They went through it over a dozen times, each time going through the physical motions with Chase speaking Sparrow’s lines, until everything was locked perfectly in her mind.
“One last thing,” he said as he gathered up the handcuffs, gag, and hobble. “When lying, people have a tendency to caress themselves, such as touching the forehead or stroking their arms. It’s a self-comforting gesture that a good interrogator will be watching for, so always be aware of what your hands are doing. Keep them still and don’t look away when forced to lie. Maintain eye contact, but not to the point of overdoing it.”
“I will. You need to go now.” When he simply stood there, clearly hesitant to leave, she added, “I promise I won’t incriminate you.”
“Larissa, after all I’ve done, why would you protect me?”
“I told you. Because you came back for me.”
“And that’s the only reason?” There was a strange, almost hopeful expression in his blue eyes.
“What other reason could there be?”
He gazed at her for several moments as if he might elaborate. Finally, he shrugged. “I don’t know. None, I guess.”
Feet squishing in her shoes, she walked with him as far as the main house, the .45 still clutched in her hand. She was starting to wheeze again, and she glanced up to find him gazing at her, blue eyes pinched in worry. “Where’s your inhaler?”
“I dropped it inside the house.”
He spread his hands to encompass the house and the surrounding grounds. “How does a guy go from being a maintenance man to living in a mansion?”
“I was wondering the same thing myself. The house is femininely decorated, so it must belong to a woman.”
“Then where is she?”
She shrugged. “Maybe he forced himself inside, like he did in Charleston with the doctor. But this time, after he killed the owner, he decided to stay.” She gazed about her, at the unfamiliar trees and the brown, rolling hills. “Where are we?” When he regarded her with a quizzical expression, she clarified. “What state is this?”
“California.”
Freaking California. How was she going to get home? Goddamn him.
When he raised an arm to wrap around her shoulder, she stepped aside, out of his reach. He lowered the arm back to his side. She’d repeatedly told him Sparrow was going to kill her, but the thickheaded son-of-a-bitch had refused to listen. Subsequently, she’d nearly died.
Evidently unaware of her growing anger, he stopped at the front stairs and turned toward her as if he would take her in his arms once more. Taking a step back, she raised the gun and aimed it at him. The eyes behind the ski mask widened, and he froze.
“I should shoot you for getting me into this mess.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you did, but I’m hoping you don’t.”
“Then you’d better leave now, while you’re still able.”
He backed away, hands extended, palms forward. “I’m going. And again, I’m so very sorry. For everything.”
“You’ve got one hour, and then I’m calling the police.”
“Find a towel, put some ice in it, and hold it on your eye. It’ll help keep the swelling down.” He stood there gazing down at her. “I’m going to miss you, Larissa.” When she made no reply, he turned and started jogging toward the road.
She trudged up the broad front steps past the pots of colorful impatiens, lowered herself to sit on the uppermost stair, and raked wet hair away from her face. She’d been beaten nearly senseless. She’d nearly been tortured to death. She’d watched a man die. She’d helped to alter a crime scene, and was now planning to lie to the police.
Despite all this, as she sat there watching her kidnapper jog down the drive, the only thing going through her mind was…
I don’t even know his name, or what he looks like.
The sun came out from behind a cloud. A small flock of sparrows argued back and forth from the pair of jacaranda trees flanking the walk. In the distance, a dog barked. Otherwise, the day was quiet and still. Halfway down the drive, he stopped and turned to gaze back at her. Finally, he raised a hand in farewell, and continued on his way.
Once he was out of sight, she heaved herself shakily to her feet, uttering a ragged hiss as a bolt of pain shot through her hip. The front door, a wood-framed expanse of glass, was locked. Well, crap. Walking all the way around the house to the open rear door seemed a feat beyond her capabilities. She could shoot the glass out but, unlike the first two shots fired inside the soundproofed cottage, someone would hear this one and call the police, and she’d promised him an hour.
