“What did it say?” Luke asks.
Bring it back.
“The vacuum pump chamber,” Charlotte says.
“Maybe,” Luke says. “Did he answer?”
You’ve got mail.
Luke clicks through to his e-mail account. This time the message is from a different Hotmail address: [email protected]. Luke has attached a screen capture he took on his computer monitor of a text dialogue—no names, just phone numbers. There’s Pemberton’s text, just as Bailey described it. The response is a photograph, an aerial shot, probably from a helicopter, of a vast field of tin roofs on a barren, scorched plain.
“So Denny Bryant says bring it back, and Pemberton sends him a photograph of . . .” Charlotte stops so Bailey will finish. The browser minimizes, thanks to Bailey’s invisible hand.
The Kakuma Refugee Camp in Kenya. The largest refugee camp in the world. Pemberton went there on a volunteer mission with a group called Global Healers two years ago. Guess who’s one of their biggest donors.
“Denny Bryant,” Luke answers.
“Who doesn’t call or text him again after getting the picture of the refugee camp.”
Correct.
“So whatever connects those two at that refugee camp, it shut Denny up, even though he’s got Robbery Homicide breathing down his neck,” Charlotte says.
To the screen, Luke says, “Well, you’ve certainly uncovered a conspiracy around how they got the bodies in that exhibit; I’ll say that much.”
It’s more than that.
“Yeah, if you take out the rule of law and allow only the circumstantial to be your guide.”
Blow me. This is good work.
Luke takes a deep breath, turns to Charley. “Can I just play devil’s advocate here for a second?”
Charlotte nods. Her thoughts are clouded with images of refugee camps, bodies posed like mannequins, only with all their muscles and tendons exposed, disturbing details that take on a ghostly presence all around her now. Despite their agreement that he wouldn’t lecture her on the subject of her, she’d love for Luke to shine a beam of clarifying light through this spectral fog.
“All this proves is that there’s something Pemberton and Bryant got up to that they don’t want exposed by a warrant. It doesn’t prove either of them is the Mask Maker.”
“I know that,” she answers. “But whatever they’ve done, it’s bad enough they’re willing to obstruct an investigation into a serial killer to keep it hidden.”
“Still.”
“I get what you’re saying. But it’s enough to start following him—don’t you think?”
Luke looks to the screen, then gets to his feet and gestures for her to follow.
Seriously???
“Shut up, Bailey. You went missing for months. I can step out for five minutes.”
In the adjacent hallway, he stands as close to her as possible, drops his voice to a whisper.
“The contact lenses. Are you going to do what they say? Are you going to wear them while you work?”
“All things considered, I don’t think I have a choice.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m afraid of what kind of package they’ll send next if their gift isn’t exactly received. Know what I mean?”
Luke seems to suppress a shiver. “OK. Well, that means if we start following this guy, then Graydon’s following this guy, too.”
“OK.”
“I’m just saying, it’s something to consider in terms of possible guilt. It might be the same as leaking his name to the media.”
“They want to see Zypraxon in action. They’re not interested in getting involved in a criminal investigation.”
“Maybe.”
“Then why watch us from afar? Why not meet with me or abduct me? You’re right. They want to keep their hands clean.”
“I agree, but . . .”
“But what?”
“It would help me if I had some idea of what you were planning to do, Charley.”
Her deep breath feels like it adds ten pounds to her frame.
Marty hadn’t pressed over the past two days, and it was easier to her to believe her idea wasn’t bonkers when she didn’t have to discuss it out loud.
“It’s like Kayla said, I’m going to bait him, just like I did those guys at the bar. That way I can be absolutely sure it’s him.”
“And then?”
“I’m not going to kill him, Luke. Once I’m absolutely sure he’s the guy, I’m going to overpower him and restrain him and leave him there right next to undeniable proof of who he is and what he’s done. Then we’ll call law enforcement and let them know what’s waiting for them.”
There. She’d said it. And it doesn’t sound crazy. Given everything she’s been through these past few days, it sounds relatively simple and sane.
“Are we going to be waiting for them?” he asks.
“Nope.”
His shoulders sag. His chest rises and falls from what looks like his first deep breath in days. She realizes their fight two days ago left him with the conviction she was out to kill the guy. How else could he have interpreted her words? She’d be the end of him; isn’t that exactly what she’s said?
Maybe she should have cut Luke some slack. He’s certainly cutting her some now.
“So,” she says.
“So,” he says.
“Are you in?”
“I’m in.”
“Good.”
“We’ll see.” When she flinches, he adds, “If I’m any good at this, I mean. Not if you’re—”
“I get it.”
But she didn’t get it until he said it, and she’s glad he did.
When they return to the desk, the message waiting for them is:
Hope you used protection.
“Cute, for a ten-year-old,” Luke says.
“We’re going after Pemberton,” Charley says. “What can you give us on him?”
Lots. But it’s what I can’t give you on him that’s worth looking into.
“I’m listening,” she says.
