The Deepest Cut

by Dianne Emley

  “So you can tell him we’re here?” Kissick’s cell phone pinged, indicating he had a text message. He looked at the display that said: Message from Nan Cell. He clicked to read it.

  “Good luck w Chang. Im home. All quiet. Stay safe. Love.”

  “No, so I can convince him to do the right thing,” Li replied.

  Kissick smiled as he slipped his phone back onto his belt. Motion at the house across the street drew his attention. “Suspect on the move.”

  He picked up the two-way radio and raised Lam while he watched Victor Chang exit a door at the side of the house, walk down two steps to the driveway, and head toward the garage.

  Li lurched toward the car door and wrenched his body around, yanking the handle with his hands that were cuffed behind him. The door locks and window controls in the backseat were disabled. From the driv er’s seat, Caspers turned and grabbed Li, pulling him away from the window while Li pleaded, “Let me talk to him! I need to talk to him.”

  “Stay here. Get backup,” Kissick ordered Caspers. Bolting from the car, he began running across the street.

  Everything happened at once.

  When the Mountaineer’s door opened, Li started yelling in Chinese.

  The Chevy Caprice roared toward the driveway.

  Chang rabbited.

  At the wheel of the Caprice, Lam dodged dog walkers and people ambling after dinner as he drove across the lawn and came to a skidding stop across the driveway, nearly plowing into the house. The detectives spilled from the vehicle.

  “Halt! Police! Freeze!”

  Some people on the street stood as if stunned while others ran with their dogs and kids toward the safety of their homes.

  Chang dashed across the backyard, ignoring the detectives’ commands.

  Kissick reached the backyard in time to see Chang scamper over a wooden back fence. Lam, the youngest and the fastest of the cops, was quickly over the fence behind him.

  Kissick ordered Jones and Sproul to drive the Caprice around the block. Kissick clambered over the fence. He heard sirens in the distance and the pop of gunfire. Dropping to the ground and rolling, he was grateful there weren’t rosebushes on the other side. He spotted Lam crouched behind a tree, returning fire, as Chang ran along a side yard. Kissick drew his gun and remembered he wasn’t wearing his Kevlar vest. He hadn’t even brought it. They had been going to look at the house and get the exact address, not get out of the car. He felt stupid not to have taken this simple precaution.

  “Stay inside!” Kissick shouted when he saw faces appear in the windows of the house. “Get down!”

  Kissick followed Lam through the side yard. Kissick saw Chang cross the front yard and run into the street as Jones in the Caprice pulled across it, blocking it. Citizens scattered, yelling and crying as they ran into homes and locked doors. PPD black-and-whites filled the street in both directions. A field sergeant shouted to the citizens to stay inside and away from the windows.

  Younger, faster officers pursued Chang in his crazy effort to escape as he vaulted over hedges and fences, going from yard to yard.

  Kissick kept up, buoyed by adrenaline, hating to lose a fight.

  Above, a PPD helicopter was making a tremendous racket, bathing Chang in white light. Still, he ran, splashing through a child’s plastic wading pool.

  A large mongrel dog joined in the chase, grabbing onto Chang’s pant leg and slowing him down as he scaled a chain-link fence. Officers moved in, cutting off his escape route, dropping into firing position beside the house and behind trees in the yard where he had intended to run. Other officers blocked his return through the yard he had just traversed. Kissick and Lam were in position there.

  Chang was stuck on top of the chain-link fence, his gun in his hand, illuminated by the spotlight from the helicopter churning the air above. He might have been on stage as he considered the most important decision of his life.

  A voice amplified by a bullhorn came from the shadows. “Drop your weapon. You are surrounded. You cannot escape.”

  Kissick was crouched behind a steel storage shed. He was talking to the field sergeant on the two-way, holding it in his left hand while he held his gun up in his right. He explained to the sergeant that they might try getting Marvin Li to see if he could talk Chang into surrendering.

  While the sergeant sent someone to retrieve Li, Kissick moved slightly forward from the flimsy protection of the storage shed and shouted, “Victor, this is Detective Kissick. Move very slowly and drop the gun. You have your whole life ahead of you. We’re bringing Marvin Li to talk to you.”

