The riptide continued ferrying me seaward. Combined with my strokes, I thought the outrushing current would be enough to shuttle me past the mountainous wall of water before it curled.
I was wrong.
I wasn’t going to make it.
Dive!
Taking another hurried breath, I submerged again, pulling for the safety of the bottom. As I descended, I felt the mass of the wave moving over me, trying to drag me back. Thankful I had taken time to don my fins, I kicked with all my strength. Heart pounding, hands scrabbling against the sand, I fought against the terrible sucking power of the wave, its force diminished by my depth but still strong enough to drag me back into its maw.
Red haze dimmed my vision. I couldn’t stay down much longer.
And still the wave pulled at me, unwilling to release its grip. Lungs burning, thighs cramping, I forced myself to stay down several more seconds, waiting for the wave to pass.
For a sickening instant I thought I wouldn’t make it.
Somehow I did.
After what seemed a lifetime, I resurfaced, only to find another monstrous swell approaching. Taking a gasping breath, I dived again, still riding the riptide. Progressively sucked seaward by the outrushing flow, I repeated this again, and again—eventually fighting my way past the break of even the largest waves.
I was safe . . . for the moment.
A dozen lateral strokes carried me out of the rip. There I tread water to catch my breath, feeling the power of each passing swell lift and lower me on its journey to the shore.
Finally recovered enough to continue, I set out again, swimming to a raft that neighbors and I had anchored offshore some years back. As usual, a spattering of bird droppings layered its ten-by-ten surface. Deciding to forgo cleaning the poop and climbing aboard to rest, I continued swimming westward against a long-shore current, breathing on my right to avoid a chopping spray from seaward.
Twenty minutes later, upon arriving at a rocky point marking the western terminus of Las Flores Beach, I paused about two hundred yards from shore. Then, breathing on the opposite side, I set out on my return.
Several times on the trip back I found myself drifting too close to shore, with the swells forcing me to retreat to deeper water. During that time I also noticed that the waves were continuing to build, and I began to worry about returning to shore. It had never been my intention to surf any of the larger waves. Instead, I had planned to wait for a pause in the swells, then swim to the inside break and ride a smaller wave back to shore.
Upon returning to the raft, I again tread water, hoping for a pause in the sets. Minutes passed. With a feeling of apprehension, I began to realize that my original plan was not to be. If anything, the waves were increasing in size, with no pause in between. To make matters worse, despite my wetsuit, I was getting cold.
As I waited, hoping I hadn’t made a foolish error by entering the waves that morning, my thoughts returned to The Magpie case, and to the obscenity the killer had left on display in the Botanical Garden. With a growing sense of unease, I realized that like the treacherous water in which I was now immersed, I was at the mercy of unpredictable tides and currents on the new investigation, and any misstep could send my life spinning in ways I was unable to predict. With an effort of will, I forced myself to concentrate on my present situation, deciding to worry about the investigation later—assuming I made it to shore.
Shivering, I glanced over my shoulder. With dismay, I saw one of the largest waves of the day bearing down on me with the unrelenting fury of an avalanche. I had two choices: Turn and sprint for deeper water, or take my chances and ride it in.
Praying I wasn’t making another bad decision, I chose the latter.
Heart in my throat, I waited, gauging the oncoming giant’s approach. Thrust skyward by the ocean floor, it continued to rise, higher . . . higher . . .
At the last instant, as I sensed the first sucking rush of the oncoming surge, I turned and raced for shore. Legs churning, arms slashing the water in a strong series of strokes, I felt the wave rise beneath me.
If I went over the falls, a drop to the shallows could prove fatal.
Don’t think about that.
Swim!
Several final kicks . . . and I was in.
Right arm extended, I plummeted down the curling face, a glitter of spray flying into my eyes. Arching my back, I cut left before bottoming out. I felt myself slowing . . . then rising again on the nearly vertical wall.
