Victims (37 page)

I thought about his victims.

The broad, pale disk that had been the final image searing so many people’s retinas before the lights went out for good.

Petra was good at maintaining composure but Huggler’s request had startled her and she frowned and turned her back on all of us and looked up at the gorgeous sky. Pulling some gum from her purse, she chewed hard. Extended an arm in my direction and offered me a stick.

I took it. When I beared down to masticate, my entire face exploded in pain.

Every muscle and nerve on full-fire, it had been a while since they’d relaxed.

Milo looked at his watch, then at Huggler’s shoe. The rag had bloodied some more but Huggler’s color was decent, no sign of shock.

“Feel okay?”

Huggler nodded. “Your hands are strong.”

“Had to be to deal with you, Grant.”

“It’s always worked before,” said Huggler, puzzled. “Oh, well.”

Camarillo EMTs strapped him onto a full-restraint gurney. The local detective was a white-haired man named Ramos who told the driver to wait as he approached Milo. He slid from distrust to professional curiosity to camaraderie as Milo explained the situation.

“Guess you did us a favor. How many victims we talking about?”

“At least six, probably more.”

“A situation,” said Ramos. “Been doing this thirty years, never had anything like it.”

“You don’t have to have it now,” said Milo. “Unless you’ve got some masochistic urge to complicate your life.”

“You want to handle all of it.”

“We started it, we’re ready to finish. Paperwork alone’s gonna be a full-time job.”

Ramos grinned and pulled out a hard-pack of Winstons. Milo accepted the offer of a cigarette and the two of them smoked.

“You’re making a point,” said Ramos. “So what, we patch him up and ship him back to you in a Brink’s truck?”

“A cage would be better.” Milo touched the right side of his face. We still hadn’t made eye contact and I’d stayed a few inches behind him so as not to push the issue.

Ramos said, “I’ll check with my boss but he’s a lazy type, can’t see there being any problem.”

“Whatever works,” said Milo. “The legal eagles are gonna be on this, our people will call your people.”

“We’ll do lunch,” said Ramos. “Half a dozen bodies, huh? I’m figuring I should send someone in the ambulance with the asshole. Just be careful.” He glanced at the ambulance. “First impression, he looks like a nerd. The kid who never got chose for baseball.”

“Part of his charm.”

“He’s charming, huh?”

“Not in the least.”

Ramos chuckled. “Now I got a new worst thing. Before this, it was
a case I picked up thirty-nine months ago. Woman shot her kid in the head because he was mouthing off. Just picked up a gun and drilled him, I’m talking a twelve-year-old. She looked like a schoolteacher.” He glanced at the ambulance. “This is a whole different thing. You’re doing me a favor.”

He waved a paramedic over.

Ramos said, “I’m coming with you.” Beckoning a tall, husky cop. “Officer Baakeland, too.”

“Tight fit,” said the EMT.

“We’ll survive,” said Ramos. “That’s the point. Hey, who’s that?”

“Animal Control,” said Milo.

Ramos looked over at the still-sleeping dogs. “Oh, yeah, for them. Too bad they can’t talk.”

Gaining access to the tunnel proved tricky. With no evidence any crime had been committed on the premises, John Nguyen said a warrant was probably required.

Milo said, “Probably?”

“Gray area. With something like this you err on the side of caution.”

“John—”

“Your only alternative is to contact whoever owns the property and get consent.”

“That’s a development firm.”

“Then that’s who you contact.”

Sea Line Development was joint-headquartered in Newport Beach and Coral Gables, Florida. No one answered at either office, same for an 888 “emergency” number. Milo left a message, walked over to the mouth of the tunnel opening, squatted and stuck his head in, and got back on his feet. “Too dark, can’t see a thing.”

I said, “They removed the hatch but there’s got to be an inner door not too far down.”

He phoned Nguyen again. “Can’t reach the owners. Got a recommendation for a judge?”

“The usual suspects.”

