City of Fire (25 page)

Lena gave Mack a quick update that included how she’d spent the last five hours and that just maybe Teresa Lopez and Nikki Brant were the first two women Romeo had murdered.

“Now we’re back to the way he’s posing the victims,” Mack said. “I think it’s possible that you’ve hit on something. Your report says that you went through the homicide logs and nothing clicked. If there was anything else out there, it probably would’ve jumped off the page. Westbrook’s going through our database as well. Hold on for a second.”

She heard Mack cup the mouthpiece and whisper something to someone. After a moment, he was back.

“Sorry,” he said. “Here’s why I wanted to call. Bernhardt’s got it right, but he left a few things out.”

She reached for the pad by the answering machine and grabbed a pen. “Go ahead.”

“The trick to Romeo is that he
observes.
For whatever reason he observes.”

“Where’s that coming from?”

“I’ll get there in a minute.”

“Okay,” she said. “The key to the guy is that he likes to watch.”

“That’s right. He lives on distance. For the moment, let’s say you’re right. The MOs match and Romeo attempted to rape the three women you just mentioned. Rape is about a lot of things, but most often it’s about control. When he couldn’t control the situation, he didn’t attack the woman who turned on the light and he didn’t chase the next victim through the house. He ran away because he lost control. But the murders signify a pathological change. A new start. His evolution or need to commit the ultimate violation. His desire to take absolute control and do it at all costs. You with me?”

“I’m writing it down, Teddy. But it sounds a lot like what Bernhardt was saying.”

“Here’s what I think you need to keep in mind. You’re looking for someone who blends perfectly with their environment. Someone who looks like he belongs there until you single him out and realize how truly odd he is.”

“We’re talking about Venice Beach.”

“I get it, Lena. Venice Beach. But here’s the thing. The guy you’re looking for has been hurt in some fundamental way and is searching for someone who feels what he feels. The ultimate kick for this guy would be to actually do the murder while someone watched.”

“You’re getting all this from what I sent you?”

“Some of it,” Mack said. “But it really hit when I figured out the reason why he spends so much time at the crime scenes after the murder.”

Lena raised an eyebrow. “What’s the reason?”

“The trick to this guy is that he observes, right?”

“I’ve got that. Why is he hanging out at the crime scene?”

Mack lowered his voice. “Because he wants to see the husband’s reaction to the kill.”

A moment passed as the revelation cut through. Deep and fast like a bullet penetrating human flesh.

Romeo read his victims’ journals, went through their financial records and personal notes. He spent time looking at pornography on the computer. He listened to music and had a thing for Beethoven. When the paper arrived, he worked the crossword puzzle.

Romeo was waiting for the spouse to come home. He posed his victims to shock the first person who found them, not the police.

Mack cleared his throat. “The husband’s reaction to finding his loved one is the key. It’s as important to him as the rape or even the kill. It may even be the very reason he’s making the kill. That’s why I said you’ve got a problem. This guy’s from another planet. He’s off the charts.”

Lena wasn’t sure she could speak right away. Her mind was locked on Jose Lopez and James Brant. What they were forced to see and what they would never be able to forget. Perhaps that’s why Jose Lopez wanted to die in prison rather than be set free. Maybe that’s why Brant failed the polygraph. No matter how the question was posed, he couldn’t forget.

When Lena finally spoke, her voice wasn’t much louder than a whisper. “Romeo wants the husband to hurt as much as he does. That’s why he needs to see it.”

“That’s why he waits for them to come home. I’d bet the bank that he was inside the house watching Brant discover his wife’s dead body.”

Mack covered the phone again and said something to someone. She could hear digital noise over the line, the sound of footsteps and a car. Mack wouldn’t be sleeping tonight but was heading into the desert.

“I’ve gotta go, Lena.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” she said. “Maybe we can—”

The signal blurred into static. Lena stared at the handset,
then switched it off. After a while she noticed the saxophone playing in the background. Her CD player had cycled through all five discs, ending with Art Pepper’s
Winter Moon.
But as she listened to the music, she couldn’t get the image out of her head. Romeo watching Brant discover his wife’s body. It was beyond the pale.

She pulled a sweater over her shoulders, grabbed her glass, and stepped outside for some fresh air. The wind had changed, blowing from the east and pushing the marine layer out of the way to reveal a sky absent of stars. As she sat down by the pool and sipped her wine, she heard something in the darkness and looked into the yard at the edge of the hill. A coyote glanced at the water in the pool licking his chops, then gave her a long look before retreating into the brush with his tail down. His drink would have to wait until later when the coast was clear.

She turned back to the city, following the lights until her eyes stopped on Venice Beach fifteen miles away. Romeo’s comfort zone. The place where he knew the escape routes and the quickest way back home.

She tightened her grip on the sweater and finished her drink.

Nothing about the view seemed especially comforting tonight. Only the stillness, the cool, breezy air, and the promise of another glass of wine so that she might be able to close her eyes at some point and settle into a dreamless sleep.

HER cell phone rang from its charger on the kitchen counter. When she caught the name flashing on the LCD screen, she yanked the wire out and snapped open the phone.

Novak—calling at 6:30 a.m. All she could think about was Avis Payton. She should have called SIS. She fucked up.

“You work late?” he asked.

She didn’t answer the question, her mind going. Novak’s voice sounded better than rough, as if maybe he’d just rolled out of bed. A car door slammed, then an engine fired up.

“We’ve got another one,” she said.

“We’ll see when we get there.”

“You’re heading for the marina.”

“No,” he said.

She felt a sudden rush, the relief tainted, but still there. At least it wasn’t the young woman from Marina Del Rey with the electric maroon hair.

