Redzone

by William C. Dietz

  Whatever the reason, the lot was empty except for a lone vehicle—and when Lee saw it, she assumed that there had been some sort of mistake. Surely the Bonebreaker wouldn’t be the sort of person to drive a low-slung, gangster-style especiale, complete with bright yellow paint and red flames! Yet there it was.

  Lee was about to pass the lot and regroup when the especiale’s lights flashed on and off. Maybe it was him. Or maybe it was a drug dealer who thought she was someone else. Lee braked, took hold of the Glock with her right hand, and steered with her left. Then she entered the lot and pulled in nose to tail so that her window was only a foot from his. It was a cop thing. A way to chat with another officer without getting out and without losing contact with the dispatcher. And there, looking out through the other window, was a farmer. Or what looked like a farmer. Although Lee felt sure that it was a disguise. “There you are,” the man said cheerfully. “Right on time. I think punctuality is important. Don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do,” Lee replied. “Although I suspect it’s one of the few things we can agree on.”

  “Don’t be too sure of that,” the Bonebreaker replied over the soft mutter of his engine. “Are you holding a gun?”

  “Yes, I am. A .45.”

  The Bonebreaker laughed. It had a dry, raspy quality. “Me too. See? We’re more alike than you’d care to believe.”

  “Maybe,” Lee allowed. “Although you’re a serial killer, and I’m not.”

  “Ah, but you are,” the Bonebreaker responded. “The word ‘serial’ means ‘of, forming, or arranged in a series.’ And I think it’s safe to say that you have killed far more people than I have! The latest being only a few days ago. And you enjoy it, don’t you? Of course you do . . . You enjoy it because it’s what you do well.”

  Lee knew that the first part of his statement was true. How many people had she killed anyway? It was something she didn’t want to think about. But was the Bonebreaker right? Did she enjoy it? No, not in the way he meant. He’s trying to mindfuck you, Lee told herself. Be careful.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” she replied out loud. “And who knows? Maybe I’ll run up the score tonight. You were masquerading as Detective Lou Harmon when you met with Mrs. Vasquez. Tell me why I shouldn’t send you to the place where all of your victims are waiting for you?”

  “Because you need my help solving the Vasquez murder,” the Bonebreaker replied. “You’ll have to choose. Which do you want more? Revenge for what I did to Harmon? Not to mention your father . . . Or to catch the man responsible for offing Vasquez? The man who might kill more cops. It’s up to you.”

  “You make me sick.”

  “The feeling is mutual. So what’s it going to be?”

  “If you have a photo of the vehicle Officer Vasquez left the Hi-Jinx Club in I’d like to see it.” It was a peace offering of sorts. Because the truth was that Lee did need him, and more than that, was waiting for him to make a mistake.

  The Bonebreaker gave her the printout with his left hand since his right was full of gun. Lee turned the overhead light on in order to risk a look. The picture showed the back end of a pickup truck. It was equipped with a heavy-duty bumper and a California license plate. “I traced the number to a Mr. Hoffler in Nuevo,” the Bonebreaker said. “But the plate was stolen.”

  Lee turned the light off. “That means the imposter had the foresight to steal plates and put them on his truck before he took Vasquez,” Lee mused.

  “And that supports my thesis that he isn’t acting on impulse,” the Bonebreaker said. “That makes him even more dangerous.”

  “Like you.”

  “Yes, like me.”

  “Okay, what do you want?”

  “I want you to run a computer check on all of the pickups registered in the town of Nuevo. If one of them matches the vehicle in the picture then bingo! We have him.”

  Lee had already made up her mind to do that. Because there were few, if any, standard-production cars left, every vehicle was photographed as part of the registration process. Sure, there were likely to be hundreds of pickups in a town like Nuevo. But it wouldn’t be all that difficult to sort them manually.

  Plus there was something else. Something the Bonebreaker hadn’t mentioned. There was a black-on-white DMV sticker on the bumper . . . And a vise. What did that suggest? A plumber, perhaps? She’d seen utility trucks that had a vise mounted on the back bumper. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “And you’ll let me know what you find out?”

