Disturbance (24 page)

But Quinn thought there was much more going on beneath that serene surface than met the eye. The ability to perceive the emotions of others—especially the emotions they tried to hide, the ones lurking beneath bravado—had been essential to Quinn’s survival from the time he was a child. Later, that same ability had been a key element in his business success—and in his pursuit of pleasure. There were few people he couldn’t read. Donovan was one of them, which made his older brother all the more intriguing.

He could see that Harriman was tired and doubted the man had slept much since the previous night, when he would have discovered his wife was missing. Quinn decided that, for just this moment, Harriman’s worry was ascendant.

“I certainly want to be of help if I can,” he said accordingly.

“I appreciate that.” Harriman glanced around. “I’m glad you were able to get a private room.”

“Me, too—although I hope not to make use of it much longer.”

“I know you’re probably tired of talking about it, but would you mind telling me what happened to you?”

Quinn and Donovan had come up with and rehearsed a story during the drive back to Las Piernas, and Donovan had set up at least some matching evidence for that story.

“It began when I was checking on some of my properties last night. Not that late in the evening, about eight-thirty or so, but it was dark,” he told Harriman now.

He went on with a story that he had told so many times now, he could tell it with real conviction. He had driven to the warehouse and former cannery where the bodies had been found last summer—checking to see if the security measures he had ordered were still in place. Discovered an entry with a broken lock. Was just reaching for his cell phone to complain to his security workers when he saw the beam of a flashlight, and heard footsteps behind him. At first he thought it was one of the security guards. He turned. Was shot twice, although he was sure other bullets were fired and missed. The next thing he knew, he was waking up in the hospital.

“I’m afraid he blinded me with the light. I never got a good look at him.”

“No recollection of being treated by someone with—let’s say, advanced first aid supplies?”

“No. I can’t figure that part out at all.” He touched the bandages on his head and winced. “I’m told this head injury may be affecting my memory.”

“Two head injuries. They must be quite painful.”

“Two?”

“No recollection of being punched in the face?”

“Oh, I see what you mean,” he said, reaching up to carefully touch his jaw, swollen from his father’s fist. “No, I don’t remember anything at all about that. I suppose that’s lucky, but why would anyone hit me after shooting me?”

Harriman shrugged, then said, “You said you were reaching for your cell phone when the intruder blinded you with the flashlight beam?”

“Yes.”

“What happened to the phone?”

“I have no idea. As I said, I don’t remember anything after the gunfire. Sorry. Did you ask the hospital if it was among my things?”

“It wasn’t.”

“Damn. That was an expensive phone. All my contacts in it … I have that backed up, of course, but what a pain—”

Harriman interrupted. “Which car were you driving?”

“Which car?” Quinn asked, stalling. No one else had asked this question.

“You own several vehicles, right?”

“Yes, I do, but—last night I was driving my Lexus. Isn’t it there? The bastard stole my Lexus?”

“Seems so. Maybe that’s why you were attacked. What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Quinn said, fearing a trap. He held a hand to his head, considered pleading dizziness. But one look at Harriman’s face told him that this would be a mistake. Well, he’d put the ball in the other court then.

“Have the police found any evidence?”

“You know it doesn’t work the way it does on television, right?”

“Of course not.”

Quinn could swear he saw a grim amusement flash in Harriman’s eyes before he answered. “Some shell casings that
matched the caliber of the slug recovered from your leg were found on a sidewalk near the warehouse, but then we found casings of other calibers, too. You’re probably aware that gunfire isn’t exactly rare in that area.”

“I want to change that, you know,” Quinn said, happy to slip into the role of civic reformer. “It’s going to take time, but we have plans to revitalize that block. Artists’ lofts, galleries, restaurants, shopping … perhaps even a theater.”

“While I can only hope you succeed, maybe there’s someone else out there who isn’t too happy about your plans.”

“Do you think that’s what happened? One of the gangs…?”

“Hard to say. Doesn’t fit treating you for your wounds.”

“No … I guess not.”

“You were moved from wherever you were shot, it seems.”

