The Love Killings (13 page)

CHAPTER 28

“He believed you,” Brown said. “I had my eyes on him. Westbrook isn’t sure what to think. You’re pushing his buttons.”

“In the conference room it looked like you were disappointed in me.”

She shook her head. A smile leaked out, then faded.

“Shocked is more like it, Jones. You’re here two days and you just told everybody that they’re wrong. They’re chasing the wrong man. Oh my God, you know what I mean?”

She took a sip of wine and shook her head, still gazing at him. The quiet restaurant off Walnut had been packed and didn’t work out. When they tried another place on Chestnut, they were told a table wouldn’t open up before 11:00 p.m. That’s when Brown suggested that they buy a pizza and go back to her place.

Matt was more than curious and had agreed. It turned out that Brown lived two blocks away from the Philadelphia Art Museum on the corner of Twenty-Third and Mount Vernon Street—a large red-brick Georgian townhouse that the previous owner had completely restored. High ceilings, ornate moldings from the 1880s, and hardwood floors. The rooms were big and deep and uncluttered, the walls painted in warm colors, with most of the art unframed. Matt’s first thought as he walked through the double set of front doors was that Brown’s home was exceedingly comfortable.

He took a sip of wine and watched her throw another log on the fire, then sit down beside him on a large Oriental carpet. Her hesitation was back again. She’d start to get close, then back away just as she had in the parking lot at the hospital. Something was going on in her head, but Matt wasn’t really paying attention to it. The wine was starting to get to him. They had opened a second bottle, and he could feel the weight of the pizza in his stomach after losing another night’s sleep.

She turned and looked at him. “What if it’s true?” she said in an uneasy voice. “What if you’re right, and there’s someone else out there?”

“What did you think of Westbrook’s profile?”

“It made me think of that guy who walked into Sandy Hook Elementary School and shot all those kids.”

“Adam Lanza,” Matt said. “Newtown, Connecticut.”

Brown nodded. “He shot his mother while she slept in bed. He shot her in the face, Jones. Then he got into his car, drove over to the elementary school, and slaughtered twenty-six innocent teachers and kids with a Bushmaster assault rifle.”

“I remember. When he was finished, he killed himself the way they always do. They’re cowards. It’s in their nature.”

“Do you know what a bullet from a rifle like that does to the human body?”

Unfortunately, Matt knew exactly what a round from a Bushmaster did when it struck the human body. The Bushmaster was a redesign of the commercially available AR-15, which fired a .222 Remington cartridge. The upgrade was an attempt by the gun designer to meet the standards set by the US Army for the battlefield. In order to pass the test, a round had to be able to penetrate a steel helmet from five hundred yards away. The Bushmaster fired an amped-up .223 round that traveled at almost three times the speed of sound and easily met the army’s standards for a military assault weapon. The round didn’t put neat holes into people’s bodies. Instead, it ripped and tore and broke everything up as it exploded through them.

Brown gave him a look. “I’m sorry, Jones. I forgot that you served overseas.”

Matt took a deep breath and exhaled, trying to void out his thoughts. “That’s okay,” he said. “I’ve got a pretty good idea of what Adam Lanza did with his Bushmaster.”

“Westbrook’s profile made me think about it,” she said. “If it’s not Baylor, then the man Westbrook described has to have something in common with Lanza.”

She was right. They were born from similar molds. If you could get past the catastrophic details—the killing of an elementary school principal and a psychologist, four heroic teachers, and twenty young children in the first grade—if you could climb over the details and make the leap to metaphor, then it seemed to fit with the mass killings of two families here in the suburbs of Philadelphia. It was only a hunch, but in both cases it seemed like they were killing what they wanted most. Hope for a new life and a bright future. Matt could remember reading about Lanza in the newspaper. His relationship with his mother seemed particularly odd. According to the journalist who wrote the story, they lived in the same house, but never spoke and only communicated through e-mails. Matt wondered if this was true. Lanza had killed his mother first. The act was brutal and over the top. There had to be a reason why. Something no one had written or spoken about.

An image surfaced. A photograph of Adam Lanza’s bedroom that had been published in the same newspaper article. There were no sheets on the bed, just a bare mattress. The windows were covered with dark-green trash bags taped to the walls, and every inch of the room was littered with debris, garbage, and dirty clothing.

Lanza had been twenty years old at the time of the murders, and that fit Westbrook’s profile as well.

Matt looked over at Brown, but she’d left the room. He took another sip of wine and gazed at the fire. When he heard footsteps, he turned and watched Brown enter from the hallway by the stairs. It seemed more than obvious that whatever hesitation she might have exhibited toward him in the past had come to a final resolution.