“This one’s closer to you,” he said. “Just on the other side of the freeway in the hills below Mulholland. Hollywood Division’s already there. They went in for a look, then backed out. Barrera just called. He thinks it might have something to do with the press conference last night. Maybe Romeo heard it on the radio. Maybe we yanked his chain and he got pissed off. Or maybe we’re in luck and it’s not Romeo at all.”

This one was closer to her in a lot of ways. She had worked out of Hollywood as both a cop and a detective until she was promoted to RHD. She still had a lot of friends there.

“Who’s the victim?”

Novak didn’t respond right away. She could hear the Crown Vic picking up speed and imagined he was hitting the 405. After his divorce, Novak had found an apartment two blocks from his ex-wife’s home in Culver City. They remained friends, and he wanted to live close by so that he could see his daughters before he retired and left town.

“We’ve got two dead bodies,” he said finally. “The house belongs to Sally and Joe Garcia. That’s why I said we’ll see.”

He gave her the address, and she wrote it down: 4701 Vista Road.

“The freeway looks clean, Lena. I’m guessing I’m only twenty minutes behind you.”

“What about Sanchez and Rhodes?”

“I’ll make the calls, but hurry. If it’s Romeo, I don’t want Hollywood to fuck anything up.”

He said it as if he thought they might, but she took it in stride. By the time he hung up, she had found the address in her
Thomas Guide
and was gunning it down the hill in her Prelude. Ten minutes later she passed beneath the Hollywood Freeway and made the climb back up the next hill, weaving in and around the tight curves along Mulholland Drive. The air was brisk and she drove with the windows open and the radio off, still revved up from her conversation with Teddy Mack and the gut feeling that she’d made real progress last night. As she thought it over, the idea that Romeo may have wandered beyond his comfort zone didn’t undercut that progress. Nor did the possibility that he’d altered his schedule and picked up his pace. If Romeo’s madness was truly burgeoning, then so was his confidence. It was only a matter of time before he left his neighborhood in order to protect it. Any way she looked at it, her theory remained intact.

Lena tightened her grip on the wheel, working a deep curve with her foot stamped to the floor and blowing out the other side. When she caught the street sign, she jammed on the brakes and made the turn onto Vista. The street dipped sharply down the hill, then flattened out as it twisted back and forth through the shadows beneath long-standing trees. Passing the first driveway, she started looking for street numbers.
But the houses were spread out in increments of one per fifty yards. And they were set back from the road and hidden behind security gates and high walls.

She rounded the next bend, spotting two cruisers and a detective’s car parked before a stone wall that had been whitewashed. Pulling onto the shoulder, she took a last sip of coffee and gazed through the windshield. Two cops were stretching crime scene tape from tree to tree along the road. In the distance she could see a detective standing in the middle of the street. She caught the buffed head and ebony skin. The good-natured grin as he watched her getting out of the car. Terry Banks had taken her spot with Pete Sweeney at the homicide table when she’d moved downtown.

“Hey, Gamble,” Banks called out. “Is this a takeaway case or did you just stop by to say hello to your friends in
Hollywood
?”

She smiled, waiting for him by the car. “That depends. Where’s your good half?”

“Ten steps behind, as usual.”

Banks glanced over his shoulder. Although Lena couldn’t make out the neighbor’s house, she saw her old partner pop through a gate in the fence and start down the street. Pete Sweeney was the size of a grizzly bear. His shoulders were extrawide, his manner extra-easy and somehow reassuring right now. When the two detectives finally reached her, Sweeney gave her an awkward hug.

“My old partner,” he said. “It’ll never be the same without you. How you doin’?”

“I’m good, Pete. I miss you, too.”

They started moving toward the Garcias’ driveway.

“I read the bulletin yesterday,” Sweeney said. “Banks heard the press conference last night on KFWB. It’s pretty weird inside, Lena. I thought we’d better call it in before we got too far.”

She glanced toward the neighbor’s house blotted out by a grove of tall pine trees. “What’s going on up the street?”

“He’s an early-morning jogger. Gets started when everybody else is just about hitting the sheets. The driveway gate
was open. Same with the front door. When he rang the bell, no one answered so he went inside for a look.”

Banks flashed a nervous grin. “No way he ever does that again.”

Sweeney nodded, lowering his voice. “The dead bodies are upstairs in the bedroom.”

They reached the drive. Lena noticed a
FOR SALE
sign dangling from a post beside the Garcias’ mailbox.

“They were moving,” she said.

“Shit,” Banks said. “They must have sold the place before they could get the sign changed. Everything inside is boxed up and ready to go. Too bad they didn’t make the move a day sooner.”

“What do we know about them?”

Sweeney grimaced, reaching for an imaginary pack of cigarettes in his pocket, then pulling his hand away. He’d quit smoking when they were partners but forgot sometimes when things slid toward the edge.

“The jogger thinks maybe they worked for the studios but isn’t sure. What’s up with that? They lived next door to each other for ten years and the guy isn’t sure. Seems like there’s not much neighborly interaction going on around here. Just walls with gates and plenty of passwords to go around.”

The cobblestone driveway sloped down from the street. As Lena’s eyes met the death house, she suddenly felt uneasy, even nervous. As much as she tried to purge the feeling, it wouldn’t go away.

The house seemed harmless enough. It was built of stone and whitewashed like the wall that was supposed to protect it. Lush waves of ivy crept up from the gardens, weaving through the shutters but trimmed before the vines could reach the terra-cotta roof. Twenty-five yards behind the house, a small stable faced what looked like half an acre of open field and a well-worn horse trail leading into the hills. Lena guessed that the house and stable predated the invention of the car. Had she seen the property in any other context, she would have been drawn to its age and beauty. Its serenity and warmth.