Jericho's Razor (10 page)

“I just received another video message.” I told him about the video stream and the title. He listened so quietly that I almost thought he hung up.

“He's going after Katrina,” I said.

“How do you know this?”

“Isn't it obvious?”

“What is obvious to me is your rather blatant attempt to misdirect my investigation.”

“Torrez, pull your head out of your ass for ten seconds and consider the possibility that I am telling the truth!” I felt my grip tighten on the phone and forced myself to calm down. Screaming at Torrez wasn't going to get me anywhere. “What if this video is legit? What if there is a killer who is right now stalking his next victim, who just happens to be a member of the most powerful family in the state, and you failed to act?”

“There are over two dozen officers patrolling that area. If somebody really were stupid enough to try something, they would certainly fail. But feel free to come by in the morning and show me this message.”

“You're not going to go check this out?”

“Sands, check what out? You claim to have a video of a street. So the fuck what? Is there any real threat being made? Is there any mention of an intended victim, or better yet, a possible perpetrator? Since you are remaining silent, I am going to conclude that the answer to these questions is no. So I ask again, what exactly do you want me to check out?”

“‘Murder is in the air,' Torrez. I haven't seen that on the news, which means it wasn't released. How did the person who sent this know about it?”

“You should watch the news more. Oh, wait. You were in lockup. If you weren't too busy attacking priests, you would know that ‘Murder is in the air!' went out over an hour ago.”

“What?”

“It was leaked. I don't know by who, but I was working on finding out when you called and interrupted me. Anyone could have it, which makes your alleged video as useful as a writer who thinks he can tell cops their job.”

He hung up. Doomsday looked at me, as though asking what I was going to do. The decision did not take long.

Chapter Seven

Torrez was right about one thing: There was enough of a police presence downtown to invade a small country. The mile-and-a-half stretch that covered the club district was barricaded with heavy orange road-construction barrels. Officers stood alongside their patrol cars, watching intently as though waiting for some unseen danger to leap from the shadows. They eyed the crowds like gunfighters. Uniformed powder kegs just waiting for a match.

The gun tucked under my leather jacket suddenly felt heavy and obvious. Heading into an area filled with fidgety cops while carrying a loaded firearm did not seem like the best decision. Gus Tanner would surely chew me out for it. But I wasn't about to go unarmed in search of a maniac who cut a 'person's head off with a chainsaw.

Taking a spot in line for the Dungeon would be too time-consuming, not to mention pointless. Bouncers at the door had a list of people who were not allowed inside, and I was right at the top. I turned the corner and entered the alley. I knew that many of the staff used the service entrance. I was betting that I would find someone back there.

I lucked out. Standing in the service entrance, propping open the door with his foot, was a young kid with spiky blonde hair. He wore black pants and a black-and-red button-up shirt that looked like a drunk threw up on it. If he had been a member of security, I never would have stood a chance. But the kid was most likely a bartender, working this job while attending classes at the college and living on tips. He took long drags from his cigarette while looking down at his cell phone. I approached casually, waving as I drew near.

“Hey, man. That line out there is a killer and I gotta use the can. You think you can let me in?”

The kid backed up. His eyes bulged like I was Godzilla.

“No way, man. I know who you are. Watts would kill me if he knew I let you in here.”

I held out a fifty-dollar bill. It immediately got his attention.

“What's your name?” I asked.

“Daniel.”

“Okay, Daniel, maybe your boss wouldn't appreciate you letting me in. But who is going to tell him?”

Daniel looked around as though suspecting a trick. But his eyes finally landed on the money. He stared at the bill while rubbing his jaw.

“I don't know. I could get in a lot of trouble. I could lose my job.”

I was ready for this. I reached in my pocket and pulled another fifty. Daniel's eyes lit up. He spent another few seconds pretending to consider it, but in the end, greed won out. He swiped the money and turned his back to the door. I hurried inside, finding myself in a storeroom. Almost everyone who patronized downtown had heard the rumors about this storeroom; it was allegedly where the security team known as the Brute Squad would take drunk and unruly patrons and rough them up before tossing them into the alley. For those misguided few who actually resisted, they would be pounced upon like a rabbit surrounded by a hungry pack of wolves. Dark, ominous stains on the concrete floor gave the rumors all the credence I needed. I quickly found the door and in seconds was mingling with the stream of bodies.

The Dungeon was built in the 1930s as a Catholic church. It was a fixture in town and the center of a large congregation, until faulty wiring and a leaky roof forced them out. Rather than invest the time and money it would have required to bring the building back up to code, the church moved into a more residential neighborhood. The building collected cobwebs, until it was purchased by Eric Watts. Newly released from the NFL, pockets still flush from his rookie contract, Watts bought the building and had it converted into a nightclub. The decor was simple. Watts hired a team of designers and told them to make it look like Hell. From saints to sinners.

Hell Kat was onstage and performing one of their standards, a cover of the Ramones' “I Wanna Be Sedated.” It had all the angst and attitude of the original, but with a primal venom that Katrina added. She wore black fishnets and black knee-high boots with three-inch heels. Her naturally auburn hair was dyed the color of an aged merlot. She looked like a hooker who would give you a night of passion you had never before experienced, and then slit your throat.

I noted that even here, in this den of debauchery, precautions were being taken. The floor space directly in front of the stage had been sectioned off in a ten-foot demilitarized zone. The gap was guarded by large, no-neck bulls wearing taut black T-shirts with
BRUTE SQUAD
emblazoned in red lettering. I was certain that Katrina, a renowned crowd surfer, had argued against pushing back the mosh pit. It was nice to see that Watts had actually stood up to her and exercised some good judgment. Of course, given enough time and enough alcohol, Katrina would probably just jump it.

