Redzone (24 page)

Lee shook her head. “No, that's it.”

*   *   *

Cora and her husband had been found by a relative who, having been unable to reach them via phone, entered the house with predictable results. All of the media outlets carried similar stories. Why had such a nice couple been murdered for what couldn't have been more than a few hundred dollars? It was tragic, it was scary, and the police were determined to find the killer or killers.

Meanwhile, the Bonebreaker had been holed up in a motel waiting to see what would happen. By now the police
should know that he wasn't responsible for the Vasquez murder and that a copycat killer was on the loose. All they had to do was announce that, clear his name, and he'd be able to return home.

But no . . . Either the idiots didn't know that somebody was pretending to be him, or they did and had chosen to let the imposter get away with it. That's why the Bonebreaker was going to visit the Hi-Jinx Club. He had abandoned the first stolen car shortly after meeting with Marty and was riding in a taxi. The Bonebreaker waited for the car to pass the club on the right, told the driver to pull over, and paid the exact fare. Tips were a luxury he couldn't afford.

The club wasn't open yet and wouldn't be until midafternoon. So the Bonebreaker had time to kill. Sunshine was a rarity for the Bonebreaker, and as he ambled down the street, he gloried in the warmth of it on his neck and hands. Were it not for the sound of God's voice in his ear and the mission he had accepted, the Bonebreaker would have been in San Diego. He wouldn't need much . . . Just a room within walking distance of a beach. Then he would go fishing every day. Never mind the fact that he didn't know anything about the sport. It was the idea of doing something while doing nothing that appealed to him.

Such were the Bonebreaker's thoughts as he bought a paper and carried it into a small bakery. There, with a sweet roll and coffee at his elbow, he read the
LA Times
. It felt strange to eat while wearing the mask—but it didn't take long to get used to it.

After breakfast the Bonebreaker walked another three blocks to the Rialto Cinemaplex. It was open twenty-four hours a day and was the perfect place to get off the street. And for twenty nu he could watch all four of the movies that were currently playing.

So with the briefcase at his side, the Bonebreaker bought a ticket and made his way through the lobby to Theatre 3, where an escapist fantasy called
One World
was about to
start. According to the ads he'd seen on TV, the story was based on the premise that the effort to spread the plague had been foiled by a team of brave CIA agents. A stupid plot to say the least. But a scenario in which the Bonebreaker's family would still be alive. And that appealed to him. The darkness took him in.

The Bonebreaker watched three movies, and consumed a large bag of popcorn, before falling asleep in the middle of the fourth. And by the time he woke up the film was starting over. So he got up, took the briefcase off the seat next to him, and made his way out into the quickly fading sunlight. A glance at his watch confirmed that the Hi-Jinx Club was open, but just barely. And the Bonebreaker knew that a man of his age and appearance would stick out in a nightspot that was mostly empty. Besides, it was dinnertime.

After a short walk he happened across the Athena Restaurant. A menu was posted in the window. There was no chicken noodle soup; nor did the Bonebreaker expect to find any. There was mention of Greek Lemon Chicken soup however . . . And he figured that it might be an acceptable substitute. So he went inside and was shown to a small, linen-covered table. It was positioned so he could place his back against a wall and keep an eye on the front door. Had it been otherwise, it would have been necessary to request a different table.

The Bonebreaker ordered the Lemon Chicken soup and was more than satisfied when it arrived. Not only was it thick, hearty, and flavorful—the triangles of pita bread were the perfect accompaniment. In fact, he was
so
satisfied with the meal that he actually paid the tab.

The Bonebreaker felt an increasing sense of fear as he walked the short distance to the Hi-Jinx Club. Not regarding the possibility of being arrested—because there was very little chance of that. No, the anxiety stemmed from the fact that he would have to mix with a large group of people. Something he perceived as being threatening in and of itself.
It had to be done however . . . So he kept going despite the empty feeling in his gut and a case of sweaty palms.

The Bonebreaker heard the primal thump, thump, thump of bass well before he arrived at the front of the club. And the sound was nearly deafening once he went inside. The place was packed with customers, most of whom were male. A DJ was hard at work next to the dance floor, clutching his headphones to his ears, and bobbing his head to the music.

About a dozen people were dancing and the rest were seated at small tables with drinks in front of them. Just as he had expected, the crowd trended younger rather than older, and he felt out of place. He wanted to talk to people but where to start? Maybe the bartender could help.