“The other detectives mentioned that, but I don’t remember anything about it.”

“Funny thing is, some of that area was washed down, which a gang probably wouldn’t take time to do. Our crime scene evidence team said they can’t even find the spatter.”

“Spatter?”

“When a person gets shot and bleeds—and you must have bled
somewhere
—the blood makes patterns as it scatters or falls. We’ll find everything from fine spray to droplets to pools of it.”

“I wish I could be more helpful.”

“Hmm.” Harriman made some notes, then said, “Our crime scene team will keep looking for evidence, of course. And we’ll be searching for any remaining traces of blood that might match up to you.”

“Me? But I’m the victim here!”

“Exactly. We have to make sure that if we go to court, we can tell the judge that any bloodstains we find and examine are yours, especially since there have been other crimes connected
to your buildings. Don’t want a defense attorney saying it was blood from an earlier victim.”

“Oh.”

“And especially since the doctors here say that you were treated more than an hour before you were found, we’ll have to establish exactly where the attack on you took place. You see what I mean? Without physical evidence of your presence, it could be claimed you weren’t there at all. And let me tell you,” Harriman said, watching him steadily, “that would be awkward.”

Deflect.
“Will the crime lab need to take a DNA sample from me?”

“It’s a painless process, but come to think of it—I can’t speak for the investigators on your case, but I imagine we’ll just get DNA off your bloody clothing. That was all taken to the lab while you were in the ER.”

“Oh,” Quinn said again, then forced himself to sound nonchalant as he added, “that makes it easy, then.”

“Yes, it does,” Harriman agreed. “Anyway, all that washing things down outside your buildings makes me wonder about the shooter and his plans.”

“Of course. By the way, is this your case? I thought …”

Harriman didn’t smile, yet again Quinn sensed he was amused. Amused? How could that be?

“No,” the detective said. “I’m pursuing something else. We’re just trying to figure out if a couple of our cases may be related. Speaking of relatives, strange thing …”

Quinn waited.

“You remember Cade Morrissey?”

“Of course. His body was found in one of my buildings. As was his mother’s. That horrified me. That’s exactly why I wanted to ensure there was better security. That’s also why I wanted to check on the place. Security can grow lax over time.
I’ll admit I was just protecting my property when I stopped by last night. I really didn’t think the killer was likely to come back to use the buildings after you discovered the bodies there. Do you think I was wrong?”

Harriman studied him for a moment, then said, “I doubt very much that the killer or killers of Marilyn Foster and Cade Morrissey attacked you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“How can you be so sure?” Quinn asked, hoping he had infused the right amount of panic into his voice. It helped to know that Harriman was at least half wrong.

“You’re alive.”

Quinn knew he was on dangerous ground. Better take another tack. “You asked me about Cade Morrissey.”

“Yes. Had you ever met him when he was alive?”

“The detectives asked me that when his body was found. No, I didn’t know him. At least, not that I recall.”

“He was Nicholas Parrish’s son.”

“Nicholas Parrish? The serial killer? You’re not serious!”

“I am as serious as can be. Lab was backed up, so it took a while to get the DNA results or we would have known sooner.”

“That’s—that’s so strange. That the son of a serial killer would end up being murdered, I mean.”

“It is. But it gets stranger yet. Got some other results just this morning. This time, given that it was so high-profile, the lab put a rush on it for us. Turns out Kai Loudon is Parrish’s son, too.”

Quinn did his best to look blank, then said, “The one with the backyard burials. Right?”

“Yes. Former burial sites—no question about that. We haven’t found entire bodies yet, but we don’t have a lot of doubt about what went on there. My wife was one of the reporters who broke that case, by the way. But you probably knew that.”

Careful
, Quinn thought. “Irene Kelly. Who doesn’t know about her?”

Harriman said nothing for a moment, letting the silence stretch, then said, “Irene connected the dots early on. Some people dismissed her ideas, thought she might be a little rattled about Parrish’s escape. But she was absolutely right. There is a connection between Nick Parrish’s escape and the victim left in the trunk of a car parked near our home. Because of the artwork on the bodies and other factors, we didn’t need anyone to point out connections between that victim and the murders of Marilyn Foster and Cade Morrissey. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

“No, I have to admit I don’t.”

