The Competition (34 page)

“Those cars have got to be where they stashed their weapons,” Bailey said. “If they’d been anyplace else, we’d have found them by now.”

I nodded and took a sip of coffee, though my stomach surely didn’t need the acid. “Do you think Evan will write me another letter?”

“No,” Michael said. “Tweaking you was fun. And it was a release in a sense. He could sublimate his need for recognition by savoring his access to a famous prosecutor. But now he is known. He doesn’t need that release.”

“Do you have any new ideas about what his next target might be?” I asked.

“I’d say keep looking at the big venues—but ones he’d be very familiar with,” Jenny said. “At this point he knows that his next target will likely be his last. So what he wants now is a sure thing. A place where he feels most in control.”

“And I think that means somewhere in the San Fernando Valley,” Michael said. “He can’t risk traveling, and he was here for the Cinemark shooting. So I’d guess he’s still local.”

Jenny sighed. “I know that’s still a huge amount of territory to cover—”

“It is,” Bailey said. “But we’re trying.”

We wrapped up our meeting, and as we walked to the parking lot, it started to pour. Naturally, I’d left my umbrella at the station, so by the time I got to the car, I was soaking wet. Bailey handed me some paper towels she kept in the middle console.

I wiped my face and neck, then rubbed my hair dry. “The thing is, he could’ve been preparing for his next target for the last six months—or even a year. I’ve been thinking he’d need to score another AK or AR. But he doesn’t necessarily have to use guns—”

“No. Matter of fact, I’d be surprised if he hadn’t set himself up with Molotovs, pipe bombs, the kind of thing he can build himself. And you’re right, he’s had plenty of time.”

“He’d need a place to store it all.”

“Yeah. But a car would do.” Bailey pulled out of the parking lot.

I stared out the window. “Jenny’s right. He’s not far.”

“I agree.”

Which only made the question of Evan’s whereabouts more aggravating. Worse still was the possibility that we wouldn’t have the answer until it was too late.

When we got
back to the station, we checked in with Graden to find out if there’d been any tips worth hearing about.

“Evan’s been sighted everywhere from Eureka to Tijuana, and they’re not even a quarter of the way through them all. We’re running down every one that’s even marginally close, but none of them look good so far.”

I looked at the television in Graden’s office that was perpetually tuned to the local news. “I have to believe he’ll try to disguise himself.”

Bailey nodded. “Yeah, a wig—or even just a hat and a pair of shades would probably be enough to do the trick.”

“But at least now people will be looking,” I said. “And we’re going to show Jax our photo of Evan and see if he can make some kind of ID.”

Graden looked hopeful. “He saw Evan close-up?”

“Yeah, but I’m not all that confident. He said the guy was wearing a baseball cap and shades. All he could give us was a general height and weight—”

Bailey moved toward the door. “Which fits Evan and about ten million other guys.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Graden said. “We know we’ve got the right guy. Evidence will pile up fast when we catch him. And you’ve got a nice start with those letters he had Amanda send you.”

“Is she…?” I asked.

“Just fine,” Graden said. “And she hasn’t heard a thing from our Bachelor of the Year.”

We headed to Bailey’s desk. “Mind if I use your computer?” I was desperate for ideas about where Evan might strike, and I thought it could help to check out the stories of the other mass killers—juveniles in particular. I’d just finished looking at the entries for the two middle school shooters when Bailey got an urgent message on her cell.

“Yeah?” Bailey listened for a few moments, then quickly pulled out her notepad. “Give that to me one more time.” She made some notes, then said, “I’m leaving now,” and ended the call. She stood up and handed me my purse. “Let’s go.”

I ran to keep up as we headed for her car. She peeled out of the parking lot so fast I had to hold on to the dashboard to keep from being thrown against the door. I waited until she’d steered us through the Harbor Freeway and onto the 101 northbound. “Okay, Mario Andretti, want to tell me why we’re setting a land-speed record?”

“They spotted the car—”

It took me a moment to catch on. “You mean Logan’s car?”

“Yep. It was parked in front of a Chipotle on Topanga Canyon Boulevard.”

I waited for her to give me the rest of the story, but she fell silent. “And? Was Evan in it?”

“No one’s in it right now. They’ve staked it out and they’re waiting.”

“You still have an extra vest in your trunk?”

“Of course.”

