No matter how mentally fit anyone is, there’s only so much savagery one can stomach. There’s only so much psychological abuse one can take before becoming detached. She’d read that somewhere, and she believed every word of it.

Anna was sitting comfortably on their blue fabric sofa when Garcia came into the living room carrying a nicely arranged bouquet of red roses and a bottle of white wine. She looked up from the book she was reading and gave him the same welcoming smile that made his heart beat faster and turned his legs to jelly every time.

He smiled back.

Anna had an unconventional but mesmerizing kind of beauty. Her short black hair complemented her striking hazel eyes and her heart-shaped face perfectly. Her skin was creamy smooth, her features delicate, and she had the firm figure of a high school cheerleader.

‘Flowers?’ She placed her book on the coffee table and stood up. ‘What’s the occasion?’

Garcia looked at her, and Anna saw a glimpse of something sad in his eyes. ‘No special occasion. I just realized that it’s been a while since I brought you flowers. I know how much you like them.’

Anna took the bouquet from his hands and kissed him softly. She thought about asking if everything was really OK, but she knew she’d just get the same answer. Garcia was always OK. No matter what was going on in his mind, no matter how tough his day had been, he’d never worry her.

Because of Garcia’s new aversion to grilled steak, Anna had prepared her grandmother’s famous lasagne al forno, and the meal was nicely complemented by the Pinot Grigio Garcia had bought. They had fruit salad and vanilla ice cream for dessert, and he helped her clear the table when they were done. In the kitchen, he turned on the hot tap and started washing the dishes while Anna sat at the small breakfast table finishing her wine.

‘Can I ask you something, babe?’ he said casually, without locking eyes with her.

‘Sure.’

‘Do you believe a person can see things that happened to other people without being there?’

She frowned at the question. ‘What? I don’t follow.’

Garcia finished washing the last plate, dried his hands on the flowery dish cloth and turned towards his wife. ‘You know, some people say they can see things. Things that happened to other people. Sometimes people they don’t even know.’

‘Like a vision?’ She said the words slowly.

‘Yeah, something like that, or a dream of some sort.’

Anna had another sip of her wine. ‘Well, that’s definitely a very strange question, coming from you. I know you don’t believe in things like that. Are we talking psychic people here?’

Garcia took a seat next to Anna and poured them both a little more wine. ‘Do you believe in things like that?’

Seventy-Three

Anna stared at her husband, trying to read his expression. They had a very healthy relationship with very few arguments and plenty of frank conversations about most things, but Garcia never offered anything about his job or any of the investigations he worked on. Even without him saying so, she knew the question he’d just asked was much more than simple curiosity.

‘Do you remember a girl called Martha?’ she asked, leaning back on her chair.

Garcia squinted.

‘Strange girl from high school. Short chestnut hair, thick rimmed glasses, awful dress sense. She was a bit of a loner, always sat by herself right at the far end of the canteen.’

‘Doesn’t ring a bell,’ Garcia admitted.

‘She was one year below us.’ Anna snapped her fingers as she remembered something. ‘She was that junior girl who got bathed in ketchup and mustard by those stuck-up bitches from our class, remember? During that barbecue party in the football field?’

‘Damn, I remember that,’ Garcia said, widening his eyes. ‘Poor girl. She was covered from head to toe.’ He hesitated for a second. ‘Didn’t you help her out that day?’

Anna nodded. ‘Yeah, I helped her clean up. I lent her some clothes and took her to a Laundromat. She made me promise not to tell her parents – ever. We talked a few times after that, but she was very shy. Very hard to be friends with.’

‘Anyway,’ Garcia urged Anna. ‘What about her?’

Anna’s eyes focused on her glass of Italian wine.

‘This is April 1994, two days before our girls’ basketball team was due to play the quarterfinals of the California High School Tournament.’

Garcia felt a knot rise in his throat. ‘Against Oakland?’ he asked tentatively.

Anna nodded slowly. Her eyes still on her glass. ‘It was lunch break and Martha was sitting right at the end of the canteen, as she always did. I walked over just to say hi, but she seemed even more distant than usual. As small talk I asked her if she was coming to the game on Saturday. We were the underdogs and the team could do with all the support we could get.’

Garcia leaned forward, his interest growing.

‘Martha looked at me and freaked me out. Her eyes were different – cold, emotionless, like two black pits filled with nothing.’ Anna ran her fingers over her lips nervously. ‘Almost catatonically she said, “There will be no game.”’

