Deadeye (5 page)

So Lee left the gravesite and was on her way to the chief's car when she spotted McGinty. Like Lee, he was in full uniform, and rather than heading for the street, he was headed somewhere else. To visit a grave? If so, whose?

It was none of her business, of course, but Lee was curious, and walked parallel to the deputy chief, using a row of monuments as a screen. When he stopped, she did as well, and waited for him to leave. Was Chief Corso in his car? Waiting for her? If so, he would be annoyed.

But Lee forced herself to hold on, felt a sense of relief when McGinty turned away, and hurried over to examine the marker. The name
ALMA KIMBLE
was engraved in the red granite. Along with the years 2016–2038. Who, Lee wondered, was Alma Kimble? A friend perhaps? Then she remembered the photo of her father, McGinty, and a girl. Was
she
Alma Kimble?

That was when Lee realized that her curiosity was related to her father, not McGinty, or the girl. After her mother ran away, Frank Lee raised her. Yet for all the years spent with the man, Lee felt as if she barely knew him. So maybe the girl was important, and maybe she wasn't. Time would tell.

Lee hurried out to the street and followed it down to the point where the chief's car had been. It was gone, as were many other vehicles by that time, but a cruiser stood waiting. A fresh-faced patrolman came forward to greet her. “Detective Lee? The chief told me to wait for you. He's meeting with the mayor in half an hour. Something about mutants.”

Lee thanked him and went around to sit on the passenger side of the car. The clouds were lower, and it started to rain.

SOMETHING WAS WRONG.
Lee knew that the moment she woke and saw the stripes of sunlight on the wall. She turned to the alarm and realized that fifteen minutes had passed since she first turned it off. It had been like that ever since the funeral.

Lee rolled out of bed, made her way into the bathroom, and brushed her teeth. There wasn't enough time for a shower, so she put on some extra deodorant and hurried to get her clothes on. Then, after a quick stop at Maria's, she was back in the car.

The LAPD headquarters building swallowed the car whole, an officer waved her through the checkpoint, and she was in the elevator less than five minutes later. Then, by fast walking down the hall, Lee was able to make roll call with a full minute to spare. She was two bites into the burrito when McGinty entered the room. He paused and shook his head. “Eat
before
you come to work, Detective Lee. It smells like a taqueria in here.”

That produced a round of sniggers from the other detectives, to which Lee responded with a raised finger. “All right, that's enough bullshit,” Jenkins said, as the daily briefing began.

Lee had finished her breakfast and was chasing it with some coffee by the time her turn rolled around. “So,” Jenkins said, “let's talk about Popeye. How's it going?”

Lee had been back to work for two days by then, was working solo, and hoped to continue doing so. With that in mind, she struck a positive tone. “I'm working three strategies . . . All of the patrol units are on the lookout for him, I'm canvassing body shops that might have done some work on Cherko's ride, and I'm running an ad similar to the one that Mr. Fuentes ran.”

“Nice,” Jenkins said approvingly. “But let's get something straight. No lone-wolf bullshit. If Popeye bites, you tell me, and I'll give you some support. This guy is a stone-cold killer.”

The last thing Lee wanted to do was share a bust, but if that was the price for maintaining her independence, then she would pay it. “Yes, sir. It would be nice to see some of these slackers do some work for a change.”

That produced the predictable storm of protests, all of which led to a rebuke from McGinty and a report from someone else. Mission accomplished.

Once Lee was back on the street, she began the slow, methodical process of visiting body shops in hopes of finding the person or persons who had been working on Popeye's whip. Would they tell her the truth? Maybe not . . . Especially if he owed them money. But even if they failed to come clean, Lee hoped her efforts would put additional pressure on Cherko. The kind of pressure that might cause him to make a mistake.

That's what Lee had in mind as she entered a body shop called Honest Al's. Never mind the fact that “Honest” Al Nurri had done three years for grand theft auto. A power tool chattered as she entered the shop's brightly lit interior. Cars were lined up on both sides of the garage and appeared to be in various stages of repair. Many would have been sent to a junkyard back before the plague. But so long as most of Pacifica's industrial capacity was busy producing the military hardware required to protect the country's eastern border, the manufacture of new cars would have to wait.

“Can I help you?” The voice startled her. Lee turned to find that a man in paint-splattered overalls was standing three feet away. The background noise was so loud that he'd been able to approach undetected.

“I'm looking for Mr. Nurri,” Lee replied.

The man had dark hair, a two-day growth of beard, and hungry eyes. They looked her up and down. “My name is Feo,” he said. “I'm the manager here. Maybe I can help.”