  Literally on the fence, Chang wavered, looking disoriented as he blinked in the bright light from the helicopter. At Kissick’s last words, he defiantly drew himself straight, shoulders back, chest out. “I’m not taking the fall for China Dog.”

  Kissick moved a little farther out to get a better look at Chang. “Victor, there’s no way to escape.”

  “Yes there is.” Chang took a shot at Kissick, sending his radio flying from his hand and sending him backward into rotting leaves piled behind the shed.

  By the time the gunfire had stopped, Victor Chang was no longer on the fence.

  LAM FLEW TO THE SIDE OF HIS FALLEN COMRADE. “JIM, YOU ALL RIGHT? YOU hit?”

  “I’m okay. I don’t think I’m hit.” Kissick was bent backward over the hill of leaves. He tried to get traction to stand.

  Lam offered his hand.

  Kissick took it and got to his feet. “Is Chang dead?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  Kissick felt something on his left hand. Looking at it, he saw blood.

  “You’re hit,” Lam said.

  Kissick worked his fingers. He stepped from behind the shed to get better light. He saw Chang’s bullet-ridden body on the far side of the fence with scads of cops surrounding it. The police helicopter spotlighted the gore. Farther up in the sky was a TV news copter.

  “The bullet just grazed me. I was holding my radio. I wonder if it took the hit. I just need a Band-Aid.”

  “You were lucky.”

  He heard the two-way radio scratch to life, broadcasting Sergeant Early’s voice. He followed the sound in the darkness and found the radio against a fence behind the shed. He brought her up-to-date.

  “Sarge, it’s nothing. It’s just a scratch. I don’t want to take the time to go to the E.R.” He knew he was going to lose that battle. He reflex-ively felt for his cell phone and discovered it was not in the holder on his belt.

  “Okay, I’ll have it checked out.” He signed off. He drew his hand through his hair as he looked around. “Where the hell is my cell phone? Oh, man …”

  FORTY-FIVE

  VINING WENT HOME AFTER HER MEETING WITH BETSY GILROY. Alone and too rattled to sit still, she cleaned the house, dusting and vacuuming the remotest nooks and crannies. It was after eleven and she was still going. When she’d arrived home, she’d intended to put on her pajamas and robe, curl up in the La-Z-Boy with the TV remote, and take it easy, like everyone was admonishing her to do. Problem was, she couldn’t do it.

  The office of the security firm where the creepy guard had worked wouldn’t be open until nine o’clock in the morning. So Vining cleaned, hoping she’d exhaust herself and be able to collapse into bed and succumb to deep, dreamless sleep. She thought of Kissick. Since she hadn’t heard from him again, she wondered if he’d successfully apprehended Victor Chang and was busy interrogating him.

  She picked up her cell phone from the dinette table where she’d left it and sent him a text message: “All Ok? Good here. Restless! Love.”

  She smiled as she pressed Send. She got a kick out of signing off with “Love.” It made her feel as giddy as a teenager.

  Realizing she was hungry, she foraged in the refrigerator. There was a lot of leftover crock pot beef stew, but she’d already had some when she was home earlier before Em’s dad had picked her up. She felt like having something more indulgent. In the freezer she found a pint of Ben and Jerry’s
Cherry Garcia ice cream. Em had thrown it into the shopping cart. Among other changes in Em, adolescence had brought on a sweet tooth.

  She grabbed the ice-cream container. It felt light. She took off the lid and saw a few spoonfuls left.

  Walking into the TV room, she picked up the remote control and turned on the television. Seeking something lively and distracting, she found The Tonight Show. Jay Leno was interviewing a lithesome young actress whom Vining had never heard of. They were laughing. Vining had wanted something lively, but found their too-animated laughter grating, so she turned off the television.

  Feeling the air in the house was stuffy, she undid the locks on the sliding glass door and walked onto the terrace. She half expected to see the ghost of Frankie Lynde standing there, which would pretty much make her trying day complete. Happily, she saw no otherworldly being and the wind chimes were silent. She was grateful. She had enough ghosts to deal with right now. Other dead women would not let her rest: Marilu Feathers, Johnna Alwin, and Cookie Silva.