  “I’ll give you a general idea, yes. But I won’t give you a name and address.”

  “Why not?” the Bonebreaker inquired innocently.

  “Because you’d go over there and kill him.”

  The Bonebreaker shook his head. “No way . . . If I kill him, no one will know why he died. But if you take him in, or kill him, everyone will know that he was an imposter.”

  “Okay, I get that . . . But my answer is the same. I guess we’re done here.”

  “I guess we are.”

  Lee took her foot off the brake and pulled away. The Bonebreaker waited until her lights disappeared. He assumed Lee had memorized his plates and might or might not be in the process of putting out an APB on the especiale. He got out, opened the trunk, and removed a can of gas. After splashing it all over the car, he lit a match and gave it a toss. There was a loud whump, and a ball of fire lit up the lot. The Bonebreaker admired it for a second, turned, and walked away. The meeting had been a success.

  * * *

  Yanty was getting ready for bed when a cell phone began to chime. There were three phones on top of his dresser—and it took a moment to figure out which one to answer. He thumbed it on. “Yeah?”

  “This is Lee,” the voice on the other end of the line said. “I’m going to send you a photo of a back bumper and a plate. According to my source, this is the vehicle that Vasquez was in the night he disappeared. But the plate was stolen from a vehicle in Nuevo. That suggests that the perp might live there. So I suggest that you run a check on all of the pickups in the area. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get a match.”

  “You’re kidding,” Yanty replied. “I’m supposed to match trucks from a single photo? A bumper photo at that?”

  “Yes,” Lee said. “And it may not be as difficult as you think. The truck we’re looking for has a black-on-white sticker with the letters ‘DMV’ on it. And DMV typically stands for Doctor of Veterinary Medicine. Plus a vise is mounted on the right side of the bumper. So those items could be visible in the DMV photos.”

  “They could be,” Yanty agreed, “but I doubt it. Assuming the truck belongs to a vet, he or she probably added them after completing the registration process.”

  “True,” Lee admitted. “But it’s worth a try.”

  Yanty was silent for a moment. “Are you still on suspension?”

  “Yes.”

  Yanty groaned. “Who is the source you mentioned?”

  “I’m sorry, Dick, I can’t tell you.”

  “But they’re for real?”

  “Yeah, definitely.”

  “Okay,” he said reluctantly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks,” Lee said. “I won’t forget.” There was a click as the call ended.

  Yanty was pulling his pants on as his wife entered the bedroom. “What are you doing?”

  “Going to work.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m an idiot, that’s why.”

  She smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “Be careful, honey.” And with that she went to bed.

  * * *

  Baxter had a headache when she woke up. And she was cold. So very, very cold. The reason for that became evident as she opened her eyes. She was lying on a concrete floor and she was naked. Why?

  The bar, the man, and the drinks. Baxter felt a sinking sensation as all of it came rushing back. She’d been stupid . . . And her first reaction was a feeling of embarrassment. How would she explain this to her cop fri
ends? The teasing would last forever.

  Then, as she struggled to stand, the reality of the situation set in. There was a strong possibility that she’d never see her friends again. And a good chance that the man who called himself Mike was going to kill her. Baxter felt an emptiness in the pit of her stomach. She was afraid. Don’t be afraid, she told herself. Escape.

  Baxter forced herself to concentrate as she examined the six-foot-by-six-foot cell. What light there was came from a small window high above her head. The ceiling, the walls, and the floor were made of concrete. There was a drain in the middle of the floor. So Mike could hose the room down if he needed to. Baxter shuddered. And there, next to the metal fire door, sat two bowls. Both were made of stainless steel. One was filled with what looked like Cheerios—and the other was filled with water. Her spirits fell.

  Then Baxter noticed an unexpected odor. A smell that reminded her of Uncle Harry’s horse farm. She remembered the conversation in the bar. “I’m a vet.” That’s what Mike had said. Not a dog-and-cat vet but a large-animal doctor. And that’s where she was—locked inside some sort of barn.

