Текст книги "The Executioner"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Seventy-Seven

Earlier the same morning

Despite feeling tired, he had almost no sleep during the night. The loud and constant noises that came from the adjacent room jolted him awake every time he dozed off. He should be used to them by now. Strangled male voices roaring like wounded animals accompanied by squeaky female ones screaming, ‘Harder, baby, harder.’ Those sounds invaded his room every night. At times he’d be forgiven for thinking he’d woken up during a typical Californian earthquake. The thunderous banging against his walls shook the entire room. For some reason last night’s screams sounded louder, the banging more urgent, almost violent. And it didn’t stop until way past five in the morning.

He left the seedy hotel early, as he did every day. His first stop was always the small Catholic church just a couple of blocks from where he was staying. He found it insulting that such a dirty and sleazy hotel used by prostitutes and drug pushers could be so close to a place of worship. Once he’d found what he was looking for, he’d never set foot in this city again. This was no city of angels; this was the city of sins. The city of devils.

By nine in the morning the temperature was no higher than fifty-three. Most of the people on the streets were wearing coats with their collars high around their necks. An unshaven man in a stained T-shirt and ripped jacket was sitting by the entrance to a disused shop trying to hide from the wind. He scratched his expanding stomach and drank from a bottle in a brown paper bag. Their eyes met and the tramp extended his hand, hoping for some charity. The man felt a surge of anger crawl up his spine, and he wrapped his fingers tightly around the oddly shaped metal crucifix in his pocket, fighting the urge to punch and kick the beggar until he bled. They must’ve stared at each other for half a minute. The man felt the skin on the palm of his hand rupture as the edges of the crucifix dug into his flesh. His hand became sticky with blood.

‘Thank you, Lord,’ he whispered to himself before finally breaking eye contact with the drunken man and forcing himself to carry on walking.

He stood by the side of the road waiting for the lights to turn red. Traffic was urgent. His throat felt dry and he massaged his neck, rotating his head from left to right. He caught a glimpse of something on the newspaper stand and went rigid. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped open. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He felt his whole body shiver and his heart hammer the inside of his chest with incredible ferocity. God was on his side, he was now certain of it.

Seventy-Eight

High schools don’t come much larger than Gardena Senior High. Its grounds occupied half a city block. Sports were clearly encouraged. There were thirty playing courts divided among tennis, basketball and volleyball, not to mention the two baseball fields and the regulation football one that doubled as a soccer pitch. Thirty buildings hosted over a hundred student classes, and the library housed enough books to give City Hall a run for its money.

Garcia parked in one of the three large car parks inside the grounds and made his presence known at the reception desk. A thirtysomething, exotic-looking receptionist of mixed race scrutinized his badge while ignoring the ringing phone line. She peeled her eyes away from his shield, flipped a sheet of black hair over her shoulders and looked at Garcia’s face before checking her log. ‘Principal Kennedy’s very busy today.’

‘Well, so am I, honey,’ Garcia replied. ‘I won’t take much of his time, but I do need to speak to him.’

She flicked her hair once again. ‘He’s with a student’s parents, but he’s supposed to be finished in about five minutes.’

‘Five minutes I can wait.’

Six minutes later, Principal Kevin Kennedy welcomed Garcia into his office. He was a serious-looking man in his late forties, as tall as Garcia but better built, with dark hair combed back Dracula-style. His face looked honest and trustworthy. The kind of face high school students would respect. He wore stylish thin-rimmed glasses and a crisp and well-fitting light gray suit. He welcomed Garcia with a warmish smile and a firm handshake.

‘Please have a seat, detective,’ Principal Kennedy said, indicating one of the black leather chairs in front of his large rosewood desk. Garcia scanned the spacious office. There were pretty paintings and framed degrees on the walls. Dozens of tiny primitive figures adorned several wooden shelves. Two metal filing cabinets sat to the left of the principal’s desk. The large window on the east wall overlooked the main students’ playing area outside. Kennedy stood by it.

‘I’m sorry about keeping you waiting,’ he said, giving Garcia a sympathetic smile with a nervous edge. ‘Even though the students broke for Christmas vacation five days ago, things are still a little crazy, made more hectic by the fact that today is the last day of the faculty. You’re lucky that you came in today; tomorrow you would’ve found nobody here. So, how can I help you, detective?’

Garcia explained about Amanda Reilly and how keen they were to find any information concerning the people she used to hang out with when she was a student at Gardena High. Principal Kennedy pressed a few keys on his computer keyboard and repositioned his monitor so Garcia could have a better look.

