The Love Killings (18 page)

CHAPTER 42

Andrew Penchant closed his bedroom door, ripped open Ryan Day’s briefcase, and dumped the contents on his worktable.

He spread the file folders out and stared at them. They were paper files, not digital, and this surprised him. He didn’t find a laptop in the briefcase. And when he searched through the pockets, he didn’t see a calendar, an appointment book, or even an address book.

Just a pair of shades, a pack of breath mints, and a small makeup kit.

Day must have done most of his business with his cell phone and a computer tucked away in his hotel room. Andrew wondered why he hadn’t taken a moment to search for the gossip reporter’s cell phone. How much time would it have taken to frisk the idiot and grab his phone?

He let the moment play in his head. He could see himself punching the man and kicking him after he went down. He could remember seeing all the blood spewing out of Day’s broken nose, then running down to the elevator. He liked seeing the blood. He liked the rush. But he’d had trouble catching his breath, and he didn’t understand why his perspiration was so profuse, or why he couldn’t stop shaking. It may have been the cloud of pepper spray hovering in the stagnant air, but he thought it might be more than that.

Andrew shook off the memory, picked up the file folders, and checked the tabs. There were only three. One for the Strattons, another for the Holloways, and a third file dedicated to LAPD Detective Matt Jones.

He grabbed Ryan Day’s file on Jones, sat down in his desk chair, and hit the switch on his surge protector, powering up his laptop, the lights, and the TV all at once. After checking the time, he muted the sound on the TV and started reading the file.

It became clear from the dates that Ryan Day had been working on the story of Matt Jones’s life since the detective was shot six weeks ago. He was trying to solve the crime. He was searching for a motive to the shooting, as well as the identity of the man Jones had killed at the scene. Along the way, the gossip reporter sensed something was wrong with Jones’s background information and began digging.

Jones shared his full name with three people of interest, but only one stood out. Andrew remembered overhearing the mad scientist call Matt’s father the King of Wall Street. According to Day’s file, he agreed with Dr. Baylor and had narrowed down his search to a power broker from New York City by the name of M. Trevor Jones. Day had put together side-by-side photographs of the detective with the banker. The likeness was indisputable, yet the banker claimed that he only had two children and both still lived with him and his wife at home.

Andrew lowered the file to his worktable and settled back in the chair as he considered what he’d just read.

Jones was the son of one of the wealthiest men on earth. He could have lived a good life in a good world, but his father had stolen his identity from him when he wouldn’t even admit that the detective was his son.

If Jones needed a reason to murder his father, that sounded like a good one. But what if it worked in reverse as well? What if the things he’d heard Dr. Baylor say were true? What if Jones’s father wanted to keep his past buried, and was trying to kill his own son?

Andrew tossed it over as he thought about his own father. The pervert who had raped his mother when she was only fourteen. The man-devil whom he shared half his biological life with. He wondered if his father had ever thought about killing
him
. He wondered if a shot might not ring out when he least expected it. He could see himself falling to the ground. He could see himself bleeding out and dying like an animal at the hands of a child molester.

This had to be the reason why Jones wanted to kill his father. M. Trevor Jones was a rich man living in a rich land and needed to be punished. The King of Wall Street needed to be stopped.

It occurred to Andrew that he and Jones were brothers after all.

He heard his mother tap on his bedroom door, and he pricked up his ears. She didn’t say anything, and after several moments, he heard her bedroom door close.

That feeling in his stomach was back. All the churning. He dug the half-smoked joint out of his pocket. Then he lit up, took a hit, and held his breath until he started coughing. He heard his mother turn on the shower, and took a second hit. The eleven o’clock news had started on TV, but there was no mention of finding the gossip reporter on the nineteenth floor outside his hotel room.

Andrew stood up and steadied himself against the worktable, the reefer storming his brain all at once. He sensed from the way the walls of his room appeared to blow out like sheets on a clothesline that the weed had been cut with something. When he had smoked opiated hash a few months ago, he experienced the same kind of hallucinations. Still, he couldn’t figure out how opium could possibly be blended with reefer. It had to be something else.

He listened to the shower running and imagined his mother standing beneath the warm spill. He thought about her body, and the idea that she was still so young. Still so hot in that Northeast Philly kind of way.

Andrew heard another tap and was surprised when the door opened. His mother walked in, dressed in a robe that was loosely tied around her waist and didn’t hide much skin.

“I’m feeling lonely tonight,” she said in a quiet voice. “I could use a little TLC, honey.”

He didn’t say anything. His mother’s eyes were burning, and she looked hungry again.

“I need company,” she went on. “I need to be with someone right now.”

He watched her gaze rise from his crotch to his face.

“I hate you, Mother. I hate everything about you.”

“I know you do,” she said. “I’ve hated you since before you were even born. But that doesn’t mean that we can’t be friends tonight.”

