The Deepest Cut (43 page)

“Right now?”

“Yes, and come alone.”

“I can come now, but why alone?” Vining asked this even though there wasn’t anyone she could bring with her. The only one she’d want with her was Kissick and he was tied up. Plus, she wasn’t supposed to be pursuing T B. Mann leads. Sergeant Early would have her hide if she found out she’d gone to see Chief Gilroy. Vining had no reason to doubt what Gilroy was telling her, but it was strange.

Gilroy sensed her hesitancy. “There’s something at the Foothill Museum that will help you understand what happened the night of
Cookie’s murder. This is for your eyes only I was rude to you today and I’d like to make it up to you. I’ll also tell you about the pearl necklace with the blue stone.”

“I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Will you be driving your department Crown Vic?”

Her question brought Vining up short. Why would she care?

“It’s very dark up here,” Gilroy said. “The spotlights will come in handy for you.”

That was a good point, Vining thought. Plus her Jeep Cherokee was almost out of gas. “I’ll be in the Crown Vic.”

“Good. Then I’ll know it’s you. You’ll see my white Escalade in the parking lot.”

Cadillac Escalade, Vining thought. The citizens of Colina Vista did like their police chief. “Okay, great. I’ll see you shortly”

“Ah … Detective … I want you to know that the museum is nine-point-eighteen miles from the freeway. At the Angeles National Forest sign, you take the V Don’t forget.”

Vining winced as she tried to understand the chief’s instructions, which didn’t make any sense.

“Detective, remember what I told you so you don’t get lost.”

“I’ll do that. See you soon.”

Vining thought about Gilroy’s last cryptic instructions. The Foothill Museum wasn’t more than five miles from the freeway. Plus vehicle odometers didn’t display hundredths of a mile. She shrugged and hurried to change her clothes.

FORTY-SIX

W
HILE VINING DROVE TO MEET BETSY GILROY IN COLINA
Vista, she called Kissick’s cell phone. Someone should know where she was going. She got his voice mail. He was definitely busy with Marvin Li and Victor Chang. That was good. Hopefully he was needling confessions out of them.

She left a voice message. “Hi Jim. I know you’re tied up, but I want you to know that I’m headed to the Foothill Museum. Chief Gilroy called and asked me to meet her there. She says she has something to show me about Cookie’s murder. Don’t get mad, but I drove up and met with Chief Gilroy earlier today. She got kinda ticked off. Now she says she wants to make it up to me. I’ll have my phone with me, so call or text when you get this. Bye. Love you.”

She got off the freeway. Remembering Gilroy’s mileage information, she punched the distance gauge, returning it to zero, thinking, no way was it nine miles to the Foothill Museum and the point one eight mile made no sense at all.

Her car windows were down and the wind rustled her hair. The night air grew cooler as the elevation rose. She would have expected her mind to be racing, but instead, it was surprisingly clear, as if she’d been meditating. She recalled something that someone had once told her. You have to make space in your life in order for something new to
come in. Who had told her that? She couldn’t remember, but the advice made sense. Something new was coming in. Or was what she was experiencing only the calm before the storm?

She drove up the dark, winding road. Her headlights caught the small sign pointing to the narrow lane that led to the Foothill Museum. Recalling Gilroy’s mysterious instructions, she saw that it wasn’t a V intersection, like Gilroy had said, but was a hard left. She looked at the distance gauge. She’d traveled just over five miles, not nine. Was the chief coming unglued?

The woods seemed to encroach on the lane in the darkness, nearly overwhelming her headlights. She was grateful for the full moon that was hanging low and large in the September sky.

She soon saw the log cabin. The porch light was on and the two front windows were lit. A dusting of snow, and it would have been a perfect scene for a Thomas Kincaid Christmas card. A new, white Cadillac Escalade was parked in the gravel lot.

Vining cut her headlights and stopped her car while she was still at the edge of the clearing, out of sight of anyone in the cabin or the car. She took her binoculars from the glove compartment and looked around.

Gilroy’s nonsensical parting message about the nine-point-eighteen miles bugged her. It contributed to the one percent doubt she felt. That one percent was more than enough to kill her.

