Cross Cut (2 page)

Ryder lugged her gear to the French doors and opened them. I won’t describe the gear she had, as my knowledge of fishing equipment is pretty much zero. As far as I knew, she had a rod and a toolbox.

Ryder looked at me and gave a neutral smile.

“I put the shopping list on the desk, Ader.”

“Yes, Boss.”

She glared. “Lock the door on your way out.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “What was all that about earlier?”

“I suppose you mean Mr Lynch? You know how I work, Ader. I dislike foofaraw.”

I nodded. “Well, normally I would agree. But surely exceptions have to be made when our weekly outgoings are in the thousands, and our incomings are zero.”

She turned her head and made her way outside. “California is a big place. We won’t be out of work forever.”

“We will if your standards keep increasing.”

“Pah.”

And with that, she made her way down the garden, toward the pier.

No doubt, out of all of that, you’re thinking the same thing as I. And that is, of course, why do I do the shopping? A good question, I admit. When I find a satisfactory answer, I’ll be glad to tell you.

2

I’ll never understand why people do their goddamned shopping at 1PM. In the summer, in the heat of the day. Maybe they all have contrary and particular employers like myself.

I could go down the shopping list, but I won’t bore you. Even if I did think you cared. I will say, however, that I generally do a shop every day, when we don’t have a job to work on. I obtain the ingredients for the meal she cooks in the evening. For all her obsessions and peculiarities, she is a master chef, and has completed the Le Cordon Bleu exams, which is the real reason I tolerate sifting through the aisles in a sweaty local-mart with no air conditioning. This particular store has the best fresh spices and vegetables. The meat I get elsewhere, unless we’re having fish, in which case, she provides with her catch of the day.

While I brave the hustle and bustle, I often think of how I got here. How I ended up working for the best living detective in the state of California. I doubt many would be interested in my history. I’m ex-SAS, for reasons I don’t want to go into. I was the third best marksman in the whole of the UK for a brief period.

The first time I ever met Kendra Ryder was when I went for the interview. I had no idea what I was getting myself in for. I’d been in America for six months and got the information from some guy I met in Vegas. Yes, it really was that corny. Apparently, he’d had dealings with her in a professional capacity. When I mentioned my army background, he gave me her card and said it would probably be up my street. With no job and two hundred bucks left in my pocket, I figured, what the hell.

I hitched a ride down to California the morning after, then got the bus to Newport Beach. I spent the last of my money on a suit from a thrift store, and a scotch for good luck, after which I decided to brush my teeth in a public restroom. I didn’t particularly want to come across as an alcoholic.

So there I was, standing outside this huge, luxurious beach house. I looked at the card, then at the house again. I almost turned away. It was probably my ignorance, but I always figured detectives lived in gritty old apartments above fish and chip shops. At least, that’s what I thought, until I realized America has yet to embrace the perfection that is fish and chips (not in the proper sense; battered and fried to hell and back). I’ll never understand that as long as I live.

But, I divulge. As I started to look around, I saw a guy leaving the house hastily. Mumbling to himself quite loudly. When he saw me, he couldn’t help himself.

“If you’re here for the job, forget it. That bitch is crazy.”

He walked off and I never said a word. I just remember saying to myself, “Right place, then.” The guy I’d met in Vegas said she was a difficult person to get along with.

I tightened my tie up and rang the bell. It was here I first met Melissa. She lacked the jewelry, but I compared her to a Nubian princess; thin, smooth skinned and perfect cheekbones. She invited me in and let me wait in the games room beside the study and the dining room. She even played a game of 9-Ball with me before the interview, which calmed me somewhat.

Then she led me into the office, and I committed one of the three strikes; I sat without permission. Not that I knew it then.

I smiled and Melissa introduced me. I don’t exactly remember the opening exchanges. I just remember Kendra Ryder sitting there. Attractive. In her mid-thirties. Shoulder length coal-black hair, neatly styled and straight, tucked behind her medium sized silver hoop earrings. Her trademark black blazer, opened, crimson blouse buttoned to the neck that showed off her firm and buxom physique. Quite possibly a boob-job, but even after two years, I’d never had the nerve to ask. Funny the things we first notice as males.

