Authors: Lee Goldberg
“I want a door-to-door on this entire floor and the one below it,” Tom told the uniforms. “Then sweep the alley and check all the dumpsters. Wear gloves.”
“Uh, we’re off duty in twenty minutes.”
“Not anymore. Check all Dumpsters in a two block radius. There’s no way the perp left this apartment without getting blood on him. Maybe he ditched clothes or a weapon. Call the district and get four more guys to help, on my authority. You can put in an overtime request tomorrow morning when you give me the reports.”
They headed for the door, grumbling.
“Hold on. Other than the front door, did you touch anything when you arrived?”
“Naw. The superintendent opened the door, we saw the vic and called it in. Then we stood around until you showed up to send us on Dumpster duty.”
“You didn’t turn off the TV? Or a stereo?”
The first guy adjusted his cap. “Oh yeah. I did. The CD player was cranked up all the way. Some classical crap.”
“Make sure it’s in the report.”
Tom dismissed them and turned his attention back to the body. Forcing detachment, he examined the wound to the neck. There were no tears or ragged edges in the skin, just a continuous smooth cut. Tom had never seen anything like it before.
“Morning, Tommy. Coffee?”
Detective Roy Lewis entered the apartment and handed his partner a Styrofoam cup with a gas station logo on it. At six foot two, Roy was the same height as Tom, but that was their only shared trait. Roy was black, bald, with broad shoulders and a round face sporting a thick mustache. Tom was white to the point of pale, thin and angular, with sandy hair that was a touch too short for a ponytail.
Roy’s jacket was dotted with droplets, some of them still snowflakes. It was the first week of April, but winter didn’t seem to know that.
“Why is it when I buy coffee, it’s
Starbucks
, and when you do it’s
Phillips Petroleum
?”
“Because I’m a cheap bastard. What do we got here?”
“Vic is a male Caucasian, name of Thomas Jessup. Woman in the apartment below called 911 because blood was dripping from her ceiling.”
Roy grimaced at the body, then took a sip from his cup. “Where’s the head?”
“It rolled under the desk. I think the perp used some kind of sword. One cut. Clean.”
“Not that clean.”
Tom’s stomach did a slow roll. Though he’d been in Homicide for six years, he still wasn’t comfortable around bodies, especially the messy ones. Bad coffee made the nausea even worse. Tom stuck out his tongue and fingered off a line of coffee grounds. Not wanting to contaminate the scene, he wiped the dregs in his shirt pocket.
“This is like drinking sand.”
“Yeah. It looked awful. That’s why I got me a Coke. So what’s up with the fingers?”
“Tortured. Perp took them off one at a time, then used twist ties to stop the bleeding. Music was up loud so no one heard the screams.”
“Who was this poor guy, make someone want to cut off his fingers and lop off his head?”
“Let’s find out.”
Tom choked down the rest of his coffee and put the cup in his jacket pocket. Then he snapped on a pair of latex gloves. His partner did the same.
While they tossed the place, several techies showed up and began to take pictures and collect samples. The ME arrived shortly thereafter, formality making him take the corpse’s pulse.
“Should we start CPR?” Roy asked.
The Medical Examiner ignored him.
Tom took the bedroom, and after a few minutes of poking through drawers found out that Thomas Jessup worked at the main branch of the Chicago Public Library. Check stubs put his standard of living at slightly more than average. A bank statement revealed only a few hundred in savings, but bills were paid in full and on time. The heat kicked on automatically, blowing around the strong smell of violent death. Tom checked out the bathroom, and after a thorough search he bent over the sink and splashed some water onto his face. The coffee felt like acid in his gut.
Afterward he joined Roy in the kitchen. “Anything?”
“This guy was a boy scout. No booze, no smokes, no drugs, no fatty foods in the fridge. A ton of books, not one of them with dirty pictures. What’d he do?”
“Librarian.”
“Figures. You find any girl stuff?”
“Nope. If he had a girlfriend, they weren’t intimate. At least not here. No women’s clothing, no extra toothbrush.”
“Found his wallet. On the computer. Sixty bucks inside. Poor guy just turned thirty. Hey, ain’t your big three-oh coming up this week?”
