Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel)

by Danielle Girard

  "We will." She turned her back to Jordan. "I need a flashlight."

  The lanky officer gave her his.

  Casey tried to grip the flashlight in her fist, but her fingers wouldn't close around it. Cursing, she used both hands to guide the flashlight into her pocket and then started off in the direction the officer had indicated. Jordan could worry about getting the park surrounded. She needed to find out where Leonardo had dumped his disguise.

  "Where the hell are you going?" Jordan asked, breathing heavily as he caught up.

  "He won't go far without changing his appearance. He might leave something behind that will help us find him."

  "How are you going to find the stuff? There's a hundred acres in here."

  "I'll find it." She picked up her pace and moved toward the darkness of the inner park.

  "You're not going in there alone."

  "I'd rather not."

  "Glad to hear you've got some sense left." Jordan stopped and stooped over his shoe, pulling his pant leg up. From an ankle holster, he pulled a .22 and handed it to her. "Just in case."

  She shook her head. "I can't shoot."

  He pushed it at her, jabbing the butt into her shoulder. "Like hell you can't. That guy pops out of the bushes, you'll be shooting."

  "I can't hold it, Gray, remember?"

  "We're posting units at every corner along Fulton, Lincoln, and Stanyan," an officer announced over the radio before Jordan could respond.

  Meeting her gaze, he nodded and tucked the gun in his belt, touching her shoulder in a gesture of apology.

  Casey returned her focus to the park. A sign ahead pointed to the Japanese Tea Garden.

  "Great Highway is covered, too," another officer announced over the radio.

  As they pushed forward, the noise of the cars on the closest streets faded into a distant fanlike sound. The moon provided only a shadow of light, and Casey felt herself wanting to use the flashlight, yet knew she wouldn't be able to grip it. Anger seethed in her gut like oil in a hot pan. Besides the complication of holding a light, she realized they were safer without it. It would only draw attention.

  Casey glanced around in the dark. "He can hear all of it."

  Jordan followed her gaze. "You think he's got a radio."

  "I'd bet on it." She turned to him and lowered her voice. "He knew about those undercover cops, too, even before that officer accidentally told him."

  "Impossible," Jordan said. "We kept that off the radios completely."

  Her mind tried to sift through the evidence. "He got it another way, then. He knows human nature. He could've figured it out just by watching. I'm not sure he's here, Jordan. It doesn't feel right to me. He wouldn't corner himself." She thought about the nerve it had taken him to steal little Ryan from the Warriors game. "If he is here, you can bet he's got a good backup plan."

  "Forget it. He's here, and I'm going to find him now—tonight. I don't want this pervert out there another minute." Jordan snapped his radio off his belt. "What about the streets coming out of the park? He might be in a car." He clicked off.

  "Roadblocks are established at each of the exits to the park as well," an officer responded.

  "He's surrounded."

  She thought about the radio and looked around, getting an idea. "Make him think one area isn't covered. We'll lead him out the way we want to and catch him there."

  Jordan picked up the radio again. "It's Officer Goodard here," he said in a voice that sounded slightly younger than his normal one. "No coverage on Fulton between Fortieth and Thirty-sixth."

  "Officer Goodard?" someone asked through the radio.

  Casey held her breath, waiting for one of the officers to screw this up.

  "This is Inspector Gray," Jordan patched back in, using his regular voice. "Officer Goodard, continue to patrol the area between Fortieth and Thirty-sixth. We'll send backup as soon as it's available."

  Casey and Jordan waited, listening for any responses. It was a weak attempt, and Casey didn't think it would work. But she was praying harder than she had since the last time she'd been with this killer.

  "Send a car through to the Japanese Tea Garden," Jordan said into the radio. He turned to Casey. "He's not this dumb, is he?"

  Without meeting his gaze, Casey shrugged.

  He cursed and started walking again. "We'll follow this road to the Japanese Tea Garden. Then we can drive through the park and come out on Thirty-sixth."