Garcia saw Anna’s arms come up in goose bumps and he held her hand. She gave him a weak smile before carrying on.

‘I asked her what she was talking about. The game was advertised everywhere. You couldn’t walk five steps in our school without seeing a poster. We had the best girls’ basketball team our school had had in years, and that was our big chance.’ Anna paused again and with glassy eyes stared at Garcia. ‘Martha said, “Oakland’s not gonna make it. The bus’s not gonna make it.”’

This time the goose bumps were on Garcia. He remembered that year very well. The Oakland girls’ basketball team was supposed to arrive one day before the game. Their driver fell asleep at the wheel somewhere on Westside Freeway. The bus was involved in a head-on collision with an eighteen-wheeler. No one made it out alive.

‘Jesus,’ Garcia whispered, squeezing Anna’s hand. ‘What day was that again?’

‘The day before it happened.’

‘You’re kidding?’

The temperature in their kitchen seemed to have dropped all of a sudden.

‘That’s why you quit the team,’ Garcia said, finally realizing it. ‘It wasn’t because of the accident itself. It was because of what this Martha girl told you.’

Anna didn’t admit to it, but Garcia knew he was right. ‘I never talked to Martha again. A few weeks later she left school.’

‘You never told me that.’

‘I never told anyone.’ She had another sip of her wine. ‘Somehow Martha knew it before it happened, Carlos. A whole day before it happened. I don’t know if she dreamed it or saw it in a vision or what. The fact is, she couldn’t have guessed it. No one could.’

Garcia let go of Anna’s hand and finished the rest of his wine in silence.

‘In answer to your question,’ she said, softly touching his arm. ‘I do believe there are some people out there who can see or sense things that the vast majority of us can’t. But not the ones you see advertised in the back of some magazines. People promising to tell you your future for a few hundred bucks. Those are just conmen. If they really could see the future, they’d all be living in Vegas making a killing at the casinos.’

Garcia smiled. ‘You do have a point there.’

‘What’s this about, babe?’

Garcia shook his head, his eyes averting hers. ‘It’s nothing really.’

Somehow, she knew that was all the answer she’d ever get.

Seventy-Four

Hunter rolled over in bed uncomfortably. No position was a good one. His eyes grazed the digital clock on the bedside table and he cursed under his breath. It was 4:55 a.m. and he’d managed less than two hours’ sleep. It was already hard enough falling asleep in his own bed; in a stranger’s bed it was damn near impossible.

He stretched his body and massaged his gritty eyes, but the sandy feeling just wouldn’t go away. The darkness of the room was spoiled by the weak light that came in from the corridor, courtesy of a small glass lamp on the telephone table.

Hunter had left his office late last night and hadn’t felt like going home straight away. He drove around for a while, welcoming the soothing effect the city’s Christmas lights and decorations had on him. On Hollywood Boulevard, where the decorations were certainly the most extravagant he’d seen so far, Hunter ended up in the L’Scorpion, a red and black gothic-themed bar with an impressive selection of tequilas and Scotch whiskeys. He didn’t intend to stay long, and that decision had been expedited when the tall, short-haired blond with incredibly seductive lips and an eye-grabbing figure bumped into him, spilling his and her drink all over his shirt. She couldn’t apologize enough, and after buying Hunter a new drink, one thing led to another and he was now lying next to her in her bed.

Hunter eased himself from under the covers and out of bed as quietly as he could. His clothes were scattered all over the floor, and he gathered them together in a messy bunch. His shoes, though, were nowhere to be seen. He smiled as he remembered the urgency they’d both had in getting their clothes off. She’d ripped a couple of buttons off his shirt as she franticly pulled it over his head. Their time in bed had been wild and loud – very loud. Hunter figured that if the blond woman’s apartment didn’t have thick walls, she couldn’t be very popular with her neighbors.

He got down on his hands and knees and checked under the bed for his shoes, but it was too dark for him to see anything.

‘Did you lose something?’ Even though her voice was soft and sexy, it caught Hunter by surprise.

‘Sorry if I woke you,’ he whispered. ‘I was just looking for my shoes.’

She smiled and sat up, placing her back against the headboard. ‘They’re on this side.’ Her head tilted slightly to her right.

Hunter got back on his feet, and her eyes sparkled as they ran the length of his naked body. He circled the bed and as he bent down to collect his shoes, she slipped her right leg from under the covers and softly ran her small, delicate and perfectly pedicured foot against his arm. He looked up and they locked eyes.