“And maybe you can't,” Lee said as she flashed her ID. “How long has it been since the city's safety inspectors took a tour of this dump anyway? Maybe I should give them a call.”

The greasy smile disappeared from Feo's face. “There's no need to get your panties in a knot. I was trying to help. Follow me.”

Feo led Lee back through the shop to an office in the back. It was glassed in by windows salvaged from a teardown somewhere. Feo entered through an open door, and Lee followed him in. “Sorry to bother you, boss,” Feo said. “But Detective Lee wants to talk to you.”

Nurri was a small man with a partial head of hair, eyes that peered over wire-rimmed glasses, and a dark complexion. He was wearing a gold ring, a gold watch, and a gold bracelet. His sport shirt boasted an upscale logo, and he made no effort to rise. “Thanks, Feo. I'll take it from here.”

As Feo left the room Nurri brought his fingers together to form a steeple. “So, Detective Lee . . . What can I do for you?”

“I'm looking for a car,” Lee replied. “
This
car.” She dropped a flyer onto Nurri's cluttered desk. The photo had been taken on the day of the West Hollywood Shootout. Her name and phone number were printed at the bottom.

Nurri scanned the flyer and shook his head. “I haven't seen the car, but maybe my employees have. I'll put this on the bulletin board. Who does it belong to?”

“A guy named Cherko, street name Popeye. Do you know him?”

Lee thought she saw a glimmer of recognition in Nurri's eyes when she said, “Popeye.” But there was no way to be sure. “Nope,” Nurri said, “I've never heard of him.”

“Okay,” Lee replied. “Put the flyer up and call me if you see the car. It's the kind of gesture that your parole officer will appreciate.”

Lee watched the words hit home and smiled sweetly. “It's been a pleasure, Mr. Nurri . . . Let's stay in touch.” And with that, she left.

It felt good to step out of the noisy body shop into warm sunshine. But as Lee paused to put her sunglasses on she felt an unexpected chill. As if something evil was looking at her.
Popeye?
No, that didn't seem likely. But there was an even scarier possibility. What if the Bonebreaker was following her? Tracking her the way a hunter tracks his prey?

Lee felt a rising sense of fear and struggled to bring it under control. Then, starting from the left, she began to scan the buildings on the other side of the street. They were low, one-story affairs for the most part, all part of a ramshackle strip mall, at least a third of which was empty. She could go over and look around—but if someone was watching, they would fade.

So Lee returned to the car, performed a 360, and got in. She kept a sharp eye out for a tail but didn't see one. Maybe it was nerves then . . . Plus an overactive imagination.

There were fifteen body shops on Lee's list, and she managed to visit ten of them before it was time to go home. But Lee
couldn't
go home. Not until she put in some time on job number two.

Her task on that particular evening was to visit Dr. Nathaniel Seton at his home in the community of Venice Beach. Seton had been the LA County Coroner prior to his retirement three years earlier. So he hadn't performed the autopsy on her father, but he had done autopsies on victims four, five, and six. Something Lee knew, having read all of his carefully written reports.

But what brought Seton back to her attention was an article that had appeared in the Sunday edition of the
LA Times
online. Although the story wasn't about the murders so much as Seton's collection of torture devices. One of which was described as “. . . a contraption inspired by the serial killer known as the Bonebreaker.”

That sentence was more than sufficient to capture Lee's interest. So she called the doctor, introduced herself, and made an appointment to see him. But first she would need to get some dinner, and Venice Beach was a good place to do that.

The 110 took her to the Santa Monica Freeway. Then she turned south onto the San Diego Freeway, took the exit at Sawtelle Boulevard, and headed west. Venice Beach had been a separate city until 1926, when it became part of LA. Then oil was discovered, and the area entered a long period of decline prior to becoming a hip place to live during the late twentieth century. And it was still known for its canals, beaches, and oceanfront walk.

Lee took a right onto Abbot Kinney Boulevard. She'd spent a lot of time in the area while part of the Pacific Division. And there, on the right side of the street, was a takeout joint called Guido's Pizzeria—home of the BIG Slice.

Lee pulled over, got out, and locked the car. A short walk took her to the front door and the familiar odors within. Most of the restaurant's business consisted of takeout, but there were six miniscule tables, two of which were available.

Lee chose the one that put her back to the wall and provided a clear line of sight to the front door. Then it was time to fire up the tablet and check her trap. The mailbox was registered under a fictitious name—and three messages were waiting in it. The first was an ad that promised to make her “bigger and better” for her girlfriend. The second was a formulaic response from a parts house. And the third was an invitation to attend a law-enforcement convention. So nothing from Popeye. Not yet anyway.

