by Sean Black
Ty nodded. ‘Five minutes of pure crazy.’
‘Okay, give me the Cliff Notes,’ said Lock.
67
Wearing Aviator sunglasses, a grey USC Trojans sweatshirt, with the hood pulled up to cover her face, Gretchen quickly ended the call she’d just made, using the code word they’d established with the LAPD that would allow them to separate official communication from some random civilian trying to crash their party. She pressed both thumbs down on either side of the back of the cell phone, and slid off the panel. She dug a long fingernail inside, pulled out the long black battery and tossed it into the trash can along with the tiny SIM chip. She got up from the bench and began to make her way slowly toward the apartment entrance.
As students milled around Cardinal Gardens, either waiting for friends or heading to and from classes at the main campus, she counted down slowly from thirty. She had guessed it would take twenty seconds for USC’s TrojanAlert system to activate. Krank had gone for fifteen seconds. Loser had hedged his bets at twenty-one or over.
Out of the corner of her eye, Gretchen could see the happy couple in their usual spot. She wondered how dumb they were to be still on campus with everything that had happened. If the situation had been reversed, she would have been on a plane to Europe long before now.
The countdown had reached seventeen when she heard the first pings as the incoming text message started hitting people’s cell phones. She took a moment to savor the reactions as they shifted from puzzlement to a creeping alarm. People’s bodies stiffened. They began looking around. If they were walking, their pace quickened. If they had been sitting down they began to get up. A blonde co-ed was already calling someone and shrieking into her phone like a complete drama queen. Gretchen almost regretted that she was here to do a job. She would have relished the chance to give the blonde airhead something to actually scream about.
A campus security patrol car rolled past, the window down, the rent-a-cop hanging his arm out, scoping out the area. She adjusted her course so that her back was to him and all he would see was a frightened little student heading back to her dorm building as instructed.
The system was a thing of beauty. If you were in a classroom, dorm or other building you had to stay there. If you were outside you had to move inside. The rationale was obvious. Shooters roamed. If you weren’t in their path, they couldn’t stumble across you. If they couldn’t stumble across you, you would be safe. It made sense. Unless . . .
A jock college-athlete type guy was holding the door open, shooing people inside. He wasn’t taking time to check anyone’s ID. He was just standing there being a good little white knight. She stopped and glanced back over her shoulder. Sure enough, Stacy and her dumb-ass frat-boy boyfriend were making a beeline toward her. She hurried through the open door and made a dash for the stairwell. She ran up the stairs until she hit the third floor, pushed out through the door and into the corridor.
She knew where Stacy’s room was. She headed straight for it. A couple of students were crowded in the corridor but they were so busy chatting about the security alert that they didn’t appear to see her. She swiped a cloned key card across the door handle. It clicked open. She walked inside, taking an immediate left into the bathroom. She stood behind the door and waited.
The wait wasn’t a long one. Stacy and her boyfriend were obedient little sheeple, Gretchen thought. The door opened and they walked in. She had kept the bathroom door half closed, at the same angle it had been when she had walked in. The gap between the door and the frame allowed her to watch them as they walked into the tiny studio.
Stacy told the boyfriend she needed to pee. Gretchen tensed. As she walked in, Gretchen grabbed her round the neck. She made sure she could see the blade of the knife. Stacy’s eyes went wide. The boyfriend must have had his earphones on because he didn’t react to the slight scuffle. Gretchen had to walk Stacy back out before he realized what was going on.
He got to his feet. He raised his hands. ‘What is this? What do you want?’ he asked.
Stacy wriggled and Gretchen had to strengthen her choke hold. ‘Sit down,’ she said.
He did as he was told, then reached into his pocket and dragged out his wallet. ‘Here, if it’s money you want, you can take this.’
When he started pulling out credit cards like so much confetti, Gretchen poked the tip of the knife into Stacy’s cheek just enough to draw blood. ‘I’ve not come here for money.’
