The Samaritan

by Cross, Mason

  I was quiet for a second. “The house . . . was it in Santa Monica?”

  Allen nodded slowly and told me the name of the street.

  “That’s where Crozier lived twenty years ago.”

  Allen puffed her cheeks out and blew out as she processed it. “So what did you mean about the distraction? Besides pinning everything on you, I mean.”

  “I started thinking about it after I left. The victim in the alley—Castillo—was the first victim since the bodies in the hills were found. It was the first victim he left intending it to be found.”

  “So he was conscious of being observed on this one.”

  “More than that. He has an urge to kill; that’s a given. But I believe Castillo and Dane were more about sending us a message than satisfying a compulsion.”

  “Mazzucco said that, too; he was showing us he’s not scared.”

  “Not just that, though,” I said. “He made sure we’d know both of the murders were his. The MO with the abductions from vehicles, the ragged wound patterns. But last night I kept thinking about what was different, not what was the same.”

  “That’s easy: the first three were buried, and the last two he barely even attempted to conceal.”

  “What else?”

  “The first three were all held for a while and tortured before they were killed. He didn’t have time to do that with Castillo. It was rushed.”

  “That’s what we were meant to assume. But still, he took risks killing and dumping Castillo near so many people. Risks that he was careful to minimize when he dumped the first three bodies.”

  “By burying them up in the hills, where he knew he wouldn’t be disturbed. But he wanted the two bodies last night discovered, remember? To send us a message, and to frame you, in the case of Dane.”

  “It’s more than that. What’s been missing from the first three murders all along?”

  Allen paused for a second to think. “A primary crime scene.”

  “Exactly. The first three victims were all abducted in one place, tortured and killed in a second place, and dumped in a third. We’ve never seen the second place.”

  “I know where you’re going on this, Blake. I took a course on geographical profiling at the academy. It looks like Boden and Morrow were both abducted on Mulholland Drive, Burnett on Laurel Canyon Boulevard. All three within a five-mile radius of the dump site. Odds are . . .”

  “That he killed them someplace close by.”

  “And that’s why he made sure we found the last two victims miles across town: to distract us, like you said. When you look at it that way, it almost confirms it rather than hiding it.” Allen stopped and rubbed the side of her head. “We were already working on the assumption that he’s keeping a torture house within a few miles of the dump site. Only problem is narrowing it down.”

  “The place in Santa Monica would be close enough,” I said.

  She was shaking her head already. “It wasn’t that house. It was clean. That’s just where he’s been holed up.” She stopped, and I saw her shiver almost imperceptibly. “His . . . workshop is someplace else.”

  I massaged my knuckles, the frustration welling up inside of me. “And that could be anywhere within easy reach of the dump site. Could be another house. Could just be a hidden, sheltered place in the mountains. There are lots of old trails up there. A shack or a cave, maybe.”

  Allen went to her bookcase and dug out a map of the Greater Los Angeles area that she’d bought when she moved in. It only reinforced the scale of our task. There were a dozen separate neighborhoods within the general area in which we were looking. Some of the main hiking routes were marked out as well, but I knew there would be countless unmarked trails as well. As my eyes traced the thin, winding lines that snaked through the hills, I thought about other mountainous trails I’d seen, in locations worlds away from this one, in Waziristan and Kashmir and Peru. The more I looked at the map, the more I became convinced that Crozier’s bolt hole was somewhere in the hills. Somewhere it would be hard to find him, harder still to corner him. A place where he’d be in his element. I told Allen about my gut feeling and she groaned.

  “Needle in a damn haystack, then. You ever been to LA before now?”

  “Only once, and only for about a week.”

  “Great. Then we have less than a year’s experience of this town between the two of us. Beyond what we’ve seen in . . .” Allen trailed off before she could finish the thought.

  “What is it?”

  After a second of gathering her thoughts, she began to explain. She told me about the photograph she’d found in the Samaritan’s safe house in Santa Monica and showed me the copy she’d made on her phone. I examined it. The reproduction was pretty good. It showed a boy and a girl standing in front of a store or a bar with some scrubland in the background. But I wasn’t paying any attention to the background, not at first.

  “That’s him,” I said quietly.

  “Crozier? Are you sure?”

  “Not a shred of doubt. He’s younger here, but that’s him. He was a killer when this was taken, even if he hadn’t killed yet.” As I uttered the words, a grim thought surfaced. “Allen—who’s the girl? Have you identified her?”

  She shrugged. “I hadn’t even ID’d Crozier until you just told me. I thought they might be related. Could she be a family member?”

  “I don’t think so. He killed his parents and sister, but I’ve seen a picture of them. The sister had blond hair, green eyes. Not brunette with brown eyes like this one.”

  “Then who is she?”

  “I don’t know. But I think we should find out, because she—”

  “She matches the profile on the first three,” Allen finished. “We noticed that, too. You think maybe she was the first? That she’s the reason he’s picking women who look like that?”