And again I dropped. Accelerating into another turn at the bottom, I cut free of the wave just before it closed out. Emerging on the backside, I gulped a breath of air, lowered my head, and kicked for the sand, hoping to avoid a pounding by the following swell.
Somehow surviving a battering from the next several sets, I made it to the inside break. Nearly exhausted, I struggled to keep my head above the foam. Shortly afterward, with a flood of relief, I managed to catch a smaller wave, riding it most of the way to shore.
Teeth chattering, I stripped off my fins and waded through waist-deep water to the beach, still fighting the outrushing surge. When I arrived in the shallows, Callie bounded into the backwash, greeting me with unabashed canine joy.
As for me, I had never been happier to be anywhere in my life. Still shivering, I headed back to the house, unexpectedly recalling my promise to Dorothy. To my surprise, I found myself looking forward to the challenges of the new investigation, and protecting those I loved, and getting on with my life—hoping those issues were not mutually exclusive.
Following a cold shower on the deck, I toweled myself dry, went upstairs and fed Callie, and brewed a pot of coffee. The house was still quiet, and I decided to let everyone sleep. Steaming mug of java in hand, I returned to my bedroom and dressed. Then, moving to my gun safe in the corner, I entered the combination and removed my service weapon, a Glock .45 ACP model 21. Strapping on my shoulder rig, I headed for the front door.
On the street outside, I found that my Suburban had arrived sometime during the night. The keys were on the floor. Happy to be driving my larger vehicle once again, I pulled onto Pacific Coast Highway during a lull in traffic, making a mental note to thank the Boise agent who had made the delivery.
Traffic was light, and on the way into town I placed a call to Nate. As the phone began ringing on his end, I switched my iPhone to speaker and placed it on the seat beside me.
“Hello?” Nate answered, sounding sleepy. “Dad?”
“None other. Hope I didn’t wake you.”
“It’s time I got up anyway,” Nate yawned. “Everything okay?”
“All’s good on my end. How about you?” I replied, deciding not to mention my ill-advised venture into the surf that morning, a lapse in judgment that still worried me. Now that the flush of surviving the gigantic waves had started to fade, I once more wondered whether taking the case would turn out to be a dangerous mistake in my professional life as well.
“Great on my end, too,” said Nate, starting to wake up. “I like Agent Taylor’s friends at the rafting company. I can’t wait to get on the river.”
“Stay upright in your boat, okay?”
“I’ll try. Tom and Chad said I’ll be learning an Eskimo roll, just in case.”
“Tom and Chad?”
“Cascade Raft family members, and two of the best kayak instructors anywhere. Anyway, Agent Taylor says my surfing experience should make me a natural.”
“I suppose kayaking can’t be much more dangerous than surfing.”
“Well, there are rocks in the river, which makes things a little different,” Nate laughed. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll be fine.”
“See that you are. By the way, Taylor will be picking you up at LAX when you get back.”
“Cool.”
“And next Wednesday we’ll resume your regular appointments with Dr. Berns.”
“I haven’t forgotten, Dad. Gotta run.”
“Okay. Stay safe, kid.”
After disconnecting,
I glanced at my watch. I still had thirty minutes before the start of my shift. Instead of turning left on West Channel Road, I continued east on Pacific Coast Highway toward Santa Monica. Before arriving at the station, there was a friend I wanted to see, and maybe pick his brain.
11
Photo Shoot
In the silence of her prison, groggy from the drugs she had taken the day before, Ella Snead lay on her bed, as still as death.
The overhead light had come on earlier. As ordered, she had showered and dressed. Afterward she had taken advantage of the light to explore her cell further, this time discovering a cabinet drawer filled with women’s clothes of various sizes—skirts, blouses, underclothes, sweaters, slacks—all freshly laundered.
Had he purchased her a variety of clothes, not knowing her measurements? Or were they simply leftovers from previous captives? Either way, Ella decided to wash her own garments in the sink and hang them in the shower to dry.