This seemed to shatter his worldview – as if money was the only motivation on offer in his universe. He looked up at her. ‘So what do you want?’
Gretchen dug out the small handheld Flip camera and threw it over to him. He caught it one-handed. ‘Your girlfriend here is going to put the record straight about Marcus Griffiths, and you’re going to record it.’
Stacy began to struggle. Gretchen let her see the blade again. ‘You didn’t tell the whole truth, did you?’ she said.
‘What’s this about?’ he demanded.
‘Just hit that red button when I’m clear,’ said Gretchen, sheathing the knife and coming back up with a handgun. ‘I’ll ask the questions. The little princess here will answer and I’ll be on my way.’ She loosened her grip, and stuck her face right next to Stacy’s. ‘Are you ready?’
Stacy nodded. ‘Yes.’
Gretchen stepped away from her and moved toward the window. She quickly closed the curtains, and raised the gun so that it was aimed at Stacy. ‘Okay, so tell us about the first time you slept with Marcus Griffiths when you were dating your shit-for-brains boyfriend here. Then tell everyone how you changed your mind and told everyone he was stalking you so that everyone wouldn’t see you for the little slut you truly are.’
Twenty minutes later, Gretchen slipped out of the studio-sized dorm room, and closed the door behind her. There was a slick of blood on one sleeve of her sweatshirt. Now that she was outside in the corridor it worried her. Someone was bound to notice it. She checked her watch. She was leaving a little early. The dorms, along with the rest of the campus, would still be locked down. She had time.
She wanded the card past the door and walked back in. As she passed the bathroom she could see the blood-covered bodies lying in the tub. She kept walking, opened a drawer and found a suitable replacement sweatshirt. She took off hers and put it on, making sure that she still had the Flip camera on her as she walked back out into the corridor.
It was empty. The door leading to the stairwell opened and a security guard walked through. Gretchen raised the gun and fired three shots, two at his chest, and a final shot at his head as he fell. She stepped over him and kept walking. No one came out of their room. They stayed where they were, just as they’d been instructed. This time it would save their lives. Next time would be another matter.
68
The Audi skidded to a halt between two black Dodge Chargers fitted with tell-tale parcel-shelf emergency lights that signified some serious brass had arrived to supervise the crime scene, as well as any ongoing situation. The vehicles were issued to LAPD officers of captain ranking and above. Homicide scenes demanded a visit from the on-duty captain for the division. Two high-ranking officers signified something a little more serious.
Lock got out of the Audi, pushing through the crowds of students. He headed for the walkway that led from the street into Cardinal Gardens. He had spent the last twenty minutes trying to raise Stacy and her boyfriend with no luck. His calls had gone to voicemail.
At the end of the walkway two patrol cops stood with a couple of university security officers. Lock reached them. They weren’t about to let him pass. He scoped the open area behind them for any sign of the detectives he had spoken to previously but if they were anywhere it would be inside.
‘Excuse me,’ he said to the nearest cop. ‘I’m here to collect someone.’
The cop eyed him. ‘No one’s leaving right now. You’ll have to wait.’
The cop’s partner peered over Lock’s shoulder. �
��That your vehicle, sir? You’d better move it before it gets towed.’
Lock stood his ground. ‘I will. As soon as I’ve collected my friend. She’s in that building over there,’ he said, pointing to one of the dorm buildings where a bunch of cops stood checking the ID cards of some shaken-looking students. ‘Come on, the family’s worried. If I know she’s okay then I can come back, but I need to know.’
The cops traded a look. Lock was pushing his luck, and he knew it.
‘What’s the name? I’ll see if I can get you some information,’ said the taller of the two cops.
As soon as he gave them the name he knew it was bad news. One of the university security guards started to say something, only to be cut off with a look from the cops.
‘You’re family?’ they asked Lock.
‘A friend of the family.’
The two cops were stony-faced. If she was a victim, then who was informed of what and when was a procedural matter. Nothing spooked cops more than procedure.
