by N. M. Brown
Draining the bitter remnants of his tea, Leighton watched the hypnotic sway of the morning lawn sprinklers, as they spurted to life. He decided there was now enough of a case to make the whole thing official. He breathed a sigh of relief at the prospect of handing this messy burden on to somebody else. The somebody in question, was his steel-jawed former boss, Chief Roger Gretsch.
23
Mark tried to convince himself he was not deluded, as he stepped off the droning plane into the bright air of San Diego’s Lindbergh Field Airport. Shambling down the steel ramp to the bus that would transfer him to the grey terminal building, he shouldered his rucksack, and pulled down his sunglasses. The blurry heat-haze rising from the tarmac made the planes on the fringe of the black-top appear to be melting.
It was still possible, he told himself, he would arrive at the Black Cat Club, and simply find Jo with a guitar slung around her neck, singing to a mesmerized crowd. She would be shocked, and perhaps pissed off, Mark had the gall to show up. They would initially make small talk, but he would eventually ask her why she hadn’t been in touch. However, beneath the pleasantries, would be the message she was happy without him. What made the situation so bizarre was Mark simultaneously hoped this was not the case.
He stepped on to the juddering bus and moved aside as the other passengers clambered aboard. There were no seats on the vehicle, which was designed purely to shuttle passengers and their hand luggage. At the opposite end of the bus, Mark could see a group of young women, who were clearly on holiday and bristling with excitement, as they peered out of the window looking for landmarks. They nudged each other, and took photographs to share with on social networks. Mark glanced at them, envious of their freedom and vitality. He wished Jo had taken a flight down, instead of the damned bus.
The cab journey from the airport sped by in a blur as Mark tried to breathe life into the possibility Jo was alive and well. Somehow, the more real Mark could imagine the scenario, the more realistic it seemed to be.
After stopping at seemingly endless sets of traffic lights, the cab came to a stop on University Avenue, where the driver pointed out the bar on the opposite side of the street. Mark handed the driver a bundle of ten dollar bills and climbed out. Slinging his bag over one shoulder, he crossed the busy street, and found himself in front of a classical old building, with a neon silhouette of a freaked-out cat above the name.
Inside, the bar was dark, and smelled of fresh Mexican food. Some fliers advertising live music were scattered around the tables. Mark approached the bar, and was greeted by a tall, young man, with a pierced eye-brow.
‘Hey.’ He smiled at Mark. ‘What you after?’
‘A bottle of Anchor, please.’
As the barman opened a cold beer and placed in front of him, Mark pulled a scrunched bill from his pocket, and handed it to the younger man.
‘Good choice of beer, man.’
‘Cheers,’ Mark replied, and took a mouthful of the tangy cold liquid.
‘You want any food?’ the barman asked, as his hand reached for a menu.
‘No, thanks.’ Mark shook his head. ‘I’m actually here looking for a girl.’
‘Aren’t we all?’
‘No, I mean a girl who maybe sings here?’
Something shifted slightly in the younger man’s face, as if some internal doors were being shut. ‘We have a lot of acts come through here. You a private investigator?’
‘No.’ Mark smiled at the idea. ‘I’m not a psycho stalker, either. I run a small music bar up in Laughlin. The girl left on a mini-tour to come down here, only no-one’s heard from her in weeks. I just wanted to know she got here safely.’
‘Shit, that’s not cool.’
‘Her name is Jo. Can I show you a picture?’
‘Sure,’ the barman said, suddenly more sympathetic.
Mark reached into his shirt pocket and produced a photo of Jo, standing outside the RPM shop, with her guitar in hand. It was one he had taken just after one of their first lunchtime picnics. At the time, he had pretended the photo would be a good promo shot for both the shop and the bar. In truth, he had simply wanted a photograph that beautiful, enchanting girl. Perhaps he naïvely thought it would help him hold on to her. Mark had the photo printed out at a local photo booth, with the vague intention of pinning it up behind the bar. Instead, he had considered it too precious to share, and kept it secretly in his wallet instead. He handed the photo to the barman, who peered at it for long moment.
