The Samaritan (30 page)

Like Alejandra Castillo, this one didn’t match the physical type of the bodies they’d uncovered on Sunday, but the handiwork was unmistakable. And this time the Samaritan had left behind some of the tools of his trade. Perhaps he’d been interrupted, Allen thought. Or perhaps that was just what he wanted them to think.

Her gloved fingers held the knife carefully by the guard that separated the blade from the hilt. The wickedly sharp, curving blade glinted in the light. With her other hand, she took out the sketch the ME had come up with based on the earlier wound patterns and compared them. The blade was a dead match.

The coroner investigator was the same as the one who’d carried out the preliminary examinations on Sunday.

“Looks like the same guy, all right,” he said, as much to himself as to anyone else. It wasn’t like anyone had much doubt of that. There were other speculations that were more disputed, however.

“At least we know who it is now.”

Allen looked up to see that Don McCall had joined them on the upper level. Evidently, he’d extracted himself from the heated discussion with the first two FBI agents on the scene. Channing wasn’t there, not yet, but Allen didn’t doubt he’d have something to say about being cut out of the loop.
Join the club
, she thought wryly. McCall had come up with a young-looking uniformed cop from outside. He sounded angry and defensive, as though daring someone to criticize his team for letting the suspect escape. Allen rolled her eyes and put the knife down on the table carefully before turning to face McCall.

“I told you, it’s not Blake,” she said. “The Samaritan’s playing you, McCall. It must have been him who called in the tip. It’s way too convenient; even you have to get that.”

“Oh yeah?” McCall said. “I just talked to Falco, and his description of the guy who sucker punched him sounds
exactly
like the guy I met downtown. With you. I gotta hand it to you, Allen. You got close to the perpetrator real quick. Pity you didn’t notice.”

“That’s what you’re basing this on? That’s bullshit—”

McCall cut her off. “That’s not all. Tell her what we just found, Officer.”

He was addressing the cop on his left-hand side, though he kept his eyes on Allen. The cop was in his mid-twenties, still a little green around the gills. He cleared his throat. “Uh . . .”

“Tell her about the car.”

The young cop cleared his throat again. “Uh, that’s right, Detective. We found a blue Chevrolet Malibu parked one block over. It’s a rental. Rented in the name of Carter Blake two days ago.”

McCall raised his eyebrows and opened his palms toward Allen in a
satisfied?
gesture.

Mazzucco glanced at her but said nothing.

Allen’s mind raced. It couldn’t have been Blake who’d killed this woman, but the circumstantial evidence was certainly starting to build up. Only it was built on a shaky foundation: an anonymous call that was way too on the money.

“Maybe he was here,” she said after a minute. “It doesn’t mean he’s our guy.”

McCall shook his head in amusement. “You don’t even know what you did, do you? You brought a fucking serial killer in to help the investigation into his own crimes. You’re done, Allen.”

Mazzucco had kept quiet until now, observing the dialogue, but now he picked his moment to speak. “She’s right.”

Allen felt a surge of gratitude, but the look on her partner’s face told her he wasn’t doing this out of loyalty to her—not just out of loyalty to her, anyway—but out of a gut instinct that all this was just a little too neat.

Mazzucco had stepped forward, holding eye contact with McCall. “We get an anonymous call that tells you where to catch our killer in the act, and that doesn’t strike you as convenient? Not just ‘Hey, I saw something suspicious’ but an anonymous caller that happens to know the suspect’s
name
? What the hell did he do, ask Blake to fill in a survey? This is bullshit, McCall. You’re playing into his hands.”

McCall got in even closer, the mask of amusement disappearing. “This killer fucked with the wrong people. We’ll get him before the day’s out. Dead or alive.”

Allen shook her head. McCall had just revealed more than he’d intended to. Maybe he thought Blake was the Samaritan, maybe not. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Blake had hit one of McCall’s guys and added insult to injury by managing to escape. That was what mattered to McCall, and it meant he’d happily throw his weight behind an investigation that was about to career off on the wrong track, just to get even.

