Point Doom (21 page)

The second deaths in these dual sessions were what Swan found to be the most intriguing. His observer on the upright table, after watching half an hour of torture on her boyfriend, might be enticed into almost any act of degradation in order to spare herself from a fate similar to the one she was seeing. Acts like consuming blood mixed with fecal matter after the removal of a foot or hand, or the ingesting of a newly excised organ, were common in the hobby room. Nothing, no demand that Swan made, seemed too excessive to be gratified. The final result on film, after careful editing, was, to say the least, captivating.

On only one occasion had the female subject offered to be the first to die instead of her boyfriend. The girl’s name was Felicia, a chubby child in her midteens.

Swan had just begun with a routine excision of all the toes on her boyfriend, Carlos’s, left foot. He then decided to offer Felicia a compromise: if she ate two of these, with cream cheese, he would be more merciful when it came to her turn. Instead of his usual bilateral breast removal, he would simply drain her blood during the anal penetration procedure.

“Kill me now,” the girl had screamed in her native tongue. “I cannot watch the death of the man I love.”

Her tormentor was moved by this articulation of selflessness. Impressed, even. He set down his clippers, put a canvas bag over the girl’s head, placed the muzzle of his .22 automatic between her eyes, then fired twice.

It was then that Swan did something he had never done before. He phoned the estate nurse and ordered her to come to the hobby room. When she arrived, Swan instructed the woman to take the boy to the infirmary and suture and bandage his wounds. Four weeks later the young man was flown to Honduras, then released on the streets with five thousand dollars in cash, a free man.

TWENTY-SIX

H
alf an hour after leaving Vikki’s I parked on the street across the expanse of four-lane Ocean Avenue, opposite the Sorrento Towers, where Sydnye-Laighne lived. The luxury building, overlooking the ocean, was set back off the street. It was twelve stories tall with a circular driveway. Its front entrance was in my full view fifty yards away.

Just to be safe, keeping loose ends in mind, I used the Phillips screwdriver attachment to my fold-up knife to remove the license plates from a Buick convertible parked four cars away on the street. I then replaced Mom’s plates with the Buick’s and stowed her Escalade’s plates under the mat in the cargo area.

My single motivation was to get to Sydnye, to find her and to kill her. If she wasn’t there, I’d wait until she was, then do what I had come to do. Karl Swan was target B.

I locked Mom’s car, then slipped on a pair of tinted glasses before crossing the street toward the glitzy glass façade. Entering the driveway I saw a large yellow lettered banner in the garden area centering the drive. It read:
SHORT AND LONG-TERM LEASES. INQUIRE ON PREMISES WITH RENTAL AGENT
. It was an invitation. That sign was my way in.

Beyond the revolving door I saw a doorman in full uniform and cap sitting behind a long, wide desk. In back of his chair was a bank of monitors that flashed every few seconds, changing images. The guy’s brass nametag read “Joe.”

Pulling out my New York City detective’s badge, I set it in front of the guy. “Joe, I’m Paul Foley, New York City Homicide. I need your help.”

He picked up the badge and looked at it, then the ID that came with it, then handed them back to me. Then he leaned over for a last look at his laptop screen on the center of his desk. “Okay, Detective, I’m all ears. What can I do for you?”

“We’ve got a trial witness about to testify here in L.A. in Santa Monica Superior Court. I need safekeeping for him for a week, ten days max. I saw the short-term rent sign in front. Does the management here also rent by the day?”

Joe rolled his eyes. He sighed, took off his hat, then ran his hands through his hair. “Sure, that’s possible. But I’m not the one you should be talking to. That’d be Adelaide. I know we have a few furnished units. But like I said, you’d have to talk in person to the rental agent. She gets in at ten in the morning.”

Opening my notepad (with the bullet hole in it) to appear more coplike, I wrote down the name, “Adelaide,” then the words “Sorrento Towers.”

“Okay,” I said, “that’s helpful. Can I have Adelaide’s number or her card?”

Joe looked down at his desktop. There were several plastic holders containing business cards. He found the right one, then handed it to me. “Call her in the morning, okay? And have a good night, Detective.”

“Police business, Joe. Look, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like you to show me a floor plan of the building.”

Joe immediately took on his best oh-Jesus-leave-me-alone-for-chrissakes face. “Look, Detective, you’re going to have to talk to the rental agent.”

“I’ve done this before, Joe. I do it all the time. The building floor plan is usually right here at the front desk. Help me out, okay, it’s been a long day. A man’s life is on the line, here.”

Joe grimaced, then opened a drawer. It’d been just as I guessed. He removed a large laminated drawing that diagrammed the building’s interior and all its apartments. He handed it across to me. “Whataya know?” he said in fake amazement, “it was right here.”