‘Sorry, man, never seen her.’
‘Maybe she came in on your night off?’
‘I’m full time here, five till eleven, seven days a week. There is no night off.’
‘Is there only one Black Cat in San Diego?’
‘Yeah.’ The bar man nodded. ‘Just the one, but there is another place up in San Fran. You could try there, but to be honest man, if I were you…’
‘Yeah?’
‘I reckon I’d call the cops. It could be serious, you know what I mean?’
‘Yeah.’ Mark nodded solemnly. ‘I do.’
At that point, a group of perfumed young women clattered through the door of the Black Cat and absorbed the barman’s attention. Mark picked up his beer, and relocated to a bright red leather chair by a table in a dark corner of the bar. After taking another drink from the bottle, he pulled the photograph out of his pocket again, and held it in both hands.
For a few moments, he stared at the image as if trying to open a window to the past he could somehow tumble through.
Eventually, he sighed, and reached into his back pocket. Taking out his phone, he slid his finger across the screen, and tapped in the internet search. When the number came up, he pressed it, and raised the phone to his ear. There were a couple of rings, then a voice answered.
‘Good afternoon, Laughlin Police Department, how may I help?’
‘I’d like to report a missing person,’ Mark said, weakly hoping he was being stupid, but knowing he wasn’t.
24
Leighton had only taken two steps inside the cool vault of the station when he was met by the Chief Gretsch, who had been supervising the installation of a new framed display of decorated officers on the wall behind the main reception. His own grinning photograph was at the top of the display. He hurried cross the foyer to intercept Leighton, before he reached the reception desk. He smiled a broad and emotionless smile.
‘Mr. Jones, I was wondering when you might show up.’ He took Leighton’s arm, and led him purposefully across the marble floor, away from the reception desk.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Well, it seems you were in last week, too. You do know you are currently retired, right?’ Gretsch chuckled without warmth.
‘I just popped in.’ Leighton shrugged. ‘Didn’t think there was any harm.’
‘No?’ A bitter smile split Gretsch’s face. ‘Well, that’s as may be, Mr. Jones, but the way I see it is, you have attempted to misappropriate police resources, and trespassed on private property.’
‘I was looking into a missing person for a young woman, who asked for my help.’
‘This wouldn’t be the same young woman whose mother called the station this morning to accuse you of stalking and harassment? And are you aware the young woman has a history of mental health issues?’
Leighton shook his head in disbelief.
‘Now, you listen to me, Jones. I know a few cops who struggle with retirement, and start to convince themselves they see 211s taking place on every other street corner. It’s an occupational hazard. My advice is you drop whatever Columbo case you’re on right now, before you end up in front of a judge yourself. You’re sixty years old, man. Go buy yourself a toy dog or a chess set.’
With his speech finished, Gretsch straightened his shirt, and walked away from Leighton, who decided to give the chief the benefit of the doubt.
‘Sir,’ he called loudly across the foyer. ‘I believe we may have a number of highly organised killers working together.’
Gretsch turned around, as if he’d just been punched on the shoulder, and hurried back across the tiled floor to Leighton.
‘A group?’ As he spoke, the complexion of Gretsch’s moisturised face darkened visibly.
‘Well, more than two, anyway - there would probably have to be a driver and two others …’
‘Are you shitting me, Jones?’
‘No, sir, I simply think that …’
‘No, you’re clearly not thinking, are you, eh? Do you know what the collective noun for serial killers is?’
‘No, sir, I don’t believe I do,’ Jones said, as he looked at his feet.
‘Of course you don’t, because there isn’t one! They are loners by definition.’
‘What about Bianchi and Buono, or Lake and Ng down in San Francisco? I bet their twenty-five victims might disagree with you, had they not been all been raped, tortured, and murdered.’
