The Love Killings (17 page)

CHAPTER 39

Matt took a first sip from his glass, savoring the bourbon as it warmed his throat and stomach. After setting the glass down, he watched the bartender mix three vodka martinis for two young women seated at the other end of the bar with an older man.

On most nights, Matt would have looked at the three of them and tried to guess what their story might be. Was the man their father? Their boss? Or just a sugar daddy?

On most nights he would have enjoyed sipping bourbon, collecting visual evidence, and trying to put a story together. But not tonight.

He let his eyes wander through the large room, taking in the three-story-high columns carved out of marble, the rich woods framing the windows, the sitting areas with tables surrounded by chairs and couches, and the vibrant color from the three massive water frames hanging on the wall behind the bar. It was the kind of lounge that only a five-star hotel could provide. And in spite of the size of the room and the ultra-high ceiling, the place was quiet and easy and just right.

The bartender walked over. “You okay?” he said.

“I’m good, thanks.”

The man nodded and Matt watched him walk off. He had a certain confidence in the way he handled himself. Matt guessed that he was in his midfifties and had been serving drinks for a long time.

He took another sip of bourbon.

This was the right place to be tonight, and the bourbon seemed like the perfect drink, but he still couldn’t let himself relax. He’d gone to the park to think things over, and he’d come to a few conclusions.

Rogers and Doyle would never be convinced. Matt could make his case with words or even hard evidence, and neither one of them would see what now appeared to be plain as day. In their way, Rogers and Doyle were every bit as bad as the three detectives Matt had outed in LA. Three LAPD homicide detectives who got caught up in a rush to judgment until their worlds came crashing down. Six weeks ago all three of them had been alive. But not now. Not ever again.

Matt let the memory pass, then got back on point as he thought about the Holloways’ bodies. Even though their autopsies had been completed, he didn’t think the medical examiner would release them until more results came back from the lab. The tox screens could be weeks off, but enough samples would have been harvested by the ME to deal with any result. Matt’s best guess was that he wouldn’t have more than a day or two to figure out which undertaker would be handling the bodies and managing the funeral service, and get someone to agree to put eyes in the room.

What he didn’t understand about Rogers was that even if what Lester Snow had said this afternoon seemed hollow, any decent investigator had to assume that the undertaker’s initial response was the truth. To be safe, Rogers should have erred on the side of too much knowledge.

Someone was messing with the corpses. It should have been considered true until proven false.

Instead, Rogers was concerned about the way things looked.

Matt took another sip of bourbon, picked up his cell phone, and tried Brown’s number again. When his call bounced over to voice mail, he switched off the phone and looked up. The bartender was staring at the entrance with concern, his brow narrowing.

Matt turned and saw a young man breezing into the lounge and heading toward the bar. He noted the wool cap pulled over his head, the worn-out jeans, the unusually light-brown eyes that were glazed over and fixed on his cell phone. The man was bobbing his head and giggling at whatever he was watching on his phone.

Matt glanced at the bartender, then lowered his glass and turned back.

The man was headed in his direction. And the closer he got, the more his fixation on the phone came off like an act.

Matt watched him grab a stool two seats away and sit down, then knock on the bar as if it were someone’s front door.

“Barkeep,” he said in a loud, blusterous voice. “Barkeep.”

The strong smell of reefer emanated from the man’s body and clothing. It seemed obvious that he was wasted. That there was something false about his presence. That his act was some sort of play.

The bartender walked over and, from the way his face changed, smelled the weed, too. Matt watched his eyes get hard, like he was used to dealing with situations like this and had lost his patience.

“You need to get out of here, pal. You’re in the wrong place.”

The man with the wool cap glanced at Matt without meeting his eyes, then made an exaggerated face like he was hurt. “Oh, Barkeep. We were so close to having a good time.”

He held out his cell phone and turned it so that Matt could see the display. It was a young blonde on a bed with her top off. She was getting out of her jeans and seemed horrified because Matt’s face was now on her monitor.

The man giggled again, like he couldn’t control himself. “My new bitch,” he said. “You believe this shit?”

Matt could hear the girl squealing over the phone. Apparently, the bartender could as well.

In a flash, he jumped over the bar, grabbed the man with the wool cap by his coat, and ran him out of the lounge. When they spilled onto the sidewalk, and the bartender started back and entered the lounge, everyone clapped and cheered.

He shot Matt a look as he slipped behind the bar. “You get a whiff of that guy?”

Matt nodded. “Have you ever seen him before?”

“No,” the bartender said. “But you never know these days. He could be staying in the penthouse, and I could be out of a job.”

