“Boyfriend?”
“Maybe,” she mumbled as he approached. “Marcus, this is my dad.”
For fifteen years of age, Mason thought it sweet he held out his hand for a formal introduction. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
Mason shook it. “You too, kid. You guys need a ride?”
Amy looked to Mason, Mason looked to Marcus, and Marcus just shrugged. “It ain’t far. I think we could walk it.”
“We’ll walk it,” Amy confirmed. “Thanks though.”
Just then the radio in the Mustang hissed some news Mason wished he hadn’t heard. Feeding his morbid curiosity, he leaned in through the open window and turned the volume up.
The broadcast was informative and monotone.
“…at Ryder’s Mall, where the body was displayed in the food court. Police are yet to arrive on the scene, but local shoppers are shaken up. The victim has been identified as Marion Healy, who had been reported missing…”
Mason turned back to his daughter. “Amy, I have to—”
“Go? Yeah.” She leaned in, pecked him on the cheek, then took a step back to let him leave. “But don’t forget about me.”
“Could I ever?” Mason said, dropping into the driver’s seat and revving up the engine.
Chapter Nine
A large crowd of shoppers had gathered outside the mall by the time Mason arrived. Knowing damn well it would be a fight to get inside, he stowed the iPhone in the glove compartment and made his way between the people.
“It’s disgusting,” Mason overheard one man saying. “My daughter saw that mess. Poor girl will be scarred for life.”
“Fucking cool!” one teenager yelled, high-fiving his friends.
Mason tried to hide his disgust and made his way to the police tape, where he was shown in by Detective Bill Harvey. “Tell me it’s not as bad as it looks.”
“It’s worse,” Bill said, leading him through the evacuated mall. “Nobody even saw it happen. One minute everything was fine, then before you know it everyone is running around in a blind panic.”
Mason knew it must be a horrific sight up there and prepped himself with only a tight swallow. “Is the ID confirmed? Do we know for certain it’s Marion Healy?”
“Absolutely,” Bill said. “Is she the reason you’re here?”
“Don’t take it personally,” Mason said, then rubbed his nose and sniffed. “But Chris Healy reached out to me. I think he’s just trying every approach he can.”
“I don’t blame him.” Bill flashed his badge at the guarding police officer. “This way.”
Mason followed him through and felt bile rise in his throat when he saw the scene before him. It was a bloody mess and could only have been put together by somebody truly disturbed. The wide, terrified look of the severed head was particularly difficult to look at, but what really drew Mason’s attention was the message.
“Anarchy,” Bill said, reading the bloody signature across the floor of the food court. “We think it’s a nickname.”
Mason sighed. “Every psychopath we encounter seems to have an alternate name for themselves. What’s wrong with simply being named John?” He stepped toward the scene and crouched by the trail of blood, spotting marks where the blood had dripped from the head before being impaled on the railing outside a restaurant.
“I know what you’re thinking.” Bill appeared at his side.
“You do?”
“You’re wondering whether this person was killed before she was brought here.”
“I wasn’t wondering that at all.” Mason pushed himself to his feet. “It would take a goddamn ninja to get away with that.”
“Funny you should mention that.” Bill glanced over his shoulder at Captain Leanne Cox as she passed by them. “A man was seen hurrying away from this spectacle and hopping onto a green Kawasaki Ninja.”
“A motorcycle?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And an ID on that man?”
“Cameras only show the back of his head. We think he knew exactly where to hide.”
“So it was premeditated?” Mason looked around at the scene once more—a disturbing reminder of why he became involved in law enforcement in the first place. As he turned, he caught another glimpse of Captain Cox, who raised a hand to wave before turning her back on them. “Can you keep me in the loop, in case you find anything out?”
“Sure. And how about your investigation? You found anything?”
Mason surprised himself when his reaction was an immediate shake of the head. “Nothing.” Why hadn’t he mentioned Marion’s iPhone? Why had his instincts told him to conceal that information? Sure, he still needed to root through it, but it was supposed to be police evidence.
“Well, let me know if anything changes.”
“No problem.” Mason left the scene as fast as he could, praying something of use would turn up soon enough. God forbid he should stumble upon another scene like this one, with another innocent and very dead civilian on display.
Chapter Ten
His heart raced even faster than his bike. The looks on those people’s faces had been a new kind of excitement—fear and confusion warped their expressions. But even more intriguing to Anarchy was the dash of intrigue he witnessed in their eyes.
Although lost in a jungle of his own thoughts, the screeching sirens behind him weren’t easy to ignore. Anarchy checked his mirror and saw he was indeed the policeman’s target.
Surely they can’t know it was me so soon? He’d been so careful at the mall and would be astounded if anyone had seen him acting suspicious. In fact, a part of being insanely chaotic—and being aware of it, too—was that he was able to play innocent whenever needed. And wasn’t this one of those times?
Anarchy pulled over, shut off the engine, and waited for the policeman to approach.
Here, piggy piggy piggy.