I tried to tamp down the hope that was rising in my chest. I’d had too many letdowns in this case. Still, this looked good. The fact that no one had spotted Logan’s car all this time was some indication that it had been hidden. And who else besides Evan would’ve had access to it? He was probably living in that car. After all, he didn’t have much money, and this wasn’t a killer with any long-term plans for survival.

In less than half an hour we pulled onto the side street where the stakeout was being coordinated. A patrol officer started to wave us along, but when Bailey held up her badge, he pointed her to a parking spot nearby. A legal parking spot. She looked peeved as she pulled into the space. “You could ask him if there’s a fire hydrant around here,” I suggested.

“Shut up.”

We found the officer in charge, which turned out to be a lieutenant. A lot of firepower for a stakeout. Then again, this was no ordinary stakeout. Lieutenant Scott Braverman, whose buzz-cut blonde hair and muscled torso looked like a poster for a fitness video, was sitting in the driver’s seat of a patrol car with the door open.

Bailey held out her badge again and identified us. He scanned the two of us. “So now you Robbery-Homicide dicks carry around your own personal DAs?”

His tone was just the wrong side of snotty. This was not an uncommon attitude in the local divisions—they really didn’t dig the fact that RHD stepped in to take over all the hottest cases.

Bailey gave him a cold smile. “Not all of them. Just me. When was the car first spotted?”

Braverman’s lip curled. I could see he was dying to get into it with Bailey. But this was no time to indulge his baser instincts. He reined himself in with an effort and looked at his watch. “Just about forty minutes ago. The car’s parked in front of the Chipotle, but he could be anywhere on that corner.”

We’d passed the corner on our way here. It was the size of about four city blocks. Chipotle, a small Mexican fast-food diner, was on the outer edge of a complex that included two large grocery stores, a Petco, a FedEx store, three restaurants, and several specialty boutiques.

Bailey stood with her hands on her hips and looked toward Ventura Boulevard. “You have any officers inside the Chipotle?”

The lieutenant’s jaw muscle bounced. “No. I didn’t have any plainclothes available and I didn’t want to send any unis in there.”

Bailey looked at him steadily for a long beat, then nodded. “We’ll take it then—”

“You and…her?” He looked me up and down. “You’re kidding, right?”

Bailey turned to me. “You’re locked and loaded?”

I nodded. I knew she’d asked the question only to show I was a tough guy too, and I appreciated it. The problem was, Evan had seen both of us on television. He’d recognize us in a heartbeat. But I didn’t want to say that to Bailey in front of this jerk. So I followed her as she turned and headed down the block. I trotted to get alongside her so I could talk without being overheard.

“Uh, Bailey, that guy’s an asshat, but this might not be the best idea you’ve ever had.”

Bailey stared straight ahead and spoke out of the corner of her mouth. “Yeah. I thought of that about two seconds after the words fell out of my damn mouth.”

I started to chuckle and she shot me a look. I cleared my throat to stifle the rest of my laugh. “Too soon?”

“A sane person might think so.”

True, it wasn’t funny. We were about to walk into a tiny fast-food joint to confront a murderer who might well have more—and bigger—firearms than all of us put together. I opened my purse and kept my hand on my gun as we walked. We’d just turned onto Topanga Canyon Boulevard when a young man in jeans and a hoodie stepped out of the diner and headed toward Logan’s car.

Bailey whipped her gun out of the shoulder holster and shouted, “Police! Drop your weapon!”

At that moment, the rest of the officers, who’d been hiding behind the bushes that separated the parking lot from the sidewalk, sprang out with guns drawn and pointed as they shouted at him. “Put your hands on your head! Get down on the ground! Now!”

He put his hands in the air and slowly backed away from the car.

“Stop!” Bailey and the officers shouted. “Get down! Now!”

But he kept backing up until he bumped into the front door of the Chipotle. Then he reached behind, pulled it open, and slid inside.

We ran toward
the diner, just steps behind the officers. Lieutenant Braverman came pounding up, bullhorn in hand, as the unis took cover behind cars and around the sides of the building. At least seven squad cars screeched into the parking lot and surrounded the restaurant. Four officers balanced assault rifles on the hoods of their cars and trained them on the front door.

Braverman raised the bullhorn to his lips, but before he could speak, the door opened, and a burly Hispanic man in a white apron and paper hat emerged holding the young man by the back of his jacket. His arms dangled helplessly, like a puppy held by the scruff of its neck.

The Hispanic man hauled him outside. “This the guy you want?” Braverman confirmed that it was. Before the lieutenant could issue a further order, the Hispanic man tossed him out as though he were a heap of garbage. He fell face-first onto the asphalt.

