Hotels practically gave rooms away, and restaurants offered two-for-one deals. There were few takers.
People simply stayed home, doors bolted and shades drawn.
The only San Diegan to continue unfazed was the city’s other serial criminal, the anonymous Billboard Bandit.
Recognizing that the police were distracted, the Bandit had stepped up his campaign against gambling. Everywhere you looked, the outlaw graffitist had vandalized casino billboards.
The most frequent target was advertising for Barona, the Indian casino in nearby Lakeside. The Barona pitchman was the country-western star Kenny Rogers, of “The Gambler” fame. The Bandit had painted KNOW WHEN TO FOLD ’EM across every Barona billboard with Rogers’ picture.
The Bandit called and pestered me to write a follow-up story.
“Aren’t you worried about being a target for the torture slayer?” I said.
“Nah, I’m not famous enough for him,” he said. “But I could be with your help.”
I told the Bandit that I’d write about him again only if he’d let me reveal his identity.
I hung up and the phone rang again. It was Rudy.
“They caught Graywalls,” he said. “It just moved on the wires.”
I scrolled the news wires on my computer screen.
Agensse France Presse reported that Graywalls had been apprehended in Carcassonne, a medieval walled city in southern France. Local authorities arrested him after he was caught stealing a set of thumbscrews from a display case in the town’s torture museum.
He had waived extradition. Detective Darrell Walton was flying to France to bring him back to face murder charges.
Graywalls claimed he was innocent and wanted to return to San Diego to clear his name.
CHAPTER 55
Two days later, word came that Chief Reese and Acting Mayor Shumway would hold a press conference at four o’clock. The buzz was that there was a new development in the case.
I drove to police headquarters on Market Street and joined a crowd of reporters who had gathered outside. A podium stood at the top of the front steps.
I was nervous. I hadn’t been able to reach my SDPD source. I didn’t like hearing news with the rest of the pack.
The serial killer was in custody, but I knew he could claim one last victim: me. If Graywalls had revealed that he was my anonymous source, I’d need to find a new career.
I decided it was out of my hands.
Chief Reese stepped to the microphone. He wore his dress blues. His medals gleamed in the afternoon sun. “I’m pleased to announce that Robert Graywalls has made a full confession,” he said.
Cameras whirred, and reporters pressed in closer.
Reese thrust out his chest. “Wishing to avoid the death sentence that would almost certainly come with a guilty verdict, the suspect has waived his right to a trial and has agreed to a plea bargain,” he said. “I want to thank the members of this department who worked diligently to bring this matter to a swift and satisfactory conclusion.”
Acting Mayor Shumway proclaimed, “This city’s nightmare is officially over. San Diegans can return to business as usual. Now, we’ll be happy to take your questions.”
Chief Reese was still beaming when he made the mistake of calling on Channel 13’s Lupe Martinez.
“Chief Reese,” Martinez said, “in light of the fact that it was Tyler West who first warned us that a serial killer was in our midst—in a story you personally denounced as a fabrication—isn’t he due some thanks, not to mention an apology?”
Reese smiled nervously. “Now is not the time to pass out credit or assign blame,” he said. “Let’s just be thankful that the worst killer in this city’s history is behind bars.”
The chief’s gaze fell on me, then he quickly looked away. He had to know that I would further detail the cover-up.
I drove to the Wire to write the capping story on the San Diego torture slayer.
My new colleagues gave me high-fives and slaps on the back.
Mel called to congratulate me. My old editor Don Street e-mailed me words of praise.
I had come full circle. The disgraced Pulitzer Prize-winner was back on top.
There were more big investigative stories to break, and I was excited about pursuing them. But they’d have to wait.
I drove to Superior Court.
Jordan smiled when she exited the courtroom and saw me.
“I just heard Graywalls confessed,” she said. “Any mention of you?”
“Apparently not.”
“So it’s over?”
I nodded and exhaled.
“I’m thinking it’s time we take a vacation,” I said. “What do you think?”
Jordan threw her arms around my neck and kissed me. She said, “I think I like your sense of timing.”
CHAPTER 56
One week after Graywalls confessed to the torture murders, Jordan, Heather and I flew to Maui.
We checked into an oceanfront villa at the Kapalua Resort, on the west end of the island. Our two-bedroom place fronted the white sandy beach of Kapalua Bay and featured a stunning view of the eastern shore of Molokai, nine miles across the Pailolo Channel.
As Jordan and I unpacked, I sat Heather in front of the picture frame window with a pair of binoculars.
“Watch carefully and you might see a whale,” I said.
Before we had stored the suitcases, Heather squealed, “I saw one jump!”
“The trip’s a success already,” Jordan said.
I was a little nervous about how we’d all get along under one roof, far from home. But so far everything felt right. It was as if we were a family that had been doing this for years.
I had planned a few activities, but I wanted to keep things loose. I didn’t know what a seven-year-old likes to do, as it had been a long time since I was seven myself. There was the beach, of course. A helicopter ride. Maybe I’d rent a jeep and drive us all to Hana to swim in the waterfall pools.
But I mainly wanted to spend time with Jordan and Heather.
