by Sam Christer
Nic leans back as he reads her screen. ‘Her new picture’s called the what?’
‘The Shroud,’ says Mitzi. ‘She was working a flick called The Shroud. Maybe I’m gonna like her kind of movies after all.’
8
FRIDAY AFTERNOON
BEVERLY HILLS, LOS ANGELES
Stepford wives and Mad Men husbands watch from the safety of grand doorways as LAPD cruisers crash the calm of the quiet cul-de-sac where Tamara Jacobs lived.
The uniforms are locking down what could well be a crucial crime scene – one where the victim met her killer, was abducted or even murdered.
After an eternity of bell-ringing at the writer’s six-million-dollar mansion Mitzi gets a couple of cops to bust open the back door. She and Nic step cautiously into a vast kitchen full of mahogany carpentry and marble worktops. Both have their guns drawn, even though they’re 99.9 per cent certain the place is empty. Plenty of cops have been killed by that 0.1 per cent.
‘Clear,’ shouts Mitzi from around a corner.
‘Clear,’ echoes Nic as he moves through the living room.
The perp’s been here. Nic knows it. Feels it tingle his blood.
They sweep the downstairs rooms first. There’s no sign of a struggle. Next they check all five upstairs bedrooms, accompanying en-suites and a separate dressing room full of clothes, shoes and handbags. Nothing seems obviously out of place.
Mitzi slides open a wardrobe as big as a wall and stands back in shock. ‘Jeez, Bloomingdales has less stock than this. I mean, how many clothes can one woman wear?’
Nic turns his back on the expanse of dresses, tops, skirts and blouses. ‘I’m going down to the study. Writers are strange creatures. Let’s see what’s in her natural habitat.’
Mitzi takes one last envious glance at the glamorous gowns then follows him. A forensic team and photographer are in the kitchen. There’s nothing to suggest a break-in before the cops forced their own entry. No jimmied frames, no drilled-out locks or broken glass. Maybe the killer wasn’t ever here.
The study is even more of an indulgence than the upstairs dressing room. Ceiling to floor oak, a purpose-built desk, plush brown leather chair – antique by the look of it – shelves packed with every kind of reference book. Nic guesses Tamara was old school, the kind who only relied on published books rather than internet sources, the type who wanted substantial proof behind her work.
It takes him a second to work out what’s missing. There’s a printer, scanner and a whole host of tidied cables and chargers.
But no computer.
That instinctive tingle that he felt grows a whole lot more as he pulls open a cupboard. No tower unit for a desktop PC either. Okay. Not so surprising, writers often favour laptops – they’re slimmer and better suited to jotting down weird and wonderful thoughts as they travel. But there are no spare cables or docking station. He searches more cupboards and finds installation disks and guarantees for an eleven-inch MacBook Air. Nice. Much cooler than the old Dell buckling the legs of a table in his apartment. But something’s still irking him.
Writers back things up. Professional ones back everything up. All the time. On multiple sources.
Nic searches but can’t even find a single USB stick, let alone anything heavyweight or professional like an Iomega or Tandberg.
He’s been here. He’s cleaned her out.
‘Nic – come see this.’ Mitzi sounds more sad than excited.
Whatever she’s found he knows he’s not going to like it. He leaves the acres of oak and makes his way into a pasture of thick, white living room carpet.
‘The cat’s dead.’ Her face just about betrays the fact she had one as a childhood pet. ‘Been killed by the looks of it.’
Tom Hix, a forty-year-old bearded CSI in a Tyvek suit holds the white Persian out at arm’s length. ‘Its neck’s been broken. There are ligature marks beneath the fur and its eyeballs are dilated. I’d say it’s been strangled with some kind of noose – maybe even swung around some.’
Mitzi shakes her head. ‘Sick bastard.’
‘But an interesting sick bastard.’ Nic looks closer as Tom lowers it into a large paper bag. ‘There aren’t many people who carry rope with them and know how to kill with it.’
The CSI labels the bag. ‘We’ll pass it to our forensic vet, he’s top notch. If there’s any trace evidence or offender DNA, he’ll find it and he’ll figure out exactly how it died.’
