Guilty (9 page)

"I thought you said you had a key," groaned Jake Henderson impatiently. There were four other girls, waiting to be dropped off at their homes, climbing all over his LTD Brougham, probably ruining the upholstery with greater severity with each passing second. Kids were worse for a car interior than rabid dogs.

"I do," Cory whined just as impatiently. She did have a key. She remembered showing the key chain, which she had made herself in school, to Isadora Van Rijn. How could she have lost it between her apartment and Mr. Henderson's car?

"Well, we can't stand here all day, Cory," Henderson said. "Let's go take the other girls home and come back."

"Wait," Cory protested. She didn't want to have to spend another minute with Mr. Henderson. He was such a goon. "Ms. Shih will let us in."

Cory pressed Ms. Shih's apartment buzzer. A young woman answered and Cory asked to be let in. The lobby door hummed and unlocked.

Henderson pulled it open.

"I can go in myself," Cory said.
He's
so
dumb.

"I want to make sure your mom is home," Henderson said. He didn't really give a damn, but he remembered Brett Macklin's call. If Brooke wasn't home, maybe he could unload Cory on Ms. Shih.

Cory rolled her eyes in a theatrical show of frustration and led Henderson to the elevators. The doors slid open and they got in. Cory poked the third-floor button. "Kung Fu Fighting" played on the Muzak top forty.

"It smells like Grey Flannel cologne in here," Henderson said. "You ever notice that?"

Cory rolled her eyes again. Henderson sniffed some more and absently tapped his foot to the music. The elevator stopped and Cory marched to her apartment door.

"Where does Ms. Shih live?" Henderson asked.

"Next door," Cory replied.

"Can you stay with her if your Mom isn't home?"

"Don't ask me." Cory twisted the doorknob on her apartment door and walked in. She stopped, startled, a foot from the doorway.

Sunlight, hot and bright, streamed in through the windows and shone, like a spotlight, on the kitchen and dining room. The dinner dishes were still scattered over the table and the kitchen counters. Scraps of meat had rotted into sickly curls on the plates. The vegetables were black. A strange, furry slick floated on a curdled substance in a bowl. Two empty wineglasses were on the floor beside the couch.

"Mom?" Cory said.

Henderson's face wrinkled against the heavy, oppressive smell of decay as he stepped tentatively into the apartment. He was tempted to sprint back to the elevator for a refreshing sniff of Grey Flannel. Brooke Macklin was definitely the Slob Queen.
Dis-gus-ting.

"Mom?" Cory headed towards the master bedroom. "Mom?" Henderson, a safe distance away from the dinner table, hiked up on his toes and leaned towards the dishes, examining the crud.

He glanced at the living room and noted the depression of the couch pillows. That's from bodies, he thought
, humping
bodies. He spotted the two wineglasses and smiled. Jake Henderson, PI, had the case solved. Brooke Macklin had a guy over for dinner. They started going at it and got so caught up in it they never stopped. Fucked all weekend.

That's why the decay of modern civilization was overtaking the kitchen.

The little kid was probably gonna walk in on the two of them going at it.

Henderson glanced down the hallway. He saw Cory Macklin standing in the doorway of the master bedroom. He quickly averted his eyes.
Yep, that's it, she's just interrupted "The Orgasm Marathon."
He jammed his hands into his pockets and waited.

It was awfully quiet. Not a voice. No we-were-just-fucking-and-I-was-gonna-come-but-you-walked-in panting. Nothing.

Henderson stole another look down the hallway. Cory was still standing in the doorway, her back to him.

"Hey, Brooke?" Henderson ventured. "I'm going to go now. It was a pleasure having your daughter for the weekend." He took a few steps towards the front door, but when Brooke didn't answer he stopped. "Brooke?"

Hearing nothing, Henderson hesitantly walked towards the bedroom. "Cory, is your mother here?"

Cory didn't answer. Cory didn't move.

"Is she asleep?" Henderson asked.

He came up behind Cory. The bed was neatly made and very empty.

"What going on here, Cory?" Henderson put his hands on her tiny shoulders and felt her shaking. He looked down at her feet and lost control of himself. Something warm rolled down his leg and soaked his pants. His stomach began to heave.

