The Bonebreaker knew that much from watching the news. “Officer Vasquez left the bar in the company of a man with dark hair.” And so on and so on. Which meant the Bonebreaker knew no more than he had thirty minutes earlier. And that was what he was thinking about when another man approached the table. “Hey, Peter . . . Hey, Jim . . . I hear we have a reporter in the house.”
Peter made the introductions. “Nathan, this is Julio, and Julio, this is Nathan Como. He’s with the LA Times.”
“And you’re writing a story about Rudy,” Julio said as he sat down. “That’s why I came over . . . I ran into Rudy out in the parking lot the night he disappeared. If only I’d had a premonition or something . . . Maybe I could have prevented his death.”
The Bonebreaker was interested. “So you saw the man Rudy left with.”
“Saw him? Yes. Rudy asked me to take a picture with my phone and e-mail it to him.”
The Bonebreaker felt his heart beat a little bit faster. “And did you?”
“Yes . . . Just a sec . . . I’ll find it.”
The Bonebreaker took a sip of bourbon and wished he hadn’t. It was horrible. “Here you go,” Julio said. “Look at this.”
The Bonebreaker accepted the phone. And sure enough, there was Rudy, smiling into the camera. Unfortunately the man standing to his right was looking away. By accident? Or on purpose? There was no way to know. But the Bonebreaker figured that some sort of picture was better than none.
That was when he noticed that there was a second picture . . . One that seemed to have been taken immediately after the first. The two men were turning away. And that picture showed the back end of a pickup truck. “What’s going on here?” the Bonebreaker inquired.
“I was going to take a second shot, but Rudy’s friend said, ‘Let’s go . . .’ And they turned to go. I meant to delete it.”
“I’d like to have the picture of Rudy,” the Bonebreaker said. “Would it be okay if I e-mailed it to myself?”
“Sure,” Julio said. “Have at it.”
So the Bonebreaker selected both pictures and sent them to an anonymous e-mail address. “Did you share the photo of Rudy with the police?”
“Yup,” Julio answered as he took the phone back. “They said it wasn’t good enough to be of any help.”
“No,” the Bonebreaker said, “I suppose it wouldn’t be. Well, thank you very much. I have some great quotes from you guys—and that will give my article some additional depth.”
Then, after a round of good-byes, the Bonebreaker left. It was dark outside, and a bit chilly, as he called a cab. The car took ten minutes to arrive. Lights were mounted underneath the chassis so that the especiale seemed to float over a pool of lavender light.
The Bonebreaker got into the backseat and gave the driver a destination that was about half a mile away from the ossuary. Then, as the cab pulled away from the curb, he checked his e-mail. Both photos were waiting. But it was the second that he cared about. Because there, attached to the truck’s back bumper, was a California license plate.
THIRTEEN
WHEN LEE WENT to work on Monday morning, she found herself in a strange state of suspended animation. Although she’d been cleared by the shooting review board, Lee was still under a partial suspension, and deskbound. So there she was, feeling frustrated, when two dozen red roses arrived. And since the receptionist who brought them had been forced to cross the bullpen in order to reach her desk, the flowers caused quite a stir. “Oh my God,” someone said, as the bouquet landed on Lee’s desk. “Look at that! Doesn’t he know that she prefers ammo?”
“Who is this guy?” another detective demanded. “Maybe we should run him for wants and warrants.”
“Clear the area,” a third said, “and call the bomb squad!”
Lee offered all of them a one-fingered salute before thanking the receptionist and plucking the card off the packaging. It read:
Dear Cassandra,
Please join me at 11:30 for lunch at Alessandro’s. My phone is off, so you can’t say no.
Love, Lawrence
Lee knew that Alessandro’s was only two blocks away and had clearly been chosen for her convenience. And had she not been on suspension, she would have said no. But she was on suspension, she needed a morale boost, and Kane was the answer. Are you getting serious about him? the voice inquired, as she checked her watch. “No, maybe, yes,” she replied. “No, make that hell yes.” There were catcalls as she departed for lunch.