‘You don’t really have to go right this minute, do you?’

Most of her makeup had rubbed off, but she was still stunningly attractive. Her eyes were as blue as Hunter’s. Her petite nose was sprinkled with a handful of charming freckles, most of them hidden under her perfect tan. She noticed Hunter furtively checking the digital clock.

‘It’s still early. The sun isn’t even out yet,’ she whispered and smiled.

Hunter thought about it for a split second before leaning forward and kissing her softly. She moaned seductively and he kissed her again, a little harder and for a little longer. She pushed the covers off the bed and pulled Hunter onto her, her moans getting louder by the second.

Seventy-Five

Captain Blake had to postpone their daily meeting until later that afternoon. She was tied up in a press conference on another case. This time regarding the Slasher investigation.

Hunter decided to go back to the Seven Saints church and the house in Malibu. He hoped that being alone at the murder scenes for a while would help him understand some of the reasons behind the brutality, behind the rage and anger. Most crime scenes, if you know how to read them, are like witnesses, revealing secrets about the victim, the perpetrator and what really happened. Hunter was in a class of his own when it came to understanding murder scenes. He could sense things and read signs most detectives couldn’t. But these crime scenes were silent, with the exception of one word, and they shouted it – FEAR.

Hunter also took some time to go over Amanda Reilly’s apartment on Sunset Strip one more time. He went through all three bedrooms, the living room, the kitchen and the reception room. He looked in every drawer, every storage box, every cupboard and wardrobe in the apartment. He wasn’t sure of what he was hoping to find. Maybe a diary or old pictures of her and her friends, but Amanda kept nothing. A beautifully decorated apartment with delicate furniture, stylish paintings on the walls and expensive-looking rugs, but devoid of any memories. Not even a single family portrait. The only knowledge Hunter came away with was that Amanda Reilly was very proud, very organized and she’d rather not be reminded of her past.

It was mid-afternoon by the time Hunter made it back to the RHD. The Investigative Analysis Unit (IAS) of the LAPD is confined to a large basement room in Parker Center. Hopkins was gathering a few printouts together when Hunter and Garcia entered the room.

‘I was just about to go up and see you guys,’ Hopkins said, waving the sheets in his hands.

‘I guess we beat you to it,’ Hunter said, looking around the young officer’s working space.

Hopkins’s tiny desk was in the far corner of the room. It was just big enough to hold his keyboard, computer monitor and a telephone.

‘I can see they gave you the child’s desk.’ Hunter’s gaze fell on Jack Kerley, the IT Unit supervisor.

‘Hey, it’s the best we could do with such short notice,’ Jack replied, getting up and firmly shaking Hunter and Garcia’s hands. His shaved head shone as if it had been waxed just moments ago. ‘How’re you doing, Robert?’

Hunter nodded but didn’t voice a reply.

Jack placed a hand on Hopkins’s left shoulder. ‘He’s a good kid. Fast learner. We could do with more like him down here. We’ve got work coming out of our fucking asses.’

The phone on his desk rang.

‘See what I mean? That’ll certainly be a new request.’ He returned to his desk.

‘Did we get anything on Father Fabian and Amanda Reilly’s backgrounds?’ Hunter faced Hopkins, who was already flipping through the printouts.

‘Father Fabian’s charity work involved only his parish community. He didn’t do anything on a citywide level. Amanda Reilly has no record of being a charitable person. I found nothing where their paths could’ve crossed in the last fifteen to twenty years.’

‘How about earlier than that?’ Hunter leaned against the wall.

Hopkins paused to organize his notes for a moment. ‘Brett Stewart Nichols, aka Father Fabian, grew up in Compton where he lived his whole life. He attended Compton High in South Acacia Avenue. He wasn’t what you’d call an exemplary student. His grades were quite poor, really. He scraped through most of his classes with a D, barely managing to graduate. He wasn’t only a bad student; he was a baaad student, if you know what I mean. A detention’s expert.’ Hopkins searched for a printout. ‘I’ve got taunting students, destruction of school and private property, cheating, stealing exams, you name it. Hard to believe a kid with this kind of history became a priest.’

‘When did he apply for seminary?’ Hunter asked.

‘A year and a half after graduating. For someone who was such a bad boy, something certainly changed his mind.’

‘Did he go to seminary here in LA?’

Hopkins checked his sheet. ‘Nope, he went to St John’s Seminary College in Camarillo. I called them, but without a warrant they won’t disclose a thing.’

