“Of course, that’s why I’ll call later for an update. This is more your case than mine. I’ve only been here four days.”
He gave her his best reassuring smile. She gave him the finger.
“You’re a dumbshit if you think you’ll get anywhere with that guy,” were her echoing last words as he headed for her patrol unit.
ONE HUNDRED
I’ve hit her enough times to cause mortal damage, so I shouldn’t be scared, but my limbs don’t agree with that analysis. I’ll be scared of her forever. She’ll haunt my dreams with her empty laughs and mechanical smiles until I die.
Struggling to my feet is a chore, since Hannah’s clinging around my ankles like one of those koala bears that snap around the tip of a pencil.
The noise from that end of the room is unearthly; a soft purr that morphs into a moan that balloons into a scream of bowel-shaking proportions.
The sounds she makes aren’t English, or any distinguishable language, but I understand the meaning.
Hannah’s tears slide down the curve of my calf. I pat her shellacked curls with a wet, sticky palm. “It’s okay,” I tell her, surprised to hear my voice is a perfect flatline. “You’re going to be fine. She can’t hurt you.” Because she can’t even move. “Try to find that blowtorch, will you?”
Abby said she couldn’t feel the pain towards her final days, but I hope Bianca can. Swallowing your own medicine is painful.
I lean my head against the wall and blink sweat out of my eyes. The wall vibrates beneath my shoulder blades, but it doesn’t seem like anything to get excited about. Though it would be a mark of how fabulous my luck is if an earthquake decides to hit while I’m underground with a half-dead psycho and a sobbing teenager.
“Do you feel that?” Hannah struggles to her feet. “What’s going on?”
I don’t know why she keeps asking questions. Her guess is as good as mine. “California’s due for an earthquake. It’s been a while since one struck.”
“Ohmigodohmigod.” She sucks in a greedy lungful of air and sinks to the floor. “We’ll be buried!”
As far as earthquakes go, this feels like a car door slamming. “This isn’t even a one on the Richter scale.”
I’m wondering whether I should feel victorious, not hollow, like an ice cream scoop tunneled a path through my insides and splattered them onto the floor, when the lights blink on and drown every coherent thought.
I cringe into my hands, away from the assault of the overhead bulbs, when I hear my name.
It’s Lisette standing at the top of the stairs, the brightest thing in the doorframe, leveling a gun at my face. She looks like the angel I thought she was the first time I’d met her, in the back of that ambulance. If angels have blonde hair and firearms.
Her face is carved of stone, save flashing gold eyes. “Can you walk?”
“Yes.” I disentangle my one hundred and thirty pound tumor. “Come on. You’re fine.”
Lisette descends the stairs, lifting her banded wrist to her mouth. “Tell EMS to get in here.” Her gaze snaps back to mine. “Brooke, go upstairs. Take her and go.”
Her haste is hard to fathom. The threat is neutralized; there’s no need to rush. And moving appears to be an impossibility, from the sweaty grip Hannah’s got on my ankle.
Lisette moves closer to the bloody, flattened lump of squealing flesh and bone. Denim-clad legs twist like pretzels, blood drizzles the lacy hem of her once-white blouse, and a red bib pools at the neckline.
Her face is a mass of mush, a concave hole when her nose was. The eyes are oozing, open blisters. Broken teeth scattered in tangles of blonde hair glitter like decorative pearls. The only noise escaping the pulpy mess of meat her lips have become is a half-screamed unnngh.
Lisette circles the semi-corpse, keeping clear of the swirling blood spatter smeared on the granite. “Who did this?”
Isn’t it obvious? I think, until I look at Hannah and realize she’s covered in blood, too. “Me.”
It almost looks like she’d like to congratulate me on a job well done, but she refrains, and jerks her chin at the far wall. “What the fuck is this?”
“I guessed cannibals, but I was wrong. It’s symbolic of how we use other people, or whatever.”
Her eyebrows join. “But they’re eating each other. Cannibals eat people.”