‘Don’t get fucking smart with me, Jones.’ Gretsch said in an angry whisper. ‘That was a pair, not a group. Anything more than that can’t happen.’
‘Or it hasn’t, until now. Maybe before Lake and Ng, unimaginative cops blissfully believed serial killers working in pairs couldn’t happen either.’
Gretsch stared directly at Leighton. ‘Okay, let’s cut the shit - to date, you have misappropriated police resources, trespassed on private property, and have been accused of harassment.’ He pointed a stubby finger at Leighton. ‘Given your monumental fuckup with that business at Black Mountain Ranch, I reckon you should keep your head down. So, if you show up here, or engage in communication with any of my officers, I’m throwing your ass in jail, Jones. Now, get the fuck out of here.’
This time, when Gretsch thundered off in a cloud of self-importance, Leighton let his previous superior go. The comment about the Ranch was a pretty low blow - even for Gretsch. However, it wasn’t enough to deter Leighton; he was becoming used to rejection.
25
The gears of the bike clicked solidly into place, as Cherylyn Sanderson pedalled steadily along the smooth black top outside the dusty, desert city of Twenty-Nine Palms. After six weeks of early morning journeys, covering a grand total of ninety miles, her tanned legs were finally becoming more defined. Hitting the road at 6:30 a.m. each day wasn’t easy, but it was a lot easier than it would be during the day, when the scorching sun was high in the sky and the thundering trucks began to dominate the hot roads.
At the age of thirty-seven, Cherylyn had decided it was time to fight nature’s insistence on attaching extra inches to her body, and cycling was the easiest and least conspicuous way to do it. When anyone from work passed by in a car, she could pretend she was taking it easy - enjoying the view; however, once they had passed and she was alone again, she would push her body to a fat burning level. Cherylyn could have used the fitness facilities at work but that way, everyone would have known what she was up to.
Although she still found it difficult to believe, Cherylyn had worked on the reception of the busy Country Inn in the city of Twenty-Nine Palms for two decades. For most of that time, she had worked alongside Louisa - a small, round woman, fifteen years her senior. This meant for the majority of her adult life, Cherylyn had been defined by a favourable contrast to her co-worker. Whenever guests asked for her, they would refer to the young slim girl from reception. In the blissful bubble of youth, this was not something Cherylyn considered complimentary; it was simply factual. Nor did she give any consideration to how such comments must have made Louisa feel … until recently.
Six months earlier, Louisa had announced her retirement to spend more time helping her daughter with the grandchildren over in Reno. Within a few days of this announcement, Danny McGhee - the general manager of the Inn - had spoken discretely to Cherylyn, and asked if she would be interested in becoming the senior receptionist, which she was. She had been sad to see her co-worker go, but was also a little excited by the prospect of a new colleague - naively assuming Louisa’s post would be filled by someone of similar age.
One week after Louisa had retired, Danny McGhee had walked into reception accompanied by a petite, smiley girl, who would, Danny informed her, be the other new receptionist. The younger woman’s name was Lisa-Marie; she had the physique of a swimwear model, and looked like she spent a couple of hours perfecting her appearance each day.
Three weeks later, Cherylyn had been reloading paper into the HP printer in the rear office, when she overheard an elderly guest asking Danny if they could speak to the young, slim receptionist. Partly out of habit and partly out of naivety, Danny had stupidly called Cherylyn through.
‘Hi, there can I help you?’ Cherylyn had smiled warmly at the elderly woman, who had frowned in mild irritation back at her.
‘No, not you, dear,’ she had said, as she shook her head. ‘I want to speak to that slim, pretty young thing who was working reception last night.’
That had been enough for Cherylyn, who realised she could magnanimously accept her role as the older, larger receptionist, and wear it like an ugly costume, or she could fight to retain her looks and status. She opted for the latter.