  Casey started after him, and they pressed on in silence. She imagined Leonardo's voice as she'd heard it a thousand times in her nightmares. It had become so familiar that she even heard it when she was awake, taunting her. She shivered. Sometimes, though, she doubted the accuracy of her memory. She'd heard the statistics about victims' memories and the effects of trauma. Would she really recognize his voice if she heard it again? Or had she altered it into something more terrifying from her memories? Maybe she'd even already heard it and dismissed it. Leonardo would certainly take pleasure in that.

  "Inspector Gray," the radio crackled, and Casey jolted.

  "This is Gray."

  "We've got a black duffel at the east edge of Stow Lake."

  "Don't touch the bag. I'm on my way." Jordan started to run. "It's about a half mile this way."

  "I'm right behind you," Casey said.

  In the dark, she stumbled along the uneven pavement. The muscles in her shoulders ached from the tension that wound through her neck and back.

  Casey twisted her ankle and cursed, ignoring the pain as she pushed herself forward.

  "You okay?"

  "Fine. Just can't see shit."

  "Use the flashlight."

  Avoiding a discussion about her hands, Casey didn't answer and instead scanned the area as they passed the Japanese Tea Garden and headed deeper into the darkness. She pushed herself forward, trying to keep up with Jordan's long legs.

  The hum of excited voices was the first clue that they were getting close. Through the thick bushes, the light from flashlights became visible only when they were nearly on top of the group. Down a short hill, Jordan and Casey crossed over a small road and stopped at the edge of the water. Casey found herself watching the shadows, expecting to see movement in the distance. He would want to watch this.

  "You see something?" Jordan asked.

  She shook her head and turned her attention back to the crowd of people on the scene. Many of them appeared to be cops, but in the street clothes they had worn for undercover, it was impossible to tell. "Make sure you know everyone here," she said.

  Jordan paused and looked around. "I know them all." Then, with another glance, he added, "You think he'd come here."

  She nodded. "It would fit his profile."

  He surveyed the area and then turned to the bag. "Any chance it's a bomb?" he asked.

  She shook her head. "Not his style." Casey knelt beside the bag and looked at the zipper. The end had a smooth surface large enough for at least a partial print. She didn't want to touch it in case he'd left one there. "Anyone have a pen?"

  A burly man with a mustache and full beard held a pen out to her. Taking it clumsily, she turned back to the bag.

  Jordan knelt beside her. "Can I help?"

  "Use the pen to push the zipper open. I don't want to touch it."

  He opened the bag and used the end of the pen to lift out a man's suit jacket. "Anyone confirm this is the coat he had on?"

  "That's it, Inspector," one man said.

  "Thanks, Lumley."

  Casey watched as Jordan emptied the bag, one item at a time. When he was done, she peered inside for something he might have missed.

  "Pockets are empty," Jordan said.

  "Not surprising." Casey swept her hand around the inside of the bag and felt something like a piece of thread brush her fingers. Something was caught on the inside of the zipper. Pausing, she tried to take hold of it but couldn't. "There's something in the zipper."

  Jordan reached in and pulled out several strands of long
blond hair.

  "Shit, another victim," the burly officer said from over her shoulder.

  Ignoring the man, Casey ran her fingers across the hair in Jordan's palm and shook her head. "Can I get some light?"

  A flashlight shone on the hairs, and Casey looked more closely.

  "What do you think?" he asked.

  She looked up at him. "I think it's wig hair."

  "Another disguise."

  Casey nodded. "Or maybe a way of leading us on a wrong path."

  Jordan picked up the radio. "If I call this over the radio, I'm telling him we know."

  Casey nodded. "But if you don't, would your officers let a woman pass by?"

  Pressing a button on the radio, he raised it to his lips. "Suspect may be dressed as a woman. In addition to current description, also look out for a blond shoulder-length wig."

  The radio was silent, and Casey wondered how close Leonardo was. Would he risk watching them?

  "I need an evidence bag for this stuff," Jordan said. "Jones, escort this directly to the lab. Tell them we need a full report immediately."

  The tall, thin officer nodded. "Right away."