I was anxious to get Jordan out on the golf course. Ever since she’d wowed me with her miraculous flop shot in the banana grove, I’d wondered how good her game was.
The three of us drove to Kapalua’s Plantation Course. We rented a golf cart, and I let Heather sit on my lap and steer while I worked the pedals.
The Plantation Course is home to the annual Hyundai Tournament of Champions, the PGA tour event for all the tournament winners from the previous year. I had qualified for the championship when I won at Hilton Head, but I quit the tour before it returned to Kapalua.
For that reason, I thought our trip here might be bittersweet. But even if I had realized all my dreams as a pro golfer, I couldn’t imagine being as happy as I was now.
Jordan proved that her flop shot wasn’t a fluke. She had every shot in the bag. She had the match won by the fourteenth hole. I was only half joking when I suggested she move back to the men’s tees.
“I can see I’m going to have to spend more time at the range,” I said.
There were few golfers on the course, so we let Heather take a few putts whenever we reached a green. She was a natural, just like her mom.
“Hey, no fair,” I kidded Heather after she rolled in a forty-foot bomb. “You guys are ganging up on me, two against one.”
Heather had been taking swimming lessons in San Diego, and she was eager to try snorkeling. So we spent several afternoons at Honolua Bay, a marine conservation area near the resort.
Snorkeling in the secluded bay is like swimming in an aquarium. We peered through our masks at an array of colorful tropical fish.
Heather was tentative at first, holding hands with Jordan and me as we floated across the surface. But she soon let go and swam under her own power. She marveled as she followed a green sea turtle and an octopus.
Late in the week, I suggested a hike inside Haleakala, Maui’s dormant volcano. Jordan wondered whether it might be too much for Heat
her’s little legs. I said we’d turn back when she got tired.
We drove through the Maui upcountry to the 10,000-foot summit of Haleakala. We stood on the crater rim and gaped at the moonscape below. The 3,000-foot-deep bowl was streaked red, yellow and black. Giant cinder cones sprang from the crater floor.
We headed down the path, decomposed lava crunching beneath our feet. The landscape was barren, otherworldly, awesome.
When we stopped to rest, it was so quiet you could hear your heart beat.
Heather tuckered out, so I gave her a piggyback ride. When she fell asleep, I carried her in my arms, her head resting against my chest.
“She must be getting heavy,” Jordan said. “Maybe we should go back.”
“Just a little farther,” I said.
We stopped in the shade of a towering cinder cone. All was silent and still. We were totally alone. It was as if we were the last people on earth, only it felt like another planet.
I gazed at Jordan. A long time ago, I had told her forever before I knew what forever was. Here at the bottom of the crater, forever suddenly flashed before my eyes. There was Jordan. There had never been anyone else. Only Jordan. Forever.
I could no longer contain my emotions. I felt like I was about to erupt, as this volcano had centuries before.
“Jordan,” I blurted, “will you marry me?”
There was the longest of pauses as Jordan’s eyes grew wide. Time seemed to stop.
“Say, yes!” someone shouted.
We looked up. A group of hikers stood above us on the crater rim. They were a quarter mile away, but even normal conversation carried up the sides of the bowl.
Jordan started to laugh.
“Yes, Ty, I’ll marry you.”
We kissed, careful not to wake Heather, still in my arms. The hikers whooped and cheered.
Jordan nodded at Heather sleeping. “I wonder how she’ll react.”
I looked down. I could tell Heather was faking sleep. She tried to suppress a smile.
“Oh, I think she’ll approve,” I said.
We extended our stay in Hawaii and got married on the beach.
A man is lucky if he’s given a chance to find his soul mate. But if he’s given a second chance, he’s blessed.
I had squandered it all, only to find it again. I never thought this moment was possible. Life was complete, in balance.
I was the happy juggler, at last.
PART THREE:
THE INQUISITION
CHAPTER 57
When Jordan, Heather and I touched down in San Diego, we were returning to new lives.
We crossed the sky bridge from the terminal to the parking lot. The skyline in the distance glowed. It was the same city, but it now held the promise of a brilliant future.
Heather rode atop the luggage cart I pushed. She wore the Hawaiian lei I bought her when we had landed in Maui. The flowers were now brown, but she wouldn’t part with it.
“Are we going to live in the clay pot, Ty?” she said, meaning my cob house.
“That’s up to you and Mom,” I said, pushing the wobbly-wheeled cart across the asphalt. “But if we do, we’ll have to build you a new room. I’d need your help mixing the clay.”
“Cool,” she said. “Can we maybe build a big window, too, so I can look out at the whales?”
“We can build anything you want, sweetheart,” I said.
“Very cool.”
We reached my car. I popped the trunk and started loading the luggage.
“Aloha.”
I turned around. It was Detective Walton and two uniformed cops.
“What’s this about?” I said.
“Six murders,” Walton said.
“You got your man. End of story.”
“I got my man, alright. But the story has a new twist.”
“What’s that?” I said, though I knew perfectly well.
“Come off it, West. You’re not fooling anybody anymore.”
