It was no big thing. The ground-floor windows were unbarred. Leaving them that way was a risk in this part of town, but he guessed the egghead yuppies who rented these cubbyholes didn't want to sit staring at iron bars all day. Besides, the fence and the dead-bolted door probably made them feel nice and safe.
He picked a window at random, punched in the pane with his elbow, cleared away the clinging shards, and climbed through. He checked his back. The parking lot was still dark and quiet. If there were any bozos with badges around here, they were asleep on the job.
The office he'd entered was filled with computers and stacks of paperan accounting firm or something. He made his way through the dark suite to the door and eased it open. The hall was empty. He saw no surveillance cameras. Easy pickings. He ought to come back sometime and rip off this place.
Doc Robin's office, on the opposite side of the corridor, was a few doors down. No problem spotting it. It was the one festooned with yellow tape warning POLICE CRIME SCENEDO NOT CROSS. He ripped down the tape and tossed it aside. The door's simple spring latch was no problem. He shimmed it open, using the doc's own credit card. Poetic freaking irony.
Inside the waiting room, he shut the door and turned on the overhead light.
There was blood on the carpet where Gomer Pyle had bled out like a stuck pig. Stuck pigthat was a good one. The sound of his own laughter was startling in the stillness.
He went into the main room, the inner sanctum, the theater of cruelty, Dr. Cameron's House of Pain. The lab where he ran through mind mazes like a trained rat earning his cheese.
In here he left the lights off. It was always possible the LAPD was watching the windows. Anyway, he didn't need much light to find the file cabinet next to the desk.
Reading the files was a different proposition. He thought about carrying stacks of them into the other room, but that would take too long. He solved the problem by rooting around on the floor by the mind-fucking machine till he found the flashlight pen Doc Robin had dropped when she took that hit to the noggin. The light still worked. He was surprised the bag-and-tag brigade hadn't snapped it upbut now that he thought about it, he realized that most likely there hadn't been any of that nerd-squad action here, after all. The lawmen already knew who their suspect was. They didn't need hairs and fibers and fingerprints. They'd got him made, and the doc sure as shit hadn't said anything to change their minds.
It got him pissed all over againbeing set up, framed, played like an amateur. He was a bona fide, genuine A-l prime, government-certified serial killer, for Christ's sake. You didn't fuck around with a serial killer. It showed a lack of respect. And when you disrespected Justin Hanover Gray, you got payback.
He opened the top drawer of the file cabinet and beamed the penlight inside. One of Doc Robin's patients had fucked with him. The dude's name was in here someplace.
He started flipping through the manila folders in alphabetical order, checking each patient. The doc had said the guy was a cop who'd killed somebody. That ought to narrow it down.
There were no likely candidates in the As. He started on the Bs. Somebody named Baroneanother con like Gray, but he wasn't no killer, just a rapist. Then there was a Berman, a paying customer with some problem called panic disorder, which Gray figured was a fancy way of saying the dude was a wuss. Billings, Jonathan. Blackmore, Katherine. Blythe, William. Brand, Alan amp;
Brand. That was the slick motherfucker who was playing this game.
He met all the criteria. He was her patient. He was a cop. And he'd killed a man.
Justifiable homicide in the line of duty, according to the official investigation. Gray figured that was bullshit. He didn't put any stock in what one cop said about another cop. All of them were busy covering for themselves and the department. They would never drop a dime on their buddy. Gray felt no resentment about that. Hell, he even admired them for it. They took care of their own.
He memorized Brand's address before replacing the file in the drawer. He'd already overstayed his welcome. Time to get back to his Firebird and pay a social call on his new friend.
Gray left the office. The door could not be locked without a key, so he just closed it, loosely reattaching the crime-scene tape. No point in advertising his visit.
He went down the hall to the outside door and cranked the handle, but the door wouldn't open. It was one of those locks that were key-operated on both sides. You needed a key to get out of the building. Goddamn fire hazard was what it was. He'd just have to go out through the window he'd used when he came in.
From an intersecting corridor came footsteps, rapid, closing.
He took a step toward the doc's office, but he didn't think he could hide in time to avoid being spotted. And the other office, the one with the busted window, was even farther away.
The stairwell. That was the ticket.
He stepped inside, careful to hold the door open a few inches so it wouldn't clang shut.
The footsteps rat-tatted closer. Now there were voices. A guy saying, "You really think this will work?" and some woman saying, "I can't be sure. It might."
Not just some woman. That was old Doc Robin herself.
Gray pursed his lips. Damn, he kept running into that bitch.
He was suddenly glad he hadn't taken refuge in the doc's office. She was headed there for sure.
"MBI can be helpful in recovering memories," she was saying. "If I relive the attack, I may be able to identify the assailant."
"Can you be sure the memory is accurate?"
"I don't know."
"Then this is just a big waste of time, isn't it?"
"If you have better things to do, don't let me keep you."
"Okay, okay, I'm only playing the role of skeptic."
"It suits you."
Sounded like the doc planned to tweak her memories with her brain machineall so she could remember who clocked her. Gray thought it would've been a lot easier if she'd just trusted him, but it seemed she wasn't the trusting kind.
He wasn't too thrilled about how things at the arcade had ended. He was pretty sure the doc had kept him talking just to buy time till her police buddies showed up. It was a betrayal, and he didn't like betrayals. He had half a mind to step out of the stairwell and pop her and her boyfriend right now.
Problem was, he recognized the guy's voice too. It was the cop who'd yelled, "Police, freeze," or whatever Jack Lord bullshit he'd been barking. That guy wasn't likely to go down easy. He'd pull out his piece and start busting caps, and all of a sudden the hallway would be the OK Corral. Gray didn't think too highly of his chances in that kind of engagement. He stayed hidden.
The footsteps stopped. "Look at this." The doc's voice. "Door was left unlocked."
"Careless."
"Damn stupid."
The cop laughed. "You can't spell slapdash without LAPD."
Gray had to admit, he kind of liked that one.
When the voices had receded and the door had closed, Gray emerged from the stairwell. He went quickly down the hall to the accountant's office or whatever it was. He hoisted himself through the window, retraced his steps to the fence, and then it was up and over and back to the alley. He cranked the Firebird's engine and reversed into the street.
Alan Brand lived in Hollywood. Gray could be there in twenty minutes.
It was impolite to drop in without calling ahead, but he was sure the sarge would understand.
Chapter Forty-eight
Robin flicked on the overhead light in her office and took a look around. Her computers, left running after the attack, had powered down automatically to standby mode after an hour of inactivity. The MBI appliance was on the floor where Gray must have tossed it after unbuckling himself from the chair. She was glad the police hadn't confiscated the unit. She only hoped it hadn't been damaged in the fall.