The first day on the bike had been easier than she anticipated. It had been her day off, so she rose early, and drove to the Joshua Tree Bicycle Shop where she collected her gleaming purchase. Then, she had returned home, where, after a lunch of Special K, Cherylyn moved in tentative circles around the backyard of her two-storey home. By 3:00 p.m. she had pulled on the glossy red fibre-glass helmet, and ventured out into the quieter roads. In the weeks that followed, cycling became part of her daily routine - a secret weapon in her war against ageing, and Lisa-Marie’s effortless pert little ass.
Cherylyn was three miles out of town, and pushing hard on the pedals, when a sudden noise rose behind her. She turned her head frantically around, and found herself faced with a shuddering wall of metal, as a speeding bus passed dangerously close her. For a scary moment, she felt her bike pulled towards the mass of the dull metal beast thundering past her. It seemed inevitable she would be drawn beneath the wheels of the bus, and crushed to dusty meat. The bike wobbled unsteadily between Cherylyn’s legs, but she managed to steady it, as the bus roared away from her.
‘Jesus!’ she yelled. ‘Watch where you’re going psycho!’ She would have flipped her middle finger to the departing bus, but she was partly unsure if such a defiant gesture would put her further off balance. Instead, she simply put her head down, and continued counting her downward strokes, muttering her annoyance.
It took a couple of minutes before she glanced up and realised the bus had stopped about fifty yards up ahead.
Even though she was already at the limit of her energy, Cherylyn’s rage provided her with enough strength to reach the silent vehicle. She glanced up at the dark windows as she moved along the flank of the bus. When she reached the door, she banged angrily on the dark glass.
The door hissed open.
‘Listen! I don’t know what the hell you thought you were doing back there, but I almost …’ Cherylyn fell silent as she found herself staring down the black barrel of a Ruger PC carbine rifle.
‘Climb aboard!’ the man in the Mickey Mouse hat said, with a fixed grin on his face.
Cherylyn glanced helplessly at the deserted road ahead. She then wept, as she stepped off the bike and into the darkness of the bus.
A moment later, a large man in a Hawaiian shirt climbed off the bus and opened the cover of the luggage compartment. He picked the bike up with one hand, and threw it in.
26
The warm mist of the shower filled the cubicle and swirled around Vicki’s head. She stood beneath the torrent with one palm pressed against the smooth, charcoal-coloured tiles. She had taken to the bathroom to escape her mother’s interrogation about the previous evening. Abigail Reiner was not so easily defeated.
Stepping out of the shower, Vicki wrapped a white towel around herself, turning to find her mother sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bath. In one hand, she
held a smouldering menthol cigarette, in the other was crystal ashtray.
‘Wow, you gave me a fright.’ Vicki tried to sound nonchalant, as she twisted a second towel around her dripping hair.
Her mother sucked on the cigarette, and spoke as she blew the smoke out, ‘Who was the man I showed out of my house this morning?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t be obtuse, Victoria. Who was the man?’
‘A detective.’
‘He claimed you approached him.’
‘That’s true. Laurie has been missing for some time. I think something bad might have happened to her. I wanted help.’
Vicki, eager to avoid the confrontation, walked out of the bathroom and padded into her bedroom, but her mother merely followed her, hovering in the hallway.
‘Are you sleeping with him?’ Abigail asked, as she stood in the doorway.
‘What?’
‘You heard.’ Abigail crushed the stub of her cigarette into the ashtray. ‘Are you sleeping with that old man? He’d obviously spent the night, after your little party.’
Vicki sat on the edge of her bed, where various old photographs of her father remained, scattered like playing cards.
‘For god’s sake, your sense of timing is great. I’ve just lost my father.’
‘All the more likely it is, then, you would make irrational decisions. Can you imagine how I felt flying three thousand miles to collect your father’s insurance documents, and walking in on this?’
‘On, what?’
‘Your cheap date.’
‘I am not sleeping with him, not that it’s any of your business.’
‘Good, that keeps everything nice and simple, then.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Well, I have informed the police of his intrusion …’