City of Echoes (32 page)

It didn’t matter. He already knew that they were too late. He also knew that Baylor would never set foot in any of the cities that were being discussed as
the most probable
. Baylor didn’t do
probable
. Worse, he was a plastic surgeon whom the
Los Angeles Times
had deemed brilliant in their coverage of the story last week. One article included testimonials from his patients, most of whom remained grateful to him for his talent and refused to believe that he was anything but the best and brightest. No doubt he had colleagues across the country who felt the same way.

Even if the FBI got lucky and managed to find the doctor, odds were that they wouldn’t know that they had found him.

In a few days, a few weeks or months, Matt guessed that the madman would become undetectable, his chance of capture requiring a new set of victims, another murder spree, and another pair of detectives who could see the pattern, put together the crimes, and identify the new face.

The new man.

In a few days, a few weeks or months, the doctor, the grief collector, would become invisible. So inconspicuous that Matt wondered if he would leave the country at all. After the smallest of procedures—a chin or a nose, the color of his hair, or the addition of a mustache to break the plane of his face—he could live anywhere, even here in Los Angeles. He could walk down any street, round any corner and, with his talent, rework his identity and start building a new medical practice.

And wouldn’t it be just like the doctor to want to remain close and watch from a seat in the front row as the investigation in LA sputtered and eventually went cold? Wouldn’t it be amusing to live in the one city where no one would be searching for him? Wouldn’t it be thrilling to settle down in a place where no one would ever guess?

But even more, wouldn’t it be frightening to live in a city where the doctor could be anywhere and everywhere at any time? A man who couldn’t help himself. A man who killed because he got off on killing and the horrific wake it left behind for those who survived. A brutal, sharklike man who was smart enough to know that he needed a new methodology, a new way, to feed his addictions so that he could keep moving and keep living.

What would life be like knowing that the doctor was here?

Matt thought it over, pushing his plate away and finishing off his coffee. As he set down his mug, the waitress walked over with their check.

“You guys sure don’t talk much, do you? It’s like you’ve been married for thirty years.”

Matt glanced at Cabrera as they got up from the table, then gave the waitress a long look. She was staring back at him with furrowed brows and a crooked smile. She was shaking her head at him the same way his aunt might have when her intuition told her that something was up, something was going on. He tried to smile back at her but only made it halfway. He was thinking about how they had failed. He was thinking about the death of Kim Bachman and that strange feeling he never acknowledged when either Kaplin or Vega mentioned that the twenty-year-old weighed less than a hundred pounds. It had a certain bite to it. It made the darkness darker—the pit deeper. It made everything worse.

CHAPTER 55

He didn’t pick up on the silver Nissan until the sun spiked his rearview mirror at the bottom of the hill on Los Feliz Boulevard. He had just eased onto the entrance ramp to the 5 Freeway, heading for Laura’s house in Glendale and the only place that he felt comfortable right now. The truth was that he hadn’t been looking for the Nissan since his release from the hospital. He thought that the man had gone away. With everything that had happened, with everything that Matt had learned, even in the past few hours, the man in the silver Nissan seemed like the least of his worries.

Yet he was still here. Two cars back and tailing him.

For what possible reason?

In another hour it would be dark, and Matt had planned to spend what was left of the afternoon reviewing preliminary files on Dr. Baylor’s background that the FBI had made available to him on the Internet. He had been given a password by Kaplin, and they had exchanged cell phone numbers. At least for now, it seemed as if both Kaplin and Vega wanted him in the loop.

But even more, he needed to be with Laura.

He needed to see her and touch her. He needed to hold her body close to his body. He needed to bask in her presence and live beneath her spell.

He checked the mirror as he slid into the first lane and picked up speed. The piece of shit was still on him. Still there.

Why?

Matt dug into his pocket for the pack of nicotine gum, pushing a piece through the foil and pressing it between his cheek and gum. He had been strong. As he and Cabrera were leaving the restaurant, his feelings for the victim in New Orleans and his own sense of personal failure had boiled up into a full-blown rage. He could have easily followed his partner into the minimarket and bought a pack of cigarettes. Instead, he found a way past the moment and drove off.