“Can I help you?” Lee looked up, hoping to see a face from the old days. No such luck. The bored-looking teenager had been in middle school back then.

“Yes. A slice of pepperoni, please. And a Diet Coke.”

“Got it,” the young woman said, and continued on her rounds.

Lee was working her way through a long list of routine e-mails when the waitress returned. “Here you go . . . One slice of pepperoni and one Coke,” the girl said. “Will there be anything else?”

Lee said, “No thanks,” and watched two cops enter the restaurant. It was a big police department. Too big to know everyone, but she'd been a street cop once and missed the simplicity of it.

The pizza was good,
very
good, and by the time she finished the slice, it was time to go. Lee paid the bill, returned to the car, and circled it prior to getting in. As the engine started, the radio came on. It seemed that 2-Adam-5 was in hot pursuit of a stolen vehicle, and the watch commander was ordering them to break it off.
That'll piss 'em off,
Lee thought as she entered an area called Toledo Court.

It consisted of mostly one- and two-story structures that usually had garages out back. Seton's house was a modest affair which, unlike the neighboring structures, had bars over the windows and was surrounded by an unkempt garden.

There weren't any open slots on his street, so Lee had to turn a corner before finding a place to park. It was dark, and Lee didn't see any other pedestrians as she walked back. Cracked concrete steps led up to what looked like a sturdy door. The dark brown paint was flaking away to reveal the red below.

Lee pressed the doorbell button, but there was no response. So she waited for a bit and knocked. Then she heard the clump, clump, clump of footsteps followed by silence. There was a peephole, and Lee figured that Seton was looking at her.

The door opened to reveal a man with closely cropped white hair. He was dressed in a shirt, a tie, and a jacket. For her? Or was that the outfit he wore around the house? “Dr. Seton? I'm Cassandra Lee. Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

“You were on television,” Seton said levelly. “You shot nine people, including seven men and two women. Your partner was killed.”

The information was delivered without a hint of emotion, and as Lee looked into Seton's pale blue eyes, she wondered how many flat one-dimensional reports the man had written during his years as the county coroner. Hundreds certainly—maybe thousands. “Yes, sir. Detective Conti was a good man.”

“Come in.” It was more like a command than an invitation. Lee could tell that Seton was single as she entered the living room. No woman she was acquainted with would tolerate the mismatched shelving units that lined the living-room walls or want to live with the items displayed on them. There was an entire row of skulls, assorted bones, and lots of jars. One was filled with eyeballs. “Follow me,” Seton instructed. “We can talk in the kitchen. There's no place to sit here.”

The kitchen was small and in desperate need of a makeover. There was barely room for a tiny table and two chairs. They sat, Seton offered to make tea, and Lee declined. Then without the slightest attempt at small talk, the ex-coroner cut to the heart of the matter. “The Bonebreaker killed your father, and you are looking for him.”

“Yes.”

“But you aren't authorized to do so.”

“No.”

The pale blue eyes stared at her. They blinked. “Everything I had to say is in the official records.”

“I know,” Lee said. “I read them. More than once.”

“So?”

“So I read that you have a collection of torture devices. One of which is a cage called ‘the Bonebreaker.'”

Seton nodded. “Yes. After performing autopsies on three of the victims I came up with what I believe to be a replica of the device that the Bonebreaker uses on his victims.”

Lee frowned. “How is that possible?”

Seton looked at her the way a demanding teacher might regard a slow pupil. “Inference is the act of reaching a logical conclusion based on factual knowledge. So by looking at the size and depth of an elephant's footprint, one may infer how large the animal is. In this case, I was able to look at the victims' bodies and deduce the manner in which they were tortured.”

“I see,” Lee said. “May I see the replica?”

“Of course,” Seton said as he stood. “I invited the detectives in charge of the Bonebreaker case to look at it, but they never got back to me.”

Lee knew that the detectives in question were on the receiving end of crap from all sorts of whackos and probably consigned Seton's message to the “We'll check it out someday” pile. Still, the man had been a coroner . . . So the failure to respond was careless to say the least.

Seton led Lee through the house and into what had once been a garage—but had since been converted into a private museum and workshop. During the next fifteen minutes Seton introduced Lee to more than a dozen medieval devices, including a head crusher, a breast ripper, and a knee splitter. Seton explained that all of the “tools” had been purchased in Europe and brought to California by a collector prior to the plague. Subsequent to the collector's death, Seton had been able to purchase the entire lot from the man's wife. Since that time, more items had been added, including some he'd made himself, the full-scale rack being a good example of that.