‘I don’t think we’ll need his seminary records. What was his high school attendance like?’ Hunter queried.

‘Funny you asked.’ Hopkins chuckled. ‘Abysmal, really. He certainly liked skipping classes.’

‘Let me see that sheet,’ Hunter said, extending his hand. ‘How about Amanda Reilly?’

‘She didn’t go to the same school; she didn’t live in Compton. She went to Gardena Senior High.’

‘That school is massive,’ Garcia commented.

‘She lived in Gardena?’ Hunter asked, lifting his eyes from the sheet in his hands.

Hopkins nodded. ‘That’s right, until she dropped out of school and got involved with real estate.’

‘Hold on.’ Hunter lifted his hand. ‘Gardena isn’t very far from Compton. What was Amanda’s attendance like when she was in school?’

‘Not great either. Just like Brett, she skipped a lot of classes.’

‘How old was she when she dropped out?’

‘Because she flunked tenth grade twice . . . eighteen.’

‘Around the same age as Father Fabian,’ Hunter announced. ‘Where did she live?’ Hunter walked over to the large LA neighborhood map on the east wall.

Hopkins checked his sheet. ‘South Ainsworth Street in Gardena.’

Hunter found the street and placed a red pin on the map before checking the sheet with Father Fabian’s information. He used a blue pin to mark the street where the priest lived when young. They all paused and stared at the map.

‘Shit,’ Garcia noted, ‘they were only six blocks away from each other.’

Seventy-Six

Garcia and Hopkins moved closer to study the map.

‘Same-age kids like to hang out together. They could’ve been part of the same street group,’ Hopkins suggested.

‘Not many LA neighborhoods mix well,’ Garcia countered, ‘and Compton is certainly one of those that don’t. Especially with Gardena.’

Hunter responded with a head tilt. ‘Yeah, but we’re talking twenty-five years ago. Things weren’t so bad then. We didn’t have as big a gang problem as we have today. Neighborhoods mixed a lot better in those days.’

‘That’s true,’ Hopkins admitted.

Hunter kept his eyes on the map for a while longer before checking his watch. ‘This is the best we’ve got, so let’s drop by their old schools and see what else we can find out, ask around a little, check their archives,’ he said, gesturing for Hopkins to hand him the sheet with Amanda’s information.

‘Would you like me to call the schools?’ Hopkins asked.

‘They’ll just bounce you around from person to person. Plus, I’m sure they’ll have some photographs that we’ll need to look at.’ Hunter turned and faced Garcia. ‘I’ll take the priest’s old school in Compton; you check Amanda’s one in Gardena.’

Garcia nodded.

‘I’m still running the two photographs you got from the house in Malibu against the MUPU and the Homicide databases.’ Hopkins turned to his computer and clicked his mouse a few times. Both photographs filled his screen. ‘No matches as of yet with any.’

‘Keep trying,’ Hunter said confidently and noticed a doubtful look about Hopkins. ‘Something wrong?’

‘I’ve been thinking about this. What if these two were killed a while ago? Maybe even years?’ Hopkins offered cautiously, his eyes on the photographs. ‘That’d explain why we haven’t found them yet and why there’s been no link. Maybe the killer started killing sometime ago and had to stop for some reason. Now he’s back.’ He checked his watch absent-mindedly.

‘Sonofabitch,’ Hunter said. His wide-opened eyes moved from Hopkins to the computer screen a couple of times.

‘What did I do?’ Hopkins asked nervously.

‘Those two weren’t killed a long time ago,’ Hunter said firmly. ‘They were killed within the last five months.’

Garcia frowned, struggling to keep up with his partner. ‘And how do you know that?’

‘His watch,’ Hunter said, tapping the screen.

Garcia and Hopkins leaned forward and squinted as they tried to make out the partially obscured timekeeper on the man’s left wrist. Garcia gave up after a few seconds.

‘You can’t really see the entire watch,’ he said, returning to an upright position. ‘Half of it is cut off by the edge of the picture.’

‘Sonofabitch.’ Hopkins this time. ‘It’s an LA Lakers commemorative NBA final champion’s watch. It was only released in July, after the NBA finals in June.’

‘How the hell do you know that?’ Garcia asked.

‘Because he’s got the same watch,’ Hunter said, and all eyes focused on Hopkins’s wrist. ‘Contact the morgues. Get a personal possessions’ inventory for every male body they’ve received in the past eight weeks. We find the watch, we find victim number one.’