Last Breath

by Michael Prescott

“Not herself. Just ... off. You know?”

  “Could be your imagination, man.”

  “I don’t have that much imagination.”

  Chang considered this, then nodded soberly. “That’s true.”

  “I’m just worried, is all.”

  “Because she sounded funny.”

  “It’s a feeling I’ve got.”

  “A feeling that originates in the general vicinity of your crotch. You’re hung up on this girl. Rick. You’re reading too much into every little thing.”

  “Maybe. But Hyannis isn’t hung up on her, and he was worried too. Anyway, we’re almost there. In fact”—another spin of the wheel—“here’s her street. Look for number eight-twenty-four.”

  Tanner slowed the squad car as Chang studied the rows of Craftsman-style bungalows drifting past on the right.

  “That one.” He pointed.

  Tanner pulled into the driveway in front of the detached garage. He and his partner got out.

  “See if her car’s there,” Tanner said in a low voice.

  Chang approached the garage and shone his flashlight through a side window, then returned to Tanner’s side. “White Dodge Neon.”

  “That’s her vehicle.” Tanner had seen it in Newton Station’s parking lot. “She must still be home. Come on.”

  He and Chang circled around to the front door. Tanner rang the bell, then rapped hard. “C.J.? You in there? It’s Rick Tanner.”

  No answer.

  “C.J.? Hey, C.J.?”

  Still nothing. Tanner and Chang exchanged a glance.

  “It’s the police,” Tanner added for the benefit of anyone else who might be inside. He tested the door. Locked.

  “Now what, boss?” Chang inquired. He called Tanner boss only when he was feeling a little stressed.

  “We go in,” Tanner said calmly, unholstering his 9mm.

  “We’ve got no jurisdiction here.”

  “Screw jurisdiction.”

  “We’ve got no grounds to enter.”

  “We have exigent circumstances.”

  “Like hell we do. She told you she was going out.”

  “Her car’s still here.”

  “Maybe somebody picked her up.”

  “Or maybe she’s in trouble. You didn’t see Hyannis’s face when I mentioned the Four-H Club.”

  “We can’t go busting in there. It could cost us big-time.”

  Tanner hesitated. He needed Chang with him if he was going to search the house. On SWAT call-ups Tanner was the team leader and Chang was the scout.

  “How about a compromise?” Tanner said. “We check out the doors and windows, look for signs of intrusion.”

  Chang drew his service pistol. “What the hell. I never figured on making pension anyway.”

  Together they moved around the house, labeling the different sides SWAT-style—side one for the front, side two for the wall facing the garage.

  On side three, the rear of the bungalow, they found the back door standing open.

  “Still no exigent circumstances?” Tanner asked.

  Chang merely frowned.

  They kept their distance from the open door. There was only dim light beyond.

  “Stealth entry,” Tanner whispered. “I’m gonna slice the pie. If it’s clear, we roll out.”

  He moved past the doorway in a wide arc, focusing on each section of the interior hallway as it came into view. By the time he had passed from the right side of the doorway to the left, he had scanned as much of the interior as it was possible to see.

  There was no suspect in sight, but the hall was dark, illuminated only by the glow from the front of the house and by faint ambient light from outside.

  Tanner hugged the left door frame while Chang took up position on the right. Chang looked for the “clear” sign. Tanner gave him a thumbs-up.

  On a silent count of three, they entered the hall, Tanner first, Chang directly behind him. Tanner crossed instantly to the opposite side of the corridor, the last safely cleared position, and put his back against the wall. Chang joined him shoulder to shoulder a moment later.

  Hallways were dangerous. Slots, they were called in tactical training maneuvers. An officer didn’t want to get caught in a slot, without cover or concealment.

  Three doors lined the hall. Three rooms, any of which could be unfriendly.

  Tanner pointed to the nearest room, the door ajar. Then he sliced the pie again, his quick footsteps tracing an arc before the doorway as he scanned the interior.