Nic moves on and searches through a pile of mail, then checks a small cordless phone on a base by the window ledge. The display says there are fourteen missed messages. He lifts the silver phone from its cradle, examines the icons on the main body and finds the contacts book function. There are 306 entries, all listed surname first. He punches in Jacobs and it comes up with only one – Dylan. His eyes flash back to the mail stack and an envelope addressed to Mr D. and Mrs T. Jacobs. He picks it up and sees it’s been opened. Inside is a hard white card filled with flowery gold writing inviting them to a charity ball. Nic holds the phone and card aloft for Mitzi to see. ‘Looks like we’ve found Rock Lady’s hubby.’
She drifts away from the CSI, the dead cat now forgotten. The husband of Tamara Jacobs is either her killer and knows she’s dead or his life is about to be ruined. ‘If you’ve got a number, call it.’
Nic picks up the phone again, finds the entry and presses call. The room falls silent. All eyes are on him as he listens to the dial tones roll out across the airwaves. No number is displayed, just the name Dylan Jacobs – he could be a mile or a whole continent away. Nic’s heart thumps with anticipation.
The tones stop.
A deep baritone voice speaks. ‘This is Dylan, I can’t talk at the moment, leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you just as soon as I’m free.’
Nic kills the call. ‘Went to messages. I’ll try again from the office where I can record it.’
Mitzi nods. ‘Okay. Take that home phone away with you, check the callers and process it. I can do the rest of this search without you.’
He unplugs the telephone and waves a hand as he heads for the door. A thought stops and turns him. ‘No pictures.’
She throws a frown across the room. ‘Say again?’
‘There are no pictures around the house of husband and wife. Not in the study, not in the bedroom or anywhere.’
Mitzi casts her mind back to the rooms upstairs. ‘You’re right. There were no male clothes in any of the closets either, no shaving gear or toiletries save female stuff. In fact, no trace of Dylan Jacobs ever being here.’
9
SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA
Twenty-seven-year-old Viktor Hegadus shifts uncomfortably on the edge of the sun lounger only feet from the private pool.
He has a lot on his mind.
No wonder he has a headache. The kind that will become a migraine. He just knows it will. His only hope is to take a snooze for a while – a little power nap – but he can’t. Not with so many things troubling him. The builders arrive tomorrow and he’s wondering if he should put them off until he’s had another think about the plans for the extension – a separate guest wing complete with its own pool and courtyard.
The midday sun creeps over his feet. He gets up and adjusts the parasol so he’s safe in the shade. He’d hate to burn. It would be awful to have red and dry skin.
The cell phone under the lounger next to him rings. He tries to ignore it, as he’s done for most of the morning. A twinge of guilt finally makes him grab it. ‘Dylan’s phone, who’s calling?’
There’s no answer. Just a click and a clunk, like the call is being transferred.
‘Hello,’ Viktor scowls into the phone.
‘Is Mr Jacobs there please? I need to talk to him.’
‘Not possible. Who is this?’
‘My name is Karakandez, Nic Karakandez. I have some important business to discuss with Mr Jacobs. Can you please put me through to him or tell me what number I can get him on?’
‘He’
s meditating at the moment. He doesn’t want to be disturbed.’ Viktor abruptly finishes the call, turns the phone to mute and throws it angrily beneath the lounger.
If Dylan can’t spare the time to be with him, then he’s certainly not going to let him spend it talking to strangers.
10
77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES
The Trakscan software on Nic’s terminal generates a pop-up window showing the call was received at a private villa off Tower Street in Gordon’s Bay, New South Wales. He searches the computerised Interpol directory and finds details for the New South Wales police. He toggles through until he pinpoints the area covering Gordon’s Bay and then dials the contact number.
‘Chief Superintendent Hawking – how can I help you?’
Nic tells him exactly how.
Thirty minutes later, armed police slip into position around the multi-million-dollar villa overlooking the tropical waters of the Tasman Sea and Nic receives a call back.
‘You’re good to go, Detective,’ says the Chief Super. ‘Your fella hasn’t left in the past half-hour and now he has nowhere to run but into the welcoming arms of my officers.’
