The Pressure of Darkness (14 page)

Gina smiled broadly, but her voice was thin and reedy when she spoke. "Shit. You're starting to scare me, Red."

Burke exited the coffee shop, whistling. He shaded his eyes against the morning sunshine. Out in the parking lot, he dawdled like a man delaying the inevitable freeway commute. A pregnant woman followed a moment later. She was black, with straightened hair in short braids. She carried a large, woven handbag. The woman marched to a Honda Accord at the end of the lot and seemed to be looking for her keys. Burke watched from his car then started the engine. He drove out of the lot and around the corner. He paused on a surface street, got out and went around to the trunk as if about to open it.

The black woman drove past without looking.

He followed her. He stayed four cars back, risked a change to the right lane along the way. They passed under the freeway at Victory and she continued east, chain smoking. Burke was patient and stayed quite a ways behind. Several long blocks later she pulled into the parking lot of a Target store, grabbed a shopping cart and bumped along the cement until inside. Burke drove on, still undecided. If he was being tailed he'd just signaled that he was aware of it. If the lady was a civilian, no harm done, because only a pro could have spotted his moves.

Burke doubled back on Victory and returned to his office. He took the stairs two at a time and let himself in. The morning sunshine was painfully bright. He closed the blinds, swung his feet up on the desk and opened the Stryker file for another look. He had been to the crime scene now—smelled it, stepped it off, soaked it up; that fact altered how he experienced the photographs the third time around. They were still stomach-churning.

Looking them over, Burke could almost hear muffled howls of pain, reverberations of the cries Stryker would have emitted through the chewed piece of cloth used as a gag. He could smell the stench of scorched, cauterized flesh and the explosive reek of fecal matter, dried blood, and intestinal fluids that finally poured out into that hideously stained bathtub.

Burke closed his eyes, remembered the suite again, and then arranged the photographs in order.

FIFTEEN

Burke imagined himself as Peter Stryker. He stumbled from the couch to the bathroom. In his mind he placed the small mirror on the tub fixture. He got into the tub with ruined hands, sat on those silly duck decals, and then with those burned and bleeding fingers somehow managed to open his stomach and watch as his own intestines flowed out. The light faded out and he died, one deluded mind shrieking in incomprehensible agony . . .

Burke opened his eyes again. He shuffled through the file to the text section Doc had printed out. He flipped back through the pages and read them from the top once, then all the way through again, then backwards. He blinked his eyes, lowered the rest of the blinds and sat cross-legged on the floor. He slowed his heartbeat and concentrated on one point of color within his eyelids. He brought it closer, moved it further away, all the while breathing deeply. He relaxed his conscious mind so that his unconscious could better communicate. Something had been nagging at him. He wanted it to surface.

The floor fell away, and that small area of the brain known to separate 'self' from 'other' dimmed. Jack Burke was soon sitting in empty space and felt he
was
nothing but empty space. His breathing continued unabated, untended; the mind emptied itself and there was only white noise over endless silence. Burke was vaguely aware of footsteps in the hallway outside his office door, moving down the hall, but nothing else. The footsteps faded.

Then Nicole Stryker's voice replayed itself:
"You may find women's clothing, religious artifacts, and all manner of strangeness."

But Burke had seen only rows of gray or blue Armani suits with white shirts, plain ties, and black dress shoes. And although there had been a number of works on comparative religion and other subjects on the shelves near Stryker's bed, he'd not seen any religious artifacts.

The telephone rang. Burke hopped to his feet and answered.

"You want fast, brother? I'll show you fast."

"Hey, Doc. What's up?"

"This ain't real specific, understand. Just the best I can do on my equipment inside of an hour. I'll have a more detailed analysis later on today or tomorrow morning."

"That is outrageous, Doc. Thanks."

"Luke Parker over at the lab owes me a solid. I told him he sneaks this stuff through, I'll let that favor slide."

"Appreciate it."

He heard a slight whirring sound as Doc positioned the wheelchair. Burke sat down at the desk, located a pen to make a note to leave for Gina. He scribbled 'Doc says' and waited.