Setting the gun down, she picked up a heavy pot of impatiens, turned her head aside, and heaved it. The clay pot smashed through the glass and crashed to the marble inside. Using the gun, she knocked out several jagged panes of glass still clinging around the edges, and then slipped through the doorframe into the foyer, stepping over the mess of glass fragments, potshards, bedraggled impatiens, and scattered soil.
Her inhaler lay on the living room carpet by the wide-open French doors. Gazing out over the pool to the “playhouse”, she sucked in the mist, then moved over to flop wearily onto a pale-green leather sofa. The mantle clock ticked loudly as the bare-breasted mermaid holding up the glass tabletop regarded her placidly.
This house definitely belonged to a woman. Judging by the décor, a woman who was into other women.
Her head pounded in time with her heartbeat. She thought about locating a bathroom where she could search for a bottle of aspirin, but it simply seemed like too much trouble. All of her emotions felt strangely muted, strangely mild, as if this were merely a dream from which she would soon awaken.
The mantle clock ticked loudly in the silence. Tick, tick, tick, tick. A floorboard creaked somewhere overhead. A timber settling? Or a footstep? Picking up the .45 from the cushion beside her, she turned sideways on the sofa, putting her back to the corner so no one could sneak up on her. She knew she should search the house, but simply couldn’t find the strength or willpower to do so.
Glancing up at the ticking clock above the fireplace, she noted the time. You have one hour, she mentally told her kidnapper. Make the best of it. Drawing her knees up to her chin, she wrapped her arms around her legs, leaned her head back against the sofa, and thought…
I’m going to miss you too.
* * * * *
As Chase he drove away from the estate, guilt ached away at the back of his skull, as if there were a tiny rodent trapped there, gnawing at his brain. He’d almost gotten Larissa killed. How the fuck could he have been so stupid? Why hadn’t he listened to her?
He’d thought he’d gotten over the pain of Michelle’s betrayal years ago. Because he’d let his personal issues cloud his judgment, he’d refused to believe Larissa and, in subsequence, she’d taken a horrendous beating. Worse, she’d nearly been tortured to death.
As soon as he reached an urban area, he pulled behind a fast food restaurant and slipped between the seats into the cargo compartment. Although he needed to distance himself from the area as quickly as possible, it was imperative that he first dispose of all evidence linking him to this horrible fiasco.
Larissa’s blood smeared his damp tee shirt. He quickly stripped and changed into clean clothes from the duffle bag. He shoved the damp shirt and jeans, the ski masks, gloves, handcuffs, hobble, disposable cell phone, and ball gag into a garbage bag, then tied off the bag and pitched it into the dumpster.
When he spotted a group of homeless men congregating under a highway overpass, he braked to a stop just long enough to pass the duffle bag containing the hotplate, dishes, and his remaining clothes out the window.
Several blocks later, he pulled up at a stoplight beside a taxi. There was also the forty-thousand in his possession to consider. If the police stopped him, he’d have no plausible explanation for having that much cash on him. The thought of the money made him pound the steering wheel and shout “Fuck!” loud enough that the turbaned taxi driv
er turned startled eyes in his direction. He hadn’t given Larissa any money to get home. He could only hope the police would arrange transportation for her.
He pulled into the next drug store he spotted, went inside to purchase a mailing envelope, and inquired as to the location of the nearest post office. Back in the van again, he stuffed the four bundles of hundred-dollar bills into the bubble-wrap-lined envelope, addressed it, and then headed to the post office.
From there, he pulled into a carwash, parked near the self-serve vacuums and killed the engine. Two Hispanic men were washing a glossy-black, beautifully restored ‘78 Thunderbird. He pulled the carpet from the floor of the vehicle, rolled it up, and exited the vehicle to find the Thunderbird exiting onto the street. Alone for the moment, he shoved the carpet into a trashcan, then crawled back into the cargo hold, closed the door behind him, and set about removing the two bolts from the floor.
When finished, he loaded the vacuum with quarters, crawled back inside, and made sure to hit every single nook and cranny. When he finished the back, he started on the driver’s compartment. Even though Larissa had never been in the front, some of her DNA, such as a strand of her hair, might have transferred from his clothes, and he intended to take no chances.