The Bonebreaker approached the bar, waited his turn, and made his pitch. It was necessary to raise his voice in order to be heard over the music. “Hi! My name is Nathan Como . . . I'm a reporter from the
LA Times
. My editor asked me to write a story about Officer Vasquez—and one of his friends told me that he was a regular here. Could you point me at someone who knew him? I'd like to get some background stuff. You know, so our readers can get a feel for the real person.”

The bartender was extremely busy and eager to rid himself of the reporter. “Sure thing . . . See the guys at that table? The one next to the tall plant? Both of them knew Rudy. You're going to say nice things about him, right?”

“Absolutely. Everyone I've talked to agrees that he was a good person.”

“All right then. I'll send a drink over. What will it be?”

The Bonebreaker didn't drink. So he named the first thing that came to mind. “A bourbon on the rocks.”

“Got it,” the bartender said. “It's on the house.”

The Bonebreaker felt awkward, and his stomach was churning as he made his way over to the table next to the tall plant. “Excuse me . . . The bartender said you might be able to help me. I'm a reporter for the
LA Times
—and I'm
writing a piece about Officer Vasquez. I'd love to get your impressions of him.”

“Have a seat,” the man with blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses said. “I'm Peter.”

“And I'm Jim,” the other man said. He had a buzz cut, a nose stud, and lots of tattoos. “We were friends of Rudy's. What a terrible tragedy.”

“Yes,” the Bonebreaker said lamely as he pulled a chair up to the table. “As you probably know, this is where he was seen last. Were either one of you here that night?”

“I was,” Peter replied soberly. “Rudy was in a good mood or seemed to be.”

“I see,” the Bonebreaker said, as his drink arrived. “So what kind of person was he? How would you describe him?”

Everything that Peter and Jim had to say during the next five minutes was positive—and that was what the Bonebreaker expected to hear. He let the men run on and took meaningless notes as they did so. Then he bought them a round of drinks. “So,” he said, as the waitress departed, “what was Rudy doing that evening? Just hanging out?”

“He was basket shopping,” Peter replied. “And that's how he wound up with Prince Charming.”

“Who?”

“A guy I had never seen before. They were sitting over there.” He pointed to a table that was about fifteen feet away. “Rudy was pretty picky—so I figured nothing would come of it. But no . . . They left together.”

The Bonebreaker knew that much from watching the news. “Officer Vasquez left the bar in the company of a man with dark hair.” And so on and so on. Which meant the Bonebreaker knew no more than he had thirty minutes earlier. And that was what he was thinking about when another man approached the table. “Hey, Peter . . . Hey, Jim . . . I hear we have a reporter in the house.”

Peter made the introductions. “Nathan, this is Julio, and Julio, this is Nathan Como. He's with the
LA Times
.”

“And you're writing a story about Rudy,” Julio said as he sat down. “That's why I came over . . . I ran into Rudy out in the parking lot the night he disappeared. If only I'd had a premonition or something . . . Maybe I could have prevented his death.”

The Bonebreaker was interested. “So you saw the man Rudy left with.”

“Saw him? Yes. Rudy asked me to take a picture with my phone and e-mail it to him.”

The Bonebreaker felt his heart beat a little bit faster. “And did you?”

“Yes . . . Just a sec . . . I'll find it.”

The Bonebreaker took a sip of bourbon and wished he hadn't. It was horrible. “Here you go,” Julio said. “Look at this.”

The Bonebreaker accepted the phone. And sure enough, there was Rudy, smiling into the camera. Unfortunately the man standing to his right was looking away. By accident? Or on purpose? There was no way to know. But the Bonebreaker figured that some sort of picture was better than none.

That was when he noticed that there was a
second
picture . . . One that seemed to have been taken immediately after the first. The two men were turning away. And that picture showed the back end of a pickup truck. “What's going on here?” the Bonebreaker inquired.

“I was going to take a second shot, but Rudy's friend said, ‘Let's go . . .' And they turned to go. I meant to delete it.”

“I'd like to have the picture of Rudy,” the Bonebreaker said. “Would it be okay if I e-mailed it to myself?”

“Sure,” Julio said. “Have at it.”

So the Bonebreaker selected
both
pictures and sent them to an anonymous e-mail address. “Did you share the photo of Rudy with the police?”