  Baxter shivered. Is that what she was to him? An animal? She wrapped her arms around herself in a futile attempt to stay warm. The tears wanted to flow, but she refused them. “I’m a cop,” Baxter whispered to herself. “And cops don’t cry.”

  * * *

  Lee couldn’t sleep and got up early. A run . . . that would feel good. Then she’d go to work and see what, if anything, was new. She made coffee and turned on the TV. The weather came up first, followed by the news that an Aztec spy ring had been uncovered in San Francisco, and an update on the B. nosilla breakout up in Oregon.

  Then came the lead-in that caused Lee to turn the volume up. “An LAPD officer is missing this morning. Officials tell LA-7 that Patrol Officer Jennifer Baxter failed to show up at work today—and was last seen at a club called Jambo’s. A police spokesperson says that it is far too early to speculate regarding what happened to Baxter. But coworkers tell Channel 7 that she’s very reliable—and they suspect foul play. Some even went so far as to suggest the possibility that Baxter was abducted by the serial killer called the Bonebreaker. This follows the recent murder and dismemberment of Officer Vasquez . . . A killing that’s consistent with the Bonebreaker’s MO.”

  Lee swore and went to get the disposable cell phone that Yanty had given her. She took it into the bathroom. There weren’t any e-mails from Yanty . . . But there was a message from ENOB9. “It wasn’t me. I was with you!” Lee didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She was the Bonebreaker’s alibi!

  But that didn’t matter . . . What mattered was Jennifer Baxter. Lee hurried to get ready for work, called a taxi, and was lying in wait when Prospo arrived in the office. “Lee? What’s up? Besides you, that is?”

  “I heard about Baxter. I came in.”

  “Don’t worry, we’re on it.”

  “Do you think the Bonebreaker took her?”

  There was a pause. Prospo looked left and right as if to make sure that none of the other detectives could hear him. “I’m not sure that we should discuss stuff like that. Not until they lift the suspension.”

  “The simple answer is no, we shouldn’t,” Lee replied. “So, like I said, do you think the Bonebreaker took her?”

  Prospo laughed. “You have ovaries . . . That’s for sure. No, I don’t. But a yo-yo who claims to be the Bonebreaker called in, and the brass bought it.”

  “The real Bonebreaker would never do that,” Lee said. “He takes, he kills, and he dumps the body. Then he brags about it.”

  “Tell it to the chief . . . The last thing he and the mayor want is a second serial killer for the media to criticize them about.”

  “So we’ll have to do it the hard way,” Lee replied. “You’re working the Baxter case?”

  “Yanty and I are working both the Vasquez and the Baxter cases.”

  “Good. I want to visit Baxter’s home.”

  “I can’t do that,” Prospo responded. “Talking to you about the case is one thing . . . Letting you into Baxter’s apartment is something else.”

  “She could be alive,” Lee said.

  “That’s pure speculation.”

  “Yup, but it could be true, and you know it. She’s one of us, Milo. Fuck the rules.”

  “Can my family move in with you if the department fires me?”

  “My tent is your tent.”

  “Okay . . . It’ll take a while to set it up. I’ll let you know.”

  Once roll call was over Lee went to her desk and tried to do some paperwork. But it was difficult to concentrate and she was thankful when Prospo showed up. It was noon by then. “Come on,” he said with a wink. “Let’s get some lunch.”

  “I checked the schedule,” Prospo said, on the way down to the parking garage. “None of our people will be there for the next hour or so.”

  “We’ll keep it quick,” Lee promised. “Thanks, Milo. You’re okay in spite of what Yanty says.”

  Prospo laughed as they got in his creeper and headed up the ramp. It was midday, and that meant traffic was as light as it would ever be. And, since patrol officers weren’t about to stop one of their own for going ten miles an hour over the limit, they made good time. Baxter’s apartment was in West LA—a location that put her fairly close to work.

  The building was a boxy nondescript affair that styled itself as Las Palmas even though the nearest palm tree was half a block away. There were a couple of stumps out front though—so maybe there had been palms at one time.