“Well, here’s the thing. No one was expecting to find out Loudon had buried people in his backyard, or that he was Parrish’s son.”

“You’re sure that he
is
related to Parrish?”

“Yes. We have Parrish’s DNA on file, of course, and you really can’t live in a place as long as Loudon did and not leave your DNA behind. So even though Loudon had no criminal record as an adult, we got a familial match.”

“Wow. Imagine that.”

“Imagine. Of the two children we know about, one helped him escape, and the other ended up dead in one of your buildings.”

Harriman paced a few steps, then turned back to Quinn and said, “Cade Morrissey had drawings of moths on him, and similar drawings were found not only on Cade’s mother’s body but also on Lisa King, the third victim—she was probably the first of the three to be killed, actually. And it seems likely that one of the last people to see Lisa King alive was Kai Loudon.”

“So you’ve solved three murders and identified one of the people who helped Parrish escape,” Quinn said.

“No, I’m not so sure we have.”

“Why not?”

“The artwork on three of those victims? It’s just not likely that it could have survived if those victims had been buried. We think the person who used your property was someone who was careful and very clean and neat. He went to a lot of trouble to preserve his artwork, yet there aren’t bloodstains on the walls inside the building or any other sign that those three victims were killed there.

“So even though there’s a genetic connection between Loudon and one of those victims, it seems strange to us that Loudon would have this one M.O. of butchering people in his basement and burying them without so much as a plastic sheet wrapped around them, and then a separate operation going on in one of your buildings, with an entirely different M.O. You see what I mean?”

“I suppose so …”

“Plus, we’re doing a lot of research into Loudon, and so far we haven’t come up with anything like art training in his background. His former teachers say he was terrible at it. More of a computer and electronics guy. And our experts agree that the work done on the bodies in your buildings was not amateurish. Someone who really knew what he was doing drew those moths.”

“Is all of this questioning going on because I once considered pursuing an art degree?” Quinn asked. “Perhaps I should contact my attorney.”

“You can always do that, of course. But what makes you think you’re about to be placed under arrest?”

“Victims in my buildings? Artwork?”

“No, I’d never proceed on anything as flimsy as a coincidence like that. As you’ve pointed out, you’re a victim. In fact, you were nearly killed on the same night my wife disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“She was kidnapped.”

Quinn frowned and summoned all of his ability to put sincerity into his voice. “Detective Harriman, I’m so sorry to hear that. Sorry and shocked. How did it happen?”

“I can’t really discuss it. Some details will be on the news today.” He glanced at the television behind him, mounted high on the wall. “Want me to see if I can find something about it now?”

“No, no thank you—if you don’t mind. This is all very upsetting. As I’m sure it is for you.”

“Absolutely. Anyway, it just makes us wonder.”

“Wonder what?”

“How many sons Parrish has. And if there might be connections.” Harriman smiled, but there was no amusement in it. “I’ll let you get your rest. Thanks for talking to me.”

“I don’t know that I did you much good. But please let me know if I can be of help.”

“Oh, I will,” Harriman said.

I
had the rules explained to me at gunpoint.

Parrish didn’t state them right away. He started with a long lecture about my helplessness, his control, his anticipation of his revenge on me—which would be slow, painful, and humiliating to me. He told me that it was useless to try to escape. That I was his slave now. That I would die, but first I would be brought to the point of wanting death more than anything on earth.

I stayed silent. Even knowing that he would enjoy himself more if I showed fear, I still couldn’t hide it.

Fear wasn’t all I felt, though, and I found myself hiding those other reactions more carefully. They were mostly a mixture of anger and hope. It wouldn’t do to let him see either.

I remembered Rachel’s self-defense lessons and positioned myself so that I was balanced over my feet, ready to move quickly. I kept hoping that, while he was going on and on about himself and his power and my weakness, he’d get a little too close, let his aim drop a little, slacken his grip a bit—maybe I’d get a chance to take the gun away from him.