by Jacob Stone
“What was that?” Natalie asked.
“I punched the steering wheel,” he admitted.
“Don’t do that again,” she said. “It won’t help anyone if you break your hand.”
“I know.” Morris flexed the fingers on his right hand. “Nat, I know who this psycho is and I’ll be catching him soon. I promise.”
“Good,” Natalie said.
Chapter 63
Morris waited until midnight before urging the MBI team to go home, telling them they would be having a busy day when they returned to the office in the morning. There was absolutely no chance of getting Rachel to leave until she saw Doug after the surgery and knew he would be okay, which meant Natalie and Parker weren’t about to budge from the waiting room.
The Gilmans were a good deal older than Morris and Natalie, and maintained a mostly stoic countenance as they sat vigil for their son, although when Mrs. Gilman explained that Doug was her baby—the youngest of four boys—she looked for a minute as if she were on the verge of weeping before choking it back and regaining a stiff upper lip. At two in the morning a surgeon came in to inform them that there had been complications and the surgery would be continuing on into the next day.
“Tell me straight,” Mr. Gilman demanded. “Will my son be surviving this?”
It looked as if the doctor was about to tell him something trite, but had a change of heart. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “The internal damage is more severe than we had anticipated. But we’re doing everything we can.”
Both Gilmans looked crestfallen from this news. Rachel looked frightened to death.
“What are my boy’s chances?” Mrs. Gilman asked, her voice a ghost of a whisper.
“I can’t say. Sometimes it’s up to the patient. On how badly they want to live.”
The doctor excused himself, and after some coaxing from Morris, the Gilmans agreed to let him take them to his house so they could rest. When Morris returned, nothing had changed and seeing Rachel and Natalie looking so miserable and frightened made him want to punch a wall.
What good would it do? he thought. None.
He plopped down next to his daughter and put his arm around her thin shoulders. Parker was lying by Rachel’s feet and he looked up at Morris and slowly wagged his tail once, but the bull terrier looked every bit as miserable as Rachel and Nat.
Over the next several hours, Morris kept his arm around Rachel while Nat held her daughter’s hand and Parker maintained his vigil by Rachel’s feet. A little after 7:30 Morris received a call from Annie Walsh to let him know she had pulled a warrant to search Jack Readinger’s apartment.
“Hadley sent out a memo last night that you and MBI are off the Cupid Killer case, and that the department is not to share any further information with any of you, but the hell with him. You want to join me in executing the warrant?”
“Sure thing. Any luck identifying John Doe?”
“A meth dealer gave us a first name. Stevie. That’s all we have so far.”
“How about Duncan Moss’s photo? Please tell me Hadley is having it shown to the guests who attended the Frey-Kincade engagement party?”
“That started last night and it hasn’t been going so well. Photo lineups were shown to eleven of the guests, including Kincade’s parents, and two of them think they saw Moss there and five pointed to other photos. We’ve got a trace on Moss’s credit cards to see if we can place him in LA and patrol units have his photo, but otherwise Hadley ordered us to shut this down until we can link John Doe to Moss. How sure are you that he’s our guy?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Then let’s hope John Doe leads us to him. Or we find something in Readinger’s apartment.”
* * * *
The apartment was littered with dirty clothing, food-encrusted takeout containers, empty bourbon and vodka bottles, and other assorted garbage. But there were no trophies from Julia Swan and Suzanne Markin, nor were there any cutout newspaper articles about their murders, brass knuckles, or photos. There really was nothing at all to show a personal connection between Readinger and another person. It was the apartment of someone who had no intention of establishing any roots. No past or future could be divined from any of Readinger’s belongings, only a sordid present. Walsh found a baggie that likely held cocaine residue when she dumped out a trash can, but that was it.
“This has been a bust,” she said.
“Nothing in his car?” Morris asked.
“Nope. If he’s got anything incriminating, he’s keeping it hidden elsewhere.”
Morris called Natalie. Doug was miraculously out of surgery and still clinging to life, but unconscious and on a respirator.
“Rachel’s with him now. I’ve called Doug’s parents and they’re on their way. The doctor told us the next twenty-four hours will be key.”
Morris said, “Let’s keep the faith.”
Natalie laughed tragically. “I’m trying. Anyway, I’m in the waiting room with the little guy, and he’s beside himself that he had to leave Rachel’s side.”
Morris had heard Parker whining. “I’ve got to be in court soon, but I’ll pick him up afterwards. Maybe a change of scenery will help.”
After the call, Morris headed to the courthouse and had a quick strategy session with Margot. The police had done a good job keeping a lid on what happened at Rachel’s apartment and even Margot, with all of her sources, hadn’t caught a whiff of it. She did, of course, try to wheedle out of him the identity of the Cupid Killer and the big scoop that he had for her later.
“Do you have any idea how painful this has been?” she asked. “Not a single one of my so-called friends at the LAPD will return my calls about whether they have a suspect for the murders. Not one! I know we were off the record, but you’re making me sit on a ginormous story that a suspect has been named—”
“By me, not by the LAPD, evidently.”