“You asshole, McCall,” Allen said, letting her full contempt for him show for the first time. Her phone began to buzz, and she was only vaguely aware of McCall yelling something back at her as she looked at the screen. All of a sudden, McCall’s abuse didn’t seem to matter. Lieutenant Lawrence was calling.

60

In a gray, windowless room on the other side of the country, a small but solidly built man named Davis put down his coffee and picked up the phone on his desk on the second ring. The voice at the end of the line sounded panicked, told him to get to a television or on the Internet.

Davis was puzzled. “What’s happening?”

The voice told him it would be easier for him to see for himself. Ten seconds later, looking at the website of the
LA Times
, he was forced to agree. He hung up without preamble and scanned the story. His eyes kept darting up to the picture at the top, as though he needed to reconfirm it for himself. This was bad. Potentially very bad. His guy on the West Coast had all but confirmed that it was Crozier killing people out there. Crozier was a problem, sure, but one that could be dealt with. This new development couldn’t help but complicate things.

He had to speak to Faraday; that much was clear. He didn’t look forward to the conversation. Faraday was in New York this morning and would not appreciate the interruption. He dialed the number for the New York office, and the call was answered by a young-sounding female voice.

“Director’s office,” came the mandatory greeting. No “Good morning,” no “How can I help you?” and certainly no named company or department. Davis identified himself and said he needed to speak to Faraday and that it was urgent. There was no acknowledgment. A click and thirty seconds of silence: no hold music, of course. When the line came back to life, Davis heard another female voice. This voice was a little more mature, more assured, and much colder.

“I’m in the middle of something, Davis. This had better be good.”

“It’s about Los Angeles.”

A pause. “Arrangements are in hand, Davis. You kn—”

“I’m not talking about Crozier. Not just him. The police have just released a picture of their suspect.”

“Don’t keep me in suspense, Davis.”

Davis closed his eyes and steeled himself. And then he said the name. Just two short words, but he knew they would change everything.

61

As she’d expected, the call was a summons. Allen left Mazzucco at the warehouse and headed back downtown, fighting the rush hour. Lawrence said nothing as she opened the door to his office. He didn’t invite her in, didn’t even nod in the direction of one of the chairs. He just stared at her until she came in and closed the door.

Allen steeled herself and walked a couple of steps into the room. Lawrence kept the stare going.

“Lieutenant—”

Lawrence cut her off with a wave of his hand.

“Save it. Just explain to me why you decided to bring a civilian in on the investigation into a series of murders that now appear to have been committed by that fucking civilian.” As he spoke, his voice, outwardly calm at first, rose to the point that he was practically yelling the last three words at her. Allen was taken aback. Before now, she hadn’t thought Lawrence capable of losing his temper like this.

“Lieutenant, this is a setup. Blake isn’t the Samaritan.”

It was Lawrence’s turn to look mildly taken aback.

“So why did we find his rental car parked outside the damn torture chamber? Why did McCall’s man give a description that fit him like a wetsuit?”

“I don’t know that yet. All I know is that it’s pretty convenient that we get an anonymous call to go to this address, saying it was the Samaritan. Who made the call? How did he know?”

“That’s an interesting point, but in the meantime, I got a better one. Where the hell is Blake? If he’s innocent, where is he?”

Good question
, Allen thought. She’d tried calling his cell a couple of times, but it had gone to voicemail. If Blake was smart, and she knew he was, he’d have dumped the phone, or at least switched it off as soon as he exited the warehouse.

“Maybe he’s shy. Maybe he doesn’t like that his name and description are being circulated as a person of interest in this case. Think about it, Lawrence. The Samaritan has been operating under the radar for years. We’ve finally got a lead on him, and he’s rattled. So he throws us a nice big distraction to keep us occupied. We won’t find a shred of DNA evidence on that body in the warehouse, just like the others.”

“Why are you so convinced Blake is clean?”

Allen sighed and related her attempts at due diligence: the call to Agent Banner, the flight times that proved Blake had been three thousand miles away when Kelly Boden was murdered. Lawrence looked less than convinced, but she knew that he wasn’t 100 percent convinced the other way, either. He couldn’t be: he was a good cop with thirty years’ experience. He knew better than she did that perfect tip-offs rarely came in without a reason.