Later she had returned to bed, dreading the man’s arrival.
Now what? she wondered, trying to quiet her trembling hands by clasping them tightly in her lap.
Will he visit again today?
Of the previous day, she remembered little. She vaguely recalled being undressed and photographed in different poses—sometimes in nightgowns and frilly underwear, sometimes without. And again, throughout it all, it had seemed as if she were watching herself from afar. One thing she did remember clearly. After entering her cell, he had removed her collar.
And maybe that could help.
Minutes later, the sound of footsteps announced his presence. As the man entered the chamber outside her cell, Ella once more saw him tucking a key inside his shirt. “Good morning,” he said, setting another McDonald’s box on the floor before seating himself in his chair.
Ella glanced at the McDonald’s carton. The one he’d brought previously had contained egg and bacon sandwiches, which she had thrown up shortly after wolfing them down. She had to be more careful. She needed to maintain her strength, and the granola bars in the cabinet weren’t going to be enough.
“Did you sleep well?”
Sensing that her terror somehow fed her captor, Ella fought to hide it. “No.”
“I myself slept rather well.”
“How nice for you.”
His face darkened. “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Ella,” he warned, lifting his remote control. “Nor does incivility. Will an attitude adjustment be necessary?”
Ella looked away, unable to meet his gaze. “Please, just let me go and I won’t tell any—”
He shocked her.
This time the electrical surge was worse than before.
Ella screamed. “You son of a bitch, let me out of here!”
He shocked her again.
And again.
“No more,” Ella begged, weeping.
“That’s entirely up to you.”
“What do you want? Is it sex?”
The man stared through the bars, his face expressionless.
“Because I’ll do whatever you want,” Ella said, lowering her eyes. “Anything.”
The man shook his head. “No, no, no. We were making such progress before you ruined things with your tawdry offer of sex.”
“I . . . I’m sorry,” Ella backtracked, realizing she had made a mistake.
The man remained silent, as if considering. Then, “I accept your apology,” he said.
“Thank you,” Ella replied, attempting to sound sincere. Taking a deep breath, she glanced at the ceiling. “Can you watch me on that webcam whenever you want? Even with the light turned off?”
“Of course. It’s an infrared device. Everything is recorded for later viewing as well.”
Being the daughter of a police captain, Ella was familiar with surveillance equipment. From the faint glow emanating from around the webcam lens, she already knew it was an infrared device, able to track her in the dark. She hoped the man didn’t realize that once her vision had adjusted, the feeble red light allowed her to navigate her darkened prison. She couldn’t see everything, but enough.
“Could you leave the light on?” Ella begged. “Please? At least during the day. It’s horrible to be in complete darkness and not see anything at all,” she added, testing her theory.
“That’s a privilege you must earn,” the man replied.
“If this isn’t about sex, why are you doing it?” Ella asked again, taking a different tack.
“Because I can,” the man replied.
“You’re sick.”
“There are many who would agree. Were I able to experience even the tiniest bit of shame or remorse, which—unlike most of the puppets currently populating our planet, I don’t—things might be different. On the contrary, I like what I’m doing. We’re nothing in the grand scheme of things, nothing but dust, so what possible difference could anything I do now make in, say, fifty years? A hundred? A thousand? So as long as I don’t get caught, why shouldn’t I do whatever I want?”
“You’re sick,” Ella repeated.
“And you think you’re tough. Am I right, Ella? Are you tough?”
Ella didn’t answer.
“I’ll tell you what, tough little Ella. I’m going to reward you for your candor. You may have several additional hours of light each day, starting this morning.”
Although Ella’s heart leapt, she remained silent.
“But now it’s time for you to take your medicine,” the man continued. “And the next time we meet, I want to hear all about your lovely sister, Julie.”
Though appalled that he knew her younger sister’s name, Ella still remained silent.
She had the beginnings of a plan, and anything she said might spoil it.