“That by itself would be huge!”
“Patience,” Morris said.
Margot puffed up her cheeks in frustration. “When you’re finally ready to give me your exclusive interview, you’re bringing your adorable four-legged partner with you. My audience loves him. But this time you better keep him from getting to first base with me!”
Morris grinned at that memory. The last time he’d brought Parker with him on the Hollywood Peeper, he had given Parker a rawhide bone to keep the bull terrier entertained. Margot, bless her, thought the visuals would be better if there was no bone, and she arranged to have it snatched away from the dog right before they went on air. This backfired badly, as it caused Parker to become overly excited and leap onto Margot’s lap. End result: He made a mess of her makeup by licking her face a dozen times before Morris was able to drag him off of her.
“As long as you don’t pull any more stunts, Parker will be just fine.” He spotted Readinger being escorted into the courtroom, and pointed him out to Margot.
“A weaselly-looking individual,” she said with distaste.
“That he is.”
They followed him into the courtroom, and Morris took a seat in the row behind Readinger so he could listen in on Margot’s conversation with him. As they had arranged, Margot approached Readinger and offered to have her station pay his bail if he’d agree to an on-air interview at noon. Readinger seemed genuinely baffled by the offer, and asked why she would want to interview him.
“Because the police considered you a suspect in the Cupid Killer murders. In fact, they searched your apartment this morning, looking for evidence to tie you to those murders.”
“Why would they think that?”
“Because of your wolf’s-face tattoo.”
“Yeah?” His voice became tight, angry. “They’re trying to railroad me because of a tattoo?”
“My thoughts exactly, which is why I want to interview you.”
“You got your interview, honey.”
Margot had him sign a contract, and when the bail hearing started promptly at 9:30, Readinger was called first, as Morris had arranged, and the bail set at ten grand. Margot paid the bail and winked at Morris before leaving the courthouse with Readinger. Her crew, which included Dennis Polk, was waiting for them outside.
First step accomplished, Morris thought.
Chapter 64
Duncan Moss felt battered and bruised as he lay on a bed in a North Hollywood motel room and watched the local news. Stevie had worked him over good with the crowbar, his leg ached where Rachel had kicked him, and his jaw even more so from her kneeing him. He was lucky nothing got broken and he was able to extricate himself from that shitstorm in one piece. After leaving the apartment, he ran for two blocks before hiding behind a building and changing into the clothes he had brought in his backpack. Then he continued on until he was a mile away from Rachel’s apartment building and called for an Uber to take him to a North Hollywood strip club. He had no interest in going inside the club; he just didn’t want the Uber driver to know his real destination, and he later walked a mile to the motel. He figured once the police identified Stevie it would bring too much heat to the boarding house, and besides, feeling as beat-up as he was, he could use a real bed. He also needed to do some thinking.
In a way, he was glad things worked out the way they had last night. It woke him up, in a sense. The first killing was satisfying, at least to a degree. He was like a steam valve that was ready to explode if pressure wasn’t released, and watching a soft and spoiled member of the privileged few like Alex Frey suffer just as he had suffered when Julia’s life was snuffed out helped release that pressure. The second killing, though, wasn’t satisfying at all, and the third left him feeling disgusted with himself. Gilman represented everything he had grown to hate, and even when he shot the man in the stomach and could see in his eyes that he was going to die, it didn’t make Moss feel any better.
Of course, making himself feel better wasn’t why he needed to kill those people. The real reason was simple: He needed Julia’s killer caught. If the guy ended up getting convicted of the murders Moss was responsible for, Moss could live with that. If the guy was arrested and later released, even better. If that happened, Moss would track him down and spend hours torturing him with a knife, but he’d leave him alive, and make the miserable prick live out his years in agony. Because of that, Rachel didn’t need to die. She saw his temporary snarling wolf’s-face tattoo, and because of that her dad would be properly motivated to catch Julia’s killer.
A revelation Moss had had last night was that he had another reason for what he’d been doing. Subconsciously, he’d been needing to recreate that terrible night from a year ago as a way to prove to himself that there was nothing he could’ve done to save Julia, and he finally accepted that. No matter what he had tried doing, he wouldn’t have been able to stop Julia’s killer.
Moss was done. Whatever nightmarish fever had gripped him over the past year had finally broken. He’d rest up for a few hours and then get in his car and head back to Boston. He knew it was just a matter of time before the police found the monster with the wolf’s-face tattoo who murdered Julia. If the courts released him, Duncan would come back to LA one last time.
He was drinking a can of Coke when the local anchor announced there would be a special Hollywood Peeper at noon with Margot Denoir interviewing a just-released suspect in the Cupid Killer murders, and Duncan snorted a mouthful of Coke out of his nose. There’d been nothing on the news about the police picking up a suspect or about Duncan turning that apartment into a slaughterhouse. He’d been wondering about that and somehow he knew those two were tied together.