  Bedroom. Mirror on the far wall. No movement reflected in the glass.

  When Tanner had positioned himself to the right of the door, Chang moved to the left side.

  They had gone into a hundred empty rooms and had survived every time.

  Tanner hoped their luck would hold on the hundred and first.

  27

  “Maybe we could go at this from the other direction,” Cellini said as Walsh paced the squad room. “Whoever’s doing this has to be a computer guy, right? We can check the billing records of the two previous vics and see if they had a computer repairman come to their home.”

  Walsh looked at her. “Do they do that? Make house calls?”

  “It’s called on-site service. You can sign up for it when you buy the computer.”

  “Could we have missed something like that? The same repairman visits the two women and we don’t flag it?”

  Cellini glanced away. “I’d like to say no, but we weren’t focused on their residences. Neither victim was snatched from home.”

  “But SID would have found cameras if they were planted in the bedrooms.”

  “Not if the killer removed the gear first. We have to figure he went in, either before or after the abductions, and took the cameras and whatever else he installed.”

  “Okay, we’ll review all repairs and maintenance work in the victims’ homes for at least two months prior to their abduction. And not just computer repair. For all we know, this guy could be a goddamned plumber who’s picked up some high-tech smarts—hey. What the hell’s that?”

  Walsh was looking at the computer, where the grainy video feed of the unknown woman’s bedroom was suddenly shivering with movement.

  Cellini spun her chair around. Walsh leaned over her shoulder.

  Dim, indistinct shapes played across the screen.

  “Someone’s in there,” Cellini whispered. “The killer maybe.”

  “If so,” Walsh said, “there’s more than one.”

  ***

  Tanner was primary through the bedroom door. Just across the threshold, he and Chang came together, back to back, and surveyed the darkness, then advanced with shoulders touching, pistols lowered in the search position.

  They checked out the blind spot behind the bed and the dangerous unknown of the walk-in closet, then the bathroom with its stall shower.

  Nothing.

  “Clear,” Tanner breathed.

  He flicked on his flashlight to be sure.

  ***

  The video image flared briefly as a bright light came on inside the room. Then the camera lens adjusted to the new conditions, and the two figures in the bedroom were clearly visible.

  “Cops,” Cellini said.

  Walsh nodded. “Sheriff’s deputies.”

  “Hold on.” Cellini leaned close to the screen, her nose nearly touching the glass, and stared at the officer whose flashlight had lit up the room. “I know him.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Let me think. Works out of East LA. Met him at a couple of crime scenes. Kind of a jerk. Thinks he’s God’s gift. Name is Donner ... no, Danner ... Tanner, that’s him. Deputy Tanner.”

  Walsh grabbed a phone from the nearest desk and dialed the Sheriff’s Department.

  ***

  The bedroom was clean, but the rest of the house remained unknown territory.

  Tanner switched off his flash, and then it was back into the slot, down the hallway, hugging one wall to minimize exposure in the kill zone.r />
  His gaze was focused far ahead, and he missed the object Chang indicated with a snap of his fingers.

  On the floor lay a kitchen knife, dropped by someone in the hall.

  There had been a struggle here.

  Tanner had been trained to take nothing for granted, and he stuck with his training now. He and Chang methodically explored the rest of the house, using covert entry techniques for every room and closet and corner.

  But it was a waste of time. Tanner knew it with a sick certainty deep in his gut.

  C.J. was gone.

  When the house had been thoroughly cleared, he dialed up the volume on his radio and heard the dispatcher repeating his call number with a note of urgency. He answered.

  “Someone’s waiting for you on tac one,” the dispatcher said, meaning tactical frequency one, a radio channel used for semiprivate conversations.

  “Who?”

  “Detective Morris Walsh, LAPD.”

  Tanner traded a glance with Chang. “I’ll meet him on tac one.”

  He switched over to the specified frequency and heard a gruff voice demanding, “Deputy Tanner, are you there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Give me your exact location.”

  “Sir?”