His house outside Temecula. It’s got no Internet. No smart networks. Nothing I can even knock on to get in. It’s a five-thousand-square-foot former vineyard. Does that sound normal for a guy who has five million sitting in savings?
“No,” she says.
The Bannings killed in the age before wireless Internet blanketed most of the country, but the isolation of their farm was a secret to their long-term success. Sloppy, escalating serial killers already planning their celebrity jailhouse interviews murder on roadsides in fits of sadistic sexual passion. Methodical, long-running monsters have special, secure workshops where they can do their terrible deeds in peace.
“Can you go deeper on him, Bailey?” she asks.
No answer.
Luke groans. “Don’t tell me you have to get permission from this hacktivist collective you’re working with?”
I don’t discuss procedure.
“So your friends think it’s fine to go after a police department, but not a guy who might be killing women?”
Suddenly the backspace bar starts devouring everything in the Word doc until there’s only whitespace left.
TTYL. After I send pictures of Luke showering to the LA Times.
Then the document closes, and the alarm system lets out that strange blip noise that sounds like a stopper being pulled from a drain.
“Maybe it’s a good thing he disappeared,” Charlotte says. “I’m not sure you two could handle being in the same country together right now.”
“I think you’re right.”
“How long has she been back?” Mona asks.
“A few days,” Luke says. When he closes the door to Mona’s office, Judy turns in her desk chair and gives them her version of a curious look: pursed lips, furrowed brow, flaring nostrils. Basically the way you’d look if you smelled shit. And maybe that’s prophetic because what Luke’s about to do inside Mona’s office is sho
vel some serious bullshit.
“Does this have anything to do with that crazy alarm at your house last night?” she asks.
“Possibly. That’s what I have to go to LA to check out,” he lies.
“So this stalker of hers, you don’t think he’s around here anymore?”
“She says the last time he called her, he told her he was down in Orange County staying with friends and that she should come and join them so they could have a great life together killing animals on his ranch.”
“Jesus. So he’s that kind of stalker.” She settles into her chair. He follows her lead, even though he’d rather stay standing so he can stare out her window and keep her from making direct contact with his lying eyes.
“All her stalkers are pretty choice.”
“How many she got?” Mona asks.
“An Internet full, apparently. It’s why she came back. Living out on her own was too dangerous, apparently.”
Aaaand that’s more than you needed to say.
“But she doesn’t have restraining orders out against any of them?” Mona asks.
One, but he’s dead. “What good would it do?”
“Trina Pierce. That’s certainly a blast from the past. What’s her new name again?”
“Charley. Charley Rowe. Short for Charlotte.”
“How many days you need?”
“I don’t know. Until I find something, if that’s OK. It’s not exactly like I’m that much use up here.”
“You are, actually. It’s just being useful here means doing things you hate.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“I know. Because you’re wanting me to let you head down to Orange County with your new friend Charley, so you’re being real nice. There’s no overtime here. You realize that, right?”
“I do. She wants to make a home here again, Mona. I’d like to play a part in making sure she’s safe. Or at least feels that way.”
“And let me guess. She’s filled out real nice in the chest department.”
“Mona, that’s no way to talk about a woman.”
“I’m talking about how men talk about women. There’s a big difference.”
“What happened to rehabbing my reputation?”
“In Orange County?”
“I don’t know if you remember, but it’s not like I was real nice to this girl in high school.”
“And that’s why you’re making the effort now? That’s the only reason?”
“Yes.”
Mona clears her throat, folds her hands on the desk in front of her. Studies Luke like she’s trying to figure out if he lied about his age or needs hair replacement treatment. Or both. Luke, on the other hand, is feeling surprisingly relaxed. Funny, he thinks, how the events of the past few days have made it so much easier to lie.
About what matters anyway.
“I remember,” she finally says. “I remember your mother being none too happy about all the Burning Girl crap you pulled at school.”
“Why didn’t she say anything?”
“’Cause you were so agreeable back then.”
Just take the hit, he thinks. It means she’s giving in.
“Check in every day,” she says. “Take your own car. You’re not in uniform, obviously, ’cause it’s way out of your jurisdiction. Whole thing is purely exploratory. And if you do find anything that requires a response, you bring it to me. I bring it to this county; they bring it to the relevant department in Orange County. It won’t be a huge headache at all, which is why I’m so glad you’re pursuing this, by the way. Point is, you’re on an information-gathering mission only. Think college newspaper reporter. With social anxiety.”
Luke stands. “I actually did write for the paper at SF State.”
“Good, now work on the social anxiety part.”
Luke opens the door before Mona’s finished talking.
“I’m probably just letting you go because I’m sick of watching Judy check out your butt every five minutes.”
“That’s a nasty lie!” Judy shouts.
Just for good measure, Luke wiggles his butt as he passes Judy’s desk. He can’t help himself. He’s that excited to have cleared the hurdle that is Mona Sanchez so quickly.
36
Frederick Pemberton owns two vehicles: a motorcycle and an SUV.