He’d already been enough of a fool.
CHAPTER 22
After finally calling the police, Larissa grabbed the garbage bag containing her dirty clothes and blow dryer, limped to the speaker panel next to the front door, and remotely opened the front gate. Livid bruises stood out starkly on her arms. Her split lower lip and one eye felt hugely swollen. Her entire body ached from the roots of her hair to the great toe on her right foot, which she’d stubbed on the pool steps. Both her right knee and left hip throbbed.
Less than ten minutes later, the police arrived in four separate vehicles, lights flashing but sirens silent in deference to the neighborhood’s wealthy residents. Gold shields hanging from breast pockets, the two homicide detectives alighted from the one unmarked vehicle, their eyes opening wide in shock as they took in her appearance. Damn. How bad did she look?
“I’m Detective Fahey. This is Detective Ramos.”
With gray streaking his sandy-blond hair, Fahey looked to be in his early fifties. His long, narrow, homely face reminded Larissa of a camel’s, and his down-angled eyes made him appear perpetually sad. His rumpled, brown suit hung loose from his shoulders, as if he’d recently lost weight.
Ramos was stocky, a good six inches shorter than Fahey, and at least ten years younger. Gel slicked back his jet-black hair, and startlingly white teeth flashed in his swarthy, movie-star-handsome face.
Neither detective bothered to introduce the uniformed officers.
Larissa introduced herself, explained briefly how she’d been kidnapped and brought there, and how she’d killed Sparrow.
Fahey’s first question was, “Where’s the weapon?”
She aimed a thumb over her shoulder at the main house. “On the table just inside the front door.”
“And the body?”
She turned pointed toward Sparrow’s playroom. “Back there in the guesthouse.”
“Is there anyone else here?” asked Ramos.
She shrugged one shoulder. “Not that I’ve seen.”
Ramos’ canny, dark gaze regarded her speculatively. “Why are you wet?”
“I knocked Sparrow into the swimming pool, and he pulled me in with him.”
He eyed the garbage bag she clutched. “What’s in the bag?”
“My clothes and blow dryer.”
“Mind if I have a look.”
Fighting an urge to roll her eyes, she handed it over.
While Ramos rummaged through her dirty clothes, Fahey radioed for additional backup to help search and secure the house and grounds. Moving mechanically as she led them toward the guesthouse, she recounted how Sparrow had broken into her apartment two years ago, how she’d shot him, and how he’d then fled and forced the unfortunate doctor to treat his wounds before he’d murdered him. “Sparrow looked much different back then,” she added, “but it’s definitely him.”
The uniformed officers preceded them into the guesthouse with weapons drawn. Fahey and Ramos exchanged startled glances as, from within, one of the uniforms exclaimed, “Holy shit!”
Once the uniforms had cleared the building, Larissa followed the detectives inside and stood by the open door as Fahey quickly checked the body for a nonexistent pulse. All five men then stood about in varying attitudes of paralyzed astonishment as they took in the wooden crucifix with its attached ropes and the assorted instruments of torture. Ramos stood looking down at the body, hands on hips, then turned to her. “This is a big guy. You’re telling us that you were able to disarm him?”
“I have a green belt in karate.”
Detective Fahey said to one of the uniforms, “Gonzales. Find out who owns this property.” As the officer pulled out his radio, Fahey turned to her. “Miss, you are one lucky lady.” He fished a pen and small notebook from his pocket. “Tell me about your abductor.”
She’d worry later about the moral principles of lying to the authorities. For now, all that mattered was that her kidnapper didn’t go to prison. “I never saw his face. He always kept me blindfolded and gagged except for when he fed me, and then he wore a ski mask.”
“There’s still a lot you can tell us. For example, did he have an accent?”
She shrugged. “Other than to bark an occasional command, he rarely spoke. He definitely wasn’t from South Carolina, but I’m afraid I can’t be more specific than that.”
“How tall was he?”