It’s nice to know she shares my lack of art appreciation.
“I want to go home,” Hannah sniffles behind her hands. “Please, can I go home?”
I pull her to her feet as a few paramedics trundle down the stairs. They exchange glances and raised eyebrows—nothing much they can do, not when death circles Bianca like a vulture. She’ll die. I only find it a shame that she won’t die in this room. That happy event will occur in the back of an ambulance, or a sterile hospital room.
Lisette backs up before a crowd of paramedics swallow her and holsters her gun. “Let’s get you out of here.”
I follow her up the stairs, holding Hannah’s hand, though I can’t match Lisette’s leaps. The adrenaline rush must be petering.
When we cross the threshold of the door, I freeze. Hannah doesn’t. She keeps going until my stiff arm yanks her back.
A glass ceiling towers so high above such a narrow space that it feels like I’m at the very bottom of a well. Stars smother the inky sky, twinkling through gray, swirly clouds and dust-caked panes.
Five bodies are here, interred above the room Abby died in. The granite of that room matches the walls and floor of this one. Ornate, gilded lettering is carved onto plaques, and all their last names are the same. Sweating white roses burst out of cut-crystal vases beneath each inscription.
Lisette stops barking instructions at the people combing the floor with tiny brushes, her face softening when it finds mine. “It’s a mausoleum. This is where Bianca’s family is.”
“How could she keep us in a cemetery? Nobody heard us screaming?”
What would you call this? Poetic? Dying in a cemetery; I can’t think of anything more ironic. But then I doubt I know the real meaning of the word, since I learned the definition from Alanis Morisette.
Lisette blinks eyes as gold as the plaques behind her. “This place has been neglected for a few years. It doesn’t have many visitors. Nobody would have heard, even if it did. That room’s been reinforced and soundproofed.”
Amber flecks swim through the granite, catching the starlight. I’ve never been claustrophobic, but the walls are so winter-white, I feel like they’re inching closer together. “If you’re going to die in a mausoleum, it should at least be your own.”
Her stoic cop face takes hold, and she gestures for Hannah and me to follow her out.
ONE HUNDRED ONE
Paul Rison, thirty-three—quit Clearwater Security three months ago for no reason after six years, found another job in same field a month later. Weird, right? I’ll look into personal financials, see if anything sticks out.
John exited out of Stacy’s text and lit the flashers on the patrol unit he’d commandeered. He left it idling in the loading zone of LAX. The glass doors of the entrance swept apart to receive him, and no sooner had he taken three steps off the floor mat, than a security guard sidled up to greet him.
John dug his credentials from his breast pocket and didn’t bother with niceties. “You’ve detained someone for me?”
“Customs officers at the private terminal held him up.”
“Has he given them trouble?”
“Not him.” The man matched John’s long strides. “His attorney.”
They rounded a corner to a bank of elevators.
“How long has he been waiting?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” The security guard glanced at the face of his watch as they waited for a free carriage to chug to a stop. “Twenty minutes?”
Then you do know, John wanted to say, though he didn’t, because his mother had raised a gentleman. “It’s just him and Mr. Morgan?”
A button flashed red, and the
pair of them stepped into the empty elevator. “Morgan brought the wife along, too,” his companion informed him. “She hasn’t been a pain in the ass or anything, just confused.”
John didn’t like asking delicate questions like have you been involved in the murder of seven women and the torture of eight? in front of wives because they tended to react badly, but sometimes uncomfortable situations couldn’t be avoided.
The silver door slid aside after a slow upward crawl, and John followed the guard down a hallway with blue carpeting and gray walls. He checked his iPhone once again when it chimed, announcing a text from Stacy: Mr. Rison leased himself a new Mercedes, moved into a new condo, and put his mother in a cushy old folk’s home after he quit Clearwater. Going salary for his position at the new firm is slightly less than what he made earlier—fishy, huh? More later.
