The case didn’t open, and he was in danger of bending a fingernail. He brought out his car key and wedged the tip between the two halves of the case. The plastic shell popped open, and Jarsdel dropped his key ring onto the carpet to free up his hands.
Instead of falling straight down, however, the keys veered sharply and stuck to the side of Varma’s bag. Confused, Jarsdel slipped the phone in his pocket, reached down, and tugged on the key ring. It seemed as if it had been glued to the leather. When he pulled, the entire bag came with the keys. He finally had to push the bag away with one hand while yanking on the keys with the other. Reluctantly, and only after a good twenty pounds of pull, the keys finally let go.
Bizarre. Just holding the keys nearby caused them to fan out, reaching toward the leather like little metal fingers.
Jarsdel reached inside Varma’s bag, this time feeling along the lining. There was a large zippered pocket there, probably for holding a wallet or passport, and he could feel something thin and hard beneath the fabric. He opened the zipper and stuck his fingers into the pocket. It was there—a cold metal disk, perhaps the circumference of a rocks glass. He brought it out into the light, careful to hold it at a distance.
Curious, he picked up his keys and slowly brought them closer to the disk. When they were about six inches apart, the keys began to splay again. He closed the distance a little more, and the keys leapt out of his hand and slammed into the disk. The collision pinched the skin on his pinkie, and he dropped everything. Both the disk and the keys hit the carpet with a metallic thunk.
Sucking on his finger, Jarsdel tried to figure out why Varma kept an extremely powerful magnet in her purse. She’d have to be very careful not to put her phone in there, or she’d wipe it completely. And what if, in a moment of carelessness, she set her purse near her laptop? Quick way to turn a computer into a two-thousand-dollar paperweight. What a stupid, dangerous thing to carry around.
He stood up and took his phone out of his pocket. The magenta smear was still there, though not quite as pronounced. He had a feeling, however, that if he’d let it stay near the magnet any longer, the damage would’ve been permanent. Almost the way his previous phone had died with no warning. That had been spectacularly annoying, particularly since his SIM card hadn’t survived and he’d lost all his contacts.
Jarsdel thought about that, about how surprised the technician at the store was when the SIM card had come up blank. Wow, the guy had said, did you drop this in the ocean or something?
No. And it wasn’t even that old—no more than two years. Hadn’t shown a single sign of trouble until that day.
Until that day.
The same day he’d cut his hand. The same day the cameras had gone out at the station.
When it rains, it pours—that’s what he’d thought at the time. Just one of those perfect confluences of shit that crop up every now and then in the infinite Powerball lottery of existence. He’d lost his partner to Haarmann, sliced through his fingers, and had his phone go out on him all in that single day.
Jarsdel yanked his keys from the magnet and held the disk at arm’s length, turning it over, not sure what he hoped to find. It took him another moment to realize that he wasn’t actually looking for anything at all. He was just buying time, trying to put off acknowledging what he already knew.
Varma’s expression, when he’d approached her in I Panini di Ambra. She’d been fidgeting in her purse, he remembered, and the look on her face when she’d recognized him had been more one of guilt than surprise. And that strange question: “Are you okay?” At the time he thought she simply hadn’t recognized him—that perhaps his unexpected greeting had caught her off guard, and the question was her way of ducking the fact that she didn’t know his name. He’d certainly done similar things himself, so he couldn’t fault her for trying to avoid a bit of awkwardness.
But now he decided she’d known exactly who he was, and the question had been no face-saving ploy. Because she’d had very good reason to ask him if he was okay.
After all, she’d just glued a razor blade to his door handle.
Sergeant Curran had been complaining about Varma’s visit that morning and how the cameras had chosen that exact moment to crap out on them. Jarsdel could imagine it easily. Varma cooing over the security setup, peppering her observations with selected anecdotes about her work in the defense industry, stopping herself with an apology if she’d skirted a classified subject. The men would’ve loved her—a woman security geek, someone who specialized in identifying, containing, and eliminating threats. How easy it would’ve been to sidle up to the right piece of equipment, or maybe even take the purse off and set it down next to it, the magnet silently killing the station’s security feed. The same way it had killed Jarsdel’s phone when he’d stood too close to her in the restaurant later that same day.