“Yup,” Julio answered as he took the phone back. “They said it wasn't good enough to be of any help.”

“No,” the Bonebreaker said, “I suppose it wouldn't be. Well,
thank you very much. I have some great quotes from you guys—and that will give my article some additional depth.”

Then, after a round of good-byes, the Bonebreaker left. It was dark outside, and a bit chilly, as he called a cab. The car took ten minutes to arrive. Lights were mounted underneath the chassis so that the
especiale
seemed to float over a pool of lavender light.

The Bonebreaker got into the backseat and gave the driver a destination that was about half a mile away from the ossuary. Then, as the cab pulled away from the curb, he checked his e-mail. Both photos were waiting. But it was the second that he cared about. Because there, attached to the truck's back bumper, was a California license plate.

WHEN LEE WENT
to work on Monday morning, she found herself in a strange state of suspended animation. Although she'd been cleared by the shooting review board, Lee was still under a partial suspension, and deskbound. So there she was, feeling frustrated, when two dozen red roses arrived. And since the receptionist who brought them had been forced to cross the bullpen in order to reach her desk, the flowers caused quite a stir. “Oh my God,” someone said, as the bouquet landed on Lee's desk. “Look at that! Doesn't he know that she prefers ammo?”

“Who
is
this guy?” another detective demanded. “Maybe we should run him for wants and warrants.”

“Clear the area,” a third said, “and call the bomb squad!”

Lee offered all of them a one-fingered salute before thanking the receptionist and plucking the card off the packaging. It read:

Dear Cassandra,

Please join me at 11:30 for lunch at Alessandro's. My phone is off, so you can't say no.

 

Love, Lawrence

Lee knew that Alessandro's was only two blocks away and had clearly been chosen for her convenience. And had she not been on suspension, she would have said no. But she was on suspension, she needed a morale boost, and Kane was the answer.
Are you getting serious about him?
the voice inquired, as she checked her watch. “No, maybe, yes,” she replied. “No, make that
hell
yes.” There were catcalls as she departed for lunch.

*   *   *

The Bonebreaker wanted to gather all the information he could prior to the meeting with Lee. It took only a few minutes for him to sign into a tracing service with a false name, transfer five cred coins, and enter the imposter's license-plate number in the search box. The results came back quickly. It seemed that the vehicle in question was registered to Mr. Alvin Hoffler. And his address was in Nuevo, California, a community the Bonebreaker had never heard of.

A quick check revealed that it was about an hour east of LA. So far so good. All he had to do was create a new disguise, steal a car, and drop in for a visit. After he killed Hoffler, the Bonebreaker would have a late dinner and return home. Mission accomplished.

So the Bonebreaker spent the balance of the day getting ready and left the ossuary just after dark. His persona was different this time. The mask was called “The Farmer” and made the Bonebreaker look as though he'd spent years out in the sun.

He exited the area via an old storm drain. It was dry but still
hard on the knees. The trash-strewn concrete pipe led under a street and into an open channel. That allowed the Bonebreaker to stand and make his way up onto the sidewalk. From there it was a ten-minute walk to a bus stop. A short ride took him into what most people thought of as a bad neighborhood. That was where he got off the bus and wandered down a half-lit side street. There were houses, but only half of them appeared to be occupied, and they had bars over their windows.

The straw cowboy hat, the denims, and the canvas shopping bag were bait. And it didn't take long to get a nibble. A car passed, then braked. Two men got out and came his way. The Bonebreaker paused and began to back away. “Hey, farm boy,” the one on the right said. “We're a little light on cash . . . How 'bout you lend us a twenty?”

“Yeah,” the guy on the left said. “And we'll pay you back in a couple of years.” Both of them laughed.

The gangbanger on the right was a tiny bit closer, so the Bonebreaker shot him first. One in the head and one in the chest. What professionals referred to as a double tap. The little bullets didn't pack much punch, but dead is dead.

Leftie, as the Bonebreaker thought of him, had good reactions. By that time the street thug had jerked the nine-mil from the waistband of his pants and was bringing it to bear. But the .22 was already on target and spitting bullets. The thug jerked spastically as six rounds hit various parts of his anatomy. Then he said, “Shit,” and fell over backwards.

The Bonebreaker had two bullets left in the magazine and waited to see if a third person would emerge from the car. None did. So he wandered about picking up empty casings until he had all eight. There hadn't been much noise, so it was possible that the locals were entirely unaware of the murders, but the Bonebreaker figured that some of them knew . . . And didn't want to get involved.