  Her meeting with Betsy Gilroy gnawed at her, especially the chief’s cutting comments, which had hit their mark. Vining knew that no investigator likes to have how she’s handled a case questioned, especially a closed case and especially by an outsider. Still, she felt that Gilroy’s attack had been particularly venomous and shockingly personal, especially coming from the chief.

  Vining had to admit that in her worst moments, she felt much as Gilroy had portrayed her. She sometimes felt that she hadn’t fully returned from that place— the other side. She wondered if the different pieces of herself would ever be rejoined. She feared she would forever remain fractured.

  Did she have to wait until she was dead before she would feel complete?

  She dragged the spoon around the melting edges of the ice cream and ate it as she leaned against the railing and looked at her forgotten corner of the city. Across the night sky, a TV news helicopter tore past, heading in the direction of Pasadena.

  She heard her cell phone ringing. Her heart skipped a beat as she bolted into the house to answer the phone that she’d left in the kitchen. It had to be Jim.

  She frowned as she looked at the display. The area code was local, but she didn’t recognize the number.

  She answered, “Nan Vining.”

  “Detective Vining, this is Chief Betsy Gilroy I apologize for calling so late.”

  Disappointed the call wasn’t from Kissick, Vining was bewildered: Gilroy was the last person she expected to hear from. “No problem, Chief. I’m up. What can I do for you?”

  She heard Gilroy take a long breath before speaking. “Look, Detective, I wasn’t completely up-front with you today.”

  From Vining’s brief exposure to Gilroy and what she’d heard about her, she thought the chief sounded uncharacteristically hesitant.

  The chief explained. “I … ahh … want to come clean with you. You deserve that. I have information about that other person of interest you spoke of. The … um … security guard.”

  “That’s fantastic.”

  “The thing is, Detective, given the delicate nature of what I’m going to tell you, I don’t want to meet in my office.”

  “Okay. Whatever works for you, Chief.”

  “I want you to come to the Foothill Museum, uh, now.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes, and come alone.”

  “I can come now, but why alone?” Vining asked this even though there wasn’t anyone she could bring with her. The only one she’d want with her was Kissick and he was tied up. Plus, she wasn’t supposed to be pursuing T B. Mann leads. Sergeant Early would have her hide if she found out she’d gone to see Chief Gilroy. Vining had no reason to doubt what Gilroy was telling her, but it was strange.

  Gilroy sensed her hesitancy. “There’s something at the Foothill Museum that will help you understand what happened the night of Cookie’s murder. This is for your eyes only I was rude to you today and I’d like to make it up to you. I’ll also tell you about the pearl necklace with the blue stone.”

  “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  “Will you be driving your department Crown Vic?”

  Her question brought Vining up short. Why would she care?

  “It’s very dark up here,” Gilroy said. “The spotlights will come in handy for you.”

  That was a good point, Vining thought. Plus her Jeep Cherokee was almost out of gas. “I’ll be in the Crown Vic.”

  “Good. Then I’ll know it’s you. You’ll see my white Escalade in the parking lot.”

  Cadillac Escalade, Vining thought. The citizens of Colina Vista did like their police chief. “Okay, great. I’ll see you shortly”

  “Ah … Detective … I want you to know that the museum is nine-point-eighteen miles from the freeway. At the Angeles National Forest sign, you take the V Don’t forget.”

  Vining winced as she tried to understand the chief’s instructions, which didn’t make any sense.

  “Detective, remember what I told you so you don’t get lost.”

  “I’ll do that. See you soon.”

  Vining thought about Gilroy’s last cryptic instructions. The Foothill Museum wasn’t more than five miles from the freeway. Plus vehicle odometers didn’t display hundredths of a mile. She shrugged and hurried to change her clothes.

  FORTY-SIX

  WHILE VINING DROVE TO MEET BETSY GILROY IN COLINA Vista, she called Kissick’s cell phone. Someone should know where she was going. She got his voice mail. He was definitely busy with Marvin Li and Victor Chang. That was good. Hopefully he was needling confessions out of them.

  She left a voice message. “Hi Jim. I know you’re tied up, but I want you to know that I’m headed to the Foothill Museum. Chief Gilroy called and asked me to meet her there. She says she has something to show me about Cookie’s murder. Don’t get mad, but I drove up and met with Chief Gilroy earlier today. She got kinda ticked off. Now she says she wants to make it up to me. I’ll have my phone with me, so call or text when you get this. Bye. Love you.”