‘We’ve migrated many of our past students’ records into an electronic database,’ he explained, ‘but not all. At least not yet. It’s a slow, expensive and lengthy process and it requires manpower, something that at the moment we’re experiencing a shortage of.’ Another edgy smile. ‘Anyway, our records wouldn’t mention her friends. This is pretty much all I have on this Amanda Reilly.’

Garcia read the information on Kennedy’s computer screen. It revealed nothing that Hopkins hadn’t yet found out. ‘How about yearbooks?’ he asked.

Principal Kennedy pushed his glasses up his nose. His expression didn’t fill Garcia with hope. ‘We used to have a section in our library dedicated to yearbooks,’ he explained. ‘We had a copy from every year, but a few years ago they started disappearing.’

‘Stolen?’

‘That’s what we figured. The problem is some kids steal out of habit. It’s not because they really want or need the particular item they’re stealing.’

Garcia smiled.

‘I’m sorry,’ Kennedy said half embarrassed, remembering he was talking to a detective. ‘I guess you know all this already. Anyway, most of our old yearbooks were taken.’

‘You didn’t order new copies?’

‘Yes, once.’

Garcia leaned back in his chair. ‘Stolen again?’

Kennedy nodded. ‘We thought about reordering them one more time, but the printing company we used for several of our early yearbooks burned down a few years ago.’

Garcia let out a defeated sigh.

‘A lot of them were stolen, but not all. Let me check if we’re in luck.’ Kennedy reached for the phone on his desk and dialed the library internal line, replacing the receiver on its cradle after a quick conversation. ‘Mrs. Adams, our librarian, will check and let us know. Can I offer you a drink in the meantime? Coffee, water?’

Garcia declined with a quick head shake.

The phone on Principal Kennedy’s desk rang and he answered it promptly. His conversation was restricted to – ‘OK’ and ‘I see’.

‘I’m sorry.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘That whole decade is gone, not a single yearbook left.’

Garcia pinched the bridge of his nose as he wondered what to do next.

The phone rang again. Kennedy excused himself and answered it. He looked at Garcia and lifted both eyebrows. ‘That’s a good idea, Mrs. Adams. Thank you.’

‘Some hope?’ Garcia asked.

‘Mrs. Adams suggested you take a look at the basement storage rooms in the main building. I forgot about them. We keep a lot of very old stuff there. Mrs. Adams reminded me that there are boxes and boxes of old photographs taken by the photography clubs. The ones that didn’t make the yearbooks.’ He smiled confidently. ‘I’d say that’s your best bet.’

Garcia’s eyes lit up. ‘How do I gain access to them?’

‘You need to talk to old Mr. Davis. He might even help you look through them. He’s been the janitor here at Gardena High for over forty years. He still takes care of the gardens. He’s the only one who’ll have the keys to the old storage rooms.’

‘Where can I find him?’ Garcia asked, standing up.

‘He lives in the staff quarters, number 3C if I’m not mistaken.’ Kennedy intuitively gestured towards the large window. ‘You can try his door, but today is his day off. If he’s not around, try the Roosevelt Memorial Park. It’s about a five-minute walk from here.’

Garcia’s brow creased. ‘Memorial Park?’

Kennedy nodded. ‘His wife is buried there. He spends most of his free time talking to her.’ He shrugged as if that was a crazy thing to do.

Seventy-Nine

Darnell Douglas observed the man checking out the raven-black Cadillac Escalade in the lot with eager eyes. He’d been a cars salesman for fifteen years, and if there was one thing he was proud of, it was his ability to split the real buyers from the bull-shitters just by looking at them. And the tall gentleman wearing the dark, expensive-looking overcoat was as real as they got.

Darnell quickly checked his reflection against the shop window. He was a good-looking black man with a shaved head and a perfectly trimmed goatee over a squared jaw. He centered his blue and white checked tie and made his way towards the customer.

This one is all mine. ‘It’s a beauty, isn’t it?’ he said, giving the customer a welcoming but not overenthusiastic smile.

The man nodded and walked around to the front of the car.

‘It’s only got four thousand miles on the clock. The owner had to get rid of it. Financial problems.’

The customer walked over to the driver’s door and pulled it open. Both the exterior and interior were in pristine condition.

‘It still has that new car smell, doesn’t it?’ Darnell said, but kept his distance. He knew good buyers didn’t like to be crowded. He waited a few more seconds before offering a new piece of information. ‘The great thing is that this is a new car with a used-car price tag.’

‘OK to sit inside?’ the man finally asked in a Texan twang.

‘Of course.’ Darnell nodded. ‘You won’t find a more comfortable car. Cadillacs are the American Rolls-Royces.’

The man took a seat and held the steering wheel with both hands just like a kid in a playground. A pleased smile graced his lips for a split of a second and Darnell knew he had him.