The car was in park, with the engine running. All the Bonebreaker had to do was slide in behind a ridiculously small steering wheel, grab the glowing skull, and pull the shifter
into drive. The main risk at that point was that the owner of the vehicle was wanted for something—and the police were looking for the car. But that was a chance the Bonebreaker was willing to take.

Thanks to light traffic it took an hour and seven minutes to reach the town of Nuevo on Interstate 215. And that was ten minutes less than what the Bonebreaker had expected. Nuevo wasn't much of a town and it didn't take him long to reach the Hoffler residence. The ancient double-wide was parked on a dry lot between a couple of small homes made of cinder blocks. A pickup truck was parked in the driveway though . . . And that was promising.

The Bonebreaker pulled in, killed the lights, and took a moment to refill magazine number one. Then, with a fully loaded pistol in hand, he got out of the car and crossed the street. A dog began to bark from the lot on the right—and the Bonebreaker made a mental note to keep an eye out for the animal.

Gravel crunched under the Bonebreaker's boots as he walked up the drive and paused to inspect the license plate on the back end of the truck. It appeared to be brand-new, and the numbers were different from the plate in Julio's photo.
Why?

He made his way past the truck and up to the front porch. As he stood in the spill of light from the naked bulb over his head, and rang the doorbell, the Bonebreaker could hear the sound of a TV inside. When there was no reaction he pressed the button again. “I'm coming, goddamn it,” a male voice said. “Hold your fucking horses.”

Then there was a squeal of unoiled hinges as the door opened and an old man appeared. He was about six feet tall, had at least two days' worth of stubble on his sallow cheeks, and was holding a sawed-off shotgun. It was pointed at the Bonebreaker's midriff. “Yeah?” the geezer inquired. “Who the fuck are
you
? And why do I care?”

Suddenly the Bonebreaker found himself in the unaccustomed position of being both surprised and seriously
outgunned. And judging from his attitude, and the smell of alcohol associated with him, the old man wouldn't hesitate to jerk both triggers. The Bonebreaker swallowed. “Sorry to bother you,” he said hesitantly. “I'm looking for the owner of a truck with license plate 3HUA17.”

“What the fuck for?” the old man demanded.

The conversation wasn't going the way the Bonebreaker had planned—so he was forced to improvise. “I scraped a fender on a truck with that number,” he said lamely. “And I want to pay for the damage. Are you Mr. Hoffler?”

“Yes,” the man said. “I am. You must have written the number down
before
some bastard stole my plates. I didn't notice no scrape though.”

The Bonebreaker was already backing away while holding the .22 tight against his leg. “I guess there was some sort of mix-up then. Sorry . . . Have a good evening.” And with that he turned and left.

“Shit, shit, shit,” the Bonebreaker said under his breath as he returned to the car. The imposter was still on the loose—and his best lead was in the toilet. Life sucked.

*   *   *

The lights were low, the dance music was loud, and Jennifer Baxter was sitting alone. That wasn't unusual because while Baxter had a good figure she wasn't especially pretty. “Handsome” was the adjective her mother liked to use. And Baxter felt a twinge of pain every time she heard it. Men were handsome. Horses were handsome. But girls? Never.

There had been men in her life though . . . Not a lot, but some, most of whom had been met online. But Baxter was tired of sitting in front of her computer reading carefully worded profiles. So she was at a club called Jambo's. Located on the Sunset Strip, it had a Caribbean theme and was momentarily hip. Two drinks. That was her limit. Then she'd go home. Roll call for the West Bureau's Pacific Area was at 0700, and she was always on time.

That's what Baxter was thinking about when a good-looking guy with dark brown hair made eye contact with her from a stool at the bar. He smiled, and she smiled in return. Thus encouraged, he got up and made his way over to the tiny two-person table. “Hi, can I join you?”

“Sure,” Baxter said as she wondered what was taking place. This guy was an eight and she was a six. Okay, a five-point-five . . . So she was wary.

“My name is Mike,” he said. “And you are?”

“Jennifer. But my friends call me Jenny.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Jenny,” Mike said formally. Then he smiled self-consciously. “Sorry, I'm not very good at this sort of thing.”

“Good,” Baxter said. “Neither am I. So what
are
you good at?”