So much for Hotshot Braverman’s moment of glory. The officers swarmed the young male, and when they stood him up, we finally got a chance to move in and get a closer look. He was tall, skinny, and had long, dirty white-guy dreadlocks that looked like they might house a family of small rodents.

One thing was immediately clear: it wasn’t Evan. I hadn’t realized how much I was banking on this being the end of the road until just that moment. My spirits crashed and burned as I watched the officers load the now-docile suspect into the back of a patrol car. We followed them back to the local station.

I stared out the passenger window, feeling bitter and frustrated. “Maybe this fool has some connection to Evan or Logan.”

Bailey was in no better mood. “If he does it’s probably useless.”

When we got to the station, the guy—who looked like he was in his early twenties—was already set up in the interview room, one hand cuffed to a ring in the table. Two burly unis stood on either side of him, their hands on their weapons. Neither of them looked particularly concerned, and I could see why. The guy was a string bean, not a muscle in sight, and he was cowering in his seat, looking pale and sweaty. A paper cup of water was in front of him, and when he reached for it, his hand trembled so badly he spilled half of it on the table.

A detective came in and handed Bailey the booking form with his information. I offered my hand to the detective and introduced myself and Bailey.

He took my hand and shook it warmly. “Dwight Rosenberg, nice to meet you.”

“Where’s Lieutenant Braverman?” I asked.

“He’ll be here.”

“Good, I miss him.”

Dwight’s lips twitched. We weren’t the only ones who thought the lieutenant was a jerkweed. We sat down across from the suspect, and Bailey led off.

“Charlie Herzog. It says here you’re twenty-two, that you live with your parents and you’re unemployed. That right?” He nodded. “So how do you know Evan Cutter?”

Charlie licked his lips, which were cracked and dry. “I d-don’t.” He picked up the cup and gulped some water. “I d-didn’t have any idea who he was back when I s-saw him.”

Bailey waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, she prompted him. “But you know who he is now.”

Charlie nodded. “They just told me.”

“They?” Bailey said. “Do you mean the officers who arrested you today?”

Charlie nodded. It was bad procedure to tell a suspect anything before questioning. Annoyed, I looked up to catch Dwight shaking his head.

“Okay, let’s make sure we’re on the same page,” Bailey said. She pulled out the photograph of Evan we’d used in the public release. “Do you recognize this guy?”

Charlie stared at it. “I’m, uh, not sure. Dude was wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap. That might be him, though. Looks pretty similar.”

“Tell us how you met him.”

“I saw an ad on Craigslist. A guy was looking for a straight trade, said he might throw in some cash if it made sense.”

A straight trade? The light began to dawn. I stepped in. “Of cars?”

Charlie nodded. “Yeah. I had this old junker Chevy my folks gave me when I graduated high school. I figured, what the hell? It couldn’t hurt to see if he’d go for it.”

Pretty friggin’ clever. “And he did.”

Charlie gave a short chuckle, remembering the sweet deal he’d scored. “Yeah, I couldn’t believe it. Dude was crazy to do a swap like that. I mean, his car had a little body damage. But hell, it was about a thousand times better than my old piece of sh—” Charlie stopped. “Uh, junk.”

I hadn’t had the chance to look at the car yet, but I remembered Jeremy had said Logan sideswiped his car as he and Evan fled from the school. “When did you make the trade?”

Charlie looked up at the ceiling. “I’m not great on dates. Five, maybe six days ago?”

“Do you have any paperwork?”

“At home, yeah.”

That might nail it down. Though given what I’d seen of Charlie, it might not. He had
stoner
written all over him. But if his estimation was right, then Evan had made the trade right after the Cinemark shooting. Which was well before we’d identified him. No way Charlie could’ve known who he was dealing with. He might be in violation of some DMV registration laws, but not much more. I’d leave it to the local cops to decide what to do with that.

Bailey put the photo back in her notepad. “Where did you meet with him when you made the swap?”

“Just down the block from my folks’ place.”

“You didn’t want them to know about the trade?”

“Nah, I didn’t care about that. If it was righteous, I was getting a sweet deal. But I didn’t know this dude. I didn’t want to be too close to my parents’ house in case he was, you know…a problem.”

I was kind of touched that Charlie was protective of his parents. Then again, he might’ve just been protecting his meal ticket. And I thought I couldn’t get more cynical.

Bailey nodded at me. “You got anything else?”