She put down the binoculars and blew out a stream of air. She took out her cell phone and looked at it. Who could she call? Kissick was busy. If they had apprehended Chang, she assumed everyone on the team— Caspers, Sproul, Jones, Lam— would be busy, too. As far as calling the one person she
should—
Sergeant Early— fuggeddaboutit.

Vining thought about it logically. She was meeting the
police chief,
for goodness’ sakes. Still, her cop gut instincts warned her that something was hinky.

She called Kissick again. Again, his voice mail picked up. “Hey Jim. I’ve arrived at the Foothill Museum. Gilroy’s white Cadillac Escalade is here. No other cars. Don’t see anyone. Lights are on in the building. I’m going inside. Call me.” Before she hung up, she gave him the Escalade’s plate number.

She drove the Crown Vic with the headlights off far enough into the clearing so she could turn around and point it heading out. Leaving the keys in the ignition, she exited the car. She pulled her Glock from its holster and darted into the woods surrounding the log cabin. She ran through the woods, looking around and behind her, until she was even with the side of the cabin. Her rubber-soled work shoes crunched against the gravel as she sprinted to a small window and looked inside.

There was no one in the front of the cabin. She dashed to the back corner where Axel Holcomb had lived. She peered through a window there. The light was on, but she didn’t see anybody.

She tried the doorknob on the back door. Unlocked. She pushed it open and leaned in, gun ahead of her, calling, “Chief Gilroy”

As she took a step inside, motion behind her caused her to whirl around. She caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure before two darts from a Taser reached their mark and were embedded into her back, sending 50,000 volts of electricity through her. She yelled. She felt as if she were being deep-fried. She flew face-first onto the ground across the open doorway, losing her grip on her gun. She was aware of nothing but blinding, incapacitating pain. She struggled to keep her eyes open.

She was aware of someone kicking her gun away. Finally, the Taser’s trigger was released, killing the electric surge. The pain stopped. The small amount of breath she had left was knocked out when her assailant dropped on top of her, straddling her back. A handcuff was snapped onto her right wrist. Sucking in air, she began thrashing her body, flailing her left hand and managing to pull her right hand free with the cuff attached. She tried to shake off whoever was astride her and to loosen the darts’ contact with her skin. If she could knock out just one dart, she’d break the circuit. The jackass had gotten a solid shot with the Taser gun and the darts were well embedded into her back.

Her assailant again squeezed the Taser’s trigger.

She yelled and was again clawing the floor.

“Officer Vining, the more you fight me, the more I’ll have to hurt you.”

Officer Vining.
Those were the words and that was the voice that had infiltrated her nightmares and haunted her waking moments for over a year. She’d always felt she’d hear them again, but in her fantasies, their roles were reversed. How had this happened? How was she again being victimized by T. B. Mann?

He released the Taser’s trigger and repeated what he’d said, knowing she’d been unable to absorb it the first time. “Officer Vining, the more you fight me, the more I’ll have to hurt you.”

She gasped for breath. He had her pinned with his knees on either side of her back. He retrieved her right wrist, grabbed her left, pulled it behind her, and snapped on the other handcuff, saying, “I knew you’d walk around the cabin first.”

Now that she was handcuffed, he patted her down, remaining astride her.

She bowed and arched her back, working her shoulders, trying to dislodge the darts. She grabbed her jacket and yanked the fabric. She felt the dart that was over her right shoulder blade move. Her skin where it had pierced her and delivered its voltage was so sore, she couldn’t tell if she’d knocked it out or not.

He found her backup Walther. She felt him remove it from her ankle holster.

The pang of losing her Walther was nearly as severe to Vining as being Tased. That gun had saved her life.

“I’ve just gotta love you, Officer Vining. So by the book right up until the moment you’re not. But that’s been happening a lot lately hasn’t it?”

She raised her head and craned her neck as far as she could. Out of the corners of her eyes, she caught his glance. This was the first time since he’d stabbed her that she’d faced those eyes again in person. In her nightmares, they had been dark brown. That’s the color they were that day at 835 El Alisal Road. She’d wondered whether he’d been wearing tinted lenses. Now she saw why he would have.

His eyes were remarkable. Deep-set and ice blue, as chilly as the soul behind them. His scalp had been recently shaved clean as not a speck of hair was visible. His eyebrows were light brown. His face,
lengthened by his bald dome, was a perfect oval. His ears were compact and neat. His nose was slightly broad, but suited his face. His upper lip was thin, the bottom lip full. He was as ordinary as she’d remembered. But for his striking eyes, he could walk through life without attracting a second glance.

