So the Bonebreaker was paying close attention as the narrator began to talk about the McGinty murder when his phone beeped. The Bonebreaker didn’t have any friends or acquaintances. But he did have an automated system that was set up to notify him if a malfunction occurred inside the ossuary. The text message read: “The power is out. Check and repair.”
The Bonebreaker wasn’t alarmed. It was possible that one of the power company’s techs had stumbled across the tap and cut it off. That happened from time to time. Or maybe a rat had gnawed through the insulation and fried itself. He could cope with either one.
Assumptions could be dangerous, however, so the Bonebreaker opened a remote security app and selected one of three battery-powered cameras located in the ossuary. What the Bonebreaker saw was so unexpected that he thought it was some sort of anomaly. But it soon became apparent that the image was real. At least half a dozen cops were inside his home! Suddenly, the Bonebreaker felt as if liquid lead had pooled in the pit of his stomach. How? How, after all those years? And what else did they know?
The Bonebreaker struggled to fight the rising tide of panic. Calm down, he told himself. They don’t know where you are. Only God knows that—and thanks to his protection, you’re safe. Were it otherwise, they would be inside the house by now. Plus you foresaw this possibility and have a place to go.
That was when one of the invaders spoke and, thanks to a hidden mike, the Bonebreaker could hear. “This looks like his bedroom,” Cassandra Lee said, “but he isn’t here.” The Bonebreaker uttered a primal scream and threw the phone across the room. It hit the wall and clattered to the floor.
• • •
“This is One-One,” Ferris said. “The tunnel complex appears to be clear. But there could be a hiding place somewhere, so keep your heads on a swivel. Over.”
Lee had been concerned about the team’s radios—and how well they would work underground. But so far so good. She keyed her mike. “This is One-Eight to Three-One. Restore power. Over.”
A lightbulb was dangling from the ceiling, and it came on as Lee turned the night-vision device off. All sorts of emotions battled each other for dominance. She felt a sense of joy because here, after years of trying, was a victory of sorts. The theory would have to be confirmed, of course—but Lee felt certain that she was standing in the Bonebreaker’s lair. And that meant there would be evidence to process, lots of it, all of which would be valuable.
But Lee felt a profound sense of disappointment, too. The man who was responsible for so much death and misery was still on the loose—and her hopes for a final resolution to nine murders had been dashed. That’s what Lee was thinking about when she noticed the tiny camera up in a corner of the room. She keyed her mike. “One-Eight to One-One . . . There is a security cam in the bedroom. How much you want to bet there are more? The bastard could be watching us right now. Over.”
“Roger that, Eight-One,” came the response. “I’ll have One-Five take them down. Over.”
Lee clicked her mike on and off by way of a response. That was when Prospo entered the room. His helmet was tucked under his left arm. “What have we here?” the detective inquired.
“It looks like his bedroom,” Lee replied. “Notice the metal door. He liked to lock himself in. Creepy, huh?”
Prospo nodded but failed to smile. “Listen Cassandra . . . I think it would be a good idea if you went topside. Jenkins is waiting for a report. Plus some decisions need to be made. Should the department hold a press conference or not? That kind of stuff.”
Lee looked at him. Prospo had never been one to worry about press conferences. So why now? Because he was trying to get rid of her, that’s why. “Don’t bullshit me, Milo . . . What are you trying to hide?”
Prospo made a face. “There’s a room, Cassandra . . . A room with some sort of contraption in it. I think you should go topside.”
Horrible images blipped through Lee’s mind. She had seen a replica and a video featuring the real thing. “Thank you, Milo . . . But I have to go in there. I have to see it.”
Prospo opened his mouth as if to object but closed it again. He knew Lee . . . And knew she would make herself look no matter how stupid that was. So he turned and went out into the tunnel beyond. As Prospo led Lee deeper into the complex, she saw a room filled with bones, and caught a glimpse of a freestanding toilet, before entering the what? Lab? Kitchen? Execution chamber? It seemed to incorporate elements of all three.
