Last Breath (23 page)

Ink. That was what it was. Dark red ink, she thought, although in the dim light it was hard to distinguish color.

She wiped her hand on her cargo shorts, indifferent to the stain, then selected the longest shard from the litter of glass.

The edge was sharp. She sawed the rope, cutting through the entwined fibers one by one. Not long now. When Adam returned, she would be gone.

She could visualize the exact expression on his face—she had seen it when she caught him under the sheets with Ashley. It was a look of utter defeat—not guilt, but simple astonishment at having lost the game.

Now he would lose a second time.

Finally the rope came apart, sagging to the floor.

“Did it,” she breathed, and then she lifted her head and there was Adam, limned in the ambient light, standing at the far end of the garage.

He was watching her, leaning against one of the pylons, hands in the pockets of his chinos.

And smiling.

She knew it, though his face was lost in shadow.

She could feel the cold energy of his smile.

“You’re so resourceful, C.J.,” he said, his voice echoing off the concrete floor and ceiling. “It’s admirable, really. You’ve always been a survivor—until tonight.”

Walsh reached Hacienda Heights at 9:45 and parked across the street from a thirty-foot motor home customized as a mobile command post for the Sheriff’s Department. Law enforcement agencies outside crowded metropolitan areas often used even larger vehicles, but thirty feet was the maximum length suitable for maneuvering in the narrow streets of LA’s older districts.

It was not an undercover vehicle. The LASD logo was stamped on the side panels. The staging area was far enough from the suspect’s residence to make subterfuge unnecessary.

He crossed Hacienda Boulevard and rapped on the vehicle’s back door, which swung open to admit him. The rear compartment of the motor home had been converted into a communications room. The civilian who welcomed him aboard after checking his badge was a radio operator who probably worked out of the Sheriff’s dispatch center in East LA. Walsh glanced around and saw multiple Zetron radio consoles as well as high-frequency and military-band radio gear. The equipment hummed, powered by an onboard generator.

A second radio operator was talking into a microphone, asking for an ETA.

“Six minutes,” a voice crackled over the speakers.

“Roger that.”

“Someone else invited to this party?” Walsh asked the two technicians.

The one who’d let him in nodded. “SWAT.”

Walsh felt a stab of hope. A SWAT raid wouldn’t be ordered unless the suspect was believed to be at home.

Had he taken C.J. Osborn to his residence? Was that where he killed his victims? It seemed impossible. How could he get the women inside without being seen? For that matter, how could he get the bodies out?

Then again, when dealing with nutcases of this type, anything was conceivable. Look at Jeffrey Dahmer, who committed multiple murders in his apartment, even dismembered the bodies with power tools, and never raised the suspicions of his neighbors. Hell, the Milwaukee police paid him a visit and didn’t notice anything awry.

The Hourglass Killer could be home right now—with C.J.

And four hours hadn’t passed yet.

There might still be a chance to save her.

Walsh hurried into the middle compartment of the motor home, which was used as a command area. Whiteboards were tacked to the walls, some bearing arcane marker scribbles from a previous operation. More radio equipment crowded the shelves, along with a fax/photocopy machine, several phones, and two notebook computers that shared an inkjet printer. There was also a closed-circuit TV that could receive live video from the Ikegami color camera on the roof. The camera, operated by remote control, could scan in a full circle, but it wasn’t running now.

A small galley and a lavatory were among the amenities; a closed door hid a cache of weapons. Most of the room was taken up by the conference center—a shaky metal table flanked by several equally shaky metal chairs. Despite the chairs, everyone was standing. Walsh saw Donna Cellini, the two deputies from C.J. Osborn’s house, and Captain Hector Garcia, who ran the Sheriff’s station in nearby City of Industry.

“Hec,” Walsh said with a handshake as the door rumbled shut behind him.

“Morrie. Good to see you. Too bad about the circumstances.”

“Maybe we can improve the circumstances. What’ve we got?”

Cellini answered. “I called the computer repairman, Bowden. He was home. Sotheby and I went over and talked to him. It was obvious he was holding back, so finally we told him a woman’s life was at stake. Then he opened up. Said he didn’t do the service call at Martha Eversol’s apartment. He was supposed to, but it was his kid’s birthday, and he wanted to take him to Disneyland, so he let another guy cover for him.”