Within a few hours of their arrival in Newport Beach, Luke managed to plant GPS trackers on both of them; the Kawasaki the doctor drove to work and the Cadillac SRX he left in the parking garage under his condo high-rise. The high-rise is ten stories, a drab stone tower fringed with deep balconies, right at the entrance to the Lido Peninsula, a little finger of land that sticks out into Newport Bay.
According to the stats Bailey sent, Pemberton lives in 8B; a twenty-five-hundred-square-foot two-bedroom unit with a view of the harbor. But it’s also got neighbors above, below, and along the eastern wall. A shitty kill house, by any measure. And the building’s security is mostly for show. A guardhouse at the entry next to some aboveground visitor parking. Keypad entry to both the lobby and the subterranean garage—the kind of defenses designed to keep thieves from backing up vans and trucks to the place, not the kind favored by residents with grave secrets. As evidenced by the fact that it took Luke twenty minutes to plant the tracker on Pemberton’s Caddy and make it back to the Jeep several blocks away, where Charley waited for him with her shaky hands clasped between her knees.
The parking garage at Pemberton’s office tower—a fifteen-minute drive away at Newport Center, where immaculate, modern high-rises stand on a circular drive around an upscale shopping mall—was even less secure. Luke returned to the Jeep without having broken a sweat.
Now they’re back at the Travelodge in Corona del Mar, waiting for the doctor to finish his workday, the contents of their recent trip to Best Buy spread out between them on one of the room’s bouncy twin beds.
Luke’s busy assembling stuff. Charley’s busy assembling her thoughts.
Luke seems to be having more fun.
She bought four GPS trackers total out of her dwindling funds, as well as an additional tablet to monitor their signals. Luke paid for the car mounts, one for the GPS tablet, the other for the tablet that came with her are these things real contact lenses, which maybe she should be wearing right now because technically she’s working. They both are.
But for now working means waiting for Pemberton to go on the move again. Whoever’s watching the transmission from the lenses, are they really going to be that interested in seeing Luke unwrap the equipment while she scrolls through texts from Bailey on her burner phone?
She’s not even reading the texts. Not really. She’s got them memorized. And it gives her something Zen-like to do as she draws a map from memory in her head. Pemberton’s condo is eight minutes south of their motel if they take State Road 55; twelve if they take surface streets. His office is only a few miles east, but Upper Newport Bay cuts through the land between, which will force them onto crowded PCH to the south or north onto the toll road if they have to pursue the good doctor in a hurry.
Eyes on 73.
“It’s Bailey,” she says. “He got into the tollbooth cameras.”
“All of them?” Luke doesn’t even look up from the mount he’s assembling.
All three entrances? she types.
Jamboree Road, McArthur, 55 intersection.
“All of them,” she says.
“Hot dog.” But he’s already assembling the next mount, too preoccupied to give in to excitement.
Hot dog is right. It’s a huge help. Between this and how quickly the GPS trackers got planted, she feels dangerously close to a good mood.
If Pemberton’s taking a long drive, to his country house, for instance, he’s got almost no choice but to use the toll road at some point. He can’t get to the 405 or the 5 freeway without it. Better yet, the old pay booths are all gone. The whole thing’s run by cameras that snap your license plate photo when you enter and send you a nice fat fine i
n the mail if you don’t go online and pay the toll within five days. Cameras Bailey can now see through.
Meanwhile, about seventy-five miles south and a little ways inland, Marty, or one of the guys he’s got working with him, is currently perched on a back road that snakes through the dry, boulder-strewn mountains just east of Interstate 15, and he’s studying the former vineyard Pemberton’s turned into his country house.
Based on what she saw online, the surrounding countryside is beautiful, but Temecula is hardly the Napa Valley of Southern California many of the locals would like it to be. It’s more rugged, for one, and you can still snag a parcel of land for only several hundred thousand dollars. But a short drive south is the Pala Casino Spa Resort. That’s where one of Marty’s buddies has parked a motor home so the whole crew can use it as their crash pad in between watches. It’s a great idea, although she won’t want to smell the inside of the RV if this thing drags on for too long. But so far none of the guys is complaining.
Yesterday evening Marty gave her an excellent report on Pemberton’s place.
It’s a sprawling, Spanish mission–style house sitting all by itself on the side of a scrubby, boulder-studded slope that used to be terraced with vineyard fields. “Kinda like a Del Taco someone squashed and then pulled out on either end” was Marty’s description of its architectural style. More important, it’s hemmed in by a tall cast-iron fence and patrolled by three giant Doberman pinschers Marty says look mean enough to make Godzilla take a step back.
Some guy, not Pemberton—too short, no trace of a nose job, a battered pickup that doesn’t seem like the doctor’s style—stopped by yesterday afternoon just before dusk. The dogs greeted him with furious hunger and not a trace of affection. The guy hurled several raw steaks through the fence, then raced back to his truck as if he thought they might be capable of jumping the enclosure.
A local caretaker—that was Marty’s guess. If he had access to the house, or even inside the fence, he had no interest in using it. Not with those hounds standing guard.
Luke agreed with Marty, and added that if you wanted people to steer clear of your place, hire a local to tell everyone how scary your dogs are.
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