Back inside the house I went directly to the office. But when I entered, I immediately saw that my desktop computer was not on my desktop. It was gone and I realized that the police or the FBI had taken it. Somehow, knowing that a bunch of strange men were looking through all my work and personal files, including my ill-fated novel, made me feel exposed in a whole new way. I was not the killer out there on the loose but the FBI had my computer. When Rachel got back from Washington, I was going to ask her to get it back for me.
My shoulders sagged a little and I could feel that the hard exterior I had put on to help me get through the return to my house was slipping. I had to get out or the horrors of what had happened to Angela would creep back into my thoughts and paralyze me. I had to keep moving.
My last stop in the house was the kitchen. I checked the refrigerator and took all the outdated or close-to-outdated items out and dumped them in the trash can. I dropped in the bananas from the fruit bowl and a half loaf of bread from one of the cabinets. I then went out the back door and put the bag in the bigger can next to the garage. I went inside again, locked up and went out the front door to the waiting car.
“Back to the Kyoto,” I told the driver.
I had almost a full day still ahead and it was time to get to work.
As we drove away I saw that my neighbor had gone back inside her safe little home. I was drawn to turn and look through the rear window at my house. It was the only place I had ever owned and I had never contemplated not living there. I realized that one killer had given it to me and another had taken it away.
We made the turn onto Sunset and I lost sight of it.
THIRTEEN: Together Again
Carver worked his hunch on the computer while Stone gathered the things he wanted to take with him. Between searches Carver shredded the pages in Stone’s recycle box. He wanted to leave the FBI something that would keep its agents busy.
He stopped everything when the photo and story appeared on the screen. He scanned it quickly, then looked across the warehouse at Stone. He was throwing clothing into a black trash bag. He had no suitcase. Carver could tell he was working gingerly and was still in some pain.
“I was right,” Carver said. “She’s in L.A. ”
Stone dropped the bag he was filling and crossed the concrete floor. He looked over Carver’s shoulder at the middle screen. Carver double-clicked the photo to make it larger.
“Is that her?” he asked.
“I told you, all I got was a quick glance when I went by the room. I didn’t really even see her face. She was in a chair sort of to the side. I didn’t have the angle on her face. It could be her, but maybe not.”
“I think it was her. She was with Jack. Rachel and Jack, together again.”
“Wait a minute. Rachel?”
“Yes, Special Agent Rachel Walling.”
“I think… I think he said that name.”
“Who?”
“McEvoy. When he opened the door and went in the room. When I was coming up behind him. I heard her. She said, ‘Hello, Jack.’ And then he said something and I think he said her name. I think he said something like ‘Rachel, what are you doing?’ ”
“Are you sure? You didn’t say anything about a name before.”
“I know, but you saying that brought it back. I am sure he said that name.”
Carver got excited by the prospect of McEvoy and Walling being on his trail. It raised the stakes considerably to have two such opponents.
“What’s that story about?” Stone asked.
“It’s about her and an L.A. cop getting the guy they called the Bagman. He cut up women and put them in trash bags. This picture was taken at the press conference they had. Two and a half years ago in L.A. They killed the Bagman.”
Carver could hear Stone breathing through his mouth.
“Finish gathering your things now, Freddy.”
“What are we going to do? Go after her now?”
“No, I don’t think so. I think we sit back and wait.”
“For what?”
“For her. She’ll come to us, and when she does, she’ll be a prize.”
Carver waited to see if Stone would say anything, whether he would object or offer his opinion. But Stone said nothing, showing he had apparently retained something from the morning’s lesson.
“How’s your back?” Carver asked.
“It hurts but it’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m fine.”
“Good.”
Carver cut the Internet link and stood up. He reached down behind the computer tower and detached the keyboard cable. He knew that the bureau could gather DNA from the microscopic bits of skin that fell between the letters on a keyboard. He would not leave this board behind.
“Let’s hurry up and finish now,” he said. “After that, we’ll go get you a massage and take care of that back.”
“I don’t need a massage. I’m fine.”
“I don’t want you hurting. I’m going to need you at full strength when Agent Walling shows up.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be ready.”
FOURTEEN: One False Move
On Monday morning I went on eastern daylight time. I wanted to be ready to react when Rachel called from Washington, so I got up early and cruised into the newsroom at six A.M. to continue my work with the files.
The place was completely dead, not a reporter or editor in sight, and I got a stark feeling for what the future held. At one time the newsroom was the best place in the world to work. A bustling place of camaraderie, competition, gossip, cynical wit and humor, it was at the crossroads of ideas and debate. It produced stories and pages that were vibrant and intelligent, that set the agenda for what was discussed and considered important in a city as diverse and exciting as Los Angeles. Now thousands of pages of editorial content were being cut each year and soon the paper would be like the newsroom, an intellectual ghost town. In many ways I was relieved that I would not be around to see it.
I sat down in my cubicle and checked e-mail first. My account had been reopened by the newsroom techs with a new password the Friday before. Over the weekend I had accumulated almost forty e-mails, most from strangers in reaction to the stories about the trunk murders. I read and deleted each, not willing to take the time to respond. Two were from people who said they were serial killers themselves and had put me on their list of targets. These I kept to show Rachel but I wasn’t too worried about them. One of the writers had spelled it cereal and I took this as a hint that I was dealing with either a prankster or someone of deficient intelligence.
I also got an angry e-mail from the photographer Sonny Lester, who said I had double-crossed him by not putting him on the story as I had agreed. I fired back an equally angry e-mail asking him which story he was talking about, since none of the stories on the case carried my byline. I said I had been left out to a greater extent than him and invited him to take all complaints to Dorothy Fowler, the city editor.
After that I unpacked the files and my laptop from my backpack and got down to work. The night before, I had made a lot of headway. I had completed my study of the records relating to the murder of Denise Babbit and had composed a profile of the murder along with a comprehensive list of the things about the victim that the killer would have had to know in order to commit the crime in the manner in which it was carried out. I was halfway through my study of Sharon Oglevy’s murder and was still compiling the same sort of information.
I set to work and was undisturbed as the newsroom slowly came to life, editors and reporters trudging in, coffee cups in hand, to start another week of work. At eight o’clock I broke for coffee and a doughnut and then made a round of calls at the cop shop, seeing if there was anything interesting on the overnight sheets, anything that might take me away from the task at hand.