Before looking at the floor plan, my eye caught a side view of his computer screen. It showed a poker table. Apparently, Joe was an Internet gambler. Texas hold ’em.

I pointed at the screen. “How ya doin’, Joe? Winning or losing?”

He shook his head. “Don’t ask. I’m down a hundred and twenty-eight bucks for the day. That’s how I’m doing.”

“Bad habit,” I said. “I had to give it up before it kicked my ass.”

Joe made a face. “Man, I hear that.”

I studied the building layout drawing for thirty seconds and saw what I thought I needed. But I had to be sure. “Hey, Joe,” I said, “can you make me a copy of this?”

“Sorree. No can do. Not tonight, Detective. Like I said, the leasing office is closed. The copier’s in there. Adelaide can help you out in the morning. So—is that all?”

Joe slid the diagram back into his desk drawer and returned to his computer screen.

“Okay, one last thing,” I said. “I promise. I need to see the building’s alarm system.”

“That’d be Adelaide too. That’s her job. I’m the doorman, Detective. I don’t rent apartments or do extracurricular stuff. I greet people. I help load luggage into cars. I’m just a grunt wearing a uniform, okay? That’s my job description.”

“Joe, we’re moving on this tomorrow. Just show me where the room is or point me to it. Five minutes. You don’t even need to get up. I just have to check out the system. That’s all I need. Then I’m gone.”

Joe shook his head, minimized his Ultimate Bet Poker screen, then got to his feet. He pointed at a door a few feet down the wide hallway, then reached to the side of his belt and produced a thick key ring that held two dozen keys. “Here,” he said, holding a single key in the air after unclamping it from the ring, “use this.”

I took the key. “Thanks,” I said, and began walking down the hall toward the door.

“Wait,” he called from behind me. “Jesus, I gotta do it! I forgot, I gotta punch in the code. It’s a new procedure. We’re up to our nose hairs in new procedures around this place.”

I followed him down the hall to a door marked
ELECTRONICS
/
MAINTENANCE
. Joe entered a combination on the key pad, then was able to key the door.

He flicked the light switch on. “Okay,” he said standing aside for me to go in, “close it after you’re finished. And don’t forget the light, okay?”

Five minutes later I’d done what I needed to do.

“Hey Joe,” I called, standing at the bank of elevators, wanting to appear like I was ready to leave, “everything looks okay. One last thing: I’m going to check out the garage now. That okay with you?”

Joe didn’t look up from his poker screen. “Whatever,” he whispered under his breath. “Jesus. Whatever.”

THE UNDERGROUND GARAGE
was large and well lighted. It had three levels. I got off at one, then started checking the white painted numbers in front of the parking spaces. On two I found hyphenated numbers—tandem spaces. I walked to the two spaces that had the numerals 721A—721B. Seven twenty-one was Sydnye’s apartment number.

The yellow Porsche was not there but a sport-top black Jeep Rubicon, set up with a roll bar, a winch, and half a dozen other off-road accessories, was parked in 721-A. It was covered with what looked like weeks of dust and I assumed it hadn’t been driven in a while. A question I had neglected to put to Vikki before she’d exploded her brain was: how many cars does Sydnye own? Now I knew.

I WALKED UP
the rounded driveway, two floors, to the exit. There was a side door at the end of the building façade, next to the automatic sliding parking gate. I went out the side door, but left it ajar behind me, and crossed the circular driveway on my way to Mom’s Escalade.

Once out of the garage I was again in cell range, so I removed Vikki’s phone from my pocket and punched in the first of Sydnye’s numbers. Getting into Mom’s Escalade I decided that it was time to stir the waters and coax the bottom feeders up through the swamp bottom—to be speared.

After several rings, the call went to voice mail. The message I left was five seconds of dead air. Then I clicked off.

Now I tried her second number. It too, eventually, went to voice mail. Again, I paused, breathing into the receiver for a few seconds, then clicked off.

I calculated that it would take time until my location, via cell tower, might be isolated by a computer-geek killer who kept track of such things. I knew that Sydnye was on me but I didn’t know how close she might be.

Next, I dialed Swan’s personal cell. When he picked up immediately, I was surprised. I could hear music and conversation in the background. A dinner party? “Yes, may I help you?” the smooth European accent intoned.

“Hello,” I said, “Is that you, Karl?”

“Hello. Yes, this is Karl Swan. Please speak up! How may I help you?”

“Karl, I’m . . . sort of a friend of your daughter Sydnye’s. I just wanted to check in and say hello.”

“Who is this? Please tell me what you want.”

“It’s about the murder of my friend, Woody O’Rourke. Your daughter Sydnye killed my friend. I’m going to kill Sydnye and then I’m going to kill you for sending your man after my mother.”

There was a long pause on the other end, so I kept going.

