Kill Me Once (12 page)

No matter. A little improvisation was always good for the artist’s soul, right?

Goddamn right it was.

Recreating Dennis Rader’s infamous quadruple slaying of the Otero family back in 1974 was certainly going to be
fun
, but first Nathan had to make sure all the details were absolutely perfect. That was crucial, after all – the main crux of his sacred mission – and to do it would require a quick trip to the library.

He went into the bathroom and took a moment to really
study
his reflection in the grimy mirror. He was an exceptionally good-looking man, of this fact he was well aware. He was very tall, nearly six foot four. He had strong, straight white teeth, compelling brown eyes and a chiselled physique meticulously sculpted from countless hours spent lifting weights in a dark basement gym with nothing more than his loud grunts and the sound of heavy iron plates clanging together to keep him company. Coupled with the rigorous running routine he’d religiously performed since his days in the military, he was in the very best shape of his life now. And a good thing too. He’d need to be in absolute peak physical condition to pull this next job off without a hitch.

Today just so happened to be his fifty-seventh birthday, but when people guessed his age they often thought he was much younger. Just a few nights ago, for example, hadn’t the attractive blonde co-ed he’d met at the bar and later taken back to the motel for a rough session in the sack said he looked at least fifteen years younger?

He hadn’t felt the need to correct her at the time. No, what he’d
really
felt like doing as the musky scent of sex clung to their bodies like a second skin was
killing
her. Killing her dead. And not very softly, at that.

The fresh sweat was still sparkling on her flat stomach like diamond-kissed ripples of sunshine on the ocean – her hard pink nipples still standing proudly erect on her surgically enhanced breasts – and all Nathan could think about was how much he
hated
the little whore.

Like most women he’d come to know in such an intimate fashion – and make no mistake about it, boys, there were
scores
of them out there – this bleached-blonde slut with the fake tits only reminded him of the bitch who’d stolen his life. And simply because of that irritating detail, every last fibre of his being screamed out for him to wrap his remarkably strong hands around her pretty little throat and squeeze and squeeze with all his might until the light flickered out of her clear blue eyes for ever and she was quite dead.

Surely that wasn’t asking too much, was it? It was, after all, his
birthday
.

As difficult as it had been to resist the overwhelming urge, the next morning he was infinitely grateful that he’d summoned the inner strength to let the little slut go unharmed. There was much more important work out there left to accomplish, and it would have been a sign of great weakness and an unforgivable lack of self-control if he’d given in to his dark desires at that precise moment.

To prepare for his upcoming study session, Nathan cranked up Irish concert-pianist Ashley Ball’s version of Ernesto Lecuona’s ‘Aragon’ on the bedside stereo and took a long, leisurely shower before dressing in a crisp white dress shirt, perfectly creased slacks and a stylishly understated silk necktie. He completed this rather dashing ensemble with a lightweight, flawlessly tailored Armani sport coat and a pair of seven-hundred-dollar Bruno Magli shoes, the same brand made infamous by
OJ
Simpson and chosen for precisely that reason. The Juice had nothing to do with his sacred mission, of course – a mission that would ultimately culminate in the death of the greedy little life-stealer he was after – but there was no law against having a little bit of fun along the way, now was there? Besides, he had expensive tastes and enough money to indulge them whenever he damn well pleased, which wasn’t to say the financial security hadn’t come at a terrible cost.

Knowing full well that his expensive wardrobe made him look dangerously out of place at the cheap motel, Nathan’s next order of business was finally to check out, stopping just long enough to favour the plump middle-aged desk clerk with one of his perfectly dazzling smiles before he left.

Down in the parking lot of the motel three minutes later, he slipped behind the wheel of the latest exquisite rental car that had been dropped off earlier in the day – a mint-condition cherry-red Porsche Boxster this time – and began the short drive over to the nearest satellite branch of the Los Angeles Public Library.

