The Competition (24 page)

Bailey managed to
track down the principal of Platt Junior High. Marion was less than pleased at having to shut the school down but smart enough not to argue about it.

We moved out to the front of the theater and talked to the cops who’d interviewed the witnesses, hoping to get some kind of ID on either of the shooters, but it was a bust. The killers had been in the projection booth during the shooting, and afterward they’d melted in with the crowd. Most of the theatergoers had been blinded by panic, and the rest couldn’t see past the stampede. The cashier and ticket takers didn’t remember seeing anyone unusual. But I didn’t expect them to. Even if they’d worn the same kind of camouflage coats, they wouldn’t stand out in this weather.

It was almost midnight by the time Bailey dropped me off at the Biltmore, and we were both wrung out. “I’m going to check in at the office in the morning unless something pops between now and then.”

Bailey nodded wearily. “I’ll let you know.”

I started to get out, then paused. “Have you been getting hassled by the press at all?”

“No. I pushed all my calls to our media liaison, and so far no one’s tried to get past him. Plus, the chief’s been doing pressers every day.”

“They haven’t gone after me either, other than bombarding me with messages asking for information. But those poor families…” Since the day of the shooting, there’d been nonstop pieces on the news showing the grieving friends and relatives of the victims.

The funerals had begun as early as Tuesday. There’d been eleven, which still left another twenty-two to go. So far, none of the families had allowed the press to cover them. Bailey and I usually make it a point to go to victims’ funerals, but we couldn’t this time. There were too many.

I got out and patted the roof. Bailey took off.

Being involved in an investigation can block the big picture, the human side of things. We follow clues and focus on the minutiae, nose to the ground. And we don’t look up until someone’s in custody. But the next morning, as I was getting out of the shower, the disastrous enormity of the case hit me like a sledgehammer. The body count. Shooters still at large. Their bizarre motivations. And their unpredictability, the impossibility of knowing where they’d strike next. Evan somewhere out there, maybe dead already. Or close to it. As the thoughts flooded my brain, I struggled to catch my breath.

I walked out to the balcony. The sun was shining and the sky was a rich brilliant blue. The air was surprisingly warm, but I didn’t trust it. I went back inside and pulled out a turtleneck sweater and slacks. I had an idea about an alternate plan of action, and I mulled it over as I dressed. Then I called Bailey. It was Sunday, and she usually spent at least part of the day with her family, but I knew that ritual would be on hold until this case was solved. “Did the chief approve shutting Platt down already?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Because I’ve been thinking. That school is our only lead right now. If Logan and Shane see that it’s empty, they’ll just look for another target—”

“It’s not going to be empty. I’ve set up cops to pose as teachers. A few as students too, which for a middle school wasn’t easy. Believe me.”

That was exactly what I’d been about to suggest. Bailey didn’t sound happy about it, and I didn’t blame her. It was about as dangerous a duty as it gets. Plus it was a big expense, and there was no guarantee Logan would choose Platt as the next target. But I’d rather be overprepared and wrong than unprepared and right. Besides, this gave us a fighting chance. The only one we’d had since this whole ordeal began. “And I’d like to talk to our shrinks, see what they think about last night.”

“It’s Sunday, Knight. They might have lives.”

“It can’t hurt to try.”

One hour later we were seated around the table in Jenny’s office with steaming mugs of coffee. It was really good. “What is this? I’ve never had anything like it before.”

“It’s my own special blend. And no, I won’t share the secret, but I will mix up a bag for you.”

“The shooting last night,” Michael said. “You’re sure it was them?”

Bailey nodded. “Has to be.”

I told them about the letter we’d gotten that afternoon and filled them in on details of the shooting. “So who do you think picked the Cinemark? Shane or Logan?”

Michael set down his cup. “We think it may have been Shane’s choice—”

“Not that Logan wasn’t happy to go along with it,” Jenny said.

“Because the Cinemark was their chance to beat out the Aurora shooter, right?” I said.

“Yes, there’s no question about that,” Michael said. “But they failed, so I was thinking that their next target might be another theater.”