11
DOWNTOWN, LOS ANGELES
The dark-haired young man zaps open his old Ford Explorer and dumps his tired frame behind the well-worn steering wheel. He’s just finished a full day of hard work. Factory work. Good honest labour. His place of graft is ten miles from his last kill site – his home even more miles in a different direction. He thinks of these things and is comforted by them as he starts the engine and heads off for a long drive before turning in for the night.
Driving is good. He likes to get to know new neighbourhoods – study the unkilled walking around with their children, dogs and loved ones as he cruises past.
He imagines what their lives are like. What their deaths would be like. How sweet and merciful he could be to them – given the chance. Some years back a cop on the TV news described him as a reptile, a cold-blooded killer with no feelings, no emotions and no morals. The cop couldn’t have been more wrong. What he does is out of love. God’s love.
He turns on the radio and tunes in to the news as he drives. Listens out for himself. There’s nothing. He’s relieved. It means no manhunt, no interference in his work. Anonymity is his protective shield, God’s way of showing approval – a blessing, if you like. He puts it down to his MO. Modus Operandi – his method of operating. Strange how Latin phrases still exist in the modern day. Fragments of a past civilisation blown across the centuries and continents, turning up on the blood-soaked streets of the City of the Angels.
The young man slows as he passes his local church and makes the sign of the cross. Instinctively, he mutters more Latin: ‘In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.’ The rhythm of the words comforts him. He turns them over and over like a fascinated child might with a smooth stone in his palm. And then his favourite, Dominus vobiscum – the Lord be with you. He says the phrase differently.
The words have to be pronounced softly, clearly, slowly, reverently. After all – they’re the last his victims ever hear.
12
77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES
When Nic makes his next international call, it’s 8 p.m. Friday night in California and 2 p.m. Saturday afternoon in Gordon’s Bay, Sydney. As he dials, he taps up a Google Earth map. On the screen he zooms along the beautiful Australian peninsula, past the striking ocean frontages around Dunningham Reserve and Bundock Park and then down the northern headland that showcases the select homesteads of multi-millionaires.
This time Dylan Jacobs answers his own phone and it doesn’t sound like the meditation and sunshine have done much to relax him. ‘Jacobs,’ he snaps, irritably.
‘Nic Karakandez, Mr Jacobs.’ The cop’s voice is calm and friendly. ‘Just to be clear, you are Dylan Jacobs, the husband of Tamara Jacobs the Hollywood writer?’
‘Why do you want to know, Mr Karikeez?’
‘Karakandez – Lieutenant Kar-a-kan-deez of the LAPD.’
‘I am Dylan Jacobs. Tamara is my wife.’ The aggression has gone from his voice. ‘Why are you ringing me, Lieutenant?’
‘I’m afraid the body of a woman has been found at Manhattan Beach. From photographs we’ve obtained it appears to be that of Tamara.’
‘Dear God. It can’t be—’
‘Mr Jacobs, I apologise for calling you like this, but I’m a homicide detective and we’re treating the death as suspicious.’
Jacobs struggles to speak. ‘This isn’t real. It just can’t be. You’re certain it’s Tamara?’
Nic weighs up the voice down the line and decides the shock is genuine. ‘We’re as sure as we can be without next-of-kin identification.’ One thing is bugging him, though, something he just has to mention. ‘Mr Jacobs, I’ve listened to all the messages on your wife’s home answerphone and despite her being missing for more than twenty-four hours, none of them are from you.’
Jacobs lets out a long sigh. ‘We don’t talk much, Detective. Maybe once a week. Sometimes less. We’re estranged, have been for years. I have a home out here in Sydney with my partner – I believe you spoke to him earlier.’
Now Nic gets the picture – a rich married man approaching the autumn of his life comes out of the closet. Probably, for his wife’s sake he agrees to maintain a veneer of heterosexual respectability for as long as possible. ‘Mr Jacobs, in a moment an officer from the New South Wales police will knock on your door and show you a photograph we’ve scanned and emailed to him. We need you to officially confirm it is your wife – do you understand?’