Her slacks were gone, her blouse open to reveal a white bra and a pair of muted-red panties. She moved closer, almost in slow motion, straddling his body and coming to a rest on his legs with a certain animal elegance. Matt eased back onto the carpet and looked at her lazy smile and smoldering eyes. He could smell her skin, her person, the shampoo in her hair. He touched her bare thighs and gazed up at her. She was removing her blouse, taking hold of his hands and pushing them into her breasts. As he smoothed his hands over them, her eyes became glassy, and he thought he heard her moan.

Matt reached around her back, unclasped her bra, and tossed it on the floor. Then Brown lowered her face to his, her lips and tongue, and kissed him through her smile.

“You know that you can’t stay, right?” she whispered in a throaty voice.

“Why not?”

She met his eyes. Everything felt good. His psychologist had been right—the sooner the better. The details weren’t important. The hows and whys, irrelevant.

“Because I’m a female agent,” she said. “I work for the FBI, and I’m a professional. I can’t take the risk of someone seeing you in the morning.”

She kissed him again, and he kissed her back.

“But I’m from out of town,” he whispered. “I’ll be gone soon. I’m only a rental.”

She laughed. “If you’re a rental, Jones, then that means I’m a conquest.”

That smile was still going, the fire in her eyes all stoked up. He pulled her closer. Everything about the moment felt true.

CHAPTER 29

Andrew Penchant pushed the newspaper away and looked at the live video call from Avery Cooper on his laptop. She was on her bed, wearing a peach-colored tank top over a black bra and a pair of old jeans. She was stretched out on her stomach, the camera on her computer only a few feet away. Andrew couldn’t believe that she’d called tonight. When she’d asked if he wanted to hook up on the web, he began to wonder what she might be up to.

It seemed so fast. So peculiar. So in his face.

And he had things to do. He had spent the past two hours on the Internet reading everything he could find about that detective from Los Angeles. He knew Jones’s story, his dark past, and the people he had killed—a corrupt detective and a man who shot Jones on top of Mount Hollywood but still hadn’t been identified. He felt a kinship with Jones because they shared painful histories. He wanted to see him and watch him. But even better, Andrew had found more video clips by Ryan Day on the
Get Buzzed
website. It seemed like Day had been working the story for a long time, and the idiot reporter had a way of uncovering secrets. A clip from earlier in the day, a website exclusive, was shot at Fitler Square with an apartment building in the background. Day had found out that the FBI kept an apartment here, and while he didn’t say it outright, Andrew guessed that he would find Matt Jones staying there.

He wanted to watch him. He wanted to see who he was in person. Maybe even exchange pleasantries. After all, they were chasing a mad scientist, Dr. George Baylor, a serial killer on the run who had brutally murdered the Strattons and the Holloways. Andrew could get close to Jones because they were so stupid they didn’t even know he existed.

“Take off your shirt.”

Andrew’s mind crashed through his high, and he looked at Avery Cooper on his laptop.

“What?” he said.

“Take off your shirt.”

“Why?”

She laughed. “Because I want to see your chest.”

“Why don’t you take off your shirt?” he said.

“Okay.”

She got up on her knees, slipped off the tank top, then plopped back down on her belly and looked into the lens. It happened so fast Andrew couldn’t really see anything. Just her cleavage and the black bra and the devious smile on her face.

“Your turn, Andrew Penchant. And since I went first, I want more than just a shirt. Now you’ve gotta get out of those pants.” She made a goofy face, looked off camera, then turned back and spoke in a whisper. “My parents just came home. I need to lock my door.”

She got off the bed and walked out of the shot. But Andrew kept his eyes on the screen. He was looking at Cooper’s things, the quality of the bed and comforter, the stack of pillows, the walls painted in a color that demonstrated class and style, the side table with a modern lamp that looked expensive, and books by authors he had never heard of because he didn’t read books. Books were boring. More boring than newspapers.

Why read a book when he could play a video game or watch TV for free on the Internet?

Cooper dove back into the shot and bounced on the mattress. “I’m waiting,” she said, batting her eyelids.

He could see through her bra. There were flowers in the lace, and he could see through them. When he looked at her face, his dick got hard and his stomach began to light up again. He didn’t understand these feelings, but thought he liked them.

“Ready or not,” he said.

He pulled off his T-shirt. When he climbed out of his jeans, he heard Cooper burst out in laughter. He looked at his computer screen, confused and completely stoned. She was staring at his boxer shorts, her smile now a big grin.

“Hey, what’s going on down there, dude?”