  “Do it!”

  Tanner recited the street address.

  “That’s well within city limits, Deputy. What are you doing there?”

  “I was concerned for the safety of a, uh, friend.”

  “So you broke into her house and searched her bedroom?”

  Tanner blinked. “How the hell ... ?” He remembered courtesy. “I mean, what makes you think we’re inside the house?”

  “Because I saw you and your partner. You’re on the Internet.”

  “We’re what?”

  “I’ll explain later. I assume you didn’t find the lady?”

  “No, but the rear door was open, and there was a kitchen knife discarded on the hall floor.”

  Silence for a moment, and then Walsh said in a softer voice, “You think there was an abduction?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A sigh fluttered over the cheap speaker. “So do I. Goddamn it, I knew we’d be too late.”

  “Sir, can I ask—”

  “Not until I get there. I’ll be at your location in ten minutes. Meantime, don’t touch anything. One more thing, Deputy. What’s the woman’s name?”

  “C.J. Osborn. You know her?”

  “Why in Christ’s name should I know her?”

  “Because she’s one of yours, Detective. She’s LAPD. She works patrol out of Newton.”

  Another silence, longer this time.

  “No, Deputy,” Walsh said, “I don’t think I’ve met her. I hope I get the chance.”

  28

  This time there was no confusion. C.J. swam out of unconsciousness into waking reality, and instantly she remembered the surprise attack in the hallway, the phone call from Tanner, and above all Adam’s voice.

  She was still blindfolded, and he had gagged her again with the rubber throttle. He had propped her in a sitting position, her back against something hard and straight. A wall? No, a post.

  The floor was stiff and cold. Concrete. Not part of her bungalow. Not Adam’s condo. Someplace else.

  She had been relocated while she slept. She might be anywhere now. A basement, maybe. No, she felt cold air—fresh air, outdoors air—moving across her face. There must be windows or other openings. She listened for sounds of traffic from outside, music, jet planes, but heard nothing.

  Carefully, afraid to move too much and betray the fact that she was awake, she tested her wrists and found that they were still bound behind her back. Her ankles too—taped together, her legs curled under her. Her head had slumped forward while unconscious, and she did not raise it, not yet.

  She wondered why she had not fallen prone on the floor. When she drew in a deep abdominal breath, swelling her belly, she had her answer. A cord had been tied around her waist, securing her to the post.

  Footsteps on the concrete floor.

  He was close, perhaps six feet away. Moving toward her, then away.

  She prayed he didn’t know she had revived. Every minute that she maintained the pretense of unconsciousness was a reprieve from whatever fate he had in mind for her.

  Not that there was much mystery about it. He’d told her himself, hadn’t he?

  Till death do us part.

  The footsteps continued circling, now joined by a new sound, hard and regular. It took her a moment to understand that what she heard was the beat of her heart in her ears.

  The sound of her own pulse frightened her. Each beat was like the tick of a clock, announcing that her time was limited and fast running out. She almost wished he would just go ahead and do it—whatever it was he meant to do—do it and get it over with and spare her the ordeal of waiting.

  But that thought flared and died, replaced by another. She had not lived long enough. She had not done enough.

  What did she have to show for her life? A bungalow with a mortgage, a uniform in a locker? Not much for twenty-six years on this earth.

  And now he would take even that away from her. But why? How was it even possible? The man she’d married was capable of lying, cheating on her, but he couldn’t do something like this, something insane ...

  Involuntarily a groan escaped her, so low and muffled that she wasn’t sure Adam heard.

  But he did. His circling footsteps stopped abruptly.

  She froze, hating herself for the weakness that had voiced itself in that groan. She had shortened her remaining time, and she couldn’t afford to lose any of it, not when every minute was precious now.

  He came toward her. She heard the sharp claps of his footfalls on the concrete. He was wearing hard-soled shoes—his dress shoes from work? No, he wouldn’t be that stupid. He would know that shoe prints could be identified by forensics experts. He would not make such an obvious mistake.

