“Check the batteries. It’s been a while.”
While Roy fussed with the battery compartment, Tom returned to the drawer for a gravity knife. He placed it in his pants pocket. Tom wasn’t going to be caught without a back-up weapon again.
“I thought those knives were illegal.”
“So? Call a cop.”
Tom drove, sparing the siren now that traffic had died down. He parked in the alley next to Jessup’s building.
“We going stealth mode or noisy, give him another shot at you?”
“Stealth. If we find anything, we can set a trap for him later.”
Regardless, Tom pulled out his Glock and made sure a round was chambered.
“You look whiter than usual. You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You can wait in the car, if you want. I’ll find you a lollipop.”
Tom gave him a glare. They walked in through the back entrance and up to Jessup’s apartment. Tom opened the door as quietly as possible, one hand on the butt of his pistol. He flipped on the lights, and after a quick tour revealed the place was empty he relaxed a bit.
Roy took out the Foxhound and played with the dials. He started at the bookcases, waving the antenna in a serpentine pattern from top to bottom. Nothing happened, so he moved on to the near wall. When the antenna pointed at the electrical outlet, the red light began to blink and the Foxhound vibrated. He nodded at Tom and pointed.
Tom knelt next to the outlet and stared. It seemed completely normal. A lamp was plugged into the left socket. He switched it on and the lamp worked fine.
Tom went into the kitchen, where he recalled seeing some screwdrivers in a junk drawer. He found one and brought it back to the outlet. Then he unplugged the lamp and carefully unscrewed the cover.
It was definitely a bug. He removed two more screws and took out the entire assembly, careful not to jostle or disconnect it. The device was high-tech and professional. A flat platform mike was taped to the inside of the wall, with a long antenna running alongside. It drew power off of the apartment’s electricity, and the current was live and allowed the sockets to function. Tom looked for any labels or markings, and wasn’t surprised when he didn’t find any.
He put the device back and joined up with Roy in the bedroom. His partner was kneeling next to another socket, the Foxhound blinking. Tom took the detector into the kitchen. Within two minutes, he’d found a third bug in an outlet next to the phone.
Neither one of them said a word until they were back in the car. Roy spoke first.
“Damn. That guy had more bugs than a housing project.”
“Not homemade spy gear, either. That was some major league equipment.”
“Even in Vice, we didn’t have stuff that slick.”
“So who does have stuff like that?”
“The government.”
They exchanged a look. Tom started the car and pulled out of the alley, eyes on the rearview. “What next? Try a sting, draw Kilpatrick into a trap?”
“What else can we do?”
“Call the district, have Wally check the fax. I’m waiting on Jessup’s phone records.”
Roy got on the cell and Tom considered this new development. Whoever bugged Jessup’s apartment was big league. Kilpatrick was the killer, but someone had to be behind him. Perhaps the mysterious Bert.
“Fax came.” Roy dialed another number. “Jessup called the O’Hare Hyatt three times in the last few days.”
“See if they have a convention going.”
“Way ahead of you, partner.”
Tom hung a ralph and headed for the expressway.
“Got it.” Roy pocketed his cell phone. “The Hyatt is hosting a huge convention all this week, hotel is booked solid.”
“What kind of convention?”
“It’s an NFLCA expo.”
“Enlighten me.”
“The National Fishing Lures Collector’s Association.”
“That was this week? Damn it, I forgot to mark my calendar.”
“Hurry. They said the Creek Chub auction starts in twenty minutes.”
Tom patted his pocket, reassured that the knife was still there, and then merged onto I-90.
“We can still make our reservation. You can throw something on.”
Joan stared at Max, stunned. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Not at all. Reservations at Carmichael’s are very hard to get. Everyone eats there. The waiting list is months long.”
“I can’t believe you. Some maniac broke in my house, killed my dog, and tried to shish-kabob me—”
“Joan, you’re being dramatic. Everyone gets robbed. This is LA.”