He put his phone away as the guard stopped before an unmarked door, and pulled it open.
Sal Morgan, resplendent in an expensive suit that did nothing to camouflage his jiggling belly, hopped to his feet from a chair close by. “I must not have made it clear earlier, but harassing Mr. Ivashkov won’t help your plight to find—whatever the hell it is you’re looking for.”
The guard pulled the door shut, and John blinked around the small, dark room. “Would you like to know what the hell I’m looking for? You weren’t very curious when we last met.”
“Sal gets a little excited when he finds my nephew in a police station,” a man with a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair and a charcoal suit said, rising from the leather sofa against the far wall. “What is you needed to talk to me about?” He had eyes on the border of gray and silver, not unlike the metal doors of the elevator, and even those had more sparkle.
“Bianca Cartwright.”
His light-tanned face split into a pleasantly confused smile that looked as though it had been practiced many times in a mirror. “Who?”
“A stripper who works at the club your nephew manages. The one I’m told you smuggle drugs through.”
The smile turned sharp. “I wouldn’t know a thing about that, I’m afraid. I only pop in from time to time. I certainly wouldn’t know anything that’s gone on recently. I’ve been out of the country for the past three days.”
“So I’ve heard.” John’s gaze landed on a slight brunette woman with overlarge, dark eyes, and chestnut hair swept into a knot at the back of her head. His eyes zeroed on the thin fingers with which she twisted a ring on her right hand. “You like to keep busy. Idle hands, I’m guessing. Is this your wife?” He smiled at her, and she smiled back, like she’d been wired to do so, though it was a timid one.
Leoš nodded proudly at his prized show horse. “That’s my Anna.”
“And you’ve been married for how long?”
John had directed the question at her, but it was her husband who supplied the answer. “Twenty years.”
“When’s your anniversary?”
“What the hell does that matter!” Morgan harrumphed, apparently unable to assign a task to his hands, because they kept fidgeting.
Leoš gave the man an indulgent smile before turning it back to John. “In the spring.”
“Are you in the habit of buying Anna jewelry outside of special occasions?”
“I’m not sure what you’re asking. Maybe you could try a direct question, and I’d be better equipped to answer.”
Fair enough. “Why is she wearing a dead girl’s ring?”
Anna’s soft face twisted when she shot her husband a confused look. “Leoš, what on earth is he talking about?”
John took a few steps toward her. “May I?” She looked like she might object, but he took her hand in his before she’d gotten control of her faculties. “This ring belongs to a dead girl named Emily.” He held her hand beneath the beam of a lamp on the end table, light winking on diamond facets and rolling over the braided gold band. “She died a little over a month ago. It was made for her, so there’s no question about who it belongs to.”
“You’re mistaken,” Leoš said at the same time his attorney bellowed, “that’s a large accusation to make when you’re not even positive it’s the same ring!”
“I am positive it’s the same ring. No question.”
“I’m sure my client can clear up any confusion.”
John released Anna’s clammy wrist and stood. “Have you forgotten I’m a fed? I love theories. Spin me a story on how a dead girl’s ring found its way on Mrs. Ivashkov’s finger.”
“I bought it while antique shopping.” Leoš moved to place a calming hand on Anna’s cashmere-coated shoulder. “My wife has an affinity for vintage jewelry.”
“Easy to verify. I’ll just call your bank and ask for the transaction information.”
“It was paid for in cash.”
“I’m sure the shop keeps records. They’d probably have receipts for something worth that much. It’s three carats. Emily’s fiancé spent two months pay on that diamond.”
“One-of-a-kind jewelry isn’t always so one-of-a-kind,” Morgan spouted, spittle collecting at the corners of his lips. “Replicas are made at the jeweler’s discretion.”
“I’ll be sure to ask the man who made this ring if he created any extras. Any other theories?” He waited for a response. None came. “This doesn’t look very good, Mr. Ivashkov. I’m going to have to take you in.”
