Taking Liberty (24 page)

___________________________

“Breathe, Gabe, or you’ll force me to give you mouth-to-mouth.”

I gave Tim a
back off and rethink
scowl. Poured scalding coffee over my tinder-dry throat. Didn’t feel it going down.

I’d seen those exact same words scrawled on the mirror in Westbrook’s hotel room in Kodiak –
in George’s room
– written by Cornsilk’s homicidal hand. Seeing them again here could only mean one thing: Snakeskin had killed in Hollywood. No other way to explain it. He’d burned somebody to death on a crowded street at the height of the business day. Everything caught on camera.

I knew the connection. But how had Tim made it?

He saw the question bubbling its way through my scorched larynx and reached to a stack of mail at the end of the counter. “I wouldn’t have given the videos a second thought, if I hadn’t seen this first.” He picked up a postcard from the top and handed it over.

“You read my mail?”

“It’s a postcard,” he countered. “It’s not marked top secret.”

I looked at the glossy picture on the front. It was a panoramic cityscape taken at night from an aerial viewpoint. A necklace of illuminated hotels encrusted with jewels, with a taller structure in the foreground. A sweeping concrete column with big glass observation windows reflecting the night-time neon. There was a splash of text across the image:
Stratosphere, Las Vegas.

The tar in my belly turned to pitch.

Showdown with
The Undertaker
.

A cold Nevada night at the wrong end of January. The tallest tower west of the Mississippi. A thousand foot above the glittery Las Vegas Strip. After a week chasing a psychic serial killer, I’d come face to face with my son, and my whole world had fallen from a great height. George had abducted my new police partner, Jamie Garcia, and my old FBI friend, Bill Teague. Taken them hostage. In a crazy twist to make me feel his pain, George had blasted away one of the big windows with Jamie’s gun and then thrown her out into the gaping maw. He’d attempted to do the same with Bill. But Sonny Maxwell of the Metro PD had shot him twice from behind. George had fallen through the deadly hole, taking Bill down with him. Miraculously, I’d managed to grab hold of Bill, pulling him to safety as George had fallen away, seemingly to his death. I’d made a split second decision. Saving Bill had meant killing my boy. I’d learned later that George had survived. He’d BASE jumped to safety. Gotten his wounds patched up. Promised me my pain had only just begun.

I turned the postcard over. Saw my name and address written on the reverse, in red marker, together with the words:

THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT

“When did this arrive?”

“Beginning of last week – a few days before the videos went viral.”

“And you just happened to be surfing YouTube at the time they were all uploaded?”

Tim made a hurt expression. “I don’t think I like your tone, Gabriel.”

“And I don’t like the fact you broke into my home, Timothy. Get over it; I did.”

He chewed some cheek, then said: “This won’t work if you resent my being here. I really do appreciate your charity. I’m more than happy to pay my way. But you’ve got to stop with the guilt trip.”

“It’s been a long couple of days.”

“Besides, there’s no big mystery here. A friend of mine works the afternoon shift at the Hard Rock. He was running an errand when the human torch decided to go nuclear. That second video, he shot it on his cell. Called me up afterwards. As soon as I saw those words, I remembered I’d already seen them on this postcard, and emailed you right away. Only you didn’t read my emails.”

“Let me see the rest of the videos.”

Tim queued them up on the media player, then set about making a fresh jug of hot black.

Except for the video shot by Tim’s friend, the other four were all filmed from the same side of the street, but from slightly different perspectives. Three started with the guy already ablaze and pretty much told the same story as the first two.

The fourth was different.

It didn’t even begin with its attention on the guy in the Santa suit. It was a longer clip. A typical tourist capture – sweeping up and down the street and randomly zooming in and out as it took in the various sights of Hollywood Boulevard. More than a minute passed by before I spotted the guy in the Santa suit appear in the crowd, walking directly toward the camera. He was already drawing attention as he cut a swathe through the crowds, elbowing people aside and eliciting terse retorts. I watched him take up his position on the sidewalk, then reach down and pull a cord attached to the edge of the sandwich board. Sparks began to fly. The crowds all turned to face the display, forming a six-deep semi-circle around him. They pointed their smart phones, going starry-eyed as the sparks showered the sidewalk. I saw him pull another cord and that’s when everything went up in smoke. The video jerked as the crowds withdrew instinctively. The
ooh’s
and
ah’s
turned to screams and holy exclamations. Within a heartbeat, the guy in the Santa suit was completely enveloped in seething flames.

