He arranged for a female beat cop to deliver a set of Wendy’s clothes to her hospital room, then ordered the staff at Cedars-Sinai to restrict access to that wing of the medical center. He was no longer concerned about the Gryphon, but he wanted no one from the media sneaking into Wendy’s room to wangle a secret interview or snap a photo of her in bed.
At daybreak the blaze on the mountain was declared to be “confined and controlled,” though not yet extinguished. The task force would not be permitted to examine the wreckage for at least another hour. Delgado took the opportunity to drive to Cedars-Sinai and look in on Wendy. She was pale and thin, her hands bandaged, her eyes too large for her face. He thought she was lovely.
He wanted to hold her in his arms, but he contented himself with merely taking her hand lightly in his. For now, that was enough. For now.
Smiling slightly, pleased to find himself in a world where the Gryphon was dead and Wendy Alden was alive, Delgado arrived at the 2100 block of Nichols Canyon Road. He threaded his Caprice through a corridor of parallel-parked TV vans and came to a stop at the cordon sealing off Jeffrey Pellman’s house.
Inside, he found Frommer and the SID team still methodically bagging and tagging. Frommer seemed more irritated than usual, perhaps because he’d worked three crime scenes in the last twenty-four hours, but more likely because none of the physical evidence he’d collected had played the slightest role in the Gryphon’s demise.
From the kitchen Delgado heard the familiar voices of the task-force detectives. If they were back, then they must have completed their rounds, which meant they had located the car. From the license number, the Gryphon’s identity could easily be traced. At his home, the heads of his victims would be found. The last pieces of the puzzle would snap into place.
Delgado entered the kitchen and saw the eleven investigators scattered around the large sunlit room. He sensed their moody restlessness at once, even before Donna Wildman spoke.
“Bad news, Seb.”
His gut tightened.
“What is it?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“We checked out every car, truck, van, motor scooter, and tricycle within two miles of this location, and all the owners are accounted for.”
“Every vehicle.” Ted Blaise sighed. “Every goddamn one.”
“No,” Tallyman said. “There was one I didn’t check.” They all looked at him, and he smiled. “Cop humor.”
“Hilarious.” Wildman was not amused.
Neither was Delgado. He leaned against the refrigerator and rubbed his forehead. He was tired suddenly, more tired than he’d ever been.
“It doesn’t make sense,” he muttered. “The Gryphon must have had transportation to get here.”
“We were talking about that,” Jacobs said. “We came up with a few ideas.”
“Such as?”
“He might have lived in the area,” Robertson said. “Within walking distance. Then he wouldn’t have needed the car.”
Delgado grunted. “Pretty tall coincidence, don’t you think? He just happens to live a few blocks from the home of Miss Alden’s boyfriend?”
“Not necessarily,” Robertson persisted. “Maybe she used to come up here a lot, to be with this Pellman guy. If the Gryphon lived nearby, he would have seen her hanging around. That could be why he chose to go after her in the first place. And it would explain how he knew he’d find her here.”
“There’s no reason to think any of the other women ever came to this neighborhood.”
“This could be a special case.”
“It’s possible,” Delgado conceded. “But I still think it’s farfetched.”
“How about this?” Blaise offered. “Suppose he parked on a side street, and while he was otherwise occupied, the car got lifted.”
Delgado smiled without humor. “Now there’s a coincidence.”
“I admit that. But L.A.’s the car-theft capital of the world. And there are a lot of nice wheels garaged in these hills. You never know.”
“I’ll file that one under Improbable. Any other suggestions?”
“An accomplice,” Gardner said. “Let’s say the Gryphon worked with a friend. He parks, leaves the friend in the car, and when the friend hears sirens, he gets nervous and takes off.”
“Nearly all serial killers work alone,” Delgado said slowly. “And we have no indication of any teamwork in these killings.”
“Can’t rule it out, though. Remember Bianchi and Buono.”
“I acknowledge the possibility. Tommy. But I’m still not convinced.”
Gardner shrugged, not pressing the point. “So what do you think?”
“Perhaps…” Delgado hesitated, superstitiously reluctant to voice this thought and somehow make it real. “Perhaps the Gryphon took the car himself. Perhaps he didn’t die in the crash after all.”
“No way,” Robertson objected. “The explosion-”
Delgado cut him off. “If the gas tank wasn’t badly ruptured, he might have escaped from the car before it blew. In which case he’s still out there, and…”
His words trailed away.
He was picturing Wendy in her bed, protected only by hospital security. Protected from the media, from tabloid journalists, nothing worse.
He reached for the wall-mounted kitchen phone. His radio handset would be more direct, but reporters would be monitoring the police bands, and he preferred to keep this communication confidential.
“What is it, Seb?” Wildman asked as Delgado punched in the number of the dispatch center in downtown L.A.
“I’m sending a uniform to pick up Miss Alden at the hospital right now, whether the doctors are through with her or not, and move her to the West L.A. station. I want a hundred cops around that woman-hell, a thousand of them-until we figure out what in God’s name is going on.”
21
Shortly after Delgado left, a doctor examined Wendy, looking her over like a mechanic inspecting a damaged but still functioning piece of machinery, and concluded she was well enough to go home. She was relieved to hear it. She’d always hated hospitals. No matter how much Lysol disinfected and deodorized the air, she was morbidly certain she could smell death in these places; and today of all days, she didn’t like that smell.
Alone again in her room, she put on the clothes that had been left for her in the bureau. As she dressed, she found herself humming a melody, a strangely familiar one. Then she recognized it: “Full Moon and Empty Arms”-the same tune she’d hummed in the kitchen last night while she felt the pressure of a killer’s gaze.
The police officer who’d delivered the clothes had selected an outfit typical of the old Wendy: white cotton blouse, gray pleated skirt, sensible low-heeled shoes. Wendy studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror with a muted sense of nostalgia. She felt as if she were looking at a photograph of herself from years ago, her college yearbook portrait, perhaps, or the faded photo on her driver’s license. The drab uniform no longer suited her. From now on she would wear only bold colors and exotic styles. She wanted to stand out in a crowd, to be seen and admired. She wanted-
A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.
“Come in,” she said automatically, assuming her visitor was another nurse or orderly.
But when she stepped out of the bathroom, she saw a uniformed policeman standing at the threshold of her room.
“ ’Morning, ma’am.”
“Good morning,” she answered uncertainly.
“Detective Delgado sent me to collect you.”
“You mean, take me home?”
“Well, no, not exactly. He’d like to have you wait at the police station.”
She blinked. “Wait there? Why?”
“Just a precaution.”
“He didn’t say anything about that to me when he was here.”
“Well…”
Then she understood.
“Oh, no,” she whispered. Sudden fear jellied her knees. “He’s still alive, isn’t he?”