“This will never make it into a courtroom,” Morgan said, as John pulled a pair of handcuffs from his waistband. “This is ludicrous, a ploy to get leverage on my client’s nephew.”
“But your client’s nephew was never in trouble.” The cuffs jingled in John’s hand as he made his way to Leoš’s side. “How lucky a happy accident like this happened.”
ONE HUNDRED TWO
Being loaded into an ambulance for the second time in three days turns out to be just as annoying as the first time.
“I don’t want to hear it,” Lisette snaps, when she sees I’m about to argue. “Not one word.”
This seems unfair, but I don’t push my luck, and allow the paramedics to perform their tasks in peace. Lisette fidgets behind them, alternatively throwing dirty looks at the headstones and worried glances at me.
“You don’t like cemeteries,” I say, after she climbs into the back with me.
“Does anyone?”
“I guess not.”
“I need you to lie down,” the man in the back says. He doesn’t wait for me to comply and pulls me backward.
“Would an insulin injection harm a baby?” Lisette asks. “That bitch was a diabetic. It might have been insulin she injected Brooke with.”
He tilts my chin up, prodding the injection site with a latexed finger. “A little hard to say. We don’t know what it was, or how much was delivered. Any nausea or cramping?”
I shake my head when he releases my chin. “Just a headache.”
“Common with sedatives. We’ll see at the hospital.” He claps me on the shoulder and does the same to Lisette, possibly because he doesn’t want her to feel left out, and shuts the double doors behind him.
The two of us settle into a contemplative silence. Me, thinking of Jack. Lisette, thinking thoughts that make her angry, because I don’t know any other reason she’d be frowning.
A few minutes pass before she smacks the glass partition separating us from the driver. “Can we get going? What the hell’s the problem?”
He doesn’t answer, so she shakes her head and looks back at me.
“Is your fiancé buried here?” I ask on a whim, gazing at the underside of her chin. “Is that why you don’t like this place?”
I can’t decide whether she looks like she wants to hug or hit me, but she does neither. “Yeah. I don’t visit. I know that might make me seem cruel, but I can’t do it.” She lets loose a long sigh and blinks a couple times. “She didn’t do anything physical to you?”
Not for lack of trying. “Smashed my hand a little. She talked a lot.”
She shakes out sheets of hair, a
paler blonde beneath florescent lights. “About anything specific or was it just the ravings of a fucking freak?”
“A little of both. She mentioned some woman who hurt her. And a fiancé, but not really, since, you know. She won’t be marrying anyone anymore.”
The ambulance lurches forward, and then slams on the brakes. Lisette stretches out an automatic hand to steady me. “Did you play along with her little speeches?”
The ambulance idles, engine rumbling. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Must have.” She fingers the stud in her earlobe. “You’re still here. Thank God. I didn’t want to have to make next-of-kin notification again. Not that that’s the only reason.” She rubs the circles under her eyes. “A brick, huh? You did a number on her. Bashed the teeth right out of her head.”
“I’m not going to get in trouble for that, right?”
She rolls her eyes. “Did she inject you with a rock of crack? No. I’m not going to charge you. Jesus.” She leans over to slap the partition again. “Can you step on it? For fuck’s sake, hurry it up.”
“Lady—”
“Sergeant.”
“Sergeant, in order not to take out a couple headstones, I have to drive carefully. It’d be a hell of a lot easier without you yapping in my ear.”
ONE HUNDRED THREE
Isn’t that sweet, that cold voice marveled as John tabbed through the internet history on Leoš Ivashkov’s laptop. Sounds like someone’s in love. And there was you, thinking psychopaths are incapable.
John didn’t like to argue with his hallucination, but he’d never thought psychopaths incapable of love; it just wasn’t an emotion many of them entertained, not when they bulldozed through life finessing and manipulating, lacking remorse or any kind of empathy. Love made people vulnerable—what psychopath wanted that? Being in love essentially handed someone all the weapons and tools necessary to be destroyed.
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