"We got your garden variety carpet fibers, higher grade than usual like they use in really cool hotels. The carpet has been recently cleaned, got serious traces of shampoo on the top third or so. Standard dirt and crap you would expect if it was a motel or a hotel; nothing looks too out of the ordinary at this stage, anyway. Do I dare ask where this came from?"

"A classy hotel."

"Uh oh."

"Doc, relax. It's from the other side of the doorway adjoining the suite next door."

Doc blew out some breath and chuckled. "I saw my career flashing before my eyes there for a minute. Okay, anyway, like I said there is nothing all that out of the ordinary, except for one thing."

"What's that?"

"If it's from the door adjoining the suite next door, this is a little weird. I found some traces of baby powder, probably a name brand."

Burke grunted. "Yeah, but that's likely mine. I used some on my hands."

"Ah. And I probably don't want to know why."

"That's right, you don't."

"Okay, chief. You can keep that part to yourself."

"Thanks, Doc. And like I said, I appreciate the rush."

"No sweat. I'm on this case file all day today anyway."

"Why is that?"

"Beats me, Red. The Assistant ME called. He wants this sucker bagged and tagged ASAP and I shouldn't stop for lunch."

Burke was puzzled. "They're closing it up already?"

"Like yesterday. It's a suicide, open and shut."

"That's weird." Burke shook his head. "I don't get it. Does Scotty know about this?"

Doc had already changed focus. He was typing something, practiced fingers clacking along the worn plastic. "Scotty knows. In fact, he called me and said to rush it up so he can close out his report. Later."

"Later."

Burke sat quietly, finally listening to his hunch. It grew and expanded. He turned on a desk lamp and went back through the papers again, speed-reading everything that related to the crime scene. One more look at the gruesome photographs, but this time through a magnifying glass. He searched the prints of the disemboweled body in the bathtub and then he paused, short hairs rising. His dark eyes flickered with excitement. Burke spun in his chair and turned on the desktop. He impatiently rapped his knuckles on the desk as it booted up.

Moments later, Burke sent a short e-mail to Doc's personal address with a bcc to Gina at her home: "One clue may be page 18, paragraph 2, line 2, and photo marked CS37." He speed-dialed Scott Bowden's office, but the machine answered. He considered the situation for a moment, made an independent decision and locked his office door from the inside. The blinds were still drawn.

He opened the storage closet, removed the broom and dustpan and opened a disguised wooden panel.

Several firearms hung inside, all unlicensed and untraceable. There were two SIG 9mm handguns from Switzerland, the P210 (widely regarded as one of the world's finest pistols) and the SIG P220, which was a smaller knock-off; Burke selected the P220. It was somewhat lighter at 750g and carried nine rounds in the butt clip rather than eight. He checked the clip and slid the gun into the back of his belt. He locked up the closet and then the office and left.

His meditation had lasted longer than he'd realized. It was nearing lunchtime. Burke trotted down the wooden stairs, paused at the bottom before stepping out into the crowded parking lot. He searched with his eyes and caught a cigarette butt as it sailed out of a parked Dodge sedan and splattered orange sparks onto the pavement. He shaded his eyes, squinted and saw several butts in a pile near the vehicle. Burke emerged from the dark stairwell and walked briskly toward the parked Dodge, eyes locked on the dark form of the smoker in the driver's seat. His blood was up and the pistol dug urgently into the skin of his back like a living thing.

The door opened and the driver stepped out. It was Scotty Bowden. Burke relaxed when Bowden smiled and waved. Scotty walked toward him and they met near a parked blue BMW convertible with vanity plates. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked tired and smelled like vodka and tomato juice. "What the fuck you doing up there, beating off? I tried your door and it was locked."

Burke shrugged and smiled. "I was meditating. I thought I heard somebody go by but you didn't knock."

"I've been on the job too long to knock quietly," Scotty said. "And I didn't want to scare the shit out of your neighbors by kicking the door in."

"You look like hell."

"Yeah, I was up all night."

Burke winked, gesture forced. "Women or work?"

"We keep losing homeless dudes downtown and now everybody's on my ass about it."