She took him by the hand and led him into her bedroom. The battery-powered candles were burning, the bed turned down. He could feel her undressing him as if he had become a little boy again. He watched her toss his shirt on the chair and unzip his jeans as if he were still a child.

The weed had to be cut with something. Everything about his mother’s body seemed fresh and new, like just maybe she wasn’t his mother at all. Like tonight would be easier than ever to pretend. She smiled at him as she helped him out of his jeans.

“That’s my boy,” she said. “Mommy’s so proud of you.”

CHAPTER 43

Matt heard something in the hallway and peered through the peephole while sipping his second mug of coffee of the day. The door was open to the apartment next door. A man was on his hands and knees collecting items he’d dropped and returning them to a canvas tote bag. The distance was too great, the lens too scratched, and Matt couldn’t tell what he was tossing into the bag.

Curiously, this was someone new. Not the blond man in his late twenties or early thirties with a knapsack thrown over his shoulder, and not the middle-aged woman in the business suit who claimed she didn’t live here and was just dropping something off. Instead, this appeared to be a man of slight build in his midforties who wore eyeglasses and had shaved his head. But even more, once he got everything picked up, he closed the door to the apartment and locked it with a key. The man with blond hair had used a key as well.

Matt realized that if he pulled his eye away right now, the man might notice the peephole change from dark to light, so he watched until the elevator arrived. When the man vanished inside and he heard the doors close, he turned away and took another sip of coffee.

It was early. He couldn’t seem to sleep anymore. He’d left Brown’s place just after one in the morning. When he finally got in bed, he fell asleep quickly, but woke up an hour later. He fell asleep again, then woke up an hour after that. By 5:30 a.m., getting back to sleep seemed like a long shot, so he showered and shaved and got dressed.

The TV was on in the living room, and a journalist was reporting from the Middle East. We’d already been at war for sixteen years, and it didn’t sound like anyone in the White House or on Capitol Hill had a plan to bring the troops home very soon. Matt didn’t care for politicians or their views about much these days. But more specifically, he didn’t like to hear them talk about war. Most of them had no idea what it was like to be at war. They never served and they possessed no knowledge or experience. Instead, they’d show up at hospitals with the cameras rolling, flash a phony smile, pretend to be concerned, and say thank you. After more than sixteen years, Matt didn’t think hearing a politician say
thank you
was good enough. Not nearly good enough.

He stopped listening and tried to let his frustration subside as he topped off his coffee. And then the story on the news changed. The video feed switched from Kabul to Philadelphia.

Matt walked into the living room.

According to a reporter from CBS News, Ryan Day, the celebrity gossip reporter and host of the popular TV show
Get Buzzed
, had been attacked and robbed at his hotel in Philadelphia last night. Details were still sketchy, but detectives from the Philadelphia Police Department’s Major Crimes Section had gone through video from the hotel’s security system overnight. Several shots had been pulled of someone they described as a person of extreme interest.

Matt moved closer to the TV for a better look. The first shot captured a man entering the hotel and following Day through the lobby. A second shot covered Day in the elevator with the same man. Although it was a close-up shot, detectives believed that the suspect had been aware of the camera’s location and deliberately kept his head down. But the third shot appeared to be the most telling. The suspect had returned to the lobby and was rushing toward the Market Street entrance with Ryan Day’s briefcase slung over his shoulder.

Matt didn’t need three video shots to know what was going on. All he needed to see was a single image of the wool cap pulled over the man’s head.

He set his coffee mug down on the table and waited for the reporter to end his piece, hoping that he was at the hospital and not the hotel. When they cut back to a live shot, the reporter was standing in front of the emergency room. Matt grabbed his jacket and scarf. The EMTs had taken Day to Jefferson University Hospital over on Tenth Street.

Within fifteen minutes Matt had parked his car in the garage across the street and badged his way through security. The receptionist at the front desk was an elderly woman who came off like a volunteer and pointed out that visiting hours wouldn’t begin for two hours. When Matt identified himself as a deputy US marshal, she seemed more than pleased to help. Once Matt hit the elevators, he was free and clear.

Day’s room was at the end of the hallway on the right. But once he reached the door, he caught a glimpse of the patient and thought he’d been given the wrong room number. Someone he couldn’t see was in the room as well, a woman, and she was saying something. Matt moved to the other side of the door and realized that it was a doctor. She was giving her patient an update on his condition.

Matt looked back at the man in the bed and tried to see through the gauze wrapped around his skull, the purple bruises tattooing his entire face, the swollen cheeks, and the fresh stitching that ran from the corner of his upper lip to the base of his nose. When he noticed the pair of wire-rimmed glasses on the tray, his eyes flicked back to the patient’s face.

It had to be Ryan Day. Ryan Day after a brutal beating.

Matt took a deep breath and exhaled. He might not have a name, but he knew that the man with the wool cap pulled over his head was more than a person of interest. He was certain of it now.