Lawrence listened, and when she’d finished, he sat back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “This isn’t your first black mark with me, Detective Allen. Explain to me why I shouldn’t put you on suspension right now.”

“Come on, Lieutenant.”

“What would you do? What would you do in my position, huh? I’ve got a loose cannon withholding information from official channels, sharing other information with unauthorized civilians . . .”

“I’d give them a suspension,” Allen admitted. “Once the case is through. Because I’d need somebody chasing down the real killer while everybody else is distracted looking for the guy who’s been framed for it.”

Lawrence stared back at her. His expression was impossible to read. Finally, he said, “I’m sorry, Allen.”

“Lieutenant . . .”

“You haven’t given me any damn choice. You understand that, don’t you?”

Allen swallowed. “I know, sir.”

“The FBI is pissed. I had Agent Channing on the phone ten minutes ago, asking why the hell we kept them in the dark about the warehouse until the operation was in progress.”

“That wasn’t my—”

“I know that, Allen. But they also wanted to know why they didn’t know about Blake. They wanted to know why we apparently have them on a do-not-call list, and I had no comeback to that.” He paused and shook his head in frustration. “They’re going to use all of this to take over this thing. You know that, don’t you?”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant.”

“Two weeks’ suspension without pay, effective immediately.” He held out his palm, indicating the area of his desk nearest Allen.

Without a word, Allen took her Beretta from its holster and placed it on the desk, then took out the leather wallet that contained her badge and ID and placed it alongside the gun. She turned to leave, stopping as Lawrence began speaking again.

“I’ll leave it to you to speak to Mazzucco. Let him know you’re off the case. Better it comes from you. I expect you’ll have arrangements to make.”

Allen turned around and looked back at the lieutenant. He had turned away from her, was staring at his computer screen, pointedly not looking at her. Did he mean what she thought he meant? Her own words came back to her:
I’d need somebody chasing down the real killer while everybody else is distracted.

“See you in two weeks, Detective.”

Allen smiled. “Yes, sir. Understood.”

62

As soon as she stepped out into the corridor, Allen reached for her phone and saw that she had a new message. As she’d hoped, it was from Mazzucco. It simply said,
Call me ASAP
.

She took the stairs down to the foyer, heading outside. As she walked, she wondered if she’d read the subtext of Lawrence’s words all wrong. She decided it didn’t really matter, because she knew what she had to do. She walked ten paces from the building before dialing Mazzucco’s cell. As she listened to the ringtone, she stared up at the towering City Hall building across the street.

Mazzucco picked up. “How’d it go with Lawrence?” he asked, in lieu of a hello.

“He suspended me for two weeks.”

Mazzucco paused. “Can’t say I’m surprised, exactly. So what are you going to do?”

“He told me to call you, and that he’ll see me in two weeks.”

“Allen . . .”

“I think I’d like to spend my vacation time with you. What do you think about that?”

“Is there any point even telling you what I think about that?”

“Probably not. Blake’s not our guy, Jon.”

“I know that.”

That caught her by surprise. “You do?”

“I like to think I’m a pretty good judge of character. That, and you’re right about this anonymous tip. It’s a crock.”

Allen grinned, thanking God for Mazzucco’s cool head for once. “How’d it go with the owner?” When Allen had gotten the call to go to Lawrence’s office, Mazzucco had volunteered to check out the warehouse’s listed owner, one William J. Carron.

Mazzucco sighed. “All right. I got down here a half hour ago—had to hammer on the door until I got Carron out of bed.”

“And?”

“And he’s the owner, but that’s as far as it goes. He said he hasn’t been down to the warehouse recently. He bought it in an auction in 2007, had the idea of turning it into luxury apartments.”

“Luxury? In
that
part of town?”

“Hey, it was before the crash. Anyway, he can account for his movements last night. He was drinking in a bar down the street with a buddy until closing time, then asleep at home with his wife until I woke him up. He was pretty surprised when I told him there was a dead body on his property.”