CHAPTER 40

Andrew Penchant looked at all the faces passing his way, then grabbed his cell phone and picked himself up off the sidewalk. The screen hadn’t been damaged, the phone appeared to be working, but Avery Cooper had ended their video call.

Just the thought of her big bare tits got his dick hard.

He looked at the people moving by him on the sidewalk and felt the wrath surging through his chest. If he’d been a dog, he would’ve barked at them. Maybe sunk his teeth into them. How about a thigh, or some arrogant bitch’s tight little ass? He was about to open the door and re-enter the bar, maybe give that shitty bartender a good long look at what act two would play like, but he saw something remarkable through the glass and stopped.

It was Ryan Day, the gossip reporter from
Get Buzzed
, hiding behind a plant in the lobby, trying to act casual while spying on Jones. He had his cell phone out and, from what Andrew could tell, was shooting “hidden camera” video for his show.

Goddamn it, this weed was good.

Andrew gave the reporter another look. Within a few seconds he was certain that he hadn’t been hallucinating. Ryan Day was pretending to use his cell phone while shooting video of Matt Jones.

The idea of it, the audacity and overt rudeness, the in-your-face bullshit, took some of the sting off his anger. But as he thought about it, there was plenty of steam left. Ryan Day was a Hollywood sleazebag.

Andrew felt someone touch his shoulder and turned. A man was trying to come between him and the glass doors in order to enter the hotel. Andrew grabbed him by the shoulders and reeled him in nice and close so he could see who he was pushing around.

He gritted his teeth, his fangs, imagining that he was a dog again. “The main entrance is around the corner, asshole.”

He could see fear welling up in the man’s eyes. A wild overdose of terror. The man was trying to pull himself away, but Andrew’s claws were digging into his coat. After several moments, he shoved the man away and let out another bark.

“Get the fuck out of here.”

He watched the man run down the block and vanish around the corner. People on the sidewalk were staring at him and going out of their way to avoid him. As he pulled himself together, he thought about what had just happened and decided that this was probably a good time to leave.

He turned back to the glass doors for one last look. Someone was walking over to Day, a teenage girl and no doubt a fan of his TV show. The reporter seemed startled by the intrusion, his cover blown, but somehow managed to find a gracious smile for her. He let a bellhop snap a picture with the girl’s cell phone—the two of them together—then shook her hand. After a wave and another smile, Ryan Day hurried out of the lobby.

Andrew stepped away from the doors and watched him exit the building. He had never been this close to anyone so famous, and he could feel his heart fluttering in his chest. As Day ignored him and started down the sidewalk, Andrew waited a few moments, then began following the celebrity reporter. Day had already returned his cell phone to his pocket, but Andrew gazed at the briefcase thrown over his shoulder and thought it looked a lot like candy.

The reporter was heading east, breezing down the sidewalk across the street from city hall. He seemed to be admiring the way the building was lighted for the holiday season. Macy’s was on the corner, and Day started down Market Street, gazing at the window displays. For one brief moment, Andrew could hear a Christmas carol in his head. Some song that his boss had started playing over the PA system at the Walmart Supercenter two weeks before Halloween this year. Some old jazz singer who had probably been dead for half a century.

He could hear it—the music and the lyrics—and it felt like torture.

Andrew’s mind surfaced. Day hadn’t waited to cross Market Street at the corner. Instead, he’d scurried through heavy traffic in the middle of the block and was heading toward the Marriott Downtown hotel. Andrew knew that he’d have to risk being noticed. There was no way around it, and he stepped into the street. Ignoring the people blasting their horns, he rushed between the cars and caught up to Day before the reporter reached the hotel’s rear entrance.

Day must have been in the zone because he never looked back and didn’t seem to notice. Andrew entered the hotel and glanced around the lobby. It seemed obvious that there were too many people here to grab Day’s briefcase and make a run for it. Instead, he followed the reporter across the room and into an elevator. He watched Day press the button to the nineteenth floor, then turn to him and ask what floor he’d like. But when the doors closed and Andrew said something like
nineteen sounds pretty good
, the expression on the reporter’s face changed.

Their eyes had met, and for one brief moment, Day had been able to look inside.

Andrew smiled and turned away as if he’d lost interest in the man. He guessed that there would be a camera in the ceiling and another somewhere on the rear wall. He found Day’s image in the mirror and saw the panic showing on the man’s face. Andrew couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked like the reporter might be trembling.

They reached the nineteenth floor. Andrew held the doors open with a pleasant smile and followed Day down the hall. They were passing suites, one after another until they reached the second door from the end.

And that’s when Ryan Day suddenly turned around with a small canister in his hand. Andrew didn’t get it at first, but then realized that Day was too nervous to work the sprayer. His hands were shaking and his fingers appeared soft and rubbery.