He took his time searching her, which felt more like an adolescent’s awkward petting than an attempt to find weapons. After what he’d done to her in the kitchen at 835 El Alisal Road, his timid touch felt innocent.

She continued looking him over. He was dressed up, wearing a white dress shirt and a blue-and-red-striped tie. The shirt was tucked into navy-blue slacks with a plain leather belt. He had on black dress shoes with black socks. A nylon holster for the Taser was attached to the belt with Velcro. A small nylon pouch next to it probably held Taser cartridges.

He was beefier than in her memory. A belly protruded over his belt. His cheeks were fuller and he had the beginning of a double chin. She guessed he’d gained forty pounds. She took delight in the thought of him drowning his troubles in cookies, ice cream, and potato chips. She, however, was more physically fit than ever, and wiser.

Who was she kidding? She was the one prone on the floor, handcuffed, with Taser darts embedded in her back. Still, she remained calm. He would take his time setting the scene. That was his M.O.

She saw that while he’d stuck her small Walther into his already snug waistband, he’d set her Glock on the floor near him. There wasn’t enough room beneath that belt for two guns.

He finished patting her down and sat erect astride her. He seemed to recognize the momentousness of this moment because he took a few seconds to sit quietly, taking it all in.

They were together again. At long last. All her precautions and planning, all her vicious thoughts of revenge, had been undone by a single trusting act. Had Betsy Gilroy set her up or had she been forced to tell her to come here? Gilroy had sounded under duress when she’d made the phone call. Her car was here. Where was she?

Vining twisted to look at him again. His gaze was like a lover’s. She
remembered that from before. More than adoring, his gaze was all-consuming. Hungry. Looking at her was not sufficient. Touching her was not sufficient. He wanted it all. He wanted
everything.

Straddling her, he could have easily made a sexual move. While she felt obsession in his stare, she didn’t feel a sexual charge. She thought about the story Axel Holcomb had told former Colina Vista Police sergeant Mike Iverson about watching Cookie Silva’s murderer masturbate while torturing and killing her. Intercourse didn’t get him off. Terror and murder did. Now he was engaged in housekeeping. He was saving the good stuff for later.

He kept those ice blue eyes locked on hers. His eyes were familiar to her. They were the same light blue as Nitro’s.

“Asshole,” she said. “The proper way to address me is either Corporal or Detective Vining.”

He depressed the Taser’s trigger with no effect. He looked at the gun with surprise.

She’d broken the contact of one of the darts. She took advantage of the moment to retract her elbows, ball her fists, and shoot them down her back into his groin.

He inhaled wretchedly and rolled to the side, pulling his knees to his chest. He struggled to breathe.

She shoved herself away, digging her feet against the linoleum. On her knees, she scampered toward the Glock that he’d foolishly left on the floor nearby.

Still bent over, in a ball on the floor, he managed to throw out his hand and snag her left leg.

She kicked violently at him with her right foot, smacking him in the face, slamming his nose. She kept at it, landing solid blows. He let go.

As she scrambled toward her gun on the floor, not sure how she would fire it with her hands cuffed, he jammed the Taser directly against her buttock and fired. The “drive-stun” had the same effect as a cattle prod.

She yelled and dropped face-first, grimacing, against the linoleum. Grit from the floor adhered to her lips.

He bolted out of range of her feet, stood, and picked up the Glock.

“I know your rank is corporal and that you’re a detective,” he said with annoyance. He touched his nose, bloody from her kicking.

She was sorry that she hadn’t broken it.

He studied the blood on his fingers, almost with a look of wonder. “But you were Officer Vining when I first saw you on television after you’d rid the world of a rat— that has-been rock star. A television reporter and a cameraman were after you and the idiot reporter kept saying, ‘Officer Vining, Officer Vining, a word please.’ You just kept walking. You didn’t run. You didn’t turn around. You kept walking to your car, got in, and drove away without even looking at them.” He touched his nose again and his eyes grew hazy as he looked at the blood. “For me, you will always be Officer Vining. Guess I’m sentimental that way. Get up.”