I told them about our belief that Logan’s junior high school was a likely target, and why.

“That’s a fair guess too,” Jenny said. “Certainly theater owners will be taking extra precautions now, so a theater would be a more jeopardous choice. Plus, the school would be a crossover target. There was a somewhat famous shooting at a middle school in Arkansas. Johnson and Golden set off a fire alarm and then hid in the woods and picked off the students as they came out. They killed five and wounded ten. And they had planned to get away. The car they used was loaded with supplies.”

“I remember that. Back in the nineties, right?” I said.

“Right,” Jenny said. “Nineteen ninety-eight. They weren’t nearly as sophisticated as your killers. The police caught them before they could even get back to the car. So your middle school theory is a sound one from both perspectives: it’s a personal target for Logan, and it’s a place where they can ‘best’ another set of famous killers.”

Bailey’s cell rang. She looked at the number, then quickly stood up. “Excuse me, I have to take this.” She walked out to the anteroom, closing the office door behind her.

“Even another high school is possible,” Jenny said. “They’re staying pretty close to home so far, choosing targets where they know the lay of the land. I expect they’ll continue to do so.”

“Then you agree it’s unlikely they were in Boulder to mail the letter?”

“Highly unlikely,” Michael said. “As you mentioned, there’s a lot of risk involved in that much movement. It’s much more likely someone is helping them.” He poured himself another cup of coffee. “I assume you’re concentrating on the Valley.”

“We are. We’re even covering community colleges in case they decide that’s a close enough match to Virginia Tech.”

“Good,” Jenny said. “In the meantime, we’ve been digging into Shane’s military records. We’re trying to construct a profile—”

Bailey stepped back inside, radiating nervous energy. “I’m sorry. We have to go.” Her voice was tense and urgent. She tapped her cell phone against her thigh as I gathered my coat and purse. We said hurried good-byes and headed for the elevator. Bailey punched the down button. A few seconds later, she punched it again. “Damn. Screw it.” She flew down the hall toward the stairs, and I ran to catch up.

I waited until we were in the car and headed for the freeway to ask. “What the hell is going on?”

“They’ve found Shane Dolan.”

“Is he in custody?”

“No. We got a tip that he’s holed up at someone’s house. An Army buddy of his.”

“And our tipster knows that guy…how?”

“It’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody.” Bailey headed north on the 101 freeway.

“And we’re sure this is a righteous tip because…?”

“Our tipster is a cop.”

Doesn’t get much more righteous than that. I closed my eyes and prayed that we were finally about to get a real break.

It felt long overdue.

Bailey continued north
on the freeway.

“But he didn’t see Logan?” I asked.

“No. They might’ve split up to lay low until the next hit.”

“I thought you had Harrellson working the Shane angle up here,” I said.

“I pulled him off to head up the detail at Platt.”

We passed through the Valley and Camarillo. When we kept heading north after Ventura, I seriously started to wonder exactly where this small town was. “Mind telling me where we’re going?”

“No, but it won’t help. We’re going to La Conchita.”

Actually, it did help. Graden and I liked to take day trips up to Santa Barbara, and La Conchita was on the way. It was a town tailor-made for a sitcom—a bohemian, beachcomberish kind of place. Nestled into a hill on the east side of the Pacific Coast Highway—the only thing separating the town from the ocean—La Conchita was a tiny burg filled with individually built houses, trailers, and a random assortment of small apartment buildings. The mom-and-pop liquor store just off the highway was the town’s main attraction for travelers. Graden and I had stopped there once or twice to get water and sandwiches.

And it was a tight-knit community. When torrential rains caused a major mudslide that buried four houses, the government had proposed evacuating the town—possibly for good. The residents had refused to go. They’d dug their way out, helped one another rebuild, and rescued their little city from oblivion. It made perfect sense that everyone in town would know if a stranger was hiding out there.