Brooke's decapitated head, grinning and staring up at them with dead eyes, was in the center of a white canvas. Her head was surrounded by chopped up limbs and organs arranged at odd angles. One arm was propped up on its elbow. The hand gave them The Finger. In the bottom right-hand corner of the canvas a name was scrawled in blood.

Picasso.

Sunday, June 16, 1:47 p.m.

Brett Macklin leaned against his kitchen counter and cradled the telephone receiver between his shoulder and his ear. He dialed his ex-wife's number and waited. Someone picked up the phone.

"Hello?" a male voice answered.

This had happened before. Macklin was used to it. The awkwardness had worn off.

"Hi," he replied, forcing a little extra buoyancy in his voice to show that he wasn't uncomfortable with the situation. He took the receiver in his hand. "I'd like to talk with Cory, if she's back, or Brooke."

"Hold on," the man said.

Macklin heard the phone being passed off to someone else, who took the receiver and said, "I was just about to call you."

Macklin's throat dried up in an instant. He knew what was coming next. He knew a nightmare was about to become reality. In the long second of silence on the line, Macklin heard his own heart thumping. "No," he said.

"Brooke," Shaw began, his voice cracking. Macklin heard his friend struggle to hold back his emotion and regain his voice. "Cory is okay—she's safe."

Shaw hesitated. "Brooke is dead."

Macklin tore the phone off the wall and hurled it at the kitchen window. It burst through the glass and shattered on the porch. Covering his face with his hands, he felt his body shaking. The Bitch, the fucking cunt killer, had reached down his throat and yanked his guts out.

He slid to a sitting position on the cold tile floor.
The
Bitch murdered Brooke.

It was an unbearable atrocity. To Macklin, Brooke and Cory were sacrosanct. Mr. Jury, the violence, the misery, it was
never
supposed to touch
them
! They were symbols of the happiness he had sacrificed to his vigilance. They were the ideal that he was protecting.

But he had failed. The disease had spread. Brooke was dead.

# # # # # #

It was a bad dream that had gone into reruns. Shaw looked out of Brooke's apartment window and watched his friend Brett Macklin run into the building. Shaw felt like Death's personal publicist. He was always calling people on Death's behalf.

I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Smith, but everyone you know and love has been slaughtered by a psychopathic, bloodthirsty maniac. Stop by the station when you get a chance, okay?

How many times had he called Brett Macklin and taken a life away from him?

There wasn't much more death could take from Macklin. First his father, burned alive. Then his lover, blown to bits. Then Mort, the punch line of an obscene and fatal joke.

And now Brooke, cut into pieces.

Shaw wanted to cry, but he was all cried out. His eyes stung and his head ached. He turned away from the window. Lab technicians were scooping the rotten food into evidence bags. Photographers were taking flash pictures of the couch. Weary detectives interviewed Henderson in the kitchen.

The medical examiner carried what was left of Brooke Macklin out of the bedroom. She was slung over his shoulder in a coroner's Glad bag.

Macklin burst into the room just as the coroner walked out. Before Shaw could get to him, Macklin dashed down the hallway to the master bedroom. He stopped cold at the doorway. The white, bloodstained canvas was still on the floor. Someone had drawn where the different appendages and organs had been and written identifications, like "head" or "big toe" or "lung," underneath them.

"Oh God," Macklin muttered hoarsely.

Shaw approached Macklin quietly.

"Did Cory find her?" Macklin turned around slowly.

Shaw nodded. Macklin's face seemed so cold. So evil. So inhuman.

"The woman did this," Shaw said. "She posed as an artist named Isadora Van Rijn."

"Where's Cory?" Macklin asked.

"Next door, at Ms. Shih's apartment," Shaw said. It was hard to even speak. "Stephanie McKimmon, a social worker, is with her."

"Is there somewhere you can take Cory?" Macklin said. "Someplace where she can get help and be safe?"

Shaw nodded.

"It's not safe with me," Macklin said, with an emptiness in his voice that made it sound machine made. "She's not safe with her father."

Macklin slid past Shaw and started to walk away. "Wait," Shaw said.

Macklin stopped.

"Aren't you going to see her?" Shaw asked.

Macklin turned. He started to say something and then cut himself short before the words came out. His gaze met Shaw's. He shook his head no and walked out.