She looked at me with a puzzled face, as if she couldn’t quite place me. It felt like she knew me. In some respects, it felt like I knew her.

I often think I got lucky. Like, there was an instant rapport. I gave her my history, and she seemed mildly impressed. She stared at my face more than she did my CV.

“What is your favorite handgun?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.

“The P230.”

“Ah.” She looked to her left. “You like them small, then.” No sign of a smile whatsoever.

I had no idea if this was just an innocent statement or an innuendo. So I gave one of those half laughs. Vaguely noncommittal. I told her about my preference for rifles, to which she nodded in agreement. But she quickly went back to her stern self.

“Unfortunately, we’re not soldiers anymore. Should you wish to work for me, you’ll have to perform more menial tasks. Knowing my methods and being able to adapt to them.” She went on about what she expected. I lost interest when she got to the rules of the house.

“When do I start?” I said.

“Presumptuous, aren’t we? What if I have other applicants?”

“The last one went out crying.”

“Indeed. Very well. A trial run, of course. Your background is a bonus, but it hardly makes you a detective.”

I thanked her in my own way. I won’t lie, I wasn’t exactly excited. But the money problem was the clincher.

“Your room will be upstairs, on the right. It has a view of the beach. We’ll go through more rules of the house later,” she said.

I slunk back in my chair and mumbled to myself and said, “You—want me to stay here?”

“Yes. That would be my preference. But, given your situation, surely it is yours, too.”

“Huh?” I said with a surprised tone.

“Clearly, you are between residencies. I’m not entirely sure why you thought a second-hand suit would impress me, either. Obviously, you don’t have the required funds to rent locally. So, I’d say this arrangement would be appropriate. In any case, I should also warn you that, at times, events around here can be a twenty-four-seven process. It would be advantageous for you to
live-in
, as it were.”

I could go on, but the short story is that I accepted the terms. And here I am now. A man who fought for his country. Now I’m buying groceries day in day out for a living.

You know what, I wouldn’t change it for the world.

3

Of course, buying groceries isn’t the meat of my job. I just like to moan about it. The account I’m regaling herein isn’t the first major exciting case Ryder and I have taken on, nor will it be the last.

It’s worth pointing out that I wasn’t a detective on that first day. Hell, back then, pinpointing a Scooby-Doo villain would confound me most of the time. I have improved, though. Thanks to her methods. Methods that hardly inspire praise. Some people say getting inside a criminal’s mind is the secret to detective work. Ryder views it differently. She likes to get into the mind of everything but the criminal. His or her surroundings. She essentially directs a play inside her mind. When she has the right ingredients, the play very rarely ventures far from the truth.

My mind is far too bland for that. I have to stick to route-one stuff. Good old fashioned legwork. Adding and subtracting. That’s what she hired me for, after all. I essentially build the scenery for the little play inside her mind.

After acquiring everything on the shopping list I made my way back across town. I’m one of those guys that enjoy the initial walk to a destination, but usually regret not taking the car for the return leg. It was a humid day. The end of August. Not a cloud in the sky and my skin could feel it. I’m pretty white-skinned but I choose to neglect sunscreen. Hoping for a tan I’ll never get. Ryder is also fairly pale and often comes back smelling of sunscreen, but she does her best to wash the fragrance away for activities in the office. Melissa needn’t bother, as her skin tone is dark.

It was just after 2.30PM when I walked through the door of the beach house. I fumbled for the keys a while but realized the door was open already. Melissa was back from her morning escapade at the bank.

Grocery bags in hand I headed through to the office and then into the kitchen. Melissa was there setting up the dishwasher.

“You’re back early,” I said.

“Yup. I—met a friend. And the weekly bank trip doesn’t take long when there’s nothing to go in.” She brushed her dark hair back and smiled. “What’s in the bags?”