“License and registration,” the officer asked when he finally caught up. He was a stocky prick—the type to push his chest out just for the sake of it. Everything about him exuded an aura of superiority, although he didn’t look old enough to be a senior officer.
“I don’t have it on me,” Anarchy said. Anyway, nobody knows my real name, and I’d like to keep it that way, thank you very much.
Offering a look of undisguised skepticism, the officer placed a hand on his sidearm in a silent threat. “Slowly dismount the vehicle, remove your helmet, and come with me.” He began to walk back to the police car without waiting for a response.
But Anarchy was aware of the dashboard cameras—he’d seen all those cop shows and loved how most traffic crimes were caught on camera. But as much as he would love to do the same, he knew he couldn’t risk being identified. Remaining obedient, he walked on, keeping his helmet on until he passed the camera. Only then did he take it off.
“What’s your name?” the officer asked, his hand on the car radio.
Enough of the questions, Anarchy thought. Nobody could see him now, which meant nothing was off-limits. Taking the officer by surprise, he reached for the pistol on his hip, snatched it up, and aimed it at the cop.
The look of shock on his face was priceless. “You’re making a big mistake, son.”
“I’ve done worse.” Anarchy glanced around at the passing vehicles. It was funny; not a single person gave two shits between them. “Bet you wish you hadn’t stopped me.”
The officer shook his head. “I don’t give a fuck what you—”
As if by some instantaneous reaction—a reflex of his finger—Anarchy pulled the trigger. Before he even heard the shot or felt the force of the blast dig into his shoulder, the officer hit the floor and clutched at his throat.
“That looks like it hurts.” Anarchy laughed as blood bubbled at the throat of the downed cop. He reached into the officer’s pocket, grabbed his wallet, and flipped it open. Inside was only twenty dollars and a family photograph. “This your wife? Your daughter?”
The cop stared at the photo with wide eyes, st
raining to keep his neck at a comfortable angle as he gargled blood. The back of his head hit the road, as if all his energy had been ripped from him like some cheap tablecloth trick.
Anarchy turned the photo back toward him and studied it. The woman—who had her arms slung around the cop’s shoulders—wasn’t pretty. She was a big woman with a dull hairstyle and bad skin. The daughter, however, looked like she was coming of age. “Tell you what,” Anarchy said, leaning into the cop’s ear. “Before you choke on your own blood, I want you to hear this thought and then take it to Hell with you: these two special women are going to suffer immeasurable pain, and it’s all because you put a hand on your gun.” He grinned. “Not so tough now, huh?”
The officer choked more, his face turning red before his legs bucked for a moment. Then he fell completely still, his eyes staring up at the sky.
Chuckling to himself, Anarchy put the helmet back on his head, pocketed the officer’s pistol, and hopped back onto his bike with a new destination in mind.
Chapter Eleven
Mason stuffed a forkful of green vegetables into his mouth, his eyes fixated on the plugged-in phone. He was thumbing through the messages and call log, looking for anything that might be useful. So far, there was nothing.
“Why don’t you just go over there?” Diane asked from across the table. Her cutlery was on her plate beside the dirty napkin. As always, she’d finished long before Mason.
“What? Go where?”
Diane shook her head. “Sweetie, you’ve done nothing but stare at that thing the entire time I’ve been talking to you. It wouldn’t be so bad if you hadn’t been the one to initiate the conversation about your sister.”
Mason set down his fork, putting the phone beside him. “Sorry. I’m just distracted. So, what was that about Evie?”
“I said you should go over there.”
“No. She hates uninvited guests.”
“But you’re her brother.”
Mason shook his head. “That’s just it—I don’t think she sees it that way anymore.”
Without saying a word, Diane stood, collected their plates, and headed for the kitchen. The moment she was out of sight, Mason picked up the phone and continued searching through the pictures. It was the third time he’d been through them, but still nothing useful leapt out at him. The worst thing was, he couldn’t keep the image of Marion’s severed head from his mind. Every time he saw a photo of the woman, he pictured those lifeless eyes staring back at him.
Before long, Diane returned to the dining room with two steaming cups of coffee. She set them at the table, and this time, sat beside Mason. She took his free hand. “She’s hurting.”
“Evie?”
“Yes. And you don’t like that.”
“I don’t.” Mason put the phone back down and looked Diane in the eye.
“Then do your thing. She’s not taking your calls because she doesn’t know what to think. It’s been a year since she found out what you did to the Lullaby Killer, and although I understand your reasons, Evie doesn’t.”
“That’s the problem; I don’t know how to make her understand.”
“I think she’s had her time to mull it over,” Diane said, taking a sip of the coffee and wincing as it scalded her lips. “Now it’s time for you to turn up at her door. It’s your role to make sure she’s okay, right?”
“Right.”
“So then, get your ass over there and check in on her. Screw social convention.”
Mason looked down at his hands, picking at his nails. “I suppose you have a point. But what do I even say to her? Apologies aren’t enough.”
“Then don’t talk about that. Maybe this isn’t about you. Maybe you just want to see how she’s doing.” Diane took the car keys from his pocket and dangled them in front of him. “Just go. This case of yours will still be here when you get back.”