He looked at his shorts, his erection pushing the fabric straight out. He smiled at Cooper. He liked this. He needed this. Cooper started getting out of her jeans. But then his mother knocked on the door.

“What’s going on in there?” she said. “Is someone with you, Andrew?”

“No,” he said in a lame voice that cracked. “I’m alone. Everything’s fine.”

His mother paused a moment, then spoke in a whisper. “I’m gonna take my shower, honey.”

Andrew didn’t say anything. He listened to the silence, weighing it carefully. When he heard her close her bedroom door, he turned back to his laptop. Cooper had witnessed everything and seemed to think it was funny.

“That was embarrassing,” she said, teasing him and mocking him. “I thought you told me you didn’t have a family. You called yourself a man of mystery.”

Andrew sat down before his worktable. The moment was lost. Everything black.

“I’ve gotta go,” he said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’ll talk to you later, Cooper.”

“Maybe we could hook up and—”

Andrew closed the program on his laptop and shut down the power. He could hear his mother turn on the shower. After a few minutes, he heard the shower door close. His mother liked to get high, drink a little wine, and take long showers when she was alone. Andrew loaded his bong with a hit, struck his lighter, and sucked in the smoke. Holding his breath for as long as he could, he exhaled slowly and noticed that his erection was still there. He could feel his head buzzing as he peeled off his shorts, walked out, and opened his mother’s bedroom door.

Dream walking.

The bed was turned down, her clothing on the chair. The only light in the room came from two battery-powered candles by the bed, and two more on his mother’s chest of drawers. When he gazed through the open bathroom door, he saw another two candles burning by the sink and mirror and his mother’s glass of red wine.

His heart was pounding as he stepped into the room and moved out of the flickering light into the corner. He looked at his mother on the other side of the glass door. His dick felt like a lamppost as he took in her naked body. She was only thirty-five, he thought to himself. Only thirty-five.

“Is that you, honey?”

He froze. He locked up.

She opened the shower door and was gazing at him in the shadows. Her eyes drifted down from his face to his bare chest, then kept going until they reached his hand and penis. She had a certain glow about her. A certain something as she stood there with the water dripping off her breasts.

Oh my God.

“Let’s be friends tonight,” she said quietly. “Get in the shower with me, and we’ll be friends.”

He didn’t move. He dropped his hand away and felt even more naked. More crazy.

“Come on, honey. Before we run out of hot water. It’s not like it’s the first time.”

He paused but couldn’t think it over, his mind blurred out from the strong weed. After several moments he stepped out of the shadows and into the dim candlelight. As he entered the shower, he could feel his mother’s body brush against his body. She closed the shower door. Then she turned back and looked at him with a sensuous, even hungry smile, moving closer, and closer still.

CHAPTER 30

Andrew Penchant sat before his laptop and skimmed through the portraits he’d taken of the family. One image appeared to stand out, and he made a copy and moved it into his photo library. The Christmas tree in the background seemed fine, but it was December, and everyone in the shot looked pale.

He clicked open his effects package, highlighted the Correct Skin Tone option, and double-checked the levels. The tan and blush were off, but only slightly. Once the effect rendered on the screen, he gave the image another look and thought the color correction helped. But something was wrong with their eyes. It might have been subtle, but it was there. He zoomed in and noticed the woman’s left eye was glowing slightly. When he checked her husband and their children, he found the same thing going on in everyone’s eyes.

He checked his watch. It was 7:30 a.m., and if he didn’t hurry, he’d be late for work.

He opened his red-eye effect, marked his range and targets, and clicked Done. Then he zoomed out and checked the result. His mother had been right. He had talent, and this photograph was way better than just a plain old everyday family portrait. If he added a spark to their eyes and enhanced the gleam, the picture would be even better. He zoomed in so close that the image was reduced to pixels, then opened his paint package and added white specs to each eye. Once he was finished, he zoomed back out and checked the result.

They looked perfect. They looked like they’d just come back from a vacation in the Caribbean.

He powered up his printer, added photo paper to the tray, and hit Print. As he grabbed his backpack, he could hear his mother stirring in her bedroom. He didn’t want to see her. He didn’t want to remember what happened last night or where he’d woken up or what he hadn’t been wearing. He slid the print into a manila envelope and placed it in his pack. When he zipped up the pocket, he turned and felt his chest tighten. His mother was standing in the doorway, gazing at him as if nothing were wrong when everything was wrong. At least she was dressed. At least the air was cold enough in the house that she was wearing a sweater and jeans.

“What’s going on, honey?” she said.