‘Sir, we can’t release information to anyone other than family,’ said the taller cop. ‘Now, I’ve asked you once already to move your vehicle.’
Lock decided it was best to cut his losses. He already knew the news was almost certainly not good. EMS vehicles were parked on the concourse but the paramedics were sipping coffee rather than rushing anyone out. ‘Is there a number they can call?’ he asked, playing his concerned-family-friend card one more time.
A security guard palmed him the USC emergency contact number on a card. Lock thanked them for their help and walked slowly back to his car.
He got in, and moved a hundred yards down the block. He thought about circling back around and trying to gain entry on the other side but decided against it. It would be the same conversation, and overly persistent civilians hanging about crime scenes tended to make cops suspicious. Suspicion got you arrested. Lock didn’t have the time for that. He spun the wheel and headed back toward the freeway.
Snagged in traffic, he tried to unpick why someone would go settle an old score when Marcus was already dead. It made no apparent sense. Was it some kind of screwed-up apology for Krank and the others having killed him? That didn’t follow either. None of it did. There seemed to be no logic to any of this. Yet something told Lock that this wasn’t entirely random. It would have been easy to frame the events of the last few days as some Manson-Family style killing spree – an attempt to garner notoriety. There was more to it, though. He didn’t know what it was but, as red lights blazed him, he sensed it hadn’t yet begun. The Brentwood house, and now this? They came off like warm-ups for the main act.
69
Ty shouldered his way through the apartment door, laden with Tarian’s bags. Marines travelled lighter, he thought, as Tarian followed him inside. He walked through into the bedroom and set them on the carpet.
‘It’s basic, but it’s quiet and you’ll be left alone,’ he said.
The carefully choreographed journey from the hotel had passed in silence. Tarian had stared through tinted glass at the city streets, a ghost trapped among the living. Ty had known better than to try to comfort her with anything more than his presence. There was nothing he could say to make it right. If she wanted to talk, she would, and he’d listen. But she hadn’t wanted to talk until now.
‘Thanks for doing this,’ she said, unzipping a suitcase and pulling out clothes. ‘I don’t know how I would have coped if it hadn’t been for you and Ryan helping me.’
‘Not a problem,’ said Ty. He opened one of the closets and grabbed a bunch of hangers from the rail. He handed some to Tarian and began placing some of her clothes on the others.
‘How long have you and Ryan worked together?’ she asked him.
‘Long time.’
‘He seems pretty . . .’ she seemed to be searching for the best phrase ‘. . . self-contained,’ she said finally.
‘Yeah, he can be.’
‘Was he different before his fiancée was killed?’ Tarian asked.
Ty thought about it. Was he different? It was hard for him to recall. So much had changed. ‘I guess so. But he’s always been pretty tightly wrapped. Comes with the job. You try not to be cynical about life, but it’s difficult when you see some of the things we do.’
‘I think I can understand that,’ she said, as her eyes fell away from him.
Ty bet she could. Her worldview had changed radically and forever. Most people walked around assuming that life was broadly benevolent. Often it was. You could go weeks, months, often years and decades without anything bad happening to you. Then, from out of nowhere, Fate would strike. A car accident, a late-night knock at the door, blood in the bottom of the toilet bowl and bad news from your doctor. Or, in Tarian’s case, a son trying to find the answers many searched for and falling in with a dangerous set of people in his quest to find his place in the world. And yet, thought Ty, to accept that the world was malign wasn’t healthy either. The truth was, as far as he had seen, the world was indifferent.
‘He got better, though,’ said Ty. ‘He might never get over it entirely, but he’s better now than he was. You should remember that.’
She looked up again. ‘I’ll try.’
Ty’s cell chirped. Lock’s name flashed up. ‘Excuse me for a moment,’ he said, stepping out into the corridor to take Lock’s call.
‘How’s she doing?’ Lock asked.