Andrew flashed another pleasant smile, then smashed Day in the face with his right fist. It was a hard, crushing blow, and the gossip reporter collapsed onto the floor like a tree hit by lightning. Andrew glared at Day’s body, incensed by what the man had tried to do to him. And then he felt something deep inside him snap.

He started kicking Day in the face and in the stomach, over and over again until he finally gave the man one last shot in the ass. Blood was streaming down the reporter’s face, his nose bent in such a way that it appeared broken. Andrew didn’t give a shit. When he spotted the canister on the carpet beside the reporter’s eyeglasses, he knelt down and snatched it up. It was pepper spray.

Andrew shook his head as he felt the fury exploding through his body. He grimaced and groaned and painted Day’s face with coat after coat of pepper spray. Ignoring the toxic gas hovering in the air, he pried the reporter’s jaw open and emptied the canister in his mouth. Satisfied that Day had been neutralized, Andrew grabbed the reporter’s briefcase and ran down the hall back to the elevators.

His hair was soaked through with sweat. He was hyperventilating and couldn’t catch his breath. The night had been so thrilling. So entertaining. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t stop shaking.

CHAPTER 41

Matt’s cell phone was vibrating on the bar. He saw Kate Brown’s name on the face and unlocked the phone.

“Sorry,” she said. “I couldn’t pick up.”

“What’s going on?”

“Doyle did a TV interview. I went with him to the studio. The story’s getting bigger, Jones.”

“Where are you?”

“Home,” she said. “The studio’s just a few blocks from my house. It’s still early. You want to come over?”

“I’m at the Ritz. See you soon.”

Matt cashed out his tab, left the bartender a decent tip, and walked out. His car was parked on a street close to Love Park, and within ten minutes he was knocking on Brown’s front door. A moment passed, and then another. When the door finally opened, he saw Brown’s sleepy smile and the gleam in her eye. She stepped aside to let him pass, then closed the door.

She was wearing a short robe. And it was open so that Matt could see her bare chest and lavender-colored panties.

“You got any bourbon?” he said.

Her smile broadened while she thought it over. “As a matter of fact, I do. You want it on the rocks or straight up?”

He could tell that she was playing a game. It felt good.

“You decide,” he said.

“Okay. How about a kiss first?”

He moved closer and pulled her into his arms. He kissed her, and she kissed him back. He could feel his soul healing. He could see himself making a clean comeback.

“Let’s get those drinks,” she said.

“We need to talk about something.”

“Okay.”

He followed her into the kitchen. Brown kept a small bar in an antique wooden chest and grabbed the bourbon, then poured two glasses a couple of fingers high.

“Let’s go straight up,” she said.

“Sounds good to me,” he said with his eyes on her. “I met with Dr. Baylor this afternoon.”

She flinched. “You what?”

“We spoke this afternoon. We spent about a half hour together.”

“At the Strattons’ mansion.”

He nodded. He could see the worry showing on her face.

“Why didn’t you arrest him?”

“Because he had my gun.”

“How did he know you were there?”

He shrugged. “He followed me.”

She passed over a glass, then tapped his with her own. Matt took a short sip, then walked with her into the living room. He stood and watched her curl her legs beneath her body on the couch. Matt took another sip and decided to sit in the chair.

“He’s not good for these murders, Kate. He’s not even close to being good for them. I spoke with the undertaker today. Someone messed with the bodies while they were there. I told Rogers about it, not that I spoke with Baylor again, just the undertaker. He couldn’t care less. But I need your help. At some point the medical examiner will sign off on the Holloways and release their bodies. We need eyes on them, twenty-four seven. We need to know what’s going on, and we need to be there when it does.”

She seemed confused—too much information, too fast.

“You see where I’m going, Kate? We’ve got a chance to catch this guy. The real killer. We finally have something he wants. We’ve got a chance to end this, but we’ll be on our own.”

She still seemed troubled. “What do you mean, messed with the bodies, Jones?”

“The undertaker told me that he thought that the Strattons’ bodies had been disturbed. When I pressed him on it, he recanted. I think he got scared and lied, hoping it would go away.”

She paused a moment, her wheels turning. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter.

“Come sit with me on the couch,” she said.

Matt stepped around the coffee table and sat down close enough to put his arm around her. He watched her sip her drink and lean back.

“You should’ve seen Doyle tonight,” she said. “The way he handled himself. The way he handled the news anchor.”

“What are you saying?”

She turned and gazed at him for a long time. “The story broke open tonight, Jones. With the funeral today, and the Holloways being murdered a week after the Strattons, it’s a bigger story now. A story that feels like it has a life of its own.”