But it was the structure in which her father and so many others had screamed out the last seconds of their lives that claimed Lee’s attention. Once in the contraption, there was no getting out when the Bonebreaker came to butcher them.
Lee struggled to hold the tears back but couldn’t. The sobs came from somewhere deep inside and racked her body. All strength seemed to leave Lee’s limbs, but Prospo was there to hold her up. “That’s enough,” he said kindly. “You did everything you could. Your father would be proud. It’s time to put this room behind you.” And with that, he led her away.
• • •
It was well after midnight, and the man had been sitting inside the car for more than seven hours by then, trying to ignore the stench of stale cigarette smoke. Once darkness fell, he’d been able to get out and pee thanks to the partial blackout that was in force in the city. He hadn’t had the foresight to bring food with him however—since he expected his prey to leave the Street Services Garage around six or six thirty. That was a mistake he wouldn’t make twice.
Each time the door opened, a shaft of light shot out into the darkened parking lot. Sometimes people went in, but given the late hour, most of them went out, presumably headed home. The volume of the comings and goings was a surprise to the man—but the flow might be normal for all he knew.
Regardless of that, he knew he wasn’t likely to identify Chief of Police Corso as he left the building. There wasn’t enough light. But that didn’t matter because he could see Corso’s bright red sports car—a photo of which had been part of a glossy magazine spread two months earlier. The title of the article was “LA’s Most Eligible Bachelor,” and it was primarily focused on the chief’s famously long string of love affairs. None of which held any interest for the man. What did interest him was where Corso lived and was likely to be most vulnerable.
The man sat up straight as the door opened, and light splashed the pavement. Was this the one? Yes! He watched the person who had left the building make his way over to the red especiale and slide inside. That was his cue to start his engine and get ready. Fortunately, it did start, something that was by no means certain since he’d been forced to buy the vehicle sin papeles so the police couldn’t connect it to him.
So as Corso drove out of the lot and turned onto the street, the man was on his tail. The trick was to get through the same traffic lights that his quarry did—but hang back far enough so as to avoid attracting attention. He felt a fluttery sensation in his stomach and recognized it as the sense of excitement that always preceded a kill.
• • •
Even with roughly half the streetlights on, there was less light to see by as Corso left the parking lot and headed home. He was in a good mood, and why not? An arrest would have been even better. But assuming that the preliminary reports were correct, the Bonebreaker had been living in an underground complex down in Compton. The plan was to keep a lid on the news long enough to throw a cordon around the cemetery and confirm the connection.
So long as everything went smoothly, he would call a press conference at 3:00 P.M. That would allow the local TV stations to lead the five o’clock newscasts with what promised to be a sensational story. He could image the headline: “Serial Killer Living Under Cemetery!” It was such a good story that Corso felt sure that the national media would cover it, too.
He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a pair of headlights. But that’s what he expected to see, and his thoughts tur
ned to the mayoral race. It had long been his intention to run. But, before watching what he thought of as the Getty tape, Corso had assumed that he’d have to wait for the mayor’s second term to end before announcing his intentions. Now there was the very real possibility that Getty would have to step down. And as the police chief who threw the crooks out, Corso would be in a strong position to replace her. He smiled as the next traffic light turned green.
• • •
The Triumph Tower had been built after the release of the plague, hence the name. It was fifty stories tall, and home to luxury condos on the top ten floors, with hotel rooms below. Corso’s two-bedroom condo was located on the forty-sixth floor. But the man had no intention of going up there, so it didn’t matter.
He watched Corso’s taillights turn left and disappear into the parking garage located under the high-rise. The man had done his homework and knew that although residents had assigned parking slots, they had to share the facility with the hotel’s guests. And that meant he could enter, take a ticket from the automated kiosk, and follow Corso down.
