by Cross, Mason
“Was he tortured?”
Allen shrugged. “Yeah, but even that didn’t quite match up. The girl here was cut up. The man in DC was burned.”
“You mean set on fire?”
Allen shook her head. “Not like that. He had wounds all over, but they were all cauterized burns. Like somebody had tied him up and used a hot knife on him. Like I said, everything was different. All except one thing.”
“Cause of death?”
Allen nodded.
“Throat cut? Ragged wound pattern?”
“Yeah. Exactly the same cause of death. I’ve never seen a cut like that before or since. He must have used some kind of special blade. Different from the one he used for the torture.”
Mazzucco took another bite out of his sandwich and chewed. He looked doubtful. “So you have two murder cases, two years and two thousand miles apart. Similar cause of death, sure, but . . .”
“You’ve seen a cut throat before, Mazzucco.”
“Sure.”
“Ever see one exactly like that? Ever see photographs of one like that?”
“No. No, I haven’t. But all that means is that two killers used a similar blade. Other than that, you have a completely different victim profile, tortured in a different way, disposed of in a different way, and murdered on the other side of the country.”
“I know. Logically, you’re right, but this is the same guy. It’s not just the throat wound; it’s everything. When you take out specifics, there’s a lot that’s similar. Vulnerable victims, probably kidnapped, tortured, finished off, and then dumped. It’s like everything else is window dressing, but the broad strokes are the same.”
Mazzucco still looked like he needed time to process this. “You’re a Tarantino fan, right?” he said after some thought. At first, Allen thought he was changing the subject.
“I prefer the early stuff, but yeah, sure. What’s your point?”
“Tarantino makes gangster movies and kung fu movies and westerns, but they’re all Tarantino movies, right?”
Allen grinned. “Exactly. That’s what I’m talking about.”
“The style beneath the form,” Mazzucco said, nodding. “Okay, I get you. But you know nobody else will, right? Not without something more.”
Allen cleared her throat and looked down at her own sandwich, mostly uneaten.
“Allen?” he prompted.
“There is more. A lot more.”
30
It took Allen another ten minutes to bring Mazzucco up to speed. He listened without interrupting too much, and she was glad he didn’t seem angry that she’d held this back. When she finished, he thought for a minute.
“You know we have to tell Lawrence, right?”
Allen sighed and agreed. He was right, of course, but she knew all that would entail. They left the remains of their lunch and got back into the Ford. Mazzucco made it to the driver’s side first, adjusting the seat way back. Allen didn’t object for a change. As they pulled around the corner, Allen saw a blue Chevrolet parked at the curbside. As they drove past, she saw a man in the driver’s seat wearing dark glasses. He didn’t turn his head as they passed by.
“You know, in a way this doesn’t actually change anything,” Mazzucco said. “This fucker’s doing the grand tour, but we still need to stop him here in LA. We still need to work the fresh leads.”
Allen nodded, but she was focused on the wing mirror, trying to get a fix on a car she thought was a couple of positions back. The blue Chevy she thought had pulled into the stream of traffic a moment after them.
They rounded a corner and continued east on Sunset, headed for the 101. The two cars behind them stayed on Vine. The blue Chevy made the right onto Sunset a couple of seconds later.
“Take this left.”
“What?”
“Just do it. I’ll explain in a minute.”
Mazzucco braked sharply and swung the Ford down a side street. Allen told him to take another couple of turns until she saw a vacant lot up ahead with a chain-link fence flanking an open gate.
“Pull in here,” she said quickly, pointing at the gap in the fence.
Mazzucco complied, pulling through the gap and steering around on the gravel to bring them back facing the road.
“What . . . ?”
“Wait a second,” Allen said. “Watch out for a blue Chevy.”
Twenty seconds later, the Chevrolet flashed by. The driver, still wearing dark glasses, didn’t turn to look this time either.
Mazzucco glanced at Allen, the question obvious. She nodded and he tore out of the lot, the tires kicking up gravel as they pulled back through the gate and out onto the street. The Chevy was a car ahead now, moving at the pace of the traffic.
“You want to pull him over?” Mazzucco said, eyeing the light on the dashboard.
“Let’s see where he takes us.”
They followed him for another six blocks; then he took a left and an immediate right. Mazzucco was able to keep at least one car between them at all times, but Allen knew they’d have been spotted if the driver in the sunglasses knew what he was looking for.
A block ahead, the lights changed from green to yellow at an intersection, and the Chevy’s brake lights lit up as he started to slow. Then, abruptly, its speed increased and the blue car darted off the road and took a turn against oncoming traffic into a multilevel parking structure on the left side of the road. Two or three of the oncoming cars leaned on their horns, and Mazzucco had to wait for them to pass before he could make the turn.
The entrance was covered by a barrier and a ticket kiosk. Mazzucco stopped at the barrier and badged the attendant. “We’re looking for the blue Chevrolet Malibu that just came in.”
The attendant pointed left and raised the barrier. Mazzucco told him not to let anybody out and drove under the barrier. As it slid back down behind them, he smiled at Allen. “He’s cornered now. Care to explain?”
