Deadeye (3 page)

There was nothing elegant about the hasp and combination padlock on the door, the primary purpose of which was to keep Mr. Henry out. He handled maintenance for the building and was an inveterate snoop. But it was more than that. The room and everything in it was private. A window into Lee's soul that she planned to keep closed.

Lee entered her father's badge number into the lock, heard the usual click, and removed the lock. The single window was blacked out, so it was dark until she flipped the track lights on. They lit walls that were covered with a mosaic of photos, diagrams, and notes. They were held in place by hundreds of multicolored pushpins. Enough pins to ruin the wall and cost her money when the time came to move out. But that would mean her father's murderer had been found—and for that she would gladly pay.

It wasn't just her father, however. No,
eight
policemen and -women had been killed over a period of fourteen years, all victims of the serial killer called the Bonebreaker. A psycho who liked to dismember his victims and mail broken bones to the police.

But
why
? The Bonebreaker had a grudge against the police department. That was obvious. But there were thousands of people who had reason to hate the LAPD. So in the absence of eyewitnesses or other evidence, the team assigned to the case was spinning its wheels. And because of her connection to a victim, Lee had been instructed to stay clear of the investigation. An order which, like so many others, she chose to ignore.

Her father's bed had been removed and replaced with a utilitarian worktable. As was her habit, Lee started on the left side of the room and began to circle around it. Her hope was that by scanning all of the latest bits and pieces, something would click. It didn't.

Acting on an impulse, she removed an old-fashioned photograph album from the shelving unit on the north wall and carried it over to the table. The technique was far from reliable, but every now and then, a random excursion into such materials served to trigger a new thought or a new line of inquiry.

Lee opened the album and began to page through it. According to the handwritten dates, it covered the period of time just prior to the plague. There were pictures of Frank Lee posing with the departmental baseball team, standing next to his cruiser, and receiving medals. But one photo stood out. She'd seen it before, of course. Hundreds of times. But the events of the day caused her to pay more attention to it.

Lee kept a magnifying glass on the worktable—and once she looked through it, her first impression was confirmed. Her father and a much younger Ross McGinty were in uniform. And there, standing between them, was a young woman.

Could it be her mother? No, her mother had very dark skin, and the girl was lighter. So, who was she? The date under the photo fell after the release of the plague and the now-famous fistfight. Had the girl been involved somehow?
Who cares?
Lee thought to herself.
That was then. This is now.
She went to bed an hour later. There were dreams, lots of them, and none were good.

THE BEEP OF
Lee's alarm merged with the sound of the doorbell to pull her up out of a troubled sleep. She slapped the clock, knocked it onto the floor, and swore as it continued to bleat. The plan was to be up and dressed by the time Conti arrived, and the bastard was early!

Lee rolled out of bed, silenced the alarm, and grabbed the Glock on her way out of the room. Then she took up her usual position next to the front door. “Who is it?”

“Conti.”

After dealing with the locks, Lee opened the door. She was about to chew him out when he gave her a familiar-looking box. “It's a breakfast burrito,” he said. “From Maria's.”

It was a plan. An evil Conti plan to arrive at roll call on time, avoid McGinty's wrath, and become chief of police. Lee wanted to say something cutting but came up empty. So she put the box on the kitchen counter and walked away.

“No need to thank me,” Conti said as he took his breakfast over to the table. “That's what partners are for.”

Conti's plan worked. Not only did they arrive for roll call on time—they were five minutes early. And that caught McGinty by surprise. “Well, well,” the deputy chief said as he entered the room. “This is a first—1-William-3 is on time. Make a note, Sean . . . Miracles
can
happen.”

Lee scowled, and Conti kept his face professionally blank. Once the departmental bullshit was out of the way, Jenkins turned to Lee. “I have some good news for you . . . Cherko's mother applied for welfare. That triggered an alert that came straight to me. We know where she lives.”

Lee felt a sudden surge of optimism. She knew that Mrs. Cherko had gone to see her son in prison. So it stood to reason that he would visit her. All they had to do was watch and wait. “Now we're talking,” Lee said. “Where is she?”

“Right off the corner of Fairfax and Colgate,” Jenkins answered. “Here's the address.” He pushed a scrap of paper across the table, and Conti accepted it. Lee knew the area. It had been home to lots of Russians, Armenians, and Mexicans prior to the plague. Many years had passed, but the neighborhood still retained some of its original flavor, and the Cherkos might have connections there.

“We'll go twelve on and twelve off,” McGinty said. “I would prefer eight-hour shifts, but we're shorthanded.”

That was always the case and came as no surprise to either detective. Lee stood. “We should hit the street . . . If that's okay.”

McGinty nodded. “Go for it. And watch your six.”