  There was a row of parking spots and Prospo pulled into the one labeled “106.” “They found her car at the club,” he said.

  “Just like Vasquez,” Lee observed. “And, assuming that we’re dealing with the same person, he’s attractive to both men and women. So maybe he swings both ways . . . Or maybe he’s a good actor. Do the descriptions match?”

  “Mostly,” Prospo said. “But it’s hard to be certain. There were a lot of people in the Jambo club that night and the eyewitness accounts are vague.”

  “No photos then?” Lee inquired, as they followed a short flight of stairs up to the apartment house.

  “Some grainy stuff,” Prospo replied. “But nothing definitive. Follow me . . . I have a key.”

  Once inside the apartment Lee put her hands in her pockets rather than run the risk of touching anything. And she was careful to watch where she stepped as well—even though there was no reason to believe that a crime had been committed on the premises. Not yet anyway—but they wouldn’t know for sure until the techs finished their work.

  Lee’s purpose was to learn more about Baxter. What kind of person was she? And, more importantly, what kind of cop was she?

  The answers to both questions were quite apparent. Unlike Lee’s apartment, which was decorated man-style, Baxter’s was girly. There were colorful prints on the walls, some droopy flowers on the kitchen table, and all of the furniture matched.

  But it was easy to see that a cop lived there as well. A framed target was hanging in the hallway that led to the bedroom. All of the hits were in, or close to, the bull’s-eye. A commendation hung next to it. That reminded Lee of the award she’d seen at Rudy Vasquez’s apartment. And, judging from a black-and-white photo of Baxter posing in front of her cruiser, she was in good shape. A factor that might help her survive. “Okay,” she said finally. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s get while the getting is good.”

  Lee still couldn’t drive a police car so Prospo took her home, promised to let her know about any major developments, and returned to HQ. Lee felt somewhat lost as she made her way up to the apartment. She left a message for Jenkins, letting him know where she was, and checked her e-mail. There was nothing of interest other than an update from Codicil. The IA investigators had yet to file their report but were supposed to do so soon.

  The suspension was driving Lee crazy! She wanted to do something. So she called Yanty, knowing full well that he would let her k
now if he had anything to share. Her call went through this time. “Dick Yanty.”

  “Hi, Dick. Lee here. Any news?”

  “Nothing so far,” Yanty replied. “It turns out that there are a total of 356 pickups in Nuevo and the surrounding area—and I’m going through them as fast as I can. But now that we have the Baxter case to work on as well it’s hard to find the time. Lieutenant Wolfe is all in—she’s throwing everything we have at the case.”

  This is about the Baxter case, Lee thought to herself. But she knew Yanty was doing all he could. “Good,” she replied. “Sorry to bother you. I promise not to call during the next half hour.”

  Yanty laughed. “No problem . . . I understand.”

  They said their good-byes and hung up. That left Lee with nothing to do. So rather than mope she forced herself to clean the bathroom. A chore she hated but one that left her with a feeling of satisfaction once she was done.

  Then it was time to have lunch, watch the news, and take a nap, the last being a treat she rarely got to enjoy. There was a lot of noise during the day, and there was a lot on her mind, so it took a while to fall asleep. But eventually she did. And she was hunting the Bonebreaker when one of her phones began to ring.

  Lee sat up, realized that the call was coming in on her personal phone, and immediately thought of Kane. He’d been at a conference in San Diego. But when she eyed the screen, Lee saw a number she didn’t recognize. “Hello, this is Cassandra Lee.”

  “And this,” the voice on the end of the line said, is “Crystal Bye.”

  Lee was still sleepy and didn’t recognize the name at first. Then it came to her . . . The assassin! Was the shadow team listening in? They were supposed to be. “Why weren’t you on the pier?” Lee inquired sweetly. “It would be nice to meet you. We could compare guns or something.”

  “I was busy elsewhere,” Bye replied. “But I’m here today . . . Look out your front window.”

  Lee grabbed the .45 on her way to the living room. The curtains were closed. As were the blinds beyond them. What would happen if she opened them? Would a sniper put a bullet in her head?