Tom frowned. “Thanks for the reminder.”
He looked in the cabinet under the sink and found half a box of garbage bags. They were the more expensive brand with the built-in handle—no twist tie needed. The perp must have brought his own to the scene. An earlier check of the front door didn’t show any signs of a break-in. Someone Jessup knew and let inside?
Tom went back into the living room. The asses-and-elbows atmosphere of a murder investigation was in full swing, with almost a dozen professionals stepping over each other to do their jobs. A guy with a portable vacuum picked up hairs and fibers. A woman dusted for prints. A team armed with a spray bottle and an alternative light source illuminated blood droplets on the ceiling. All while a crime scene photographer snapped away and another techie videotaped everything.
In the center of the action, the Medical Examiner—a pale, thin, cadaverous looking man named Phil Blasky—was orchestrating the removal of the body. The duct tape was carefully unwound, cut into one foot strips, and bagged. It would be examined back at the lab. A stretcher, complete with body bag, was wheeled in. Once the body was freed from the chair, two cops donning plastic ponchos lifted it onto the cart.
“Now this is interesting.”
The ME was bent over the legs, examining a bare foot. Tom got a closer look.
“I thought it was something he stepped on, but apparently it’s a tattoo. It looks old.”
“A tattoo? Where?” Tom’s voice came out higher-pitched than he would have preferred.
“It’s on the pad of the left heel. A blue number, about an inch long. The number 7.”
Tom looked at the foot and paled. A lump in his throat made him unable to speak.
“I wonder what that means.”
Me too,
Tom thought.
He’d seen a similar tattoo. Also blue, about an inch long. The number 5.
He’d been seeing it on a daily basis for almost thirty years.
It was on the bottom of his own left foot.
Free Preview of “The List” by J.A. Konrath
Phillip Stang stared at the ceiling. His frail body desperately needed sleep, but he refused to give in. He was waiting for news.
The widescreen plasma TV played an old black and white war movie. Stang had muted it some time ago. The only sound in the room was the faint beeping and whirring of the machines that kept him alive. He lifted a pale hand to scratch his nose, then shifted on the bed from his one bad side to his other bad side. The pain moved in unison.
“Senator?”
The voice startled him, even though the volume on the intercom was set to low.
“Yes, Jerome?”
“Your son is on the phone.”
Stang picked up the receiver. It was cold and heavy. When he spoke, his voice didn’t betray the weakness or exhaustion he felt.
“It's two in the morning. You couldn't call sooner?”
“Sorry, Dad. There have been some, ah, complications. Jessup is dead.”
“Did he know about the others?”
“He knew a few, but was only in contact with one of them. We put Jack on it.”
“How about the girl?”
“Haven't heard anything yet. But with Jessup—there may be a little snag. The detective in charge of the case is Tom Mankowski.”
If Stang had a sense of humor, he might have laughed at the irony.
“It doesn't matter. He'll be dead before he learns anything. It won't interfere with Project Sunrise. Call when you hear about Joan.”
Stang hung up, not bothering to listen to his son's response. He shifted his attention back to the ceiling.
Waiting.
He was good at waiting. For more than three decades, he'd been biding his time. But a lifetime of patience would be rewarded within the next few days.
It was somewhat unfortunate that millions of people had to die to make it so.
Free Preview of “The List” by J.A. Konrath
Joan DeVilliers looked at her beeper and noted the number. Marty. She called him on the cell phone.
“Joan! You’re impossible to get a hold of.”
“Left my cell in the car.”
She turned down Santa Monica Boulevard and pulled alongside of a limo. The windows were tinted and impossible to see into, but Joan waved and blew a kiss. Never knew who it might be.
“Did you check your email?”
“Not yet. I’ve been on location all day. Ridley and Tom were having an argument.”
“Anything serious?”
“Everything is serious on a hundred mil picture. The gaffer has a hemorrhoid and it’s serious. What was the email?”
“It was from me, telling you to check your voice mail.”
Joan sighed. “Have you read the latest, Marty? About how cellular phones are linked to brain cancer? I can actually feel the tumor growing in my head right now.”