12
Hank Dexter
After disconnecting with Nate on the drive into town, I next called Taylor, informing her that I would be working The Magpie investigation and arranging to meet her later that afternoon to compare notes. Last, I called an old friend, Hank Dexter, telling him to expect me.
Upon arriving in Santa Monica, I pulled to a stop on West Pico, parking in front of a store with a neon sign above the door that read: Hank’s Radio and TV. Hank’s shop wasn’t open yet, so I rapped on the storefront window. Moments later Hank peered at me through the glass, his weathered face lighting in a grin. With a wave, he motioned me to the front door.
“A pleasure to see you again, Dan,” said my elderly friend as I entered, regarding me over a pair of antique, wire-rimmed glasses.
“You, too, Hank.”
After ushering me in, Hank locked the door behind us. Glancing around, I noticed stacks of unopened shipping boxes near the entrance, rack upon rack of stereos and computers to the right, shelves jammed with ham radio equipment, microphones, and speakers to the left, and an armada of flat-screen televisions plastering the far wall. “Business looks good,” I observed.
“Can’t complain,” Hank agreed.
Years back I had worked a drive-by shooting in which Hank’s teenaged son, Mitchell, had been present in a crowd indiscriminately sprayed with gang-retaliation gunfire. Mitchell had been struck in the spine and wound up riding a wheelchair. Over the course of the investigation, Hank and I became friends, and we still stayed in touch.
“How’s Mitch?”
Hank smiled again. “Couldn’t be better. He and Milli just made me a grandfather twice over—this time with a baby girl, Elizabeth. She came two weeks early, but she’s healthy as a horse.”
“That’s wonderful news, Hank,” I said, remembering how delighted I had been holding my own granddaughter for the first time. “Please extend my congratulations.”
“Will do.” Hank regarded me curiously. “I’m assuming there’s more to your visit this morning than catching up on old times. What’s up?”
I shoved my hands into my pockets, trying to decide how much to say. I trusted Hank, but I didn’t want to put him in a compromising position. “I’m working a case in which some dirtbag has
been sending us voice-altered messages,” I replied. “I’m hoping we can use that somehow. What do you know about voice-masking techniques?”
Hank shrugged. “I’m not an expert on voice changers, but I can probably fill in a few blanks. Let’s head back to my workbench. Want some coffee?”
“Thanks, already had my dose for the day,” I said, following Hank deeper into the store. After Hank had poured himself a mug of black coffee, we ducked under a counter and made our way to a brightly lit service area in the rear. Hank moved a piece of disassembled electronic equipment from his workbench, set down his mug, and dropped into a well-worn armchair.
“We’re talking about software, right?” I said, perching on a nearby stool. “Not hardware?”
Hank nodded. “For the most part. There are a few dedicated hardware systems still out there, but voice masking nowadays is mostly done with software run on any generic computer. Most laptops have plenty of computing power to do the job.”
I thought a moment. “Okay, so here’s what I want to know. First, is it possible to reverse the voice-masking process and revert to the original sound? And second, is there any way to tell what kind of software someone is using?”
“So you can track it to a particular purchaser?”
“Something like that.”
Hank rubbed his chin. “Hmmm. Okay, let’s start with your first question, which will help understand the issues involved with your second.”
“Just keep it simple, okay?”
“Of course,” Hank sniffed, looking disappointed. “To start, the most basic form of sound modification is to speed up or slow down a recording of something—like playing an old LP record faster on the stereo turntable. In that case you’re speeding up time, which raises the sound frequency, or pitch.”
“And you wind up with something sounding like Alvin and the Chipmunks’ Christmas Song.”
“Right. Getting back to the original pitch simply requires slowing down the recording, which is way too easy to be useful as a masking technique. I only mention it to make the point that unlike altering a recording, a good voice changer has to be able to operate in real time—and do so without speeding up or slowing down the underlying speech.
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