After a moment of hesitation, Mason grabbed the keys, put the iPhone in his pocket, and went for the door.
Chapter Twelve
Climbing the steps toward her apartment, Mason paused to absorb his surroundings.
The last time he’d been here, he was on the run from the San Francisco police. And although the situation had eventually been dealt with, his memory of the ordeal had never quite faded. After all, it was those events that had led to Evie learning of his dark secret.
Mason approached the door and knocked. He was met with a silence that convinced him he had no place there. The only reason he waited it out was because he imagined Diane’s disappointed face if he were to return without progress.
Moments passed, and he was about to knock again when he heard a shuffle from behind the door. “I know you’re in there,” he called through the wood. “I can see your shadow under the door.”
There was silence again, until the chain was dragged along its rail and the door popped open. However, the Evie standing there was not his sister—not the one he’d grown up with. Happy, responsible Evelyn Black seemed to have disappeared and been replaced by this frail, wispy-haired woman, with black rings for eyes.
Mason stood shocked, trying to find his words. “Can I come in?”
Evie looked at him like he was a stranger, then eventually pushed the door open wider. When she did, she walked to the back of the dark room. “You should’ve called first.”
“I did,” Mason said, closing the door behind him. Now, they were in total darkness, until he crossed the room and opened the drapes. The harsh sunlight burst in with an explosion of color. “Around a million times.”
Evie grunted. “And there’s a reason I didn’t pick up.”
Mason looked around at the mess. This used to be a nice apartment, he thought, studying the Doritos bags and empty vodka bottles. The diet hinted at across the table seemed to match his sister’s current health.
“Why are you here?” she asked, crossing her arms.
“I came to check up on you.”
“I’m fine.”
“Clearly.” Mason moved a foul-smelling pizza box from the couch and took a seat.
Evie sat on the arm of the chair.
“Are you working?” he asked.
“No.”
“What happened at the toy company?”
“It fell through,” Evie said, playing with her stringy hair.
“You mean you took to the bottle?”
“Oh, fuck you. I don’t need your judgment.”
Mason held up his hands. “I’m sorry. But you have to admit, this isn’t you.”
“So, what—we know each other now? Suddenly we’re best pals who know each other’s secrets?”
“That’s not what I—”
“Really, I just want you to leave.”
Mason stared at her, trying to think of the right thing to say. But perhaps she was right—he deserved to be treated like this. As Evie had clearly pointed out before, she wasn’t pissed that he’d killed Marvin Wendell. It was the lie that really stung.
Giving in, he went for the front door.
“Don’t come by here again,” she said, following behind him.
“Ever?” Mason stopped by the open door and turned to face her.
“I don’t know. Just… I need more time.”
“Fine,” Mason said. “Just promise me you’ll take better care of yourself.”
Evie shot him a look as if to say Don’t you dare tell me what to do.
“I’ll be in touch.” Mason stepped into the hallway and cringed as the door slammed shut behind him. The lock and chain followed soon after with a clunk and a metallic dragging sound.
Goddamnit. He headed back down the hallway but only made it five feet before his phone rang. “Hello?” he said, pressing the phone to his ear.
“Buddy…” It was Bill, sounding unusually morose. “There’s been another murder. You’re going to want to see this for yourself.”
Chapter Thirteen
Mason arrived at Swimley Avenue, where the most recent murders had taken place. All Bill had sai
d on the phone was There’s been another murder. You’re going to want to see this for yourself. It was enough to shake Mason to his core.
Arriving at the scene, he saw far too many flashing red and blues. While it didn’t take a genius to figure that wasn’t a good sign, Mason knew more than most people that anything over five cars was serious.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” Bill said, holding the tape up for Mason. It was a poor attempt at humor, but it was better than nothing. It was how one survived being a cop, and Mason understood it completely.
“You’re telling me.” Mason looked around as they stepped up to the house. “I counted seven squad cars. What’s the occasion?”
“Another message from Anarchy. The sick bastard even called it in himself.”
It goes from bad to worse. “But seven cars?”
Bill stopped at the door. “That’s because what you’re about to see is a cop’s family. I’ll warn you now, it’s not a pretty sight.”
Mason let out a breath. Whenever a police officer was killed, the SFPD would go mad trying to solve the case. This meant Mason’s own case would be considered an obstruction, Internal Affairs would be investigating anyone and everyone, and nobody would be in a good mood. “All right, let me see.”
“You were warned.” Bill pushed open the door, revealing a flood of forensic officers, homicide detectives, and weeping witnesses being interviewed.
Mason stepped inside, and the first thing he noticed—besides the general noise of the room—was how much red there was. The macabre trail led from the bottom of the stairs, snaking through into another room. “Can I explore?”
“As long as you don’t touch anything.” Bill waved him through, following the scarlet trail. “Whatever you do, don’t throw up.”
Mason had always had a strong stomach, but he knew some things were just too much, even for him. He took a deep breath, steeling himself before moving to the next room. When he saw the murder scene, he understood the commotion. “Jesus.”
Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection Page 35