  I didn’t say anything, but I thought Allen was probably on the right track. With an effort, I moved my focus from the two faces to the background of the photograph. The building and the landscape were fairly anonymous. Nothing stuck out to me. The partial read on the sign could be enough, if we were lucky. “It looks like it could be somewhere in the hills. We can narrow this down. Check if there are any businesses called Steve’s or anything else beginning with S-T-E in the vicinity. This is twenty years old, of course, but . . .” I broke off as I saw Allen was shaking her head.

  “I know this building, Blake.”

  “Then why didn’t you—”

  “I know it, but I don’t know exactly where it is.” Allen stopped and considered her words before continuing. “I remembered in the shower, was just coming to confirm it before you decided to scare the crap out of me. I’ve seen the building, but I’ve never been there.”

  Allen disappeared again and returned holding a colorful rectangular object. She tossed it to me and I caught it. It was a DVD case. Some obscure romantic comedy from the eighties that I’d never heard of. It starred one of the lesser members of the Brat Pack and an underwear model.

  I looked back up at Allen. “Seriously?”

  She nodded.

  Allen put the DVD in the player and we hunched down in front of the television screen. She hadn’t seen the movie in a few years, so she had to skip forward to find what she was looking for. About halfway into the picture, the visuals switched from a city setting to a more rural environment. The bickering hero and heroine, handcuffed together, were on the run from some drug dealers for some reason and had holed up in a small town. I recognized a lot of the establishing landscape shots even though I, like Allen, had never seen them with my own eyes. I recognized them because they had been well-used shooting locations for television and movies for the best part of a century. They’d built sets for westerns and thrillers and Star Trek episodes out there. And 1980s romantic comedies. Allen found the scene she wanted and froze the picture. The underwear model was in the middle of an argument with the Brat Packer, her mouth open in suspended animation. In the background was the building from t
he photograph. The neon was illuminated here, and you could see the whole word: Stewarton’s. Not a V, a W.

  “A lot of times, they just abandon the sets once they’re done. It’s cheaper than tearing them down.”

  “Any idea where this exact one is, or was?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “But we can find someone who will.”

  “Allen, this investigation has more holes in it than a sieve. If you bring in the rest of the department and the feds, it’ll get back to the Samaritan. Maybe before we can get out there.”

  She smiled as though I’d made a joke.

  “What is it?” I asked, confused.

  “I couldn’t bring them in even if I wanted to. I’m on suspension.”

  “That’s on my account, I guess.”

  She nodded. “And now I’m compounding it by harboring a murder suspect.” She must have seen something in my face, because she frowned then and said, “You looked into me, didn’t you?”

  I shrugged. “You checked me out, didn’t you?”

  She had no answer to that, so she asked another question. “How come you didn’t ask me about the thing in DC?”

  “Because it wasn’t my business, and it has nothing to do with this case.”

  She looked at me for a long minute, and I thought she was going to talk more about it, but then she went back to the previous subject. “I wasn’t talking about taking out an ad in the paper about this; I was talking about going to my partner.”

  “Mazzucco? Can you trust him to keep his mouth shut?”

  “We don’t have to worry about that.”

  69

  Mazzucco had been at his desk for ten minutes and was in the process of pulling all of the information he could find on any and all Dean Croziers in LA City and County when his phone rang, displaying Allen’s cell number. He picked up, eyes on the screen in front of him.

  “I was just about to call you. Where are you?”

  “I’m at my apartment,” she said. There was something a little odd in her voice, an artificial brightness, maybe. Another person wouldn’t have caught it, but that was the advantage of working with someone day and night for six months straight.

  “Are you with someone?” Mazzucco asked.

  There was a very short pause before Allen answered in the negative, but it was enough to confirm she was lying. She was with Blake. Mazzucco knew he wasn’t the killer, but he also knew harboring him could end Allen’s career. He put it out of his mind for the moment.

  “Listen, Channing’s people put a rush on the prints from the house. You’re not gonna believe this.”

  “Try me.”

  “The prints came back flagged by Homeland Security—God knows what that’s about. Anyway, they used the FBI golden ticket and got a hit. Only it came back saying the prints belong to a dead man.”

  There was a pause, and Allen’s voice sounded a little strange again. Hesitant. “What was the name?”

  “Crozier. Dean Crozier.”

  Allen said nothing. Mazzucco continued. “I’m checking him out right now. Guy was in the military, which fits the profile. Killed in action, in fact. But these were recent prints, Allen. They took a set off the fucking milk in the refrigerator. I mean—”

  “What else do you have on him?”

  “Well, get this. His family was killed in ninety-seven. Murdered. Crozier was the prime suspect, but he walked. No evidence.”

  “Son of a bitch,” she said quietly.

  “Allen, are you listening to me? The guy we’re looking for’s been dead for eleven years. Only somebody forgot to tell him that. What gives?” He remembered that Allen had called him and asked her if she had anything new on her end. He was expecting her to say she’d heard from Blake, but what she said took him by surprise.

  “Actually, I do have something. A lead on the photograph.”