A memory surfaced. It happened yesterday morning while he had been on his way to the Strattons’ funeral. He had been walking from his apartment to the parking garage when he turned and saw a man wearing dark shades waiting for the light to change. The man had blond cornrows. Last night, the man at the bar had been wearing a wool cap over his hair and had avoided eye contact.

They were the same man. They had to be the same man.

Matt guessed that the morning encounter had something to do with curiosity. But somehow the man with blond cornrows had skipped ahead and, for reasons unknown, returned to the death house in Radnor that afternoon. Even worse, the intruder had to have overheard his conversation with Dr. Baylor. He’d made a discovery, and learned that they had some idea of who he was. Some understanding of his background and plight.

He had overheard Matt talking to Dr. Baylor and realized that they had a profile. They were looking for him now.

It was the only explanation that made sense. The man with blond cornrows had been following Matt since he left the Strattons’ mansion because he had to keep tabs in order to stay safe. He had to keep tabs on Matt because he’d become the target of the hunt.

He was no longer invisible. No longer on his own. And he needed information. Knowledge. He needed to know what they knew. He needed Ryan Day’s briefcase.

Matt heard the woman begin speaking again and took a step closer to listen. According to the doctor, Day was a lucky man. The amount of pepper spray he’d endured could have killed him all by itself. The fact that her examination found no internal bleeding had to be considered remarkable. While he might be experiencing a great deal of pain, other than a broken nose, his injuries were limited to soft tissue, and she predicted that his recovery would be quick and certain.

Matt stepped over to the water fountain and waited until the doctor left. He watched her walk down the hall. She was Asian, probably in her late thirties, and appeared exceedingly gentle and easy to look at. When she vanished around the corner, Matt slipped into Day’s room.

Day gave him an even, almost helpless look. Matt moved closer, taking his hand as the reporter began weeping in silence. After several moments, Day pulled himself together.

“What are you doing here?” he said in a weak voice.

“I saw it on the news this morning. I overheard your doctor. She said you’ll be okay, but I’ve gotta tell you, Day. I wouldn’t spend too much time in front of a mirror. You really look like shit.”

Day started laughing, raising his hand and mouthing the words
Stop, it hurts.

“The doctor called you lucky,” Matt said.

“Lucky that I don’t remember much, and somehow he didn’t knock out any teeth. What are you doing here?”

“How did you put it at the café?”

Day tossed it over, then found the memory. “We could help each other.”

“And I owe you one for giving me my mother’s real name.”

Matt could see the change in Day’s eyes—the glint sharpening like he was beginning to come back to life. Day checked the door, then turned back to Matt.

“What’s going on?”

“The guy with the wool cap. The guy who did this to you.”

Day nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Who is he?”

“The short answer is that he was following me last night, and I missed it. I was having a drink at another hotel, and he walked in and got himself tossed out. Somehow he picked up on you.”

Day shut his eyes for a moment. “The Ritz. I was in the lobby.”

“Doing what?”

He shook his head and sighed. “The usual,” he whispered. “I didn’t see him either. But when he stepped into the elevator, Jones, one look and I knew I was in trouble.”

A nurse walked into the room, surprised to find someone with her patient. “Visiting hours don’t start for another two hours,” she said. “Who are you?”

“His priest. I just need a few minutes.”

She crossed her arms over her chest like a traffic cop. “You don’t look like a priest.”

“Everybody says that. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

She thought it over for a while. Then without a word she walked out.

Matt glanced out the window at the city, then turned back and leaned against the sill. “What did he get?”

“What?”

“What was in your briefcase?”

Day shook his head. “Not much. When I’m done for the day, my laptop and everything else gets locked up in the hotel safe. I can’t afford to leave anything like that in my room.”

“But there was something in your briefcase,” Matt said.

“Files. Hard copies. Research.”

“Research on who?”

“The Strattons, the Holloways.”

“Who else?”

Day paused and suddenly appeared uneasy, then met his gaze. “You,” he said finally.

A moment passed, and it had a corrosive burn to it. Matt pushed a piece of nicotine gum through the foil and slid it against his cheek.

“How much about me?”

“Not a lot,” Day said. “Side-by-side pictures of you and the man you won’t admit is your father. A little background on him, but not much detail. Like I said, I keep everything on my computer. I had those files with me because you got me going the other day and I wanted to take another look.”

Matt didn’t say anything. He could feel the nicotine beginning to light up his body. His mind was becoming clearer, sharper. He saw Day staring at him as he adjusted his pillow. Then the reporter pushed the tray away and finally spoke.

“You know what, Jones?”

Matt nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“A few minutes ago I asked you who he was. You gave me the short answer and said that he followed you last night. I’ve been a reporter for a long time, Jones. A real long time. And so I’m gonna make a wild guess that the long answer has something to do with
why
he was following you.”

Matt gave Day a hard look, weighing how much it might cost him if he gave the gossip reporter a small piece of the truth.