She gazed at the detective for a moment. “A few inches shorter than you.”
“I’m five-eleven, so that would put him at about five-eight-or-nine.” She nodded, and he jotted something in the notebook. “How about build?”
“Medium. Not fat, not skinny.”
“Muscular?”
She pictured the broad shoulders, the bulging biceps, the washboard abs. “No, not really.”
“How about hair color?”
“Hidden under the ski mask.”
“What about body hair?”
An image of the dark hair on his muscular forearms flashed into her mind. “Light. Reddish-blond.”
As Fahey jotted that down, Gonzales snapped his cell phone shut. “Guess who owns this house? Coco Keswick.”
“I know that name from somewhere,” Larissa blurted.
Fahey regarded her with raised eyebrows. “Coco Keswick was a porn star back in the eighties. She later started her own film company and began producing and directing her own movies.”
That’s how she knew the name. Coco Keswick made movies targeted at women and she’d seen a few. They were good.
“Most of them were probably filmed right here on the property,” he informed her.
“At her own home?”
“Most adult films are produced inside homes right here in the San Fernando Valley. We have the dubious distinction of being the porn capital of the U.S.” Fahey gazed about at all the bondage equipment. “But I had no idea she’d branched out into S&M films.”
Larissa leaned wearily against the doorframe. “I doubt she did. I think this is all Sparrow’s doing.” The room seemed to spin around her. “I need some fresh air. If no one minds, I’m going to step outside.”
* * * * *
Thirty minutes later, various official-capacity vehicles lined the driveway, their arrays of rotating beacons lighting the day with blood-red pulses. Sitting under a tree with her back to its trunk and her knees drawn up to her chest, Larissa watched as two technicians wheeled Sparrow’s black-bagged body out of the playroom. Inside, the crime scene was now a hive of activity as lab technicians took photographs and bagged evidence.
Her clothes and hair were drying quickly due to the low humidity here but, despite the afternoon’s warmth, she trembled and shivered. An unshakable cold had taken hold of her as if her blood had turned to ice water. H
er asthma had worsened to the extent that the new inhaler was no longer having much effect and she couldn’t draw in enough air to fill her lungs.
Detective Fahey emerged from the guesthouse, glanced in her direction, did a double take, and hurried over to her. “Ms. Santos, are you okay?”
“I can’t breathe.”
“I'm taking you to the hospital. Wait here while I bring the car around.” After speaking with Detective Ramos, he took off at a jog toward the front of the house.
Two minutes later, he was back. As he helped her to the car, she gasped, “I’m so cold.”
He immediately shucked off his suit jacket and draped it around her shoulders. “You’re going into delayed shock, which is no surprise considering all you’ve been through.”
Fahey called ahead to let the hospital know they were coming. When they arrived several minutes later with lights flashing, she was shaking so badly her teeth chattered like castanets. A nurse escorted her into a curtained cubicle and, while Larissa sat shivering and wheezing, Fahey quickly explained the situation to the ER doctor. There followed a flurry of activity in which she was cocooned within several pre-warmed blankets, given two oblong white tablets and two tiny blue ones to swallow, and started on the nebulizer. Once she was breathing easier, the doctor examined her facial injuries and insisted on taking X-rays to rule out skull fractures.
After the radiology technician had departed, the doctor put two tiny stitches in her lower lip. “See your family physician in four or five days to have the sutures removed. In the meantime, keep the wound covered in petroleum jelly to minimize scarring.”
Once they were alone behind the curtain, Fahey leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “Ms. Santos, did either your abductor or Sparrow sexually assault you? If so, we’ll need to do a rape kit while we’re here.”
If they did a rape kit, they’d be sure to find her kidnapper’s DNA. “Neither man raped me.”
“You and your abductor spent several nights together. Even if under duress—”
“He never tried to coerce me either.”
Fahey had the alert, cynical eyes of someone who had seen everything and, subsequently, was now surprised by nothing. Those eyes now bored into hers. “He could have done so while you were drugged and unconscious.”
The Heart Has Reasons Page 23