“What other guy?”

“Mr. Gavin Treat, of Hacienda Heights. He lives two blocks from here, in a third-floor apartment. Treat used to work for Bowden’s company. Then he went freelance. He’s an independent contractor, gets called out when the full-time employees are booked up. Hires out his services to any company that needs him on any given day. That particular day, he took over Bowden’s assignments and let Bowden sign the paperwork.”

“And Bowden never said anything—”

“Because he could lose his job. He’s not supposed to hand off his day’s work to somebody else.”

“He should’ve called in sick.”

“He had a bad case of the flu last summer. His sick days were maxed out.”

“Anything to link Treat to Nikki Carter or C.J. Osborn?”

“Carter, yes. We checked Treat’s DL.” Driver’s license. “He changed his address six months ago. Previously he resided at the Westside Palms.”

“Shit.” That was Nikki Carter’s apartment building.

“He was two floors down from her. They might’ve met in the laundry room or the elevator—whatever. It’s a security building, but when he moved out, he probably held on to a duplicate key to the main entrance, Then he could pick the lock on her apartment, install the Webcam while she was out.”

Walsh grunted. “How about Osborn?”

“That, we can’t figure. Since there’s no record of her PC being serviced, Treat must have singled her out some other way.”

“The ex-husband suggested it might be a revenge thing—somebody C.J. arrested. Does Treat have a record?”

“No, he’s clean. Not even a parking ticket.”

“There goes that theory.”

“Well, hell, we don’t need to know
everything
. We’ve nailed the guy, Morrie. Be happy.”

“I’ll be happy when he’s in custody and Osborn’s safe and sound. I take it we’re operating on the assumption Treat is home.”

“His vehicle is parked in the apartment building’s underground garage.”

“What kind of vehicle?”

“White 1999 Ford Econoline E-150, commercial model.”

Deputy Tanner spoke up. “Like the one C.J. saw following her this afternoon.”

Walsh nodded. “Additional confirmation—as if any was needed. So we don’t
know
he’s home?”

Cellini said no. “He might have taken a second vehicle, although his DMV records list only one. We can’t probe his apartment with infrared sensors or long-distance microphones—too much ambient heat and noise from other units in the building. We could call him and see if he answers—”

“But we don’t want to spook him,” Deputy Chang said.

“Even if we pretend it’s a sales call,” Tanner added, “he might get suspicious. Then we’ve got a barricade situation.”

“With a possible hostage,” Chang said.

Captain Garcia nodded. “So we’re going in hard. Deputies Tanner and Chang are members of a SWAT element. Tanner’s the team leader. Chang’s the scout. We’ve called out the rest of the team.”

“Lucky break, having you here,” Walsh said.

“Lucky for us,” Tanner said coolly. “Unlucky for Treat—if he’s home.”

One of the radio operators leaned into the doorway. “Raid van’s here.” He meant the SWAT van loaded with the gear necessary to carry out an armed assault—flak vests, assault weapons, tear gas, flash-bang grenades, night-vision goggles, Nomex fire-resistant hoods, the works.

Tanner and Chang moved toward the rear of the command post. “Time to suit up,” Tanner said.

Walsh almost told them to be careful, but he knew it would just sound stupid. SWAT team members were trained to be careful.

He hoped Tanner’s team lived up to SWAT’s reputation—because he had a feeling that where the Hourglass Killer was concerned, they could not afford mistakes.

“When ...” C.J. heard the hoarseness in her voice and had to start over. “When did you get back?”

“Just now.” Adam stood there, watching her. “Glad to see me?”

She got to her feet, kicking away the rope. In her right hand she still held the glass shard, her only weapon.

“You shouldn’t have taken off the blindfold,” Adam said. “It’s easier to die when you can’t see what’s coming. That’s why they blindfold the victim of a firing squad. Act of mercy.”

“I didn’t expect mercy from you.”

“That’s good. Because you won’t be getting any.”

She watched him across the dim, cavernous space. He wore slacks and a windbreaker with bulky pockets. When he moved toward her, she raised the shard, letting it catch the moonlight. “Don’t come any closer.”