But now that moment was over, his strength beaten back by someone he didn’t even know. An intruder violating his space, his privacy, his being and time.

He took a deep breath and exhaled. He tried to settle down and let the nicotine wash through his bloodstream. It didn’t take long. Within a minute or two he could feel his mind beginning to clear and sharpen, his senses awakening.

He looked up and down the freeway, then across the lanes. There was too much traffic to outrun the Nissan. Too many chances that someone innocent might get hurt. As he passed beneath Colorado Boulevard and saw the signs for the 134 Freeway just ahead, it occurred to him that there weren’t too many people left that the man in the silver Nissan could be working for. Grace wasn’t in a position to even talk, much less hire a pair of shoes to keep watch for him. Orlando and Plank had hit the finish line and would never bother anyone again. The idea that McKensie might somehow be involved seemed ludicrous, off the charts, not worth wasting time over. And while it could be some sort of vendetta by a friend or relative of someone for the way things played out, it seemed more likely that the man following him had something to do with Dr. Baylor.

It had never occurred to him before, and he tossed it over—the doctor keeping watch on him from the beginning.

Why had the doctor saved his life? The question still plagued him, still made him feel uneasy. Why had the doctor taken the time to treat Matt’s gunshot wound when he could have easily walked away and made his escape? Was the man in the silver Nissan a threat? Or was the situation benign and just an attempt by the doctor to keep an eye on him even now? Matt might have found the idea intriguing a half hour ago at the restaurant, but could it be possible that the doctor really was planning a return to Los Angeles?

Matt remembered walking up to the car when the man was watching his house that night in the fog. He could still see the .38 revolver resting on the console between the bucket seats. But he could also remember thinking that nothing about this guy or the car he was sitting in felt like any version of law enforcement, either public or private. It was something else. Something he couldn’t put his finger on. The man was in his late thirties or early forties, on the chunky side, with a receding hairline. A white male with brown hair and a face so soft and plain that it would have been difficult to pick him out of a lineup. He remembered the striped tie, the glow of a cigarette burning between the man’s fat fingers, the lack of any visible wear or tear on his hands or forehead or even around his eyes.

Matt slowed the car down enough to match the speed of traffic in the next lane. When he reached the 134 Freeway, he passed the eastbound entrance to Glendale and headed west. After finding the Nissan in his rearview mirror, he used his turn signal and exited onto Lankershim Boulevard.

He’d come to a decision. Probably a bad decision, but a decision nonetheless.

He would work his way through surface streets, heading for North Hollywood Park and the spot where Faith Novakoff’s body had been found. He would take his time and act as if he had no idea that he had company. He wanted to lure the man out of his car. He wanted to confront him, but he knew that he needed privacy to do it. The park offered the cover of tall trees and dense brush. Even more, the steady sound of traffic from the freeway on the other side of the woods would mask the kind of conversation he had in mind.

Matt spotted the park, made a left on Tujunga Avenue, and after a block pulled over. He didn’t see anyone on the lawns and guessed that with the sun beginning to set, few people if any would venture off the sidewalks or away from the overhead streetlights. After all, there had been a murder here. The story remained above the fold on page one of the
Los Angeles Times
, with no end in sight. The girl’s death still had to be on everybody’s mind.

Matt checked his rearview mirror and saw the man in the silver Nissan waiting at the corner. Digging his cell phone out of his pocket, Matt pretended to make a call and started across the lawn, hoping that he looked preoccupied and distracted. He couldn’t afford to check his back. But once he disappeared behind the tree line, he shoved the phone into his pocket and began running toward the girl’s memorial as fast as he could. A full sprint all the way down the long row of trees. He stopped to catch his breath, glancing at the fresh flowers and battery-powered candles, all the notes and photographs. He thought about the girl’s father, the preacher with the gun who ended up in the backseat of his Mercedes with a crack pipe and a fifteen-year-old boy—but only for a moment or two. Then he slipped into the bushes behind the trunk of a large oak tree, drew his .45, and waited to see if the man in the silver Nissan was curious enough to get out of his car.