No answers at four usually cooperative jurists. A fifth said, “Camarillo? Get someone local.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“What?” said the judge. “I look like a referral agency?”

Milo took out Rudy Borchard’s card, punched the number. Cursed viciously and clicked off. “No one answers their own damn phones anymore. Next week robots are scheduled to wipe our asses.”

Talking in my presence but not to me.

Petra said, “It’ll work out.”

“Easy for you to say, you’re cute and thin.”

He trudged to the car, got back in. When I slipped into the passenger seat he pretended to sleep. His phone rang and he waited a while to answer.

“Yes, Maria … yes, that’s true. Yes, I’ve talked to them and it’s all ours … why? Because it is … whatever, Maria.”

He ended the conversation. The phone rang again. He turned it off. Went back to fake-sleep.

I got out of the car.

Petra came over, stuck her head in, sniffed. “Smells like a kennel.”

Milo opened his eyes. “Next time I’ll use a better deodorant.”

She said, “Speaking of scent, that dirt clearing looks awfully clean. What do you think about bringing in a cadaver pooch?”

“Soon as we get the damn warrant.”

She turned to me. “This feels weird. A huge one gets closed and we end up sitting around.”

“Let’s do something, then—put up some tape.”

“Around the hole or the entire clearing?”

“How much tape do you have?”

“Not enough.”

Milo’s phone played Mendelssohn. He said, “Damn pencil-pushers,” and switched to conference. “What now?”

A deep male voice said, “Pardon?”

“Who’s this?”

“My name is Norm Pettigrew and I’m returning Lieutenant Sturgis’s call.”

“Sturgis here. You’re with Sea Line?”

“Vice president and coordinator of operations. What can I do for you?”

Milo told him.

Pettigrew said, “Incredible. We had no idea anyone was squatting. Or that there was even a tunnel. We thought we had all of those sealed.”

“Looks like the grass was cleared to gain access.”

“How would anyone know to do that, Lieutenant? And why?”

“Good question,” said Milo, lying easily.

Pettigrew said, “Well, by all means go down there, do whatever you need to do.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Obviously, Lieutenant, we’d prefer if Sea Line wasn’t linked to any of this.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“Let me be more specific,” said Pettigrew. “Any encumbrances that can be avoided would be highly appreciated. Have you ever been to Laguna Beach?”

“A while back, sir.”

“We’ve got a project there. High-end condos with ocean views. A couple of the demos are fully furnished and livable and suitable for short-term usage. In your case, being a devoted public servant capable of providing security, I’m sure we can reach an agreement. You and the missus for a weekend. If you enjoy yourselves, two weekends. We’ve got a great Italian restaurant about to open.”

“Sounds great.”

“Sea Shore Villas,” said Pettigrew. “That’s the name of the project. Call me personally, I’ll set it up.”

“Thank you, sir. And thanks for permission to search.”

“Oh, sure. I mean it, about Laguna. Come and enjoy the ocean on us.”

The line went dead.

Petra said, “Last thing anyone offered me was a hit of crank if I didn’t bust him.”

“You like the beach?”

“You don’t?”

“Too damn peaceful … okay, kids, let’s spelunk.”

CHAPTER
43

I
nches below the hole was a steel ladder that descended ten feet and planted us on a square of concrete with barely enough space for the three of us to stand. A bulb in a wire cage was screwed into the ceiling. The tunnel continued to the left, a cement-lined tube barely taller than Milo. A circular steel hatch like the one Borchard had showed us blocked further exploration. This one responded to the slightest tug before hissing open.

We passed through another twenty feet of vacant passage. No obvious ventilation but the tunnel was cool, dry, surprisingly pleasant. No smell of death, not much odor at all but for occasional wisps of mold and raw rock and, as we kept going, burgeoning human perspiration.

Milo and Petra both had their flashlights in hand but didn’t need to turn them on; caged bulbs were set every five steps, bathing the tunnel in hard yellow light from hospital days, old wires forgotten, but still active. The floor was free of debris, swept clean like the clearing. Another circular hatch appeared, left wide open.