“Remember those bodies you dumped at the burial grounds out near Point Dume? You and I are going to meet face-to-face so I can deliver a message from them. You’re a sick, murdering, butchering piece of shit, Karl, and your time on the planet is now in countdown mode.”

Another long pause at the other end of the line. Then: “Please forgive my abruptness. I’m with friends at the moment. May I call you back at this number? I would like to continue this conversation—in a more private setting.”

“I’m coming. I’m coming very soon, Karl.”

Then I hung up.

STARTING MOM’S ESCALADE,
I drove to a side street, parked, and turned off the engine. My head was throbbing badly after my visit to Sydnye’s apartment building and the conversation with her father. I could feel my body getting close to maxed out. I needed to close my eyes, if only for a few minutes.

The dream that came was odd and prophetic. I was standing on the Coast Highway by the gas station at Coral Canyon in Malibu, talking to a guy who had just pulled up in his car, needing directions. I didn’t recognize the man, though he looked familiar. He had a map spread out on his trunk. He said that he was delivering sandwiches to Trancas Beach—to the home of Spencer Tracy.

Looking at the guy with curiosity, I said, “Spencer Tracy’s been dead for fifty years.”

“That’s okay,” the guy said, “the sandwiches are all cold by now.”

Then a huge boulder, the size of a house, began tumbling down from the steeply graded hills above the gas station. When I saw it coming I stepped back and yelled “Look out!” But the boulder crushed the guy, then kept rolling across the highway into the ocean.

WHEN I WOKE
up I looked at my watch. I’d been asleep for thirty minutes. My head wasn’t banging as badly as before.

I drove back to the Sorrento Towers and parked near the circular driveway. Through the glass entrance window I could make out doorman Joe, still battling online poker at his desk. I could be fairly certain that, owing to Joe’s passion for gambling, the video monitors behind him would be neglected while I did what I needed to do.

Down the drive by the garage door entrance I waited in the shadows while a green sports car, using a remote opener, pulled in. After the car passed through the gate and was out of my view, I stepped inside.

Walking down the sloping circular drive to the second floor of the underground lot, I made my way along the cars to the black sports Jeep parked in slot 721-A. Sydnye’s Porsche still hadn’t returned.

Looking through the plastic, zip-down window into the rear passenger area, I saw some things that would come in handy. On the rear floor were a pair of ski boots, an orange stocking cap, and a pair of orange ski goggles.

The Jeep’s door was easy enough to open after slicing a hole in the plastic window. I reached in and got the goggles and the cap, then went to the glove compartment to make sure I was robbing the right car. The vehicle was registered in the name of Laighne Lazarus.

At the elevator I pressed “7” and went up to Sydnye’s floor. I let the doors slide open, then waited.

Not hearing any sounds, I pulled the stocking cap down over my ears. Then I put on the goggles and turned my bomber jacket inside out and put it back on.

I stepped out into the carpeted hallway. Above me I saw the camera, then the other ones at both ends of the hall.

I knew from the building diagram that 721 was the first door on the right. With the apartment alarm now disabled, it took me less than a minute with my picks and WD-40 to work both locks.

I was about to push the door open when I heard a sound like a faint sniffing noise. A few seconds later there was more sniffing, then what I took to be the scratching of paws against a flat wooden surface. I stepped back immediately. I knew exactly what was behind the door—from experience. An attack dog, silence-trained. Maybe more than one. Animals disciplined not to bark—not to make excessive noise—but to dismember and kill. I’d met one of the fuckers in Hell’s Kitchen one night, face-to-face, years ago. I knew immediately that I would have to come up with an alternate plan.

CLOSING THE DOOR
to 721 I left it unlocked and moved back down the hall to the indented elevator doors, taking myself out of view of the hall cameras. Time to come up with plan B.

I took the elevator back down to the garage, removing my cap and goggles before I arrived at the lower level.

Stepping out, a few feet from the elevator bank, I saw a green Dumpster. I stowed my goggles and hat behind it.

NOW, LEAVING THE
garage, I made my way across Ocean Avenue, back to where I’d parked the Escalade.

In a shopping bag in the cargo area of Mom’s car, I found what would come in handy. The first item was a can of wasp spray. I’d bought the spray from the surplus store on Venice Boulevard, thinking about the Dobies at Karl Swan’s estate. I needed it now. Wasp spray, unlike mace, is accurate up to twenty feet. Also, unlike mace, there are no legal restrictions for amounts of more than two ounces.

Next to the wasp spray in the shopping bag were the green khakis and a roll of duct tape. After putting the wasp spray in my jacket pocket I grabbed the roll of duct tape.

NOW, OPENING THE
rear passenger door of the Escalade, I grabbed one of the mats. I would wrap the mat around my Beretta and use it to silence any gunshots if the wasp spray didn’t work.