  She got off the freeway. Remembering Gilroy’s mileage information, she punched the distance gauge, returning it to zero, thinking, no way was it nine miles to the Foothill Museum and the point one eight mile made no sense at all.

  Her car windows were down and the wind rustled her hair. The night air grew cooler as the elevation rose. She would have expected her mind to be racing, but instead, it was surprisingly clear, as if she’d been meditating. She recalled something that someone had once told her. You have to make space in your life in order for something new to come in. Who had told her that? She couldn’t remember, but the advice made sense. Something new was coming in. Or was what she was experiencing only the calm before the storm?

  She drove up the dark, winding road. Her headlights caught the small sign pointing to the narrow lane that led to the Foothill Museum. Recalling Gilroy’s mysterious instructions, she saw that it wasn’t a V intersection, like Gilroy had said, but was a hard left. She looked at the distance gauge. She’d traveled just over five miles, not nine. Was the chief coming unglued?

  The woods seemed to encroach on the lane in the darkness, nearly overwhelming her headlights. She was grateful for the full moon that was hanging low and large in the September sky.

  She soon saw the log cabin. The porch light was on and the two front windows were lit. A dusting of snow, and it would have been a perfect scene for a Thomas Kincaid Christmas card. A new, white Cadillac Escalade was parked in the gravel lot.

  Vining cut her headlights and stopped her car while she was still at the edge of the clearing, out of sight of anyone in the cabin or the car. She took her binoculars from the glove compartment and looked around.

  Gilroy’s nonsensical parting message about the nine-point-eighteen miles bugged her. It contributed to the one percent doubt she felt. That one percent was more than enough to kill her.

  She put down the binoculars and blew out a stream of air. She took out her cell phone and look
ed at it. Who could she call? Kissick was busy. If they had apprehended Chang, she assumed everyone on the team— Caspers, Sproul, Jones, Lam— would be busy, too. As far as calling the one person she should— Sergeant Early— fuggeddaboutit.

  Vining thought about it logically. She was meeting the police chief, for goodness’ sakes. Still, her cop gut instincts warned her that something was hinky.

  She called Kissick again. Again, his voice mail picked up. “Hey Jim. I’ve arrived at the Foothill Museum. Gilroy’s white Cadillac Escalade is here. No other cars. Don’t see anyone. Lights are on in the building. I’m going inside. Call me.” Before she hung up, she gave him the Escalade’s plate number.

  She drove the Crown Vic with the headlights off far enough into the clearing so she could turn around and point it heading out. Leaving the keys in the ignition, she exited the car. She pulled her Glock from its holster and darted into the woods surrounding the log cabin. She ran through the woods, looking around and behind her, until she was even with the side of the cabin. Her rubber-soled work shoes crunched against the gravel as she sprinted to a small window and looked inside.

  There was no one in the front of the cabin. She dashed to the back corner where Axel Holcomb had lived. She peered through a window there. The light was on, but she didn’t see anybody.

  She tried the doorknob on the back door. Unlocked. She pushed it open and leaned in, gun ahead of her, calling, “Chief Gilroy”

  As she took a step inside, motion behind her caused her to whirl around. She caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure before two darts from a Taser reached their mark and were embedded into her back, sending 50,000 volts of electricity through her. She yelled. She felt as if she were being deep-fried. She flew face-first onto the ground across the open doorway, losing her grip on her gun. She was aware of nothing but blinding, incapacitating pain. She struggled to keep her eyes open.

  She was aware of someone kicking her gun away. Finally, the Taser’s trigger was released, killing the electric surge. The pain stopped. The small amount of breath she had left was knocked out when her assailant dropped on top of her, straddling her back. A handcuff was snapped onto her right wrist. Sucking in air, she began thrashing her body, flailing her left hand and managing to pull her right hand free with the cuff attached. She tried to shake off whoever was astride her and to loosen the darts’ contact with her skin. If she could knock out just one dart, she’d break the circuit. The jackass had gotten a solid shot with the Taser gun and the darts were well embedded into her back.