‘She’s functional. Hasn’t flipped out yet. Probably still in shock,’ said Ty. ‘Might get real when the bodies are released and she has to start planning the funeral. What’s the deal at USC? False alarm?’
‘Not quite. The call about a bomb was a bust but Stacy and her boyfriend are dead,’ said Lock.
‘Damn. They have anyone?’ Ty asked.
‘Not yet, but from the rumors that are flying around I think it was the girl, Gretchen. Looks like she snuck into their dorm and offed them while everyone else was running around looking for a bomb or a live shooter or both,’ said Lock.
‘Think I should tell Tarian?’ said Ty.
‘No, she has enough to deal with right now, but I think we need to see if we can do some more digging on this Gretchen chick. I’m starting to think that perhaps Charles Kim isn’t the biggest bad ass among this crew.’
70
Krank used a crowbar to wedge open the wooden container. Inside were three specially modified .223 caliber Bushmaster XM-15 E2S rifles. They could each take a fifty-round clip. They were semi-automatic, capable of firing at least seven hundred rounds per minute. Not that this was a capability they would use. Neither Krank nor Gretchen nor Loser planned on a strategy of spray and pray. They had something far more methodical in mind.
Krank had used the last of his cash to purchase them using converted Bitcoin currency on a completely encrypted dark web marketplace. The sale would be traced but, like everything else, it would be too late by then. The deed would have been done.
Gretchen had argued for other weapons. Krank had argued against. The use of this particular rifle was symbolic. It had been the weapon used at Sandy Hook. The media would make the connection. Sales would surge, as they had after that mass shooting when the American public had peeled every single Bushmaster XM-15 that was for sale from the walls of the nation’s gun dealers.
They had discussed making their stand at an elementary school. Krank had argued that the younger the victims, the more emotive, therefore powerful, the message. But Gretchen was never going to allow it. Not because she had any moral objection, but because for her their target was personal. In the end they had agreed that volume would compensate for the reduced shock factor. Gretchen got her way. The irony of it hadn’t passed Krank by – the only female calling the shots.
71
Lock tucked his cell phone back in his pocket. He’d spent the past hour trying to contact anyone who might allow him an insight into Gretchen. Her mother had hung up on him after first denying, then eventually conceding, she had a daughter.
It had been the same for a list of former friends, co-workers and relations. The overriding emotion Lock detected had been fear. Gretchen scared people.
Three-quarters of an hour in, he had found someone who wasn’t scared of Gretchen. A college professor who’d had a run-in with her while she was in her class. Not all college students got on with every professor, but this had been a pretty spectacular clash that had resulted in Gretchen’s expulsion and a restraining order. The professor’s name was Janet Cristopher. She had found the experience so upsetting that she had left her tenured position after an extended absence when she was treated for stress. She had only recently taken a new job, starting afresh in a different state.
‘So where’s she teach now?’ Ty asked Lock, as his friend finishing bringing him up to speed.
‘That’s where it gets interesting. She’s right here,’ said Lock.
‘Oh, yeah?’ said Ty.
‘Yup.’ said Lock. ‘Barnes College, private school out in Malibu. I’m going to go talk to her.’
‘You sure you don’t want to stay here with Tarian and I’ll go check this out?’ said Ty.
The bedroom door was closed. Tarian was sleeping. In a few hours, Lock had to take her downtown to get an update from the LAPD. For now, though, it was best to let her rest. She had a lot ahead of her. Funerals to plan. A million unimaginable choices to make as she planned them. Closed or open coffins? To bury her son with her husbands or separately? Decisions that, in the normal run of life and death, were hard enough but that violent death made close to unbearable.
‘Appreciate the offer,’ Lock told Ty. ‘But I got this one.’
72
Lock took a right off Pacific Coast Highway, and drove up the winding canyon road that led to the entrance of Barnes College. The main gatehouse was manned. He pulled in behind two other vehicles and waited his turn. He hit the button to lower his window and drove forward until he was level with the gatehouse window. He handed the guard his driver’s license and told him whom he was visiting.