* * *
The Bonebreaker wanted to gather all the information he could prior to the meeting with Lee. It took only a few minutes for him to sign into a tracing service with a false name, transfer five cred coins, and enter the imposter’s license-plate number in the search box. The results came back quickly. It seemed that the vehicle in question was registered to Mr. Alvin Hoffler. And his address was in Nuevo, California, a community the Bonebreaker had never heard of.
A quick check revealed that it was about an hour east of LA. So far so good. All he had to do was create a new disguise, steal a car, and drop in for a visit. After he killed Hoffler, the Bonebreaker would have a late dinner and return home. Mission accomplished.
So the Bonebreaker spent the balance of the day getting ready and left the ossuary just after dark. His persona was different this time. The mask was called “The Farmer” and made the Bonebreaker look as though he’d spent years out in the sun.
He exited the area via an old storm drain. It was dry but still hard on the knees. The trash-strewn concrete pipe led under a street and into an open channel. That allowed the Bonebreaker to stand and make his way up onto the sidewalk. From there it was a ten-minute walk to a bus stop. A short ride took him into what most people thought of as a bad neighborhood. That was where he got off the bus and wandered down a half-lit side street. There were houses, but only half of them appeared to be occupied, and they had bars over their windows.
The straw cowboy hat, the denims, and the canvas shopping bag were bait. And it didn’t take long to get a nibble. A car passed, then braked. Two men got out and came his way. The Bonebreaker paused and began to back away. “Hey, farm boy,” the one on the right said. “We’re a little light on cash . . . How ’bout you lend us a twenty?”
“Yeah,” the guy on the left said. “And we’ll pay you back in a couple of years.” Both of them laughed.
The gangbanger on the right was a tiny bit closer, so the Bonebreaker shot him first. One in the head and one in the chest. What professionals referred to as a double tap. The little bullets didn’t pack much punch, but dead is dead.
Leftie, as the Bonebreaker thought of him, had good reactions. By that time the street thug had jerked the nine-mil from the waistband of his pants and was bringing it to bear. But the .22 was already on target and spitting bullets. The thug jerked spastically as six rounds hit various parts of his anatomy. Then he said, “Shit,” and fell over backwards.
The Bonebreaker had two bullets left in the magazine and waited to see if a third person would emerge from the car. None did. So he wandered about picking up empty casings until he had all eight. There hadn’t been much noise, so it was possible that the locals were entirely unaware of the murders, but the Bonebreaker figured that some of them knew . . . And didn’t want to get involved.
The car was in park, with the engine running. All the Bonebreaker had to do was slide in behind a ridiculously small steering wheel, grab the glowing skull, and pull the shifter into drive. The main risk at that point was that the owner of the vehicle was wanted for something—and the police were looking for the car. But that was a chance the Bonebreaker was willing to take.
Thanks to light traffic it took an hour and seven minutes to reach the town of Nuevo on Interstate 215. And that was ten minutes less than what the Bonebreaker had expected. Nuevo wasn’t much of a town and it didn’t take him long to reach the Hoffler residence. The ancient double-wide was parked on a dry lot between a couple of small homes made of cinder blocks. A pickup
truck was parked in the driveway though . . . And that was promising.
The Bonebreaker pulled in, killed the lights, and took a moment to refill magazine number one. Then, with a fully loaded pistol in hand, he got out of the car and crossed the street. A dog began to bark from the lot on the right—and the Bonebreaker made a mental note to keep an eye out for the animal.
Gravel crunched under the Bonebreaker’s boots as he walked up the drive and paused to inspect the license plate on the back end of the truck. It appeared to be brand-new, and the numbers were different from the plate in Julio’s photo. Why?
He made his way past the truck and up to the front porch. As he stood in the spill of light from the naked bulb over his head, and rang the doorbell, the Bonebreaker could hear the sound of a TV inside. When there was no reaction he pressed the button again. “I’m coming, goddamn it,” a male voice said. “Hold your fucking horses.”