Bailey pulled up to a small cottage that had a front walk lined with crushed seashells and a large conch on the front porch. The doorbell was a literal bell that sat on an upside-down barrel near the door, and the hammock suspended from the overhang swung gently in the sea breeze. Something about the decor reminded me of
Gilligan’s Island.
I picked up the bell and rang it, because…I just couldn’t resist.

A smallish man with a woolly thatch of dark hair, dressed in a faded Hawaiian shirt and jeans, answered the door. He looked from Bailey to me. “Detectives?”

Bailey pulled out her badge and introduced us. “Officer Santos?”

“That’s me. Todd.” He held out his hand as he gestured to his clothes. “Sorry for the civvies, but Sunday’s my day off. Come on in.”

Bailey and I settled on a blue denim sofa that had seen better days sometime before the Korean War. Todd welcomed us and set bottles of water on the electrical cable spool that served as a coffee table. It came as no surprise that he didn’t wear a wedding ring. It was a rare woman who’d embrace Todd’s choice of decor. But Todd himself was charming. Maybe it was his open face and eager smile. Or the way he leaned forward, hands clasped together, with a look that said whatever we needed, he’d be up for it. Plus, he smelled good. His cologne—possibly aftershave—was light, citrusy, and a little like the ocean. The ocean part might’ve just been the air. Whatever it was, I liked him.

Bailey pulled out her cell and showed Todd the photo of Shane. “This is the man you called about, right?”

Todd took one look. “Yep, that’s him. Must have just got in last night because I only saw him this morning. Spotted him out on the balcony of Max’s apartment.” He tapped his forehead. “I never forget a face. Especially when it’s attached to a criminal. You think he’s one of your shooters?”

“Yeah,” Bailey said. “And he’s a gun nut. There’s a good chance he’s armed.”

Todd looked from me to Bailey. “Want me to back you up?” He nodded at us, indicating what the answer should be.

“Maybe,” Bailey said. “What do you know about the guy he’s staying with? Is he the jumpy type?”

“Max? Nah. But I didn’t want to take any chances, so I didn’t say anything to him.”

“And you’re sure Shane’s still there?” I asked.

“Yeah. I’ve been keeping tabs on him for ya, watching the building to make sure no one leaves. It’s been quiet.” He got up and motioned for us to join him at the window. Todd pointed to a green apartment building across the street with an open carport and units above. “See that old red Mustang? That’s Max’s car. That bike parked behind it has to be Shane’s ride because I’ve never seen it before.”

“You know which unit Max lives in?” Bailey asked.

“Didn’t before, but after I sighted Shane, I went and checked. Apartment two B.”

“What do you know about Max?” I asked.

“He’s a vet. Did a tour in Afghanistan. Works construction when he can. Nice guy. Not the sharpest knife in the box, but a decent sort.”

“Which is why he’s harboring a mass murderer?” I asked.

“I’d bet you he doesn’t know,” Todd said. “He doesn’t have a television. Got drunk last year and kicked in the screen when the Dodgers lost.”

“Is he going to cause us trouble?” Bailey asked.

“I doubt it. But I’ll tell you what. How about I go over there and see if I can pull Max out? I’ll keep him quiet, and you guys can move in and take your prisoner.”

That sounded nice and simple, except that our prisoner was likely to be armed to the teeth. And nothing fights like a rabid animal when it’s cornered. “Maybe we should wait for backup.”

Bailey shook her head. “We can’t afford to. If he jumps before they get here, we’ll be screwed. How about this, Todd. You try and get inside and see what’s going on, see whether Max is acting weird. Look for any guns lying around. We’ll wait right outside. If it looks cool, give us a sign and we’ll move in.”

This felt like a dumb cowboy move to me, but since I was the least experienced in the arrest department, I deferred. I opened my purse and rearranged my makeup, comb, and other junk so my gun was on top.

Todd looked at my purse, then at me. I could see him wondering how much use I’d be. I wasn’t sure myself.

Todd stood up. “Okay then. Let’s do this.” Todd went to a side table near the door, picked up a small revolver, and tucked it into the back of his waistband. Then he headed out. We followed at a discreet distance, and I tried to act nonchalant, like I imagined a tourist would look. Except I couldn’t imagine what any tourist would be doing walking the streets of La Conchita.