I stopped the playback and skipped right back to the point where the recording had switched to a westward view down Hollywood Boulevard. Centered the image to where I’d pictured the guy first appearing in the crowd, then pinched the screen until it was zoomed in to the max.

“Seen something?” Tim asked as he placed a coffee cup on the counter next to me.

“I’m not sure. Maybe.”

I was interested in seeing where the guy in the Santa suit had come from. He hadn’t just materialized on Hollywood Boulevard with a heavy sandwich board. And no one could have walked very far in those cumbersome Santa boots. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe Snakeskin had given him a ride – in which case, maybe there was a vehicle and a plate number, and possibly a lead.

Big blurry heads moved across the screen.

The zoom exaggerated the camera shake, making it difficult to watch. Through a gap, I spied the guy in the Santa suit and hit the
pause
icon.

He was barely a fleck of red and white, with only his upper half visible above a fuzzy landscape of blurred bodies. He appeared to be standing on the street corner outside Madame Tussauds, facing the opposite corner. No sign of the sandwich board. I rewound the recording by just a few seconds and ran it again. Indistinct shapes shifted across the screen. Then I was presented with the same glimpse of him standing on the street corner. The person shooting the footage hadn’t caught him in the frame prior to this point. I let the recording resume. The image jiggled about, affected by the shooter’s movements. I saw the guy in the Santa suit raise a hand – maybe in a wave – right before the camera angle shifted and the out-of-focus crowds blotted him completely out. I waited, watching, hardly breathing. Several long seconds later, the shapes parted to reveal big red words coming toward the camera:

THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT

I pinched the screen and zoomed out a little, just enough to reveal the guy in the Santa suit in full. Paused it.

His face was masked by the fluffy white beard and low-quality camera-work. No way to make a positive ID. He looked about six foot and of average build. No identifying features other than the fake portly belly and maybe a wisp of blond hair sticking out from beneath the Santa hat. On the outside, the sandwich board looked ordinary enough. But it had been packed with pyrotechnics, designed to maximize attention. Hollywood Boulevard was a busy place at that time of day, I knew. Hundreds of people milling about, all spellbound as the real fireworks had kicked in and engulfed the guy in flames.

Snakeskin had burned him alive and in public, without actually striking the match himself. I wanted to know why.

“He had an accomplice,” Tim said. “didn’t he?”

I nodded. “Reckon so. What did the police say about this?”

“Nothing special. I knew it was significant, so I asked around. As far as I could determine, the LAPD put it down to an accident and chalked it up as a stunt gone wrong.”

“And what do you think, Tim?”

His too-close-together eyes widened. “The great Celebrity Cop’s asking my opinion?”

“Don’t blow it.”

“All right. I’ll take it under advertisement.”

“Advisement.”

“That’s what I said. Okay, let’s look at the facts. You received a postcard with the same phrase on it that later showed up on some guy torching himself to death in public. Want to know what I think?”

“That’s what I’m waiting to hear, yes.”

“It isn’t the work of chance. He wanted you to make the connection. He wanted you to sit up and take notice.”

“Who?”

“The guy who set this poor sap up. The accomplice. Gary Cornsilk. See, Gabe, I’m not as stupid as I look.”

___________________________

I wasn’t sure about his last statement, but I was sure Tim had seen more than he was admitting to.

He saw my reaction and made a
brakes-on
gesture. “Jeez Louise. Relax. I haven’t been stalking you, if that’s what you think.”

“That’s not what I’m thinking, Tim. I’m thinking you’ve watched more than Hope’s copy of My Best Friend’s Wedding. You’ve seen the video of Hives being burned alive, haven’t you?”

He made a blameless face. “What do you want me to say? You didn’t exactly leave me with much in the way of choice. It was in the DVD player when I moved in. Imagine my surprise when I accidentally came across this Hives guy going up in flames.”

I pushed back on the breakfast bar chair. “Exactly how did you connect Cornsilk to his snuff movie?”

“I’m a detective, remember? I’m good at my job. Like when I connected Gus Reynolds to the Piano Wire Murders.”

“Tim, Gus Reynolds was an innocent bystander, who died because we chased after him and because I was crazy enough to buy into your off-the-wall conspiracy theories.”

If Tim was offended by my challenge, he didn’t show it. “You mean because Melody Seeger deliberately ran over him. That’s what really happened that night, Gabe. You were set up. We were set up. Seeger had her sights on you from the second you set foot in LA. She was working with The Maestro, silencing anyone they thought could give their game away. You’ve got to stop blaming yourself for things outside your scope of effluence.”

“Influence,” I corrected.