His stomach had been rumbling and he’d been planning to get something to eat, but he forgot about his hunger and barely blinked as he continued watching the TV. When the interview started, he knew that the scumbag Margot was interviewing was Julia’s killer even before they showed his tattoo—the same one he’d been recreating and that had forever been burned into his consciousness. He could barely believe the lousy timing of everything—that the police picked him up yesterday afternoon, but dropped him as a suspect for the Cupid Killer after the brutal attack yesterday afternoon in Rachel Brick’s apartment. They mentioned Doug Gilman being shot and now in critical condition after over twelve hours of surgery, and they showed a photo of Stevie’s corpse with the crowbar removed from his throat, asking the public for any information about the dead man.
When the interview started, Duncan moved himself to the edge of the bed only three feet away from the TV. Near the end of the interview he sat blinking, not quite believing what he had just heard: Denoir asking this murderous prick where he was on April 12 of last year. She knew about Julia! The police knew about Julia. And the bastard’s reaction was a dead giveaway. There was no doubt about it when the interview ended with Denoir wishing him an especially wonderful rest of the day. That wasn’t quite the end: Denoir faced the camera and told the audience that this interview had taken place in Readinger’s apartment, and she gave the address!
It was almost as if this interview had been done for Duncan’s benefit.
He realized that that was the case.
Brick was laying a trap for him.
Chapter 65
Hadley sounded over the phone like he might pop a blood vessel as he demanded to know what that was all about.
Morris calmly said, “I have no idea what you’re asking.”
“No idea?” Hadley sputtered. “Margo’s interview, dammit! And don’t you dare say you weren’t involved! You were seen palling around with Margot at the courthouse!”
“Martin, I’m not a mind reader. How was I supposed to know you were calling about that?”
“Damn you, Brick, I’ll have your license pulled for this stunt! You had no right releasing any of that information to the press!”
“Au contraire. Read the contract I signed when I took on the investigation. It gives me free reign to handle matters as I see fit.”
There were several seconds of heavy breathing in which Morris pictured Hadley gnashing his teeth. A quaint phrase and maybe a bit clichéd, but one that seemly highly appropriate in this case.
“I fired you, Brick,” Hadley finally forced out. “Your contract was voided then.”
“Technically, you can’t fire me. My contract is with the mayor’s office, not the LAPD. But that’s beside the point. I arranged the interview with Margot before our talk last night. My visit with her at the courthouse was just a social call.”
The call ended abruptly with Hadley disconnecting from his end. If he were talking on an old-fashioned landline, he would’ve slammed down the handset with enough force to break it, but since he was calling on a cell phone, all he could do was press a button.
Morris didn’t bother sticking the phone back in his pocket. He expected more calls to be coming in. He coaxed Parker along on the walk. The bull terrier had been moping ever since Morris picked him up from the hospital. “Soon,” Morris promised, knowing the dog wanted to get back to Rachel. “But you need to go on more of a walk first, buddy.”
Ten minutes later a call came in from Polk.
“I wanted to let you know I’m in position,” Polk said. “Fred will be taking over at six?”
“Yep, he’s got the six-to-midnight slot, and I’ll be there after that until six in the morning.”
“And then I’m there again, huh?”
“Correct.”
Polk let out an unhappy grumble. He wasn’t exactly a morning person, and he’d have to roll out of bed by five for a six a.m. shift, and no matter how much high-octane coffee he drank, he’d be dragging at that early hour. “What about Charlie?” he said, a note of petulance in his voice. “I mean, you should be with your family, not working a stakeout.”
“He’s still in Boston looking int
o a loose end. Just us three for now. Unless you want me to rope Greta into this.”
There was enough of a pause to show Polk had taken Morris’s facetious comment seriously. “Nah, probably better not. Everything’s set?”
“Should be. I talked with Adam earlier and he gave a thumbs-up.”
“I got to tell you, I’m sick of this Cupid Killer already. Let’s hope it ends soon.” Polk let out a heavy breath, then asked, “Any change with Doug?”
“Still unconscious. But at least he’s survived this long.”
“That’s got to be a good sign,” Polk said, although he didn’t sound particularly confident about it. “Give my best to Nat and Rachel when you see them later.”
“Will do.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Morris tried to convince Parker to walk another block, but the dog had become adamant that he wasn’t going any further. Morris gave up the fight. The dogs were called bull terriers for a reason. No other breed was more bullheaded. They were halfway back to the car when Morris’s cell phone rang. Caller ID showed it was Annie Walsh.
“Hadley blasted out another memo after the Hollywood Peeper aired,” she said. “It’s our jobs if any of us talk to you.”
“That sounds un-American if you ask me,” Morris said.
“True that,” Walsh agreed. “Anyway, the hell with him.”
“You said that this morning.”
“The sentiment still holds. I thought you’d like to know the interview got us a lead on John Doe. The dead guy’s name was Steven Hicks and he was staying at a rooming house on Crocker Street. Guess what?”