# # # # # #

Gallery West was closed on Sunday. Macklin stretched his shirtsleeve over his fist and smashed his hand through the glass door. The alarm went off, a shrill clamoring that could be heard all over Westwood Village. He yanked up the door latch and let himself in.

He stormed straight to his ex-wife's desk and began pulling out the drawers, looking for anything that might lead him to Isadora Van Rijn.

The alarm drew a crowd to the Westwood Boulevard gallery from Mrs. Field's Cookies and Funtique, where a video display in the window showed continuous previews of
Molten River of Blood.
The people milled around outside the windows, munching their coco-mac cookies and watching Macklin search the desk.

Macklin found Van Rijn's portfolio in the bottom drawer. He sat back in Brooke's chair and studied the slides with horrified fascination.

There was a painting of a man with his head getting crushed between a woman's legs. There was a faceless man sitting in the backseat of a convertible, waving his hand, the top of his head missing. There was a towering Las Vegas hotel/casino, a hand clawing out for help from underneath its foundation. There was a bespectacled man with a guitar around his neck staring out an airplane window, the shadow of a tombstone falling across his face.

Dozens of paintings, each an enigmatic portrait of death.
Who the hell is this woman?
Macklin asked himself.
Why is she killing the people I love?

Macklin slipped the portfolio under his arm and strode out of the gallery. He shoved past the people, got into his car, slid into the southbound traffic on Westwood Boulevard, turned right onto Wilshire, and headed towards the ocean.

The light switched to red at the Veteran Avenue intersection, and Macklin stopped. To his left was the giant tombstone that was the Federal Building and to his right, the thousands of gravestones that lined the grassy slopes of the Veterans Administration cemetery.

Macklin tried to sort out the confusing events of the last few days. None of it made sense.
Mort meets a woman in Puerto Vallarta and is killed. I go down, she flies up. I arrive and get beaten up. She uses the time to meet Brooke and kill her. I return to LA and then . . .

Who is she? How does she know who I am? Why did she murder Mort and Brooke? Why doesn't she just kill me?

The Bitch wants you to suffer, Macky boy, she wants to watch you bleed.

The Bitch was making him bleed, all right. There were only three people left in his life—Shaw, Cory, and Jessica. Shaw could take care of himself and Cory was safe with him. Jessie was—

Vanowen!

Macklin stomped on the gas pedal. The Cadillac shot forward into the crossing traffic. Cars spun, screeched, and smashed into each other as the black specter roared untouched across their path.

I'm gonna kill the fucking BITCH!

# # # # # #

Cory Macklin walked into Shaw's house like a mechanical doll powered by remote control. Her eyes were wide, lifeless orbs staring into nothingness.

Sunshine, Shaw's white, live-in girlfriend, was wiping away tears from her face and was still sniffling when she met Cory, Shaw, and McKimmon, the juvenile pision social worker, in the entry hall. Sunshine embraced Cory and burst into tears again. Cory stared ahead impassively.

Shaw and McKimmon met each other's gaze. Cory was in shock and not even registering Sunshine's affection.

McKimmon brushed the blond hair out of her eyes and gently tugged at Sunshine. "Why don't you let me take Cory to your bedroom. She needs some rest."

Sunshine reluctantly pulled back and let McKimmon lead Cory away. "Oh God, Ronny, it's so sad."

Shaw wrapped his arms around Sunshine and held her tightly against him. "She's tough, like her father. She'll come through."

She sniffled and buried her face against Shaw's neck. "Will the killer come looking for her?"

"I don't think so," Shaw said. "But I'll have an officer here at all times until we catch her."

"Who is she? Why would she do this?" Sunshine sobbed. Shaw gently smoothed her long brown hair. His reply, the three pathetic words, clogged in his throat.

# # # # # #

The Cadillac skidded on the gravel, fishtailing as it ground to a stop in front of Raven Vanowen's house. Brett Macklin came out of the car in a crouch, his .357 Magnum in his hand.

He scrambled low to the house, braced himself flush against the wall, and slid with his back against it towards the door. Tentatively, he reached out to the doorknob and twisted it. The door was locked.

Macklin aimed at the doorknob and fired. The blast splintered the wood and cracked the latch. He slammed his foot against the door. It crashed open and he spun into a crouch, ready to fire.

All he saw were the bookcases.
Where's the Bitch?