‘What kind of mileage do I get with this?’ the man asked, his hands still on the wheel.

‘Twelve miles per gallon in the city, nineteen on the highway.’

‘Really?’

‘I’m telling you, this bad boy rocks.’

The smile returned to the man’s lips.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ Darnell said, coming up to the open driver’s door. ‘I’ll go get the keys and we can take this baby for a spin. What do you say?’

The man paused for a moment, considering it. ‘OK.’ He nodded.

‘Great, I’ll be right back, Mr . . .?’

‘Turner.’ The man extended his hand. ‘Ryan Turner.’

Eighty

Garcia knocked on the door numbered 3C for a whole minute without a response. Roosevelt Memorial Park was literally across the road from Gardena Senior High. With the description of Mr. Davis Principal Kennedy had given him, it didn’t take long for Garcia to find the kind-looking man in his late sixties sitting alone on a stone bench in front of a very peaceful rose garden. He wore a flop-brim hat that reminded Garcia of his grandfather. His wrinkled lips were moving, murmuring something only he could hear.

‘Mr. Davis?’ Garcia asked, coming up to the bench.

The old man looked up, startled at hearing his name. He saw Garcia towering over him and squinted as if looking directly into the sun, searching the thousands of faces in his memory for a match.

‘My name’s Carlos Garcia.’

The squinting intensified. The old man’s memory now searching for the name.

‘You don’t know me,’ Garcia said, displaying his badge and ending the old man’s struggle to remember. ‘I’m a detective with the LAPD.’ For the moment he thought it was better not to mention he was with Homicide Special. Those two words together tend to make most regular citizens nervous.

‘Is there a problem?’ Mr. Davis asked in a frail and worried voice. ‘Has there been an accident in the school?’ The concern in his eyes was touching.

Garcia smiled gently and told him that there was no need for alarm. He explained the reason for his surprise visit but was careful not to mention that Amanda Reilly had been murdered.

‘Principal Kennedy said you could allow me access to the storage rooms and maybe even help me look through the pictures.’

‘I’d love to help if I can.’ The old man nodded before forcing his tired body to stand up. His gaze went back to the rose garden, and he raised a liver-spotted hand in a half wave. ‘Goodbye, Bella. I’ll be back in two days.’

The large rose garden at the Roosevelt Memorial Park is where cremated remains are scattered. In a respectful gesture, Garcia nodded at it as if also saying goodbye.

The storage rooms were at the end of the long, dimly lit, brick-walled basement corridor of the main building in Gardena Senior High. The cobwebs and the heavy stale smell were a clear indication that not many people ventured down here.

Mr. Davis unlocked the door of the main storage room and pushed it open. ‘Most of the old photograph boxes are stored in here,’ he said, flicking on the light switch.

They stood at the entrance of a large room cluttered with old desks and chairs, disused gym equipment and hundreds of cardboard boxes stacked on wooden shelves that covered three of the four walls. Dust was everywhere, and the corridor’s stale smell had intensified five-fold inside the room. The light bulbs that hung from the ceiling on thin wires were old and dim.

Garcia coughed a couple of times and waved his hand in front of his face like a fan, but that just circulated the dust even more. ‘Jesus!’ he said as his eyes scanned the disheartening number of boxes. ‘Where do we start?’

Mr. Davis gave him an encouraging smile. ‘It’s not so bad. I spent many of my free days in these rooms, trying to organize what we have.’

Garcia arched an eyebrow.

‘I hate not having anything to do.’ He started moving around the many broken, old-fashioned wooden desks. ‘It’s a way of keeping busy.’ He shrugged.

The damp and cold room made Garcia’s fingers hurt, and he rubbed the scars on the palms of his hands for a few seconds.

‘What year are we looking for?’ Mr. Davis asked, approaching the boxes stacked on the east wall.

‘She dropped out of school in ’85.’

Mr. Davis’s eyes scanned the boxes in front of him. ‘It should be right at that end.’ He pointed to the opposite wall.

It didn’t take Garcia long to find four large boxes marked ‘1985’. ‘Here we go.’ He pulled them out of the shelves and placed them on the floor. From his pocket he retrieved a photograph of Amanda Reilly they’d gotten from Tania Riggs. ‘This is the only picture I have of Amanda. It was taken just a year ago. Let’s hope she hasn’t changed much.’

The old man took it from Garcia’s hand and studied it for a few seconds. ‘She does look familiar,’ he said, nodding at the picture.