“He’s been following us. I’d like to find out why.” She buzzed her window all the way down, removed her Beretta 92FS from her shoulder holster, clicked the safety off, and cocked it. She noticed Mazzucco grimacing at the disregard for strict firearm protocol, but he said nothing.
They made a slow circuit of the ground floor, paying attention to any dark blue cars, but not seeing the one they wanted. The circuit took them almost around to the barrier again before they hit the ramp to the next level. Mazzucco bumped up a level, the quiet squeals of rubber on concrete amplified by the walls. They made another slow circuit of the second level. Mazzucco’s head turned left to right as he drove. Allen’s hand tightened on her gun. She thought about asking Mazzucco why, if they had him cornered, did it feel a little like they were driving into a trap?
The second floor was clear.
They squealed up another ramp and onto the sunlit roof. Allen could hear the low rumble of an engine running around the corner of the line of parked cars. She tried to see between the vehicles and caught a flash of blue. It wasn’t moving. Mazzucco gunned the engine and they swung around the end of the line and along the right angle of the roof. The blue Chevy was at a standstill, nose to the parapet of the roof. Mazzucco hit the brakes and brought them to a halt twenty yards from the Chevy. Allen leaned out of the window, both hands on the gun, aiming at the back of the driver’s headrest. The angle of the car and its relative height made it impossible to tell if anyone was in it. She snapped her head to the left, then the right, keeping the gun trained on the car. Mazzucco got out on his side, and she heard his gun being cocked. Keeping her eyes on the car, Allen fumbled for the handle and got the door open, stepping out.
“LAPD,” she called out. “Remain in your vehicle and place your hands on the steering wheel.”
No response.
Mazzucco started to move toward the car, and Allen shook her head.
“I think it’s my turn. Cover me.”
He opened his mouth to protest, and she took her eyes off the car long enough to shoot him a glare that said,
You know better than to try that protective male bullshit on me. He did, too, because he just shrugged and aimed his gun at the driver’s side of the Chevy.
Allen repeated the warning, louder this time, and moved toward the driver’s side, her finger tightening on the trigger, tensing for a sudden movement. She drew level with the car and saw that there was no one in the driver’s side. No one in the passenger side or the backseat, either. The engine thrummed away in neutral. She reached through the open window and twisted the keys to kill the noise. Then she opened the door.
“Allen!”
She whirled around, bringing her gun to bear. Mazzucco was facing the same way, his weapon trained on a man who’d somehow gotten between them and their car and was standing with his hands raised in a supremely relaxed pose of surrender. He wore a dark suit, a light blue shirt and the same sunglasses Allen had spotted twice on the driver of the blue Chevy.
“Identify yourself,” Mazzucco said, approaching the man, who did not flinch at the two guns pointing at his head.
“Good afternoon,” the man said, a thin smile on his lips. “Detectives Allen and Mazzucco, Homicide, right?”
No one said anything for a moment. Allen narrowed her eyes and kept her gun pointed at the spot where the bridge of the sunglasses crossed the man’s nose.
“That’s right. Now, would you mind telling us who the fuck you are?”
31
“You can call me Blake,” the man in the dark suit said.
“Blake what?” Allen asked.
“Carter Blake.”
“Okay,” she said, keeping her gun on him. “Now—how about telling us why you’re following two cops?”
“I might be able to help you with your investigation.”
“Oh, yeah?” Mazzucco said. “Which investigation’s that?”
The man called Blake looked at him as though genuinely confused. “To tell the truth, Detective, I kind of thought they’d have you on this Samaritan thing full-time. Maybe not.”
“What do you know about the Samaritan, smart-ass?” Allen said. “And start with a compelling reason why I shouldn’t assume you’re him.”
Blake seemed to consider this. “Well, for starters, I don’t think he’s stupid enough to walk up to you and introduce himself. Unfortunately.” He nodded at the guns, one at a time. “Any chance of . . . ?”
“Turn around—slowly—and put your hands on the roof of the car,” Mazzucco barked.
Blake did as asked, and Mazzucco moved in close, Allen covering him this time. He kicked Blake’s legs apart and frisked him one-handed, quickly and efficiently. He pulled a sheet of folded paper out of his pocket, examined it with a thoughtful look, and held on to it. He found a wallet in Blake’s back pocket, took it out, and examined the contents. He looked back at Allen and nodded.
“Okay, turn around,” she called.
He did as asked once again, and Allen lowered the gun. She kept it cocked, with her finger on the trigger, ready to bring it back into play should the need arise.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Blake?” she said, adopting a more conversational tone.
“I’m sorry if I startled you. The television said anyone who could help with the investigation should contact Detectives Allen or Mazzucco.”
“You know what they mean when they say that, Blake?”
“Phone the hotline?”
“Bingo. Running a tail on the lead detectives is not what we’d call our preferred contact method.”
“My apologies,” he said. “It seemed like it might be the best way to get your attention. Stand out from the crowd.”
Mazzucco’s eyes narrowed with incredulity. “Are you saying you let us catch you following us?”
Blake nodded, as if that were obvious. “Why else would I drive myself into a dead end?” He lowered his hands slowly and placed them in his pockets loosely before he continued. “Going by experience, I didn’t think it would be easy to get an appointment with you the conventional way. But here we are.”