A room appeared to the right, fifteen or so square feet.

An old porcelain sign lettered in Gothic was bolted into the stone wall.
Hospital Storage, Non-Perishables Only. Stack Neatly
.

On the floor were two futons, rolled up precisely. Between them sat twin dressers still stickered with IKEA labels. The chest on the left bore a battery-op digital clock, two pairs of cheap reading glasses, a tube of lubricant, a box of tissues, three hardcover books:
Introduction to Psychology, Abnormal Psychology, Consultations in Forensic Psychology
. Three drawers contained a modest assortment of men’s clothing, size S. Laundry tickets were pinned to several items. A cedar freshener had been placed in each compartment.

The stand on the right was piled high with softcover books, four stacks, at least twenty per pile. Crosswords, anagrams, sudoku, sum doku, word search, brain-teasers, kakuro, anacrostics. Drawers below contained sweats, T-shirts, boxers, and tube socks, size XL.

An adjoining room, smaller, colder, contained two chemical portatoilets, one clean, the other reeking. Gallon water bottles were lined up against a wall. A card table was piled with folded white towels. Bulk rolls of toilet paper still in cellophane sat nearby. Off to the side, two cardboard cartons of cookies, bread, cereal, beef jerky, canned spaghetti and chili shared space with three bags of generic dry dog food.

“Keeping house,” said Petra. “Cozy.”

I noticed something behind the tallest stack of provisions, pointed it out.

Milo drew out a brown cardboard pizza delivery box. Pristine, unopened, printed with the image of a portly, gleeful mustachioed chef.

Lotta taste
.

Ooh la la
.

Three identical cartons were pinioned against the wall by cans and cases.

We returned to the tunnel, passed through a third hatch. The passageway ended at a final room. A Gothic sign said
No Further Entry
.

Petra tapped the rear stone wall to which the message had been bolted. “Kind of redundant.”

Milo said, “Some sign contractor probably greased palms.”

“My Lieutenant,” she said, though he wasn’t, “sage but so cynical.”

Milo stepped into the final room, approached the sole piece of furniture. Bare-topped desk, stickered like the end tables.

Muttering, “Doing what they could for the Swedish economy,” he slid the top drawer open.

Inside was paper. A detective’s treasure.

Check stubs documented a variety of welfare and disabilities payments from the State of California, Santa Barbara and Ventura Counties, mailed regularly to a Malibu post office box near Carbon Beach and cashed promptly at a nearby Bank of America. Totals varied from twelve hundred to nearly twice that amount.

The recipient:
Lewisohn Clark
.

Petra said, “Some moniker. Sounds like the millionaire on Gilligan.”

“Say it out loud,” I said.

She did. “Oh.”

Milo said, “Lewis and Clark.”

I said, “Master explorers.”

A separate collection of stubs revealed monthly payments of $3,800.14 sent to the same P.O.B. A recent letter from the state pension board announced that an automatic cost-of-living increase would add just under a hundred eighty bucks to next month’s installment.

The recipient:
Sven Galley
.

Milo checked his pad. “Harrie used his own damn Social Security number.”

Petra said, “Guess not everyone’s curious.”

She inspected a stub. “Svengali.” Her jawline sharpened. “I’m glad he’s dead.”

A dark green simulated alligator box beneath the receipts told a new story.

Faded Polaroids of women, young, trussed, terrified. The same terrible sequence for each: rope around neck, fear-frozen eyes, lifeless eyes, gaping mouth.

Underneath the photos were articles printed off the Internet. Missing girls, eight of them, the cases arranged chronologically.

The first victim, a college student at UC Santa Cruz, had vanished ten years ago during a Carmel vacation. The most recent, a sixteen-year-old runaway from New Hampshire, had been last seen five months ago, hitchhiking on Ocean Avenue not far from the Santa Monica Pier.

It didn’t take long to match the photos.