West 3rd took them most of the way. The apartment house was situated on one corner of a busy intersection. And there was a bank, convenience store, and a parking lot. Lee turned into it and chose a slot that would provide an unobstructed view of Mrs. Cherko's front door. Once the stakeout was in place, all they had to do was wait for Popeye to show, call for backup, and arrest the piece of shit when he came out.

Time seemed to creep by. People came and people went, but there was no sign of Popeye. The only break in the monotony came when Conti made the midday chow run to the convenience store. He came back with a bag full of crusty taquitos—plus two ice-cold soft drinks, both of which were loaded with caffeine. “That's
it
?” Lee demanded. “You spent my money on two thousand calories' worth of taquitos? There weren't any salads?”

“I didn't look for salads,” Conti confessed. “Besides, why eat a salad when you have taquitos?” So Lee ate a taquito and left the rest for Conti, who polished them off in five minutes.

Then the boredom set in once again. And it was getting warm.
Very
warm. But they couldn't run the AC without running the engine—and that would give them away. So they cracked the windows, but it didn't make much difference. Both were down to body armor and tee shirts by that time, but it was at least eighty degrees inside the car.

Forty-five minutes crawled by. Lee was slumped behind the wheel, willing Cherko to show, when she spotted movement in the outside rearview mirror. “Uh, oh . . . We have company.”

Conti was laid out on the backseat listening to a retro band called The Eagles. He jerked the earbuds out as he sat up. “Whacha got?”

“A car prowl . . . And we're sitting in the car this jerkweed wants to break into.”

Conti looked out through the tinted window and saw that a male suspect was coming their way with a ball-peen hammer in his right hand. A smash and grab then . . . A low van could be seen behind the man, with its side door open. “I'll take care of it,” Conti said as he put on his jacket. Then he got out.

Lee laughed as she watched in the mirror. The would-be thief did a double take as a large man exited the car, produced an elaborate yawn, and began a series of stretches. That was sufficient to send the car prowler back to the van. He entered, pulled the door closed, and the vehicle took off. Unfortunately, that was the only thing that happened until 6:00
P.M.
, when the second team took over.

It had been a long, frustrating day, and Lee was happy to return home. By the time Conti dropped her off, it was nearly seven o'clock and way past the time when she normally ran. Should she force herself to do it? Or push it off?

Suddenly, she felt the same prickly sensation she experienced when somebody eyeballed her in a club. But she wasn't
in
a club. She was standing in front of her apartment house.

So who is it?
Lee wondered as she took a look around. A snoopy neighbor? That was certainly possible. Yet for some reason buried in the reptilian part of her brain, Lee didn't think so. She felt an urge to seek the safety of her apartment.

That aspect of her brain wasn't in charge, however. And rather than run from the things that frightened her, Lee continually forced herself to confront them. So she chose the vacant house on the other side of the street as being the most likely place for a “looker” to hide and walked straight toward it.

If that elicited a response, she couldn't see it. Her combat boots made a thumping sound as she climbed the front stairs and rattled the door. Lee figured that stealth would be pointless if someone was watching and hoped that being assertive would provide something of an edge.

Having failed to gain entry through the front door, Lee made her way along the north side of the house. A narrow ribbon of cracked concrete led her between clumps of overgrown bamboo, past a sad-looking rosebush, and into a yard filled with trash. Lee drew the Glock and held the barrel straight up as she climbed a short flight of stairs to a screen door with a hole in it. It produced a horrible screeching noise as she pulled it open. That revealed a wooden door that had been left partially ajar. Tool marks could be seen where it had been jimmied. Lee stood to one side with her weapon at the ready. “Los Angeles Police!”

There was no response. Lee paused a moment before entering the kitchen. The place had been ransacked more than once judging from the way things looked. It was nearly dark outside, so Lee removed a small flashlight from an inside pocket and held it away from her body as she entered the dining room. The floor was littered with empty beer cans and fast-food containers. A sure sign that one or more homeless people had camped there at some point.

Glass crunched under Lee's boots and a blob of white light roamed the walls as Lee made her way into a Craftsman-style living room. The front windows were covered with blinds. But the streetlights were on, and strips of greenish light were visible through the slats. Was that where the looker had been standing? Staring out through filthy glass? Probably. Assuming her instincts were correct.

As the light tilted up, Lee saw something that made her blood run cold. Because there, written in red spray paint, was the name
BONEBREAKER
. She felt a stab of fear and whirled, ready to defend herself. But she was alone. If the Bonebreaker had been there, he was gone.

So what to do? She could let the Bonebreaker team know, in hopes that they might find some sort of evidence in the house, but was a name on a wall enough to justify that? No, Lee decided, it wasn't enough.

It did scare the hell out of her, however, and Lee was happy to leave the house. Five minutes later, she was in her apartment and changing into some sweats. Then it was time to zap her dinner and carry it into the evidence room. It wasn't the first time she had eaten there and wouldn't be the last.

