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political leanings."
Lorraine nodded. "I will, but this guy's totally legit, Lindsay. He acted like
he was jerked out of his skin."
As the afternoon wound down, I had the shaky feeling we were nowhere on this
case. I was sure it was a serial, but maybe our best chance was this guy with
the chimera embroidered on his jacket.
My phone rang, startling me. It was Jacobi. "Bad information, L.T. We've been
outside this damned Blue Parrot place all day. Nothing. So we managed to find
out from the bartender the dudes you're looking for are history. They split,
five, six months ago. Toughest guy we've seen was some weight lifter wearing a
' Rules' T-shirt."
"What do you mean by split, Warren?"
"Vamoose, moved on. Somewhere south. According to the dude, one or two guys
who used to hang around with them still come in from time to time. Some big
redheaded dude. But basically they hit the road. Permanent-mente."
"Keep on it. Find me the redheaded dude." Now that the van led nowhere and I
had no connection between the victims, that lion-and-snake symbol was all we
had.
"Keep on it?" Jacobi whined. "How long? We could be out here for days!" "I'll
send out a change of underwear," I said, and hung up.
For a while I just sat there, rocking back in my chair with a mounting feeling
of dread. It had been three days since Tasha Catchings was killed, and three
days before that, Estelle Chipman.
I had nothing. No significant clues. Only what the killer had left us. This
damned chimera.
And the knowledge... serials kill. Serials don't stop until you catch them.
Chapter 31.
PATROLMAN SERGEANT ART DAVIDSON responded to the 1-6-0 the minute he heard the
call. "Disturbance, domestic violence. Three oh three Seventh Street,
upstairs. Available units respond."
He and his partner, Gil Herrera, were only four blocks away on Bryant. It was
almost eight; their shift was over in ten minutes.
"You want to take it, Gil?" said Davidson, glancing at his watch.
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His partner shrugged. "Your call, Artie. You're the one with the wild party to
go to."
Some wild party. It was his seven-year-old's birthday.
Audra. He had called in on break, and Carol had said if he got home by
nine-thirty she'd keep her up for him so that he could give her the Britney
Spears makeup mirror he had picked out. Davidson had five kids, and they were
his life.
"What the hell." Davidson shrugged. "It's what we get paid the big bucks for,
right?"
They hit the siren, and in less than a minute, Mobile 2-4 pulled up in front
of the dismal and dilapidated entrance to 303 Seventh, the tilted sign of the
defunct Driscoll Hotel hanging over the front door.
"People still camping out in this dump?" Herrera sighed.
"Who the hell would live here?"
The two cops grabbed their nightsticks and a large flashlight, and stepped up
to the front door. Davidson pulled it open. Inside, the place smelled of
feces, urine, probably rats.
"Hey, anybody here?" Davidson called out. "Police."
Suddenly, from above, they heard the sound of shouting.
Some kind of argument.
"On it," Herrera said, bounding up the first flight.
Davidson followed.
On the second floor, Gil Herrera went down the hall, banging his flashlight on
doors. "Police, police."
In the stairwell, Davidson suddenly heard the sounds again - loud, frantic
voices. A crash, as if something had broken. The noise came from over his
head. He headed up two flights of stairs on his own.
The noises grew even louder. He stopped in front of a shut door. Apartment 42.
"Bitch... " someone yelled. The sound of a plate shattering. A woman seemed to
beg, "Stop him, he's going to kill me. Stop him, please... Somebody help me.
Please."
"Police," Art Davidson responded, and drew his gun. He yelled, "Herrera, up
here. Now!"
He threw all his weight against the door. It opened. The inside was dimly lit,
but from an interior room, more light and the arguing voices... closer...
screaming.
Art Davidson clicked his gun off safety. Then he barged through the open door
into the room. To his amazement, no one was in there.
There was dim yellow light angling from an exposed bulb.
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A metal chair with a large boom box on it. Loud voices coming from the
speakers.
The words were the same ones he'd heard earlier. "Stop him, he's going to kill
me!"
"What the hell?" Davidson squinted in disbelief.
He walked over to the stereo, knelt down, and turned off the power. The loud,
blaring argument came to a halt.
"What the fuck...?" Davidson muttered. "Somebody playing games."
He looked around. The pitiful room looked as if it hadn't been occupied in a
while. His eyes were drawn to the window, then beyond it, across an alley to a
facing building. He thought he saw something. What was it?
Ping... His eye caught the tiniest pinprick of a yellow spark, so quick it was
like the snap of a finger, the blink of a firefly on a dark night.
Then the window splintered and a blunt force slammed into Art Davidson's right
eye. He was dead before he hit the floor.
Chapter 32.
I HAD JUST ABOUT GOTTEN HOME when the distress call crackled in: "Available
units, proceed to three oh three Seventh, near Townsend."
1-0-6... officer in trouble. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]