‘I do. Is there, then, a chance you could be wrong?’
‘We really don’t think so. The ID is more of a formality.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m very sorry for your loss and for the fact that we have to do this. I’d also like the policeman to ask you a few questions, to see if you can help us find whoever was responsible for your wife’s death. Are you able to do that for us?’
Your wife’s death. The words stun Dylan Jacobs into silence. He and Tamara have been apart for some time but he can’t imagine never seeing her again. Never wondering about her. Never hoping she’s forgiven him and is having a good life without him.
‘Mr Jacobs, did you hear me?’
He’s still struggling as he nods at the phone. ‘Yes,’ he manages finally, ‘I heard you.’ He places the receiver back on its cradle feeling hollow.
His world has changed. His wife is dead. He is no longer a married man.
13
SATURDAY MORNING
INGLEWOOD, CALIFORNIA
Eight a.m. and Nic rolls out of bed more tired than when he got in. He crashed in the early hours then woke four or five times. Insomnia has been habitual since Carolina and Max’s deaths. He turns on the TV as background noise – virtual company – and because his apartment is so small he can still listen in the shower.
He’s towelling dry when his cell phone rings. Without looking he knows it’s Mitzi. She’s the only one who ever calls at weekends and as it was too late last night to update her on his conversation with Jacobs. She’s probably itching for info.
‘Morning,’ he says, still rubbing his wet hair. ‘I’m fresh out the shower and was going to make coffee then call you.’
‘You mean I caught you naked? Lordy lordy. Please answer yes, even if it’s not true. You know how us married women need a little harmless fun.’
‘Butt naked and in all my athletic glory.’
‘Enough, now I’m having flushes. How’d it go with Jacobs?’
He drops the towel and dresses with one hand as he talks. ‘Husband turns out to be gay and living with a partner half his age in Sydney, Australia.’
‘No way.’
‘Every way, by the sound of it. Aussie cops tell me he and his wife split several years back after he admitted to his homosexuality, but they never divorced.’
‘Why so?’
‘Bit vague. Dylan said
Tamara didn’t want everyone laughing at her and as he always worked away a lot he just went along with the story that he was always travelling and working.’
‘But now he has a home in Australia?’
‘Yeah, and the South of France and Bali. He’s a property guy, sells top-end stuff to the rich and famous, gets a few bargains for himself along the way.’
‘Sweet deal.’
‘Cops in New South Wales were really helpful. I wired a photo that one of our CSIs recovered from Tamara’s house and Jacobs ID’d it as Tamara.’
‘Where was Mr Property Tycoon when she was killed?’
‘Sydney, where he’s been for the past month. His story checks out. He couldn’t have done it.’
‘No motive?’
‘Don’t think so. He gave us his lawyers’ details so we called them. Dylan Jacobs signed an agreement more than a year back giving his wife the LA property and dividing stocks, shares and savings. Seemed a strange but amicable affair.’
The sound of teenage girls shouting at each other spills down the phone. ‘Keep it quiet!’ Mitzi with a hand over the receiver. ‘Don’t go annoying your father, he’s trying to sleep.’ She waits for them to shut up then speaks to Nic again. ‘Sorry, I gotta go, they both have parties today and they’re wound up already. You heading boatward?’
‘You read my mind.’
‘Have a good one.’
‘You too. Hope the girls have fun.’ He hangs up and pictures Mitzi bundling Jade and Amber into the family’s beat-up station wagon while her lazy no-good bum of a husband stays in bed and sleeps off another Friday night bender. She could do so much better.
Nic makes instant coffee and thinks a while more about Mitzi’s old man. She said he hit her once. Slapped her after he saw a male neighbour coming out of the house when he rolled home drunk from a bar crawl with the boys. The idiot put two and two together and made five. Mitzi had kicked his ass back and that had been it. But Nic wonders now if the strapped-up fingers he saw in the office were really the result of another fight. He pours OJ and eats a cup of granola without any milk – a quirk dating back to bachelor days when he was always running out of everything except cereal. If Mitzi’s in trouble, she’ll tell him. And if she is, then it’ll be his pleasure to go and straighten her husband out.