The pause took longer than he expected, and by the time the white arm lifted up and out of the way, the man was beginning to worry. Rubber squealed as he gunned the engine and hurried to catch up. Thanks to the late hour, none of the parked cars backed out to block him—and only a few seconds passed before Corso’s taillights appeared.
Then, as the police chief pulled into a slot marked RESERVED, the man stopped behind him, which made it impossible for Corso to back up. After putting his vehicle in park, the man got out, slid a hand inside his jacket, and removed the single shot Contender pistol from the hand-tooled cowhide holster under his arm. The weapon looked like something from the nineteenth century but was engineered to accept a wide variety of barrels including the .45 caliber tube presently in place.
• • •
Corso was out of his car by then and turned to look at the man who had just rounded the front of the old car. He was wearing a cowboy hat, a spit mask, and a duster. That was unusual in Los Angeles, but it was the antique pistol that caused a stab of fear.
All sorts of thoughts ran through his mind as the weapon came up. The Glock that was sitting on his dresser, the headlights in the rearview mirror, and how stupid he’d been. Then Corso saw sparks fly, felt a sledgehammer hit his chest, and was thrown backwards.
• • •
An empty casing popped out as the man broke the Contender open. He caught it with his right hand, dropped it into the side pocket on his duster, and felt for a fresh round. After selecting one, he slid it into the open chamber and closed the receiver. Then he fired again. The gunshot was extremely loud and echoed between concrete walls. Corso’s head jerked, and red blood splattered the red car. One bullet in the chest and one in the head.
Satisfied that his mission had been accomplished, the man got into his car, drove around to the up ramp, and hit the gas. There were lots of security cameras in the garage, so he had to assume that the tower’s security people had dialed 911 by then. Tires screeched as he rounded a curve. That was when he saw the drop arm fall up ahead.
Rather than brake, the man put his foot down. There was a loud crash as the front end of the car broke through the yellow barrier, and splinters of wood flew every which way. Then he was through and on the final approach to the street. Sirens could be heard off in the distance as he made the turn and drove away.
TEN
SPECIALISTS FROM THE Criminalistics Lab were entering the cemetery as Prospo found a patrol officer and instructed her to take Lee back to the office. And Lee was grateful. Because even though she’d known what to expect, visiting the place where her father had been killed had left her shaken.
Once Lee arrived, she went looking for Jenkins in order to give him a quick update. But the deputy chief was nowhere to be found—and a secretary had seen him rush out of the building. So Lee drove home. There was a lot of radio traffic—and Lee got the impression that half the department had responded to a 187 downtown. But the transmissions were so guarded that she couldn’t discern any details.
After entering the condo, Lee took a hot shower and placed a call to Ebert Keyes, but the computer expert didn’t answer. So Lee went to bed, where she expected to fall asleep quickly. But that didn’t happen, not with the images of the Bonebreaker’s underground lair so fresh in her mind, so the phone call came as a relief. “This is Cassandra Lee.”
“Sorry to bother you,” Jenkins said. “But I’ve got some bad news to share.”
Lee’s heart skipped a beat. Was Jenkins talking about Kane? All sorts of bad things could happen to a person in the MDC. Her voice sounded strange even to her ears. “What’s up?”
“Someone shot Chief Corso,” Jenkins said matter-of-factly. “Once in the torso and once in the head. He was wearing a vest, thank God—but the impact broke some ribs. The head wound is classified as serious. He’s in surgery.”
“That’s terrible,” Lee said, and felt a sense of relief. Kane was safe. Then came a surge of guilt. What was wrong with her anyway? True, the chief was the sort of police officer she didn’t like in many ways, meaning a man more focused on getting ahead than on fighting crime. But, when push came to shove, he’d been there for her.
“Yes, it is,” Jenkins said soberly. “And we have a serious problem. Even if Corso makes a full recovery, the doctors predict that it will take months. That means Getty will get to pick a person to replace him.”