Fifteen minutes later he was inside the building and making a beeline toward the extensive True Crime section in back. With a clear sense of purpose, he carefully selected a thick volume from the somewhat dusty shelf and found a quiet corner table overlooking the bright sunlit courtyard before opening the book, sighing contentedly. He began to read.

Thankfully the material was not a disappointment – it drew him into the magical world of murder at once. The morbid tales possessed Nathan’s imagination with much the same feeling as that of a new and unfamiliar lover beneath his strong body as he quickly devoured one deliciously depraved page after another.

As was usual when he studied, the time raced by. When he finally raised his striking brown eyes to the large round clock on the far wall, he was surprised to find that he’d been in his seat for nearly five hours. It was now almost six o’clock in the evening.

It was time to move on. Nathan was a man on the hunt
and
a man being hunted, and that was a lot for
anybody
to deal with.

Back in the leather-appointed Porsche five minutes later, he pulled out his alligator-skin Kenneth Cole wallet and checked his driver’s licence again. Nathan had many aliases – each one impeccable and backed up by clean Motor Vehicle Bureau records in five different states – but to remain under one identity for too long would simply be foolish, would only make him an easier target for the greedy little bitch who’d stolen his life, and he planned on
winning
this dangerous game that they were now playing.

Still, he wasn’t overly concerned about his identity at this exact moment. Even if nobody else out there knew it yet, Nathan Stiedowe knew
exactly
who he was. Knew exactly who he was and
exactly
what he was capable of doing.

Besides, there were always more identities to turn to whenever he needed them – always plenty of harmless, bleating sheep ready to be culled from the flock.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Los Angeles International Airport – 9:30 a.m
.

Dana’s head was still spinning from information overload by the time her and Brown’s flight finally touched down at LAX thirteen hours later.

Her research last night in her hotel room into the details of Richard Ramirez’s horrific crimes – and the similarities between Mary Ellen Orton’s murder and the Night Stalker’s first kill – had been astounding. She’d wanted to discuss it with Brown during the trip out to LA but he’d fallen asleep on the plane so she’d have to bring him up to speed later. He was obviously as exhausted and overworked as she was – Dana just wished she could fall asleep so easily. Her mind was too full to switch off.

She’d taken quick mental breaks on the plane to steal furtive glances at Brown as he slept. No wedding ring – and he wasn’t all that hard to look at, either. A smooth, unlined face and tousled brown hair. A nice build and a beautiful smile. He was the first man in a while who’d attracted her interest and she took note. If she ever got around to actually
having
a social life outside the train wreck that was
Match.com
, she didn’t think she’d have any trouble pencilling him in on her dance card. But butterfly kisses and little candy hearts would just have to wait. Right now she had a killer to catch and so far she’d been doing a piss-poor job of it – at least, by her own standards.

She’d be damned if she was going to let death win this time. Not again. Not this time. Not on her watch. She wasn’t a helpless child any more, a kid who just sat back and let bad things happen to herself and the people around her. She needed to be one hundred per cent focused on catching this sick bastard.

But there were a lot of big names and plenty of lofty expectations for Dana to live up to; that was for sure. It was her case, the biggest since she’d gone solo, and she couldn’t afford to get distracted by anything. She only hoped she was doing the right thing by moving the investigation out to Los Angeles now and not simply flying three thousand miles away while the Cleveland Slasher blissfully went unimpeded about his work of murdering another innocent little girl back in Ohio.

Dana thought again about how insistent Crawford had been that she should fly down to Quantico. She was so used to doing his bidding that she hadn’t really questioned it after her initial misgivings. And several times he’d seemed on the brink of telling her something but had then become preoccupied. No matter. If he had something to say he knew where to find her, and it had proved useful, hadn’t it?

An hour after their flight landed, she and Brown were in the crime lab of the LA FBI field office downtown. The sickly-sweet smell of formaldehyde was heavy in the air as Dana pulled on a pair of thin rubber gloves and unzipped the oversized evidence bag containing the bloody black clothes that the killer had slipped out of while fleeing the angry mob. Forensic pathologist Dr Melissa Guthrie was in the room with them.

