by Jessica King
“Ugh,” Joyce said, lifting her hand and walking away. “Let’s give him the bad news.”
It was indeed bad news.
“No,” the senator said. “Why on earth do you need to question me? My wife has just died by suicide. Don’t you think that I should be left to grieve in peace? Honestly!”
He threw up his hands, and the staff around the house poked their heads out of doors and around banisters.
“You’re joining us in our car,” Joyce said. “Whether you’re cuffed is your choice.”
“I never—”
Joyce reached for her handcuffs, and the senator walked down the stairs. “No need for that,” he said.
Vince gave her a thumbs-up.
“Ivy?” she asked.
He checked his phone again, even though he’d been checking it every few seconds. He shook his head.
+++
Saturday, March 18, 2017, 1:55 p.m.
Ivy sprinted to the edge of the forest, started playing the video she’d just sent to Vince on full volume, and tossed her phone into the trees. She ran behind the woman’s car and waited, trying to keep her panting breaths quiet.
The woman exploded through the back of the house, and then she heard a quiet pause. She was looking for her. Ivy nearly sighed in relief. She could hear her voice, even though the phone was far away, and the woman barreled into the forest, pulling a gun from her pocket.
Ivy ran up the front steps and found the bags the woman had brought inside and, apparently, had dropped when she’d seen the empty chair. “Where is it? Where is it?” Ivy asked. She rifled through the bags until she found the keys to the car.
One quick scan showed her that the woman was still searching, wondering why she was hearing Ivy and not seeing her. The woman looked down.
This was the last moment she had. Her captor was about to find the phone. Ivy sprinted to the car, not caring if the woman saw her. She didn’t have time for stealth. She opened the driver’s side door, cranked the car, and threw it into reverse, righting the car onto the dirt path that would take her back to the freeway.
The car pinged with a bullet, and Ivy pushed the gas harder, the car jostling against the unpaved ground.
“C’mon, c’mon.”
She heard the tire deflate. The car blinked a warning. 0 PSI Back Right Tire.
Ivy swore but kept her foot on the gas. Her knuckles went white around the steering wheel as she tried to keep the car on track with its completely flat wheel, and several too-low branches squeaked against the windshield. She screamed, but she was finally spit out onto a paved road. The wheels turned better on this road, the rim of the back tire making crunching noises against the asphalt that made her hair stand on end. There wasn’t a gas station in sight. No stores around to replace the tire yet. And she wasn’t going to dare to stop to check if there was a spare for a while, her hands were shaking too bad to do any good. But she had made it. She kept the car at fifty and drove.
Tears streamed down her face as a cop car pulled up behind her. Blue and white lights blinking at her. She pulled the car to the side of the road and waited for the officer to come to her. “Long Beach PD,” he said. When he saw the cuts along her face and arms, his eyes widened. “What happened to you? Is this your car?”
“It’s not,” she said, laughing with hysteria. “But I think you’ll be really interested in meeting the owner.” She pushed her hand out the window. “I’m Detective Hart. And I could really use a bottle of water if you have one.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Saturday, March 18, 2017, 1:58 p.m.
“Why did I have to wait so long? Did one of my rivals put you up to framing me? We start campaigning for reelection next year, you know.” Roy Cline’s blue eyes were sharp and squinty. He had gone red in the face, and a bit purplish around the neck. Joyce crossed her arms, unimpressed. The overall effect of him reminded her of a turkey. His attitude in the car had released her from any worries she had about a press “frenzy,” as she and Vince had called it, because the man was hardly amicable, as her body cam had no doubt caught on tape. If she needed to defend her actions, she could simply replay the string of unkindly insults he delivered on her, Vince, and the police force as a whole.
“You waited because we needed to check some information. I did know that, and no, no one asked us to bring you in. But I will tell you that you would have had to wait much longer if you didn’t have the standing you do.” He’d even gotten the cushy interrogation chair. Not a privilege most received.
“There was a woman filming me,” the senator said.
“And if you’re innocent, we’re just going to ask her to delete that footage. But in order to do that, you can see why we need to have this conversation.”
“Because you think I killed my wife.”
“Did you?” Joyce asked.
“Of course not!” The man crossed his arms and stretched his neck. She wondered if he knew that he was trying to make himself look bigger, taller, or if he was doing so subconsciously.
“You said that your wife picks up her own medications.”
“Right, that’s true.”
“But we checked with the pharmacy. You picked up her most recent prescription.”
“Well, we’re a family. Of course, there will be … exceptions to that regularity. What could that possibly prove?”
“Well,” Joyce said. “We got a warrant to check the dates you pick up your medications, and your wife, without fail, always picks up both of your medications the day of or the day after she receives text alerts that your prescriptions have been automatically refilled.”
“And?” the senator asked.
“And you picked up the fourth refill of her prescription three days before your wife was going to get a text alert.”
“I like to be on top of things.”
“But try to look at this from our perspective,” Joyce said. “You picked up the medication that your wife supposedly overdosed on much earlier than you normally do. In fact, the pharmacist said that you waited twenty-five minutes for that prescription to be filled during business hours.” Joyce tented her fingers in front of her. “When you brought home the bottle, your wife should have had three pills left in the third prescription refill of her medication.”