  Jordan took a shirt from the bag and handed it to another officer. "Use this for the dogs. Get them on his scent ASAP. I don't want this SOB to get out of the park."

  The officer took the shirt and headed for the car with the dogs.

  There was a moment of silence before the radio at Jordan's side began to crackle.

  "Wilkinson here," the officer said over the radio. "Suspect sighted. Blond hair, emerging at West end of Martin Luther King Drive in a light blue Chevy, CA plate two-alpha-tango-bravo-one-four-seven. Requesting backup."

  Casey held her breath.

  "Three Frank ten responding," the officer said, identifying himself from San Francisco's F District, the one closest to the park. "At the corner of Lincoln and Forty-eighth headed west. Suspect in view."

  "We've got him," Jordan said.

  Officers cheered behind her, but Casey waited, listening. It didn't feel right. It was too easy.

  Several minutes passed, and Casey felt her body tighten as though she were suspended in some strenuous position.

  The radio crackled. "Suspect is Valerie Sween, California license Kite-784-8649. License checks out," the officer announced.

  "It's not him," Casey said.

  "It has to be," Jordan countered.

  Casey glanced up at him, waiting for the crackle of his radio. Despite the desire mirrored in his gaze, she could tell he had doubts, too.

  "Plates check out—car's licensed to James and Valerie Sween at 1107 Irving," the dispatcher responded over the radio.

  "Shit," someone cursed behind her.

  Casey stood and stretched her back, the weight of the evening pressing like bricks into the muscles there. They had missed him. By now, she was sure he was safe, laughing at them. Anger rushed across her skin like scalding water, and she recoiled. They would catch him—they had to. She wouldn't sleep until they did.

  "This is three Frank sixteen," a voice crackled over the radio. "We have a suspect running south from the Senior Citizen's Center on Fulton toward the buffalo enclosure. Male, five-ten to six feet, thirty to thirty-five. Suspect was wearing a blond wig. He dropped it about ten yards back."

  "That's him," Jordan announced.

  "This is three Frank four. We are moving east on John F. Kennedy Drive. Suspect is in sight."

  Casey could hear the blare of the sirens.

  The radio crackled, and Casey heard the clapping of shoes against the pavement. "Freeze," someone yelled.

  The clapping sped up, and she could hear an officer swearing.

  "Do you have the suspect?" Jordan asked into his radio.

  "Suspect in sight fifty yards ahead," came the breathy response.

  The clapping continued for another thirty seconds, Casey's pulse matching its quick stride. Finally there was a shuffle on the radio, and two voices in the background. A loud slap sounded followed by a moan. Casey closed her eyes, cringing as she waited for the sounds of gunshot. None came. The radio was quiet.

  Jordan stood and ran toward the police car parked on the road behind them.

  Casey stood and ran after him as much to keep close to his radio as to find out where he was going.

  "Suspect is in custody," an officer announced over the radio.

  The group let out a whoop as though they were sitting in someone's living room, drinking beer and watching the Super Bowl.

  Casey got into the car and stared into the darkness, her mind full of questions, her stomach tight with knots.

  Jordan started the car and turned it around, heading out in the opposite direction. "You think it's him?"

  Casey didn't answer. Gripping the dash, she felt the pain in her hands as though at that very instant Leonardo were severing her tendons with his knife.

  Anger flashed like lightning in her chest, igniting a blaze of emotion. If she met him eye to eye, she'd want to kill him. Could she pull the trigger?

  Chapter 22

  Jordan stared at the scrawny teenager seated across from him. "I want you to tell me everything from the second this man approached you."

  "Well, I was walking through the park." The kid fumbled with a button on his faded surfer shirt and avoided looking Jordan in the eye.

  "Be more specific."

  The boy practically jumped at the sound of Jordan's angry voice. "I was walking along JFK, just thinking, you know. You see, my girlfriend dumped me—her old man thinks all surfers are punks." The kid shook his head.

  "Keep it focused."