It took a moment for Lee to grasp the full import of what Jenkins had said. Immediately after Corso authorized an investigation of Getty’s political operations he’d been shot! By an old enemy? By a lunatic? Or by one of the mayor’s coconspirators? Lee was tempted to go with theory three even though there wasn’t any proof. And if Getty or one of her coconspirators was responsible for the shooting, the mayor could appoint a chief who was willing to hinder the investigation. Would the DA allow it? That remained to be seen. But even if he didn’t, Getty could use the situation to stall. “Holy shit, boss,” Lee said. “If the shooting has something to do with Getty, that would be a disaster.”
“You got that right,” Jenkins replied. “So here’s the deal. You and your team need to figure out if the shooter is a person with a grudge, a nutcase, or one of the coconspirators. Then, if it’s one of Getty’s buddies, you need to sort out which one and do so quickly. Because if you don’t, she might slam the door on you.”
“That makes sense,” Lee agreed. “But what about the Bonebreaker? Now we have a lot of evidence to sift through . . . And it’s the kind of stuff that could lead to an arrest.”
“I understand that,” Jenkins assured her. “But you can work the Getty case while the forensics people process the site.”
Lee sighed. “Okay . . . What about the press conference?”
“It’s still on,” Jenkins replied. “But it will focus on Corso at this point. So get some sleep but come in as early as you can. No later than ten.”
“Got it,” Lee answered. “I’ll be there.”
After Jenkins broke the connection, Lee leaned back against her pillows. The chief was right . . . They needed to crack the Getty case ASAP. But there was another case that required her attention as well. Lee dialed Keyes’s number and listened to the phone ring. Finally, just when she thought the call would go to voice mail, he answered, “Yeah?”
“This is Lee . . . Did I wake you?”
“No, I was playing a video game online—and some twelve-year-old was kicking my ass.”
“So I saved you.”
“Yeah. Did you get my e-mail?”
“I did. What’s up?”
“I have her . . . The missing woman, that is. But I’m going to need your help.”
“My help?” Lee inquired. “To do what?”
“I don’t want to discuss it on the phone. Come see me and bring a breakfast pizza with you.”
“A breakfast pizza? There is such a thing?”
“Of course there is . . . Bacon, eggs, and cheese. You can get one at Chet’s down the street from my apartment.”
“A steady diet of pizzas isn’t good for you. How about I bring you something healthy instead?”
“Nope, the pizza is what I want.”
“Okay,” Lee replied. “I’ll be there at eight thirty.”
“Cool . . . See you then.”
Lee looked at her watch. It was 2:53. That meant she might be able to get four hours of rest. Lee set her alarm and scooted down in bed. And, this time, sleep was there to embrace her. When the alarm went off, Lee not only felt better but had no difficulty getting up. That was unusual and partly because she was eager to visit Keyes.
After a shower, Lee got dressed and went into the kitchen for a bowl of cereal. Predictably enough, the attack on Corso was front and center on the TV news. And later, as Lee drove across town, she heard more on the car’s AM radio. Both the hospital and the LAPD were being characteristically tight-lipped. And while the reporters didn’t like that, they were hoping to learn more at the presser scheduled for later that day.
Frustrations aside, one of the Triumph Tower’s security guards had seen the hotel’s security footage and was busy running her mouth. According to her account the police chief had entered the garage around 1:15 A.M., with another car right behind him. Corso had parked and was exiting his vehicle, when a clunker pulled in behind him. At that point a man dressed in Western-style clothing got out and circled his car. One shot was fired, followed by another, and Corso went down.
After returning to his vehicle, the shooter fled the scene, breaking through a barrier on his way out of the garage. Fortunately, a second guard had seen the whole thing go down and called 911 moments after the second shot was fired. That meant that the medics arrived quickly. It was a pretty coherent account and one that would probably cost the woman her job since she wasn’t authorized to speak for the hotel.
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