And why disable the cameras? The answer was simple: so she could open up Jarsdel’s hand like a ripe fruit without getting caught.
No, that wasn’t quite it. She’d had nothing against him. He was a means to an end, part of her grand plan to align the city’s interests with her own. She picked him because he’d been the best candidate. Had even interviewed him for the position, in a way. It had come up in their first meeting, how he’d been featured in two recent true-crime books, and she’d remarked that he was a good face for the modern LAPD. “Someone people can get behind.” Those had been her words. He was young with a promising career ahead of him—as far as she knew, a kind of department golden boy. She’d been wrong about that, had grossly overestimated his importance. But that probably wouldn’t have mattered too much. Regardless of how much command loved or hated Marcus Jarsdel, his getting maliciously injured during a camera blackout, on city property, could only help her case.
And, of course, she’d known about Haarmann. That had been the cherry on top, Jarsdel concluded. Had made him irresistible to Varma. Everyone at Hollywood Station knew about the arm-wrestling table. Morales had said so. If anything happened to Jarsdel, blame would naturally fall on the beefy patrolman. Haarmann, being the undeniable asshole he was, probably enjoyed the whole thing. He got to see Jarsdel suffer impotently, unable to prove anything, and he hadn’t needed to lift a finger. It must have been a phenomenal ego boost. At no risk to himself or his career, he’d established himself as a guy never to cross. There’d certainly never be another Arnold Palmer dumped on his table.
How neatly it had all unfolded in Varma’s favor. Jarsdel had been ready to march right into the city council meeting by her side, stalwart and full of righteous anger. Her pet victim, there to offer his tale of woe, to offer his unflinching support for her plans. If only for Varma, his motto would have been. If only for Varma, and his hand would be whole. If only for Varma, the city might have a chance at a new, brighter dawn.
The lamb advocating for the wolf. Thinking about it made him feel nauseous.
But in all her plotting, Varma hadn’t foreseen Father Ruben Duong. The man traded his life to bring attention to the plight of the city’s homeless and had chosen none other than a ReliaBench as the centerpiece of his funeral pyre. His death transformed the concrete log into a symbol of willful neglect, a cynical device thrust upon the least fortunate by a cold, unfeeling bureaucracy. More damaging press would’ve been difficult to conceive.
Varma had needed a major diversion to keep Duong’s ghost from scrapping her project. What could be more effective than casting herself as the target of a senseless, brutal street crime? And if the city council speculated it was part of some broader, albeit totally vague conspiracy to keep her silent, so much the better. Her blood was the currency that would buy her restoration, and it would be spilled on the oil-stained floor of a concrete parking lot. From scrutiny to sympathy in a simple poke of steel.
But it had hurt, even that first exploratory jab. And the second one hadn’t bled enough. She’d had to grit her teeth, plant her palm on t
he hilt, and drive deep.
Shocking pain, no doubt. But there must have been some relief after it was over. She’d suffered through the worst of it and now only had to wait for the EMTs. What would she tell them? One assailant or two? What had they said to her? How hard had she fought? All good questions. The details, the story—that was the fun stuff.
Jarsdel wondered how long it had been before she realized she’d done real damage. What had it felt like? Her blood pressure dropping, watching the world go gray, knowing she’d cut something vital.
He hoped there was some comprehension in that moment, at least a hint that she’d made a mistake, that it was her own toxic ambition that had undone her. But it wasn’t likely. She’d probably faded from the world amazed at the gross injustices that forced her to act so drastically.
It hit him for the first time. It was obvious, but he hadn’t seen it—or had at least refused to see it—until now. If she’d been willing to maim him to boost her career, that meant all the affection had been a lie. There would’ve been nothing beyond that kiss at Watts Towers. She’d set it up perfectly. How they’d have to wait awhile before they could do anything serious, because it would only distract her from her work. Of course. And then once the city council approved her project, she’d have found another reason to put him off. Too busy organizing the CCTV system. Or maybe she’d move and tell him long-distance relationships simply didn’t work. “I’ll always think of you as a devoted friend. Couldn’t have done it without you.”