“No, thanks. We should get the car to Dorian for processing.” I knew Evan would’ve done his best to clean out any evidence, but his best was no match for the superhuman abilities of Struck.

Bailey thanked Charlie for his time and nodded to Dwight and the unis. They’d just taken Charlie away when our buddy Lieutenant Braverman walked in. I could see that Bailey enjoyed telling him we’d already finished. “I’m not recommending any charges,” she said. “But if it’s important to you, there might be some vehicle code registration violations.” Translation: “There’s some chicken shit over there in the corner for ya.”

Braverman’s face locked up and his eyes narrowed. “We can process the car out here.” Translation: “If there’s some glory to be salvaged from this wreck, I’m taking it.”

Bailey gave him a cold smile. “Thanks, but it doesn’t make sense to bring anyone else in. Dorian’s handled all the other crime scenes, so she’ll know what to look for.” Translation: “Go fuck yourself.”

We left the station with a spring in our step. It wasn’t as big a victory as we’d hoped. We didn’t net Evan Cutter. But we did have a line on the car he might be driving now. That was something. We who live on crumbs demand very little for a feast. Bailey called in the description and plate of Charlie’s car to get out an alert, and we spent the rest of the ride back downtown laughing at Bullet Brain Braverman. By the time Bailey took the off-ramp at Sixth Street, it was after six o’clock.

My stomach grumbled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “You hungry?”

“Apparently you are.” Bailey glanced at my stomach. “We were just at Chipotle. We could’ve picked something up.”

I laughed. “Yeah. I’m sure the manager would’ve been thrilled to serve us. Biltmore bar?”

“Sold.” It’d be nice to sink into the plush quiet with a glass of Pinot Noir. Or a martini. And I knew Bailey hadn’t seen Drew in days. For that matter, neither had I.

Bailey made up for her obnoxiously legal parking job in the Valley by selecting a space in the red zone right in front of the hotel. We slid into the booth closest to the bar. “What’re you having?” I asked.

“A tiny Martin.”

“Sounds good. And an appetizer?”

“How about a grilled artichoke?” I gave her the thumbs-up, and Bailey went to the bar to order. And make kissy-face with Drew. She came back with him bearing two icy martinis.

He set them down as Bailey sat. “I heard you two had a wild ride today.”

We gave him the highlights. Drew laughed out loud when Bailey told him about the manager dragging Charlie out by the scruff of the neck. “I wish I’d seen that.”

“You still might,” Bailey said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if someone caught it all on a cell phone.”

“I’ll keep the TV tuned to the news.” Drew headed back to the bar.

I raised my glass and we clinked. “To a wild ride.”

We sipped our drinks, and I thought about what we’d gained from it. “We might not find anything in Logan’s car, but if Evan didn’t dump the one he got from Charlie, we now have a license plate and description of what he’s driving. Are the unis still pulling all stolen license reports?”

“Yeah. I’m not sure that’ll pan out fast enough, though. If Evan’s been planning all this for as long as we think, he could’ve ripped off a plate a year ago.”

“Yeah. Well, at least we know what the car looks like. That’s something.” I sighed. “It feels like I’ve been saying that a lot lately.”

Bailey gave me a little smile, then looked over my shoulder. Her smile disappeared. “Oh, no you didn’t. You little turd.” She pointed to the television above the bar.

And there, in all his pixilated glory, was Charlie Herzog. The crawl said that the footage was being broadcast courtesy of TMZ—a tabloid television show. It figured. I shook my head. “They flashed the cash, so of course he went for it.”

Bailey went to the bar and asked Drew to turn up the volume. Charlie’s voice drifted over the clink of glasses and soft chatter. “Yeah, when I swapped cars with the dude a few days ago I had no [
bleep
] idea who he was.” Charlie leaned in and cocked his ear at the reporter. “What?” The reporter said something we couldn’t hear, and then Charlie said, “My car? Oh, my car was a beige 1999 Chevy. Back bumper’s a little dented, and the driver’s side door’s got a ding in it. Oh, and the front passenger door’s kind of messed up too.” Then he gave the license plate. The reporter asked another question, and Charlie smiled. “Nothing unusual about the dude at all. He was just a regular guy, about so high.” Charlie gestured six inches below his head. “Had short hair…uh, that’s about it.”

Bailey and I exchanged a look. I shrugged. “We should probably thank the fool. The whole world’s going to be looking for that car now.”

“That ought to tighten the screws on psycho boy.”