“I'm a vet,” Mike said. “Not a dog-and-cat vet, although I treat some of those, but I have what's called a large-animal practice.”

“Like horses?”

“Exactly. And cows, donkeys, and a llama named Alfred. I had to hit the books in order to take care of him. Did you know that llamas evolved on the plains of North America?”

Baxter
didn't
know . . . But soon found herself laughing at Mike's vet stories and, after some prompting, told him that she was a cop. Baxter knew from previous experience that her profession was a turnoff to some—especially those who had a few grams of cocaine on them. On the other hand it was a turn-on for guys who were into S&M. They wanted her to cuff and whip them.

But Mike wasn't interested in her handcuffs or role-playing. He asked questions about her work, laughed at her cop stories, and was clearly having a good time. So they had a round of drinks. And eventually Baxter went to the ladies' room. When she returned Mike was gone. That hurt, and she was reaching for her jacket, when he returned carrying a bowl of the crispy palm fritters that Jambo's specialized
in. “I don't know about you,” he said, “but I could use something to nibble on.”

Baxter felt a sense of relief as she let go of the jacket. They talked some more, and by the time Mike suggested that they visit a bar farther up the strip, Baxter was feeling a bit woozy.
I won't have any more drinks,
she thought to herself.
But it's too early to bail out. Half an hour. Then I'll go home.

So Mike paid the tab—and they left together. “Let's take my rig,” Mike suggested. “I'll bring you back later.”

By that time, Baxter felt too dizzy to drive and was happy to accept his offer. Mike's “rig,” as he called it, was a big 4x4 pickup with a canopy on the back. “I have to carry a lot of vet gear,” he explained. “So she takes a beating.”

It required an act of will to climb up into the crew cab. And once there Baxter felt as if she was going to faint. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I don't feel . . .” Then came the long, dizzy fall into nothingness.

*   *   *

Mike saw Baxter's head slump forward onto her chest and grinned. The Zolpidem was working. But was she well and truly out? He reached over to pinch her arm. Yes, indeedy . . . Out like a light. So Mike leaned over to kiss her unresponsive lips—and to squeeze a firm breast. That was when he found the snub nosed .38 in the shoulder holster. Just like Vasquez . . . Except he wore his on his belt. The cops were still chasing their tails on that one . . . Still looking for the Bonebreaker! Mike laughed out loud.
They're so stupid,
he thought,
and as long as they keep looking for the Bonebreaker, I'll be in the clear.

Mike put the revolver in his pocket.
Who knows?
he thought.
Maybe I'll shoot her with it! Not in the head, but in an arm, or a leg.
But the fun stuff would come later. At the moment it was time to secure her wrists, her ankles, and strap her into the seat. And thanks to the truck's tinted windows, nobody would be able to see what he was doing.

Once Baxter's restraints were in place he started the engine, turned the lights on, and pulled out of the lot. Six blocks later he pulled around a corner and into a patch of shadow. It took less than five seconds to put the surgical gloves on and jump out. A couple of magnets held the stolen plates in place—and once removed they could be thrown away. Then it was a simple matter to mount the correct ones on and reenter the cab. Life was good . . . And death was even better.

*   *   *

Everyone, mutants included, had come to call the area “Freaktown.” That didn't make it right of course. But all of the efforts to rename the neighborhood had failed. And for the moment the area that catered to visiting mutants was stuck with the name. Even if it was offensive to those who had to stay there.

And in spite of the danger of being infected with
B. nosilla
, some of LA's norms chose to visit Freaktown for a variety of reasons. Some liked to visit the clubs where they could mix with mutants, some wanted to listen to a form of jazz called “Red Rag,” and some went there to eat the famously spicy freak food. And, in spite of the LAPD's continual efforts to close the brothels down, mutant prostitutes were quite popular.

So as Lee drove down the main drag she saw lots of neon. She could hear the thump, thump, thump of bass through the open window and could see the groups of people congregated around the neighborhood's most popular bars. Most of them were wearing spit masks. But spit masks with a difference. They came in all shapes and sizes and were highly personalized. So much so that no two were alike. That allowed for a high degree of anonymity as well as protecting them against
B. nosilla
. And as any cop knows, when people believe they can't be identified, they are much more likely to act out. The result being public nudity,
fistfights, and the occasional riot. And who had to try and keep the lid on? The police department, that's who—and it was a largely thankless task.