A lie, all of it.
He understood now why victims of con artists hardly ever reported the crimes to the police. It was impossibly difficult, first, to admit to yourself that you’d been duped, that you were the unknowing participant in a piece of cheap theater. That you’d been bested, your vulnerabilities—greed, loneliness, vanity—turned so deftly against you. But then to have to admit it to someone else, to sit across from a stranger in a uniform and explain just how much of a chump you’d been, how credulous and foolish to have believed such a whopping pile of bullshit—well, that was more than most folks cared to do. Why add insult to injury? The money was gone anyway.
Jarsdel put the magnet back in the purse and stood up, absently smoothing out the wrinkles in his trousers. He debated calling Morales, but what would that accomplish? They’d already cleared the case, and nothing he’d discovered in the apartment contradicted Ipgreve’s finding of accidental death. All he’d done was prove Varma’s deceit was more elaborate and far-reaching than anyone besides him knew. He thought about that discrepancy between her figures and those from Elk River: 25 percent relative versus 1 percent absolute. How he’d agonized over that, tied himself in knots trying to figure out the best way to broach the subject. Because naturally he didn’t want her to think he suspected her of having behaved unethically.
He laughed aloud. The sound came out of him and died immediately in the stale air of the apartment. It was as if the atmosphere couldn’t support life, and if he stayed there long enough, he’d suffocate. The hairs at the back of his neck prickled at the thought.
He hung the purse back on the chair where he’d found it and was about to leave when something on the dining table caught his attention. It was his name, written in cursive on the back of an envelope. Underneath the card was a gift, wrapped in festive, handmade paper.
Jarsdel opened the envelope and took out the card inside. The artwork on the front was of a beautiful young woman dressed in a sumptuous gown, one hand clutching a decorative fan. He recognized the piece immediately. It was the same one he’d given to the Cal Arts student when he commissioned the portrait of Lady Mary. He opened the card.
Dear Tully,
I’d like to thank you in advance for backing me up at the city council meeting tomorrow. We haven’t known each other all that long, and it means a lot to me that you’re willing to tell people how my ideas could help. You really get the importance of what I do. I know I said that before but it bears repeating, because as you can see with all the craziness that’s been happening lately, not everyone does. I get the sense you’d support me even if that asshole hadn’t tried to ruin your hand. (I think I might have a good way to get back at him, by the way. Remind me!)
I hope you like the card. I looked her up after we shared that wonderful moment together in Watts, and I can see why she’s such an inspiration to you. And now that I’ve seen what she looks like, I’m even more flattered that you compared me to her. While I don’t think I can compete, I can nevertheless promise you’ll find in me a loyal friend and, hopefully, an intellectual equal. I get the sense you don’t come across those too often!
You’re a special guy, Tully. I could tell that about you right away, and I look forward to getting to know you better…much better.
Yours affectionately (and soon, intimately),
Alisha
A masterstroke. She’d shown just a bit too much of herself that other day in her office. Chilly, impatient, plotting. It wasn’t the sort of performance designed to inspire his passionate support. So, in case he’d been waffling on whether or not to follow through at city hall, here was this note. She’d probably planned on leaving it someplace unexpected, like his desk at PAB.
It had all the ingredients for a thorough ego-stroking, along with just the right amount of sexual promise to really set the hook in deep. What an unabashed traitor, what a clumsy saboteur the penis was. Even now, in the depths of his humiliation, his groin buzzed with excitement. The way she’d underlined much in much better. All the implied promise in that little slash of ink. That simple underline said Varma couldn’t wait to have him, that she was as hungry for him as a woman could be for a man. And if that wasn’t enough, there was the word intimately. She’d known exactly what to say, hadn’t she? He could feel the traitor nod in agreement, pressed stupidly against the inside of his pants. For a dead woman who’d mauled his hand, who would’ve done much worse if it meant a future for her CCTV scheme and PuraLux and any of her other projects. He was lucky he hadn’t been the one found in a garage, bled out from a stab to the chest.