"Any bodies?"

"Not yet, just MP's."

"You still think it's no big thing?"

"Hell, man, homeless means they got nowhere to live. So why the hell would they stay in one place for very long? And some of them are bound to end up dead."

"Yeah, you're probably right."

Bowden yawns. "I generally am."

"And you're humble, too." Burke scanned the parking lot, looked back again. He arched an eyebrow. "So what's up, Scotty? You making house calls these days?"

Bowden scratched at his perennial five o'clock shadow. "Just wanted to check in with you, see how that case I tossed you was going. You about wrapped up?"

Something about the question was forced, weighted with subtext. Burke decided to lie. "Yeah, just about, I'd say."

"Good," Scotty said with relief. "I've got a bunch of shit on my desk to get rid of, including the Stryker thing, and if there's going to be any problems I'd need a big heads-up. You'd tell me if there was, pal, right?"

"Sure."

"Hey, the DA wants to close the sucker down soonest. He even leaned on my boss a bit, and well, I'm kind of on thin ice these days, you know? Nothing really juicy, you understand, but I've got a couple of things in my jacket and I don't need anybody upstairs pissed off at me."

"I understand."

Scotty slapped a palm on his shoulder. Burke went hollow. "I knew you would, old buddy. Knew I could count on you. So when will you be giving that Stryker bitch your report?"

"In a day or two, most likely," Burke answered. "We've got a couple of loose ends to tie up first, but I don't see anything to worry about."

"Good, good." Scotty fished in his jacket pocket, produced some breath spray and anointed his tonsils. "Well, I'd best be getting back to work, then. Uh, you plan to copy me on that report?"

Burke, innocent. "I hadn't planned on it. You want me to?"

"If you don't mind. There's no need for her to know."

"Okay, but why?"

Scotty blinked. "Just to put my mind at ease. You know how it is, you were on the job. We want to be on top of everything."

Burke felt concern for Scotty, but did not want to tip his hand. "I'll keep you in the loop. You can count on me."

"I know."

Burke watched as Bowden walked back to the unmarked Dodge. The too-small clothes, poor haircut, and growing bald spot on the back of the head suddenly made Scotty seem pathetic. Burke waved as Bowden started the car. Scotty gunned the engine like a mock drag racer and drove away without looking back. Burke opened his cell phone.

Thirty minutes later he was in Nicole Stryker's living room.

"What's so important, Mr. Burke, that it couldn't wait for me to finish my tennis lesson?" Nicole was wearing tight white shorts and a halter-top. She smelled of sweat and sunscreen. He found the combination intoxicating.

Burke flopped down on the couch and bent forward. "I'm sorry, Nicole." Then, as gently as possible: "I don't believe your father committed suicide. I think he was murdered."

He watched her face carefully. As the implications of his statement slowly dawned on her, she stumbled slightly to one side before sinking into the armchair.
If she is acting, she's a damned fine performer
. She swallowed and nodded.

"So someone . . ."

"Tortured him to death. Yes."

"But who, and why?"

Burke shook his head. "At this point, I haven't the slightest idea. Our work is just beginning."

Her face hardened. "I see. And how much money do you need to continue the investigation, Mr. Burke?"

She has a genius for pissing me off,
Burke thought. But he said: "I'm not trying to con you out of more money here. What we have already agreed upon is fine. I'm telling you now because we may be in for some problems, that's all."

"Problems? Explain."

The bitch was back. Burke elected to tell her part of the truth. "I think your father knew something and had something. I think someone was willing to kill him for it. And as it turns out, I am not the only one who is poking around in his things." He explained about the intruder in her father's mansion, the missing papers. "Nicole, do you have any idea what might have been on those documents?"

She frowned. "My father had many hobbies, Mr. Burke, as I told you. He loved word games. He had been to medical school, he studied witchcraft and religion and even some dead languages."

"I know."

"My guess is that those missing papers could have had something to do with any one or all of those things."

Burke got to his feet. "Let's go. I want you to take me through your father's house."

"Now? But why?"

"Because I need you to tell me, if you can, whether or not those papers were the only things taken."