  A stir of air, and she sensed that he was kneeling by her. Rustle of clothing, caress of leather on her cheek.

  His gloved hand. Touching her.

  She struggled not to react. He did not necessarily know she was awake. People groaned in their sleep, after all. As long as she stayed absolutely still, he might not be sure if she remained unconscious or was merely playing possum.

  It was all about buying time, more time. Time seemed suddenly the most important thing in the world, or maybe it always had been, and these circumstances were required to bring home this truth that she always should have known.

  His gloved finger slipped under her chin and stroked her. Tickled her.

  “Hey, C.J. Wake up, sleepyhead.”

  Words he used to say to her on lazy weekend mornings. Then as now, he had tickled her gently. Then as now, he had eased his hand under her chin, fingering the sensitive hollow of her jaw ...

  Abruptly his grip tightened. His hand clutched her throat.

  She jerked her head back with a gasp.

  He withdrew.

  “Thought that would get your attention,” he said.

  No purpose was served in pretending to be unconscious any longer. She tried to pose a question to him: “Where am I?” The hollow rubber ball clamped between her teeth distorted her words and made them almost unintelligible. She tried again. “Where ... am ... I?”

  “I heard you the first time, C.J. Where are you? You’re in the same place you put me for the last year. You’re in hell.”

  29

  Walsh called the other members of the task force on his cell phone while Cellini drove him from Parker Center to the Wilshire Division address. If they had been TV cops, they would have used a dashboard flasher to clear away the traffic, but in reality few unmarked cars carried one. Cellini made good time anyway, guiding the Caprice west on freeways and surface streets. Walsh, in the passenger seat, filled in Stark, Merriwether, Boyle, and Sotheby with the bare details.

  “Sounds like the real thing,” Ed Lo
pez said, his voice crackly and faint on the cell phone’s cheap receiver.

  “It is,” Walsh affirmed. “And the worst part is, this woman he’s got—she’s one of our own.”

  Walsh finished the last call just as Cellini pulled into the driveway of C.J. Osborn’s bungalow. He was glad to be done with the calls. Ordinarily he would have used a landline to convey sensitive information, but tonight there wasn’t time. He had to hope these digital phones were as resistant to eavesdropping as the manufacturers claimed.

  Tanner and his partner, whose nameplate read “CHANG,” were waiting at the back door. The two deputies led Walsh and Cellini inside the house, pointing out the knife that lay untouched on the hall floor.

  “What’s this about you seeing us on the Internet?” Tanner asked while Cellini first photographed the knife, then sealed it in an evidence bag.

  “There’s a camera in her bedroom,” Walsh explained. “It’s a, uh, whatchamacallit.”

  “Webcam,” Cellini said without looking up.

  “Right. Live TV feed from the bedroom to the Internet.”

  Tanner frowned. “C.J. wouldn’t be into anything like that.”

  “No, but the guy who kidnapped her is.”

  “So you know who we’re dealing with?”

  “Not by name—but I’ve seen his work,” Walsh said, thinking of Martha Eversol on the autopsy table.

  “Well, whoever he is, he must have been following her. C.J. told me she was tailed earlier today by a white van.”

  “Make, model?”

  “She didn’t know.”

  “Damn. She tell you anything else?”

  “She got an e-mail that spooked her. Spooked Detective Hyannis too, when I told him about it.”

  “What e-mail?”

  “It said, ‘Welcome to the Four-H Club.’ “

  Walsh looked at Cellini. “Oh, Jesus,” Cellini said.

  “That’s pretty much the way Hyannis reacted.” Tanner was losing patience, which Walsh figured was understandable, especially if C.J. Osborn was his girlfriend or something. “What is all this shit about the Four-H Club anyway?”

  “I’ll explain later,” Walsh said. “Show us the rest of the house.”

  Tanner and Chang led the two detectives through the living room and into the kitchen. Walsh spent some time looking at the dinner dishes in the sink.