“I’m late for work.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

She smiled and gave him a submissive look. “You know . . .”

He thought he might get sick. He frowned at her and threw the pack over his shoulder.

“It has to stop,” he said in a sullen voice.

“But you enjoyed it.”

“I’m seeing someone. It has to stop.”

She made a face like she didn’t believe him. “Who are you seeing? Who is she? I’ll bet she’s a slut.”

“She’s a girl from a decent family. They don’t act the way you do.”

She gave him another look. “Come here, honey.”

He shook his head, walking past her and hitting the stairs. “I hate you,” he said in a louder voice. “Don’t you understand? I hate everything about you. Don’t bother waiting up tonight. I’m gonna be late.”

He slammed the front door shut and groaned. Then he bounced down the porch steps and hurried up the sidewalk to his car. The air was so cold it burned his face. As he ripped the car door open and climbed in, he realized that he just couldn’t get past the anger. The horror and the rage. He hadn’t chosen this sick woman to be his mother. Why did she have to get pregnant? Why did she have to bring a rape baby into the world? A devil child, with horns and a tail? Why did she have to screw up his life? Why didn’t she just get rid of it and move on? She’d only been fourteen years old. She had no business being a mother.

Andrew started the car and pulled into the street, promising himself that if he ever met the freak who had raped his mother, he’d cut his balls off and stuff them down his throat, then wait until the child molester bled to death.

And that was only if he was in a good mood. Only if he had been properly medicated with decent reefer and was feeling gracious.

He checked his pocket, then almost lost it when he realized that he hadn’t rolled a joint. Stopping at a red light, he combed through the ashtray, searching for a roach or burnt end. There weren’t any. He’d smoked the last one yesterday afternoon. He’d have to score some weed somewhere else. He couldn’t go back home.

The drive to the Walmart Supercenter at the Franklin Mills Mall took less than ten minutes. Circling the building, he parked in back and entered through the loading docks. After checking his watch, Andrew hurried down the hallway to the employee lounge, punched in his time card, then burst through the doors into the store. The home furnishings department was in the rear corner, the picture frames in aisle two.

He wanted something special for the family portrait he’d taken. Something that would evoke the holiday spirit and went with the Christmas tree in the background. He found it beside the plain silver frames. This one was made of molded plastic, but everything about it seemed to fit, especially the raised depiction of Frosty the Snowman in the upper-left corner of the frame. Centered beside Frosty were the words “Happy Holidays to You.” At the bottom it just said “Frosty the Snowman.” Andrew didn’t think it was necessary to write Frosty’s name on the frame, but the raised mold made up for the designer’s lack of discretion and taste.

He turned and noticed an employee restocking shelves farther down the aisle. It was an older woman, Maria Flores, whom he spoke with once in a while during his lunch break. He held the frame up to get her attention.

“This one’s broken,” he said.

“Bring it here, hon, and I’ll take it back to the warehouse.”

“How ’bout I do it for you?”

“That’s even better.”

Andrew hurried across the floor, through the doors, and down the hall to the employee bathroom. After removing the price tag, he opened the picture frame and cleaned the glass with a paper towel. He could hear people talking outside and moved into a stall just in case. As he found the envelope in his pack and slid out the photo, the bathroom door opened and someone entered. He could hear the guy unzip his fly and begin peeing in one of the two urinals.

“Is that you, Andrew?”

It was his boss. Andrew placed the photograph in the frame, attached the back, and tightened the clasps.

“Yeah, Mr. Trotter,” he said. “It’s me.”

“How you doing?”

“Actually, I’m not feeling so great this morning.”

Mr. Trotter couldn’t have been more than five or six years older than Andrew, but insisted that no one call him by his first name. Andrew never held it against him. If his mother had named him
Emile
, he would have felt the same way. Mr. Trotter wasn’t a bad guy.

“You want to take the day off?” Mr. Trotter said. “If you’re coming down with something, it might be better for everyone.”

Andrew flipped the picture frame over and gave it a good look. The frame with Frosty the Snowman on it was perfect. Even inspired.

“Thanks, Mr. Trotter. I think you’re right. No sense getting everybody sick.”

Mr. Trotter finally stopped peeing and zipped up his fly. Andrew heard him flush the urinal, then rinse his hands in the sink.

“Get some rest, Andrew. See you tomorrow morning.”

“Thanks.”

The bathroom door opened and closed, and he was alone again. He stuffed the picture frame in his pack and zipped it up. He wanted to drive over to that apartment building across the street from Fitler Square. Before that, he thought he’d hit Love Park and score some weed. He needed his medication. He needed to chill.