Stairs of pebble composite led up from the street to the second floor of the apartment building where our quarry was holed up. Todd, who was wearing desert boots, made a lot more noise than I would’ve liked as he clomped up them. The units were in a U shape, and there was a courtyard in the center below, where a dwarf palm tree and flowers grew around decorative rocks. I imagined one of us being tossed over the flimsy metal railing that lined the walkway and landing headfirst on those rocks.

Todd turned left at the top of the stairs, then walked around the U until he reached the last door. Bailey and I hung back a few feet. He looked back, gave us a smile, and knocked. I heard a voice answer from inside the apartment, which tells you how flimsy those walls were. “Hey, Max. It’s me, Todd. I need a favor.”

A few seconds later, the door opened, and a sun-bleached, graying head poked out. “Whadda ya need?”

“I’m painting my bedroom, and I’ve got to move my dresser out. There’re some cold brews in it for ya.”

Max held the door partly open with one hand and stood there, considering the offer. If he didn’t go for it, then what? Finally, he said, “Okay. Just gimme a sec to put on my jeans.” He closed the door, and Todd glanced at us and gave us a thumbs-up. I rolled my eyes, but he waved me off—
Don’t worry.
Yeah, why worry? Just because we were about to try to take down a murderer who had access to an armory? Piffle.

A few seconds later, Max emerged—a square body with skinny arms in a tank top, torn jeans, and flip-flops. In fifty-degree weather. What was he, a werewolf? Todd moved to the side as though to let Max lead the way, but when Max started to close the door behind him, Todd grabbed it. He put a finger to his lips and pushed Max against the wall. When Max started to protest, Todd pulled out his gun. Max’s eyes got big, and as we walked past him toward the door, they got even bigger. “You stay here,” Todd whispered. Max nodded compliantly. “The brews are still yours, bud.” Max slid away, his back to the wall, like a man who’d stepped out onto the ledge of a skyscraper.

Bailey and I held our guns down at our sides as we tiptoed single file toward the apartment. The door was a quarter of the way open. I peered inside but saw only darkness. My heart was thudding in my chest. What a weird place for me to die. In a dingy apartment in La Conchita. I listened for sounds of movement. Music was playing somewhere inside, but it wasn’t coming from the front room. Todd pushed the door farther open and moved inside, and we followed, our guns now straight out in front of us. We walked into a living room, which looked empty. I slowed down to let my eyes adjust to the dim light and tried to scan every inch of the room for places where Shane might be hiding, getting ready to spring.

On our left was the kitchen and dining area—a tiny square of linoleum. We stopped and looked around. There was no one there, but the music was getting louder. We moved past the kitchen to a small hallway. There was a door on the right. Todd put his ear to the wall near it and listened, then shook his head. He took one side of the door, and Bailey and I took the other. He carefully reached out and tried the doorknob. It turned. My heart was in my throat as he pushed the door open. It was a bathroom. And it was dark. Todd crouched down, gun in both hands, straight out in front of him. It was a half bath, so there was no tub or shower. And no one was in there.

Todd continued down the hall toward the door at the end. Bailey and I followed. The music was louder now. It sounded like “Poker Face” by Lady Gaga, and it was coming from behind that door. This was it. I envisioned Shane standing inside, holding an AK aimed at us. I tried to pull Bailey back. She shook me off and moved in behind Todd.

Todd listened at the door, nodded to us, then twisted the doorknob. It turned, and as he inched the door open, I held my breath and steadied my gun in both hands. If Todd or Bailey missed their shot, mine would have to be the one to take Shane out. Then, in one swift motion, Todd threw back the door, crouched down, and pointed his gun, shouting, “Police!”

There stood Shane Dolan, hair dripping wet, a towel wrapped around his stomach. He froze, then threw his hands up. His towel dropped to the floor. Standing there naked as a jaybird, he screamed, “Don’t shoot!”