Five or six minutes passed before Matt thought he heard something. He knelt down and peered beneath the branches. And then he flashed a grim smile. He could see the man’s chubby legs in the distance. He was moving quickly, taking a few steps, then slowing down, then bursting forward again.

The man in the silver Nissan had picked the wrong day to get out of his car.

Matt parted the leaves slightly and watched as his follower appeared at the other end of the aisle and started up the row of trees. The guy seemed nervous. Jumpy. He kept checking his back. He kept slowing down, his eyes flicking left and right, and finally spotting the memorial just ahead. Matt quieted his breathing and became very still. They were less than six feet away from each other. He noted the gun in the man’s right hand, the .38. He could see the man turning his back to get a better look at the girl’s memorial. He could hear the man trying to catch his breath over the din from the freeway on the other side of the trees.

He’d picked the wrong day.

Matt raised his .45, took two steps forward, and pressed the muzzle into the back of the man’s head. The man yelped and nearly jumped out of his skin. Then Matt double-checked the lawn. It was starting to get dark. They were alone.

“Nice and easy,” he said. “Drop the fucking piece.”

The man tossed his .38 on the grass. Matt picked it up and slid it behind his belt.

“Now get down on your knees.”

“Please,” the man said in a shaky voice. “Please don’t hurt me. Why do I have to get down on my knees? What are you gonna do to me?”

Matt pushed him over, and he rolled onto his back. The man raised his hands, his entire body trembling in the grass. His eyes kept flicking between the .45 and Matt’s face.

“Who are you?” Matt said. “Why have you been following me?”

The man shook his head back and forth, like he didn’t want to talk about it. Like he couldn’t.

Matt prodded him with his foot. “Who are you?” he repeated.

The man shrieked and gasped for air. “I can’t,” he said quickly. “I made a mistake. If you let me go, I’ll never bother you again. I swear I won’t. Just don’t hurt me.”

Matt stood over the man as he chewed it over, his pistol aimed at the guy’s chest. He didn’t know what to make of the situation. He couldn’t get a decent read on the guy and wondered if he should just call McKensie and have him picked up and taken in.

“Are you working for Baylor?” he said.

“Just let me go. I’ll never bother you again. Please. You’re a cop. Do the right thing.”

Matt narrowed his eyes. “How did you know that I’m a cop? You’re working for Baylor. What does he want?”

The man remained quiet, refusing to speak.

Matt realized that no matter what secrets his follower might hold, no matter what answers, he didn’t like him. He took a step closer. He was losing his patience. As his left hand swept around his belt, he remembered that he had been put on leave. His handcuffs were on the chest of drawers in Laura’s bedroom.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Here’s what’s gonna happen next. You listening, pal?”

The guy nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’ll only say it once. I’m gonna search you, mister. While I’m searching you, my .45 will be pointed at your chest. And that’s why you’re gonna lay back in the grass and pretend you’re dead. One move, one
anything
, and I’ll blow your heart out of your chest. Got it?”

The man must have been visualizing the gunshot. His eyes snapped wide open, and he nodded again, fast and nervous and scared shitless.

Matt held his gaze as he moved closer. “Be good, mister. Be smart. Play dead and live to see another day. Get stupid, and it’s the last thing you’ll ever fucking do.”

He knelt down and worked quickly. A one-handed search from top to bottom. He tossed the keys to the silver Nissan in the grass, the man’s wallet and his cell phone, his cigarettes and lighter and a pocketful of spare change, then checked his waist and legs for another weapon. When he felt satisfied that the man was unarmed, he grabbed the wallet, stood up, and backed twenty feet away.

The headlights from the cars and trucks on the freeway were bouncing off the trees and flickering through the canopy of leaves. After glancing back at the man on the ground, he opened the wallet and turned it into the light.