“Stop the car.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Stop the damn car.”
Max pulled the Lexus to the curb in front of a McDonalds.
“Joan, let’s not overreact.”
“Overreact? You’re a callous, arrogant, insensitive jerk.”
“Insensitive? Who just picked you up at the police station?”
“Well, a million thanks for driving me home. Why don’t you whip it out, and I’ll pull up my skirt and hop on.”
Max rubbed his eyes. His tortured look. She’d only seen him a half dozen times, and the look was becoming increasingly frequent—every time she offered an opinion, or her cell phone rang, or she talked about her day. Why was she with this guy anyway?
Joan found the door handle and used it. He rolled the window down.
“Joan, let me at least take you home.”
She ignored him and walked into the restaurant. Maybe she was being a bit dramatic, but hell, the past few hours were dramatic. Joan tried to imagine how Max would react if he had some psycho chasing him. Big corporate hotshot would probably be sucking his thumb, begging for his mama.
But that wasn’t really fair. No one really knew what they’d do in a crisis situation, until it happened. Maybe Max wasn’t being insensitive—maybe this was his way of trying to be strong for her. Was his suggestion so outrageous? Perhaps the best thing for her would be to go out and have a good time. It sure beat going home and pulling Schnapps off of that stake.
Joan turned around, hoping Max was still there, or perhaps even coming through the parking lot after her.
Max was pulling out into traffic.
Asshole. Fine. She didn’t care for him much anyway. He was too good-looking, and he knew it. Joan’s Second Rule of Dating; never date a man prettier than you are. She’d broken that rule because she thought Max had some class. He was young, successful, and not in the life. That was Joan’s First Rule. Never date a guy in the movie business. She had other criteria—no guys with back hair, no guys who wore Speedos or thongs, no guys who lived with their mom, but the first two were the most important.
Unfortunately, all that her rules got her was an empty social calendar and the feeling that she was somehow unworthy, even with her many accomplishments.
She went straight to the pay phone and punched in her pin number, calling the person she should have called when this first happened. Marty. Her assistant. Her friend. In her eyes, he was the perfect man. He’d make some guy really happy someday.
And apparently, that’s what he was up to at that moment. When the call went through, another man answered. Tipsy, buoyant, enthusiastic.
Joan hung up. Lately, Marty had been about as lucky as she had with men. Good for him for scoring. She didn’t want to intrude on that.
So, what now? Joan sat down in a plastic swivel chair, noting how stupid her sockless running shoes looked with her skirt. After the police arrived, she’d demanded to fill out the report immediately, hoping that the sooner they had a description, the sooner they could get the creep off the streets. The police complied, whisking her away to the station before she had a chance to change or even grab her purse.
And now, three hours later, after sitting with an artist and reviewing mug shots and telling her story a dozen times, she was stuck at a McDonalds
without a ride, wearing these dumb shoes, afraid to go home.
Get tough, Joanie, she thought. If you don’t face it now, you’ll never want to go back.
Screwing up her courage, Joan removed herself from the chair and marched out to the street. It took her three shouts before a cab stopped.
Her sense of dread increased with every tick of the meter. When the cabbie finally pulled in front of her house and asked if this was the place, Joan didn’t know if she could move.
“Lady? You okay?”
“Hold on. I have to go in, get some money. No purse.”
“Meter’s running.”
“Be right back.”
She controlled her breathing, pushing it deep into her stomach, and got out of the taxi.
No burglar alarm. Dark house. Dead guard dog. She didn’t even have her keys. But the rear patio window was probably still open. That was in back, past Schnapps…
Joan followed the bushes around her home, moving quick and confident, refusing to look at her poor dog or the stake that was meant for her. The police, after checking out her house, had closed the patio door. An officer on her case had volunteered to hang around her house until she came home, and Joan kicked herself for refusing the offer. She figured she had Max, and the cop had been too good looking. Now, apprehension mounting, she wondered how she was going to get inside. Break her own window?