The band ended the song to a roar from the crowd. By and large, the people were dressed in costume. Jason Voorhees, Michael Myers, and Freddy Krueger were all in attendance. Lizzie Borden entered the club hand in hand with George W. Bush, who had a hatchet buried in his back. And the Grim Reaper took up the rear, easily six-foot-six, standing like an omen. It made my black-over-black attire seem tame. It also made searching for anyone legitimately dangerous impossible. In this sea of monsters, serial killers, and demons, everyone was a threat.

On stage, Katrina belted out lyrics that would send the former pastors of this converted church into hysteria. But there was no denying her talent. Whether harmonizing or hollering, Katrina Masters still had the best voice I had ever heard. And she caught me staring. She looked down at me and smiled. It was not a nice smile. I knew it well. I also knew what was coming.

“This next song is for a special someone! Someone I hold near and dear to my heart!”

The crowd roared, sensing what was coming. Beer bottles and voices were raised.

“Have you ever fallen for the wrong person?”

The crowd cheered.

“And has that person ever fucked you over?”

More cheers. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Or like Katrina Masters armed with a Gibson Firebird and a microphone. She belted out rapid-fire punk chords that sent the mosh pit swirling like a whirlpool. Her lyrics came like knives into my back.

Let me tell you all about a guy I know

A rotten piece of shit named Jericho

Spawned from the devil under a wicked name

Heart as Black as his fictitious name

She was into it, belting out her vocals with fire and hostility. The crowd loved it, unaware that the inspiration for the song stood only a few feet away. If they knew, they probably would have torn me to shreds.

Katrina finished the song, gave me a jackal grin, and headed for the rear entrance to the stage. I dropped a shoulder and cut a path through the sea of inhumanity toward the stairs. I was constantly bumped as people made their way up, shuffling in costumes, partially blinded by masks and nearly tripping over cloaks. A mummy fell backward into me, causing me to stumble into one of the members of the Brute Squad. I panicked for a moment, thinking that the security guard would recognize me and toss me into the alley via the storeroom. But the brute simply shoved me back up the stairwell, too busy in his own pursuit for a quick nicotine fix to notice. I was grateful to finally get out of the crowded stairwell and outside.

The converted smoking lounge on the second floor offered an up-close and personal view of the river. The bridge was lit up and looked like a glowing ornament against the black night sky. Katrina was in the far corner, smoking a cigarette in a tight group of people, huddled close together as though trying to preserve body heat. Mostly obscured behind a wall of bodies from across the roof, she still spotted me almost instantly. I approached boldly, making my way through the crowd until I was close enough to be breathing the same nicotine-tinged air. I felt the hostile stares of Katrina's friends and bandmates.

“That song gets sweeter every time I hear it,” I said.

“What the fuck do you want, Sandman?” She still called me that, although now she put a slightly more angry ring to it.

“It's nice to see you, too.”

“I didn't say it was nice to see you. Although it might be nice to see what Eric and his goons will do to you when they catch you here.”

“I know. It's so Shakespearean.”

“Nice reference, seeing as how everybody tends to die at the end of all his plays.”

“Have you got a minute?” I motioned to a corner of the roof that was secluded.

“Tons. But none for you.”

I felt my teeth grinding. “Two minutes,” I said. “And then I'll leave you the hell alone.”

She took a long drag, staring at me, radiating hostility. She shrugged her shoulders as if to say ‘
what the hell?
,' exhaling the smoke from her nostrils like a wild bull. I followed her, grateful to get some separation from her friends. I eyed her cigarette, craving one but willing myself to resist. Katrina read me. She always could.

“Are you quitting?” she asked.

“Yeah. I'm working on it, anyway.”

“What have the doctors told you?” When Katrina and I still shared a bed, I would often spend hours coughing hard enough to wake her. My morning ritual of hacking phlegm into the kitchen sink was something with which she was well familiar.

“They say I have lungs of an eighty-year-old coal miner.”

“Two packs a day will do that.” She took a long, slow, satisfying drag, savoring it like a sommelier sampling a fine Bordeaux.

“You need to be careful tonight.”

“I'm fine, Sandman. Nobody is getting to me here.”

“Really? I just did. I could have killed you two or three times by now.”

“Hardly. Esmerelda would have gnawed your legs off if I hadn't called her off. We both spotted you when you came out.”

I looked back at the drummer. Esmerelda was five-eight, close to two hundred pounds, and a former amateur kickboxer. Nobody outside of the band had ever heard her speak in anything other than short and violent grunts. In every relationship, there is always that one friend of your partner that just hates you. For me, that person was someone who could wrestle a hunk of meat from the jaws of a tiger shark.

“Esmerelda notwithstanding, you need to be careful. There is a seriously fucked-up psychopath running around town.”

“I know. I'm looking at him right now.”

I had a dozen snappy responses, but I held back, watching Katrina's hair blow in the breeze, remembering how that hair used to look scattered over my bed. Taking a breath, I took a new approach.

“I don't understand why you are so pissed off. What did I really do?”

“You're kidding, right?”

“No.”

Katrina shook her head. “Jesus, Sandman. How can you be so smart and yet so clueless?”

“Years of practice.”

“You want to know what you did? You attacked my brother! You twisted his arm so hard that you nearly broke it off! And then you tossed him in a fucking Dumpster!”