‘Have these already been typed for blood?’ Dana asked. Although Brown was effectively in charge of this particular murder, it was Dana’s case overall; she would take the lead.

‘Sure have,’ Guthrie answered. She was a very pretty woman in her early forties, but she had way too much brainpower to give her appearance much attention. Her glasses were thick and oversized for her delicate face and her stringy blonde hair snaked crazily down the front of her white lab coat before tangling itself in a hopeless mess in the silver stethoscope hanging around her neck. ‘Only blood on those clothes belongs to Mary Ellen Orton. He didn’t leave us a trace of his own DNA.’

No surprise there. It looked like it
was
their guy.

Dana turned the pants inside out. After a moment of careful examination she wasn’t very surprised to find the irregular stitching inside. ‘Got a scalpel?’ she asked Guthrie, handing the pants over. ‘Let’s cut these stitches open and see what we’ve got here.’

The forensic pathologist took the pants and produced the sharp instrument from a sterile metal tray before carefully slicing the stitches away. Dana’s breath caught in her throat when a small sheet of paper fluttered to the floor.

Guthrie leaned down to pick it up with a pair of tweezers before unfolding the note and reading the handwritten message inside out loud:

‘“Big deal. Death always went with the territory. I’ll see you at Disneyland.”’

Guthrie shook her head in confusion. ‘“I’ll see you at Disneyland”? What’s that all about?’

Dana blew out a quick breath that fluttered her bangs. She knew
exactly
what it meant. She could practically write an essay on it. ‘It’s what Richard Ramirez said while he was being led out of court on 20 September 1989. He got nineteen separate death sentences for his trouble. From what we can tell, this guy here was pretending to be the Night Stalker. I think this was probably a copycat of a murder involving a victim named Jennie Vincow. He was just play-acting.’

But even as she ran through her theory of the killer’s motivation to Melissa Guthrie, something was still bothering the hell out of Dana, a nagging little impression at the back of her mind that wouldn’t quite leave her alone. But what was it?

She shook her head to clear the feeling away and turned to Brown. ‘What kind of set-up do you guys have around here? Sketch artists, handwriting analysts, blood-spatter experts – that kind of stuff.’

‘We’ve got a pretty good group of guys who cover all those areas,’ Brown said. ‘Some of them are among the best in the country. Jim McGreevy’s working on the composite drawing and Jeff Simmons is doing the blood work. I’ll get Fred Spangler to analyse the note.’

‘Thanks. And what about the witness in the crowd chasing the suspect on the night of the murder? The young Latina. Could we set up an appointment with her too? I’m sure your guys did a thorough job – I’d just like to talk to her myself, in case …’

‘No problem,’ Brown replied, already keying into his cell.

Dana thanked him again and turned back to Guthrie. ‘If you could please get this note analysed for prints, fibres and DNA as quickly as possible before the handwriting guy takes a look, I’d really appreciate it. There probably isn’t anything, but it’s worth a shot.’

When Brown and Guthrie had left the room, Dana sat down on a plastic chair and tried to collect her thoughts. It felt good to be swinging into action like this. Could she allow herself to hope that they might finally be making progress? That they might at last be getting closer to the Cleveland Slasher?

Unbidden, the thought of another killer flashed into her mind: the killer she
really
wanted. The killer who was the main reason why she’d joined the FBI in the first place.

The monster who’d murdered both her parents in cold blood when she’d been only four years old.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Nathan sat in the Porsche on Timber Drive in the nicest area of Ventura, California, listening to Ashley Ball’s rendition of Lecuona’s ‘Malaguena
’
. He was about an hour north of Los Angeles. He lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply. The fancy car didn’t draw much attention here, so that was good. It just took its place quietly among all the Jags and Beemers and Corvettes scooting about. Hell, it wasn’t even the nicest car on the block.
That
distinction went to the yellow Lamborghini parked in the driveway of the biggest house on the street, a faux-colonial rising up higher than its neighbours and creating the distinct impression that it was looking down its nose at them.