No need. The patio door was unlocked. Joan went into the kitchen, turning on lights as she went, and found her purse on the floor where she’d dropped it. After digging out her wallet, she walked out the front door and paid the taxi driver. The cab turned around in her circular driveway, and Joan watched the tail lights disappear down the hill. She felt very alone.
Back to the house. The front door knob was covered with white powder. The police had determined this was the entry point, and had gone ahead and checked for prints even though she made it clear that the man wore gloves. Joan didn’t know if she should admire them for the effort, or be irritated that they didn’t believe her.
Once inside, Joan turned on her large screen television and changed the channel to CNN, grateful for the nonstop voices. She flipped on more lights, checked to make sure the doors and windows were all locked, and threw away her toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, soap, and shampoo. Anything he might have touched. Then she emptied her underwear drawer into the washing machine, her silverware drawer into the dishwasher, and started each of them on the highest heat setting.
She had an urge to vacuum, to scrub the bathtub and drain the Jacuzzi, but exhaustion was getting the upper hand. Her last effort to cleanse the house was changing her sheets, and then she kicked off her gym shoes and collapsed onto the bed.
Joan was able to relax for almost a full minute before paranoia reared its head. She picked up the phone and found it still disconnected. Her cell was in her car. Sleep would be impossible unless there was a phone next to her. Joan got out of bed.
She was padding through the living room when she saw the front door open. The scream was out of her mouth before he got into the room.
“Hello, Joan. Miss me?”
Same goatee. Same black outfit. Same gloves. He had some kind of metal device in his right hand. Lock picks. Joan willed herself to move, to run, to attack—anything but remain planted there like a deer in headlights. She took off toward the kitchen and went straight for the knife rack. With a steak knife in each hand, she turned around to face her tormentor.
He was standing in the kitchen, regarding her calmly.
“I knew you’d be a fighter. Perhaps I should burn you at the stake rather than impale you on one.”
“Get away from me.”
“Sorry. Can’t do that, Joan.”
“What the hell did I ever do to you?” Joan’s voice came out steeped in desperation. She was close to cracking.
“To me? Nothing. The English may feel differently.”
The guy was off his nut. That was good. She dealt with crazy people all the time in the business. She could handle crazy.
Joan moved her left foot, widening her stance. She assumed a defensive position, each hand holding its knife in a death grip. If he took another step forward, she’d try an attack. Keep him talking, don’t telegraph it.
“You’re crazy.”
“I know about the tattoo. I know about the adoption. I know who your parents really are. Don’t you wonder how I know all of that?”
With an easy, deliberate move, he took a bottle and a rag out of his left pocket. Something to knock her out while he dropped her on that sharp piece of wood.
Not in this lifetime.
Joan lunged. The man was nimble, trained. He dropped to one knee and trapped her wrist in his armpit, then lifted up his forearm to block the other knife.
But Joan didn’t attack with the other knife. She went straight for the crotch, bringing her leg up and connecting hard. Her knee hit an athletic supporter. He closed his legs on her foot, trapping it. Joan dropped the knife in her pinned hand and grabbed his shirt. Then she let herself fall onto her back and flipped him over her head, her free leg planted on his chest.
The intruder released her wrist. Joan rolled onto all fours, still in attack mode. Before he could get up, she struck with the knife, aiming for the neck.
He saw the blow coming and moved to block it. The swing was deflected, but she still managed to bury the blade two inches into his shoulder. She released the knife and scampered for the front door.
“Joan? I really think you’re overreacting.”
Max, coming into the house.
“Max!” She ran right into him, yanking at his arm. “Come on!”
Max grabbed her, tried to hold her back. “You need to calm down.”
This was the wrong time for talk. They needed to get out of here.