Graywalls had told Walton he was my anonymous expert. Now that he was going down, he was taking me with him. Even so, that was an issue for my employer, not the police. I guess Walton wanted to gloat in person.
“I’ve never liked you, West,” he said. “I always thought you were a slimy, opportunistic hack who’d hurt anyone to get ahead. But I never figured you for a killer.”
I was so relieved that I let out a little laugh.
“Is this a joke?” Jordan said to Walton.
“No, ma’am,” Walton said.
“Detective, this is ludicrous,” Jordan said. “What about Robert Graywalls?”
“An art thief, nothing more,” Walton said. “West is the serial killer.”
“This is crazy!” I said.
“Then I guess you won’t mind us searching your car.”
I saw Jordan shake her head. I don’t know if she was acting as my attorney—advising against a police search—or if she was afraid of what they might find.
Heather started to cry.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I said. “These men have made a mistake. I’m going to fix it, then we can go to the clay pot and make some ice cream.”
Heather continued to sob. I just wanted this to be over. I didn’t care how. So long as I could get Heather and Jordan out of there.
“Sure,” I said, handing Walton my car keys, “have a look.”
He passed the keys to one of the cops and said, “Toss it.”
“While you’re at it, I could use an oil change,” I said.
“Always the wise guy, huh, West?” Walton said.
The two cops started in the front seat. I heard the glove box open.
“Every square inch,” Walton called to them.
They moved to the back. It sounded like they were pulling the seat out, but the opened trunk blocked my view.
“Someone saw you playing with one of your twisted toys,” Walton said.
“Who’s behind this?”
“I think it’s what you call in your line of work an anonymous source.” Walton grinned.
“Detective,” one of the cops called, “we found it!”
Walton wheeled me around and cuffed me.
“Tyler West,” he said, “I’m placing you under arrest for the murders of Mayor James Stanton, Nina Tate, Dr. Aaron Lindblatt, Adore, Tiffany Samples and Reggie Wilkinson. You have the right to remain silent…”
By the time Walton finished reading me my rights, Heather was screaming. Jordan picked her up and consoled her.
Jordan’s eyes were moist.
“Jordan, please look at me. I didn’t do it. It’s all a huge mistake.”
She bit her lip and nodded.
“Detective,” I said to Walton, “I don’t know what your men have found, but whatever it is, it was planted.”
“And I bet your prints were planted on it, too.”
The cop who made the discovery emerged from the car. He held the torture device in the air with a pencil, careful not to get his fingerprints on it.
I swallowed hard.
I knew that the police lab would find my prints on it.
It was the Pear used to kill Adore. The one I had lifted from its case the night of the museum gala.
CHAPTER 58
When we pulled up to the central jail on Front Street, a media circus awaited my perp walk.
Walton took his sweet time marching me, handcuffed, through the gauntlet. He had never forgiven me for his partner’s suicide. This was payback time.
“Ty, why did you do it?” Channel 3’s Carol Rogers said, sticking a microphone in my face.
“Are there any more victims, Ty,” another reporter yelled.
I felt absurd in my Hawaiian shirt, shorts and flip-flops. But there is no appropriate attire for a false arrest.
I spotted Mel on the fringe, aiming her Nikon at me. She lowered her camera and mouthed, “I’m sorry.” She looked embarrassed. I knew she had no choice in being here. Mrs. Rampling no doubt personally assigned her to further humi
liate me.
“It’s okay,” I mouthed back.
Inside, the booking officer inventoried my personal property. There were golf tees in my pocket from Hawaii.
“You won’t be needing these in here,” he said, placing the tees in a plastic bag.
“I don’t think Mr. West will be hitting the links anytime soon,” Walton chimed in.
I was booked on six counts of violating section 187 (a) of the California Penal Code—murder, first degree.
A sheriff’s deputy snapped my picture and fingerprinted me. I knew that in no time my prints would be matched to those found on the Pear.
I was strip searched and handed an orange jumpsuit. The legs were too short, and it was tight in the crotch.
I was placed in a holding cell, and the door slammed shut.
There was a payphone outside the cell for prisoners to make collect calls. I reached through the bars and dialed Jordan at her house.
“How’s Heather?” I said, after she had accepted the charges.
“Still crying in her room,” she said. “She’s confused, Ty. And so am I.”
“I know how bad it looks, but somebody planted that thing in my car. Someone’s trying to frame me. I need a lawyer, Jordan. I’ve got to post bail and get out, so I can clear this up.”
She suggested Phil Cantrell, a former colleague from the D.A.’s office. He was now in private practice, the best criminal lawyer in town. Jordan said she’d contact him.
“I already called your house,” she said. “The pet sitter agreed to stay on, so don’t worry about Maya and Torpedo.”
Jordan sounded businesslike, distant. She didn’t sound like my new bride.
“Jordan, I need you to believe me,” I said. “Please don’t give up on me.”
“I believe you, Ty,” she said. “I know you didn’t kill those people.”
They were the words I wanted to hear. But without seeing Jordan’s face, I couldn’t be positive she was 100 percent sincere.
I hung up and leaned against the cell bars. I’d never felt more alone in my life.
The Scavenger's Daughter: A Tyler West Mystery Page 13