“Here we are,” Allen repeated evenly.
“What’s this?” Mazzucco said, holding up the sheet of paper he’d taken from Blake. Allen glanced at it and saw there were a couple of pencil sketches of a man’s face on it.
Blake shrugged. “A hobby. You can keep that if you like.”
“Very generous of you.”
“So what can you tell us about the killer?” Allen said. “I guess we might as well ask; otherwise the three of us came all the way up here for nothing at all.”
“I can help you catch him.”
“You don’t think we can handle that on our own?” Mazzucco asked sharply.
“I think we can get this guy sooner by working together,” Blake answered, plainly anticipating the question.
Mazzucco shook his head. “We don’t need any help from armchair detectives. Thank you anyway.”
Allen knew from his tone that he was fishing for more background on Blake, hoping to goad him into a reveal. Whatever else this guy was, he didn’t give off amateur vibes. He didn’t even seem like a private detective. Despite herself, Allen was curious to get to the bottom of this new puzzle.
“Actually,” Blake said, unfazed, “I’m a professional. As in, I do this for a living.”
“You assist with homicide investigations?” Allen asked. Was he some kind of civilian consultant? If so, why the distinctly unorthodox approach?
“I find people. Usually, people who’d rather not be found. Let me in on this, and I’ll find you the Samaritan.” He said it flatly, not as a brag or a sales pitch, just with the easy confidence of someone stating the grass is green. That worried Allen for some reason.
She looked at Mazzucco, raising her eyebrows to ask wordlessly if he wanted to say anything else. His expression was passive and slightly bemused. He didn’t know what to think of this guy either.
Allen clicked the safety on her Beretta and slid it back into her holster. Whatever else this guy was, he didn’t present an immediate danger to either of them—she trusted her instincts that far. So what now? They couldn’t very well remain on the rooftop staring at each other, not when there was work to be done. Blake was giving as little away as possible, even when asked questions at gunpoint. He was assuming he’d piqued their interest enough. Two could play that game. She affected a bland customer-service smile and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Blake. Even assuming your credentials are as impressive as you seem to believe, I’m afraid we don’t have room in the budget for additional consultants. I guess we’re going to have to make do with our own meager talents.”
She glanced at Mazzucco for confirmation and he shrugged. Too bad.
“Now,” she continued, “if you’d be kind enough to give us a contact number and an address where we can find you if we need to talk to you further, we won’t take up any more of your time today.”
Blake didn’t say anything. His expression was unreadable behind the dark glasses. He took a couple of steps away from the Ford, paused, and started to walk back toward the blue Chevy. He held out a palm as he approached Allen, and she realized she still had his keys. She thought about holding on to them and then realized with annoyance that she had no reason to detain him—she couldn’t even get him on speeding, for Christ’s sake. She tossed them to him.
Blake caught them in his right hand and his left hand went into an inside pocket. He handed her a plain white business card with a cell number handwritten on it in black ink.
“I’m staying in a hotel,” he said. “Just flew into town last night. I’m not sure where I’ll be tonight, but I’ll answer that number when you’re ready to call.”
Allen took the card and rubbed it between two of her fingers. The card stock was heavy, expensive-feeling. Apart from that, it gave nothing away beyond the minimum information volunteered by its owner.
Blake looked from Allen to Mazzucco and back again. He removed his sunglasses and looked at Allen. His eyes took her by surprise. They were green, and instead of the amus
ed, playful look she’d expected from the sound of his voice, there was only cold purpose in his gaze.
“I don’t want to waste any time, yours or mine, so I’ll cut to the chase. If you need a reference, call Special Agent Elaine Banner at the Chicago field office of the FBI. Ask her how she caught Caleb Wardell.”
Allen tensed at the mention of the name. It was familiar to her not just as a law enforcement officer, but as someone who owned a television.
Blake continued. “If you want proof I can help you, I’ll give you a taster up front. Look up Sergeant Willis Peterson, listed as missing in North Carolina. See if he matches the pattern. Then see if you want to add another state to the Samaritan’s travel history.”
Allen felt Mazzucco’s eyes burn into her. He was thinking the same thing she was: how the hell did this guy know about this? Nobody knew this went beyond LA yet. Peterson. She filed the name away even as she opened her mouth to remind Blake that they’d already turned down his offer. He didn’t let her get the objection out.
“I’ll let you make your inquiries, and then you can give me a call.” He started walking toward his car again. “And, by the way, I’m not proposing to charge for my services on this occasion, Detectives. This one’s on the house.”
32
An hour later, they were back on the sixth floor of the PAB, watching as Lieutenant Lawrence closed his eyes and massaged his right temple with two fingers.
“Let me get this straight,” he said. “You’re telling me that this killer was active in six other states before he got to us. Is that right?”
Allen nodded. “Six at least, sir. I have a bad feeling that once we start looking, we’ll find more.” Like in North Carolina, maybe, she thought.
Lawrence opened his eyes and stared at her hard. “Only it won’t be us who’ll be looking. Will it? When did you start to suspect this guy was killing across state lines?”