  It took him a second to remember. “The one from the house this morning?”

  “Yeah. I know where it was taken, Jon.”

  He listened as she explained about recognizing the building from an old movie, about how she knew they sometimes left old sets standing out there in the mountains.

  It sounded promising. “We’re still looking for a primary crime scene within reach of the dump site,” Mazzucco said thoughtfully. “Probably somewhere secluded and out of the way. That would fit.”

  “That’s where he is, Jon. I know it.”

  “We need to go to Lawrence with this,” he said before another thought occurred and he grunted with displeasure. “Shit, we probably have to bring Channing in on it, too.”

  “And tell him what? That we need to send a SWAT team down to some old derelict building because it reminds me of something I saw in a movie?”

  “You have the photograph from Crozier’s safe house.”

  “No, I don’t. The FBI has it, remember? Because you and I did not jump the warrant and carry out an illegal search.”

  “Jesus . . .”

  “And besides, they still don’t know who was in the house. They’re still focused on Blake.”

  Mazzucco sighed with frustration. He couldn’t argue that point, but again he felt himself getting sucked into Allen’s favored course of action against his will. “So what’s your alternative?”

  “We check it out ourselves first. The only problem is, these places aren’t on maps. They aren’t real places at all. So I thought if you happened to know someone we could ask . . .”

  “I can do better than that,” Mazzucco said, not without reluctance. “I might be able to talk to somebody. Somebody who would know where to look.”

  “Sounds like a plan, partner.”

  “Don’t push it, partner. As soon as I get anything like confirmation our boy has been hiding out up there, I bring everybody else in. We can work out what our excuse for being there was later.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  Mazzucco snorted at that and told Allen he’d call her back. He scrolled through the numbers in his phone, looking for a man he’d known back when he worked in West LA. Darrick Bromley had been a twenty-five-year veteran with the department and had taken on a lucrative consultancy gig in his retirement: providing advice to movies and TV shows. He dialed Bromley’s cell and spent a minute or so on pleasantries before getting down to business. He described what he was looking for, the rough area where he thought it might be and the name of the movie Allen had mentioned.

  “You know, there are a lot of these old sets out there, Jon,” Bromley said after a long pause.

  “I understand,” Mazzucco said, his heart sinking. Plan B was to start looking at satellite images and checking off potential locations one by one. But then Bromley laughed.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. Yeah, I know the one you’re talking about. I’ve been there, in fact. It was still around as of a couple of years back. It’s not far from a hiking trail.” He thought for a minute. “You know where the old missile sites are?”

  Mazzucco was confused for a second before realizing that Bromley was talking about the decommissioned cold war–era missile defenses that circled LA. “I know some of them. There’s one up there at San Vicente Mountain, right?”

  “That’s the one. You go all the way to the end of Mulholland and bam, you’re there.”

  Mazzucco felt a jolt of electricity. Mulholland. Allen was right: this was it. Bromley gave him rough directions from the decommissioned missile site to the old set, and Mazzucco told him he owed him a beer and hung up. Two minutes later, he’d zeroed the position using the satellite view on Google Maps. It was a couple of miles from the missile site. Straight along one of the fire roads and then down a half-mile of dirt trail. Within easy reach of both Mulholland Drive and, by using an off-road vehicle, the dump site.

  He picked up the phone and tapped on Allen’s number in recent calls. In the pause while he waited for the line to connect and the dial tone to kick in, he thought about the hesitation in Allen’s voice when he asked if she was alone.

  7
0

  While Allen got ready to leave, I taped up my injured ankle with a bandage from her first aid box. It helped quite a bit, made it so it didn’t hurt so much to put weight on it. After that, I made a pot of coffee, all the while thinking more and more about the two teenagers in Allen’s photograph. Crozier and someone else. I thought she represented something important we’d all missed. Mazzucco called back less than ten minutes after Allen had hung up on her call to him. I was impressed. She wrote some notes down and gave him her personal email address so he could send a link over.

  “That has to be it,” she said firmly. I could hear the excitement in her voice. I knew that exact feeling intimately: the feeling when a promising lead opens up and you can feel the solution getting closer. “Yeah, I can find it. I’ll see you there soon.”

  She hung up and turned to me. “This is it, Blake. It’s in exactly the right place.” Without waiting for an answer, she moved over to the computer and, a minute later, we were looking at a perfect satellite view of a dusty plateau surrounded by ridges and with three groups of buildings. She was right. This had to be it.

  “When do we leave?” I asked.

  She was shaking her head before I’d finished the sentence. “Forget it. We don’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The remote for the TV was on the coffee table and within reach. By way of an answer, she picked it up and turned on the television. Rolling news again, only now the ticker was sliding past under a very familiar face. They’d used the picture from my driver’s license. Words like dangerous and wanted and manhunt jumped out at me from the scrolling red-on-white type.

  “You’re an extremely wanted man, Blake. I don’t know how you made it this long without being caught, but you’re staying here until we get this guy.”