“Looks like lamb for dinner. More importantly, a bottle of scotch for myself.”

“If you had your way, you’d marinade the lamb with the scotch.”

I grinned and ditched the bags on the table. I opened the fridge and poured myself a glass of orange juice and offered one to Melissa.

“Thanks,” she said. “She won’t be back for twenty minutes. How ‘bout we shoot some pool?”

“Sure. Twenty bucks?”

“Oooh, tough guy. Why don’t we say fifty?”

It was a mistake, but she always manages to con me out of money on the pool table. The worst part of it was, there was still fifteen minutes left after the first game. Time for her to take me for fifty bucks three times over. Luckily, I was saved by the bell. Quite literally.

Melissa looked at her watch. “Who can that be? There’s no appointments for the rest of the day.”

“Hmmm,” I mumbled. “Oh well, playtime’s over.”

“Your lucky day.”

I walked down the hallway cheerfully. Arms swinging, knowing my wallet was still healthy. I ducked into the study and looked at the monitor and saw a familiar couple standing outside. Melissa watched me as I put my hand on the door handle.

“The BI,” I whispered. “Johns and Mantle.”

“Oh,” Melissa said. “The hell are they here for?”

“Guess we’ll find out.”

When it came to the Bureau of Investigation (not to be confused with the Federal Bureau of Investigation) calling at our door, it was essentially a crapshoot. We could end up lucky and get Ledderford and Taylor. Two detectives who admired Ryder and liked to cooperate. We could end up wanting to kill ourselves by getting Hacket and Bloom. They’re just assholes. No greater way to describe it.

We hit the middle ground. Stephen Johns and Rose Mantle were accommodating, but didn’t stand for nonsense. Not that that stopped Ryder from pulling the wool over their eyes.

I opened the door and greeted them. Johns was a dull looking fellow. Boring suit with a somewhat robotic stature and girly hands. Mantle was more energetic. Blonde and attractive. Melissa didn’t like her attitude, so that sort of dampened any rapport I had with her when Melissa was around.

“Good afternoon, York,” Johns said. “We’re here to see Miss Ryder, if you don’t mind.”

“Long time no see.” I looked at Mantle. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” she said with a smile.

“Let’s skip all that,” Johns said. “Can we see Miss Ryder?”

“Dunno.” I shrugged.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Johns said.

“What do you think? You’ve been here before. You know she’s out till 3PM. How can I give you an answer when she isn’t here?”

“It’s rather urgent.” Johns sighed. “Can’t you call her or go down to the pier?”

“Sure. Will the BI recompense me when I get fired?” I said sarcastically.

“She ain’t that bad,” Mantle said. She turned to Johns. “Seems a bit pointless, it’s nearly three o'clock anyway.”

Johns thought on it for a few seconds and mumbled to himself. “Okay. Can we wait in the office?”

“Sure. Just don’t sit on my sofa.” I waved them toward Melissa and she showed them in. I leaned against the wall for a while and pondered the situation. Something had obviously gone down for them to be here, when none of the local authorities had been in touch. Ryder had no client or job at present. The BI hadn’t phoned in advance.

It was there and then I had a hunch what this was all about—the Cross Cutter. A serial killer that had been active in California for the past three years. Seven dead that we knew of. He or she cut the victims horizontally and vertically down the chest, forming a cross shape. The bodies were left hanging upright in various ways, and the floor beneath usually looked like a bolognese buffet spillage.

Ryder and I had never worked on the case. No client ever came forward to tackle it. The BI and the FBI begged her, and were turned away unless they paid her outrageous fees. The press, in their usual audacity, made just about every possible story they could. Due to the nature of the killings, there were murmurs linking the killings to a Christian extremist, something both the media and the FBI would later play down, and finally bury. There was never anything beside the nature of the incisions to suggest such a motive, nor was there ever any form of a message or manifesto. Ryder seemed to agree; that a cross is merely a cross. In fact, if ever the subject would arise, she took to calling the incisions a T as opposed to a cross, because in her handwriting, a T may as well be a cross.