“Now, we just got the autopsy back, and it says that your wife did ingest all of the medicine in that fourth bottle. Her therapist said there was a tiny, tiny chance of her doing anything to harm herself, let alone commit suicide. But your house chef told us that you insisted on making her soup and fresh bread the night of her death. The pills she was taking were in gelatin capsules. Gelatin capsules can be dissolved in 90-95-degree water. Did you know that?”
“I did not.”
“But just to let you know the theory I have, I’ll continue,” Joyce said. “You could use that water to make your wife’s dinner, and she would have never complained, even if it gave it an odd taste, right?”
“She knows I’m not the best cook, but she’s always encouraged me, but I don’t see how that should matter right now.”
“And what kind of wine did you drink with dinner?”
“Merlot, I believe.”
“Right. That much of her medication and alcohol mixed together is incredibly dangerous.” Joyce leaned in. “But there were still two days—and two pills—between the day you picked up the prescription, and the day she would have taken the last pill in the third refill of her prescription.”
Joyce played the video Ivy had sent to Vince for the senator.
“So, we have this. The woman who lives in the house in this video is a very dangerous person. And apparently very smart. She was a marine, and we looked at her track record. ‘Brilliant, but aloof,’ was how many of her superiors referred to her.”
“I don’t know who you are talking about,” Roy said.
“Her name is Marsha Leeds? Does that sound familiar?”
Roy blinked. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Well,
she’s just been arrested one county over, so I can get a picture if you need it.”
Roy shifted in his chair.
“Anyway,” Joyce said. “Let’s say that before you visited the pharmacy, you went home and got the bottle from your third prescription. Your cleaning lady, Lydia, mentioned she did see you home in the middle of the day this week, and found it odd, but said nothing. She says you don’t talk to her much. She’s a nice lady, you should.” Joyce felt the momentum of her story. Felt the growing discomfort of the man across from her. “So, in theory, let’s say you went home to get the pill bottle, gave it to Marsha who just happened to have what appears in this video to be a nearly comical amount of wolfsbane root powder—which is very poisonous—and had her use the gelatin capsule to recreate a pill your wife takes without thinking much about every night filled with wolfsbane. You then could have picked up the fourth refill prescription and emptied the bottle of all except for two pills. A day later, you could have picked up the wolfsbane pill, switched it out for the last one and flushed the original before your wife came to bed early, feeling sick from her overdose of depression medication from dinner. From there, you simply would have had to help her take her medicine for that night, a routine she never would have questioned, which left her dead in moments.”
“Wh—well, I—”
“Might need a lawyer,” Joyce said. “Because if this theory of mine is true, you were the only one to ever have access to that fourth refill bottle to put the Kingsmen card in.”
“Officer, I did not—”
“Do we have permission to search your personal belongings for a Kingsmen kit, and for an opened stack of cards, where just one might be missing?” Joyce asked.
Roy stared at Joyce, his eyes turning stormy with anger. “How dare you—”
“I can get a warrant,” Joyce said. “And if we find that kit, and we find more than one card missing? We are going to have to consider you as a suspect for the murder of several other women in the L.A. area.”
Roy’s jaw dropped.
Joyce kept her hands open, kept her face composed. “Sir, do we have your permission to search your things for a Kingsmen kit?”
Roy pressed his lips together, and Joyce lowered her voice.
“Senator Cline. If I go through your desk today, am I going to find a Kingsmen kit?”
Roy clasped his hands on the table and looked at them. He flattened the crisscross of his fingers against the table and looked at his wedding ring. “Yes.”
“Why did you do it?” Joyce asked. Her voice turned softer at the tears building up in the man’s eyes.
“She was a reincarnation of a witch.” He looked into Joyce’s eyes. “The things I’ve voted on, the things I’ve done. Have they all just been her? Puppeteering my choices?”
Joyce shook her head. “And what if they were? Was it really worth killing your wife? Going to jail?”
The man’s face crumpled, folding at the wrinkles. “They were going to kill me.”
Joyce swallowed. “She was not your first kill, then?”
Roy’s shaking hands left the table and rested on his knees. “I think I’d like my lawyer,” he said.
+++
Saturday, March 18, 2017, 2:15—2:27 PM
CHICAGO, IL
Dispatch: 9-1-1 emergency
Caller: Hello, hello? Are the police coming? They’re shooting!
DETROIT, MI
Dispatch: Can you tell me where you are?
Caller: I’m at the Detroit Conference Center.
NASHVILLE, TN
Dispatch: Are you in a safe place?
Caller: I hid in a janitor’s closet.
HOUSTON, TX
Dispatch: Can you get out?
Caller: There’s more than one shooter. I’m so scared to leave. Please.
BUFFALO, NY
Dispatch: Do you know about how many shooters?
Caller: I—I don’t know. There were a lot. Like, at least five? There might have been more; I don’t know. I heard a lot of shots. I don’t know. I don’t know.
PHOENIX, AZ
Dispatch: A squad is on the way.
Caller: Okay. I—I don’t know what to do, can you stay on the line?