“There’s a—”
That’s all she got out. The intruder had pulled the steak knife from his shoulder and flung himself at Max, plunging it into his back. Max dropped to his knees. Joan shoved the intruder, but he backhanded her across the forehead, sending her sprawling onto the driveway just a few feet away from Max’s Lexus. The car was running, the headlights on.
Phone, she thought. Call for help. She tugged the door open and slammed it closed, hitting the lock button. She looked around for Max’s cell. It wasn’t there.
“Dammit!” Joan looked out the window. The intruder was hunched over Max, working on him with the steak knife. She couldn’t tell if Max was dead or alive, but then she saw it; a feeble twitching in his hands.
Joan leaned on the horn. The intruder stopped his attack and stared. Joan opened the window. “Leave him alone!”
“Is this your boyfriend, Joan?” The intruder grinned. “Handsome devil. But I can fix that.”
He began to cut away at Max’s face.
Joan thought about hitting the gas, running into him, but it would kill Max too. She clenched her teeth. Fight or flight, Joanie? Fight or flight?
Joan DeVilliers got out of the car.
The intruder stared up and her, his eyes widening. He let go of Max’s hair and stepped over him.
“My, you are a brave one, aren’t you?”
Joan pushed aside the fear and slowed her breathing. She didn’t get to be a black belt taking a correspondence course. Joan could fight, and she could win. This guy was above her weight class, but she’d beaten men before. Joan planted her bare feet on the driveway and centered herself.
The man moved well, liquid and flowing. Like a snake, Joan thought. He was smiling and confident, but that could work to Joan’s advantage. So far, she’d been reacting out of fear. He was underestimating her. If she stayed focused, she’d have a chance.
Time slowed down, as it often did when she was fighting. Sound seemed to disappear, and her opponent became sharper, clearer. Instead of treating him as a threat, she mentally divided him into different strike points. Joan could break boards with her hands and feet. Bones weren’t much thicker.
He came
in on her left, feinting with a hook and then round-housing with his right. Joan slipped the punch, spun, and landed a solid reverse kick in his face, dead center. She straightened her leg on impact, hitting him with all of her hundred and fifteen pounds.
It sent the intruder sprawling onto his back, his head bouncing on the asphalt, his nose a mashed tomato. Like many tournament fights, it was over in a heartbeat. Joan had knocked him out, cold.
For a moment, she didn’t know what to do. Her brain told her to finish it, go for the death blow that she’d practiced so often but always pulled short in matches. But could she? Could she actually kill an unconscious man?
Joan approached cautiously. His eyes were closed, and he looked more pathetic than threatening. She knelt on his chest, raising her fist, aiming for the neck…
And couldn’t do it.
A moan, from the doorway. Max. She got off her assailant and hurried to him. He was curled up in a fetal position, bleeding from several holes in his chest. His face looked like a lasagna. She turned his head to the side so the blood wouldn’t run down his throat, and then felt in his jacket pocket for his phone. Joan dialed 911 and considered what she should do with the intruder. Tie him up somehow?
It didn’t matter. When she looked down the driveway, the man was no longer there.
“Beverly Hills 911 Emergency, this is Mrs. Schmidtt.”
“My name is Joan DeVilliers. I need an ambulance and the police here as soon as possible. I’m at 1445 Hillcrest.”
“Can you explain what happened?”
“I was attacked.” Joan’s voice broke. “Again.”
The O’Hare Hyatt Regency was one of the larger hotels in the area, with over a thousand rooms. The eight-story building had been constructed in a U-shape, with parking all around it. Tom circled slowly, trying to find a space. Even the handicapped spots were full. He put the Mustang in the Courtesy Bus slot.
The lobby was buzzing. The majority of people milling about were white males over fifty, many sporting novelty T-Shirts with slogans like GET HOOKED ON LURES and KISS MY BASS. The duo made their way to Check-In and waited for the smiling concierge to notice them.
J.A. Konrath / Jack Kilborn Trilogy - Three Scary Thriller Novels (Origin, The List, Haunted House) Page 28