“I’ll buy you a lead hat, hon. Check your voice mail and call me back.”
Marty hung up. Joan punched the gas on the Jag to blow through a yellow light, then hit the speed dial for her voice mail. She rested the phone in the caddy to play it on the speaker.
“You have six calls.”
BEEP.
“Joan, Bill at Paramount. I talked to Peter. Expect a call.”
BEEP.
“This is Marty. Has Peter from Paramount called yet?”
BEEP.
“Joan, this is Peter at Paramount Studios. I’m green lighting the project. The contracts are being sent over. I look forward to working with you.”
BEEP.
“Joan? Max. The reservation is at nine. Call if you need directions to Carmichael’s. Looking forward.”
BEEP.
“It’s Marty again. Where are you? Have you been kidnapped? If you have been, let’s negotiate for the option. Did Peter call?”
BEEP.
“Joan DeVilliers?”
Joan squinted at the phone. She didn’t recognize the voice.
“I’ve scheduled your tattoo removal for tonight at your place.”
Tattoo removal? Who was this?
“Expect it to be very painful. See you later.”
“You have no more messages.”
A horn blared and Joan swerved out of incoming traffic. She pulled over to the curb, her heart racing. Joan only had one tattoo, and she was certain no one in LA knew about it. Even on the rare occasion that she’d brought a man home, none had found any reason to examine the bottom of her left heel.
The phone rang and Joan jumped in her seat, banging her head on the roof of the Jag. She hesitated, then hit the speaker.
“Joan? Marty. Isn’t it fabulous? Paramount bought it!”
“Fabulous, Marty.”
“You’re going to be producing two blockbusters at the same time! Aren’t you excited? Joan, why aren’t you excited?”
“Marty, did you know I had a tattoo?”
“No, I didn’t. How modern primitive.”
“When was the last time I changed my cell number? Last month, right?”
“I don’t remember. Sounds right.”
“How many people do you think have it?”
“I don’t know. This is Hollywood, dearest. You
want
people to pass around your number. What’s wrong? Peter did make the offer, right?”
Joan rubbed her eyes. Perhaps she was over-reacting. It was probably a prank call, or a wrong number. Or, this being Hollywood, some kind of clandestine, high-concept movie pitch.
“I’m just being paranoid, Marty. Yes, I’m excited. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Night, hon.”
Joan pulled down the sun visor and checked her eye shadow. It hadn’t smudged. She finger-combed her short blond hair and debated changing into eveningwear for her date, but the idea of going home alone made her nervous.
I’m being ridiculous,
she thought. Some nut in the City of Mixed Nuts calls with a vague threat, and she was acting like a scream queen. Her security system at the house was top notch, her dog Schnapps would die to protect her, she carried pepper spray, and most important of all Joan was a second dan black belt in karate.
Any freak who tried to mess with her would have his hands full.
She wove back into traffic and was at her home twenty minutes later.
Joan’s house was of moderate size—tiny by Beverly Hills standards, but more than enough space for her. It was nestled away in a small enclave of trees, the last lot on a tiny wooded hill. Private, quiet, a complete about-face from her high powered job. The occasional visitor was surprised to find the interior warm and rustic. Rather than harsh lighting, leather couches, Picasso lithos, and a bowl of cocaine on the bar, Joan had decorated like
Banana Republic
. The only thing chic about the place was her Jacuzzi, and even that was trimmed in cedar.
She hit the access code on her remote and the garage door opened. In her mind she went through her gowns. Max had already seen the Versace. Maybe the Christian Dior? The same dress had been worn by Jodie Foster to some awards ceremony. She and Jodie were the same size, though Joan would have bought the dress no matter how big or small it was. It was black, classic, and simply stunning.
Joan parked and closed the garage door behind her. She entered the house using the keypad entrance, and then quickly reset the alarm. Preoccupied with what she was going to wear, it took Joan a moment to realize something was wrong.
Schnapps.
A month ago, she’d bought the German Shepherd from best handler in California. A trained guard dog, but a lovable one as well. He normally greeted her at the door. Joan’s mind raced. Is he sleeping? Eating? Sick? Hurt?
Dead?
The phone call. Tattoo removal.