Assuming the name had been spray painted onto the wall by the killer himself, the first question was
why
?
To spook me,
Lee decided.
To elicit fear.
If so, it was working.

What did that mean? That he was stalking her? That she was the next person on his hit list? Maybe. Although there was no clear indication that the Bonebreaker had a list. All of his victims were cops. That much was glaringly obvious. But beyond that, the homicide detectives had never been able to come up with a common denominator. Not age, race, or gender. The Bonebreaker was an equal-opportunity killer.

Lee ate as she reviewed her records, which was to say a bootleg copy of the department's records, looking for mention of precrime warnings or signs. There weren't any. So either the spray-painted name had been put there by someone else, or it represented a new behavior on the killer's part.

Don't jump to conclusions,
Lee told herself
. What if there were previous postings? But nobody noticed them?
It was a good question. Because the odds were against anyone's noticing a name spray painted inside an abandoned house. It wasn't a crime scene after all—and the entire city was covered with graffiti. The discovery felt important at first, but after giving the matter some additional thought, Lee realized that it wasn't. The police couldn't monitor all of the city's tags checking for what might or might not be a warning.

No, the discovery wouldn't lead to the killer. But it was another entry in the profile that Lee was trying to construct. Assuming the killer had been there and written on the wall, it might mean that he or she had accepted the name bestowed upon him or her by the media and come to take pride in it. Did that stem from ego and narcissism? That was possible. If so, those characteristics might cause him or her to make a mistake someday. Lee would be waiting.

*   *   *

The sun was up, and it promised to be another hot day as Conti turned the corner and drove down the street. He'd been out the night before, partying with some of his buddies, and wound up in bed with a blonde he barely knew. What he needed was a steady girlfriend. Somebody to spend evenings with—somebody who had a brain. Like Lee? Yes, the girl was smart and hot to boot. She was serious though . . . Haunted even. Could he make her happy? It would be fun to try.

Conti parked the car, made his way up to Lee's apartment, and pushed the button. The doorbell had just started to ring when someone jerked the door open. And there, much to Conti's amazement, stood Cassandra Lee. All dressed and ready to go. “Come in,” she said. “The coffee is ready.”

Conti followed her in, surrendered the box, and made his way over to the kitchen table. Lee put the burritos in the microwave for thirty seconds before bringing them over. The coffee came next. “No need to thank me,” she said. “That's what partners are for.”

Conti chuckled, and they ate in a companionable silence. Once she was done, Lee was up and out of her chair. “Let's get going.”

“What's up?” Conti wanted to know. “You're kind of hyper this morning.”

“This is the day,” Lee predicted. “This is the day we're going to nail Popeye.”

“So what is this? Woman's intuition?”

“Maybe . . . It's a feeling, that's all.”

They couldn't attend the 7:00
A.M.
roll call. Not and relieve the second team at six. So Lee drove straight to the corner of Colgate and Fairfax, where she pulled into the parking lot.

A brief radio conversation was enough to bring Conti and Lee up to date. It seemed that though Mrs. Cherko had crossed the street to visit the convenience store, there had been no sign of her son.

The morning passed much as the previous one had. Conti listened to tunes in the front passenger seat, the temperature continued to climb, and it wasn't long before they started to sweat. Conti was about to go for some cold soft drinks when a low-slung especiale rolled past. The body was sleek and somewhat reminiscent of the production vehicles from the fifties but covered with gray primer. As if the owner was saving up for a custom paint job. Then Lee remembered. The vehicle Mrs. Fuentes described had been gray as well.

The car slowed in front of the apartment house and crept past. Could it be Popeye? Checking the situation out?

“Did you see that?” Lee said as she brought the camera up. “A possible rolled by. Let's see if he comes back.”

They didn't have to wait for long. The smoke gray sedan reappeared in the intersection, took a right, and began to creep past the apartment building. Lee continued to click away as the car passed them. “I think Popeye is going to drop in on Mommy,” Lee said. “So pull your shit together and . . .”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Conti said. “But we have a 211 at the bank. I see what might be a flash mob out front. At least some of them are armed. We're going to need backup.”

And with that, Conti was out of the car and drawing his weapon. Lee shouted, “No! Wait!” But it was too late. Conti was striding across the parking lot by then.

“This is 1-William-3!” Lee shouted into the mike. “We have a 211 at Colgate and Fairfax with multiple 417s.” Then, knowing what was about to happen, she added: “Shots fired. Request backup.”

Lee drew the Glock as she bailed out of the car and began to run. Conti was out in the middle of the intersection by then, waving cars off with one hand while pointing his pistol with the other. “Los Angeles Police! Drop your weapons!”