Then there was a squeal of unoiled hinges as the door opened and an old man appeared. He was about six feet tall, had at least two days’ worth of stubble on his sallow cheeks, and was holding a sawed-off shotgun. It was pointed at the Bonebreaker’s midriff. “Yeah?” the geezer inquired. “Who the fuck are you? And why do I care?”
Suddenly the Bonebreaker found himself in the unaccustomed position of being both surprised and seriously outgunned. And judging from his attitude, and the smell of alcohol associated with him, the old man wouldn’t hesitate to jerk both triggers. The Bonebreaker swallowed. “Sorry to bother you,” he said hesitantly. “I’m looking for the owner of a truck with license plate 3HUA17.”
“What the fuck for?” the old man demanded.
The conversation wasn’t going the way the Bonebreaker had planned—so he was forced to improvise. “I scraped a fender on a truck with that number,” he said lamely. “And I want to pay for the damage. Are you Mr. Hoffler?”
“Yes,” the man said. “I am. You must have written the number down before some bastard stole my plates. I didn’t notice no scrape though.”
The Bonebreaker was already backing away while holding the .22 tight against his leg. “I guess there was some sort of mix-up then. Sorry . . . Have a good evening.” And with that he turned and left.
“Shit, shit, shit,” the Bonebreaker said under his breath as he returned to the car. The imposter was still on the loose—and his best lead was in the toilet. Life sucked.
* * *
The lights were low, the dance music was loud, and Jennifer Baxter was sitting alone. That wasn’t unusual because while Baxter had a good figure she wasn’t especially pretty. “Handsome” was the adjective her mother liked to use. And Baxter felt a twinge of pain every time she heard it. Men were handsome. Horses were handsome. But girls? Never.
There had been men in her life though . . . Not a lot, but some, most of whom had been met online. But Baxter was tired of sitting in front of her computer reading carefully worded profiles. So she was at a club called Jambo’s. Located on the Sunset Strip, it had a Caribbean theme and was momentarily hip. Two drinks. That was her limit. Then she’d go home. Roll call for the West Bureau’s Pacific Area was at 0700, and she was always on time.
That’s what Baxter was thinking about when a good-looking guy with dark brown hair made eye contact with her from a stool at the bar. He smiled, and she smiled in return. Thus encouraged, he got up and made his way over to the tiny two-person table. “Hi, can I join you?”
“Sure,” Baxter said as she wondered what was taking place. This guy was an eight and she was a six. Okay, a five-point-five . . . So she was wary.
“My name is Mike,” he said. “And you are?”
“Jennifer. But my friends call me Jenny.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jenny,” Mike said formally. Then he smiled self-consciously. “Sorry, I’m not very good at this sort of thing.”
“Good,” Baxter said. “Neither am I. So what are you good at?”
“I’m a vet,” Mike said. “Not a dog-and-cat vet, although I treat some of those, but I have what’s called a large-animal practice.”
“Like horses?”
“Exactly. And cows, donkeys, and a llama named Alfred. I had to hit the books in order to take care of him. Did you know that llamas evolved on the plains of North America?”
Baxter didn’t know . . . But soon found herself laughing at Mike’s vet stories and, after some prompting, told him that she was a cop. Baxter knew from previous experience that her profession was a turnoff to some—especially those who had a few grams of cocaine on them. On the other hand it was a turn-on for guys who were into S&M. They wanted her to cuff and whip them.
But Mike wasn’t interested in her handcuffs or role-playing. He asked questions about her work, laughed at her cop stories, and was clearly having a good time. So they had a round of drinks. And eventually Baxter went to the ladies’ room. When she returned Mike was gone. That hurt, and she was reaching for her jacket, when he returned carrying a bowl of the crispy palm fritters that Jambo’s specialized in. “I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I could use something to nibble on.”
Baxter felt a sense of relief as she let go of the jacket. They talked some more, and by the time Mike suggested that they visit a bar farther up the strip, Baxter was feeling a bit woozy. I won’t have any more drinks, she thought to herself. But it’s too early to bail out. Half an hour. Then I’ll go home.