  The kid glanced up and nodded quickly, shifting in his seat. "I was walking past the Buffalo Enclosure toward North Lake. I live on Cabrillo at Forty-fifth, so I cut through the park all the time," he added.

  "And the guy?"

  "He jogged up to me, wearing running clothes. Looked like a good runner, you know. Lean and athletic. My brother's like that—runs marathons. You'd think he was skinny until you see him in shorts. He has really strong legs."

  "The guy's a runner," Jordan said, redirecting. The muscles cramped as he tried to loosen his clenched jaw. He couldn't believe they had the wrong guy. But the kid he was looking at now couldn't possibly be the killer. He was too young, too clueless.

  Still, Jordan was running his license through the system and then calling his parents. He wasn't going to chance it. But everything in his gut said no.

  "He came running up and pulled out this wig. He said he was playing a joke on his brother, wanted me to wear it."

  "What sort of joke did he say he was playing?"

  The kid squirmed slightly and shook his head. "He didn't say."

  Jordan exhaled. "What did he say?"

  "He offered me a hundred bucks to wear this wig out of the park. Told me to head to the corner of Fulton and Fortieth. His brother would see me there."

  "Did he tell you why his brother would think this was funny?"

  The kid stared at the button on his shirt.

  "I said did he tell you—"

  "I asked," the kid responded, meeting Jordan's gaze for the first time. "He said it was a family joke, that if I wanted the cash I had to go right then."

  "So you took the cash?"

  The kid nodded. "I didn't see the harm. Shit, man, I thought it was a joke. Then, I get up to the senior center and some cop turns right toward me with his lights on. Told me to stop. Scared the hell out of me, and I took off."

  "Why'd you run?"

  "I panicked."

  "Why would you panic unless you knew you were in trouble?"

  The kid didn't respond.

  Jordan leaned forward, tired and losing his patience. "What had you done wrong?"

  "Nothing. I didn't do anything. I just got scared."

  "Why were you scared?"

  "I don't know. For a second, I thought maybe part of the joke involved the police. But there were so many cops. I didn't want anything to do with that. I got
in trouble a couple times in junior high and high school. I've seen juvie. That was enough for me. I'm straight now, I swear."

  "What kind of trouble?"

  "Smoking reefer mostly. My friend and I sold a little, but mostly to friends. I swear it. I haven't smoked in months."

  Jordan stood from the table, pushing the chair screeching back against the linoleum floor as he moved.

  "Can I go?"

  "I'm not done with you yet."

  "I told you everything," the kid said, his voice rising in panic. "Where are you going?"

  "I'll be back."

  "When?" he asked, his voice an octave higher than it had been.

  Jordan slammed the door and turned to see Casey watching through the two-sided mirror.

  "It's not him, Gray."

  Jordan slammed his fist against the wall.

  "This guy's good," Casey said. "I should've known he wouldn't make a mistake like this. He was setting us up. After that first false alarm, I got excited about this one. It's my fault. He wasn't one of the security volunteers. He probably suspected what we were doing and decided to play his own part in the game. Pretending to be one of the victims' parents was an even better way to be in the middle of the action."

  "It's not your fault," Jordan said, his tone as tight as his throat.

  Casey put her hand on his shoulder. "We'll get him."

  Jordan raked a hand across the stubble on his chin, trying to remember when he'd last shaved, or what day it was, for that matter. Had Angie and the boys left only this morning? It felt like weeks ago. He glanced at his watch. He couldn't let this guy go. What if he was wrong? Could the stupid kid in there be masking a monster? "Where are the lab results on the last scenes?"

  "Came in late last night," Officer Ellis said in a husky voice. Her petite size and frame were a contradiction to her deep voice. Ellis handed him a file and waited as he opened it. "The crime tape isn't traceable."

  Duct tape was so common at crime scenes, officers had started to call it crime tape. He knew it couldn't be traced. "Can we confirm if the pieces came from the same roll?"

  Ellis nodded. "We were hoping to prove that the pieces of tape used in the third murder were sequential to the pieces used in the fourth crime. But the ends don't match. He must've used the tape somewhere else."