“Yeah, well, it’s all a piece of crap whichever way you look at it.” He rested his big forearms on the counter. “As for Cornsilk, I asked Wayne Stuber.”

“Who’s Wayne Stuber?”

“Your friend from Winston’s. The guy with the dreadlocks and the miserable mug.”

“Dreads?” I realized in ten years I’d never learned his real name. Dreads had always preferred it that way. After all, I was a cop and he was antiestablishment.

“I’ve known Wayne for years,” Tim continued. “I dated his older brother for a while. Cute kid with great glutes. He had this way of dislocating his hips so that he could –” He saw my disapproving frown and caught himself. “Anyway, his family still live in the neighborhood, out by the elementary school? I knew about the agreement between you and Wayne, and so I worked it to my favor. I convinced him we were working together.”

“And he coughed up the whole enchilada, just like that?”

“Only about Cornsilk. He didn’t betray you, if that’s what you’re worried about. At first he didn’t want to play ball. Then I explained he wasn’t covered by data protection or client confidentiality, and that the three of us were all on the same side.”

In August, Dreads had unearthed Cornsilk’s FBI discharge papers, after Cornsilk had tried blowing up Jack’s Sanibel home with me inside. Months later, Tim had told Dreads about the guy with the melted face he’d seen on the DVD in my player. He’d given Tim the information, thinking he was helping me out.

“So I know all about Gary Cornsilk. Dumb shmuck. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out he’s the one behind the human torch.”

“He came after me in Florida,” I said.

Tim’s face was a picture. I proceeded to tell him about the car bomb and the booby-trap setup in Jack’s place. I didn’t mention my exploits in Alaska – no need, not yet.

A glance at the wall clock told me it was four hours past my bedtime. Institutionalized. “I need sleep,” I yawned.

“Any objections to my finishing the romcom?”

“Knock yourself out.”

Tim headed down to the basement. I made my way to the living room and fell into the couch. Pulled one of Hope’s crocheted throws over my tired frame. It smelled of Jasmine and kindled memories of happier times.

I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling.

I had a head full of hornets. Their collective buzz sounding like flames searing into flesh, cracking and crackling.

I was home.

But it didn’t feel like home anymore.

In the past two years, my life had been turned upside down and crushed flat by the weight of loss. My wife had died and now my son was dead. Half my family gone and what was left of it in ruins. This place used to be alive with the shouts of teenagers, the thunder of music, the weary complaints of parents. Now it was silent. Dead. All those happy memories vacuumed up and dumped in the trash.

I sniffed at the throw.

Tim had done a great job sprucing the place up, but to me it felt like a tomb. I could feel the ceiling pressing down. The master bedroom lay directly above. The scene of two terrible crimes against two women in my life. One had died and one had left me for dead. I hadn’t been upstairs properly since finding Eleanor Zimmerman wired to the bed at the hands of
The Maestro
. Not sure I ever wanted to again.

Sooner or later I’d have to put the place on the market.

There was no way Tim could crash here indefinitely.

I wasn’t even sure I could.

I took out my phone and dialed Rae’s number. I didn’t know why, other than to sate a seed of an obsession. She answered after a dozen rings. The lilt of her voice helped deaden the buzzing in my brain.

“Gabe?” She sounded sleepy and rightly so. “Is everything okay?”

“Just missing you,” I confessed.

“Already? That’s so sweet. Damn you, Gabriel Quinn. I’m missing you, too.” I heard her giggle, softly, sleepily. “Listen to us. We’re regular sad examples of middle-aged teenagers.”

“I spoke with Stone.”

“I thought you might.”

“We came to an understanding.”

“That’s promising. Really, a good thing, Gabe. I know y’all have your differences and all. But he has your best interests at heart. I know he does. I’m glad y’all worked something out. He speaks favorably of you. He holds you in high regard.”

“You’d never guess so.”

“Forgive him; he’s a proud Yorkshire man. Stiff upper lip and all that, I guess. Bless his soul, he really does care. I told him about Alaska.”

“He said. He also knows about George.”

“Gabe . . .”

I listened to her breathing, used it to regulate my own. My heart was skipping beats for all the wrong reasons.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Rae, you don’t need to say anything,” I said. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

“Where are you?”

“Home.”

“Me, too.”

“Where?”

“A nice little house overlooking the ocean, just off Sunset. An inheritance and a fixer-upper,” she added before I could ask how she’d afforded Pacific Palisades.

“At a push, I can be there in thirty minutes.”

I was tired, exhausted, but I’d run on hormones, all the way to Rae’s bedside, without a second thought.

“Gabe, I’d like that. Be careful. But please do rush.”