SEATTLE, WA
Dispatch: Do you still hear shots?
Caller: Yes. It hasn’t stopped. I can hear running. I—I saw at least two people dead before I got in here! Are they coming?
RALEIGH, NC
Dispatch: They’re coming. Any second now.
Caller: Please hurry. Sir, can you tell them to hurry?
MIAMI, FL
Dispatch: Ma’am? Ma’am? Are you still there?
Caller:
THE FINAL CHAPTER
Saturday, March 18, 2017, 2:17 p.m.
“10-71 multiple shooters on Long Beach. All units respond. Multiple shooters on Long Beach. All units respond.”
The policeman who had found her moments ago looked at Ivy. Another pair of officers had volunteered to go take down Ivy’s captor as Officer Martin delivered her to the hospital. But Ivy shook her head. “Let’s go.”
“You’re not in shooting condition.”
“I’m fine, let’s go,” Ivy said.
Officer Martin didn’t waste time. Lights on, sirens blaring, they sped toward Long Beach. Ivy’s window turned into a blur of blues, oranges, and yellows. They were only a few moments away. “I have an extra gun in my trunk you can use. Handgun. Do you think your shoulder can handle the recoil?”
“I think the vest is going to be the shorter stick here,” she said, and they sprang out of the car. She slipped into the extra vest and loaded the gun, adrenaline loosening her shoulder, draining her arm and leg of their incessant stinging. People were sprinting away from the beach, climbing up the steep incline of rocks and plants, hopping the cement barriers, and running for the suburban areas.
“Keep moving. Keep moving!” Officer Martin yelled, directing people on cellphones, people filming, people watching away from the beach. “Keep moving!”
The harsh noise of gunfire echoed from the beach, and Ivy’s body tensed. Her shoulder prickled with pain, and she took a deep breath.
“Let’s go, let’s go!” Ivy yelled. She reached for the hand of a shorter girl trying to get over the cement barrier. “Where’s the shooting from?” she said. “Which way?”
The girl pointed down to where a man with a revolver was shooting five quick shots before reloading. Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom. Reload. Boom, boom, boom …
Ivy lined up her aim and fired. The man fell to the ground, the sand around him haloed in red.
The people climbing up the hill had stopped, looking up at the sound of her gunshot in terror. “LAPD!” she yelled. “Keep coming, let’s go, let’s go!”
They started climbing again, and Ivy helped them over the barricade. She saw a gunman make eye contact with her right before she shoved the two people closest to her to the ground. “Stay down! Stay down!” she yelled. The others around her had fallen to the ground as well, and Ivy crouched, looking over the barrier. The gunman had lost interest, going for quantity and aiming toward a large herd of people running away through the sand, their pace slowed by the difficult terrain.
Ivy stood, aimed, shot.
She was breathing through a straw. She wasn’t breathing at all. Her vision was blurring at the edges, and she sat on the pavement. “Go!” She yelled at the people around her. She heard scrambling as her vision pinpointed, only a piece of concrete visible.
She gritted her teeth and pressed a hand to her gunshot wound. She growled against the pain, but the immediacy of the injury brought her senses back to life.
You’re panicking, her mind told her. She heard a particularly loud shot, and suddenly she was in a wood-paneled room, zip-tied to a rickety chair. She felt the water the officer had given her rising in her throat, and suddenly it was in her nose, in her lungs. Her mother’s words rang in her mind: I fear Death. I fear Justice. I fear Death I fear Death I fear
Death. She smelled lemongrass hand soap and forest trees …
She spat on the concrete and tapped at the bullet wound, using the pain to clear her mind. She stood and saw that one of the shooters was getting closer, using the hill as a vantage point for her shooting. Ivy pulled the trigger. She knew to aim for the middle, to just shoot to kill, always. But the woman was close enough that she managed to get her right shoulder. The woman went down, but she might make it.
+++
Saturday, March 18, 2017, 2:19 p.m.
“10-71. Multiple active shooters at Venice Beach skatepark. All units respond. 10-71”
Vince, Joyce, and Kenshin had been pouring over the video Ivy had sent, looking for anything that might tell them where she had been when she sent her suspicions about Chloe Cline’s poisoning.
“Right behind you,” Vince said to Joyce and Kenshin. Officers all around the department put on vests. By the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, a series of cars were already firing up their sirens. Vince slid into his car and sped to the 405, cars gliding to either side of the freeway as fleets of police cars sped through.
“Ivy, where are you, girl?” he asked the seat next to him. He felt pulled taught without their regular babble. Even when things were as serious as a shooting, the two of them always managed to formulate a plan, talk each other up before they headed into the thick of something scary. He felt jittery without it. He exited toward Venice Boulevard, causing a racket until cars moved to the side, letting him and the other wailing cop cars through the traffic.
Vince pulled to a stop, burst from his car, and started running. Some cars continued, sirens screaming as they drove across too-green grass and waited for pedestrians to clear. Other officers were flooding the scene, bodies clad in all black running toward the sound of shooting.
He vaguely took in posters advertising a “Prophetess Viewing Party at the Place it All Began!” and pulled his gun from his duty belt, yelling at pedestrians to clear the area.