So Mike paid the tab—and they left together. “Let’s take my rig,” Mike suggested. “I’ll bring you back later.”
By that time, Baxter felt too dizzy to drive and was happy to accept his offer. Mike’s “rig,” as he called it, was a big 4x4 pickup with a canopy on the back. “I have to carry a lot of vet gear,” he explained. “So she takes a beating.”
It required an act of will to climb up into the crew cab. And once there Baxter felt as if she was going to faint. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t feel . . .” Then came the long, dizzy fall into nothingness.
* * *
Mike saw Baxter’s head slump forward onto her chest and grinned. The Zolpidem was working. But was she well and truly out? He reached over to pinch her arm. Yes, indeedy . . . Out like a light. So Mike leaned over to kiss her unresponsive lips—and to squeeze a firm breast. That was when he found the snub nosed .38 in the shoulder holster. Just like Vasquez . . . Except he wore his on his belt. The cops were still chasing their tails on that one . . . Still looking for the Bonebreaker! Mike laughed out loud. They’re so stupid, he thought, and as long as they keep looking for the Bonebreaker, I’ll be in the clear.
Mike put the revolver in his pocket. Who knows? he thought. Maybe I’ll shoot her with it! Not in the head, but in an arm, or a leg. But the fun stuff would come later. At the moment it was time to secure her wrists, her ankles, and strap her into the seat. And thanks to the truck’s tinted windows, nobody would be able to see what he was doing.
Once Baxter’s restraints were in place he started the engine, turned the lights on, and pulled out of the lot. Six blocks later he pulled around a corner and into a patch of shadow. It took less than five seconds to put the surgical gloves on and jump out. A couple of magnets held the stolen plates in place—and once removed they could be thrown away. Then it was a simple matter to mount the correct ones on and reenter the cab. Life was good . . . And death was even better.
* * *
Everyone, mutants included, had come to call the area “Freaktown.” That didn’t make it right of course. But all of the efforts to rename the neighborhood had failed. And for the moment the area that catered to visiting mutants was stuck with the name. Even if it was offensive to those who had to stay there.
And in spite of the danger of being infected with B. nosilla, some of LA’s norms chose to visit Freaktown for a variety of reasons. Some liked to visit the clubs where they could mix with mutants, some wanted to listen to a form of jazz called “Red Rag,” and some went there to eat the famously spicy freak food. And, in spite of the LAPD’s con
tinual efforts to close the brothels down, mutant prostitutes were quite popular.
So as Lee drove down the main drag she saw lots of neon. She could hear the thump, thump, thump of bass through the open window and could see the groups of people congregated around the neighborhood’s most popular bars. Most of them were wearing spit masks. But spit masks with a difference. They came in all shapes and sizes and were highly personalized. So much so that no two were alike. That allowed for a high degree of anonymity as well as protecting them against B. nosilla. And as any cop knows, when people believe they can’t be identified, they are much more likely to act out. The result being public nudity, fistfights, and the occasional riot. And who had to try and keep the lid on? The police department, that’s who—and it was a largely thankless task.
The car’s nav system told Lee to turn right and she did. The address had been supplied by the Bonebreaker twenty-one minutes earlier. She’d been brushing her teeth at the time, getting ready for bed, when the cell phone rang, and her heart jumped. “Half an hour,” he said in her ear. “You, and you alone. Here’s the address.”
So there she was, turning onto a street that led away from the action, and into the surrounding darkness. There were some lights to be seen in the surrounding buildings but not many. No one lived in the so-called back blocks unless they had no other choice. “Take a left at the next corner,” the navigator told her, and Lee obeyed.
“Turn right in one hundred feet,” the voice advised. “You have arrived at your destination.”
Most of the streetlights had been shot out, but there, in the spill of a solitary lamp an empty lot could be seen. Judging from the look of it the open space had been home to a building at one time. But it had burned, been demolished to make way for a defunct redevelopment project, or cleared to discourage squatters.
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