There must’ve been over two thousand photographs inside the four boxes. Individual ones, group pictures, whole classes together, students having fun and goofing around, playing sports, studying and eating lunch. Some were clearly posed and some captured the students naturally – laughing, angry, crying. Garcia and Mr. Davis started the lengthy process of going through them and trying to identify someone they’d never really met. The school janitor would stop every once in a while as flashes of memory came back to him and he’d tell Garcia a quick story concerning the students in the picture. They’d been flipping through photographs for hours when Mr. Davis stopped and squinted at one, bringing it up closer to his face.

‘Let me see that picture you have of this Amanda girl again,’ he said, extending his hand.

Garcia handed him the photo and waited impatiently.

‘Here she is,’ M r. Davis said with a pleased smile after just a few seconds. He handed Garcia both photos. The picture in question was of a group of four girls dressed in what looked to be expensive, designer clothes. All of them in full makeup. Two of them were laughing, one had an amused look on her face and the last one was sideways, looking down. They were standing by one of the school’s basketball courts where several kids were bouncing a ball behind them. Garcia didn’t have to ask. She had certainly changed, but there was no doubt the second girl from the left was Amanda Reilly. They were all stunning in their own right, but Amanda certainly stood out. She was drop-dead gorgeous. A light wind was blowing her shoulder-length blond hair away from her face. She was one of the girls who were laughing, and even frozen in time her laughter seemed contagious.

‘I remember that group of girls,’ Mr. Davis said with a melancholic grin. ‘They were always together, and all the boys—’ he shook his head and the grin widened as he remembered ‘—they were crazy for them. But these girls, they didn’t wanna know.’

‘What do you mean? Didn’t they have boyfriends?’

‘Oh yeah, but if my memory serves me right, they weren’t boys from this school. They were older, I think.’

‘Do you remember any of these girls’ names?’

Mr. Davis laughed. ‘My memory is good, detective, but not that good.’

Garcia nodded and returned his attention to the picture. ‘No way,’ he murmured after a few seconds, squinting at the photograph.

‘What? Something the matter?’ Mr. Davis asked, craning his neck.

‘Do you have a magnifying glass or something like that?’ Garcia asked without taking his eyes off the picture.

The old man smiled and pulled an old-fashioned Swiss army knife from his belt. It contained everything, from pliers to a screwdriver, a bottle opener and a small magnifying lens. ‘I knew this would come in handy someday.’ He handed it to Garcia, who quickly brought it to his eye, scrutinizing the picture for what seemed like an eternity. His mouth went dry.

‘I’ll be goddamned.’

Eighty-One

They drove down Yukon Avenue and turned left into Artesia Boulevard. Darnell Douglas was at the wheel. Ryan Turner sat comfortably in the passenger’s seat, his eyes studying the car’s interior.

‘It feels like a very smooth ride,’ Ryan said casually.

‘Oh, it is. This is a V8, 6.2-liter engine as smooth as aged whiskey.’ Darnell’s eyes stole a peek at Ryan. ‘Do you drink, Ryan?’

‘I occasionally enjoy a good whiskey, yeah.’

‘Oh, you’ll enjoy this more, believe me.’

‘I’m sure.’

Darnell knew it was time to play the cool salesman. ‘I’ll tell you what, Ryan.’ He pulled over to the side of the road. ‘I’m not supposed to do this, because we haven’t properly filled in a form back at the office, but you need to drive this puppy to really get a feel for it.’

Ryan’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.

The ‘nice salesman who breaks the rules’ routine always worked for Darnell. It was a buddy-bonding thing. Give and take trust.

‘We can hook onto San Diego Freeway and you can let it rip for a while.’

‘You sure?’ Ryan looked uncertain.

‘Yeah, why not? You look like a pretty decent and responsible guy. I think I can trust you.’

Ryan held Darnell’s gaze for a few seconds.

‘Seriously, if this car doesn’t blow your mind, no car will.’

‘OK.’ Ryan nodded before unlocking the passenger’s door and walking the longest way around, buying himself a few seconds.

‘This one’s in the bag,’ Darnell thought.

‘So what do you do, Ryan?’ he asked as Ryan took his seat behind the wheel.

‘I’m a doctor.’ He buckled up.

‘Wow.’

‘I’m an anesthetist.’

‘Ooh.’ Darnell shook his whole body in a shiver.

‘Something wrong?’

Darnell made a bitter face. ‘I really don’t like needles, you know? They freak the fuck out of me.’

Ryan’s hand wrapped around the syringe in his pocket and he smiled.

‘Yeah . . .’ He stared into Darnell’s eyes. His voice guttural. ‘I already knew that.’

They say that when it comes to danger and fear, human beings are just like any other animal. We can sense it. Some primitive instinct inside alerts us. And something inside Darnell was screaming for him to get the hell out of that car.

Ryan pressed the central locking button and smiled. ‘Guess what?’ he whispered. ‘I know what scares you to death.’