There was still the gift. A tightly wrapped rectangle—obviously a book. Hardcover, too, he noted as he lifted it. The thick paper showed birds on cherry blossoms. Lovely, the kind of thing you’d try to save and reuse, peeling it apart from the tape so as not to leave bare white patches. But being gentle wasn’t high on Jarsdel’s list. He tore into it, and the entire thing came off in one ragged piece, parachuting to the floor.
Jarsdel took in a sharp breath.
He couldn’t believe what he held, hadn’t seen since he’d been a boy. The fuzzy black flocking and silver lettering were as startling and vivid as he remembered them.
We Who Bump in the Night. Below that, Wherever you lay your head, there’s always something under the bed!
He turned the cover. There, on the flyleaf, Varma had added an inscription: To the one who hunts boogeymen. Hope you realize now that they’re the ones running from you. With admiration, A.V.
Jarsdel stuck the card in the book and gathered up the wrapping paper. He surveyed the room one last time. A shambles. Boxes, clothes, paperwork. He conjured a memory of Varma and held it up for comparison. Neatly pressed suits, coiffed hair, and that red lipstick that could be at turns sensual or commanding.
A lie, Jarsdel thought again. And after that, Yes, and she had you cold. Then Rall’s voice, It’s like you think you could just come into the police and do it better than everybody else because you’re smart at other things. But you got no street degree.
Haarmann agreed. You can’t fake that, can’t fake a street degree. Haarmann, goddamned Haarmann of all people, being right about something.
Rall again. Talk my goddamn ear off with all your pontificatin’, but it ain’t worth nothin’.
Morales, back when they’d had that first meeting at Fred 62, before the Creeper had been given a name. Motive, means, and opportunity:
it’s a classic for a reason. Morales had been annoyed with him for trying to classify the Creeper, to identify and catalog him like a species of insect. His partner had considered that a useless exercise, a distraction—an intellectual dodge. And as they’d left the restaurant, he’d added, You know, what’s funny is all your lofty, hard-learned bullshit won’t do you nearly as much good in this job as watching Training Day a few times. Or in this case, Manhunter. Because I’m telling you, he’s gonna do it again.
Morales had been right about that. The Creeper had done it again. Right as well about Haarmann not being the razor bandit, and certainly right that Varma’s death hadn’t been part of a conspiracy to silence her.
And what, Jarsdel reflected, had he himself been right about?
He’d had feelings, formless but still powerful, but that was all. No data, no actual evidence. He’d been bothered by the broom at the Sponholz crime scene. He’d been bothered by Amy Sponholz neglecting to lock the bedroom door, but the LT’s explanation on that at least made sense. The lack of matter under the fingernails, even though she’d fought. That made less sense. And no bite marks.
On to the Minchew scene. Brian, Natalie. That time, bite marks on the wife. Okay, that was consistent with all Creeper crime scenes excepting Amy Sponholz. Creeper epithelial matter under the nails. But how had that happened if both adults had been killed in their sleep? When would they have fought their attacker? Then little Emma, smothered to death. A child murderer who’d suddenly found the task perfunctory, perhaps even distasteful. There’d been no reveling in that, no thrill at the total power he had over a small, delicate life.
The tension rod, found just inside the house. Had he really dropped it? That seemed careless. As depraved as he was, he wasn’t careless. It was more as if he were trying to fill in gaps for the investigators, trying to retcon the Amy Sponholz scene by getting the Minchew murder “right.”
Amy Sponholz: no DNA under the nails, though she’d fought. Natalie Minchew: DNA under the nails, though it was almost impossible she’d fought. Sponholz hadn’t been bitten, but Minchew had. Creeper hair follicles at both scenes. Creeper blood at the Sponholz scene, but not at Minchew. That made sense, right? After all, Amy Sponholz had bitten him on the hand. But he’d been wearing gloves, so how had that happened? Had she really torn through both leather and flesh? No, because there would’ve been traces of the gloves on her teeth. His hand had been bare—bare long enough to be bitten, but not scratched. Gloved when he’d strangled her, bare when he’d left prints all over the bedroom.
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