“I’ve got a gun, remember?”

“So use it.”

He removed a gloved hand from the side pocket of his windbreaker, taking out the gun. Even at a distance, she could see that it was a pistol, probably a 9mm. The gun flashed toward her, and for an instant she was back inside Ramon Sanchez’s converted garage, facing his ancient revolver.

But he didn’t fire. “Put down the piece of glass, C.J.”

“Make me.”

“You’re a stubborn bitch—you know that?”

“And you’re a fucking psycho.”

He still didn’t fire, and she began to think he wouldn’t. But why not?

“I can take that weapon away from you anytime I want,” he said.

“Go ahead.”

“It’ll be no problem—just like jumping you in the hallway. You didn’t put up much of a fight, you know.”

“An ambush is one thing. Taking me here and now is another.”

“I’ll risk it.”

“You’ll get stuck.” She displayed the shard. “How’d you like it in your neck? Your eye?”

He studied her. She knew he was asking himself whether or not he could wrest control of the weapon without getting sliced.

“You can’t,” she told him, letting him know she could read his thoughts. “I’m too quick for you. I know too many moves.”

His reaction surprised her. He laughed. “Good old C.J. A fighter to the end.” His gaze shifted to the upended crate. “I shouldn’t have left my gear with you. I thought it was out of reach.”

His gear, he’d said. She saw other needles scattered on the floor, as well as more vials of ink. She wondered—

“It won’t save you, C.J.,” he said, cutting off her thoughts. “We’re still going to share that last dance.”

“I’m not much in the mood for dancing. You know what I was thinking about the whole time you were gone?”

“How to get free and save your ass?”

“Besides that.”

“What?”

“You. How you could do something this sick, this crazy.”

“It’s not crazy. Sick—yes. I plead guilty to that charge. But I’m perfectly sane. I’m just doing what any normal spurned spouse would do, given half a chance.”

“I hope you don’t believe that.”

“But I do.” His hard-soled shoes clicked on the floor as he began to circle a few yards from her, and she moved, as well, keeping her distance from him. “People aren’t nearly as civilized as they like to pretend. I’ll bet there isn’t anybody who hasn’t fantasized at one time or another about subjecting an enemy to a painful, violent death. Every kid who gets slammed around by the school bully, every teenager who’s grounded by his parents, every office drone whose boss is on his case—they’ve all thought about it.” A knowing smile came to his face. “After you found me in bed with Ashley, didn’t you think about it?”

The truth came out reluctantly. “I guess.”

He spread his arms. “Well, there you are.”

It occurred to her that he was arguing a case. Like one of those mock trials in law school. Showing how clever he was, how he could twist logic and facts to prove anything.

“Thinking is one thing,” she said, still sidestepping to match every step he took, the two of them circling each other like knife fighters. “This is reality, Adam. You’re really doing this. Do you understand?
This is for real
.”

“Of course it’s for real. It’s life and death. My life. Your death.”

“Because I left you?”

“Well, yes, that—and because I was handed the golden opportunity.” A disarming smile. “Pure serendipity. It would have been ungrateful of me to turn it down. Think about it. The chance to kill my ex-wife and escape all suspicions. To use a serial killer as my fall guy. The perfect crime.”

Serial killer?

She almost asked him what he was talking about, and then she understood.

The stuff on the floor. Needles, ink.

Tattoo equipment.

The Hourglass Killer.

She’d had nothing to do with the investigation, but it had been in the papers. Everybody knew about it.

So that was his plan. To playact as the Hourglass Killer. To pass her off as the latest victim.

Some of her fear left her. “It won’t work,” she said.

Her tone of voice—unnaturally calm—caught his attention. He stopped circling. “Sure it will.”

“No. You can’t imitate a serial killer that easily. The police are always alert for copycats. They’ll find some details of the crime that don’t match the MO, and they’ll know it’s not the same guy.”

“Oh, really? I never thought of that.”

He came a little closer, and she let him, standing her ground. She could see his smile now, his white teeth against his tan face.

“Joke about it all you want,” she said. “What I’m telling you is true.”

“Ordinarily, yes. But not in this case.”